For weeks, the fields had been covered by a thick blanket of white. Even in the town, the snow had been a foot deep in places, piled up in drifts against walls and houses. Within a couple of hours, though, the snow had turned to slush and mud as the ground thawed. Great puddles lay everywhere, and the main thoroughfares turned to a morass of mud and filth. The Weaver, meanwhile, was slowly rising.
It was late afternoon, and I was with Alexander in the main square mending the pillory, which needed new hinges, when a number of off-duty soldiers walked past. Amongst them was Jack Wade, who acknowledged me as he passed and came over for a chat.
“Good afternoon, Master Cheswis,” he said, cheerfully, in his strange Birmingham accent. “It’s not the weather for such work, I would suggest.” I looked up at the sky and realised that it had begun to spit with rain. I needed to finish the repairs on the pillory quickly before it started to rain properly.
“Aye Jack, that’s true,” I replied. “but no better for soldiering either, I’ll wager.”
“You’re in the right of it, sir,” said Wade. “The earthworks are as slippery as the skin of an eel. I could barely keep on my feet this afternoon.”
I spent a couple of minutes discussing the weather with Wade and was just about to continue with my repair and bid him good day, when Hugh Furnival walked past in the opposite direction and shouted a greeting to me. I returned the compliment and thanked him once again for the gift of the pie, of which I had made short work.
“Good afternoon, sir,” chipped in Wade, who was staring at Furnival with a surprised look on his face. “I have not seen you around town before, but I am glad to see you returned from Beeston safely.” Furnival stopped and squinted through narrowed eyes at Wade. For a moment, I thought Furnival didn’t know the soldier, but suddenly his eyes widened in recognition and he said, “Yes, thank you. I am well-recovered,” before marching off down the High Street with an uncomfortable look on his face.
“You know him?” I asked Wade, my curiosity awakened by Furnival’s strange response.
“Of course. He was the guest staying in the upper ward of Beeston Castle when it was attacked. I believe he is a relative of Captain Steele. At least, that is the argument Captain Sandford used as a bargaining tool to get Steele to surrender the castle. I haven’t seen him since that day.”
My heart jolted as I immediately realised the significance of what Wade was saying. I grabbed hold of him by the arm.
“Jack,” I said, “think carefully. Can you remember which soldiers were on duty in the upper ward when it was invaded?”
Wade thought for a moment and said “I think so. There was Sergeant Wilkes, plus about seven sentries, Jack Bromley, William Sparke, Henry Pickering, Richard Clegg, John Williams, Nat Hulse, and Jem Bressy.” Wade counted out the names on his fingers as he spoke.
“I knew it,” I said, and turned to Alexander, who, in the meantime, had finished the repair to the pillory by himself. “I know who murdered Brett and Nuttall – who the third man is. It’s Hugh Furnival. No wonder he managed to get past the royalist pickets so easily.” With a flash of memory, I then realised what had been bothering me about Alice’s sister’s drawing room, and everything fell into place.
“My God! The curtains,” I said, looking at Alexander’s puzzled face and realising I had made no sense. “Alice’s sister has new red silk curtains hanging in her drawing room,” I explained. “I’ll wager those curtains are a match for the material used in the scarves we found on Brett’s body.”
Alexander and Wade looked at me. “And I’ll bet Furnival is the customer who Brett had planned to meet on the morning of his death,” said Alexander, realising where my train of thought was heading.
“Precisely,” I said. Then a thought struck me. “Alexander, Elizabeth Brett and Simon are in danger.”
“But there are two sentries placed outside the Bretts’ house,” said Alexander.
“I know,” I said, “but two sentries are not many, and Simon may not be home at this time.”
I turned my attention to Wade, who was looking at us as though we were madmen. “Jack,” I said. “I need your help. You must come with us. I’ll explain on the way, but first we must pay a quick visit to Thomas Steele.”
31
Nantwich – Wednesday January 24, 1644
Considering the misery of his circumstances, Thomas Steele appeared to be in a much more sanguine frame of mind than would have been expected, and I remarked as such to the Captain as I stood in the middle of his cell, the doorway framed by my two breathless companions.
