‘It’s an expensive bucket that can never be filled, is what it is,’ Captain Preston said, adjusting his mount’s bridle. ‘A bloody quern stone hanging round our necks. On this ground at least,’ he added, gesturing at the earth that had been churned to a mire by so many men, horses and beasts of burden. ‘How we are meant to outmanoeuvre the enemy with those guns holding us back I do not know.’
Despite the captain’s boyish features, his clear complexion, snub nose and short tufty fair hair, Tom put him at about twenty-five. He suspected the man knew his business, too; must do or else Essex’s generals would not have raised him from a lieutenant in the London Trained Bands to a Captain of Horse in Lord Feilding’s Regiment. But whether or not Preston was up for the fight only time would tell.
They had struck camp an hour before sunrise and now Parliament’s army was marching out of Worcester in the drizzling rain because Essex had received word that the King was making for London. No one knew precisely where the Royalists were, but they had to be stopped from reaching the capital. Tom’s nerves had begun to thrum with anticipation of a fight and a big fight too. Everyone knew they were winding up to a confrontation which both sides hoped would finish this war before it really got started. But Tom thought Captain Preston was right about the cannon. How could they overtake the enemy and force the issue with that forty-six-piece artillery train plodding through the mire, holding them back?
And yet it was not just for their cannon that they needed this shambling convoy. The artillery train supplied small arms ammunition to the whole army, cavalry included, as well as muskets, pikes, lances and swine-feathers, which made cavalrymen shudder because they knew what those metal-tipped stakes could do to a charging horse. The column also brought pistols, armour, swords and sword belts and the tools that an army on the move required to function, such as spades, mattocks, duckboards, axes, horseshoes, nails, rope, hides, tar and countless other necessities. As for itself the artillery train needed hundreds of horses and oxen that all had to be fed. It needed carpenters, wheelwrights and blacksmiths just to keep it moving at all.
‘Still, not our problem today, boys!’ Captain Preston announced, mounting with fluid ease.
‘Why’s that, Captain?’ Matthew Penn asked, fastening the short buff-coat that had been a gift from his father, a lawyer in a Southwark firm. The coat was poorly made and could not have cost more than five pounds but it was better than nothing and Tom had it in his mind to kill a wealthy Royalist officer and get such a coat for himself.
‘Because, Penn, today we get the chance to stretch our legs. Give the horses a good run.’
‘Bloody hell. Sorry, old girl,’ Trencher muttered under his breath, patting his big mare in consolation.
‘We are to ride south-east ahead of the army to find billets near Warwick. The King’s target is London. It must be. And so we shall overhaul His Majesty and all his Cavalier devils, but first we must accompany the quartermasters and find billets.’
‘Sounds like dragoons’ work,’ Trencher moaned, sweeping rain from his bald head and putting on a rusty pot.
‘Chin up, Trencher,’ Captain Preston said, ‘it cannot be more than fifty miles and it’s barely raining. Besides, it is an honour, that we might ride ahead of the rest. If anyone’s going to run into the King’s men it’ll be us. Think of us as the vanguard, boys.’
The other fifty-two men in the troop mounted up behind their captain and prepared to ride east, their horses well fed, courtesy of Worcester, firelocks cleaned and oiled and blades wickedly sharp. If anyone’s going to run into the King’s men it’ll be us. That’s what Captain Preston had said. Which to Tom meant two things: that Preston was not afraid of a fight, and that Tom might soon taste battle. Which was what he wanted more than anything in the world.
They rode fast for the first ten miles, the three-beat gait of the canter thumping its rhythm on the soft ground as the men and their horses revelled in the chase. After a week of being cooped up in Worcester the horses needed a good run and Captain Preston was happy to give them one. But after their initial ebullience was spent, they slowed to a brisk trot, passing the villages of Rous Lench, Abbot’s Salford and Bidford and asking of folk if they had news of the King’s army.
‘If you seek the King’s army then what army are you?’ one ruddy-faced farmer had asked, scratching his cheek in perturbed confusion.
‘We, sir, are Parliament’s army!’ Captain Preston had announced to a chorus of oinks and snorts from the man’s pigs.
‘Parliament’s army?’ the man said, his face screwed up in utter perplexity. ‘What on this earth would Parliament be doing with an army?’
‘We are at war, sirrah!’ Captain Preston had said, his own cheeks flushing red. ‘Your king has declared war against his people. You did not know this?’
