Bold and Blooded Read online

  Slater made a lunge towards Jacob. His son stepped away from him and then further back, having no wish to scuffle with his father. Slater saw this as fear and grabbed at his belt again and stumbled forward, swinging the heavy leather high over his shoulder. Jacob jumped to the side and the older man continued in a straight line, over the edge of the quarry, nearly twenty feet deep here.

  Slater landed head first and moved no more.

  “Thine father is dead, Jacob! Thou hast slain him in they wickedness!”

  “I never touched the vicious old brute, Mother! He died in his wicked rage. Send my sister to Pastor Doddington, bid him come and see all.”

  Half an hour brought the pastor to be witness.

  “He was in a screaming temper, Pastor, for my brother having walked off from our home and his beatings. In his anger he turned his belt on me, or would have done but that I stepped out of his reach. In blind rage he rushed forward and fell, as thou may see.”

  Pastor Doddington assumed his most formal stance, cast a grave eye on Jacob.

  “Wilt thou swear Bible oath, Jacob Slater, that this is so? Wilt thou assert on Holy Writ that thou didst not hit, trip or push thy father to his death?”

  “I shall swear on the Bible in front of the congregation, Pastor, that his death was none of my doing. No act of mine brought him to the fatal fall.”

  “Widow Slater, what say thee?”

  “Jacob did not touch his father, Pastor.”

  Mrs Slater had thought rapidly while waiting for the Pastor. Her own back would be less sore for her husband’s death, and Jacob was the man of the house now. If Jacob was found to be a felon, to have in any way encompassed his father’s death, then he could not inherit and the land must be lost to the Crown. The family would be put out on the road in short order, penniless and with nowhere to go.

  “My Jacob is not to blame, Pastor. His brother inflamed his father’s anger – and he was a man of short temper, as we all know too well. Micah is gone and we shall see him no more.”

  “The curse of Judas is upon him, Mrs Slater. A man of his colour is never safe – the sin in him will always rise to the surface. We are better that he is no longer with us.”

  The Pastor prayed briefly over the body and then left to organise a party of neighbours to assist in the recovery and laying out of the body. They would bury him in the morning, the weather being warm.

  Jacob did not work next day, having to be seen at the funeral and then needing to speak to his neighbour, Abednego Caton, who had five sons and the daughter, Rebecca, who was a very handsome lass and had attracted Jacob’s eye as well as Micah’s.

  Abednego possessed a small quarry, leasehold, paying a rental each quarter to the farmer who owned the land. He could find work for two of his sons but the younger three were a burden to him as he had little spare money from his labours.

  “Mr Caton, I am to work the Slater’s quarry, it now being mine. I cannot do all on my own, as must be seen. Thy third son, Joseph, is a man grown, and Samuel is a likely boy. Wouldst thou consent to the two entering into my employment as my labourers? Joseph knoweth full well how to cut the slabs and Samuel can take the barrow and learn as well how to trim the slates. They could live still at home, under thy roof.”

  Living at home, at least half of their wages would fall to Caton’s hand.

  Jacob did not know how much he could afford to pay in wages – his father had told him nothing about the money side of the quarry.

  “Sixpence a day, and a meal at midday, Jacob Slater. Three shillings a week each. That I think to be fair, and Pastor will no doubt tell us so.”

  The villagers did not cheat each other – Pastor Doddington would not tolerate sharp practice.

  Jacob closed on the deal with a formal handshake. Caton turned to his sons, gave them the glad news that they were to go into paid labour. Neither man asked the Caton boys what they wanted to do.

  Jacob smiled at Rebecca, received a very positive response. He said nothing, for that would be far too forward, especially on the day of his father’s funeral. He went home to a large meal, a meat stew cooked for the occasion; he sat at the head of the table, man of the house.

  “I shall want the big room before too many months, mother. I shall be wed before too long, or so I expect.”

  Mrs Slater made no reply. She possessed very little by way of clothing and nothing for personal adornment, could move out of the room in half an hour. She knew as well that she was no longer important in the house – she was part of the past.

