'There he is well positioned for support to reach him from Wales, where several regiments are being raised for him,' said Mr Gadd.
'You speak like a strategist,' Edmund Treves commented.
'We shall all be strategists by winter,' replied Mr Gadd.
Lovell had previously worn a superior smile, but now spoke easily, as if he was enjoying the debate: 'The Earl of Essex prefers a waiting game; he wants the King to sue for peace.'
'You think the King will march on London?' Mr Gadd asked.
'What has your intelligence from London to say?'
'Oh my correspondence with London is all of demesnes and rents,' Gadd told Lovell softly.
'Of course it is.'
There was a small pause, as if contenders in a sparring match were taking breath.
Lovell reached for the wine flagon to refill his glass and that of Treves. Mr Gadd had already declined further liquor, on health grounds. Juliana's glass was empty, but she was a young girl, and Lovell no more considered replenishing her wineglass than he had deemed it proper to include her in the political conversation. She had a flashing vision of Roxanne, on rare occasions when there was wine at the Carlill table, grasping the flagon and pouring for everyone equally.
Edmund Treves caught Juliana's look and misinterpreted: 'Do not be alarmed by all our talk of war, madam. Neither side wishes this conflict to be a trouble for women.'
Juliana remembered what Mr Gadd had told her about Edmund's opposing uncles. 'Any woman connected to men who are fighting must find it a very deep trouble, Master Treves. Besides,' she added wickedly, 'perhaps if Captain Lovell had asked me, am I for King or Parliament, I might not give a lawyer's answer!'
Orlando Lovell looked amused. 'So let me ask you the question.'
For almost the first time in their acquaintance Juliana gazed straight at him. 'Oh I must ally myself with my husband — when I have a husband.' She let them feel smug, then added, 'However, if I did not like his views, that would be very difficult. I hope to have my husband's full confidence, and to share mine with him.'
'And if you could not?'
'Oh I should have to leave him of course, Captain Lovell.'
As they all laughed most merrily at this idea, it seemed that only Juliana Carlill recognised that she had not been joking.
By the time that they had this conversation, King Charles had made his move. He left Shrewsbury, to the relief of the townsfolk, who had been badly used by his bored and ill-provisioned soldiers, even after the royal Mint from Aberystwyth was brought to coin collected plate and pay the men. The Earl of Essex bestirred himself. Leaving Worcester, which had suffered from his billeted troops as badly as Shrewsbury from the King's, he set off to form a blockade between the King and London. So the two field armies moved slowly towards each other, with between fourteen and fifteen thousand men apiece, each strangely unaware of their converging paths. Poor physical communications and the indifference of the people in areas through which they passed combined to astonish them when they suddenly came within a few miles of each other, near Kineton in south Warwickshire. On the 23rd of October, the King decided to join battle, drawing up his troops on Edgehill ridge.
When news of the battle at Edgehill reached Wallingford, which happened quite swiftly despite the sleeting autumn weather, the courtship of Juliana faltered. Though reports were as confusing as the battle seemed to have been, Treves and Lovell were now eager to join the King's army. A polite note informed Mr Gadd they had left Wallingford to volunteer.
'We shall not see them again,' Juliana murmured, uncertain whether to be disappointed.
Six days after the battle, the King and his army marched into Oxford, where Lovell and Treves were waiting. Charles was welcomed by the university with great ceremony and with less warmth by the town. Four days later he set off again determined to capture London. This was his march to Turnham Green.
As the Royalist army travelled south, it passed Wallingford. Juliana and Mr Gadd were surprised to receive a new visit from Orlando Lovell. This time he came alone. He seemed depressed, which appeared to be his reaction to the battle; he had ascertained details which he shared with Mr Gadd, man to man, Juliana being permitted to listen in only because she sat so quiet in a corner the men forgot she was there.
According to Lovell, the fighting took place between three o'clock in the afternoon and darkness. He described sourly how Prince Rupert's cavalry thundered through one Parliamentary wing but then chased off the field in pursuit of their fleeing opponents instead of steadying. Against orders, the King's reserves followed Rupert, another episode that caused Lovell's displeasure. The Parliamentary centre held, he said, then their infantry and cavalry fought valiantly. Night fell upon widespread confusion. The exhausted armies gradually came to rest.
