The Black Madonna (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 1)

by Stella Riley

  ‘Francis Langley? Yes. I suppose he would be. The instant lure of the obvious. Oh God!’

  It was a second or two before Eden realised that this exclamation was not a comment on his friend’s disposition. Then, following the signor’s gaze, he too muttered helplessly, ‘God’s teeth.’

  It wasn’t just the myriad of cuts and bruises that adorned Tom and Selim or even their torn and muddied clothing. It was mainly what they’d managed to do to each other’s faces. Tom had a split lip whose swelling was bidding fair to take over his face; and Selim’s right eye was completely shut and already showing signs of becoming extremely colourful.

  ‘Well, I hope honour is satisfied,’ said Luciano, at length. ‘Because you and I now have the pleasure of continuing our respective journeys with two apparently desperate ruffians. The only good thing to be said for it is that at least they’re still standing.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  THREE

  It took a further three days to reach Worcester, by which time Selim’s eye – though it had begun to open again – was passing through numerous exquisite shades of purple. The landlord of the Cardinal’s Hat looked first at the eye and then at the knife and suffered severe misgivings which were only allayed by Luciano ordering every available comfort and paying in advance.

  The town, they soon discovered, was alive with nervous excitement and rumour. It was also full of Royalist soldiers – namely the Earl of Worcester’s regiment of dragoons under the command of Sir John Byron. These, it appeared, had but that day arrived from Oxford with quantities of gold and silver plate which they were transporting to the King at Shrewsbury. But the town was by no means wholeheartedly sympathetic towards His Majesty and had only let Byron in because the rotting gates and crumbling walls would not suffice to keep him out.

  ‘And that,’ said Luciano grimly to Selim, ‘is not all. For since it seems that just about everyone between London and Shrewsbury knows exactly what Sir John is carrying, I wouldn’t wager a groat against the chances of a parliamentary force coming to take it from him. Also, the King’s nephew was here until recently with a troop of Horse – and I doubt he’s gone far. Which basically means that the sooner we get out of this place, the better.’

  So it was that the following morning saw them riding south out of town through the village of Powick, towards a place called Callow End and the house of Thomas Ferrars.

  It was an eye-catching structure; relatively new and too ornate for its size. Someone, decided Luciano, had grand designs, insufficient money and no taste.

  He was admitted by a harassed-looking manservant and then shown into an over-furnished parlour where a woman’s voice immediately said coldly, ‘Make haste to state your business. I don’t waste time on tradesmen.’

  Luciano surveyed her clinically. She was tall and had once probably been beautiful; but the golden hair was fading and the lines on her face were those of discontent. Her gown, however, was of the best quality silk and the pearls at her throat were amongst the finest he had ever seen.

  He accorded her a slight bow and said, ‘Your pardon, Madam – but I had hoped to see Mr Thomas Ferrars.’

  ‘I know that. I am Alice Ferrars. And you can discuss your business with me as well as with my husband.’

  ‘I think not. But if your husband is otherwise engaged just now, I have no objection to waiting.’

  ‘Your wishes don’t interest me, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Sandy. Lucius Sandy.’

  ‘Well, Mr Sandy, it would be a waste of time waiting. My husband is from home.’

  ‘Ah.’ Frustration stirred but he controlled it. ‘And may I ask when you expect him back?’

  ‘You may not. Either tell me what you came for – or go.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disoblige you,’ said Luciano, his voice growing noticeably mellow, ‘but I can only repeat that my business is with your husband. And I would be even sorrier to inconvenience you by calling twice a day until he returns.’

  The frost in Alice Ferrars eyes turned to ice. She said slowly, ‘Are you having the impertinence to threaten me? If so, allow me to tell you that I don’t take that tone from anyone alive – let alone some jumped-up shop-keeper! And instead of trying to dun my husband in his own home, you should count yourself fortunate in having received his custom at all. Now get out.’

  The realisation that he had conceived, in a very short time, a profound dislike for Mistress Ferrars made Luciano decide on one last throw. It was a gamble, of course; but not, he calculated cynically, a very big one.

