The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3)

by Stella Riley

  Only two forlorn pockets of Royalist resistance were left. Lord Rothes continued stubbornly defending the Castle Mound; and, in the High Street, the Earl of Cleveland attempted to rally the last vestiges of the King’s cavalry for one final charge. Ashley and Francis caught spare horses and joined the latter … and found themselves unexpectedly reunited with Nicholas. There was no time for more than a brief nod of acknowledgement. They had barely got their meagre troop formed up, when Fleetwood’s Horse pelted down upon their rear.

  The encounter was short and bloody. Caught between the devil and the deep, the Cavaliers made a fighting retreat into the side-streets and then separated to pursue the only course left to them. Flight.

  Musket-fire punctuated the din of iron-shod hooves and manic voices. Reaching Friar Street and still miraculously unscathed, Ashley shouted to Nick to join himself and Francis – and had just succeeded in making himself heard when a party of Roundheads emerged behind them. Nicholas nodded and wheeled his horse to obey. Then he jerked oddly in the saddle, his mouth contorting into a surprised grimace before he toppled sideways to the ground.

  Ashley started forward and then realised the hopelessness of it. He couldn’t reach Nick before the enemy did. Furthermore, Francis’s arm was a blood-soaked mass and his face a greyish blur which said that he wouldn’t make it out of the city without help. Sick to his stomach, Ashley made the only possible choice. He grabbed Francis’s bridle and hauled him down the nearest alley.

  * * *

  From a window overlooking the street, Verity Marriott stared down on Captain Austin’s unconscious, crumpled body. Eviscerated by helplessness, she saw it semi-trampled by advancing cavalry and kicked viciously aside by a passing infantryman. She kept her eyes fixed on it until the chaos outside started to abate a little. Then she fled down the stairs and was within two steps of the door when Barbara appeared and asked where she was going. Because she couldn’t tell the truth, she had to concoct a plausible lie and then suffer the torments of the damned for the best part of two hours before she could slip out of the side door unobserved.

  Once clear of the house, she ran straight to the spot where Captain Austin had been lying … only to find that she was too late.

  He was no longer there.

  ~ * * ~ * *

  NINE

  The battle of Worcester ended later that evening when Lord Rothes finally surrendered the Castle Mound on Cromwell’s terms. Out of the fifteen thousand-strong Scots army, only a couple of thousand managed to escape. Roughly three thousand lay dead at Wick or around the Sidbury Gate and, of the ten thousand or so prisoners herded into the Cathedral, more than half were wounded. For the next six days, with the stench rising vilely from the streets, Colonel Maxwell and his fellow-officers strove to deal with the multitude of corpses before turning their attention to the demolition of the city’s defences.

  Eden’s first sight of the carnage at the Sidbury Gate made him sick to his stomach – less at the grisly sight itself than at the unnecessary viciousness and lack of proper discipline that had created it. The shambles in front of him spoke of slaughter for slaughter’s sake and, when added to Ireton’s activities in Ireland – not to mention the execution of the late King – Eden was left feeling, not just disgusted, but besmirched; and for the first time, he started to truly appreciate some of Gabriel Brandon’s strictures about the Lord-General. In an attempt to repair some of the damage along with his own self-disgust, he immediately ordered a detail of men to start removing those who were still alive.

  Two days after the battle, Captain Sir Nicholas Austin awoke in Purgatory.

  He knew it was Purgatory because of the putrid smell, the uncertain light and the terrible moaning of the other tormented souls. The only thing he didn’t know was how he came to be there and how long he’d have to stay. He tried to calculate the weight of his sins … and was still doing so when the darkness came again.

  The next time he regained consciousness, the screaming agony in his arm and shoulder suggested that he might, in fact, still be alive. Since his surroundings still resembled the ante-chamber to hell, this possibility took some getting used to; but eventually he realised that he was lying on the stone-flagged floor of Worcester Cathedral … and that the stench and groans arose from the countless other casualties packed in there with him. At this point, recollection returned, swiftly pursued by bitter depression; and that was when he decided that if the future held only a ride to London, followed by prison or worse, it wouldn’t really matter if he didn’t recover.

