Chapter Four
In Phillip Jackson's view, the day had already dragged on long enough. Now the night was hot and still, the cloying perfume of wild summer flowers mingling with wisps of gunsmoke. Overhead, the sky, smooth and unperturbed as an upturned tea cup, was a rich collage of dark blue and sunset crimson.
He laid back his handsome head and enjoyed the soft pressure of the heather tangling in the shining black locks of his hair. It had been a good day.
Jackson's belief was strong: to fight for true democracy, the freedom to worship as he chose, and not to labour under the tyrannical rule of an unworthy king. Today's victory had been sweet indeed but Jackson knew well how soon he would be called upon to fight again. Had he not promised Cromwell to pursue the Royalists to perdition if needs be?
1644, however, had not been a good year for Parliament. King Charles stood firm even with the war two years old. Then had come a morale-crushing blow, only the previous day, as Prince Rupert entered the city of York unopposed after crossing the north bank of the Swale. Sniping attacks by Rupert's men had followed and Jackson saw Cromwell's face darkening with anger.
'We must stop and fight!' he had bellowed at the Earl of Manchester. 'Else lose all to that puppy Rupert.'
Manchester had sat long and thought hard, fingering the delicate embroidery of his collar. Then he nodded his assent.
They had drawn up on the long ridge of open plain that stretched down to Marston Moor, Cromwell's force of twenty-seven thousand against Rupert's eighteen thousand. A line of hedges and ditches separated the two armies. Six miles due west stood York and four miles to the east the little settlement of Crook Marsham, dominated by its ruined Norman castle.
Jackson had seen its sun-shimmered battlements hovering on the horizon.
Before battle could begin, Parliament had observed its traditional good grace, allowing Rupert to await the Earl of Newcastle and his men. The day had worn on, the mood of impatience spreading from the florid-faced Cromwell to his troops. At around four in the afternoon, Newcastle's men finally arrived. To Jackson's disbelief they had retired for supper, as they believed the hour too late for fighting that day.
At around seven in the evening, with the pleasant smell of woodsmoke drifting across the plain, Cromwell had come into view, massive and inspiring astride his horse. He narrowed his eyes, watching the distant enemy figures moving like indistinct ink-blots on a purple canvas. He caught Jackson's eye, smiled slightly, and then bellowed the command to charge.
With a great whooping cry, Parliament's horsemen thundered across the moor, scattering the surprised enemy like frightened sheep. The night was suddenly alive with the yellow sashes of the Roundheads and the Royalists' vivid scarlet.
Cromwell's dragoons, three thousand strong, attacked Lord Byron and the Royalist right wing, decimating them. Jackson hacked away with his sword, a rush of grotesque faces flurrying past him.
A musket ball whistled past his ear and he felt himself twist and fall awkwardly from his horse. The ground raced up to meet him, iron hard, and he lay there a moment, winded and sick as booted feet staggered past. Then there were strong hands under him and he opened his eyes to see Cromwell himself lifting him bodily on to his horse.
'Thank God we've not lost you,' he said with a smile, the fire of battle shining in his eyes.
Jackson pulled on the reins and charged again. A Royalist soldier, his face already streaked with mud, and dark blood, launched himself at Jackson's flank. The captain heaved his massive sword and took off half the soldier's face in one movement. The body fell under Jackson's horse and the captain rode on, shouting in exhilaration.
There was another salvo of musket fire and Cromwell reeled in his saddle, his warty face contorting with pain. Blood pumped from a wound in his neck. Jackson reigned in his horse and called above the din of battle, 'We must get you to the field hospital, sir!'
Cromwell shook his head, wiping the soil-caked wound as if to dismiss it. 'The second charge, Phillip, the second charge!'
Jackson nodded worriedly and followed his brave leader back to the ridge. After organising the second charge, Cromwell had finally assented to treatment and retired.
Jackson and his men swept back on to the moor, Rupert's routed cavalry fleeing before them. The fighting became desperate, the iron stink of blood mingling with powder smoke as the two forces waded into each other. Then with a terrifying cry of triumph, Parliament's reserve of three thousand Scottish cavalry tore into the Royalist right wing which broke and fled.