  Micah was many miles distant at the time of his father’s funeral – he had found employment remarkably quickly and was now inclined to regret the fact.

  He had walked out through Easton on the Hill, not speaking to any of the foreigners there, and down to the valley of the Welland, crossing the bridge into Stamford hardly looking where he was going, his mind taken up in his thoughts.

  He was a man grown, and he had a skill – he was a quarryman. Where would he find another quarry to work in? There must be more quarries, elsewhere in England, but he had no idea where, and he did not know how to find out. It would not have to be a slate quarry – one hard stone was much the same as another, he suspected. He might find out more in town – they knew things in towns, not like villages which understood nothing.

  He stared at the town on its hill. Three great churches and the castle at their feet. He knew there was a large market square and a smaller although he could not exactly remember the road to either. If he crossed the bridge and followed the road in, he should find his way somewhere. He walked along, mouth open in surprise, gaping at the great houses and the stores and the tall steeples. He was very obviously the country boy come to town. He had barely made two hundred yards before a group of men stopped him and demanded to know who he was and where he was going.

  Micah stared at the five, seeing them to be wearing leather jerkins, all of the same sort, and breeches of a heavy cloth. They had similar hats as well, tricornes with a cockade in each.

  “Beg pardon, master. Just come into town lookin’ for work. Ain’t doin’ nowt wrong.”

  They smiled and nodded to each other, seemingly pleased with that response.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Micah Slater, master.”

  “Age?”

  “Well… I ain’t that sure, master, not to be certain, like. I reckons I be about eighteen years, for my Ma sayin’ I were born in the year Twenty-Two and I reckon it be the year Forty, or thereabouts, now.”

  “So it is, Micah Slater. You are well-grown and strong for your age, young man.”

  “Come from quarryin’, so it do, master. Been in the quarry since I were twelve years and come away from dame school.”

  “You have your letters?”

  “So I do, master. An’ I can count and do sums, a bit.”

  “Very good! And you wish to find a job of work, you say?”

  “So I do, master. Do you ‘ave such for the likes of I?”

  The man smiled broadly, spoke very kindly, in the friendliest fashion, in fact.

  “I do indeed, Micah Slater. Do you just come along with us to the rendezvous and we shall get you settled into a job that will keep you busy for many a year.”

  Micah was pleased to find that getting work was so easy. He had not imagined that he would be in the way of finding a job within the hour of reaching town.

  The rendezvous was in a tavern, the Bear and Ragged Staff, which worried Micah more than a little.

  “Beg pardon, master, but pastor said us weren’t never to go inside such a place as this what sells wicked liquors to addle men’s brains and set their feet on the paths of damnation.”

  “Ah, you are right, Micah Slater, but we are not to indulge in the sin of alcohol. It is just that we need a roof over our heads while we conduct our business. Come along now, you want to be found a job, do you not?”

  He did indeed and overcame his scruples and marched into the den of iniquity. He was r
ather disappointed that it seemed little more than a big and comfortable house with large rooms, mostly empty at the time of day.

  “You are back quickly, Sergeant Patterson.”

  The speaker was a small, black-haired man, perhaps half the age of Micah’s father or a little more, about thirty years, perhaps, but lean and alert-seeming and with half a grin on his face. His blue eyes twinkled with some sort of joke, Micah thought. He seemed a very pleasant man.

  “Yes, sir. Micah Slater here is wishful to find a job of work, having just come into town.”

  “Ah! I see. You have very kindly volunteered to aid the young man.”

  “Yes, sir. Young and strong, so he be, and got his letters. No more than eighteen years, sir.”

  “Just the right sort we are looking for, Sergeant Patterson! Now then young man, Slater, is it?”

  “Aye, sir. Micah Slater, of Collyweston, sir.”

  “Very good – I see you know your manners. You have the opportunity, Micah Slater to find work and to serve your King, Charles, First of that name. You will be paid and learn the arts of war and march together with fine companions and take the sword to the wicked Scots, and no doubt empty the pockets of those who fall in their sin. What say you, Micah Slater, will you serve your King?”

