Pinions Of Gold

Chapter 5-1

FIVE

LOUTH, LINCOLNSHIRE 2021 AD

The conversation with Sir John Robinson was short and inconclusive. Jake and Alice were convinced that the barrister was telling the truth when he reacted with amazement to the events in Rose cottage. This only deepened the mystery, however, since having ruled out coincidence and established Sir John’s extraneity meant there was another sinister motive for the attack on Jake. This being the case, he decided that for the moment, he would make no mention of the white box as it might place those who knew about it in danger.

He decided to take temporary lodgings in Louth because Tealby was a little awkward for Covenham, which seemed to be the focal point of the mystery.

“Hang on to the Land Rover, dear boy, it’s no use to me in London—not a vehicle suitable for the city centre. I have to get back to Gray’s Inn Square. Goodness knows what’s awaiting me in Chambers. You have my card. Please keep me informed of developments.”

They said their farewells and drove over to the small market town of Louth, dominated by the third highest steeple in England. An obliging estate agent found them pleasant and economical accommodation on Aswell Street. The flat, rented by a music teacher, who was in Wales for three months, was central, had a parking space and was convenient for the roads out of town.

The discovery of the old bone box buried in the stair wall of Rose Cottage was mysterious in every way. How had it got there? And what was the meaning of the contents of the box? In the flat yesterday he prised the lid off and found a piece of paper yellowed with age. It was furled and tied with a tiny strip of ribbon. The neat early-copperplate handwriting made him think that it was very old. Jake flattened it on the table and read it whilst the dull ache between his eyebrows returned to tell him that he was involved with something supernatural. When he overcame the sensation, the words came into focus:

Though ye have lien among the pots, yet shall ye be as the wings

of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold.

He mumbled the words to himself and they struck him as Biblical. Maybe it was a quotation of some sort. He looked around the room, Alice was twirling her dyed blonde hair while studying a cookery magazine – only she could convert a hobby into haute cuisine. He loved her for the precision she brought to everything she did. Her attitude was top chefs can do it, so why can’t I? Satisfied that she wouldn’t take any notice of him, he drifted over to the computer and typed Bible, wings of a dove into the search engine and had a hit. The verse was from a psalm: Psalm 68:13 in the King James’s Authorized Version of the Bible. He read the whole psalm, but the context of these two lines left him no wiser. Clicking back to desktop, he rolled up the tiny scroll and put it back in his pocket. It was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t achieved anything today. He rubbed the wound in his upper arm over the bandage under his shirt—nothing more than an aching soreness.

“Just going out for a coffee.”

He would have added “are you coming?” but he wanted to be alone to think and to get some fresh air for that matter.

He turned into Little Butcher Lane and entered a coffee bar. The owners were a pleasant couple, she made fabulous cakes and he did the best filtered coffee for miles around, to hear his immodest claim. Jake gave his order and reflected. Sometimes he felt that he wasn’t born clever enough. He was lucky with his physique: that’s why he was such a good mover, but he simply couldn’t see how a bit of paper about dove wings could be important enough to make someone attempt murder. Absent-mindedly, he touched the scroll in his pocket and the air in front of his yes and the smiling proprietor began to ripple. By now, he knew what it meant – retrocognition. When he came back to consciousness, he found himself in the Lincolnshire countryside on a damp day, but where and when? He could forget about his coffee unless he could drink it when he got back because time had no relevance in retrocognition. He cursed his cross-wired brain. If only he hadn’t been distracted years ago when he walked in front of a Jeep—and changed his life forever.

LINCOLNSHIRE, 11 OCTOBER 1643

Sir John Briggs felt the wild heartbeat of his horse as he reined in on Kenwick Top. He had put nineteen miles between himself and the debacle of Winceby. His heart, too, thumped as he stared behind him. Two riders appeared in the distance: parliamentary cavalrymen and the main chasing pack still nowhere in sight. Well, if he had to be the fox, then so be it. Slyness would be his game; he’d go to ground. Sir John turned into the drizzle-laden wind and, knowing this place well, plunged through a gap in the hedge, heedless of the thorns. It was a well-chosen place and not far from where Jake was hiding, unseen, watching him. Blessing his providential nature, the cavalier loaded his pistols with the last of his powder and balls he’d preserved. He soothed his horse with gentle words, for silence was his only hope of surprise. The minutes passed, then his pursuers came over the hill. Jake peered through the branches at them and understood:

My God, he’s going to shoot. This is the Civil War.

Sir John took aim and waited until the first rider, just ahead of his fellow, was almost level with him. He squeezed the trigger, causing the second horse to rear at the report, throwing his rider, taken by surprise. His fall was terrible. At a glance, Sir John knew his second ball would serve no purpose. The unnatural angle of the soldier’s head showed his neck was broken. The other lay on his back staring at the sky, blood staining his teeth, a hole in the jerkin where the ball had entered.

