SIX

Dorchester, Dorset, 1 September 1643

JAYNE NEVER TRAVELLED THE HIGHWAYS these days. Her encounter with a dozen Parliamentary soldiers on the Bridport to Weymouth road in the early days of the war had shown her how dangerous it was for a woman to ride alone, and she still blessed her good fortune that one of the men had recognised her as the physician who had treated his mother. She was in little doubt as to what her fate would have been had he not waded in with boots and fists after his companions pulled her from her saddle and flung her to the ground. Even so, he’d had to draw his sword to keep them at bay while she remounted, and his angry warning as he ordered her back to her father’s house remained with her. Women who flaunted themselves were fair game in war.

Thereafter, she took cross-country routes, always keeping a good distance between herself and the highways, and dismounting to make the final leg of her journey on foot. A woman leading a horse on a halter attracted little attention, particularly one dressed in the style of a poor farmer’s wife, as Jayne was. Parliamentary soldiers seemed to have more sympathy than desire for a humble woman whose poverty showed in her heavily patched and darned brown bodice, threadbare ankle-length grey skirt, workman’s boots and dirty coif, tied in a bow on the nape of her neck to cover her tightly braided hair. She always kept her head lowered to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze, and was helped in this by carrying her medicine satchel inside a coarse hessian sack, clasped by its neck across one shoulder, which obliged her to walk with a stoop.

She hadn’t spoken of the incident on the highway to anyone, least of all her family, but it had left her deeply shaken. At night, she relived the terror of hands tearing at her clothes; by day, she became paralysed with fear if a man came too close. All the while, she berated herself for thinking a column of marching soldiers would have no interest in her and, worse, drawing to a halt to allow them to pass instead of spurring her mount to a gallop. She never doubted that her own idiocy had brought the trouble upon her, or that her father would confine her to the house if he learnt of it. She excused her sudden preference for dressing in peasant clothes and taking only bridleways on the increased number of people on the roads, any of whom might be desperate enough to rob her of her horse and medicines. And Sir Henry, who had never had cause to doubt his daughter’s word and had long since given up trying to stop her riding alone, accepted this reason, having heard from friends in other counties that war was turning even the most honest to thievery.

While Jayne may have regained the confidence to ride alone, her fear of men in groups remained strong, whichever side of the divide they were on, and she felt immediate anxiety when she came in sight of the King’s Head and saw upwards of twenty armed soldiers milling drunkenly about the door. She knew them to be Royalists by the red sashes they wore across their chests, but this only exacerbated her dread. Dorset had been rife with rumours of indiscipline in the King’s army since the Parliamentary garrisons of Dorchester, Weymouth and Portland had surrendered to the Earl of Carnarvon a month ago, and to Jayne’s eyes the behaviour of these twenty seemed to prove the stories true. It was barely nine o’clock in the morning, but some were so inebriated they were staggering in circles about the forecourt, while others upended tankards of ale over two who were brawling on the ground.

She would have retreated had the innkeeper not emerged from a wooden barn at the side of the main building and hastened to meet her. Perhaps he saw the tremor in her hands, for he took the mare’s halter and positioned himself between her and the men. ‘Pay them no mind, Mistress Swift,’ he murmured. ‘They’re so drunk they don’t know which day it is. You’ll be safe if you walk between me and the horse.’

Jayne forced a smile. ‘Thank you, Timothy. I admit I find them alarming.’

‘As did I when they first arrived. Now I have only contempt for them.’ He shepherded her towards the barn, which served as a stable for his customers. ‘They’re worse thieves than Parliamentarians, and that’s not something I ever thought I’d say.’

‘How long have they been here?’

‘Four days. They rode in from the west. Their captain commandeered the inn without so much as a by-your-leave and then ordered me and the wife to give up our bed to him. I sent her and the children to her parents’ house in Frampton and have been sleeping in here with the horses.’ He led her inside and nodded with annoyance towards the numerous chargers that were tied to halter rails along the walls. ‘I’m expected to feed everyone for free, even the animals.’

Jayne followed him to the far end of the building, where he tied her mare to the same rail as his shire horse. ‘Have you tried refusing?’

