At Sidney Sussex College, Pym's rally had spilled
out of Hall Court and onto the street. Daniel was six inches taller
than most men in the crowd and his navy blue Spanish cavalry
officer's hat made him seem even taller. The hat matched his fine
navy blue cloak, which he had worn mostly because it hid well the
pistols he was carrying, his double-barreled dragon and his small
wheel-lock.
Each of the very different, very expensive pistols had been a gift from different men as a thank you. The ornate dragon had been a gift from Alex Leslie for helping him to keep the ford over the Tweed River against overwhelming odds. The wheel-lock had been a gift from the parliamentarian Henry Martin for saving his wife from highwaymen.
Despite his height and hat and swagger there seemed to be no easy way through the thick mob to reach the gate into Hall Court. Pushing was not going to see him through, at least not until the crowd thinned. That would take too long.. "Make way," he called out to some students directly in front of him. "Make way. I have urgent news from Newcastle for Mr. Pym." Luckily a student who looked far too young to be in college took up his call, and slowly but surely he was allowed through to the gate.
Once into the actual Court, it became even more difficult to move. He had always hated the crush of crowds, or was it a fear, like the fear of small spaces. Instead of moving forward into the crush, he pushed to the side until his back was against the brick wall of the college. There he took some deep breaths to restore his calm. He had never been in this college's grounds before, so while he was composing himself he took a good gander around.
Unlike the more famous ancient colleges, this building was not built from stone in the way of Latin masons. It was a modern brick building, perhaps twenty years old. He remembered Oliver saying that he had been one of its first students. Although it was not awe-inspiring as was, say, King's College , it would be clean, efficient and warm.
Hall Court and the smaller Chapel Court were separated from the street by a high brick wall. A large E shaped brick building formed the other three sides of each Court. This meant that there were many windows with views of this court. Windows that would brighten every room.
From here, he could not see all of the windows, but those he could see, he scanned for any that were open or suspicious-looking. Suspicious as in having a gun muzzle pointed out of them. It was not a relief that he did not see anything suspicious, because from here he could not see the windows of the wall he was leaning against. To see them he would have to push his way out into the crowd and then look back.
He had no desire to be blocked in by such a crowd of young men, so instead he moved sideways along the wall to get further away from the madness near the gate and closer towards the raised platform at the head of the court on which Pym was standing. Only twice did his grand floppy hat brush against another head, so only twice did he come eye to eye with men near his own height. Once closer he recognized two other members of parliament standing with Pym; John Hampden his wordsmith, and Arthur Haselrig his strategist.
Eventually he rounded the inside corner of the court and thus was less than half the width of the Court from the platform. Now he had a better view of the windows he had not yet checked. Nothing suspicious, so he turned towards the speaker's platform. He recognized some of the members standing on it with Pym, but Oliver was not there. Good, one less target to worry about. The one target he didn't want to worry about. He leaned back against the wall and went still so that he could listen. Once, in front of Lollards Tower in London, he had watched Pym take control of a mob using just his fine voice and his simple words.
Within ten minutes he realized that this time it was different. This was not a mob of apprentices that Pym was speaking to, but a gaggle of intellectuals. College students, lecturers, lawyers, in short ... debaters. Pym's well thought out sayings, which would have been chanted back to him by any mob of workers, were instead were being torn apart by debaters who were treating them as a challenge. In other words, Pym was quickly losing the approval of this gaggle, if indeed he had ever gained it.
Just by watching the faces and the body language of the other men sharing the platform, you could tell that the eloquent parliamentarian was in trouble. Word trouble. Logic trouble. His political statements rang clean and true, but the audience was more interested in playing games with his words. It was when Pym began to criticize the king for sending an English army and an Irish army to attack Scotland, and thus break the peace treaty that he had signed just six months ago, that the volume rose, and dozens of voices began shouting at him. In the uproar no one could hear him.
There were some well-dressed, very well-dressed, students and masters between Daniel and the platform, and they were yelling over Pym's words by calling out things like, "You are a traitor! Our army has been crushed by the Scots because men like you undermined it. How many good Englishmen died because of you? Traitor, traitor!"
