‘Bristol. Noted for its ale, I believe. You didn’t go thirsty then?’
Brooke let out a raucous bellow. ‘We certainly did not, my friend. Nor hungry once we’d cleared the shitten scum out of their shops and houses and filled our stores with meat and bread.’
So much for an end to the war. Thomas said nothing. He could guess what was coming. Plunder, destruction, rape, murder. The usual litany of crime dressed up as a gallant victory. Another dragoon piped up. This one was short, with a face ravaged by drink, a big belly and the voice of a fishwife. ‘Those traitorous, whoreson bastards got what they deserved. When Prince Rupert asked them politely to open the gates, they refused, the donkey-headed dung eaters. We had to breach the walls and storm the city. Good men died.’
‘So they did,’ agreed Brooke. ‘We had to make an example of the place. They should have opened the gates. It was a bloody business getting in. Women and children were killed. I hate the sound of screaming women, it puts my teeth on edge. But it was their own fault. Later we hanged a few of the scroyles for good measure.’ Thomas tried not to show his horror.
‘They’ll open the gates to the king next time,’ said a dragoon, raising his tankard. ‘The city’s ours now, and everything in it.’
Thomas had heard enough. Another city destroyed, men hanged, women raped and murdered, children butchered. And these so-called soldiers boasting about it.
‘Well, bookseller,’ went on the fat dragoon, ‘and what have you to say to that? A great victory, eh?’
Thomas did not want to say anything. He put down his glass. Before he could turn to go, however, he found himself flat on his back in the dust, struggling to breathe. The fat dragoon had punched him hard on his breastbone, knocking him backwards, and was now astride him, his backside planted on Thomas’s chest. Thomas was quick on his feet and much stronger than he looked, but it had all been so fast that he barely knew what had happened. He gasped for air and opened his eyes. A bulbous nose, two watery eyes and a black-toothed mouth were inches from his face. He shut his eyes again and held his breath. The stench of the man was revolting, never mind his weight on Thomas’s stomach. And he could feel something sharp pricking the skin under his left ear. The dragoon had pulled a knife from his belt. Blood trickled down Thomas’s neck. The man hissed at him. ‘So, Hill. You choose to ignore my question. Perhaps you didn’t want to hear about our great victory. Perhaps you’re a piss-licking Roundhead after all. Is that it? A piss-licking Roundhead is it, Hill?’
Thomas felt the point of the knife digging into his neck. Bile rose to his throat from the weight of the man, and he turned his head to the other side and vomited. It ran down his chin into the dust. He retched and coughed, his eyes clamped shut. Then, suddenly, the weight on his chest was lifted and he was being helped to his feet. He heard the voice of the captain.
‘God’s wounds, man, we’re soldiers of the king, not highwaymen. You’ve had too much ale again. Master Hill meant no offence, and even if he did there’s no reason to kill him. Go and find a bucket of water and stick your ugly head in it until you’re sober. Or as sober as you ever are.’
The fat dragoon, stunned by a heavy blow to his head with the hilt of the captain’s sword, struggled unsteadily to his feet and, cheered on by his colleagues, stumbled off in the direction of the duck pond.
The captain turned back to Thomas. ‘My apologies, Master Hill. The man’s a drunken oaf. Are you recovered?’
From the winding, Thomas was recovered. From the shock, he was not. ‘Thank you, yes, captain,’ he replied quietly, wiping away the blood and vomit with a white handkerchief. ‘I meant no offence, but I don’t care for violence of any sort.’
‘A soldier must do his duty and obey orders. War is violent.’
‘Then let us pray that this war ends soon. Enough English blood has been spilled on the land.’
‘I too pray that it ends soon, and with victory for our king. Now, will you take another glass of claret with me while that fat fool has his head in a bucket?’
‘Thank you, captain, but I shall be on my way.’
‘But what about your French philosopher? Mountain, was it? You were going to share his wisdom with me.’
‘Montaigne, captain, Michel de Montaigne. He lived in the last century and said many wise things. Here’s one with which to bid you farewelclass="underline" To learn that we have said or done a foolish thing is nothing; we must learn a more ample and important lesson: that we are all blockheads. God be with you, captain.’ Thomas bowed, and set off back up Market Street towards Love Lane.
Watching him go, the captain took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘If any of you understood that, be sure to enlighten me. Now go and see if that gorbellied idiot is alive. We must be on our way.’
Still a little dazed, Thomas walked slowly. When he reached the bakery on the corner, he stopped to breathe in the aroma of tomorrow’s loaves. His sensitive nose twitched in pleasure. The dragoon had smelt like a midden. It was a blessed relief to get the stench out of his nostrils. He breathed deeply and looked around.
From this point in the village, he had a good view of the countryside. To the west, he could see the great oaks of the New Forest, and to the south, fields of wheat and barley yellowing in the summer sun, copses of oak and elm, and the Test winding down towards Southampton. Every time he stood here, he offered a silent thank you to the Benedictine nuns who had chosen this lovely place for their abbey more than seven hundred years earlier. It was an abbess who had been granted a charter to hold fairs and markets, from which the town had grown and prospered. The nuns might have left, but the good people of Romsey had managed to save the abbey from destruction by buying it from the king for a hundred pounds, and now it was their parish church. Even with the country at war, Romsey was a thriving market town of over a thousand souls and a centre for the trading of wool and leather, with busy watermills all around. Now it stood precariously between the Royalists in Winchester and the Parliamentarians in Southampton, and at the risk of being ravaged as so much of England had been ravaged.
Margaret was sitting outside the shop on her wicker chair, reading a book and enjoying the last of the evening sunshine. When she saw Thomas coming up the street, she put down her book and watched him. ‘There you are, brother,’ she greeted him, ‘and walking steadily, I’m pleased to see.’ She had never seen him less than sober, but teasing ran in the family.
‘Certainly, my dear, though I was sorely tempted. A troop of dragoons on their way through were washing the dust out of their throats. I’m surprised you didn’t hear them from here.’
‘Royalists, Thomas?’
‘Yes, Royalists. I’ll tell you their news later. Are the girls in bed?’
‘I’ve just put them down. They’ll be asleep.’
Pity, thought Thomas. He liked telling them a story before they fell asleep. It was usually something from the Bible or the classics. Hercules was popular, so was David, though Polly was already expressing doubts about a giant as big as Goliath being felled by a little pebble. ‘There’s chicken from yesterday, if you’re hungry,’ said Margaret, ‘and plenty of cheese.’ So far, the privations suffered by so many towns and villages had not come to Romsey, and no one was starving. ‘You can tell me what the dragoons had to say while you’re eating.’
In between mouthfuls, Thomas told her the news of Bristol. He left out the worst bits, and Margaret knew that he had. She had heard it all before, and she too was sickened by it. ‘God forbid that Polly and Lucy should grow up in such a country. They’ve lost their father and, if it goes on much longer, they’ll lose their childhood. Polly asked me today what happened to the farmer’s face. We saw him in the market. What am I to tell her? That he tripped over a plough, or that it was hacked off by a man with an axe? One’s a lie, the other would give her nightmares. She’s only five, for the love of God.’