But that was Herbert all over, Hunckes had said. His lordship was a man who had stood out from the ordinary throughout his life and was still an eccentric now he was in his dotage.
In truth, despite her reticence about the task she had been given, Alice Furnival had been looking forward to the prospect of meeting Lord Herbert, who, in his youth, it was said, had been irresistible to women, although this, Hunckes had pointed out, was a reputation largely of Herbert’s own report.
“An egotist, then?” she had said, betraying a hint of a smile. “How interesting. But why me?”
“Precisely because you are a woman, Alice,” the governor of Shrewsbury had replied. “Herbert may be old and in ill-health, but in the presence of an attractive woman, he cannot help himself, which is precisely what we need. For months he has prevaricated over his support for the King, to the point where we can no longer be sure where his loyalties truly lie, other than to that confounded library of his.
“Your task will be to persuade his lordship that we can find a suitable repository for his precious books for the duration of this conflict, such that he may permit us to garrison Montgomery Castle, thereby preventing Sir Thomas Myddelton from continuing his march through the countryside hereabouts. Myddelton has already captured Oswestry, and, thanks to the beef-wittedness and insubordination of Colonel Marrow, inflicted a damaging defeat on us at Whittington. The last thing we need is for him to capture Montgomery too.”
“And you know of such a place, where his lordship’s books can be safely concealed?”
Sir Fulke Hunckes had stroked his greying beard thoughtfully and given a wry smile. “I believe I do, Alice,” he had confirmed, “but it will necessitate a return to within striking distance of a place that brought bad fortune to both of us. You are aware of the Cotton family at Combermere?”
“I am,” Alice had replied, frowning. “George Cotton was an acquaintance of my husband, when he was alive. But Combermere is only six miles from Nantwich. I cannot go back there.”
“Oh, but you will, my dear, you will, and I shall accompany you there personally, for more is at stake here than a few books. I do not exaggerate when I say that the very future of the royalist cause in these parts hangs from a thread. Since his defeat in Yorkshire, Prince Rupert is in desperate need of money and ammunition. There is no aid from Ireland, as he had hoped, and we can only tax the local populace so much before we start to alienate them. His Royal Highness is now on his way to Chester, where he plans to make his winter quarters, but it is not easy for him.”
Alice nodded. She could see that Hunckes was right. Rupert had been in Shrewsbury only a few days previously, and, although he had arrived with his customary pomp and ceremony, she had been struck by a look of desperation in the prince’s eyes, a recognition, perhaps, that he was not going to be able to ride roughshod through every parliamentarian force he crossed swords with.
Then Hunckes had explained about Jem Bressy and the riches he had promised to acquire for the royalist cause, and Alice had realised that a visit to Combermere would be unavoidable.
First, however, she had Lord Herbert to deal with. And so, dressed in her best blue outfit with embroidered under-petticoat and matching lace coif, kerchief, and cuffs, she had ridden the twenty miles from Shrewsbury to Montgomery equipped with a personal letter of recommendation from Hunckes.
She had arrived in Montgomery the previous evening and immediately sought out the town bailiff, a short, sour-faced man called Bennett, who, on viewing the governor’s seal, had reluctantly helped her find accommodation at The Old Bell, a comfortable if unprepossessing inn, which nestled under the escarpment that led to the castle.
That morning, Bennett had accompanied her to the castle, grumbling the whole way, partly because it was market day, and the town was bursting at the seams with market traders, but also because she had refused to walk up the inordinately steep track that climbed up behind the black and white timbered market hall. Instead, she had attracted the bailiff’s ire by insisting he accompany her along the street leading to the Kerry Gate and past the tanners’ yard, before doubling back and approaching the castle from a much gentler gradient.
Fortunately, the letter from Hunckes and the intervention from Bennett, who was known to the guards at the castle gates, had served their purpose. It was with some relief that she had found herself led over the wooden drawbridge that spanned the ditch between the outer and middle wards and into Herbert’s home, where a servant had directed her into the library.