'Is this not a sight to behold!' cried Cromwell, returning from the field hospital sooner than he ought, with his neck haphazardly dressed. At once, he declared Parliament's centre and right to be in a hellish state and, thrashing his horse, swept behind the enemy to his men's assistance.
How much longer the fighting had continued, Jackson couldn't be sure. If he closed his eyes he saw only anguished faces and glittering swords. He let his eyes roll back and gazed up at the darkening sky, the summer scents of the moor stirring around him. Then, with a groan, he sat up, eased off his boots and pulled down his stockings which were blackened with leather stains and mud. A leg of roast chicken was thrust into his hand and he ate ravenously, pausing only when he saw Cromwell striding towards him out of the darkness.
'Your wound, sir?' said Jackson, wiping greasy hands on his tunic.
Cromwell shrugged lightly. "Tis little. A scratch. A far greater wound was Valentine Walton's boy. I have written to the father, God grant him mercy.'
Jackson nodded sadly. The boy's death that day had been a great blow to them all.
'But the victory is ours, Phillip. By God it is!' cried Cromwell, his heavy face suffusing with passion. 'Of twenty thousand the Prince hath not four thousand left. Colours, muskets, men. All are ours.'
'And Rupert?'
Cromwell sighed. 'Fled. Vanished. The jackanapes has the devil to protect him.'
Jackson unbuckled his belt and sat back on the warm ground. Cromwell changed tack.
'But still there is more to do. The battle has fatigued thee, I know, but I must return to the Eastern Association. The war is not yet won. I am relying on thee, Phillip, to remain here and hunt down any of the king's men who linger.'
Jackson sighed inwardly. He was exhausted. All he wanted now was to bathe and sleep. He looked down at his aching feet and nodded. 'I am, as always, at your service, sir.'
'Not mine, lad. The Lord's,' said Cromwell with a smile, clapping the young captain on the shoulder.
'Take your men and circle a few miles hereabouts, but tax them not too severely. Bring back Rupert and I'll make a general of thee.'
Jackson watched Cromwell disappear into his tent. He was right, of course. There might still be a few Royalists hiding in the surrounding countryside. Perhaps even Rupert himself. It was worth sacrificing a few hours to find them.
Wearily, Jackson pulled up his stockings and forced his sweat-soaked boots on to his feet. Within half an hour he had rounded up a dozen unwilling soldiers and had begun to trot away eastwards.
He felt curiously drawn towards the fires of Crook Marsham with its great ruined castle. On that fine, balmy July night, the old black towers were virtually indistinguishable against the wine-dark sky.
Sad, tired eyes gazed across the moor towards the cheery orange glow of Cromwell's camp. Sir Harry Cooke rubbed a wounded hand against his brow and sat down heavily against the crumbling castle rampart. Routed, by Christ. Routed!
He boiled with frustration. Why did the King allow his armies to be led by such incompetents? Rupert, the arrogant fool, had calmly taken supper though Cooke had warned of impending attack. 'They have not your sensibilities, your Highness,' he had insisted through clenched teeth, 'and care little for the lateness of the hour.'
And then stupid sulky Newcastle, retiring to his carriage to smoke a pipe!
Cromwell's men, sitting in their corn fields, had begun singing psalms, their rousing, passionate voices drifting through the summer haze.
'Is Cromwell there?' Rupert had asked anxiously. Aye, he was there, as they had discovered all too soon, caught unawares, their senses dulled by inertia.
Cooke and six or seven of his men had eventually fled the carnage, skulking to the old castle like disgraced dogs. There were men stationed on the far ramparts, looking down into the tiny settlement below. It was important they were not seen. Cooke knew from experience that loyalties were uncertain in this conflict and that the inhabitants of Crook Marsham might welcome them with open arms, only to betray them to Cromwell's militia. Better to hide out in the old ruin where no one was likely to pry and then slip away at some more opportune moment.
Ralph Grey, his fine-boned face drawn and weary, shambled along the battlements towards Cooke, who sensed he was troubled.
'What ails thee, Ralph?'
Grey glanced down at the decrepit main hall in which the men were huddled.
'They're out of sorts, Sir Harry,' he said with a sigh.
Cooke grimaced. 'We've suffered a great defeat, Ralph. I would expect no less.'
Grey shook his head slowly. 'No sir, 'tis this place.'
'This old ruin? What of it?'
