Rebels and traitors

Chapter Fifty — Doncaster: October 1648

A month after Colchester fell, the Tower Guards were ordered north on a special mission. Their colonel initially remained in London, organising pay. Rainborough's regiment had been sent to attend to a last pocket of Royalist resistance: Pontefract Castle. This stronghold, known as 'the Key to the North', had been captured by a group of cavaliers who pretended to be delivering beds to the Parliamentary garrison. They had ensconced themselves with enough food to last twelve months. Since Colchester, the Royalists had no hope of mercy and were dug in for a long, desperate siege.

Their sojourn so far was not entirely miserable. Their besieger was Sir Henry Cholmeley, a snobbish, insular Yorkshire gentleman, an acquaintance of most of them and old friend to quite a few. Although he fought for Parliament, his brother fought for the King; they had remained on civil terms. He posed no serious threat to the Royalists in the castle. He knew them and they knew him. They were more loyal to one another as Yorkshiremen than to any outsiders. They therefore conducted activities like a local fete. They fraternised. They parleyed. They allowed each other to come and go at will. Cholmeley maintained a leaguer around the castle, but it was as loose as could be. It was said that he supplied the castle with mutton throughout the siege.

When Colonel Rainborough caught up with his regiment at Doncaster, he said that on the road between London and St Albans he had survived an ambush by three well-mounted Royalists. He fought them off. As sporadic outbursts of rebellion were put down, some Royalists were turning themselves into highwaymen. However, there was also talk of a death-list against senior Parliamentarians, and for his part in the execution of Lucas and Lisle, Rainborough could have been targeted.

The situation in Yorkshire was extremely tricky. The arrival of six companies of Londoners, led by a seafaring republican, all speaking in Thames-side accents (apart from a significant group from Massachusetts, where Rainborough had relatives), was never likely to go well. They might have felt out of place — had not Londoners believed everywhere belonged to them. In response, the locals adopted their own swagger. Though they should have worked as colleagues, the Tower Guards received no welcome from Sir Henry Cholmeley, who was outraged to find Rainborough appointed his superior — a much younger colonel, even though one who had a serious reputation. As a member of Parliament himself, Cholmeley refused to step aside and could not readily be sidelined. He had told his local County Committee he would accept no one less than Cromwell over him, and they had written to offer Cromwell the job. This undermined Rainborough locally, if not with his men.

The colonel could hardly take the regiment up to Pontefract Castle if Cholmeley was liable to start fisticuffs while rejoicing cavaliers smoked their pipes and gawped from the battlements. Rainborough's men were ready to knock seven bells out of Cholmeley's Yorkshire militia at breakfast, then deal with the cavaliers by dinner time — they regarded both with equal disdain — but for Parliamentarians to fight one another was unacceptable. It would give Rainborough's enemies yet another complaint. He had to tread carefully. His troops were 170 miles from London now and needed logistical support.

This was a wealthy part of South Yorkshire, full of rich men impressed with their own family histories, men who owned vast estates where their ancestors had built huge homes, far enough from London to think itself the centre of the world. It was an area of expensive horse-breeding, and horse-racing, which even then in its infancy was a royal sport. Pontefract was famous for its deep, soft loam, where for miles around sweet liquorice root grew and was made into medicinal cakes, good remedies for coughs and stomach diseases. Doncaster, where Rainborough made his temporary headquarters, had been loyal to the King; the King had honoured the town and the inhabitants were not to be trusted.

The military situation was deplorable. The enemy ranged at will over a ten-mile area, merrily flouting Cholmeley's siege of Pontefract Castle. Cavaliers plundered the countryside; they took prisoners, whom they held to ransom, rounded up oxen and other booty, then rode back into the castle, happy as freebooters. At Scarborough on the coast, the Royalists captured a pinnace, a small two-masted ship used as an inshore tender, which provided quantities of supplies for them. Meanwhile, Cholmeley's Parliamentarians were levying demands on the reluctant local population, causing great hardship. Equally repressive were the cavaliers, whose vicious extortion reputedly brought in thirty thousand pounds a month.

After reconnaissance — Gideon rode around as one of the scouts — Rainborough wrote to Fairfax, dwelling lightly on his personal strife with Sir Henry Cholmeley, but asking to be excused this command. He offered to carry on only if he was provided with proper reinforcements and supplies. While he waited for an answer, he remained at Doncaster. He kept two companies with him in the town, billeting the rest, as was customary, in outside districts to spread the burden for the locals.

The cavaliers from the castle boldly continued their habit of raiding, or 'beating up' enemy quarters. At a village six miles from Pontefract they killed a Captain Layton and two others from Rainborough's regiment, with more men wounded or taken prisoner. Next day, Cholmeley's militia met the enemy at a horse-fair, drank with them, and gravely exchanged toasts: 'Here's to thee, Brother Roundhead!'

