A Splendid Defiance Read online

  A Splendid Defiance

  A Novel of the English Civil War

  Stella Riley

  A Splendid Defiance

  Stella Riley

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2012 Stella Riley

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  ONE

  Sharply silhouetted against a sky of dazzling blue, two ancient stone giants brooded over a forest of pointed gables. One was the cruciform elegance of St Mary’s church, its square Norman tower settling gracefully over delicately pierced parapets and stone-tipped lancets; the other was the uncompromising bulk of the Castle, a crenelated mass of grey-brown austerity, its only ornament the fluttering Royal Standard that gleamed gold on a ground of cobalt and scarlet.

  Beneath the bright banner, Justin Ambrose leaned against the sun-warmed stone of the ramparts and stared moodily out across the town. Only fifteen weeks in the place and already he felt caged – and who knew how much longer it would be? Back in the summer of 1642, everyone had said it would all be over with the first big battle. That had been almost two years ago. Now people had given up saying that it would be over by Christmas, by the spring, before the harvest; they had even, with the pendulum of success swinging first one way and then the other, given up predicting who would win. And meanwhile, Englishmen devastated English fields and towns, neighbour against neighbour and sometimes father against son, as they fought and killed and died.

  And for what? It was a question that Justin was beginning to ask himself more and more often in the daily tedium of his present backwater. It had been easy, in the first headlong enthusiasm, to know why you were fighting. But time dulled it; that and seeing your country torn apart by civil strife and your career blighted by a spiteful word. The issues merged and became blurred. And that was when you wondered if it was worth it.

  Justin’s thoughts slid effortlessly into a well-worn groove. A misplaced word about Lord George Digby, that beautiful, smooth-tongued Royal favourite, and here he was in the comparative exile of Banbury. Nearly four months of collecting supplies for Oxford by ambushing the occasional Parliamentary convoy and provoking or being provoked by the Roundhead garrison at Newport Pagnell – neither of which could be described as a fitting occupation for one of Prince Rupert’s cavalry captains; and neither of which was likely to produce the promotion he both hoped for and needed.

  The truth, of course, was that he was bored. Despite being a largely hostile Puritan town, life in Banbury went on in a rarely-ruffled rhythm. One day, on the whole, was much like another and there seemed little chance of anything happening to change it. The war was being won or lost elsewhere while Justin dealt in bread and coin and barrels of powder; a merchant, a carrier and sometimes a thief – but only infrequently a soldier.

  A solitary horseman reined in and was challenged by the guards below. He was smothered in dust and his horse looked winded. Justin’s gaze sharpened. A messenger? More specifically, a messenger from the North where the Scots and Parliamentarian allies were besieging York and might even have taken it unless Rupert had arrived in time to stop them. The guards stepped aside and the rider was admitted. Justin left the walls and ran smartly down to catch the new arrival just as he was dismounting in front of the stables.

  ‘Have you news?’

  ‘Yes.’ The battered, broad-brimmed hat with its bedraggled, once-white feather was pulled off to reveal a face that, beneath the dirt and exhaustion, was very young. ‘I’ve despatches for Oxford but I need a new nag. This one’s done.’

  ‘And so are you, by the looks of it,’ observed Justin. ‘Have you come from York?’

  The boy nodded and his expression altered subtly, as if he had suddenly aged.

  ‘It … the news isn’t good.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Good or bad, it will wait till you sit down and take a drink,’ said Justin. ‘Come on.’

  He led the way through to the inner bailey and the room that he and the other officers of the garrison used for practically everything except sleeping. Walrond and Tirwhitt were poring over duty lists, Vaughan and Frost were playing dice and Tom Mayhew was servicing his pistol. All looked up as the door opened and then stared at Justin’s companion. No one moved.

