Shadow of the Raven (24 page)

D
espite Sir Montagu's order to ban the beating of the bounds, a small cohort of villagers had decided to defy him. Knowing they ran the risk of arrest, they had approached the Reverend Unsworth for his blessing. Traditionally it was the vicar who led the procession, guiding it to various landmarks or bounds on the edges of the parish and stopping by each one to say prayers or give a short sermon. The younger ones loved to beat the markers with sticks or cut crosses in nearby tree trunks. Some of the parents would even bump their youngsters' heads against the boundary stones so they wouldn't forget where they came from. Sometimes coins were flung into brooks or fords and there would be a scramble among the boys. Yet, fearing Sir Montagu's wrath, the reverend had declined to lead the procession and advised the villagers to change their plans. A few had taken his advice. Several, however, had ignored it.

In Brandwick, housewives were sweeping their floors and several had even seen to it that their menfolk had given their houses a lick of whitewash. The baking ovens had been fired up nonstop for the past two days, producing bread and pies, and shopkeepers polished their windows to make sure their wares looked their best. But as for the ceremony itself, most would have none of it for fear of recriminations.

The Three Tuns was doing a brisk trade ahead of the curfew. In the saloon bar, men stood cheek by jowl, downing ale or gin and even cider. The floor was sticky and the air thick with smoke. But the fug did not stop the lively conversation, even though tongues were necessarily constrained.

Into this maelstrom slipped Adam Diggott, unseen by most, but recognized by those who mattered. The little cluster of militants sat themselves in a corner nursing their pints of ale and speaking in low voices. Will Ketch, the cowman, was there with his dog, together with Abel Smith. They sat alongside Black Zeb and Josh Thornley and his son, Hal. The coppicer, still wearing his hat pulled down below his brows, elbowed his way between them.

“ 'Tis set for tomorrow,” Zeb Godson told him. The charcoal burner had spent time in the spring, washing off the soot that clung to his skin, but the whites of his eyes still shone brighter than anyone else's from out of his grimy face.

“Here's the plan,” began Josh Thornley. “There's fifteen of us, and maybe more, and we start at the edge of Raven's Wood and work our way along the ditch till we reach the edge of Arthur's Hollow.”

Adam Diggott put up his hand and shook his head. “Fifteen? There's nigh on two mile of fencing. We'll want at least fifty.” His face was pinched and anxious. “And we need to be more cunning.”

Suddenly a familiar voice sounded behind them.

“All well, gents?” Peter Geech appeared from nowhere, carrying a fistful of empty tankards.

Adam Diggott turned his head away and sank into the corner. The landlord nodded to his patrons, then looked about him before drawing closer.

“You best look out,” he warned them. “A military man came in late this afternoon. Ordered enough ale and bread for eighty men, 'e did, for the morrow.”

“How's that, then?” queried Ketch.

Geech scooped up their empty tankards. “Malthus must've got wind. They say it were the vicar that told him. There's a platoon on its way. Make sure you're careful.”

It did not take long for word to spread among the parishioners that a company from the Fifty-second Regiment of Foot had been requested by the local magistrate, Sir Arthur Warbeck, and was to be stationed at Boughton Hall. They knew its men could be called upon if, as rumor had it, the beating ceremony went ahead. The raucous merriment in the Three Tuns was suddenly dulled as the news seeped out, and in its place, a feeling of distinct unease emerged. It was clear that Sir Montagu had anticipated that the villagers would seize their chance and defy his orders. It was the excuse he had sought, and now, as well as the law, he had the militia on his side.

 

Thomas wasted no time in returning to Brandwick from Draycott House. Fury still coursed through every fiber of his body. He urged his horse to gallop faster and faster, cutting across country, breasting hedges and ditches instead of following the roads. Taking the track up to the top of one of the hills, he surveyed the landscape. The vale lay stretched out before him; to the south, Milton Common, and farther beyond, London. To the west sat Oxford. The road was a winding ribbon that cut through a gently sloping valley. One side was heavily wooded, with the trees meeting the floor. He strained his eyes. There was movement. He looked away, blinked, and looked back. At first he had thought himself imagining it, but no. When he fixed his gaze on the road, he saw it color red. Urging his horse nearer for a better view, he squinted against the pale spring sunlight once more. His eyes were not deceiving him. The roadway had turned bright crimson, like a trickle of blood looping its way along the valley floor, and he suddenly realized why. Marching along, four abreast, on the road from Oxford to Brandwick was a platoon of foot soldiers. Sir Montagu's enigmatic warning to Thomas that his services would be needed suddenly made perfect sense. Now he understood why. The redcoats were coming to the village. There would be trouble. There could be blood.

