Circle of Pearls

by Rosalind Laker

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘No. I’ll get there by nightfall.’

  ‘Here.’ The sergeant turned in his saddle and unbuckled a blanket-roll, which he tossed down to Joe. ‘Cover the Captain with this. Then make haste. The sooner he is in good nursing hands the better.’

  He rode back to the men and his prisoners. Joe tucked the blanket around Michael and then drove off at speed, but only until he came to a side lane, which he could see led through a slope of thick woods. There he took the cart well into the seclusion of the trees before returning to watch the road from some bushes. He had to be sure that he had not inadvertently created any doubts in the sergeant’s mind.

  He did not have long to wait. Twenty minutes later the sergeant and another Roundhead on horseback went galloping past in the direction he had been taking, hot in pursuit of a lying boy and a Cavalier in disguise.

  Joe grinned and thumbed his nose at the soldiers as they vanished into the dusk. Then he returned to the cart and peered into it at his charge. Where had he made his mistake? What had rung a bell of suspicion afterwards in the sergeant’s mind? Perhaps a Roundhead Captain would not have carried that particular baton while wearing that colour sash. Or maybe the helmet lying there was a colonel’s? It was just possible that the sergeant had asked the location of Amberley and learned it was in Sussex and no village of that name was to be found anywhere near the city of Worcester.

  5

  During the night Michael recovered consciousness. He was desperately thirsty and drank several cupfuls of water that Joe brought him from a stream. Then he slept again to wake with a throbbing headache to find that he was sitting in a cart, half covered by a blanket in the midst of a wood and wearing an enemy coat. He shut his eyes again, struggling against the intense ache behind them, the soreness of his arm nothing by comparison. Unaware that he had brushed a hat from his head during the night, causing it to become a pillow, he reached up a hand and felt dried blood and the large bump on the back of his head.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Drink this, sir.’

  He opened his eyes again to see a lad he recognized handing him a mug of milk over the rim of the cart. ‘Joe Berry! What are you doing here?’

  ‘A musket knocked you out and I got you away, but I’ll explain everything later. There’s a farmhouse up this track.’ Joe indicated the direction by jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ve been doing some business there and come back to tell you about it. They sheltered a Royalist last night and ’e’s died from his wounds. They’re scared stiff of ’im being found there and they’re going to carry the body down through the woods to the village church and leave it to the Parson to find out who he was and anyway give him Christian burial.’ He saw the stark look Michael turned in the direction of the farmhouse and hastened to reassure him. ‘It’s not the Master, sir. This was just a youngish fellow. They asked me if I knew ’im.’ That was not strictly true. It had crossed Joe’s mind that some strange quirk of fate might have brought the two male Pallisters close to each other at this traumatic time and he had requested to see the body. ‘Nor did I see the Master among the wounded or the dead yesterday, sir.’

  ‘God grant that may be as true today as it was then.’ Michael had been holding the mug of milk and now he drank it down without pause. It was warm from the cow and seemed to him the most delicious drink he had ever had in his life. ‘What was this business that you mentioned?’

  Joe refilled the mug from a bucket of milk that he had set down on the ground and handed it over again. ‘These farm folk are left with the Cavalier’s ’orse at the moment. They can chase it off easily enough, but we can’t wait for ’em to do that. I suggest you let me buy it from ’em.’ His expression was cocky. ‘I reckon on getting it at bargain price.’

  Michael had drunk down the milk as thirstily as before. ‘Buy the animal,’ he said at once, giving back the mug. Then he would have reached into his pocket for money only to remember that his own coat had gone. He looked anxiously at Joe. ‘Did you — ’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Joe broke in reassuringly, producing the leather drawstring purse from his own pocket and bouncing it on his palm with a jingle of coins. ‘I didn’t want you robbed when I weren’t with you, so I took charge of your money.’

  ‘I should say that was an unlikely possibility here in the safety of these woods,’ Michael commented dryly.

