The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (9 page)

Deborah swallowed and tried to pull herself together.
 
The other women had been old and feeble-witted.
 
She was neither.
 
Forcing herself to sound calmer than she was, she said, ‘I’ve heard of you, sir.
 
They say you consider yourself an expert.’

‘More than anyone else round here.
 
Worry you, does it?’

‘Why should it?
 
If you know something of witchcraft, you’ll be able to tell the innocent from the guilty.
 
And I am innocent.’

‘I’ll decide that.’
 
Her apparent composure would have been annoying if he hadn’t been able to see the fear underneath it.
 
He removed his hat, unfastened his cloak and said, ‘Start walking.’

Slowly, she obeyed.
 
The gaoler grinned and stepped out of her path.
 
When she had circled the room twice, Joshua said, ‘Faster.’

She quickened her pace a little.

Joshua waited until she had circled the room some half-dozen times and then began his questions.

‘How long have you lived at Rushwick?’

‘Three years, sir.
 
The cottage was my uncle’s and I came to live in it when he died.’

‘And where was you afore that?’

‘All manner of places.
 
My husband was a soldier in the New Model and I travelled with him.’

‘Where is he now, then?’

‘Dead.’

Joshua frowned.
 
He hadn’t bargained for her being a widow.
 
Reminding her to continue walking, he said slyly, ‘Did Mistress Barnet do summat to offend you?’

Deborah’s nerves tightened but she kept her steps steady.

‘Nothing.
 
Indeed, I scarcely know her.’

‘Then maybe you were jealous of her. He’s a well-set fellow, the smith.
 
And now his wife’s laid low with cramps and headaches.
 
Sure you didn’t ill-wish her so you could have him?’

‘Quite sure.
 
If she’s ailing, she should see a doctor.
 
But perhaps she’s pretending to be ill to support her accusation against me.’

‘And the sow that miscarried?
 
Was that pretending?’

After a week of privation, the walking and talking was making her dizzy.
 
She said, ‘I know nothing of that – nor the cow that went dry.
 
Neither can I think why Mr Paine should suppose I’d want to do him an ill turn.’

That wasn’t strictly true but she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to admit having to fend off Zack Paine’s attentions as well as those of Tom Barnet.
 
The magistrate would probably say she’d bewitched both of them.

Joshua fell silent for a time, noting how flushed she was becoming and making sure that she saw his hand resting on the wicked-looking probe.
 
Then he said, ‘Repeat the Lord’s Prayer.’

Deborah had been expecting this.
 
It was the first test; the one they said no true witch could pass.
 
All she had to do was recite the whole prayer without stumbling over the words.
 
But the sight of his fingers straying with obscene pleasure over and around the sharp, steel implement was making her insides curdle and bringing a cold sweat to her brow.
 
He was going to use it.
 
He could hardly wait.

‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ she began, ‘hallowed be thy name ...’

Once more her orbit showed her his hand toying tenderly with the bodkin.
 
She told herself to concentrate on the prayer – to look away – but found that she couldn’t.

‘Forgive us our trespasses,’ she managed faintly.
 
His eyes mirrored the intent of his hands and she began to feel sick.
 
‘As we forgive those that trespass against us.
 
Lead us not into temptation but …’ She could almost feel the long needle piercing her flesh and see the man’s enjoyment as it did so. ‘But deliver us … deliver us from …’ Bile rose in her throat and she clamped her hands hard over her mouth, retching.

Joshua Vincent turned triumphantly to the gaoler.

‘You saw that.
 
Know what it means?’

The man nodded uneasily.
 
It meant that for a week he’d been guarding a real witch.
 
His fingers curled into the sign against the evil eye.

‘Good,’ said Joshua.
 
‘I’ll be calling you as a witness.
 
Now strip her for the search.’

Deborah’s hands slid away from her face. ‘No.’

The gaoler looked scarcely more enthusiastic.
 
‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes – you,’ snapped Joshua. ‘If she struggles, call the other guards to help you.
 
Now get on with it.
 
I haven’t got all day.’

The threat of an increased audience was enough to numb Deborah into passivity.
 
Shutting her eyes, she stood like a stone while the gaoler’s rough and slightly unsteady hands pulled at her clothing.
 
Her gown slid to the floor, then her petticoats and shift.
 
Cold air struck her skin and her cheeks burned.
 
Automatically, she tried to cover herself with her hands; and then, frightened by the silence around her, opened her eyes.

The gaoler wore an expression part-nervous and part-lascivious.
 
Joshua Vincent, a small disquieting smile hovering about his mouth, was conducting a deliberately slow head-to-foot appraisal that made her want to scream.
 