  Sliding in and out of awareness, he didn’t know how long it was before a surgeon came – or even that the man to his right had died waiting and lain there a day before being carted off for burial. Nick’s head was full of heat and noise and wild, unpleasant fantasies. So when a blurred face peered beneath the reeking mess of his coat and a distant voice calmly remarked that his arm would have to come off before it killed him, he failed to take any particular notice.

  Being out of his mind with fever, he mercifully knew nothing of the pain and horror which followed. Neither did he know that he’d missed being sent south with the first two batches of prisoners … or that the surgeon who had amputated his arm didn’t expect him to live until the departure of the third. And even when, against all expectation, the fever finally abated, he continued to lie motionless on the pallet to which they’d eventually moved him, staring unseeingly up at the vaulted ceiling of the cloisters above his head. With care, his mind blanked out first the pain … and then everything else.

  He was completely unaware that Verity Marriott was braving one official after another in a desperate attempt to discover what had become of him. And even if he’d known, he wouldn’t have cared.

  * * *

  A week after the battle, Parliament offered a thousand pounds to anyone who succeeded in apprehending a man about two yards high and whose near-black hair had recently been cut short. It was a great deal of money and certainly enough to tempt somebody – even possibly a loyal somebody – into betraying the fugitive King.

  Joshua Vincent, however, was intent purely on bringing the witch to court without further delay – preferably while any of the other city officers who might conceivably stand in his way were fully occupied with the devastation and chaos around them.

  Using powers to which he was not strictly entitled, Joshua managed to arrange Deborah Hart’s trial for the 12th – and, in so doing, wrought better than he knew because half the town was busy watching Cromwell ride away to make his report to Parliament. Even so, word concerning the witch-trial had spread and the court-room was packed. Joshua conducted the opening formalities whilst taking a good look at his audience, most of whom were men. Then he settled back in his seat and commanded that the accused be brought in.

  An expectant hush fell as, bruised, filthy and bedraggled, Deborah was half-dragged to the dock. The crowd expelled a sighing breath and devoured her with its eyes. Then, still staring, it composed itself to listen.

  Leaning heavily against the rail, Deborah scarcely heard the charges being read or knew anything except that her worst nightmares were about to be realised. Horrible as it had been, the evils which had befallen her in the gaol were as nothing compared to what was going to happen now. And she wasn’t sure her little store of strength was equal to coping with it.

  Witnesses were called. The blacksmith’s wife, described in minute detail how she had suffered as a result of being over-looked … and Zachary Paine gave evidence concerning the mysterious ills which had afflicted his livestock within hours of him repudiating the woman Hart’s lewd advances. Two more of Deborah’s neighbours came forward with vague but damaging accusations of maleficium; and the guard who’d been present at her questioning told the court of her inability to recite the Lord’s Prayer without vomiting.

  Finally, the proceedings arrived at the all-important question of witch-marks. Uneasy excitement rippled through the onlookers and the slight trembling in Deborah’s limbs turned into vi
olent shudders.

  ‘Bring the woman to the floor of the court,’ ordered Joshua.

  Anticipation was making his palms sweat but he hid his eagerness beneath a veil of austerity while Deborah was hauled, stumbling, from her place. Then, with a careful lack of expression, he told the guards to examine her flesh for the devil’s mark.

  They knew where to look, of course. But they also knew that both the magistrate and the public benches would be disappointed if they completed their task too quickly … so they started from the top and worked down.

  Her gown fell to the floor, leaving her with nothing but her shift. Shaking from head to foot and being ripped apart by a silent scream, Deborah shut her eyes tight and tried to block out the touch of rough, intrusive hands and the knowledge that she was almost naked before fifty or sixty avid spectators. With the departure of Cromwell, more people arrived from outside to see the fun. They jostled each other in the doorway and thronged the corridor outside. Warming to their task, the guards played to the crowd and were rewarded with a mixture of gasps, shocked whispers and sniggers … while, humiliated beyond endurance by the pulling up of her shift, tears slid through the dirt on Deborah’s face.

