The Bleeding Land

by Giles Kristian

  ‘Have you ever shared a tent with O’Brien?’ Mun asked through a grimace.

  ‘Aye, he’s an Irish savage and no mistake,’ Bard said, grinning. ‘Which is why Captain Boone billeted you with the son of a sow.’

  Mun did not doubt it and said so, at which the veteran chuckled. ‘Well, now that you’re up you might as well check on the horses,’ Bard said, pointing his pipe towards where their troop’s mounts were huddled in the dark, nickering softly. ‘They don’t like this weather any more’n we do.’ The damp air was still sweet from the smoke of the earlier cookfires dotted through the camp that were now nothing but smouldering piles of grey ash. It was a smell Mun had come to love.

  He nodded. ‘And I’ll tell the captain’s mare that her master is a bloody bastard,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll wager she knows that already, lad,’ Bard said, then took the pipe between finger and thumb and pointed the stem at Mun accusingly. ‘Though, Captain Boone saved your neck at Powick Bridge, if my memory has the right of it.’

  That was true enough, thought Mun, remembering that savage day and the shame he had felt, the shame he still felt at having killed other men. And yet he himself would have been one of the dead, part of the bloody butcher’s bill, if not for Boone.

  Somewhere out in the dark, beyond the camp’s perimeter, a vixen screeched and it was a murderous, bone-chilling sound.

  ‘He’s a good soldier,’ Mun admitted. ‘But he is still a bastard.’ Bard grinned again as though to say Mun would get no more argument from him on that score. Then the veteran nodded farewell, turned and stalked off, disappearing into the dark. Leaving Mun defenceless against memories that would not be turned aside. His mind conjured dead men’s faces. Severed limbs. Images more horrible than any nightmare clawed at his soul, fraying its edges no matter how hard he tried to summon kinder thoughts. Somewhere in his head he heard the faint voices of the dead, soldiers scarce more than boys crying for their mothers as the blood left their bodies.

  Come then, he thought. And be done with it.

  He let his mind fill with it, like a cauldron brimming with rancid stew, as he walked through the sucking mud past the tents with their snoring, farting occupants, towards the horses. When a new thought struck him like a pistol ball. What if Tom had been with Colonel John Brown’s rebel horse that day at Powick Bridge? He tripped on a guy rope and fell, plunging his hands into the soft earth. Someone inside the tent growled a sleep-stifled curse. ‘God help us,’ Mun murmured. But what if Tom had been part of that bloody madness? My brother. He picked himself up and wiped his hands down his breeches, his mind reeling with pictures from that wild charge and the savagery of the mêlée.

  After the brief bloody clash in Brickfield Meadow the rebels had fled from the field back along the lane towards the bridge, back through another hail of lead from Rupert’s dismounted dragoons. Mun had seen men shot from their horses, seen the horses themselves fall and break their legs in the cramped chaos of the narrow bridge. He had seen men bleed to death in the mud of the riverbank and he had even seen a man drown in his armour. Though most of the rebels had escaped, it had been a mauling, a brief, horrifying episode of butchery. And he had killed his share. He had seen them piss and foul themselves as they died. He had known terror and elation and feral desperation all bound up in a few mad moments and now he turned it over in his mind like a plough blade turning the earth, seeing again things he would rather leave buried. Because he needed to know if he had seen Tom’s face amongst it all.

  Only a handful of men from the Royalist side had been killed, though many, including Prince Maurice, Rupert’s brother, had taken bullet or sword wounds. As for the rebels, more than one hundred lay dead that late September afternoon. And the flies came to feed on the filth, and jackdaws and crows hopped across the bloodstained meadow between the fallen or watched from the oaks and elms, croaking of the murder they had witnessed.

  Mun had not been a part of the troop charged with collecting arms and armour, stripping the dead for kit and piling the bodies up into grim mounds; that grisly task had fallen to the dragoons as most unsavoury jobs did. So for all he knew, Tom could have been amongst those corpses. But then Mun had not recognized Achilles amongst the captured animals and that was something at least. A flicker of hope in the rain-flayed night.