“Gentlemen, I think you may be confusing ebullience with acceptance and resignation,” said Steele, with a thin smile. “I am to be tried for treachery and will no doubt be found guilty of that accusation. Even if I could prove I did not surrender to Sandford out of treachery, I will still be found guilty of cowardice – so whatever happens, this sad state of affairs will cost me my life. That being the case, I see no reason for spending my remaining days in a fog of despair. I will soon be in the arms of the Lord, so that is certainly something to be joyous about.”
I smiled, finding his acceptance both admirable and horrific at the same time. “Captain Steele,” I said, coming to the point. “When Beeston castle was attacked, you had a guest staying in the upper ward of the castle. Could you tell me who that was?”
“Certainly,” replied Steele, “that was Hugh Furnival. He is a brother to my wife, Jane.”
I remembered it now. Furnival did have an older sister, and I vaguely remembered her from my youth, a thin, pale-faced girl with angular features. I could have been no more than eight years old when she was married and left Barthomley for good. “Why do you ask?” he said.
I did not want to burden Steele with the knowledge that he was in jail on account of his brother-in-law’s treachery. I was also aware of the pressure of time, so I avoided a direct answer.
“It is a long story, and I will return to relate it to you, but right now time is of the essence. I’m afraid I must leave you. We need to locate Mr Furnival as a matter of urgency.”
“I understand,” he said, looking at me curiously. “But promise me you will return. I enjoyed our conversation about the cheese business. Your enthusiasm reminds me of me when I was younger.”
“I give you my word,” I said, and headed for the door of the cell, my thoughts already on the whereabouts of Furnival and the safety of my brother and Elizabeth Brett.
Whilst we were inside the jail, the rain had begun to fall more heavily, and as Alexander, Wade, and I marched down Pepper Street and Beam Street in the direction of Elizabeth’s house, great globules of water splashed down on the cobbles, adding to the rivulets of melt-water which flowed into the central drain running down the middle of the street. One or two of the householders had used the novelty of running water as an opportunity to brush the filth from the front of their houses and stood with stiff brushes, directing streams of detritus into the sewerage channel. A trickle of water ran down the brim of my hat and down my neck. The downpour was soaking me to the skin, but at least, I conceded, the town would be cleaner for it.
When we arrived at the Bretts’ house, we were greeted by a scene of confusion. One of the guards was propped up against the wall, nursing a head wound and holding a bloody towel to his head. The other soldier was standing on guard, whilst Elizabeth stood by the front door, talking in an animated manner with Mistress Johnson. I took one look at Elizabeth’s face and realised she had been beaten too. Red marks were visible on her cheeks, and there was an angry-looking swelling underneath her eye, which she was dabbing gingerly with a handkerchief.
“Furnival,” she said, simply, when she saw me coming.
“I know,” I said. “What happened?”
“You’d better ask him,” she said, glaring at the first soldier, whose eyes were staring sheepishly at me from behind the folds of his towel.
“Bastard hit me over the head, sir,” he complained, his eyes flicking to and f
ro between Elizabeth and the second soldier.
“You mean you turned your fuckin’ back on him, you beef-witted scut,” growled the second guard. “I was round the back, sir,” he explained, turning to me, “but, by the time I got here, he’d barricaded himself inside the house, with Mrs Brett.”
I gave the first soldier a withering look of my own and turned my attention to Elizabeth. It did not take a genius to work out what had happened next.
“Did you tell him anything?” I asked, almost without thinking.
“No, of course not,” retorted Elizabeth, her eyes flashing dangerously. “What do you take me for? Furnival wanted to know whether the documents were with Simon. I refused to answer, but he guessed the truth anyway.”
“And how long did this take?” I asked.
“Not long. The soldiers managed to find a way in at the rear of the house, and Mistress Johnson heard the commotion and came running too, but, by the time they arrived, Furnival had made good his escape.”
“And Simon is not here,” I observed. “Do you know where he is?”
“Yes, he’s with Rose Bailey.”
