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Chapter 41


Ben Sandown rode west at the head of the company of mercenaries. A distant church clock struck nine. Rain threatened ahead, but it was hours away. Plenty of time to make their destination and do what needed doing. They were making haste. Beside him, Captain Rawl kept his gaze far out on the road. That was why Ben liked to work with him. He didn’t like surprises, and did everything possible to gain intelligence in advance. A good thing, too, when dealing with the irregular troops riding behind.

Beginning before dawn, they’d ridden from one to another of the confiscated manors to collect the available mercenaries. He left a couple of reasonably trusted men in each to make sure that the dispossessed families didn’t try to enter them in the absence of the larger force. Not only did he have most of his original company, but in reply to his latest letter, the Earl of Cork had given him leave to employ another squad of German and Irish soldiers for pay for this specific enterprise, giving him a force of forty strong men. Although their armaments and weaponry varied hugely, every one of them had at least two pistols with fifty balls and powder. Some had muskets with ammunition. All were armed with viciously sharpened knives. A number had swords, but those were an odd collection from different armies and nations. Strahan, an Irishman who had never been anywhere east of London, possessed a Russian saber that was his pride and joy. To his credit, he wielded it with a skilled hand and fierce glee. Ben was glad that he was the one paying the man’s salary, and not his opponent. In all, it wasn’t a polished band, but it had proved an effective one. They’d had no trouble fulfilling the orders he had given them.

Most of the defiant northern landowners were a simple eviction and dismissal. He was under strict instructions to make certain that the greatest asset of the property was safely obtained, and kept in good working order. Obeying that instruction was the reason why Ben had kept his position with Richard Boyle all this time. Too, he was curious to discover if indeed the machines in the de Beauchamp weavers’ barn contained weaponry or not.

His lordship had a bee in his bonnet over that family, devil only knew why. His lordship had given him a solid bollocking in the last letter he had received over letting the boy escape. It stung a bit, and Ben had held back the information that the peddler he had hired to translate had thrown a fireball at him and managed to get away clean. Not only that, his lordship was unsatisfied by the report he had given on what they had elicited from the boy. Cork wanted to know more. Were the devices simple labor-saving weaving machines, or could they be stretched to other purposes? How many men were involved in the enterprise? Had they had any contact with other landowners? Was de Beauchamp raising an army?

No, he wasn’t, at least from what Ben had seen on his visit to the estate. The artisans were hardly soldiers, although Ben had trained up good mercenaries from men like that. They were interested in nothing but their craft, their lives, and their rivalries, like poor old Cedric. Employing a couple of Germans—what of that? Until the American history books had begun to circulate, it was of no moment to see foreigners abroad throughout the country. Any alliances that had been formed in earlier days had fallen away. The isolation was doing Great Britain no real good. If King Charles wanted to make the events of the future come true, he was going about it in exactly the right way. In the meanwhile, Ben had a task to fulfill.

His lordship wanted possession of these devices at once, to give him time to explore their workings at his leisure. Another example set for the northern nobility that the king’s fist could come down on them at any time, for any reason, and there was nothing that they could do about it. The benefit of a force like his meant that if something went amiss, his lordship, and the king, had the ability to say that they’d had nothing to do with it.

“Barlaston two miles ahead, sir,” Captain Rawl said. His sharp eye had picked out a signpost amid the trees that was only just becoming visible to Ben.

He nodded sharply. “Keep formation. Speak to no one. The manor is on the southwest side of the town.”

“Is there a road around the edge of town?” Rawl asked. “We’ll draw attention.”

“Not a good one. The closest is sadly rutted and has a stream passing over it at the bottom of a hill. The best track is on the other side of town, and we’ll be seen either way. Best to go through and shame the devil. There’s nothing the townsfolk can do to stop us.” Ben grinned. “The weavers’ll not even see us, as they’ll all be in the barn at work. We’ll be on them before they can do aught.”

