The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  Looking back, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. The town where he had spent his teenage years had taught him to speak fluent English, but, having survived a concerted royalist attack little more than a year ago, it had been becoming a dangerous place to live, especially for a Frenchman with the kind of jet black hair and olive skin that tended to get you mistaken for a Spaniard.

  Those with suspicious minds in that Puritan stronghold had already marked him out as a closet papist, so when it became clear that the Englishman who had brought him up was in fact dying, he had grasped the opportunity to visit his cousins in Ormskirk with open arms. He had been told that the people in West Lancashire adhered more to the old faith than they did in Bolton and that being French would not pose so much of a problem. After all, Lady Derby herself was a Frenchwoman, albeit of Protestant faith. Nonetheless, he had taken no chances. He had arrived at his cousins’ house in sombre Puritan garb. It was ironic, he reflected, that his new black doublet had been stolen, and his plain white shirt was now a filthy shade of grey.

  He was being kept in a cellar – that much he had worked out – for the metal grille located just below the ceiling in one corner of the room, his only source of light, was just above ground level. He knew this because, one day, he had seen a pair of boots walk past; not the simple boots of a farm worker, but high quality bucket-top boots that might be worn by an army officer.

  He knew that the cellar had been used for storing grain at some point, for the stone floor was littered with kernels. He also knew it was facing south-west, because on bright days, the room would be filled with a warm amber glow for twenty minutes in the evening. He looked forward to such days and had taken to bathing in the sun’s rays for as long as the sunlight lasted and until the room was once more pitched into semi-darkness.

  The Frenchman looked up at the grille, and thought he could perceive a slight lightening of the sky, which indicated that dawn was breaking. Alert now, he put his ear to the door. He thought he could hear raised voices above him, but couldn’t be sure. He looked around the room and wondered if there was any way he could position himself to hear better. It sounded like the voices were coming from a room directly above the grille. The Frenchman thought about it for a moment and smiled. If he could re-position the water barrel and climb up so he could put his ear close to the grille, he might be able to ascertain what was going on.

  Wiping the sweat from his hands, he gripped the rim of the barrel and heaved with all his strength. The result was spectacular. The rotting wood of the barrel split with a loud crack, spilling water over the stone floor in a swirling torrent and depositing the Frenchman onto his back, a moment before the barrel, now nearly empty, flipped over onto its side and landed across his legs. The Frenchman howled in pain and frustration.

  Suddenly, there was a second bang up above, like that which had woken him, followed by a door slamming and the sound of feet retreating at speed. The Frenchman wheeled round to see a pair of boots flashing past the grille in the half light. He couldn’t be sure, but they looked like the same pair of bucket-top boots he had seen before.

  It was then that he realised that, although the voices above had ceased, the ominous sound of footsteps could be heard descending the steps to the wooden door of the cellar.

  Groaning, the Frenchman rubbed his shins and pulled himself gingerly to his feet. Grabbing one of the timbers from the barrel as a makeshift weapon, he hobbled over to the door and positioned himself behind it just as the key started to rattle in the lock.

  “Bon,” he said to himself. “C’est ma seule chance. Je devrais en profiter.” It was better to die trying to escape than to perish in this miserable hole.

  As the door opened, he had just enough time to register the fact that he was at a disadvantage of four-to-one before launching himself into the fray, with two months of pent-up aggression.

  Chapter 2

  Three months earlier.

  Nantwich – Thursday February 1st, 1644

  It had never occurred to me that the role I played in solving the series of grim murders that had taken place in Nantwich during the freezing winter of 1643-44 would mark me out as anything more than a mere petty constable. I had certainly never considered the possibility that simply doing my duty would result in me being known as ‘Sir William Brereton’s man’. But if you were to ask me to identify the day when my life truly changed forever, then it would have to be the day that we cleared out the church.

  During the week following Sir Thomas Fairfax’s victory, St Mary’s, the magnificent sandstone edifice which dominated Nantwich’s main square, had been used as a makeshift prison to house the two hundred and fifty officers, a hundred and twenty women, and fifteen hundred common soldiers taken captive on the battlefield at Acton. Understandably, this had been much to the annoyance of the town’s recently installed Puritan minister, Joshua Welch, who had been mortified at the prospect of hordes of papists desecrating the interior of his church. Not only that; St Mary’s was the town’s only designated place of worship, and so Welch had been forced to preach his twice-daily sermons in Townsend House on Welsh Row, in the gallery of The Crown, and in Lady Norton’s house on Beam Street. Welch was not best pleased, and it showed.

  “It is a mortal sin to permit such foul acts of beastliness in the Lord’s House,” he had preached. “God has been much dishonoured by these wicked acts of debauchery. Is it not just that these men will be incarcerated? They will now have ample time to contemplate God’s judgement on their sins.”

  When Welch claimed back his church on the morning of February 1st, nobody dared tell him that many of those removed from the aisles that morning had been persuaded to turn their coat and now served both King and Parliament.

  I was no adherent to the type of hot Puritanism advocated by Welch, but I could not disagree with his outrage, for the interior of the church, once the prisoners had been cleared out, was a wretched and heartbreaking sight to behold.

