three-treasures

THREE TREASURES

ADVENTURES OF MICAH JUDD as set down by Jack Elwin ***** SMASHWORDS EDITION ***** EBOOK EDITION PUBLISHED BY: Firkin Publishing on Smashwords Three Treasures Copyright © 2005 Jack Elwin Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work. ***** Other Micah Judd stories by Jack Elwin: The He-Witch Powder and Plots

TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter 1 – Belial’s Band Chapter 2 Things Fall Apart Chapter 3 Losses Chapter 4 Robberies?

Chapter 5 A Trap For A Thief Chapter 6 Confession Chapter 7 On The Trail Of A Cart Chapter 8 Captured!

Chapter 9 Nat Chapter 10 Two Treasures Chapter 11 A Wise Man Chapter 12 Belial’s Band Again

CHAPTER 1 BELIAL’S BAND IN THE YEAR of our Lord 1643, I was returning home up a dark alley in Dorchester, after taking a decoction to a sick person, when I stopped in a doorway to shake a piece of grit out of my shoe.

I could hear people’s footsteps and voices coming towards me, and drew further into the doorway to let them pass—not that I was afraid, for this is mostly a law-abiding town, though with all the soldiers about it was wise to be careful.

Although there was some light from the moon the alleyway was in deep shadow, and I must have been invisible in my dark cloak. Two men were coming.

‘If he resists we’ll kill him,’ said one.

His companion, who sounded younger, exclaimed, ‘My God, Horney, why?’

‘It makes no difference, captured or dead, the result will be the same. Dead could be better, for then we wouldn’t have to hold him, except that those damned Puritans will call him a martyr.’

The man almost brushed my shoulder as they passed, and he seemed of more than average size.

‘But I don’t want to kill the old man, affliction though he be,’ said the younger one.

‘Oh, don’t be a coward, Nick. Besides, there’ll be a ransom or reward. You could pay off what you owe me and Lucifer and have some over. But killing won’t be necessary, I think...’

They were passing out of earshot, and I began to follow them, for thought I, some evil is afoot.

Near where the alley opened into the High Street they paused and I was able to move near enough to overhear more.

‘You can’t draw back now, Nick,’ the older one spoke fiercely. ‘You know too much. You’ve sworn to obey too, by God,—remember the blood-oath—and you can’t just back out of Belial’s Band.

Besides, you know as well as I do what great things will follow if we pull it off. Dorchester’s spirit depends on that man, and if he’s taken out the people will falter. We’ll be able to take over the town, open the gates—and presto! Why, he’s known all over England, and with him in prison or dead it’ll be a mighty blow against this Roundhead rabble.’

‘I... I suppose so,’ agreed the other.

‘Wait—who’s there?’ His companion must have heard me or seen my shadow. I saw the flash of a dagger, and as he began to move towards me I ran, stumbling over the cobbles and trying desperately not to trip. I didn’t pause until I reached the double gates (or rather doors) that opened into my back yard and slipped through. I stood there trying not to pant loudly, listening for footfalls. Hearing nothing I guessed they had given up the chase.

But what was to be done? There were devilish things abroad, and clearly a plot to capture or kill

someone. Who in our little town was ‘known all over England’, and whose removal would have such a dreadful effect upon our people? Why, it could be none other than our famous minister, the Reverend John White!

Mr White had made Dorchester ‘the godliest town in England’, known throughout the land for its sober Puritan rule. He was even honoured in the New World, where he had helped many Dorset folk to go and settle in Massachusetts.

I went through the yard and into the house, where I found my wife Agnes suckling little Mark.

‘Supper is ready,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, dearest, I must see Mr White.’

‘Your supper will be cold. You’re always das hing in and dashing out. Surely Mr White can wait.’

‘What I have to tell him won’t. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘If the pie is spoiled ’twill be your own fault!’ she cried as I went out of the other door and through my shop to the street.

I went down Durn Lane warily in case those men were still about, and crossing High Street towards the Shambles arrived at Mr White’s house.

He had just finished supper, and his servant-maid was clearing the table.

‘What brings you here at this hour, Micah?’ he asked.

I waited till we were alone, then told him what I had overheard.

‘I know that there are children of Satan still in this town’ he said. ‘Well may they be called “Belial’s Band”. There have long been some who would be glad to see me gone, but (God willing) they shall not succeed.’

‘But you are in danger, sir!’

‘That’s as may be, but you don’t know who these men are, nor when or where they hope to act, so there is little I can do unless the Lord reveals more of their devilry. I can but take what care seems possible, and trust in him for protection. Verily, as the Scripture says, the Lord shall keep me from their snare.’

‘But is there nothing to be done, sir?’

‘Watch and pray, my son. But hark ’ee, Micah, see what more you can learn and let me know. In your work you may hear some rumour of this plot. ’Tis possible the Pouncey brothers may know something of it.’

The Pounceys are butchers in the town, and well known as opponents of Mr White and supporters of the Cavaliers. But I doubted that they would go so far as to kill him. However, it was true that in my apothecary’s work I meet many people of all sorts, and might learn more; so I promised to see what I

could find, and hurried back to Agnes and supper.

I should explain that at this time the horrid Civil War had been fought up and down England for several months, often dividing father against son or brother against brother, though so far we in Dorchester had been spared attack. But now it seemed we might be in danger from within.

The very next day I heard the name ‘Nick’ again. Nathan Whittle, an acquaintance I sometimes exchanged a word or two with in the town, a red round-faced old fellow with a pretty daughter, came into my shop to buy a salve for a cut on his hand. He’s a glover, a prosperous widower.

I asked him how his daughter was, and that set him off.

‘She’s well enough —at least I hope she is, but who knows what goes on in a woman’s head? But when a good-for-nothing guttersnipe puts hisself in her way, who knows what may come of it?’

‘What do you mean, Mr Whittle?’

‘What I mean is, if I catch that branten varmint making eyes at my daughter agin I’ll squot ’im, by the Lord I will, I’ll drub ’im out o’ town!’

Mr Whittle was liable to lapse into broad Dorsetshire speech when he was angry. I was afraid his waving arms would break some of my precious glass vials. He was telling me how he would ‘squot’ (knock down) the ‘brazen-faced vermin’ who had dared to look at his daughter.

‘He’s a nobody, no family, no money, and coming from God knows where, and he’s had the barefaced by’r lady impudence to try to bring himself to her notice! It makes me mad, Micah, it makes my blood boil, it makes —’ ‘Hold hard, Nathan,’ I interrupted, for his choleric humour was suffusing his face and putting him in danger of a fit, ‘has Elizabeth given him any encouragement?’

‘I don’t know, Micah, how should I know? How can a father know what his daughter’s up to? I tell you, lad, you should thank God your baby’s a son not a daughter. They’re nothing but worry and distress from the day they’re born till the day they’re married, and often after that as well I’ve no doubt.’

‘Now sit you down,’ I said, for he had been standing in the middle of the shop all this while. I pressed him down on the stool I keep by the counter and cast my eye along the shelf behind me and took down a bottle of rose-hip syrup, very good for soothing those of a choleric nature. ‘Drink this,’ I said, pouring a few drops into a glass with a little water.‘It will settle your spirit, and then you’ll be able to consider things more calmly.’

He snorted angrily but drank the mixture, while I spoke gently, but with a hand on his shoulder to prevent him leaping up.

‘Elizabeth has always been a dutiful daughter, hasn’t she? and I thought you were arranging her

betrothal?’

‘I have, I have, and a mint o’ money she’s costing me. It’s due to take place o’ Sunday, the betrothal I mean.’

‘And who’s the lucky man?’

‘Mr Stephen Dashwood’s son, young Nicholas. But I fear that if they hear about this Denis, whatever his name is, hangin’ about her they may draw back. A whiff o’ scandal and the Dashwoods won’t want to be involved.’

‘But there is no scandal. A girl as pretty as Elizabeth is bound to have lots of young men making eyes at her. It should make the Dashwoods all the more eager to have her.’

‘I hope you’re right, Micah, I do indeed. But you’ve no idea the trouble and worry I’ve had and the money I’ve had to spend to arrange this match for her. It would break my heart if anything happened to prevent it now.’

‘And would it break her heart too? This young man—Nicholas, did you say?—isn’t he said to be a bit wild? Will he make her happy, think you?’

‘What’s happiness to do wi’ it? It’s marriage we’re talking about. As Mrs Dashwood she’ll have horses and servants and never want for the best of everything. Happiness in marriage is a blessing if you can have it, Micah, I know. I had a good life with my Mary till she died, God bless her. But I had a struggle to make ends meet in my early days, and I want Elizabeth to be spared that. An’ as for wildness—most young ’uns are a bit unsteady. I daresay you was yourself. But that don’t mean he won’t settle down.’ He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up, and I was glad to see that he wasn’t quite so red in the face. ‘Well, I must be going, Micah. Give my compliments to your lady.’

Only after he had gone did the name strike me: Nicholas, Nick—could he be the young man I had overheard? There must be many men called Nicholas in the town, there was no reason Mr Whittle’s chosen suitor should be the one. Yet I couldn’t help wondering, and resolved to find out more about him if I could. The Dashwoods were wealthy gentry of the town, related to other leading families, and with an estate in one of the nearby villages besides the house they had in Dorchester. It would be a triumph for Whittle to marry his daughter to one of them. Nicholas I did not know, though I must have seen him around, and I had heard that he had been in trouble with the town constables for drinking and gambling.

I picked up another hint of trouble when that afternoon I went to buy a joint Agnes had asked me to get from the Pounceys. When I looked into their shop one of them was sounding off about our minister.

‘That damned Mr White is a spoil-sport,’ he was saying. ‘Why shouldn’t we play football on the

Sabbath? Don’t it say in the Bible “The Sabbath was made for man”? So why does he say it’s wrong?

The sooner the Cavaliers come here and boot him out the better!’

‘Steady, steady,’ said another man in the shop, ‘take care what you say, or you’ll be doing penance at the church door!’

‘And swearing,’ Pouncey went on, taking no notice, ‘why shouldn’t a man swear now and then to relieve his feelings? It does a fellow no good to bottle ’em up. An’ I tell you that parson makes me want to swear sometimes, and swear I will if I want to.’

‘And pay your fine, I suppose,’ said the other. ‘But I agree he’s a bit too severe. Don’t forget though that he’s made Dorchester famous all over England.’

‘And beyond that, in the New World,’ said another, whom I recognised as a merchant from Fordington. ‘My cousin’s out there—went out in the Mary and John thirteen years ago—and he would never have gone, none of them would, if it hadn’t been for Mr White. I heard from my cousin a little while ago, and he said how our Mr White is revered over there, and how grateful they all are to him for his help and encouragement in settling them overseas.’

‘Then I wish he’d go out there and join ’em,’ said Pouncey. ‘But never mind, we’ll soon be rid of ’en.’ At that I pricked up my ears, as he went on, ‘He won’t last, I say. Belial’s Band’ll get ’un. The devil take him!’

‘What do you mean by Belial’s Band?’ I demanded, pushing forward.

‘Oh ho, Mr Judd, I didn’t see ’ee by the door there. But never you mind—I was just a-saying that our Mr White has been here a devil of a time, so he can’t last much longer, eh? And I for one won’t be sorry. There now, doubtless you’ll run along and tell him what I’ve been saying, and get me into trouble.’

‘Not I, Mr Pouncey,’ I said. ‘I don’t like that sort of talk, for Mr White’s my pastor, but I don’t go carrying tales to him about other people.’

‘Then you must be one of the very few of his blue-eyed children who don’t,’ he said.

‘You’ve no right to call me that,’ I said, somewhat stung. ‘’Tis true I look up to him, and I think of him the father of our town. And he will hold us together and firm to resist the enemy. I don’t see what grounds you have for saying he won’t be here much longer.’

He put his greasy finger up beside his nose and winked.

‘And what’s this Belial’s Band you spoke of?’

‘I know nothing, mister, so I’m saying nothing. But I still maintain he won’t lord it over us here for long. Not with Cavaliers on the march.’

‘Well, if they come I hope you’ll do your part. You could crack a few of their heads with that

cleaver of yours!’ I said this to tease him, for it was obvious he would rather be governed by Cavaliers than Roundheads.

‘I know whose heads I’d like to crack,’ he said, chopping at a piece of shoulder as if it was an enemy.

‘Well, as for me, as far as I can I live and let live and mind my own business,’ I said, ‘and my business at present is to buy a leg of mutton, if you can bring yourself to come down from your pulpit to think about meat.’

At that he laughed and served me. I walked home slowly, wondering how much he knew. Was he part of this Belial’s Band, or had he merely heard the name somewhere? And did his saying that Mr White would soon be gone mean that he knew of some definite plot?

I had no opportunity to look further for the plotters just then because the defence of the town became so urgent, and the Town Council ordered: All able-bodied townsmen must report for duty. We were told to abandon our businesses and all other work, take picks and shovels and baskets and saws, and join in raising defences for the town.

Work had begun nearly a year before, in July 1642, on the wall and ditch which protected the three sides of Dorchester not defended by the river. At that time the Council had employed labourers to repair the old walls, which were said to be based on Roman foundations, and to deepen the ditch which ran outside the walls. They were also meant to make platforms for cannon at intervals.

Although a very great deal of money had been spent the work had gone forward so slowly that the defences were still far from complete. But now news that Royalist armies were on the march and seemingly on their way to Dorset stirred the Council to action. We needed everyone to join in a final effort if we were to make Dorchester defendable.

So it was that I found myself down in the bottom of the great ditch a little to the west of Gallows Gate, tired and muddy and looking forward to the end of my shift. I paused for a moment to straighten my back and wipe the sweat from my eyes. Then I craned my neck upwards to marvel at the huge bank we had made.

From the bottom of the ditch to the top of the inner bank must have been two or three times as high as a house. The beaten chalk and clay stretched up smooth and white and almost impossible to climb. It certainly looked invincible to me, even though from where I was I couldn’t even see the full extent of the fortifications, and could only catch a glimpse of the palisade of sharpened stakes that crowned the top.

How we had laboured, wielding picks, shovelling and carting the chalk in barrows and baskets!

We had lowered the ditch and raised the bank and tamped the soil firm. Parties had gone to

neighbouring woods and parks, and brought back waggon-loads of timber to reinforce the bank and form the palisade. Others had gone out to clear trees and scrub from a wide area all around, so that we would have a clear field of fire. The work had gone on in shifts, from well before dawn until it was too dark to see, day after day. Along the ditch men—and quite a lot of women—were still hard at work, shovelling and carting soil, going to and fro like ants.

Suddenly there was a shout, ‘Look out!’ and a cry of fear. I turned just in time to see the body of a young man falling down the bank. He spread his arms and legs in a vain effort to slow his fall, but the newly-tamped chalk gave no holds for hand or foot and he slithered and bounced to the bottom and lay still in a crumpled heap.

I flung down my spade and ran towards him, as did others of those working in the ditch.

‘Don’t move him!’ I called as I ran. ‘He may have broken bones.’

When I reached him there was already a ring of men gathering round, but they had heeded my warning and not touched him.

‘Here’s Mr Judd,’ said one as I pushed through and knelt by the body, ‘he’ll know what to do.’

Gently I felt his limbs and down his back.

‘Is ’ee still alive?’ someone asked.

‘Yes,’ I said,‘I don’t think there are any breakages, but his backbone may be damaged for aught I know—and see, his head is bleeding.’

I felt him again and straightened him out, and as there seemed to be no great damage I asked the onlookers to bring a board or hurdle for us to carry him home.

‘Does anyone know who he is?’ I asked. ‘’Tis Denis Faire,’ said another man. ‘He’s not been long in the town.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’ ‘’Tis in one o’ the back alleys behind East Street, but I don’t know ’xactly.’

Now the young man was beginning to stir. His body twitched once or twice, and he opened his eyes. They were brown, I noticed, like his hair. He stared blankly for a moment, then looked at me.

‘What happened?’ he said.

‘You fell down the bank.’

‘Oh, Lord above! I remember now. I was trying to fix a stake and the ground gave way. Where am I?’ ‘At the bottom of the ditch,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you’ve broken anything, but you’ve hurt your head.’

‘So I have. God, it hurts!’

‘What about the rest of you? Can you move your legs?’

He drew his legs up and straightened them again.

‘I think they’re all right,’ he said, ‘but they feel bruised.’

‘Thank God you’re no worse. I’ll bind up your head when we get you home. They’re fetching something to carry you on.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I think I can walk.’

He sat up and tried to stand, but lay back again.

‘No, maybe not,’ he muttered. ‘I feel giddy.’

Men arrived with a wicker hurdle, and we gently lifted him onto it. Four strong men began to carry him towards the ramp which led out of the ditch. I told them I would go ahead to fetch bandages and ointment, and hurried on up the ramp and across the causeway which had been left to give access to Gallows Gate.

I ran past the gallows just outside the gate—two stout uprights and a cross-beam—and shuddered as I thought of the poor wretches hanged there after the last assizes. There was a worse place, of course, just a bit further west, beside the Weymouth road—the old Roman amphitheatre we call Maumbury Rings, where the really important executions take place and crowds of spectators line the banks.

I hurried on and turned uphill in Durn Lane, and soon came to my little apothecary’s shop. I gave Agnes a kiss as I passed, and ran out to the yard at the back to wash my hands. More thorough washing would have to wait. I ran back through to the shop, calling out to Agnes, ‘There’s been an accident. I’ll be back soon.’

‘You had better be, or there’ll be another spoiled supper,’ she called after me. I couldn’t wait to explain further, but stowed what I needed in my apothecary’s bag and ran down Durn Lane. I turned left towards East High Street, and was just in time to see the hurdle-bearers at the next corner.

The young man was able to direct us down a couple of narrow alleys to his dwelling, a little tumble-down old cottage in a row of similar ones near the river. The neighbours saw us coming and crowded round to look as we took him indoors. His door opened straight into the one downstairs room.

There was hardly any space to lay him down, for the room was full of an amazing collection of chipped cups and plates, odd saucers, worn baskets, dented pans, and much more of the same sort of discarded bits and pieces.

Beside the fireplace there were stairs which I supposed wound up to a bedroom, but they were too steep and narrow for us to carry him up. We helped him into the one chair, and I washed the gash on his head with a clean rag and some spirit, and applied a salve of moneywort and oil and fixed a

bandage round.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling better already, though my head aches.’

‘If it keeps on send for me, Micah Judd in Durn Lane, or send for a physician. But I hope tomorrow you’ll be better. You’ve had a lucky escape not to have broken anything.’

‘What do I owe you, Mr Judd?’

‘Nay,’ I replied, for I do sometimes give way to my better nature, ‘let it be a part of my work for the Lord and the defence of the town. You have shown us what will happen to any foe who tries to scale our walls!’

He thanked me again, and I asked whether he had anyone to look after him.

‘My family, that’s my sister and her family, are far away—at Poole. But I’ll manage.’

‘I’ll see he’s all right,’ said a stout old woman pushing forward. ‘I live next door, and I’ll keep an eye on him.’

‘Have you anywhere to lie down?’ I asked, glancing at the medley of things that filled most of the room.

‘Oh yes, upstairs. I’ll be able to get up the stairs, I’m sure. This is my stock for the stall I’ve just started in the market,’ he explained.

The young man’s name, Denis, should have made me guess who he was, but I was tired after the day’s work, my hands were blistered from digging, and I had other things to think of.

As soon as I got home I went to the yard for a more thorough wash and then attended to my blisters. At last I went to join Agnes in the parlour. She was cross with me at first for being so long away, but when I told her what had happened she was quite concerned.

‘Oh the poor man!’ she said. ‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Denis Faire,’ I said, and only then did I remember (although Whittle had not told me his surname). ‘Agnes,’ I exclaimed, ‘I wonder if that’s the young man old Nathan Whittle was getting so worked up about!’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, and so I told her about Nathan’s fear that some scandal connecting the man with his daughter might spoil his plans for her marriage into the Dashwood family.

‘But there’s no likelihood of that,’ I added. ‘The betrothal has taken place, and Elizabeth is a dutiful girl, and will do as her father orders.’

‘And this young man, Denis—are you sure he’s not badly hurt?’

‘Nay, he’ll be all right. He’s bruised, but no bones broken. One good thing though—he’s proved how strong our defences are. Anyone who tries to attack us will slither down the slope as he did!’

‘How are the works coming on?’ she asked. ‘Are they nearly done?’

‘They look as though they are, but I expect it’ll take a day or two more for us to complete ’em. But when we’ve finished you must come and see it all. You’ve never seen anything like it—massive steep banks of white chalk, smooth and dazzling, with a palisade of sharp stakes at the top. And when you look down into the ditch you’ll feel quite dizzy. I wouldn’t like to be an enemy trying to get in, specially if stone and shot were being showered down on their heads by the defenders.’

‘But do you think they’ll really protect us?’ she asked. ‘I had a dreadful dream last night that an army had come, and soldiers with swords were rushing through the streets and everywhere was flowing with blood. It was horrible!’

‘You mustn’t worry,’ I told her. ‘When you see the works we’ve done you’ll be comforted, I’m sure. I can’t imagine how anyone could get across. But I don’t know, of course, for I’ve never been at a siege. One of the old fellows I was talking to the other day, Ted Barlow, who’s been in the wars in Germany, said no defences can hold out for ever. If the enemy is steadfast enough they’ll get over or through the strongest walls. But he said that the idea is to make it cost so much in time and men to capture a place that they won’t bother, but will move on to somewhere easier to take.’

‘But if they do break in...?’

‘Then we could all be killed. It’s the law of warfare, I believe. An army that storms a castle or a town has the right to kill and pillage as much as they want. But don’t worry, my dearest,’ I added, fearing that I might cause her more nightmares if I painted too black a picture, ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

‘But even Sherborne Castle couldn’t hold out,’ said Agnes.

The Parliamentary commander, the Duke of Bedford, had used his house in Dorchester as his headquarters while he ordered the attack on Sherborne last September, and we had seen soldiers marching off and cannon being hauled and messengers riding to and fro, and finally had heard the news that the Royalists had been forced to surrender the castle.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but Sherborne wasn’t prepared properly for a siege, and its stone walls were no sure defence against cannon—not like our earth banks. And they weren’t fighting for the Lord as we shall be. Anyway,’ I comforted her, ‘there was no massacre. The garrison were allowed to march away and the townspeople weren’t harmed.’

Certainly, back at work on the defences next morning, I felt confident when I looked at all that we had done. The night shift had smoothed the banks on each side and completed fixing the palisade at the top of the inner (and higher) bank, so our main task now was to level and gravel the walk-way behind it and move cannon into position on the platforms we had prepared for them.

Drastic measures were being taken in some parts of the town, where thatch was being stripped

from the roofs of houses near the walls in case attackers should shoot rockets or red-hot cannon balls over and set them on fire. Older people remembered how nearly half of all the town had been burned in what Dorchester folk still called the Great Fire.

‘That young chap who fell down the bank yesterday—he’s doing all right,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned and saw one of the men who had helped to carry the man Denis home on the hurdle. ‘The old ’ooman who lives next door to him told me he’s better, but she’s going to mother him for a day or two.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ I replied. ‘He should recover quickly. An older man would have surely broken something, but he’s young and springy and was lucky not to fall on a rock.’

Later in the morning the Mayor made a tour of the defences, stopping at intervals to admire the work and praise the workers.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said when he came to us. ‘Your hard work will surely preserve us Dorchester folk in peace and safety, whatever may befall elsewhere. This town will be a City of Refuge, an island of security and true religion in the midst of a world gone mad!’

He shook hands with one or two, then moved on, and I heard him saying, ‘Excellent, excellent,’ to the next group of workers.

By mid-afternoon our work was done, and we could leave any final touches to the soldiers or the town militia who would patrol the defences. I had a great sense of relief that I would no longer have to labour in the mud with blistered hands, and could return to my business. But what if something happened to our inspirer, Mr White? Would our courage match our defences? I still felt anxious as I went home to wash and take up the neglected duties of my shop and family once more.

I was pounding herbs in a mortar with my hardwood pestle, thumping the harder as I thought of what I would like to do to the Cavaliers if they attacked, when Elizabeth Whittle came into my shop.

She had not been there before, nor had I seen her since her betrothal. Her light brown curls showed under her bonnet and framed her frank open face, and she wore a plain collar of spotless linen and a blue skirt down to the ground.

I’m careful not to give Agnes cause to berate me, but I still like to see a pretty girl, so I smiled at her entry and waited to see what she wanted.

‘I wonder, Mr Judd, do you have any rose-water?’

‘Indeed yes,’ I replied, and turned to reach a bottle from the shelf behind me. As I turned back I noticed a short, somewhat stout young man standing just outside the shop door. He had black hair down to his shoulders, a feather in his hat, a rather fleshy face and fashionable dark clothes. His rings flashed in the sunlight and he was tapping one foot with an impatient air. Although I had never spoken to him, I guessed who he was. Elizabeth, noticing my glance, confirmed, ‘That’s my betrothed, Mr

Nicholas Dashwood.’

The young man looked rather like his father Stephen, who had always seemed to me a rather proud cold sort of man. His son had the same hard eyes, though his mouth was softer with somewhat fat lips.

‘Then I wish you all happiness, Mistress Elizabeth,’ I said as I wrapped the bottle. ‘A happy marriage is something I can heartily recommend.’

I said this in spite of broken nights with the baby, Mark, and our little quarrels (usually because I’m rushing out when Agnes wants me in). Mostly since my marriage to her a little over a year ago life had been better than ever before. My parents had both been carried off by the plague when I was still quite young. Aunt Alis, who then cared for me, had been well-meaning enough, but could not take the place of a mother.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I shall be happy, I know.’

As I handed her the package I thought, Yes, at any rate your father, Nathan Whittle, will be happy.

Though not very happy yet, I added to myself, thinking back to our recent conversation. Something might yet prevent the match even though the betrothal had taken place without a hitch. But as long as Mr Whittle could offer a large dowry I had no doubt that the marriage would be celebrated as arranged.

It seemed an opportunity to try to engage this Nicholas in conversation, if possible to see whether he was indeed the man I had overheard in the alley. So as I showed Elizabeth out at the door I bowed to him.

‘May I offer you my good wishes, sir,’ I said. ‘I know Mr Whittle as a very worthy man, and I wish you all happiness with his daughter.’

He gave a sort of grunt, as if unwilling to accept my good-will, or indeed to talk with me.

‘You will be happy as long as the wars keep away,’ I said. ‘But we in Dorchester should be secure, even if the enemy do come.’

‘Which is the enemy?’ he said. ‘Who knows? I don’t.’

‘Some say Satan is already loose within the town, and Belial’s people are at work.’ I did not say ‘Belial’s Band’ for fear of arousing his suspicions. As it was he frowned and took a step towards me.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

‘Simply that there are those in the town who would undermine our defences if they could; though truly our Patriarch, Mr White will keep us secure.’

‘Or not. He cannot last,’ he muttered, then turned abruptly away pulling Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Come along, woman, for God’s sake—or are you going to keep me waiting all day?’

‘Good-bye, Mr Judd, and thank you for the rose-water,’ she smiled.

‘Oh come along,’ he repeated. ‘I trust the apothecary has better things to do than gossip all

morning.’

She’s a bright young lady, full of joy and life—does she know what the Dashwoods are like? I wondered. And her Nicholas seems as proud, impatient and rude as his father. But was he rude because he had a guilty conscience and did not want to talk further lest his doings might come to light? I strongly suspected that he was the man I had overheard, but what could I do on mere suspicion? And did his words, ‘He cannot last,’ which echoed what Pouncey had said, mean that some attack upon Mr White was about to be made?

The following day was Wednesday, and a lot of farmers and their wives had come to town from the nearby villages. I noticed a farmer-like fellow with a bald head talking to another acquaintance of mine, Lawrence Huatt the pewterer. Had I known how our paths would cross later I would have examined him more closely; as it was I hurried by.

I paused at a stall I had not seen before. The young man who had fallen into the town ditch was standing in the midst of a strange collection of battered things laid on the ground, some of which I had no doubt seen at his house: old copper pots with rivets mending holes, short lengths of rusty chain, knives with blackened wooden handles and half the blades honed away, odd china plates and cups, various carpenter’s tools, baskets, ornaments—there seemed no end to the variety. On a small folding table was a box of trinkets—bracelets, necklaces, rings.

‘Mr Faire, how are you?’ I asked. ‘Has your head recovered?’

‘Why, Mr Judd! I’ve been meaning to come and thank you. Yes, my head seems all right, though it’s still a bit tender.’

‘You’ll maybe have a bit of a scar, but it won’t show much,’ I said. ‘And so this is the stuff you were gathering to sell?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and if you can’t see anything you want here, I’ve more at home.’

‘I wonder you’ve room to live there!’ I laughed. ‘But no, I’m just idly looking.’ However, I turned over two or three trinkets, wondering whether Agnes would like a pendant or a necklace.

‘Wherever do you find all this—this stuff?’ I asked.

‘Oh, here and there,’ he said. ‘What one person throws out as rubbish is just the thing another will treasure, and I convey it from the one to the other.’

‘Is there a living to be made by that?’

‘Oh yes, you’d be surprised. I’ve been gathering stock for several months, and if I do well I shall maybe open a shop. There’s need for such in the town.’

‘You’re probably right,’ I agreed. ‘Not everybody can afford new things. I wish you success—and I think I’ll have this brooch, if it’s not too expensive, as a little present for my wife.’ I held up a little

silver brooch in the form of two fishes intertwined.

‘That’s a good piece,’ he said. ‘It belonged to an old lady in Fordington who died. Her daughter has been disposing of her things.’

‘Then my wife will be doubly pleased, for she comes from Fordington. Do you have a wife?’ I asked the question to see whether he was indeed the young man who had so annoyed Nathan Whittle.

‘No,’ he said abruptly. He took my money and handed me the brooch. ‘Not for want of asking,’ he added.

‘She won’t have you perhaps?’

‘She would, I think. It’s her father. I’m not rich enough for him. I shall be, if this business prospers, but then it’ll be too late, and Bess will have been married off to—pah!’ He made a sound of disgust.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Do I know the lady?’

‘Probably,’ he answered. ‘It’s Mr Whittle’s daughter, Elizabeth. He’s going to marry her off to that Nicholas Dashwood. But there, I can’t shift him, and he’s forbidden her to speak to me.’ He turned away and savagely moved a cracked crock.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. What more could one say, seeing that the betrothal had taken place? We were both silent for a moment, and as he didn’t seem to want to talk further, I wished him good day and walked on.

When I happened to pass near his stall a little later I saw that he had a lot of customers, and thought, he’ll do well, and no doubt get over his disappointment in love. When—or if—he’s successful, and has made a bit of money, he’ll be able to choose a good wife and won’t be refused. But until then any careful father is going to look rather askance at a man with such an odd, not to say low, profession.

But I liked the fellow, and thought I would put in a good word for him if I got the chance.

Agnes was pleased with the brooch, and I resolved to keep an eye on the young man’s stall from time to time in the hope of finding other trinkets or useful things for the house.

Elizabeth Whittle came to my shop by herself next day.

‘Mr Judd,’ she said, ‘I am worried. I don’t know whether I ought to say anything to you. In fact I don’t know whether it is important or not. But perhaps you will know. But promise me that you will not tell anyone that I have told you. If it got back to Nicholas he would be so angry.’

‘Certainly, mistress, I will not say you told me. But what is it? Has he confessed to some plot?’

‘Do you know about it then? I don’t know—I fear there may be some such, but what I have no idea.’

‘Then what did he say? for I take it that he has said something?’

‘It was on Tuesday, after we had been here. I asked him what he meant by saying Mr White would not be here much longer. And he said, “Within a week he’ll be gone. This Sunday will be his last.” I said, “How do you know?” and he said, “It’s not for your ears, but you’ll soon see that I’ve told you the truth.” He goes about with rowdy fellows of a Cavalier persuasion, and I do fear (for I have been worrying over what he said) that they may be plotting something against Mr White. I dare not tell Mr White myself, or my father for that matter, for they might confront Nicholas and tell him I had told them. But I thought perhaps you would know what to do. Or am I making too much of his words?’

‘Certainly not, you confirm what I have already suspected, though I haven’t known when the attack on Mr White was due to take place. But now we can take measures to foil it.’

‘Can you—will you be able to keep Nicholas out of it? I am so afraid he may be mixed up in something wicked or foolish.’

‘If he takes part he will have to bear the consequences. See if you can persuade him to keep away from his friends when they do whatever it is they plan. I promise I won’t go out of my way to bring him to harm; but he must look after himself too. But perhaps if they see that Mr White is well guarded they will call off the attack.’

The next Lord’s Day Mr White was to preach as usual in St Peter’s Church. What if some attempt were to be made against him between his house and the church? Who could I consult? If I went to the Mayor he might not believe me, for really I had very little firm evidence to go on, and there had been other rumours of royalist plots which had come to nothing. Then I thought of Lawrence Huatt the pewterer, the man I had seen in the market.

He was a firm supporter of Mr White and the Parliament cause, and a strong fellow able to wield a cudgel. He much affected the speech and manners of the Puritans, which I thought then showed he was a godly and reliable man. He would surely help to defend Mr White. So I went to him and told him my fears.

‘You are right, Micah,’ he said. ‘We must take all care. Let us both assemble our friends—I will gather some stout fellows with cudgels and you do the same— and we will escort Mr White from his house to the church and back again.’

So it was that a group of some dozen of us armed with stout sticks met outside Mr White’s house and went with him the short way to the church. There was no trouble on the way, though I noticed Nicholas Dashwood talking to one of the Pounceys down near the Shambles. Their talk might have been quite innocent, but I did not like the way they looked sideways at us.

I believed then that Mr White would stay with us through thick and thin, whatever enemies might come against us, and keep us steadfast and true in defence of what he called ‘the great Cause for which

all Christians ought to fight’. He would steady the waverers and fire the spirits of the brave.

He was small in stature but big in every other way. He had glittering eyes that held one spellbound and a voice that could be gentle or fierce and clear to the farthest corners of his church.

When he donned his preaching gown and mounted the pulpit the crowded church fell absolutely silent, with no one coughing or shuffling their feet. Every eye was fixed on the preacher, as he slowly let his gaze take in the whole congregation.

‘My text is taken from the Book of Psalms, number sixty-eight: “Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered; let them that hate him flee before him. As smoke is driven away, so drive them away; as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish before God”.’

This was the bracing sort of text we wanted to hear, and the people settled more comfortably in their pews. We knew we were not the wicked, and we would enjoy hearing a thorough roasting of the Cavalier party. We all looked forward to a stirring sermon.

Mr White reminded us of how long he had been pastor here, ‘eight and thirty years’, and spoke of the threats now approaching us.

When he mentioned ‘ravening wolves attacking the Lord’s flock’, and the ‘wiles of Rome and the machinations of the Pope’, a murmur like a growl came from the congregation.

Fear of Rome was very real to most people then, and children were brought up (as I had been) on stories of the dreadful time when Bloody Mary had burned over three hundred Protestants at the stake.

There were still old people alive who could remember seeing the dreaded Spanish Armada (sent against us with the Pope’s blessing) sailing past the Dorset coast. We knew the present Queen was a Roman Catholic, and we feared that influence of Rome would grow.

‘Let not England sink again into darkness!’ cried the preacher. ‘Let the enemies of God be scattered!’

‘Amen! amen!’ came answering cries from the congregation.

‘My people, do not be afraid. God will arise, His enemies will be scattered. They will be driven away like smoke before the wind’ ‘Amen! amen!’

He reminded us how the Lord had delivered us quite recently, when two Royalist armies, led by Sir Ralph Hopton and Prince Maurice, had seemed poised to attack us. But when the Prince was less than twenty miles away at Blandford he and the others had led their troops elsewhere.

‘The Lord himself fought for us; the Lord spared us from attack,’ Mr White’s voice rang out. ‘So now let us not be like wax that melteth.’

‘No no! Amen! amen!’

‘Yea, verily, our hearts shall be stout and our hands strong!’

‘Amen!’

I really felt at that moment—I’m sure everyone there felt the same—that we would be invincible.

When the time of trial came we would not flinch.

‘Stand firm, then, my people!’ shouted Mr White, ‘stand firm for God and His Kingdom, stand, fight, and if need be die for His Cause. Stand and be of good courage, for the Lord will preserve us!’

We believed him. Our hearts were warmed, our blood coursed hotly in our veins; if we had not been in church we would have clapped and cheered. Behind our new defences, and with God on our side, we could not fail.

Mr Huatt and our other friends gathered round afterwards to escort Mr White back to his house.

We had gone about half way there when there was a cry from somewhere down the High Street, ‘To the walls, everyone! The enemy are upon us!’ We heard the sound of a trumpet or bugle blowing a few urgent notes, and hesitated, wondering what we ought to do.

‘Go quickly, my children,’ said Mr White. ‘I shall go home to pray. I shall be safe now.’

But we had scarcely left him when a mob of men with scarves or kerchiefs hiding their faces came running up from the Shambles. They were led by a great bull of a fellow with black hair and a drawn sword. But they mistimed their charge, for we managed to rush back and reach Mr White just before them, and dragged him into our midst.

‘Stand back! Hand him over!’ shouted the leader of the mob, but we crowded more closely about him.

‘Do you come against me with swords and staves, as they did to my Master?’ Mr White’s strong voice rose above the hubbub.

‘You shall come with us,’ shouted the leader. ‘Come now, no delay, or someone will be hurt.’

He brandished his sword, and indeed seemed ready to use it. But then folk came running from the High Street crying, ‘False alarm. There is no enemy.’

‘Help, good folks, help!’ shouted Huatt, and we all joined in, and as more people were coming up all the time the mob of attackers wavered and broke. They ran back down past the Shambles and disappeared in the alleys towards the river. Some men ran after them, but rather half-heartedly I thought. Maybe they didn’t want to get hurt. I and our friends took Mr White back to his house.

There were angry words in the Council next day. Someone had given the false alarm about the enemy attacking, though no one could say who it was. But it seemed that it had been intended to draw people away to the bottom end of town so that Mr White could be seized. The Mayor accused some Council members of hindering his inquiries as to who was involved. Clearly, divisions in the town were

now deep.

In all the jostling and movement I had not noticed whether Nicholas Dashwood had taken part, though having seen him near the spot before the service I suspected he had. I wondered how much Elizabeth Whittle really knew about him. So when a day or two later she again came into my shop alone I was glad to have a talk.

She had come for some more of the rose-hip syrup I had given her father, for (she said) it had done him good. She seemed happier than when I had seen her before.

‘Are you looking forward to leaving your father and having your own household?’ I asked.

‘I shall miss him, and worry that he is not looking after himself as he ought. But he is eager for me to get married and have what he calls “a good position”.’

‘And will you be happy, do you think?’

‘I hope so. Daughters like me have no real choice. But I’m sure Nicholas loves me, and I shall grow to love him.’

‘So you managed to persuade him to keep out of trouble?’

‘I asked him, but he professed not to understand, so I don’t know. But all is well now, isn’t it?’

‘Do you mean he and his friends have abandoned their plans, or do they still mean to attack Mr White?’

‘Oh, Mr Judd, I do hope not. I really don’t know whether Nicholas or his friends had anything to do with what happened on Sunday. He’s not really a Cavalier, you know, but he’s got a friend he calls Horney who I think leads him astray.’

‘So that’s the man I overheard.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Judd?’

‘Simply that one night two men passed me, and one called the other Horney. It seemed an odd name.’

‘I think it must be a nickname. But I’ve only heard Nicolas mention him once, when we were talking about his friends.’

‘Well, Mistress Elizabeth, if you hear any more about any plots against Mr White, or indeed against the Parliament Cause, please let me know at once.’

‘I think Nicolas is more interested in horses and gaming with those friends of his than in kings and parliaments. But I wish—I wish he would break away from them. But there,’ she spoke more cheerfully, ‘when we are married I expect things will be different.’

CHAPTER 2 THINGS FALL APART ‘WHEN YOU COME to the Puritanical towns of Taunton, Crewkerne, Bristol, Dorchester and Exeter, then let your swords cruel it without difference of age, sex, or degree.’ That was what the old Cavalier Lord Paulet told his soldiers. He also said that Dorset should be ‘fattened with the blood and carcasses of the inhabitants’.

When we heard that we tried to comfort ourselves by saying, ‘He doesn’t really mean it. He’s trying to raise the courage of his soldiers, and it shows they’re not up to much.’ The fact was that, apart from a few old soldiers like Ted Barlow or Thomas Gregory, we had no idea what war would be like.

Also we had quite a lot of armed men to defend us. I myself had joined the Militia under Captain William Churchill. It was formed of two companies of about eighty men each. We did some training each week, learning to handle sword and pike, and a few of us even got to fire a musket once or twice.

We wouldn’t have been much use against professional soldiers, but we were full of enthusiasm and marched quite smartly.

Every few nights some of us were on duty patrolling the walls. In fact I believe there were about two hundred and fifty men in all (besides the soldiers) who were passed as fit for ‘watch and ward’.

