The night of the battle … I was obliged to walk about all night, which proved very cold by reason of a sharp frost … when I got meat I could scarcely eat it my jaws for want of use having almost lost the natural facility.
—Parliamentarian Edmund Ludlow describing the aftermath of the battle of Edgehill, October 1642
Caroline was relieved to see the sign of the Lamb, the coaching house in Oxford. For three days she had camped outside the Oxford royal garrison waiting for an audience with the Captain of the Guard. At night, for three pence, she had slept, or not-slept as was more often the case, on a foul-smelling straw mattress in a smithy’s forge. The banked fires of the furnace conjured a ghostly warmth against the damp and chill, but the nights were filled with heart-jolting sounds: drunken soldiers cursing in the street, the occasional burst of musket fire, and the ever-present rats scurrying behind the coal stacked against the back wall. She passed the nights with her mantle as blanket and her pilgrim’s bag as pillow, grateful for the reassurance of its hard center.
How foolish she had been to think she could just walk in and demand to see William. Each morning she had gone to the guardhouse asking to be admitted. Each morning she was turned away. On the fourth day, she sat down on the prisoner’s bench behind the makeshift desk and told the young guard that his captain must surely appear sooner or later, or some other person in authority. She would remain on that prisoner’s bench until someone listened to her. It was an appropriate enough place to wait she said, for she too was in a sense his Majesty’s prisoner. The lad had looked discomfited in the extreme, but he made no move to have her forcibly removed.
Bye and bye, her patience was rewarded. No ragtag recruit this time, but a real soldier clad in helmet and breast plate, sword dangling from his belt, darkened the threshold.
‘Captain,’ the young man said, jumping to his feet and saluting.
The captain said nothing at first, just glanced at her and frowned, then raising one eyebrow, looked at the guard.
‘This woman is waiting to see you,’ he stammered. ‘I tried to send her away but she would not leave. This is the fourth day she has been here.’
‘What does she want?’
‘She asks for admittance, sir.’
‘Admittance. To a garrison of hardened soldiers? Now why would any respectable woman want that,’ he said with a smirk. ‘We have enough of her kind here already.’
‘She says she wants to see her husband. She says that he is garrisoned here in the King’s service and she must speak to him.’
The captain did not even give her the courtesy of looking at her as he dismissed her. ‘I’m afraid that is impossible. I’ve been dealing with Madame Brome Whorwood and her demands to see the King all morning. I’ve no time for this. Send her away.’
‘I’ve tried, sir. But she will not—’
That name filtered through Caroline’s anxious fog. Whorwood from the manor of Holton Park. She had met this woman and her husband once at a dinner at Forest Hill. She had come soliciting funds for the King, boasting of her family’s long-time connection with the court. The woman was charming enough, more enthusiastic in the appeal than her husband, a rude upstart squire , who was said to have fled to the Continent when the fighting started. The captain had said he’d dealt with her. Jane. That was her name. Mistress Jane Whorwood. Caroline doubted he had dismissed her as rudely.
She stood and stepped between the desk and the man who could give her entry, forcing him to look at her as she said, ‘His Majesty would not be pleased to know that the wife of a knight in his service has not been offered this small courtesy. Please check your lists. Sir William Pendleton. You don’t have to admit me. I am content to wait here until you fetch my husband. I must speak with him about his affairs. His last letter to me said he was being posted here. He was serving as Master of Provisions for the King’s troops. The King’s own herald brought the letter.’
The captain scowled at her as if he’d never seen such a disagreeable woman. ‘Sir William Pendleton. And you say you are his lady.’
‘Here, I’ll show you. The letter bears the royal seal.’ When she produced the frayed letter from the pilgrim’s scrip, he glanced at the ragged seal and sighed, still eying her suspiciously. And why not, she thought. She must look more like a camp follower than a knight’s wife. He gestured for her to sit on the bench, mumbling under his breath, ‘All these women, all their needs urgent with no idea what it means to be at war.’ Then he turned on his heel and left.
‘Is he going to come back?’ she asked.
The youth shrugged. ‘Who can tell. When he gets his back up—it’s a good sign that he didn’t yell at you like he does everybody else who crosses him.’
She bit back her frustration and sat back down on the bench. Close to an hour later, her feet aching, her throat parched, and her bladder begging for relief, he returned. His countenance had softened. The skepticism did not come back with him. But neither did William.
‘Yes?’ she asked, her heart stuttering.
‘My lady,’ he said, expressionless. ‘You were correct, Sir William was posted here but I am sorry to tell you that Sir William—’
Sorry. Sorry? Why sorry?
