Rebels and traitors

Chapter Fifty-Three — A Lane near Tottenham: October 1648

A man!' exclaimed Valentine. After long hours of travel he had been hunched and silent, but what he saw made him excited.

'Oh, I think he is dead.' Tom, equally fascinated, scrambled to the side of the cart and stared ahead.

Until now they had both been extremely subdued. They were frightened that their mother, the only other person in their world, had been devastated by trouble which she avoided explaining. But children rapidly recover when given a new interest.

'Do not look!' instructed Juliana, though her words would make them do it. She tried to whip up the horse: useless. The beast, a cast-off of the Pelhams, had taken them to Colchester and was bringing them back, but it was pulling a cart laden with her possessions and what remained of her father's, a load it considered an outrageous imposition. It went only at its own pace.

'Boys, don't look!' She was prepared for them to see death. She meant, if he is alive, do not meet his eyes. Do not court trouble. Please, do not let us be drawn into a situation that I cannot manage..

As they passed, the horse took fright at the figure lying in the hedgerow. It dragged sideways with a pathetic whinny and crashed the cart against the bushes at the opposite roadside, so the only solution was to rein in. Fortunately when it slowed to a halt, they were yards beyond the man. All three looked back.

They were in a peaceful country lane. Like so many places, its hedges had not been tended for years. There were long gaps. To either side was English rough pasture, with tall clumps of rusty sorrel among the rank grass. Nothing grazed there. After the floods, it would be soggy underfoot; if she let the boys down to piss, they would come back with muddy shoes and kick slime over her skirt. Dead vegetation was caught among brambles. Great black rooks stalked around the pastureland as if they owned it.

'Stay here!' Too late. Three-year-old Val had already slid from the cart, legs straight, skidding on the seat of his britches. Once on the ground, he felt he had the better of his mother. He strolled back, slowly, showing only a little caution. Tom, who was older and more worldly wise, stayed at her side. The person in the hedge had not moved, yet Juliana felt reluctant to call Val, afraid to arouse the man's attention.

The horse became agitated in the traces. She could not entrust the reins to a child; handling this dreadful creature was almost beyond her own strength. 'I have to stay here. Thomas, fetch your brother.'

Tom jumped down like a cricket and was off down the lane. Wrong decision, Juliana decided wryly; now I have lost both of them. They were good children, but when they failed to see logic in her orders, they defied her with a casual ease that Tom for one had learned from their father. That was even though they hardly knew their father.

'He is not dead,' she heard Tom's clear voice, telling Val. How could he tell? Heavens, the man must have stirred or looked at him. 'Though he is close to it. He has a red coat — he is one of them.' Val took his brother's hand as Tom addressed the man formally: 'Where are you going, sir?'

The figure spoke. He spoke so that even Juliana, struggling again with the recalcitrant horse, heard his destination.

'London? We are going to London!' Tom exclaimed. It was not an offer of assistance; he knew better, as his glance back to his mother confirmed. Thank you for the consultation, Juliana thought. The horse settled. She twisted in her seat, still clutching the reins as she half-stood so she could see over their mounded luggage.

'He might hurt us,' Val told his brother wisely.

'Not much!' Tom retaliated.

It seemed true. The man lay exhausted, obviously sick or wounded. She could see no bandages. Nor could she make out blood, or any of the terrible wounds soldiers suffered. Like the sick and exhausted people she had seen at Colchester, he must be simply failing from neglect and hunger. Colchester was a long way behind them now, but it was possible he too had come from there.

Juliana wanted the boys safely back with her. So much misery had crushed her lately, she was unable to abandon another sufferer. Like all people who have little, she was too close to thinking What if this were me? Therefore she heard herself call out grudgingly, 'You will experience a jolting, if you ride with us. But if you can climb in unaided, we will take you to the city gate.' She had set her conditions. Neither she nor her boys would touch him. He would stay well behind them, crammed among their baggage, where if he was as helpless as he seemed, he could not harm them.

'Tom, Val; come back here now.' Eager to see what would happen, they came scampering. She pulled them up in the front with her. They waited.

The man had roused himself. With difficulty, he stood upright. He wore, half unbuttoned, what had once been the uniform coat of the Parliamentary army, though the cloth was dark with use and the red colour had leached from its dye. He fumbled with a small bundle, his snapsack. One step at a time, he came to the cart. He had days' of matted beard-growth. The snaggles of hair sticking out from under his hat were filthy though he was fair, apparently. Juliana cursed herself for not having considered whether he had weapons, though he appeared unarmed.

She had the sword! Annoyed, she remembered that old sword Lovell once gave her to protect herself; it was here in the cart with them. But too late. Always distasteful of it, she had hidden the thing right under their belongings, so she could not reach it now.

Tom wriggled free and jumped down again. In an instant he was at the tailboard, which he unleashed and dropped, very politely. As if afraid that they might still change their minds and leave him, the sick man forced himself forwards and up into the vehicle. He collapsed again, lying face down against their possessions, retreating into his sickness, yet not quite finished, for he made a desperate effort to pull in his legs so Tom could close up the tailboard. Just before he pushed it up, the well-mannered five-year-old introduced himself: 'My name is Tom Lovell, sir.' There was some mumbled reply.

The boy rushed back and climbed aboard. Gently, as if to spare their passenger, Juliana made the horse walk on. 'Watch behind,' she murmured. 'Val, Tom — if that man moves, tell me instantly.'

'His name is Jukes,' whispered Tom, as if he was reproving his mother for some discourtesy in speaking of him.

To Juliana it was familiar for some reason.