A Soldier of Substance Page 8

  Corbett then produced a small linen pouch and coughed politely to attract our attention. Putting his hand in the pouch, he extracted three small wax balls which he laid on the table by the bed.

  “As you are leaving today, I need to give you these,” he said, gravely. “One for each of you. Guard them with your lives. Each ball contains a small piece of paper with a message encrypted in cipher. They must be delivered without delay to Sir Thomas Fairfax when you arrive at Lathom. Hide them well, but if you are arrested, swallow them without hesitation. They must not fall into the hands of the royalists.”

  I looked doubtfully at the inconsequential-looking brown balls. They were certainly small, though, if the truth be told, they looked like they might need some chewing if one were to avoid choking on them. I imagined they would carry the tiniest morsel of paper inscribed with a number cipher to save space.

  I picked up one of the balls and hid it within the lining of my coat. Alexander and Simon did likewise.

  We ate a quick breakfast before thanking Corbett for his hospitality and making our way through the Eastgate to the coaching house on Foregate Street, where our horses were being stabled. After paying our dues and giving instructions to the ostler to look after Demeter and Alexander’s horse until we returned later that morning, we hitched up the cart and drove it slowly back into the city, past the Pentice, and down Bridge Street to the glover’s yard in Gloverstone, where we had been the day before.

  The owner, a broad-shouldered man with greying hair and a full, silver-coloured beard, signalled to us to back the cart into his yard, where we commenced loading it with crates filled with gloves, which we positioned at the back of the cart, leaving a gap big enough for Skinner to scramble into and remain concealed. Over the top of the space left for Skinner, we positioned several layers of tanned leather, completing the illusion of a totally full cart. All we needed now was to find my erstwhile apprentice, secrete him underneath the pile of goods, and negotiate both the city gates and the turnpike at Boughton without being stopped.

  Simon paid the glover and drove the cart back towards the entrance to the alleyway opposite The Spread Eagle, the wheels scraping loudly on the cobbles as it meandered its way over the uneven surface. Alexander and I emerged on foot behind the cart and glanced nervously down Castle Street, towards a dilapidated tenement block fifty yards away, which we had been told was the building where Skinner and much of his regiment were billeted.

  Despite the hour, the street was relatively deserted. A couple of goodwives stood nattering by a row of houses on the other side of the road, and half a dozen local traders had opened up shop fronts on the Gloverstone side of the street, but other than that, there was little activity. Alexander and I walked a few yards towards the tenement block and were relieved to see the scrawny figure of Skinner emerge from a side entrance. He took a quick look up and down the street, adjusted his green Montero cap, and walked quickly towards us.

  “Quick, get into the cart and get behind the crates at the back,” I hissed.

  Skinner nodded, and was just about to clamber in amongst the sheets of leather, when I saw something which made me place a hand on his shoulder and tell him to wait. Fifty yards away, two redcoat soldiers from the town guard had emerged from an alleyway and were looking meaningfully in our direction. On the other side of the street, two more had appeared through the front of one of the trader’s stores, pushing the protesting shopkeeper roughly aside. I spun around and saw that a group of several more were also approaching us from the direction of St Olave’s. Among them was the instantly recognisable figure of Jem Bressy.

  Simon had also spotted Bressy and had jumped down from the front of the cart, howling in pain as he twisted his ankle on the cobbles. Struggling to his feet, he limped to the rear of the cart and disappeared back down the alleyway towards the glover’s workshop. I only had a split-second to decide on a course of action, so I did the first thing which came into my head.

  “Hit me now,” I ordered. “Make it look good and run like the wind.”

  Skinner looked over his shoulder and, spotting Bressy, immediately understood my meaning. He took a wide arching swing with his right arm, which caught me flush on the side of the head, making my ears ring as though I were in the bell tower at St Mary’s. He then charged headlong towards Bressy with his hands in the air, shouting, “Parliament spies! Stop them!”