“And does Furnival know this?”
Elizabeth grimaced and gave me a worried look. “I don’t know,” she said. “I certainly didn’t tell him, but Furnival’s demeanour was not of a man who was unsure of what he was doing.”
I looked at Alexander, whose jaw was set with a look of grim determination.
“We must go, Daniel,” he said, propelling his considerable frame through the front door, into the pouring rain, leaving Jack Wade and myself trailing in his wake.
Rose Bailey lived with her parents in the furthermost of the little row of cottages which stood next to the Bretts’ more substantial brick house, so it only took a few seconds for us to splash our way through the puddles to get there. However, her front door stood ominously ajar, and, as we approached, a sharp clattering noise reverberated from round the back of the cottage, followed by a yell of pain and a gruff curse. Inside the building, muffled noises of alarm could be heard. Wade shot me a quick glance and reversed his musket, now useless in the rain, in order to brandish it as a club. Alexander, meanwhile, stepped forward and kicked at the front door, sending it flying back on its hinges with a crash.
At first, the main room looked empty in the dim candlelight, but, after a few seconds, a movement under the table caught my eye. I peered into the gloom and gasped as I realised what I was looking at. Sat facing inwards, each gagged and with their hands securely tied behind them around the table legs, were Simon, Rose Bailey, and her mother. I rushed over to the table with my knife and deftly sliced through the piece of cloth that bound Simon’s mouth.
“It’s Hugh Furnival,” spluttered my brother, “and he’s just left.”
“We know,” I said, as Alexander and Wade untied Rose and her mother, who began to draw great rasping breaths, and claw at her cheeks. Rose merely sat speechless, her eyes bulging from behind her mass of auburn curls.
“He’s got the letters,” persisted Simon, as he struggled to his feet, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. “We must get them back.”
Furnival, it emerged, had entered the house with a pistol and forced Simon, at gunpoint, to tie up the two women, before being bound himself. He had then gagged Rose and her mother and threatened to cut their throats if Simon did not reveal the location of the letters. I thanked the Lord that Rose’s father had been out manning the walls, for his presence would surely have resulted in bloodshed. I looked behind Simon and saw the raised floorboards, where Furnival had reached to get the pouch holding the King’s correspondence.
“He was here only a couple of minutes ago,” said Simon. “If we’re quick, we can still catch him. I think he escaped through the back.”
“What do you mean, we?” I said, with incredulity. “You’re staying here. Take care of your woman; she needs comforting, and there are three of us.”
Simon opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment, the high-pitched tone of pistol shots resonated from behind the house, followed by a cacophony of angry shouting. Without a further word, Alexander, Wade, and I left Simon to care for the women and ran out through the back door, immediately tripping over a pile of kidds, which lay strewn across the cobbled yard. It had clearly been the sound of Furnival colliding with the stack of firewood that we had heard just before entering the house. Ignoring the mess, we charged through the morass that was the Baileys’ backlands until we reached the earthworks, which ran fifty yards behind the house. Mounting the ladders to the wooden palisade, we observed several soldiers firing pistols over the wall into the distance.
“What’s happened?” I shouted down to one of the musketeers, who stood, smoking a pipe, at the bottom of the ladder.
The soldier squinted up at me and blew plumes of smoke into the air. “They escaped over the side,” he said. “We thought they were here for sentry duty, but they simply climbed the wall and slid down the earthworks. They were fifty yards away before we had time to react, and our muskets are useless. The matches are all wet.” I glanced at the soldier’s weapon, which stood propped against the ladder. The normally glowing matchcord had clearly long been extinguished.
“They?” I asked, catching my breath.
“There were two of them,” said the soldier. “A man and a woman, though at first I took the woman for a young boy, given the dark.”
I peered into the darkness beyond the earthworks, and after a moment or so I was able to make out two figures making their way across Beam Heath towards the river bank. With a start, I realised that it was not only Furnival who had escaped. He had taken Alice with him.