‘I am afraid your husband is no longer here. He—’ He paused for what seemed to her like an eternity.
What could he not say? Not that. She would not hear that. ‘Not here?’ she asked quietly. ‘What do you mean, Captain, not here?’
‘He left three days ago for the garrison at Reading with supplies to relieve the King’s loyal subjects who are under siege. I cannot say when he will return. It may be a fortnight. Maybe longer.’
Weak relief washed over her. Not here. But not killed. Not wounded. ‘Reading? That is south. I know that road.’
‘Then you also know it is too far for a lady to travel alone even in peace time. We are a nation at war, my lady. There is heavy fighting around Reading.’
Heavy fighting around Reading. William’s destination. But I am not a woman alone, she thought. Not completely. She still had two lead balls and a vial of black powder tied in a kerchief and bound with the other rags she’d brought for her personal needs. Every night before she closed her eyes she’d rehearsed what William had so carefully instructed the day before he left: take the rod secured to the bottom of the pistol barrel and ram the black powder and one of the lead balls in. Ram it hard as you can, Caroline. And then he had demonstrated how to set the dog latch. Don’t walk with the pistol half-cocked. You’ll have to wait. When you release the dog latch and the flint strikes the frisson there will be a tiny pause. Keep the pistol pointed at your target. And he had made her practice, again and again, scolding her when her attention wandered. All she could think about that day was that he was leaving. She would still have the overseer; why would she ever need to fire a pistol? If William really thought she would have to defend herself in this way, how could he have left her?
‘How did you get here, Lady Pendleton? On foot, I’d say,’ the captain said glancing at her muddy boots, then he tapped the shoulder of the young guard who leaned against the door frame, listening.
The soldier assumed a more appropriate posture. ‘Captain, sir.’
With a sudden stab of longing, she thought of William’s son. She had not heard from Arthur for months.
‘Obviously, Thompson here has nothing better to do. He will accompany you back to the inn. You can rest there until you decide what you want to do. I will be sure and tell Sir William Pendleton of his wife’s visit when he returns. In the meantime, I strongly recommend you return home and await your husband’s instructions.’
‘Thank you for your concern, Captain. I know the way. I don’t need an escort.’ And then looking at the boy, she relented, ‘But I will enjoy the company.’
She released the young man as they came into the courtyard of the inn, but not before ordering some refreshment for him. The homesickness he spoke of, the fear leaking from beneath a thin veneer of bravado, moved her almost to tears. He said his mother had cried when he left. As Caroline had cried for Arthur, but not in front of William. Never in front of William, who was much too angry at his son to tolerate her tears.
The innkeeper greeted her warmly. She and William had on more than one occasion hired horses from him. His wife brought her bread and warm broth and wine and offered her a room. She wisely made no comment on Caroline’s disheveled appearance. ‘If thou be wanting to go to London today, my lady, I fear we let the last private coach an hour ago.’
‘I am not going to London. Is there a public coach to Reading tonight?’
‘A public coach?’
Caroline heard something akin to disapproval in her tone.
‘Yes, Mistress Betty. Quite sure.’
‘There is no public coach tonight,’ she said quietly, chastened by the firmness of Caroline’s tone. ‘But one is due in from Coventry about sunset. Overnights here. It will leave at daybreak. Bart is the regular driver. He’s a goodun too. I’ll put a peep in his ear. He’ll take care of thee, he will.’ Then she seemed to consider before adding, ‘Will thou be wanting a room? With the coach leaving so early and all. Thou can have one all to thyself. Traffic is slow.’
A room to herself would mean a good night’s rest, and she would not have to greet William so travel-stained.
‘Bart always stops for fresh horses and relief at Tokers Green and supper at Benson. You could be in Reading by day after tomorrow midday, the good Lord willing.’
‘What is the cost of the room?’
‘Two shillings. But that comes with a chamber pot, a bed warmer, a fresh towel for bathing—and a sturdy lock. A cake of soap is four pence,’ she added apologetically. ‘And I’ll fix ye a bit of breakfast on the house.’
‘That sounds reasonable, Mistress Betty. And I will take the soap.’ She could at least wash her hair and put on the clean skirt she was saving. ‘How much is the fare to Reading?’
‘Will that be round trip?’
Caroline suddenly felt her mind go numb? Round trip? The bloody image outside the barn flared and died. She had not thought past finding William. A swift and cutting longing covered her. His solid strength had been her strength. But what if she could not find him? Or what if—? What would be her strength then?
‘My lady?’
‘I am … I am not quite sure. I am seeking my husband. He will tell me what to do when I find him.’