  He squelched up to the horse picket and some of the animals snorted and nickered, curious or wary of someone approaching from the drenched dark. One of them, a big stallion whose coat glistened, pushed forward to the end of his tether.

  ‘Hey, boy. Good boy, Hector,’ he murmured, taking the stallion’s head in his hands and putting his own cheek against Hector’s muzzle. The stallion blew gently, comforted by his master’s scent. ‘You’re my brave boy,’ Mun said softly, water running down his face having soaked through his hat. And together they stood in the pelting rain, Mun dreading what he would have to tell his father. That Tom was now their enemy.

  A great echoing cheer went up as the stained glass shattered and the dark shards rained down, chinking on the cathedral’s stone floor. But part of the florid scene, of the Christ and a lamb, still held intact and so some of the men went back to hacking a pew to splintered lumps to get more ammunition to hurl up at the window. Others were on their knees trying to dig up brass inscriptions with knives and still others of Essex’s army were tearing up prayer books and tossing the pages into the air. Most of the silver or brass candlesticks that Worcester Cathedral had to offer were now stuffed inside soldiers’ knapsacks or wedged in the belts at their waists, but Tom had a better use for the heavy brass stick he had snatched from the stone altar just as a young Puritan with a grinning face full of pustules had clambered up, dropped his breeches and begun to piss on the silk cloth and the Bible lying on it. And now Tom pulled back his arm and hurled the stick and it struck the figure of Jesus Christ on his cheek, knocking the crucifix from its fittings so that it too crashed to the floor and snapped across the tortured Christ’s emaciated stomach.

  Will Trencher spat on the broken crucifix. ‘Superstitious bloody idols!’ he growled, then threw a round stone at another stained glass window. The stone went straight through without shattering the rest of the glass and he swore and picked up the crucifix and began smashing what was left of it against the floor.

  Another cheer went up and Tom turned to see two troopers emerge from the chapter house draped in the bishop’s vestments, voluminous white silks over back- and breastplates, black satin and lace caps on their heads in place of steel helmets.

  ‘Papist piss lickers!’ a soldier yelled.

  ‘Damn the bishops and damn the Pope!’ another called as the two men playing the bishop affected to cower and tremble and wring their hands in fear.

  Another man was climbing a stepladder set against the organ in the transept, an axe in his hands as his fellows cheered him on, their voices swirling up to the enormous vaulted roof like a parody of the songs of worship that normally filled the cathedral. Once at the top, the man turned and gave them a grin, hefted the axe and struck one of the metal pipes, but in doing so lost his balance and fell and most of the men laughed until they realized their friend’s neck was broken and he was dead.

  But if any of the men took his death as an ill omen they did not show it as the frenzy of destruction gripped them still, and Tom took a long pull on the wine bottle he clutched by the neck and then poured some of the red liquid onto a discarded prayer cushion that another man had kicked towards him.

  ‘Don’t go wasting good wine, Tom,’ Matthew Penn slurred, holding up his own bottle as a trophy, both having been plundered from the cathedral’s chapter house.

  ‘This is not good wine,’ Tom growled, then hurled the bottle against a smooth marble pillar, exploding it in a spray of claret and glass.

  ‘In the name of Christ, stay your hands!’ someone roared and Tom turned as a small man strode up the aisle towards him having entered through the northside porch. ‘This is God’s House, you rogues! Not Bedlam o
r Bridewell! Get out, you devils! Out, villains!’

  ‘Leave, old man,’ Tom said, nodding back the way the man had come. ‘Get out while you can. God will not protect you here.’ The man was in his forties with deep-set, soul-scouring eyes and he did not break stride but marched up to Tom so that Tom was half taken aback by his audacity.

  ‘You defiler!’ the man roared. ‘You filth!’ Tom felt the man’s spit on his face, felt his own anger flare like black powder in the priming pan. Then the man thrust a finger into Tom’s chest. ‘You dare deface God’s House? You maggot pie!’

  ‘Away from me, damn you!’ Tom yelled, swinging his fist against the man’s head, so that he staggered backwards and fell on his behind, eyes bulging with fury.