  ‘I am afraid,’ he said, with just the right note of reluctance, ‘that you place me in a very difficult position. You see, it isn’t a question of money … but of certain designs.’

  ‘What designs?’

  ‘Forgive me. I’ve said too much already. Mr Ferrars was most insistent about surprising you.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her expression relaxed and something not far removed from a smile touched her mouth. ‘I see. A surprise, you say? Well, that is quite a different matter.’ She disposed herself in a particularly ornate chair. ‘Tell me … precisely what business are you in?’

  ‘I am a goldsmith.’

  ‘Really? How nice. Well, let us see. I wouldn’t for the world spoil my husband’s little surprise … but equally it seems a pity not to take the opportunity to improve upon it. Sadly, his taste is not always quite what one would wish.’ She leaned back, eyes narrowed but smiling. ‘So why don’t you sit down, Mr Sandy – and tell me all about it?’

  Forty minutes later and having sketched an idea for what [if he ever actually made it] would be the most vulgar and extortionately expensive necklace of his career, Luciano del Santi was riding cheerfully back to Worcester with Selim.

  ‘The master of the house – and I use the term in its loosest sense – is away,’ he announced presently. ‘His lady had taken a fancy to live in Oxford for a while and has duly despatched him to hire a suitable residence for her.’

  ‘So now,’ sighed Selim, ‘we go to Oxford?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to run the risk of missing him again. She says she told him to be back no later than Friday – and I doubt he’ll disobey. So you keep the house under some sort of observation … and we wait.’

  ‘For nearly a week?’

  ‘For as long as necessary,’ replied the signor calmly. ‘I agree that it’s unfortunate. Somehow I’ve got to pass six days in Worcester without coming to the attention of Sir John Byron and being forced to contribute to the King’s coffers. But, if we’re lucky, he’ll take himself off to Shrewsbury.’

  ‘And if we’re not,’ said Selim gloomily, ‘he’ll bring the Roundheads down on us.’

  ‘Quite.’ Luciano smiled wryly. ‘A situation fraught with possibilities. But I’m sure that, should the need arise, we’ll think of something.’

  * * *

  Although the rumours grew ever wilder and Sir John showed no sign of departing, the days passed uneventfully enough until, in the grey light of Thursday’s dawn, someone stuck an axe in the Sidbury Gate and then fired a musket through the hole. This roused a lone Royalist sentry to the discovery that roughly a thousand enemy Horse stood outside it – which was rather surprising since the gate had no bar and would have yielded to a push. However, no one outside seemed to suspect this, so the sentry gamely refused to surrender the town and then made haste to call out his slumbering comrades.

  The noise and confusion as the garrison piled out of bed to meet the unexpected attack woke and alarmed half the town. Fortunately, it also alarmed the would-be attackers who beat a hasty retreat and were out of sight before Byron’s fellows had got the gate open.

  Luciano heard the tale over breakfast but was not tempted to laugh. Instead, when the landlord left him alone with Selim, he said brusquely, ‘Pack.’

  ‘Pack? But why, efendim? They have gone.’

  ‘I doubt it. The main army can’t be far away and the plan is probably to trap Byron here until it arrives.
But with Ferrars due home tomorrow, the very last thing I need is to find myself shut in a beleaguered town.’ He paused, frowning thoughtfully. ‘There is also the possibility that Byron is expecting reinforcements – Rupert, perhaps. I can’t think of anything else that would have caused him to linger here. And if he is, we could end up playing grandmother’s footsteps with both sides if we don’t want to have to follow Ferrars all the way back to Oxford.’

  Selim awarded this due consideration. Then, ‘I think,’ he said, ‘it will be best if we go quickly.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ sighed the Italian. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  Getting out of Worcester was nowhere near as difficult as it ought to have been and, on the assumption that the Roundheads had gone north to blockade the Shrewsbury road, Luciano set off across the Severn through Bridge Gate and turned south towards Powick. It was not his fault that he’d miscalculated. But by the time he realised his error, they had ridden more or less straight into the arms of Nathaniel Fiennes.

