Wintercombe, page 58
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
And if the villagers did keep them out of Norton, Wintercombe alone would carry the burden of feeding them.
The winter’s depredations lay listed in her neat, clear hand on a small stack of paper in the study. The apple trees, a third cut down for firewood or for a makeshift barrier for the fortifications. Timber in the hedgerows around the house, chopped up for the same purpose, and to make the horselines. Of Sir Samuel’s prized herd of Somerset milch kine, only a half were left, though mostly the younger animals, good milkers and proven mothers. Fortunately the bull, a massive and vicious beast called Russet, had proved more than a match for greedy soldiers, and still inhabited one of the paddocks opposite Clevinger’s cottage. But the sheep, not an extensive flock in this dairying country, had dwindled to a poor fraction of their former numbers, the bailiff s pigs were down to two sows and their new litters, and not even the wiliest and quickest hens had survived both the soldiers and the attentions of a local fox. Hay, straw, oats, wheat, flour, peas and beans, barley, cider, wine and beer, hams and bacon, eggs and milk and cheeses and butter — all had had to be bought because the soldiers had taken their stores. Add to this tally the damage caused by disturbances and searches and riots, thought Silence sadly, and the cost to the Wintercombe estate had run into hundreds, if not thousands of pounds. And the destruction of the house at Chard had not come into her reckoning at all…
They could afford it; they would not starve. There was still silver and gold under her mattress, and the land itself could not be destroyed. Sir Samuel had died a very wealthy man, his riches well able to absorb such heavy expense and depredation.
But it would be some years before Wintercombe returned to the position it had enjoyed before Colonel Ridgeley and his locusts had descended upon it.
If it had not been for Nick, his forbearance and fairness, it could have been very much worse. She did not like to think of the greatness of the debt they owed him. She missed him, in the long, lonely evenings, at any moment when she had time to stop, and think, and remember with an unhappy mixture of joy and guilt, their last conversation, and above all the moment when he had kissed her.
Just to recall it made her shiver with longing, and caused her bones to melt. And she had spoken of love, at last, and so had he. And then they had parted, perhaps for ever. The fortunes of war might well ensure that he never returned, perhaps sent into Cornwall, or to Bristol, or marched off with the rest of Goring’s army to attack the Parliament forces. She knew that such a thing was quite likely; she had even convinced herself, in the dark, unhappy hours she spent when sleep eluded her, that she could accept such an eventuality. What she refused to face, turning her mind resolutely from the possibility, was the very real chance that he would be killed, perhaps in some small, pointless skirmish many miles away, and that she would never know what had happened to him.
Nor, if she were honest with herself, did one kiss, one agonised exchange of emotions, give her the right to know. To the world, she was Lady St. Barbe, wife, mother, housewife. She had duties to do, tasks to perform. The departure of the soldiers was a profound relief, greatly easing the burden on their resources and vastly improving both the daily life of the household, and its moral tone. The misguided children, in their innocence and naivety, might show distress; for Silence, there was no such luxury.
May turned to June, and shook off the cold weather, the rain and wind. Suddenly there was sunshine and warmth, and the garden, which had hesitated during the bad spell, burst into instant and joyous life. Birds sang, fledglings hopped perilously about the gravel walks, risking the malicious attentions of Pye and the bumbling, good-humoured pursuit of Lily, swallows and swifts swooped and dived above the orchard, twittering, and fed their offspring in mud nests under the eaves until the light drained from the sky and bats took their place in the insect-laden air. The roses came into bloom all at once, and the higher knots, where they grew, were a mass of colour: red flowers, white ones, petals of such a dark crimson they seemed almost black, others the palest sun-washed pink, and the showy stripes of Rosa Mundi and York-and-Lancaster. Every afternoon, when the dew had dried, Silence or Mally would take out a basket and gather the fallen petals and shake those that were about to drop, often helped by Tabby, Deb and William. Then they were carefully dried, to make pomanders or to scent clothes and chambers, or infused in water or oil as the basis for a vast variety of perfumes, cordials, ointments and recipes.
