The two officers stood outside a cottage some fifty yards from the gates, shielded their eyes against the sun, peered up at the castle and searched for a weakness. There was none.
‘Why we cannot leave the cursed thing in the Lady’s hands and find some real fighting to do, I could not say,’ grumbled the colonel. In Dorset, everyone knew who ‘the Lady’ was.
Captain Foster agreed. ‘It is not as if she is going to do us any harm, shut up in there. We should leave her and her daughters to their sewing.’
‘If we could, we would. But since we are ordered to take it we must try.’ He turned on his heel. ‘Come, let us find that oaf Kendall and see what he has to say for himself.’
The Parliamentary encampment had been set up in a field on the southern edge of the town. There they found Captain Kendall perched on a stool, a wooden tankard in his hand. When he saw them approaching he put it down hastily, slopping ale on the grass, and struggled to his feet.
Henry Kendall was a man of about thirty with a bloated face and a paunch that already betrayed his liking for ale. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and belched loudly. ‘Colonel Butler, I was not expecting you,’ he spluttered.
‘So I see, Captain,’ replied Butler. ‘Captain Foster and I have come to hear how you propose to take this damned castle. Our troop is in the village finding fodder for our horses and we wish to return to Wareham before dusk, so let us waste no time. Lord Fairfax is unhappy that it is still in the hands of a Royalist woman.’
Captain Kendall, unprepared for this, sought to win himself a little time. ‘Would you care for a tankard of ale, sir, after your journey?’ he asked.
Despite being thirsty, the colonel was in no mood for niceties. ‘I would not. I would care for an explanation of how you intend to capture Corfe Castle.’
There was no avoiding the truth. ‘We have tried everything, Colonel – scaling ladders, gunpowder, cannon shot, even fire arrows over the walls. Nothing has worked. The castle has its own well and sufficient livestock and grain to last them at least another year. All we can do is guard the town and make sure none of them run off.’
‘In another year, the war will be over and the castle and its infernal occupants will be of no concern,’ snapped Butler. He slapped the back of one gauntleted hand into the palm of the other. ‘We need it now.’
Kendall was sobering up fast. ‘And how, Colonel, are we to do this? Use a battering ram to break down the gates while being shot at from the towers? Climb over the wall at the dead of night, find our way to the woman’s bedchamber without being seen and threaten to ravish her and her daughters if she does not surrender at once?’
The colonel stared hard at him. ‘Your flippancy does you no favours, Captain. We are at war. This is a serious matter and for you will become yet more serious if you do not carry out the wishes of our commander. Do you understand?’
Faced with argument or submission, Kendall chose the latter. ‘I understand, sir. It will be done.’
‘And without delay, Captain.’
‘Without delay, Colonel.’
The colonel turned to Captain Foster. ‘Come, Captain, we will be about our business.’
‘What do you think he will do, Colonel?’ asked Foster as they walked back to the village.
‘Very little. I can see no means of taking the castle but the man’s a drunken oaf and if we are to be reprimanded by Lord Fairfax, be sure that he will suffer a great deal more. The army of parliament does not need creatures of Kendall’s sort.’
‘Should you not be rid of him?’
‘And replace him with whom? No, he might as well stay here. He would be scant use in battle and perhaps he will surprise us.’
The news arrived in Wareham minutes before Colonel Butler led his troop through the ancient Saxon walls and into the town. A rider from Salisbury was waiting for him with an urgent despatch. Butler took it from him, broke the seal and read it quickly. Then he read it again. ‘General Cromwell’s army has routed the king in Northamptonshire. A place called Naseby. Do you know it?’
‘I do not,’ replied Foster. ‘Are we told anything more?’
‘Over six thousand Royalists killed and their artillery captured.’
‘And the king?’
‘We are not told. Run back to Oxford, I expect.’ He waved the despatch above his head. ‘If this is accurate, the war will not last much longer, God be praised.’
* * *
Much as Lady Mary missed her sons – John, Ralph, Jerome, Edward and Charles – she did have the comfort of six of her daughters with her. Elizabeth, Joan and Jane had played their part in the defence of Corfe by tipping pails of excrement collected from the garrison’s quarters on to the heads of drunken Parliamentary soldiers attempting to scale the walls on ladders and on to the roof of the ‘boar’ and the ‘sow’. The younger girls, Bridget and Ann, had helped by fetching and carrying. Only Arabella, now three, had been too young to contribute. All had suffered the discomfort and privations brought upon them by the siege and all had supported their mother in her defence of their home without question. Their father, on his brief return to the castle the previous year, had been justly proud of them.
But now, for the first time, with the news of the crushing defeat at Naseby, followed by further defeats in the west and, most distressing of all, the fall of Bristol, and with the prospect of another miserable winter, Elizabeth and Joan had spoken quietly together in the chamber they shared in the King’s Tower, the oldest part of the castle.
The Parliamentarians under Captain Kendall had made no effort to take the castle but enough news of what was happening in the country had reached them – most from Patrick, the young farrier, after one of his nocturnal visits to the cottage of the sexton – for them to know in their hearts that the war was lost and there was no longer any hope of King Charles agreeing terms with Parliament. At least their father had been spared having to witness that.