'I thank you, Brother Cavalier!'

On Captain Layton's death, Rainborough bumped up Gideon Jukes to officer level. It was a long jump to captain, but not without precedent. When he gave Gideon his commission, the colonel drew comparisons with the Leveller Edward Sexby. He had resigned from army service, but somehow turned up at the battle of Preston; he was still so trusted by Cromwell that he was employed as the official messenger to take news of the victory to Parliament — for which he received a hundred pounds' reward. Subsequently he was commissioned as a captain, then even made governor of Portland in Dorset.

Gideon's new troop was one of those quartered in outlying villages. He wondered afterwards whether, had he remained a scout, he might have spotted what was happening and things might have turned out differently. But on the night of the 28th of October, a Saturday, a terrible event occurred. Gideon was in Doncaster, conducting routine business with the regimental major. Major Wilkes was in gloomy mood, frustrated by Sir Henry Cholmeley's lackadaisical maintenance of the leaguer.

He confirmed that Rainborough was still waiting for orders from Fairfax or Cromwell, so the regiment would continue to keep its distance here, which was about ten miles from Pontefract.

Gideon nearly went back to his troop that night, but Wilkes had grumbled on at length and darkness fell early at the end of October in the north. He stayed at the house where Wilkes was quartered, though he went out by himself to obtain supper at an inn. He chose one called the Hinde, which he found in French Gate, not as gracious inside as it looked from the street, though he stuck with it rather than turn back out into the cold. A few of the regiment's soldiers were drinking there, fellows with whom he had never felt great affinity. His meal was indifferent; he had a feeling he was being watched; a woman kept trying to meet his eye in a way he did not like. Since Lacy, Gideon distrusted all women and of course he believed that for officers to deal with whores was reprehensible — it undermined discipline and failed to set a good moral standard (Gideon knew this was pompous but he had not been a field officer long enough to relax). When he was asked at the Hinde if he wanted a bedchamber, he thought he knew what that meant. He was glad to say he had lodgings elsewhere.

Back in the streets he met one of the files of men on guard duty, at that point patrolling without an officer. They said the town guard that night was commanded by Captain-Lieutenant John Smith, the senior captain, who led Rainborough's own company; Rainborough had inherited Smith from his predecessor, one of the officers who had been shot dead at Colchester with suspected poisoned bullets. Gideon knew little enough about Smith, though he seemed too ready to complain about others. He was a Maidstone man, which did not impress a Londoner.

Conscious of his responsibilities, Captain Jukes ordered the unsupervised soldiers to be careful in their watch. Still unsure of himself in command, it continued to surprise him that they stiffened up obediently. 'Captain Smith will be around to see all is well.'

'Oh he will!' the men assured Gideon, in the sardonic voices soldiers use to decry unpopular superiors. He had no reason to assume they meant Smith was dilatory. He assumed they just needed taking in hand. That was Smith's job.

The soldiers moved on. Gideon strode in the other direction, trying to walk like a man who knew where he was going. Of course he got lost. Mistakenly he found himself near St Sepulchre's Gate in the south of the town, where a man who was carrying a Bible rather ostentatiously told him his way back. 'Major Wilkes is at a house near Colonel Rainborough, who lodges opposite the Cross and the Shambles,' the man added knowingly.

'I believe he does.' Gideon played it down for security reasons. He said his thanks, walked back up St Sepulchre's to Barter Gate, crossed over, found the major's house, and stretched out on a settle in the warm kitchen. The household were asleep, Major Wilkes long since snoring in his chamber upstairs, which was a senior officer's entitlement. Gideon had a hard bed, but better than open country; he stewed happily in the close room with his boots off until morning.

Everything changed when Captain Smith arrived.

The first Gideon knew was waking to angry voices. He heard a rumpus upstairs. There must be an alarm.

He pulled on his boots and grabbed his weapons. As he ran to the upper floor, he detected real horror in the major's voice. Smith, whose whine Gideon recognised, was making self-righteous excuses. As Gideon tumbled into the room, Major Wilkes stormed accusingly, 'You are an accessory to it!' He was pulling on a boot, in his haste tangling his toes in mismanaged boot-hose. Seeing Gideon, he cried out despairingly, 'Colonel Rainborough is murdered! He lies dead in the street, basely betrayed by Cholmeley and this man!'

Captain Smith turned and told Gideon defensively, 'I was taken ill during the guard. I carried on as long as possible, but was urged by Master Watts and Corporal Flexney to seek a house with a fire — '

'At the Hinde? It's a damned whorehouse!' muttered Wilkes, struggling desperately into his coat.