There were also a quite a lot of real soldiers. The ones Sir Walter Erle commanded were mainly from a troop of volunteers he himself had raised and trained and armed properly with pikes and muskets. These volunteers mostly came from all over west Dorset and included some of the richer Dorchester men. Sir Walter must have had nearly a thousand in his little army, surely enough to protect Dorchester.

But the news, when it reached us, was bad.

‘Have you heard?’—It was my next door neighbour, Tom Hartley the tailor, putting his head round the door of my shop—‘Have you heard about Taunton?’

It was the middle of June, about a fortnight after the defences had been finished, a lovely summer morning.

‘What about Taunton?’ I asked.

‘It’s fallen. A minister who was there has been to see Mr White, and brought the news. Sir Ralph Hopton’s Cornish levies joined Prince Maurice’s cavalry from Oxford—the ones who went through Blandford, you remember?—and together they attacked. It was a very fierce assault, the minister said, and they took the place by storm.’

‘God help the poor people there! How terrible!’ I exclaimed. ‘When did it happen?’

‘It was about the ninth of this month, I believe. But where will the Cavaliers go next, do you think?

Will they come this way?’

I considered for a moment.

‘Taunton is a long way from here,’ I said. ‘It must be nearly forty miles. If I were Sir Ralph and the Prince I’d go for somewhere more important. Taunton guards the way from Cornwall to the middle of the country, and Bridgwater does the same. So I’d attack Bridgwater next, and then perhaps try to have a battle with the Parliament army in the open somewhere.’

‘What about Bristol?’ suggested Tom. ‘I would pass Bristol by,’ I said. ‘It’s too well defended, by all accounts. No, Bristol won’t fall, and I wouldn’t want to spend months on a fruitless siege when I had a chance of finishing off my enemy’s army in the field.’

It was worrying news, though, that Taunton had fallen. I couldn’t help wondering whether their defences had been as strong as ours, and whether ours would be able to resist an assault. But when I did my next spell of duty on the walls I felt confident again. The amazing depth of the ditch and the mighty height of the bank with its stockade on the top, assured me that no enemy would be able to break through.

I still often saw Sir Walter Erle riding up or down the High Street with an escort of troopers, and saw bands of his soldiers marching or riding in and out. Their movements made it seem as if there were plenty of them, but I had an uneasy feeling that were never enough of them kept in the town. For example, soon after we had heard the news about Taunton, I believe he had five or six hundred regular soldiers in Dorchester. However, a few days later there seemed to be far fewer. People had often grumbled about the way Sir Walter kept sending them away on his patrols and raiding parties, but even so we had always expected them to come back in a week or two. But this time they didn’t return. We feared that he now intended to use them permanently elsewhere, and that we would soon be left with only the three badly trained companies recruited from the poor, along with our own Militia, to defend us.

I soon heard what had happened to those soldiers, for I decided to ask Tom Hartley to make me a suit of doublet and breeches. After he had measured me, I asked him if he had heard any news.

‘Well, have you heard what Sir Walter’s gone and done?’

‘No, tell me,’ I said.

‘He’s taken Corfe.’

‘What! Has he really captured the Castle?’

‘No, not so far as I’ve heard, but he’s got possession of the town with hardly a blow struck, I’m told. They say he took advantage of the early morning mist and made a surprise attack, and has bottled

up the defenders in the Castle.’

‘What’s the point of that?’ I said. ‘The town’s of no importance. But the Castle may hold out for months, and tie down his soldiers for ages when they ought to be defending us. What’s going to happen if Dorchester’s attacked while Sir Walter and his men are besieging Corfe?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tom. ‘I suppose Sir Walter thinks capturing Corfe Castle would be a big blow to the Cavaliers.’

‘It would be a blow to their pride, but it’s not all that important in the war. It’s only defended by a very few soldiers and some women, they say, so they’re not much of a threat to others. And Corfe is so out of the way, there in the Isle of Purbeck, whereas Dorchester is much more important overall.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s obvious. Corfe is on the way to nowhere, except some stone quarries and the port of Swanage, whereas we in Dorchester are astride two main roads, from Weymouth to Sherborne and Poole or Wareham to Bridport. As long as we stand firm for Parliament the Cavaliers can’t capture Weymouth and bring in troops and supplies from the sea.’

‘You are clever, Micah,’ said Tom, ‘you understand these things.’

I thought I was rather clever to work it out too, but I coughed modestly and said, ‘Oh no, it’s just that I know Dorchester is important. And there’s another thing,’ I went on, ‘Dorchester is famous throughout the land, thanks to our Mr White. We’re known as “the Godly City”, a beacon of light in the darkness, like the city on a hill in the Gospels. It would be a terrible blow to the godly Cause if Dorchester were captured by the enemy.’

‘Yes, I see that. But I suppose we have to trust that Sir Walter knows what he’s doing.’

‘I think he’s making a mistake. He ought to keep his men here to protect us. But I hope I’m wrong, Tom, and you’re right.’

Sir Walter occupied the little town of Corfe and surrounded the Castle, blocking all ways in and out, and no doubt thought that as its master, Sir John Bankes, was away fighting for the King, leaving only his wife in charge, it would soon fall, and he could then bring most of his troops back to defend us. But she was a woman of spirit and refused to surrender, and the Castle is so strong on its hill that he couldn’t storm it. We heard all about what was happening there from soldiers who passed to and fro. I saw Sir Walter himself a little later, riding up to his house in Dorchester, and thought he looked tired and worried.

Other people noticed too, and were becoming nervous, although life went on much as usual. Farm carts came in with eggs and vegetables, sheep and cows were driven down High Street to market, and people went to see their friends and relatives in villages round about.

But as the siege of Corfe Castle dragged on our anxiety increased. Sir Walter seemed to have no idea how to capture it, and we were daily all too aware how few troops he had left to defend us.

Reports from other parts of the country were depressing. The great champion of Parliament, John Hampden, had died of wounds, and there were rumours of armies on the march and of riots even in parts of Dorset, though Dorchester itself seemed peaceful at the moment. But as my work took me to some of the poorer parts of town I saw how hard life was becoming for folk who lived there. Prices were rising, and some of the people did not have enough to eat.

It must have been at this point that Elizabeth and Nicholas had quite a sharp quarrel. I knew nothing of it at the time, but long afterwards she told me what had happened.

He had been out late with his friends gambling the night before, and when he came to see her was in a bad mood.

‘I’ve got a splitting head,’ was his greeting.

‘Why, what has happened?’

‘Nothing. It was just last night. I was with the lads till late—too late.’

‘Why do you see them so much, if it doesn’t make you happy, dear?’

‘I shall see whoever I like. Don’t you try to stop me.’

‘I want you to be happy.’

‘I am happy. At least I would be if they weren’t such bloodsuckers!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re too much after money, my money—which I haven’t got.’

‘Why do you go on seeing them then? Please don’t.’

‘I’ll see who I like, I tell you. I’ll get it back from them.’

‘You’ve been gambling again. Oh, Nicholas, I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘You let me be! I’ll do what I like. At least my friends don’t carp at me!’

‘But they lead you into trouble. Weren’t some of them involved in the attack on Mr White?’

‘What do you know about ’em? Who have you been talking to?’

‘What’s the matter, Nicholas dear? Why should my asking make you so angry?’

‘Now listen to me, woman. You keep your prying out of my business, d’ye see? I’ll not have you nor anyone stick their noses into my affairs. So you get that in your head from the start.’

She began to cry a little then, and I think he had the grace to say sorry and put his arm about her.

But she began to wonder how far he was really involved in plots and what life with him would be like.

Soon, though, news from the wider world seemed worse than our local worries. I had looked into Tom Hartley’s shop to see how he was getting on with the clothes he was making for me.

‘Terrible happenings,’ he said, ‘terrible! There’s been a big battle near Bath, on Lansdown Hill, they say, with many dead and wounded on both sides. Our general’s retreated.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘I met a man at Top o’ Town by the gate there. He’d just come in on his way to see the Mayor. He cried out the news as he passed.’

‘Who do you mean by “our general”?’

‘Sir William Waller, of course. William the Conqueror, they used to call him. But he’s that no longer it seems.’

‘So where are the armies now?’ I asked.

‘God knows,’ said Tom, ‘the man didn’t say.’

But before evening the whole town knew as much as the man could tell. Apparently when he left after the battle, the Cavaliers were staying in the Bath area, while Sir William was leading his Roundheads towards Wiltshire, though no one knew where he would be going after that.

Even when next day a messenger arrived from Sir William himself we were no wiser as to his plans. But his message was worrying, and soon known all over the town. He was asking, or rather demanding, that Sir Walter Erle should send him reinforcements.

We watched with dismay as most of our remaining soldiers—two cavalry troops and a hundred dragoons—rode out of the East Gate at the bottom of the town and disappeared along the Blandford road. That left Sir Walter with little more than five hundred men to carry on the siege of Corfe, go raiding, impose order on the countryside, and defend Dorchester and Weymouth.

The danger to Mr White seemed to me now greater than ever. With the town poorly defended and the people restive anything might happen. I went to consult with Lawrence Huatt again.

‘I still don’t know who the men were who attacked Mr White,’ I said, ‘but I’m certain that Nicholas Dashwood was one of them. I’m wondering if we could use him to warn them off. Perhaps then they won’t try any more wickedness.’

‘Truly the arms of the wicked shall be broken, and they shall fall into the pit which they have dug themselves. But surely he won’t take any notice of anything we say?’

‘We will have to make out that we know more than we do. I am certain that he and his friends were involved, and anything we say to him will get back to them.’

‘So what can we do?’

‘If we look in at the alehouses at the bottom end of town we’ll probably find him. Will you come now, and we’ll do it?’

‘You must go in to fetch him out. The Lord knows, I won’t be seen in such places,’ said Lawrence.

But he did come with me, and agreed what he should say. I wanted him, as the older and more weighty townsman, to give Nicholas the warning.

We tried several likely alehouses, and in the fourth I saw Nicholas with a group of other young men. I pushed through to him and touched his arm.

‘There’s a man outside who has something for you,’ I said.

‘Who is it?’ he said.

‘Mr Lawrence Huatt. Come and see him, it won’t take a moment.’

‘Aren’t you Mr Judd the apothecary?’

‘Yes, you know me. So will you please come and see Mr Huatt.’

‘I can’t think what he wants with me. Right, I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said to his companions, and followed me out to where Lawrence was waiting. Lawrence told him what we had agreed.

‘Mr Dashwood, you know me and Mr Judd here. We have something very serious to say to you, and I charge you in the Lord’s name to listen carefully. There was recently an attack made upon the minister, Mr White, a most disgraceful attack. Those involved are known. You must tell them that any further attempt to harm Mr White will be visited with immediate and sure punishments upon their heads.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘That is all,’ I said. ‘Now go and tell your friends.’

‘It’s a damned insult. You make accusations like that and I’ll get my father to haul you before the Council!’

‘You’ve heard what we said,’ replied Lawrence, ‘go and do it—and the Lord judge between us and thee.’

And we walked away.

‘Do you think that will make Mr White any safer?’ asked Lawrence.

‘I hope so, but we must still be vigilant.’

I went that evening to the King’s Arms to see if I could pick up any more news of the war, and found a rather gloomy feeling in the bar. Old Thomas Gregory, who had lost a leg in the wars in Germany, was holding forth.

‘Have you any idea what it’s like when a town is sacked?’ he was asking, gazing round with watery eyes at a circle of men. ‘Consider,’ he went on, ‘your usual brave sort o’ captain don’t want to surrender too soon, or he’ll be in trouble with his general, so when the herald comes and says, “Open the gates”, he says, “Never! not on my life!” So the siege begins. An’ at first it’s not too bad—jus’ the odd red-hot cannon-ball settin’ fire to your thatch or choppin’ the odd chile or two in half.’

Old Thomas was warming to his theme and took a swig of beer.

‘Now,’ he went on, ‘it’s when the food begins to go short things turn nasty. The captain, maybe, rations it out, an’ makes sure most o’ it goes to so’jers. But soon even they begin to go hungry; so what do you eat?—cats, dogs, hosses, pigeons—anythin’ with a bit o’ meat on it. Then what?’ He rolled his eyes around the group and lowered his voice.

‘Rats, bird shit, bits o’ leather. An’ when that’s gone you start to eat each other.’

‘Never!’ exclaimed a big man on my right.

‘Oh yes,’ retorted Thomas. ‘’Tis in the Bible, the siege of Samaria. The women there ate one o’ their babes, didn’ they? But I’ve see’d it too. I met one or two in the wars that had only kept alive by eatin’ bits o’ their neighbours’ chillen.

‘But that’s not the worst o’ it,’ he went on after pausing again to take another swig, and letting his bloodshot eyes range over his hearers. ‘If you’ve a girt stumpoll of a captain who holds out too long in the hope of rescue or glory or ’cause he hasn’t much sense, the besiegers get angry, their blood gets up, they don’t like it. An’ when their cannon make a breach in the wall, an’ the poor so’jers, what have seen their comrades shot by the defenders of those same walls, come stormin’ in, they’re not going to say, “Thank you, good people, for so kindly lettin’ us in. Now we can all be friends”—oh no! There’ll be killin’ an’ rape an’ rapine an’ pillage an’ burnin’ an’ destruction. There’ll be screams an’ cries an’ blood flowin’ in the gutters, an’ smoke from burnin’ houses rising to heaven. That’s a sack, friends, that is a sack!’

The speech had tired him and he drained his tankard, but someone soon filled it again.

‘That’s all very horrid,’ said someone, ‘but that was in Germany, wasn’t it? You surely don’t think Englishmen would do that to fellow Englishmen, or Christians to fellow Christians?’

‘Once a so’jer’s blood is up there’s nothin’ he might not do,’ growled Thomas. ‘I’ve been a so’jer, an’ I know.’

‘Were you ever besieged, Thomas?’ asked another.

‘Oh ’ees. But I had a captain wi’ a bit o’ sense. At the second call he gave up. There was a bit o’ pillage and a rape or two, but nothin’ to what would ha’ been if he’d held out. And’—he turned to the previous speaker—‘I’ve taken part in two or three sacks o’ cities, God forgive me, an’ I know what so’jers, what have had to face death by stormin’ the place, can do and will do, and it ain’t pretty, it ain’t pretty at all.’

I went back to Agnes in a rather sober state of mind.

Next day the town was in an uproar. People were hurrying to and fro, their anxiety showing on their faces. Outside the houses of some of the richer townsmen carts were being loaded with pictures,

rich hangings and trunks full of valuables. Some were already trundling out of town, heading for country estates, though whether they would be safer there was anybody’s guess. But away from the town they would at least be spared the horrors of a siege, such as had been so vividly described by Tom Gregory.

What had caused the panic? As usual Tom Hartley told me the news.

‘Lord Carnarvon’s on the move,’ he said. ‘He’s crossed into Dorset with a large force of cavalry.’

‘Whereabouts?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where they’re heading?’

‘I’m told they’re coming this way. Oh whatever shall we do?’

‘What we’ve been preparing for, I don’t doubt,’ I said. ‘We’ll shut the gates and defy these godless Cavaliers. But I do wish we had more soldiers to man the walls. Now Sir Walter must surely send some back here from Corfe.’

But the people leaving with their goods had evidently come to the conclusion that they weren’t prepared to defy the Cavaliers. It was all very well for those who had country estates to flee to; the rest of us had no choice but to stay put, come what may, and trust to our new walls and our own hands to defend us.

As I walked up the High Street I saw a buzz of activity outside Mr Holles’ house. Mr Denzel Holles was our famous Member of Parliament, who in 1629 had helped to hold the Speaker in his chair so that the debate about the King’s demands for money could continue, although the King had ordered the Speaker to adjourn. Mr Holles had been imprisoned and fined for that, but we in Dorchester were proud of him. But now I saw his steward, Ezekias Lambe, supervising the servants as they loaded all sorts of goods onto carts. They seemed to be clearing the house completely.

Mr Lambe was a customer of mine, so I called to him, ‘Mr Lambe, sir, what’s happening?’

‘Ah, Mr Judd, ’tis a bad business,’ he replied. ‘The master has directed me to clear the house.’

‘Where is all this to go?’

‘To the Isle of Wight. ’Twill be safer there, we hope.—Have a care there, you clumsy numskull!’

This was to a servant who had dropped a chest too heavily into a cart.

I suddenly had a chill of fear in my heart. This might be the moment for the conspirators to act.

With the people’s courage wavering, the capture or death of Mr White would be a fatal blow to our resistance.

I hurried again to get Lawrence Huatt’s aid, and he soon gathered the friends who had rallied before, and we went to Holy Trinity church, where we found Mr White standing at the door, sadly watching the procession of carts and carriages laden with goods passing through the town. Some of the carriages had ladies and children in them, while most of the men were on horseback. Amongst others I

noticed Mr Stephen Dashwood, Nicholas’s father, riding beside a laden cart, with Nicholas riding a short way behind. I did not see Mrs Dashwood with them, nor Elizabeth Whittle.

When Mr White returned to his house we thought it safe enough to leave him, especially as Nicholas’s friends were probably also occupied with trying to remove their valuables from the town.

But we begged Mr White to take care, though all he would say was, ‘I am in the Lord’s hands,’ and with that we had to be content.

Later Mr Whittle came into my shop looking troubled.

‘Oh, Mr Judd, I ought to be the happiest man alive,’ he said, ‘with my daughter’s future settled.

But I’m worried sick at what may come upon us. Oh dear oh dear, just think if that Cavalier Lord Carnarvon were to come this way! I can’t sleep for worrying, picturing it in my head, the soldiers tearing through our streets and cutting folk down with their swords, the gutters running with blood! I tell you, Mr Judd, I can’t get it out of my mind, and I toss and I turn till I’m worn to a frazzle. Have you something that might help me to sleep?’

‘Indeed I have, Mr Whittle. Here, have some of this. It’s syrup of discodium—made of poppy, you know.’

‘I’m having headaches too,’ he said plaintively.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Whittle. Very well, I’ll add a tincture of betony. That should help.’ As I wrapped the bottle I asked, ‘Has something special happened to make you worry so?’

‘Oh dear oh dear—it’s all that’s going on around us. All the better sort are leaving town, so they must know things are bad and will get worse. I’d leave myself if I could, but I’ve nowhere to go, and I can’t leave my business.’

‘It’s the same for me, Mr Whittle,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to stick it out. But I’m more worried about my wife and little son than for myself.’

‘That worry at least I don’t have. I never thought when I buried my Mary last year that I’d say thank God she’s gone. She can come to no harm now. But there’s my daughter, as you well know.’

‘Won’t her betrothed, or his father, take care of her?’

‘Oh yes indeed, I hope so. I had thought they might take her to safety. But it seems they’re not planning to leave altogether. Mr Dashwood has taken some of their more valuable goods to their country house, and Nicholas has gone with his father to help. But they’ve left Mrs Dashwood to look after the house here in town. So I’m hoping they’ll be back in a day or two, and that Nicholas will see to Elizabeth’s safety.’

‘Are you doing anything to preserve your valuables?’ I asked. He half closed his eyes and looked at me a bit craftily.

‘If I were I wouldn’t tell anyone,’ he said, then, perhaps realising that he had been a little rude, added, ‘No offence, Mr Judd. I wouldn’t tell you, I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even my own daughter.’

He put a pudgy finger to his lips, gathered up his medicines, and left.

Later Lawrence Huatt came in. I thought he might have come to plan further for Mr White’s protection, but in fact he wanted to talk about his own worries.

‘The Lord be with you and your house,’ was his greeting to me. ‘What think you, Mr Judd, now young Dashwood and so many other disaffected folk have left town, is our godly minister still in danger?’

‘I fear he may be, Mr Huatt. We must keep vigilant and be prepared to rush to his aid if necessary.’

‘The Lord is testing us indeed,’ he said. ‘Mr Judd, I am in a quandary. I need advice.’

‘What about?’

‘As you probably know, Mr Judd, although the Lord has blessed me, I am not a rich man. But over the years I have worked hard and saved, and the Lord had prospered me, so that I have somewhat put by for me and my wife in our old age, should the Lord spare us. Now, all these high and mighty folks taking their valuables out of the town have worried me. What if soldiers do come here and pillage?

Where can I hide what the Lord has given me where they won’t find it?’

‘Do you not think the Lord will protect you?’ I asked, for I was aware that he was a sharp man of business, well able to give the Lord a hand to provide him with both profit and security.

‘Indeed He will,’ he replied, raising his eyes to heaven, ‘but He also requires of us that we should be as wise as the children of this world in our generation. So I ask myself, what would He have me do with the little “pound” He has blessed me with?’

‘Wrap it in a napkin and bury it. That is what our Lord’s parable suggests,’ I said. ‘Or make a place in a wall and brick it in.’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ he said, ‘but suppose some neighbour saw me hiding it—word might get around that I had riches put away, and I might be robbed. And there’s another thing —’ He lowered his voice and rolled his eyes—‘suppose the soldiers thought I might have money, and tormented me or threatened me with death unless I revealed it, I know I wouldn’t be able to hold out. But if I had put it somewhere right out of reach, I could tell them the truth, that it wasn’t in my possession, and they wouldn’t be able to steal it.’

‘That’s true,’ I agreed, ‘so what will you do?’ I didn’t add what occurred to me: that if he told the soldiers he had treasure but had put it out of their reach, they might do him more damage and hurt than ever.

‘That’s what I wanted your advice for,’ he said. ‘Should I go out into the country somewhere, and

perhaps put it in a hollow tree, or bury it under a hedge? But then a thief might chance upon it and take it away. Or should I perhaps entrust it to someone in one of the villages? I did think of my wife’s sister’s husband at Monkton, John Perrin. I was talking to him. Do you know him?’

‘I don’t think so, unless he’s a man I’ve seen in the market once or twice with you,’ I said.

‘A bald chap with a grey beard, that’s him. He is, I am sorry to say, a somewhat ungodly man and a blasphemer. But he has a small farm, and there are many places on a farm where things could be hidden safely, are there not? Also Monkton is such a little place and away from the main roads, so perhaps the soldiers would leave it alone. What do you think?’

‘You must make your own decision, Mr Huatt. You can either keep your hiding-place secret to yourself, or trust your treasure to someone else. I don’t know Mr Perrin and you do, so if you feel he’s someone you can trust I daresay he would be a good choice. It’s up to you.’

‘Lord, Lord, if only the Lord would give me a sign. I don’t know whether I can trust Perrin. He is not one of the elect and his manner of life is sometimes an offence to the godly. Yet he did marry Joan, my wife Anne’s sister, though he’s lived on his own since the Lord took her, poor soul, and in his way he is, I supose, a good-hearted fellow. I’ll have to think and pray to the Lord for guidance. But thank you, Mr Judd, it’s been helpful to talk to you about it. What will you do with your money?’

‘I shall probably bury it somewhere,’ I said.

‘If I do decide to entrust mine to John Perrin, would you like to hide yours with mine?’

I thanked him, but said I thought it best not to put too much treasure in one place in case it was found by soldiers or other robbers.

The conversation did stir me to action though, and that evening I prised up a flagstone in my yard and dug a hollow under it. There I deposited a box with some gold coins, a few bits of jewellery belonging to Agnes, and a silver cup and plate that had belonged to my grandfather. I replaced the flagstone and covered up any sign that it had been moved. But I showed Agnes where the stuff was hidden, in case anything happened to me.

I felt happier when that was done, and grimly resolved to face whatever hardships a siege might bring.

But after that Dorchester’s descent to shame was rapid.

First the poor rioted.

As the richer people went trundling out with their goods those left behind had watched them with dismay. But the poorer people had stronger feelings—besides their fears they had a sense of outrage.

They saw these carts, loaded with riches and luxuries, many items of which might have kept a poor family in comfort for a year. They saw these people, whom they were meant to respect, and who were

supposed to protect their poorer neighbours, abandoning the town to whatever horrible fate the rumours flying round might suggest. These poor folk had laboured and slaved to make the town wall and ditch, they had suffered hunger and cold last winter, and all they could see ahead was more privation and the prospect of misery and even death.

Their murmurs grew louder. When some rich man’s carter cracked his whip and shouted, ‘Out o’ the way, you scum!’ their patience snapped. The crowd surged forward, dragged him off the cart, and began to beat him. Others grabbed at his load and started taking away lengths of cloth, bedding, curtains, pots and ornaments—all was soon stripped bare.

The carter staggered away bleeding. Someone had called the constables who came running. But when they saw the size of the crowd and their ugly mood, they hesitated and drew back. Other carts were attacked and pillaged, and stones thrown through the windows of some of the larger houses. More of the poorest people came swarming out of the back streets and surged about searching for more to rob, or simply looking for a fight.

Then the Mayor arrived. He strode boldly towards the crowd, calling out, ‘Who’s been saying everyone’s abandoning the town? Here I am, you know me, your Mayor—I haven’t abandoned you.

Now, what’s all this about? Two or three of you come and tell me what’s the matter.—Hey, you, Harry Lambert, John Flitch, you come. Anyone else?—Yes, you, man in the jerkin, I don’t know your name, but you come too. The rest of you, go home quietly, otherwise you’ll be in real trouble.’

It took him some time to get them to listen, but his brave appearance and the fact that he was bothering to address their grievances won them over in the end, and at last the crowd quietened and began to disperse. I think some of them were a bit ashamed of what they had done to the carter, although it was his rudeness that had started the trouble.

The Mayor took the three he had picked out, and a few others, and listened to their complaints, but I doubt if he was able to do much to lessen their sense of grievance. However, he promised that he and the Council would do what they could to help the poorest and to protect us from bloodshed and pillage.

But next the soldiers mutinied.

That night I was due to take my turn patrolling the walls, and reported to my guard commander at the West Gate. This was one of the patrols when we militiamen were supposed to be accompanied by regular soldiers, but when I reached the Gate I found a group of soldiers there, standing around without helmets or muskets. They were looking angry and defiant while one of the officers berated them.

‘We want our pay,’ the tallest of the soldiers was saying. He had flaming red hair and a bristling moustache.

‘We want our pay,’ was taken up by the rest of the group as a sort of chant: ‘We want our pay.’

The officer raised his hand and waited until the noise died down.

‘You shall have your pay,’ he said firmly, ‘but certainly not if you don’t earn it. Come now lads, you’re Parliament men, tried and true. The enemy are at hand—don’t let down the Cause, the great Cause of God, liberty and a free Parliament!’

‘Why should we risk our lives when half the town have fled?’ shouted one of them.

‘Because you’re a soldier, not a coward,’ retorted the officer. ‘And as you very well know, in truth only a few of the townsmen have left, and some of those are just securing their goods, and will come back to join with you to defend the town and the Cause.’

‘That’s what you say,’ the man exclaimed scornfully. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it!’

‘What about our pay then?’ shouted another. ‘We’re three months in arrears.’

‘I’ve told you, you shall have your pay, you shall indeed. I too haven’t had my pay, but I trust it will come, and meanwhile I do my duty. Now here are the militiamen all ready to go on patrol, townsmen who are willing to risk their lives alongside you. We must not let them down. Sergeant, will you please call out the men who are to accompany them. The rest of you, I promise you, you shall get your pay, so now—back to your quarters!’

It was touch and go whether they would obey him, but two of the soldiers happened to glance my way and we recognised each other. They were a pair whose hurts (got after a brawl, not a battle) I had tended. Our eyes met and I nodded to them. They grinned back a bit sheepishly and stepped forward to join the patrol with me, and the tension broke. The sergeant detailed others for duty, and reluctantly the other soldiers turned and drifted away.

As we began our patrol I thought, ‘That officer’s promises and orders have stopped mutiny for the moment, but I don’t really believe him.’ Nor, it seemed, did the soldiers with me.

‘That was a lot o’ horse shit,’ said one. ‘The only pay we’ll get is what we take ourselves.’

‘An’ there’s not much chance o’ that,’ said the other. ‘There’ll be no sacking o’ cities for us, I reckon.’

‘Being sacked, more like. We wouldn’t ha’ backed down just now if it hadn’t been for you, sir. But as you played us fair it was only right for us to play fair with you.’

‘What will happen if the Cavaliers attack?’ I asked. ‘Will you fight?’

‘Who knows? I don’t fancy getting killed, and I doubt if there are enough of us to hold these walls if we’re besieged.’

Then came the worst news yet.

When I went to collect my new clothes Tom Hartley was bursting to tell me.

‘Have you heard? Have you heard?’

I was admiring the cut of the doublet and not paying much attention.

‘Have I heard what?’ I asked.

‘Bristol—it’s been taken, and the defenders scattered or prisoners—those not killed, that is.’

‘Bristol!’ I exclaimed, ‘It can’t be! It’s too strong, it’s supposed to be impregnable.’

‘Well, clearly it wasn’t, for certainly it’s fallen. Nowhere’s impregnable it seems. They’re saying in the market that three armies joined together and stormed the place. ’Tis thought there are many dead.

Oh what will become of us?’

‘This is terrible,’ I said, ‘for now the Cavaliers will be able to stamp up and down the land and do whatever they please.’

Bristol was indeed a key city. Besides being the chief port in England after London, it guarded the road from the west country and Cornwall to Wales and the Midlands, and its loss would be a great blow to the spirits of Parliament supporters everywhere.

‘Whatever shall we poor Dorchester folk do?’ said Tom. ‘I would have said, “Man the walls and hold firm”,’ I replied. ‘But now I don’t know; the spirit to fight seems to be leaching away.’

The news quite spoiled my pleasure in my new clothes, though when I showed them to Agnes she said they were very fine.

The following day a Roundhead officer arrived in Dorchester. He had escaped from Bristol in the confusion when the defences were stormed, and had been dodging from place to place to avoid capture.

He was entertained by the Mayor, and (I’m told) gave the assembled Council a horribly vivid account of the siege and its end.

Next morning he walked round some of our defences and looked at the ditch and earth wall I and the rest had laboured so hard to raise.

‘What do you think of our fortifications, Mr Strode?’ the Mayor asked.

‘Well, Mr Mayor,’ he replied, ‘these works might keep the Cavaliers out for half an hour or so.’

‘Do you really mean that?’ said the Mayor, astonished. ‘This great ditch and wall—who could get past them?’

‘My dear sir,’ said Strode, ‘you have no idea what these Cavaliers can do. They’re very devils, sir.

Why, at Bristol we had sheer walls twenty feet high, and they came running straight up ’em. No sir, your works look fine enough, but they’ll be nothing to those devils. No works will keep ’em out, sir.

Believe me, I’ve seen ’em.’

I have often thought that if we had kept our spirits up, and if the leading citizens had stayed and given a strong lead, and if we had manned the walls with courage, the enemy would have gone away.

After all, in spite of its position astride the roads, Dorchester was hardly important enough in the country as a whole to warrant the time and expense of a long siege. But Mr Strode’s remarks were the final blow. Anyone who had the means to escape and who hadn’t already gone, now left.

I comforted myself that we still had our champion, Mr White, with us, provided we could protect him. But next morning I saw his servant-maid coming out of Holy Trinity church.

‘Is Mr White safe? Is he keeping within doors?’ I asked.

‘He’s gone,’ she said, looking ready to weep.

‘Gone? Where?’

‘Gone away. He and Mr Benn have gone together, to London.’

‘But why? He was telling us to stand and die together.’

‘He said he had to go back to the great Assembly of divines.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘He was there at the beginning of last month, and ’tis true, he’s a very important leader amongst them. But he came back—I thought to strengthen us and keep us firm. Why has he left us now?’

‘He said, “I’ll be more use in London than here. If I stay the Cavaliers will kill me. What purpose would my death serve? I would do better to live and keep the Lord’s Cause alive”. So off he went, with Mr Benn too.’

‘Oh,’ I said, hardly knowing what to say, ‘what does he expect us to do?’

She did not answer, but gave a sort of sob and turned away, her apron pressed to her eyes. I too was deeply distressed. My spiritual father, the leader who had moulded our town and inspired us all, had let us—let me—down just when we needed him most. I had always admired him for his steadfastness and vision, and now he was shown to have feet of clay. He had deserted us, whom he so often called his children, and left us to face the enemy on our own. The Reverend William Benn also, minister of All Saints church and an even stricter Puritan than Mr White, but co-worker with him in making Dorchester ‘the godliest town in England’—he too had failed us.

The Cause he had urged us to defend, and which I had steeled myself to fight for—the Lord’s Cause, as he called it—had evidently not been worth dying for. The religion, the very God I had been brought up to believe in, seemed to be failing me just when I needed faith most. I felt shaken and my mind was churning with doubts. Who could I trust? Where could I base my faith? Were we really God’s elect people, or had we somehow gone wrong and missed the right way? Perhaps we Puritans did not have all the truth and our enemies none. Could it be that we were all groping for a larger truth, and all coming short? Might we one day end this dreadful fighting, and together seek that truth? My spiritual father had failed me; I would have to work out my own faith and my own way through life.

I thought rather bitterly that at least I would not have to worry any more about his safety. But I went home sad and indignant and full of foreboding. What would happen to Agnes, Mark and me, and to our friends and neighbours when the Cavalier army arrived? Could we survive the sack of Dorchester?

CHAPTER 3 LOSSES WE DID NOT have long to worry. The very next day, Wednesday, August 2nd, the Earl of Carnarvon came riding up to the East Gate with a regiment of cavalry and demanded entry. I hurried down to find out what was happening, and was just in time to see the Mayor and two of the Council go out of the postern to meet him. After half an hour of so they came back, smiling and calling out, ‘Be of good cheer, citizens. The Earl has agreed not to harm us. We will open the gates to him, and he has promised there will be no violence or pillage. In return we must be careful not to give him or his men any cause for complaint.’

Most of the crowd who had gathered received this news in silence, but two or three Royalist supporters raised a ragged cheer. Then the gates were opened and the Earl rode in at the head of his men. He had an oval aristocratic face, with a thin slightly hooked nose and a long moustache which turned up at the ends, and dark serious eyes. His long hair flowed behind over his wide lace collar, which hid the top of his breastplate.

He rode on up through the town, and stopped at the Earl of Bedford’s house.

‘I shall lodge here,’ he said to the Mayor, ‘See that my men are provided for.’

Then began a hurrying and bustling, with some cries of protest and shouted orders, as the soldiers were billeted around the town. I counted myself lucky that our part of Durn Lane was missed out on this occasion, though later in the wars Agnes and I had more than once to put up soldiers in our home.

But what a change had come over the town! There was something of a festive air, because the relief that we had escaped the horrors of a siege and sack was so great that we almost forgot the shame of having given in so feebly. I think many folk had mixed feelings; I certainly did. I was greatly relieved to be alive and at peace, yet ashamed of my relief. And I still had an ache in my heart with the feeling of betrayal, of having been deserted by those who ought to have been our leaders, particularly at Mr White’s going.

The demoralised and mutinous soldiers who had been supposed to defend us meekly surrendered too, or ran away without firing a shot. Some of them fled into the surrounding countryside or over the hill to Weymouth. Some who stayed changed sides and joined the Royalists.

And where was the Parliamentary commander, Sir Walter Erle, while all this was going on? He was still trying to capture Corfe Castle with the soldiers who might have been manning our walls. But very soon we heard that he too had fled from there by sea, leaving the eldest of the Sydenham brothers, William, in command. But only a couple of days after Lord Carnarvon entered Dorchester, Sydenham also abandoned Corfe and fled, leaving his cannon, many of his men and over a hundred horses. People

said that he ran away so quickly he even left his dinner half eaten on the table!

I tried to go back to work, but found my churning thoughts made that impossible. I wanted to be quiet, so I locked the doors and put up the shutters. I could not yet discuss my confused feelings with Agnes, but sat in my shop with my head in my hands.

After a time I was able to think more clearly. I pictured what might have happened if we had endured a siege. I thought of the food running short, and seeing the people I most loved fading away with hunger. I even forced myself to imagine Cavaliers bursting into our home and raping my wife and dashing out little Mark’s brains with the butt of a musket. I must be entirely relieved that we had not had to bear such terrible things.

And yet... and yet... We had been so keyed up, so encouraged by Mr White and other leading townsmen to consider ourselves God’s own people, put here in Dorchester to maintain His light in the world, to be an example to the whole of England. Had we but kept up our courage we might have seen the enemy retreat; we might even now be celebrating a famous victory.

And how would I have behaved in battle? Would I have been as brave as I hoped I would be, facing cold steel and flying bullets? Now I would never know. I felt a sort of regret that I had not been put to the test.

At last common sense prevailed, and I told myself not to be foolish, but to be glad I and my family were alive, safe and well fed. At that I rose and went in to where Agnes was sitting in the parlour sewing.

‘Is something the matter, Micah dear?’ she asked.

‘Not now, my darling. I needed to be quiet for a little and to think over what has happened.’

I took up a piece of wood I had begun to carve. I was trying to make a toy horse for Mark. It was a roughly made little little thing, but it helped further to steady my mind.

After we had sat in companionable silence for some time Agnes touched my arm.

‘You’re sad, dear, aren’t you, because we didn’t fight. But for Mark’s sake I’m glad we didn’t. I’m truly relieved that if the Cavaliers had to capture Dorchester they’ve done so without violence.’

‘Yes, my darling, I’m glad of that too.’

But our relief was premature.

Next day Prince Maurice arrived, coming along the road from Blandford with an army of horse and foot. He and his brother Prince Rupert were sons of the King’s sister, the exiled Queen of Bohemia. They had been hardened to warfare on the continent, and already both had a reputation for ruthlessness.

The first I knew of his arrival was a sound of shouting and of women screaming down the bottom end of town. I ran down Durn Lane and to the left as far as the High Street, but there I paused and shrank back into the side road. Soldiers seemed to be swarming everywhere down near East Gate, and a young man in armour on horseback was waving his sword and shouting, ‘Have at them, Puritan dogs!’

People were running to get away, others were trying to defend their property. I saw two soldiers dragging some rich hangings out of a house. A man who tried to stop them was knocked to the ground.

Then a group of men came hurrying past me down the hill, and I recognised the Earl of Carnarvon attended by some of his staff. He was on foot, which put him at a disadvantage, but he and his men pushed through to where the young man was still on his horse watching the soldiers pillaging.

‘Sir,’ called Carnarvon, ‘what are you about? I have taken surrender of this town and agreed terms.

There is to be no pillage or violence.’

‘Sir,’ retorted the young man, with a toss of his long black curls, ‘I have not agreed terms. This is the most malignant town in the kingdom, and by God they shall suffer for it!’

‘No sir, by your leave,’ said Carnarvon. ‘I have pledged my word that they shall not be harmed.’

‘But I have not,’ said the other scornfully. ‘Come on, my lads, teach these traitorous dogs a lesson.’

‘By the Lord, sir,’ said Carnarvon, raising his voice, ‘this is against all the laws of war.’

But the Prince ignored him and turned his horse away. Carnarvon looked as if he would burst with fury, stamped his foot and marched away back up the hill. Perhaps his protest had some effect however, as although a number of houses were broken into and pillaged, and anybody who protested was roughed up, no one was killed. Indeed, some parts of the town escaped altogether. Again, I was lucky, for I had hurried back to try to preserve my property, and was standing in the doorway of my shop when three soldiers came lurching up the lane. The right hand of the leading one was bleeding. Before they could break in or do harm I called to him, ‘Hey man, would you like me to bind that up? I’m an apothecary and have salves which will put you right.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘’tis from a cursed bottle.’ He was a little tipsy.

‘Sit down,’ I said, placing my three-legged stool for him outside the door. ‘And you support him,’ I said to his companions, for though he did not really need their help I wanted at all costs to keep them from entering the shop. Hastily I went in and picked up a bandage and a pot of my juice of betony ointment, then hurried out to them. I cleaned the wound, which certainly needed attention, as it was a jagged tear and still dripping blood onto the ground. I applied some ointment and tied the bandage, and had almost finished when another group of soldiers came up the lane and stopped to see what I was doing.

‘Do any of you have hurts?’ I asked. ‘If so, I may be able to help you.’

‘Show him, Wally,’ said one of the newcomers, and his friend turned so that I could see a ghastly livid scar newly healed and running up the right side of his face from his chin to the roots of his hair.

‘Cover that if you can,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, friend,’ I said, ‘I can deal with fresh wounds, some of them, but the scars remain. But see,’ I said to the one I had bandaged, ‘the bleeding’s stopped and you’ll soon be right again.’

Somewhat to my surprise he and his friends thanked me heartily, then followed the others up the street, thumping on a few doors and smashing a window or two, but not bothering to break into the houses. Perhaps our houses in Durn Lane did not look rich enough to make pillage worth while. At all events, I felt I had had a fortunate escape, and thanked God I had a skill which could sometimes turn away the wrath of the soldiery.

At last the noise and mayhem died down. Groups of drunken soldiers staggered away singing rude Cavalier songs, and an uneasy peace prevailed.

Next morning I saw Tom Hartley outside his house.

‘What news?’ I asked.

‘Only that Lord Carnarvon’s gone.’

‘Gone? Where?’

‘They’re saying in the High Street that he’s resigned his command in protest at what Prince Maurice let his soldiers do yesterday.’

