by Stella Riley
It was the early hours of Wednesday morning before everything finally fell quiet. Francis came across Will Compton pacing up and down the west wall by the Balkerne Gate and, hazy with fatigue, said, ‘You’re still in one piece, then.’
‘Barely,’ came the frank reply. ‘They came more or less straight through us and tried to pincer the infantry. If it hadn’t been for the musketeers, they’d have done it, too.’ Sir William hesitated as if marshalling his thoughts. ‘You know what will happen now, don’t you?’
‘They’ll settle down for a siege.’
‘Yes. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. After Banbury, I hoped never to be in this situation again. And this time – unless the Scots move both quickly and with remarkable effect – there’s no one to send help. So the best we can hope for is to last as long as the food does.’ He paused again. ‘I’m so full of my own memories, I never thought to ask. Have you ever been besieged?’
Francis nodded slowly.
‘Once. I was at Bristol when Rupert surrendered it – but there was little serious hardship there. His Highness saw that the writing was on the wall and made terms before we had to eat the cats and dogs. What I find myself remembering is something he said about not being able to hold a town that doesn’t want to be held.’ A faint, resigned smile touched his face and then was gone. ‘I just wonder how true we’re likely to find that here … or whether our main problem will be coming up with a hundred different ways to cook turnips.’
~ ~ ~
ELEVEN
While Sir Thomas Fairfax tightened his grip on Colchester by blockading the River Colne, Samuel Radford’s personal dream finally became reality. And when he was sure that nothing could go wrong, he floated off to Shoreditch on a tide of pure elation to tell Bryony.
Not having clapped eyes on him for three weeks and suffering all the torments of Hades as a result, Bryony stood like a stone and let his torrent of words flow past her while she tried to decide whether she wanted to throw herself on his neck or box his ears. But at length the blaze of sheer excitement in his eyes and the newspaper he was brandishing in his hand pierced her cocoon and, instead of demanding where the hell he had been all this time, she heard herself saying weakly, ‘What? You’ve done what?’
‘Helped found a Leveller news-sheet!’ shouted Sam for the fourth time. ‘Look at it – the first edition, hot from the press. And it’s licensed, too!’ He caught her about the waist and swung her crazily around the parlour. ‘My God! I’m even being paid. Not vast sums, it’s true – but paid nonetheless. Can you believe that?’
Hovering on the brink of laughter and faintly breathless from something other than exertion, Bryony shook her head and took the opportunity to lean a little closer.
‘No. And it’s really legitimate?’
‘More than that. It’s virtually sacrosanct,’ he crowed. ‘It belongs to Gilbert Mabbott, the official censor, for God’s sake. It’s too good to be true.’
She stared dreamily into his face. ‘Yes.’
Sam looked into softly inviting brown eyes and experienced an upsurge of perfectly natural temptation. For a moment, he hesitated. Then, too full of exhilaration to resist but still with enough sense to make it appear casual, he dropped a fleeting kiss on her lips.
Bryony let her head fall back and reached up to put her arms around him, only to find herself embracing empty air. From two paces away, Mr Radford grinned and held out his newspaper for inspection as if nothing had happened.
‘It’s to be called The Moderate.’ He paused to push back the lock of hair that tended to stray perpetually across his brow and then said, ‘I want it to make its own mark and become something more than any other paper has ever been. Is that too ambitious?’
She sat down, sorry that he hadn’t kissed her properly but unable to resist his enthusiasm.
‘No. It’s splendid. But how will you do it?’
‘By making it social as well as political. Mabbot’s going to collate pamphlets and reports from all around the country so people in London will know what’s happening elsewhere. And William Walwyn is to write a series of articles explaining things. Things people haven’t really understood – such as the reasons for the first war.’
‘Goodness!’ She smiled and tucked her hand in his. ‘If he can explain that, he must be a genius. Will you have enough space in the paper, do you think?’