Smith carried on justifying himself. 'Truly I knew it only as a travellers' rest. I saw nothing of any trouble until I heard a great noise of horses, the enemy leaving — at once I put the men on guard and came to you, sir — '

'Out of my way! Come with me, Jukes — '

It was just after sunrise. They tasted mist on the sharp autumn air. They ran to Rainborough's lodging. He lay out of doors, on the cobbles some yards from the house, with blood trails all along the street. They recognised his body instantly, that big, powerful man: unmistakable. A small crowd had gathered, standing not too close. Their shocked murmurs stopped as Wilkes and Jukes approached. Beyond, a saddled horse stood, trembling, also covered in blood.

A second body lay somewhat apart. Major Wilkes walked over and turned the corpse, discovering their lieutenant. Neither Wilkes nor Gideon wanted to touch the colonel. The soldier who had been on guard as the colonel's sentinel was sitting on the kerb, badly shocked and woozy from a battering, saying over and over again, 'I had no match! I had been issued with no match!'

Rainborough had terrible sword thrusts through his torso, with defensive wounds on his arms. Gideon counted up: he had been slashed at least eight times. Under his jaw, his throat was cut.

The only witness to everything was a maid from the house.

'Get her story!' Major Wilkes ordered Gideon in an undertone. He was a hardened soldier, normally matter-of-fact but now badly shaken. Gideon saw the man's eyes darting as he assessed how much danger, if any, still threatened. Wilkes set about ordering a search of the town and drumming up the rest of the soldiers.

Gideon led the weeping woman back indoors where he seated her on a rush-bottomed chair. His heart pounded. He had witnessed terrible sights in the war, but Colonel Rainborough's savaged corpse would haunt his dreams for ever. He wanted to yell, but forced himself to address the maid reassuringly. 'Just say what happened.'

In their agitation, neither could well understand the other's accent, but Gideon had learned how to listen to a strange brogue and any northern woman knew how to tell a story. Up with the light, the maid had gone out for something — water? coal? She admitted she had temporarily left the door ajar. 'Three men came, dressed like gentry; they told the sentinel, proper like, they had brought a packet and letters from Oliver Cromwell. The lieutenant was there and he let them go up. The colonel was in his chamber — in his waistcoat, drawers and slippers!' whimpered the maid.

The image of those slippers would haunt Gideon. He had seen one in the gutter outside, completely drenched in blood. The other, moulded by long use to the exact shape of sole, toes and bunion, had stayed wedged on his colonel's foot. It was embroidered. A wife — Margaret Rainborough — would have bought those slippers as a loving gift, or even worked the tapestry herself. They were personal items, easy to pack, which Rainborough had carried with him everywhere, as soldiers did: a little piece of home, however far he travelled; comforting at the end of a hard day.

Gideon reddened and tersely corrected the maid: 'Say in his shirt. More decorous than drawers.'

She accepted the demure alteration. 'They claimed to have brought letters, but when he looked it was but a packet of blank paper. They made him come downstairs, dragged him in his shirt!'

'How do you know all this, if you had gone for water?'

'I was only gone with the pail a minute. I would not have left the door open, else.'

'All right. So you saw these men? Did you recognise them?'

'I never saw them before.'

'Did they sound local? Northerners?'

'Aye, they were not strangers.'

'Go on.'

Rainborough had been overpowered in his room before he could reach his sword and pistols. Ordering him to keep silent, the raiders forced him down to the hall. Unarmed, but thinking his sentinel would assist, Rainborough suddenly shook them off. The sentinel had no match for his musket and could do nothing to raise the alarm. (Truly? wondered Gideon, already alert for discrepancies and treachery. Why did he not club them with his musket butt?) The cavaliers then pushed Colonel Rainborough out to the street and tried to force him on to horseback. They had taken his lieutenant prisoner too but when Rainborough saw there were only four assailants, one of whom was holding the cavaliers' horses, he paused with his foot in the stirrup and roared a call to arms. He and his lieutenant put up a vigorous resistance. Rainborough snatched one man's sword, the lieutenant grabbed another's pistol. Rainborough was thrown down and thrust through the throat, his lieutenant was run through the body and killed.

'Are you telling me they wanted to carry off the colonel alive?'

'It seemed so. He refused to go.'

Gideon thought rapidly. This was a bungled kidnap? Perhaps the intention had been to make Rainborough a hostage, maybe exchange him for some prominent Royalist prisoner — Sir Marmaduke Langdale would be a prime candidate. After the battle of Preston, Cromwell's pursuing men had captured Langdale at an alehouse near Northampton, though in fact he had just escaped.

The struggle lasted, the maid thought, a quarter of an hour. (And nobody else heard anything?)

