A male Red Grouse with reddish-brown plumage and a red wattle stands on a grey stone wall against a background of brown Bracken and trees.

A Red Grouse, the Civil War, and Pennyman‘s Delinquency

This Red Grouse, clearly unimpressed by my presence, stood its ground clucking defiantly as I trudged up Easby Moor. Its red wattle gave away its gender, maybe it was trying to attract a mate. Back in the 17th century, grouse would not have been hunted to the same extent as today but still might have made a convenient snack for any troops trudging across the Yorkshire Moors during the English Civil War. I’m afraid that’s a pretty tenuous connection to the history I am about to relate, but given the dreich conditions this morning, this was the best photograph I could muster.

So, let us awkwardly step back to this day, 28 January in 1643. The market square of Stokesley is hardly thriving, its usual bustle replaced by an ominous stillness. Stallholders hover near their wares—bread, vegetables, pots—all ignored as they eye the centrepiece of this grim scene: a makeshift dais under the Royal Standard, fluttering dramatically in the chill. A herald, resplendent in over-the-top livery, bellows a call to arms, his voice valiantly battling the murmurs of the uneasy crowd.

The townsfolk, a mixture of apprehension and begrudging loyalty, gather in scattered clusters. Men of fighting age, their faces haggard from toil, shuffle awkwardly as Sir James Pennyman of Ormesby, clad in a polished cuirass, lectures them on duty, honour, and the joys of serving King Charles. His speech is laced with lofty promises of glory and thinly veiled threats for cowards.

A drummer taps out a monotonous rhythm, each beat a reminder of the futility of resistance. A clerk, hunched over a table, scrawls down names as reluctant volunteers are prodded forward, some by neighbours’ accusing stares, others by wives’ whispered threats. The young and naïve leap at the chance, dreaming of adventure, while the older and wiser shuffle forward like condemned men. Desperation proves a more powerful motivator than patriotism.

As evening descends, the new recruits are marched out in a ragged line. Mothers weep, wives clutch their children, and fathers manage solemn nods as sons and neighbours are led away to meet their fate. The captain’s voice grows hoarse barking orders, the Royal Standard is lowered, and the square slips back into silence, its air heavy with foreboding.

By 1643, the English Civil War was well underway, and Parliament, in its wisdom, had created two committees with delightfully self-important names. The “Sequestration Committee” confiscated Royalists’ estates, while the “Committee for Compounding with Delinquents” graciously allowed those Royalists to buy their estates back, provided they promised to behave. Sir James Pennyman, loyal to the King, inevitably would later fall foul of these bureaucratic delights.

The Pennymans of Marske and their cousins in Ormesby were staunch Royalists, dedicating their resources and raising troops for the King. Sir James, ever the troublemaker, not only rallied men in Stokesley on 28 January 1643 but was also accused of raising further units and thwarting Cromwellian plans later that year. Notably, he repelled an attempted Parliamentarian landing at Marske-by-the-Sea, where Cromwell’s men, arriving aboard the warship Rainbow, were sent packing by Sir James and his forces1Rainbow Repulsed, Marske 1643 by Phil Philo. https://thebattlefieldtrustnebsouth.wordpress.com/2020/05/12/rainbow-repulsed-marske-1643/. This minor seaside skirmish exemplified the thoroughly disorganised, piecemeal nature of the Civil War.

The Pennyman family had a long history of backing losing causes. One ancestor had joined the ill-fated Pilgrimage of Grace in 1569 and was executed for his efforts. Yet, unwavering loyalty to the Crown persisted, with both branches of the family eagerly throwing men and horses into the conflict. For his dedication, Sir James earned the label of “Delinquent” in the Committee’s proceedings and was fined £1,200. This financial blow likely spurred his decision to sell his estate to the Lowther family in 1650. Thus ended his contribution to the royalist cause: broke, defeated, and thoroughly punished for his “delinquency.”


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