They had watched in admiration as their mother had taken charge of the defence of the castle. She had kept up their spirits by insisting that they practise daily on the harp and the flute, recite the sonnets of William Shakespeare, much beloved of their father, and, until their thread ran out, mend their clothing, and she had done what she could to make life easier for Captain Lawrence’s men. While they and their servants had foregone at least one meal a day, she had insisted that their guards receive as close to their full rations as possible and all the fresh meat available. ‘Better we are hungry and alive,’ she had told them, ‘than our guards are too weak to protect us. The men must have what beef there is.’
But now, as another summer turned to autumn, they saw the strain on their mother’s face and worried for her. ‘No woman could have done more,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but our father is dead and where is the point in our mother dying too when there is no need? Arabella is too young to lose her mother.’
‘As are we all, sister,’ agreed Joan. ‘But she is driven by loyalty to our father. She cannot surrender.’
‘What then are we to do?’
‘I know not. Let us think on it.’
‘Let us not think for too long. It will soon be winter and there are not many trees left for felling within the wall. We could freeze to death.’
The two sisters thought, came up with nothing and decided that they must make a direct approach. They told the other girls their intention and after prayers one morning gathered around their mother.
‘What is this?’ asked Mary, taken aback. ‘Am I to be hauled off to the gatehouse tower and thrown into the dungeon?’ The dungeon was a notorious hole under one of the gatehouse towers into which King John had enjoyed throwing his enemies and then forgetting about them. Sir John was fond of making jokes about it when his children misbehaved.
Elizabeth, as the oldest present, spoke for them all. She told her mother that they had discussed their position and had agreed that it was hopeless. Solemn promise or not, there was nothing to be gained from resisting any longer and they wis
hed her to agree terms with the Parliamentary commander for their safe passage to the house of their aunt and cousins in Essex.
‘It will not be capitulation,’ said Joan, ‘but a sensible arrangement for the benefit of all of us. Our father would have approved.’
‘And what of our home?’ asked Mary. ‘Is it to be stolen by the rebels and taken by Fairfax or Cromwell or another of their ilk? Or will they destroy it as they have destroyed so many English homes?’
‘Is it not more important to save our family?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘After all, the castle has been ours for only ten years.’
Mary’s voice rose in indignation. ‘Your father purchased this house for his descendants. He commanded me to hold it. I will not act against his wishes.’ Frightened by their mother’s tone rather than her words, the three youngest girls began to sob. Mary went to comfort them. ‘If you and Joan wish to leave I will not prevent you but your sisters will remain here with me.’ With that she stormed from the room, leaving her daughters staring after her.
‘That did not go as I would have wished,’ said Elizabeth quietly. ‘I do not care to see Mother so upset.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Joan, taking the weeping Amelia by the hand. ‘Come, all of you, we will find a book in the library and I will read to you.’
Later, alone in their chamber, Elizabeth and Ruth agreed that they would say no more on the subject until after Christmas. Perhaps their mother’s view would soften. Until then, they would manage as best they could.
Every evening, by the light of a candle, Mary stood in front of the portrait in the library and asked Queen Henrietta Maria for her advice. And every evening the queen’s dark eyes stared back at her, unblinking, unchanging, resolute.
Fires were lit only on the coldest days, the grain store was nearly empty and only two cows remained. The rest had been slaughtered and eaten by the soldiers. The horses would be next. Not a hint of her doubts did Mary ever give although she knew that they could not hold out much into the new year.
When the next attack did come, frost lay on the ground and a layer of ice covering the horse trough had to be broken to enable the animals to drink. Mary was at her morning prayers when Robert Lawrence came to tell her that a troop of soldiers had managed to reach the gatehouse under cover of darkness and were setting fires at the base of the gates. He was not unduly alarmed but thought that Mary should know.
‘We are firing down on them and will douse the fires without difficulty,’ he said. ‘It seems to me no more than a gesture. Perhaps they have been ordered to do something and could think of nothing else.’
The huge gates were held by drawbars and reinforced by an iron-faced portcullis. They would not yield easily to fire and the attackers must know that their task was hopeless.
Mary nodded. ‘I daresay you are right, Robert, but let us take no chances. Such a seemingly futile attempt could be a deception. Have you sent men from the towers down to the gates?’
‘I have.’
‘Then let us inspect the towers. If there is trickery afoot, we will discover it.’
Of the nine towers around the wall, two protected the gate, the other seven having been placed at points from where the natural contours of the hill afforded advantageous lines of fire. They went from one to the next, starting with the Butavant Tower on the west wall and ending at the south tower. Nowhere did they see signs of an imminent attack. Finally, they returned to the gates to find that the fire had been extinguished and the attackers had returned to the town.
Robert Lawrence shook his head. ‘I cannot guess at their objective, or even if they had one. Their fire, such as it was, has achieved nothing.’
‘It must have been as you suggested,’ replied Mary. ‘To keep them occupied and to remind us that they are still here.’
‘Then let us be grateful that they have nothing better to do. Idle soldiers make bad soldiers.’
