The Scots pressed on southwards for London; the English army chased after them until the Scots chose the ground and turned to face the pursuers outside Dunbar. The English were hopelessly outnumbered; injury, illness, and desertion had taken a dramatic toll. Cromwell was uncertain whether to go forwards against the Scots or fall back. Only Lambert gritted his teeth and said they must fight then and there.

While Cromwell dropped the flap of his tent so that he might weep and pray in privacy, John Lambert mustered the army and told them simply and clearly that the Scots outnumbered them by two to one and thus they must fight with double bravery, double persistence, and double faith. There were about twenty-two thousand Scotsmen drawn up for battle, and only eleven thousand of them. With the smile that Hester Tradescant secretly loved, Lambert pulled off his plumed hat and beamed at his troops. ‘I don’t think this is a difficulty,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, Ironsides!’

Early in September, Alexander sent a one line note to John.

Scots defeated at Dunbar.

‘Thank God,’ Hester said piously when John held out the letter for her to read in the stable yard. She put her hand in her pocket and gave Alexander’s boy a coin.

‘I already paid him,’ John remarked.

Hester smiled. ‘I could give ten shillings for this news,’ she said.

‘Shall you tell Johnnie, or will I?’

She hesitated. ‘Where is he?’

‘On the other side of the road, picking nuts from the horse chestnut trees.’

‘You go,’ she said. ‘It was your agreement with him that has kept him safe.’

‘Praise God,’ John said. ‘I have had some sleepless nights.’

He strolled around the house, savouring the warmth of the sun reflected from the walls, glancing up in passing at the flamboyant crest which his father had illegally composed and claimed. It didn’t matter now, John thought with satisfaction. There were so many newly created titles and such confusion about how titles had come into being, that they could claim to be baronets and no-one would query it. Indeed, Johnnie might one day very well be Sir John Tradescant as his grandfather had always wanted. Who knew what this new world would bring? As long as the family could keep its place, could keep the business, could keep the plants; as long as the horse chestnut trees flowered each year and scattered down the precious nuts like a prodigal rain of wealth, as long as there was always a Tradescant heir to pick them up and set them deep in moist pots.