  Justin ushered the boy in and nudged the door shut with his foot before crossing to the barrel of ale in the corner.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, coming back with a pewter tankard. A sweep of his hand indicated the other men. ‘Captains Charles Walrond, Will Tirwhitt and Hugh Vaughan. Lieutenant Edward Frost and Ensign Tom Mayhew. I’m Justin Ambrose.’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ The boy managed a ragged bow. ‘My name is John Anderson – cornet to Lord Goring’s regiment of Horse.’

  Hugh Vaughan’s dark eyes met Justin’s light ones.

  ‘York?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Then perhaps we’d better send for the Colonel and Sir William. Tom, will you —’

  ‘Yes.’ Ensign Mayhew was already half-way to the door.

  Lieutenant Frost slapped a hand on the heap of papers that the youthful gentleman’s wake threatened to send whirling to the floor and grinned.

  ‘Keen, isn’t he? Makes you dizzy just watching him.’ He paused, his gaze travelling from Justin to Cornet Anderson and back again. ‘Something tells me that all is not well.’

  ‘Does it?’ Justin hooked a stool forward and sat down. A faint smile dispelled a little of the grimness about his mouth and he cocked an eyebrow at Captain Vaughan. ‘He’s got a mind like a razor, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Not a doubt of it.’ Hugh’s attention remained fixed on their guest. ‘Bearing sad tidings is no pleasant duty, I know – but perhaps it will help you to hear that things in this area have gone none too badly in His Highness’ absence.’

  ‘No,’ said Justin with sudden savagery. ‘The King merely allowed himself to be talked into ignoring Rupert’s advice with the result that we’ve given away Reading and Abingdon in exchange for a useless, tactical victory over Waller at Cropredy. Not too bad at all, really.’

  ‘Justin.’ Captain Vaughan drew a long breath and loosed it. ‘It doesn’t do any good, you know.’

  ‘No. I can think of only one thing that might – and that’s to cut out Digby’s meddling tongue before its inept whisperings lose us the war.’

  ‘You don’t know it was Digby,’ offered Ned Frost judicially.

  ‘Who else would it be?’ retorted Justin. ‘But you’re right, Hugh. It’s no use talking and I’m losing my sense of humour. Tell the lad about Cropredy Bridge – and make it sound encouraging. That way, he may stay awake till the others get here. I’m going to see about some food for him.’

  When he returned bearing bread and cold meat, he found that his arrival had been preceded by that of Major Sir William Compton and Lieutenant-Colonel Anthony Greene. Like Captain Vaughan, these two had both been at the Castle since 1642 when, four days after the battle of Edgehill, they had helped remove it from the hands of Parliamentary Colonel John Fiennes. Younger brother of James, Earl of Northampton, Will Compton had held the place ever since – with the help and experience of Anthony Greene. For while the Lieutenant-Colonel had turned forty and had seen action in foreign service, Sir William was still, in this July of 1644, only nin
eteen.

  He was casually waving Cornet Anderson back into his seat and telling him to finish his ale. ‘For I don’t doubt that you’ve earned it and we’ll be in your debt for whatever news you can give us. You’ve been at York with the Prince?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy put down his tankard and squared his shoulders. ‘He’ll be marching south again soon. There – there’s nothing else to do. York is lost.’

  Shock, incredulity and incomprehension registered in varying degrees on the faces before him. Then Lieutenant-Colonel Greene said, ‘Lost? Irretrievably?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How? Didn’t Rupert get there in time?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He did – and he relieved the city,’ said Cornet Anderson quickly. ‘He made one of his fast marches round to the north and we got to York while the enemy must have thought us still at Knaresborough. Only …’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Sir William.

  The boy stared down at his hands.

  ‘Well, the rebels had us heavily outnumbered but everyone was saying that they wouldn’t attack because of the York garrison.’

  It was Will Tirwhitt, disabled at Brentford by the loss of an arm, who said helpfully, ‘And did they? Were you taken by surprise?’