'Both sides claimed victory though neither could sustain the claim.' Lovell was speaking in a grim voice; Juliana saw that he knew about fighting like this. She heard under notes of criticism. 'There was heroism, of course. There was futility. Seasoned soldiers are primed for both, but most men there had no past experience. They must have been terrified and shaken. Then after the guns and drums fell silent, the survivors spent the night on the battlefield. It was freezing cold. Under the gunsmoke, wounded men were moaning and dying. No medical aid came to them, though some were saved by the frost, which staunched their blood. It is said one of our men, stripped and left for dead, kept himself warm by pulling a corpse over him. Among the living, who had neither eaten nor drunk since the previous dawn, men shivered helplessly and tried to come to terms whilst in deep shock. Survivors of battle experience relief and also overwhelming guilt. Even their demoralised commanders sank into lethargy'
'And where does this leave us?' Mr Gadd asked him.
'Hard to say. Parliament had the most dead, though they held the field. When dawn broke, there were arguments on both sides, but neither commander was willing to continue. Both withdrew. It achieved nothing and solved nothing. All it tells me, sir, is that there will be no fast resolution.'
Lovell then asked for a conversation in private with the lawyer, after which he wanted an interview with Juliana. While she waited, she found she was quite frightened by what she had heard. She did not know exactly where Edgehill or Kineton were, but Warwickshire was only the next county to Oxfordshire. If, as Orlando Lovell implied, the battle stalemate indicated that this war was to continue for a substantial period, Juliana felt suddenly more anxious about her own future.
When Lovell emerged, he suggested a walk in the garden. Mr Gadd pleaded age, so she found herself in an unexpected tete-a-tete.
The grounds of the judge's house ran down to the river, with green lawns that must be scythed by some hired labourer even though the judge never came here. The grass was too sodden to be walked on, at least in a young lady's delicate footwear. Lovell's boots might have done it, but he had no intention of sinking in up to his precious spurs. He led Juliana to a raised terrace nearer the house, their feet crunching on wet pea-grain gravel.
'Forgive me,' said Lovell, speaking briskly, 'there does seem to be great haste in seeking a husband for you. I am struggling to understand it. Your guardian will barely take time to supply us with the documents about your orchards — ' Juliana now believed Mr Gadd had decided not to pursue Treves's proposal, yet Lovell still spoke as if he had no suspicion his scheme might be rejected. 'There is nothing untoward, I hope?' His gaze dipped to Juliana's belly, making his suggestion unmistakable.
Juliana had an unpleasant moment, thinking that Lovell and Treves had been discussing her morals, though she knew men did so. Pulling her cloak tighter around her, she answered levelly, 'You think me unchaste, Captain Lovell?'
He seemed to back down. 'I am indelicate.'
'You are unforgivable!'
Lovell for once seemed alarmed. 'Forgive my bluntness. I am a soldier — '
'And soldiers have to be uncouth?'
Lovell looked rueful. 'Please listen. I have a pass "to visi
t friends", but I must make haste and who knows when I may visit Wallingford again.. Treves and I are now attached to Prince Rupert's regiment. I must rejoin them immediately.'
Juliana did not relent. 'If there is urgency over my marriage, it is because my guardian is eighty years old, and I am otherwise alone in the world!' Still preoccupied and perturbed by Lovell's story of Edgehill, the thought of being alone oppressed her more than usual. She fought to regain her self-command and some control in the interview. 'It is best I am settled quickly. Especially in these troubled times.'
As she fixed her gaze on the lichen-coated balustrades and urns that surrounded the judge's parterre, she was aware that Lovell stared at her with a curiosity that verged on insolence. 'I am admiring your strength of character, Mistress Carlill. You have, if I may say so without annoying you again, a quality beyond your years.' She was too good for Treves, of course; Lovell saw that now. 'Too many difficulties while too young, I think?'
'Too much grief.' Juliana was equally blunt.
Lovell put a hand beneath her elbow and steered her to a stone bench.
He made a desultory attempt to brush it clean, the scatter of leaf litter catching on his hand. He was making it worse, and gave up. Juliana seated herself, her knees turned towards him so he could approach no closer, making space for herself, if not a barrier.
'So, madam. Tell me, what are your hopes in this negotiation? What are you seeking for yourself?'
