1635: A Parcel of Rogues - eARC (33 page)

Chapter 37

There was no denying that Edinburgh was a busy town. To the south, Cowgate had spent the morning so far living up to its name. Some of the cattle had decided, of their own volition, to explore one of the side streets to the north. Cows being cows, of course. Ducos had never been a country boy, but the behavior of cattle driven into the middle of a city was entirely familiar to him. Drovers did their best, but a cow presented with an interesting side street and no swearing drover with a stick to prevent her would go and explore. With enough room to stay out of kicking range, the sight could be quite comical, with the various street vendors shrieking at the animals to stay away from stalls that had tasty greens on them. The huge and shaggy Scots cattle had entertainingly lugubrious expressions as they shied away from the brandished sticks. It was clearly, to the bovine mind, a considerable injustice that they were not permitted to eat after their long journey.

The terrain of Edinburgh being what it was, the streets either side of Cowgate were quite steep, so the cows had left a definite, well, tidemark. Ducos was glad there were no other members of the Party of God there to see him giggling like a naughty schoolboy at the sight. There was a lovely metaphor in it, too. So many people with the brains of cattle, having to be driven to God. Ducos, and such help as he could find, being the drovers.

The Gordon brothers had sent a small boy running with a note that Finnegan and all of his men were in the Grassmarket this morning, which had led to every man of the Party being in the streets. It seemed that today was to be the day. Ducos wondered whether the timing was deliberate; they would surely have known that today was a market day, the streets full of cattle. And cowshit. Had they picked the day for the large number of drovers who would be there to recruit from? Or for the chaos and tumult in the streets? Certainly, any attempt at escape from the Mackay house would be difficult. It was halfway to noon and still there were cattle arriving. And, of course, as the day wore on, there would be cows leaving with those that had purchased them, or as their owners gave up on trying to sell them. Not every cow that came to the Grassmarket ended its days in the shambles at the far end.

It did not do, of course, to assume that everything the enemy did was by fiendish design. Ducos had done well more than once—spectacularly well, earlier this year—by working with enemies who were innocent of all fiendishness and could scarcely design their way out of their own beds. So successfully that he’d had to run clear to the other end of Europe to ensure that he escaped the repercussions. It was too much to hope that he could start quite the same amount of trouble today.

Still, with three factions colliding—two with firearms for certain and the third doubtless able to get them in a hurry—a mob eager for any anti-popery riot that might start and the Party of God looking for ways to help matters along, the prospects for the undoing of Satan’s work in the world looked healthy.

“Mister Brown?” Ducos started from his idle musings at the sound of today’s
nom de guerre
. It was a small boy, one of the market traders’ children who spent their days playing and running small errands around the stalls. Not quite a street urchin, but not far above it either.

“Aye,” he nodded, trying not to think about maintaining his accent. The other men of the Party, here and in Glasgow, had teased him about his auld alliance manner of speaking if he was actively trying to sound Scots, and the smarter ones had noticed that he sounded better if he was not forcing the matter. This child was a witness who might survive. Better to say as little as possible.

“Mister Gordon says half an hour. The Irish papist is gathering men.”

“Aye,” Ducos replied, fishing in a pocket for a groat for the boy. Gordon had probably already paid him, but there was no harm in giving the child a little extra. On those occasions when God’s work required His innocents to be sent back to him, Ducos was always regretful. Not enough to turn him from the task, though. When the Spirit was on him his resolve was always sufficient. “Run along wi’ ye,” he said, “and if there’s trouble, hide.”

Wide eyed, the youngster nodded and ran off. The child was in God’s hands now.

It was but five minutes before a raucous cheer sounded from the Grassmarket. Loud indeed, to be heard over the commotion of the street. Good, Finnegan was moving. The rest of the Party would be moving about the crowd left behind, making comments, asking pointed questions. A Scots crowd that had seen known papists mobilizing their own kind was a powder keg, and it would take only a few sparks to flare them up.

* * *

“Please excuse my tardiness,” Baron Mackay said to his guests, “there are times when my infirmity is more than I can stand.”

“Think nothing of it,” Cromwell said, one stoic to another. The baron knew that Cromwell’s prayers surely included him and his welfare, and his strength of spirit. The man was, however, undemonstrative to a fault. His cool, measured sympathy was the widow’s mite; small, but the more valuable for being all he would give in public.