Anyone on the platform could have easily rebutted such nonsense, except that no one would have heard the rebuttal. Every time they tried to speak out they were shouted down by this same well-dressed group. Daniel began to search their faces to see if he recognized any of them. The group seemed to be a mix of two types … there were crow-like college masters with their expensively-groomed students, and six or eight hard-looking older men with dirty faces wearing heavy, well-used cloaks.
He did not know these particular men but he had seen many like them. The dirty faces, or rather, the dirty cheeks were the clue. All professional marksmen had such cheeks. They were caused by the flash of gunpowder when firing a carefully aimed musket. His gut churned. These men could be hired guns, or even assassins. He was not the only professional marksman in this crush of men, but he would make wager that he was the only one who supported Pym.
He decided to find out if they were armed. He turned to face the wall so that no one could see what he was doing and then he slipped his wheel-lock out from under his cloak and carefully, patiently tapped the ball out of it. That done he turned towards the dangerous men so he could watch their reaction, and then behind his back, pointed the tiny pistol to the ground and pulled the trigger.
The bang from this small gun was normally not very loud, yet it seemed like a clap of thunder as it echoed within these walls. No one else was expecting the thunder, so he had the advantage of seeing how everyone else reacted. In such a crush, no one could duck or run. There were a few howls from toes being crushed and a few yells questioning the noise, but mostly there was a stunned silence. The taller men in the crush were twisting their heads trying to see if anyone had been felled by a shot. Pym was doing the same thing, although most others with him on the platform had dived to the floor. They were the only ones in the court with enough space to do so.
The men with the dirty cheeks between Daniel and Pym had all reached inside their cloaks at the level of their belts. It was an instinctive reaction by someone who was carrying. It was safe to assume that the Dirty-cheeks were all hiding pistols under their cloaks. Now he knew, but to find this out, they also knew about him. They were all giving him a hard stare.
He waved his hat above his head to draw all the searching eyes to him, and then he yelled "Yo!" in a voice well used to bellowing into a gale. "Yo!" and "Hear me!" over and over again until enough of the crush had turned towards him and were waiting to hear his explanation for the shot.
"What is the use of all of us coming here to discuss matters of importance if none of us can hear anything because of the shouting of a few? I have just returned from the Battle of Newbourne and I have something important to say to you all."
There were some catcalls, but those were hushed by men saying that they wanted to hear any news direct from Newbourne. Surprisingly, the group in front of him who had been so vocal in shouting down Pym, were now urging the crush to be quiet and listen. They must have thought him a supporter of the king, as they obviously were. If they had taken his measure simply by his Spanish hat, his fine cloak, and his pompous swagger, then this was a logical assumption.
"I fought at Newbourne," Daniel began in a loud but clear voice. "We lost three hundred men at Newbourne and the Scots lost another two hundred, and that is a tragedy for all of their mothers. Five hundred is a lot of men, more than are in this court, but let's put that number in perspective." These were the words that General Leslie had spoken to him after the battle. "There were thirty to thirty-five thousand men sent to fight each other. That is the same as five cities the size of Cambridge."
"Speak up!" The call came from the diagonally opposite corner. "Or the rest of you shut up!" Other voices echoed the words 'shut up'.
"Do you want to know why only five hundred died? Why not the five thousand or ten thousand dead that you read about from such battles on the continent? There was only one reason for this. We were facing the professional general Alexander Leslie, who is on loan to the Scots from Regent Axel of Sweden. Leslie was one of Sweden's Lions of the North who rescued Saxony from the Imperial army and avenged the slaughter of Magdeburg.
I met Leslie at a parley on the evening before the battle. He stared at me over a glass of whisky and told me: Lad, there is no way in Hell that I am going to allow this battle to turn into a continental-style slaughter. He was a man of his word. The next morning his cannons hit us hard and they hit us over and over again, but not to kill us. He just wanted to make us lose our nerve and run away.
You cannot imagine so much noise and smoke and danger. You cannot imagine the effect on morale of seeing a living man shredded into lumps of dog meat in an instant. Well, we did lose our nerve. Before a single Scot ever reached our gun emplacements, our entire army was running away in terror. The cavalry ran, the gunners ran, the infantry ran, and which of us was running the fastest? Our officers, that's who. Those very aristocrats who led us north seeking fame and glory.