‘I understand. It must be very hard to be alone. It is my greatest fear. I will pray for thee, my lady.’
The offer of those prayers was somehow the last straw. Caroline blinked back tears. ‘Thank you, Mistress Betty. Just book a passage for me one way, and I think I would like to retire to that room now.’
Mid-afternoon and the tavern room at the Reading inn was empty. It was early yet. James Whittier chose his seat carefully, his back to the wall facing the door. He pulled out a deck of cards and, placing them on the table in front of him in open invitation, signaled the publican to bring him a pitcher of beer. Two Royalist soldiers glanced over at him, one nodding in recognition before turning back to his companion with a smirk and a muttered comment. A reluctant contributor to James’s enterprise the evening before, this one would need to be seduced by the sounds and sights of the game to repeat his loss. James sipped his beer. It was early yet.
The only other occupant of the room was a woman sitting with a plate of cheese and ale, chatting with the barmaid. A regular from her easy familiarity—but not a common woman, he thought. She was tall and fashionably dressed. A pretty round face with smooth skin was marked subtly with a large round pox mark on her cheekbone and another to the right of her nose, but all in all the disease had touched her gently. She talked animatedly, her smile contagious, and with a good-humored manner that showed a woman at ease in this common setting. An abundance of flaming red hair suggested Scots heritage. James had employed many Scots at his court. And King Charles still entertained some, but fewer since the Covenanters had risen in protest at the imposed English prayer book. This one might still have currency at court—if there was still a court—a younger less pragmatic Lucy Hay but probably more loyal. She glanced his way. He nodded and smiled. Tempting. Maybe later.
He had lingered outside the walls of Reading an extra day. The coaching inn and stables were located on the main road and reasonably comfortable. In addition, it offered easy plucking of bored pigeons—though, trouble was these birds were a little sparsely feathered. They had complained of the King’s paymaster being churlish and sluggish. James had made a mental note. A sign of Charles’s rapidly depleting treasury? That might be a bit of news a Parliament town would enjoy.
Although the town was preparing for siege, he felt safe enough. The commander of the Royalist garrison of two thousand soldiers, the newly appointed Governor of Reading was Sir Arthur Aston and an old friend of James’s late father. He felt sure he could talk himself out of any tight situations and besides, his paper supplier was a staunch Royalist and would vouch for the neutrality of a good customer.
No real threat from Essex’s gathering forces on the perimeter either. When he’d entered the town yesterday, the respective armies had been too preoccupied with digging ditches and shoring up stonework defenses to bother him. If the cannon started firing in earnest, he was sure he could get safe passage back through Parliament lines. He would just drop Lady Carlisle’s name or John Pym’s. He had planned to leave today but as he sipped his beer he decided one more night wouldn’t hurt. Last night’s pickings had been decent, and though the regulars had already been cleaned out, one of them had a handsome pistol in his belt that James coveted.
The flintlock had a dog-latch barrel that was only about twelve inches, small enough to carry in the pocket of a coat. The handsome checkered carving on the walnut handle and the shorter-barreled snaphaunce, not standard issue even to officers and gentlemen, argued that this was a personal weapon with which the soldier might part for a price—or perhaps a gambling obsession. One more night just might be worthwhile. Also, he might be able to glean some real news about the siege. Reading was close enough to London to be a threat to the city. London’s readers would be interested.
As he twirled the beer in his mug he wondered idly if the pleasing redhead would be staying overnight at the inn. Unescorted? Odd for a woman of quality. Perhaps she was meeting a lover. A secret assignation. Intriguing thought. When his game was finished he might seek out the pleasure of her company. No pressing need to rush back to the shop anyway. In exchange for room and board, he’d recently taken on a disabled young soldier to mind the print shop. Ben, the youth had said his name was, after a small hesitation, Ben Pender.
‘How can you mop an ink press with only one arm, Ben?’ James had asked.
‘Give me a chance to learn, and I’ll show you,’ the lad had said.
James had wanted to ask how he lost his arm, but he thought that might be too close to the bone. ‘Who were you fighting with?’
‘Cromwell in the North. I was sent to Edgehill to scout out the rumor of Royalists planning battle action there. I found out too late that it was no rumor.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t make it back to report. Maybe that’s why Cromwell’s men got there too late.’ Then the boy gave a half-grin, too sardonic by far for a man his age and added. ‘But Rupert was late too. They said the battle was pretty much just a bloody draw.’
‘You didn’t actually see the battle, then?’