  ‘No – at least, not then. But the Prince said that we must engage them early next day and my Lord Goring went into York to tell Lord Newcastle to bring his men out to rendezvous with us. Only they were late and the whole morning went by and the Prince was fretting at the delay.’

  ‘I’ll wager he was,’ said Justin grimly. ‘Cursing all creation, was he?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. He marched us out to Long Marston and deployed us for battle before the York men came up. But by that time the light wasn’t good because there was a storm brewing so His Highness said we could stand down and get something to eat. It must have been nearly seven o’clock and, after all the delay and everything, it seemed he’d decided not to attack … and it didn’t look as if the enemy would because they’d been manoeuvring all day as if they expected us to strike south again.’ He paused and his hands suddenly tightened on each other. ‘And then all hell broke loose. They attacked and the storm came all at once. The Prince was riding up and down the lines through the rain like a man possessed. It wasn’t even his own horse.’ He stopped again and then said wearily, ‘It was horrible. Our wing didn’t do too badly but the Prince’s cavalry just broke and scattered. And Lord Newcastle’s men kept refusing quarter until – until they were all lying there in the mud.’

  This time the silence seemed to close around each one of them like a fist.

  ‘So York could not be held and the North is lost,’ said the Lieutenant-Colonel at last, voicing all their thoughts. ‘What is Prince Rupert doing?’

  ‘Rallying the men, sir. Lord Newcastle,’ added the boy on a perceptible note of contempt, ‘is taking ship for France.’

  ‘And what of Rupert himself?’ asked Justin. ‘It’s his first real defeat. How has he taken it?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ came the slow response. ‘But they killed his dog, you know … and that must have been near as bad as everything else.’

  There was more, quite a lot more, but Sir William insisted that Cornet Anderson eat before telling them. An hour or so later, it was decided that Lieutenant Frost would accompany him the rest of the way to Oxford – an arrangement that, as they were all aware, suited Ned very well since it gave him the chance to see his Lucy.

  Justin saw them off and then, because nothing required his attention and because he felt a need to escape for a while, he strolled out of the south gate and into the Market Place.

  It was fairly quiet, as it usually was in the late afternoon, except on Thursdays when the colourful bustle of the market brought it to life. The whole town was quiet, wrapped in Puritanical disapproval of the inmates of the Castle. But it was not unpleasing to the eye, with its irregular hotch-potch of timber and plaster houses, some of which were pargeted with floral or geometric designs. Even the gaol which faced the Castle from the south side of the square was an attractive building with three gables and the new Town Hall was a masterpiece of decoration. The whole place, sleepy beneath the July sun, presented a picture of charming tranquillity which accorded well with its reputation for cakes and ale.

  Unfortunately, the other side to the town was visible too; an iconoclastic fervour typified in the stump of broken stone in Cornhill that had once been the Market Cross and the remains of the Barbican, demolished two years earlier because its proximity to the Castle gates provided cover for a besieging enemy. Not, of course, that there had been a besieging enemy … and there was no reason now to suppose that there ever would be.

  Justin walked westwards up Parson’s Lane, trying to decide between a solitary mug of ale at the Reindeer or an hour with Nancy Lucas. Anything to stop his mind from revolving fruitlessly around the circumstances that could have made his former chief seek battle in needless haste and then break his own rule by failing to take the initiative. The Reindeer would not do. It would have to be Nancy. Cheerful, vulgar Nancy, who had moved herself and her three girls into Banbury along with the garrison and whom the townsfolk loathed to the point of obsession. It was a foolish attitude, reflected Justin idly, for Nancy and her girls fulfilled a useful dual function. They kept the garrison happy and saved all those respectable daughters, wives and sisters from annoyance.

  He passed the gateway to the Reindeer, stepped over the gurgling trickle of the Cuttle Brook and swung into the narrow, cobbled depths of Pebble Lane. It was hot and airless and it stank of rotting vegetation thrown from the jumble of cottages that flanked it. Justin quickened his pace. Cleansing once a year was nowhere near enough – and it was a long time until Easter. It was really no wonder that all towns suffered from the plague during the summer months.