  ‘You are a devil!’ the little man screamed up at him, then from inside his tunic fished a string of beads on the end of which was a small wooden cross, brandishing the thing at Tom as though it had the power to turn him into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife. But Tom knew that God had no power, that the Devil held dominion over this world, which was why his beautiful Martha was in the cold grave.

  ‘He’s a papist!’ Matthew Penn exclaimed, pointing accusingly with one hand, still gripping the wine bottle with the other.

  ‘A papist in an Anglican church?’ Tom said, but no one seemed to hear.

  ‘We’ve got a damn papist here, lads!’ another soldier yelled, pulling up his breeches.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ Tom hissed at the little man, snatching Penn’s bottle and taking a long draught, the dark liquid spilling down his beard and tunic. And then he leant back against the choir wall and slid to the cold floor and from there he watched five men, Will Trencher amongst them, throw a rope around the little man’s neck and drag him kicking and choking back down the aisle towards the north door. The remaining soldiers continued looting and smashing whatever could be smashed.

  ‘We should fetch an officer,’ Matthew Penn said, gesturing after the gang and their prisoner, swaying as though he stood on a ship’s deck. ‘They’ll hang that man if we don’t.’

  Tom closed his eyes and let his mind conjure an image of his love swinging gently on a rope beneath the old stone bridge above the Tawd. It was a soul-torturing image. But he held on to it.

  ‘Let the fool hang,’ he snarled, raising the bottle to his lips.

  Some time later he woke cold and stiff, his skull hammering and his mouth dry as old bones. He’d been awakened by the scuff and clop of hooves against stone, the sound amplified in that huge space, and had opened his eyes to the strange sight of men leading their horses down the nave. Sunlight flooded through the ten pointed arches of the great east window, filtering through the jagged coloured glass that clung stubbornly along their edges and illuminating the human faeces that someone had left on the high altar. Autumn morning light surged down the nave, engulfing the strange congregation and throwing spear-straight shafts through smoke that rose lazily from the grey embers of an old fire. Vaguely Tom recalled some of the men smashing pews to kindling some time in the night and setting a fire against the chill. Churches are always cold, he thought.

  He pushed himself upright and looked across the way, where Matthew Penn lay snoring on a bedroll, cradling an ale jug. Here and there other men were waking, rubbing their eyes, holding their heads, farting. They were glancing around at the carnage, the broken glass, hacked-up pews and misericords, splintered altar rails and ripped-up prayer books. At the broken crucifix, Christ snapped into pieces as though to pile misery onto misery. Dry-mouthed, yet needing to empty his bladder, Tom climbed to his feet and stood almost still for a moment. Wondering if he would vomit.

  ‘Look after my gear, Matthew,’ he said, swallowing the lump that was rising up his throat. Penn stirred and grunted something which Tom took to be his assurance, then he crossed the south aisle towards another door, through which more men were leading their mounts.

  ‘You lot had a good night then?’ one young trooper said to him, smiling mischievously.

  Tom ignored him and stepped out into the new day, turning his face from the harsh light and holding his eyes closed for a few moments. To his right a hundred or more horses were picketed in the southside cloisters and more weary-looking troopers were coming in, which was why they needed to use the vast space inside the cathedral, too. Somewhere amongst those horses was Achilles and he would be hungry, but several boys were moving amongst them with sacks of hay and Tom knew that the stallion would be sure to demand his portion. Around the cloister’s edges men were huddled around cookfires, talking in low voices whilst their fellows yet slept in the tents set against the wall behind them. Bacon, onions and garlic sizzled on skillets, the sweet aroma drifting on the breeze and making Tom’s mouth water. Spitted joints of mutton turned beside fires, glistening and dripping fat and promising a much better start to the day than the usual stale bread and cheese.

  ‘Compliments of the good folk of Worcester!’ a soldier announced to his fellows, brandishing a knife on the end of which was skewered a chunk of roasted meat.

  Essex’s men had looted the city and were now enjoying the spoils. Tom supposed the earl could have done more to stop the abuses, but perhaps he was not wholly averse to his men showing the people of Worcester the error of their judgement in siding with the King.

  He left the cloisters through the west gate and began down the gentle grassy slope towards the river.