  Joshua waited until the mole was found before leaving his seat to examine it more closely. The courtroom fell silent, holding its breath. Then, turning and exhibiting the witch-probe to his captivated audience, he said sternly, ‘If this is Satan’s mark, it’ll be immune to pain and it won’t bleed. If it’s no more than an ordinary blemish, it’ll behave thus.’ And, without warning, he plunged the sharp steel pin deep into the unmarked flesh of Deborah’s flank.

  Her eyes flew open and, unlocked by the pain, the scream she had been unable to voice tore its way from her throat to echo, high-pitched and anguished, around the room. Half of those on the public benches flinched. The rest craned their necks to see the blood.

  ‘The reaction of innocent flesh,’ observed Joshua, shifting both his own position and, with practised deftness, that of the probe in his hand. ‘And now we will test the devil’s mark.’

  Deborah’s breath was coming in raw gasps and a pulse hammered in her throat, threatening to choke her. She couldn’t see what the magistrate was doing but anticipation of the pain throbbed through every nerve. She braced herself in readiness for it … but felt only the touch of something cool and flat.

  A strange murmur arose from the crowd and Joshua stepped back.

  ‘Proof!’ he thundered. ‘The accused felt nothing – and there is no sign of a wound. What else can this be but the devil’s work?’

  A rumble of agreement flowed around the room. Many of those present made the sign against the evil eye and someone shouted, ‘Burn her!’

  Subduing a smile, Joshua held up his hands for silence. He didn’t get it. Some sort of commotion was taking place in the doorway while, nearer the front, more voices shouted for the witch to be burned. The order of the last hour was disintegrating into confusion.

  ‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Without apparent difficulty, a crisp authoritative voice from the back made itself heard over the rising tumult and successfully quelled it. Then, ‘Well? Is this a court of law or a bear-pit?’

  Joshua looked down the length of the court-room into the lightly-scarred face of the Army officer who had just forced his way in, accompanied by half-a-dozen troopers. Swallowing, he replied carefully, ‘It’s a court. And though I don’t doubt you mean well, your presence isn’t needed.’

  ‘Not needed – or not wanted?’ Stripping off his gloves, Eden walked unhurriedly towards the magistrate. Then, his expression hardening as he absorbed the state of the petrified woman in the hands of the guards, ‘I am Colonel Maxwell of Major-General Lambert’s company … and I repeat. What’s going on here?’

  ‘A witch trial,’ snapped Joshua.

  ‘Indeed. And you are?’

  ‘Magistrate Vincent. And you’re interrupting the due process of law.’

  ‘Oh? From the noise, I thought it was a riot.’

  ‘Yes – well, passions are running high,’ came the grudging reply. ‘The accused has just been found guilty.’

  ‘Has she?’ Revulsion stirred the hairs at the back of Eden’s neck but he kept his tone perfectly level. ‘I would very much like to hear how. And while you tell me, I suggest that the woman be allowed to cover herself.’

  A protesting murmur arose from the crowd. Joshua hesitated and then, with a sullen jerk of his head, indicated that the guards might step back from the prisoner. Released from their grip, Deborah swayed and almost fell. Then, her expression dazed and uncomprehending, she reached for her gown and started to struggle awkwardly back into it.

  Withdrawing his gaze from her, Eden strode to the corner farthest from curious ears and waited for the magistrate to follow him.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Irritably and as unexpansively as possible, Joshua explained about the accusations and the indisputable evidence of the witch-mark. And when the Colonel remained apparently unimpressed, he added, ‘This is the Lord’s work. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’

  ‘If,’ agreed Eden mildly, ‘she is a witch. But the testimony you’ve described is scarcely conclusive; and for the rest … hopefully we have learned something from the excesses of Matthew Hopkins.’

