Slightly less self-satisfied were the two gentlemen, one in his forties, the other in his early twenties, who had emerged from the morning service held in the gallery of the Crown Hotel. The older man looked at his watch and checked it against the church clock. They were glad that there had been no slaughter – no looting and pillaging, but their minds had already turned to more personal concerns, not least how much they would be sequestered for their support of the King.
Meanwhile, in a house on Pepper Street, a middle-aged woman was busy cooking, having already been out in the market to secure the best of the goods on offer. She was back in the environment she loved best and sang merrily as she worked. Things could not have turned out better. The master of the house had returned, and the young injured soldier he had brought with him had turned out to be most appreciative of her efforts, flattering and flirting with her as she nursed him back to health.
“Mistress,” he said, “you’re fit to capture the heart of any young man with cooking like that!” She knew it was a joke, but nevertheless, she was happy.
The young soldier was in much better spirits, having got over the shock of his injury. The stump, where his foot had been, would take some time to heal, but the wound appeared to have no infection. He was not out of the woods yet, but at least he was looking to the future. He would be doing no more soldiering, but he had been spared life as a vagrant and beggar by the generosity of the master of the house, who had offered him an apprenticeship in his salt and cheese business, an offer he had readily accepted with gratitude. He had certainly fallen on his feet, or in his case, on one foot and a stump. He laughed at the joke and resolved to use it in the future when describing his good fortune.
Not so happy were the two brothers sat on the wall by the churchyard contemplating the whereabouts of their younger sibling and praying for his safety in the hands of the royalist army. To his credit, their brother’s employer had sworn to help free him from the King’s service. They had not expected a gesture of that kind, and although they would hold their brother’s master to that promise, they had agreed that henceforward they would willingly forego the weekly supplies of stolen Cheshire cheese to which they had become accustomed.
Even less happy were the two men sat in opposite cells in the town jail in Pillory Street. The disgraced army captain had already been tried and condemned, and he knew he would be shot once the garrison commander turned his mind to him. The salt worker in the cell opposite expected no better. Caught trying to escape over the earthworks at Welsh Row End, he was to face trial for the murders of a tanner and a domestic servant. He knew he would not get the privilege of a soldier’s death. All he could expect was the hangman’s noose.
Meanwhile, in another part of the town, one of the town’s constables strolled through the throng of people. Holding his right hand was a five-year-old boy, who skipped along with excitement and tugged at the man’s sleeve every time he found something of interest.
Next to him walked a young woman, the child’s mother, who, with a hint of a smile on her face, watched the child and saw her future take shape in front of her. The Constable noticed the smile and returned the compliment. It was a day of release, new directions and change – a day for decisions, and on this day and in this place, Daniel Cheswis made his choice.
Author’s Note
The Battle of Nantwich was crucial in changing the direction of the Civil War in Cheshire. Although the altercation, which took place on January 25th 1644 on the fields near Acton, was low in casualties (only 300 died in the battle itself, less than the number who perished during the failed assault on January 18), the effect on the war in the area was significant. Byron’s infantry force was demolished, and henceforward, Nantwich was left in relative peace, the war’s focus switching to Chester. Never again did the royalists hold so much ground in Cheshire.
The main three parliamentary leaders depicted in this novel all benefitted from their role at Nantwich.
After the battle, Sir Thomas Fairfax returned to Yorkshire, where he went on to improve his military reputation still further, particularly at Marston Moor, to the point that in January 1645 he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the New Model Army. Sir William Brereton also retained his command and became one of only three commanders to be specifically exempted from the Self-Denying Ordinance. Colonel George Booth continued to play an active part in the Civil War on the parliamentarian side. He served as an MP in the Protectorate but was eventually to play a leading role in the Restoration.
Lord John Byron continued to lead the royalist cause in Cheshire until the end of the First Civil War but sailed away into exile in 1646. He died in Paris in 1652.
Other military personnel mentioned in the story were also real people.
The resourceful and efficient James Lothian, captured in the skirmish at Burford on December 17th, was the subject of a prisoner exchange shortly after the Battle of Nantwich, and he continued to play an active role on the parliamentary side in Cheshire and North Wales.
The unfortunate Thomas Steele was executed in Tinkers Croft on Monday 29th January 1643. Steele was a cheese trader and hailed from the Sandbach/Weston area. He did marry a Jane Furnival from Barthomley, although her brother in the story, Hugh Furnival, is a fictitious character.
Steele’s nemesis, the valiant but ultimately doomed Thomas Sandford, did capture Beeston Castle by climbing the castle walls with eight of his firelocks in a daring act of bravado. It is considered possible that treachery was involved, although the nature of events in the upper ward as described in the novel, are the product of my imagination. What is true is that Steele entertained Sandford and his troops afterwards, an act which led to the former’s downfall. Sandford died at Wickstead’s sconce on 18 January, reportedly shot by a 15-year-old with a musket.