Galloping back to Brandwick, Thomas rode into the courtyard at the Three Tuns and let the new stable lad, Rogers, take his mount. He was about to go straight up to his room when the landlord called out to him.

“Dr. Silkstone!”

Thomas turned on his heel. Geech was the last man on earth he wanted to deal with. After yesterday's revelations, he had even less respect for the rogue, but he seemed impatient to talk once more.

Leaning on the bar, he dipped his head and said, “Sir Montagu expects trouble at tomorrow's ceremony, sir.”

Thomas suddenly remembered. “Of course, the beating of the bounds.” It would explain the advance of the troops.

Geech, busying himself with wiping a tankard, lowered his voice still further. “Under its cover Adam Diggott and his men plan to destroy the fencing 'round the common, but Sir Montagu got word and has called in the militia.”

Thomas eyed the landlord suspiciously. He knew the soldiers were on their way—he had seen them not five miles hence. A shiver suddenly ran down his spine. “Why are you telling me this, Geech?” he asked.

The landlord looked indignant. “I may be a smuggler, but I'm a Brandwick man, too,” he protested. “I can't have the redcoats killing all my customers, now, can I, Doctor?” he said, setting down the tankard. He shook his head and dipped low to whisper into Thomas's ear. “There'll be trouble,” he said before he drew back, allowing the doctor to ponder the gravity of the situation. Molly, as timid as a mouse, but a good worker, happened to be passing at the same time. “A tankard of ale for the doctor, on the house,” Geech directed, as if nothing were amiss.

Thomas, meanwhile, decided to head upstairs to his room. Tired and anxious, he needed time to consider his next move. Standing by the window, he lifted his gaze over the High Street to the wooded ridge above. Through the opened casement he could hear noises coming from the common, of more fence posts being hammered in, more horses pulling carts, more Brandwick men shouting. He could hear, too, the dull thud of mallets as the wood stakes were driven into the damp ground, like so many nails into the villagers' coffin.

So the soldiers had been summoned to cast their shadow over the illicit festivities. Dissent was rising, like a winter bourne that suddenly bubbles up from belowground and spills across the landscape, flooding fields as it goes. The redcoats were there to stem its flow. Thomas had no idea of their orders, but it was clear they had not been called in simply to keep the peace. Malthus had got wind of some planned disruption that was afoot, some insurrection, whether large or small, that threatened his vision of an enclosed estate. Thomas feared what the morrow would bring for the people of Brandwick, just as he feared for Lydia.

T
he day dawned calm enough. There was a nip in the air, customary for early May, but the clear sky told Thomas that the spring sun would soon warm the soil. As soon as he was able to rouse Rogers, he mounted his horse and rode out to Boughton Hall. He did not know whether Lupton would receive him, but he hoped the sway he now held over the steward with regards to his smuggling exploits might carry some weight. He was right. He was shown into the morning room.

Lupton was seated at the dining table, a plate of half-eaten eggs and ham in front of him. He did not rise when Thomas entered, but merely nodded in his direction while continuing to eat. The doctor, about to open his mouth to berate the steward, was pre-empted.

“I thought you might be paying me a visit this morning, Silkstone.” Lupton wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin. “Would you care to join me?” He gestured to a chair opposite.

Thomas fixed him squarely in the eye. “I find my appetite deserts me in the circumstances,” he replied.

Lupton gave a little shrug. “Ah, you have heard that the Oxfordshire Regiment is on its way. Sir Montagu had word that his ban may be flouted.” There was a flippancy in his tone that riled Thomas. The men in question, the doctor had learned, were drawn from the same regiment that had fought at Lexington and Bunker Hill. They were battle hardened and would as soon turn their muskets on their own kind as on a native Indian.

“Calling out the infantry to police a village custom? That is surely a most draconian measure?” asked Thomas. From the way Lupton's gaze slid away, he could tell he had more intelligence than he was admitting to. “This is not simply about the defiance of the ban, is it?”

Lupton toyed with the knife on his breakfast plate. “I know that there are killers on the loose in Brandwick. I know that a surveyor in this estate's employ has been murdered by a gang of barbarous woodsmen who may strike at any time. The men of the Fifty-second are here for the villagers' protection.”

Thomas leaned forward and planted both hands firmly on the table. “You do realize that the common is like a powder keg? One spark from these soldiers is all that is needed and it will ignite.” He stormed across the room and pointed through the window toward the village. “If men and women are injured today, their blood will be on your hands.”

