Shadow of the Raven (25 page)

T
homas knew that he had to act fast if bloodshed was to be avoided. As he rode away from Boughton he glanced back and saw smoke from the campfires rising over the ridge. He caught sight of the company of men being put through their paces in a field not far from the hall. He spurred on his horse and shortly arrived back in the village. There were few people about; it seemed that most had obeyed the order and retreated to their homes. Thomas was puzzled, however, to see that Walter Harker's window was opened wide onto the street. Thinking that the constable would be on duty at such a time, he decided to call on him. Knocking at the front door, he was answered with a long, low mumble and entered to find Harker seated by his hearth, downing a quart pot of gin.

“Mr. Harker, you have heard some villagers plan to beat the bounds?” Thomas thought it odd that the village constable should not be policing his patch.

Hearing the anatomist's words, Harker lifted his blurry gaze. “They need to do what they need to do,” he mumbled.

Thomas smelled the strong liquor on the constable's breath and looked into his bloodshot eyes. He realized he was too far in his cups to be of any use. Walter Harker was washing away his duty in gin. Thomas bent low and pawed at his sleeve.

“Where is Adam Diggott?”

The constable grunted and supped more gin.

“You know he is planning something and that Sir Montagu has laid a trap.”

“I can't change nothing,” Harker groaned, shaking his head. The drink had reduced him to a quivering mass, robbing him of his pride and dignity. There was a time, not so long ago, when Thomas knew he could rely on Walter Harker in a difficult situation. Now, however, he realized he would have to act alone.

Riding to the edge of the village, to the Diggott cottage, Thomas found Abe asleep in a chair. He was alone. Gently he put his hand on his shoulder to wake him.

The old man's eyes flew open, swimming in their sockets. A moment later they were focusing on Thomas. “Dr. Silkstone?” he croaked.

“Yes, Abe. Do you know where Adam is?”

Diggott gave a qualified nod, but no more.

“Is he at the beating?”

“I'm not to tell no one,” came the reply.

Thomas took a deep breath and explained. “I believe Adam and his friends are in grave danger. Sir Montagu knows they want to tear down the fences, and the troops will be under orders to fire.” Kneeling beside him, he touched the old man's arm. “Do you understand?”

Abe grunted. Despite the faraway look in his tired eyes, he seemed a little more lucid. “The redcoats would shoot them?”

“I fear so. I must speak with them and warn them,” replied Thomas, his voice becoming more urgent.

The old man nodded. “He went to the common, him and Zeb Godson and the others. You're right, they'll have them fences down, but I don't know how they plan to do it.”

Thomas rocked back on his heels and rose. “I shall find them,” he said. “But if you see them before I do, tell them their lives are in danger.”

 

Adam Diggott was among friends. He knew that, but he also knew that in these straitened times, even those he counted as good friends might betray him to the authorities for a shilling or two. It was a risk he had to take, but so as not to make himself obvious, he took to wearing a disguise as he went about spreading word. Dressed as a peddler, his large-brimmed hat still pulled low, he was hawking his wares among the few souls who had gathered by the common and revealing himself to those he knew he could trust.

Zeb Godson, Josh Thornley, and Will Ketch did not have to adopt such drastic measures. There was no price on their heads, but still they had to be guarded. Hands were cupped over mouths, voices were low, gazes direct. The plan was simple. That afternoon those villagers and commoners brave enough to defy the law and practice their ancient custom would gather on the main road to Oxford near Arthur's Hollow. The natural amphitheater on the common was the only ground that was still accessible. The rest had been fenced off over the previous few days. There they would sing a song and begin to process up the slope toward the line of stark wooden posts that barred their way to the top of the hill. As the villagers' chants came to a crescendo, the dissenters would quickly make their way to the fencing and begin tearing it down with axes and mallets that had been set aside. Posts and gates would be flattened before the troops got wind of the destruction, and the perpetrators would melt away just as surely as they had appeared. That was the scheme that had been conceived, and Adam Diggott and his cohorts had been gathering surreptitious support for it all day. Mingling among their neighbors, men and women of like minds, cottagers and woodsmen, country folk with the Brandwick soil in their bones and the water of the bournes of the Chilterns in their veins, it had not been hard to persuade them of their cause. They'd been born to their rights to common land, and by God, they'd die for them.

