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    The Pistoleer: Edgehill
    The Pistoleer: Edgehill
    The Pistoleer: Edgehill
    Ebook446 pages14 hours

    The Pistoleer: Edgehill

    By Skye Smith

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    About this ebook

    In 1642 King Charles realized that he was losing control of England to parliament so he gathered an army to him in Nottingham. Since he couldn't beat the Reform Party in the House of Lords, in the courts, or in public opinion, instead he would kill or capture them. The seers had told Daniel that the ever colder winters and shorter growing seasons would bring violence to the kingdom, and now that prediction was coming true.
    He could no longer delay moving his clan to the New World, for the nobility were choosing sides, sons against fathers, brothers against brothers. Worst of all, mercenaries were being brought in from the brutal continental wars. When some of Daniel's clansmen were pressed into the king's service, he had no choice but to find them and rescue them.

    * * * * *
    Skye Smith is my pen name. The Pistoleer is a series of historical adventure novels set in Britain in the 1640's. I was encouraged to write them by fans of my Hoodsman series.
    This is the fourth of the series, and you should read at least the first novel 'HellBurner' before you read 'Edgehill' because it sets the characters and scene for the entire series. The sequence of the books follows the timeline of the Republic of Great Britain. The chapter headings identify the dates and places.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSkye Smith
    Release dateAug 4, 2014
    ISBN9781927699157
    The Pistoleer: Edgehill

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      Book preview

      The Pistoleer - Skye Smith

      The Pistoleer

      Edgehill

      (Book Four of the Series)

      By Skye Smith

      Copyright (C) 2013-2014 Skye Smith

      All rights reserved including all rights of authorship.

      Cover Illustration is a part of Pappenheim Curassiers

      By an Unknown Engraver (1632)

      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 recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Revision 0 . . . . . ISBN: 978-1-927699-15-7

      Cover Flap

      In 1642 King Charles realized that he was losing control of England to parliament so he gathered an army to him in Nottingham. Since he couldn't beat the Reform Party in the House of Lords, in the courts, or in public opinion, instead he would kill or capture them. The seers had told Daniel that the ever colder winters and shorter growing seasons would bring violence to the kingdom, and now that prediction was coming true.

      He could no longer delay moving his clan to the New World, for the nobility were choosing sides, sons against fathers, brothers against brothers. Worst of all, mercenaries were being brought in from the brutal continental wars. When some of Daniel's clansmen were pressed into the king's service, he had no choice but to find them and rescue them.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14

      About The Author

      Skye Smith is my pen name. The Pistoleer is a series of historical adventure novels set in Britain in the 1640's. I was encouraged to write them by fans of my Hoodsman series.

      This is the fourth of the series, and you should read at least the first novel 'HellBurner' before you read 'Edgehill' because it sets the characters and scene for the entire series. The sequence of the books follows the timeline of the Republic of Great Britain. The chapter headings identify the dates and places.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14

      Prologue

      This adventure is as historically accurate as I could make it, however I have not included my endless references because the main character, Daniel, is fictional. I have kept the descriptions and actions of the non-fictional characters as close to historical accounts as possible.

      As a rule of thumb, if the character is a parliamentarian, or has a title, or has a military rank of captain or above, then they and their families are non-fictional. If the character is a member of the Wellenhay clan or goes unnamed, then they are fictional.

      All dates have been converted to our modern calendar to save the reader the confusion of January being the tenth month of the old year rather than the first month of the new year, thus the Battle of Edgehill takes place in Gregorian November rather than in Julian October.

      Note that at the end of this book there is an Appendix which is organized like an FAQ. There you will find answers to dozens of questions such as:

      - Where can I find out more about the historical characters and events?

      - What was the significance of Edgehill?

      - Why is Prince Rupert, a royal hero, portrayed as being evil?

      However, the next few paragraphs will set the scene of this era for you.

      * * * * *

      This novel begins in February 1642 after King Charles Stuart and his family had fled the mobs of London but before the mobs forced the surrender of the Tower of London. Parliament's reformers were being split three ways between the peace party, the war party, and the middle party. The money men behind the reformers were some of the richest lords in the kingdom ... the Earl of Essex (Robert Devereaux), the Earl of Warwick (Robert Rich) and the lordly partners in Rich's powerful Providence Company.