The farmer seemed to consider this for a moment, then hawked and spat a gobbet of phlegm into the mud and proceeded to scour his bristled chin with his filthy nails.
‘So long as His Majesty is not at war with my pigs,’ he said, ‘for they do not like their habits disturbed.’ He shook his head. ‘They can be obstinate buggers if their habits are disturbed.’
With that Captain Preston had cursed, apologized to God for cursing, flicked his reins and led the column off, leaving the farmer and his beloved pigs staring beady-eyed after them.
They followed the Avon upriver towards Stratford, crossing there and continuing east, crossing the spear-straight Fosse Way and riding on north of Kineton, then across the rolling, rugged ironstone hills of Burton Dassett amongst which countless sheep grazed, happily unaware that war was coming.
By late afternoon they had crossed a squat stone bridge over the River Itchen and arrived damp and hungry at the outskirts of the village of Wormleighton some fifteen miles south-east of Warwick.
‘What is your appreciation of this place, Captain?’ one of the two quartermasters asked, swaying lazily in his saddle and removing his hat to run plump fingers through his lank white hair. His name was Tromp and Tom had heard that the man had gone to Lord Feilding himself and asked to be allowed to conduct this undertaking of searching for billets from the relative comfort of a horse-drawn cart. Tom had understood the request that morning when he had laid eyes on Tromp, for the quartermaster was enormously fat. Too fat to sit a horse, one would have thought, and yet surprisingly he rode fairly well. It was Captain Preston who had thwarted Tromp’s request, claiming that they might as well haul a cannon as keep pace with a cart, and Tromp had steeped in his own juices ever since. Now he had emerged from his gloomy silence and was testing the captain in front of his men.
‘Good open ground and rising up towards the village,’ Preston answered, playing along, glancing round from his saddle and taking in what he could of the undulating terrain in the dim dusk light. ‘Only a few small spinneys by the looks. Enough for firewood but nothing for our enemies to hide in.’
‘Plenty of fresh water too,’ Lieutenant Hyde put in eagerly. ‘Yonder brook runs back to the river and there’s likely to be more like it.’
‘I agree, Lieutenant,’ Captain Preston said. ‘In the morning we should have a good view of the surrounding land from the manor and the church tower.’
‘The ancient boundaries of the village were set out in the charter of King Eadwy in the year of Our Lord nine hundred and fifty-six,’ Tromp announced, ‘by which he gave the village to an Earl Æfhere.’ It was a riposte to which Captain Preston seemingly had no answer.
But Matthew Penn did. ‘You see, nothing has changed, not in all these years,’ he said. ‘The King makes rich men richer, gives his fool-born foot-licking friends and retainers the pie while the rest of us make do with the crumbs.’
This got some ayes and a few curses by way of agreement and the fat quartermaster went to great efforts to twist round in his saddle to get a look at the man who had spoken the much-welcomed sedition.
‘That was neatly put, young man,’ Tromp said, staring at Tom, the whites of his
eyes glowing dully by the light of the half moon that had appeared through a tear in the clouds.
‘Wasn’t me that said it,’ Tom muttered, wondering how Tromp’s horse was still walking beneath the fat man’s enormous bulk. ‘I could not care if the King gave all of England to the King of Spain.’
Tromp’s eyes bulged. From the corner of his own, Tom saw a flash of Penn’s teeth as he shook his head with incredulity.
‘Now now, Thomas, you’ll upset folk with talk like that,’ Captain Preston warned. ‘Mister Tromp might take you seriously.’
‘If it was in jest it was in poor taste,’ Tromp said, scowling as he turned back to face his front. They were making their way up the muddy road and had almost reached the messuages on Wormleighton’s western edge: some low thatched dwellings each with a garden, service buildings and animal pens. ‘He has an ill-favoured look, that one,’ Tromp added. ‘I would be wary of him, Captain.’
Tom ignored the indirect insult, but Penn did not. ‘I have a pretty friend who would disagree with you on that, Mister Tromp,’ he said, ‘isn’t that right, Tom?’ Tom thought of Ruth Gell, of the nights they had shared. ‘Poor girl,’ Penn went on, ‘but I believe she was in love with Tom in her way. Broke her ample heart to see her young warrior ride off to war, even if he does make a desolate Puritan like Trencher here seem a mirthful fellow.’ Trencher grunted something nasty. ‘Come to think of it, Mister Tromp, you are quite right, for I swear on my life it never rained so much before I met Black Tom.’