Grey ran a finger across his beard. 'The men are afraid, my lord. They feel there is some evil at work here.'
Cooke snorted.
'They say they would rather face Cromwell than the Devil,' Grey continued.
'Much the same thing,' laughed Cooke, his portly frame shaking. 'Come, Ralph, we're too old and wily to believe in such nonsense.'
Grey made a little signal with his hand. 'There is a man, sir...'
A slight figure stepped out of the shadows, his uniform caked with mud and gashed at the sleeve.
'This is Will Todd, my lord,' said Grey, ushering the youth forward. 'A local man. Tell Sir Harry what you told me, Will.'
Todd shifted uneasily, like a guilty child.
'I was born in Crook Marsham, my lord. But my family went to York some years ago, my father being a skilled mason and work there plentiful...'
'Yes, yes...' said Cooke impatiently.
'This castle has stood since William of France came here and has been a ruin all that time.'
'What mean you by that?'
'Only a few years after the castle was built there were queer tales about the place. People spoke of the dead rising at night and all manner of things...'
'Phantasmagoria,' said Cooke, waving his hand dismissively.
Will Todd clenched his fists uncomfortably. 'Sir Brian, the Norman who built the castle, went mad. They say his wife came back from the grave to haunt him. After that no one would live here. No one.'
Cooke eyed him severely. 'And this prattle of yours has put the men into a ghastly humour, eh, Todd? I should have you horsewhipped for spreading such discontent. You're no better than a gossipy old woman.'
'I never meant...' pleaded Todd weakly.
'No, but the damage is done. We would do better to go to our beds and forget these tales of yours. Off with you, now.'
Todd made a little bow and clattered down the stone staircase to the ruined hall. Grey turned to his superior.
'Don't you feel it too, sir?'
'Nay!' barked Cooke. 'And, mayhap, if your mind were turned more towards soldiery than witchcraft we should not have been trounced on the moor today!'
Grey flinched and stepped back.
Cooke sighed and looked at Grey more kindly.
'I am sorry, Ralph. We lost many good lads today. If any man is out of sorts then it is I. To your bed now, old friend.'
Grey bowed slightly and disappeared down the steps, his boots echoing hollowly around the stones. Cooke rubbed his tired face with his injured hand and looked down at his men as they wrapped horse blankets around themselves. The tiny fire they had lit was flickering into extinction and, within minutes, the cold stone walls were plunged into midnight blackness.
The high, roofless castle beams loomed above them like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Cooke glanced about him in the whispering night at the deeply shadowed niches and empty fireplaces which might contain all manner of secrets. He shivered and, drawing his cloak around his shoulders, made his way stiffly down the stairs to his men. He looked at their troubled faces as they drifted into sleep. Despite his bluster, he rather wished Will Todd had not told him those tales about the old castle. He screwed his eyes tightly shut.
Jackson let his horse trot quietly along the well-trampled path that led to the castle. His men trailed in a silent, weary procession behind him, their shoulders bowed with fatigue. Jackson himself found that the gentle rocking motion was lulling him into sleep when a hissed whisper startled him awake.
'Captain!'
Jackson turned. A soldier behind him, obviously more alert than his comrades, was pointing towards the castle.
'What is it?'
'There's someone there, sir. I swear it. Down there, by the gates.'
Jackson strained his eyes. Was that a figure - no, two -in the shadows by the castle's sturdy entrance? He sat up in his saddle but whatever had been there was lost in the deep blue shadows.
'I see nothing,' he said wearily. 'But we'll stop here and rest awhile.'
His men flopped gratefully from their saddles and led their horses to a little circle of trees. Within moments they were stretched out on the hard ground, asleep.
Jackson himself stayed in his saddle for a time, gazing over at the darkened battlements some five hundred yards distant. The night was warm, silent, expectant.
Sunlight streamed through the children's hair as they jumped and capered about. Harry Cooke watched their smiling faces and felt himself laugh silently. His daughters, Bridget and tiny Mary with her big brown eyes, so happy and content in the gardens, hiding in the old stables and amongst the fragrant bushes.
Then the sky seemed to darken. A solid, warty face loomed out of the shadows, casting gloom over the happy scene. The children turned and screamed, running to their father for protection. Cooke held out his arms but his daughters seemed to make little progress, as though they were wading through molasses.