      The Stuart Regime's natural allies were the English lords with Scottish blood, the wealthy Catholics, and the second sons of the nobility. In this era the first sons inherited everything while the second sons often became soldiers in hopes of winning the favours of kings and generals. Parliament's natural allies were the lords with English blood who had been deposed by the Scottish Stuart regime, the lords who hated and feared the Spanish, the businessmen who wished to profit from the misfortunes of Spain and Portugal at the hands of the Dutch, and anyone who thought that they were paying too much tax towards supporting lavish palaces.

      England was an island, therefore most of the military budget went to providing a fleet to protect its shores, especially the much larger 'summer' fleet for when the weather was good. Instead of keeping a large standing army, each shire and main town in England was responsible for arming and training a militia unit ... the trained bands. If need be, the militia could swell to include every able-bodied man, and thus the armouries and magazines were well stocked. The first widespread violence between king and parliament was the result of both sides claiming command of the shire militias and their armouries. Students of history will note that this was also how the first widespread violence of the American War of Independence began.

      In each shire an appointed Lord Lieutenant controlled the militia, and when parliament began replacing these Lieutenants with their own men, the king issued 'charters of array' so that his own chosen lords could call up any able bodied men or horses. The rioting that London had experienced began to spread to other towns as men refused to be called up or to give up their horses.

      Meanwhile experienced soldiers were coming home from the brutal continental wars, and bringing mercenaries with them. The once peaceful England was being set up for a Thirty Year's War style conflagration, and all because the king refused to share power with the elected parliaments.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      Cover Flap

      About the Author

      Prologue

      Table of Contents

      Chapter 1 - At Warwick House in London, February 1642

      Chapter 2 - Storming the Tower of London, February 1642

      Chapter 3 - Prince Rupert in Dover, February 1642

      Chapter 4 - Queen Henrietta flees from Dover, February 1642

      Chapter 5 - Admiral Robert Rich in London, March 1642

      Chapter 6 - With the Summer Fleet off Deal, July 1642

      Chapter 7 - Breaking the dikes in Hull, July 1642

      Chapter 8 - Finding Providence in Hull, July 1642

      Chapter 9 - The Siege of Hull, July 1642

      Chapter 10 - Taking Dover Castle, August 1642

      Chapter 11 - College Silver in Cambridge, August 1642

      Chapter 12 - A Lion in Skegness, Lincolnshire, August 1642

      Chapter 13 - Blake is missing in Somerset, September 1642

      Chapter 14 - Blake found at Yeovil, Dorset, September 1642

      Chapter 15 - Trap on Babylon Hill, September 1642

      Chapter 16 - Grief in Beaminster, Dorset, September 1642

      Chapter 17 - At Holland House, Kensington, September 1642

      Chapter 18 - Bad news from home in London, September 1642

      Chapter 19 - Defending Boston, September 1642

      Chapter 20 - Freeing friends near Nottingham, October 1642

      Chapter 21 - Shot on the Shrewsbury road, October 1642

      Chapter 22 - Hiding in Bury Walls, Shropshire, October 1642

      Chapter 23 - Flying Squads at Warwick, October 1642

      Chapter 24 - Rupert sighted in Warwickshire, November 1642

      Chapter 25 - Two armies line up at Edgehill, November 1642

      Chapter 26 - The Battle for Edgehill, November 1642

      Chapter 27 - Collecting prisoners at Kineton, November 1642

      Chapter 28 - Lions led by Donkeys at Kineton, November 1642

      Chapter 29 - Rupert's Vultures at Kineton, November 1642

      Chapter 30 - Appendix FAQ

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14

      Chapter 1 - At Warwick House in London, February 1642

      Was he dreaming or was there someone in the room with him. He tried to wake himself to call out but try as he might, there was no sound. He tried to lift the pistol that he knew was beside him in this overstuffed chair but it was as if it was stuck between the cushion and the arm. Everything was molasses slow.

      There it was again. A waft of moving air and the shuffle of soft feet on carpet. His whole being wanted him to wake up, to open his eyes, to raise his pistol. And then ... soft warm skin pressed into his eyes. Was he dreaming. He knew the touch. Some woman was slowly rubbing the silky skin of her breasts against his face.

      As soon as he stopped fighting to wake up, he woke up. Not that he could see anything for his eyelids were pressed shut by the breasts. What a magic feeling. What a magic way to be woken up. Her scent came to him. Butter and cinnamon, so she was Lydia the baker. The same woman who had showed him to this chair. How long ago was that? Was it morning yet?

