by Dan Davis
The Captain rode as if his horse was part of him, flowing up and down like a weeping willow in a steady breeze. He cantered back down through the lines of soldiers toward her. He was bareheaded, his cheeks a ruddy pink from the cold air on his smooth, clear skin. Captain Smith pulled his magnificent horse around and walked it next to them and Burp’s wagon. The horse snorted and tossed its magnificent combed mane.
Winstanley was riding next to Captain Smith. Getting in the way, as usual.
‘Hello, my friends,’ Winstanley said.
‘How are our newest recruits today?’ Captain Smith asked. His voice was as loud and clear and bright as the ringing of a bell.
‘Hello, Captain,’ Weaver said. But then she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘We’re very well, thank you, Captain,’ Archer said. If he kept acting like he was a grown-up then she was going to have to hit him. ‘Weaver was just saying how bored she is with this endless walking. She’s got nothing to do.’
‘No I never!’
‘Ah, well if you’re bored then you could work with me, Weaver,’ Winstanley said, his stupid face happy.
‘What do you even do here, Winstanley?’ Weaver scoffed. ‘You aren’t a soldier. You shouldn’t even be here, should you?’ She saw Smith cover his mouth to hide his smirk and she liked him even more for that.
Winstanley raised his eyebrows and stared at her for a moment. ‘Indeed, I am most certainly not a soldier. I never want to be. However, I am someone who believes very strongly that the tyranny of the King and the Alchemists must be confronted and defeated. And so I help these good fellows in the New Model Army in other ways. In ways that do not involve galloping horses or firing muskets. At the moment, I am planning on collecting herbs and bark and roots for the physicians and planting them in a garden. It’s important work, especially with a battle looming. There’ll be lots of men needing healing soon enough.’
‘It sounds like more walking around, to me,’ Weaver said.
‘Well then,’ Captain Smith said with a grin. ‘If you do not care for walking, perhaps you would like to try riding with my troop, Weaver?’
‘Yes!’ Weaver blurted out. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Surely you are joking? She’s just a young girl, Smith,’ Winstanley said. ‘It’s not safe.’
Weaver could have punched him. ‘Shut up, Winstanley. I can go if I want.’ Winstanley looked hurt again but she didn’t care.
‘Can you ride, Weaver?’ Captain Smith asked, still smiling at her.
She was about to lie. She was about to say that she used to ride up and down the Vale and she knew all about horses but at the last moment she realised how quickly she’d get found out. ‘No,’ she admitted, afraid that would be the end of it.
‘Well, no matter,’ Captain Smith said. ‘You can ride upon my saddle with me until you learn. It is very easy, you know.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I do have some conditions, however,’ Captain Smith said, growing stern. ‘You must do precisely as I say, when I say it. If you ride with me, then you shall be an honorary trooper and so you must obey orders. It is not just your life that depends on it but the lives of your fellows in the company.’
‘Yes sir, I understand, sir. I will obey your orders, sir,’ Weaver said, meaning it.
‘That is what I like to hear from my men... I mean, my troopers. In war, obedience is vitally important.’
‘It’s important to me too, sir,’ Weaver said. Archer and Keeper snickered but she ignored those idiots.
‘And another condition is that you shall carry no weapons,’ Captain Smith said. ‘Muskets and swords will be more likely to hurt you or the other troopers than the enemy.’
‘Fine,’ Weaver said but she knew she’d take her knife. That was all she needed anyway, not some stupid stinking musket or a big sword.
Winstanley cleared his throat. ‘You’ll have to be careful, Weaver. Look out for yourself. Whatever you do, don’t rely on these villains to truly protect you. If there’s any danger then you run away.’
‘We are merely scouting, Winstanley, you old maid,’ Captain Smith said, chuckling. ‘Besides, Cromwell ordered me to give Weaver a job. If she wants one.’
‘Do you mean to say that Cromwell actually ordered you to put her in your horse troop?’ Winstanley said, looking stupid. ‘Why would he risk her life?’
‘He knows I’m powerful,’ Weaver said, her heart racing. ‘Everyone knows what I can do, right? He wants me to help him win the war, finally.’
‘He does,’ Captain Smith said, nodding emphatically. ‘We need you, Weaver. England needs you. Look, Winstanley, what do you think the terrifying General Cromwell would do to me if anything happened to Weaver? He would have my guts for garters, that’s what.’
Weaver laughed. ‘Right, then, Captain. Let’s go,’ She was ready to mount up and ride off.