He looked down. ‘No, I was ambushed the day before the fighting started. All I saw was a field of black. It was a frosty night for October. I remember feeling so cold as I lay on the ground trying to staunch the flow of blood. Then I blacked out. A friendly shepherd found me. The barber surgeon who relieved me of my arm said I was lucky. The cold was all that kept me from bleeding out.’ He gave a bitter little half laugh. ‘Funny thing, I don’t feel lucky.’
‘Well, you’ve got one good arm. And a head on your shoulders. You muster out or just walk away?’ He didn’t want to use the word desert. That would be a hanging offence.
‘Medical discharge. Unfit to serve.’
‘Do you have family hereabouts, Ben?’
The youth studied the toe of his worn-out boots. ‘No, sir. No family. Army sent me to Bart’s as soon as I was fit to travel. After I recovered they let me keep on sleeping there so I could help with the wounded. But they—the wounded—just kept coming. Every day. Every night. They just kept coming. After a while I just couldn’t stand the screaming anymore.’ He looked James directly in the eye. His gaze was straightforward and a little empty as he said, ‘I need something else to do.’
It had only taken James a moment to decide. He liked the boy’s nerve. Admired his initiative. ‘You can sleep here. Room and board. Though I’ve no cook. The fare is what I provide from street vendors and cook shops: mostly bread and cheese, milk and apples when we can get them. The occasional roast joint from the tavern to celebrate a successful issue.’
‘I can cook. Basic stuff—stews and porridge,’ Ben said, with a nod at the two ragamuffins binding the papers into stacks, pretending not to listen. ‘Enough for the boys there, too. If you’ll supply the victuals.’
‘They’ll think that’s an improvement, I’m sure. There is a coal stove you can cook on. Probably needs a good scouring. I’ll expect you to help with the press to the extent you can. I’ll show you how to set the type. You should be able to do that with one arm. If after two weeks you’re more than earning your keep,’ he shrugged, ‘a shilling a week to start. You can bunk here in the press room with the boys on straw mattresses. I sleep upstairs—with my door open so I can hear any devilment that might go on down here.’
‘You will not be sorry, I promise. And I’ll keep these two over here out of mischief,’ he said, turning, grinning at them.
‘Ye’ll be right welcome. Gets half scary down here sometimes in the dark,’ Ralphie had said, his mouth a round o and his eyes wide.’
James remembered noticing then the difference in their speech. The youth’s words were coherent and clear of any trace of the street accent of the London boys. That had made him curious. ‘What did you do before the war, Ben?’
‘I was a student. First year at Cambridge. But I gave it up when my tutor went off to join the cause. I guess I followed him. To the wrong side, according to my father.’
‘Ah, the father you do not have.’
‘Yes. The father who no longer owns me.’
He might be hardly more than a youth, James had noted, but he had a man’s full-grown pride. ‘Just one more question, Ben. Was it worth it?’
‘Worth it, sir?’
‘Your arm, I mean. Do you think this power struggle between the King and Parliament worth the loss of your arm? The loss of your family?’
Ben studied the toe of his worn-out boot a minute before he answered, then he directed that empty gaze on James once again and said, ‘Can’t say now. I’ll have to wait and see what comes of it all, won’t I? But the way I see it, it’s not the King’s Parliament. It’s ours.’
After two weeks, Whittier had felt comfortable enough to leave him on his own. The news boys were in awe of him, with his tied-up sleeve and stories about his scouting expeditions. Stories Whittier was sure would find their way into some of the broadsheets. But that was a good thing. Parliament needed to know what it was doing to its youth. Young Ben was not the only limbless discard he’d seen recently: sleeping in doorways, picking through garbage, begging.
The sound of a coach and six interrupted the quiet of the tavern. Business would pick up, now, he thought, taking another sip of the beer. He watched out the broad-paned window as the passengers began to unload. Five of them. Two looked as though they had not tuppence between them. But the other two he judged well-heeled and jolly enough. One looked in his direction, saying, ‘Give us a chance to slack this road thirst.’
James nodded and looked up to see the fifth passenger enter. Another woman. This one alone as well. Strange times, he thought. War just didn’t fracture policy and loyalty to country but families as well.
She paused in the low doorway and frowning, looked around, as if she were sizing up the room. Looking for an easy mark? No. More like looking for safety, he thought as she settled with her bag in a shadowy corner. As still as a statue, she just sat there, staring out the window, clutching the large bag in her lap. Pretty in a weary kind of way. Good body, tall and thinner than the redhead but strong square shoulders and nice firm breasts. Damp tendrils had escaped a chestnut-colored bun at the base of her slim neck.
Her gaze met his then turned quickly away.