  Joshua lost a little of his colour. At home in Friar Street was a well-thumbed copy of Hopkins’ Discovery of Witches. Unfortunately, after hanging nineteen witches in a day at the Chelmsford Assizes, its author had become violently unpopular and later died under mysterious circumstances. It wasn’t a fate Joshua wanted to share.

  Keeping the probe carefully concealed in a fold of his robe, he said belligerently, ‘If you’re suggesting this trial hasn’t been properly conducted – you’ve only to ask them as have watched it. Everything’s been done openly for all to see.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure it has,’ came the arid response. ‘The unfortunate truth, however, is that people all too frequently see what they wish to see. There again … one hears rumours of over-zealous officials and even, upon occasion, of probes being cunningly constructed in order to give the required result.’ Eden waited, holding the magistrate’s frozen gaze. Then, when no reply was forthcoming, he said, ‘I’m sure you take my point.’

  Joshua did. The implement in his hand had a small lever which caused the needle to retract. If the interfering young jackanapes in front of him insisted on examining it, his career on the bench would be finished – along with his reputation.

  He said slowly, ‘I don’t see as this is any affair of yours. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have the woman returned to gaol till a fresh trial can be arranged.’

  Eden hesitated. He knew he was over-stepping his authority but he suddenly realised that he’d seen more blood, hatred and obscene violence in the last week than he could tolerate. And he was fairly sure that any trial the so-called witch received at the hands of this man would result in her being sent to either the gallows or the stake. Consequently, he decided to push his luck and hope that – if trouble came of it – Lambert would back him up.

  ‘It’s an idea,’ he acknowledged smoothly. ‘But then, so is showing me your witch-probe. On the other hand, it might be best if the accused were released into the custody of the Army while further investigations are made.’ He paused and then, hiding the lie beneath a bland smile, ‘It’s matter in which certain of my superiors take great personal interest, you understand.’

  Joshua wasn’t sure he believed this but, since saying so was likely to result in him being forced to exhibit the probe, he had no choice but to remain silent. Quelling a desire to wipe out the inconvenient young officer’s smug smile with the back of his hand, he shrugged and said, ‘You’d better take her, then. But the good people of Worcester have a right to see justice done.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ murmured Eden. And turning, ordered his troopers to take charge of the accused.

  Fortunately, they were all survivors of Upton and,
though puzzled by his behaviour and uneasy about its possible outcome, they obeyed without question.

  Half-relieved at the unexpected reprieve and half-frightened that the nightmare was going to begin all over again, Deborah found herself surrounded by a clutch of burly, wooden-faced individuals who – though they made no attempt to man-handle her – looked far from reassuring. Meanwhile, the whispers which had been rustling along the public benches turned into a low rumble of anger.

  Ignoring it, Eden nodded to Sergeant Trotter to take the woman out. There was an out-burst of cat-calls and spitting but none of the onlookers were quite brave enough to get in the way of the Army. Eden waited until he was sure there would be no trouble. Then, according the magistrate the briefest of bows and raising his voice a little, he said, ‘Your forbearance does you credit, Mr Vincent. I shall see that it’s not forgotten.’ Upon which Parthian shot, he stalked off in the wake of his men.

  Outside in the street, Sergeant Trotter was marching Deborah Hart smartly in the direction of the Commandery and wondering what he was supposed to do with her when he got there.

  Catching up with him, Eden said ruefully, ‘I know, Rob – I know. But what else could I do?’

  ‘That’s as maybe, sir,’ came the reproving reply. ‘But what’s to become of her now? We can’t cope with no more prisoners – and if you send her home, her neighbours’ll string her up quicker’n you can wink.’

  This was something Eden had not considered. Looking at the dirty, dishevelled creature he’d rescued purely as a matter of principle, he said, ‘Is that true?’

  Deborah pushed back her hair with shaking hands and stammered, ‘Probably. And if they d-don’t, the magistrate will come for me again fast enough.’ Then, drawing a long, painful breath, ‘I don’t understand. Why did you take me out of there? Am I not to be t-tried again?’