a cavalier approach to murder 1

 Hi, all, a bit shaky but substantially better today. I hope you will enjoy this one. thanks for your good wishes, Simon read them all out to me.

 

Chapter 1 Mid February 1649

 

“Listen to this, Mama!” the young voice was indignant, and the pretty face of the girl reading the letter was flushed with indignation. “We have received orders – orders, mind you, to de Curtneys of Bungay, from that jumped-up brewery-boy, now styled Colonel Pride! We are to place our home, our last sanctuary, at the disposal of one Colonel Vullamy and his men; and to extend every courtesy to him and his officers. And, how generous!” Lydia de Curtney’s voice dripped with scorn. “They will pay for the keep of the common soldiers but ‘feel sure that loyal subjects’ of what they are calling ‘the Commonwealth’  will ‘treat the officers as guests.’ It’s a plot to impoverish us!” She tossed her head, and her copper-coloured curls bounced.

“Of course it is, my dove, but with your brother and anyone of martial bent away in France with the young king, now he is Charles II, we cannot fight it,” said her mother. “And as for Colonel Pride, you know this family has always supported the rise of those who are able.”

Lydia sighed. Her mother was a faded blonde one-time beauty, who had faded completely since the death of her father, fighting for the king.

“Oh, I suppose I should not turn my nose up at Colonel Pride if he were a royalist,” she said. “But the air of bland assumption got my goat!’

“What a vulgar phrase!” said her mother. “We will extend every courtesy to this Colonel Vullamy – a name which suggests a gentleman – and his officers, and be everything a de Curtney of Bungay should be.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Lydia. “Courtesy, but without generosity.”

“I wonder at them sending men to a household of women, however; that is discourteous,” said Lady de Curtney.

“They are unaware that Felix is in France; this letter is to him,” said Lydia. “Well, it is a fait accompli; they are on their way, and no indication of how many will need accommodation, nor suggestion of where to billet the men, or how many there are. That’s the greatest incivility!”

“Well, my dear, a colonel will need a room of his own, and he will likely have a captain as well; and you had better give orders for three more rooms for half a dozen other officers.”

 

 

 

oOoOo

 

“So, this baron, does he have any personable sisters, do you think?” Cornet Humphrey Bartlett looked eager.

“We are not going to Curtney House for you to womanise, Humphrey,” said Cornet Ephraim Knott. “The colonel has a serious mission to prevent any royalist uprising.”

“And to try to bring them to the way of God!” added the chaplain.                                      

Colonel Vullamy loathed the chaplain with a passion. Obadiah Codd was a slender, graceful, ascetic man with burning eyes, and a dislike for Catholics which possibly was greater than any dislike for sin and sinners. He was a penance in himself to live with.

At least Lieutenant Harry Bracknell, a newly-wed officer, was cheerful, sharing the miniature on ivory of his Elizabeth, though Lieutenant John Elphinstone seemed less than keen to share Bracknell’s good  fortune.

“Why are they uprising anyway?” asked young Bartlett, idly.

“Because we executed the king,” said Bracknell.  “A lot of people, even on our side, think that went too far.”

“We only have one king, our King in Heaven,” opined Cornet Knott.

Bartlett shrugged.

“Better him be beheaded than me,” he said. “He’s old, anyway, so it’s not as if he was young enough to have fun.”

“He wasn’t even fifty!” said Bracknell.

“Old,” said Bartlett. “Even older than the Catkin.”

Colonel Vullamy pretended he could not hear. That was really hurtful; he was only five and twenty.

 

Of course, only Pride was sufficiently full of what his name meant, to think that the remaining royalists in Britain would stand still for the execution of the late king, thought Colonel Vullamy. So here he was, haring off to the back end of Suffolk because of one likely rebellious element, to garrison himself and some troops near Bungay and to take over the manor of the Barony of Curtney. Just because there might be trouble.

He had hoped to spent time with Bithya, his betrothed wife, who was a nice, quiet girl, and an antidote for the scarily martial daughters of the Polish ambassador he had been mixed up with.

Colonel Vullamy had been given the misfits, those nobody else wanted, because there were serious uprisings and he was only sent to babysit a young baron whose father had died at Naseby. And they would not even be affectionate about making jokes about his name. He had been given the name Hazael, and hated it with intensity. His parents had chosen the name meaning ‘God sees,’ but the colonel was well aware that his men referred to him as ‘Hazel Willowtree’ or worse, ‘The Catkin.’