Beam Heath was a sprawling area of common ground located to the north-east of Nantwich, which is generally used for the grazing of livestock. In peaceful times, it had been a fair, well-used pasture, but it was now little more than a wasteland. The livestock that normally grazed there had all been brought into the town for safekeeping, whilst its cottages and barns had been reduced to empty shells, burned out or knocked down by the men of the garrison to prevent the royalists from using them as cover.
It was not a place to be frequented on a night like this, but there was no choice. Borrowing pistols from the men on the wall, the three of us leapt over the side of the earthworks and slid down the greasy slope into the ditch at the bottom. It was now a truly filthy night. It was teeming down, and the ditch was already a foot deep in icy-cold water, which slopped over the tops of our boots as we waded through. I looked ahead, through the sheeting rain, and could just make out the dark silhouettes of Furnival and Alice. Furnival was struggling laboriously across the saturated ground, having to help Alice occasionally as she stumbled.
Bracing myself against the rain, I led my small group after them, in a north-westerly direction, towards the river bank, which was just as well, as to the north-east I could clearly see the camp fires of Byron’s men amidst lines of white tents, which seemed to stretch all the way to the Beam Bridge, three-quarters of a mile from the town.
Furnival, I noted, did not aim directly for the stone bridge that usually crossed the Weaver at this point, for he knew full well that this had been dismantled by the garrison soldiers. Instead, he aimed directly towards the river, with a view to following it downstream, in order to find the temporary crossing that he knew had been constructed by Byron’s men. Following their path, we plodded through the fields of slush, mud, and melt-water, but found that we could not go as far as we had expected, as the Weaver had started to burst its banks. Whereas the river was normally a slow-moving, sedate stream, today it had become a raging torrent, a black mass of unstoppable water forcing its way inexorably northwards. We marched resolutely along as dry a line as we could manage and saw that we were gradually gaining on Furnival and Alice. However, we also realised that it would be touch and go whether we would catch them before they reached the bridge.
The crossing hastily erected by the royalists was little more than a series of
wooden platts tied with rope to stakes set either side of the stream, and, as it came into view, we saw that the wooden structure was heaving and creaking in protest at the powerful torrent of water that was passing beneath it.
“That bridge looks like it’s about to depart for Liverpool any minute,” said Wade, as we got nearer.
“You’re in the right of it, Jack,” said Alexander, “but I don’t think we should wait around to see. We’re not going to catch them now, and we’ve come too far! We need to go back, now!””
A dull pain gripped my innards as I realised that Alexander was right. The line of royalist camp fires was no more than a hundred yards away, and, with trepidation, I saw that our chase along the river bank had begun to attract the interest of some of the figures stood by the tents. Up ahead, Furnival looked anxiously round and seemed to waver momentarily as he reached the wooden bridge. He then turned round and shouted something in my direction, waving his arms at me. I thought it sounded like “Save yourselves and go home,” but I couldn’t be sure, for Furnival’s words were caught by the wind and disappeared into the murk of the night.
It was too late, anyway, and I realised with horror that we were going to be captured. Suddenly, a group of about ten soldiers broke out from the line of tents and started to advance towards us. I shouted to Alexander and Wade to look around for cover, but before we could find anything, a volley of musket fire reverberated through the night and Wade screamed out in pain, falling to the ground.
“Sweet Jesus,” screamed the soldier. “Firelocks. Bastard shot me in the foot.” I was relieved that Wade wasn’t more badly hurt, but I immediately realised that the game was up and yelled for quarter. There followed a tense thirty seconds when I didn’t know whether I would live or die, but, eventually, a burly-looking sergeant strode up to me and jabbed me in small of the back with his musket.
“Move it, rebel,” he said, gruffly, shoving me unceremoniously in the direction of the tents. I glanced round and saw that Alexander was receiving the same treatment. Wade, meanwhile, was hoisted roughly to his feet, bellowing with agony as he realised he was unable to put any weight on his leg. The Sergeant saw this and immediately strode over to Wade, aiming a kick at his bad leg, which sent him sprawling with a sickening scream into the mud. Then, with a nefarious grin, he pulled his pistol from its holster and jabbed it into Wade’s neck.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 28