Shadow of the Raven (27 page)

N
ow, it just so happened that Oxford was making ready for St. Giles Fair, a highlight of the city's calendar. Scores of carts and caravans had planted themselves on the ground, and an encampment of striped tents and sideshows had been erected during the day. Fiddlers and jugglers meandered among wooden horses and whirligigs. Gaming tables appeared to entice the men, and fortune-tellers wooed the women. All around there was a gaiety and sense of anticipation that had not been seen since before the Great Fogg of the previous year. Into this feverishly excited atmosphere trundled the four wagons carrying forty-one villagers from Brandwick and its surrounds.

Thomas had decided to accompany the prisoners, riding behind them. He had maintained that at least four of them were too badly injured to stand trial, but he had lost the argument and Captain Ponsonsby, backed up of course by Nicholas Lupton, had won the day. They had been bundled into the carts on crutches or on makeshift stretchers and forced to brave the buffets and blows of the journey, regardless of whether they arrived at their destination alive or dead.

As he saw the throng ahead of him, Thomas sensed there would be trouble. He had seen Oxford crowds turn ugly before. The city was not known for its restraint, and despite the fact that it was still early in the day, strong liquor flowed like water among the revelers. Four horsemen of the Oxfordshire Militia had ridden ahead, announcing the arrival of a platoon with their prisoners. It had been their task to prepare the way, but instead of causing the crowd to stand to one side in respectful reverence for the law, the prisoners' arrival only seemed to fuel the event's incendiary mood.

Thomas knew their entry into the city would be risky and that the officers had underestimated the strength of support for the villagers. Interestingly, he could see no musketeers in the ranks. Could it be they wished to avoid further bloodshed? he wondered. Overnight, word had spread from Brandwick about the destruction of the common fences and the arrest of those who had dared defy the new laws. Rather than condemn them, the citizens of Oxford and visiting country folk decided to show their support. As the militia approached, the men in the wagons raised the cry “Brandwick forever,” the crowd took it to their hearts, and a chant struck up.

“Brandwick forever! Brandwick forever!”

The cry could be heard on hundreds of lips. Thomas surveyed the mob. Fists were raised against the guards and lips curled. He dropped back from the main procession. He did not wish to be associated with the platoon of about twenty militiamen.

“Brandwick forever! Brandwick forever!”

From the mouths of men and women, youths and children, the cry welled up and rose into the air. Everywhere he looked, Thomas could see the people pressing 'round the wagons, slowing their progress. The drivers and mounted soldiers were whipping away those who gathered around them with their riding crops, but they were no match for the sheer numbers that surged forward.

By now the procession had drawn level with St. John's College. Thomas remained by the Eagle and Child inn, but had a good vantage point. Just a few more yards and the procession would arrive at Beaumont Street and the way toward the jail would be clearer. Then suddenly, someone in the crowd hurled a brickbat at one of the guards. Others followed suit, and sticks and stones rained down on the militia from every side. With each missile that hit its target, the crowd seemed bolder, and Thomas watched amazed as the guards were overpowered and the back boards of the carts were let down, allowing the prisoners to escape. They came streaming down from the wagons and melted into the melee. The crowd swallowed up the men and resumed the business of reveling and feasting, leaving the outnumbered militiamen to re-form and march away, their pride as tattered as their uniforms after the fray.

 

Over dinner at the Jolly Trooper that evening, Thomas related the whole extraordinary episode to Sir Theodisius.

“This is a terrible state of affairs,” bemoaned the coroner, chomping through tough venison.

Thomas had to agree. “I can see no good outcome, sir,” he replied. “The men will return to the village, but they will be rearrested for sure.”

Sir Theodisius nodded. “Malthus will see to that. His authority has been challenged and he will not stand for it.”

“And I fear, sir, there will be more trouble to come,” said Thomas.

“Oh?”

“When I was last at Boughton Hall, Lupton showed me a map detailing new plans for the estate and beyond.”

“Beyond Boughton? Speak plain, if you please!” Sir Theodisius's jowls wobbled with indignation.

Thomas took a deep breath. “There are plans to connect the canal at Banbury to Oxford, sir. There is a consortium of landowners, led by Sir Montagu, which is raising funds as we speak.”

Sir Theodisius hit the table with the butt of his knife. “Of course,” he drawled. “Why did I not see this?” His forehead was scoured with deep furrows. “I remember an Act of Parliament authorized the canal about fifteen years ago. The intention was to link the industrial lands around the Midlands to London via the River Thames. It reached Napton a few years back, but the money ran out. If I recall correctly, a second act allowed the company to raise more funds and the canal reached Banbury about six years ago.”

“Sir Montagu's home turf,” interrupted Thomas.

The coroner nodded. “I might've known he would want to put his finger in that particular pie,” he said, unthinkingly dipping his own finger in a jug of gravy at his side. “But there were money problems again.”