‘Ah, not until tomorrow or the day after, perhaps,’ Captain Smith said, smiling. ‘My horse company is heading off on a raid now. Off toward the north and west. But never fear, dear Weaver. I shall see you when I return.’
‘I can go on a raid,’ Weaver said. ‘I can be useful.’
‘Of course you can,’ Smith said. ‘Eventually. You will come with me on scouting but to take part in a raid you must first learn to ride. A raid requires a quick escape and every man... er... that is to say, every trooper requires their own horse.’
‘Oh.’ Weaver tried not to feel angry.
‘Good day to you all,’ Captain Smith said and turned his horse around in a fluid motion and cantered away back up the line.
‘Don’t be downhearted, Weaver,’ Winstanley said, cheerfully. ‘This means you can help me to prepare my travelling garden until you go.’
‘Your what?’ Weaver asked. ‘Gardens can’t travel, you hazelnut.’
Winstanley was an odd fellow. Nice enough, she supposed but totally strange. For one thing, he didn’t like fighting. He called himself a pacifist. If someone punched him, he reckoned he wouldn’t even punch them back. Even if it was a punch in the face. A punch on the nose, even. She’d never heard anything so ridiculous in all her life.
‘Everyone knows I am no soldier,’ Winstanley said, without even looking embarrassed. ‘You know that I write pamphlets about how people should grow food together and share what they grow?’
‘I suppose so,’ Weaver said. It sounded familiar but she never properly paid attention to what he said. She had no idea what a pamphlets was.
‘Cromwell tolerates my presence with the army because he’d rather I be within his grasp than out causing trouble. And he knows you are my friends and he wants to keep you on his side. So I thought I would take advantage of my tenuous position while it lasts and I have requested a sturdy wagon, a team of oxen and the loan of some manpower so I may create a garden. But a garden that moves.’ Winstanley grinned.
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ Keeper said from up on his wagon. ‘How would it work?’ Typical, she thought, he was happy about something before he even knew what it was.
Winstanley was delighted by Keeper’s interest. ‘I thought I could plant in half-barrels and horse troughs full of earth. That way the garden can accompany us as the army travels and we shall always have fresh and therefore potent medicinal herbs. And you, Weaver, can help me move the earth and plant the seeds and seedlings. Your power would be extremely helpful.’
‘Right.’
‘And it would give you the chance to practice using your power without frightening any of the soldiers or risking hurting anybody.’ Winstanley said it hesitantly, as if he was afraid of what she’d say.
Weaver thought the whole thing was the stupidest, most pointless idea she’d ever heard in her life.
‘Fine,’ she said, watching Captain Smith on his fine horse disappearing off through the crowd of marching redcoats that stretched as far as the eye could see and as far as the earth could feel.
‘And there’s someone I would love for you
to meet,’ Winstanley said to her.
She ignored him.
Two more days of marching and then she could be a real soldier. Just like Captain Smith.
Writer’s Bargain
Writer knew she should try to escape. It was a dry day. Cold but the sun was warmer than it had been since the fall. The road, with ragged hedges either side, ran northward through hills and fields.
Cedd and Bede were taking her across the country to the King’s army. The two ancient alchemists had lost the Vale and they had lost the others, her friends but they swore to each other that they would win the war for the King. That way, they kept saying, the King would be eternally grateful to them and give them positions of power in the new kingdom.
Cedd and Bede intended to use that power to bring down the King and the monarchy itself. Then they could rule all England, unopposed.
First, they would have to destroy Cromwell’s army.
‘Hurry up, Cedd,’ Bede asked for the thousandth time, ranging ahead. He was a bony, gangly creature who reminded Writer of a spider.
‘No need to rush,’ Cedd sighed. ‘Please slow down, Bede. Your legs are twice the length of ours.’
Writer had been walking with them for days. When they had been outside Bede’s Tower and in danger of attack by Cromwell, the alchemists had used a powerful transportation spell to appear in the northern Moon Forest. It happened in an instant. Such an incredible spell had taxed the strength of Bede, who had been exhausted already. Writer had been even more exhausted than the alchemist had because she had earlier diverted the flow of the whole Sweetwater River. Doing so had saved the lives of her friends but the effort of channelling that much magic had left her empty and weak. It was a day before she felt close to being herself again.
Performing magic was tiring. It exhausted the alchemists and they could use it only sparingly. Cedd claimed that buying horses from Dypswich was out of the question. He said that, because of the war, most people were suspicious of strangers and the locals would try to arrest them as spies. Of course, the alchemists would defeat them but then Cromwell would know where they were.