Alice was not an avid reader, but she could not fail to be impressed by Lord Herbert’s collection of books, which lined three complete walls of the room from floor to ceiling. The wall opposite the entrance was panelled with oak and contained a large leaded window, which provided a view over the town below, the wide thoroughfare of Broad Street and its drainage channel, the appropriately named Shitebrok, the market hall, the spire of St Nicholas’ Church, and beyond that the ruinous medieval wall and ditch which surrounded and purported to protect the town.
Next to the window stood a grey-haired man of around sixty, who winced noticeably as he turned to acknowledge her. Lord Herbert, Alice noted, still bore the finely chiselled features of his youth, his carefully groomed silver beard and moustache lending him an air of authority and wisdom, but there was also a certain pallor about his complexion as he limped forward to greet her. Herbert, it was clear, was not a well man.
“Forgive me, madam,” he said, noticing Alice’s concern. “It is merely a touch of gout, which ails me from time to time. It is a little painful, but I tolerate it, for it reminds me of all the excellent French wine I have had the good fortune to drink in my time.”
“Ah, yes, my lord,” acknowledged Alice, “I understand you were once England’s ambassador to France.”
“Indeed I was, but that was in King James’ time, and it was a role which ended rather abruptly, as I recall. Despite having secured the present king’s marriage, my reward was dismissal, a mountain of debt, and arrears of payment that persist to this day. Still, it is good to see I am in demand again. Sir Fulke Hunckes is indeed a persistent fellow.”
Alice ignored the blatant sarcasm. “Then you know why I am here,” she said, patiently.
“Of course, it is not difficult to hazard a guess. At least this time he has sent me something to brighten my day. The view of Corndon Hill from this library is one of my greatest pleasures, but today it is naught compared to the view within this room.”
Alice felt herself flushing at the compliment, and she made sure Herbert noticed her pleasure. “You flatter me, my lord,” she said, giving a slight curtsey.
“Not at all,” said Herbert. “But tell me, Hunckes would have me fill this place with his musketeers. I have told him before that my sons and I are perfectly capable of defending our own home. Why would I turn the castle over to Hunckes and risk incurring the wrath of Parliament?”
“Because you are loyal to His Majesty and would wish to demonstrate that loyalty, why else?”
Herbert smiled inscrutably. “It is true,” he said, “that I have no love for the bunch of churlish cropheads who imprisoned me not two years ago, merely, I might add, for adding the words ‘without cause’ to the resolution that the King violated his oath by making war on Parliament. Nonetheless, I do not want to see this place destroyed, so self-preservation is my primary aim, as well as the saving of my library, which is very dear to me. It is something I pray for daily.”
“And do you believe God answers your prayers, my lord?”
Herbert gave Alice a sharp look and opened his mouth as if to say something. However, he then changed his mind and smiled benevolently. “He answers them every day,” he said. “However, it is for us to interpret the signs he sends us and act accordingly.”
“And have you seen these signs?”
“Indeed. For example, many years ago I was considering whether to publish my treatise on religion, ‘De Veritate’, so I prayed to God for guidance. Even th
ough it was a clear, sunny day with no wind, no sooner had I uttered my prayer than I heard an otherworldly, yet gentle noise in the sky, that was so comforting I took it as an affirmation of my petition to the Lord and so proceeded to print my book. If you pray for something, God will always answer.”
Alice smiled. She had heard this story before from Hunckes, who had prepared her well. “Herbert never tires of the suggestion that he has a direct path to God,” he had said. “Humour him, and you will get what we want.”
“Then perhaps you would consider a practical suggestion from an earthly source as a sign of the path you should take?” she suggested.
“I might,” said Herbert, warily. “What did you have in mind?”
“My lord, perhaps you are aware of a family called Cotton from Combermere, between Nantwich and Whitchurch. They are strong for the King and would provide good and loyal service to him whenever it is required.”