Then, when she thought she could stand it no longer, he got up and walked towards her.

He was still holding the probe.
 
She shuddered.

Joshua paced slowly round her, halting briefly behind her before moving on again.
 
He said, ‘Move your arms.’
 
And when she made no move to uncover herself, ‘Move your arms or I’ll call the rest of the guards.’

The threat was plain enough.
 
A distant, strangely indistinct pain began to hover behind her eyes.
 
Very, very slowly, Deborah lowered her arms.

For a moment, he simply stared at her breasts.
 
Then he reached out and began handling her.
 
To the watching gaoler, Joshua’s movements probably looked like a business-like search for the witch-mark.
 
Deborah knew differently.
 
She felt every loathsome, lingering touch, every sly squeeze, every disgusting but well-disguised intrusion.

The pain behind her eyes increased and a voice in her head said,
Why are you permitting this?
 
There are ways to fight
.
 
And then, commandingly,
Use them!

She drew a deep, bracing breath and then another.
 
Courage – or something very like it – began to return and, with it, a cold intense rage.
 
Harvesting every ounce of strength, she channelled it against the magistrate.
 
And finally, without warning, she raised her eyes.

The impact of her gaze – fathomless, dark as the pit of hell and blazing with contempt – struck Joshua like a blow.
 
It was as though she was forcing him to look into all the worst corners of his mind.
 
Bitterness filled his mouth and he could feel himself suffocating.
 
His hand dropped from her flesh and he took a step backwards, tugging at his collar.

‘Witch,’ he gasped.
 
‘
Witch!
’

Deborah said nothing.
 
As quickly as it had come, her strength vanished.

Joshua stared down at the probe.
 
The bitch had cheated him.
 
Later on, he’d work out how.
 
Now all he wanted was to make her sorry.
 
Drawing a rasping breath, he ordered the gaoler to summon the other guards.

Deborah stumbled towards her clothes.
 
The magistrate kicked them away from her and then three brawny fellows appeared in the doorway, their eyes on stalks.
 
She wrapped her arms about her body and backed away.

Snatching up his hat, Joshua Vincent said jerkily, ‘I haven’t time to question the slut further today – but I want you all to witness that there’s a witch-mark on her neck and another on the inside of her right thigh. Once that’s done, you can take her back to her cell.
 
And watch her.
 
If she’s got a familiar, I want to know about it.’
 
And, brushing past the guards, he was gone.

The three newcomers closed in on Deborah.
 
One of them was the man she’d hit in the face with her fetters.
 
The bruise still showed and he stroked it meaningfully.

‘Well now, lads,’ he said.
 
‘The magistrate left us with a job to do – but he didn’t say we’d to hurry about it.
 
So I reckon we’d best shut the door.
 
Don’t you?’

Deborah opened her mouth to scream but the sound was never delivered.
 
Her feet were knocked from beneath her and she came down hard on the stone floor.
 
She heard the door slam shut and the bar drop into place.
 
Then there were hands holding her down … and a new nightmare began.

~
 
*
 
* ~
 
*
 
*
 
~

At dusk that same evening, Major-General Lambert and Colonel Maxwell stood on the east bank of the Severn some ten miles south of Worcester and stared down on the remains of Upton Bridge.
 
Finally, Lambert said dispassionately, ‘They’ve made a damned poor job of this, in my opinion.’

‘Agreed.’
 
Eden surveyed the disconnected piers which had once formed a series of arches supporting the road.
 
‘They were probably in a hurry.
 
But, even so, somebody ought to be court-martialled for leaving those spars across the gaps.’

Lambert nodded. ‘Can we make use of it?’

‘Is there a choice?’ grimaced Eden.

‘None that I can see.
 
Our orders are to drive General Massey out of Upton and then hold the west bank to prevent the enemy retreating into Wales. And, to do that, we have to cross the river.’ Lambert paused, frowning a little.
 
‘I wonder how many men Massey has posted in those entrenchments on the Worcester road?
 
Not many, I’ll warrant.
 
And if they think the bridge is impassable, they may concentrate their look-outs in other directions.’
 
Another pause.
 
Then, slowly, ‘If we could just get some of our fellows across to hold the bridge-head on the other side until we can get the rest of the force up …’

The implication, though unfinished, was obvious.
 
Eden looked at the river, some hundred yards in width, and then at the narrow, flimsy looking spars linking the arches, high above the water.
 
Then he said, ‘Let me hand-pick some volunteers and we’ll see what we can do.’

‘No.’ Lambert encompassed him in a direct, dark gaze. ‘I can’t afford to lose you.’

Eden grinned wryly.