The maid kept going over it. The choreography seemed confused, but the picture was vivid enough. 'The colonel demanded a sword so he could die like a man. But they refused, then stabbed him through the body several times more. He nonetheless seized an assailant's sword, struggling for it with his bare hands, bending it right back on its pommel. I heard one man cry out to another to shoot him, but the pistol misfired. The shooter hurled the weapon, causing a great bruise on Rainborough's head that made him stagger.'

The lieutenant lay dead, the sentinel was out of action. No soldiers had answered the colonel's call to arms. The raiders began to move off. Rainborough staggered along the street after them.

'They noticed him, and cried out "The dog follows!" They turned back, even though the colonel had fainted. Then they ran him through again and again, and at last rode away crying "Farewell, Rainborough!" I heard him groan, before that, "I am betrayed! Oh I am betrayed!" Those were his last words on earth — ' The maid collapsed.

Gideon slumped briefly in a country chair, covering his face.

Leaving the maid, he explored the house.

In the kitchen, he found the owner, sitting with other occupants, amazed and deeply shocked. There was a full water pail, abandoned. Gideon grew up in a house where working women were sternly controlled by his mother, but he had seen that other servants had their own ways. Some maids constantly vanished on little errands they dreamed up, to fetch water, wood, shopping, eggs from the henhouse, to borrow flour, to visit friends for gossip, to help at births. In some houses they took it as their right to come and go.

Accepting that the maid had not left the door open as part of the conspiracy, he continued his investigation. In the hall were signs of scuffle. On the stairs lay a dropped gauntlet. New marks disfigured the wall, white gouges in the simple panelling. He found his colonel's room by deduction; its door stood open. For a few moments he was able to stand there alone, hearing the silence, yearning to communicate with the dead man who had so recently stayed here.

The bed was turned back as if a sleeper had just left. One chair was a little askew, as if someone had stood up and turned to the doorway There were few real signs of violence. A sword and sword belt, pistol and ammunition pouches were laid by on a chest of drawers, unreachable from the bed or the chair. Everything was as it ought to be: black cloak, scarlet coat, baldric and hat on door-pegs, britches folded over a chair-back, belt loosely coiled on the chair's seat, Bible at the bedside, papers on a small table with ink ready, small notebook for jottings (at Putney, Gideon remembered, the colonel had complained of a poor memory). Chests and saddlebags were neatly lined up along one wall. Everything was neat, as a sailor would have it.

A soldier entered quietly, with respect. The same maid had shown him in. 'Major Wilkes sent me, in case you need assistance.'

Gideon gave orders for securing the papers, which should be taken to the major. He explained that the room must be carefully locked up until Colonel Rainborough's property had been packed for his family. There would be no private sneakings up here to steal just a keepsake' — a handkerchief, falling bands, spectacles, prayer book — no stolen memorials appearing in seedy auctions later, with faked rusty bloodstains, 'as owned by the prominent Leveller Colonel Thomas Rainborough, and in his possession at Doncaster the same night he was treacherously slain..'

'Will they bring the corpse here?' The maid's eyes flickered to the bed. She could not help thinking of all the blood and how that blood, even congealing, would ruin good coverlets.

Gideon glanced at the soldier. 'If the body comes back to the house, let it lie on a table in some convenient room downstairs. A coffin will be ordered…' He and the soldier shared a brief silence, thinking of their great tall colonel. Rainborough would require a large coffin, specially made. Someone would have to organise that.

Tears wet the soldier's cheeks as he gazed miserably around the room. Like Gideon he was infected by melancholy as he viewed this place that Thomas Rainborough had used, in which he had spent his last moments. The doused candles in the sconces had been quenched by his fingers. The room still contained his smell and his spirit. His piss would be in the chamberpot, his clothes still carried hints of him. Those boots — which Gideon had just spotted with their crumpled boot-hose laid across their tops, ready to jump into again — would be intractably imprinted with his shape and sweat, permanently altered since they left the maker's last by the individual way he had walked and ridden.

'Never more!' uttered Gideon Jukes, despite himself. The reaction was private and unintentional. 'Farewell, Rainborough,' he added more formally, as he shepherded out his companions. They walked quietly on to the landing. Gideon himself found the key inside the chamber door, pulled it out and locked the room behind them. The housekeeper was staring up from downstairs.

After a second, Gideon unlocked the room again and reached behind the door for something which he carried downstairs on his arm. When he left the house, the body was still lying in the street, though Major Wilkes had set a guard until it could be taken up. He could hardly bear that terrible sight again, but Gideon Jukes walked steadily across to the corpse. The guards saw his intentions and allowed him through.

He knelt down on the cobbles, heedless of the wide pool of now-glutinous blood. There he gently covered Colonel Rainborough with his riding-cloak, for decency.