‘He’s a man of principle,’ I said. ‘After all, the Prince was going quite against the terms Carnarvon had agreed with us. But he’s leaving us to the Prince’s tender mercies! Where’s he gone?’

‘He’s just ridden off, God knows where.’

‘Perhaps he’s going to protest to the King.’

‘I just hope so,’ said Tom. ‘But like you I’m worried what the Prince will let his soldiers do.

Without Lord Carnarvon to keep a check on him none of us will be safe.’

That was what most of us felt, I think, and I for one tried to arrange my work so that I did not have to leave home that day. But about midday I had to take a tonic (a preparation of dandelion) to a sick woman who lived near the Shambles, a few doors down from Mr White’s house. I could see piles of bedding and some bits of furniture in the roadway outside, and after I had delivered the tonic I went a little further to see what had been happening. Several books lay in the gutter and some loose pages were fluttering in the breeze. The windows of his house were broken and the door was half off its hinges.

Mr White’s servant-maid looked out of a window.

‘Oh Mr Judd,’ she said, ‘whatever shall I do? They’ve been through the house breaking and tearing. And the books—Mr White’s library that was so important to him—they’ve stripped it. That Prince Maurice himself came and told them to take the books away. It’ll break Mr White’s heart, it will.’

‘He’s all right—he got away,’ I said, for I still felt angry with him. But when I saw the special violence his house had been made to suffer I supposed he had had some excuse. Although he had never preached rebellion against the King, he had opposed the King’s wishes and Archbishop Laud’s orders for the church, and the Cavaliers seemed to regard him as one of the chief trouble-makers in the kingdom. Grudgingly I had to admit that he would be of more use to Parliament free in London than in prison or dead. I was glad, at least, that we had protected him from harm while he was among us.

On my way home I saw something was happening towards South Gate, and went a little way to see. A general movement of soldiers was taking place towards the Gate and the leading horsemen were already streaming out under the gateway, their helmets and breastplates gleaming in the sunlight. Then followed the foot-soldiers, the musketeers with their heavy guns borne on their shoulders parallel to the ground, their little powder flasks bobbing about across their chests. Then there were the pikemen, their eighteen-foot shafts also borne balanced on their shoulders, the ends bouncing up and down as they marched, each rank a long way from the next so that their weapons did not get entangled with each other. Some cannon were dragged along by teams of oxen, and there were waggons, mostly also drawn by oxen, though some by horses, laden with tents and baggage and ammunition and all the hundred and one things an army needs. There were some women with the waggons, wives and harlots and campfollowers. Lastly came the rear-guard of musketeers and horsemen, gradually fading into the distance towards Weymouth. It was quite late in the afternoon by the time the last of them had left. Prince Maurice and his men had only spent one night in Dorchester, but what a lot of harm they had wreaked in that time!

It was surprising how quickly the rich citizens who had gone to their country houses when the armies were approaching began to come back now they were leaving. I spent most of the afternoon at my shop, but stepped out to watch the rear-guard marching off. On my way home I caught sight of Nicholas Dashwood riding past, and wondered to myself how he would excuse himself to Elizabeth for leaving her to face all these dangers without him. At least he must have started back before he knew the soldiers were leaving. But probably a young man like that would see no necessity to excuse himself.

After all his father had left Mrs Dashwood similarly, and I suppose they could have pointed to much more famous examples, like that of Sir John Bankes leaving his Lady to defend Corfe Castle. But he at anyrate had gone to fight for his King, while the Dashwoods and their like had only been intent on

saving their own skins and possessions.

Later, when I was about to close my shop, Mr Whittle came to me in great distress.

‘Oh, Mr Judd, Micah, whatever shall I do?’ he said. ‘What I feared has come to pass. Oh, Micah, Micah, what shall I do?’

‘Come in, Mr Whittle, and tell me all about it.’

I took him into the parlour and gave him a drink, and he sat for a moment looking shocked and miserable.

‘Now, what is the trouble, Mr Whittle?’ I asked.

‘It’s my money, my savings, all I had put by for Elizabeth’s dowry, it’s been taken. Whatever can I do? All the money I had been saving for my old age has gone, and so has all the dowry that would have set up Elizabeth in the way she deserves. All gone in a moment. A soldier found where I had hidden it and took the lot.’

‘What happened? Where had you put it?’

‘It was in a box under my bed, hidden by other boxes and a blanket. But the soldiers came this morning—I thought they had done all the pillaging they were going to do yesterday, but oh no, they came this morning, broke into my house, stripped the bed and stole the bedding. Then one of them looked under the bed and found the box. It was a sergeant—I even know his name, because they called him Sergeant Barnby: “Sergeant Barnby, what have you got there?”, “Sergeant Barnby, you’ve got a good haul”—and indeed he had, for he’d taken all my savings. Oh whatever shall I do?’

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘but in time you will be able to put by some more and replace what you’ve lost. You may thank God your daughter’s betrothed to a rich young man. She, at anyrate, will be well provided for.’

‘But will he have her without the dowry? Oh dear oh dear, I’m afraid the Dashwoods may not want her now.’

‘That will surely depend on how much Nicholas values her for herself apart from money,’ I said.

‘But did you lose much else? Did the soldiers do much damage in your house?’

‘Some, with their banging about the place, but I suppose not much considering what they might have done. Once the sergeant had found my box he ran out followed by his men. But what shall I do?

Whatever shall I do?’

‘Well, Mr Whittle, there’s not much anybody can do. I suppose your Sergeant Barnby will have gone to Weymouth with the rest of the Prince’s army, and where they’ll go after that, heaven knows.

But he’s probably spent it or gambled most of your money away by now.’

‘What! that amount! My life’s savings!’

‘I’m afraid so, Nathan,’ I said, for there was no sense in holding out false hopes. ‘Soldiers don’t keep what they get. They spend it, wager it, give it to their friends or even throw it away. After all, they know they must eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow they may die. And it’s no good appealing to the Prince, for it’s because he encouraged his troops to rampage that you lost the money in the first place.

It’s hard, I know, very hard to have lost so much. But it might have been worse.’

‘I suppose so,’ he said gloomily.

‘Oh come now,’ I said, ‘you might have had all your furniture broken or stolen, or all your windows smashed, like some of those poor folk down near East Gate. They might have wrecked your shop and taken all your stock. You might even have been killed. But as it is you’ve still got your business and your home, and will, I’m sure, be able to build up your savings again.’

‘Yes,’ he said, still very gloomily, ‘I know it might have been worse. But it’s not so much for myself I’m upset as for my daughter. I had fixed my heart on making a good match for Elizabeth, and now I don’t know how to face Mr Dashwood and tell him I can’t give a dowry with her.’

‘All may yet turn out well,’ I said. ‘I daresay they have had losses too, and will be able to feel for you and be prepared to face a little hardship together with you.

‘I do hope you’re right, Mr Judd, I do indeed.’

He rose to his feet and shook my hand and stumped off, and left me feeling that, though I had perhaps helped him to see things more calmly, he wasn’t much comforted.

A small garrison of Cavalier troops had been left to keep Dorchester in order, and indeed the town was in danger of tearing itself apart. Those of Cavalier sympathies, who had had to keep quiet while the Roundheads were in control, began strutting about and mocking the supporters of Parliament, who slunk around with grim faces longing to get their own back. The poorer people were still facing near starvation, in spite of the Mayor’s assurances at the time of the riot. Food was still expensive and their pinched faces and downcast looks showed how some of them were suffering actual hunger.

People whose houses had been broken into and pillaged also looked askance at those of us who had escaped, and for a few days I tried to avoid them by not going to the lower end of town where most of the damage had been done.

The day after the soldiers had marched out I had another visitor distressed about lost treasure. Mr Lawrence Huatt came into my shop and sat down heavily on my stool.

‘Mr Judd, Mr Judd, I’m ruined,’ he said. ‘All my savings for my old age—gone. The Lord’s hand has been heavy upon me.’

‘Why, Mr Huatt,’ I said, ‘whatever’s happened? Didn’t you take them to your brother-in-law?

‘I did, I did, the more fool me! Why did I trust them to a godless man like Perrin? But I never

thought the soldiers would go to a little place like Monkton, and if they did I thought he’d keep all safe.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I went there yesterday evening, after the Prince’s troops had gone away, to make sure that my treasures were safe, and what do I find?—Jacob Perrin says they’re lost, taken by soldiers. That’s what he says.’

‘Don’t you believe him?’

‘I don’t know what to think. The Lord knows I’ve always treated him fairly as if he were my own brother, for my Anne’s sister Joan was set on marrying him, though their father was against the match.’

‘And Joan is dead, I think you told me?’

‘Yes, she died, four—five years ago, and the babe was lost too. Jacob has lived on his own since then, with not even a woman to come in by the day to clean or cook. He’s a secretive chap, but seems to make a fair living, though how he manages with a run down little farm like he’s got there I don’t know. I thought he was honest, or I wouldn’t have trusted him with my treasures, but now...’ He paused.

‘Do you think he’s stolen your money?’

‘I tell you I don’t know what to think. I doubt whether there were any soldiers in Monkton. I didn’t see any sign of them, and it’s well away from the Weymouth road—there’s no reason why they should have gone there. I didn’t see any broken windows or smashed doors or bedding strewn about, nothing like what we’ve seen in town here. I didn’t ask anybody else there, but judging by the look of the place I would say Perrin made it up about the soldiers.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? How easy, when he had possession of my treasure, just to pretend the soldiers had stolen it. It’s probably still on his farm somewhere, and he’s likely laughing up his sleeve at me.’

‘That’s a very serious accusation to make,’ I said. ‘You really ought to have firmer grounds for suspecting him. Has he ever tried to cheat you in the past?’

‘Not as far as I know, but that could be because I haven’t found out. Is he not well called Jacob, and wasn’t Jacob the son of Isaac who cheated his brother? Doesn’t his very name mean a trickster and a cheat? The whole thing is strange, it doesn’t add up.’

‘Other people have been robbed by the soldiers,’ I reminded him.

‘But they didn’t take his stuff. Oh, I know he said they’d taken some of his farm things, his cart or waggon, I think he said. But the money he had hidden—I asked him how much treasure he had lost,

and he said, “Thank God they didn’t find it”. “Thank God” indeed! If they didn’t find his treasure, why did they find mine. Wouldn’t he have hidden them in the same place? It doesn’t ring true.’

‘Did you ask him how it was they took yours and not his?’

‘Of course I did, and he said he put them in different places so that if one was discovered all wouldn’t be lost. So why was mine taken while his wasn’t, can you tell me that?’

‘Where had he hidden yours, did he show you?’

‘That’s another suspicious thing. He said he’d put mine in the barn, but when I asked exactly where he didn’t show me. He just said the soldiers had turned the whole place over, and there was nothing to see. So, Lord help me, I can’t help thinking he’s taken it himself.’

‘I suppose he might have done,’ I said. ‘Not knowing the man I can’t say. But you could easily find out if soldiers really ransacked the village or not.’

‘I wonder,’ he said after a pause, ‘Micah, would you do something for me. I would make it worth your while.’

‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘Would you go to Monkton? You could ask the villagers and find out about the soldiers. If they weren’t there you could let me know and I’ll take Perrin to court—as God is my witness I will. But even if they were there I would be glad if you would go and speak to him, for he still could have taken my stuff himself. I can’t go, it wouldn’t do any good, because we parted on such bad terms. I fear I would lose my temper and knock him down, and then he wouldn’t tell me a thing. But he might talk to you. You could say I’ve asked you to see if you can trace what soldiers they were. You could ask which company they belonged to. If they really were there it might be possible to track them down and lodge a complaint. I’ll pay you for your time and trouble, for though I may be wasting some of the little I still have, I can’t bear to go on harbouring suspicions and not being sure. I’d rather know Perrin was a thief, or be certain that he’s told the truth.’

‘You may never know for certain,’ I said. ‘Even if I do what you ask, there may be no real evidence, apart from what Mr Perrin says. But at least I can find out if the soldiers were there.’

‘Then you’ll go?’ he said eagerly.

‘All right, Mr Huatt, I will go. I could walk out there tomorrow afternoon, I think. But don’t hope for too much from that. It might help if you wrote a little note for me to take to Mr Perrin, to confirm that you’ve asked me to make some enquiries.

‘I’ll write a note by all means,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think Jacob Perrin can read.’

‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘write the note anyway for me to show him, and I daresay he will recognise the hand even if he can’t read the words.’

He wrote the note there and then, shook my hand heartily, and left more cheerfully than he had come. I wasn’t displeased to help, especially as my business was still rather slack and he would pay me. Also, I thought, I can make myself known as an apothecary as I go round Monkton, and perhaps gain more customers, and maybe on the way call upon Josias Whiteway, the gardener who supplies some of my medicinal plants.

Towards the end of the morning someone else in distress came to see me: Elizabeth Whittle slipped quietly into my shop. I was balanced on my chair counting some empty phials on an upper shelf when I heard a slight noise, and turning saw her standing there just inside the door. She looked as if she had been crying.

‘Why, Mistress Whittle,’ I said, getting down from the chair, ‘whatever is the matter?’

‘Oh Mr Judd, I’m so unhappy, I don’t know what I shall do.’

‘Can you tell me what the trouble is?’

‘It’s Mr Dashwood—Nicholas. I thought he truly cared for me, and wanted to marry me because he wanted me as his wife. But now...’ she broke off.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘I was so glad to see him after we had been so frightened by the soldiers, and with father so upset and all. When Nicholas came to see me he asked if we had lost anything, and... and I told him about father’s money and the sergeant finding it, and he said... he said...’ she sobbed.

‘Yes?’ ‘He said he wouldn’t marry a penniless shopkeeper’s daughter. Father isn’t penniless. He’s lost his savings, I know, and the money he had set apart for my dowry. But he’s still got his business. People always need gloves. In time he could get the money together again, I know he could. But Nicholas says he can’t wait. He doesn’t want me.’

‘Would you want to marry someone who simply wanted your money?’ I asked.

‘No, but I thought he truly wanted me. I know father arranged it all with Nicholas’s father, but I thought Nicholas himself was really pleased with me and that we would grow to love each other.’

‘Did you really think that a man like Nicholas Dashwood would make you happy?’

‘I don’t know. He sometimes said hurtful things.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘But girls don’t have much choice. Father had set his heart on it, and I suppose I tried to hope for the best. But I did think Nicholas cared for me.’

‘Well, now you know the truth,’ I said gently, ‘and in the long run it’s best to know how things really stand. In my opinion you’ve had a lucky escape from a match that would probably have given you much pain, so a little pain now will prove a blessing.’

I know my words sounded unfeeling, but I thought she needed to face the truth. I also suspected her grief was due as much to her wounded pride, because she had been accounted of no value, as to disappointed love.

She stared wide-eyed at me for a moment, then looked at the ground and said, ‘Is that really true?’

‘I believe it is. You are a very lovely girl, Mistress Whittle, and will have other young men, far more deserving, who will love you truly. In fact I know of one already.’

‘I suppose you mean Denis Faire. I know, he—he has made it clear that he cares for me, but while I was betrothed to Nicholas I tried to put Denis out of my mind.’

‘And now...?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose he could be a person I could love. But father would never allow it. He says Mr Faire is a nobody. You see, Father is determined that I shall make what he calls a good match.’

‘Well, come what may, I’m sure you can achieve that,’ I said with a smile. ‘But I hope your father will remember that he started off as poor as Denis, and that Denis may end up as rich or richer than he.’

She gave me back a little smile, and said, ‘I like Mr Faire, what I’ve seen of him, which isn’t much, for father has forbidden him to speak to me. I know father is doing what he thinks is best for me, but I do wish he wasn’t so eager for me to go up in the world.’

‘Losing your dowry may be the best thing that could have happened to you if it frees you from that.’

‘Or it may make father work all the harder to marry me off to a gentleman.’

‘Yes, that’s possible,’ I agreed, ‘but then it will be all the more important that you are firm to follow your heart as well as your mind.’

She was quiet for a moment, then gave me another shy smile.

‘Thank you for listening,’ she said. ‘I feel better for talking to you. Goodbye, Mr Judd.’

She turned and left, and I sincerely hoped that even if her father would not consider Denis Faire, he would at least make a better choice for his daughter than a man like Nicholas Dashwood.

Little did I imagine then how the Dashwoods were to affect my life, and nearly cause my death.

CHAPTER 4 ROBBERIES? ON THAT VERY SAME DAY, not long after Elizabeth had left, a young man of about my own age came into the shop with a lordly air.

‘Are you Mr Judd the apothecary?’ he demanded.

‘I am.’

‘Mr Dashwood wants you to attend upon his wife, Mistress Jessica.’

‘What is the matter with her?’

‘She is —’ he hesitated ‘— much disturbed. There has been a robbery, and she needs something to calm her perturbation.’

His rather formal words made me look at the man curiously. He was soberly dressed in black with a plain white linen collar, and had a thin straight nose and short mouse-coloured hair.

‘And who are you?’ I asked.

‘I am Mr Dashwood’s confidential secretary,’ he said proudly. ‘He has particularly instructed me to say that you are to come at once as he is most concerned about his lady. He thought perhaps a sleeping draught...?’

I did not like his tone or being treated like a servant by Mr Dashwood. But I needed the business, so kept my thoughts to myself.

‘I will bring what I have,’ I said, ‘so if you will wait a moment while I gather my things I will come along with you.’

‘I took a phial with a syrup of poppy, and another with a preparation of mandrake to calm her mind, and one or two other items which I thought might be useful. Then, having put on my hat and cloak and asked Agnes to mind the shop, I set off with the man. On the way I asked him how long Mistress Dashwood had been ill.

‘Since the robbery was discovered, at least that is what I understand,’ he said.

‘And when was that?’

‘I don’t know exactly. It was sometime yesterday I believe, when the soldiers were here. I came back with Mr Dashwood this morning, and we found the household all in disorder and the mistress still in bed.’

‘What has been stolen?’

‘You must ask Mr Dashwood.’

It was obvious that I would not get much information from the secretary. However, we soon reached the house, one of the larger ones in the High Street, and were let in by an old manservant. The

secretary led me up the stairs, which were hung about with faded tapestries, to a wide landing, and as we approached a door I could hear the sound of moaning and weeping.

I went into the room, and saw a woman in a rich silk gown lying on her back on a four-poster bed —she was on top of the coverlet—holding her head with both hands and tossing from side to side, while she moaned and cried. An elderly maidservant was standing beside her at the far side of the bed, trying rather ineffectually to lay a hand on her tossing shoulder. Mr Stephen Dashwood was standing at the window with his back to her.

As I entered he turned and said, ‘Thank the Lord you’ve come at last. You’ve taken your time about it.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘I came straight away, as soon as your secretary called for me.’

‘At all events, you’re here. Now, for God’s sake, calm her, stop her making this fuss, put her to sleep.’

‘Before I give her any medicines I need to know a bit more about the cause of her complaint,’ I said. ‘What brought on this fit? and how long has she been ill?’

‘She’s been like this ever since I arrived back here this morning. She greeted me with the news that the house had been broken into—by soldiers she thought—and that her jewels had been stolen. And then she started laughing and crying as if she was having a fit.’ The mention of the jewels seemed to excite her further. Instead of crying she burst out into hysterical laughter and threw herself about more violently.

There was a jug of water on a little table beside the bed. I took hold of it and dashed some water in her face and slapped her smartly on the cheek. The effect was extraordinary. She stopped laughing and throwing herself about, went very red in the face and looked furious.

‘Now, drink this,’ I said, unstopping the mandrake phial and holding it to her lips. Somewhat to my surprise she drank it meekly, though screwing up her face at the taste.

‘That will make you calm,’ I said, ‘and now I will give you something which will help you to sleep, and when you wake you should be well.’

I gave her the sleeping draught, and again she drank it meekly and lay back on the bed.

‘By God, sir!’ Mr Dashwood began, but before he could say more I seized his arm and drew him out of the room. I shut the door, and said, ‘Excuse me interrupting you, sir, but she must be kept quiet and not excited further. She should soon be asleep and, as I told her, when she wakes she should be calmer.

‘By God, sir, your methods are drastic, but so far they seem to have worked. Hysterical women are creatures I cannot stand!’

‘Was she hysterical before you came home?’ I asked.

‘God knows,’ he said. ‘As I said, I came back this morning and found her like that. I couldn’t get any sense out of her, apart from wild talk about robbers and her jewels missing. Her maid showed me a damaged window which she said they had discovered earlier.’

‘When did they find it?’

‘It’s hard to get any sense out of any of them, but as far as I can understand they found it yesterday sometime, and thought someone had tried to break in and failed. But then they discovered my wife’s jewel box was gone and muddy footsteps were on the stairs. They presumed the robbery happened the night before or in the morning while the soldiers were still about. Most of the household were out in the morning, she said, so it might have happened then.

‘But why,’ he continued, as we went down the stairs, ‘when I had told her specifically to hide her valuables and to keep indoors while I was away, did she disobey my instructions? I ought never to have left her here alone, but I did think she had more sense. The damnable woman will drive me mad with her silly ways! And now she’ll expect me to buy her more jewellery to replace what she’s lost no doubt. Well, she’ll have to do without for a time—teach her to look after her things better.’

‘Yet, sir, one cannot know when robbers may come.’

‘But with soldiers about, and pillaging going on, I’m told, surely anyone with a grain of sense would have hidden valuables where they wouldn’t be found!’

‘Where exactly were the jewels?’

‘In a box in the cabinet in her bedroom, so the maid says. What could be more stupid than that?

Just waiting for the soldiers to come and get it. She might as well have put it on the front doorstep.’

‘Are you sure it was soldiers who took the jewels?’ I asked, for it seemed rather odd to me.

‘That’s what the maid said, and in between her crying fits I believe that’s what my wife was also trying to say. Many people in the town have been robbed I believe.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but the sort of robbing soldiers usually do is much more open and rough. They wouldn’t creep in through a window at night, or in the morning when the house was empty. They would kick in your door without worrying who might see, and they wouldn’t just break one window— they’d smash the lot. They wouldn’t just take the jewellery either, but kick the furniture about and tear down some of your fine curtains.’

‘By God, I think you’re right,’ he said, ‘so it could have been done by a robber from the town.’

‘Much more likely, I should say.’

‘Mr Judd, you meet people of the lower sort, in the course of your work I mean. If in your travels you hear any rumour about this, any talk of jewellery being offered for sale cheap, or anyone boasting

about it in the taverns, could you come and tell me. I would certainly reward you.’

‘I do not frequent the sort of taverns where thieves gather,’ I said firmly, for I resented his patronising tone. ‘However, it’s true that I meet a lot of people of all sorts, so if I do happen to hear of anything to do with this affair I will let you know. If you could describe to me some of the things that have been taken it might help. They could turn up in the market or in one of the jewellers’ shops, and if I knew what to look for I would keep an eye out for them.’

‘A good idea,’ he said. ‘Come in here a moment and I will try to make you a list.’

He led me into a small room near the front door, a sort of closet with a desk and some shelves of books and ledgers. The secretary was sitting at the desk, but stood up as his employer entered.

‘Now, Henry, I wish to give Mr Judd here a list of what has been stolen,’ said Mr Dashwood, sitting on the chair he had vacated.

I sat on a hard stool while he wrote on a sheet of paper. I watched his face as he did so: it was leaner than his son’s, with deep lines each side of his mouth and thin pale lips. It was a hard, even a cruel, face—the face of a man to whom money and rank are more important than people and affection.

His black hair, which came down over his ears, was beginning to turn grey.

He sprinkled some sand to blot his writing and showed it to the secretary.

‘Is there anything else, think you?’ he asked, and when the secretary said he couldn’t remember anything more he handed me the paper.

‘There may have been more taken, for aught I know,’ he said, ‘but these are pieces I am sure my wife had. One or two are easily recognisable, this ring for example.’ He pointed at the list. ‘It’s gold intaglio depicting a unicorn. This chain, too, would be easy to find. It has the links enamelled to show alternately leaves and flowers in green and white.’

‘Very well, sir,’ I said, ‘I will keep my eyes open when I go around. But I wouldn’t hope for too much, if I were you. Thieves usually break up easily recognisable pieces, and melt down gold or silver and sell the stones separately.’

‘At all events, if you do find out anything, and especially if you find out who the thieves are, I shall make it well worth your while.’

‘Could I see the broken window?’ I asked.

‘Come then,’ he said, and led me along a passage to the back of the house and into a square room where there were some benches and a table. Two young maidservants rose as we entered, and stood meekly in the presence of their master, and an old dog in a basket in the corner got up and sniffed my legs.

‘This is the servants’ hall,’ he said, though servants’ closet would have been a better description,

‘and the window is in this back pantry.’

He opened a door and I looked into a little room, hardly more than a cupboard, with shelves all up the wall on one side. There was a window, not very large, but I suppose someone could have wriggled through it. One of the panes of glass near the latch had been broken, so that it would have been easy for a robber to have opened it from outside.

‘This is the window they say they found open,’ said Mr Dashwood.

‘Where are the muddy footprints?’

‘They were all across the floor here, they said, and up the stairs. But the fools had cleaned them up by the time I got home.’

‘Was the dog here or away with you?’ I asked.

‘Here—and why the stupid animal did not tear the robbers to pieces I can’t think. He’s getting old and useless, and I’ve a good mind to get rid of him.’ He led me to the front hall and and said goodbye.

‘My fee,’ I reminded him, ‘or shall I send you the bill?’

‘How much?’ But when I told him he said, ‘a bit steep, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s the usual amount. If you consider that I’ve come to your house, taken up an hour or more of my time, supplied two medicines, and, I trust, cured your lady, I consider it very reasonable.’

He made a scornful-sounding grunt, and counted out the coins one by one into my hand, then instead of opening the door himself called out, ‘Robin, see this man out’, turned his back without another word to me, and went into his study. I waited, and had almost decided to let myself out when the old manservant who had let me in came hobbling up from the basement area and opened the door for me.

As I walked home I thought over what I had seen. Mr Dashwood was unpleasant, proud and rude, but I felt that, in spite of his quibbling about the fee, I had made a good impression on him and that he might call on my services again, which pleased me. But why his wife should have been so very upset and hysterical was puzzling. It had seemed to me that she had almost enjoying making a fuss, perhaps making more noise than she actually needed to. But if her husband was as unkind as he appeared she might have been exaggerating her distress in order to protect herself from his anger, though I suspected that it probably had the opposite effect, as he was made the more impatient by what he saw as her folly.

Then the robbery itself seemed odd. The dog had not barked, and only the jewel box had been taken. The robber seemed to have known exactly what to look for and where to find it. It looked very much as if someone in the household had taken advantage of the soldiers rampaging to do a robbery himself. The window could easily have been broken to make it look as if someone outside had broken

in. And as for the footprints inside the servant’s room and on the stairs, they could have been made deliberately to deceive, or even (the thought suddenly struck me) might not have been there at all—in which case the servants, who had said they had seen them and then cleaned them up, might all be in the plot.

Next afternoon I set off to walk to Winterborne Monkton to see Mr Huatt’s brother-in-law as I had promised. The village is about two miles from Dorchester, a little to the west of the straight road to Weymouth, and (as Huatt had remarked) away from main route the soldiers would have taken. It was a lovely August afternoon, and I got rather warm as I walked.

Before I reached the Monkton road I turned aside a short way to Josias Whiteway’s cottage. He is little more than a jobbing labourer, but he is an excellent gardener, and I had an agreement with him for the supply of various plants I needed. I walked round his garden with him seeing what he had and pointing out what I wished to buy—such as beetroot, fennel, garlic, parsley and thyme. He promised to have them ready for me on my return. Meanwhile I went on to Monkton.

Near the village church I saw a woman feeding hens in her yard, and inquired the way to Mr Perrin. I wondered why she laughed in a rather peculiar manner as she directed me.

‘—if he’s there,’ she concluded, ‘but now he’s lost his horse an’ cart he’ll have to clip his wings, I guess.’

‘Whose wings?’ I said, puzzled, for I was watching her hens scratching about.

‘I mean he won’t be able to scote abroad so much,’ she said, by which I understood her to mean that Perrin would not be able to ‘scoot’ or travel about, having lost his horse and cart.

‘Did you have soldiers here yesterday?’ I asked.

‘We did an’ all. That’s when Perrin’s horse an’ cart were ta’en. They did take bed-linen an’ blankets an’ chickens. Thank the good Lord they didn’ take mine. But they took my neighbour’s crock.’

I thanked her and went further along a rutted lane that would be a sea of mud in wet weather, and came to a tumble-down farmstead—a cottage with ragged thatch in need of patching, a barn, and some cowsheds and pigsties with cracks in the walls. I could hear the sound of sawing coming from one of the sheds, so looked in and saw a short slightly built man with a grey beard and shiny bald head bending over a saw-horse and a small pile of logs, and realised that he was indeed the man I had seen talking to Huatt at the market.

‘Are you Jacob Perrin?’ I asked to make sure.

‘Who wants to know?’ he said.

‘I do.’

‘And who are you?’

‘My name is Judd, Micah Judd, apothecary of Dorchester, and I have business with Mr Perrin.’

‘That’s me,’ he admitted, ‘what do you want with me?’

‘I’ve come from your brother-in-law, Mr Huatt.’ I handed him Mr Huatt’s note, and he twisted it around close to his face, screwing up his eyes to examine it. Finally he said, ‘Looks like his fist, what’s he say?’

I took the note from him and read it out: ‘Dear Brother Perrin, I have asked the bearer, Mr Judd, to enquire further about the money and other things I entrusted to you. Could you please tell him anything you know which might help recover them. Lawrence Huatt.’

‘What does he want?’ said Perrin crossly. ‘I told him the so’jers had ta’en it.’

‘I think what he’s hoping is to discover which particular soldiers took it. If he knew who their officer was he could make a complaint, and perhaps get some redress, though I know that is very unlikely.’

‘Cocks might lay,’ said Perrin scornfully, ‘and I’ve no idea what so’jers they were. So’jers is so’jers, all turned out by the same devil, an’ I can’t tell one from another—specially when they come breäken in and robben honest folk.’

‘But they didn’t find your money, Mr Huatt said.’

‘No, they didn’t find that, but they took my hoss and my cart, and I won’t get ’em back this side o’ doomsday.’

‘How was it they took Mr Huatt’s treasure and not yours?’

‘I’d put ’em in different pleäces. ’Twere commonsense, though I had put ’em together at first. But when I thought on ’t I shifted his somewhere else, though it turned out to ha’ been a mistake. I would ha’ shared some o’ mine wi’ him, though even after his loss he must be twice as rich as I, but he was so vexed and accusing me o’ taking it for myself, that I didn’ feel like doing aught more for him.’

‘You can understand him being vexed,’ I said, ‘seeing what a big loss he’s had. I’ll enquire round the village about the soldiers. Someone may have heard exactly which regiment or troop they belonged to. Who else was robbed, do you know?’

‘Oh yes indeed, a deal o’ the cottages were given a going over, five or six, I reckon.’ He seemed to cheer up as he described his neighbours misfortunes. ‘Mrs Jenkins lost half her hens, old widow Harris had her bedding ta’en, and up at Manor Farm they lost quite a bit, I’ve heard.’

‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask folk what (if anything) they know. Could you just show me where Mr Huatt’s treasure was hidden?’

He seemed suddenly more reluctant to help.

‘Why would you want to see that,’ he said, ‘the stuff isn’t there no more.’

‘It might help,’ I said, ‘I can’t tell until I see it.’

He made a sort of grunt, and gestured towards the far corner of the cowshed.

‘In the manger over there,’ he said.

‘You hid it in the manger?’ I asked to make sure. ‘How was it covered?’

‘Wi’ a bit o’ hay. It were hidden fair enough.’

‘Wasn’t it a rather obvious place they might look?’ I said. ‘Where did you hide your stuff?’ ‘’Tain’t none o’ your business,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you all I can—an’ you can tell Huatt that I’m sorry his stuff was ta’en (though I’ve told him that already, when he came yesterday). But if he wants me to share some o’ the loss he’d better come an’ ax me hisself.’

He ushered me out of the shed, and made it plain that he wanted me to leave. I spent another hour or so wandering round the village and talking to other people there. I could understand how Lawrence Huatt could have doubted that the soldiers had been there, as there was no damage to be seen. But as soon as I spoke the villagers it was clear that they were still shocked at what had happened. Four or five had been robbed and a number of cattle, several oxen and two horses driven off from Manor Farm. Yet no one was able to say which troop the soldiers were from or who their captain might be.

However, I introduced myself to everyone I met as ‘Mr Judd, the apothecary of Dorchester’, and told them how to find my shop, and two or three said they would call in next market day, so I did not feel my time had been completely wasted. But as I walked back to Josias Whiteway to collect my plants I felt my journey had, from Mr Huatt’s point of view, been largely unproductive, and that he would have to resign himself to the loss of his savings. True, Jacob Perrin had been careless in not finding a more secure hiding place for the treasure, but he could hardly be blamed for the crimes of the soldiers.

All I could do would be to set Huatt’s mind at rest—that soldiers had in fact been ransacking the village as Perrin had said, though of course that did not prove that Perrin had not stolen the money himself. And although Perrin’s offer to share the loss with Huatt made his honesty seem more likely, it was a bit grudging, and might have been made to conceal his wrongdoing. I did not imagine that Huatt would actually ask for compensation for his loss. It was probably true that he was still much richer than his brother-in-law, though appearances might be deceptive, and Perrin might be one of those men who deliberately strive to look poor in order to protect their wealth from thieves or tax-collectors or the envy of their neighbours.

I collected the plants, which Josias had ready for me in a bag or small sack, and paid him well, for those of his growing seem to have special virtue, but did not linger as I had already been away from

home longer than I had intended. As I walked up the gentle hill towards South Gate I still puzzled over the problem of whether or not Mr Perrin was honest. One of the things which did not seem quite to fit was what he had said about the hiding place. I seemed to remember that Huatt had told me the treasure had been hidden in the barn, not in a manger in the cowshed, so this was something I must check. If Perrin had lied about it to one or other of us it could be that he was deceiving us further. Perhaps we would need to go together to confront him.

The militiaman on guard at the Gate was a rather surly fellow, who demanded to know where I had been and what I had in the sack. I was feeling hot and a bit cross, and decided to tease him.

‘Take care,’ I said, ‘I’ve an imp from hell here, and if you look too closely he’ll have your nose off.’ ‘’Fore God,’ he said, drawing back hastily, ‘I’ll call the captain.’

‘No you old sammy,’ I said, ‘here, have a look.’

Very warily he looked in the sack and poked a beetroot with his finger.

‘Why did you say it was an imp from hell?’ he asked.

‘Why did you believe me?’ I retorted. ‘Cheer up, man, you may yet apprehend the devil!’ I walked on up South Street leaving him grumbling under his breath, and was glad when I reached home and sat down with Agnes to a hearty meal.

Afterwards I had to attend to the plants I had bought. Some of them would keep, but others needed to be pounded or boiled while their virtue was fresh. I was engaged in these tasks when there was a knock on the door: it was Nathan Whittle come to see me again, and he seemed even more depressed.

‘Oh my dear days,’ he said as he came through the door, ‘it is as I feared. Mr Dashwood came to see me this afternoon. I’m still in a tremble over it.’

‘Come in, Mr Whittle. Come and tell me about it.’ I took his arm and led him through to the parlour. He hardly waited to sit down before pouring out his troubles.

‘It’s dreadful, Mr Judd, all my hopes are gone! Mr Dashwood had heard—I don’t know how—all about my being robbed, and he wanted to know if it were true that I couldn’t pay the dowry I had promised for Elizabeth. I had to confess that it was true, though I told him that, given time, I hoped to make good my losses. But, oh dear oh dear, he wasn’t prepared to wait. He said he agreed with his son and that Nicholas too was not willing to go through with the match.’

I knew, of course, that it was Elizabeth herself who had told Nicholas about the loss, but there was no point in Mr Whittle knowing that. In any case he would have had to tell the Dashwoods soon enough, though I suppose he might have tried to raise the dowry money by borrowing.

‘I know you’re disappointed, Mr Whittle,’ I said, ‘but I do think this may all work out for the best.

Nicholas Dashwood is not the sort of man I would like to spend my life with, and he would not have been a good husband for Elizabeth.’

‘I don’t agree with you about Nicholas,’ he grumbled. ‘He’s sown some wild oats no doubt, but that’s right and proper for a young man with money. And Elizabeth would have had a nice house, plenty of everything, even maybe a carriage. But there, it’s not to be.’

‘Oh do cheer up, Nathan,’ I said. ‘There are other young men who would make far better husbands for her. You will yet find the right one.’

‘There are not many of the better sort who will take a wife without a dowry, and it’s hard for a young woman to wait, and maybe die an old maid.’

‘Don’t you believe it, Nathan. I’m sure there are a number of young men who would be delighted to have your daughter as a wife. In fact I met one the other day, an excellent young fellow, just starting out in the world, who would marry her tomorrow if you would agree.’

‘I can’t let her marry just anyone,’ he replied. ‘I had hoped to see her go up in the world, not down.

Who is this young man? Do I know him? What’s his name?’

‘The one you mentioned to me yourself, Denis Faire. Yes, I know you’ve forbidden him to see her.

Yet to me he seems a lively sort, who will make his way in the world . And he could make Elizabeth happy, I should think.’

‘Him!’ said Whittle going red in the face, ‘yes, I warned him off right enough. I know all about him. He may be a good enough fellow in his way, I daresay, but he’s not good enough for my daughter.

He hasn’t even a proper trade, and he’s as poor as a mouse.’

‘He’s not so very poor, I think. He’s got a proper business, even if you don’t call it a trade. He’s found a gap in the market that no one else round here was filling, and he’ll do very well, I believe.’

‘That may be so,’ said Whittle, ‘that’s what he hopes, no doubt. But I can’t let my daughter marry a dealer in second-hand pots and pans and other such rubbish, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to keep her in the fashion she deserves. I think he’s hardly got two pence to rub together.’

‘I’m sure he’s not that poor,’ I repeated, ‘and even if he is, don’t you remember how you started out? You’ve told me many a time how you started off with nothing.’

‘That’s true, I did. But that’s the very reason I want Elizabeth to have a better start, to reach higher than I have done. I’ve worked hard all my life, Micah, and come up in the world. I don’t want Elizabeth to fall back into a lower state of life.’

‘I can understand that,’ I said, ‘but do consider, Mr Whittle: Is it better for her to marry the nogood son of a rich man, who will probably gamble his and your money away, and make her miserable into the bargain? Or would it be better for her to be joined to an up-and-coming man who will make a

success of life, and make her happy as well?’

He gave a sort of grunt and was quiet for a moment. Then he said in an abrupt change of tone, ‘What I really came to see you about, Micah, is this: I know you go about quite a lot, and I wondered whether you ever go as far as Weymouth? You see, if someone could trace this Sergeant Barnby who took my money, and told him about Elizabeth and her lost dowry, it might touch his heart and he might even give some of it back. Then the Dashwood’s might change their minds.’

‘What nonsense, Nathan!’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t think you’ve paid attention to anything I’ve been saying, if you’re still hoping for Nicholas as a wife for Elizabeth. And you can’t seriously believe that a soldier’s heart is going to be softened by a story like that! Anyway, your Sergeant Barnby has probably lost it all by now on gambling and drink, or shared it out with his friends. Soldiers don’t usually keep what they take, it’s easy come, easy go with them. And even if you got the money, do you truly think the Dashwoods would change their minds?—Well, I daresay they might if the dowry were big enough.

But after the way they’ve treated you and her, would you really want young Nicholas as a son-in-law?’

‘If not him, some other respectable young man of good family.’

‘Put it out of your mind, Nathan. Be resolved, you’re not going to see your money again, and must accept things as they are. I’m sorry if I sound unkind, but it really is no good hoping for the moon!’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said gloomily, ‘but if there were the slightest chance of getting my money back it would be worth trying. I can’t bear the thought of just doing nothing about it.’

‘Well, all I can say, Nathan, is that while I’m travelling about I’ll certainly keep an eye out for your Sergeant Barnby. The trouble is, I don’t usually go to Weymouth, and I don’t intend to while the Cavalier army is there. But even if I met him I doubt if I could ask him what he had done with your money. He would probably knock my head off. So don’t harbour any false hopes, but do think over what I said about Denis Faire. Don’t reject him out of hand, for I think he will do well.’

But Whittle merely grunted, thanked me for listening to his troubles, and left. Yet my resolve not to travel into danger was soon to be altered, and I will tell you why.

CHAPTER 5 A TRAP FOR A THIEF NEXT DAY WAS Lord’s Day, and I went to St Peter’s church, though Agnes had to stay home with the babe. It was a dull service with a homily read by a Cavalier chaplain, urging obedience to the Lord’s anointed king, and threatening God’s judgements upon all rebels. How I longed for one of Mr White’s stirring sermons, though the thought of him still gave me pain.

After the service I had a talk with Mr Huatt, and walked with him part way down to his house. He wanted to know if I had any news for him.

‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘I went to see Jacob Perrin yesterday, and did not find him very forthcoming. But he told you the truth about soldiers having been there, for some of the villagers told me how a group of half a dozen or so troopers went to several of the houses and stole things—bedding, a crock, hens, cattle and horses from the Manor Farm, and so on. So it’s all too likely that Mr Perrin lost your treasures as well as his horse and cart.’

‘I still find it very suspicious that they took my treasure and left his,’ grumbled Huatt. ‘Why in the Lord’s name did he put mine in his barn?’

‘In the cowshed, don’t you mean?’

‘No, the barn. That’s what he told me. We were in the barn when I was asking him about it, and he pointed to the far corner and said he had hidden it under a heap of hay. He didn’t show me the exact spot, but it was certainly in the barn.’

‘He told me something quite different. We were in the cowshed, and he said he’d put it in a manger.’

‘The rotten good-for-nothing thief,’ Huatt exclaimed, ‘supplanter Jacob, trickster Jacob—I’ll have his guts! The Lord judge me if I don’t. I’ll make him pay it back with interest, the wretch.’

‘Not so fast, Lawrence,’ I said. ‘There’s something wrong in his story, I agree, but the soldiers were surely there, and his horse and cart have certainly gone, so it’s more likely than not that they did steal your stuff.’

‘Then why’s he telling lies about where he hid it?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something that doesn’t hold together there. I’ll have to have another talk with him, unless you would rather do it.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’d only get bad words from him and more denials, and lose my temper. I’d be glad if you would have another go at him. And don’t forget, Micah, I’ll reward you for your time and trouble.’

‘I won’t forget that, Lawrence. Maybe I could go to Monkton again this afternoon. It’s quite a

pleasant walk. Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ But he repeated that it would be better if I went without him, as he didn’t trust himself to speak civilly to Perrin.

So, after a meal and some chat with Agnes, I set off again out of South Gate along the Weymouth road, and turned off when I reached the lane to Monkton. I found Jacob Perrin at home, or rather he was in the cowshed, hammering at something he was making. He did not seem pleased to see me.

‘Good day, Mr Perrin,’ I said. ‘Mr Huatt asked me to see you again to find out why you are lying.’

There was no point in beating about the bush, and I believe the direct approach is usually best.

‘God’s breath,’ he said, turning to face me and scowling, ‘are you calling me a liar?’

‘I am, and I’ll tell you why. You told Mr Huatt you hid his treasure in the barn. Yet you told me you hid it in the manger here. How about you coming clean and telling me where you really did hide it?’

He gave me a long stare but said nothing.

‘Come, Mr Perrin,’ I said, ‘I’m not accusing you of stealing it. Mr Huatt suspects that, and you must admit he’s got grounds to be suspicious when you’re not being open about it. But if the soldiers did take it, why are you telling us different tales?’

He gave me another long stare, and moved a little towards me in a thoroughly threatening way. But I stood my ground and stared back, and at last he lowered his eyes and said, ‘I lost me cart. They took that and me hoss.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘you told me that yesterday. It’s Mr Huatt’s money I’m asking about.’

‘That’s what I’m telling you. They took me cart, they took his money.’

‘But how? You’re not saying you hid the money in the cart surely?’ ‘’Twere in the cart.’

‘Do you mean to tell me you just put his money in your cart?—under a bit of hay, I suppose, just convenient for them to drive off with it.’

‘Nay, you don’t understand.’Tis a special cart that I worked on myself. It has a hiding place. The money was hidden safe enough—no one could find it. How was I to know they would steal me cart?’

‘They’ve been stealing carts all over the place. It seems a very poor hiding place to me,’ I said.

‘I didn’t know they’d steal me cart,’ he repeated, ‘and it was the best place I had to hide the stuff. I don’t ’spect they’ve found it even yet.’

‘If it was so good a place why didn’t you put your money there too?’

‘For one thing I’ve got mine in a big box that wouldn’t fit in there, and for another I thought it best not to put all the eggs in one basket.’

‘And this cart hidey-hole, where was it, in the cart I mean?’

‘In the floor,’ he said. ‘I made it myself. The floor of the cart is double, like, with a space between.’

‘Whatever did you make it for?’ I asked, though I suspected it might be for hiding goods he wanted to keep out of sight of Coast-watchers and other officials. ‘’Tis none o’ your business, mister,’ he said. ‘But that’s why I didn’t tell Lawrence Huatt about it.

I didn’t see why he should know about the hidey-hole, and I thought he might be angry and say I shouldn’t ha’ hidden his stuff in me cart for the so’jers to take, though how I was to know they would steal the cart is beyond me.’

‘So you didn’t tell Mr Huatt the truth because you didn’t want him to know about the hiding place in the cart?’

‘Yes. Why the devil should he be told about the cart? If I like to make a bit o’ profit bringing stuff up from the coast, what’s that to him? Except the old hypocrite would be sure to go on about how he didn’t want his wife’s sister’s husband to be a smuggler. There’s nothing wrong wi’ smuggling, specially in times like these when folk are killing each other. Oh yes, killing people is right and proper if you’re good and religious, and the other folks are good and religious too, but not of your party. But smuggling—oh no, only thieves and ne’er-do-wells do that! I tell you, I can’t bear Mr holy-zealousBible-reading Huatt to lecture me, so I tell him nothing, and keep myself to myself. I did him a favour by hiding his treasure. But the loss of me cart—and me hoss—is worse for me than his loss is for him.’

This long speech seemed to take all the life out of him. He turned away and muttered, ‘Now I suppose you’ll tell him.’

‘I daresay that won’t be necessary. I certainly won’t tell him unless I have to,’ I said, ‘But, Mr Perrin, what you’ve told me gives me a glimmer of hope. If this hiding place in your cart is so well concealed it may be that the treasure is still there and hasn’t been discovered. If we could find your cart we might get it back.’

‘Not much chance o’ that, once the so’jers ha’ ta’en it away.’

‘No, but it’s worth enquiring into. Does your cart look just like any other? Is there any way of recognising it?’ ‘’Tis just a cart, an ordinary cart wi’ two wheels.’

‘What colour is it?’ ‘’Tis painted green an’ the wheels are yaller, and it’s got my letter “P” (that’s for Perrin—I know a “P”) on the tailboard.’

‘That should be easy to see if one could only find it. How do you open the hidey-hole?’

‘You have to pull out some o’ the tree nails—the wooden pins—at the sides, then you can lift up

part o’ the floor.’

‘And will you swear to me that this is the truth, you’re not making this up,’ I said. ‘You really did put the treasure in this place in the cart?’

‘As God is my witness, it’s the plain truth.’

I considered for a moment. The wild thought that I might track down the cart and recover the treasure crossed my mind. Already the excitement of the chase was taking hold of me, and my resolve to avoid danger was weakening. I clapped my fist against my other palm.

‘I’ll go and look,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to Weymouth tomorrow, or maybe I’ll have to wait for the next day so that I can go with the carrier. It’s a wild throw that will probably come to nothing, but who knows?’

As I walked back to Dorchester I turned over the possibilities in my mind. The cart was fairly distinctive with its yellow wheels, and provided the soldiers had not left the area it might well be possible to find it. But how could I undo the secret place in the floor and get possession of the treasure with soldiers all about? It would be hard, perhaps impossible. However Huatt had promised to reward me even if all I did was to find out what had become of his treasure, so it would be worth my while to try. The cursed urge that makes me stick my nose into other people’s business, and get myself into tight corners, was beginning to seize my mind. How wonderful it would be if I could recover what Huatt had lost! Why, I might even discover what had happened to Whittle’s treasure too. I felt my heart beating faster.

But what would Agnes say? She would feel it was none of my business and would try to dissuade me. I would have to play down the dangers and make out that going amonst the Cavaliers in Weymouth would be an easy jaunt.

As I entered the town I was still wondering what I would say to her, yet looking forward to a restful evening at home, and I was half way along South Street when I met Denis Faire. He stopped and grasped my arm.

‘Mr Judd, have you heard?’ he said. ‘Nicholas Dashwood has thrown Elizabeth over, and all because her father has lost his savings and the dowry money, stolen by the soldiers. I’m sorry for him, of course, but delighted for Elizabeth.’

‘Do you hope her father might look on you more favourably now?’ I asked. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t build up my hopes too much, for I saw him yesterday and he’s still hoping to marry her to someone rich and of good family.’

‘But if he hasn’t got money how will he do that?’

‘He’s still got his business and his stock,’ I said. ‘He’ll gather savings again, and in a year or two

will be able to achieve his aim, I guess.’

‘It would take him longer than that, I should think,’ said Denis, ‘and can he afford to wait that long? He can’t put Elizabeth into a drawer like one of his pairs of gloves, to bring her out in a few years when he’s ready!’

‘I only know what he told me,’ I said. ‘While I was talking to him I also put in a word for you, and told him not to reject you out of hand. I said that one day you would be rich and successful, but I’m afraid he didn’t seem to listen.’

‘You told him that? Oh, Mr Judd, you are a good friend. If only he would believe that my stall will do well—as it will—and that mine is a good business, then he might consent to let me woo Elizabeth. I don’t think she dislikes me. Why, one day I might have a shop as good as his.’

‘The trouble is your business does not come under the five companies and you have not been regularly apprenticed,’ I said. Dorchester tradesmen are regulated in five companies, each with a Warden as governor—Merchants (to which I belong), Clothiers, Iremongers (that is, Ironmongers), Fishmongers, and Shoemakers (including other workers in leather, like Mr Whittle, glove-maker). The members don’t take kindly to outsiders trying to join, and normally the only way to be accepted is to serve seven or eight years apprenticeship.

‘But mine is a new business, not one of the regular crafts. If I do well I shall apply to the Iremongers, if they will have me, for I do deal in iron and hardware,’ said Denis. ‘But I shall build up my trade first. There can be no objection to my having a market stall, I’m sure, and their wives will persuade them it’s worth having me in the town. Already the womenfolk come around like bees, looking for a bargain. Some of them come for jewellery, so I hope also to do more in that line, with gold and silver and pearls, not to make jewellery, of course, but to buy and sell. I may not always deal in pots and pans. Why,’ he laughed, ‘I might do even well enough to join the Merchants. And thinking of jewellery—hey, Mr Judd, could you spare a moment? would you come and see what I’ve got? You could then tell Mr Whittle what high-class trade I’m going in for. Also you might see something you would like for your wife.’

‘Would another time do, Denis,’ I said. ‘I’m just on my way home now.’

‘It won’t take more than a few minutes, Mr Judd, I won’t keep you. But you may see Mr Whittle tomorrow, and it would be nice if you were able to tell him you’ve seen what good things I’ve got.’

He was so cheerful and eager that I smiled and said, ‘Very well, I’ll come. I’ll just have a quick look, but don’t expect me to stop to buy anything, for I must get home.’

He led the way through several narrow alleys and stopped at the door of his little cottage and let us in. The door (as I remembered) opened straight into the main room, and I was prepared to find his stock

all over the floor and to have hardly anywhere to place my feet. In fact it wasn’t as difficult as I had expected, for Denis had piled things on top of each other at one side. Leaning against a wall was the trestle table he used for his market stall, and near it a two-wheeled barrow laden with more of his stock.

I noticed the wide fireplace had dead embers in the grate and a black cooking pot hanging from a rusty hook. Besides the upright chair I had seen before he now had a small table and a stool.

He unlocked the door of a cupboard built into the thickness of the wall, and lifted out a box about a foot and a half long which he placed on the table and also unlocked.

‘Now see,’ he said, ‘what do you think of these?’

I looked at a collection of gold and silver pieces—rings, chains, brooches, bracelets and other things. Some were set with stones, and there was at least one pearl necklace.

‘This is amazing,’ I said, ‘what a wonderful lot you have gathered.’

‘I’ve been building up this collection for over a year,’ he said, ‘picking up pieces here and there, wherever I could find a bargain. I only take one or two at a time to the market. But I think I’m doing quite well, don’t you?’

I lifted one or two of the pieces, and suddenly my heart sank. There was a ring with the incised picture of a unicorn. And there was the chain enamelled with white flowers and green leaves. There could be no doubt about it: these were stolen from Mrs Dashwood. I did not have the list with me, but I suspected that one or two other pieces —this rock crystal in silver strapwork bands, for example—were also hers.

‘Do you like that?’ said Denis, as I examined the chain. ‘It would look well on your wife, but it’s rather expensive, I’m afraid.’

‘Where did you find this?’ I asked.

‘An old woman sold it me. She was having to sell her jewellery because of losses due to the wars.

She’s brought pieces to me more than once, as she has need I suppose—that ring with the unicorn, for example.’

‘When did she start bringing you things?’

‘Some weeks ago, I’m not sure exactly when. It was when everyone was getting worried before the soldiers arrived. She said she would rather sell them than have the soldiers steal them, though I think she’s kept some of her things to sell later perhaps.’

‘So it was definitely before Lord Carnarvon and Prince Maurice arrived that she first came to you?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure of that. Why do you ask?’

‘Because these pieces are stolen.’

‘Oh my God,’ he said, ‘are you sure?’

‘Yes, there can be no doubt about it. The owner gave me a list of what’s been stolen, which I’ve got at home. I’ll have to check all your pieces against it, but I’ve no doubt about these, for I remember them particularly.’

I was afraid, when I first saw he had the pieces, that he might have been involved in some way in the robbery, perhaps knowingly acting as receiver of stolen goods. But his shock and distress seemed so genuine that I was inclined to believe that he had bought the things innocently. However, I was still a bit wary in case I was deceived in him.

‘How many of these other pieces did you buy from the old woman?’ I asked. He sat on the chair and drew the box towards him.

‘I bought the unicorn ring and these two others the first time she came,’ he said. ‘Then she came again—it was the very day the soldiers arrived, Lord Carnarvon’s men I mean. I remember the day because I was afraid they would ransack this house, but in the event the rusty pots and chipped plates put them off. She brought that chain with the flowers and this brooch. Then yesterday morning she brought a whole lot of things, rings, brooches and ear-rings. I can pick them out, if you like. I didn’t want to buy so much at once, and drove a harder bargain than before. But she was insistent that she needed the money and accepted what I offered. I can understand why now, if they were stolen. She’d be glad to get them off her hands and get what money she could for them. She said she might have more to sell this week.’

‘What does she look like, this old woman?’

‘She’s quite tall for a woman, with a thin face, somewhat wrinkled, grey hair. She’s been wearing black, with a black cloak and hood each time I’ve seen her.’

‘Would you know her if you saw her about in the town?’

‘I think so, yes, thin and tall as she is.’

‘How did she speak, like a lady?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully, ‘not a common working woman anyway.’

‘And have you sold any of the things you bought from her?’

‘No, as it happens I haven’t. As I said, I haven’t been taking more than one or two bits of jewellery to my stall at any one time. I’m hoping to build up a good stock for when I open a shop. Anyway, I haven’t sold any of her pieces.’

‘Thank God for that,’ I said, ‘but the question now is, what’s to be done? Clearly the stolen things will have to go back to their owner. But it will be a loss to you.’

‘A loss I could well do without,’ he said ruefully, ‘but whose are they?’

‘They belong to Mr Dashwood, or rather, they’re his wife’s jewels. The Dashwoods told me only yesterday about the robbery.’

‘Oh my God,’ he said again. ‘Dashwoods have been my bane. Will you have to tell them that I’ve got their jewels?’

‘Not straight away,’ I said slowly. ‘I smell something not quite right about this affair. I think I must have a nose for things that aren’t quite as they seem. No, for the moment keep these things safe.

Keep whatever the old woman sold you separate from your other pieces. I’ll fetch the list of what has been taken and see if it’s all here, and then we can decide what to do.’

I walked home rapidly, and had a quick word with Agnes, who was rather upset that I had been away so long. But this matter could not wait so, tired as I was, I went back to Denis with Mr Dashwood’s list. We sat at the little table and checked all his jewels and trinkets against the list.

A number of items on the list were not in Denis’s possession, so either the old woman had disposed of some of them elsewhere or she might come back to sell them to him, as indeed she had hinted. I thought it unlikely that, having found an easy way of disposing of the stolen things, she would go elsewhere. There were jewellers in the town, people like old Robert Coker, the Royalist, but it would be much more risky for her to try to sell stolen goods to one of these experienced men, who would be likely to ask awkward questions, and might even recognise some of the pieces. No, it was clever of her to approach a young man with no special knowledge, and to dispose of them bit by bit.

It occurred to me that if she was someone in the Dashwood household I might be able to scare her into trying quickly to sell the rest of what she had stolen, and so I might be able to trap her.

‘If this woman comes to you again,’ I told Denis, ‘you must arrange for her to come back at a set time. You could say, for example, that you have to go to borrow or find the money to pay for her things, and that you will see her later that day. Then come straight to me and let me know when she’s coming. I will lie in wait, and we will catch her.’

I still wasn’t sure that Denis was entirely innocent, but felt that if he was somehow in league with the thief he would raise objections. As it was he accepted my plan eagerly.

‘Now,’ I said, ‘you had better let me take charge of these stolen pieces. I will give you a note of what I take. They will have to go back to the Dashwoods, but before I tell Mr Dashwood I want to establish exactly what has been happening. It looks as if one of their confidential servants has been robbing them. But there may be more than one involved, and possibly someone outside their household, so the first thing must be to find out who this old woman is, if we can, and then discover from her who else may be in the plot.’

‘What about me?’ said Denis. ‘I can ill afford this loss. It will set me back terribly, if not ruin me.

And will I get into trouble? Mr Dashwood is a hard man, I believe, and he could do me much harm.’

‘Provided you bought the things in good faith you should be in the clear,’ I said, ‘but if it were suspected that you knew they were stolen you could be in trouble, true.’

‘It did cross my mind that they might not be the old woman’s to sell,’ he admitted, ‘but when I questioned her, her story seemed so convincing and she seemed so respectable that I believed her.’

‘It may be possible to return the stolen goods without bringing your name into it, provided that we catch this woman. So you make sure we do that, and I’ll do my best to see that you don’t suffer,’ I promised.

I wrote down particulars of the pieces I was taking, making two lists —one for Denis and the other for myself, then wrapped the jewellery in a kerchief and carried it home. I was worried by the affair, for although I was practically sure now that Denis was innocent I would only be able to prove it if the old woman could be caught and made to confess. But if he was innocent, how could the money he had paid her be recovered? for she had probably spent it by now, so he would suffer loss which (as he said) would be hard for him.

I hid the jewels with my own things under the flagstone in my yard, then sat for a little with Agnes, though I was rather tired, not having had a restful Sabbath. I decided not to say anything about going to Weymouth until I had consulted with Huatt. Yet after we had gone to bed I could not sleep for some time, for my thoughts were churning—a mixture of lost treasures, Huatt’s, Whittle’s, Dashwood’s, that eventually formed part of my dreams.

Next morning, as early as I decently could, I called on Mr Dashwood. I had decided not to tell him yet that his lost property had been discovered, partly because the affair still smelt odd to me and I wanted to get to the bottom of it, and partly because I had not yet recovered all the stolen goods and wanted the old woman (if she was part of his household) to show herself.

As I stepped up to his door it opened and Nicholas Dashwood came barging out. He was red in the face and angry, and he slammed the door and pushed past me, almost throwing me off the step, and strode off without the least apology. Perhaps he had been having a dispute with his father, for after I had been let in by the old manservant I saw Mr Stephen Dashwood behind him in the hall also looking cross and ruffled, like an angry turkey-cock.

He came forward and seemed surprised to see me.

‘I did not send for you!’ he exclaimed roughly.

‘No sir,’ I said, ‘but I’ve been thinking about your wife’s stolen jewellery. It seems to me possible that the robbery could have been done with assistance from inside the house. Possible one of your servants could have been involved. I would suggest that you make a thorough search of the servants’

quarters.’

I said this loudly in the presence of the manservant, assuming that what I had suggested would soon be common knowledge amongst the other servants.

‘I must say it had crossed my mind that if it was not soldiers but local malefactors who broke in, someone in the house might have helped them and shown them where the jewels were. My wife said— in between her tantrums—that a thorough search had been made. But I will make another, if possible more thorough, though I expect by now the wretches will have conveyed away all that was stolen.’

‘A thorough search might yet turn up evidence,’ I assured him loudly, ‘don’t let them get away with such a deceitful crime, sir.—And how is your wife now?’

‘Well enough. A bit low in spirits, but then she usually is,’ he said carelessly.

‘If you need a cordial to raise them I have something good,’ I said, but as he did not respond—in fact he turned his back on me without a word—I shrugged my shoulders and allowed the serving-man to let me out.

Next I called on Lawrence Huatt. I found him in his workshop, surrounded by the clutter and tools of the pewterer’s trade. He was burnishing a rather fine jug, but put it on the bench as I entered and asked if I had any news.

‘A little, but still not very much,’ I said. ‘I saw Mr Perrin again yesterday afternoon as I promised, and sorted out the muddle about where he had hidden your treasures. What I have found out is that the soldiers may not have realised what they were taking. They have gone to Weymouth, and I am wondering whether it would be worth while following them there to see if anything can be recovered.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘how can they have taken it without knowing what it was? Let the Lord be witness, Perrin’s having you on, the dishonest rogue!’

‘I don’t think he is now,’ I said, ‘and he convinced me that it might be possible at least to find out where your treasure has been taken. I think it’s most unlikely that you’ll be able to get it back, but if you want me to try, I’d be willing to go to Weymouth tomorrow with the tranter’—that’s the carrier —‘and find out the truth. You did say you would be willing to pay to find out what has really become of your money, and I think I might well be able to do that. I won’t promise any more.’

‘It seems a nonsense,’ he said, ‘and I still think Perrin is hiding something, though God knows I’d be glad not to have to think him a thief. But very well, I’ll pay your expenses to Weymouth and will just hope you clear this up.’

I then spent time in my shop, having got rather behindhand of late. Just before midday Denis came running to my door and exclaimed, ‘She’s come again, that old woman. She’s brought more than before.’

‘What has become of her?’ I asked.

‘I said I would buy all she’d brought, which seemed to please her, and (as you suggested) I told her to come back in an hour or so because I had not the money to hand. I said I would have to borrow it from a friend, if she wouldn’t mind stepping out for a little. So if you like you can come back with me and hide upstairs and overhear what she says.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I think it will be better if I wait at the corner of the alley, and when she comes I will let her go in to you. A minute or two later I will come to your door. In that way I shall catch her redhanded, and will also be blocking the doorway should she try to escape.’

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I will go back now. But do make sure you are there in good time, Mr Judd, for I don’t want to part with any more money for stolen goods, and it’s true, I haven’t enough in hand for all she’s trying to sell.’

I stayed only long enough to put away a few bottles and close some drawers and to call to Agnes to mind the shop, then I went down to the corner of Denis’s lane. I looked around for somewhere to hide from which I could watch his door, but apart from shallow doorways I could at first see no suitable place. Then I noticed a narrow passageway between two houses and went in there.

I was gratified that my scheme to frighten or encourage the thief to dispose of the rest of the stolen jewellery seemed to have worked so quickly, in fact much more rapidly than I had expected. But I could imagine Mr Dashwood storming about his house and terrifying the servants. It would be little wonder if the guilty one should try to get rid of incriminating possessions at once.

From my hiding place I could not see down the lane, and had to keep coming out a little to peep, and I began to be afraid that some of the local people might see me and suspect me of planning a crime, and perhaps calling the constables. In fact after half an hour or so a rough woman came across and said, ‘Eh, mairster, what the de’il be ’ee a-doin’ here?’

‘I’m waiting for someone,’ I said.

‘Why be ’ee standen in the alley, then?’

‘Because I have a fancy to.’

‘Then I have a fancy for ’ee to move along.’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘Well then, be ’ee moving?’

‘In good time,’ I said.

How long we would have kept up this pointless conversation I don’t know, but fortunately at that moment I saw a tall black-cloaked figure enter the far end of the lane. She had her hood pulled forward to conceal her face, and she was carrying something in her right hand under her cloak, which she held

together in front with her other hand. She hesitated a moment at Denis’s door, then knocked and was admitted.

‘I shall call my husband if ye don’t go,’ the rough woman was saying, but I ignored her and walked on down the lane. At Denis’s door I did not knock, but opened it abruptly and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The woman had been in the act of showing Denis what she had brought, and they were standing on each side of the table with a glittering collection of rings, bracelets and earrings spread between them.

At once the woman turned round with a jerk and I recognised her: it was Mrs Dashwood’s maid.

She recognised me too, and gave a little cry and a swift movement as if she would run. But there was nowhere she could run to, with me blocking the door. Then she turned and cursed Denis as a betrayer.

Such language seemed particularly blasphemous from the mouth of such an outwardly respectable elderly woman, and when she paused I said, ‘Cursing this young man will do you no good, woman. He did not betray you, but your own wickedness and folly. How could you betray your mistress’s trust like this?’

She turned to face me, a secretive sullen look in her eyes.

‘I didn’t,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘These are your mistress’s jewels, are they not? They were stolen from her a few days ago—some perhaps earlier. Your master, Mr Dashwood, gave me a list of what was missing, including these things.’ I hadn’t in fact had a chance to check whether these were on his list, but I thought it most probable.

As she said nothing, but closed her lips tight and pulled her hood over her head again, I added, ‘Very well, madam, if you won’t explain to me you will have to come and explain your conduct to Mr Dashwood. And you know the penalty for thieves.’

I stepped forward as if to seize her arm, but she drew back and said, ‘Don’t touch me. I won’t run away, and I will explain all. I will explain it to you, sir, privately, and I will show you that these things are not stolen. But there is no need for this man to hear, for it is a very delicate and private matter. I will come with you quietly and explain.’

She seemed about to gather up the pieces from the table, but I prevented her and told Denis to keep them safe.

‘Come along then,’ I said to her, ‘and you understand, I hope, that now I know who you are it will be no use trying to run away. You will be caught and hanged. It may be that you will be hanged anyway, but trying to escape will make it certain.’

We began to walk up the lane together, and I continued, ‘On the other hand, if you confess who

your accomplices are, and ask for mercy, and return the money you have gained, the Dashwoods may let you go quietly in spite of your treachery.’

‘You don’t understand, sir,’ she said, ‘I must ask you to listen to me.’

‘What don’t I understand? I understand you are a thief who has been selling her mistress’s jewels!’

‘No sir, the jewels have not been stolen.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They are not stolen, sir, because they belong to Mrs Dashwood. I am selling them for her.’

‘But... but her husband —’ I began.

‘Mr Dashwood does not know. I must beg you, sir, don’t make trouble between them. Things are hard enough as it is. It will do no good, no good at all, to tell him about it.’

‘But how can I not?’ I asked. ‘He told me these things were stolen, gave me a list of them and asked me to look out for them. I have done so, and found them and the thief.’

‘I tell you, there is no thief,’ she said earnestly. ‘Do believe me, sir, mistress herself gave them to me to sell on her behalf.’

‘What! after making all that fuss, crying and moaning that she had been robbed? Are you asking me to believe that she made it up, that she was play-acting?’

‘She’s afraid of Mr Dashwood, she was afraid he would be angry, she was trying to turn aside his wrath. But they are her jewels, and she did ask me to do what I’ve done with them.’

‘Yet even if you are telling the truth, which I doubt, they are still Mr Dashwood’s property. She has no right to sell them without his consent, for in law all that a wife has is her husband’s.’

‘That may be law,’ she exclaimed, ‘but surely to goodness a lady may do what she wills with her own jewellery!’

‘Not only would the law count it stealing,’ I retorted, ‘but you have put Denis Faire, the man you sold them to, in danger of being accounted a receiver of stolen goods. He might get into serious trouble, and at the very least is likely to lose his money, unless you can repay him.’

She began to cry quietly and wiped her eyes with the hem of her cloak.

‘Oh sir,’ she said, ‘it’s all too hard for me. If you could talk to mistress privately she could explain.’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I don’t know whether I shall be able to keep this from Mr Dashwood, nor whether in all honesty I ought to. But if your mistress wants to prevent her husband knowing, she had better bring me very convincing reasons, and quickly too.’

‘Where could she meet you, sir?’

‘Let her come to St Peter’s church in an hour’s time,’ I said. ‘I shall be there, and if she does not

come I shall go straight to Mr Dashwood and tell him all I know.’

‘She will come,’ she said.

‘Go then.’

I watched her hurry away, and wondered whether I was being foolish to believe her. Was I also being foolish to get involved in some sort of intrigue in the Dashwood household? I could not imagine why Mrs Dashwood would be selling her jewels in this secretive way. But I wanted if possible to keep on good terms with both Mr Dashwood and his wife. If they became my enemies they could seriously damage my business, for they were influential in the town and were connected to many of the leading families. In a little more than an hour her fate—and perhaps mine—would be decided.

CHAPTER 6 CONFESSION I HAD A QUICK meal with Agnes, then went to St Peter’s church, and sat in a pew near the door.

No one else was there, and I was rather glad of a few moments to sit in the quietness of that fine old place of prayer. I thought rather sadly of the many stirring sermons of Mr White’s that I had heard there since I was a child. What was he now doing in London? Did he ever think of his shepherdless flock in Dorchester?

I had wondered whether with the coming of the Cavaliers the mysterious ‘Horney’ and his friends in Belial’s Band would show themselves. But so far I had heard and seen nothing more of them.

Perhaps, I thought, they were young gallants, landowners’ sons from outside the town, whose main activites lay elsewhere.

Now that most of the soldiers had left our people seemed to have settled back into their old ways, and the fact that the Royalists were in control did not seem to make much difference. We went to church on the Lord’s Day, we met in market or alehouse. We did not shun our neighbours because they belonged to a different party, for we all lived close together in the town. And now our Deputy Governor, Mr William Churchill, was a Royalist who had been a Parliamentarian. If he could change sides how long could a plain citizen like me hold out? I felt thoroughly confused, and was beginning to think that perhaps loyalty to one’s friends and family were more important than party.

I began to glance around the building, and my eyes rested on the rough grey figure of a crusader carved in stone, one of two in the church, his legs crossed and a great bucket helmet on his head. Then I looked across to the Williams aisle, where the fine monument to Sir John Williams of Herringstone was erected some twenty years ago. He and his wife are shown kneeling there, one each side of a great stone chest with high pyramidical top, and an ornate arch above it decorated with heraldic shields.

What would he have made of the present wars? He would have had no doubts which party to support: he would have fought for the King.

Suddenly I heard the rattle of the latch and the door opening, and turned to see two cloaked figures coming in. They shut the door and paused, looking round the church to see where I was. I stood up and they came towards me, and as they drew near they pushed back their hoods enough for me to see that they were indeed Mrs Dashwood and her old maidservant.

‘You have done well to come,’ I said. ‘I expect you remember me, Mistress Dashwood—Micah Judd, the apothecary who attended you when you were so upset over the loss of your jewels.’

‘And treated you roughly, ma’am,’ added the maid, ‘not at all like a gentleman.’

‘Be quiet Martha,’ said Mrs Dashwood, stretching out her hand to touch my arm. ‘Oh Mr Judd,

you will think me a dreadful hypocrite. But indeed I was truly upset about many things—not about the jewels ’tis true, but about my son and about what my husband would say and do. I was protecting myself from his anger, Mr Judd. Oh sir, you have no idea how terrible his anger can be, nor what I have suffered.’

This was largely what I had expected her to say. I thought she would probably make up some excuse for selling the jewels and then try to show how hardly she had been treated, and appeal to my kindness to be merciful to her. I led them over to the far side of the church to a quiet corner, where even if someone else came in we would not be overheard, and we sat quite concealed in a high pew.

‘So,’ I said, ‘without your husband’s knowledge or consent you have been trying to sell your jewels, his jewels, pretending they have been stolen. Why?’ ‘Sir,’ she replied, ‘I have a son, Nicholas, as I think you know. I have had six children, but five are buried in the churchyard here and he is all I have now. He is not a bad young man, Mr Judd, but he has been foolish and got into bad company. You are young, sir, and can understand, I am sure. He has been extravagant, and has run up debts, as you know young men so often will, what with gambling and going out with their friends. His father has paid his debts more than once, but last time made such a row about it that I feared he would cut Nicholas from his will. He made it all too clear that he was not going to rescue Nicholas again. My poor boy tried so hard to be good, and keep within his allowance, but his friends were not helpful—I think they mocked him, and encouraged him to gamble—and he has got into debt again. And I fear for him, Mr Judd, I do indeed, because these so-called friends of his seem to have some hold upon him more even than the debts. He is frightened of what they may do to him, I think. I sold some of my jewels to stave off his creditors, and he—we—hoped his marriage would make all right. But that has fallen through, with Mr Whittle having lost his money.’

‘But,’ I objected, ‘even if Mr Whittle hadn’t lost the dowry money Nicholas wouldn’t have got his hands on it for several weeks or even months.’

‘He could have borrowed on the prospect of it, or so I understood.’

‘Did Nicholas tell you about Mr Whittle’s loss?’

‘Yes, the same day the soldiers left. He came back before his father to see if he could hurry arrangements for the marriage. But then he came to me and said, “It’s all off, mother. Mr Whittle has lost his money and can’t pay a dowry, so I can’t marry his daughter.” He was desperate to know what to do, and I promised him I would find him some immediate money somehow. I had hoped the earlier losses from my jewel box would not be noticed, but now I would have to sell all I had left—and the only thing to do, I thought, was to pretend they had been stolen. The soldiers ransacking houses in the town seemed my opportunity.’

‘But you only thought of that after the soldiers had left?’ ‘’Tis true, for after what Nicholas had told me I had to think very quickly. I sent him out with the servants. There were only three besides Martha, for my husband had taken the others to help move his stuff. Then I got Martha to break the pantry window to make it look as if someone had climbed in that way.’

‘But when they came back didn’t the servants notice that it had been done while they were out?’

‘They don’t often go into that little pantry. They couldn’t swear that the window hadn’t been broken earlier. And then Martha showed them signs of mud on the stairs, and I pretended to discover my jewels were missing and began to make a fuss. They all assumed it had been done earlier by the soldiers—even Nicholas thought that.’

‘So you and Martha are the only ones involved?’

‘Martha has been a loyal friend. She had been selling some of the jewels for me earlier, but now she said that she could not sell them all at once, for that might arouse suspicion. So she divided them into three or four lots to sell. I was foolish, I know, for I didn’t think of the jewels being found in the town and recognised.’

I turned to Martha.

‘Did Mr Faire, the man you sold them to, know they were stolen? Was he in this with you?’

‘Oh no sir,’ she said, ‘he asked where I had got them from, and I told him they were my own. I pretended to be a lady, a widow who had come down in the world because of the wars, and who needed the money to live on. I appealed to him to help me.’

‘He is likely to suffer loss because of his kindness,’ I said, and turned back to Mrs Dashwood.

‘And you didn’t think, I suppose, that you might get an innocent trader into trouble.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘has he been suspected of theft?’

‘He might well have been,’ I said, ‘and if not that, he is likely to lose what he has already paid, unless you can pay him back.’

‘Alas, no,’ she said, ‘all Martha brought back I gave to Nicholas, and he has paid it to his creditors.’

So you suppose, I thought. As like as not he has gambled it away.

‘Well, you have got yourself into a fix,’ I said. ‘What is to be done now?’

‘Please don’t tell my husband, he would never forgive me, and I could not bear his anger! He would be cruel to Nicholas too, and send Martha away, I expect.’

‘Then can you tell me what is to be done? The jewels ought be returned to your husband, for they are lawfully his property; but Denis Faire, the man who bought them, must not be the loser. Can you

not throw yourself on your husband’s mercy, and confess all?’

Martha made an exclamation, and her mistress buried her face in her hands and wept.

‘Oh sir,’ she sobbed, ‘you don’t know my husband, or you would not suggest such a thing. He has made my life a misery, and I have often wished I could die. And as for the jewels being his property, most of them were mine before I married, and the rest were bought with my money—the money I brought him as a dowry.

‘Let me tell you, sir, some of what I have suffered. I was a carefree girl, loving to dance and ride.

My grandfather made a fortune in London in the time of Queen Bess, and I grew up on my father’s estate in Wiltshire. I could have made a good and happy marriage, but one fatal day Mr Dashwood came to our house. He had some business with my father, and he seemed struck by my beauty. (Yes, I was considered a beauty in those days!)

‘He came again more than once, making up reasons to visit to my father, but I understood that he was really wanting to see me. I was flattered, and he was handsome and seemed to be in love with me.

My father too thought it would be a good match, for the Dashwoods are, as you know, a leading family in these parts, and our money came from trade. Some of the older families in Wiltshire looked down on us for that, though heaven knows, their wealth probably came from trade originally.

‘At all events, a marriage was arranged, and I thought I would be happy. But as soon as it had taken place, and Mr Dashwood had brought me to his home, how different it was. I found that he was much poorer than we had been led to believe, and was relying on my dowry to get him out of his difficulties. That would not have been so bad if he had been kind. But his manner to me changed, and I realised that he had only married me for my money.’

‘But madam,’ I said, ‘isn’t that precisely what you were trying to arrange for your son? How could you do such a thing, and try to bring the same fate on poor Elizabeth Whittle?’

‘My son is very different from his father. He may be careless, but he is not cruel or unkind.’

‘Yet he dropped her without a thought for her feelings the moment he found she had no dowry.’

‘But he is desperate for money. Believe me, Mr Judd, he would not have treated her with the cold cruelty I have had to endure all these years from his father. Let me tell you a little more of what I have had to suffer.’

It seemed useless to try to get her to see how her son had tried to repeat his father’s way of marrying, so I said, ‘Go on.’

‘Those jewels I brought with me as a young bride were very precious to me, but I have sacrificed them for Nicholas’s sake. As for my husband, he has hardly given me anything in all the years we’ve been married. He would not let me keep in touch with my friends in Wiltshire, and even tried to stop

me seeing my parents. After I had my first baby I was very ill, and then the babe, my little Margaret, whom I had named after my mother, sickened and died. I was terribly upset, and could not bear to meet anyone. But Stephen forced himself upon me and I was soon with child again. That was a boy, born dead. Then came another girl, whom I insisted on being called Margaret also, for I wanted mother to be remembered. But she too was a sickly child and died soon after her second birthday. Meanwhile I had had Nicholas, who was, thank God, a robust little boy and has always enjoyed the best of health. I have had two more children, but neither has survived, and at the last I had a miscarriage which was brought on by my husband’s anger.

‘Oh Mr Judd, if you did but know how angry he can be. It was not so bad when he was younger, and had my money to spend; but as he has got older—or we both have—his temper has become worse, and now it frightens me. See —’ She pulled up her sleeve and showed me bruises, black and blue, all up her arm ‘— this is what he did to me just before he left last week. I had been pleading with him not to leave me alone in the house, with the soldiers coming, and heaven knows what dangers, and he called me a fool and beat me. I could show you more, but it would be to my shame. It was like the time some years ago when he struck me and I miscarried.

‘Oh please listen to me, sir. I know I have done wrong, and before God I will take the blame. But please don’t tell my husband or turn him more against Nicholas. Please do help me.’

Although I had thought she would plead her husband’s hardness as an excuse, her distress and the story of her sufferings were greater than I had expected.

‘I am wondering whether there is any way in which all this may be cleared up without telling your husband all about it,’ I said. ‘As I told you, Denis Faire ought not to be the loser, and yet the jewels ought be returned. Let me think.’ I stood up and walked as far as the Williams monument, and gazed at the kneeling Sir John for a moment. Then I turned and came back to where the two women sat. I noticed that Martha was holding her mistress’s hand and gently stroking it.

‘Madam,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that there are three possible courses to take. If I were prudent and sensible I would have no more to do with this affair. I would hand the jewellery Martha was trying to sell today back to you to dispose of if you can, and leave Mr Faire to sell what he has already bought and chance his being caught with stolen property; and I would wash my hands of it all and say nothing.

Or—and this is the proper and moral course for me to take—I could go to your husband —’ ‘Oh please, no!’ Mrs Dashwood exclaimed.

‘— and tell him the whole story, and let him deal with you and Martha, and (I hope) compensate Mr Faire for the loss he would otherwise bear. Or, I have thought of a scheme, whether it is honest I doubt, but maybe your husband’s behaviour justifies it. So, I could go to your husband —’

‘Oh no!’ she cried again.

‘Wait, madam, listen to what I am proposing. I could go to your husband and tell him I have found someone in touch with the thieves—which will be true enough—and that I may be able to negotiate the recovery of the jewels for a fee, if he is willing. He will, I hope, be prepared to pay an amount which will cover Mr Faire’s loss. It would not be anything like the full value of the jewels, but I can say that the thieves will be glad to dispose of them for whatever they can get. As for your Nicholas, he will have to be content with what you have already given him, and will have to learn to take responsibility for his own life and deal himself with the consequences of his actions. I am not sure why I am prepared to do this for you, but your story has touched me, and I am sorry for you.’

‘Oh Mr Judd,’ she said, grasping my hand, ‘I will be eternally grateful to you if you will do this for us, and save us from this dreadful trouble.’

‘I shall be putting myself in the wrong,’ I said, ‘and if Mr Dashwood were ever to find out that I have joined with you in deceiving him I should be in great trouble.’

‘We will never tell anyone,’ she promised.