At Christmas Henry Kendall had left the camp and, by turfing out the existing occupant, an ageing whore, had found himself a billet in a room above the Black Hound Inn. It was small and dirty but a good deal warmer than a tent. And the landlord brewed decent ale.
Since the visit of Colonel Butler and Captain Foster he had racked his brains for a plan. Not a plan actually to take the castle – that he knew to be impossible – but a plan that he could reasonably claim was meant to do so. He had lost six men in another attempt with scaling ladders, having first filled the scalers with ale to steady their nerves, and was reluctant to risk his men in another futile assault. Eventually he had come up with the idea of a fire. It was absurd, of course, but when the colonel next came calling, he would be able at least to say that they had tried. And now that winter was here, they would not be expected to do more than prevent supplies getting into the castle. With luck, cold and starvation would do their job for them.
According to the sexton, they were not far from that point. The young farrier, Flavin, who visited the sexton’s daughter and thought he was taking back useful intelligence to the castle had no idea that everything he said was reported to the captain. For a few crowns and a guarantee of his daughter’s protection, the sexton had proved obliging. From him, Kendall knew that the last two cows inside the walls would soon be slaughtered and that there were but a few sackfuls of grain left in the store. And he had made sure that reports, suitably embellished, of all Parliamentary victories were taken back to the castle. The captain had every reason to believe that the castle would soon be theirs without the need to risk more men.
The king was still skulking in Oxford, while in Scotland the loyalist Marquess of Montrose had been defeated by an army of Covenanters who had allied themselves to the cause of Parliament. Fairfax and Cromwell had swept all before them and the war would be over by the summer.
For Lady Mary Bankes, the woman who had refused to give up Corfe Castle, he held a grudging respect. She could so easily have surrendered with honour, citing the safety of her daughters, but had chosen to fight on. In his cups in the tap room of the Black Hound, Kendall had been heard to say that, if ‘the Lady’ was an example of Royalist womanhood, it was as well for Parliament that it had not faced an army of them. Not only had she held the castle but there had been not a single defection from the ranks of the garrison. All had remained loyal to her. Captain Kendall hoped that one day he would meet ‘Brave Dame Bankes’.
On a bitingly cold morning in February, a troop of sixty cavalrymen in red woollen jackets and grey breeches, armed with swords and calivers, rode up to the walls of Wareham. At their head was Colonel James Cromwell who announced himself to the guards and informed them that they had been sent by Sir Thomas Fairfax and were on their way to Corfe to relieve the garrison there. Whether because of his name or the colours the cavalrymen wore, the guards accepted this and allowed them to pass.
Once inside the town walls, the new arrivals split themselves into two groups. One, led by Colonel Cromwell, galloped through the streets to the main camp where the Parliamentary soldiers, taken entirely by surprise, immediately surrendered their weapons and were herded into a barn where they were locked in. The other, meanwhile, began setting fires in the town square and outside the weapons store and powder magazine. The guards at the town gate, realising their mistake, dashed back into the town but were easily overcome and put in the barn with the others.
Colonel Butler, alerted by the commotion and wearing only his undergarments, ran out of the house he was occupying to find out what was afoot. Realising that the town was in the hands of the enemy, he returned at once to the house and barred himself in.
Cromwell’s men went from house to house, collecting provisions and loading them together with all the captured weapons on to carts. By the time they had finished, Colonel Butler had been trapped inside his house for two hours.
Cromwell stood outside the house and shouted. ‘Colonel Butler, the town is in the hands of the army of the king, your men have surrendered, and I am about to give orders for fires to be lit and the powder magaz
ine to be blown up. You can prevent this only by giving yourself into my charge. You have one minute to make your decision.’
Twenty seconds later, Colonel Butler, now fully dressed, emerged unarmed from the house. He was bound at the wrists and bundled on to a cart laden with sacks of flour. A cavalryman rode either side of the cart.
Leaving the men locked in the barn, Colonel Cromwell led his men out of the town and on to the road to Corfe. His plan had so far gone well but there was no jubilation. They still had work to do.
The colonel hoped that they would be permitted to enter Corfe as they had entered Wareham but on the outskirts of the town they were met by a strong picket line. Word, it seemed, had already reached Corfe of the successful attack on Wareham.
When Cromwell demanded that the captain of the garrison be summoned to speak with him, a soldier hurried off, returning within a few minutes with Captain Kendall. Cromwell signalled for Colonel Butler to be brought forward, a pistol held to his head.
‘Your colonel is our prisoner, Captain,’ he announced loudly enough for all to hear. ‘If you do not permit us to pass through your lines and into the castle unharmed, he will be shot. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Clear enough,’ grunted Kendall, who realised that he had no choice in the matter. Colonel Butler’s death would not much trouble him but there were dozens of witnesses who might later speak against him if he did not comply. He turned to his men and bellowed. ‘Let them pass.’
The troop and the carts trundled into the town and up to the castle gates, where they were admitted without hindrance. Butler was escorted to the north tower and locked into a guard room, while James Cromwell and Robert Lawrence directed the distribution of the food and weapons. The castle was now equipped for several months and its guard reinforced by sixty men.
Beautiful Star and Other Stories Page 15