  ‘Want some breakfast, Tom?’ He looked to his left where Will Trencher and a group of soldiers lay around a pile of embers, some tending iron pots half buried in the coals. The big man beckoned Tom over, smiling to reveal the few teeth he still had.

  ‘Have you got ale?’ Tom asked, squinting against the light and walking, half stumbling, over to join them.

  ‘The best in Worcester for Black Tom!’ Trencher exclaimed, grabbing a pitcher by the handle and lifting it as proof. Some of the liquid sploshed over the side and one of the men swore at Trencher for wasting it, but the big man took no notice.

  A trooper named Hewson, whom the men called Weasel on account of his narrow face and close-set eyes, handed Tom a mug into which Trencher poured a generous measure of ale. Then they all watched as Tom raised the mug in mock salute and drank, draining it before dragging a hand across his mouth and stifling a great belch.

  ‘It tastes like piss, Will,’ he growled, shuddering and wondering again if he would vomit.

  The men round the fire were laughing and Will Trencher shrugged his broad shoulders and winked at Weasel. ‘I didn’t say it was any good,’ he said through a grin, ‘just that it was the best in Worcester.’

  At which Tom grimaced but anyway offered his cup to be refilled. Trencher happily obliged and when Tom raised the cup to his lips again he saw something in the grass behind the men that he had not noticed before. But then, he was half blinded by that vengeful sun that was driving nails into his brain. Doubtless there were lots of things he had not noticed this morning.

  ‘It’s that bloody papist from last night,’ a short, red-faced man named Nayler said, thumbing over his shoulder.

  ‘Penn said you’d hang him,’ Tom replied. The little dead man lay on his back, those outraged eyes still staring but cloudy now. His limbs had stiffened overnight and one arm was bent at the elbow so that the pale hand pointed accusingly at the sky.

  ‘We didn’t hang him,’ Nayler said.

  ‘It wasn’t worth the bloody effort,’ another man added. ‘Bastard pope-lover was slippery as an eel. Gave me this.’ He tilted his head and yanked his bloodied collar down to reveal a livid gouge on his neck. ‘Nails sharp as bloody cats, papists.’

  ‘So we made him swallow those beads of his, cross and all,’ Weasel announced, grinning at his friends. ‘He choked for a good hour but it did for him in the end.’

  ‘Aye, he won’t bother you with baubles and spells again, Tom, you needn’t worry about that,’ Trencher said, leaning over to stir the steaming contents of his pot with a long knife.

  Tom let
his eyes linger on the stiff corpse for a few moments and some part of his mind asked another part what he felt, looking at that little man whose death was on his hands as much as on those of the men before him. The answer came and Tom put the cup of ale to his lips and drank. Then he continued down to the riverbank to relieve himself.

  Because he felt nothing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘THE MORE I see you ride, will,’ Matthew Penn said, buckling the girth strap of his dun mare’s saddle, ‘the more convinced I am that you should have joined that lot.’ He nodded towards the great lumbering mass of the Parliamentary artillery train now passing them. ‘If ever there was a man born to heave terrible encumbrances from here to there and back again it is you.’

  ‘You’ll be glad I didn’t when Prince Rupert charges and you wet yourself,’ Will replied, feeding his own horse a lump of old cheese. ‘You’ll just be glad Uncle Will’s there to look after you.’

  ‘If that devil Rupert charges at us, the only reason you’ll linger, Will, is because you’ll have fallen from that fat mare of yours in the panic to flee,’ Nayler said, a half grin on his red face. There were some murmurs of agreement and some curses at this, for they had all heard about the Royalist assault at Powick Bridge. How the Prince had charged with devastating effect, fighting at the front like a demon, and how their own troopers had fled and kept going until they met the Earl of Essex’s Lifeguard regiment near Pershore some ten miles away. It had been a rout and, worse, an embarrassment.

  ‘I’d still rather fight that devil than be with those poor sods,’ Trencher said, gesturing at a gun team of about thirty men and eight horses that was struggling with a brass demi-culverin in the cloying mud.

  Tom did not have saddle holsters for his firelocks, so shoved them into his tall boots, then watched the gunners flounder in the mud, the horse team neighing in protest at the corpulent conductor who was endeavouring to enliven them with a stinging hazel switch.