Timothy gave a sour laugh. ‘I did, and got a bloody nose for my efforts. They’re Prince Maurice’s troops and don’t give two farthings for the promises Carnarvon made. It was a bad day when Dorchester gave up without a fight.’

Jayne had heard the surrender described in worse terms. ‘Abject cowardice’ and ‘inglorious capitulation’ were the phrases her father had used, and when word arrived that Weymouth and Portland had surrendered similarly, Sir Henry was so confident the war was nearly won that he took to tying a red scarf about his neck to show he was a King’s man. It pleased him to draw comparisons between Parliament’s gutless troops—in Dorchester’s case, it was said that six hundred musketeers ran away rather than engage with the enemy—and Carnarvon’s fine Royalist army. Carnarvon was a man of decency and honour who had pledged there would be no arrests, punishments or pillaging in return for the Parliamentarians laying down their weapons, and he and his men had upheld those terms for all of five days, until Prince Maurice arrived with reinforcements.

Prince Maurice, fourth son of the deceased King of Bohemia and nephew to King Charles of England, cared nothing for gentlemanly promises, and he allowed his troops to pillage and plunder at will. Having learnt his soldiering in Germany, where the spoils of war were considered legitimate payment for fighting men, he saw no reason to leave anything of value to a treacherous county which had lent its support to the enemy for upwards of a year. Sheep and cattle were as highly prized as gold and silver, and few landowners escaped having their flocks and herds raided to feed Prince Maurice’s rapacious regiments. Even Sir Henry, despite his professed allegiance to the King, was ordered to send twenty head of cattle to the Royalist camp outside Weymouth without reimbursement, being advised by an officer speaking in heavily accented English that failure to do so would risk the forfeiture of his house and estate. In a small act of rebellion, Sir Henry had removed his red scarf and tied it about the horns of one of his cows as his farmhands mustered the herd for the drive, saying the King’s colours looked as well on a beast as on a man.

‘Do you know when they’ll leave?’ Jayne asked Timothy.

He shook his head. ‘Whenever they get orders to move on, I imagine. I pray each morning this will be the day, though I worry they’ll set fire to the inn when they do. They’re spiteful enough. The captain considers me a traitor because I served Parliamentary troops when they had dominance in Dorchester.’

‘Even though you had no more choice then than you do now?’

Timothy nodded. ‘Prince Maurice is better able to excuse his stealing by branding all in Dorset as enemies. The captain delighted in telling me he’ll take whatever’s left of my stores when he goes.’

‘How will you feed yourselves?’

A smile flickered across Timothy’s lips. ‘Purchase more. Our money’s safely hidden. I buried it deep in the woods some five months back. We’ve worked too long and hard to have mercenaries steal it … whichever side they support.’

Jayne laughed. ‘My father and his neighbours have done the same. I warrant there’s more silver buried under Dorset’s turf than ever graced the King’s treasury.’ She untied the hessian sack from the pommel of her saddle and hoisted it across her shoulder, nodding to the small door in the rear wall. ‘Will I encounter soldiers if I leave through there? I’d rather walk across the fields than have those at the front see me set out along the highway alone.’

‘May I ask who summoned you, Mistress Swift?’

‘Lady Alice Stickland of Church Street.’

Timothy gave a nod of relief. ‘Then her man awaits you by the stream. He said Lady Alice had sent him, but I take so little on trust these days that I wasn’t sure whether to believe him.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll escort you to him now.’

‘There’s no need,’ Jayne answered. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find him.’

‘There’s every need,’ the innkeeper retorted severely. ‘He doesn’t look like anyone’s “man” to me, and I’ll not leave you in his company unless I’m satisfied he is who he says he is.’

The last time Jayne had seen William, he’d been dressed as a coach driver with cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. Now, his dark hair had lengthened, a moustache covered his upper lip and he wore the attire of a well-to-do merchant—a buff coat, knee-length britches, white stockings and black shoes. He bent his head as she and Timothy approached. ‘I trust you’re well, Mistress Swift.’

She expected to feel her customary alarm at being in the presence of a stranger, but she found more to recognise than fear. ‘I am, William. Thank you for asking. You seem to have risen in the world since last we spoke.’

‘Lady Alice thought I could better protect you from Royalist soldiers if I wore her dead husband’s clothes, ma’am.’