The question was unexpected. For once Juliana felt uncertain. 'All the talk has been of "necessity".'
It always had been, for as long as she could remember. After her grandmother's long struggle to rise above poverty in a strange country, the need to survive had always driven her family. Her father's lack of business sense had destroyed any security they had. Her grandmother kept the family together and yearned for better things. Now, for Juliana to be respectable, better things could only come through a good marriage.
Her father had been a dreamer. Her grandmother despaired of him, could not believe she had raised a son who was so careless about his own future, or the future of them all. It was left to Grand-mere Roxanne to give Juliana any ambition she would have. Not enough, for Roxanne.
Yet Juliana's ambitions were fixed, and she enumerated them briskly to Lovell: A household of my own to run. A husband who values me as his true companion. To bear children but not bury them, nor to die myself while bearing them. Not to despair of how they shall turn out… A garden,' she added suddenly, glancing around. Most of the plants had withered, their few leaves hanging as brown rags. Frost had wreaked instant havoc.
'Well, this is a gloomy autumnal patch!' Lovell commented.
A garden where the autumn die-back would not matter, because I would always see it bloom again next spring.'
Lovell had a sense that the Carlill family had moved about a great deal. He wondered why. However, the young woman did not look particularly hunted. These domestic hopes of hers were pretty conventional. 'There is always the blossom at your orchard in Kent.'
The situation was not as he thought. Juliana smiled again, in her gentle, non-committal way. 'Ah, my father's orchard!'
'So,' probed Lovell. 'Is Edmund Treves to be your life's companion?'
Juliana felt it was improper to give her answer to Edmund's friend. Although she acknowledged that Lovell had authority to hear it, the very fact that Edmund let his sponsor come alone dismayed her. Whatever the reason a man asked for her — and she did not by any means expect it to be love — Juliana wanted direct dealing. Her view of marriage demanded it. 'Edmund Treves has excellent qualities — '
To her surprise, Captain Lovell suddenly interrupted: 'Too young! Too untried, too unworldly, too poorly endowed to match your dowry — ' He had that wrong, thought Juliana almost humorously. 'Altogether too damned milky white. No man for you.' As Lovell saw Juliana recoil at his frankness, his voice rasped. 'Do not make your decision from a sense of obligation, simply because young Treves has offered. You must defend yourself. No one else will. Think on that.'
He sounded like Mr Gadd. Juliana hardly paused. 'You are quite right. I will tell him — '
'I will tell him,' Lovell volunteered. 'I brought him to your door.'
'I would not wish Edmund to be hurt by this, Captain Lovell. I believe he may care for me — '
'He's in love. He'll recover. Edmund', explained Lovell brutally, 'has but one great idea in his head at any time. For the moment he is besotted with his new life as a soldier. However — ' And for once Orlando Lovell favoured Juliana with an open grin, a grin of such enormous sincerity and charm that she felt her first abrupt awareness of him as a man. 'He badly needs your orchard!'
She looked downcast.
'Should you refuse young Treves, we are all left with the other problem,' Lovell mused. Your guardian, Mr Gadd, rightly wishes to procure a husband for you.'
Juliana's gaze slipped across the parterre. She saw the ancient climbing roses, their great stems bent to unseen wires, one with a last brave crimson flower, another with pale buds that would never now open fully since they were browned by frost. A cold breeze was twisting her ringlets and she had hunched her shoulders against the cold. The conversation could not last much longer; she would have to go indoors.
And then she heard Orlando Lovell suggest to her quietly, 'There is an answer. Marry me.'
Chapter Ten — Birmingham: October, 1642
'Why me?' wondered Kinchin Tew.
As the mad parson took hold of her, she felt indignant, resigned, desperate, bewildered. She was a fourteen-year-old girl, just an unattractive scavenger, born among masterless women and men. Kinchin was a nickname: never baptised, never enrolled in school, there were no records of her existence and her real given name was lost.
It was not the first time Mr Whitehall's watery gaze had lighted upon her expectantly. They were both daytime wanderers, so in a small town like Birmingham their paths were bound to cross. Skulking against walls or creeping up backstreets, Kinchin would sometimes startle him; more often, he would loom up from nowhere and cunningly trap her. Then she knew what was in store.