      My bread is in the oven, so there will be warm water to wash in by now, Lydia whispered into his left ear.

      By bending towards his ear, her breasts had moved either side of his nose. With pursed lips he kissed the goddess spot between them. She stopped still, so he kissed again, but then she pulled away. He reached out with both hands to stop her.

      No you don't, Lydia whispered as she stepped back out of reach. Not with those filthy hands.

      He opened his eyes just as her breasts disappeared back in place inside her smock. Her white linen smock. In truth, all of her was white. Her smock, her cheeks, her arms, her hands ... everything was coated with the finest dusting of white flour. Her bare arms were bent up at the elbow and she had her hands cupped up as if to remind herself not to touch anything. Not to smear dust on anything, and not to dirty her baker's fingers.

      Er, thank you, Daniel told her, it was a truly delicious way of waking me up.

      How else would I wake a filthy man sleeping with one hand on a pistol butt?

      Still half asleep he foolishly said, By calling gently to me. It was the wrong thing to say, for her playful grin disappeared.

      And what fun would there be in that.

      He was about to tell her it would be safer to wake a rough man from a distance, but as he was about to speak she turned in the light and he saw the ripple of muscles in her arms. Of course, she was a baker and the endless days of kneading dough would have given her the arm and shoulder muscles of an oarsman as well as a grip of steel. This woman would not stand to be roughhoused by any man.

      Wake up, sleepy, if you want me to lead you to the washing room, she told him. I have bread in the oven and the sands of time are running.

      Of course, she would be timing her bread with an hourglass. With a heave he pushed himself to his feet and tried to stretch but a sleepy dizziness put a stop to that. Once the dizziness had left him, he bent down to grab his woolen cloak off the floor. No wonder he had been cold. He had fallen asleep with his cloak as his blanket, but it must have slipped off. With a practiced motion that he didn't need any thought he grabbed up his compact wheellock pistol from behind the cushion, checked that the safety was on, and then shoved it into the pocket of his fleece jerkin. Lead on.

      She picked up her candle lantern, and on cats paws they crept through the sleeping house and down the back stairs to the cellar where the ovens would be. House, hah, Warwick House was a palace. At the bottom of the stairs he could smell the baking bread, and was suddenly ravenous. He followed Lydia into a large room. It was not her kitchen, but the room on the other side of the giant brick chimneys from her ovens.

      The room was thankfully warm, unlike the library he had been sleeping in. The February storm that raged outside was so cold that it had iced the inside of the library windows. They were tall, wide, and very fashionable windows, and totally silly in places that suffered a lot of winter. This winter had been bitter in London, just like the prior three.

      This room was strung with clothes lines and there was a row of stone washing tubs along the far wall ... the laundry room. When she had told him 'washing room' he had expected a bath house, perhaps with a sweat lodge. A sweat lodge would be perfect right now, for he was cold to the bone.

      You can bathe yourself in here, she told him, so that you don't wake the rest of the house. Once you're clean I'll find you a bed.

      The night watch on the gate knew him personally, so he had been let through into the house despite it being three hours shy of dawn. The only person of the household who was awake at that hour had been the baker, Lydia. She had absolutely refused to show him to a bed until he had bathed, so instead she had left him sitting in the library while she went to build up the fires of her ovens.

      He reached out and picked up a pail. I'll follow you into the kitchen to fill this with hot water, shall I? he guessed.

      No need. Just flip that lid up. She pointed to a covered stone cistern that was built out from the back of the oven chimneys. My ovens heat the water in that cistern. This may be an old house, but the Rich family keeps it modern.

      Mmm, yes, I noticed the new windows in the library. Why didn't you just bring me straight here. The library was perishing cold.

      Well, you being a gentleman and all, it seemed more proper to have you wait in the gentleman's room.

      I am not a gentleman, and you are not proper, he replied as he took the pail over to the cistern. This deep in the cellar there was no longer any reason to whisper.

      She watched the tall handsome man flip the cistern's lid open. A tiny whiff of steam drifted up, but just one. Ere, grab that laundry basin for standing in, she told him. And set that stool beside it. I can stand on it to pour warm water over your head.