“Orders as usual?”

“Up to a point,” Ben said. “Take the house, but make fast the outbuilding down slope where the weavers work. His lordship wants the machines preserved intact.”

“And the workers?”

“Dissuade any of them that resist,” Ben said. “I believe they’ll fall into line if you need to discipline one at the outset.”

If Captain Rawl was curious as to what was so special about a room full of weavers, he didn’t ask. Another good reason why he was the leader of choice. He’d served for twelve years in the army of the Electorate of Saxony, and moved on when he didn’t get promoted. It was all political, as the officer put over him was a cousin or nephew of the Elector, John. Too bad. He should have been a colonel by now. Saxony’s loss, England’s gain.

At a copse of trees near the next mile marker, they halted for any of the men who needed to adjust their saddles or take a piss. Once they got moving, he didn’t want any delays. Rawl rode around the group, taking note of loose breastplates or helmets set too far back on heads and barking corrections at them. A stream running next to the road gave the horses a chance for a last drink. Ben twitched with impatience in his own saddle.

Soon they were on their way at an easy trot. This should be a straightforward eviction, an hour or two at the most to see the squire and his family on their way. A good reward awaited him and his men once he had secured the aqualators for the king.

* * *

A salamander in fire was the banner fluttering over the horseman at the head of a long double file of soldiers. James Douglas, second son of William, 1st Marquess of Douglas and friend and cousin to Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll, nodded to a passing carter. The man, hauling a load of cloth-wrapped bales northward on the road leading to Stoke-on-Trent, gave a wary look at the ranks of kilted horsemen. As their redheaded leader with the long face and tidy trimmed beard didn’t seem hostile or much interested in him, the tradesman smacked his beast’s rump with his whip and carried on along his way.

The men laughed as the small wagon disappeared over the hill behind them.

“We’ll be a nine-days’ wonder to him, no mistake,” James said.

“It feels like we’ve been abroad nine days already,” said his companion, Henry Paisley.

“It’s no’ been that long. Ye haven’t had enough time to grow calluses on yer buttocks. But I’ll be glad to relax once we arrive.”

“I hope they’ve room to put us up,” Henry grumbled.

“Ye’ve slept on a battlefield before this,” Alex said cheerfully to his friend and long-time lieutenant. “At least no one is trying to blow yer head off.”

“And that’s a small comfort!”

James chuckled. The sun had risen high enough that it was striking him squarely in the eyes as they rode south. He pulled the brim of his hat down to shield them. Three days on the road so far, with another half-day, or so James estimated. He was glad to do a favor for his cousin, Archibald. He hoped that the twenty-four soldiers at his back wouldn’t be needed, but prepared was better than taken unawares. They’d all served in the Scots Regiment in France, and returned home again five months before. James had gladly ceded the colonelcy to another Scots commander who was on fire to prove himself in service to the French king. He’d welcomed Archibald’s mission, as he had not yet decided what to do with himself since his return. A second son had to make his own way in the world. What was the old saying? The first son was the heir, the second went to the military, the third to the church. He’d done the second, and now had no office to which to return. He’d been raised in the Catholic faith, but was hardly fanatic enough to want to spend his life in holy orders.

Ah, well, he’d see what he would do once he returned to Scotland from England. From the rumors, all hell was bound to break loose up there with regard to the disagreement between the Catholic Church and the Protestants. Might be a position for a well-trained soldier such as himself.

He let his horse have his head, and set an easy pace southward.

* * *

Gaynor, the barmaid of the Four Alls, dropped the dishpan she had been emptying in the rear yard of the inn, and came rushing inside.

“Soldiers!” Her voice squeaked. She took a deep breath. “Soldiers! A whole army! Riding this way!”

“What?” Master Blackford asked, enjoying his second pint of the day. Nearly all of the estate’s weavers were enjoying a morning drinking. They meant to take full advantage of the half day off, as Sir Timothy had granted them, and the guild master thought it would be a fine idea to join them. He set down his mug. “You must be mistaken, Gaynor my girl. There’s no battles going on hereabouts.”