  I thought I was about to pass out, but Alexander grabbed me forcefully by the left arm and dragged me instinctively up Bunce Lane, a heavily rutted side road, which led north from Castle Street and was the only apparent escape route not blocked by redcoats. I quickly calculated that if we were able to evade our pursuers by heading north past the rows of workers’ cottages that stretched out before us, we would eventually be able to double back to the right and make our way to Bridge Street and from there along Eastgate Street and Foregate Street, to where our horses waited for us.

  However, no sooner had we begun to run, than a flash of red careered out of one of the yards on my left and caught me full in the midriff, sending me sprawling into the road. Winded, I looked up through mud-filled eyes to see a burly redcoat cursing as he struggled with his pistol.

  Alexander, grabbed a stake from a pile of wood lying by the entrance to a carpenter’s workshop and swung it violently at the soldier’s legs. I heard a sickening crack and a deafening scream as the stake caught the redcoat on the side of the knee, and he crumpled into a heap on the floor.

  I pulled myself to my feet and charged after Alexander, voices following us up the lane to our rear. I risked a look over my shoulder and caught the sight of Bressy and his row of musketeers crouching in readiness to fire.

  “Into the garden!” I screamed at Alexander, and dived over a low wall as a musket ball flew over my shoulder, the sharp report of the volley of shots snapping loudly at my ears. My friend landed in a heap five yards in front of me, and at first I thought he had been shot, but he pulled himself to his feet in wide-eyed panic and was just about to jump back into the street when his attention was distracted by the sight of a female figure standing inside the doorway of the garden’s attendant cottage, signalling frantically for us to head through a side gate into the backlands. With a start, I realised I was looking at Roisin, the auburn-haired Irish whore with whom Simon had been carousing two days previously. Today, she was dressed more soberly, in plain brown, with a white coif on her head.

  I looked back at Alexander and saw that he was already making his way towards the gate. I had no time to consider what the girl was doing there, so I simply leapt after Alexander, nearly tripping over a pile of firewood which blocked the path down the side of the house, and scattering half a dozen hens, which clucked loudly in complaint at the disturbance. A couple of seconds later, the back door of the cottage flew open and the girl appeared.

  “But why-” I began, only to be interrupted by the girl’s urgent tones.

  “Quickly; go through the fence at the end of our yard and through the paddock beyond to the houses in the distance. If you can pass through there you come to the monastic lands of the old Black Friars monastery. Once there, if you start to the north, you can make your way onto Watergate Street and back up to the cross.”

  I nodded. “But what about Simon? He vanished into Gloverstone.”

  A momentary look of concern passed over the girl’s face, but it quickly disappeared, and she pursed her lips in determination.

  “If he has any sense, he will have gone back to Jack Taylor, the glover. He will be safe there until the soldiers have gone. Now go while you still can.”

  We needed no second bidding. I clasped Roisin’s hands quickly in thanks before sprinting after Alexander towards the end of the garden. As I did so, I thought I caught the sound of angry voices and persistent banging on the front of the house, but I did not look back. Hoisting myself over the fence at the end of the garden, I dropped gratefully into the field beyond and ran for my life.

  ***

  On
ce we were certain that we were no longer being followed, we halted by a low stone wall to regain our breath. I noticed for the first time that Alexander was still carrying the wooden stake with which he had scythed down the unfortunate redcoat. The white, neatly sawed wood was stained red with the soldier’s blood.

  “What now?” asked Alexander, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  I looked over the wall and realised we were standing by the remains of the Dominican friary known as Black Friars. Behind the sorry-looking ruins of the church and the pits used for smelting the lead from the monastery’s roof and windows was the meadow known as the Roodee, and beyond that the River Dee. To the north I could see the black and white gabled mansion that was the Chester home of the Earl of Derby, near to which stood the customs house and a row of other impressive properties lining the south side of Watergate Street.

  “The first thing we do is dispose of that piece of wood,” I said. “If anything is certain to draw attention to us, it is that.”