      Behind her was a line of candle lanterns and she lit two of them from hers. By the stronger light she found the stacks of clean linen and grabbed a towel from the 'service' pile. No need filthying the good linen with the grime that would come off this man. He had the smell of horse to him: horse and leather and street mud. Perhaps she should have brought him directly here, and she suddenly fretted that he may have soiled the overstuffed chair he had been sleeping in.

      Gracious! My bread. She threw him the towel as she spun on a toe and rushed away.

      It took him but moments to undress because his riding boots had never made it passed the front door. Once naked he shivered and was sorely tempted to climb into the cistern and have a bath, but that would never do. This cistern would be kept scrupulously clean and the water must be dipped out of it.

      There were four bars of soap on the closest of the stone tubs, and he went and sniffed each one of them, but they all had the smell of laundry lye to them, so he gave up on the idea of using soap. With warm water the muck should come off easily enough even without soap.

      He pushed the laundry basin along the tiled floor, but the scraping made a terrible screech in the quiet room, so instead he lifted it and placed it down beside the cistern, and then did the same with the three legged stool. The two candle lamps were too far away to throw much light on his basin so he fetched them and put them on a small wall shelf next to the cistern.

      Something was already on the shelf and it clinked against one of the lamps. It was a small plate and on it was a small bar of soap. He sniffed it. Flowers. Perfect. Time to bathe. He used a dipper to rinse off the beaten tin pail to make sure it would not dirty the cistern, and then lifted out his first pail of warmish water. This he used to douse his long hair and face and shoulders. The splashes down his body would soften the grime while he washed his hair. The flowery soap turned easily into bubbles, and soon he had more bubbles than hair.

      And then he had more bubbles than eyelashes. Oh how those bubbles stung his eyes. He had set the empty pail down while he had used the soap. Fool, he told himself, you should have filled the pail again before setting it down. He bent down and groped for the pail, and groped and groped. Eventually his blind hands found it, but then it was pulled out of his hands. Quickly Lydia, rinse this soap out of my eyes.

      While he kept his eyes tightly shut, he heard the scraping of the stool being pushed closer, and then the splash of the pail scooping water from the cistern. Hurry. The stool creaked as Lydia stepped up on it, and finally, fresh, clean, warm water cascaded down his face and took the soap bubbles with it. He sputtered and rubbed his eyes but they still stung. More water, please.

      The sequence of sounds repeated and then there was more water and the touch of fingers combing through his hair to help the water rinse it out. Now the back and shoulders while I scrub. This time Lydia didn't have to step up on the stool so it went faster, but now instead of fingers combing through his hair, they combed through his pubic hair. With each down stroke they rubbed him in the most delightful way, with the expected result. Her hand grabbed his swelling pint and began to squeeze it ever so gently.

      Lydia, you are being most improper, he told her with a laugh, and wiped the water from his eyes so he could open them. You're not Lydia. It was an obvious and foolish thing to say to Susannah Rich, the Lady of this house, as well as seventy or eighty manors. Susannah, you mustn't. Not in your family's home.

      Mustn't. I mustn't, yet you laughed when you thought I was my baker. How dare you? It was false anger. She was simply playing for time, more time to be close to this comely man before he pulled away from her and covered himself with his towel.

      I ... I should cover myself, he said, though for her modesty not his. In his village of Wellenhay they chose not to play the Christian modesty games. Such games were silly in a village of clanfolk where life revolved around the communal bath house and sweat lodge. In truth he was in no rush to cover himself, for her little squeezes felt delightful.

      She looked down at his throbbing pint. Dare she? He was barely thirty while she would never see sixty again. Thinking of the age difference made her think of her husband, Robert, and she suddenly felt foolish. Robert Rich the Earl of Warwick preferred the company of lasses not yet twenty, and always looked a right fool while pandering to them. She let go of him and told him to finish bathing.

      With one of the lamps in hand she went to inspect the stacks of neatly folded laundry. Carefully, so the stack would not tip over, she pulled out one of her husbands linen-cotton bedroom robes. When she turned, the change in angle of the light showed her that the front of her night gown was damp, and that her dark nipples were showing through it. The sight of her hard nipples gave her courage. Despite her sixty years she had kept her figure so her breasts still rode high, and her nipples still pointed forward. As she walked back towards Daniel she jiggled them with a naughty glee.

      Leave your clothes here to be cleaned, and put this on instead, she said handing him the robe. We can take some of Lydia's bread up to my chambers. My bed will still be warm and my fire is still glowing. I will heat you up some wine on the hearth.