  However, it was not Nathaniel but his brother, John, who recognised the importance of their catch and said, ‘Well, this is a surprise. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’

  ‘Business,’ shrugged Luciano, ‘demands mobility.’

  ‘You’re likely to run into difficulties, then. Or haven’t you noticed there’s a war on?’

  ‘I’ve noticed. But it’s no concern of mine.’

  ‘No?’ John Fiennes folded sarcastic arms. ‘Then what have you been up to in Worcester with Byron? Helping melt down his spoils – or just adding to them?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ demanded Nathaniel irritably. ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ John’s tone was laced with bountiful satisfaction. ‘He’s a money-lender – and reputedly one of the richest men in the three kingdoms. So we can’t just leave him wandering around loose. He might fall into the wrong hands. And a lot of people would consider that worse than losing Byron.’

  * * *

  After almost twenty-four hours of polite captivity that had included a very uncomfortable night, Luciano was beginning to lose his temper. It was Friday and he’d expected to be at Callow End by now, confronting Thomas Ferrars – not sitting in a field at Powick under constant guard while the citizens of Worcester came in their droves to gape at the military side-show.

  ‘This,’ he announced savagely, ‘is bloody ridiculous.’

  Selim looked at him.

  ‘I still have my knife,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Don’t be a fool. How many of them do you think you can kill? And our horses are back there with the rest. We can’t do a thing until they decide to move – and, on present showing, that could take till Doomsday.’

  There being no real answer to this, they sat in silence for a further hour until the air of rising excitement around them culminated in a mêlée of activity and a youthful lieutenant arrived, leading their horses.

  ‘Mount up,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’re going.’

  Luciano rose slowly. ‘Going where?’

  The fellow hesitated and then shrugged.

  ‘Worcester. Byron’s on the move and we’re off to stop him. But don’t worry. Captain Fiennes says you’re to be fully protected at all times.’

  The men fell in on a large meadow just below the village and then indulged themselves with a heartening psalm.

  God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

  Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed …

  Luciano looked on beneath faintly amused brows.

  ‘A goodly clutch of Puritans, no doubt. But I wonder if they fight as well as they sing?’

  Selim sniffed. ‘Singing is for women.’

  ‘You’re missing the point. Why would Byron choose to leave today of all days, knowing as he does what’s out here waiting for him?’

  Selim cast his mind back and then, finding the answer, opened his mouth to deliver it.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Luciano softly. ‘But if dear Nathaniel hasn’t worked it out for himself, I don’t think we’ll help him. Just keep your eyes and ears open and be ready for any confusion. I imagine we can rely on these gentlemen not shooting the golden goose.’ He paused and met his henchman’s eye with a sudden smile. ‘But, in case those are famous last words, you’d better get ready to duck as well.’

  The cavalcade made its ponderous way along the lane towards the bridge that would take it across the River Teme. Luciano knew that bridge moderately well. It was old, brick-built and no more than twelve feet wide – which meant that the troops would have to break formation to cross it. And on the far side of the river lay an equally narrow lane bounded by straggling hedges which wound up into a large field from where one could see Worcester. So if a surprise lay in store this, presumably, was the place to look for it.

  Rather less alert than his Italian captive, Nathaniel Fiennes led the column over the bridge and down the lane into Wickfield – aware but undismayed that, behind him, his force was being squeezed into a long thin ribbon. And then he stopped dead, staring at a sight too incredible to be believed.

  On the other side of the field, four or five hundred Royalist cavalrymen were taking their ease on the grass. Some had disarmed and lay dozing in the sun, some were still eating their noon-day meal and others were grouped about their officers in the shade of a thorn tree. All appeared totally oblivious to the presence of the enemy.

  Nathaniel stared and stared again, still unable to take it in while, at his back, the entire troop came to a shuddering stop as each man’s horse cannoned unwarily into that of the man in front. And then everything changed as a tall Royalist officer surged to his feet and alerted all the others by throwing himself astride the nearest horse.