  Human detritus was everywhere. Soiled mats and bosses were littered in the aisles and strewn across the floor in between the pews. All would need to be removed and burned, and the seats would need to be made clean and washed. The walls, meanwhile, were covered in writing and streaked with urine. Worst of all, for everything else could be cleaned, the stone pillars lining the aisles had been defaced with crude carvings by the prisoners.

  “By God’s light!” I exclaimed, as I surveyed the devastation that morning in the company of Arthur Sawyer. “The place smells like a farmyard.”

  My fellow constable scratched his bulbous nose and turned over one of the mats tentatively with his foot. A rat squeaked and scuttled off under one of the pews.

  “Aye, you’re right,” agreed Sawyer, a look of distaste spreading across his pock-marked features, “but what do you expect from a bunch of cankerous Irish arseholes such as those who were kept here?”

  Such comments were no more than I should have expected from my colleague, of whose general ignorance I had long been convinced. Nevertheless, I could not let the comment pass unchallenged.

  “Most of the men kept here were good Cheshire men, as you well know,” I said, trying hard to mask my irritation. “Either that or Welshmen. And where else should they have been kept, do you suppose?”

  “Me, I would have put them in a bloody big pen in the middle of Tinkers Croft,” replied Sawyer. “The bastards had already spent a month living in fields. Another few days would have made no difference. This place looks like a herd of cattle has passed through it. Treating them as such would have been no more than they deserved.”

  It was a view shared by many others in Nantwich, I had to concede, but I was increasingly forming the opinion that there was no right or wrong in this conflict, at least as far as the common man was concerned. Those who bore the greatest responsibility for the rivers of blood that had already flowed in our kingdom (namely our intransigent king, who thought himself elected by God, and his power-hungry parliament) seemed bent on a course which
could only end in calamity.

  I had little time for Sawyer’s views at the best of times, and even less on a day like today, so I muttered an excuse and, brush in hand, made my way over towards the south transept. This was the part of St Mary’s where the women prisoners had been kept, and, as you might expect, it was in rather a better state of repair than the rest of the church.

  I found James Skinner’s brothers, Jack and Robert, there, loading up a wooden hand cart with debris. I couldn’t help thinking that the Skinners were ideally suited to such a task, for, like their younger brother, they wore constant hangdog expressions that gave them a downcast aura, often mistaken for indolence. Today their demeanour was even more woebegone than usual, although they lifted their heads and nodded to me as I approached.

  “Goody, good een, Master Cheswis,” said the eldest, as he deposited an armful of filthy-looking rushes into the cart.

  “Good, morning, Jack,” I said, acknowledging the local greeting. “How are you faring?”

  “We’ve been in better fashion, sir, if the truth be told,” said Jack, wiping his hands on his breeches. “We’re all missing Jim, you know – his mam especially. He might be a gallas young bugger, but it’s mortal hard imagining him in the hands of those malignants in Chester. If I thought we had any chance of success we’d be after doing something about it ourselves.”

  I looked at the brothers and gave them what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. If there’s one thing I didn’t doubt, it was the Skinner brothers’ loyalty to their kinfolk. However, I had to agree with Jack’s assessment of the situation. Recruited into Byron’s army and held firmly behind the city walls in Chester, he was unlikely to be easy to extricate. I was about to say as much when the younger brother, Robert, cut in with the words I had been dreading.

  “Master Cheswis, you did promise us that you would help us bring Jim back home,” he said. “Leastways, can you not advise how we might achieve that?”

  I groaned inwardly. Why did I end up being responsible for the fortunes of so many people? It would be the downfall of me. Mrs Padgett, in her henpecking way, had advised me well when she told me to think of myself a little more often. And yet Robert was right. Quite apart from the fact that I owed James Skinner my life after he had saved me from being shot by Nathaniel Hulse the previous month, I had given my word; and that, to my mind, was a bond that was unbreakable.

  I had no idea how I was going to rescue Skinner, but I was saved from having to outline the extent of the difficulties in achieving such a thing by the arrival on the scene of a slightly breathless Ezekiel Green, the town’s bright-eyed young court clerk, who had clearly been sent over from the courthouse on the other side of the square to seek me out.

  “M-Master Cheswis, sir,” he stuttered. “You are to come to the Booth Hall. Sir William Brereton’s orders. Your presence is required with regards to an urgent matter.”

  I gave Green a searching look and tried to assess the situation. With the town still swarming with Brereton’s men, as well as a sizeable contingent of soldiers from Lancashire, I had thought I might be allowed a few days grace before being summoned by Brereton. It was more likely, I considered, that this was a minor security issue that the Deputy Lieutenants wished to discuss with me, so I told Ezekiel I would be along presently, once I had finished my business in the church.

  “No, sir,” said Ezekiel, a little more abruptly than I thought was necessary. “You are to come immediately, I’m afraid. I am under instructions to bring you there.”

  I put down my brush and sighed. “Very well, “I said. “I will come, but at the risk of offending you, if I am required to attend with such haste, why are they sending a junior clerk to fetch me?”

