A Soldier of Substance Read online

  Chapter 5

  Nantwich – Monday March 4th, 1644

  It would have been wholly understandable had I expunged the details of my conversation with Sir William Brereton from the forefront of my mind, for during the rest of February I heard not one thing from Thomas Croxton. However, experience had taught me the dangers of being lulled into a false sense of security, and so, when, one bright Monday in early March, I was accosted on my way to my wich house by Ezekiel Green, I knew what was coming.

  “Colonel Croxton would see you at two o’clock this afternoon in his quarters at The Lamb,” announced the young clerk, apologetically. “He asked that you make sure your brother and Mr Clowes are in attendance also.”

  I nodded my assent and waited for Ezekiel to get his breath back, for he had spotted me crossing the square from a distance and had come chasing after me across the cobbles.

  “Any idea what this is about, Ezekiel?” I asked, eventually.

  “No, sir,” he replied. “I’m not privy to that information, but I do know that during the last two days, messengers have arrived both from Sir William in London and from Sir Thomas Fairfax at Lathom House.”

  “Lathom House?” I exclaimed, with surprise. Lathom was located near Ormskirk in Lancashire and was the family seat of James Stanley, the Earl of Derby, one of the King’s most prominent supporters in the North of England. “What is Sir Thomas doing there, I wonder? I would have expected him to be heading back to Yorkshire just as soon as the roads across the Pennines become passable.”

  “That I cannot answer, sir,” said Ezekiel. “Perhaps Colonel Croxton will be able to clarify matters this afternoon.”

  Of course, that was exactly what Croxton did, but what Ezekiel could not possibly have surmised was exactly how complicated my life was about to become.

  ***

  The Lamb, a large coaching house located at the end of Hospital Street nearest the square, had served as the headquarters of the parliamentary garrison for nearly a year and been transformed beyond recognition by the soldiers’ occupation. The whole building had been surrounded by a thick earthen wall to protect it from attack, and several of the ground floor rooms were in constant use by the garrison officers tasked with organising the day-to-day defence of the town. It was in one of those rooms that Simon, Alexander, and I found Thomas Croxton later that afternoon, his head buried in what looked like a pile of financial documents.

  “Ah, gentlemen,” he said, blinking as his eyes adjusted focus. “Do come in. Take a seat. The garrison accounts are making my head spin, so your arrival is most opportune.” He signalled to a serving wench, who deposited tankards of ale on the table before sliding out of the room and closing the door behind her.

  “Come and take some ale with me,” said Croxton, taking a deep swig from one of the tankards. “I have an assignment for you. Let us drink to its success.”

  Simon and Alexander reached for their tankards greedily but I left mine on the table. “Perhaps you’d better tell us what that assignment is first,” I suggested. “This wouldn’t be anything to do with Lathom House, perchance?”

  Croxton’s face froze momentarily, but then broke into a broad smile. “Ah, yes. Young Ezekiel Green listens well,” he acknowledged. “He will go far one of these days, although he still has one or two things to learn about the art of discretion. You’re right. I admit it. Sir Thomas Fairfax has requested Sir William Brereton to release you to him so you can attend him at Lathom House, where he wishes you to assist him in a matter of some import. Sir William has agreed to that request.”

  I looked at Croxton in bemusement. “What services could we possibly provide to Sir Thomas at Lathom House?” I asked, “apart from supplying him with salt, cheese, candles, and shoes, of course. I fail to see how we can be of help.”

  “All in good time,” smiled Croxton. “Let me explain. Lathom House, as I’m sure you well know, is a huge fortified manor house, perhaps the largest in the kingdom, and it has been under pressure for some time now to surrender itself up to Parliament. However, Lady Charlotte de Tremouille, otherwise known as the Countess of Derby, is still in residence there, and is protected by a committed and well-trained garrison. Her ladyship has shown no inclination to accede to our wishes.