“I know of them,” said Herbert. “Why do you ask?”
“Combermere,” said Alice, “is built on the site of an abbey that was destroyed a hundred years ago by King Henry during his purge of the monasteries. Only the abbot’s house survives, and this has been converted into the Cotton family’s private residence. However, we have managed to ascertain that somewhere on the estate there is an underground repository that dates from the time when the monastery was active.
“The location of this repository is known only to Cotton and his direct family. This would be a perfect site to store your library in safety. We have already spoken to the Cotton family, who have indicated their willingness to host your library until such a time as it is safe to return it to Montgomery.”
“Madam, I do not know the Cotton family personally. How could I possibly entrust such a valuable collection to an unknown entity?”
“You wouldn’t have to,” said Alice. “I would propose you travel to Combermere with Sir Fulke and myself in order to view this repository for yourself and to make the acquaintance of those who would be the custodians of your collection. What do you say, my lord?”
Chapter 6
Nantwich – Thursday, July 25th, 1644
In the event, nearly three weeks passed before I was able to secure the release of Jacob Fletcher. The difficulty was not so much in persuading Croxton that Jem Bressy was the man who had murdered Henry Hassall, for the colonel had declared himself convinced of Bressy’s presence in Nantwich thanks to the testimony of Jack Wade and Elizabeth. He had also accepted without question the suggestion that Bressy’s likeness to Fletcher could have conceivably placed him at the murder scene.
The problem lay more in John Davenport’s stubborn refusal to renounce his claim that the man he had seen immersing Hassall’s head in the brine-filled ship was indeed Fletcher – that and the self-righteous insistence of Constables Sawyer and Cripps that they had arrested the right man.
Sawyer had even gone so far as to petition the high constable to intervene in an attempt to force Croxton to put a stop to what my erstwhile colleague saw as an interference in civilian matters. This, in turn, had forced the colonel’s hand, and he had written to Brereton in London with a view to bringing an end to the impasse.
In the meantime, Croxton had told both the bailiff, Andrew Hopwood, and the high constable that they would be personally answerable to Sir William Brereton himself if Fletcher was tried before Brereton’s response arrived from the capital.
The situation was not helped by the fact that Bressy had disappeared without trace. Despite Croxton asking Elizabeth, Jack, Alexander, and myself, as well as all those soldiers who had served with Bressy in Beeston Castle the previous year, to keep a watchful eye out for the royalist intelligencer, it seemed Bressy had once again surpassed himself in merging seamlessly into the background, a skill, I had to admit, in which he was particularly adept.
I conceded it was unlikely that Bressy had gone to ground within the walls of Nantwich itself, but as he had clearly not found what he was looking for when ransacking our home, I could only assume he would be back in his own good time. I had no option but to be patient and wait for his return.
As it turned out, Fletcher’s ordeal was brought to a rapid conclusion when I rather fortuitously came up with the idea of trying to persuade John Davenport to return to the gaol in Pillory Street in order to make absolutely sure Fletcher was the man he saw attacking Hassall in his wich house.
“But why would I want to do that, Daniel?” my friend asked, when I called on him at his wich house one morning in late July. “I know what I saw that day. I was not mistaken.” Davenport was stripped to the waist, his broad shoulders glistening with sweat as he heaved the heavy barrows of salt around the store room.
“Because,” I said, “there was a day, not so long past, when you sat rotting in that gaol house yourself, similarly accused of murder with no-one to believe your story but me. I stood by you when the rest of the town would have seen you hang. The least you can do is humour me and do me the courtesy of taking one final look.”
Davenport grimaced and grumbled, but he saw my point, and so the next morning he accompanied me reluctantly to call on Andrew Hopwood, who I found in his cramped office by the entrance to the gaol house, devouring a trencher of bread and ham. The pungent smell of cheap tallow candles filled the air, disguising a second aroma that emanated from the corridor leading to the cell block, a mixture of mould, sweat, human waste, and hopelessness. The tall, gaunt-looking official looked up from his table with raised eyebrows and gave a poorly disguised smirk when he saw who I had brought with me.