  No wise man could directly refuse to obey his King’s commands. The Pastor had made it very clear that a man owed duty to God and to his rightful ruler. ‘Render unto God that which is God’s, and unto Caesar that which belongs to him’ – the text was clear in his memory.

  “Aye, sir. If so be my King needs me, then I must come to his call.”

  “Well said indeed, young sir! All that remains is for you to sign your name – for you say you have your letters – on the company roll, just here…”

  Micah found himself with a quill pen in his hands. He signed in a clear Italianate hand, bold and flourishing.

  “Well done, young man! You write well. It may be so that you will be of use to the colonel in keeping his books. We shall see when the Band comes together. For the while, you are a soldier in the Trained Band of Lincolnshire and will march to the drum. I am Captain Holdby and you belong to Sergeant Patterson’s company. Obey orders and you will come to no harm, soldier!”

  Micah was not at all sure that he wished to be a soldier, but it was within reason clear that it was too late now to change his mind.

  “Yes, sir. Thank’ee, sir.”

  “Take him away, Sergeant Patterson.”

  Chapter Two

  Years of Blood Series

  Bold and Blooded

  “Beg pardon, Sergeant Patterson, but what ‘appens next?”

  “For you, my son? You sits down with the other willing volunteers for this day, and maybe the next couple. When the time comes, you shall march to Lincoln, which will take three days of easy pace. There… well, that will be dealt with when it comes. For the moment, let us march thee downhill to the castle by the river and then dispose of thee there.”

  It was not a huge castle, a small keep and a single curtain wall, but impressive enough to a village boy who had seen it only rarely and from a distance. The gates were open and there was no sentry to them and Micah could see a small group of disconsolate young men, and one or two of the middle-aged, sat on the grassy part of the bailey, next to a wagon. The wagon was large, to his eyes, and had a canvas tilt and a pole to which four horses could be yoked up.

  “Seven recruits, all that Stamford has afforded us yet, Micah Slater. You make eight, and we need two score – and will be lucky to make a dozen. The people of Stamford show little love for their king, it seems.”

  “Begging thy pardon, Sergeant Patterson, but the villages close by might have young men to come to thy call.”

  “Possibly so, Micah Slater, but the Mayor will not permit us to make that call. We are to seek men in the town itself and the borough will find from the villages, but I have seen none to come yet.”

  Micah had nothing to do with people so important, knew nothing of their reasoning.

  “Sergeant Patterson, some of they men do ‘ave iron shackles about they wrists.”

  “Aye. Six of the seven, Micah Slater. They are gaol deliveries. Wicked felons released to serve in the army rather than be hanged or sent overseas as convicts. But they are not to be unshackled until far from their homes so that they will not run away. Once in Lincoln, distant in foreign parts, they can be set into their ranks, for having no place to run to.”

  Micah could accept that – he knew of Lincoln, had heard of its name, but did not know where it was and knew nobody who had actually been there, and come back again.

  “Your buff coat and boots will be issued in Lincoln. For the while, a knapsack and a blanket and a leather ground sheet, all from the wagon. Look after them, for there are only a few and they will not be replaced if lost or stolen You will sleep on the ground more often than not, young man, and will find it wet and cold with no leather sheet underneath thee.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Patterson. Does I get a firelock, too, Sergeant?”

  “Not here, you don’t! You might, when you get to Lincoln, but more like you will carry a pike, being a strong built man. We shall see, and it will not be my say so but the captain’s, or the colonel even.”

  Micah sat down on the grass and wondered just what had happened to him in so short a time. He was to be a soldier, to carry a pike, whatever that might be. He must do as he was told. He had a suspicion that there would be fetters around his own wrists if he attempted to walk away, and he had no home to go to, so there was no gain in so doing.

  “I must go in search of more willing volunteers, Micah Slater. While I am away, you will listen to and obey Corporal Meadows here.”