Gayle was the summer to Cromwell’s winter, the warmth of a countrywoman and her heart on her sleeve. Her face was soft and caring, the woman’s strength having the heft and solidity of good sandstone masonry. “Baron, honey,” she said, a form of address that never failed to raise a smile with him, “don’t you fret about taking your time. Anyone that says different surely isn’t worth minding.”

Mackay chuckled. “Surely I’m one who says different. I’m no more fond of making excuses than I am of being slow to greet good friends. My men say that the streets are fortuitously clear today?”

“Not an Irishman to be seen,” Cromwell allowed, frowning slightly. “I must admit I wonder whether this means Finnegan is up to something?”

“Doubtless,” Mackay said, “since it seems he’s about the Grassmarket and has been since morning. I learned for myself only some moments ago, or I should have had you warned. I trust my daughter-in-law was well on the way to the Tolbooth last you saw her?”

“Walked her to the door ourselves. Andrew’s guarding her himself, although,” Gayle was grinning as she said it, “none of us are fool enough to tell her that. He’s just along to see his old regimental officer.”

Mackay had no trouble picturing Julie’s reaction to being told she needed a guard. She might not be quite such an avenging fury with a pistol as she was with a rifle, but it’d be a brief and painful business trying to exploit the difference. “Then we know she’s doubly safe. Oliver, I’m afraid you may be right. There’s a mort of ruffians and villains to be found on a market day at the Grassmarket, and my lads heard a lot of Erse being spoken. I’ve had the boys begin preparations, but it was aye too late to warn you off.”

“What might they be about?” Cromwell had risen and gone over to where his buffcoat was over a chair. There were pockets in the linen lining with American-made pistols, and his sword-belt was there too. He might not have the warlike experience of the Cromwell in the future histories, but the man had no inclination to shirk a fight.

“I’m sorry to say any answer I might give would be as rhetorical as the question. We had word yesterday that with the legal term beginning next week, young Alex is first in the list for hearing. It seems the judges have run out of reasons for delay. And I don’t doubt that Finnegan has noted that, from time to time, we drive off his men. Even the biggest fool would see the pattern, for all we keep him from seeing you arrive or leave. I think he hopes to catch you here. Again, I am sorry we were unable to warn you in time.”

“Think nothing of it.” Cromwell had his pistols out and was checking them. Mackay watched, honestly curious. He was no stranger to firearms himself, nor to the other tools of war, and had had a chance to examine the weapons his son and daughter-in-law had. What he was curious to see was how a man with such a short time in touch with the future arms handled them. Well, it seemed, but then a man as serious and diligent as Cromwell might be expected to imbibe a manual of arms without difficulty.

“Part of the trouble was that my lads finally managed to follow Finnegan back to his lair.”

“Aye?” Cromwell raised an eyebrow as he finished his drill and tucked the pistols back in his buff.

“Aye. He’s taken most of an inn at Balgreen for his lodgings and for his men. I’ve sent a lad with a message to Campbell’s men.”

“They’re to go straight there?”

“Here first,” Mackay said. “I felt it best to be ready here first, and then take them on the riposte.”

Cromwell nodded. “And if we wait for Major Lennox and my lady the baroness to return, our force becomes the stronger. Gayle?”

“Yes, honey?”

Cromwell blushed a little and smiled. “Does Mister McCarthy have his radio?”

“He does. You want him here?” She pulled out her radio and began tapping the Morse button with Darryl’s call-sign.

“That I do. My lord baron, might I have the command here?”

“You expect trouble?”

“Aye. Mayhap I shall be wrong, and thereby embarrassed, but I’d sooner blush than bleed.”

“You’ve a fair amount of sense for an Englishman,” Mackay said, grinning. “Aye, take command.”

At that moment, Thomas burst in without knocking. “It’s yon bastard Finnegan!” he said, snarling out the words. “He’s at the door, wi’ all his men wi’ him. And a richt braw crew o’ ruffians besides!”

“Darryl’s on his way,” Gayle called out. “Calling Julie now.”