  ‘Boot and saddle!’ he roared. ‘Charge!’

  The spell shattered..

  ‘God rot it!’ swore Nathaniel. ‘Rupert!’

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Somewhere towards the back of the column, Luciano and Selim were barely over the bridge.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Luciano, as they ground to a halt. ‘Already?’

  He dropped one hand on Selim’s bridle and strained his ears. Then, as the first shock waves rippled through the ranks, ‘Now!’ he said. And, dragging the Turk from the saddle as he dropped from his own, took a sort of flying dive at the hedge.

  It parted unwillingly to let them through but took its toll on skin and clothing. Without pausing either to assess the damage or heed the pandemonium breaking out on the other side of the hedge, the Italian said, ‘Across the river – before Nathaniel’s lads start dropping on our heads.’

  Shouts and screams of escalating panic and confusion rose from the lane as those in front turned and rode down those behind in an attempt to retreat; while further away pistol shots and the clash of swords bore witness to the fact that at least some of Captain Fiennes’ men were staying to fight.

  ‘What now?’ asked Selim as, soaked and muddy to the armpits, they gained the far bank. ‘We run?’

  ‘No. We hide. That clump of willows ought to do,’ replied Luciano, already squelching towards it in boots full of water. ‘We need horses. Preferably our own – but any will do. Either way, we stay out of sight until the gentlemen over there complete their business with each other. And then we try to keep our rendezvous at Callow End.’

  Selim resisted the impulse to say, Like this? but could not forgo a gloomy ‘Inşallah.’

  ‘Quite. But just now I prefer “God helps those who help themselves”.’

  The skirmish taking place on the opposite bank turned out to be brief but remarkably unpleasant. Long before the Royalists appeared, the lane was a seething mass of confusion as Fiennes’ men rode over each other in their efforts to escape the damnably restricted space. They swarmed back on to the bridge where John Fiennes tried to turn and rally them – only to find himself driven aside by the terrified stampede. And then th
e Royalists were upon them from behind; cutting men down, forcing them into the river and trampling others beneath their horses as they swept on in relentless pursuit.

  The whole thing probably lasted less than twenty minutes, thought Luciano grimly – but it was as comprehensive a rout as anything he could have imagined.

  ‘Tenant-farmers versus gentlemen,’ he murmured. ‘What chance have they got?’

  ‘Efendim?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Luciano pulled off his boots to empty them. There was no use in letting the scene he’d just witnessed touch him. It was nothing to do with him, after all. ‘Let’s get out of here. It would probably be safer to wait till the Cavaliers give up the chase and head back to Worcester … but, if we do that, they’ll round up all the loose horses and we’ll be left to walk. So we’ll risk it.’

  Selim, who disliked being wet, said persuasively, ‘And then we find an inn?’

  ‘Perhaps. But let’s take one thing at a time, shall we?’

  He had not bargained for the nightmare on the bridge. Dead, dying or wounded, men and beasts lay tangled in grisly carnage; the very air was filled with sounds of pain and terror. Never having been near a battlefield before, Luciano smelled blood and instantly felt bile rising in his throat. He did not think his life had been particularly cushioned; poverty, fear, gruelling work and the disease and desperation of the back-streets – he knew all these things. But nothing had prepared him for what lay on Powick Bridge; and for the first time he found himself wondering how many people in sleepy, self-satisfied England were prepared for it either.

  Sickened, he said, ‘What a bloody mess.’

  ‘Yes. But we can do nothing, efendim. There are too many. And soon the King’s men will return – so we must cross the bridge.’

  At the back of his mind, Luciano could see the sense in this; and so, although it was the very last thing he wanted to do, he pulled himself together and began picking his way through the human wreckage at his feet. The necessity of looking where he was going brought nausea several steps closer … and the sight of a man whose skull had been virtually split open all but undid him. Then a hand grabbed his ankle.