‘You can’t afford to lose the only chance you’ve got, either.
 
And who else is likely to offer once they’ve seen the problem?’

Since there was no satisfactory answer to this, the cold pre-dawn of Friday, August 29
^th
saw Colonel Maxwell and seventeen of his best men setting out to accomplish a feat that even an acrobat would have found daunting.

The planks were no more than ten inches wide, unsecured and horribly flexible … while below and ready to drown them if they fell, ran the deep rapidly-flowing waters of the Severn.
 
Furthermore, if the enemy was keeping a good look-out, there was the added possibility that Eden’s little band might at any moment be seen and fired upon.
 
It was not a pleasant prospect and one which made the descent into the ravine at Dunbar look like child’s-play.

Eden had ordered his fellows to set out at intervals and take their time.
 
Unfortunately, he hadn’t foreseen the dizzying effect that moving water far below had on the eye.
 
Since he was the first to cross, he was the first one it affected.
 
After half a dozen yards, his head began to swim and he could feel his balance becoming uncertain.
 
He stopped and stood very still for a moment, averting his eyes from the water and breathing deeply.
 
Then, lowering himself carefully into a sitting position astride the plank, he started levering himself forward.
 
It was a slow business but it seemed to work.
 
Turning, he watched the man behind gratefully following his example … and then the man after that.

One by one, they hauled themselves across the river in a series of ungainly hops.
 
Had it not been so tiring and dangerous, it might have been funny.
 
As it was, Eden was just thankful when all eighteen of them made it safely to the opposite bank.
 
His satisfaction, however, was destined to be short-lived.
 
While he was still praising the men for their fortitude and forming them up ready to guard the bridge-head, roughly three hundred Scots poured down upon them from the Worcester road.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ muttered Eden.
 
And, with swift urgency, ‘Into the churchyard.
 
Take cover and fire at will.
 
Move!
’

They moved.
 
They found shelter behind walls and amidst tombstones and they rained the heaviest fire possible upon the oncoming Scots for the five minutes which was all it took to prove how untenable their position was.
 
With one trooper dead and a second shot in the shoulder, Eden ordered a further retreat into the church.

He lost another man on the way.
 
Sixteen of them now and a fellow whose right arm was useless.
 
Once inside, with the door barred behind them, he said crisply, ‘Fire from the windows.
 
Do what you can but don’t take any risks.
 
If we can hold them off for half an hour or so, the Major-General will send help.’

To their credit, none of them asked how Lambert was going to get a regiment across the river in time to save them.
 
They knew he’d do his best.
 
In the meantime, every one of them was grateful that Colonel Maxwell had chosen to lead this mission in person – for if anyone could keep them alive, he could.

The attack came hard and fast.
 
The Scots pushed on to the church and surrounded it with a hail of shot.
 
Then, pressing closer, they tried thrusting pikes through the windows.
 
Inside, Eden’s men fired and re-loaded at a furious pace – avoiding the murderous jabs as best they could and cheering sardonically every time one of the enemy fell.
 
Hands and faces became blackened with powder and the air around them was filled with acrid smoke.
 
The Scots pulled back but their assault did not weaken.
 
One of Eden’s troopers fell, shot in the head.
 
Another took a bullet through the throat.
 
The others continued their dogged defence.

Half an hour passed and ammunition started to run low.
 
Eden boosted his men’s morale as best he could.
 
Then he saw something that brought his flow of banter to an abrupt stop;
 
a rough and ready catapult, preparing to fire flaming faggots.

‘Oh Christ,’ he breathed.

Eden knew what he wanted to do but felt, on this occasion, that he owed the men their say.
 
Turning, he said, ‘They’re going to fire the church.
 
We’re dead if we leave and dead if we stay.
 
They might, however, accept a surrender.’

Thirteen filthy faces stared grimly back at him and for a few seconds no one spoke.
 
Then Sergeant Trotter spat accurately through the window and spoke for them all.

‘Surrender?’ he said.
 
‘Bugger that!’

Eden grinned.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

*
 
*
 
*

Since being alerted by the first shots, Lambert had been extremely busy.
 
It was obvious that, with the Scots buzzing about like flies on a dung-hill, no one could re-cross the river and live but he wasn’t going to lose eighteen men and his best senior officer if he could help it. A locally-born captain maintained that, being low-tide, the river was just about fordable a little way downstream.
 
Not entirely convinced but open to any possibility, Lambert sent a detachment of dragoons to try it and, if they succeeded in crossing, to waste no time in relieving Colonel Maxwell.
 
Then he paced up and down the east bank in a fury of impatience, waiting.

