A Splendid Defiance Page 8

  Lieutenant-Colonel Greene smiled wryly. ‘I could do without it.’

  ‘Nonsense! This could earn you a knighthood. Have you found it, Justin?’

  ‘Yes.’ Justin looked up from the latest issue of the Parliament’s weekly news-sheet, Mercurius Britannicus and raised one ironic brow. ‘According to this, we should have surrendered a week ago … but you’re undoubtedly right about the knighthood. They’ve devoted so much space to – what was it? – ah yes. “That Rabid, Arch-cur Greene” that they’ve had to give Rupert a rest this week.’ He dropped the paper back on the table with a gesture of distaste. ‘I wonder what nasty little mind concocts this stuff?’

  ‘Don’t be so superior. We do it too, you know. In fact, we did it first.’ Hugh Vaughan waved the Royalist Mercurius Aulicus at him. ‘The only difference is that Birkenhead’s stuff is better written.’

  Ned peered over Captain Vaughan’s shoulder.

  ‘What does Aulicus say about us?’

  ‘That we’re all heroes. We’ve wiped out half the rebel army and are causing Master Fiennes to shed tears of blood because he can’t get back in as easily as he came out. Here – read it for yourself. I’m off.’

  Hugh was half-way down the stairs when he realised that Justin had followed him and, turning, he said, ‘You’re very disapproving today. Why?’

  Justin shrugged.

  ‘A man’s private life should be his own. Ridicule his military errors, by all means – if he’s made them, then he deserves it. But it seems unnecessary to brand Essex a figure of fun because both of his wives turned out to be whores; and being six feet four with an appetite to match doesn’t make Rupert an ogre. I object to men like John Birkenhead making a fortune out of such lurid rubbish.’

  Hugh stared at him. ‘I’m sorry I asked.’

  Justin’s face relaxed. ‘Take your revenge then. Tell me about John Fiennes’ defence of the Castle back in ’42.’

  ‘What defence? We took the place inside two hours.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. But how? The little I’ve seen of him suggests neither a fool nor a coward and yet he surrendered immediately to a straight assault. Why?’

  There was a pause and then Hugh sighed.

  ‘You might remember a fellow at Edgehill who brought his men over from their side to ours right at the last minute. He had a rather inappropriate name … Sir Faithful somebody-or-other?’

  ‘Sir Faithful Fortescue,’ supplied Justin. ‘Yes. It was the Earl of Peterborough’s regiment.’

  ‘It was part of it,’ corrected Hugh with dry humour. ‘The rest, to Master Fiennes’ eternal misfortune, was garrisoning Banbury Castle.’

  *

  The great Parliamentary assault began on the morning of September 23rd and followed a forty-eight hour bombardment in which thirty yards of the west wall were reduced to rubble. Only the thick lining of earth within the breach lay between Colonel Fiennes and his goal. But with his plans for the assault well-advanced, he was content to wait a little longer and he watched with satisfaction as his stores of scaling ladders and furze grew steadily larger.

  Through the permanent screen of smoke, the garrison watched it too and made what repairs it could in anticipation. No one inside had any illusions about what their fate would be if the Castle was taken. Quarter and the right to march away belonged only to those who surrendered.

  By an hour after dawn on Monday morning, it was clear to the garrison that this was the day appointed. The cannonade had slackened off a great deal and there was much activity in the rebel camp, with men massed beneath fluttering blue or orange colours, the discharging of muskets and the glinting of pike-heads. Captain Ambrose watched it all from a variety of vantage points and then turned to find Nancy Lucas at his elbow.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ he demanded. ‘This is no place for women.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I reckon you’ll be glad of us before the day’s out.’

  ‘Possibly. But not on the battlements.’

  ‘Give me a musket and we’ll see about that,’ laughed Nancy. ‘Oh – don’t worry. I shan’t stay once it looks like the fun’s about to start.’

  ‘Fun, Nan?’

  ‘Yes. I enjoy it. And don’t try telling me that you don’t, too.’

  The ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

  ‘No. Everyone enjoys the things they are good at.’