No invitation there. On the verge of his mind something stirred, almost startling him into recognition. But his attention was suddenly directed away from the woman as the two new arrivals approached him.
James stood up and bowed slightly. ‘How about a friendly game?’
‘I don’t know, shall we risk it?’ the older of the two asked his younger companion. Then he addressed James. ‘Soldier over there says you’re a hard man to beat. But we’ll give it a try,’ he said sitting down. A scraping of chairs and his fellow followed suit.
‘Come on over and join us, friend,’ James called. ‘Maybe you’ll recoup your losses and then some. Landlord, bring my friends here three mugs. Cards or dice, gentlemen, your choice.’
‘Cards,’ the sullen loser from last night grunted.
‘Cards it is,’ James said, picking up the deck and shuffling.
The disgruntled one reached out, grabbed his hand. ‘A fresh deck from the landlord. If it’s all the same to you.’
‘Were it not for the fact that you are the King’s soldier—and for that splendid pistol you are carrying in your belt, I might take offense. But I shall choose not to.’ He smiled affably, ‘Landlord, may we borrow a deck of cards?’
‘Tuppence, rental only,’ the landlord said, slouching over and slapping a worn deck of cards onto the table. James dug into his pocket, mentally putting that to the newcomer’s account. He slid the cards forward. ‘I think our skeptical friend here should make the first cut, just to show we are all men of good will. What do you think, gentlemen?’
They nodded, and the game began. They played in silence at first with James careful to see that he did not win right away. As his ‘luck’ increased, the two playing on each side of him were at least staying alive. But scarcely twenty minutes had gone by before the soldier threw in his cards. ‘I’m out. Nothing left to lose. Should have learned my lesson.’
James smiled at him as affably as he could. ‘Evening is young, friend. You deserve a chance to get your money back. I much admire that pistol. I’ll buy it from you and you can start all over. It’s not King’s issue, is it?’
‘King’s issue?’ the soldier grunted. ‘You must be joking. I took this off a dead man.’
‘One you killed?’
‘No. His uniform said he was one of ours. An officer. I didn’t think he’d be needin’ this fine weapon.’
‘But why would whoever killed him not take a valuable gun?’
‘Do I look like a bloody mindreader? Roundheads ambushed a convoy of supplies three days ago. Took a couple of prisoners, must have wounded this one before he ran and bled out. Clothes were all bloody. His body was in a ditch. Poor bastard. Buzzards had worked on him pretty good.’
He paused in the telling of his tale. ‘He had some fine boots, too. Too small for me though.’
‘Did you bury him?’ one of the other card players asked. ‘He was one of your fellow soldiers.’
‘What was the point? Nature does it well enough. I imagine his bones are picked clean as a toothpick by now.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, I didn’t have a shovel.’
James could see the print header in his mind, Death of an Unknown Soldier and the Spoils of War, as his companions grunted in disgust. Then a scraping of chairs as the story-teller stood up and looking directly at James said with a sneer, ‘I’ll keep the gun. Might be luckier than your cards.’
As he walked away, his hand caressing the curved handle of the pistol, a player commented, ‘Why would the fool think that? It didn’t bring much luck to the dead man.’
‘Bloody fools, all of them,’ the older man said.
They played another few rounds after that, but it was as though the mention of the dead stranger, who had been so carelessly relieved of his gun and his life, cast a pall on the pleasure of the game. After a small profit, James let his companions win the last two rounds and then stood up and throwing in his cards made his excuses. As he walked away, he glanced at the corner where the woman had been warming herself by the fire. The bench was empty. So was the table where the red-head had been sitting. On his way to his room he asked the barmaid about the woman who had arrived on the last coach.
‘No, sir. I don’t know her. I’ve not seen her here before. She left about an hour ago.’
‘Did she say where she was going?’
But what did he care where she was going. Pretty, lonely women were two for a penny these days.
‘She asked for directions to the garrison,’ the barmaid answered.
A glance at the window showed the thin April twilight had turned to indigo.
‘At this hour? The gate will already be locked.’
‘Mistress Whorwood offered to share her quarters with her, but she was most insistent on reaching the garrison tonight. Lady Jane gave her good directions, told her which gate to enter, and gave her a letter of recommendation for the gatekeeper.’
‘Was she traveling on foot?’
‘Yes, but she left before dark. It’s not more than two miles, she’ll most like be there by now.’
What prompted James Whittier to his next action, or the nature of the impulse goading him—a news printer’s curiosity or some greater, genuine concern—he would not ponder until much later. He was halfway up the stairs when he suddenly had the urge for a moonlight ride. He turned around and going back to the bar asked the publican to call for the groom to fetch his horse.