      The jiggling nipples had distracted him from drying himself. He had been given only one towel and rather than use it to dry, he was using it to cover his privates. She grabbed it away from him and rubbed him dry with it ... all over. I can't go to your room, he told her. That would be most improper.

      Well I suppose you could use the empty bed in Teesa's room, Susannah said with an eye cocked, waiting for her words to sink in.

      Why, where is Britta? he replied. Teesa and Britta were his two step daughters, and were long time guests of Susannah's at this palace. Teesa the tomboy huntress and Britta the girly beauty. Susannah's husband was enamoured with Teesa, but she treated him like a father, rather than a lover.

      In Robert's bed as usual, she told him, all the while watching his face for his response. He spends his days and evenings with Teesa and his nights with Britta. This was a dangerous gamble she was taking. Daniel was a dangerous man, a very dangerous man. He had ridden with the Dutch Pistoleers for years, and during that time he had specialized in shooting Imperial officers. He was quite capable of shooting her husband. Yes it was a risk, but she had no choice but to tell him. It was better he heard it from her, rather than from the household gossip.

      He stepped out of the basin and reached out to grab the robe that was hung on a peg beside the cistern, her robe, and then he exchanged it for the one she was holding. He slipped it on and then he went through his filthy clothes to gather his weapons and his two purses, the hidden one and the decoy one. Once they had blown out the lanterns, the walked into the kitchen to find some bread.

      Lydia, Captain Vanderus will be in my room, Susannah said, but only you are to know that.

      Lydia nodded as she filled a small basket with cinnamon buns ... cinnamon that she had bought from this captain on one of his prior visits, along with some other spices he had brought from the Netherlands. She did not curtsey or bow to the Lady. This house had thirty female staff, and she was madam's enforcer with them. She never bowed because one of her duties was to keep watch that everyone else bowed. She looked longingly at the Captain. It should have been her, not her Ladyship, taking liberties with this man's body.

      Susannah led him up the back staircase and crept up the first flight so as not to wake anyone. From the sounds around that landing the house was waking in any case, so they hurried up the next two flights and along the corridor. They literally spilled through the door into her chambers, and she bolted the door behind them. She was smirking like a naughty young girl and she knew it. Young, that was the key word. She felt young again.

      Another smirk shaped her lips. That was exactly what Robert always told her whenever she complained about his keeping the company of such young women. Their company made him feel young again, and he was five years her younger.

      Daniel was not smirking. Tell me more about your husband and Britta, Daniel said as he pulled off his robe and slipped into the warmth of the grand bed. He swore an oath to me that he would not molest them while they stayed with you.

      Susannah took off her robe and draped over the chair in front of the standing mirror. Her nightgown was still damp. At her age women looked far better in their clothes than without them, so she skipped ... er... jiggled over to a tall cupboard. In the partial privacy of the cupboard doors she changed out of her linen nightie and into a silky one, one that didn't need to be damp to drape over her nipples. He swore that he would not molest Teesa, she replied. That was before Britta came to visit.

      But he never showed any interest in Britta. Teesa, it was always Teesa with him. I just assumed.

      Daniel, how can you be that thick? Britta is one of the most comely women in all of London, and you know how Robert is drawn to young women. You should never have allowed her to stay here.

      I know, I know, but I had to let to stay. She has a dream of marrying a wealthy man. While staying her that dream had a chance of coming true. At the George Inn in Cambridge it had none. I just assumed that she would refuse to be his mistress because that would foil her dream.

      Mistress. Is that what you think. I think you over estimate my husband's prowess in bed. I'm quite sure she does a lot of cuddling and little, if any, mistressing. He likes their company because they keep him ...

      Young. Yes, so he has told me many times.

      Having Britta as his bed warmer has kept Teesa from taking on that role, she told him as she joined him between the sheets and became a bed warmer herself. He loves Teesa like a daughter, or rather, like a son. They used to just go riding and hunting together, but now she accompanies him where ever he goes in London. You know how she always carries that nasty sharp knife of hers, well now she carries a small pistol too. It is almost as if she is fashioning herself as his bodyguard.

      That sounds like Teesa, he replied as he reached across her to grab a cinnamon bun. When she sees something that needs doing, she lends a hand to it.