  “Last week, however, the Committee in Manchester ordered Sir Thomas to march upon Lathom and seek its submission. This is significant because it is the first time that an attempt to seek the surrender of the garrison has received the official backing of Parliament.”

  “And has that made any difference?” asked Alexander, between mouthfuls of ale.

  “Not one iota,” admitted Croxton. “Lady Derby is made of sterner stuff than that. Sir Thomas is now preparing to besiege the house. Of biggest concern, though, is the fact that Lady Derby appears to be aware of everything that is happening outside the house. She knows what movements our forces are making, and she knows what discussions are being made at the highest level of Parliamentary command. We suspect, therefore, that there is a spy within our ranks, probably someone high up within the forces of one of our senior commanders: Alexander Rigby, Ralph Assheton, or John Moore. Your job is to unmask the identity of the infiltrator.”

  All three of us sat quietly for a moment, trying to digest the information Croxton had given us.

  “Christ’s Robes, Colonel,” exclaimed Simon. “You would entrust that to us?”

  “Not my decision,” said Croxton, with a dismissive wave of the hand, “but Sir William appears to have faith in you. You will leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I blurted out. “But what about our businesses? We can’t just leave them.”

  “Everything has been arranged,” said Croxton. “We have people in place who can look after your affairs until you return: chandlers, briners, shoemakers. You name it. We have plenty of people with those skills within our forces. You would be surprised.”

  I had to admit that Croxton was right. Rising slowly to my feet, I strolled over to the window and looked out. The earthworks barely ten feet from the window shut out much of the light in the room, but over the top of the mound of earth I could just see the top of the octagonal bell tower of St Mary’s. How long would it be before I heard those bells again, I wondered? I shuddered to think.

  “Very well,” I said, at length. “What’s the plan?”

  “Well, initially, you will not be going to Lathom,” said Croxton, breezily. “According to your wishes, I have obtained passes for you to go to Chester. There you will be able to complete the personal business you wished to carry out. All I ask is that you avoid getting arrested, because we need you to carry out some work for us while you are there – a quid pro quo, if you like.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it any other way,” I said, sourly.

  “Good, I knew you would understand. This is what we need you to do. You will be the guests of the landlord of a new tavern on Eastgate called ‘The Boot’. His name is Corbett, and he is a trusted informer of ours. He will keep you safe. He has several people working for him, who are gathering information on the Earl of Derby, who is currently residing at his town house there. We know that messages are regularly being passed from Lathom to the earl, and Corbett’s people have been monitoring this. Your task is to gather a report on this activity from Corbett and deliver it to Sir Thomas Fairfax at Lathom.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yes,” said Croxton, “but there’s one thing you should know. In order to protect your identities, you will be travelling under cover, as a family of shoemakers. We assumed that in a large garrison town there would be plenty of demand for good boots, so you’ll be taking George Simkins’ cart and selling his stock. Two of you are, of course, already brothers and so will pass as such. You, Clowes, look nothing like your friends, so you will have to act the part of their brother-in-law.

  I stepped over towards Simon, whose face had turned a delicate shade of pink. “You knew about this, Simon?” I asked, surprised.

  My brother shrugge
d. “No option,” he said, simply. “I could hardly refuse, could I? And Simkins was more than happy to sell a cartload of his stock to the colonel. I swear I knew nothing about Lathom, though.”

  In exasperation, I turned my attention back to Croxton, who was watching us with a mixture of interest and amusement.

  “This seems to be an incredible amount of trouble to go to in order to capture one fortified house and a small garrison,” I pointed out. “What’s the importance of Lathom, exactly?”

  “Lancashire is the most popish county in the kingdom,” explained Croxton, “so there are many people that support the King in the belief that he would be more tolerant to their religion. His wife, after all, is of the Roman faith. There are those, of course, who say that the main actions of this war are being played out elsewhere – in Yorkshire, in the South-West, around Oxford; but Lancashire is far from being just a sideshow. If we were to leave Lancashire to the royalists, that would give them the opportunity to set up a base and get supplies in through Liverpool. The Committee considers the taking of Lathom House to be of both strategic and symbolic value.”