Sam laughed. ‘Since we’re to publish six pages every Tuesday, it shouldn’t be a problem. So what do you think? I’ve been peddling this idea for so long I’d given up hope of having it taken up. I must write to Abby. She’ll be proud of me.’
‘I’m proud of you,’ said Bryony. Then, pulling her hand free, ‘Who’s Abby?’
The dark eyes gleamed.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
‘Yes,’ came the tight reply. ‘And – and if you aren’t going to tell me you can go away and never come back.’
Sam shrugged.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. And stood up.
Bryony surged to her feet, almost oversetting a bowl of roses in her haste to grab his arm.
‘Wait! I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t. I just thought …’
‘Thought what? That I’ve other irons in the fire, so to speak?’
She flushed. ‘Yes. And have you?’
‘No. Abby is my sister.’
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘You haven’t got a sister.’
‘Yes I have. Two, as it happens.’
‘Then why haven’t you ever mentioned them? God knows you’ve talked enough about your horrible brother, Jonas.’
Sam sighed, frowning a little.
‘Talking about Jonas is easy. He’s a macabre joke and my eldest sister is enough like him to make any description of her superfluous. But Abby is different. And I miss her.’
Bryony sank slowly back on to the settle.
‘Is she still in Banbury?’
‘No. She’s married to a Royalist gentleman who lives near Newark.’
‘Oh.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And you don’t like him?’
‘I like him well enough and, judging from her letters, he’s making Abby ecstatically happy – which is all that matters. And, that,’ Sam finished pleasantly, ‘is really all I have to say on the subject. Unless you’d like me to add that you more than fulfil any need I have for female companionship and that I have never, in the last year or so, even glanced at another girl.’
‘Are you adding it?’ she asked with a coquettish smile.
‘Not at the moment. But if you refrain from plaguing me, I might get round to it eventually.’
As often happened, she found herself torn between laughter and calling him something very rude. The result, on this occasion, was that she did both and then said, ‘Where are you printing The Moderate?’
‘In Wapping.’ He grinned and reached for his hat. ‘You still haven’t said whether or not you’re pleased.’
‘Oh Sam. Of course I’m pleased. How could I not be? It’s just that … well …’
‘Uncle Jack may not like it?’
Bryony stared at him while a tide of rare anger washed over her.
‘If that’s the only logic you think me capable of, you’d better go.’
This time it was perfectly plain that she meant it and an odd gleam of satisfaction lit Sam’s eyes. He said, ‘And what should I think?’
‘You know very well.’ She spread her hands in a gesture at once impatient and appealing. ‘I know you won’t marry me yet or even s-say that you care – and I can understand why. But I do need to know that you’re safe. I’ve been scared silly these last weeks, not knowing where you were. And I – I hate it.’
Her voice ended on a distinct sob and there were tears on her lashes. Feeling rather lower than the rat she had called him, Sam forced himself to say dispassionately, ‘You hated it when the Colonel went off to marry the lovely Venetia – but you seem to have got over it fast enough.’
>
‘Because I never loved him, you idiot!’ cried Bryony, stamping her foot. ‘You know I didn’t. You knew it before me. It was just a silly infatuation. This is different.’
Impassive black eyes met drenched brown ones.
‘How?’ he asked. ‘How is it different?’
‘Because I know you. Because you’re my best friend. Because … you’re like the other half of me. And because I can’t imagine life without you.’
Seconds ticked by in silence before a slow smile curled Sam’s mouth. Then, laying his hat carefully back on the table, he said simply, ‘Well, that’s fortunate. It’s what I’ve felt myself ever since that night at Wapping.’
Her heart gave a single, loud thud. ‘Truly?’
‘Truly.’ The smile altered and he shrugged a little. ‘If I’ve made you miserable, I’m sorry. But I had to be sure you weren’t just exchanging one infatuation for another.’
‘And now are you?’
‘I believe so. Though it has to be said that, one way and another, you’re getting a rather poor bargain.’