John Connaught, the bloodthirsty captain responsible for the infamous massacre at Barthomley, eventually paid for his deed with his life. He was executed in 1660 at a trial, in which he protested his innocence. The victims mentioned in the story were all real people.
The story also mentions a number of the prominent townspeople of the time.
Thomas Maisterson was the head of the oldest of the traditional Nantwich families. He was sequestered heavily for his support of the royalist cause and died in 1652.
Randle Church died in 1648 at the age of 86, having survived his son and grandson. His fabulous house on Hospital Street, Churches Mansion, is still standing and today houses an antiques shop.
Lady Margaret Norton passed away in April 1644, a couple of months after the battle. Her property eventually became the town prison and was demolished in 1767. A row of almshouses now stands on the site.
Roger Wilbraham of Townsend House, depicted here as an inexperienced 20-year-old, lived to become the High Sherriff of Cheshire and was one of the town’s most respected forefathers and benefactors. He lived until 1708. Roger married his cousin, Alice, daughter of his namesake, Roger Wilbraham of Dorfold, who also makes a brief appearance in the book.
Daniel Cheswis and his immediate family, as well as most of the common soldiers and townspeople mentioned in the story, are invented characters, but several are based on real people.
The Comberbachs were the most prominent family of tanners in the 1640s, and the town bellman at the time was, indeed, called Alexander Clowes. The cannon attack on Townsend House on Jan 10th did result in the death of a young woman called Margery Davenport, the daughter of a John Davenport, whilst contemporary reports of the Jan 18th assault tell of the bravery of the women-folk of the town and in particular of a heroine called Brett.
Finally, the person with whom the story begins and ends, the Duke of Hamilton, remained in captivity in Pendennis Castle until 1645, when he was released and came back into the King’s favour. He was often accused of disloyalty because of his ancestry, but there is no real evidence of this. The plot described in the novel is entirely fictional. Hamilton fought again for his King and was ultimately rewarded with the same fat
e. Like Charles I, he met his end in 1649, on the executioner’s block.
Acknowledgements
T
hanks are due to a number of people, without whose input, my idea for portraying the events surrounding the Battle of Nantwich could not have been brought to fruition.
Firstly, on a practical front, I have to express my gratitude to Matthew and his team at Electric Reads, who guided me through the publishing process with enthusiasm and professionalism. Special thanks are due to Tom, who edited the manuscript, and Vanessa, who designed the cover.
Many thanks also to Cliff Astles, who allowed me to use his photograph of the 2013 Holly Holy Day battle re-enactment as part of the cover design.
I am indebted to my brother, Mike Wilson, Dean of the School of Media and Performance at University College, Falmouth, who read my manuscript and provided me with advice from an academic viewpoint, and to Colin Bissett of the Sealed Knot, whose in-depth knowledge of the Civil War in Cheshire was invaluable in helping me avoid a number of historical errors.
And finally, a special thank-you to my wife, Karen, who proofed the first draft of the book and didn’t get too annoyed, when I spent weekends writing instead of doing the garden and DIY jobs.
Bibliographical Notes
In carrying out the historical research for The Winter Siege, I consulted a great many books covering the Civil War Period including memoirs, manuscripts and letters written by a number of the main protagonists in the struggle to gain control over Cheshire in 1643 and 1644. Several sources, however, deserve particular mention.
Anyone writing about the history of Nantwich will, at some time, have referred to James Hall’s A History of the Town and Parish of Nantwich or Wich Malbank in the County Palatine of Chester (1883). It is by far the most comprehensive work on the history of the town and is particularly detailed on the Civil War.
Also most helpful in gaining an understanding of 17th century Cheshire politics and the events leading up to the Battle of Nantwich were Cheshire 1630-1660 – County Government and Society during the English Revolution by JS Morrill (1974) and The Civil Wars in Cheshire by RN Dore (1966)
For information on farming and cheese production in the seventeenth century I used Charles F Foster’s Cheshire Cheese and Farming in the North West in the 17th and 18th Centuries (1998), whilst Joan R Kent’s The English Village Constable 1580-1642 (1986) was invaluable for information on the responsibilities of the local constabulary in Stuart times.
Hall is particularly informative on the development of the salt industry in Nantwich and the reasons for its eventual decline. However, I also referred to The Salt Industry by Andrew and Annelise Fielding (2006), particularly for the layout of the walling area around the common cistern in Great Wood Street and Little Wood Street.
For help with Cheshire dialect words, a useful reference tool was A Glossary of Words used in the Dialect of Cheshire by Lieut. Col. Egerton Leigh MP (1877). Leigh’s glossary was based on an earlier attempt to produce a Cheshire Glossary by none other than Roger Wilbraham.
