HOMAS F AIRFAX , commanding the attacking army, had according to all the normal u ſ ages of war and the habits of Engli ſ hmen promi ſ ed quarter and good treatment for all, but he ſ hamefully broke this promi ſ e and Sir G EORGE L ISLE and Sir C HARLES L UCAS was ſ hot fir ſ t, and he died in the arms of his comrade. The ſ oldiers ſ aid to Sir G EORGE L ISLE that they were ſ ure to hit him and he replied that I HAVE BEEN NEARER YOU WHEN YOU HAVE MISSED ME .
This was the foule ſ t deed that I think ever was done in the hi ſ tory of the war in the ſ e i ſ lands.
[SS C/T/48/4 (EXTRACT)]
Another day, another crossroads outside Leeds, and another rider clumping towards a rendezvous.
Shay waiting by the junction again. The hooves of the approaching horse stamped slow enough to be counted.
Something seemed. . . the rider was a woman. Shay wondered what story she had for her journey south. Perhaps there was a servant in town, or back along the road.
She rode well: steady, flexible. Instinctively, Shay looked optimistically at the face. Not a fair woman, but a strong one – dark and sure.
The same exchange of greetings, the invocations of a captive King and a disputed God, and again Shay showed the gleam of the ring on his finger. The woman nodded, and Shay knew she was reviewing the protocols in her head. Now she looked up – still there was no relaxation in her face – and spoke.
Again, a messenger had come full two hundred miles to pass a single word: a name.
Some days later, a letter arrived at the Sign of the Boar in Leeds, addressed to Mr Francis Padget. It was put by, as letters were, for travellers and local residents. It was a full week before a large, older man appeared in the inn and, having taken a drink, asked whether there might be any correspondence for Padget. The letter was produced, the drink finished, and the man disappeared back into the town.
Once well out of town, and alone on the road, Shay pulled the letter from inside his coat. No obvious sign of tampering, though it was rarely possible to tell – unless you were dealing with complete fools, and the decade had taught the royal cause hard that it was not.
The letter was from Jacob Hoy, bookseller of Edinburgh. He regretted that he himself could not satisfy Mr Padget’s desire for a copy of the
Codex Walther
, but he had heard it said that Master Peter Staurby had – no more than a year ago, anyway – been in possession of one.
Staurby. Shay read the name again, then replaced the letter in his coat; he would destroy it in the first fireplace he reached.
He rode on, only half conscious of the pale morning around him, the wet fields.
Staurby. Something about the name. Something –
Good grief. Astbury, you old fool. You fool of a schoolboy, you amateur.
The old man had not died too soon; the system had to be gripped, and quickly.
The age of such games is past; this is a new world.
He could not assume that the place was not being watched, which meant both that his approach must be unremarkable but also that he could not make any sign of watching himself. Behaviour intended to escape scrutiny is dangerous enough, but nothing so much as behaviour intended to detect scrutiny exposes a man to it. So, no circuits, no dawdlings in the street, no adjacent vantage points, no more significant scanning of his surroundings than a man might reasonably do to find his way.
The house of Mr Farthing, he had learned from one courier. The town of Stoke, he had learned from the other. In the town, discreetly, he learned that the house of Henry Farthing was better known as the Jug – an inn.
Shay liked inns. No one could remark on a man entering or leaving an inn at most times of day or night. A man could stay in an inn for a few minutes or a few hours and not be remarked either way. He was also pleased because it suggested that Astbury had shown some sense in managing his messages: knowing Astbury, he had feared hollow oak-trunks and
This was the foule ſ t deed that I think ever was done in the hi ſ tory of the war in the ſ e i ſ lands.
[SS C/T/48/4 (EXTRACT)]
Another day, another crossroads outside Leeds, and another rider clumping towards a rendezvous.
Shay waiting by the junction again. The hooves of the approaching horse stamped slow enough to be counted.
Something seemed. . . the rider was a woman. Shay wondered what story she had for her journey south. Perhaps there was a servant in town, or back along the road.
She rode well: steady, flexible. Instinctively, Shay looked optimistically at the face. Not a fair woman, but a strong one – dark and sure.
The same exchange of greetings, the invocations of a captive King and a disputed God, and again Shay showed the gleam of the ring on his finger. The woman nodded, and Shay knew she was reviewing the protocols in her head. Now she looked up – still there was no relaxation in her face – and spoke.
Again, a messenger had come full two hundred miles to pass a single word: a name.
Some days later, a letter arrived at the Sign of the Boar in Leeds, addressed to Mr Francis Padget. It was put by, as letters were, for travellers and local residents. It was a full week before a large, older man appeared in the inn and, having taken a drink, asked whether there might be any correspondence for Padget. The letter was produced, the drink finished, and the man disappeared back into the town.
Once well out of town, and alone on the road, Shay pulled the letter from inside his coat. No obvious sign of tampering, though it was rarely possible to tell – unless you were dealing with complete fools, and the decade had taught the royal cause hard that it was not.
The letter was from Jacob Hoy, bookseller of Edinburgh. He regretted that he himself could not satisfy Mr Padget’s desire for a copy of the
Codex Walther
, but he had heard it said that Master Peter Staurby had – no more than a year ago, anyway – been in possession of one.
Staurby. Shay read the name again, then replaced the letter in his coat; he would destroy it in the first fireplace he reached.
He rode on, only half conscious of the pale morning around him, the wet fields.
Staurby. Something about the name. Something –
Good grief. Astbury, you old fool. You fool of a schoolboy, you amateur.
The old man had not died too soon; the system had to be gripped, and quickly.
The age of such games is past; this is a new world.
He could not assume that the place was not being watched, which meant both that his approach must be unremarkable but also that he could not make any sign of watching himself. Behaviour intended to escape scrutiny is dangerous enough, but nothing so much as behaviour intended to detect scrutiny exposes a man to it. So, no circuits, no dawdlings in the street, no adjacent vantage points, no more significant scanning of his surroundings than a man might reasonably do to find his way.
The house of Mr Farthing, he had learned from one courier. The town of Stoke, he had learned from the other. In the town, discreetly, he learned that the house of Henry Farthing was better known as the Jug – an inn.
Shay liked inns. No one could remark on a man entering or leaving an inn at most times of day or night. A man could stay in an inn for a few minutes or a few hours and not be remarked either way. He was also pleased because it suggested that Astbury had shown some sense in managing his messages: knowing Astbury, he had feared hollow oak-trunks and
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