  From up ahead came the sound of scuffling feet and loud, inebriated laughter punctuated by snatches of inane persuasion.

  ‘Little dove … pretty dove … give Jackie a kiss. Oh come on – no need to be frightened. We’ll not hurt you.’

  ‘No – hic! We like pretty little doves. We likes to hear ‘em coo.’

  Justin recognised the voices all too easily and, though irritation was uppermost in his mind, reluctant amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Potts! Danvers! What the devil do you think you’re doing?’

  Two dishevelled and far from sober troopers sprang to unsteady attention while their quarry tried to efface herself in a corner. With a single, cursory glance, Justin observed the white cap and wide, plain linen collar that told him everything he needed to know and his gaze returned coldly to Messrs Potts and Danvers.

  ‘Well?’

  Trooper Potts licked his lips uneasily and wished that, if he and Rob had to be caught, it could have been by one of the other officers.

  ‘We didn’t mean no harm, Captain.’

  ‘No. You never do – but you do it, nonetheless,’ came the stinging reply. ‘I take it that you are off-duty?’

  Trooper Danvers was hurt.

  ‘Aye. Course we are.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The trooper flushed.

  ‘Yes, Captain Ambrose. Sir.’

  ‘Thank you. And you’ve been in the Reindeer. Is that your only excuse?’

  They agreed that it was. Then, with more valour than wisdom, Potts added, ‘But she were on her own, Captain – and she smiled at us.’

  ‘I don’t care if she was naked as Eve and enticing as the bloody serpent,’ retorted Justin. ‘You have strict orders to leave the townswomen alone – and, since you seem to have such difficulty remembering it, we will have to find some way of improving your memories. Now, get back to the Castle. I’ll see you in my quarters at eight o’clock - and if you present yourselves looking as slovenly as you do now, you’ll regret it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ They spoke in gloomy unison.

  ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ Justin suppressed hi
s grin until they had set off back down the alley. And only then, with renewed irritation, did he remember the girl.

  She was still huddled against the wall and scarlet with an embarrassment that owed itself more to her rescuer’s words than her attackers’ importunities. A bulbous stone bit into her back but she did not notice it. Indeed, if the ground had opened to receive her, she would have been glad of it. She wished it would; she wished he would go away without speaking to her; she wished she did not know him … and that was as pointless as the rest.

  She had never spoken to him, of course – for her brother, Jonas, wouldn’t have his womenfolk contaminated that way – but she had seen him. He had been into the shop twice about cloth for the garrison and thereby caused Jonas long hours of soul-searching on the matter of principle versus profit. She had expected principle to win for, with Jonas, it usually did. But looking now at Captain Ambrose, she was no longer sure. He looked as though he could overcome anything and his air of collected assurance was intimidating.

  He was a tall man, perhaps a little under six feet and built with lean compactness. Thick, dark-brown hair fell in waves about his shoulders and framed a severely-sculpted face that was too forbidding to be considered handsome. His cheekbones were high, his jaw determined and his mouth hard; but it was his eyes, now resting on her with polite indifference, that produced an involuntary shiver and made her wonder why she had expected them to be dark. For they were not dark at all. Fringed with heavy, sepia lashes, they were a remarkable, light grey … as clear as spring water and as cold.

  His clothes she remembered rather better – but that was only natural for cloth was her family’s business. In fact, though far removed from the sombre garb she was accustomed to, the Captain dressed with an elegance more restrained than flamboyant. His broad-brimmed hat of black felt supported only one plume which, though curling and very white, did not trail to his shoulder. His coat was of well-worn buff leather, its only adornments being an exquisite lace collar and a fringed sash of gleaming blue silk and his boots and baldric had clearly been chosen for their practicality. He was as neat as wax and did not look as though he were ever anything else.