“See for yourself, master,” Gaynor said. She rushed to the window and pulled it ajar. Half the patrons in the tavern crowded around her to look. Ivy Wilkinson ducked underneath the guild master’s arm to see.

Two men wearing armored breastplates and shining helmets led a double file of riders that seemed to stretch most of the way through the small village. Anyone could see that the men had guns and swords. Their faces were grim set. At the pace they were going, it wasn’t a pleasant day’s ride out, no, indeed.

“By heaven,” Ned Bywater said, horrified. “It’s not an army, but there’s dozens of them.”

“What can their aim be?” Gaynor asked. She appealed to her father, the barman, who watched the parade with a speculative eye.

“They want nothing here,” he said. “They’re not even looking around them. No, they’re passing through this town.”

“But where? Where are they bound?”

“There’s only one place,” Fred Wilkinson piped up from his table near the bar. “They’re bound for the squire’s manor. That’s the way they’re heading.”

“No!” Master Blackford said. “Fred, you’ve got to be mistaken.”

“I’m not,” the master weaver said stubbornly. “There’s naught that lies in that direction but Churnet House! He’s been worried about the king’s men for a long while. Ye’ve all heard the rumors of other lords being turned out and made homeless. What if that should happen to the squire?”

Daniel Taylor looked appalled. “Why would that happen? He’s paid his taxes. And the brocade has been bringing in plenty of money. What we made yesterday would nearly pay a quarter’s levy.”

“But the taxes have been going up for us all,” Master Matthew agreed. “And the squire’s been having a rough couple of years. You know our wages hadn’t increased until recently. Spring quarter day was months back. If the king’s assessors have only just been working their way through the rolls, they could be here for a missed payment.”

“But we’ve been working our way back to prosperity all this summer,” Ned said. He sent a guilty glance back toward the corner, where Cedric Hollings was drinking by himself. The fourth master weaver still had not been readmitted to Sir Timothy’s good graces yet, nor had his journeyman, but Ned was a more social man. “I’m sure that Piers Losen has sent the money to the king.”

“We don’t know what goes on in that man’s head,” Master Walter said.

“Do not speak so of the reeve,” Master Blackford said. “Piers is a good and faithful servant, and skilled at his work. It must be another destination they are bound for.”

“Stop this knocking about,” Fred said. “If these soldiers are bound for the squire’s house, it could be the end of our prosperity! No more brocade. No more brocade, no more rich takings.”

“As if you gave a care for the brocade,” Walter said.

“Master Twelvetrees, this is unworthy of you!” Master Blackford said, shocked.

Fred’s face turned bright red. “I give a care for the squire and his family. They’ve always been good to us. If the estate turns to the Crown, His Majesty won’t care who runs the looms. We’ll be out of jobs. Better to defend our own than let the king take it all over!”

“Aye,” Daniel Taylor said, coming to stand with Fred. “We’ll face down the soldiers and find out if it’s a mistake that sent them here. If not, I’m prepared to fight for him!”

“Best not to face them empty handed,” Master Matthew said, holding up cautioning hands. “Arm up, all of you. Who is with us?” He turned to look into the faces one at a time.

“I am!”

“And I!”

“I’m coming, too,” Ivy said. Lily Dale put her arm around her friend.

“And so am I!”

“No, ye won’t!” Fred said. “Go home, the both of you.”

“It’s our livelihood, and our friends,” Ivy said.

“Let them come. I will stand with him, too,” Master Blackford said. “He has been a good friend to the craft, and to all of us.”

With the guild master’s endorsement, one after another rose to their feet. They all knew the truth. Sir Timothy de Beauchamp had always had their backs, and he must not face injustice alone.