  ‘I don’t mean you were likely to be robbed ’ere,’ Joe said, ‘but yesterday when you was in that shed in Worcester.’

  ‘What shed? I don’t understand.’

  Joe shook his head impatiently. ‘I’ll tell you about that when I’ve bought that ’orse.’

  As he went off again, boots thudding up the rutted track, Michael climbed slowly out of the cart, careful not to jerk his painful head in any way. It was worse than anything he had endured after a carousal. He went to relieve himself and in reeling back to the cart he saw a little stream. Kneeling down on the bank, he dashed the cold water into his face. He thought he felt a little better until he got up again and then he had to find a fallen tree-trunk on which to sit. There he supported his wounded arm by the elbow. He would have liked to discard the enemy coat he was wearing, but he was still as weak as a baby and disinclined to do anything more for the time being. He had seen his sword lying in the cart, but if the enemy should come upon him now through the trees he could do nothing to defend himself.

  Yet it was good to be alive and the cool ferny silence of the woods, broken only by the twittering of birds and the sudden rustle of some unseen little creature in the grass, made the noise and horror of the previous day seem like a nightmare and something that could never have been. But the reality was there, images stamped on his memory that he would never be able to forget, even though his mind was blank as to the shed that Joe had mentioned and how he came to be here. He saw again the flying head of the soldier he had killed and, although there had been other men who had fallen to his sword that day, he wept on a rush of emotional reaction for that one man. The tears dropped from his eyes to the grass at his feet for he was leaning slightly forward with his arm balanced across his knee. His shoulders heaved in his sobbing. If that Roundhead had been his own brother his grief at that moment would not have been worse. He understood now why no soldier returning home after warfare ever spoke of what he had seen or else the guilt of living on when others had fallen would be a yoke impossible to bear. It was only when veteran soldiers grew old and became nostalgic for past comradeship-in-arms that they were able to let the dead whom they remembered in their hearts finally lie in peace.

  He heard Joe returning with the horse and hastily wiped his eyes with his sleeve. The lad noticed nothing, proud of his purchase of the black animal, which lacked any sign of breeding but was sturdy enough and, apart from a slight graze across the neck, appeared to have been unharmed in yesterday’s battle.

  Joe had also brought food from the farmhouse, enough to last through the day, with two clay mugs and plates, some wooden utensils and a knife for their journey. Immediately Michael was aware of being ravenously hungry, realizing he had not eaten since the same hour the previous day. Joe tucked in with equal gusto and in a voice muffled by mouthfuls of bread, cheese and meat recounted all that had happened from the time Michael had lost consciousness.

  ‘You saved me twice from being taken prisoner,’ Michael said gratefully when Joe had concluded with the outwitting of the sergeant. ‘When we get back to Sotherleigh I’ll see your days in the kitchen are over.’

  Joe wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What’ll I do then, sir?’ he asked tensely. ‘Plants wouldn’t grow if anyone tried to make a gardener out of me and Ridley won’t let me in ’is workshop ’cos I’m clumsy.’

  ‘I was thinking to make a groom of you, Joe.’

  The boy’s face flooded crimson and his eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, sir! That’s a good idea of yours if I can say so. I like ’orses. You won’t regret it, sir.’

  The
y washed down their food with the last of the milk in the bucket and made ready to leave. Michael threw off the sash he was still wearing and changed his coat for another, which had been among Joe’s purchases. It stank of cows, but Michael was in no mood to be particular and it was roomy enough for him to slide his arm into the left sleeve without too much pain. Both he and Joe realized the importance of his having no apparent connection with the previous day’s battle. The sash and coat, the baton and the helmet were all thrust down by Joe into a hollow and covered with dry leaves.

  ‘I’ll make you a sling for that arm, sir,’ he said, folding into a triangle his own neckerchief, which had not been washed since he left Sotherleigh, ‘but it’s best you take it off and shove it in your pocket if we meet anyone.’