So, the fox ran on, downhill to the lair he knew so well. Jake watched the killer ride off, calmed the horse of a fallen rider, hauled himself on its back and followed the disappearing rider at a distance. Sir John dismounted before he reached Covenham St. Bartholomew: the village, where he was squire. He led the bay to a gate in a field and slapped him across the rump. The horse skittered off toward the woods and Sir John grimaced. God willing, the Roundheads would find the horse but not the fox. Jake did the same thing and, careful not to betray his presence, shadowed the royalist.

Again, the fugitive thrust through the hedge and slithered along a sheep track, hidden from the road, all the way to the rear of the Vicarage. Jake trailed him with great caution, he had seen what the desperate man was capable of. Ears alert to the sound of hooves, the cavalier heard only the familiar noises of the countryside. Sir John walked round to the front of the house, looked up the road to make sure there were no horsemen and hammered on the door.

“All the fiends of Hell are at my door!” A tall, stooped figure dressed in the black of his calling dragged open the door. “Why, Sir John, in Heaven’s name—”

Never had the sight of the reverend figure been so welcome to the squire’s eyes,

“Thomas, my dear friend, let be all thy imprecations of Heaven and Hell. There’s no time to spare. I’m straight from Winceby with the King’s cause lost hereabouts. Soon the whole county will be in rebel hands and Cromwell’s hounds are hard on my heels. Find me a safe haven my friend, for pity’s sake.” Jake, hidden in the darkness by the walls of the building, heard everything through the sash window of the kitchen.

“Ay, well, not here, else they will find thee in a trice.” He reached inside the doorframe, his hand reappearing with a ten-inch long iron key. “Come, let’s away to the church. There’s the place to keep thee safe, but tell me as we walk, what of this news?” In the silence of the surroundings, Jake, keeping low and following within earshot, could hear every word.

Anguish etched the squire’s face.

“Our Will has gone to…” his voice faltered, “…a better world. He took a ball full in the chest our first charge.” Thomas waited, respecting Sir John’s grief at the loss of his only son.

“We were on our way to relieve the besieged garrison at Bolingbroke when we met with the rebels near Horncastle, on the moors at Winceby. The whole battle was over in half an hour. We had three thousand horse and dragoon with Sir William Widdrington in the van. They had more or less the same number under Black Tom Fairfax, but the difference…they must have had two thousand of Cromwell’s foot with pikemen well set…my word on it, Thomas…a disaster. We lost some two hundred men at the first charge when Cromwell’s horse was shot beneath him. Sir Ingram Hopton went for him, but more’s the pity…the arch-rebel seized another horse and saved himself. The second charge was pure folly, with Sir Ingram killed, it turned into a rout. The roundheads chased us down the Wolds, giving no quarter to any they caught.”

“And what of our Charlie?” the vicar’s voice trembled. His only son was fighting with the king’s forces too.

“Safe. He was among those held back at Newark Castle.”

Choking back words of relief, Thomas put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I’m so sorry about Will,” he said.

At last the chalk and ironstone tower of St. Mary’s loomed, its battlements stark and wet against the sky. Sir John was breathless from talking and walking, while Thomas prayed for the safekeeping of Charles. At last he broke the silence, “Sir John, this way!” The Reverend Thomas Monson inserted the key in the west door and with deceptive ease born of daily practice, proceeded to swing back the heavy, oak door. In no time, Sir John was spirited away and Thomas knelt before the altar. He began his prayers for the soul of William Briggs, only son and heir to Sir John. Thomas also prayed for Will’s wife, the lovely Isabel, who had died young in childbirth.

‘Here then ends the Briggs line, for I doubt that Sir John, a widower like myself, will remarry should he survive the war.’

Jake, who feared discovery, hadn’t dared to enter, instead, hiding behind a headstone in the graveyard. Just as well, because the roundheads arrived. He darted behind a buttress of the church wall and thanked his luck that there was a hole in the leaded window just above his head. He found a foothold in the wall and hauling on the sill, hanging like a bat, was able to peer through it into the gloom of the interior. There was enough light to discern two figures. The cavalier he’d followed was nowhere to be seen.

Thomas’s prayers were interrupted as the door creaked open and heavy footsteps resounded on the stone. The vicar forced himself not to move. He continued in what he hoped should pass as deep and reverential devotions. The vicar shuddered as footsteps approached his vulnerable back. A leather-gloved hand hauled him up by the arm. He found himself looking—and this was unusual—straight into the eyes of a man as tall as himself. Thomas studied the round helmet and leather jerkin bound at the waist with a red sash. Voice as cold as his eyes, the soldier asked, “Why art thou in church at this time of day, father?” The last word spat out in contempt.

“I might ask the same question of thee, my son” Thomas replied in the same tone. “I’m here for private prayer and contemplation, but thy purpose, with sword and armour, seems far from godly in this holy place.”

“Let’s not bandy words about godliness, lest unseemliness violate the Lord’s abode—for I am a god-fearing man as are we all in my company. Captain Michael Bullivant at thy service and at the service of Parliament. There is no time to waste, Vicar. We seek the traitor, Sir John Briggs. Hast thou seen him? Mayhap he hath begged thee for sanctuary?” The grey eyes seemed to bore into the clergyman’s soul, “’Tis a crime against the law of the land to harbour a traitor—a crime punishable by death.”