There was no fame and glory, but Alex Leslie stayed true to his words. He did not allow a slaughter. His army could have easily run us down and slaughtered us by the thousands, but he ordered them not to give chase. Most of us escaped that disaster with our weapons and without injury.
Most of us regret the loss of his two hundred as much as we regret the loss of our three hundred, but we do not regret it because we were humiliated. We regret it because the battle should never have happened in the first place, because no king should ever send an army to kill his own people."
Most of the crowd began to cheer, led by Pym. The jeers of the men in front of Daniel were completely swept away by the roar of the mob. John Pym was in his element again. At every lull in the cheers he called out another of his slogans that questioned the competence of the king, or the justness of his taxes. His loudest cheer was when he called out that the king stole funding from the grammar schools so that he could pay an army that should never have been raised in the first place.
Pym was now standing alone at the front of the platform and working his magic with the mob. Daniel ignored the magic and his words, because Pym was now a sitting duck. He pulled back his cloak for a moment just so that the Dirty-cheeks could see his hulking dragon. For the next half hour those dangerous men turned their back on Pym and watch his every move.
Eventually the group gave up any hope of disrupting Pym's rally. The Dirty-cheeks, stout fellows all, formed a phalanx and physically pushed their way through the crowd, with the masters and student of the group swept along in their wake. As the group passed him, the Dirty-cheeks all gave him a hard stare as they marked his face to memory.
They were really not happy with him. Was that because he had ruined their attempt at disrupting this rally, or was that because he, a well armed marksman, had stood right behind them? Some of the students in the group flipped him the finger. One of them called to him, "You are a traitor to your king and to your unit."
Daniel replied with just enough voice to reach the student's ears, "I was at Newbourne. Where were you?"
Another student actually came up to him and challenged him to a duel by saying, "My father was a cavalry officer at Newbourne. You have insulted him. I demand satisfaction." He had that self-satisfied, well-fed look and snotty delivery that Daniel just knew could spell trouble. The student's master and friends tried to pull him away, but he slapped at their hands and would have none of it. The lad obviously spent too much time in the theatre, and had perfected the role of a young cockerel.
Daniel silently and patiently waited for him to give up and go away, but he would not. Now some of the group were turning back into the court to find out what the delay was, including some Dirty-cheeks. That was not good. He sighed and then spoke just loud enough for the lad and his friends to hear him. "Since you have done the challenge then I have the choice of time, place, and weapons. I choose pistols, here and now."
The cockerel visibly blanched as if he would puke. The master grabbed him and tried to pull him away from the suave but dangerous-looking man. The lad squirmed out of his master's grip and stood his ground, though Daniel could see that he was beginning to quake at the knees. He reached under his cloak, pulled out both of his pistols and holding the butts forward towards the student said softly, "Here lad, choose one." Out of the corner of his eye he could see two Dirty-cheeks closing in to stop this nonsense. The lad must have noticed them too, for he pointed to the handle of the dragon.
In a voice now loud enough for the approaching Dirty-cheeks to hear, he told the lad, "You have chosen my dragon over my true pistol. A dragon is short range scattergun and useless for dueling. That tells me two things about you. First, that you know absolutely nothing about pistols, and second, that you are either one of the bravest men I have ever met, or a complete fool. Since a fool cannot attend college, I must assume the other.
Hear me, lad. If you are ever looking for a berth on a fighting ship, then look me up. I need men like you, and I will teach you how to fight and how to shoot." The lad looked as if he were about to faint, and not at all like the blustering twit of a moment ago, so Daniel called to one of his mates. "Take your friend out and get him laid. Twice laid. His knob will begin throbbing as soon as he is away from this crowd." With that he spun his guns around and hid them back under his cloak.
One of the Dirty-cheeks grabbed the lad's arm in a grip of steel and towed him through the crowd. Another saluted Daniel with a touch of a finger to his hat. The others in the group followed their friend through the crowd towards the gate. One of the masters shook his hand and said 'thank you!' over and over again before he followed his charges out of the court.