‘If you do I will spread abroad how you robbed him and how I caught you, and you and he will both be the laughing-stock of Dorset. But it must be kept secret. Will Martha here keep it quiet too, and not let drop the slightest hint even to her fellow-servants?’

‘You will not speak of this to a soul, will you Martha?’ she said turning to her maid.

‘You know I won’t, ma’am,’ said Martha, ‘I wouldn’t let anyone know for the world.’

‘Very well,’ I said,’ I will wait for a day or two and then I will approach your husband.’

‘But you have the jewellery now,’ said Mrs Dashwood. ‘How can I know that you will return it as you say?’

‘You will have to trust me. I’ve played fair with you so far, and given my word. I will do as I have said.’

We stood up and I took her hand and bowed. Then she turned and left the church followed by her maid, and after waiting a few minutes I too went out.

I walked down to Denis Faire’s house, turning over in my mind how much I should tell him.

‘Denis,’ I said when he had let me in, ‘I’ll take charge of all that jewellery for the moment. It is a very strange affair, and in a sense the jewels were not stolen. But they must be returned. I can’t explain to you all the details, as it is a twisted business involving a woman’s honour. But I hope I shall be able to make good what you have already paid out, provided you do not tell anyone about this matter. If it once became known about the town very serious trouble would come to several people. I’m sorry to be so secretive, but the trouble is that the secret is not mine to share. But if you are willing to go along

with this, and keep it strictly between ourselves, I should be able to pay you in a week or two. What do you say?’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I can keep it quiet. Anyway I’m not eager to spread around how I was taken in by that old woman. But what about her? Is she not a thief?’

‘She is being dealt with quietly, and her mistress does not want a fuss made, which is one reason we must keep it strictly to ourselves.’

‘Oh ho!’ he said. ‘I think I see what Mrs Dashwood has been doing—selling her jewels without telling her husband.’

‘You’re right, Denis, but you don’t know the full story, and I’m not at liberty to tell you. We must keep this whole affair quiet and not tell a soul, and then all may yet turn out well. If you breathe a word about it to anyone I won’t be able to get any money for you.’

He promised faithfully not to tell anyone and handed over the remaining jewels.

‘I do hope you’ll manage to settle this without there being a big row,’ he said. ‘The thing that worries me most is—I can tell you, Micah, because I know you won’t spread it around—but the fact is I spoke to Elizabeth after church when her father was delayed inside, and she didn’t brushed me aside. I think if I could get Mr Whittle to think better of me she really would consider me. But I’m afraid if there’s some scandal about these stolen things it will make that so much harder.’

‘I do believe that I’ll be able to arrange things so that all will be well, Denis, which is why it’s so important to keep what we know secret.’

So I left, thinking with some surprise how I was being trusted quite remarkably by so many people.

I was not too happy about what I had agreed with Mrs Dashwood, for though I thought, if her account of her husband’s greed and cruelties were only half true, he deserved far more punishment than he would receive, should any rumour of the affair became public I would be in a very difficult, not to say dangerous, position.

‘Here am I,’ I thought, ‘brought up under Mr White’s ministry to be God-fearing, open and honest in all my dealings, but now preparing to deceive a leading citizen of Dorchester, albeit from good motives and in a good cause. Whatever am I coming to?’

However, as soon as I got home I took the jewels I had earlier hidden under the flagstone and wrapped them in a piece of sacking, together with the ones Denis had just entrusted to me, and hid them out of sight on top of a beam in the stable hut in my yard. I did not want to leave them with my own treasures, for it struck me that if anything happened to me, and Agnes went to find our own hoard, she would not know what to do with them, and I did not want her to be burdened with the Dashwoods’ affairs. I was also determined to put them out of my own mind for the moment.

That evening I called on the tranter, or carrier as you may call him, Will Horder, who I knew went to Weymouth on Tuesdays, and arranged to go with him next morning.

Later over supper I told Agnes where I was going, and told her not to worry if I was not home until the day after, as I doubted if I could finish my enquiries in one day. As I had expected, she was anxious when she heard I was going to Weymouth.

‘Aren’t the soldiers all about there still,’ she said. ‘Do be careful, Micah. What would I do if you were killed?’

‘Don’t worry, my sweet,’ I said, ‘they’re not fighting there. The latest news in the town is that Melcombe and Weymouth have both surrendered to Prince Maurice without a shot being fired. He’s even taken Sandsfoot Castle overlooking the bay, I believe. The only Roundheads still holding out are in Portland Castle, but that’s far away the other side of the water.’

I gave her some instructions for managing the shop while I was away, and did my best to reassure her. In truth, if I had known the dangers I would face I might well have decided not to go.

CHAPTER 7 ON THE TRAIL OF A CART THAT NIGHT I slept soundly, rose early and put on the new doublet and breeches Tom had made for me. I had a quick meal of bread and cheese and ale, and wrapped more bread and cheese in a napkin and put it in my pocket. As an afterthought I picked up my apothecary’s bag. It occurred to me that my profession might give me entry to soldiers’ quarters or camps, and anyway would provide a plausible reason for me to be travelling.

By seven o’ clock I had walked up Durn Lane and was waiting in South Street, and almost at once Will Horder came along in his cart. I’ve known him since I was a boy, and he greeted me warmly.

‘Hey, Micah lad, so you’re doing a scoot eh? to get away from family troubles, I s’pose,’ he said as I climbed aboard.

‘Well, you know Will, it’ll be quite a holiday to be away from a crying baby for a while.’

‘An’ how’s that litsome lady your wife?’

‘Well enough, considering she has so much more work and less sleep with the babe.’

We rattled out of South Gate, and I glanced back at his load. He had a number of sacks and packages, some live hens in a wicker cage, several dead rabbits and a hare. I looked sideways at Will.

He had an old hat shading his eyes and large white whiskers down each side of his face that actually waved about in the breeze.

‘How often do you come this way, Will?’ I asked him. ‘Is it still once a week?’

‘Nay, once a fortnight now. I used to come once a week, but the so’jers being all around make it too risky. I’m always afear’d they may steal my hoss, and then where would I be?’

‘I was lucky then, to want to go to Weymouth just when it was your day to go there. I suppose you’ll come back this evening, so if I want a ride back I’ll have to finish my business before then?’

‘I do that,’ he said. ‘I shall be leaving the George a couple of hours before sundown, and if you’re not there I shall have to leave without you, and then you’ll have to walk. So what brings you all this way in spite of the wars?’

‘I’m looking for a cart,’ I said, and explained to him how Jacob Perrin had had his cart stolen and that I had promised to look for it.

‘I know that Perrin fellow,’ said Will. ‘I’m surprised at your being friends with him.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, Micah, or Mr Judd as I ought to be calling you, now you be an up-an’-coming apothecary I wouldn’ ’a thought you’ld be a-chasing over the country for lost carts, specially not one belonging to Jacob Perrin.’

‘Don’t you think he’s a good man to know?’

‘Depends what you want to know him for. He’ll get you what you want, if you want the sort o’ goods he gets.’

‘He’s not exactly a friend of mine,’ I said, ‘rather he’s the friend—or relative—of a friend, and I’m really doing this journey for the sake of my friend, not for Mr Perrin. But if you happen to see this cart I would be glad if you would let me know.’

I described the cart to him as far as I could, and he promised to look out for it.

Then we talked of other things—of the state of Sherborne after all the fighting around there earlier in the year, of the brave defence of Corfe Castle by Lady Bankes and her daughters—and Will told me the story that Sir Walter Erle had been so frightened there after nearly being killed by a musket ball that he crept around outside the walls on all fours dressed in a bear’s skin.

‘I should think that would make them shoot at him all the more!’ I exclaimed.

‘Perhaps he thought the bullets would bounce off the fur,’ said Will nearly choking with laughter, and I had to thump him on the back. Then we discussed what had happened in Melcombe and Weymouth, as far as we had heard, and what Prince Maurice might do next.

‘I do think he’ll try to take Portland Castle afore he moves on,’ said Will, ‘otherwise ’twill be a running sore in the side o’ the Cavaliers in Weymouth. Portlanders themselves are Royalist to a man, and hate Captain Arthur, the Roundhead Governor.’

‘Yet it’s a strong castle, and won’t easily be taken,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been there, but I’ve been told its walls are very strong and in good repair. Weren’t they built in the time of Henry the Eighth?’

‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘’tis not like those old-fashioned castles such as Corfe or Sherborne. The walls at Portland Castle are low and curve inwards at the top, so that cannon-balls bounce off them and fly over without doing damage, and instead of arrow-slits there are cross-shaped holes for hand-guns to shoot out of and big square holes for the cannon. ’Tis very cunningly planned, is Portland Castle.’

We passed the turning to Monkton and began to climb the long hill up to the summit of the ridge which separates Dorchester from Weymouth and the sea. There was a long stretch of white chalky road, with no houses and few trees. We talked of more personal things—of Will’s brother who worked for the Trenchards at Wolfeton, of his grandson who was doing well at the Free School in Dorchester, which I had attended as a boy, and of my uncle the wheelwright in Portesham.

We crossed the Ridgeway which goes at right angles to the Weymouth road, running along just on the Dorchester side of the ridge, a road ancient when the Romans passed this way and built the road we were on. Then we came over the summit and saw Melcombe, Weymouth and the sea, with the grey hump of Portland rising like a sea monster in the distance. From our view-point we couldn’t see the

Chesil Bank of shingle that joins Portland to the mainland a good ten miles to the west beyond Abbotsbury, so that Portland looked like a true island, as apart from that shingle bank it is. The early sunshine was in our eyes, so we could not see the far view clearly, though the sea sparkled and smoke, perhaps from cooking fires, rose lazily over the two towns. We saw no sign of soldiers, but anyway were too far away for that.

The hill down on the seaward side is much steeper, so we got down from the cart, and Will prepared to thrust an iron shoe under the wheel should it be necessary on the steep descent. The Romans thought nothing of building their road straight up and down over the ridge, regardless of the slope. Perhaps they mainly used pack animals and people went on foot, for the hill is hard on horses pulling carts, whether up or down. However, we reached the bottom without mishap and got back on the cart.

‘Have you heard of the Wise Man of Upwey over there?’ asked Will, waving his whip to the right in the direction of the village, which lies back from the main road up a little valley.

‘No,’ I said, ‘who is that?’

‘I don’t know his name,’ said Will, ‘but I do know the people hereabouts speak highly of his powers. He divines with a wand, they say, and finds lost things.’

‘Do you mean he’s a dowser, using a hazel twig to find water?’

‘A wand is what I was told, but I don’t know what it’s made of. But yes, they say he can tell the best place to dig a well, ’tis true. But he finds other things, I believe. When a heifer strayed he told the farmer where to find it, and he foretold these present troubles, so ’tis said.’

‘It needed no special gift to foresee our troubles coming,’ I said, ‘but I wonder whether he could tell me where to find this cart I’m seeking.’

‘I guess he could,’ said Will, ‘but whether he would is another matter. They say he’s a queer old cuss, and will only help if he has a mind to.’

We could not turn aside for me to try him though, but jogged on towards Melcombe. We had hardly seen anyone on the road so far, but as we approached the town there were quite a lot of people on foot and some carts and waggons bringing produce in from the country. There was a guard-post at the edge of the town, with two or three soldiers who were keeping a sharp eye on the passers-by.

However, they recognised Will and let us pass without hindrance.

I kept looking at the carts to see if I could find a green one with yellow wheels, but to no avail. We reached the centre of town, and I paid Will for my passage and set off carrying my bag. I didn’t know where to look, and thought to inquire of any soldiers I might meet, yet there didn’t seem to be any soldiers in the town. I asked a man standing at a street corner where they all were, and he said that most

of them were the other side of the river in Weymouth.

The two towns of Melcombe and Weymouth ought by rights to be one. But the river has so divided them that they have been enemies and rivals for many centuries. One day perhaps they will settle their differences and become united, though there seems little likelihood of this happening. The only way from one to the other (apart from by boat) is by a wooden bridge which lifts up like a drawbridge. So I walked to this bridge and began to cross it. Some soldiers were on guard at the far side, and they barred my way and asked my business. I said I was an apothecary plying my skills, and this led to my first bit of good fortune.

One of the soldiers said to his mate, ‘Here, Dickon, show him your hand.’

The soldier addressed pushed forward, and said, ‘Can you heal wounds, master?’

‘It depends how bad they are,’ I answered. He held out his left hand, which had a dirty bloodstained piece of rag wrapped round it.

‘Let me see,’ I said, and unwound the rag, pulling it away where it had stuck with the blood. ‘How did you get hurt?’

‘He was in a fight with a potato,’ said one of his friends, ‘and the spud won.’

‘Me knife slipped,’ said the hurt man, Dickon.

‘Where can we sit down?’ I asked, and he led me into a shop they had taken over as their guard post. ‘Bring me some clean water and some wine to cleanse the wound,’ I said, and soon began wiping away the foul matter from his hand. I cleaned out the wound, which was a deep cut, and washed it with the wine. I searched in my bag for ointment and took out a salve I had made of woundwort and oil, which I applied to the cut. I asked the soldiers for some clean cloth to use as a bandage, and after some search one of them came up with a strip of linen, probably torn from a shirt.

While I worked I talked to the soldiers about their adventures since they had left Dorchester.

‘Did you march straight here?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said one, ‘the advance guard pushed on, but we spent the night in a field. Our sergeant picked it out, God rest his soul, though why he chose such a bleak hillside I shall never know.’

‘It was blowy up there,’ agreed Dickon, ‘we would have done better down by the village below the hill where Captain Elstone’s men camped. But sergeant said we must stop at the top, and stop we did.’

‘Good view in the morning though,’ said the first, ‘all the way back to Dorchester. And we weren’t quite at the top—we had a bit o’ shelter behind a wall.’

‘Were many of you up there?’ I asked.

‘Only our company, I think, for we were the rear-guard, y’see. We were strung out by the wall trying to keep warm. Sergeant said we were weaklings, but he had a thicker jerkin than most of us.’

‘Who is your sergeant?’ I asked, hardly daring to hope that my quest to find out what had happened to one of the lost treasures might be nearly at an end.

‘Barnby, Jim Barnby, he was.’

‘Where can I find him,’ I asked.

‘Down there,’ said the first speaker, pointing at the ground. ‘He’s dead, poor man, and not by a bullet either. He got merry soon after we got here and fell into the harbour. By the time we hauled him out he was quite drownded.’

‘I don’t know what he had to be merry about,’ said Dickon, ‘but maybe he was drowning his sorrows.’

‘Drowning himself, anyway,’ said the first, and they all laughed.

‘What happened to his things?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we shared ’em out. Not that he had much. I had his shirt and belt. I suppose most of the company got something to remember him by.’

‘I had his ’baccy flask,’ said Dickon.

‘Not a lot of money then?’ I said.

‘Not a bit. Some of our company said they’d seen him strike lucky in Dorchester, but he must a’ lost it all. He’d spent his last penny on drink, I guess.’

‘Had he been spending a lot since you left Dorchester?’

‘He didn’t have much chance. Where could he spend money till he got here? And it was our first evening here, three days ago, he drownded.’

‘So he hadn’t been gambling or giving loads of money away?’

‘No, I guess he can’t really have got anything lucky in Dorchester or we’d a’ found it. But why are you asking? Did you know him?’

‘No, but I’m surprised that a sergeant should die without money to share out. I thought all sergeants got rich.’

They laughed with a tinge of bitterness at that, and one said, ‘Sergeants may, we don’t on the pay we don’t get.’

‘At anyrate, your Sergeant Barnby doesn’t seem to have done very well,’ I said. standing up. It seemed to me that the sergeant must have hidden the money somewhere, but he hadn’t had very much opportunity to do so. It must be either in his billet in Weymouth, or he might have dropped it off on the way there.

‘Did you search his billet?’ I asked. ‘Surely he must have had some money somewhere?’

‘He was going to share a billet with me,’ said Dickon. ‘He left his pack there, but he went out that

first evening, got drunk and didn’t come back.’

‘And there was no money in the pack?’

‘Not a bit, sir, so you see not all sergeants are rich!’

Then probably he disposed of Whittle’s money before he reached Weymouth. I wondered if I would be able to find the field where he spent the night before, when he stopped on the way, but I didn’t want to question the soldiers too closely in case they became suspicious, so I closed my bag, and told Dickon to keep his hand clean and to change the bandage in a couple of days. I then remembered to ask whether they had any waggons or carts, and was told that most of them were assembled at Sandsfoot Castle.

I did not ask for payment because I hoped the soldiers would perhaps help me in my search, or at anyrate recommend me to their fellows, and I looked about for their officer. Fortunately their Captain arrived before I had to move on, and he at once asked what I was doing in the guard post. The men told him how I had treated Dickon’s hurt, Dickon held up the bandaged hand and they all joined in quite a chorus of praise.

‘Well done, sir,’ said the Captain. ‘I wish you would stay with us as our surgeon.’

‘It was nothing,’ I said, ‘I am glad to have been able to help.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s just possible that you might be able to help me.’

‘How so?’

‘A friend of mine has lost his cart, and I was very much hoping I might find it for him.’

‘Lost? Do you mean it was taken?’

‘Well yes, it was, shall we say, borrowed by some soldiers, and if they have finished with it he would be glad to call in the loan.’

He laughed and said, ‘It’s unlikely that they will part with it yet, but you can try. There are quite a lot of carts and waggons up near the castle. You could look up there.’

‘I would be most grateful if you would give me a note to the commander so that I may go and return freely,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ he said, ‘though you should have got a proper pass.’

‘I am sure a note from you will serve,’ I said, taking my notebook from my pocket. The only thing we could find to write with was a lead pencil I had, and with that, after he had enquired my name, he wrote: To whom it may concern, be it known that the bearer, Mr Micah Judd, apothecary, hath done good work for one of my wounded men, and should be allowed to pass freely. He signed it, John Masters,

Captain.

I thanked him, and blessed my good fortune as I climbed up from the harbour and went the half mile or so to the castle.

Sandsfoot Castle, I knew, was another of the many built by King Henry the Eighth as part of his coastal defences. Together with its sister castle on Portland it guards the anchorage where ships can shelter from the prevailing south-west gales in the lee of Portland and the Chesil Bank. Between them the guns of the two castles can rake most of the anchorage. But although Sandsfoot had surrendered to the Cavaliers without a struggle, Portland Castle seemed determined to hold out, which it could very likely do because (as Will had said) it was very strongly built specifically to withstand cannon shot.

There were plenty of soldiers around Sandsfoot. The Castle itself has a squarish central keep with embrasures for big guns at intervals. There is a curtain wall and dry ditch, and on the seaward side a semi-circular platform for the cannon which guard the harbour. There were many tents in neat lines, both inside the Castle wall and outside. I also saw quite a lot of horses and mules and oxen tethered, and carts and waggons, but though I looked hard I couldn’t see Perrin’s cart anywhere.

‘Hey, you there, get back!’ shouted a voice, and an angry-looking soldier came towards me. ‘No townsmen here,’ he said, ‘go back!’

‘I have a pass from Captain Masters,’ I said. ‘I am an apothecary. I’ve treated one of his men, and may be able to help any of you here in need of my services.’

He looked at the paper written by the Captain, holding it upsidedown.

‘This ain’t a proper pass,’ he said, but it must have impressed him for he added somewhat doubtfully, ‘I don’t know. You’d better see our Ensign.’

He led me to one of the tents nearby where a young officer was sitting on a folding stool and smoking a short pipe.

‘What have you got there, Simpkins?’ he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth. ‘No unauthorised passengers, you know.’

‘I know sir,’ said the soldier saluting, ‘but he says he’s an “apocary” with a pass from Captain Masters.’

‘Let me see it,’ said the Ensign, and when he had examined it, ‘this is not a properly authorised pass, but I know Captain Masters, so I suppose it will do. Have you been sent for?’

‘I thought there might be need of my services,’ I said, ‘but if there isn’t I can go away.’

‘Wait,’ he said, ‘we have a surgeon, and you had better have a word with him. You’ll find him in the end tent over there. See if he wants any help.’ He pointed down the line of tents with his pipe and put it back in his mouth.

I thanked him and walked down the line to the tent he had indicated. There I found a short fat redfaced man lying on his back on a thin mattress. His eyes were open, but he was in the act of yawning as I arrived.

‘Good day, sir,’ I said, ‘are you the surgeon?’

‘I am, and who the devil are you?’

I repeated my story and showed him Captain Master’s note, and he heaved himself onto one elbow.

‘What sort of wound did you treat?’ he asked.

‘A cut hand. I was told the soldier had been involved in a fight—with a potato.’

He laughed and sat up.

‘Sickness we have,’ he said, ‘it takes off more than pike and powder. But I know no cure for it, and I don’t suppose you do. The men will drink too much, eat bad food unwashed, lie down in their own excrement and drink ditch-water, so what can they expect? But I can’t do much for ’em, except hope they live, but more likely watch ’em die—and I want none of your quack medicines.’

‘I am no quacking physician and do not dispense such trash,’ I said with some heat. ‘I too have no cure for camp fever, if that’s what they have. But I can help wounds to heal and know many remedies for other sicknesses.’

‘You might be of some use then if and when we have a battle, but until we attack Portland Castle (if we do) there aren’t likely to be many wounds, except those got (as with your fellow) in fighting potatoes. But I don’t suppose you are prepared to stay until we do engage the enemy.’

‘When is the attack on the Castle going to take place?’ I asked.

‘Heaven knows,’ he said, ‘and, I suppose, the Prince.’

‘Then I cannot stay,’ I said, ‘and I am sorry that I cannot be of help.’

He scrambled to his feet and held out his hand.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I am being less than civil. It is good of you to offer.’

‘I wonder if you could help me,’ I said. ‘I am looking for a cart, a green cart with yellow wheels.

Have you by any chance seen such a thing?’

He laughed again and said, ‘The only carts I take note of are ones bringing up food and drink—and I suppose those with the bodies of wounded and dead. The Waggon-master would know, of course, but he’s gone off God knows where. But it’s possible the Quartermaster might know. I can take you to him.’

He led me through the line of tents to a cottage not far from the outer castle ditch. One board of its door still swung on the hinges, the rest had gone. A soldier carrying a paper came out as we

approached, and another entered before us, and there was an air of bustle and business about the place which contrasted with most of what I had so far seen of the camp.

We went in behind the soldier to a room which took up most of the ground floor of the cottage. A ladder in one corner led up through an open hatch, probably to a bedroom or loft. The only furniture was a table, which seemed too grand for the humble room and was covered with papers, an open box or trunk also overflowing with papers, and a chair on which a large man with a bushy ginger moustache was sitting. An orderly was standing behind. The seated man handed the soldier a paper.

‘Take this to Captain Fiennes,’ he ordered, ‘then report back to me.’ The soldier saluted and brushed past us to get out. The seated man looked up frowning, then smiled as he saw the surgeon.

‘Henry, you rogue,’ he said, ‘you shan’t have any of my blood today.’

‘He always makes out I’ve come to bleed him,’ said the surgeon to me, ‘but whoever heard of getting blood from a quartermaster?’

‘Whoever heard of getting health from a doctor?’ retorted the Quartermaster. ‘But what have you come to ask for? for I know you didn’t come just to see me.’

‘Absolutely right,’ said the surgeon. ‘This man is an apothecary looking for a cart, a particular cart, I believe. The Waggon-master’s not around, but I’m sure you know as much about what waggons and carts we’ve got as he does, so I’ve brought this enquirer to you.’

‘Is it one that was requisitioned?’ asked the Quartermaster.’

‘Yes, it was borrowed, and I would like it back, please,’ I said. ‘’Fore God, what next?’ said the Quartermaster, raising his voice. ‘Here we are fighting a war, and the man wants his cart back. We haven’t enough carts as it is.’

‘Yet sir, it is only a small cart, and I would gladly give you a donation—to buy comforts for the soldiers, of course—to get it back.’

‘A donation, ha!’ I saw his eyes light up, ‘for the soldiers’ comforts. It would have to be a large one, yes, to persuade me to part with a cart.’

‘Oh yes, sir, I quite understand you will want a donation,’ I said, as the orderly came back into the room.

‘Hush, man,’ said the Quartermaster glancing at him and lowering his voice. ‘We can talk of that later. Well, what cart is it?’

‘It’s green with yellow wheels, quite distinctive.’

The orderly stepped forward and said something in his ear.

‘Ah,’ said the Quartermaster, ‘you’re out of luck, I fear. That cart was the one we sent across the water to collect a load of fish. It was captured yesterday by the Roundheads, curse ’em, so I guess it’s

now at the castle yonder.’

‘Do you mean it went across to Portland?’ I asked to make absolutely sure.

‘That’s right. If you wait a few days we shall surely capture the castle, and with it the cart. But I doubt if we’d be able to let you have it, even for a donation, eh Tom?’ He looked up at the orderly, who shrugged his shoulders.

Another soldier came in and saluted, and the Quartermaster dismissed us with a nod.

As we walked away the surgeon said, ‘Well, there you are. I told you he would know about the carts and waggons. But yours is out of reach, you see, and though we may recapture it, I don’t know when that will be. Anyway, as he said, he probably wouldn’t let you have it back, even for a donation to his Retired Quartermasters’ Comfort Fund.’

I thanked him for his help and we parted, he towards his tent and I going on through the camp to the west, where the road or track went down a rough slope to the shore. I walked as if I had some purpose, and no one challenged me, but I was really most uncertain what to do. If the cart was indeed at Portland Castle it seemed utterly beyond my reach. Yet, having come so far, and having had such amazing good fortune in tracing where it had gone, I was reluctant to give up.

Also finding how readily my being an apothecary could open up the way into places from which most other people would be barred, I began to toy with the idea of trying my luck on Portland. Thanks to my early start the day was still less than half gone, and (provided there was no actual fighting going on) I did not fear for my life. However, I might have difficulty in passing the sentries of both sides who would surely be guarding the ferry or the road.

I walked along the shore. The road (if such a rough track deserved the title) was only passable at low tide, and in places crossed ridges of sharp rocks, and in others my feet sunk in sticky grey clay. I thought how difficult it must be for horses having to pull heavy waggons along such a way. After about half a mile I reached the place where the track ended at the water’s edge, and the ferry, a barge-like craft large enough to take a cart and a couple of horses, was tied to a post. A rope, by which the ferryman hauled the ferry along, stretched to a stout post at the far side of the Fleet, as the long stretch of water between the Chesil Bank and the mainland is called.

As I expected, there was a guard post by the ferry, with a dozen or so soldiers.

‘Go back,’ one shouted, ‘there’s no passage.’

‘I have a pass,’ I said, ‘and showed my piece of paper.’

‘That’s no pass,’ he said, ‘get back.’

‘How long will the way be closed?’ I asked.

‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘It’ll be closed as long as the General orders.’

So I turned back a little way, then scrambled up the broken cliff which there was quite low, though muddy and crumbling, and walked across the headland to the shore of the Fleet. The Chesil Bank looked tantalisingly near across the water. I had heard that it was sometimes possible to ford the Fleet at low tide if one knew the way. But I believe it is dangerous, and strangers have been drowned there.

My stomach began to tell me that it was time to eat, so I sat on a flat rock and took out the bread and cheese I had in my pocket and ate it slowly. I then felt thirsty, and looked around at a row of poor cottages a little back from the water’s edge. An old fisherman with a straggly grey beard was working nearby mending nets. I went over to him and asked if there was anywhere I might find a drink.

‘You can have a drop o’ water here,’ he said. ‘I ha’n’t anything stronger.’ He had a large earthenware jug beside him three-quarters full, so I thanked him and drank from the jug. The water was warm and slightly brackish, and I hoped it would not make me ill. But it did quench my thirst for the moment.

‘How could one get across to the Chesil?’ I asked. ‘I want to get to Portland, but the soldiers aren’t letting anyone use the ferry.’

‘I could row you across,’ he said, ‘and if you walk along the seaward side for a bit they won’t see you. But they may have posted some soldiers further along, so you may be stopped before you get to where you want to go.’

Again I thanked him, and said I would chance it.

CHAPTER 8 CAPTURED! THE FISHERMAN PICKED up a couple of oars and led me down to the water’s edge, where a number of small flat-bottomed skiffs were drawn up, their ropes or painters tied to stakes driven into the mud. He untied one and pushed it into the water, and held it steady while I clambered in. It seemed too small for more than one, and even with only me in it seemed to bob about quite dangerously.

However, the fisherman made me sit in the stern, with my bag between my feet, then he climbed in himself, skilfully balancing so that the skiff did not tip over. He rowed with short strokes and remarkably quickly we grounded on the far side of the Fleet. He stepped into the water and held the boat while I removed my shoes and stockings and also stepped out into knee-deep water. I gave him a coin and slithered over mud and shingle to a dry spot, where I cleaned my feet as well as I could and put on my stockings and shoes, while the fisherman rowed back across.

I could see the soldiers who had barred my way, but they did not seem to be taking any notice of me. However, I thought it wise to take the fisherman’s advice, and walked straight up and over the shingle bank, and then along near the sea, the bank hiding me from the soldiers.

It was hard going on the shingle, which shifted beneath my feet, so that at every step I seemed to slip back a little as well as moving forwards. Also it was about midday and the sun was beating down on my head. But I persevered until, after about three-quarters of a mile I thought I had gone far enough away from the soldiers, and climbed away from the sea over the bank. As I crossed over I looked along towards Portland, and tried to see if there were any soldiers posted as the fisherman had suspected. I could not see any, but they might be hidden. At anyrate I plodded on, hoping that if I was stopped I would be able to bluff my way past.

I had crossed the bank at the narrowest part of the isthmus that joins Portland to the ferry, the calm waters of the bay on my left contrasting with the choppy open sea on the side I had left. The going was much easier on the cart-track which led from the ferry to the Island. I decided that I would go first to Chesil, the fishing village at the base of the cliffs, and enquire if anyone had seen the cart I was looking for, and where the Castle carts were kept. I would then consider what my next move might be, for I could not see how I would be able to enter the Castle and, even if I managed that, how I could get the treasure out.

‘But surely,’ I thought, ‘I will be able to beg a night’s lodging in the village, and at least see how the land lies.’ For though the Portlanders have the reputation of disliking strangers, whom they call ‘kimberlings’, I had found the few I had met kindly true-hearted men.

I had almost reached the village without being stopped, and could see the road beyond rising

steeply to the little town of Fortuneswell half way up the hill, the only place of any size on the Island, I believe, when three soldiers leaped over a wall and ran to forestall me. It was useless to run away, so I stood and looked at them.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ demanded the one who seemed to be the leader, a tall burly man with a harsh voice. He had thick black eyebrows that showed just below the rim of his helmet.

‘I’m going to the village, Chesil. Will you kindly let me go about my lawful business.’

‘Who are you? What’s your name, and what is your business?’

‘My name is Micah Judd. I’m an apothecary, come to practise my art on the Island here. So please let me pass in peace.’

‘Where are you from?’ he demanded.

It occurred to me that I did not know which side these soldiers were on. I had assumed when they stopped me that they were Cavaliers, but ordinary soldiers from either side looked much alike, and these might be Roundheads from the Castle, so I answered guardedly, ‘I was born in Dorchester, but I practise wherever I happen to be.’

‘And who are you going to see?’

‘I am making for Chesil village, as I said. I hope to find food and lodging there.’

‘He’s a spy, corporal,’ said one of the others, a young man with an unpleasant cast in his eye.

‘I certainly am not,’ I said, ‘I am, as I told you, an apothecary.’

‘But how did you get past the Cavaliers at the ferry?’ asked the leader. He had thin lips, which seemed twisted in a permanent sneer.

‘I got a fisherman to row me across some way from them.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘You will have to come along with us and see what Captain says.’

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘In the Castle, come!’

There was nothing for it but to go with them. But I thought, that’s where I’ve been wanting to go, and I may be able to find the cart there, if they’ve still got it, so this may be all for the best.

They led me round the shore of a lake or mere which was joined to the bay by a narrow channel, and filling up now with the rising tide. I could see Sandsfoot Castle quite clearly on the far side of the bay, and even saw a flash of sunlight reflected off the breastplate of a soldier on the gun-platform there.

Ahead of me was the grey wall of Portland Castle, its gun-ports or embrasures dark rectangular holes, and the Parliament flag flying defiantly from the topmost pinnacle.

We marched up to the gate, where after the leader had talked to the gatekeeper through a grill the postern was opened and we went through. One of the soldiers seized my arm and dragged me into the

guard-house, a dark long room with bare stone walls. He ordered me to sit on a bench and stood on guard outside the door.

I looked at the gatekeeper. He was not prepossessing. He had a scar across his face that made him look as if he was permanently angry. However, I tried to engage him in talk. ‘’Tis warm outside today. Good to come into the cool here and recover.’

Gatekeeper: ‘Huh.’ ‘Are you comfortable here? Some of these old castles are not easy to live in, I believe.’

Gatekeeper: ‘Huh.’ ‘Have you seen much fighting in these wars?’

Gatekeeper: ‘Uh-huh.’

After a few more attempts at conversation I gave up, and sat in silence, glancing at him from time to time while he pared his nails with a short knife and carefully avoided catching my eye.

At last there were footsteps and a sergeant entered followed by the leader of the group that had detained me.

‘So this is the spy you’ve caught, corporal,’ said the sergeant. ‘He looks an ill-favoured fellow, I must say.’

I daresay I did look travel-stained and weary after my morning’s adventures, but I felt annoyed at his remark.

‘I would have you know, sir,’ I said, rising to my feet, ‘that I am an apothecary of Dorchester, a most godly town, as I trust you’ve heard, and though I may look travel-worn I expected a better welcome than I have had so far.’

He changed his tone at that, and I felt I had gained some respect.

‘Dorchester, ha!’ he said, ‘a godly town indeed—or it was, for I believe it opened its gates to the enemy without a fight.’

‘Alas, sir,’ I said, ‘those of us of the godly party did our best, but our leaders deserted us. And we suffered pillage at the hands of Prince Maurice and his men.’

‘So you have escaped from Dorchester, and come to where you can have our protection?’ he said with a rather sour smile, and I did not feel I needed to correct him.

‘I certainly thought I would be safe among the soldiers of Parliament,’ I said.

‘But how can I know that you are not a spy?’ he asked.

‘For two reasons at least,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘First, I did not attempt to approach this Castle or its defences: it was your own men who brought me here. And second, I told them I was an apothecary, and that is the truth. Look in my bag here and see my medicines for yourself, and you can

try my skill if you have any sick or wounded among you.’

‘There might well be something for you to do here,’ he said in a more friendly tone, but then suddenly demanded roughly, ‘Why did the Cavaliers allow you to come through their lines and across the water?’

‘They didn’t, as I told your men. I got a fisherman to row me across to the Chesil Bank well away from their guard-post.’

‘And your name, sir?’

‘Micah Judd.’

‘Right,’ he said in his more friendly tone, ‘you will have to see the Governor, but meanwhile I will take up your offer and try your skill. Several of my men have gone sick and keep vomiting.’

‘Bring me to them,’ I said, ‘and I will see what I can do. But please remember that there are many possible causes of sickness, and not all of them are easily cured.’

He led me across the courtyard to the main building or keep of the Castle. Inside the door a passage turned left and then almost immediately right before opening into the octagonal centre of the keep. This was divided by a partition wall to make a hall or large room with one long side on the left (the partition) and a number of short straight lengths on the right that followed the curve of the outer wall. The hall was rather dark, as the only light came from cross-shaped loop-holes, and there was a fireplace in one of the short walls at the far end.

We went through the hall and along another short bent passage which led to the kitchen. There two or three cooks were at work, and a boy was turning a long spit loaded with a row of chicken carcases in front of the fire. I only had a moment to notice this, for the sergeant led me up half a dozen stone steps and into a very long curved room where five great guns were pointed at the ports in the right hand wall.

Some of the ports were covered with wooden shutters, and there was very poor light in the room—but enough for me to see six or seven men lying on straw mattresses laid on the floor beside the left hand or inner wall. There were a couple of buckets, and when I went closer to look I saw that they both contained vomit, which accounted for the foul smell in the place.

‘How long have they been ill?’ I asked.

‘Since last night, or rather since the early hours this morning,’ said the sergeant.

‘What did they eat or drink last evening?’

‘What we all had, the remains of the previous evening’s feast. We had had good foraging and found a dozen hens, ate half of them, and I think we’re having the rest tonight. But last night we just had the left-overs and some soup.’

‘The left-overs of the chickens you mean? Did you have them hot or cold?’

‘They were heated up again, but there were only a few scraps. Mostly we filled up with bread and soup.’

‘Nevertheless I suspect these men ate chicken scraps that had gone bad. I’ve come across this before, when chicken flesh has been kept, especially in hot weather such as we’ve been having, and then reheated for a second meal.’

‘What is to be done then?’

‘Let them drink plenty of water. See that it is from a good pure spring or well, and if you only have some that may be foul boil it before you give it to them. Add a little salt to the water, but not enough to spoil it. Let them starve until tomorrow, then give them a little gruel, until they can eat properly without being sick.’

He thanked me and relayed my instructions to the men in the kitchen.

‘You would do well to get your men to clean the kitchen thoroughly,’ I added, following him back down the steps and ignoring the black looks I got from the cooks. ‘And make sure all the water used in the kitchen and for your table is pure. Another thing which might help to prevent sickness is if your men keep themselves clean and free from lice, for I have noticed in the poor parts of town, where people are dirty and slovenly and eat poor food and live in squalor, there is more disease. I expect that is also true in a castle, where many men are crowded together, and it is hard for them to keep clean.’

By this time he was quite impressed by my abilities as an apothecary, and seemed to have forgotten that he had suspected me of being a spy. He led me back into the central hall and up more stone stairs that curved to the left. At the top he turned right, and led me through an oddly shaped room with a fireplace in one corner, and up a few more steps to the upper gun platform. This was open to the sky and had four more guns in place. From there we had a wonderful view over the bay. There were two or three fishing vessels in the distance, the long curve of Chesil Bank to our left, and opposite us, still very clear in the afternoon sunshine, Sandsfoot Castle.

‘You must stay with us overnight,’ said the sergeant, ‘and will, I hope, treat any other ills we have, and then if the Governor allows you may go on your way.’

We moved round the gun-platform, and I was able to look down into a corner of the castle yard— and had to keep a firm hold of myself or I would have cried out for joy. For there, drawn up against the wall and resting on their shafts, were two carts—and one of them was green with yellow wheels.

But at once my joy turned to disappointment, for how on earth would I be able to extract the treasure from its hiding place—assuming it had not already been found and removed—or, failing that, how could I make off with the cart? There were several oxen and some horses, stabled in a lean-to against the outer wall. But the garrison would never allow me to take their valued transport, even

though both carts had probably been stolen from honest citizens.

However, I had accomplished a great thing in tracking down the cart at last, and I refused to lose hope. After all, I had had amazing good fortune all day, and some lucky chance might yet enable me to get hold of the treasure. For example (I thought) a foraging party might go out with the cart, and I might accompany it. I had wild ideas of possibly plying the foragers with drink and then opening the hiding place while they were in a stupor.

But meanwhile I had to be patient. The sergeant took me back the way we had come, but at the top of the main stairs he knocked on a door ahead of us, and being commanded ‘Come!’ he led me into the Governor’s quarters. These were much more luxuriously furnished than the rest of the castle, with hangings on the walls and good furniture. This room was evidently over the central hall, and much the same shape, with a long partition wall on my right and several short straight bits of wall on the left following the curve of the outer wall. The Governor had been at prayer with his chaplain, but they broke off when we entered, and the sergeant introduced me.

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is an apothecary who has escaped from Dorchester, and who has been advising treatment for our sick men. His name is—’Fore God, sir, you told me your name but I have forgotten it.’

‘Judd, Micah Judd,’ I said, and to the Governor: ‘You, sir, I believe are Captain Arthur?’

‘I am sir,’ he replied, ‘Captain John Arthur, Governor of this Castle under Parliament. So, you have come from Dorchester? What is the state of that goodly town?’

‘Much divided,’ I told him, ‘our pastor, Mr White, was, as you may know, no rebel against the King, but believed in a godly commonwealth. There are those in Dorchester who would follow the King at all costs, and are rejoicing that the Cavaliers have taken the town. But others hold strongly to Parliament, and would gladly throw over the King if only they might be free, And of course there are those who stay in the middle, who would follow the King if only he would allow a free Parliament. I tell you frankly, sir, Dorchester is an unhappy town at present.

‘And of which group do you count yourself a member?’ he asked.

‘No question,’ I said, ‘I hold for Parliament.’ I did not add that I had lost a lot of my certainty after what had happened at Dorchester.

He then asked me about the Cavalier forces in Melcombe and Weymouth, how strong they were, and whether they were preparing to attack. I told him as much as I could about their numbers, but explained that I had only seen part of their army. As for an attack, I knew they were expecting to launch one, but when that would be I had no idea. He then, like the sergeant, wanted to know how I had managed to pass through the Cavalier lines, and why I had come to Portland, and I repeated my story,

that I had paid a fisherman to ferry me across the Chesil Bank well away from the Cavaliers and was seeking to practise my art wherever needed.