“Well, Master Davenport,” he said, spraying the table with breadcrumbs in an attempt to suppress a snort of amusement, “you seem to have trouble staying away from this place. Am I to assume you are anxious to enjoy some more of our hospitality?”
On hearing Hopwood’s mocking tone, Davenport gave the bailiff a scowl of contempt and made to march back out into Pillory Street, a move which forced me to grasp my friend’s arm to make him stay.
I was glad I did, for I saw the transformation in Davenport’s face as Hopwood led him into the dark, dingy interior of the gaol block, towards the stinking, rat-infested cell he had shared not six months previously with the unfortunate Thomas Steele, the soon to be executed governor of Beeston Castle. I could see the set, determined shape of his jawline begin to disintegrate as he realised the implications of his testimony for the man slumped against the stone wall of the cell.
Three weeks in gaol on prisoners’ rations had done little for Fletcher’s appearance. His face had a hollow, cadaverous look about it, with the exception of his cut lip, which had become infected and had swollen to twice its normal size. His white shirt, still stained with blood, was now covered in dirt and sweat and was barely recognisable. He tried to struggle to his feet when he saw us coming, but I signalled for him to remain seated. Davenport took one look at the sorry figure before him and turned to me.
“You know what, Daniel,” he said, “you are right. I cannot be sure that this man was the person I saw that night, after all. It was dark, and the attacker was facing away from me. I only caught the briefest of glimpses, so it could easily have been someone else.”
And so that was that. After a brief explanation, the bewildered Hopwood allowed me to lead Fletcher out of the cell towards freedom, just in time for us to encounter Sawyer and Cripps coming in the other direction.
The two constables were roughly manhandling a terrified-looking youth, each holding onto the young man’s collar with one hand and one of his arms with the other. The youth, wide-eyed and trembling, was poorly dressed, his clothes almost in rags, and his hair, matted and unkempt, hung in thick clumps over his shoulders.
“A bloody thief,” growled Sawyer by way of explanation, when he saw the quizzical look on my face. “Caught pilfering bread from Tom Horrocks’ bakery.”
Cripps, however, his face even more flushed than usual, said nothing, for he had just caught sight of Fletcher, who was being led by Hopwood, jus
t behind Davenport and myself.
“Master Cheswis,” he hissed, fixing me with a hard, flinty glare. “What, pray, is this man doing out of his cell? He is a murderer and should be locked away. What do you suppose gives you the right to poke your snout into affairs that are no longer any of your business?” The constable’s dangerously protruding eyes bored into me, a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation.
I stared at Cripps with a degree of curiosity. I did not know the man well. Indeed, the most I had ever had to do with him was when I had purchased a pair of boots from him some months previously. Nevertheless, I had not taken him for a man capable of such a display of suppressed anger.
“Calm yourself, Master Cripps,” I said, in an attempt to placate him. “We mean nothing untoward. It is simply that Master Davenport has withdrawn his witness statement. He admits he was mistaken in identifying Mr Fletcher as the man who attacked Hassall. Fletcher is free to leave. Surely you would not wish to see an innocent man languish in gaol?”
Cripps pursed his lips and took a sharp intake of breath, wheeling round to face Hopwood, who shrugged apologetically.
“It is as Master Cheswis says,” admitted the bailiff. “There is no longer any evidence that Fletcher is your man. I have no option but to release him.”
Cripps hesitated for a moment before fixing me with a baleful stare. “You are wrong, Cheswis,” he snarled, in a manner that reminded me of a wounded dog. “You have not heard the last of this. Fletcher will hang for this crime, you can be sure of that. He is a guilty man, and I will prove it yet.” Cripps was breathing heavily, his head making strange, jerking movements in my direction. “And as for you,” he added, “you will be sorry that you interfered in this matter.”
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