Ignoring the chatter of his officers, Colonel Vullamy rode up the front drive of the home of the Baron de Curtney. As baronial residences went, it was fairly modest, having grown from a hall house, and built of the flint so prevalent in the region, a chapel on one end, and possibly a hotbed of papists, thought Vullamy disapprovingly.  There was what looked like a brick extension at the back as well as stable buildings. The front lawn was more akin to a meadow, but it would do.

“Get a camp set up,” he ordered.

The men would sleep under canvas and be provisioned from Bungay, whilst he and his officers occupied the house, and the baron had better co-operate.

He knocked on the front door with the head of his swagger stick.

It was opened by a servant. He was the wrong side of fifty, with a ruddy, countryman’s countenance, pale blue eyes, and a pugnacious chin. His garb showed him to be an upper servant, being good wool.

“Take me to the baron, my man,” said Vullamy.

“Ar, well, he du-ant be here, bor,” said the serving man, and shut the door.

Vullamy found himself gaping at this monumental rudeness.

He knocked again.

There was a long pause.

The door opened.

“Miss Lydie says you du ought to be allowed in dew yew be Colonel Vullamy, and dew yew do-ant be, yew may use the pump in the yard to drink and be on yore way.”

“I am Colonel Vullamy,” said Vullamy.

“Ar, well, we’ve room for yew and for up to half a dozen officers,” said the elderly servant.  “Miss Lydie bid me taerke yew to the study.”

“Thank you,” said Vullamy, inclining his head. “How are you styled?”

“I be Josiah Jermyn, household comptroller,” said Jermyn. “Ar,  I du be fifth o’ moi naerme tu serve here at the hall.”

“A lengthy service,” said Vullamy. “And indicates good masters.”

“Ar,” agreed Jermyn. “There do-ant be nobody like de Curtneys. This way.”

Vullamy followed Jermyn, waving his officers to wait. He found himself in an old fashioned wood-panelled hall, with stairs on either side of the door to a gallery, hung with shields depicting a lion rampant with various differences which doubtless told which baron was represented. Bright painting in the roof showed that the double hammer beams were carven into lions, roaring silently down the centuries to intimidate visitors.

Hazael Vullamy was determined not to be intimidated.

Jermyn led him to the left, over the dais which housed a high table, and through a door, with tapestries on outside and inside showing more lions. Vullamy had little chance to look at either, or take in the graceful vistas from windows to the front and side of the house as he was bowed in and announced and found himself facing not a baron, but a young woman – a girl, no more! She was a tall girl, with tight auburn ringlets, piercing green almond-shaped eyes, and a skin tone which could not really be described as olive, but which was more robust than the usual pink and white tones of East Anglia. The nose was retroussé, the lips generous, and the chin small, but determined.

Lydia saw a tall man, taller than she was, which was not usual, with a shock of dark hair, disturbed where he had removed his hat, being cut shorter than was fashionable, though not clubbed as short as the more fanatical roundheads. It curled at the ends most frivolously. He was weatherbeaten, and the skin of his face fell into laughter lines around his bright blue eyes. He had a small wart by his left eyebrow, but it did not mar a face which was more attractive for holding a lively intelligence rather than in classical beauty.

“Good morning, Colonel, and welcome to De Curtney House,” she said. “I am Lydia de Curtney, and I have arranged for your men to sleep in rooms off the picture gallery, at the back of the house. I am assuming you have no more than half a dozen, and they can conveniently share two to a room.  For courtesy, I am housing you in my brother’s room.”

“Miss de Curtney, this is all very well, but I want to see the baron,” said Vullamy.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” said Lydia.

“I have to insist, you know,” said Vullamy, apologetically. “I demand to see the baron as soon as possible.”

“Oh?” said Lydia. “Well, if you re-saddle your horse, and ride at best pace east, until you come to Great Yarmouth, you might find there a ship willing to take you across to Scheveningen if you go fast enough to catch the tide.”

“The baron is in the Low Countries?”

“Oh, no! You would have to ride again into France. I last heard of him from Toulon, but I doubt he’s still there,” said Lydia. “You would have to look for him. He’s with the king.”

“Louis of France?”

“No, our king. The king by the Grace of God, of England, Wales, Scotland and sundry bogs”

“The king is dead.”