He thanked me for my information and told the sergeant to see that I was given food and shelter for the night, but added that I was not to leave the Castle without permission. This worried me, for I felt that he did not completely trust me, and that I was in effect a prisoner.

However, the sergeant continued to treat me well, and when he left me to go about his duties said he would arrange for me to join them at the evening meal and find a place for me to sleep. He did not forbid me to explore the Castle, so I took that as permission and began to explore the keep.

In truth there was not much more to explore. Beyond the Governor’s parlour there was (I was later told) his bedroom, though I did not see it. There were stairs up to the roof of the central part of the keep, where there were three more guns. Downstairs, off the central hall at the opposite end to the kitchen, was the armoury, from which one could go round to the lower gun-room again. So, having seen what I could of the keep, I went out into the yard.

There were soldiers all over the place, attending to horses and oxen, cleaning weapons and armour, practising sword-play, or just sitting enjoying the sunshine. However, they did not interfere with me, though one or two looked at me curiously. I think news of who I was, and how I had prescribed for the sick men, and been accepted by the Governor, had quickly spread among them.

‘Here, Apothecary,’ one called, ‘have you got a cure for a thick head of a morning?’

‘Don’t drink so much the night before,’ I retorted.

‘Hey, Apothecary, over here!’ cried another. ‘Sir, sir, a damn’ hoss stamped on me foot. Can you have a look?’

At least he had called me ‘sir’, and in addition he was standing by the cart, so I went to him. He kicked off his right boot and lifted his foot onto one of the wheel spokes. His toes were dirty, and the nail of the big toe had turned black. I pressed it gently.

‘Does that hurt?’ I asked.

‘It’s a bit tender.’

‘Does it feel hot, or throbbing?’

‘Not specially.’

‘Then I guess it’ll heal up in a few days, though the nail may drop off. Try not to knock it on things for a day or two, and keep out of the way of that horse!’

‘Aye, aye, thank’ee, sir,’ he touched his hat and moved off, giving me the opportunity to examine the cart in what I hoped would seem a casual way. There was the ‘P’ that Jacob Perrin had mentioned, roughly painted on the tail-board, and I could see the tree-nails or wooden pegs that he had described,

and was impressed by how cleverly the double floor was concealed. If I hadn’t been told it was there I would never have suspected it. But with so many soldiers around I did not dare to examine it very closely.

Soon the meal was ready, and I ate with the sergeant and his men, crowded into the big kitchen.

Captain Arthur ate in his own quarters, for which I was glad, for I did not like the man. We had heard of him even in Dorchester, of how he was hated on Portland for his high-handed actions. He had driven out their much-loved Rector, Doctor Humphrey Henchman, and destroyed the Vicar’s House in the centre of the Island and burnt the Rector’s library there. His men, too, had gone all over the Island pillaging as well as foraging. If the Cavaliers attacked him the Portlanders would rejoice.

After the chaplain had prayed at some length over the food we set to. I enjoyed the chicken, and hoped I would not be taken ill like the soldiers in the gunroom. However, as the meal had been freshly cooked I trusted it was wholesome.

‘Well, Apothecary, what do you think of our arrangements here?’ said the sergeant. ‘From what you’ve seen of the Cavaliers will they get a bloody nose if they attack?’

‘That’s for sure. They would be foolish to try. With all the cannon you’ve got here you could blast them to bits before they got within musket range.’

I said this without really knowing, not having experience of warfare. But the Castle did look extremely strong and well-armed, and I myself certainly would not have liked to have to attack it.

Anyway the soldiers seemed pleased with my opinion, and some of them banged their mugs on the table to applaud.

‘Let ’em come, say I, in the Lord’s name,’ said one. ‘I’ve lined up enough pieces on the landward side which, God willing, will blow ’em to hell before they know what’s hit ’em if they try to come up the causeway.’

‘Well said, master gunner,’ said the sergeant, ‘and if they try coming by sea we’ll sink ’em before they’re half way across the bay. But tell me, Mr Apothecary, how was it that Dorchester fell to the enemy so easily? We thought you would at least endure a siege.’

‘Alas, sir,’ I said, ‘we lacked soldiers. Sir Walter Erle had taken many of them to attack Corfe, and Sir William Waller commandeered most of the rest to reinforce his army.’

‘But I heard you Dorchester folk had made a great wall and ditch, impregnable it was said, which you townsmen yourselves could have defended against all comers.’

‘Indeed we had; I worked on them myself. But somehow our leading men lost heart. A lot of them abandoned us, including the Reverend Mr White, and those who were left behind lost the will to fight.’

‘That’s bad,’ said the sergeant, ‘and doesn’t say much for Dorchester’s vaunted religion.’

‘Apostates, backsliders, sons of perdition,’ agreed the gunner.

‘At least we here are in no danger of such weakness,’ said the chaplain. ‘Our spirits are good, we’ve plenty to eat —’ ‘—and drink,’ several soldiers said together.

‘—yes, and drink! There’s no danger of us losing heart at present, thank God.’ ‘Amen,’ said the sergeant, echoed by the gunner, who seemed to be the sort who would load his guns with prayer as well as round-shot and fire them in the name of the Lord.

‘But say,’ went on the sergeant, ‘tell us how you really managed to come through from Dorchester if the Cavaliers are in control of all that part? Were you not stopped and challenged on the way?’

I did not like this line of questioning. I had already told the him and the Governor how I crossed the Fleet, and it seemed to me that the sergeant was trying to catch me out in a lie. I feared that he, and possibly others there, did not trust me, and I saw the corporal gazing at me with his usual sneer playing round his thin lips.

‘It’s as I told you earlier,’ I said, ‘because of my profession I had no trouble to speak of. I rode from Dorchester to Weymouth with the regular tranter or carrier, and when I showed what I could do with salves and suchlike remedies I was well received, just as I have been with you. But, as I said before, the Cavaliers wouldn’t let me pass across to Portland Isle, so I was forced to go round out of their sight.’

‘So they knew you wanted to come here, yet they allowed you to hoodwink them!’ said the corporal. I felt that he was implying that I had actually come with their connivance as a spy. I thought, That man is dangerous; he wants to ruin me.

‘I didn’t make a fuss,’ I said, ‘for that would only have made them more determined to stop me.

Once they had refused me permission to cross by the ferry I didn’t argue, but turned back, and found a fisherman to bring me across privately. But you know all this—I explained it before.’

‘So what do you propose to do now you’re here?’ asked the corporal. His tone seemed to suggest that he would disbelieve whatever I said. I wished I knew the answer, for I was desperate to get back home as soon as I could, but how was I to manage it?

‘I shall go further onto the Island, and see who needs my services,’ I said. It occurred to me that I might find a boatman in Chesil village who could be persuaded to take me somewhere west of Weymouth, and put me ashore on the Chesil Bank. I could probably find a man from one of the little fishing villages, Fleet or even Langton Herring, to take me from the shingle bank to the mainland. But I would then probably have to walk the ten or more miles home to Dorchester.

The corporal seemed to sneer even more, but he said nothing, and the conversation turned to other

topics.

Afterwards I sat up with the sergeant, drinking and talking, and as he took more liquor the confidence he had expressed at supper seemed to drain away. He seemed to be one of those who grow gloomy over their drink, and he seemed rather depressed at the turn the war had taken, with the west country, which had seemed firmly in Parliament’s control, now largely taken over by the Royalists.

‘Though I suppose,’ he said, ‘things can yet turn around, and the whole country swing to Parliament again. We can hold out here as long as needs must. Furthermore,’ he added, taking another swig, ‘we can make it unsafe for those dam’ Cavaliers to ship supplies in through Weymouth, for our great guns can rake more than half the anchorage. We’ll be a thorn in their sides until Lord Essex or someone comes to relieve us.’

At last I went to bed in one of the smaller rooms, which was down the few stairs from the upper Gun Platform. Five others were in there with me, and for mattresses we lay on sacks stuffed with straw laid on the floor. I took some time to get to sleep although I was very tired. My mattress was lumpy and too small, and the straw was prickly. But the main trouble was my mind, which was churning with worried thoughts.

Now that I was so near the treasure the hopelessness of getting hold of it and successfully taking it from the Roundheads’ castle and through the Cavaliers’ lines seemed overwhelming. I was tormented by being tantalised like this, being so near and yet so far. At best I would get away safely myself, and perhaps carry out my plan of finding a boatmen to ferry me. But supposing the Governor refused to release me? Even if I convinced him I was not a spy he might want to keep me in the Castle to tend his sick soldiers. Unless I was free to walk out of the gate I would be virtually a prisoner.

I cursed my folly for putting myself in this position. I had been over-confident, and having found that my apothecary’s skill seemed a passport to go where I pleased I had over-reached myself and now I was to suffer for it.

Even if the Roundheads did let me go, the Cavaliers might catch me, and they would not be so easy with me as they had been before. They too would certainly be suspicious and might well suspect me of spying, and what excuse could I give for having visited Portland Castle? They would trust me even less if I said the Roundheads had released me, and would surely ask why, and if I told them I had escaped they would not believe me.

But if I was detained at the Castle, what would Agnes think? She would not know what had happened to me, and would be almost out of her mind with worry. What was I, a married man with a child, a man with a profession and work which ought not to be neglected, what was I doing chasing after other people’s treasures or carts? I had been stupid. I had given way to that wretched demon

which seems to live in me and demands to know secrets, to find out the hidden causes of things, to go where I ought not to, to investigate losses that are none of my business, to try to solve mysteries, and to discover the truth about crimes which do not concern me.

I thought: ‘I cannot afford to stay here another night. I must get back to Agnes and my shop tomorrow. I must give up this foolish search for the treasure. Even if it is right here in the courtyard as I suppose, I must abandon it. Somehow tomorrow I must be away, though how to get out of this Castle I have no idea. Also, if by some miracle I do escape and evade the Cavaliers, it will be a very hard grind to get home to Dorchester. If I have to walk all the way it will take me till nightfall.’ So my thoughts went round and round, and I tossed and turned, until at last I slept in spite of the wheezing and snoring of the others in the room.

I usually seem to wake when I need to without being called, so in spite of lack of good sleep I woke early, rose before the others and went down to the kitchen. I found a bucket of water and splashed some on my face. I then went to see the sick men in the gun room, and found that they were weak but no longer vomiting. I saw that they had clean water to drink, and wished that I was within reach of my shop, for there I had a powder of dried moneywort, good to take with warm water in such cases.

There were already soldiers about in the yard, but I went down there and looked about and considered what to do. It was maddening to be so near to the treasure and not to be able to take possession of it. I took deep breaths of good air, thankful to be away from the rather foul air inside the keep.

I could not attempt to leave the Castle until people started going to and fro on various errands. I was still undecided, wondering whether it would be best to try to slip out unobserved or to ask permission of the Governor. I came to the conclusion that it would be more sensible to seek permission, perhaps pretending that I would come back to see to the sick at the Castle when I had visited the Islanders. Meanwhile it would do no harm to have another look at the cart.

The soldiers were attending to the animals, cleaning their weapons or patrolling the outside walls.

They were all intent on their various tasks, and no longer took a special interest in me: to them I was just another inmate. It seemed to me that now was my opportunity. If I acted as if I had some legitimate business with the cart, and approached it quietly, with an assured air, perhaps no one would notice me particularly.

I took my bag and walked over to it. There were four wooden pegs which had to be pulled out before the floor could be lifted up. Could I pull them out and lift the floor, I wondered, put the treasure in my bag, and walk away without being stopped? It seemed unlikely, and I didn’t even know if the

treasure would fit into my bag. But at the very least I could make sure that the treasure really was there.

Supposing Perrin had after all deceived me about it? Or some soldier found it and made off with it?

I pulled at the head of one of the pegs, but it would not move. I tried twisting it and managed to turn it a little. I twisted it to and fro until I felt it was loose enough to pull out, then I left it in place and moved on to the next, which I loosened similarly. I moved round the tail of the cart and tried the peg on the other side. I was in the act of twisting it when I was seized from behind. I tried to turn, but my captor was bending my arm behind my back and I cried out in pain.

‘You dirty spy,’ said a harsh voice, ‘come quietly or I’ll break your arm.’ It was the voice of the burly corporal who had first detained me.

He made me walk in front of him into the keep with my arm still twisted behind my back, and by the footsteps behind me I gathered that he had been joined by another soldier, though I was prevented from turning to see. As we came out of the crooked passage into the central hall we met the sergeant.

‘Why, corporal,’ he exclaimed, ‘what have you got there?’

‘The spy, sarge,’ said the corporal’s harsh voice behind me. ‘I knew ’e was one when I stopped ’im yesterday, and when I heard his stories at supper. We’ve just caught ’im interfering with one of the carts.’ ‘’Fore God, did you now?’ said the sergeant. ‘What exactly was he doing?’

‘Trying to loosen bits of it,’ said the corporal. ‘I was watching ’im for some minutes. He was moving from one side to the other trying to loosen the bolts that hold it together.’

‘What the devil were you trying to do?’ the sergeant demanded of me.

‘Will you please listen to me, sergeant,’ I said. ‘I was not trying to damage any cart. I was wondering if it would be strong enough to carry wounded away from a battle, and trying to judge how many bodies of wounded could be carried in it.’

‘And what concern is that of yours?’

‘At the moment, none. But who knows what may happen? I am, as you well have seen, a healer, an apothecary, and who knows when I may be caught up in a battle here and need to practise my skill.’ It was a feeble excuse, I know, but it was all that I could think of at that moment.

‘He was interfering with cart, I saw ’im,’ repeated the corporal.

‘You will have to explain what you were doing to the Governor,’ decided the sergeant. ‘Tie his hands behind him, and bring him upstairs.’

The corporal held my wrists while his companion, a common soldier, found a piece of rope and tied my hands behind my back. They then made me walk up the stairs to the Governor’s quarters, the sergeant going in front. He knocked on the Governor’s door, and we filed in.

The Governor was sitting at his table, having just had his breakfast. He was unshaven, and did not look pleased to be disturbed.

‘What’s going on sergeant?’ he asked.

‘This man I brought to you yesterday, suspected of being a spy, has been caught this morning apparently trying to disable one of the carts. Corporal Heller here saw him.

‘What did you see him doing, corporal?’ asked the Governor. The corporal, in his harsh voice, repeated what he had told the sergeant, and I repeated my rather poor excuse.

‘But you know I’m a man simply concerned with healing,’ I added. ‘I’ve been tending your sick, and even this morning early, the first thing I did was to visit them and see how they are.’

‘To see how weak we are, more like,’ said the corporal.

‘It could be suspicious,’ agreed the Governor. ‘What exactly is your business on Portland?’

‘Sir,’ I answered, ‘I didn’t ask to come to your castle here. I was going on my peaceable way when I was stopped by some of your soldiers, including this corporal, and brought here against my will. That is not how a spy would behave. I am a healer, and need no other reason to be on Portland. I help the sick wherever I am needed.’

‘But you say you come from Dorchester. Why are you so far from home?’

‘Dorchester is not far, sir. I could walk there in a day, and it’s less than a couple of hours riding.

But Dorchester has been taken over by the enemies of Parliament, and is no safe place now for those of us of Puritan leanings. Besides, we country apothecaries are used to travelling further than your city practitioners, in places like London or Bristol. It is no great matter for me to travel this far.’ This was not strictly true, but not entirely false, for though I had never been this far to visit any sick before, wherever I went I made it my business to try to help any who needed my services.

‘Are there no apothecaries or physicians in Weymouth who could more easily come here?’ he asked.

‘No doubt there are,’ I said, ‘but they may have been prevented from coming by the Cavaliers.

And my success in avoiding the sentries may have been luck.’

‘Hum,’ he considered. ‘Your coming from Dorchester is in your favour, if indeed you support the godly party and Parliament. But as you yourself said yesterday, Dorchester is divided, and you may be of the other party for all I know. I shall have to keep you a prisoner until I discover more.’

Just then there were the sounds of galloping horses and hoarse shouts. The governor leapt up and looked out of a window.

‘What is it?’ he called.

‘It’s Mr Bragge, sir, with a party of our troopers come as reinforcements,’ came an answering

shout. ‘They’re being pursued, he says, having broken through the Cavaliers. He’s desperate to be let in.’

‘Let ’em in then, if they’re being pursued,’ the Governor answered. ‘I’ll come down.’ As he ran from the room he ordered the sergeant, ‘Put that man in hold till I come back. I’ll deal with him later.

‘Lock him up, corporal,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’d better go and see what’s happening.’ He too ran off and down the stairs.

CHAPTER 9 NAT THERE WAS MORE shouting outside, and the corporal wanted to see what was happening, so he dragged me into the alcove where the window overlooked the main gate so that he could keep hold of me while he had a look. I could hear the portcullis being raised and the creak as the great doors were opened, and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the yard. Next moment the shouts turned to yells, bellows even—there were some clashes of swords and a pistol shot, then more horse-hooves galloping and entering the castle.

‘By God!’ the corporal exclaimed, ‘Lord help us, we’ve been betrayed!’

He turned from the window in a fury and shook me violently.

‘What had you to do with this?’ he shouted furiously. He shook me again then stepped back and drew his dagger, and I felt my life at that moment was not worth a pin. Even if he was about to die at the hands of the enemy he would kill me first.

‘Behind you!’ I shouted, and as he glanced round I kicked him hard in the groin. He staggered back against the wall and I turned to run. But the other soldier was still there barring the door. I dashed behind the Governor’s table desperately trying to free my wrists, but they were too well tied. Then the corporal recovered and with a bellow of rage came towards me with his dagger. Feet were pounding up the stairs and as the corporal lunged at me I rolled under the table.

‘Stand where you are! Drop your weapons!’ someone shouted. Soldiers were crowding into the room and I heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. Then the corporal’s dagger clattered to the floor.

‘Take ’em down to the yard with the rest,’ someone ordered, and the corporal and (I suppose) the soldier from by the door were marched away.

‘What have we here?’ said the voice, and I saw a face looking at me under the table. ‘Come out, we won’t hurt you.’

‘Thank God you came when you did,’ I said as I rolled out and clambered to my feet. ‘These Roundheads made me a prisoner, and I would have been killed if you hadn’t come. Could you free me, please?’

I turned to show my bound wrists, and the soldier—a sergeant —picked up the corporal’s dagger and cut the rope. As I rubbed my sore wrists where the rope had been too tight he ordered his men to search for any more Roundheads who might be lurking in other parts of the Castle. They moved off through the door which led to the Governor’s bedroom, and beyond to the upper gun platform.

I began to thank the sergeant, but he interrupted.

‘You don’t look like a soldier. Who are you? Which side are you on?’

‘I’m an apothecary’—How many times had I had to say that in the last few hours!—‘The Roundheads captured me and said I was a spy. It isn’t true, but I tell you I would have died if you hadn’t come.’

‘I can’t stop now,’ he said. ‘The captain will have to decide what to do with you.’ He ran to follow his men through the door to the Governor’s bedroom, leaving me standing alone.

You may be sure I didn’t wait long. I ran through the other door and down the stairs. I thought it might be possible for me to escape while there was still a lot of confusion.

There were soldiers hurrying to and fro in the central hall, and I was just in time to see the tail end of a line of the sick men from the lower gun-room being hustled out towards the courtyard. No one stopped me, so I followed them, and when I came out into the yard I was astonished at the sight.

The whole place seemed full of men and horses. The Roundhead garrison, including the Governor, were being assembled against one wall, and the sick men were at that moment being shepherded across to join them. They were allowed to sit on the ground while some of the Cavaliers stood guard over them. Most of the rest of the newcomers were milling around, slapping each other on the back and laughing as if they were drunk. Some pushed past me into the keep, and soon appeared leaning over the battlements and calling to their friends below.

I could see that the gates had been closed again, so I would not be able just to slip out as I had hoped. So I thought then of my apothecary’s bag, which I had left in the cart when I was seized, and began to elbow my way towards it in the hope that it was still there. I had almost reached it when I was grabbed from both sides by a couple of soldiers.

‘Over here with the rest, you!’ one shouted in my ear, and they began to drag me through the crowd toward the other prisoners. But then above the din I heard a shout behind me: ‘Hey, you, apothecary, what are you doing here?’

My captors allowed me to turn enough to see the speaker, a captain in breastplate and helmet. For a moment I did not recognise him in his armour.

‘Did you use the pass I gave you?’ he asked, and then I realised—it was Captain Masters.

I shook the soldiers off and grasped his hand.

‘It was fine amongst your people,’ I said, ‘but then I was captured by the Roundheads, and nearly killed as a spy. Your men freed me in the nick of time, though these two seem to want me to be a prisoner again.’

‘You can let him be,’ he told them. ‘But what brings you here? You were looking for something, I seem to remember. A cart, wasn’t it? Did you find it?’

‘It’s right here,’ I said, wondering whether I was being unwise to tell him so much. But he had

seemed ready to help before, so I hoped he might still do so.

Another soldier pushed through the throng and spoke to the Captain, who turned back to me and said, ‘We need your services again, apothecary. One of my men has hurt himself.’

I elbowed my way to the cart to pick up my bag, which to my relief had lain there undisturbed where I had left it, and followed the Captain through the crowd to the keep. We went across the hall to the kitchen, where lying on the floor was a soldier. He was groaning with pain while some of his friends stood around rather helplessly.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘He was coming through the door and didn’t notice the stairs,’ said one. ‘He tripped and fell over that scuttle.’

‘It’s my leg,’ said the hurt one. ‘I think it’s broken.’

I knelt beside him and gently felt his left leg, and he gave a cry of pain. It was soon clear to me that he had broken his shin bone.

‘I need a splint and some bandages,’ I said. ‘Find me a sheet, or maybe a shirt would do.’

Fortunately there was a load of wood there for the kitchen fire, from which I was able to find two pieces suitable for use as splints, and one of the soldiers found a sheet from which I tore strips to bind the leg. I was half way through doing so when I saw the rag still round the hurt one’s hand and realised who it was—none other than Dickon, whom I had bandaged in Melcombe the previous day.

‘You seem to get hurt rather often,’ I said. He only groaned but one of his mates said, ‘You’re right there, sir. Dickon could cut himself on a feather bed.’

‘Well, that will keep his leg in place for the moment,’ I said, standing up, ‘but he ought to be in the care of a surgeon. Is the one I saw at Sandsfoot with you?’

‘No,’ said the Captain, ‘we have no surgeon with us. Perhaps we had better send Dickon back to Weymouth.’

‘If you have a cart I could take him,’ I said.

‘A good idea,’ said the Captain, and I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye. ‘That green one out there, would it do?’

‘The one with yellow wheels?’ I said. ‘Excellent!’

Some of the soldiers lifted Dickon onto a blanket and carried him through the hall and along the crooked passage to the yard. The Captain went ahead to clear the way, and they laid Dickon carefully in the cart. The Roundhead prisoners had disappeared.

‘Bluett, you go along with him to Weymouth and deliver him to the surgeon,’ the Captain ordered one of his men. ‘Fetch a horse from the stable there, and take Mr Apothecary along with you.’

Soon one of the horses was harnessed and backed between the shafts. I climbed aboard with my bag, and the driver, Bluett, climbed up beside me and took the reins. The other soldiers drew back to let us pass, the gates were opened, and we were away.

We had not gone far before we overtook a melancholy procession of prisoners walking towards the ferry— Captain Arthur the Governor, the Sergeant, Corporal Heller who had tried to kill me, the sick men stumbling along and the rest of the Roundhead garrison. They stood at the side of the road to let us pass, and I heard someone—the harsh-voiced Corporal Heller, I think—call out, ‘Bloody cursed spy!’ and one of the guards told him to shut his mouth.

But we soon left them behind, though I made the driver go more gently than he wanted. He seemed to have little sympathy for the hurt man behind us groaning at every jolt.

‘Dickon’s always getting himself hurt,’ he told me, ‘especially when there are dangerous duties to be done.’

‘That’s a lie, Nat, an’ you know it,’ cried Dickon. ‘Who’d want to break a leg to get out of guard duty?’

‘You, seem so,’ retorted Nat. ‘So your name is Nat Bluett?’ I said trying to keep the peace. ‘’s right,’ he said, ‘Nathaniel Bluett at your service, Nat to my mates.’

I asked him where his home was, and he told me it was not all that far away, in fact on the eastern side of Dorsetshire.

‘It’s a village not far from Poole,’ he said, ‘Corfe Mullen—nice little place. I’ll settle down there when all these wars are over.’

‘What family have you got?’ I asked.

‘An old mother. She didn’t want me to join the army, but I wanted to go and see the world. And she’s got my brothers and sisters at home, so she’s being looked after all right.’

We then talked about the capture of the Castle, and I asked him how it had come about.

‘Captain told us it was all the idea of a man called Bragge, Mr Richard Bragge, I think he is. He’s a gentleman, not a soldier, but it seems he knew the Castle Governor or some of the garrison. Anyway, they thought he was on their side, though he’s really on ours, and he had this scheme for capturing the place. Captain called us out and told us we were going to pretend to be Roundheads, so we mustn’t have anything about us that would give the game away, and show who we really were. We took some of the Roundhead colours we’d captured in Weymouth and set off across the water at low tide, about sixty of us there were. Then another lot formed up behind. We set off at a gallop and came up to the gate all in a panic as it were. It must have been quite a sight to see, with us rushing along waving our

swords and shouting. Did you see us, sir?’

‘I’m sorry. Nat, but I didn’t. I was a prisoner accused of being a spy, so you came along just at the right moment, otherwise I’d probably be dead.’

‘That was lucky then. At all events, it was good to have a bit of action, instead of just hanging around and doing fatigues. So we came roaring up to the gate, with the other lot shouting and chasing us about half a mile behind. We called out to the sentries that we were reinforcements for the garrison, but were being chased by the Cavaliers, and (knowing Mr Bragge as they did) they believed us and opened up. Once inside we overpowered the guards and got into the keep, and then let the others, who had been pretending to chase us, come in too. It was really too easy!’

‘It was very neatly done,’ I said, ‘and with nobody hurt it was a marvellous victory.’

‘I was hurt,’ came Dickon’s voice from behind.

‘Yeah, but that was your own fault for not looking where you were sticking your big clumsy feet,’ said Nat. We reached the ferry, and called out several times until at last the ferryman came out of a hut on the far side and hauled the ferry across. It was quite tricky to get the horse and cart aboard, but Nat led the horse and I came behind to see that the cart wheels went where they should. Just as we were about to push off a horseman came galloping along from Portland, leapt off his horse and led it aboard. He was a junior officer, a Cornet, carrying news of the success of the assault to Prince Maurice, and so full of excitement that he told us all about his mission while we crossed the Fleet.

Getting off onto firm ground at the far side was easier. Nat took us past the sentries without trouble, and while the Cornet cantered ahead we jolted more slowly along the rough track on the shore, with Dickon groaning more than ever in the back.

‘What will you do when we’ve left Dickon with the surgeon,’ I asked Nat. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’m meant to take the cart back to Portland.’

‘Not so,’ I said, ‘I’m to take it on to Dorchester.’

‘I hadn’t heard that,’ he objected. ‘I’ll have to ask an officer.’

‘Your home isn’t all that far away,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you take the chance of going to see your old mother and the rest of your family? It must be quite a time since you’ve seen them, and I’m sure they would love to see you.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing them again. But I don’t know how I’d get there, and I don’t want to be hanged as a deserter.’

‘It wouldn’t take you long to walk,’ I said, ‘especially if you came part of the way with me. And you wouldn’t be a deserter, just visiting your mother for a day or two and then coming back. Provided

you kept away from where the soldiers are you would have no trouble.’

I could see he was tempted by the idea, and so I went on: ‘I’ll tell you what, you come with me half way to Dorchester, and if we meet any soldiers on the way we’ll vouch for each other. Then at the Ridgeway at the top of the hill you can bear off to the right, that’s eastwards and on the way to your home. That way you’ll avoid the garrisons both at Melcombe and Dorchester, and if you bear north of Wareham across the heath-land you’ll be safe enough and be home by tomorrow night. In fact you won’t have to walk more than twenty miles, I should think. You might manage to beg a lift with a carter or farmer for part of the way, and be home even sooner.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, and put his finger to his lips and jerked his head in the direction of Dickon. But we had been speaking quietly and he had been groaning loudly, so I don’t think he had overheard. However, it was clear that Nat did not want him to know that we had been discussing possible desertion, which encouraged me, for it made me think that Nat was seriously considering my suggestion. I hoped he would come with me part of the way for two reasons: I thought his presence would be some protection if other soldiers asked our business or tried to requisition the cart, and also I wanted to question him further about Sergeant Barnby.

We climbed the steep little hill from the beach and reached the camp around Sandsfoot Castle. The Cornet’s news had spread rapidly, and soldiers came running up to us to hear more—exactly what had happened, who was hurt, and anything else we could tell them. Nat gave them an account much as he had to me, and there was much laughter as he described the astonishment of the guards as they were suddenly overpowered. I asked to be directed to the surgeon, and found his tent still in the same place at the end of a line. I got down, leaving Nat to hold the horse, and stuck my head through the tent door.

There was the surgeon lying on his back as before, though this time he was reading a book.

‘Ha, the apothecary!’ he said when he saw me. ‘I thought we had lost you. Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘Yes, and a wounded soldier. Perhaps you could have a look at him.’

He scrambled to his feet and came over to the cart.

‘What have we here?’ he said. ‘A broken leg? Did you bind this up? Good, good. I expect it will do.’

‘All the same you had better have a look at it,’ I said. ‘I had to make do with what was available, and may not have lined up the bones right. And anyway the poor chap has been so tossed about in the cart that his leg will probably need to be re-set.’

‘Come along with me then,’ he said, and led the way to a cottage which the army had taken over, and we lifted Dickon and laid him on a mattress on the floor. I left the surgeon attending to him and got

back on the cart and took up the reins.

‘Are you coming with me?’ I asked Nat, who was holding the horse’s head, ‘or are you going back to Portland?’

‘I’ll come with you for a bit,’ he said, ‘but we need a bite to eat first.’ And indeed I was feeling hungry, not having eaten since the previous evening. So Nat guided us to where a field kitchen had been set up. While he joined a line of soldiers who were about to be fed I found a trooper corporal who showed me where I could get food and water for the horse. After I had attended to his needs I hitched the reins to a post, and managed to get some food for myself—a slab of coarse bread and a ladle of stew, which I was able to have in a bowl I borrowed from a soldier who had just finished his meal.

I kept a wary eye on the horse and cart, and was worried all the time we were with the soldiers that some officer or sergeant might come and requisition it again for army service. Indeed, I had just finished my stew and returned the bowl to the soldier with my thanks, when I saw a sergeant stop by the cart as if he was considering using it. I stepped over to him at once.

‘This cart has already been taken,’ I said. ‘It’s ordered down to the town right away.’ I did not of course tell him that the order came from me.

‘Damnation!’ he said crossly, ‘well, when it comes back I shall have a job for it.’

I called Nat, and we were soon clattering down into Weymouth. There we had to cross the River Wey by the drawbridge. Another lot of soldiers were manning the guard-post where I had first met Dickon, but Nat showed his usefulness by getting us through without trouble.

‘All right, mates,’ he called, ‘picking up supplies for the camp—be back soon,’ and they waved us past.

We went through Melcombe, and turned away from the sea on the Dorchester road. Nat might have tried heading directly for his home by the track along the beach and on through Osmington, but I suspect he did not know his way about as well as I did, and I was not going to tell him, for I wanted him to come further with me. In truth on that road he might have been stopped by sentries on the outskirts of the town, or caught by a patrol and punished as a deserter, so I was not doing him a disservice, for if he came with me to the Ridgeway he would probably be safer. In any case, I don’t think he had quite made up his mind what to do.

I thought we might be stopped on the edge of the town on the Dorchester road, but together we were more likely to get through safely, for I could provide an excuse for us to be leaving, while Nat would be the guarantee that we would come back.

And that is roughly what happened. We reached the guard-post a little to the north of the town, and a soldier stepped into the road to stop us.

‘We’re going to get supplies,’ said Nat. ‘I’m taking the doctor to fetch medicines.’

‘Where’s your pass?’ demanded the soldier.

I still had Captain Masters’ unofficial pass in my pocket, now somewhat scrumpled. I pulled it out and waved it in front of the soldier, who probably couldn’t read anyway.

‘We didn’t have time to get a proper pass,’ I said, ‘but Captain Masters wrote this out for me.’

Nat backed me up by saying, ‘I’m in charge of ‘im, Johnny boy, so don’t you worry.’

‘Who are you, calling me Johnny boy?’ said the soldier.

‘Nat Bluett, don’t you remember me? ’Twas the night Sergeant Barnby got himself drowned.’

‘Oh, the Blue Anchor, yeah, yeah, all right, see you then,’—and he let us pass.

‘Lucky I remembered ’im,’ said Nat, ‘but I’m surprised he remembered anything about that night, ’cause he was as drunk as a newt.’

‘That Sergeant Barnby,’ I said, ‘you were in his troop all along, weren’t you?’

‘That’s right, from the time I joined up. He wasn’t a bad sort really, but a bit mean.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, if he had a bit o’ luck he wouldn’t share it, not like some sergeants might, kept it to himself.

In fact when we divided up his stuff after he was drownded I was surprised he hadn’t got more.’

‘Yes, it is very surprising,’ I said, ‘specially as I happen to know he got a good haul in Dorchester before he left.’

‘Yeah, Dickon told me he saw the sergeant pick a bag o’ something there from under a bed. Gold, Dickon thought. But what he can have done with it I can’t imagine. He must ha’ lost it I reckon,’ said Nat. ‘Did you stop anywhere on the way where he could have left it? Did he visit any house or have a private talk with a stranger, or anything like that?’

‘Not that I know of. He was with us all the time. But if he did have a bit o’ luck in Dorchester it would explain why he seemed more cheerful than usual as we marched out. I heard him humming to himself, which I never heard before. But then, if he’d lost whatever it was, would he ha’ been happy? I dunno.’

‘So you marched out from Dorchester and bivouacked in a field, I think I heard?’

‘That’s right, in the shelter of a big stone wall. I can show you the very place when we get there.

It’s just beyond the top o’ the hill.’

‘Could your sergeant have hidden anything in the field do you think?’

‘I don’t see how. There was nowhere he could have hidden anything, and as I said, we were with him.’

This was puzzling. The sergeant had certainly had Mr Whittle’s money in Dorchester, and almost certainly still had it when he left, yet he had apparently not got it when he drowned at Weymouth next day. So either he had managed to hide it in Melcombe or Weymouth, which seemed unlikely, seeing that he was a stranger arriving in towns he did not know, or he had managed to leave it somewhere on the way, no doubt hoping to recover it at a later date. But the only place he had stopped was this field at the top of the hill, so that seemed worth examining.

It was mid afternoon when we reached the hill, and got off the cart to ease the load for the horse pulling it up the steep road. At the top we got back on, and after a few more yards came to the Ridgeway which stretched away at each side of our road.

‘There’s the wall,’ said Nat pointing to the left, ‘we were just in the lee of it.’

There were in fact two walls, one on each side of the Ridgeway at this point. Nat was pointing at the one on the north (or Dorchester) side, which separated the Ridgeway from the wide expanse of grassland that stretched far away down a gentle slope and over a distant rise. Somewhere beyond there down in the valley was the village of Monkton, and further still I could just make out some of the buildings in Dorchester. But as I looked around my heart sank a little, for though I did not really expect to find Mr Whittle’s treasure, it would have been good to try, but now I saw how hopeless it would be.

Beside the road there were also two or three thickets mainly of low thorn bushes, with a few other stunted trees, which might have provided the Sergeant with a hiding place, though one of the walls seemed more likely. But if he had hidden it in a wall, he had probably put it behind one of the stones, and only he would have been able to find it again.

We had stopped the cart while we looked, but now I said, ‘Well, Nat, this is where we must part, unless you want to come all the way to Dorchester with me.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I will go home for a day or two, and I’ll ride the horse—you can keep the cart.’

‘How will I get home then?’ I asked.

‘You can walk,’ he laughed. ‘It’s not so far for you as it is for me.’

‘Oh no,’ I protested, ‘our agreement was that I would bring you to the Ridgeway here, so that you could then go safely on your way. If you follow the Ridgeway till you reach the highroad you can’t go wrong, and I’ll give you enough for your night’s lodging. Or you can change your mind and go back to Weymouth.’

‘I’m riding,’ he swore, and drew a knife from his belt.

I lurched away from him and slid to the ground, and ran to hold the horse. Nat got down more slowly and came along on the other side. He held the knife with his teeth while he tried to unbuckle the

harness, and I gave the horse a slap on its rump. The cart jerked forward, knocking Nat sideways so that he fell to the ground and was almost run over, and the knife flew from his mouth. Before he could pick it up I dashed past the tail of the cart and threw myself on him. We struggled in the dust, while the cart trundled on down the hill towards Dorchester.

Nat was stronger than I, but I was more agile, so it was a fairly equal contest. Yet his superior strength was winning, but as he almost succeeded in turning me onto my back under him I managed to roll clear, and leaping to my feet kicked the knife into the long grass and began to run after the cart.

I could hear Nat pounding along after me, but did not dare to look back. And here my ability to run fast saved me, for I overtook the cart, grabbed the tailboard and hauled myself over it. Then, grabbing the reins which lay loose in the bottom, I urged the horse onward. But Nat was gaining on us, so I shook the reins and shouted at the horse, and at last he began to gallop. The cart creaked and bounced about on the rough chalk road, and I let the reins go slack and held on desperately trying not to be thrown out. But when I glanced back I saw that Nat had given up the race, and was standing shaking his fist at me.

Silly man, I thought, I would have given him the price of a night’s lodging, but now he’ll have to sleep under a hedge, unless he walks back to join his troop. If he did decide to make for his home at Corfe Mullen, I had no doubt that he would be able to beg a crust here and there, and these August nights were mild if he had to sleep in the open.

CHAPTER 10 TWO TREASURES AS I DREW near to Dorchester I looked at my clothes and saw that they were muddy and torn— my new doublet was quite ruined. But there was nothing I could do about that until I reached home.

The soldier guarding South Gate demanded to know my business, but when I told him where I lived in the town, and he saw that the cart looked empty, he let me through. I was soon driving up the narrow alley to the rear of my property, where the pair of high wooden gates opened onto my yard.

With difficulty I managed to manoeuvre the horse and cart into the yard, shut the gates, and ran in to see Agnes and the baby, and next moment we were in each other’s arms.

But then she pushed me away and spoke quite angrily: ‘Oh Micah, I’ve been so worried about you. I was afraid you were in danger and trouble!’

‘But why? I did warn you I might be away for a night. And here I am, alive and well.’

‘But that’s nonsense. Look at the state you’re in! You’ve been in a fight, your face is covered in mud, your new doublet is torn, and what’s that on your shirt?’

‘Blood probably, but it’s not all mine, I hope. Yes, I did have a fight, but I’ve come back safe and sound, so you’ve no need to worry.’

‘But I do worry. What would I do if you didn’t come back? What would become of Mark and me if you were killed?’

‘I love you, my darling. But a man can’t hide away, certainly not in these troubled times. I don’t intend to be killed, and will do my best not to be. But do remember that in my work I meet death every week in some form or other. I’m as likely to die of fever or the plague as from fighting.’

‘There! you’re making it worse,’ she cried. ‘Why can’t you stay home and be sensible? Look at your clothes and your face!’

Then I did look at myself in a glass and was shocked by what I saw. My clothes were in a worse state than I had thought, and most would have to be thrown away. And with the blood and mud on my face I looked like a desperado.

‘My dear,’ I said, ‘I must see to the horse that brought me home and then I’ll clean myself up and come and tell you all about my adventures. Please don’t let’s quarrel now I’m home. I can tell you, I’m mightily relieved to be here, and I love you dearly.’

I went out to the yard to unharness the horse, and led him into the stable. I gave him some water and, when I had washed my face, went to a neighbour down the lane to beg some hay and oats. Then I went indoors to wash more thoroughly and put on clean clothes. Only then was I able to sit down to a meal with Agnes and tell her what I had seen and done.

I felt I must not tell her all my adventures, for she would worry too much, but I told her what I could, and made light of the dangers I had been through. I described the lazy surgeon who seemed to spend his time lying on his back in his tent, and poor Dickon and his mishaps, and how the Cavaliers had so surprised the Portland Roundheads—so that we spent the evening laughing a great deal, though I was afraid she was still inclined to be angry with me for taking unnecessary risks.

Finally I said, ‘My darling, you took me for better or worse, and as you cannot change me you will have to put up with me. I shall always try not to cause you anxiety, but I can’t promise anything. All I can say is that so far I’ve been lucky, and have managed to come out of tricky situations unhurt. Or at least not badly hurt,’ I added, for by now I was feeling stiff and bruised in various places.

I had intended to examine the cart that evening, but after I had eaten and sat talking with Agnes for some time, I found I was so tired that I had to go straight to bed, and was soon in a deep sleep.