Daniel stared after the retreating group and recognized the formation that the Dirty-cheeks had fallen into. They had been hired as bodyguards. Some student in that group, or perhaps all of them, required a guard to be here today. Or perhaps they had expected their disruption of the rally to trigger a brawl.
One of the men who had been standing close to Pym on the platform was now timidly pulling at Daniel's sleeve. "Captain Daniel, sir. I am Trevor, Mr. Pym's valet. He has sent me to take you to Mr. Cromwell."
"Is it far, 'cause this court and the street outside are completely clogged."
"Not far, sir. Mr. Cromwell is upstairs. Please follow me."
* * * * *
They found Oliver and more than a few of his Cambridge political backers on the second floor of the college. Each man was astraddle a dining room chair to face out a window and observe the rally below. Each man was scribbling away making notes.
"I've been looking for you everywhere,” Daniel scolded his friend from Ely. "Well, at least you are safe enough up here out of that mob."
"Safe enough?" Oliver lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps, but that is not why we are up here. We are watching the crowd to gauge where our support lies. Which college, which masters, which families, which trades. Deciding who is against us is more difficult. Thank you for that speech you made. It made Pym's task a bit easier."
Thus the purpose of this rally revealed itself to Daniel. Pym was crossing the kingdom holding these rallies, not to raise his own popularity, but to allow each member of his Reform Party to get a clearer picture of how folk felt in his riding. Gauge what were the hot topics, and who reacted to those topics? It was all very clever, which meant that Hampden would be here with Pym.
The innkeep from The George walked towards them and handed a sheaf of papers to Oliver. "Nice hat Dan. It suits you, though I never figured you for one to follow the king's fashions." He waited while Oliver read his scribblings, just in case he had any questions. "I've got to get back to the inn. This thing will be breaking up soon and crowding into my tap room."
"Of course, and thank you for doing this,” Oliver replied with a smile. "Your list of names is much longer than mine. I suppose that remembering names and faces is a must for an innkeeper."
"You should have had Britta here, not me. She knows them all."
Daniel laughed and said. "You should have had Britta standing next to Pym. The crowd would have been purring like kittens rather than hissing like cats. She put me in room six by the way. I must be in her bad books again."
"Not likely, Dan. She's in love with you. Head over heels."
"Don't tell me such things. My life with those four women is complicated enough. Of all men, I am the one man who must never touch her."
"Careful, Dan." the innkeep warned, "remember what the bard said about women scorned."
It was Oliver who was now laughing. "That is exactly why she is in love with you. You are the one man she can allow within her guard without fear. She spends her days slapping away men's hands. With you she doesn't need to be on alert all the time. With you she can relax and show her emotions and her warmth."
"Do us a favour Ollie, get your second son Oliver to marry her."
Oliver’s face went red and he took a few breaths to stop his eyes from welling up. Oliver was no longer his second son, because Robert had died late last year. Died while away at Felsted School. He had suspected foul play but nothing could be proven. Betty was still inconsolable. "Oliver is now my heir, ever since... you know ... Robert. Betty would forbid the match."
"Sorry Ollie,” Daniel put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I forgot for a moment." Now that he had remembered, he understood why Betty had been so weepy in her kitchen. "Did you ever find out..."
"No," Oliver interrupted, "Holbeach, the headmaster, still swears that it was a tragic accident while the boy was alone and fishing. No witnesses to the contrary have ever come forward. What worries me is that last month my Oliver went back to live at the school. I fear he went only to find out what really happened to his brother. I fear he will put himself in danger and I will lose another good son."
"Ollie, if you ever find out who did it,” Daniel whispered. "just tell me and I'll handle it. Whatever happens you must stay far away and in sight of believable witnesses. Under no circumstance must you seek revenge personally."
"I don't need your..."
"Swear to it!" Daniel demanded and pointed to the small bible on the next table. Oliver reached over and touched the bible and mumbled a prayer.
"Uhh, I'm leaving now,” the innkeep announced. "You comin' Dan? I could use your help on the taps."