Just before St. Swithin's clock struck one, a crowd began to gather. What had begun as a handful of stalwart dissenters was swelling all the time. Emboldened by the gathering of a few, more and more villagers took to the common, so that by the time the clock struck two, upward of one hundred people had massed. With not a redcoat in sight, there was a carnival atmosphere. Girls wore flowers in their hair or carried posies. Others fixed ribbons to sticks and waved them like wands.

Thomas snaked his way through the crowd, looking for Adam Diggott. It was his broad frame and tall stature that gave him away.

“Thank God I have found you,” said the doctor, unable to hide his relief.

“Dr. Silkstone.” The coppicer's expression remained serious and aloof.

Thomas frowned. “I am come to beg you, and anyone else for that matter who is rash enough to pull a prank, think again.” The doctor laid his hand on Adam's arm and spoke with a fearful intensity, but he was quickly rebuffed.

“I know the redcoats are at Boughton, if that's what you mean, sir,” came Diggott's reply. It was as if the soldiers posed no more of a threat to the procession than troublesome flies. He turned away.

Thomas tried to reason with him and tugged at his jacket, so that he turned to face him once more. “Eighty men, many armed with muskets,” he cried. “Are these people's lives worth the price of a few fence posts?”

Adam narrowed his eyes and, without warning, pulled away from Thomas. Climbing onto a stile nearby, he addressed the crowd.

“Good people of Brandwick,” he shouted above the din. “Good people of Brandwick,” he cried, louder this time. The chatter fell silent. All eyes turned to him. “Are we ready to make a stand?”

“Aye!” came the universal shout. They were united against enclosure, but the mood was excitable rather than angry.

“Then let us sing!” cried Adam Diggott. He cast a triumphant look at Thomas before signaling to the drummers and fiddlers to strike up their rendition of “Hey Down, Derry Down.”

 

Meanwhile from his vantage point on a hill near Boughton Hall, Captain Samuel Ponsonby of the Oxfordshire Regiment was surveying the scene with his telescope. At his order his men began falling in. The crowd had gathered near the new boundary. They had riotous intentions. The law of the land had been broken. It was up to him and his men to enforce it. Within a few minutes a second order was given to move out. The troops were on the march, their mission to protect the lines of newly erected fencing, whatever it took. Just as the first song came to an end, the crowd started moving up the slope.

Hal Thornley, who'd been given the job of watching for the soldiers, brought word. “They're on their way!” he panted.

“Let's see where they station themselves,” replied Adam, leading the crowd. “They'll expect us to go for the fencing on the ridge.” He jerked his head toward the line that lay in front of them.

“Yes.” Zeb nodded.

“But we won't,” countered Adam.

“We won't?” queried Will, Bess trotting by his side.

Adam shook his head. “We'll surprise 'em by taking down the fencing that skirts Raven's Wood. 'Tis where they'll least expect it. There's a good half mile we can get our teeth into there. We'll have it all down afore they know it.”

Zeb and Will nodded in unison. “ 'Tis a good plan,” said Josh Thornley. “Let's spread the word.”

And so it was that, while most of the villagers made their way up to the fencing on the ridge, another three dozen or so broke off from the main group. The majority of the dissenters clapped in time to music as they ascended the slope, causing a distraction for the others, who broke off, willy-nilly, heading west toward Raven's Wood.

Meanwhile Thomas had stationed himself on a ridge to the east of the action so he could see any troops approaching before the villagers below. It was not long before he, too, saw them, and he watched their arrival with trepidation. They spread out and stationed themselves around the perimeter of the common, as if corralling the villagers like sheep that could be penned in and shepherded at their will. But these man-made barriers, these soldiers, were well spaced out, with at least twenty yards between sentries.

Keeping himself distant from the main body of the crowd, Thomas walked up the slope toward the long line of fencing that marked the newly claimed Boughton land. Stopping by a broad oak, he looked back down toward the hollow. Taking out his spyglass he could see that a group of maids, all wearing their long white May robes, had formed themselves into a ring. A fiddler struck up, and in time to the music, the circle began to configure itself. Threading through one another and forming into circles and shapes, the girls moved in unison, bobbing and skipping like young puppies at play. They were obviously meant to distract the soldiers, and turning his glass on the redcoats on the ridge, Thomas could see that they were doing an excellent job. Perhaps, he thought, the protest—for that was what it was, a protest dressed up as an ancient tradition—would pass off without incident. Perhaps a shot would not be fired. Perhaps he had worried unnecessarily.