Jayne recalled her uncle saying that Lady Alice’s son took after his father—short and slight—and she doubted tall, well-built William could have squeezed himself into such a man’s garments. ‘They look made for you,’ she said lightly, ‘though we’re ill-matched to be in each other’s company. You’re dressed too finely to be escorting a poor countrywoman.’

‘I expected to find you as handsomely gowned as you were last year, Mistress Swift.’

She shrugged. ‘Times have changed. I learnt within days of the war starting that the poor travel more safely than the rich.’

He nodded gravely. ‘Indeed, but we’ll not see anyone until we enter the town and, once there, I’ll walk a few steps behind you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Allow me to carry your bag until then.’

Jayne relinquished it and turned to Timothy. ‘I’ll be safe with William,’ she assured him. ‘You were most kind to be concerned, but he is indeed in the employ of Lady Alice.’

Timothy’s expression suggested he thought otherwise but, with a small bow of his own and a promise to watch over her mare until she returned, he took the path back to the inn.

William waited until he was out of sight and earshot before asking, ‘How many of Prince Maurice’s troops are billeted on him?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Jayne smiled slightly. ‘Both,’ she said. ‘I neither ask such questions nor answer them for fear of being taken for a spy. In any case, you’ll have counted them yourself when you went to the inn to tell Timothy to expect me.’

He laughed before gesturing to the path beside the stream. ‘Shall we go, ma’am? Milady is impatient to see you again.’

Lady Alice’s letter had been brief, asking only that Doctor Swift attend upon her that morning. It was the first communication Jayne had received from her since leaving her house the previous year, and she was intrigued by the summons. William refused to enlighten her, however, being as reticent on the subject of his mistress as Jayne had been on the number of soldiers at the inn.

She picked her way across stepping stones to reach a path on the other side of the stream. ‘Life was pleasanter before the war turned friends into enemies,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Now the only people I speak to with any ease are my patients. The sick have no interest in politics or fighting.’

‘Do you share your thoughts with your father?’

‘Not often. Like you, he thinks me naive to favour reconciliation over conflict. He says the bad blood in the country will only be drained by the victory of one side over the other, regardless of how many die in the process.’

William joined her on the path. ‘Some would say death is a price worth paying if the cause is a good one.’

‘But not the fighting men of Dorchester,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m told they had no appetite for battle when they saw Carnarvon’s army.’

‘You shouldn’t believe every story you hear,’ he said, matching his stride with hers. ‘There are more lies than truths told in war. It was anger at unpaid wages that caused the surrender, not fear of Carnarvon. The men would have fought readily enough if they knew they’d be recompensed for their bravery.’

Jayne wondered whether this was a truth or a lie. ‘It’s a poor cause that has to buy its soldiers’ courage with wages.’

He didn’t take umbrage. ‘How else do you expect them to feed their families? The only other choice is to allow them to seize what they want by force, as Prince Maurice’s troops do, but that makes them greatly disliked by the populace. Which method would you advocate?’

‘Wages,’ she said. ‘How long had they gone unpaid?’

‘Several weeks.’

He fell silent for a moment or two, clearly debating with himself how much more to reveal, but it seemed his irritation with the people of Dorchester was greater than his distrust of Jayne. The war was being fought at such a remove, he told her, that the town had become complacent. After six months without attack, arguments began over whether the garrison’s levy was necessary. The wealthy were the first to withhold their share, and others quickly followed. Some, such as Milady, continued to donate, but by the beginning of July, the fund was so depleted that no wages were paid.

News came soon after that the Parliamentary stronghold of Bristol had fallen to Prince Maurice’s brother Prince Rupert, and the city had been plundered of everything of value. Prince Maurice was given command of the King’s Western Army, and he sent the Earl of Carnarvon to subdue Dorset with two thousand horsemen. Hearing this, sensible men would have reinstated the levy—even better, increased it to attract more recruits—but instead the rich of Dorchester had chosen to remove themselves and their fortunes from the town. This made a poor impression on the soldiers of the garrison, who saw little hope of their arrears being paid if the wealthy fled, so they laid down their arms rather than sacrifice their lives for nothing.

‘Do you blame them?’ Jayne asked when William finished.