  Ezekiel reddened and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I am sorry, sir, but I have come with Colonel Thomas Croxton. He is waiting by the porch for you. He didn’t want to get his shoes dirty. It is Sir William himself who wishes to see you.”

  I looked askance at Ezekiel and realised I had little option but to comply. Thomas Croxton was one of the Deputy Lieutenants considered to be closest to Sir William Brereton and therefore not a man to be ignored. As a military man, he also happened to be responsible for organising the payment of Brereton’s army. I must admit to a certain degree of unease as I wondered what it was exactly that he wanted with me.

  I turned to Jack and Robert. “Do not worry about Jim,” I said. “Leave it with me. I will think of a solution, I promise.” With that, I left my brush leaning against the Skinners’ hand cart and motioned for Ezekiel to lead me to where Croxton was waiting.

  Chapter 3

  Nantwich – Thursday February 1st, 1644

  I found Thomas Croxton just inside the main porch of the church, staring at the thin covering of powdery snow that was swirling across the cobbles on the square. His arms were wrapped around his shoulders to protect himself against the cold, for the brief spring-like weather that had accompanied the lifting of the siege of Nantwich had been but a brief respite from the icy clutches of winter. Croxton, a young colonel, who had worked his way up under Brereton’s command, was a short man with thin, piercing eyes and a reputation for a no-nonsense approach to running the finances of Brereton’s army. He wore a plain black coat and breeches with gold trimmings, bucket-top boots and a black, wide-brimmed hat – sombre garments in the Dutch style, but just enough colour to display the arrogance of an officer who knew he was on the way up. He straightened himself rapidly when he realised I had arrived on the scene, and gestured in the direction of the courthouse.

  “Ah, Constable Cheswis,” he said. “You are a difficult man to track down. We have a meeting of considerable import and your presence is required.”

  I looked at Croxton and mumbled an apology. “I was not informed of any meeting, Colonel,” I said, truthfully. “I understood the Deputy Lieutenants were not due to assemble until next week.”

  Croxton smiled inscrutably and, holding one hand to his hat to prevent it being blown away by a sudden gust of wind, pointed to the group of people stood by the entrance to the courthouse. “That’s right,” he said, “but they have already met this morning, and their services are no longer required for today. It is a quite different committee which desires the pleasure of your presence.”

  Nonplussed, I glanced over at the crowd of people milling around outside the courthouse, and saw that Croxton was telling the truth. Amongst the crowd were most of the Deputy Lieutenants, including Colonel George Booth, the young garrison commander, who was wearing an expression of barely concealed rage and talking in an animated fashion with a representative selection of the county’s ruling elite, including Booth’s own grandfather, Baronet Delamere (also called George Booth), as well as Philip Mainwaring of Peover and Roger Wilbraham of Dorfold House.

  I felt a sudden pang of unease and shot Croxton a quizzical look. “What vexes the colonel?” I asked. “He is not usually so heckle-tempered.”

  Croxton said nothing but gestured towards the door of the courthouse.

  “All will become clear,” he said, mysteriously.

  I was not so sure.

  My first surprise on entering the building was the sight of Alexander Clowes and my younger brother Simon, who were both perched on a bench outside the door to the main committee room, which was guarded by two burly sergeants. Simon looked up and shrugged, pulling his fingers nervously through his long mane of blond hair. Alexander sat motionless, a worried look on his face.

  “Wait here,” said Croxton, disappearing into the committee room. Thirty seconds later, he re-emerged and motioned for us to enter. “Sir William will see you now,” he said, following us back into the chamber and closing the door behind him.

  I had been in the courthouse’s committee room many times before, as it was used regularly by the Deputy Lieutenants to conduct their business, and Arthur Sawyer and I had grown accustomed to being summoned there. It was a long, thin chamber, with wooden wall-panelling lit by candles housed in a row of sconces along the
wall. In the middle of the room was a long oak table, at the head of which I recognised the thin, pinched features of Sir William Brereton. With him were four men, none of whom I knew.

  Brereton was a slight man, whose sober dress, long face, and pointed beard accentuated the aura of severity he had cultivated for himself. It had not always been so. I had heard tell that, as a younger man, he had been both well-travelled and open-minded, with an interest in exotic souvenirs, unusual business ventures, and a particular willingness to understand and learn from all kinds of religion, a far cry from the radical and ambitious politician that he had become. He rose to his feet as we entered and gave us an even smile.

  “Good morrow, gentlemen,” he said. “Pray be seated. It is indeed a pleasure to welcome a group of such promising intelligencers as yourselves.”

  Simon and I exchanged glances. This was not beginning well. “Intelligencers, Sir William?” I ventured.

  Brereton stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “Why of course, Master Cheswis. Colonel Booth informs me that the three of you have been rather active during my absence in Wales. He speaks most highly of you, I should add, and my sources indicate that the Cheswis brothers have already gained some notoriety as a thorn in the side of His Majesty’s forces in Cheshire.”

  “I did not realise we had become so famous, sir,” I said. “I suspect notoriety sought us out rather than it being borne of any desire on our part.”