‘I don’t agree. And it’s the bargain I want.’
‘Yes. I realise that. Now.’
‘Good.’ A smile trembled into being. ‘So why don’t you kiss me?’
The dark brows rose.
‘Because I was waiting to be asked,’ said Mr Radford politely.
And then swept her into an embrace that wasn’t polite at all.
*
June wore by on leaden feet as desultory fragments of news filtered through to Shoreditch. Major-General Lambert had bottled Sir Marmaduke Langdale up in Carlisle; the Prince of Wales had sailed to Holland in readiness for an eventual landing in England; and the Duke of Hamilton had gained the power he needed to recruit effectively. Meanwhile, the siege of Colchester moved into its third week and Lord Holland, having spectacularly failed to mount a relief force, began an ill-fated rising in the streets of Kingston during the first week of July.
It lasted forty-eight hours. Although Holland’s company included the Duke of Buckingham and John Dalbier – the Dutch mercenary who’d helped Cromwell take Basing House – it was no more than six hundred strong in all. Nor, as he found to his cost, was it easy to increase it. When he tried to take Reigate Castle, the townsfolk declined to support him and, when he withdrew to Dorking, he learned that a division of the New Model was already in hot pursuit.
It overtook him at Ewell, drove his little force back into Kingston and eventually forced a full-scale confrontation on Surbiton Common – where, although his men fought hard, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. By the morning of July 8th, Lord Holland knew himself beaten. With the two hundred staunch fellows left to him, he made his way as far as St Neots; and here, during a surprise attack in the early hours of the 10th, Dalbier was killed and Holland himself captured. His Grace of Buckingham – cleverer or perhaps just luckier – slipped the net and escaped abroad.
To the Northern Royalists, counting on a necessary diversion while the Scots invaded and to those at Colchester, knowing they couldn’t hold out without relief, Lord Holland’s failure was a bitter blow. And to Venetia Brandon, anxiously evaluating every scrap of news, it was somehow the catalyst she had been subconsciously waiting for. As soon as she heard of the disaster at Surbiton, she sought out Jack and Annis and said, ‘I hope you won’t think me ungrateful – but I’ve decided it’s time I went home.’
Concern filled Annis’s eyes and Jack said bluntly, ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea. With unrest and uprisings all around us, this is no time to be making a long journey. And if the Scots cross the border —’
‘If they do,’ cut in Venetia bitterly. ‘Personally, I’m beginning to wonder if Hamilton’s army isn’t merely a myth. But if it’s not – and if it ever marches south – that’s all the more reason why I should be at Brandon Lacey instead of wasting my days here.’
‘But Gabriel said —’
‘I know what he said. And I’ve lingered here nearly two months since he said it. But our flax should be ready for pulling, this spring’s wool ought by now to be nearly all woven and, before we know where we are, the harvest will be upon us. And that being so, I imagine Gabriel would be relieved to know that I’m taking care of matters in his absence.’ She paused, smiling wryly. ‘For what it’s worth, I believe all that to be true. But the simple fact is that I intend to leave for Yorkshire tomorrow for no better reason than I’ve already stayed away too long.’
‘Your mind is obviously made up,’ observed Jack. ‘But how exactly do you propose to travel?’
‘The same way we came. The coach is still here and we have Sym. But if it will set your mind at rest, I suppose I could also hire a couple of out-riders.’
‘If you expect me to let you leave, you most certainly will hire some out-riders. The countryside’s bristling with footpads, thieves and sundry groups of resurgents. And if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself – let alone survive what Gabriel would do to me.’
Venetia gave a sudden, genuinely amused laugh.
‘Gabriel would say it was entirely my own fault – as, indeed, it would be. But nothing is going to happen to me. And, if it did, I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I’ve had years of practice. So there’s no need to worry. None at all.’