It was a busy time: what with work in the still-room, the dairy and the rest of the house, Silence found herself with little leisure to brood, and to think of Nick, and was thankful. Tabby’s ninth birthday passed with much merriment and laughter, strawberries and new cream, skimmed by Rachael, for her dinner. Pye succumbed to the attentions of the lean iron-grey cat who kept the kitchen and store-rooms clear of vermin. There was a new serving-maid, Christian Merrifield, the eldest of Mally’s half-sisters, somewhat taller but even more brightly capped with hair and scattered with freckles. She annoyed Eliza with her empty chatter, but earned her grudging approval for the unbounded energy and efficiency with which she set about her tasks.
Leah and Bessie were no longer missed: the former, rejected by her disgusted family, had gone to Bristol for a whore, so village rumour asserted, and the latter remained at home, her belly swelling up daily, mark of the shame she should properly feel, and evidently did not in the least. Since Bessie was not sorry for herself, Silence would not pity her: that she would reserve for the unfortunate, base child, when it was born in the autumn.
If it had not been for Captain Bull and his men, the war would have seemed impossibly distant and remote. And this sorry band, their coats patched and threadbare, their boots down-at-heel, too demoralised to indulge in the lewd, riotous and destructive high spirits that had so frequently distinguished — if that was the right word — the troopers, particularly under Ridgeley’s leadership, did not seem somehow to be part of the Royal army, but a collective piece of disreputable flotsam washed up on an isolated beach by a high tide, and left stranded there. Captain Bull, a man of limited resource in every sense, was always courteous to her in a rather preoccupied way, and for the most part used Clevinger and Darby as his intermediaries. The Lieutenant, Combe, and Ensign Parset were shadowy figures, glimpsed in the barton, on guard, or in the nether regions of the house. They too were polite but distant, even cold. She wondered if they thought of her as the enemy, and certainly she felt little attraction towards these dour, gloomy men and their tatterdemalion and dwindling company — every week saw more deserters.
And then, in the third week of June, a bright, blowy season when poor Jemmy had had to stake all the foxgloves, the news came. The King and his army, against the considered advice of Prince Rupert, had unwisely sought battle with General Fairfax, and had comprehensively lost it. The army was broken, dispersed, many good men taken prisoner or slain, and all the King’s baggage captured, including his highly incriminating correspondence with the Queen, revealing his plans to bring over Papist troops from Ireland. Even the loyal officers at Wintercombe were shocked by this: Ensign Parset, who was so desperate to share the terrible news with someone, anyone, that he told Silence when he encountered her in the courtyard, seemed bewildered and distressed, as if a parent he loved and respected had suddenly betrayed him.
It was said, he added, his round, earnest young face crinkled with anguish, that the battle had been lost because of Goring’s wilful disobedience to the orders bidding him march out of the West and join forces with the King. Goring’s excuse had been that he must continue the blockade of Taunton, and erase all resistance to his rule. Instead, he had indulged in wild debauches that lasted four or five days together, while supplies to the beleaguered town passed unhindered through his lines, and men, sickened and demoralised, deserted in ever-increasing numbers. And the New Model Army, blooded and confident, was marching westwards with all speed, to make an end of this sorry crew, the last force of any size left to the King’s side anywhere in England.
*
The Clubmen of southern Somerset, used to Goring’s plunder and rapine, were amazed by this army, the well-clad, well-drilled, well-equipped men, the determination and enthusiasm of the officers, and above all the fact that they committed no rape, stole nothing, and paid good coin for what they took. Goring’s men plundered even when contributions were paid to them, and let their baser instincts run riot, unpunished.
For Nick Hellier, it was an experience he wished never to repeat. As he had expected, Goring was a drunken, idle brute, reputedly an excellent commander in times of crisis — and sobriety — but content to lie in his quarters about Taunton, swilling stolen wine and conducting acrimonious feuds with other Western commanders such as Grenville and Berkeley, while his men, deprived of positive leadership, plundered and destroyed at will. The countryside was a pitiful sight, fields lying derelict for want of corn to seed them, trees hacked down, houses burned, hardly a cow or a sheep to be seen, and this in an area once described as the paradise of England because of its greenness and fertility, and the beauty of its orchards. By comparison, Wintercombe and Philip’s Norton were almost untouched.