‘Not at all. My quarrel is with those who argued against the levy, and then left as Carnarvon approached. Your cousin’s husband, Samuel Morecott, was amongst them. I had word a week ago that he’s now in London.’

Jayne looked at him in surprise. ‘London? Why would he go there?’

‘To further his ambitions, I imagine. I’m told he’s residing with Denzil Holles, who was one of the first to bolt.’

‘Denzil Holles? The Member of Parliament for Dorchester?’

‘The same. Morecott’s been courting his friendship diligently these last few months.’

‘How?’

‘By tempering his religious opinions and saying what Holles wants to hear. You gave a true description of Morecott when you said he has a great ability to present himself well when the situation demands. He now favours moderate Presbyterianism and argues for a negotiated peace with concessions made on both sides.’

Jayne knew these were Denzil Holles’s views, for her father had spoken often of the Member’s desire for compromise, but information had reached Swyre recently that Holles had been threatened with arrest for promoting dialogue with the King. ‘Could Samuel have chosen unwisely in his patron?’ she asked. ‘I’m told Holles and his peace-making ideas are thought treacherous in Parliament.’

‘At the moment, perhaps, but there are as many warring opinions in the House as there are in the country. The militant Puritans have the upper hand for now, but they’ll lose credibility if Prince Rupert and Prince Maurice succeed in capturing ports along the south coast. Holles’s time will come again, which is why Morecott has pinned his colours to his mast.’

Jayne kicked irritably at a hummock of grass. ‘That doesn’t please me at all. I’ve wished Samuel only bad fortune these last twelve months. Ruth’s heard nothing from him since October. He bedevilled her with letters at the beginning of their estrangement, threatening to brand Isaac as illegitimate if she didn’t return, but once my uncle agreed to continue paying him her allowance, all communication ceased. There could be no stronger evidence that he married her for money and not for love.’

‘Was there ever a doubt?’

‘Ruth hoped so and, had he offered apologies instead of menaces, she would have gone back to him. It will break her heart to know he’s in London, quite uncaring that he has a wife and child in Dorset.’

‘Don’t tell her.’

‘I have to. She’ll hear it from someone less kind if I don’t. Are you sure the information is true?’

William nodded.

‘Then my uncle should know also, since one of the conditions for Samuel continuing to receive the allowance was that he maintains the house in Dorchester. Do you know if anyone’s living in it?’

‘Carnarvon commandeered every empty property when he first arrived. There are upwards of two dozen Royalist troops billeted in Morecott’s house, and they’re as badly behaved as those you saw at the inn.’

Jayne shook her head in disbelief. ‘I can’t tell my uncle that. He’ll die of apoplexy.’

‘Perhaps you can persuade him it’s a privilege,’ William murmured. ‘He’s such a strong supporter of the King, he should be glad to lend his home to drunken soldiers.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, your father’s persuaded him otherwise. I’m told Sir Henry resents having twenty of his cattle confiscated by Germans.’

Jayne studied him for a moment, wondering where he’d heard that story. ‘There are more lies than truths told in war,’ she said, lengthening her stride to move ahead of him. ‘I learnt that from a footman who claimed to come from a long line of harriers.’

Dorchester was strangely unchanged despite the presence of Royalist soldiers on her walls. No hindrance was placed in the way of people entering or leaving through the gates, and business continued as it always had. Wagons laden with grain and drovers herding livestock made their ponderous way to market; shops and taverns stood open, displaying their wares; and the inhabitants performed their daily tasks without apparent care that their town was now under the command of the King. They might have felt otherwise had Prince Maurice broken Carnarvon’s pledge not to arrest or punish any of their number, but, since he hadn’t, Jayne was left thinking that ordinary folk had more sense than their political masters, preferring to get on with their lives rather than fret about matters they couldn’t control.

Before entering the town, William returned her sack and assured her he would follow ten paces behind to guarantee her safety. Once or twice, Jayne saw groups of uniformed men loitering on street corners ahead of her, and she crossed the road each time to avoid them. In doing so, she acted no differently from anyone else, for none seemed willing to contest the soldiers’ right to hog the pavements. Swaggering cavaliers walked in pairs, forcing women to step into the gutters; infantrymen sat on stools outside their billets, cleaning their muskets and grinning at the wide berth they and their weapons were given. To Jayne’s eyes, they were cut from the same cloth as her attackers on the highway, and she formed the same low opinion of the King’s army as she had of Parliament’s.