Jack thought about it for a moment and then came to the reluctant conclusion that it was time to speak or forever hold his peace. He said, ‘And what of Gabriel’s half-brother? Have I no need to worry about him either?’
The laughter vanished from her eyes, leaving them suddenly cool.
‘Ah. I should have guessed. You’re less anxious about me being robbed or otherwise molested en route than about what mischief I may get up to when I arrive.’
‘Stop putting words in my mouth and answer the question.’
‘What do you want me to say? That I don’t know where Ellis is? I don’t. That I’ve no intention of co-operating in any of his schemes? I haven’t. That I’m not going to leap into bed with him? Guess. I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun and it’s none of your damned business anyway.’
‘Perhaps not.’ It was Annis who spoke. ‘But Gabriel’s well-being is. And I’d like you to understand that he’s no more impervious to hurt than anyone else.’
‘I do understand it.’
‘Do you? Sir Robert complicated Gabriel’s childhood by telling him both more and less than any thinking person would deem necessary. Then, twenty years later – and without pausing to wonder if it would be welcome – he made a will which effectively re-arranged Gabriel’s adult life. At best, all this could be called inconsiderate; at worst, it’s simply cruel. For Gabriel never wanted Brandon Lacey – or your lands. And if you had any doubts on that score, it’s time you scotched them.’
It was probably the longest speech Venetia had ever heard Annis make and, when she stopped speaking, there was a long silence before Venetia said slowly, ‘You might equally, with perfect truth, have pointed out that he didn’t want to marry me any more than I wanted to marry him. But, regrettable as that is, it at least has one saving grace.’
‘Which is what?’ asked Jack.
The beautiful eyes surveyed him with a complete absence of expression.
‘Isn’t it obvious? You can only be hurt by someone you care about. And Gabriel regards me with total indifference, occasionally bordering on irritation.’
*
Venetia left Shoreditch the following day with Phoebe, Sym, her maid and the two out-riders engaged by Mr Morrell to protect them all on the arduous journey back to Yorkshire. She still did not quite understand the sense of unease that had taken possession of her or why it suddenly seemed so important to get home … only that both were unequivocally true. As for the other reason she was heading northwards with all speed … the reason she had not admitted to Jack and Annis and was still refusing to admit even to herself … it was totally illogical and almost certainly pointless.
It was not unti
l they reached Oxford that she learned that the Duke of Hamilton’s far-from-mythical army had crossed the border at last and was reputedly moving slowly but surely south.
~ ~ ~
THE RISING TIDE
August to December, 1648
I conceive the heavens were offended with us for our offence committed to one another for, from Mayday till the 15th of September, we had scarce three dry days together. Men make an ill-shift with their wheat … the vales stand knee deep in water and, with the current, much corn is carried away and the hay-cocks swimming up and down.
Sir John Oglander
ONE
By the time the Northern Army settled down at Barnard Castle in the latter part of July, Colonel Brandon and Major Maxwell agreed that they were heartily sick of hot-footing it around the remoter parts of the Kingdom, through the rain and mud and would be glad to see some real action. Certainly, unless one counted a few skirmishes with Sir Marmaduke Langdale’s outposts, there had been precious little of it before the Scots crossed the border – or even, as things had turned out, since. It was just a constant game of retreat, wait and retreat again.
The problem, of course, was one of numbers. With detachments tied up in Northumberland and others besieging Pontefract [which the Royalists had seized sneakily, by sending in an advance-party disguised as peasants], Major-General Lambert was left with only four and a half thousand men to face the coming invasion. And the Duke of Hamilton, having entered England with an army of roughly ten thousand, had since combined with Sir Marmaduke Langdale’s three thousand Cavaliers. Of course, numbers weren’t everything – and every report Lambert received on the condition of the Royalist forces spoke of raw Scottish recruits, a lack of the most basic supplies and no artillery at all. On the other hand, when the odds were three to one in the enemy’s favour, a little caution was undoubtedly called for.