A Woman Under Siege

 

My mind is on the rack betwixt hope and despair. The rebels have come to Sheer House and even now prepare to prosecute a siege. We hear them labouring, digging trenches and throwing up earthworks, their officers barking commands and their oxen lowing as they haul their beastly gun into position. Major Radcliffe tells me the gun is a demi-cannon and that we must pray the rebels are unskilled in its use or else we may not stand against it and these old walls will be smashed, the stones rain down on our heads. And yet I would have Sheer House be my grave rather than yield to the traitors.

 

An arrogant young man, a Captain Downing, called today and demanded I give up the house. That he has men and guns at my gate is grave insult but what troubled me even more was the steely look in this young captain’s eyes. I fear that he truly believes he does God’s will. I will receive word from my husband soon. I must believe that and be fortified in spirit. Until then we shall, with the Lord’s blessing and food to sustain us, hold this house. 

 

Bess’s baby is coming. I pray that the midwife deliver the child safely and that Bess shall face the pain and the torment bravely and overcome it. For we women are but anointed vessels of God’s creative power and must suffer to obey His first commandment of us; ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ And yet this baby must be born a child of war, delivered into the seething cauldron of this bitter struggle. The rebels’ cannon is bringing this house down slowly but surely.

 

Daily I thank God for Major Radcliffe, for he has turned famers and labourers, stable hands and wool merchants into soldiers and without this brave garrison we should have been lost weeks ago. They man our walls and have taken position behind earth-filled gabions and in the trenches slashed into the lawns. Their women-folk are no less brave and have shared every labour, dug into the ground with bare hands and hefted earth to build the rampart against the boundary wall. They tend those men whose limbs have been taken. They comfort the dying. And yet our provisions run low and the parlour fills with the dead and wounded. The smell of corrupted flesh, the taint of death, clings to this house. Soon the rebels will climb from their holes and come at us with all their muskets and fury. I wish my sons were here with me. Who knows what has become of them?

 

We have endured their cannon, every barrage striking fear into our hearts, the ungodly roar shaking the soul. And yet we still hold the house. I wonder what the arrogant Captain Downing makes of that. I expect he is surprised that a frail women should possess such boldness, that I presume my duties of running the household extend to defying him and his brazen fellows, that I should resolve to fight in defence of this house and in the name of my husband who is the King’s most loyal subject. And yet it is Captain Downing who is most unnatural, who would turn the world upside down and plunge us into chaos. Two days past I delivered my final answer to the rebels and they shall not hear from me again.

 

I would desire a portrait of Captain Downing’s face as it was when I told him that he is the foolish instrument of a traitor’s pride. That he and his master shall have neither persons, goods, nor house. That if the providence of God prevent it not, my goods and house shall burn in his sight; and myself, my daughter, and my soldiers too, rather than fall into the rebels’ hands, will seal our religion and loyalty in the same flame. 

 

I have not told Bess but tonight I shall ride out to strike a blow at the traitors. I must accept that help is not coming. I must show the garrison and all who shelter within our walls that I am unafraid. Though in truth I have never been more afraid. I shall wear the back and breast plates we gave to Mun when he turned sixteen and I daresay none will frown on me for dressing like a man. For I ride out to fight and share every danger. It is a bold plan but God willing we shall strike such a savage blow that will shake the rebels and give us more time. For there has been no word from Sir Francis.  

 

Francis, my dear and only love, if you should read these lines, know that I did everything in my power to hold out against the miscreants. If I could grasp even the slim hope that you were riding north even now, I would dare to believe we might prevail. My heart is with you, my love, and I know you believe it for my life is bound up with yours.

 

The King and the cause. God save the King!

 

Mary 

 

 

 

Giles Kristian is the author of The Bleeding Land, out 26 April, published by Bantam.