There was no money, and the soldiers were paid in plunder. Goring had discovered a convenient method of obtaining coin for essential supplies. A detachment of men would be sent to detain some still-wealthy gentleman, usually of the Roundhead persuasion, who would only be released when his anxious family had paid a substantial ransom. In this way, quite large sums were obtained, until the local gentry told the people that the soldiers could legitimately be resisted, with force if need be, for they had shattered the law of the countryside. Already desertion and sickness had reduced the ranks of his men: less than forty remained to him now, and Byam, always the sot, had degenerated so far into drink that he was not sober even in the morning. At least, however, Nick had managed to halt his attempts on the virtue of a maidservant at the farmhouse where they were quartered. Johnny Byam knew what had happened to Ridgeley, and some deep-buried instinct of self-preservation made him desist. He had turned instead to an obliging widow in the nearby village, who also conveniently kept the alehouse.
Nick had wondered if he should send Byam packing. But men, even in such a condition as this, were a vital and reducing resource; his own competence would most likely be called into question, if he did. And why make an example of Byam, who had after all once been his friend, when the army’s commander was even deeper sunk in drink?
So, reluctantly, he tolerated the man, curbed his excesses and made sure that he was never put in a position of unrelieved responsibility. Tom Wickham, the unofficial Lieutenant, took over Byam’s duties with weary resignation, understanding the situation perfectly. Long after their inebriated colleague had collapsed over, or under, the table, the two men, Captain and Cornet, would sit with a jug of cider, their tobacco smoke writhing up to the low-beamed ceiling of the farmhouse parlour, discussing the deteriorating situation in the West.
The writing was plain on every wall, and both knew it. And Nick, at least, was utterly weary of this seemingly never-ending conflict. For the sake of themselves, their families and homes and, perhaps more importantly, the families and homes of the distressed people on whom they sucked and clung like life-draining leeches, they should quietly split up and go their separate ways tomorrow.
But they would not: he knew they would not. Some, the dregs, the desperate, the faint-hearted, had gone already, but what kept these men together? Was it camaraderie, the spirit of companionship that had been forged in hardship and battle, or the opportunities offered, to men who had never had very much, of free plunder and rape, the chance to throw off all restraint and go unpunished? Or another kind of fear, the fear of going back to a world that did not understand, of return to boredom, poverty, debt, perhaps to a disliked wife, or one who had set horns on her husband’s head in his absence?
He thought of Silence, even at moments when she seemed far from his mind. The sight of a slender woman in mulberry or blue might catch his eye and jerk his heart; the foxgloves in the hedges, a black-and-white cat sunning itself in a doorway, a mother smiling at her child, all brought her presence back, painfully and with unbearable vividness before his eyes. He had never loved like this, had never known before this agonising intensity, sharp as if caused by a dagger, the sleeplessness, the longing. Drink — not in the quantities imbibed by Byam, just a few tankards — helped to dull his senses, but on any fine June morning, all birdsong and fresh green, the hedges frothing with flowers, her presence was so real that he felt her shadow riding beside him, quiet, unassuming, utterly beloved.
He did not know why it should be her, so unlike all other women to whom he had been attracted: he only knew that it was her face, pale, calm, some might say ordinary and insipid were it not for the size and beauty of her eyes, her voice, low, dry, apt to laughter, her smile, her meek and modest bearing so at odds with the recklessness and rebellion still sparking beneath, all combining to make a woman as unusual and lovely as her name.
And one reason for staying in the army was that by doing so he had a chance, small and remote, of seeing her again. No matter that she had turned his love aside, despairing; only to see her, he said to himself with a desperation that in itself gave him the lie. Only to see her, no more, and then somehow I will be cured of this malady.
Inexorably, Fairfax’s army marched unhindered southwards, while the King, eternally optimistic, lingered in Wales and looked forward to a new army formed of enthusiastic Welshmen. Reports of the New Model Army’s approach reached Goring’s quarters daily: they were at Salisbury, Dorchester, Blandford. Goring, working his way through good wine sent from Wyndham, the Governor of Bridgwater, realised abruptly, and somewhat belatedly, that Nemesis was at hand if he did not bestir himself. Bridgwater and Bristol, his remaining sources of men and supplies, must be protected. For the moment, Taunton could wait.