‘Quiet, Penn,’ Captain Preston said, raising his left hand. They were passing the first houses now, continuing up the gentle slope. A breeze was blowing up from the south, bringing with it a damp fog from the fields, that drifted in amongst the buildings and willow hurdles. This mist was thickened by spice-smelling wood smoke wafting up from one or more unseen dwellings beyond the southern slope.
An owl hooted and suddenly Tom was aware that his senses had pricked awake. The sweet, damp aroma of fallen leaves filled his nose and his ears sifted every sound: the horses’ snorts, the clink of equipment and the creak of saddles and leather buff-coats. Even the thump of his own heart. He felt a chill crawl up his spine, bristling the hairs on his neck. It was the same sense, he guessed, that had caused the captain to hush the column.
There was no sign of anyone moving in the autumn dusk, but that in itself was not so unusual. Most folk with any sense would make themselves scarce at the appearance of fifty armed and mounted troopers. No, it was something else that had whetted his instinct. But what?
He was aware of the pistols in his boots pressing against his outer calves. Of the rapier’s hilt at his left hip.
‘Who are you?’ a voice called from the murk. ‘State your business here.’
Captain Preston raised his hand again and stopped his horse, halting the entire column. He glanced at Lieutenant Hyde, then nodded, affirming his decision.
‘I am Captain Preston of Lord Feilding’s Regiment of Horse, serving the Earl of Essex and His Majesty’s Parliament,’ Preston called, straight-backed, peering ahead, searching for the body to which the voice belonged.
No reply came out of the gloom.
‘I don’t like this,’ Will Trencher murmured, drawing the great blunderbuss from its saddle holster.
‘On the left, Captain,’ Tom said.
‘What is it, Rivers?’ Preston asked, the strain of keeping his voice calm palpable in just those four words. But Tom had no answer, did not know what he had heard. Not heard. Felt.
‘Show yourselves!’ Captain Preston yelled.
Gouts of flame flashed, followed in an eye blink by a ragged salvo of cracks, and Lieutenant Hyde grunted and slumped forward and the horses whinnied and Tom gripped Achilles hard with his knees, trying to control the startled stallion as he drew both his pistols.
‘Behind us! They’re behind us!’ someone clamoured from the column’s rear, as more tongues of fire spat from the murk, illuminating men for an instant before the darkness reclaimed them. Men around Tom fired their own carbines and pistols but he could see no one to kill and so he held his fire.
‘Forward!’ Captain Preston roared, but then, suddenly, there was the enemy, charging out of the dark and screaming as they came. Captain Preston fired his carbine and Tom saw a man fall from his horse and then liquid slapped his face and he looked at the man beside him, at the gory, bone-flecked hole that had been Trooper Edwards’s face.
‘Heya!’ He spurred forward with his captain and there were more gouts of flame as the enemy cavalry emerged in a hateful wave and the two sides struck, horses and men screaming and blades flashing in the moonlight. A sword slashed at Tom, just missing his face, and he leant out quick as a lightning strike and thrust a pistol into a man’s face, pulling the trigger. The man’s head vanished, spraying Tom’s pistol and hand with hot fluid. Captain Preston hacked and slashed, his blade ringing against his opponent’s. Instinctively Tom ducked and flame spewed towards him and he heard the savage hiss as the ball whipped past and saw in the flash the whites of a horse’s wild eyes. Then he pointed his other pistol and fired and heard it pierce a breastplate and then the horse was riderless and he shoved his firelocks into his boots and hauled his sword rasping from its scabbard.
Quartermaster Tromp had drawn his own sword and was slashing about himself wildly, but then Tom saw at least two men drag the quartermaster screaming from his horse and Tom cursed because the enemy had infantry amongst them now too.
‘Heya, Achilles!’ he yelled, digging his heels in and driving the stallion forward towards Captain Preston, who was fending off two attackers with desperate sword work. One of the enemy riders sensed the danger and pulled his mount round just as Tom slashed at him, striking his breastplate. Then Will Trencher was there too, his blade flashing, and the Cavalier hauled on his reins and his horse stepped neatly backwards, disengaging them from the fray. Just as something hammered into Tom’s ribs, knocking the wind from him so that he gasped for breath. The musket butt came again, thumping into his left thigh, and Tom heard himself roar with pain even as he twisted and brought his rapier hissing out of the dark from his right and down across the musketeer’s face, cleaving it apart with a wet chop.