Next morning I felt refreshed, put on clean (but old) clothes, and went early to see to the horse. I was sorely tempted to keep him, for he was a strong grey with a good nature, and would, I knew, be very useful to me in my work. But he was not mine, and ought to go to Mr Perrin to replace the one he had lost, though I suspected this was a better animal than the one the soldiers stole.

I then turned to the cart, and felt a pang of anxiety: suppose, after all my efforts and dangers, the treasure was not there! Quickly I wrenched out the wooden pegs and moved to the tail-end of the cart to raise the floor. And there to my relief, packed in rough sacking to prevent it rolling about, was a bag tied with a cord. I loosened this and looked inside: there were a lot of coins of gold and silver, two or three pearl necklaces, a silver gilt cup and dish, and some other pieces of jewellery, all carefully packed in with paper. Lawrence Huatt was a richer man than I had thought!

I packed the things carefully again and retied the bag and took it with its treasures into the house.

Then I fixed the floor of the cart back in place and drove in the pegs to hold it. I did not want Lawrence to be left a moment longer without knowing his good fortune, so after breakfast I took the bag down to his house.

‘Why, Micah,’ he said, ‘I thought you were away.’

‘I was, and on the track of your treasure,’ I said, ‘see what I’ve found,’ and handed him the bag.

For a moment he was speechless. He took it as if he was dazed, staggered to a chair and sat down. He wiped his forehead and stared at the bag and then at me. At last he found his voice.

‘My dear days, my good Lord, I mean,’ he said, ‘however did you do it, Micah? I asked you to find it, I know, but I never really thought you would or could. Wherever was it? Had it really been taken by soldiers, or did Perrin have it all along?’

‘Oh yes, soldiers had taken it,’ I said, ‘Mr Perrin told me the truth in the end. I followed it all the

way to Portland, and have brought it all the way back.’

‘How was that?’ he asked. ‘Hadn’t they undone the bag?’

‘No, it was in Mr Perrin’s cart, so when they stole that they took the treasure too.’

‘But how could they take the cart without seeing what was in it?’

‘You’ll have to ask Mr Perrin to explain that to you,” I said, for I remembered that Perrin was reluctant to tell Mr Huatt the secret of his cart. They would have to sort out that between them. ‘Suffice to say,’ I went on, ‘by some amazing chances and good luck I was able to find where the cart had been taken, and by more good luck I brought it and your treasure back again.’

I then told him some of the story, and how I was there when Portland Castle was captured. He kept exclaiming ‘My dear days!’ and ‘Micah, lad, you might have been killed!’ and ‘I never meant you to go into danger like that!’ and ‘Thank the Lord He has brought you back in safety!’ At last he said, ‘I promised to reward you, and that is what I’m going to do. A third of this is yours.’

‘No, Lawrence, no,’ I said, ‘that’s too much, for you would have done the same for me, I know.’

But he insisted, and at last, when I thought of what it would mean to Agnes and me, I accepted, and came away a much richer man than I had ever been before.

I hid what he had given me under the stone in my yard, and then had to attend to my neglected business. It was not until mid afternoon that I was able to think about returning the cart to Mr Perrin.

But at last I closed the shop and harnessed the horse. Again I had difficulty in turning the cart and getting it into the alley, but eventually we set off and had a quiet journey to Monkton. Jacob Perrin was astonished to see me, and all his former churlishness vanished.

‘Mr Judd, sir, however did you get this back? I thought so’jers never let go of what they take,’ he said, shaking my hand until it seemed about to drop off. ‘But this is not my hoss. What’s happened to my old nag?’

I explained to him that the horse had just been picked at random to pull the cart. ‘And if he’s better than the one you lost, that’s your gain. But,’ I added, ‘if I were you I’d paint the cart in different colours. It’s just possible that the soldiers might come looking for it, or recognise it when you’re out somewhere, and take it from you again. But if it’s some drab colour they may not notice it.’

He agreed that this was a good idea, and then asked, ‘Huatt’s treasure—is it still in there?’

‘No, I returned it to him this morning. I know it caused a breach between you, and that he wrongfully suspected you, but he is sorry about that—and he’s so overjoyed to have it back that I’m sure he would be glad to see you.’

Mr Perrin gave me a very straight look and said nothing for a bit. At last he said, ‘Well, maybe we’ll have to let bygones be bygones. But he can hide his treasures hisself another time.’

He then took me by the arm and led me into his tumbledown cottage. A mongrel dog set up a loud barking as I went in, till his master shouted at him and he slunk into the corner, thumping the floor with his tail.

With an exaggerated air of secrecy Mr Perrin fumbled inside the chimney and drew out a sooty handful of gold coins.

‘That’s for bringing the cart back and for the hoss,’ he said. ‘Wait here, sir.’ He climbed a rickety stair and I heard numerous bumping noises above, as if he was pulling the house apart. Then he came down clutching a bottle. ‘An’ that’s for giving Huatt back his goods. ’Tis French brandy, good stuff.’

He thrust the bottle into my hand, then asked, ‘How are ye getting home?’

‘I wondered whether you would take me,’ I said, for I still felt rather stiff and bruised after my struggle with Nat. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll try out this here hoss.’

We climbed onto the cart and set off, and he dropped me at the top of Durn Lane.

‘Do go to see Mr Huatt,’ I said, ‘he’ll be right pleased if you do.’

He gave a sort of grunt and drove on with a wave, but I heard afterwards from Lawrence that he did pay a visit; and although they would never be particular friends, at least they were on speaking terms again. But apparently Perrin never did tell his brother-in-law exactly where the treasure had been hidden, so neither did I. What I did do as soon as I could was to go to see Tom Hartley to ask him to make me new clothes to replace those that had been spoiled. To avoid having to answer his questions I made out that I had liked the first ones so much that I wanted more for best.

It was now time for me to turn to the question of what was to be done about Mr Dashwood and his wife’s jewellery, and this was a duty I did not relish. I now regretted getting involved in the affair and promising the lady that I would negotiate with her husband without telling him the truth of what she had done. I was afraid that I would land myself in worse trouble, and possibly stir up more strife between the two of them.

I put it off until the following day, but when it was evening I screwed up my courage and went round to the Dashwoods’ house. I was kept waiting in the hall for a few minutes, and then the old manservant took me up to the drawing room, where Mr Dashwood and his wife were sitting. She turned pale when she saw me, but I bowed to her with a smile, and said, ‘I am glad, madam, to see that you have made such a good recovery.’

‘What is your business?’ Mr Dashwood asked in an impatient tone, ‘We have no need of your

services, I think.’

‘I have not come in my professional capacity, sir, but about that other matter, the one we talked about, and for which you asked me to keep my eyes open,’ I said. ‘I have had some success in that, and I need to confer with you in private.’

‘Go upstairs, madam,’ he said to his wife, and without a word she gathered up her embroidery, gave me an anxious glance, and stole from the room.

‘Now, sir,’ he said, ‘have you found the thief?’

‘Not exactly, sir,’ I replied, ‘but I believe I may be able arrange for you to recover the jewels. I am in a very delicate position, sir, for on the one hand, if I treat with the thieves, though through an intermediary you understand, I could be in danger of being prosecuted for compounding a felony, if you decided to denounce me to the magistrates. But on the other hand, if I don’t treat with the thieves you won’t get the jewels back. And in either case you won’t catch the thieves.’

‘But I want to catch the thieves,’ he cried, his voice and colour rising. ‘I want to see them strung up, and if they were helped by someone in my household I want to know who it is.’

‘Have you inquired among your servants?’

‘Of course I have, what do you take me for? The lazy good-for-nothings—they cover up for each other. They pretend not to have heard or seen or noticed anything.’

‘Well, what do you want me to do?’ I asked. ‘Shall I try to negotiate for the return of your jewels, or shall I let them go, and you can call upon the constables to do what they can to catch the thieves.’

‘The constables!’ roared Mr Dashwood, ‘they couldn’t catch a thief if he had “ROBBER” branded on his forehead and he sat down in front of them! No, sir, hateful as it is to bargain with thieves, at least by doing so I may make good some of my losses. So if you can do what you say I am willing to try it.’

‘You will have to pay to get the jewels back, but nothing like their true value. I suspect the thieves will be glad to see them off their hands for what they can get.’

‘How much will they want, do you suppose?’ he asked.

‘I shall have to find out, but I will also need to know roughly how much you would be prepared to pay. As I say, I expect the thieves will not be unreasonable in their demands.’

We talked about the possibilities and agreed a sum.

‘I will try to arrange things for less,’ I assured him, ‘but please remember that I cannot guarantee the outcome. I will try to let you know how far I have succeeded—or not as the case may be—within the next few days.’

He rang the bell, and the manservant led me down the stairs and showed me out. I determined to leave him to wait for several days before I contacted him again. As far as I was concerned there was no

hurry, but for Denis’s sake I did not want the affair to drag on too long.

Denis’s prospects of marrying Elizabeth Whittle still seemed unfavourable, for Nathan Whittle still hoped to find a rich gentleman’s son for his daughter if he could somehow scrape together enough money for a dowry. He may even have dreamt of getting the Dashwoods to change their minds, for he could not really imagine someone finally rejecting his beautiful daughter! He came to my shop in the vain hope that I had found out where his stolen money was.

‘I heard you had been away,’ he said, sitting on my stool and leaning on the counter, ‘in fact someone saw you the other day going off with the tranter on the Weymouth road.’

‘I did,’ I agreed. ‘Can’t one go anywhere in this town without somebody seeing and telling everyone else about it?’

‘And did you find anything?’

‘Find your treasure, you mean? No, unfortunately I didn’t. If I had of course I would have come and let you know. What I did find out was that this sergeant who stole it from you—Sergeant Barnby— is dead. Apparently he got drunk and fell into Weymouth harbour and drowned.’

‘So what happened to his things? Did his men seize upon them? Did they find my treasure?’

‘All he had was shared out by his men.’

‘Oh my God! then what has become of my money, and my daughter’s dowry that I had been saving for her?’

‘I don’t know. I spoke to some of the sergeant’s men, and they all said he didn’t leave much, certainly no store of gold. So what he did with your money is a mystery. He could have lost it, dropped it in a ditch somewhere—It’s amazing how careless some soldiers are with their spoils —or he could have hidden it somewhere, meaning to come back for it later, perhaps after the war.’

‘Are you sure the men told you the truth, and weren’t just saying they didn’t get handed a lot of gold, perhaps for fear of you trying to get it back?’

‘No, Nathan, I suppose it’s just possible that they could have been lying to me about it, but I don’t think so. There was no reason for them to lie, because I didn’t tell them I was looking out for the stolen money. At all events, your thief did not live to enjoy his gains.’ ‘’Tis the Lord’s judgement upon him,’ said Whittle. ‘But it does not help me. I had so hoped to arrange a good marriage for Elizabeth, and I’m danged if I know how I’m to do that now.’

‘Do you really call the sort of marriage you had arranged with the Dashwoods “good”? Do you know the kind of young man Nicholas Dashwood is, and what he would have done with your money?

I’ll tell you, Mr Whittle: as soon as he got his hands on that dowry he would have used it to pay off his gambling debts, and any over he would have squandered on more gambling and riotous living. Did you

really want to see your hard-earned money wasted like that? And what sort of a husband would he have been for Elizabeth?—careless at best, cruel in all kinds of ways; her life would have been a misery. Is that what you wanted for your dear daughter?’

He looked rather taken aback at my outburst. He twisted his hands and looked at the floor.

‘Maybe he is a wrong ’un,’ he said, ‘though I think he would ha’ settled down right enough. But there are other young men of good family, if I could but catch one.’

‘Mr Whittle,’ I said, ‘you started poor, and look how you’ve come up in the world. Which is best, to marry some pampered young heir, who’s going to waste his substance like the Prodigal and come down in the world, or to marry an up and coming man who’ll make a success of his life—and be a good husband as well?’

‘I know who you’re thinking of,’ he said, ‘but if I had to hand my daughter to him I’d feel I’d failed. Elizabeth met him after church last Lord’s Day, I believe, although I’d told her not to speak to him. I was that angry with her, though she says she couldn’t just brush him aside while she was waiting for me, and now I dare say she keeps thinking about “Denis this” and “Denis that”. But she’ll do what her father tells her, like a dutiful daughter. But I don’t know. I wish her mother were alive: Mary would ha’ known what to do.’

‘Did Mary’s father make her marry you?’ I asked.

‘Mary’s father? Not him! It was she picked on me and decided she was going to marry me in spite of her father, and nothing he said made any difference. But he came round in the end.’

‘Well, there you are,’ I said.

He stared at me without speaking, then got up to go.

At the door he paused. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said,’ but I’m not going to give up yet. Anyway, thank you, Micah, for trying to find my money. Do I owe you anything for your trouble?’

‘No, no, Nathan, my expenses have been paid for by others, and you’ve lost enough as it is.’

He thanked me again and added as he went out of the door, ‘Let’s hope, wherever my money is, that it does some good to someone!’

After a couple of days I went to see Mr Dashwood again, and told him I could arrange the handover of his jewels.

‘Now Mr Judd,’ he said, ‘this is where I shall take over. I will deal with your go-between myself, and will force him to lead me to the thieves, or at least reveal who they are. You surely didn’t imagine I would let them get away with their crime!’

I had been wondering whether he would try some such interference, and was ready with my reply.

‘I fear you will frighten him off, sir. He is very wary and nervous, and will call off the deal at the

slightest sign of danger.’

‘I shall catch him,’ said Dashwood. ‘You must meet him as you have arranged, and I and my men will lie concealed nearby and take hold of him as he leaves.’

‘I will have no part in this. I am not a go-between for thieves nor a betrayer. If you wish to try to negotiate with them yourself you are welcome, but I will have nothing to do with it.’

‘You forget yourself and who you are talking to,’ he said angrily. ‘Where and when have you arranged to meet this man?’

I had to do some quick thinking. If Mr Dashwood was determined to interfere I would have to send him on a wild goose chase. Well, he deserved some frustration and discomfort.

‘You force me very much against my will, Mr Dashwood,’ I said, ‘but I will tell you. We were to meet tomorrow night at about nine o’clock down by the river. The man has had some of the money, and when he hands over the jewels he is to be paid the rest.’

‘Then I will go there in good time and when he comes we will catch him. Where exactly were you to meet along the river?’

‘You know the bridge just below the old Friary, where Sir Francis Ashley used to live?—between there and the next bridge to the west, below the castle.’

‘Good, I can have men hidden by both bridges, and trap him between them. What does he look like?’

‘I’ve never seen his face, for he is careful to keep it covered with his hood drawn forward. Look out for a man in a black cloak and hood.’

‘Right, tomorrow night at nine we shall be there.’

‘But take great care, for the man is very wary indeed, and if he finds that I have let him walk into a trap he will likely call off the whole thing.’

‘But he will be in our hands,’ said Dashwood. ‘You’re sure he will have the jewels with him?’

‘That is what was agreed. But, as I say, you risk spoiling the whole arrangement.’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Dashwood, and dismissed me.

There was of course no such man in a black cloak, and I imagined Mr Dashwood would have a cold and fruitless wait. I wished I could be there to see him getting more angry and frustrated every minute. Had he been less rude and overbearing I would have felt sorry for him, but I thought that as he was determined to go his own way he must take the consequences.

Next evening was very wet. I and Agnes had gone to bed when there was a furious banging on our front door. I looked out of the upstairs window and could just make out the shapes of three or four men standing in the rain.

‘Who the devil are you, waking honest citizens at this time of night?’ I called. ‘Go away, or I shall summon the watch.’

‘It is I, Stephen Dashwood,’ came the reply. ‘We’ve waited two hours in the rain, and your man has not shown up. And we are likely to be in trouble for detaining the wrong man. Have you been deceiving me?’

‘I told you the man was wary,’ I said. ‘He must have seen you were lying in wait. What man did you find?’

‘A man in a dark cloak, as you said. He made a struggle when we seized him, and although we let him go when we found he hadn’t got the jewels and was a townsman here, he is threatening to have us before the magistrates. ‘ ‘Well, I cannot help you with that. I told you to leave matters to me, and you wouldn’t. You’ve spoilt it now, and I wash my hands of the whole affair.’

I shut the window, and saw them slink away in the rain.

Next morning Mr Dashwood’s secretary came very meekly and asked if I would kindly be pleased to call upon his master. I said I would come when I had finished the work I was doing, and made a point of mixing medicines and preparing a syrup before I went with him. I was sure that Mr Dashwood was the sort of man who would respect me the more for keeping him waiting, even if it also made him angry.

But I was worried because I was getting so entangled in this web of deceit, although it was in the good cause of returning his property to him without getting his silly wife into more trouble. I could not now tell him the truth even if I had wanted to, but I hoped not to have to tell too many lies. However, now that I was in so far there seemed no alternative but to carry the affair through to its conclusion.

When I at last went with the secretary to the house Mr Dashwood took me into his private room or closet. I had decided that my best policy was to attack at once.

‘You seem to have made a thorough mess of this affair,’ I said. ‘Those involved are not to be caught so easily, and may have been frightened off for good. But if you want me to try again to negotiate the return of your jewels, you must entrust me with the rest of the sum we agreed, and I will see what I can do. I won’t promise anything, but I must ask for your solemn undertaking that you will let me have a free hand, and will not attempt to make an arrest, or have me followed, or in any way to interfere while I am engaged in these delicate negotiations. Otherwise I will have nothing to do with it, and you will lose any chance of regaining your property.’

My attack took the wind out of his sails, and whatever he may have been intending to accuse me of remained unsaid. Instead he said gloomily, ‘I shall have to trust you, I suppose.’

‘And you won’t attempt to interfere?’

‘I will hold back until you have recovered the jewels. Once I have them back I shall do my best to track down the thieves.’

‘You can then make what enquiries you please,’ I agreed. ‘So, with that understood, I will do my best. I am afraid what you did last night will have made the thieves very nervous. I can but try to reestablish contact, and will of course let you know if and when I have done so. Will you please let me have the remainder of the money so that I may have it ready to pay the intermediary supposing I do manage to see him.’

He handed it to me (enough to cover Denis’s losses and some to spare), and I left him and decided to wait another three or four days, which I thought would be the least Mr Dashwood might suppose needed to make arrangements with my imaginary go-between again.

In spite of Mr Dashwood’s promise not to interfere while I completed matters I did not trust him, and took care every time I went out to see if I was being followed. As far as I could tell he was keeping his word, but when the moment came for me to move the jewels I took extra precautions.

On the fourth day I retrieved them from my stable, made them into a parcel, put it in my apothecary’s bag and set off on a roundabout walk. I went up Durn Lane, crossed South Street, dodged through a little alley to near the Guildhall, and mingled with the crowd going to and fro in the High Street. When I reached St Peter’s Church I slipped inside and sat at the back while I made sure that there was no one else there and that I had not been followed.

My gaze fell upon a monument at the end of the north or left hand side aisle. I had spent some time staring it when I had sat waiting to see Mrs Dashwood there—the monument to Sir John Williams of Herringstone, with its two kneeling almost life-size figures. It had since struck me that a package could be hidden there with little danger of anyone finding it by chance, as the monument was high up and there were plenty of places where the package would be out of sight.

Once I was sure I was alone I stood up and found a coffin-stool at the back of the church, and carried it up the north aisle. Having placed it below the monument, I climbed up and considered for a moment. I did not want to make the package too hard to find, so did not try to thrust it behind the great central stone chest. Instead I put it between Sir John’s legs, where it would be quite invisible from the ground. I stepped down, replaced the stool, picked up my bag and left at once.

Back home I wrote a note to Mr Dashwood as follows: The property is supposed to be left for collection in St Peter’s Church, and should be found between the legs of Sir John Williams’ statue. Let me know if you fail to find it there. M.J. By returning the jewels in this way I hoped to avoid being too closely associated with them myself.

I sent the note by the hand of young Paul Simpkins, a boy from our lane who likes running errands, and then returned to my work with a great sense of relief. It was most unlikely that the wrong person would find the jewels, especially if Mr Dashwood went at once to fetch them, and I would be done with this wretched affair.

Next morning I went to the church and reached up to feel if the package had gone—which it had.

So I then visited Denis Faire to pay him his money.

He was sitting in his little house sorting goods for his stall—or rather, that was what he was meant to be doing. In fact he was sitting gazing at the wall, and jumped up with a start when I entered.

He thanked me extremely for the money, and I gave him a bit extra as compensation for the bad position he had been put into.

‘You know, Micah, I feel so much better now this wretched business has been cleared up, because I do think I’ve got a chance with Elizabeth. Her father’s still dead against me. But she—she’s an angel!’

I didn’t press him to tell me how, because I thought the less I knew the less Nathan could find out from me, but I understood that Denis had had one or two more meetings with Elizabeth. Perhaps she wasn’t such a dutiful daughter as her father thought!

There was still a little money over, but I did not feel justified in keeping it, and salved my conscience by putting it in the church poor box.

The irony was that later that day Mr Dashwood sent for me again and gave me a reward, rather a mean amount, but useful. Then, next day Mrs Dashwood’s maidservant came to my shop and handed me a small package and hurried away before I could open it. Inside was a gold ring wrapped in a paper on which as written, ‘A reward for discretion’.

I could not refuse these rewards, and when I thought of Mr Dashwood’s tyrannical behaviour towards his wife and his rudeness to me, and the risks and trouble I had taken for Mrs Dashwood, I felt that on the whole I deserved them.

I had restored two treasures to their owners, but Whittle’s had disappeared. I tried without success to put it out of my mind.

CHAPTER 11 A WISE MAN I HAD GAINED a lot in the last week or two, and resolved to celebrate my new wealth by engaging our part-time help as a live-in servant for my wife, and (if I could find one) by buying a horse for myself. To get Hester Hollard to come as our maid was easy, as she had been wanting to come to live with us for some time and had great affection for Agnes, who indeed returned it. She settled into the little room at the top of the house, and at once I noticed a change for the better in that the house was cleaner and tidier and the meals more varied, for Agnes had been so much occupied with the baby in recent months.

But to find a horse was a more difficult matter, the soldiers having requisitioned so many.

However, next market day I met Jacob Perrin, for he came across to thank me again for recovering his cart.

‘You’ve saved my life, or at least my livelihood,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken your advice too, and painted the cart a drab brown.’

‘Let’s hope the soldiers won’t come your way again,’ I said. ‘People are saying Prince Maurice has gone off and sacked Cranborne. He’s done horrible things there, they say, far worse than here at Dorchester.’

‘Then I hope he’s taken every one of his thieving rascals with him,’ said Perrin. ‘Anyway, Mr Judd, if I can ever be o’ service to you let me know.’

‘As a matter of fact you might be able to help me with something right now. I’m wanting to buy a horse, for it would be useful in my work. But I don’t know where to find one.’

‘I’ll find ’un for you,’ he said. ‘I know a man who can get hold of ’un, if anyone can. You leave it to me.’

Sure enough the following week he came to my shop. ‘I’ve found you a hoss,’ he said. ‘It’s a two year old belonging to a farmer at Warmwell. If you’re interested I’ll take you over there.’

The following day he did so, and I became the proud possessor of a fine chestnut, which enabled me to attend to sick folk far beyond the bounds of Dorchester as well as collecting plants for medicines and saving much time. Hester had settled in well, little Mark was growing and strong, Agnes was happy, my business was picking up after all the disturbances of the past months, I had a new set of clothes from Tom Hartley, and all seemed to be fine for me.

Yet Mr Whittle’s lost money still fretted me. I could not help feeling that it was lying hidden somewhere, perhaps as near as the Ridgeway, waiting for someone to discover—and I couldn’t help imagining that this someone could be me. I had had an idea of how it might be found.

Mr Whittle himself seemed to have become reconciled to his loss, for I believe he still harboured hopes that somehow he would be able to arrange what he would call a good marriage for his daughter.

But Nicholas Dashwood’s treatment of her, though damaging to her pride and feelings, had had a good effect on her character, I thought. She seemed more assured and more ready to assert her own wishes. I asked Denis Faire whether he was having any joy in his wooing of her.

‘Mr Whittle still won’t let me visit her,’ he said, ‘but she has given me some hope. I’ve met her two or three times when she’s been abroad in the town and had some talk. But she says her father would be very angry if he found out.’

I had the paradoxical thought that if I did succeed in finding the treasure it could be a bad thing for Elizabeth, because her father would then try to find a rich and perhaps unloving husband for her. And although with her new-found strength of mind she would surely resist, he might wear her down or get her to submit by appealing to her daughterly sense of duty, and the end result might thus be unfortunate.

One day Mr Whittle came to consult me.

‘I know you favour that young Denis Faire,’ he said, ‘and I must say, he seems a personable young fellow, and hard working too. But I do want to do the best for Elizabeth, and young people’s affections don’t always lead to lasting happiness and a good home and family life. And what I’m afraid is that she may marry him by default, as it were, that without a dowry she’ll only be able to marry a poor man.’

‘Do you think that if you had the dowry money, and so had a choice of lots of young men, she would choose someone else?’ I asked.

‘You’re right, you’re right,’ he said eagerly. ‘If she had more of a choice she wouldn’t look at him, I’m sure.’

‘If you recovered the money, would you let her choose for herself?’

‘I would try to arrange a good match for her, but yes, if she really wanted someone of her own choice I wouldn’t stand in her way.’

‘Even if that someone were Denis Faire?’

‘You do keep on about him, don’t you? I’ve said I’d let her have the final yea or nay. But I hope she’d have more sense than to pick someone as poor as ’ee.’

‘Then I will have one more try to find your treasure,’ I said. ‘I’ll ride out tomorrow to the Ridgeway, and look around where that soldier said your Sergeant spent the night. I have had a thought of someone I’ve heard of who might be able to help—the Wise Man of Upwey, he’s called. But if he can’t find your money I fear it will be lost for good.’

‘Beware of the devil, Micah. I wouldn’t want you to be mixed up with wizards or witches or

people of that sort, even to recover my treasure. But if anyone can find it I believe you can—and I think you will. Ever since you told me how that Sergeant Barnby had died I’ve had the feeling that the Lord had somehow preserved it and kept it safe until the time for it to be revealed. And you’re the man to find it, Micah, I truly believe you are!’

‘Hold on, Nathan, not so fast,’ I protested. ‘It’s most unlikely that your treasure will be found, hidden in a field as it is.’ ‘“Hidden in a field”,’ he cried, ‘just like our Lord’s parable in the Gospel. Remember how the man found the treasure, although it was hidden.’

‘Yes, but he had to buy the field, and I’m sure you won’t be able to do that. All I can promise you, Nathan, is that I will ride out there tomorrow morning and make a thorough search. And don’t worry about the devil. Some of those the villagers call “wise” only use their powers for good. But don’t let your hopes rise, for I shall probably come back empty-handed.’

In spite of all I could say he still seemed sure that I would succeed, so I promised again that I would do my best on the morrow, and saw him out.

Now that I had a horse it was a simple matter for me to ride out to the Ridgeway and have a look, and with most of the soldiers having gone and no reports of marauding deserters in the neighbourhood, I had little fear of my horse being stolen. So next morning I set out with a light heart, though really I had little expectation of success. But I knew I would always regret it if I did not at least make one effort to find the treasure, so I rode along happily and with a feeling of holiday.

There were a few other travellers already on the road, some on foot or in carts and a few horseriders, like the two I could see some way behind me. But most of them turned off to Monkton or Herringston or other places on the way, or hurried on beyond me towards Weymouth.

As I drew near the top of the hill and looked again at the place Nat Bluett had pointed out as the spot where the soldiers had spent that night on the way to Weymouth, my spirits sank. It would indeed be a case of looking for a needle in a haystack. The field was very large, and stretched as far as I could see along the hill below the Ridgeway, disappearing in the distance as the slope got steeper beyond a little rise. But of course Sergeant Barnby would not have gone nearly so far to hide his spoils. Probably (as I had thought when Nat first showed me the place) he had hidden it in one of the two dry-stone walls that here ran along each side of the Ridgeway. But these were as hopeless to search in as the field itself. He might have wandered along the Ridgeway while his men were preparing their bivouac, and pulled out a stone anywhere, hidden his package and replaced the stone. He would have noted some mark or arrangement of noticeable stones, or how many paces the hiding place was from some tree or bush, so that he could find it again, but without knowing the secret it would be useless to look.

Yet look I did. I walked my horse a few yards along the Ridgeway to the right, away from the Dorchester to Weymouth road, and hitched his reins to a twisted tree that actually grew out of the further wall. Then I walked a quarter of a mile or so along the Ridgeway, carefully examining the wall on my right. I then climbed over the wall, taking care not to dislodge the stones, which were rather loose in many parts, and came back along the other side, though I thought it more likely that the Sergeant would have put the treasure on the Ridgeway side, or even more likely beyond the wall on the far side of the Ridgeway, out of sight of his men. Or again, he might have buried it in one of the thickets that grew beside the road near there, or even have put it in the hollow of one of the windstunted trees. But of course my search was based upon the assumption that the treasure had in fact been left somewhere hereabouts. Yet the Sergeant might have stepped aside from the line of march almost anywhere between Dorchester and Weymouth, and thrust a bundle into some hole or hollow tree. The hopelessness of my search struck me afresh.

However, when I came to the end of the wall (where it met the main road) I walked back examining the other wall similarly, then climbed over to look at the other side on my way back. Some of the stones looked loose, a few had fallen down, but none gave any clue to where the treasure might be.

I came back and mounted my horse. I was certain that I would never find the treasure by simply searching. The only hope would be to consult a wizard or a person gifted with second sight, and the only one I knew of in those parts was the man Will Horder, the tranter, had told me of. I remembered his words: ‘There’s a Wise Man in the village, who divines with a rod, and finds lost things.’ It would surely be worth trying him. Provided I did not attempt divination myself I trusted my soul would not be harmed.

I rode down the steep hill on the Weymouth side until I reached the turning which led through the hamlet of Elwell and right again up the valley to Upwey. I stopped to ask a group of women who were washing clothes in the river there where I could find the Wise Man. To my surprise they burst out laughing, and I had to repeat my question.

‘You be wanting Malachy Moore,’ said one at last. ‘He be the only wise man hereabouts.’ That set them laughing again, and I asked with some asperity, ‘Where can I find him then?’

‘Go to the little house beyond the church, next to the last on the right,’ she said, ‘you’ll find him all there.’

‘Or not all there, maybe,’ said another, and they fell to laughing again.

‘You want to be careful, sir,’ said the first one, ‘for if he don’t like you he might put his eye on

you.’

‘You might come back with your hoss riding you!’ said the other, and again they laughed, so I rode on.

I know ‘wise’ is a word sometimes applied by the country folk to those who might otherwise be called queer in the head or mad, so I began to wonder what sort of a person Malachy Moore would turn out to be. I rode past the church and soon saw the little house or cottage, a one story building, with thatch badly in need of repair, partly built into the hillside. I dismounted, hitched the reins over a post and knocked on the door. A high-pitched cracked voice cried out, ‘Go away yer toads!’

‘Is that Malachy Moore?’ I called. There was the sound of movement and presently the door was opened by an old man with wispy white hair down to his shoulders and a bushy white beard and a thick stick in his hand.

‘Huh,’ he grunted, ‘I thought it was the chillen. The toads come banging on my door and running away.’

‘That’s a mean trick to play on a man,’ I said, ‘but I suppose children will have their fun.’

‘Chillen be devils,’ he said. ‘But what mid you be wanting wi’ me?’

‘I’m told that you can divine with a rod: is that true?’ I asked.

He gazed at me with a sly suspicious air.

‘Who are ye?’ he asked. ‘Are ye from the church, come to make trouble? I’m a good man, I am, a good Christian. Don’t believe any o’ they who tell ye otherwise.’

He made a movement as if he would close the door, so I hastened to say, ‘I’m sure you are, I don’t doubt it for a moment. I’m not from the church, and have not come to cause trouble. But I’m in trouble myself, and hoped you might be able to help me.’

‘What is it ye want?’

‘There’s something that’s lost, some money belonging to a friend of mine, and I hoped you might be able to find it.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe not.’

‘Could you try? I would pay you.’

‘Money, lost, belonging to his friend, can I find it?’ he muttered. ‘Where do you think it was lost?’

‘It was stolen by a soldier when they plundered Dorchester, and he may have hidden it up the hill here by the Ridgeway. I don’t know for certain that it’s there, but if it is it’s probably hidden in a drystone wall or possibly a nearby thicket. Is that something you could find?’

‘Are ye sure you’re not from the church? nor a lawyer? I hate lawyers. Won’t have nout to do wi’ ’em.’

‘No, no,’ I assured him, ‘I’m not from the church and I’m not a lawyer. I’m an apothecary who goes about trying to help the sick and heal people.’

‘Let me feel your hand,’ he said, and held my right hand for what seemed a long time while he gazed at my face. At last he let go my hand and beckoned me into the house. I followed him into the one room. The underside of the thatch and the rafters were visible above, and hanging from a beam were three rabbit skins. There was a big fireplace and a simple bed, table and chair. On the table was a very large black cat which stared at me with green eyes.

‘Your hand seems honest,’ he said, ‘let’s see what Simmany makes o’ it.’

I didn’t understand at first what he wanted me to do.

‘Put your hand on Simmany.’ he said, indicating the cat. So I laid my hand on the cat’s back, and was rewarded with a rumbling purr.

‘He thinks you’re a right ’un then,’ said Malachy.

‘Well, what do you think,’ I asked, ‘could you find what my friend has lost?’

‘Could be, depends,’ he said. ‘The powers o’ things don’t always come and show when they’re wanted.’

‘I thought there might be a let-out,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you can really find things.’ I was being deliberately provocative, although I was a bit afraid that if I offended him too much he might refuse to help.

He did seem to be roused by my words. He drew himself up and his eyes seemed to flash.

‘Here, mister, see this,’ said Malachy. He pointed to a crumpled metal cup or beaker on the mantleshelf. ‘That pot on the clavy, I found it buried in a vield wi’ my hazel-rod.’ He turned and grinned at me a toothless grin. ‘I mid find a hidelock o’ money if it hassen been ta’en.’

‘Will you come then?’ I said. ‘It’s at the top of the hill, near where the Dorchester road crosses the Ridgeway. I could take you with me on the horse, I think.’

‘Nay, leave thy hoss here, or lead ’un,’ he said. ‘I’ll take thee the short way up.’ Without waiting further he put down his cudgel and snatched up a forked stick from the window-sill and set off at a good pace out of the cottage door and further along the lane. I unhitched my horse and led it in pursuit, and followed him when he turned right up a path and almost straight up the slope. I was surprised that such an apparently frail man could walk so fast up the hill, his beard blowing in the wind and his shabby clothes flapping around him.

He paused when he reached the Ridgeway and waited for me to catch up.

‘Now where, mister?’ he asked.

I explained to him how the soldier who stole the money had spent the night in the shelter of the

wall, and might have hidden it amongst the stones anywhere from where we stood as far as where the Dorchester to Weymouth road went across, or possibly in a thicket.

‘It’s more likely that the hiding place is nearer the road,’ I said, ‘and if he wanted not to be seen he would likely have hidden his spoils away from his men, who were camped beyond the wall there, I think. But of course I don’t know that it’s here at all, and he may have taken it on to Weymouth.’

‘What is it—gold, silver, jewels?’ asked Malachy.

‘Mainly gold coins, I think, though there may have been some silver ones and other things as well.’

He took the hazel twig he had been carrying, holding it by the forked end with both hands. The shaft of the twig he held out in front of him parallel with the ground.

‘I mun picture it in my mind, like,’ he explained. ‘Now I’ll jus’ go along this side, and try en out, so you keep quiet, mister, while I fixes my thoughts.’

He grasped his twig more firmly and stood for a moment letting his gaze range along the wall.

Then he began to walk quite slowly, holding the twig turned slightly towards the wall on his left, and moving it up and down a little as he walked. From time to time it seemed to hesitate as if about to move of itself, and two or three times it did suddenly swing right up until it pointed at his beard, and he would stop and point the twig again and move it to and fro. He reached the road, where some bushes marked the end of the wall. He paused there for a little, then came slowly back on the other or field side of the wall.

Meanwhile I had tethered my horse to another small tree, and stood watching him. He did not seem to want me to accompany him, and I thought it might be because I would somehow disturb whatever it was that might enable him to sense the treasure.

When he got back to me I asked, ‘Do you think it isn’t here?’ but he shook his head angrily and his long hair flew about his head. He turned again, and walked along the other wall similarly, climbing over at the far end and coming back in the field on the Weymouth side. Every now and then he would stop as before, and at one place retraced a few steps to examine a place more carefully. At last he reached me again and said, ‘Come over in the field here, mister.’

I had to climb over the wall, which was quite difficult as although there were plenty of footholds the stones at the top were liable to fall off if one pulled on them to haul oneself up. I then hurried after Malachy, who was standing by a part of the wall where I had noticed he had stopped before. There he faced the wall and the twig swung upwards. He beckoned to me, and I went to stand beside him. ‘’Tis strong here,’ he said. ‘Try if this be the hidelock’ (hiding place).

He moved the twig to and fro, and again at one particular spot it seemed to try to leap out of his

hands. He forced it down and swept it along, and again at the same spot it leapt up.

I pulled away the stones there, and had to take six or seven long ones from the wall. At first I thought there was nothing to be found, but then I saw, buried right in the middle of the wall, was a cloth bag. For a moment I was disappointed because it was not bigger, but when I pulled it out it was heavy and as I opened it I saw the glint of gold.

‘You are indeed the Wise Man of Upwey,’ I said, and explained, ‘These are not mine, so I must return them to their owner.’ However, I took one of the coins and presented it to Malachy, adding,‘This is but a poor token of thanks, but I do indeed thank you very much.’ ‘’Tis nothing, mister, but don’t ye tell the church or the lawyers,’ he said, and broke into highpitched laughter, His laughter stopped suddenly as if it had been cut off, and he gave me a very strange look so that I shivered and felt uneasy, for I felt that he might be in touch with the devil.

‘Take ye care, zur,’ he said. ‘I feel a darkness —all this’ll bring ye sorrow.’

Then he turned away without another word, and began to stride back along the Ridgeway. I stood and watched him until he was out of sight, then I stowed the treasure in my saddlebag.

In spite of his words my heart was light and I felt like singing aloud, for I had had such amazing success, far beyond my hopes. Three people had come to me with their worries after they had lost treasures, and I had recovered them all and been well rewarded. And now with the third treasure safely stowed, I pictured Nathan Whittle’s joy when I returned it to him. I still had that worry about him though: would the recovery of his money turn his head a little? Would he still want to arrange that ‘good’ but totally unsuitable marriage he had set his heart on for his daughter? I would have to do my best to dissuade him.

I remounted and rode the little way along the Ridgeway to rejoin the main Dorchester road, but as I reached it two men came riding from behind a thicket on the far side and barred my way. They were both large and on big horses. Each had his hat low over his eyes and a handkerchief covering the lower part of his face, and each had a pistol in his hand pointing in my direction.

‘Stand!’ shouted the more thickset one, ‘give me your gold.’

I knew that voice and felt my anger rising, for it was the voice of the man who had led the mob against Mr White. The other man came close and grabbed my horse’s bridle. My heart was beating almost audibly and I felt the blood rush to my face. I had thought it would be safe enough riding that way in daylight. The danger of deserters from the armies who had turned to highway robbery was a growing problem in some parts, and got worse in the next year or two as the war dragged on. But as I mentioned earlier, there were not supposed to be any such in our part of the country at present. In fact

the passage of armies and the recruitment of many ne’er-do-wells and idlers as soldiers had cleared the roads of robbers of late, so I was the more shocked to be waylaid in this way.

‘You shall have my money, friend,’ I said. ‘Don’t harm me.’ Slowly, so as not to give them any excuse to shoot, I reached down and took out my purse and handed it to the taller man, both of them keeping their pistols at the ready.

But the man threw my purse on the ground.

‘Where is it?’ he demanded.

‘What?’ I asked, though I guessed he knew what I was carrying and my heart sank.

‘What you found in the wall,’ he said. ‘Is it in your saddle-bag?’

For a second I wondered whether I dare try kicking my heels into my horse’s sides and riding away. But it was hopeless; the pistol-barrels were both close to my heart and I would not stand a chance. I tried to play for time.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘my gold is in the purse there.’

‘Don’t trifle with us,’ said the other man—and that was the last I heard. Something hit me on the side of the head and I rolled off the horse and felt a shock of pain, then all was dark and silent.

CHAPTER 12 BELIAL’S BAND AGAIN HOW LONG I lay there I don’t know, but the sun was still shining when I woke. I could feel its warmth on my face, which puzzled me as there also seemed to be rain falling. And then I realised that someone was pouring water on my forehead, and I became aware of a throbbing in my brain. I closed my eyes and put my hand to my head—and withdrew it at once as I felt a very tender swelling and sudden pain.

I opened my eyes and saw the very last person I would have expected: it was none other than Nicholas Dashwood.

‘Thank God you’re alive,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What’s happened? I was being attacked by highway rogues—your friends, I think. Have I been shot?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, ‘but you’ve been hit on the head.’