“I’ll come,” Cedric Hollings said, his voice hoarse. He made his way to stand beside Fred. “I’ve made a mistake. I won’t make another one.”

“And welcome you are!” Master Blackford barked out orders, as if the roomful of weavers was a band of apprentices. “Get home, find what arms you can. We can’t get there before the soldiers do, but we’ll be there soon enough. Spread the word and let anyone else who will join us come as soon as they may. We have to defend the squire!”

* * *

“What in the infernal regions?” old Jacob Damson asked, as the sound of jingling of horse tackle reached his ears. The balding septuagenarian drew himself up from his chair with some difficulty and made his way out behind the tall iron gate. “No one is expected today until the afternoon.”

“Is it a goods wagon?” his granddaughter Anne asked. She came out, wiping her hands on her apron. She had been sorting berries for jam on the table in the kitchen of the gatehouse and left red smears on the starched white of her pinafore.

“Ranulf’s wagons don’t sound like that,” Jacob said. His eyes widened as horsemen in armor trotted up the road and halted at the gate. “Soldiers! Who are you?” he demanded.

“Open up!” the first horseman shouted at him. “Open in the name of the king!”

Jacob peered through the iron bars at them. “I do not open without my gentleman’s permission, sir. State your name and your business, and I’ll put it to him.”

The leader signed to a couple of his men. They swung off their mounts and pulled at the gates, trying to open them. Jacob was glad to have them firmly locked.

“Now, you stop that at once!” he yelled. “Andrew! Go get the squire! On the trot!”

Andrew Catlow came out of the woodshed, the axe still in his hand from chopping firewood. At the sight of the soldiers, he took off running toward the house.

“Stop him,” the leader called over his shoulder.

One of the men on horseback lowered a musket to his shoulder and cocked back the hammer. Jacob saw the movement. He threw himself at the iron bars, his hand outstretched in supplication.

“No!” he begged. “No, don’t do it! It’d be murder. Please!”

Bang. Jacob turned in horror. Andrew went limp and fell full length on the ground. Anne ran to him and turned him onto his back.

“Dad! Dad!”

“No, Anne, no!” Jacob said, hobbling to kneel beside her. “Go to the house. Tell the squire. Oh, Andrew, my boy. Go on!” He pushed the girl to her feet. She needed no further urging, and left her grandfather sobbing over her father’s body.

“Over you go,” Ben said to the soldiers shaking the gates. “Get the key from him. Move!”

The two men stopped tugging at the wrought iron. One of them put his hands together, and the other stepped into it. He pulled himself over the tall spikes and dropped easily to the ground. With a couple of steps, he reached the gatekeeper and pulled him up by his shoulder. Ben could see that the old man was frail and probably weighed less than eight stones.

“Give me the keys, granddad,” the soldier said. “Give them!”

Jacob, still weeping, took the keys from his belt and threw them a dozen feet away.

The soldier put a scornful foot in the old man’s belly and shoved him over. Jacob fell next to the still-bleeding body of the younger man.

The gate was well-oiled and swung open without a sound. The rest of the soldiers swarmed into the grounds.

By then, the house had been warned. The little girl had raced toward it, screaming and pointing back toward her grandfather. One of the gardeners, a burly man with a monk’s tonsure of gray hair, swept her off her feet and carried her inside. The door slammed shut. Windows that had been open to take in the summer breeze were pulled in and latched. From the rear of the house, a slender man with long legs took off running. He disappeared down a slope.

“He’s gone for help,” Rawl said.

“That won’t hold us out long,” Ben said. “Give your orders.”

“Dismount! Form up,” Rawl commanded. “Four rows. Stay well back until we see if they’ve got any guns.”

“Bah,” Ben said. “If the squire ever saw service, it was twenty years back. The most they’ll have is a fowling piece or so.”

The mercenaries tied their horses to stakes and armed themselves with pistol and sword.

“Be ready,” Ben said. “The king’s newest asset must be disturbed as little as possible.”



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