  Alexander looked at me with a blank expression, and I realised that he had also forgotten he was carrying the stake. I took it from him and threw it over the stone wall, into the field beyond.

  “We walk over there,” I said, pointing to the Earl of Derby’s mansion, “and then we try and make our way through the crowds back out through the Eastgate.”

  “But what about Simon? We can’t leave him here.”

  “We must,” I said. “It pains me to say so, but we must hope Simon finds a way out of here by himself. Remember, Bressy and his men followed us, not him. With luck, he will get clean away.” In truth, I was trying to persuade myself of something of which I was by no means confident, but one thing I had learned about my brother over the course of the past three months was that he was endowed with a great deal more resourcefulness than I had previously thought possible, and if the glover and the red-haired Irish girl were on his side, then perhaps he had a fighting chance to escape the search party that would inevitably be sent into Gloverstone to seek him out.

  The walk back into the centre of Chester seemed interminable. It was less than a mile, but it was a nervous walk, our eyes constantly on the lookout for those who might wish to arrest us. Our hearts jumped every time a red or green-coated soldier came into view, but to our relief, none approached us. As we walked up Watergate Street towards the Pentice, the crowds grew busier and we were able to melt into the general throng more effectively. Once we reached the beginning of the rows, we mounted the steps to the first level and weaved our way through the stores, along the walkways, between the stallboards and the street; more cover, I imagined, from anyone looking out for us at street level.

  Once we reached St Peter’s Church, we descended to the street again, crossed in front of the Pentice, and climbed the steps once more on the north side of Eastgate Street, passing through the Buttershops Row, past Seaman’s house, through Dark Row, and emerging in front of The Boot.

  Thomas Corbett was stood in front of the tavern, sweeping the stallboards with a stiff brush, and he eyed us quizzically as we approached. I quickly explained to him in hushed tones what had happened.

  “Christ’s Robes, man,” he exclaimed, his features contorted in anger. “What did you think you were doing? I wondered what was going on. You have put us all in danger. Take a look over there.”

  I cast my eyes over the balcony into the street, and my heart sank. Stationed at twenty yard intervals along the side of the street was a row of redcoats scouring the crowds as they passed. Immediately opposite me I recognised the jet black hair of Jem Bressy, who was organising the soldiers in line, and I realised that we must have been recognised and followed back from The Spread Eagle the day before – that was when this hunt had truly begun, unbeknownst to us.

  To my dismay, Bressy chose that precise moment to glance upwards, and he caught my eye. Frowning, he immediately gestured to those soldiers closest to him and began to march across the street in our direction.

  “By Jesu,” growled Corbett, “can’t you be more discreet? Now you’ve done it. Quick, get inside.” With an angry shove, he hustled us both inside the doorway and across the tap-room, where his son and the most senior of his girls, a buxom, dark-haired woman called Annie, were busy cleaning the tables. Both looked up in alarm at the urgency of our approach and immediately stopped what they were doing.

  “Quick, we have been exposed,” said Thomas Corbett, with urgency. “You know what to do.”

  Charles Corbett nodded, dropped his brush, and disappeared up the stairs to the corridor which led to the rooms at the back of the building. Annie grabbed my wrist and led me towards the back of the tap-room.

  “Follow me,” she said, bursting through a door into the small courtyard separating the two parts of the house. Alexander and I looked, helplessly, at each other as I was dragged after her. At first I thought Annie was taking us to Corbett’s private quarters, but she stopped by a solid wooden structure built against the outside wall of the building.

  “In there,” she ordered. Without hesitation, we did as she asked, allowing Annie to follow us and lock the door behind her. It was then that I noticed the smell and realised where we were. Annie, Alexander, and I were locked in the privy.