The ominous face seemed to swell, blotting out the sunshine. Cooke narrowed his eyes and glared at the apparition. It was Cromwell.
Of course, it was always Cromwell.
Now there were soldiers in the garden, faceless Roundheads in dull, pewter-coloured armour. Light flashed on their swords as they raised their weapons high in the air.
Cooke tried to scream but could feel only a silent tightening in his chest. Mary looked up at the shimmering blade and shot a desperate look at her father. The Roundhead stepped forward, his dark figure a hazy silhouette against the white light of the sun. The sword crashed down. This time, Cooke screamed and felt the air vomiting from his lungs in an unstoppable screech.
The night exploded around him like a dam-burst. He sat up, shaking with fear and grief, looking about him like a startled animal. Dark ruins. Sleeping men. Warm night breeze. He sighed. They were still in that damned castle.
He rubbed his face and neck, already feeling the sweat growing clammy on his flesh. Ralph Grey was asleep nearby, his blanketed form undisturbed.
Cooke let his head sink on to his chest. Why had he dreamed about them tonight? It was two years now since they'd been taken from him, and by brain fever, not the sword of some treacherous Roundhead. He thought once again of his daughters' golden ringlets and their clear, smiling faces.
Something moved on the battlements.
Cooke craned his neck and got to his feet, groaning with effort. He picked his way through the sleeping soldiers and dragged himself up the stone steps to the battlements. The night was silent now, save for a distant rustling as if the breeze were stirring the blossom-laden branches of distant trees.
He could see no one on the walkway. As he turned to make his way back into the ruined hall, there was a soft giggle from the shadows. Cooke seemed to recognise it at once and spun round.
'Who's there? Come out!'
Now he could hear a gentle voice ringing in his ears. Some sweet lullaby he remembered his wife singing to the children. The sound seemed to buzz around his head, making him swoon and tremble. It was beautiful. And so sad.
Two shapes detached themselves from the walls and stepped out before him. There was no moonlight to reveal them in detail but Cooke recognised them at once. He sank to his knees and cried out.
Bridget and Mary walked towards him, their perfect, heart-shaped faces smiling delightedly.
'Papa! Oh, Papa!'
Their voices were like a balm to his grief.
'Oh my little pretties!' he cried out, his voice cracking with emotion. He stumbled towards them across the walkway.
'Sir Harry!'
Cooke looked down. Ralph Grey and two other men were gazing up at him in horror.
'Sir Harry, this is the Devil's work!'
Cooke fell to his knees again, gazing appealingly at the little figures before him as if willing them to be real.
'But my daughters...' he said desperately.
'Your daughters are dead, my lord.' Grey kept his calm, though fear was coursing through him.
'Dead?' Cooke looked at his daughters with sad, exhausted eyes.
'Come away, Sir Harry. I beg you. Come away.'
Cooke glanced down at Grey and then at the happy, smiling faces in front of him.
'Come, my dears. Come to your father,' he said hoarsely.
'No!' Grey cried out, bolting for the steps.
The little girls grinned and moved swiftly to their father with outstretched arms, their skirts whispering over the floor.
Cooke opened his arms to embrace them and began to squeal horribly as their little faces fell inwards, smiles turning into glistening maws. He began to thrash at them desperately. Prickles of yellow light shimmered over the apparitions' surfaces as they blurred and shimmered into one, drawing Cooke's screaming body into them. Grey got to within a few yards of the horror and then flung himself back against the walls.
'Get out! Get out!' he screeched at the men below. 'For Christ's sake! Or we're finished!'
Cooke was merging with his daughters now, forming a column of blazing light in which shapes seemed to twist like monstrous embryos.
The men hesitated below. Grey shielded his face from the intense light before him and bellowed at the soldiers.
'We are bewitched! Go! For your souls' sake!'
The terrified men scrambled at the heavy doors and flung them open. Outside, the night was strangely calm. They ran at full pelt away from the castle, lungs and legs searing with pain.
Grey knew that his position was hopeless. His idea of rescuing Sir Harry was impossible; the knight he had served so faithfully had vanished into the ball of fire before him. Grey began to heave himself over the battlements, his tired hands gripping at the ancient stonework for support. Tendrils of energy whipped and crackled about him as the column of energy slid nearer. He paused briefly on the ramparts, the world spinning dizzily about him. He wouldn't survive the fall, he knew, but there were worse things than death. The nebulous thing which had been Sir Harry lapped at the stonework like hellish flotsam. Grey closed his eyes and threw himself into space.