Because of her dress, William had suggested she enter Milady’s house through the kitchen quarters at the back, so she left the main thoroughfare and took the side street that would lead her there. Once arrived at the door, she turned, expecting to see him, but he wasn’t there. She waited a moment to give him time to turn the corner and then tapped on the panels, announcing herself as Mistress Swift when a woman’s voice asked who was there. The door was opened by Molly, and at her side stood a Royalist soldier, smartly dressed in dark jacket and britches, with a red sash about his waist and a sword in his hand, the tip resting on the floor.

It was clear to Jayne that Molly was frightened and distressed, for her appearance had none of the neatness of the last time she’d seen her. Greying tendrils of hair hung from beneath the maid’s bonnet, her collar sat askew atop her bodice and her apron strings were trailing on the ground. Nevertheless, whatever concern Jayne might have for Molly’s strained look was nothing to the alarm in Molly’s eyes as she took in Jayne’s apparel.

The dragoon raised his sword tip twelve inches. ‘Did she give her name as Swift?’ he demanded in a German accent.

Molly ran her tongue across her lips. ‘No, sir,’ she managed. ‘This is Mistress Smith, Milady’s laundress. She comes each Tuesday to collect our most soiled items.’

The man ran his gaze over Jayne’s dirty coif and patched bodice. ‘She gives herself airs by calling herself mistress. What’s your given name, woman?’

Jayne took her cue from Molly’s answer. ‘Y’am Peg, sir,’ she said in a broad Dorset lilt, dropping a curtsey. ‘I be ’ere for ’e maëdes’ bloodied napkins.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t understand her. What’s she saying?’

‘She speaks of the towels the maids use for their monthly bleeds, sir. Milady prefers them to be cleaned away from the house so that no clots are left in the washbowls.’ Molly nodded to Jayne’s sack. ‘Peg collects them from all the houses hereabouts.’

Jayne swung the sack from her shoulder. ‘Do ’e wish to see?’ she asked, stooping to loosen the string that tied it.

The dragoon had no trouble understanding that. ‘God forbid!’ he declared in disgust, stepping back. ‘Be on your way, woman.’

Molly intervened. ‘With respect, sir, it would be better to let me bring her this week’s items. Four girls are bleeding this week, and it’s not wise to keep their towels inside the house. The stench becomes unpleasant and some believe the blood is cursed.’

The officer viewed her with alarm. ‘Where are they kept?’

‘Upstairs, sir. It will take me but a moment to fetch them, though you may wish to leave this room before Peg opens her sack to receive them.’ She gestured towards the corridor. ‘You can guard these quarters as well on the other side of that door as you can on this, and Peg knows she’s not allowed to cross the threshold.’

The officer needed no persuading, being as fearful and ignorant of female bleeding as every other man. He crossed himself hastily, clearly hoping to ward off a curse from Jayne’s sack, and then scurried for the corridor ahead of Molly. The maid stared hard at Jayne, mouthing, ‘Wait for my return,’ before closing the door behind them both.

Jayne held her breath for several moments, listening for anything that would tell her why a Royalist soldier had been in Lady Alice’s kitchen. Were there more? she wondered. And why had William made no mention of them? Thoroughly bemused, and fighting against her own fears, she remained unmoving at the open door, head down and hands clasped in front of her.

A good five minutes passed before Molly came back with a linen laundry bag. ‘The youngest maid has soiled her nightshift and bedsheets,’ she said crossly as she entered the room. ‘If you can’t find space for them in your sack, you’ll have to carry this bag as well.’ She blocked Jayne from the dragoon’s sight but shook her head to warn her against speaking. ‘Milady will pay you an extra three pence for the added work,’ she said loudly, pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket and passing it to Jayne, ‘but you must be sure to return the bag when you return the laundry.’

Jayne read what was written on the paper. William awaits you outside the bakery in High East Street. She raised her head. ‘Is Milady all right?’ she whispered.

Molly shook her head again. ‘Make haste,’ she mouthed, as she handed Jayne the linen bag and forced her onto the street by closing and latching the outside door.