The Bleeding Land (30 page)

‘Lock the door, Burke,’ Captain Boone said, a haze of smoke still lingering around his fine pistols as some of his men called out to others in the camp that all was well and there was no alarm. He turned to Mun, cocking his head to one side. ‘If you ever go behind my back again, Rivers, I will put you on a charge and I do not care who your father is.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mun heard himself say, as he stared at the dead captain. The expression on his boyish face was a mix of confusion and disappointment, a look Mun was coming to recognize on the recently killed. His thoughts raced in his aching skull, trying to catch up with all that had just happened.
But
one truth had broken from the pack and rode a full length ahead of everything else. It was the only thing that really mattered on that night, beneath that heavy sky and the half moon now and then breaking through the clouds.

Tom
was alive.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘WE HA GRAIN,
my lady, and livestock. eleven heifers and thirteen beeves, all in fahne fettle,’ the man said, glancing up at one of the two stone lions on their plinths either side of the gate in the boundary wall that stretched around Shear House and its grounds. ‘Some pigs and sheep too,’ he added, ‘and a few daft hens and a cock who thinks he’s lord o’ the manor.’ He flushed at that, forcing a nervous grin. ‘If my ninny li’le lass has ney let ’em scarper,’ he said, thumbing over his shoulder. ‘Margery’s a li’le wibbet.’ Clearly hoping the animals would secure his family’s entrance to Shear House, the man, who had introduced himself as Mister Cawley, now launched the second stage of his offensive and stood aside to give Lady Mary and Bess a better view of his family. They were all, it seemed to Bess, trying their hardest to keep the livestock from wandering off, though not entirely succeeding. ‘We’ve come fro’ Heskin,’ Cawley said, ‘and it’s ta’en us all day to get here what with the cattle, but I thank God we came across no rebels abeawt for we should ha lost our animals if we had.’ He scratched his neck, making it red. ‘The traitors are devils. Them’ll tek what they want,’ he said, eyeing the six men armed with an assortment of matchlock muskets, swords and clubs who stood behind Bess and her mother just inside the gate.

‘Well you and your family are safe now,’ Lady Mary replied, trying to put the man at ease for he was clearly nervous, judging by the tremble of his hand and the sweat sheening his weathered brow.

The monotonous thump of hammers on wood and chisels on stone underpinned barked commands and the occasional crackle of musket fire, composing a melody that was to Bess’s ears at odds with the still autumn afternoon as she considered the new arrivals, the third family to come in that day. She could see Cawley’s wife, two boys aged around ten, a girl a little younger and another girl no older than five, who saw Bess and curtsied, flashing a smile that was more gaps than teeth.

‘You are welcome here, Mister Cawley,’ Lady Mary went on, ‘though I will tell you the same as I have told the others. In return for our protection you will be required to share the work and what victuals you have.’ She cocked her head, examining the stout, unkempt-looking fellow before her and making no pretence otherwise. ‘You can shoot, I presume?’

‘I have tried it once or twy, my lady, but I doesn’d own a piece,’ Cawley said.

Lady Mary nodded. ‘Up at the house Isaac will show you to your quarters and then you, Cawley, will report to the Major of the House. Your wife will be given her instructions in due course.’

With that Cawley dipped his head respectfully and Bess and her mother stepped aside to allow him, his family and their livestock train through the gate.

They had come from all across the West Lancashire plain, whole families flocking to Shear House and other estates whose protection they sought against the armed rebels who rode across the country preaching their sedition, decrying their king, beating some who would not waver in their loyalty to His Majesty, and even, sometimes, stringing up those they suspected of papism.

At first it had just been the tenant farmers, the copyholders
and
leaseholders, who had come through those lion-guarded gates: those whose livelihoods were tied to a lesser or greater extent to the fortunes of the Rivers family and their estate. But then others had come because word had spread that Lady Mary Rivers would turn none away who asked her protection. Now, Bess reckoned there were upwards of three hundred and fifty men, women and children living at Shear House, and of those some ninety-four men had been formed into a garrison of sorts by an ex-soldier and friend of her father named Edward Radcliffe. Radcliffe had fought on the continent and though his best days were clearly behind him, Lady Mary believed his experience would prove invaluable in the coming days and had employed him as Major of the House, tasking him with the procurement of arms and other necessaries.