Jackson saw them first, racing across the moor as if the devil were at their heels. He looked up from his recumbent position as terrified cries echoed through the night. In an instant his men were alert and on their feet.
'I knew it!' he cried delightedly. 'I knew they were hereabouts!'
But the smile froze on his lips as he saw the gibbering men tumbling through the undergrowth towards him.
'Take your prisoners, lads!' Jackson ordered, jogging up to Will Todd as the young man collapsed on to the ground. The Roundheads laid hands on the fleeing enemy as they staggered into the circle of trees.
'Sweet mercy, save us!' cried Todd, pawing at Jackson's legs.
'What is it! What ails thee?' Jackson laid a kindly hand on the boy's shoulder.
Todd looked up fearfully. 'We are bewitched!'
Jackson frowned and then turned swiftly to his subordinates, ordering them to treat their prisoners with care and kindness. Then he mounted his horse and set off at a gallop for the castle.
Within minutes, the skeletal towers loomed above him and he slowed to a gentle trot. The doors were wide open and horribly inviting. His horse snorted and pulled back a little. Jackson glanced down and gasped as he saw Ralph Grey's broken body staring up at him, neck lolling to one side.
Jackson dismounted and stepped over Grey's body. The hall before him was silent and dark. He glanced around, trying to pick out shapes from the confusion of black shadows. Up on the battlements, there seemed to be the faintest trace of light, like the dying embers of a fire.
Cautiously, Jackson mounted the stone steps and emerged on to the walkway.
Sir Harry Cooke lay sprawled on his back with a look of abject horror on his face, his limbs smashed and broken. Jackson walked slowly towards the corpse, stretching out a gloved hand to touch the purple face.
He cried out as his fingers pushed straight through Cooke's forehead as though through rotten fruit. He shuddered and felt bile burn his throat as the body crumbled to greasy dust before him.
Outside the gates, the horse began to snort and stamp, unnerved. Jackson looked at the creaking beams and black stonework. They seemed to quiver and distort as though he were drunk, swooping, blurring and bending out of shape.
The air was charged. Jackson shuddered.
A vast tendril of boiling energy began to crackle around the battlements like St Elmo's fire, seeping down the stained walls and licking at the edges of the gateway. Every stone in the castle shone with unearthly radiance.
Jackson lost no time, staggering down the steps and across the empty hall which was bucking like a ship in a storm. He pounded through the gates, dodging to avoid Ralph Grey's body, and threw himself on to his horse, flogging at it madly until he had put half a mile between himself and the castle.
Light began to rip and twist at the stonework. Jackson cast back glance after glance, urging his horse onwards with stabs of his spurs.
His men and the prisoners were gazing at the castle in awe.
Jackson's horse thundered into view and he thrashed his arms about in frustration.
'Down! Get down! Lest you lose your wits!'
Great pulses of energy seemed to flood across the moor from the castle which blazed like an Armada beacon against the night sky. Jackson threw himself clear of his horse and rolled under the trees, tucking his head under his folded arms. The soldiers followed suit and scurried for shelter, crying out in distress as a tumultuous explosion stunned their senses. Then the sky seemed to split apart as though the sun had disintegrated.
The original castle, which had stood empty for many hundreds of years, was eventually destroyed during the Civil Wars, just after the battle of Marston Moor. The cause of the fire was unknown but contemporary reports speak of a conflagration so terrible that not a stone remained come the morning. Certainly there is no trace of Marsham Castle today but the visitor may enjoy a fine view of the ancient battlefield from the hill which remains.
The Doctor closed the second book which the Abbot had given him and frowned deeply.
'Interesting?' said Winstanley, still pottering about the shelves.
'Arresting,' said the Doctor. 'Tell me, what's become of this... hill that the castle stood upon?'
Winstanley ran his hand along a line of gilt-embossed books. 'Oh, it was just a local beauty spot for years...'
'Is that all?'
Winstanley looked up from the brown pages of a spineless tome and thrummed his fingers against his side. 'Well, until they built the radio telescope on it.'
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