  The sling did relieve the aching, but when Michael would have swung himself into the saddle of his new mount, his head swam to such a degree that he was forced to lie down again in the cart, and the black horse was hitched to the rear of it. With Joe once more in the driving seat they set off up the track away from the road, the farm folk having given him directions that would lead them past their house and southward on a route little used by any except local people, where it was unlikely that any Roundheads would be encountered. If it should happen, Joe was confident the two of them could pass as a journeyman and apprentice going about their business. If the need arose they could say they were brothers and if Michael was still confined to the cart he would have to pretend to be drunk.

  The day went without a hitch. They passed from Worcestershire into Gloucestershire and that night they were able to sleep in a barn. Joe thought the farmer’s price was high for the loan of some straw for a bed until he realized it included supper as well. He had told Michael from the start to mumble whenever it was necessary for him to speak, for otherwise his gentlemanly voice, being at odds with his rough attire, would arouse curiosity and there was no telling who was friend or foe. The farmer was a hard-eyed, uncouth fellow and the kitchen where they ate supper with him was filthy, the food less appetizing than that given to the dogs at Sotherleigh. They were waited on by the man’s wife, who looked completely downtrodden, and there were several daughters who scurried about every time the farmer shouted for something. Just as the two travellers were settling down to sleep, one of the girls came to keep Michael company. He had neither the strength nor the least wish to avail himself of her offer and sent her away again. Joe would have followed her, eager for initiation into sexual experience, but Michael ordered him to stay where he was and he obeyed.

  The following two nights cost them nothing, for they slept by hayricks in fields, covering themselves with hay and resting well. By then Joe had reached the limits of the local directions given to him by the farm folk, having come to the end of them during the second day, and they were having to take busier roads, but they were more relaxed, knowing that every hour took them farther from danger. They would have dumped the cart if it had been possible, but Michael continued to have spells of giddiness and was unable to be in the saddle for more than an hour or so at a time. He concluded that his condition came more from loss of blood than from the blow on the head, but his wound was clean and showed signs of healing well. At least retaining the cart helped to keep up the illusion of their being workmen locally employed, and they became increasingly jubilant as they rode through villages and towns without attracting undue attention, stopping only to buy food.

  When they came to a place where a market was in progress, Michael bought new clothing for himself and Joe. Everything on sale was well suited to their supposed station in life, locally made and home-spun, fit for hard wear over a long period. He bought a coat and hat for each of them, the colours sombre, the headgear bare of plumage, as well as breeches, hose and change of linen. Later that day they bathed in a river, Michael having to keep his bound arm out of the water. Afterwards they donned their clean garments with relief while the river carried away everything they had cast off.

  That night they stayed at a hostelry, where they had the luxury of jugs of hot water and Michael barbered himself with the new razor he had bought in the market. They ate well downstairs at a table in the tap-room. There were plenty of Roundheads coming in to swill down the ale, but they were laughing and talking among themselves or flirting with the barmaids. It was the first time Michael and Joe had entered anywhere that might have turned into a trap for them and, having passed the danger successfully, they became completely confident that nothing could delay their home-coming now. Already Gloucestershire was behind them and there was only a road, long though it was, to take them through Wiltshire, down through Hampshire, and bring them finally on to Sussex soil.

  Their cart now held several empty barrels which they had found dumped by the wayside and they were often greeted by carriers supposing them to be transporting ale. Joe became adept at returning these greetings, which were made by a tilt of the whip. They had almost no news of what was happening in the country, avoiding conversation whenever possible, although in one village they found bonfires lit and church bells ringing to celebrate the King’s death. A Parliamentary trooper was being feted and given all the ale he could drink in the tavern, claiming he had killed the King at Worcester.

  ‘This is the Stuart’s coat that I’m wearing!’ he informed his avid listeners, who had invited him to step on to a table in the forecourt in order for everyone to hear his tale at first hand, ‘I ripped it from him myself!’

  Michael and Joe, who had drawn up to listen on the outskirts of the crowd, moved on again. ‘The King was not in a coat of that colour,’ Michael said quietly and with relief. ‘If circumstances had been different it would have given me great pleasure to have exposed that lie being perpetrated.’

