The Ravens’ Banquet (2 page)

“It’s not of my doing, sir.”

“I know,” I replied. “Don’t reproach yourself, goodwife. It was my choice to live to see this fate.”

She was silent for a moment, looking at me where I lay.

“How did they take you?” she whispered.

I wondered why it had taken her a week to ask me. I stared into the glowing coals at my side.

“It was my choice to live. I think my decision was hastened by the pistol muzzle pressed against my skull and the sound of the lock as the owner pulled back the hammer.” “So then, you had no choice, sir. I sorrow for you.”

I shook my head and wagged a finger at her from the floor. “Nay, goodwife, I
could
have chosen at that instant to be Transported, delivered from all of my misery. Just one word to that trooper. I could have dared him to blow my brains out. It would have ended right there. But I didn’t say a word and I dropped my sword instead.”

“Any a man would have done the same, sir,” she whispered, quickly looking over to the sleeping sergeant, fearful that her words would bring down his wrath. Her face was pale in the fire glow. “There’s no shame in it. To have done otherwise would have been a sin in the eyes of God.”

“I remain of two minds on that score, mistress,” I replied.

There was silence between us for a moment or two, and then she spoke up again.

“Tell me, sir, what is it that you’re writing upon those sheaves these past few days? Are these letters to gain your liberty?”

Her question took me aback. In truth, I wasn’t even sure myself why I was scribbling my thoughts down upon paper. “Letters? Nay goodwife, not letters as such...more like a journal of what has befallen me.”

But they were letters: Letters to myself. Thoughts that bubbled up like a high-fired cauldron; hissing, spitting, and random. The contradictions of my uneasy life and recent circumstances could be contained inside my head no longer.

“But who is it for, sir? Your wife?” she asked.

I blinked in the gloom a few times as her question reached my ears. My dear wife, poor thing, this would go down hard, I knew.

“It is for no one, no one but me. And it is an idle and desperate exercise.”

I realised that I had confounded the poor woman for she didn’t reply. Finally, after a long silence, she ventured to speak again. The whisper that she hissed was near enough swallowed by the heavy linen curtains of the bed. “What should I tell Sir John when he returns to claim you?”

And in spite of my sorry condition I found myself laughing.

“Tell him, madam, that I fear he has lost his ransom prize.”

T
HEY WOKE ME
early, stiff as a corpse and in agony of my wound as the heavy boots of the troopers stamped upon the floorboards. They unchained me and led me out back for my morning necessary. I had barely time to lace up my breeches whereupon the sergeant said we were setting out. Mistress Hayton just looked on, saying nothing about this hasty change of custody. Full glad of the fact that they had not raped or beaten her, she was just happy to be rid of all of us. Without protest she put together a sack with some fresh linen, my paper, pen and ink, and two loaves of bread. It is all the baggage I now possess. I pulled off one of my rings and pressed it into the woman's hand just before I limped out the door of the cottage that had been my gentle prison.

“For your trouble, goodwife,” I said.

She nodded in response, “God keep you, sir.”

“Fear not, woman,” grinned the sergeant as he untied the reins of his horse, “we’ll make sure that he’s safely delivered to the Lord or the Devil soon enough.”

Her lad and another trooper helped lift me into the saddle of the spare mount and I must say in shame that I cried out with the pain. Thank Jesus they were of a mind to ride slowly that day. Even so, we made Northampton by evening, and I as sick as a dog. My thigh wound was nearly split open wide again, the heat was strong enough to make one swoon, and the flies a plague the whole of the way.

I
T HAS BEEN
a hellish journey thus far; we’re to spend the night here at the garrison and on the morrow to continue for London, a destination I have no reason to be thankful for. The remnants of the King’s army have been marched on the same road as I, only a week before. Like Caesar, General Fairfax has paraded his four thousand prisoners in chains through London to make a Triumph for himself and to prove to that rabble of his Senate that the New Model Army stands to protect the Republic.

This morning, as I was escorted back into the guardroom from the privy, I was set upon with taunts from some troopers. My appearance, by now, is like some harum-scarum fellow: torn breeches, bloodstained coat, mud-specked and matted hair.

“Poor cavvy!” cried one.

“Papist lickspittle!” said another.

One, a beanpole of a Roundhead, all arms and legs, barred my passage, stabbing at my chest with a long bony finger. “Romish bastard! You’re no better than dog shit. Plotting to bring an army of Catholics to rape and murder our womenfolk and this in your own country! By Christ, it will be a length of hemp for you!”

I, who had campaigned against the Roman Antichrist himself – the Hapsburg Emperor! I, who had shed more blood in the Protestant Cause than this rogue had pissed in his miserable life!

I drove the knee of my good leg into his balls with all my might and the knave bent over and cast up his accounts on the floor. Two others were on me in an instant and I lashed out at them both. I heard one’s nose crack as my fist struck him, then the second hurdled into me and we both went to the floor. The whole pack of curs was soon at me, raining blows down. I felt a boot on my neck and was full expecting a knife in the guts when an officer came in and began beating the louts back with the flat of his sword. The sergeant of the guard was right behind him and I was hauled up to my feet again.

“By whose leave do you abuse the prisoner?” demanded the officer, spitting with rage. He was met with silence.

“Arrest the lot!” he said to the sergeant. Then he cast a cold eye on the troopers. “This man is under protection of Parliament and is entrusted to my care. I’ll not lose my commission because of your bear-baiting.”

And I was led out into the street and over to the officer’s chambers.

“I am a gentleman and a Colonel-of-Horse,” I told him as I wiped blood from my lip. “Those ill-disciplined dog-apes dared call me a papist. I’ll not suffer such handling by any man.”