  “I see,” I said. I stopped and considered Croxton’s proposal for a moment. If this was truly the way to relieve myself of the need to carry out my constabulary duties on a long-term basis, then surely the risk was worth taking. The only uncertainty was the length of time needed to carry out the proposed duties at Lathom House. I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and at that moment, as if to mirror my thoughts, the sun broke through the clouds next to the church tower and flooded the room with sunlight.

  “And how long do you anticipate this assignment will last?” I asked, a naive question really, for I already knew the answer.

  Croxton gave me a look that filled me with foreboding. “That depends entirely on you, Master Cheswis,” he said. “Entirely on you.”

  Chapter 6

  Chester – Tuesday March 5th, 1644

  The village of Boughton, on the outskirts of Chester, was not as I remembered it. I had passed by here two years previously, during the time when I still had occasion to report to the high sheriff. At that time, Boughton was a sleepy, tree-lined place, the last port of call before entering the growing urban sprawl of Chester itself.

  Now the village was little more than an empty shell, a ramshackle jumble of ruins. The blackened remains of cottages burned to the ground stood starkly against an unobstructed horizon. Debris from chopped down trees and hedges, levelled so as not to afford any shelter to those who might wish to attack the town, lay strewn along the side of the muddy, deeply rutted road. Even the attractive little chapel and the stone barn set against it had been pulled down. It was difficult to imagine that people had once lived here, tended gardens and farmed the land. Boughton would one day be rebuilt, no doubt, but for the time being it was an uncomfortable reminder of the devastation that war can bring to the countryside.

  The road into Chester had also changed significantly since my last visit, for it was now blocked by an imposing-looking turnpike, flanked by earth walls topped with palisades and storm poles. In front of the earthworks was a wide pit, stretching as far as the eye could see, filled with sharpened stakes that were part-covered by brushwood. It was as well that Croxton had managed to secure passes for us, I mused, for finding a way into the town otherwise would have been impossible.

  My attention was momentarily drawn away from Chester’s defences by the sound of Simon cursing loudly as he manoeuvred George Simkins’ cart around the ruts in the roadway, so as to avoid getting stuck. During the winter, the frozen ground had kept the road passable, but the subsequent thaw had reduced the route, in places, to a quagmire, and we needed to make several detours to ensure our journey was not brought to a premature end. The cart was piled high with boots and shoes and covered with a tarpaulin to protect it against the elements. Alexander and I rode alongside, occasionally stopping to help Simon point the cart in the right direction. For my part, I was pleased to be able to ride once more on Demeter’s back, for over the years we had grown used to one another, her good-natured pliability making for a more comfortable ride.

  As we drew closer to the turnpike, muskets began to appear above the palisades, and two soldiers in red uniforms appeared at the gateway. Both were brandishing halberds.

  “Halt!” said one of them, gruffly. “Your papers, if you please.”

  I reached inside my coat and extracted our passes, which the soldier inspected carefully.

  “What’s in the cart?” he asked, “and which one of you is which?”

  Pulling back the tarpaulin carefully, I showed the soldier our stock of boots. “I’m Daniel Simkins,” I said. “Accompanying me are my brother, Simon, and my brother-in-law, Alexander Smith.”

  The soldier sniffed, seemingly unimpressed. Pulling out one of the boots, he inspected it closely, running his finger along the stitching. “These are just what we need,” he added. “Many of the poor buggers in here who’ve come over from Ireland are still walking around with holes in their boots. You’ll do good trade on the market with these. Even better if you seek out one of the quartermasters.”

  “So we can pass?”

  “Aye, I’ve not seen you before, but the Simkins name is well known enough here. You must be related to George Simkins. He used to come here to market regularly before the war started. How does he fare?”