* * *

“Stephen?” Darryl felt like everything was both far away and very close at the same time. He’d no idea how long he’d been talking on the walkie-talkie with Gayle. The connection had been a little crackly—something to do with Edinburgh being on top of big, heavy, dense rocks and if you weren’t on top of the ridges, you got a crappy signal. A lot of repeating and read-backs and he finally got the message.
The Mackay house. Under attack.

“Darryl?” Both of the Londoners spoke at once. Vicky with more concern, Stephen with sharpness. Damnedest thing, it was the sharpness made him focus.

“Mackay house. Finnegan’s got himself a mob and he’s attacking. They’ve called for Campbell’s men.” They’d sort of guessed something like this was going to happen, but not so goddam
soon.

“Orders?” Stephen barked.

“No,” Darryl said, realizing why he felt a bit adrift. He’d no idea what to do. Running scams and pranks with Harry, he’d been fine improvising when it dropped in the pot and the wheels came off the plan they’d made. Usually not much more of a plan than “hold my beer and watch
this
,” but that counted, right? Right. Now, he had to decide. Or Stephen had to decide. Someone had to decide, and he had no idea who, or what had to be decided.

Stephen snorted. “They’ll have a better idea soon. Best we can do is get near. Arms, Darryl.”

“Arms? Right, arms.” He patted his jacket for his pistol, grabbed his bag from behind the soup-kitchen counter and made sure of his sawed-off. He’d a rifle, but that was back at the Canongate house, no good here. Another rummage in the bag; a box of shells for each weapon. Down-time make, a good brand. Quality could be spotty, but the good makes were starting to be known.

“Check everything!” Stephen barked.

Halfway through clearing and checking his pistol, Darryl realized what the grizzled old—
man was the wrong side of thirty-five, for Pete’s sake—
Warder had done to him and chuckled. He’d been doing proper care of his guns since he was in short pants. The movements, the checklist, they were all like breathing. About the only thing he was nearly as sure of was a gear check before he went underground, and he hadn’t done that in the best part of four years.
Okay, panic over. There’s a reason that guy’s been wearing sergeant’s stripes all these years.

Stephen was doing the same. His weapons were a little more brutal. He and Darryl had done a bit of improvising and he had a partisan with a screw-on head. When the head was in its leather sheath and tucked away in a bag, Stephen was about town with a particularly heavy-duty walking stick. With which he was not much less lethal than when it was assembled. Darryl had seen him and Cromwell sparring, Cromwell’s singlestick against Stephen’s staff. It was a blur, and for all Cromwell’s skill at the sport, he’d never landed a touch. Apparently that stuff in the Robin Hood movies about Englishmen and fighting with sticks was still the straight goods in the seventeenth century. They could manage with guns and swords, but they surely did love their blunt instruments.

And the bill-hook Stephen carried was a gardening tool, nothing more. Albeit a gardening tool that was two pounds of forged steel with two wicked edges, a sharp point to the hook and a sturdy handle. He called it a brishing-hook and, in a pinch, he could trim hedges with it.

He’d accepted Harry switching out the wheel-locks on his pistols for cap-locks and he was priming those. He wasn’t, generally, a shooting kind of guy. Or, much, a weapons kind of guy. They’d gone for a couple of drinks in Newcastle during their stopover there. Darryl had seen the man start and end a fight with a single headbutt. Without troubling to put his drink down. He’d not spilled a drop. The pistols seemed to be mostly just in case he couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way over to someone he wanted to hurt.

Vicky had her medic bag open and was checking the contents. She’d done it that morning, because there were always a few people coming to the soup kitchen with minor ailments and injuries who’d heard about what they called “Germany medicine,” but she was following her uncle’s lead. Go through the routine before the panic sets in. Without spilling a drop. Hopefully, Vicky’s bag of tricks wouldn’t be needed, nor her year following Rita around and learning. Nor, he
sincerely
hoped, the little .38 he’d talked her into tucking into the bag at long last.

“Here, let me go over that for you,” he said, his own pieces checked, loaded and holstered.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, chewing her lip as she counted things for the second time.

“You’re still a learner.” He picked up the gun and flipped open the cylinder, with the barrel pointed with exaggerated care into the soup pot. No sense not demonstrating clearly for her sake, now was there? Especially since he wasn’t sure about his hands not shaking.
Damn
he hated when he wasn’t the one doing the acting instead of reacting.