The dragoons set off, grumbling under their breath.
 
The horses were equally unhappy.
 
At best, the water was breast-deep – at worst, seemingly fathomless.
 
Sometimes wading and sometimes swimming, they floundered their way across the Severn and gained the far bank.
 
It seemed to take an age but as soon as he was sure they’d made it, Lambert spun on his heel and despatched two regiments of Horse – one being Eden’s own – in their wake.

Inside the church, matters were critical. The door was burning ferociously, bales of straw blazed outside the windows and smoke was clogging everyone’s lungs.
 
In ten minutes – or perhaps less, thought Eden – they’d all be insensible.
 
If one was going to die, there must be better ways of doing it.

Choking, he stepped away from his window and, with difficulty, said, ‘You’ve done sterling work, gentlemen.
 
I’m sure the enemy are as impressed as I am.
 
But just in case they’re not … shall we break out and charge?’

This time only twelve weary faces looked back.

‘Why not?’ coughed the sergeant.
 
‘Got nothing to lose, have we?
 
And I’d as soon not fry, if it’s all the same to you, sir.’

They set about uprooting benches to use as battering rams on the blazing door.
 
Busy and struggling to breathe, they were not immediately aware of new and increased noise from outside.
 
Finally, however, the door gave way before them … and they found themselves gazing out on a large number of Scottish backsides.

The dragoons had arrived and made an initially successful charge but were being pushed back.
 
Eden stared, passed a hand over his eyes and stared again.
 
The men around him managed a ragged cheer.
 
Then, dead on cue, the cavalry came up … and for the survivors in the church, there was nothing to do but watch.

Suddenly outnumbered, the Scots shuddered under the impact and, fighting all the way, slowly began to give ground.
 
Eden caught a glimpse of Edward Massey – one-time ally and so-called hero of Gloucester – fighting like a man possessed despite the blood streaming down his thigh.
 
Seconds later, he thought he saw a face that was even more familiar.
 
Then the fight eddied chaotically out of the churchyard and turned into a full-blown retreat.

Major Cartwright appeared before the doorway and saluted.

‘I thank God for your preservation, Colonel.
 
I trust you’ve sustained no injury?’

‘Give me your horse,’ said Eden.

The Major stared at him.
 
‘Sir?’

‘Give me your horse and see these men to safety,’ snapped Eden.
 
‘
Now!
’

Thirty seconds later, impelled by instinct rather than logic, he was galloping in the wake of his regiment with no very clear idea of why he was doing it.

Major-General Lambert, arriving beside him at the head of reinforcements, lifted one dark brow and said, ‘I’m pleased to see you in one piece – even if you do look like a blackamoor.’

Grinning faintly, Eden gestured up the Worcester road.

‘The Scots have withdrawn to their entrenchments.
 
I presume you’d like them driven out again?’

‘Naturally.
 
I’d hate to see your efforts go to waste.’

And he ordered an immediate assault.

General Massey and his fellows defended their position hotly and for a time the New Model hurled itself against the earthworks with little result.
 
But gradually, as more and more of Lambert’s troops continued to pour up from the river, the Scots were forced back from their lines.
 
And it was then, as they embarked on a hard-fought retreat, that Eden again saw the man he’d ridden from the churchyard to find.

Separated by a dozen yards and a handful of battling horsemen, bloodshot hazel eyes met frowning sapphire ones.
 
For a long, dangerous moment, both men froze.
 
Then the Cavalier found himself under attack … and Eden started hacking his way purposefully through the m
ê
l
é
e towards him.

Not without difficulty, Major Langley despatched his assailant and waited till Eden was within earshot before saying, ‘You were in the church?’

‘Can’t you tell?’
 
Eden raised his sword and took a hard, furious swipe at his one-time friend and brother-in-law.

Francis parried the blow.
 
The force of it jarred every bone in his body.

‘All right,’ he gasped.
 
‘All right – point taken.
 
But how was I to know?’

‘And what difference would it have made if you had?’
 
Eden’s blade flashed again and steel rasped on steel. ‘You and your bastards nearly roasted a dozen of my men alive.’

Francis eyed him warily and kept his mouth shut.
 
He’d never been any match for Eden with a sword and still wasn’t.

A disquieting smile curled Eden’s mouth and he attacked again, saying, ‘What’s the matter?
 
Cat got your tongue?’

Defending himself as best he could, Francis said breathlessly, ‘What do you want me to say?
 
Right now, an apology isn’t going to mean much, is it?’

‘Nothing at all.’
 
Eden’s assault continued with unabated speed and ferocity. ‘But what’s happened to your witty repartee?
 
You used to talk more than anyone I know.’