And finally, it would be remiss of me if I failed to mention the two main contemporary accounts of the Civil War in Cheshire, these being Thomas Malbon’s Memorials of the Civil War in Cheshire and the Adjacent Counties and Edward Burghall’s Providence Improved, largely plagiarised from Malbon’s account but interesting nonetheless, especially for the picture Burghall paints of life in Cheshire in the 1630s and early 1640s. Both Malbon and Burghall make brief cameo appearances in The Winter Siege.
Glossary
Backlands
The area behind a house, back garden
Bangbeggar
One whose duty it is to drive away beggars
Barrow
Conical baskets, in which salt is put to rain
Bear ward
Bear tender
Bum bailey
Sherriff’s officer, constable – used as a term of derision
Cankered
Ill-tempered
Channel lookers
Officials responsible for making sure people cleaned the streets in front of their houses, shops and buildings
Cheshire acre
A Cheshire acre is equal to approximately 2.11 statute acres
Fire lookers
Officers responsible for fire prevention
Flam
Nonsense
Flett cheese
Cheese made from skimmed milk
Heazing
Coughing
Jagger
Coal seller
Kidds
Faggots, firewood
Kindling
A fixed allocation of time allowed for salt making, equivalent to four days
Lating
The process of bell ringing to invite people to a funeral
Leach Brine
Brine, which drops from salt in drying and is preserved to be dried again
Lead (relating to wich houses)
A salt pan
Leave-looker
Market inspectors, weights and measures officers
Loot
Wooden rakes used to scoop out salt
Lossell
A lazy good-for-nothing
Making Meet
The allocation of walling rights and setting salt prices
Rulers of Walling
Annually elected inspectors of the salt works
Runagate
An idle person
Sconce
A star shaped fortification
Ship (relating to salt making)
A hollowed-out tree trunk used to store brine
St Martin’s Summer
Indian summer
Swiving
Having sex
Theet
A wooden pipe used to transport brine into a wich house
Walling
Salt making
Wich house
A salt house
Yard
Euphemism for the male sexual organ
A Message from the Author
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Now here’s a preview of the next book in the Daniel Cheswis mystery series (available now from Amazon)
A Soldier of Substance
Chapter 1
Ormskirk, Lancashire – Friday April 26th, 1644
The Frenchman was woken from fitful slumber by the sound of gunfire. Or at least, that’s what it seemed like to his tired and blunted senses.
In the confines of the dismal, poorly-lit cellar, which had become the centre of his universe, he had grown so used to silence that the sharp report of the pistol had come as something of a shock, jolting him awake as though he had been poked with a sharp stick. True, he had occasionally heard the distant boom of cannon fire, which told him he was still close to Lathom, but the noise which had just assaulted his eardrums was something different. A bone-rattling crack, so close at hand that it seemed to reverberate through his very being, shaking him free from the stupor brought on by the interminable days of monotony. Despite the sudden and rude awakening, it was a welcome sound, for it told him he was still alive.
“Merde alors, qu’est-ce qui se passe?” he rasped, the words catching in his parched throat. Blinking rapidly, he puffed out his cheeks and stumbled unsteadily to his feet. “C’est bien quelqu’un qui vient pour me tuer, n’est-ce pas?”
In truth, he had little idea where he was or how he had got there. He remembered,
a long time ago it seemed now, the convivial atmosphere in the tavern and the company of the small group of soldiers from the siege, who had teased him because of his accent. Swiss, they had thought, for he had told them he was from Geneva. After all, to be a Frenchman in England was to run the risk of being held for a papist. It was only partially untrue, for his adopted home town of Bolton had become known as “the Geneva of the North.” He also remembered the smiles of the comely serving wench who had given him the eye and from whom he had hoped to receive a warm and willing reception later that evening. But after that, he remembered nothing.
He had woken to find himself stripped to his shirt and breeches, robbed of his coin, and sprawled on the floor of this godforsaken prison. At first, he had been tied with shackles to the wall, but after a couple of days, his captor, who always took great care to keep his face hidden with a scarf, had relented, freeing him from his bonds on the understanding that the prisoner was to stand back against the far wall whenever he entered the cell.
Not that he was there often. Once a day, watery-looking pottage or mouldy cheese and bread had been slipped unceremoniously through the door; but that was all he saw of his gaoler. Indeed, for the last two days, no-one had been to see him at all. Fortunately, the room contained an old, decrepit-looking barrel full of brackish water and a wooden ladle, which had stopped him dying of thirst, but he was desperately hungry and was beginning to wonder whether he would ever get out alive. Sliding over to the door, he counted the notches that he had gouged out of the wood with the end of one of the shackles that he had managed to rip out of the wall. Fifty-two. He had been incarcerated for almost two months. What a mistake it had been to leave Bolton.
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