Why me? was a question she posed, yet never answered for herself. To others it would be obvious: she was vulnerable. Her parents and brothers generally left her to herself. She was a starveling, alone on the streets.
Kinchin never invited the man to accost her, but she endured what he did. Mr Whitehall was an adult, and as a churchman he carried authority even if he could no longer practise his calling because of his past. Everyone knew how he behaved to women. Even though Kinchin feared him, it was almost exciting that he chose her. These were the only occasions when she mattered to anyone.
If ever she had the advantage of surprise, she took herself out of his reach, but pride made her walk off unhurriedly as if continuing on some errand. The parson rarely followed if she had an escape route. For him the thrill lay in persuading women to give him kisses freely. Besides, he was sane enough to know that if he attempted pursuit and force, he could be brought before the church court, then the parish would send him back to Bedlam. Kinchin knew that he was recently released from the great London hospital for the insane, where he had been kept for twenty years. Now he had somehow found his way back to Birmingham, where new generations had ripened and Kinchin Tew was here to be preyed upon. Everyone knew his habits. A few women tolerated him. Generally he was thought to be safe, a mild nuisance who could be rebuffed quite easily. Many towns and villages harboured a similar pest, always had done, always would do.
'Ooh — has Mr Whitehall taken to Kinchin?' Her mother's speculative tone had been a shock. Kinchin heard the eager hope that someone of quality wanted something — and might pay for it. At once she saw that her family would never try to save her. Now she was fourteen, she had become useful. They would offer her wherever they could, to do whatever was asked. In their gruelling quest for survival, her parents wanted rewards for nurturing her. Doing whatever was necessary would be her duty. When she
now tolerated Mr Whitehall touching and toying with her, she was aware that worse experiences lay ahead.
Life was harsh for the Tews. Kinchin remembered that it had not always been quite this bad. The family had once subsisted inefficiently on commonland at Lozells Heath. They were rag-pickers and tinkers, with harvest work every autumn, if they could be bothered to apply for it and if any farmers would put up with them. For generations they had scratched a living, inhabiting a decrepit hovel where scabby, tousled children snuffled five or six on the floor while their parents and associated adults squabbled over who would sleep in what passed for a bed. If it was winter and they were 'looking after' a cow, the cow took precedence in their shelter. Occasionally a handy Tew would concoct a lean-to byre in which to hide the stolen cow; then the children would have somewhere to skulk, plot, dream and, if the elder boys were obsessively curious that year, engage in mild incestuous activities. Pigs they claimed as their own roamed the scrubby heathland; chickens that answered their call pecked around outside the hovel. The Tews were masterless men. They were constantly at risk of being taken up for idleness, yet most were not completely idle and they all possessed a kind of freedom that was better to them than the bullied lives of servants or apprentices. As freedom went, it was dirty and cold, but for generations the Tews had managed to exist.
Then Sir Thomas Holte enclosed a third of Aston Manor to enlarge his park. The Tews were driven out.
The social gulf between the Tew family and that of 'Black Tom' Holte was vast. They had nothing. He had everything. Though his forebears had a long pedigree in the Midlands, his real social eminence developed with the Stuart kings. On the accession of King James, Holte had been knighted; later he pushed forward to be among the two hundred who paid a thousand pounds each for a baronetcy — a new rank, invented to create funds for the king. His red-handed badge then gave Sir Thomas Holte precedence over all except royalty and the peerage. He built himself a gem of Jacobean architecture, an ostentatious stately home to signify his importance. He sired sixteen well-fed children, by two wives. As lord of the manors of Aston, Duddeston and Nechells, Holte enjoyed an aristocratic idleness that was never made the subject of sermons or by-laws. He flourished, with the minimum of loyal service to the kingdom, while growing ever richer on the proceeds of brutal business methods. He hunted, quarrelled and counted his rents. He bought the extra manors of Lapworth and Bushwood; he acquired Erdington and Pipe. He became a Justice of the Peace for the county of Warwickshire and lay rector of Aston parish. With no opposition, or none that mattered, he then seized for himself the breezy open common. Some of it became his new deer park and the rest he parcelled out in tiny batches to local artisans. Their leases were short enough to keep the men craven, lest by displeasing their landlord they should lose their livelihoods.
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