“And his son is Charles the Second.”

“If you were a man, that would be close to treason.”

“If your leaders were men, they would not have had to commit the treason of murdering a king. Charles Stuart will return when your Commonwealth fails.”

“It will not fail,” said Vullamy, hoping that he did not sound as though he was trying to convince himself.

“Oh? There are provisions for the future? Is Cromwell to serve as Protector for life or for a designated time before electing another? If it is for life, what processes have been set up to replace him when he dies, as all men must? If he is succeeded by his son, then he is but a kind of second-rate king. Otherwise, what? How is the next leader to be chosen?”

“That’s not for me to speculate,” said Vullamy, wondering if anyone in Parliament had asked such questions.

“I beg your pardon, but it should be,” said Lydia. “If it is a Commonwealth, then it should be the will of the people, all the people, from belted earls to mole-catchers to choose their leader, not the will of some fatuous oligarchy imposing their will by force of arms. If it were the will of the people who ruled, I would not need to anticipate the return of the king.”

Vullamy was dubious.

“The nobles elect kings in Poland, but it would be dangerous to give the  common folk the vote,” he said.

“And is not parliament made of members of the common folk, albeit gentlemen, as well as peers?” said Lydia. “Do not the ostlers take as keen an interest in the way of politics as men of affairs? Have not the peasantry joined one side or the other and expressed their opinions in this civil war with their own blood?”

“Miss, I’m a simple soldier, and I don’t trouble my head with politics,” said Vullamy. “I want to get my men camped as soon as possible; I was hoping that the meadow at the front would be acceptable.”

Lydia sighed.

“I suppose so,” she said. “They might best dig their latrine pits over there, west of the house, near the hedge.”

“Oh, is it better drained?”

“It’s all well drained, but I want to plant a rose garden there, and I might as well make use of the natural manure to do so,” said Lydia. “After all, you will not be here forever, and the land endures with my family its custodians, whatever and whoever pass over it. You may tell them, as Lent is not observed by puritans, they may take all the coneys they like after it begins, and male birds, apart from the peacocks, as they have done their duty by the females. The peacocks do not make for good eating.”

“What, is not eating noble birds a privilege of the titled, as royal birds?” Vullamy caught himself almost sneering.

“I am indifferent to the jaded palates and decadent lifestyle of those at court,” said Lydia. “No deer. Their numbers are low and must build up.”

“I will pass on your requests,” said Vullamy. “The men will be grateful to be permitted some game to supplement their diets.”

“I’d rather they didn’t take birds, bar pigeons, but I won’t make an issue of it,” said Lydia.

“So, what relation are you to the baron that you assume rule of the house in his stead?” asked Vullamy.

“Felix is my brother. He is some years older than I am, and felt that he was best to be abroad with the king. He knows I am quite capable.  Also, Jermyn is a great help.  It is not entirely to my liking, or that of my mother, who is delicate, to have to have men housed with us when we have no male relatives to stand as our protection, but one must rely on you and your officers being gentlemen.”

“None of my men will offer you any insult,” said Vullamy, grimly, promising himself that he would offer to eviscerate anyone who tried.

“I will be wearing my sword, to make sure,” said Lydia, smiling. “Felix insisted that I learn to fight in case it was needed. It is not unheard of in our family for the women of the family to know swordplay.”

“Oh no, not again!” blurted out Vullamy.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Lydia, icily.

He blushed.

“I apologise,” said Vullamy. “I have had a degree of care of the household of the Polish Ambassador, whose daughters carry the wickedest meat cleavers I have ever seen and twirl them with the finesse any other woman might ply a needle.”

“Oh, I have only a rapier, but it is effective enough if you know what to do with it,” said Lydia. “I have been learning since the war started, so only since I was ten, but I practise assiduously.”

“I will make sure my men know, and if they end up hurt, it will be their fault,” said Vullamy. “Er... your chapel....”

“We bowed to the inevitable under Elizabeth and became Protestant, though we reserve the right to be High Church,” said Lydia. “Your men may attend our chapel on Sundays; I have a chaplain, who is sufficient for our needs. If you have a chaplain with you, they might come to some arrangement of running alternate services. I leave that in their hands.”

Vullamy thought of Obadiah Codd, and shuddered.

“We will muster for military prayers on parade on Sundays,” he said.