‘Quarter!’ someone yelled. ‘We surrender, damn you!’ Captain Preston was yet hacking a man to death even as he yelled for the killing to end. And with good reason, Tom knew. For now the enemy had broken from cover Tom could see a score or more musket matches glowing malevolently in the dark around them. If they were not cut from their horses they would be shot from them and now Captain Preston wanted to save his men’s lives. Those who still lived.
‘We surrender! It’s over, men!’ he bellowed. ‘Quarter, damn your eyes!’ he screamed at a musketeer who was raising his matchlock, its muzzle a mere two feet from Preston’s side.
Some more cracks split the night and Tom wheeled Achilles round in circles, his sword raised and yet hungry for blood, then he saw a musketeer and kicked Achilles forward, eager to cut the man down.
‘Hold, Tom! It’s over! Hold, man!’ It was Matthew Penn and he had bravely grabbed Achilles’s bridle to stop the beast; Achilles snapped his teeth but Penn held on, shouting for Tom to stop. Then Tom recognized his friend and hauled on his reins.
‘Whoa, boy, steady, Achilles,’ he growled, the words raspy as a raven’s call because his mouth was so dry. He glanced around at the carnage dimly illuminated in the cold moonlight. Bodies lay everywhere in a gloom curdled by the anguished screams of men and horses. Other bodies lay still. Riderless horses stamped or shied, their eyes rolling, and as Tom held his sword out before him he realized that he was trembling madly. Not fear. Just the battle thrill, he hoped. You have killed men, his conscience whispered, frayed as a banner whipped by a musket ball.
‘Put down your swords,’ Captain Preston ordered, handing his own weapon to an enemy officer while two musketeers trained their matchlocks on him. ‘All of you, weapons down.’
‘Down!’ a muskete
er barked at Tom, his weapon aimed at Tom’s torso. The match clamped in the serpent glowed and Tom had the notion that if it had still been raining they might have escaped, because many of the enemy’s muskets would not fire in the wet. But the drizzle had stopped some time before they had entered the village and now all the man in front of him need do was pull the trigger. The serpent lock would lower the lit match into the priming pan, igniting the small charge there which would in turn ignite the main charge in the barrel through the touch-hole. There would be a flash and Tom would hear a crack but by then the lead ball would have already torn a hole through him.
‘We’re beaten, Tom,’ Penn said. ‘Do what the bastard says.’ And so as if in a dream Tom threw his sword point-first into the soft ground, then dismounted and stood amongst the dead and dying, his breath loud in his steel helmet.
‘Some must have got clear,’ Penn said, looking around. Twenty feet away Quartermaster Tromp lay bludgeoned to death, the whites of his bulging, terror-filled eyes striking against his gore-dark face.
‘Bloody ran and left us,’ Nayler said, holding his hands up as a Cavalier relieved him of his wheellock pistol and sword. Penn was right, Tom realized, for though there were plenty of dead there were not enough, and he guessed that at least twenty had broken clear and galloped west.
‘We might have won. Beaten these whoresons if they’d stayed,’ Will Trencher growled. His big mare lay bleeding out in the mud and he stood watching her die, blood dripping from a gash in his bald head.
A broad-shouldered, halberd-wielding corporal strode up to Tom and used his weapon’s butt to knock Tom’s helmet off into the mud. Then he spun the shortened halberd around and ran its slender wicked point along Tom’s neck until its crescent-shaped axe blade pressed into the flesh beneath his jaw. The corporal’s pot had a rim all the way round from whose shadow his eyes glared hatefully.
‘You rebel scum,’ he sneered into Tom’s face, gripping the halberd’s shaft with white-knuckled hands, ‘I’m going to slice your rancid head off.’ He spat, the phlegmy string catching in his beard where it glistened in the moonlight. ‘That man down there was my friend,’ he snarled, jerking his head towards the musketeer whose face Tom had sliced open. Tom glanced down at the blood-spattered ruin, his nostrils full of the stench of the musketeer’s open bowels. The corporal smelt it too, if the grimace on his face was anything to go by.
The Bleeding Land Page 20