"Later, I have something for Pym that can't wait." Daniel looked over at where Trevor was polishing the college's brass candlesticks with his white hanky. A force of habit after decades in service. "Trevor. The next time that Mr. Pym takes a break, could you bring him up here to us?"
"My pleasure sir,” he bowed and danced off, happy to be busy with another assigned task.
* * * * *
John Pym politely asked Trevor to leave the room, close the door, and prevent interruptions. Once the door was shut he asked, "Is this letter in General Leslie's own hand? I ask only to determine how private its contents are."
"There was no one with us when he wrote it," Daniel replied. "He read it back to me in a whisper and then he sealed it. I handed it to you with the seal intact."
Since Daniel already knew its contents, and he was Oliver's man, Pym passed it to Oliver to read. Daniel would tell him anyway. He watched while Oliver read it twice in disbelief.
Daniel explained. "Alex doesn't trust the Scottish nobility who rule parliament. He calls them the 'oligarchs-in-waiting', by which he means that they are false republicans. They wish to strip Charlie of many of his Scottish powers so that they can assume those powers for themselves."
"Hrumph,” said Oliver. "Sounds like our own House of Lords. The Earl of Warwick, for instance."
"Alex fears that during treaty negotiations, the king will buy his lords off with estates and honors and titles. He told me that throughout the history of Scottish rebellions all the way back to when the Normans stole the English throne, this is how the rebellions ended. Not this time. Alex can't be bought off, and his army will stand by him no matter what orders the Lords of Parliament issue.
I have seen Leslie offer terms before. They are usually so few and so simple that they seem obvious and trivial, and are immediately accepted by the other side. Alex Leslie is canny, Alex is, and there is always much more to his simple terms if you think about them. Much, much more. This time he will demand only three simple terms, and they are non negotiable, no matter what else his lords give up in their bargaining with Charlie.
First, there will be no shipments of coal from
the Tyne to London until a treaty is enacted.
Second, the king must pay the daily expenses of the Scottish army
so long as they are in England, so that they are not forced to
steal from the English. He estimates that at some 800 pounds a
day.
Third, that the treaty must be approved by the English
parliament."
Pym walked slowly back and forth in deep thought. Then he looked up and smiled and said. "I see what you mean about Leslie's simple terms. Each one hides a sharp blade. With winter approaching, all of London will pressure the king to keep negotiations short. Charlie doesn't have the funds to pay his own army, never mind Leslie's. Any delay will turn London against him, the coal miners against him, the farmers of Northumbria against him, and his own army against him. They leave our king with no bargaining position at all.
But that last term - oh what a genius Leslie is! The king will be forced to call parliament into session again, and this time he cannot prorogue it until we approve of the treaty. Any delay will cost him dearly, and us nothing at all, so we will be able to force him to sign almost anything into law. The onus will be on him to ram them through the House of Lords so he can use the Great Seal on them. I would say that the cursed rebel general, Alex Leslie, is the best friend that England has."
"That is what I was trying to tell the mob,” Daniel pointed out. "Do you think the news about blocking the coal has reached London yet? Could you make sure of it?"
"Good point. Why not put pressure on Charlie immediately? I will send a letter to my pamphleteers on tonight's London coach."
This was sweet music to Daniel's ears. Peterson's collier would not reach London's coal docks for another two days. By the time the cargo came up for auction, the price of coal will be through the roof. He felt like dancing a jig, but instead he said in a serious tone, "There is more for your ears, John."
"Then tell it. Is it more good news? Better news I cannot imagine."
"The English retreat at Newbourne was so panicked that the gunners didn't even spike their cannons. The officers did not destroy their maps and plans. The generals and their lords did not have time to burn all of their letters. This was with those letters." He passed a crinkled and soiled scrap of paper to Pym. "Read the circled paragraph out to Oliver."
Pym found the pencil circle and squinted his eyes to read the blurred ink. "If you cannot capture and imprison the leaders of my detractors in the Commons, then they must be silenced by other means. A permanent solution would not displease me. As usual, I must be able to deny any involvement."
Pym slumped into the closest chair and stared at the scrap. "My God! Has it come to this?" He stared up at Daniel. "Where is the rest of this letter?"