Reinforcements from Wales were expected: waiting for them, Goring withdrew to the country around Langport, relying on the rivers that criss-crossed the low, marshy countryside to block the New Model’s advance. But the rain-swollen streams, their bridges for the most part destroyed, proved no great obstacle to the advancing Roundheads. They crossed the Parret at Petherton Bridge, without meeting very much resistance, and the River Yeo with even greater ease, thanks to the inefficiency of the Sherborne garrison, which was supposed to be guarding it. The Cavaliers fell back towards Langport, and Goring, outwitted and outmanned, considered his next move.
The Welsh levies were on their way, and he must if possible wait for them. Meanwhile, there was a desperate chance of splitting Fairfax’s army. Goring’s brother-in-law, George Porter, his boon companion in debauch, was sent with the better part of the cavalry towards Taunton, to draw a force of Roundheads after him.
Nick’s troop did not go with them; they had been attached to Sir John Digby’s Horse, one of those left behind at Langport. He was relieved, not trusting Porter’s somewhat dubious qualities of leadership, and the next day, when the news came in of their ignominious defeat, he was extremely thankful for this narrow escape. Porter’s men had been taking their ease at Ilminster, the men lounging on the banks of the river, or bathing in it, the officers drinking in taverns. Most heinous of all, there was no look-out posted, no one on watch to cry a warning when Colonel Massey and his four thousand horse came charging across the river out of a clear day. More than half the Royalist force were slain or captured, and Porter somehow got the remnant back to Langport, and the fury of his brother-in-law and commander. They had had little enough chance before; now, matters were truly desperate.
Goring and his men discussed their strategy late into the night, while their officers drank their cares away in the Langport taverns, and the New Model Army, only a couple of miles distant, fortified itself with prayer and the unassailable conviction of the righteousness of its cause. The people of Somerset had hailed them as deliverers from Goring’s evil band of plunderers, had greeted them with thrown flowers and cheers and tears of joy. They had God with them, and the wicked men of blood could not prevail.
Early next morning, Nick Hellier sat his horse at the head of his men, on the crest of a low hill just outside Langport. The sky was pale and milky with mist, promising another dry and dusty day, a pleasant contrast to the heavy rain of the previous week. A mile away, to the south-east, lay another low hill, topped by windmills, on which could just be seen an amorphous dark mass: the feared New Model Army. And between the two ran a long, narrow lane, dipping down to ford a small but deep, swift-flowing stream, then climbing once more, lined with high hedges, towards Goring’s position. To attack, the Roundhead cavalry would have to advance no more than three or four abreast up this constricted highway, in the blaze of fire from the musketeers whom Goring had ordered to line the hedge on each side, and cover the ford. All the cannon had been sent with the baggage back to Bridgwater, bar the two that had been placed at the top of the lane: but Fairfax had artillery, and it was their bombardment which began the battle.
The horses, mostly inured to loud noises, stood resigned, champing at their bits and trying to snatch grass, their ears flickering at the explosions. Nick soothed his chestnut, and wondered at the detachment he felt, as if someone else sat here and risked death for a cause he now doubted. No missiles came near them, but soon reports arrived that their own guns had been disabled by a well-aimed shot from the enemy. Then the crackle of musket-fire, further down the hill, announced the advance of the Roundhead infantry: but the enemy cannon kept up the fire, making it impossible for those on the hill to go to the aid of their comrades at the ford. And slowly, inexorably, the superior morale and equipment and efficiency and numbers of Fairfax’s men began to tell.
It was almost noon, and swelteringly hot despite the brisk westerly breeze. Clouds, high and blazingly white, divided the sky and provided grateful relief when they happened to obscure the sun. At Wintercombe, it would be dinner-time: he thought of the cool, dim dining parlour, the oaken panelling and the white-clothed table at the centre, laden with country produce — pork, beef, lamb, fish, fowl, cheeses, tarts and syllabubs and pasties. And Silence, cool and smiling and remote in the tawny gown she had worn for the Prince of Wales, the only clothing she possessed which enhanced her subtle looks rather than shrouded them. He chewed on the stale bread and cheese that was all that Langport had been able to offer them, and Wintercombe filled his mind like a jewel of great price, beautiful, yearned for, and at this moment as unattainable as the moon. So great was his longing for the house, and the lady who ruled it, that it formed a physical pain in his chest, and the bread turned tasteless as dust in his mouth. He swallowed it with some difficulty, and peered down the hill, trying to see what was happening.