  ‘Oho! So you’re good, are you?’ she teased. ‘Whatever are you going to do when it’s all over?’

  ‘Look for another war, I expect. It’s what soldiers do, after all.’

  A thoughtful gleam entered the lively brown eyes.

  ‘But you aren’t just a soldier, are you? You’re gentry.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Justin inclined his head politely but the smile had vanished. ‘I do my best.’

  ‘No. You don’t. You’re as rude as be-damned if it suits you. But you’re a gentleman for all that.’ She tilted her head consideringly. ‘Because of it, probably.’

  ‘That is a fascinatingly shrewd observation. But being what you term ‘gentry’ doesn’t preclude my also being a soldier.’

  Any of his men would have recognised that tone. It was bland as milk and it spelled danger.

  ‘No, it don’t,’ agreed Nancy. ‘But it does mean that you ought to have a home worth going back to. Have you?’

  There was a sudden, cold silence which seemed to stretch out on an invisible thread before it was broken by the distant tuck of drums. Justin glanced swiftly over the wall and then turned back to Nancy.

  ‘They’re moving. Get inside.’

  ‘I will when you’ve answered my question.’

  Temper flared unexpectedly in the light eyes.

  ‘Don’t bargain with me, madam. I gave you an order. Now go!’

  *

  By nine o’clock the rebel forces had completed their dispositions and were drawn up in bodies roughly two hundred strong, ready for a five-pronged attack. Sir William and Colonel Greene surveyed the situation with grim calm and then ordered the cream of the garrison’s marksmen to the breach in the west wall. The rest, armed with muskets, pistols and even baskets of stones, lined the battlements and turrets. Drakes, sakers and culverins lay primed and ready and, on every side, spirals of smoke rose from lengths of slow match, already lit and swinging gently in expert fingers. With the last possible precaution taken and prayers for their safe delivery already said, the time of waiting became – as always – one of silence and strained, watchful eyes.

  The rebel drums proclaimed the march. Stentorian voices from five points around the Castle bawled their commands and, slowly, the Parliamentarian host began its advance. Tension on the battlements reached its peak … and the divisions of Colonel Fiennes’ own troop broke into a psalm.

  ‘Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him flee before Him.

  As smoke is driven away, so drive them away; as wax melteth before the fire, so let the

  wicked perish at the presence of God.’

  It was too much for the Cavaliers to bear. A growl rumbled through the ranks of Lord Northampton’s green-jackets and one burly trooper shouted, ‘Bugger me, lads – we can do better than that!’ And the tension dissolved into a rollicking, popular parody.

  ‘’Tis for religion that we fight,

  And for the Kingdom’s good;

  By robbing churches, plundering them

  And shedding guiltless blood.

  Down with the orthodoxal train,

  All loyal subjects slay;

  When these are gone, we shall be blest

  The clean contrary way.’

  Less carefree than usual, Lieutenant Frost looked at Justin.

  ‘Do you think we can keep them out?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope so. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘When Charles we have made bankrupt

  Of power and crown bereft him,

  And all his loyal subjects slain

  And
none but Rebels left him;

  When we have beggared all the land,

  And sent our trunks away,

  We’ll make him then a glorious Prince

  The clean contrary way.’

  ‘They’re coming,’ said Justin. And turning to his men, ‘This is it, boys – but no one fires till I give the word. Clear?’

  Having halted briefly well out of range, the rebels came on at the run clutching bundles of furze and scaling ladders. For those moving in from the north and east, there was little useful cover and this made the work of Captains Vaughan and Ambrose relatively straightforward. But to the south and west, Sir William and Colonel Greene faced approaches sheltered to within twenty yards of the moat by low stone walls and the blackened ruins of houses. The parlous west wall could naturally expect to bear the brunt of the attack.

  The Royalist artillery fired its opening volley, bringing forth screams and confused shouting and veiling the enemy advance in a swirling, acrid haze.

  ‘Steady, my lads,’ yelled Justin, peering through the smoke. ‘Steady … give them time … now!’

  The harsh crackle of musket-fire ripped the air; more screams, blue scarves crumpling earthwards; others taking their place and running on.