Suddenly a voice came from behind. “A fine sight, eh, Dr. Silkstone?”

Thomas turned to see old Maggie Cuthbert standing beside him, looking down at the dancers. “The Uffington Horse,” she said.

Thomas looked at her quizzically.

“The dance,” she explained. “ 'Tis named after the great white horse on the downs.”

“Ah,” replied Thomas with a nod. He thought of the enigmatic creature cut into the chalk hillside a few miles away.

The old crone smiled. “'Tis said that when King Arthur awakes, the horse will rise up and dance on nearby Dragon Hill,” she chuckled.

Thomas tilted his head. “And what will wake King Arthur?” he asked.

Maggie Cuthbert pursed her lips as she surveyed the dancers, then turned to him and said with the utmost conviction: “If England is in peril.”

L
ydia studied her father across the dining table. She watched his jaw move slowly up and down as he chewed each mouthful of food assiduously. His long fingers, like talons, grasped the stem of his wineglass before he washed down his dinner with a good vintage. She had seen him eat before, of course. He had been a regular guest at the Crick family table during her childhood, conversing easily, holding sway and charming with his wit and repartee. She had respected him then, before she had known the secret that he kept with her mother. Those little asides she had seen them share; those trifling moments when one had brushed up against the other, thinking no one else had seen. They had all seemed so innocent to her and quite beguiling at the time. And now she knew the truth. The late afternoon sun that filtered weakly through the casement began to throw her newfound father's face into sharp relief, and the shadows started to play tricks on her eyes—elongating his nose, highlighting his cheekbones, turning the unremarkable into the striking. His whole countenance changed as the light altered, and it troubled her that the same man could appear so very different; that the person she had known, and feared, could take on the mantle of her protector and yet still cause an unsettling doubt in her mind.

“You seem most pensive,” he remarked finally, placing his knife and fork side by side on his empty plate.

She had not realized that he, too, had been studying her, watching her slyly as she pecked at her food like a bird in summer. She managed a wan smile. As a young child taking its first steps, she felt herself toddling toward him, arms outstretched, and yet . . .

“I have much to think about, sir,” she replied. She did not mean to sound impertinent, but she saw him arch a brow as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

“Silkstone's visit has disturbed you.” His perception, like his gaze, was always razor-sharp, thought Lydia. That was why he was at the top of his professional game, she told herself. Yet still she found his acuity unnerving. She could not hide her unease.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I had wished to confront him, and yet I found myself locked in my room.” Her voice was tinged with reproach, but he countered her obvious disaffection with a disarming reply.

“But, my dear, that was purely for your own protection. Did you not hear him shout your name? He tore in like a madman, intent on harming you.”

It was true. She had heard Thomas call her name, more than once. He sounded furious, but what if he was desperate? What if those cries were not angry but anguished? What if her father was lying to her? After all, his whole relationship with her mother had been based on a lie. If he had lived under a pretense for all those years, then surely there was nothing to stop him from adding to his litany of deceptions and manifest untruths. And yet she had seen Thomas's signature with her own eyes, been present when he had spoken with Dr. Cameron. Her mind kept traveling in circles, whirling 'round and 'round, unable to find its own path through the tangle of intrigue and deceit that engulfed her. For now she would keep her own counsel. After all, Richard was with her, and she would do nothing to jeopardize his presence again.

“Yes. I am most grateful to you,” she replied.

 

Thomas stayed on the hillside for a few moments longer after Maggie Cuthbert went on her way. It was a good vantage point. He counted upward of forty soldiers strung out along the fencing and could watch the dancers below, too. He guessed the rest of the company would be patrolling the estate's perimeter. The band kept on churning out lively tunes and the revelers continued to stomp and clap in time. But of Adam Diggott and his men, there was no sign. He glanced to his left. The soldiers he could see were still being kept occupied watching the village girls below. The dissenters had sloped off to cause mayhem elsewhere on the estate, and he'd wager he knew where. Down the bank he slipped, leaving the common, unseen by revelers and soldiers alike. Mounting his horse, he headed for Raven's Wood.