      A hand, yes, that is what she is ... a hand. She tried to steal some of his bun and that became a bit of a wrestling match, an intimate wrestling match. I suppose she learned that from working on your clan's ships. She threw a leg across him and then rolled on top of him and held him down while she took a bite of the bun he was holding.

      He let her stay on top, mainly because he was warmer that way. He knew that his throbbing pint was now lined up with her purse and with one push he could be inside of her, but he didn't push. While still a lad his clanswomen had taught him that it was the woman's decision of whether or not to connect, not the man's. Susannah didn't. Perhaps she was teasing, or perhaps she wasn't ready ... it mattered not and he didn't push it.

      I'm sorry, he whispered to her. They were nose to nose and making smiles with their eyes. Here I am all worried about Britta, and all the while it is you that is the injured party. Does having Britta in his bed upset you?

      Oh faddle. Rather her than me. He snores and farts in his sleep. When I share a bed with him, I lie awake all night. Besides, she asked my permission first, and I gave it.

      But you and Britta were getting along so well, he whispered. Susannah had taken country bumpkin Britta under her wing and dressed her in silk and taught her manners and the art of posing so that she wouldn't embarrass herself at all the fine parties held in this palace.

      And we still do get along. While Teesa is out and about with Robert, Britta and I are inseparable. Why are you making such an issue of it? Your daughters have told me all about your clan and all the wife swapping that goes on. For instance, I know that you have two wives, two sisters, two inherited widows, and they live quite happily together while they share you.

      Oh yes, and what else did they tell you? he asked suspiciously.

      Well Britta tells me all the gossip while Teesa explains all the traditions. I think Teesa sees herself as becoming an elder or even a seer when she grows old. It has been quite, er, enlightening to a Presbyterian like myself. Especially the descriptions of the communal use of the bath house and sweat lodge. Perhaps its time this house had the like ... with the sexes kept separate by a bathing schedule, of course. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had deepened. He was asleep. She sighed and rolled off him and stared at the drapery that was hung around the bed.

      A wide awake hour later the window brightened into morning. Daniel was still asleep beside her. She lifted the covers slightly so she could stare at his long muscular body. His skin seemed to glow with health. Teesa had told her that most of the clan had such glowing skin and that tall lithe build. It came from a diet of fish and dairy, a thousand years of eating fish and dairy.

      Teesa had also told her that the clan was bound and determined to leave their damp village in the fens of Cambridgeshire and move to the tropics. The clan elders were convinced that the last few years of frigid long winters were just the beginning, and that such winters would be normal for decades to come. She dropped the covers down again, because there was a cold draught sweeping down the windows and across the room. Perhaps it had been a mistake to have all these large windows installed.

      She reached for her robe and put it on under the covers, which was difficult to do without nudging Daniel awake. Let him sleep. He was so exhausted that he hadn't even tried to hump her, despite her teasing. Once the robe was snug around her, she rolled out from under the covers and stepped into her slippers. Rather than call a char into the room, she went herself to stoke the fire with more chunks of coal. The heat from coal was wondrous, but she hated the oily smell and the filthy smoke and dust.

      On icy days like this she would never venture out into London. On icy days the yellow-brown smoke that hovered above the city would drop down to street level. She had no desire to breathe such foulness. On such days the entire city would be set to coughing, endlessly coughing up the foulness that got into their lungs. It was most unusual for her to even be in London in the winter, for usually they went to one of their many country houses either in Essex or in Warwickshire or in Somerset, depending on which estate or business required Robert's attention. But not this year.

      The countryside was no longer a safe place for reform parliamentarians. The king had too many agents in the country, and the king wanted the reformers stopped. Permanently if necessary. Robert and the rest of the reformers were far safer in London than anywhere else, especially now that London was not safe for the king. Even in his palaces the king was longer safe from the London mobs who blamed him for the brutal poverty in the hard streets of the city.

      Which reminded her that this would be a busy day and it was passed time that she were dressed. Her dresser knew better than to knock when her door was locked and by now she would be sitting on a chair outside the door so that no one else would knock either. From her cupboard she chose a very subdued, very humble dress for today she must arrange for a gift of coal to be distributed to the many streets that supplied volunteers to Robert's trained bands.

      How ironic that the very thing that caused the foul air was the very thing that London needed most to survive this winter and the very thing that the poor could least afford. Coal was so dear these days. The Lords of Coal, the Hostmen Company, were still gouging London to recover the profits they lost to the Scottish Covenanter army which had had occupied Newcastle-upon-Tyne last year.