Lupton shook his head. “The villagers' fate is in their own hands,” he countered. “Either they follow Adam Diggott and his cronies and face the consequences, or obey Sir Montagu. The choice is a simple one.”

Thomas shot the steward an uneasy look. “You know something, don't you?”

Lupton shrugged. “As you are aware, Sir Montagu's spies are everywhere, Silkstone. Of course we know that Diggott and his miscreants are planning mayhem.”

Thomas suddenly felt his chest tighten. “So that is why you called in the army.”

“A company cannot be called out on a whim,” came the glib reply.

Thomas wheeled 'round in desperation and walked back to the window. “But the troops have muskets. You know there could be a massacre.”

Lupton snorted. “Just be thankful Sir Montagu did not call in the cavalry!” His unbridled arrogance had never been more evident to Thomas.

Thomas turned back, exasperated. “And what of the villagers' ancient rights? The rights they have enjoyed for hundreds of years. Do they count as naught?”

Lupton suddenly let out a derisory laugh. “Ancient rights? An American lectures an Englishman on ancient rights?” He slapped the table. “Sir Montagu looks forward, not backward, Silkstone. Surely you don't think he intends to stop at enclosure?”

Thomas frowned. “What do you mean?”

The steward shrugged. “Enclosure is merely the first step.”

“The first step before what?”

Lupton rose from the table. “Come, I will show you something,” he said, leading the way out of the morning room, across the hall, and into the study.

Under the window had been placed a long table, and on it, secured at all four corners by paperweights, was a large piece of vellum. It measured at least a man's height in length. Thomas peered over it.

“A map of Oxfordshire?” he queried.

Lupton shook his head. “Not just Oxfordshire, but Northamptonshire, too.”

Thomas looked again, focusing at the top of the map. There were names that were vaguely familiar to him, Banbury and Bicester. He saw Draycott House was clearly marked, too. He let his eyes wander west to Oxford, and then it dawned on him. He suddenly realized what he was seeing. A thick blue line ran from the River Cherwell in the north to join with the River Thames in the east.

“But these are plans for a . . . for a canal.”

“Bravo, Silkstone! A canal that would link Banbury to Oxford. Such a route will open up huge commercial possibilities and—”

Thomas interrupted. “Hold, sir! You speak as if this is a fait accompli.”

Lupton smiled. “That's because it is. There are several financial backers on board, and the act will go through Parliament in the next few weeks.”

Thomas balked for a moment as he digested the information. “So Malthus intends to not only enclose Boughton, but build a canal through Brandwick, too?” he asked incredulously.

Lupton patted the map. “Precisely. Wharves will be erected and factories built.”

“And what of the people of Brandwick? This is their future.”

Lupton tilted his head and looked at Thomas oddly. “They will work in the factories, of course. They will leave the land and man the machines, just as they are doing in the north and the Midlands.”

Thomas knew Lupton was referring to the new mills that were being built in Lancashire. The fulling mill would soon be replaced, if Malthus had his way, with one of Richard Arkwright's power mills, which were springing up all the way from Manchester to Scotland. Arsonists had set fire to one of his ventures at Chorley not five years before, and Thomas could imagine exactly the same resentment simmering in Brandwick. Children as young as six would be forced to work in the mills with long hours and low pay. The canal would cut a great swathe through the heart of the Boughton Estate, changing the landscape forever. Trees would be felled in their thousands to be replaced by factory chimneys, the sides of the meandering river would be straightened to make a canal, hillsides would be tunneled out, the tenter lines would give way to steam looms.

“And you expect them to accept this, this transformation, without any consultation?”

Lupton shook his head. “Consultation can only lead to compromise,” he replied. “And that is not a word in Sir Montagu's vocabulary.”

Thomas felt indignant on behalf of the villagers. “You are pushing good people too far,” he warned, shaking his finger in the air.

Lupton simply smirked. “It is merely progress, Silkstone. Just as you and your ilk make advances in medicine, so must landowners make advances in the countryside.”

Thomas arched a brow. “The difference is we do it for the benefit of mankind and you do it for your own,” he replied.

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Howard appeared to address Lupton.

“There is a Captain Ponsonby to see you, sir,” he announced.

“Ah yes, do show him in. Dr. Silkstone was just about to leave,” said the steward with a leer.

A fresh-faced young soldier stood by the threshold. Thomas looked at the officer, then at Lupton, and nodded. “Indeed, I must warn the people of Brandwick they are walking into a trap,” he muttered. Only Lupton heard.