In ten minutes he was approaching the shaded edge of the trees. Up ahead he could see others, too. Squinting into the shadows, he made out several people. He heard noises, too; dull thuds and sharp cracks broke into the spring air. He hurried forward to see what was going on, and there, in the gloom, he could make out dozens of men and women uprooting fence posts or hacking at them with axes. The main gate into Raven's Wood lay chopped to pieces, and some of the women were gathering the shards into their aprons to use, Thomas presumed, for kindling. He strained his eyes to look down the line of fencing. As far as he could see along the boundary of the wood, people were vandalizing the stakes. The stronger men ripped posts from the ground as easily as rotten teeth from gums; others simply trampled on spars when they were flung to the ground, cracking them under foot. Some took obvious glee in the destruction, grunting and growling as they did so. Others were more workmanlike and methodical, settling into a rhythm of tugging, breaking, and throwing to the ground. All travailed with an intensity of purpose that came from knowing that their livelihoods were in peril.

Thomas surveyed the scene with a quiet horror. He could not help but admire the villagers' tenacity and ingenuity, yet his overwhelming immediate feeling was fear for these brave but, he felt, misguided souls, and the consequences of their actions. The infantrymen were stationed not half a mile away; one whiff of such insubordination and they would rally and train their muskets on the rebels. It would be just as he dreaded. The soldiers would fire. Blood would be shed, and Sir Montagu would be vindicated. The tyrant would enjoy nothing more than to see the village troublemakers dance on the end of a rope, and it seemed that soon his wish might be fulfilled. Thomas knew Adam Diggott would be somewhere at the center of this mass insurrection. He hurried along the lines searching for him. He dared not call out for fear of alerting the soldiers, so he zigzagged from man to man in his search. It did not take him long to find the coppicer himself, directing operations at the farthest gate.

“Diggott!” Thomas panted in a hoarse whisper.

The rebel's head, still covered by his large-brimmed hat, shot up.

“What in God's name do you think you are doing?” hissed Thomas, keeping his voice low.

Diggott snorted and pushed back his hat with his thumb.

“I be doin' what is right, Dr. Silkstone. These fences don't belong 'ere, so we're taking 'em down.”

Thomas flung an arm in the direction of the soldiers by the common. “If they find out, they will shoot. There are women here. There will be no quarter!”

Diggott, his ax in his hand, straightened his back and looked down on Thomas. There was strong liquor on his breath.

“If we lose our rights, then we lose our way of life, Doctor. We got nothing more to live for.” He turned 'round and, shaking his fist in the air, he raised his voice. “Let the soldiers fire. We're ready to be martyrs for our cause!”

At the rally cry, the villagers all looked up. Some shouted “Aye!” in reply, and Will Ketch's dog began to bark, but there were others who, fearing the infantry might be alerted by the outburst, slipped off silently, melting into the woods or sloping off down the hillside.

“Do you want to rouse the redcoats?” Thomas asked incredulously.

The coppicer turned and raised his ax above his head. “I'm past caring,” he chuntered, and he brought down his blade on the fencing rail, splitting it in two.

Seeing it was fruitless arguing with Diggott, Thomas made his way back along the line. At each woman who remained, he stopped to ask if he could accompany her back to the common and out of harm's way. He could see that some of them were frightened, but most refused his offer. They would stand by their menfolk, they told him. One woman, however, her skirt a buttercup yellow, insisted that her young daughter return with Thomas to the village.

“You be goin' now, Daisy. I'll follow later,” she told her.

Thomas took the girl's hand. She was no more than ten years of age. He smiled at her, but she returned a frightened grimace. Together they began their descent toward the common as the destruction of the woodland fencing gathered momentum. Now more than ever, it was vital that the soldiers remained distracted, thought Thomas. He would do what he could to divert their attention. Lost in his thoughts, he was trying to formulate a plan when, halfway down the slope, a loud cry went up from below.

“Turn out! Turn out!”

The shrill notes of a bugle suddenly sounded and Thomas stopped in his tracks. He looked down at the little girl, her eyes wide in fear. The secret was out. The soldiers had been alerted. Soon they would be marching toward them. Thomas pulled the girl to him and together they rushed off the track and ducked behind a hawthorn bush.