A trooper pushed me into a chair.

“I know who you are,” said the officer. “There won’t be any cakes and ale for you in my custody, sirrah. I’ve undertaken to deliver you to London in one piece and that I will do. I don’t care a fig whether you’re a goddamned Catholic or not. Your judgement is not in my hands.”

“What did they mean by that rimble-ramble about Catholic plotting?” I asked.

“There have been some revelations since your capture, Colonel. Ill tidings from the pen of Charles Stuart, that fool who thinks he’s still king.” And he handed me a newly printed tract just arrived from London.

“‘The King’s Cabinet Open’d’,” I read aloud.

“Read on,” said the officer, “It makes for good instruction.”

And so I learned that even as I was offering up my sword to the enemy, the King had fled the field of Naseby and the entire Royal Baggage was taken. Also taken was the coach of State and with it a silken rope to hang our cause for good. All the papers of State had fallen into Parliament’s hands: the King’s personal correspondence with his agents abroad and with foreign potentates. And most damning, described in full, a letter wherein his plans to invade England with an army of Irish Catholics.

Then it struck me why I had been taken and charged. Like some loyal Fool, I had given to the King a small service with my pen a few months earlier. I had written to Duke Frederick of Denmark (whom I had served with against the Swedes), asking him to convince his father, King Christian, to come to the aid of Charles, his blood relative. Other letters followed. Any one of these would serve as my death warrant.

At least I know now what I’m up against. And with what time I have left, I shall write about the path that has led me to this grim crossroads. I swear that all I have written here is God’s Truth, even though some may say it is the stuff of lies or the ramblings of a confused mind. The words that follow tell of what befell me in Germany when I was a youth. You may call it a confessional.

It was of my own free will that I made Fortune my mistress and followed her, a captive of her charms. I was given good instruction in the art of bloodletting many leagues from these shores in rolling green fields and in shadow-laden forests, grown tall on the dust of Roman bones. A place where I came to witness things no man ever should and to do things that no man ought to be asked. A place where the Devil stood at my side.

So then, you ask, how did I become a soldier? And how did I end my days in defeat following a losing cause led by an unwise king? Well, that is the heart of my tale, a tale that I pray I have the time to tell in full, before Judgement comes. A tale that begins twenty years ago.

L
IKE TWO KNOCKED
-out teeth, the dice capered across the pitted table-top and bounced off the mate's jack of beer. A great cry went up all around as the master of the
Artemis
won another throw and marked the slate in his favour. I reached forward to retrieve the dice – a bit too hastily – and the captain's hand lashed out and gripped my wrist like a serpent.

“Not so fast, there. I get me another toss of them bones before you, Master Treadwell.”

He was in the right, and the drink had begun to fog my brains. We were five days out of Plymouth and when we had dropped anchor that evening in the shallows off the Kentish coast, Captain Trask had told me to expect at least another five before we made Hamburg, by the weather's leave. For the moment, the winds were with us. But once into the Narrows, we were likely to hit the Northerlies – strong headwinds that would slow us.

Trask exploded again at yet another lucky throw and this was met with muttered cursing by the rest. His head was as bald as an egg and he possessed not a tooth in his skull. This gave him the look of some monstrous infant when he cackled, awaiting an even more monstrous teat.

My throw met with misfortune – I lost another round and now owed the master 15 florins.

Trask laughed at my misery. “I'll be in danger of forfeiting my commission if your ill luck continues, Treadwell. Can't very well fleece the whelp of my paymaster first time out, can we now lads!”

Artemis
was a barque of middling size, only 90-foot and 100-ton, but it was one of three that my father owned, all plying the ports of Europe. The low and cramped cabin of the ship made the stink of drink, men, grubby linen and musty canvas collect into a fearful miasma that one could nearly see. I decided to go above deck for a lungful of air and my leave-taking brought forth more guffaws.

“So he retreats! Now that there
is
a good lesson for a future soldier to learn,” said one.

Trask emptied the little cask of wine into his cup and a good measure of the stuff onto his breeches. “Laugh not at the soldier's retreat,” he said, gesturing to the sailor with the empty vessel. “The lad shows good sense – it may help him keep his head attached to his shoulders when he makes it to the wars.”

And as I left their company howls of laughter followed me out onto the main deck.

Above me I heard the slow steady tread of the pilot on the halfdeck, taking the first watch. The crew that were not privileged to be gambling companions of the captain were already asleep below. Lanterns burned both fore and aft, but the night was bright, aided by a waxing moon. Apart from the clop of shoe on deck, the only other sound was the water slapping at the sides and the odd scrap of stowed sail flapping in the light breeze. Like the previous day and night, the sea was dishonestly serene, almost like a pond.

There stood one figure at the rail, wrapped in a cloak and gazing out over the waters. Well, thought I, leastways he is standing again.

Samuel Stone was not my servant but nor was he my comrade either. You may call him my companion, sent along to stand by my shoulder at my father’s insistence. Just what his station was to be on this adventure I still didn’t know, but
he
seemed sure enough of his purpose even if he kept this to himself.

As I approached, he turned from the rail. Samuel was tall, a head taller than I stood, and of long face now made more gaunt from spewing his guts for the last few days. And though he was a rustic, he was well-limbed and fair of face, his grey eyes and jet hair giving him an air of vitality. Indeed, side-by-side, with my dark complexion, brown curls and green eyes, it probably seemed that I was the country clown.

“I’m being thrashed at the dice,” I said to him as I drew near. “Still, it’s good to get into some practice before taking on the veterans in camp, eh?”

Samuel drew his cloak tighter. “Dicing’s an idle pastime, Master Treadwell, and not one I favour,” he mumbled.