Another salvo of musketry battered the damp air, making Bess start and her unborn baby kick. She looked up the drive and saw a thin skein of musket smoke waft up from behind the spinney of birch and sweet chestnut. The men were being drilled, as they were every day, and yet still Bess had not grown used to the horrendous noise. Even when she had watched them load and present their matchlocks, knowing the thin, thunderous cacophony was coming, she could not help but flinch.

Another musket cracked belatedly. Then another. But the fusillade had been neater than usual.

‘They’re getting better,’ Bess said to her mother as she watched Cawley’s train progress up the drive, his cattle lowing and his sheep bleating at the noise. Cawley’s youngest daughter was clinging to her mother’s skirts as they approached the woods beyond which the paltry assemblage of matchlocks had roared their defiance.

‘They will need to if your father does not return before the rebels come,’ Lady Mary said, gesturing for Bess to follow as she walked towards the first of several wooden platforms being erected against the eight-foot-high boundary wall over an earth rampart. Each was a simple construction fifteen foot in length
upon
which a handful of men could stand head, shoulders, chest and, most importantly, muskets above the wall. ‘There is not enough wood in West Lancashire, nor time or labour to make a proper rampart all the way round,’ Lady Mary said, ‘but Mister Radcliffe assures me that these will give the rebels cause to think. They will buy us some time.’

Looking up at the structure before her Bess doubted these platforms would count for much, doubted the farmers and servants of Radcliffe’s garrison would stand up there for long once the rebels came. But she said nothing, smiling at one of the labourers, who blushed crimson and renewed his hammering with gusto.

‘Do you know what he actually said? Radcliffe, I mean,’ her mother went on, giving that smile of hers that was so controlled, as well schooled as one of Sir Francis’s best mares. ‘“We shall preach to the rebels from these pulpits, m’lady,”’ she said in her best imitation of the one-eyed veteran, ‘“and they shall repent of their pernicious perfidy under fire, brimstone, and musket balls.”’

Bess smiled again, knowing the smile had not lit her eyes. ‘I feel much safer for having Mister Radcliffe here,’ she said, which was almost true. Either side of the wooden platform men were hammering chisels into the boundary wall, cutting loopholes through the red bricks, which was no easy task for the wall was over a yard thick. Bess’s hands instinctively cupped the swell of her belly.

‘He will be back soon,’ Lady Mary said, and Bess knew they were no longer talking about Edward Radcliffe. Her mother had meant her Emmanuel. Her love.

‘And in the meantime your father will keep a close eye on him. He is very fond of Emmanuel. In spite of certain . . . difficult circumstances.’ Bess felt the baby kick again, as though in mockery of her mother’s subtle reproach. ‘I’m certain His Majesty’s Lifeguard will not see any serious fighting. I believe they are held in reserve,’ Lady Mary went on, turning her back
on
Bess and peering through one of the new loopholes. ‘The King is many things, my dear, but he is not a warrior. I cannot imagine that Emmanuel will get anywhere near the rebels for all his desire to play the soldier.’

‘I pray you are right, Mother,’ Bess said, sickened by the thought of Emmanuel bravely riding into battle, riding to do his duty to his country and king. To her and their unborn child. And yet Bess had found cold comfort in her mother’s words, most of which she had spoken into a hole dug out for matchlocks, unable to meet Bess’s eye.

For in her heart Bess knew that her mother was afraid and that those words were weightless, of no more substance than musket smoke drifting on the breeze.