“Stay there. Don't move,” he told her. He prayed the rebels would have heard the troops' rallying cry. The sound would surely have carried across the hill, but he wanted to make certain they all had the chance to get away. Keeping off the main path, he began to climb up the slope once more toward the wood. The sound of his heart drummed in his ears as he went, but the pounding was soon joined by a louder, deeper beat. Wheeling 'round, he saw the infantry, marching two abreast up the footpath, carrying their muskets. At their head on horseback was the young officer. Summoning all his strength, Thomas renewed his efforts, scurrying between the gorse bushes, until he reached the plateau at the edge of the wood. In the shadows, he could make out the few remaining commoners who still wielded their axes and mallets.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called to them. “The redcoats are coming!” he cried. “Get away!” He flailed his arms wildly in the hope that those who saw him would heed his warning. One or two did, but the rest either did not, or would not. They remained hacking and breaking right up to the moment that the officer ordered his men to fan out, at the top of the plateau with the forest edge in full view. They did so, forming two lines, the first on one knee, the second standing close behind.

The order was given. “Fix bayonets.”

From out of the edge of the woods, Thomas watched horrified as figures suddenly emerged. First he made out Adam Diggott, but he was swiftly pursued by another dozen men. A clutch of women followed in their wake, so that the two sides were now lined up against each other, fewer than twenty yards separating them.

“Come no farther!” shouted Adam Diggott. His cohorts raised their axes threateningly. “No farther,” he repeated.

Captain Ponsonby, remaining on his horse, shouted back. “You have willfully destroyed property belonging to the Boughton Estate. Desist immediately in the name of King George.”

Adam Diggott stood firm. “We will not move from what is rightfully ours. These woods belong to us!”

There was a chorus of approval from the men at his side. Tensions were heightened. Ponsonby hesitated. He had not anticipated such willful disobedience. “Take aim,” he ordered.

Thomas knew if he was to act, now was the moment. Revealing himself from behind his cover, he walked out between the two rows, his hands held aloft. The muskets suddenly trained on him, but he knew he must hold his nerve.

“Captain Ponsonby!” he called.

The young officer shot back, “Make yourself known, sir.”

“I am Dr. Thomas Silkstone,” he replied. “I was at Boughton Hall this morning.”

Ponsonby, nonplussed for a second, nodded an acknowledgment. For an instant tension slackened. “You may approach, sir.”

Thomas began to walk toward the officer. His pace was measured. One sudden move and he knew a nervous soldier might fire his half-cocked musket. He had barely gone five steps, however, when he heard something whistle past his right ear. He ducked instinctively as a broken fence post came hurtling through the air toward the officer. It hit his horse's flank, causing it to rear and let out a loud whinny. Will Ketch's bitch began to bark, too, and more missiles suddenly began flying about through the air, pieces of flint and shards of wood. They rained down on the front row of the soldiers. One was hit on the head and he fell. Another caught Thomas on the shoulder and he dived for cover.

Under attack, the young officer panicked. He had lost control of the situation. As the villagers approached, armed with their makeshift weapons, he gave the order.

“Above their heads, fire!”

The first volley cracked through the air and sprayed the trees, sending twigs showering to the ground, but the warning shots did nothing to dampen the villagers' ire. For a moment they froze amid the musket smoke, the gunshots ringing in their ears, but Adam Diggott would not be deterred. Lifting his ax above his head, he gave his own battle cry.

“Forward!” he shouted. There was no time for anyone to make their escape. He surged forward, together with half a dozen stalwarts, forcing the officer's hand.

“Fire!” cried Ponsonby. This time there was no mercy. The second line of musketeers aimed their shot right into the band of villagers that rushed toward them, their makeshift weapons held aloft. Some of the women began to scream and held back, calling to their men. Three fell instantly, but their fall did not make the others flinch. Three more men came hurtling toward the soldiers, brandishing axes as the troops reloaded. Another order, another volley, and they, too, fell. Keeping low to the ground, Thomas wiped his forehead with his palm and looked at it. It was covered in blood. It was not his own.

The tang of gunpowder filled the air and the smoke quickly cleared to reveal the carnage. Thomas hurried to where the wounded villagers lay. Below the sobs and wails from the women, he heard low groans. He rushed toward a wounded man, lying facedown, a hole blown through his left arm. He turned him over. It was Zeb Godson. Nearby lay scrag-headed Josh Thornley, sprawled out, his eyes open and blood trickling from his mouth. Thomas could see that he had taken a ball in his chest and died instantly. Abel Smith, the fowler, lay nearby, a shot in his head. The bury man, Joseph Makepeace, had fared better. He was on his knees, clutching his side, but at first glance Thomas believed the wound was a graze.