  ‘At will!’ Justin levelled his own cavalry pistol and picked off a tall, helmeted officer. ‘What are you waiting for – a chance to count their bloody buttons?’

  All around the walls, hands moved rhythmically through their familiar ritual. Charge of powder, bullet, wad … all down the barrel and rammed home; prime the flash-pan, close and blow; match to cock, adjust, take aim; open the flash-pan – fire! Round and round, over and over, an automatic never-ending repetition. Spare bullet between your teeth … keep the match clear of your bandolier; that man is – was – a neighbour. Don’t think. Pick a target, steady your aim and fire.

  Answering volleys of cannon-shot and grenadoes were now coming at the upper part of the Castle from the Parliamentarian artillery in the church tower. A musket-ball took Hugh Vaughan in the shoulder and he was carried inside semi-conscious. Meanwhile, on the north side, the first men had gained the moat and were throwing their bundles of furze into the mud to form a crossing. Behind them, rows of musketeers formed up to give them covering fire.

  They needed it for they had no other protection and the garrison’s shot fell about them like hail, taking a heavy toll.

  ‘Justin?’ Dirty and already hoarse from the smoke and bellowing his orders, Ned Frost paused briefly in his labours. ‘What’s that their file-leaders are shouting?’

  ‘Encouragement,’ replied Captain Ambrose, swiftly reloading his pistol, ‘in the form of prize-money. Three hundred pounds, to be precise.’

  Ned stared at him. ‘Hell. Fiennes is a bastard.’

  ‘A very astute bastard.’ Justin glanced down at the breach, frowning a little. ‘And it’s the fellows down there who stand most chance of benefiting. I think you’d better go and give Captain Tirwhitt a hand. He looks hard-pressed.’

  Ned groaned at the unintentional pun.

  ‘All right – if you’re sure you can manage?’

  ‘It will doubtless be marginal,’ replied Justin with a grin, ‘but we’ll do our best.’

  The day wore on in fits and starts. Attacks were fierce when they came but the murderous fire of the garrison prevented them being pressed home and, by late afternoon, the pace began to abate as fatigue and hopelessness grew like weeds in the Parliamentarian ranks. The ground edging the moat was strewn with some three hundred forlornly twisted corpses and littered with unused scaling ladders, firearms and even a couple of muddy, tattered colours.

  The garrison, when the tally was complete, found they had lost only nine men.

  At around seven in the evening a heavy silence settled over town and Castle and, through it, under the protection of a white flag, Trumpet Rob Woodley rode slowly through the carnage in pursuit of his duty. Then he put the trumpet to his lips and sent the notes of the summons spinning clear and true through the air. Faces appeared above him on the battlements of the south wall; Sir William, Lieutenant-Colonel Greene and a selection of captains – including the one responsible for the incident with the miners.

  Justin looked back at the young envoy with remote pity. The lad looked positively green but he had himself well in hand and he made his request for the Parliamentary dead without a single tremor or mistake.

  When he had finished speaking, there was silence. Then, with crisp and utterly dispassionate clarity, Will Compton said, ‘Sir, you may present my compliments to Colonel Fiennes on the gallant showing of his men and inform him that the fallen may be reclaimed, upon terms, under my personally guaranteed amnesty.’

  ‘Here it comes,’ thought Rob, savagely. ‘He was bound to say it, of course – but I hope the words choke him.’ Aloud, he said, ‘And the terms, sir?’

  ‘That everything lying within pistol-shot of the Castle walls be ceded to us. All arms, colours and ladders. And the bodies of your dead will be stripped and delivered to the Market Place. It is, as I am sure Colonel Fiennes is well aware, in perfect accordance with the rules of war.’

  Rob knew it but he couldn’t help wondering how receptive they might be to bargaining. As if reading his thought, Sir William added coolly, ‘We are not open to negotiation of any kind. Perhaps you wish to consult your superiors?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Rob. And then, striving for the correct tone, ‘That will not be necessary. Colonel Fiennes anticipated your terms and is prepared to meet them. We will expect the bodies of our fallen to be in the Market Place by eight tomorrow morning, if this can be done?’

  Will inclined his head.