‘God, yes!’ I said. ‘It’s coming back to me. Two men on horseback, with handkerchiefs hiding their faces, demanding my money. No, that’s not right—they threw it on the ground.’ Suddenly I was fully awake. ‘My horse—and the saddlebag—where is it?’

‘Is that your horse?’ he pointed.

I raised myself on one elbow—and nearly lay back again, for I felt giddy. Then my head cleared again and I saw a little way off my horse calmly cropping grass at the side of the road.

‘Help me up,’ I said, and Nicholas took my arm to steady me. I stood for a moment to recover, but the Judds are a tough race and I was young and fit and insisted on trying to walk. I staggered a few steps, helped by Nicholas, then shook him off and managed to go on my own towards the horse. I called to him gently, and he allowed me to come up to him and stroke his neck. Then I fumbled with the saddlebag and looked inside: it was empty.

I led my horse back to where Nicholas was standing staring at me, with a leather bottle from which he had poured the water over me still in his hand. I saw that he too had a horse with its reins slung over a nearby bush. My mind was clearing and I remembered all about Nicholas’ involvement with the man called ‘Horney’ and the plot against Mr White.

‘It’s gone—they’ve taken it,’ I said, and as I noticed he didn’t question what I was referring to my suspicions deepened. ‘How is it you came to be here?’ I asked.

‘I... I was afraid you might be in trouble. I... I found you lying here.’

‘What made you think I might be in trouble? You know the men who attacked me, don’t you.

They’re your friends, aren’t they?’

‘No, or I—in a sort of way, I think—if it was they.’

I sat down on a stone, still holding my horse’s rein.

‘Explain what you mean,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry, most terribly sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t know they would harm you, truly I didn’t.’

‘What did you know? How are you mixed up in this?’

‘It was Mr Whittle. He told me he hoped to get his dowry money back. He said there was a chance, a good chance, he thought, of it being found. When I said that seemed unlikely, he said that you, Mr Judd, knew where it was hidden, or at least knew someone who would find it, and that you were going next morning—that’s today—out towards Weymouth to fetch it. And then he wondered, assuming you did find the money, whether I would reconsider the arrangements made before, and maybe marry Elizabeth after all.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him I wasn’t sure, I would think it over. It was all speculation anyway. She’s a nice enough girl and all that, but—I don’t know. I think she isn’t really game enough for me. I like a girl with a bit more spirit. Though I suppose I would marry her if...’

‘What? If he paid you enough?’

‘Yes, in truth I suppose it does comes to that. After all, what does one marry for except for money?

And I’m pretty desperate for cash at the moment. One wouldn’t bother with marriage otherwise.’

‘You still haven’t explained how I came to be attacked, and how you came to be here.’

‘Just after I’d been talking to Mr Whittle two fellows I owe money to cornered me and demanded I pay up. I really was afraid, because they’re leaders of the Band. Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that.

We’re sworn to secrecy.’

‘That’s Belial’s Band, I take it?’

‘So you know about it—I had an idea that you did. Anyway, to gain time I said the marriage might be on again as Mr Whittle had said his money was be about to be recovered, or so he thought. They asked how that could be, so I had to explain that you were coming out this morning to look for it, and were supposed to have a good idea of where it was.’

‘But, heavens above! it was a very long shot, the merest chance, that I’d be able to find his money.

He had no right to be raising your hopes like that.’

‘Well maybe I had got the wrong impression. But anyway I expect I made it sound more certain than it was just to convince those fellows. And it worked, for they let me go then, and I felt I’d been clever to get out of an awkward hole. But when I thought it over afterwards I began to wonder whether

they would try to get hold of the money somehow before it reached Mr Whittle, and if they might try to waylay you.’

‘Which it seems they did. So what did you do about it?’

‘At first I thought I’d just keep out it. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I didn’t know they were going to do anything bad. But at last I thought I’d better just ride out this way in case they were up to anything, though how I could have stopped them I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t see them.’

‘But they saw me,’ I said. ‘They must have followed me out of town this morning and hidden somewhere, behind that thicket probably,’ I pointed to the clump of stunted trees and bushes from which the men had ridden. ‘They could have seen me searching, and may have waited there for an hour or two, knowing I would be coming back this way. Why, they probably saw me come up with Malachy Moore, the man who found it for me, and saw me take it from its hiding place. Then all they had to do was to wait for me to come past. So, what did you do when you didn’t find them?’

‘I came upon you lying here. God! I thought for a moment you were dead.’

‘You didn’t take part in robbing me?’

‘Heavens no, sir! I swear to God I didn’t. I only told them about your going to look for the money to get them off my back. It was only afterwards I began to wonder if they would try to rob you.’

‘Strange friends you have,’ I said drily, ‘but as you know who they are they surely won’t get away with what they’ve done. Who are these men?’

‘But I can’t be sure they’re the robbers. I didn’t see them on the road and didn’t see them rob you.

I couldn’t swear before a magistrate that it was their doing.’

‘But you know who they are: what are their real names?’

‘I don’t really know. They’re both sons of gentlemen with estates in Dorset, quite well-off, I think.

I know it sounds silly, but really I know very little about them. We call them simply by the names they chose, “Lucifer” and “Horney”. .’

‘And this Band, what does it do, besides attacking honest travellers?’

‘Oh, please believe me, Mr Judd, it wasn’t like that at first.’

‘So just what is “Belial’s Band”?’

‘It’s meant to be a secret, but I suppose it doesn’t matter telling you now. We were just having a bit of fun, arranging cock-fights and gaming and things like that. We’re all known simply by names of Devils, from Doctor Faustus or the Bible, like Mephistophilis, Baliol, Belcher, Azazel, and so on. They call me “Old Nick” of course. But I’ve got terribly into debt with Lucifer and Horney, which is why they’ve turned rather nasty lately.’

‘And what was your part when Mr White was attacked?’

‘Oh God, of course, you know about that. You scared me when you and Mr Huatt said you knew who had done it. I told them to lay off.’

‘Why did you get mixed up in that business?’

‘I owed such a lot of money, I couldn’t tell ’em to go to hell as I ought. But I wouldn’t have hurt the old man, I swear it.’

‘Yet you would have helped those who were prepared to kill him. What sort of a villain are you?’

‘Oh, Mr Judd, I’m truly sorry, indeed I am. And it’s true I only know them by their nicknames. We all kept our real names secret, though they knew mine of course. But it was part of the game to use other names. And that with Mr White—it started more as a joke than anything. But once it was started the thing got out of hand, and they wouldn’t let me back out. You’ll think I’m very evil, Mr Judd, but I am sorry.’

‘I’m glad you are, for you seem in danger of being involved in real wickedness. But it looks as if these men will get away with Mr Whittle’s money scot free. You don’t know their real names, you can’t swear that it was they who robbed me, and I don’t suppose you know where they live. And I didn’t see their faces, so I couldn’t swear to them either.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘At least you won’t be tempted to marry Elizabeth,’ I said. He looked down, a bit shamefaced.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, ‘I haven’t behaved well with her.’

‘I’m glad you admitted that,’ I said, ‘for it makes me think better of you.’ He gave me a quick smile, then looked down again, and I thought, ‘With a bit more self-knowledge you could be quite a decent fellow’. After a pause I said, ‘The only hope I can see of bringing these thieves to justice would be to follow them. Have you any idea where they might have gone?’

‘As I didn’t see them riding back to Dorchester the most likely spot would be where we sometimes meet for a randy or cards and such.’

‘Where is that?’

‘It’s not far from here—two or three miles perhaps. It’s a deserted farmhouse down towards Whitcome. Most of the cattle and sheep were taken by raiding parties of soldiers from Wareham or somewhere, and the farmer went off his head and hanged himself. So his wife moved out—I don’t know where to. It’s a lonely spot so I suppose she wanted to be nearer other people. But it’s just right for us, or has been.’

‘And you think that’s where your friends may have gone?’

‘Yes, it’s the most likely place around here. They’d want to go somewhere quiet to divide up the money I guess, and the farm would be just right for that.’

‘Have you a pistol?’

‘Two,’ he said, lifting his riding cloak to show me the pair of pistols in his belt.

‘Then we could go after them,’ I said. ‘I know they’re armed, but if we can surprise them we may yet get the money back.’

‘What about your head? Will you be able to ride?

‘My head will be all right. It’s aching like the devil and tender too, but I’m not dead yet. Will you come with me?’

‘That I will,’ he said. ‘Here, have one of these,’ and he held out one of his pistols by the barrel. So I thanked him and took it—and found it nicely balanced, a fine weapon decorated with silver.

I put it in my belt and mounted my horse. I was a little giddy at first, but the fresh air soon helped me to feel better. Nicholas also mounted, and led the way along the Ridgeway to the east. We went up a gentle climb with a view of Dorchester far away to our left and bluish tinged hills beyond, and white sheep scattered far and near. After a little we caught a glimpse of the sea on our right, and then the view on both sides was restricted—by trees on the left and the hill on the right. Many of the barrows or burial mounds of the ancient Britons are hereabout, and I saw at least half a dozen in a row on the skyline.

Suddenly there was the sea again far away on the right, with the grey hump of Portland rising from it, and we came to the crossroads where the road or track from Preston and Sutton Poyntz comes over the ridge and goes down to Whitcombe. It was not a part I knew, well away from my usual haunts, and I looked about with interest. We turned left along the rutted chalk track, where there were two very large barrows, one on each side, and over a slight rise before going steeply down into a little dip.

Dorchester was no longer visible, for we were going down into a long secluded valley which stretched before us for several miles. It was a lonely way—we had passed no houses since we set off together and seen no travellers; all was gently rolling grassland as far as the eye could see, with occasional clumps of trees and in the distance larger woods showing dark on the far hills.

Curving slightly left and right the track led us down very gently, then flattened out and curved more to the right. As we passed a slight rise to our right an old run-down farmhouse came into view, with a few barns and sheds nearby, their thatch in tatters. There were no animals to be seen, in fact no sign of life.

‘Wait here a moment,’ I said. ‘Is that the place you spoke of?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and there’s no cover: they’ll see us coming.’

‘Then let’s turn back behind this little hill and go across the meadow, so that we have the barn between us and the house.’

So that is what we did, riding in a wide curve to the right and approaching the out-buildings before we came to the house. We then dismounted and hitched our horses to a broken-down fence, and walked warily, pistol in hand, along beside a rough stone wall. A horse whinnied in one of the out-buildings, and I could only hope that it would not put the enemy on guard. At least the presence of a horse suggested that the robbers might indeed be hereabouts.

We paused at a corner from which we could see along the front of the house. Several of the windows were broken and weeds were growing through the gravel path near the front door.

We crept along close to the house wall, trying to keep off the gravel so as not to make a noise, and stood by the front door which was swinging inwards, half off its hinges. For a moment we stood listening, but I could hear no sound except the creak of a wind-blown shutter somewhere upstairs.

‘Where are they likely to be?’ I whispered to Nicholas. ‘Where do you usually meet?’

‘In the cellar. That’s where we’ve made a meeting-room.’

‘Lead us down there then,’ I said, ‘but whatever you do make no noise.’

It was fairly easy to move silently along the stone-flagged hall past the main stairs which no doubt led up to bedrooms and attics. At the far end was a stone staircase which led down to the left. The steps were worn and hollowed in the middle, and the walls were bare stone and damp. We stopped half way down to listen, but there was still no definite sound, though a sigh seemed to come from the house as though it was a living thing, or maybe contained living things, and I thought I would not like to be there at night alone in the dark.

At the bottom there was a short passage lit by what feeble light came down the stairs and through two doorways, one each side, presumably leading to cellars. Both had heavy wooden doors which opened into the passage, and to the side of the stairs was a pile of broken boxes and other rubbish. The cellar on the left was empty except for a couple of old casks, but the one on the right was sparsely furnished. There was some rough matting on the stone floor, a table covered with a brown blanket and eight plain chairs. Daylight filtered through a dirty window high up at the far end, though there was nothing to see beyond the bars but a stone wall. The cellar walls were of dirty whitewashed stone crudely decorated with pictures of devils and flames in red and black; the roof a barrel vault of brick. A fireplace was in the right-hand wall, and in the far corner a pile of sticks and logs. On the table was the stump of a candle stuck in a bottle.

I saw all this in a moment, and then noticed on the floor near the fireplace a piece of cloth which might have been from the bag that had held Mr Whittle’s treasure. I pushed past Nicholas and bent to pick it up, and as I did so the door behind us slammed and there were the sounds of bolts being thrust home at top and bottom. We lifted the latch and flung ourselves at the door, but in vain. It was made of

stout boards and we could neither open nor break it.

‘Is that you, Lucifer?’ shouted Nicholas. ‘Let me out, will you—it’s me, Nick.’ But there was no answer, nor even the sound of footsteps, so we did not know if whoever had shut the door was still there or had gone away.

I looked round the cellar again. It was about twenty feet long by ten or twelve wide. The floor and walls of stone and the damp smoke-stained roof of brick allowed no hope of escape; the only possible way out might be the window.

‘Give a hand with this,’ I said, taking the blanket off the table and flinging it aside.

Nicholas came slowly away from the door. He seemed dazed by what had happened, but helped me drag the table to the end of the cellar under the window. I climbed up and looked out. The rough stone wall was about two feet away, and evidently lined a rectangular pit outside the window which let light and air reach the cellar. Craning my neck I could see a fringe of nettles and long grass and a little patch of sky. I shook each of the five window bars, but they were firmly fixed in the stonework and would not move or bend.

‘No hope of breaking out here,’ I said.

‘The devils,’ said Nicholas, ‘the cursed bloody devils!’

‘You’ve certainly got plenty of devils here,’ I said pointing at the pictures on the walls. ‘Are these your handiwork?’

‘Not me—Azazel did most of ’em, I think. They were meant to give the right sort of feeling when we meet.’

I jumped down from the table and went to look in the fireplace, and while I was there examined the cloth I had noticed at first. But it turned out not to be from the treasure package after all. The grate was full of cold wood-embers and ashes, but I knelt among them and looked up the chimney. I could see no light up there, and it was too narrow to climb.

Nicholas sat on one of the chairs and put his head in his hands, but I went back to the door and rattled the latch again. Still there was no sound from outside and the bolts held firm.

‘How far can you trust your friends?’ I asked. ‘Do you think they’ll come to let you out after a time, or will they just leave us here to rot?’

‘God, I hope not,’ he said. ‘I thought they were a jolly crew till all that about Mr White came up.’

‘What really was your part in that?’ I asked.

‘It started off as a sort of jape, as I said,—“wouldn’t it be amusing to take Mr White”. They were going to bring him here and ransom him, or sell him to one of the King’s generals. It wasn’t that we were out-and-out Cavaliers; it was more that we didn’t like the strict ways Mr White tried to enforce.

Horney doesn’t mind who wins the war as long as he’s got money to spend—and we thought we’d get some money out of it.’

‘What were you going to do with Mr White?’

‘Tie him on a horse and gallop out of town while everyone was going to repel the enemy. It was my job with Belcher to raise an alarm. Belcher blew that bugle. But the people found out too quickly that the alarm was false, Horney and the others didn’t have time to get away with Mr White.’

‘—supposing they had managed to drag him away from his defenders,’ I said. ‘But what would they have done with him if they had taken him?’

‘I’m afraid they were ready to hurt the old man, even kill him. Do believe me, Mr Judd, I was scared of what they might do and didn’t want to be involved, truly I didn’t. But they wouldn’t let me go —I belonged to the Band and I owed them too much money. I still owe ’em more than I can pay. And Horney quite frightens me. He—he can be violent when he’s angry.’

‘He might save you, I suppose, if he hopes to get what you owe him. It might even occur to him to try to ransom you. He might approach your father and demand money for informing him where he could find you. But in that case I would only be in the way and might be disposed of.’

‘You need not worry,’ he said, ‘father would never treat with kidnappers and thieves. He would see me dead first, I think.’

‘I hope he wouldn’t be as hard as that,’ I said, and thought of how Mr Dashwood had been willing to treat for the return of his wife’s jewels. ‘But you see the relevance of what I asked, for if your “friends” hope to make some profit from us they’ll keep us alive. But if they’re scared of being caught, and are content with what they’ve already stolen, they may leave us to starve, or come in and shoot us.’

‘Oh my God,’ he said, ‘and I did think they were my friends once.’ He turned away and buried his face in his hands again.

‘We must try to escape,’ I said. ‘I’m going to see if I can work those bars loose.’

I climbed back onto the table and, holding two of the bars, pulled and pushed, using all my weight to try to loosen them. But after some minutes I had to give up; the bars had not shifted at all, and my head was throbbing. I sat down on a chair and looked at the wood-pile, wondering whether there were any pieces strong enough to use to lever the bars aside. There were plenty of sticks, but none strong or long enough for such a task I could see under the table something I hadn’t noticed before—a grating below the window at the bottom of the wall, about a foot wide and half that high. I dragged the table aside and knelt to examine it. It was either a drain or a ventilator, and I felt a draught of air coming in through it. It was of course much too small to climb through even if we had known where it led, but it gave me an idea.

‘I wonder,’ I said turning to Nicholas, who was still sitting, the picture of dejection, ‘could we set fire to the door and burn our way out?’

He looked up gloomily.

‘We’ve nothing to start a fire with. I haven’t a tinder-box with me, have you?’

‘No, but we’ve got your pistols. They make fire with flint and powder.’

‘But even if you get a fire going, we’d be smothered with the smoke long before the door burnt through.’

‘We can get our heads down beside this draught and cover them with the blanket—with the matting too if necessary. The smoke will rise and go through the window or up the chimney, while we will still be able to breathe.’

‘You may set fire to the house, and then we’ll burn alive; or they’ll come and shoot us.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, losing patience with him, ‘but if we don’t do something it’ll be worse. I’d rather try burning my way out than wait to be starved, and as for shooting—I’m prepared to risk it. But I don’t think we’ll be in danger of firing the house, because all these cellars seems to be made of stone or brick, apart from the doors. Come on, help move some wood.’

We carried sticks and logs from the pile to the door, and I arranged them carefully with a core of twigs and dry leaves, with larger pieces outside. Then I took Nicholas’s pistol from my belt.

‘Have you got more powder about you,’ I asked, ‘just in case they do come to get us if they smell the fire?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘there’s only what’s loaded in the pistols here.’

‘We’ll have to risk it then. We’ll still have one pistol to shoot with if we use the other to make a flame.’

I tapped the muzzle of the pistol I held against a flagstone until I had managed to dislodge the bullet and wad and had a little heap of powder on the stone. Then I tore a couple of pages from the notebook I always carry, put a little powder in the pan of the pistol and pulled the trigger. The flint sparked beautifully, and the powder flashed, but the paper did not catch. So I tried again, this time sprinkling some powder on the paper, and this time when I pulled the trigger there was another flash and fizz—and the paper caught. With great care I nursed the flame and set fire to the heap by the door.

It was soon burning well and the larger pieces of wood were beginning to flame. I piled more logs on the pile, trying to place them where they would concentrate the heat against the door—and started to cough. The smoke already seemed to fill the cellar, though it was thickest near the roof. I got Nicholas to help drag the table back over where the ventilator was, and to drape the matting over the top. Then we wriggled underneath with the blanket and, putting our heads by the opening, we put put the double-

folded blanket over them. To my relief we were able to breathe air that was free of smoke.

I made Nicholas give me the remaining loaded pistol in case our jailers came, for I wasn’t sure how he would act if he confronted them. I tried to listen out for any sound of movements, though it was difficult to do so under both the matting and the blanket, and with the crackling of the fire. One extra loud crack or maybe two made me look out, but there was no sound of people at the door, and I told myself that we would surely hear the bolts being pulled back if they did come. So we lay for what seemed a long time, listening to more crackling and hissing of the fire and feeling its heat on our legs.

At last, when the fire seemed to be dying down somewhat, I slithered out to have a look. By crawling as close to the floor as possible I was able to avoid the worst of the smoke. The upper part of the door looked as solid as ever, though streaked with black, but the bottom was thoroughly blackened and partly burnt right through. I used one of the chairs to rake away the embers and, still lying down to avoid the smoke, I gave the lower part of the door a hefty kick. Then I had to crawl coughing back to the ventilator to breathe some fresh air.

Then Nicholas took a turn at kicking and wrenching at the door, and succeeded in breaking away a large enough portion at the bottom for a person to squeeze through. But the stone floor was still too hot to touch. We enlarged the hole a little more, and then I laid the matting doubled on the floor to protect myself from the hot stones, lay on it on my back and eased my way through the gap. I stood up and pulled back the bolts and opened what was left of the door, so that Nicholas could spring out over the embers.

‘I’ll go first’ I whispered. ‘If you see or hear anything, touch me on the shoulder.’

He nodded without speaking, and we stood listening for a moment, but heard no sound except some crackling from the cellar. The smoke was already thick in the hall-way and came billowing after us up the stairs—surely the smell at least must fill the house. We ran to look in the ground floor rooms —a large kitchen and a parlour, both empty. Then half choking in the smoke we dashed up the main stairs, I holding the pistol at the ready—yet no enemy appeared.

We reached the upper landing, from which several rooms led off, and rushed from one to another.

The first room we looked in had a rather fine four-poster bed but little else in the way of furnishing.

Then we came to a room at the front of the house. As we entered it the evening sun was sending in the last bright beams before it set, and one of them fell across a body lying on its back beside a table, with one arm stretched out and holding a pistol.

‘My God!’ exclaimed Nicholas, ‘that’s Lucifer, and indeed he did look somewhat devilish, with dark hair and bluish cheeks, his face long and handsome in a coarse sort of way.

Then as we moved further into the room we saw beyond the table another man leaning back in a

chair, the arms of which had prevented him falling sideways, though he lolled to his left.

‘Oh my God!’ said Nicholas again, ‘that’s Horney.’

This was a larger man with a small pointed beard and greasy black hair, and I recognised him as the man who had led the attempt to capture Mr White, the same hulking fellow I had glimpsed in the dark alley all those months ago. He looked as if he was asleep or drunk until one noticed the patch of blood on his chest. His pistol lay on the floor beside him.

‘And here is what caused their deaths,’ I said, pointing to what was on the table—the bag that had contained Whittle’s treasure and a pile of gold coins.

‘It looks as if they were quarrelling over the spoils,’ I went on. ‘They must have both fired at the same instant. Perhaps what I thought was the fire cracking was actually the pistol shots. Mr White foretold this—he said his attackers would be caught in their own snare.’

But Nicholas said nothing. He seemed to be struck dumb by the shock of what we had found. But of course, unlike me, he had known these men, if not as friends, at least as drinking and gaming companions. He stood staring at the bodies, his rather fleshy red face the picture of horror.

I began to gather up the gold, but still he didn’t move as I put it in its bag and turned to go. Only when I laid a hand on his shoulder did he seem to come out of a trance.

‘I didn’t know it would come to this, God knows I didn’t. God help me, and I’ll never touch dice again!’

‘Don’t promise too much,’ I said, ‘but certainly choose better companions. But come now, we must go.’

‘We... we can’t leave them like this,’ he said.

‘Why not? We can’t move them. We could tell the magistrates—perhaps we should, though how we can explain how we came to be in this house to find them I’m not sure.’

‘But they’ll just rot here,’ he said.

‘They’ll rot anywhere, here or in a churchyard, what’s the difference? Or maybe burn.’ For I had begun to notice the crackling sound of fire, and hurried to look though the door. The smoke now hid most of the stairs and I feared it would overcome us if we tried to go down them.

I turned back into the room and slammed the door.

‘Come on, Nicholas,’ I shouted, and, when he made no move, ‘Come on you fool, we must get out, the house is on fire!’

I opened the window, and at last he did move and joined me in peering down. I seemed a long way to the ground, too far to jump without injury. But there was thick creeper growing all over the wall. I dropped the bag, hoping it wouldn’t burst, then got over the sill and began to climb down. Suddenly the

branch I was hanging on to broke away from the wall, and I fell the last eight feet or so, landing beside the bag, fortunately on soil rather than the nearby flagstones.

Next moment Nicholas fell beside me, and we lay for a moment taking in deep breaths of fresh air.

‘I wonder where they left their horses,’ I said. ‘We can’t leave the poor beasts to starve or burn.’

‘They’ll be in the stables, I expect,’ said Nicholas, ‘this way.’

I picked up the bag, which fortunately seemed intact, and followed him around the side of the house. Smoke was pouring from a stone-lined hole beside the wall there, and looking down I caught a glimpse of the window bars of our cellar.

We found two horses in the stable and led them out to the yard gate.

‘What shall we do with them?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I don’t suppose you know whether those friends of yours had families or relatives who ought to have them, do you?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘as I told you, I don’t even know their proper names.’

‘Perhaps we should have searched their pockets for some note or letter which might have told us,’ I said, ‘but we didn’t have time, and it’s too late now. I know a farmer in Monkton who’s had several horses stolen, but I fear these wouldn’t be much use for pulling a cart or a plough. Let’s set them free.

They’ll have plenty of grass around here, and in these times it won’t be long before someone finds them and makes use of them.’

We led them through the gate so that they could run where they pleased, then went to find our own mounts. We rode on to Whitcombe and the Wareham to Dorchester road. There we turned to look back, and saw that the farmhouse was now well alight. Smoke was rising in a great pillar above it, and we could see yellow and blood-red flames licking out of some of the windows.

‘I didn’t think our fire would burn the house down,’ I said.

‘How could it, when the cellar was all of stone and brick?’

‘I think when we broke down the door the draught must have blown sparks and even flames into the passage. And we left that matting on the hot floor—it probably burned, and there was rubbish piled beside the stairs, do you remember? I expect it caught and then the fire spread to the rest of the house.’

‘God! and we might still be in there!’ he said with a shudder, and we rode on in silence.

When we reached East Gate it was dark, for which I was glad, because I had become aware that we looked disreputable. Our faces were streaked with black, our hands were filthy, and our clothes torn and soiled. I did not know in fact how very bad I looked, for in addition I still had blood on my forehead and several bruises.

As we approached the gate I said to Nicholas, ‘Thank you for coming to rescue me. You couldn’t

have known what your friends would do with what you told them, so mustn’t blame yourself. But I think what’s happened today has changed you in some way.’

‘Thank you for saying that, Mr Judd. You’re a gentleman. I think I must have changed. One can’t see what we’ve seen today without being... being...’

‘Shocked?’ ‘... stirred to one’s very roots, I think. I know one thing for sure, Mr Judd, I shall never have anything more to do with Belial’s Band.’

‘I’m glad of that, for the devil is active enough these days without your help! One other thing,’ I added, ‘you can tell people what you please about this day’s doings, but if I were you I’d say as little as possible. We don’t want a lot of questions about the fire at the farm, especially if someone finds burned human bones among the ashes. There is nothing we could have done to save those two from their own wickedness, and your error in telling them about my errand is best forgotten.

‘I won’t tell a soul,’ he promised.

‘We can say that we were set upon by roughs—that is true for me at least, and with all the disturbance of the wars there are more of those about, so it’s believable enough. But the sooner we get clean and change our clothes the better.’

We had some trouble getting the gate-keeper to let us in, and only when at last we managed to convince him that we were who we claimed to be did he admit us. I shook Nicholas’s hand and we parted.

I believe that I too had changed as a result of what I had just endured, and through my earlier adventures. I was not only dirty and bruised: I had become involved in a dirty world and felt rather bruised in spirit too. Not only had the Puritan party in which I had been brought up failed me, but the violence and hatred between them and the Cavaliers were opening the way for all sorts of evils.

Having mingled with soldiers on both sides I could not see much difference between them. The breakdown of trust between neighbours, and the replacement of the rule of law by arbitrary force, meant that many more villains like Nicholas’s ‘friends’ would throw off all restraint and make life a misery for simple law-abiding folk.

I decided I ought to try in future to mind my own business and family, and keep out of a dispute which no longer seemed something I felt strongly about. I did not then understand how the warring factions were not going to allow anyone to avoid being involved, nor how my own cursed nose for trouble would make it impossible for me to stay on the side-lines.

I tried to slip into the house quietly, hoping to clean myself up before Agnes saw me, though I rather guessed that by now she would have been used to me arriving home late and in a state of

disarray. But she met me in the hall and sounded very angry.

‘Is this what you call keeping out of trouble?’ she demanded. ‘Look at the state you’re in! Oh, Micah, how can you?’

Yet she fetched a bowl of water and tenderly washed the blood and dirt from my head, and helped me off with my clothes all the time berating me.

‘What shall I do with you?’ she asked. ‘Look at your doublet, it’s fit for nothing but rags—and your breeches and shirt—they’ll have to be thrown on the rubbish pile. You’ll soon have no clothes left! You’ve been in danger again. You might have been killed and made me a widow and left our little boy fatherless. You silly, silly man, I could kill you, oh!’

And then the humour of what she had just said struck us both, and we fell about laughing, and hugged each other, kissed and made up. Mostly I kept silent and did not try to defend myself, for what could I say? Yet I couldn’t help thinking that my horse in the stable and Hester in the house were visible reminders of the rewards my adventures had already brought, and there would no doubt be more to come when I returned the money to Nathan Whittle.

Washed, in fresh clothes, and sitting comfortably at my own table, I began to feel better, and as I told Agnes about my adventures she came close and clasped me to her. After a time I tried to tell her how my feelings for the rights and wrongs of the war had changed.

‘There’s a saying keeps running through my head, “A plague on both their houses”. I think I must have read it in the book of plays my old schoolmaster had. Anyway, that’s what I feel now about Cavaliers and Roundheads.’

‘How do you mean, dearest? Don’t you support Parliament against the King any more?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose if it came to the push I would rather Parliament won than the King. But I can’t see much difference between the people who support one side or the other. The soldiers on both sides are the same sort of men—just as bad, or as good, as their enemies. I would fight to defend you and Mark of course, and your parents and my uncle and aunt. But as for the bigger fight, I feel quite confused. I think I’ll try to keep out of it in future and not get involved.’

But even as I said it I think I felt in my bones that I would not be able to avoid what was going on all over England then. The war had come to us without our asking, and would do so again. Besides, I have this little devil inside me that demands to know other people’s secrets, or to get mixed up in their affairs, or to push me into awkward situations. The thrill of this is like a drug, and succeeding in such affairs more than makes up for the dangers and discomforts.

However, whether she believed me or not, Agnes kissed me again, and then surprised me by saying;

‘Micah, my darling, I don’t want to stop you being what you are, or doing what you want to do.

But I do want you to come back whole, for my sake if not for yours!’

Next morning I went round to Mr Whittle’s shop carrying the bundle with his money.

‘Can you guess what I’ve got here?’ I said.

‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed, ‘oh my God! My life’s savings!’ and sat down heavily behind his counter. He took out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead and stared at the bundle, which I had placed in front of him, and than at me. ‘Micah, man, I said you would find ’em, and I was sure you would. But now you have, and I can see them before me, I’m quite overcome!’

‘Have a look and see if it’s all there. It’s had many adventures since you lost it, and so have I, but I hope nothing’s missing, except for one gold piece I gave to the man who found them.’

With fumbling fingers he tore open the bundle and spilled out a pile of gold coins. Some of them rolled to the floor and I helped him pick them up. Then he put them in little piles and counted them.

‘They seem to be complete,’ he said at last, ‘all there, my golden lambs, every man jack of ’em!’

He leapt up and came round the counter to embrace me, and actually did a little dance with me round the shop.

‘Tell me, Micah,’ he said panting for breath, ‘where were they? How did you find ’em? Tell me all about it.’

So we sat down again, and I told him how I had been able to find the treasure with the aid of the Wise Man of Upwey. However, I did not mention how it had then been stolen from me, and how the thieves had killed each other because of it, nor did I tell of Nicholas’s involvement. This was because, as I had said, I felt it wiser not to make what had happened at the farmhouse public knowledge, and also because I felt that Nicholas himself should decide whether to reveal any of what he had done. For it had been both bad and good, honourable and less so. So much trouble had come from his telling his friends about my going to search; but this was counter-balanced by his care for me when he found me wounded at the roadside, and his help in coming with me to recover what had been stolen. Also, although I believed he had changed for the better, I did not want Mr Whittle to have any reason to approach him again about marrying Elizabeth.

Mr Whittle was bubbling over with joy. I have never seen a man so transformed by good fortune.

He let the gold coins trickle through his fingers as he thanked me again and again.

‘Do you know what these represent, Micah?’ he said, ‘—a lifetime’s struggle and effort to rise in the world. Every year I’ve tried to put a little by for Elizabeth and for my old age. And now, thanks to you, I’ll be able to give her a good marriage and have something still put by. But you shall have your share, indeed you shall, Micah, I will not hear a word to the contrary.’

Nor would he, in spite of my protests, for I did not want more than a token gift, perhaps to pay for clothes to replace those I had spoiled and any loss to my business by my absence. But Nathan insisted on giving me a substantial reward and yet more thanks.

I left him then, and went straight to Tom Hartley to order yet another new set of doublet and breeches. I could see he was longing to ask what had happened to the others he had made for me, but I told him as little as I could, knowing that anything he learned would soon be all over Dorchester. The rest of the day I worked in my shop, except for a couple of visits around the town to deliver medicines.

But although I had tried not to bring Nicholas to Mr Whittle’s attention, Whittle himself lost no time in approaching him. I thought it would be some weeks at least before the subject of Elizabeth’s marriage came up again, but no, that very evening Whittle’s servant boy brought me a note from him.

He was requesting that I should accompany the boy back to see him, if I would be so kind, without delay. So, wondering what could be so urgent, and hoping he had not been robbed of what he had just recovered, I went round at once—and found Nicholas Dashwood there with him.

‘I am glad you have come so quickly, Micah’ said Mr Whittle. ‘I asked you because Mr Dashwood here insisted. I have explained to him how you have recovered my money, and so Elizabeth’s dowry can be paid in full, and have asked him if he would care to reconsider the idea of marrying her.’

‘Mr Judd,’ Nicholas broke in, ‘don’t think badly of me. I know I’ve been a fool, and treated Elizabeth—and Mr Whittle—abominably, and I want to do the right thing. But I’m all in a whirl. What we went through and saw yesterday—It’s been such a shock, it’s turned me right over, and I don’t know where I am. Or maybe I should say, I don’t know what I am. But I wanted you here to vouch for me, to say that I have changed.’

‘I think you must have done,’ I said, ‘but the point here is, do you really want to marry Elizabeth, and always have her with you at your side?’

‘I think so, and that’s in spite of not needing money now that my debts are cleared. But...’

‘Yes?’ ‘...who really am I? Have I really changed, or will it wear off—the shock of seeing those two?’

‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ said Whittle. ‘If you want her, she’s yours.’

‘What about the lady herself?’ I said. ‘How does she feel about it?’

‘She’s always been a good obedient daughter. She’ll do what I think best for her.’

‘Nevertheless I think she ought to be asked, and you promised me that she would be,’ I persisted.

‘May we call her?’

‘Oh, very well,’ he said, and opening the door called his servant-maid and sent her to fetch his daughter.

While we waited for her to come there was silence for a moment, and then I said to Nicholas, ‘What was it you said to me yesterday about a girl’s spirit?’

He looked a little shame-faced.

‘I know, Mr Judd. But I truly mean to be different, and I think Elizabeth might help me.’

‘What’s all this?’ asked Whittle, but before he could inquire further she came in.

I could see that finding Nicholas there surprised her, yet she did not falter. In fact she seemed to have gained much in dignity and self-possession, but stood meekly enough while her father addressed her.

‘Now, Elizabeth, you know that I told you this morning that Mr Judd had recovered my money, and as a result you may make a good marriage. Well, here is Mr Dashwood, willing again to marry you. So now, my girl, what do you say?’

‘How have you persuaded him that I am worth the purchase price?’ she asked, no longer meek, but tossing her head with flashing eyes. This, I thought, is an Elizabeth Whittle I have not seen before. The same thought must have struck Nicholas, for he looked at her with a more lively interest, while colour mounted to his forehead.

‘When he thought me poor he cast me off,’ she went on, ‘so why should I think he wants to marry anything but money? No thank you, father, if I am to marry I shall look elsewhere for a husband.’

‘But Elizabeth...’ began Nicholas, but Mr Whittle interrupted him: ‘Do you defy your father? Where are your manners, girl?’

‘I have decided, father,’ she said, looking him boldly in the face, ‘I shall marry someone I respect or not marry at all. I shall certainly never marry this... this man.’ She managed to give such a note of scorn to her voice that I almost felt sorry for Nicholas, though I knew he deserved it. And although his recent experiences had, I believed, greatly changed him for the better, I still did not think he would be a good husband for her.

I felt it was time I intervened.

‘Nicholas has asked me to confirm that he has turned over a new leaf. I do believe that he has, and has determined to lead a better life than he did in the past. But I still cannot commend him as the right husband for Elizabeth, and, Nathan,’ I said, laying my hand on his arm, for he seemed about to interrupt, ‘you must not condemn her to a life of unhappiness, however well-off she might be.’

Mr Whittle stood for a moment, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish, so that Nicholas had a chance to speak.

‘You’re right, Mistress Whittle,’ he said, ‘I have behaved badly, and I’m sorry. Sorry too that I didn’t realise before that you had so much spirit. I wish you every happiness—and may you find a

worthier man than me, Thank you sir’—this was to Whittle—‘for your offer. But Elizabeth and Mr Judd are right, I’m not the husband she deserves. Good even’ to you.’ He gave us a little bow and walked out of the house.

‘God’s wounds and bloody Beelzebub!’ Whittle said in a low voice. I had never heard him swear like that before.

‘Come, Mr Whittle,’ I said, ‘your daughter’s happiness is the most precious thing you can wish for —far more than gold, so why not let her wishes be your guide? And if Denis Faire should be the man she chooses, do consider—he is an enterprising man who will be a credit to his father-in-law, whoever that may be, so if I were you I would accept him with open arms’ ‘Maybe you’re right, Micah. She’s a determined young hussy, so perhaps I’ll have to let her have her own way.’

She flung her arms round him and kissed him.

I don’t know how Denis heard that the way was open for him to pay court, but he must have wasted very little time, for the next thing I heard was that he and Elizabeth were to be betrothed. Agnes and I were invited to the ceremony, when friends and relations gathered to witness the pair making their vows. In the customary manner he took her hand and said, ‘I Denis take thee Elizabeth to my espoused wife, and to faithfully promise to marry thee in time meet and convenient.’ She then made the same promise to him, except that she said, ‘... and promise to yield to be married to thee.’ We then congratulated them, kissed Elizabeth in turn, and had refreshments of cake and wine with much jollity.

Their marriage followed after only three weeks delay. During that time I heard that Nicholas had volunteered as a soldier, much to the distress of his mother. He went to join the Earl of Crawford, whom Prince Maurice had left in charge of Dorset, and quickly distinguished himself in the skirmish at Poole when the Earl was ambushed and nearly killed. Later Nicholas, or Captain Dashwood as he had become, was wounded while going with the King’s forces into the far west, and came back home to help his father run their estate. Eventually he married a local landowner’s daughter, from Puddletown not far from Dorchester.

Denis and Elizabeth were married in St Peter’s Church towards the end of September, using the form of service of the Book of Common Prayer, for it had not yet been banned by Parliament. Bride and Groom looked very fine. Denis had bought new clothes, and the gloves which a bridegroom traditionally gives to his friends were made by his father-in-law.

After the service we went to the Antelope Inn for the wedding breakfast. I helped to hold the cloth over the bride and groom while the cake was broken over it. Then all the unmarried girls present made their expected dash for the cloth and tried to grab a few crumbs, which they would put under their

pillows that night in hope of dreaming of their future husbands. There was much laughter, and some rather broad jokes made by one or two of the older men.

Mr Whittle made a speech, in the course of which he said: ‘I had my doubts, I don’t mind admitting, about the man my daughter was set on marrying. But she didn’t take any notice o’ me (laughter). I wonder where she got that obstinate streak from? Not from me, that’s certain (more laughter). Must ha’ been from her mother, God rest her soul. Anyway, now she’s got him, and it’s up to him to manage her if he can (laughter).

‘An’ now I want to mention someone without whom this happy day wouldn’t have come about— Mr Micah Judd.’ He went on to thank me in such fulsome terms that I was forced to interrupt him and say, ‘Nay, Mr Whittle, your daughter would have got her man without help or hindrance from me or you. All I have done is get back the means for you to send them off on their life together a bit richer than they expected, and for that let’s all give a cheer.’

Here I must cease, though I have much more to tell—of that poor ‘Wise Man’, Malachy Moore, of the Weymouth plotters, and of the King’s murdered messenger. But all that must wait for another time. *****

For those who like to know the history The events of the Civil War mentioned happened much as described. Dorchester citizens did make great efforts to improve their defences, then lost heart (especially after William Strode’s depressing assessment and Mr White’s departure) and surrendered to Lord Carnarvon—only to be pillaged a day or two later by Prince Maurice’s men. The Prince went on to conquer Melcombe, Weymouth and Sandsfoot Castle, and Portland was captured by Mr Bragge’s trick as described. Micah Judd, Belial’s Band, and the finding of the treasures are fictional. *****