Thomas arched a brow and nodded. “Hence the need to raise more income from the land by enclosing it.”

Sir Theodisius licked the gravy from his finger. “So Malthus is a man of business now, as well as a lawyer and a landowner.”

“And an unscrupulous villain,” added Thomas bitterly. He leaned closer to the coroner. “My first concern is not for Sir Montagu's plans, sir, but for the escaped men. They will surely face the gallows on their return to Brandwick.”

Sir Theodisius nodded slowly. “Indeed they will,” he agreed. “And they will need to be taken to Oxford again.” As he spoke, Thomas could see that a kernel of an idea was taking root in the older man's brain. His eyes widened as the thought blossomed. “There was a great show of support for them today, you say?”

Thomas had to agree. “It seemed that most of the city was behind them. What do you have in mind?”

The coroner's eyes betrayed a sudden excitement. “I believe the court of public opinion might be convened to help us in our quest for justice,” he told Thomas enigmatically. And with that, he emptied the jug of gravy onto the rest of his venison and resumed his meal.

 

Thomas returned to Brandwick early the next day. If all the arrested villagers had gone home, the injured ones would surely be in need of his care. His route took him 'round the edge of the common, and for the first time he could see the full extent of the havoc that the rebels had wrought. The neat rows of fencing that had crisscrossed the undulating grasslands had been uprooted. Staves and posts still lay where they had once stood, and some were even charred and blackened where fires had been set. What was most extraordinary, however, was that where the land had been cleared by Lupton's men, cattle had now returned to graze. A dozen or so chewed the cud peacefully, while turkeys and chickens pecked at the ground on the fringes. It was a sight that brought a smile to Thomas's lips. The people of Brandwick had spoken with one voice and, almost overnight, had restored their ancient rights.

As he rode into the village, he was surprised to see some of the men who only the day before had been shackled in the back of a wagon on their way to jail. Two of those he had seen corralled were walking up the High Street like free men. The question, he asked himself, was for how much longer? Riding into the yard at the Three Tuns, he soon learned from young Rogers that all of the escapees had returned to a hero's welcome late yesterday afternoon.

“It were a sight to gladden the heart,” the stable lad told the doctor as he took his horse.

“I am sure it was,” agreed Thomas, dismounting. “And the injured men?”

Rogers shrugged. “I don't know about them, sir.”

Heading straight inside, Thomas sought out the landlord.

“Mr. Geech,” he called as soon as he spotted him in the hallway.

“Ah, Dr. Silkstone! Welcome back, sir,” he replied. “You'll be wanting some refreshment.”

Drawing closer, Thomas managed a smile and waved a hand as the landlord thrust a tankard he was carrying in front of his face.

“I must first see to the injured,” he replied.

Geech nodded. “They're all together, sir. 'Tis not our best room, but . . .” He tilted his head awkwardly.

“I will see that you are reimbursed any expenses,” replied Thomas sharply.

Geech led him along the dark passageway to a room at the back of the inn that, judging by the number of crates and barrels, was usually used for storage.

“Here we are,” said the landlord cheerfully. “All still alive.”

Thomas arched a brow and Geech took his leave. Abel Smith and two others lay on the floor on thick straw. Although he would have preferred beds inside the inn for his patients, Thomas was satisfied that the conditions were as clean as could be expected and that the blankets provided were adequate. Mr. Peabody, who had kept vigil during his absence, looked up from Smith's side. Mistress Geech had doled out bowls of pease pottage for the men, and Maggie Cuthbert was coaxing some down Hal Thornley, who had suffered a stake through his abdomen, although it had missed his vital organs.

“How fares he?” asked Thomas, bending low by the youth's side.

The widow nodded. “He grows stronger,” she said.

Thomas checked his wound. He had sutured it, and a yellow crust was beginning to form. “We must keep the dressing clean and dry,” he told her.

Moving on to Abel Smith, he inspected the head wound. As far as he could see, the swelling of the brain had lessened considerably. The patient had even returned to consciousness for a brief period that morning, according to Mr. Peabody.

Thomas felt as satisfied as he could that the remaining men were all in a stable condition. He was just about to leave the room when the landlord's wife entered.

“Doin' all right, are they?” asked Mistress Geech, craning her neck to watch Thomas at work. “I don't like the sight of blood myself. Turns my guts up, it does. Still, there'll be some good news when the others have their meetin'.”

Thomas looked up. “Meeting?”

Mistress Geech gave a nervous giggle. “You've not heard, Doctor? Adam Diggott has called a commoners' meetin' this evenin' in this very inn.” She smiled broadly at the thought of even more customers.

Thomas considered the news. Adam Diggott was making a bold move, flaunting the mass escape in Sir Montagu's face. He had to be confident of support to call such a public meeting.