  They had been seven days on the road when they reached Winchester and the light of a street lantern read the first of such posters as they were to see elsewhere.

  By the Parliament. A Proclamation for the Discovery and Apprehending of Charles Stuart and Other Traitors, His Adherents and Abettors!

  It went on to state that after being defeated with his forces at Worcester this dangerous son of the late tyrant had escaped. Parliament charged all officers, civil as well as military, and the good people of the land to do everything in their power to bring him to justice, a reward of one thousand pounds being offered for his capture.

  ‘So he is alive,’ Michael breathed thankfully. ‘We’ll have a celebration at Sotherleigh as soon as we get there.’

  They were only a day or so’s journey from home now and would have carried on through the night if it had not been for the horses having had enough travelling for the day. All along they would have made better speed if they could have changed horses, but nowhere would it have been wise to become linked up in the chain that existed for the benefit of travellers.

  It had become their custom always to drive through a town or village to the most outlying hostelry for the night. This gave them a good start on the road in the morning. Michael, whose money was dwindling, had to make sure of keeping enough for bribes or anything else that might prove necessary in an emergency, but on what might be the last night he decided to have a room to himself. He was wearied of sharing with Joe, but when they arrived at the hostelry beyond St Cross there was only one attic room left with two truckle beds. He had no choice but to take it and it was an uphill climb, with a rickety flight rising from the third floor to their accommodation under the eaves.

  He did not sleep well. The bed was uncomfortable and he stirred at every sound. He was half awake again when he heard the tramp of marching feet. Instantly he dived from bed to the dormer window. Because it was dark when he and Joe had arrived, he had not seen what was clearly visible now through a gap in the foliage of the roadside trees. Their room was on the side of the tavern giving him a direct view across the river of a row of gibbets standing on the verge of the road that he and Joe would shortly be taking. Quickly he leaned from the window and was able to see going past the tavern a Parliament
ary officer on horseback riding at the head of a band of troopers marching in the direction of the bridge leading to the gibbets. They were escorting three prisoners, who were walking one behind the other, their wrists tied behind them. The first two were middle-aged men, but the third was a fair-haired girl with long loose tresses soft as silk, no more than sixteen years of age, dressed in a plain grey gown such as a maidservant or one of modest background would wear. To judge by her lowered head she was weeping. Drawing up the rear of the procession was another soldier leading a horse in the shafts of a light army wagon of the type used when a moderate load had to be carried at a fast pace. Michael knew immediately what its purpose was to be that day.

  He leaned a hand against the wall as he waited for the condemned to reappear beyond the trees. It was usual for gibbets to be outside a town and they were a common sight. Hangings were to be seen in London and other cities at almost any time; there was nothing remarkable about them unless the condemned were people of fame or notoriety, in which case large crowds would assemble to listen to the last words from the scaffold. It was obvious that these hangings were of no local interest, for he could see that nobody had gathered to watch, which meant it was likely that the three prisoners had been brought from elsewhere to be more conveniently despatched.

  Now the procession was in sight again, coming to a halt at the first gibbet. Michael pushed the window wider. He would not have stayed to watch if it had not been for the girl. She had a look of springtime youth in the midst of that grim scene. He was filled with compassion for her, no matter who she was or what she had done.

  At a barked order from the officer the soldiers jumped into action. The first man had a noose placed about his neck and was shoved unceremoniously up into the wagon, which had been drawn up exactly under the gibbet. It was obvious that all three prisoners were to be despatched with a minimum of time and no allowance granted for a condemned man’s right to make that last speech. The reason was either that these people had to be silenced as soon as possible or, more likely, that the soldiers found the task abhorrent and wanted it over without delay. The fate of the two men would not have touched them, used as they were to seeing death in battle, but as they were only soldiers and not professional hangmen, the girl was a different matter. They were showing her a strange kind of mercy by despatching the men first, giving her a few breaths longer of the fresh morning air.