  Sergeant Patterson pointed to one of the middle-aged, dressed like him in a buff coat. Meadows grinned, showing very few teeth.

  “Welcome to our merry band, lad! Take a hold of one of they leather jacks over there.”

  Meadows pointed to a score of leather drinking mugs, of a size to hold a pint or thereabouts.

  “That is thine now. Go across to the riverside and wash it out. You got any sense, you shall keep it clean. Wash it every day. There is a wooden platter there as well, and a horn spoon. Take them with you, clean them, and keep them as thine own. Scrub them thoroughly and there is the chance that you will not die of the quickshits, boy. I tell you straight, Micah Slater, ten men will die of illness for every one who is killed by a Scot. Clean jack and plate and spoon will keep you the more safe. They are thine own – lend them to no man!”

  Pastor Doddington had long held that Cleanliness was next to Godliness, had demanded that his congregation should wash themselves clean of sin. It made sense to Micah that he should avoid disease by scrubbing his eating utensils and himself thoroughly.

  He knelt at the river bank and picked handfuls of sand and grit and scoured jack and plate and spoon repeatedly, rising them carefully when he was done. They were old and repeatedly used before he had seen them. The flat, square, wooden platter, about ten inches on a side was almost bowl shaped from being scoured over the years.

  He returned to the group.

  “Corporal Meadows, this old plate be close to the end of its days, so I reckon. What do I do when it breaks to pieces?”

  “Find another, Micah Slater. In camp, you might cut yourself another from any piece of wood you may lay your hands upon. If so be we fight the Scots, you may take from them as you can. If we are so fortunate as to be present at the intaking of town or fortress, then there will be loot to pocket, and the chance of a pewter plate or goblet perhaps.”

  “Bain’t that theft, Corporal Meadows?”

  “Not from the King’s enemies, boy! All that they have is forfeit as traitors and you are free to make such use of theirs as you can.”

  Micah had not known that. He was pleased to be told.

  “In the wagon, Micah, there is a barrel, do you see?”

  Corporal Meadows held out his own jack.

 
“Fill that for me and take one thine self. And thee, Jonathan,” he said to the only other man with free hands.

  Jonathan nodded and giggled and did not move.

  “God help us! Get him a mug, Micah Slater. Poor fellow is a natural, don’t know how to do nothing, but he can drink a pint with the best.”

  Micah had only taken small beer previously, a quart or so with every meal, water being unsafe to drink, as every man knew. Small beer had almost no alcohol content but the pint he supped now was strong. Pastor Doddington would have disapproved – but he was a soldier now and must obey the new rules.

  “There will be a hot drink with our meal tonight. Ash-key smouch, what is better than nothing.”

  Smouch was the sole hot drink known in Collyweston, a bitter brew but warming in winter and welcome after a day of labour. The village children all collected and dried the ash keys every year, their first useful labour. Every family had its rights to its own small clump of ash trees and tended them carefully. Cutting an ash for firewood was a sin of the highest order, except the tree was shown to be dead.

  “If you have any pennies in thine purse, Micah Slater, you may wish to purchase a pouch of smouch to bring with thee on the march. We shall all buy when we are paid, share and share alike. For the while, I have a few pennies of my own and none other here has so much as a mite.”

  “Where do I buy smouch, Corporal Meadows? Ain’t never heard of buying it.”

  “Bloody village joskins! I shall show thee tomorrow, Micah!”

  They sat and talked – apart from Jonathan, who possibly did not know how to – and Micah discovered a little about the men he was to soldier with.

  Corporal Meadows had followed the drum all of his life – he had been born to the colours, he said, his mother a camp follower. His father, he did not mention.

  “Tried to make I a sergeant, so they did, and more nor once, but there ain’t no point to that game. Sergeants gives orders and got to stick their heads up. Corporals got it soft. Best cut of the meat, if there is any, and bread that ain’t too mouldy. Add to that, when it comes to sentry-go, the corporal sits by the fire and tells the men to walk their beats. Fill me jack up again, Micah Slater.”