“We'll be rushed off our feet again, I can tell you.”

“I am sure you will,” he replied. His only fear was that the militia might call in as well.

S
ir Montagu Malthus stood brooding by the study window, his black-garbed frame silhouetted by the pale evening light. He was awaiting Captain Ponsonby. Close by sat James Charlton. The chainman's shoulders were hunched, and he kept twisting his kerchief between his fingers like a nervous schoolboy awaiting a caning. His right eye remained bandaged, and now and again he would press it as if to ease the pain it was causing him. His left wrist was also tightly bound. Dr. Fairweather had tended to him after his attempt to take his own life.

Now Howard made the announcement and the captain entered the room with the trepidation of a soldier who fears he is about to be tried in a military court. Malthus remained looking out of the window in a show of studied indifference. Charlton did not rise. With his sound eye he regarded the soldier only briefly before his head fell into his hands.

“Sir Montagu,” said the captain, saluting the lawyer in the hope that he would turn to acknowledge his presence. Seeing, after a moment or two, that his gesture had carried no sway, he let his arm fall limply to his side.

Another awkward moment passed; then the lawyer finally turned to face the officer. Fixing him with a piercing gaze, he dispensed with the usual courtesies and came straight to the point.

“You have let me down, Captain Ponsonby,” he said flatly.

“Sir, I—” the young officer began nervously.

Sir Montagu's hand swatted away any anticipated excuses as if they were irksome gnats. “Do not try and defend your men, or yourself. What happened in Oxford yesterday has made your troops a laughingstock.”

“I apologize on behalf—”

The lawyer repeated the earlier gesture. “Save your excuses for your commanding officer, Captain Ponsonby,” he said laconically, adding viciously, “and your father.” He walked over to his desk and seated himself. “My good friend the general will be most disappointed when he finds out about your shoddy handling of the situation.” He fixed the young soldier with a glare that made him squirm like a fish on a hook, then inclined his head. “I will give you one last chance to redeem yourself and your men,” he said.

“Sir?” The young officer shifted where he stood.

Picking up a piece of parchment that lay on the desk, Sir Montagu handed it to the captain.

“The wanted men will all be attending a meeting tonight at the Three Tuns. Here is the reissued warrant for their arrests, and an additional one.”

Taking both warrants, the officer scanned the second document and looked up, puzzled. “But this is a warrant for murder, sir.”

Sir Montagu gave a shallow nod. “I am fully aware of that, Ponsonby. New evidence has come to light.” He turned his head toward Charlton. The soldier's eyes followed his and settled on the young surveyor, whose head remained bowed. “Adam Diggott will be at tonight's meeting, and you are to charge him there.” His large hands suddenly opened a desk drawer. “And make sure this is found about his person,” he said, his lips twitching in a smile.

The young officer's eyes bulged from their sockets as he regarded a compass as it lay flat on the lawyer's palm. He turned it over to inspect it. The initials “J. T.” were engraved on the back.

“Make sure you do not fail me this time, Captain,” Malthus said. “After all, you have your family's reputation to uphold.”

The threat was as barbed as a spear. The young man's back went ramrod straight. “You can be assured I will not fail you, sir,” he barked in reply.

 

In the distance the thunder rolled and rumbled. A storm was approaching and the air was thick and heavy. At the appointed hour, the villagers began to assemble in the stuffy lower room at the Three Tuns. The smell of unwashed bodies pressed together mixed with stale smoke and spilled beer.

From his upstairs vantage point, Thomas watched the villagers arrive in their droves. In the sultry atmosphere the stench wafted up and in through the window. It was soon evident that there was not enough room for everyone, so the doors were opened and people began to spill out into the courtyard, pressing against one another and jostling for space. Yet the mood was good-humored. A great victory had been scored, albeit a temporary one. It seemed the commoners' voices had been heard and the good denizens of Oxford had been swayed by their cause, for the moment at least. The power was in the people's hands, but they knew it could escape from them as easily as grains of corn between their fingers.

Moving to a reception room at the back of the inn that overlooked the courtyard, Thomas leaned out of the window to view the proceedings. Adam Diggott was the first to address the crowd. Clambering up onto an upturned barrel, his head still swathed in a bandage, he seemed to have grown even more in stature, as if his recent encounters with authority had only strengthened his resolve.

“Fellow commoners,” he began. “I speak to you now as a free man!” A great cheer rose from those assembled. “But I know I will not be for much longer.” He lowered his voice accordingly, and people shook their heads and cried, “Shame!”

Diggott continued: “Some of those who fought with me the other night have gone. Josh Thornley, Josh Price, and Martha Winslett, all good people. They must not have died in vain. Their blood nourishes our land.” More voices were raised in support. “That is why I am asking you to spare what money you can to pay to defend our rights through the courts.”