  Chapter 11

  Lathom House – Thursday March 7th, 1644

  Samuel Rutter stood atop the Chapel Tower at Lathom House and watched the sun rise slowly above the trees in the Tawd Valley. As it cast its warming rays across the ground, the chill mists of early March began to dissipate, revealing the sharp zig-zag of the trench, which was working its way inexorably around the southern side of the house like a giant mole tunnel.

  Rutter scratched his balding pate and pulled his black cloak tighter around his portly frame, contemplating the sight, which filled his field of vision. As the personal chaplain to the Earl and Countess of Derby, he would shortly need to ring the bells for his morning service. First, though, he needed to see what Fairfax and his band of rebels had been up to overnight. His mistress, the countess, Lady Charlotte de Tremouille, would expect at least that of him.

  Rutter strained his eyes through the mist to the east and cursed silently to himself, for the curve of the ground in that direction meant that he could not see what the parliamentarian forces were doing. He could only imagine that the base camp for the siege works was being completed in the valley, for it was not only invisible to those inside Lathom House, but out of musket range as well. Rutter could hear the incessant chatter of what he imagined were hundreds of soldiers, but he could not see a thing.

  This was not true of the lines of trenches that were beginning to encircle the house, though. Labourers had been toiling throughout the night, protecting themselves with baskets and hurdles from any musketeers on the battlements who felt inclined to attempt a shot at them in the darkness of the night. Now, as dawn broke and they became more vulnerable, the last of the men could be seen scurrying away out of musket range, back to the safety of the main siege works.

  Rutter briefly considered climbing the much taller Eagle Tower in order to gain a better view, but he knew the floor of the valley was invisible from there too. It was an irritation, but one that he bore gratefully, for he knew that the shape of the slope rising from the valley made it impossible for any cannon to fire effectively at the house’s walls. Any shot would simply fly straight over the top of the house or, at worst, hit the top of the battlements, where only minimal structural damage could be caused.

  The cleric shook his head and chuckled to himself. He did not fear a siege and artillery bombardment by the parliamentarian forces, for the defences at Lathom House were good. Thirty foot high walls, six feet thick, with banks of turves piled up behind them. The walls, in turn, were surrounded by a moat and an outer fence of timber palisades. The only way the house was vulnerable was if Fairfax carried out a direct attack with overwhelming force, but Rutter smiled to himself with satisfaction. It looked as though the roundheads did not have that in mind. The fools were playing stra
ight into his hands.

  Suddenly, Rutter was disturbed from his reverie by the familiar footsteps of Broome, Lady Derby’s long-serving steward, who emerged at the top of the spiral staircase, wearing a look of mild irritation.

  “You are a difficult man to find, Reverend,” he announced, in a tone of mock rebuke. “Her ladyship wishes to consult with you.”

  “You will often find me here at this time of the morning, Mr Broome,” said Rutter, with more tolerance than he felt inclined to give. “I find it the perfect place for a little quiet contemplation – the best way to face up to whatever tribulations the day might bring, I think.”

  Broome, a tall, spindly man, whose comportment displayed a level of grace and bearing which belied his raw-boned build, gazed over the crenellations, into the mid-distance, and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun.

  “Aye, sir, especially on a day like today, I should imagine. What’s Black Tom got in mind, do you reckon?”

  “If God is merciful, then let us hope we are in for a siege. We have enough victuals to last us for months.”

  “And you think Fairfax has fallen for that?”

  Rutter smiled assuredly. “Fairfax is no fool,” he admitted, “but his minions are not so bright, and that will give us time. Once a course has been set, it will not be so easy to change direction, mark my words. And that, I’ll wager, will give the King enough time to send reinforcements. He will surely not wish for Lancashire to be completely overrun by the rebels. Indeed, Captain Chisnall tells us that the earl has already written to Prince Rupert for help.”

  “And so long as Fairfax and his main commanders are here, they cannot be elsewhere, so our small garrison will play its part in maintaining his Majesty’s interests in the North, I presume?”

  “Precisely,” grinned Rutter, clapping the steward on the back. “Now let us see what her ladyship requires.”