"See the burnt edges? Alex had his clerks search through all the burned scraps trying to mate the quality of paper. That is all we have. No letterhead, no salutation, no signature. Nothing to tell us who it was to, although I can take a good guess as to who it was from. Charlie himself. If by 'come to this' you mean politicide, well, that began last year when Charlie sent his army to punish his Scottish subjects."
Oliver stared at his friend with interest. Daniel was not an educated man, and yet he had just used a word that was unknown to him. "Is 'politicide' a Dutch word?"
"No, English. Your Betty invented it in her kitchen this morning. I needed a word for when a king kills his own people. You know, the opposite of regicide. In truth, I did not come to your rally to make a speech, I came to shoot any bugger who took a bead on John."
"Ahh, that explains much,” said Pym as he stood and stuffed the letter and the scrap into an inside pocket of his jacket. "And now I must go down and make my closing remarks."
"Is it worth the risk?" Daniel asked as he stayed him with a strong grip on his arm.
"Hmm, you are worried about assassin balls. Charlie needs his deniability, so my risk is not an assassin's ball, but a tragic accident. I promise I will be short, and I will ask for an orderly end to the rally. You can hear how restless they are down there. If there is a brawl, folk will be crushed as they flee the court." He gave a short stiff bow to Daniel, and then was through the door.
"Well, that is the second bravest fool I have met this hour." He looked at Oliver. "All of you should stay up here until the mob is on their way. I will escort you all to The George. Are you all carrying?"
Oliver leaned forward to reach behind him and pull out a small wheel-lock pistol. "We all still have the guns that Henry Marten gave us the last time Parliament sat. What did he call them? Our right to say no."
As soon as Oliver left the room to go back to the windows, another man approached him carrying yet another list of names. "Thank you, Teller. Very good of you to take the time."
The name Teller made Daniel take note of the man. That was the name of Sarah's twelve-year-old son, now his own twelve-year-old son. Was it a coincidence? "Pardon me, but are you Teller Paget?"
"Indeed I am,” replied the elderly man, "and who might you be?"
"Oh forgive me,” Oliver said hurriedly, "I should have introduced you. May I present Da..."
"I'm Daniel, Sarah's new husband in Wellenhay,” Daniel interrupted, and made a point of stroking the scrollwork of the double-barreled dragon that was under his belt. "She is no longer a widow, but protected by me, and she is no longer of Cambridge, but is again a clanswoman of Wellenhay."
Teller's eyes squinted and became cunning, but his next words were spoken in a tone of anger, "This is about my grandson. Well, she cannot have him. I will fight it in the courts."
"Where the lawyers will turn you and Sarah into enemies so that they can earn more out of you. After you lose, Sarah will never let you see him again."
"Then I have nothing more to say to you until I have legal advice."
"I'm not finished yet,” Daniel told him. "You and Sarah have old issues between you, whereas I just want what is best for the boy. That includes an education and time with his grandfather. I propose that he live with you in Cambridge on schooldays, but otherwise in Wellenhay where I can teach him some manly skills. Sarah, of course, will expect to be welcomed into your house to visit him at her convenience."
"I want more time with the boy than that."
"Then you had better make sure that he goes to college then, hadn't you?" Daniel said while locking his eyes on the elder man's. Neither blinked. Neither spoke. He held out his hand to shake on the agreement, and after a moment's hesitation it was accepted.
"My wife hated that my son took a peasant wife from Wellenhay. Now she must face the possibility of her grandson also having such a wife." Teller saw a flash of anger cross Daniel's face, and added hastily, "no offense meant, it's just that my wife is a devout Puritan."
"I can think of worse fates than having a wife from Wellenhay,” Oliver interrupted, trying to lighten the mood. "Almost all other fates would be worse." He smiled at Daniel. "So you have finally taken a wife. Congratulations. Which one is Sarah?"
"Venka's younger sister. The pretty sister."
"Ah, so a formidable woman then, and handsome. Yes, congratulations."
"If my wife needs to speak to you, where can we find you?" Teller asked.
"At The George with Pym,” Daniel replied. He took a deep breath in relief. That had gone very well compared to a drawn-out battle in the courts. He now had a son, and a son who would attend college.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14