Such a notion was news to Thomas and, judging by the reaction, to the rest of the crowd as well.

“You saying we need to pay some fancy lawyers?” asked Joseph Makepeace.

Adam Diggott nodded. “I say we need a charter with our rights set down to restore Brandwick Common to its ancient state; how it was after the lady rode 'round the common with her burning brand and gave the land to our ancestors.”

“And then we'll be left alone?” A woman's voice rose above the rest.

“Aye. That be the plan. Remember, we have the law on our side,” replied Diggott. “Our forefathers had tended this earth for generations until him at Boughton took over.” He scowled at the very thought of Sir Montagu. “But this way our rights'll be set down for all to see and we'll no longer be living under this shadow that threatens us all.”

Thomas scanned the faces below. They seemed thoughtful but not entirely convinced.

“And where will we find such a lawyer?” asked Will Ketch from the crowd.

“That be a good question,” replied Diggott, but before he could answer it, a shout suddenly went up.

“Militia!” cried a voice through the archway, and the news was answered with panic. The crowd divided: Some took refuge inside the inn; others scampered out of a side gate. But Adam Diggott remained standing on his barrel as the troops approached four abreast through the archway, Ponsonby at their head.

“Adam Diggott, I arrest you in the name of King George.”

Thomas looked on. He knew it would be futile to challenge the officer. The coppicer seemed resigned. He even held out his hands for the shackles as the soldiers came for him.

Only a few of the villagers stayed to watch. Many had fled, for fear of being apprehended themselves. Of the handful that remained, however, one man, who was not familiar to Thomas, dared to question the troops' actions.

“On what charge do you take him?” he cried.

Ponsonby looked distinctly uneasy, anxious that the remaining stragglers might turn on his men. “For the murder of Jeffrey Turgoose,” he announced.

Hearing the charge, Thomas shot up. “Captain!” he shouted through the window, but Ponsonby made no reply.

Although he had expected the charge, it was clear Diggott would not go quietly. Instead he started to struggle. “I ain't murdered no one!” he yelled.

“You can tell that to the judge,” snapped Ponsonby. “Search him!” he ordered.

One of the militiamen clamped his hands up and down Diggott's torso, then delved into his coat pocket.

“Here, sir!” he cried triumphantly, brandishing a brass compass.

Diggott's jaw dropped open. “What? No!” He stared wide-eyed at the compass. “I ain't never seen it before. I never!” His protests, however, carried little weight with the soldiers who advanced on him. Just as they were about to loop their arms through his to lead him away, however, he lunged at the nearest redcoat, sending him off balance. He raced toward the street, outrunning the handful of soldiers who pursued him. Ponsonby ordered his men to fire, but they were slow to load and by the time the first volley of shots rang out, Adam Diggott's figure was but a blur amid the shadows of the houses.

“After him!” the captain ordered, as a dozen soldiers fanned out across the slope at the village's edge. Their quarry had disappeared into Raven's Wood, but they would track him down.

Adam Diggott may have been the most wanted villager, but he was by no means the only one. Other men were being rounded up, too. Thomas rushed back to his room and looked out over the High Street. Soldiers were going from house to house, rooting out the rebels who had escaped their clutches once before.

Running downstairs, he called after the officer as he rode out of the courtyard. “Captain! Captain Ponsonby,” he shouted. The young officer turned at the sound of his name and looked down to see Thomas tugging at his bridle.

“You are making a grave mistake, Captain.”

Ponsonby struggled to control his horse in all the chaos. It shuffled and nodded in protest. “I have my orders,” he replied above the melee, adding firmly: “And I have evidence. You can have your say in court, Dr. Silkstone.” And with that he gave the call to his men to move out the wagon. Adam Diggott might be temporarily at large, but at least this time there would be no escape for his fellow dissenters.

A large crowd of mainly women and children was gathering around the waiting wagons as more and more men were bundled into them. Thomas strained to watch above the chaos. Bodies now pressed against him as mothers and wives frantically tried to reach their sons and husbands. In among all the chaos, however, Thomas recognized one man. Wearing a black frock coat, he was tall and lanky, with flame-red hair, and he wore a patch over his right eye. It was James Charlton. He was in conversation with Molly from the Three Tuns. Thomas knew that now was his chance. Here was the man who certainly held the key to Jeffrey Turgoose's death and would surely testify as to Adam Diggott's innocence. He badly needed to speak with him alone, away from Malthus and Lupton.

“Mr. Charlton! Mr. Charlton!” he called, trying to make himself heard above the cacophony of sobs and wails.

Charlton heard his name shouted. His head shot 'round, and for a split second, Thomas thought he might oblige, but then he wavered. He clearly thought better of it and started off in the direction of Raven's Wood. The first of the wagons jerked forward as it moved off, blocking Thomas's path, and in another second James Charlton had disappeared altogether from view.