  “His back ails him,” I said, “but otherwise he fares passably well.” I was grateful to Croxton that he had made us learn our stories well before leaving Nantwich. We were aware that George Simkins was well known in Chester and, in order to make our story more believable, Croxton had arranged that we masquerade as his sons, rather than invent other assumed names.

  The guard sniffed again, handed us back our papers, and waved us through. Behind the outworks, the scene was more familiar – a mile of gardens and elegant merchants’ houses leading up to the Eastgate. Once past The Mount at Dee Lane End, the view opened up to reveal the length of the river as far as the city walls, its banks lined with water mills and tanners’ houses. In the foreground, the vista was dominated by the prominent spire of St John’s Church. As we approached the imposing twin-towered gateway which marked the entrance to the city, we stopped at one of a row of coaching houses which lined the road, in order to leave our cart and horses, for we had been forewarned of a lack of stabling at The Boot. An ostler appeared as we dismounted, and took hold of Demeter’s reins.

  “Ye’ll be bonesore from the ride, no doubt. Will ye be needing accommodation too?” he asked.

  “Not today,” I replied, “we already have rooms – at The Boot. You can find us there if need be.”

  The ostler raised a quizzical eyebrow and smirked. “The Boot?” he said. “Good luck with that. You’ll find many a sightly wench within those walls, but there’s not usually much sleeping done in that place. Feel free to come back here if you need a good night’s rest!”

  The reason for the ostler’s amusement soon became apparent as we entered The Boot, a compact-looking establishment located on the first floor of one of the rows, fifty yards from the cross.

  “It’s a bloody whorehouse!” exclaimed Alexander, eyeing the number of men accompanied by young, scantily clad women. “Croxton has seen fit to house us in a brothel! If Marjery should find out about this-”

  “Quiet,” snapped Simon. “There’s no need for her to know. This is perfect. We will be less conspicuous in a place like this.”

  We had barely stepped in through the door when we were approached by a confident-looking youth with shoulder-length brown hair, who had spotted the pair of boots each of us was carrying.

  “Would those be Nantwich boots, sirs?” he asked, his round, moonlike face betraying the flicker of a smile.

  “Aye, nothing but the best for Lord Byron and his men,” I replied, giving the pre-arranged response.

  “Then I bid you welcome, gentlemen,” said the youth. “My name is Charles Corbett. I am Thomas Corbett’s son. If you’d
care to follow me, we have vacated one of the chambers upstairs for you. There is only one truckle bed, I’m afraid, but I have provided mats for your men. I hope they will be comfortable enough.”

  The youth led us up a flight of stairs to an L-shaped landing, which revealed a row of rooms on the left, the right hand side initially offering a view out onto the street. We were shown into the room at the end of the corridor, away from the street.

  “Easiest escape route,” explained Corbett. “There are some steps immediately outside the window, which lead to a courtyard at the rear of the house. You’re free to come and go as you please, but take care to enter and leave the chamber one at a time. We don’t want to attract attention to your presence. I will attend you again later.” With that he left us and disappeared back down the corridor.

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” said Simon, throwing his saddlebag into the corner of the room and heading for the door, “but I don’t intend to sit in this room all evening. I will see you downstairs.”

  He had barely been gone five minutes when a quiet knock sounded at the door. Alexander opened it to reveal a stocky, balding man with a paunch, who introduced himself as Thomas Corbett, the landlord.

  “I understood there to be three of you,” he said, with a slight look of puzzlement on his face.

  “There are,” I said. “My brother could not keep himself away from the attractions of your fine ale. He is to be found downstairs. You have news for us for Sir Thomas Fairfax, I believe.”

  “I do,” said Corbett, producing a leather pouch from underneath his shirt. “Guard it well. If you move the bed slightly to one side, you will find there is a loose floorboard. You can hide it there until it is time for you to leave. You plan to stay long with us?”