      Something must be done about the coal, and not just the price of it. It was so filthy. It dusted everything in black. An hour on the streets and her white lace collar would be gray around her neck, and if she sat anywhere the dust would be carried back to her furniture. Even the rain water in the catchment barrels was tainted grey by the rain that fell through the coal smoke and onto the layer of dust on the roofs. For the poor, the rain water was their drinking water. She shuddered involuntarily.

      She smoothed the plain dress down, and then put a homespun woolen smock over it, and then checked herself in the mirror. Merde, she looked like a grandmother, which she was. With a twist and a lift she pinned up her hair and then put a Puritan style bonnet on top of it to keep it in place. To the mirror she said, That will do for now, and then left the room quickly before the handsome captain saw her looking like a grandmother.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14

      Chapter 2 - Storming the Tower of London, February 1642

      Daniel woke up with a start when the covers were hauled away from him. In a panic he reached under the pillow for his small wheellock pistol but it wasn't there. What there was in abundance were peels of naughty laughter. Get up you lazy dog, it's almost noon. We've been sent to dress you. Teesa told him.

      Oh, have a heart, he said not bothering to cover his nudity. I've been in the saddle for two days and nights, and I didn't get here until well after midnight. He rolled onto his side and put his head under the pillow. His legs, bum and lower back ached.

      Come on, Britta said, We've brought you some of juniors clothes. You know, Robert's son Robert. He is about the same size, though his legs may be a bit shorter.

      Daniel looked out from under the pillow at his two step daughters. They looked like they were thriving. They looked happy. Why wouldn't they be happy. Last year they had been crude country lasses dressed in homespun and living in the Fens village of Wellenhay. This year they were city girls, dressed in silk and living in a palace. So Britta, have you found a husband yet?

      Britta had been holding a formal coat high so he could see it, but now she lowered it so she could stare at him. Susannah told you, didn't she. Well I don't want to discuss it. Better I give my favours to a grateful old man than to some eeler's son who always stinks of fish.

      Stinks of fish, you mean like an eeler's dotter, Britta Venkadotter?

      Don't be disgusting, Britta said, but Teesa who often went eel fishing, was laughing her head off. Despite her best efforts at being serious, the laughter was infectious and eventually all three of them were laughing. When she could gain her breath again she said, Besides, you're one to talk. Look whose bed you slept in. Did you ask my mother's permission first? Eh? Eh? Eh?

      Nothing happened. I just need to sleep. He looked at their disbelieving smirks. Honestly. Then they were all over him. Hugging him, and kissing him, tickling him and trying to get him to fit into clothing that was just a bit too big around the waist and just a bit too short in the arms and legs. Eventually he was dressed, and he actually looked quite the city gent. He looked at himself in the mirror and said, I should have shaved first.

      No need. London gents never shave anymore, Britta told him. They trim their mustaches long and twist them like rope, and trim their beards short and in a vee. Sit in front of the mirror and I will trim yours for you. He did not move, so she pushed him down onto Susannah's plush stool that faced the mirror, and then she found some sprung scissors in a drawer and began to shape his bushy seaman's beard.

      Has there been any news from Wellenhay? Daniel asked while motioning to Teesa to share the last cinnamon bun with him. If fear that the terps may no longer be tall enough.

      We had a letter from momma and auntie. Everything is fine in Wellenhay, but yes there are some damp floors, she replied. The terps were the ancient mounds that Wellenhay's thatch houses were built upon so that they sat higher than the level of their low island, an island prone to floods. Everyone there is a lot warmer than the folk of London, and they can breathe the air without coughing.

      I hate the air in London, Britta said as she snipped away at his beard. Robert keeps promising to take everyone to his house in Bristol, but there is always a good reason to put it off. There is just too much politics going on in London.

      Are the rivers still frozen over? he asked Teesa.

      No, but the ponds are. It's been an indoors winter so everyone is bored. It's a good thing Anso brought those Dutch schaatsen over from Holland, else no one would ever go out. He has the men playing ball and stick games while gliding along the ice on them. There were tears in the corner of Teesa's eyes. I miss Wellenhay. I miss home.

      What can you possibly miss about that damp island? Britta stopped snipping hair to ask.

      "I miss the ... the ... community, the oneness, the simplicity. No, what I really miss is that everyone is true to who they are. Everyone I meet

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