Osmyn Hooker was a dangerous-looking man. He reminded Mun of other veterans he knew, friends of his father who had fought in the Low Countries, for Hooker had all of their swagger and the self-assured poise of those used to giving commands and having them obeyed. But there was something else about him too, something that made Mun’s flesh crawl and his jaws clamp together so that he realized the muscles in his cheeks ached now as they sat in the shadow-played dark of Emmanuel’s tent. Perhaps it was the livid scar engraved across Hooker’s forehead, the vestige of an old slash wound that could so easily have taken those narrow, malevolent eyes. Or perhaps it was the five musket-ball dents Mun had counted in the man’s forge-black breastplate, only one of which was likely to be the maker’s test shot, for they spoke of Hooker being a man many had tried to kill. Maybe it was the man’s strange accent, which made it impossible to tell where he was from, deepening the enigma and suggesting that this tall, lean soldier was a man without roots. A man without familial ties.

And yet it was none of those things. Mun’s unease at being in Osmyn Hooker’s company was, he knew, down to the fact that Hooker’s only loyalty was to money. For the man standing
before
him there was no King or Parliament, no religious ideal or appetite for social revolution; there was just crowns, shillings and pennies.

Which was exactly why they had sought him out.

‘The risks are great,’ Hooker said, ‘for all of us.’ The man’s stare was biting. It took all of Mun’s composure just to hold his eye.

‘We are prepared for the risks,’ Emmanuel put in, squatting beside them as the breeze played against the canvas. Mun glanced at him and Emmanuel nodded, confirming that he was willing to play his part in the plan that could see them all shot or swinging on the end of a rope if it went awry.

‘Just play your part, Hooker,’ Mun said, ‘and we shall all get what we want.’

Hooker leant forward, so that Mun caught the scent of tobacco smoke that clung to the mercenary’s curled moustaches. ‘As to what
I
want,’ Hooker said, ‘I shall expect the balance of what we agreed at sundown the following day. I will send someone to collect it from you. Make sure he leaves with it.’

‘We are good for it, sir,’ Emmanuel said, bridling.

Hooker’s teeth gleamed in the dull yellow bloom of a single candle. ‘Oh, I know you will pay,’ Hooker said, turning his piercing stare on Emmanuel, ‘for you fine gentlemen know that I will cut your throats if you don’t.’

Mun felt Emmanuel tense at this, but to his relief his friend did not bite back.

‘I will have the money ready,’ Mun said. We are supping with the Devil here, he thought.

Osmyn Hooker leant back on his stool and pulled his beard through a scarred fist.

‘Who is this man to you,’ he asked Mun, ‘that you risk so much, not least your father’s reputation?’

Mun was taken aback but tried not to show it. He had not revealed his name to the mercenary and yet Hooker knew he was Sir Francis Rivers’s son. ‘He is my brother,’ he said.

Those eyes weevilled into Mun’s soul. He got the strange feeling that the mercenary was somehow divining the pain in his heart, the torment of a family betrayed by a son, the sorrow of a brother set against his brother.

‘“He who brings trouble on his family will inherit only wind,”’ Hooker said, one eyebrow arched, and Mun was surprised for the second time for he had not expected such a man as this to quote from the Bible. He wondered too whether the quote was aimed at Tom or at Mun himself, for if their plan failed it would be questionable which of them had dragged the family name into the deeper mire.

Hooker stood, opened the tent’s flap and peered out at the camp. Two men engaged in hushed conversation passed close by and the mercenary waited at the threshold until they had gone, then he turned and locked eyes with Mun one last time.

‘Tomorrow night, then. Be ready.’ Mun’s eyes flicked to Emmanuel, then he nodded. But Hooker had gone.

‘I can see why Colonel Lunsford tried to recruit the man,’ Mun said. ‘I get the impression it would be better to have Osmyn Hooker in your pay than in your enemy’s.’ He worked a crick out of his neck, surprised how relieved he was that the mercenary was gone. ‘Where on earth did you find the fellow?’

Emmanuel grinned. ‘It was Hooker and his men that brought the silver out of Oxford. Officially it was Sir John Byron’s task, of course. Doesn’t look good His Majesty turning to the likes of Hooker to get jobs done. It’s too easy for folk to imagine the King will do the same thing to win this war . . . pay mercenaries from Ireland or the continent. But it was Hooker that delivered all that plate . . .’ Emmanuel smiled again, ‘while you were giving the rebels a good hiding at Powick Bridge. Gods, I wish I had been there.’