  ‘It will be done. As to a temporary cessation for the burials … would until midnight tomorrow suit you?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Very well, then. Until midnight tomorrow. Ah – and Trumpet?’

  ‘Sir?’

  A hard smile touched the Governor’s mouth.

  ‘Tell the Colonel to send me no more summonses.’

  ~ * ~

  SEVEN

  On the day after Colonel Fiennes watched some three hundred of his men laid in the earth to the slow beat of drums and the chanting of psalms, the garrison sallied forth and slew thirty more in a sudden, fierce sortie on the east side.

  By the end of September, the Committee of Both Kingdoms was showing its impatience not only in the usual batches of advice but also by sending the means to implement them. The engineer Jacob Keilenbury arrived to give Colonel Fiennes the benefit of his expertise and, to ensure that his time was not wasted by lack of labour, he came equipped with an order which authorised the conscription of local workmen to act as pioneers. The Colonel, who had watched the Bedworth miners try and fail, was not impressed. He bequeathed his tent to the engineer and moved, moodily, back into the Radford household.

  He did not, however, lose his temper until the following morning when the last straw arrived in the form of the Royalist news-sheet. Then he crushed Mercurius Aulicus in his fist, hurled it furiously at the wall and slammed out of the house.

  Faintly stunned by the suddenness of it, Abigail watched Major Lytcot depart hurriedly in the Colonel’s wake and then stooped to pick up the offending paper.

  ‘Open it up,’ said Rob Woodley, hovering hat in hand between duty and curiosity. ‘If we’re in for a bad day, it would be nice to know who to blame for it.’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Samuel. ‘John Birkenhead strikes again. Lay it on the table, Abby, so we can all see it.’

  The relevant article was long and combined enthusiasm for the courage and audacity of the Royalist garrison with extravagant sympathy for its Parliamentary besiegers. The sting, as always, lay in the tail.

  ‘All this while, we see nobody takes any care of Master Fiennes who – if they beat him again – is resolved to tell his father of it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ grinned Samuel. ‘Do your fellows read this?’

  ‘Well, of course
they do. Thousands of copies are smuggled out of Oxford every week and our supposedly loyal supporters in London pay anything up to three shillings for something that’s only supposed to cost a penny. The Lord,’ concluded Rob gloomily, ‘works in mysterious ways.’

  When he had gone, Abigail looked blankly at Samuel and said, ‘I can understand that it must be irritating but I don’t see what there is in it to make the Colonel quite so angry. They write worse things about Lord Essex all the time.’

  ‘Oh – Essex!’ Samuel shrugged dismissively. ‘He hardly matters any more. He’s too old and too cautious and he ought to retire from the field – or be made to.’

  Abigail’s eyes grew faintly troubled.

  ‘I suppose Colonel Lilburne told you that?’

  ‘Yes. And he’s right. Essex has been Commander-in-Chief since the war began and what has he achieved? Nothing. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool Presbyterian and more Moderate than any of them.’

  ‘He’s done his best, no doubt.’ Abigail felt as sorry for the unknown Earl as she would have done for any perpetual scape-goat. ‘And what’s so wrong with being a Moderate? They only want peace, after all.’

  ‘We all want peace,’ replied Samuel impatiently, ‘but not at any price. The King is stubborn; and if we lose or make peace on his terms, we’ll be back with a Church that’s Catholic in all but name and a Parliament that’s only allowed to sit while it does His Majesty’s bidding. We have to win and we won’t do it with men like Essex and Manchester.’

  There was a pause and then she said slowly, ‘I’ve never heard you speak like this before. John Lilburne has changed you.’

  ‘No. All he’s done is to show me that this war has a point. I always used to think that things would go back to being much as they were before – but John has opened my eyes to the fact that, if we are prepared to work at it, we can have real freedom of conscience and the right to help direct our civil government. But first we need a strong Parliament – and, for that, we have to win the war.’

  ‘It all sounds too easy,’ said Abigail broodingly. ‘It will mean enormous changes. Think how much time Colonel Lilburne has already spent in prison because of his views. It could … if you were to help him, it could be the same for you.’