So they walked. All day, every day, they walked. Once they were clear of the Vale they had walked westward, keeping to the leafless trees and twisted hedgerows and staying out of sight of the horsemen who were most certainly out looking for them.
‘What makes you so certain that we shall outrun Cromwell?’ Bede asked Cedd. ‘Surely it is safer to hurry, just in case.’
Cedd sighed. ‘I have marched with dozens of armies, hundreds of marches. Once, long ago, when armies were smaller then they moved quickly. King Harold marched his men north, won a great battle then marched to defeat against the Norman alchemists on the southern coast in just a few days. But times have changed. Believe me, they will be moving slowly.’
‘Oh, forgive me,’ Bede said, sneering. ‘Oh wise, experienced one. Do tell this poor, simple buffoon again how much you know about the world.’
‘You are like a child,’ Cedd said, and then turned to Writer. ‘He is like a child.’
‘Do not think me a fool,’ Bede shouted. ‘Cromwell’s army is going in a straight line. We have gone west and now north. We have twice the distance to cover.’
‘You’ve never understood trigonometry. And anyway, it is not that we shall outrun them so much as it is we shall evade them. They will never find us. England is a vast land and we are but a small part of it. Ultimately, of course, if it comes down to it then we can easily defeat a regiment of horse.’
‘Oh, can we, now?’ Bede scoffed. ‘You can finish an incantation and cast a spell faster than a musketball, can you’
‘It does not matter, Bede, this is one of those times where you have to trust me.’
Bede scowled and mumbled something she did not quite hear.
In a week they had already made their way westward across to the other side of England from the Vale almost to Wales. Then they had turned north and east towards Coventry where, according to Cedd, the King had gathered his forces.
The air was still cool but the sun was warmer every day and it had been dry, which made it easier when sleeping wrapped up in a cloak under a tree at night. The roads they had taken were off the main routes and there were few inns or houses other than scattered farms.
The entire time they had been walking, Writer had been telling herself that she must escape. But there were many reasons why she did not do so.
For one thing, Writer had no idea how to get back to the Vale. If she got away from them, she could retrace her steps but then she would be incredibly easy to find. She had nowhere else to go. She considered asking for help from a town or village but she may be locked up and taken for a witch again. She would never allow that to happen.
For another, she still wanted to learn about spellcraft and alchemy and if she ran from them, she would never get a chance to learn. If Cromwell’s army won the war then there would be no alchemists left in all England.
Writer would continue to bargain a period of freedom for secret knowledge that could last a lifetime.
Yet, for all that she told herself she had made a rational decision, she knew there was another reason for playing along.
She was afraid of them.
‘He’s worried because he’s outside of his Vale and can’t go back,’ Cedd explained to Writer. ‘He’s not been without the protection of his forest and his wolves and barrier spells for hundreds of years.’
‘Do not talk about me as if I were not here,’ Bede said.
‘He is used to having the Vale to scurry back into when threatened, like a crab crawling into its shell,’ Cedd said to Bede.
Or a spider crawling into its hole, Writer thought.
‘Keep antagonising me, Cedd, and you shall see what happens.’ Bede wagged a bony finger. Writer could tell that Bede did seem nervous. He had grown ever more anxious the further away from the Vale they got. Bede might be a tall, bony, desiccated man but he was also one of the most powerful and accomplished alchemists who had ever lived.
Cedd smiled. From when he had first met Writer, he had told her that he had no powers. That he could cast no real spells.
But that had been a lie.
He was a very powerful mage, which was an alchemist who could cast spells.
‘Listen, Bede,’ Cedd said. ‘We both know what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable idiot.’
‘That’s it, Cedd,’ Bede said, rolling up the floppy sleeves on his robe. ‘You asked for it.’
‘Be quiet, you fool. There are people up ahead, coming this way.’
Up the road, broaching the top of a hill, a line of horse riders came toward them. It was a narrow track, too narrow for wagons or carts to risk and the horses walked in file one behind the other. The horses walked slowly; the riders atop in no hurry.
‘People?’ Bede asked. ‘What people?’
As they got closer, she saw that some of the men wore shining steel helmets while others had huge-brimmed floppy hats. All of them had swords hanging at their sides, banging on the horses’ flanks.
‘Soldiers,’ Cedd said.
‘The King’s Cavaliers? Or Cromwell’s horse troopers?’ Bede said. He seemed nervous.
‘Hard to say,’ Cedd replied and shrugged.
‘Should we hide?’ Bede asked, looking around off the sides of the road for somewhere. They’d managed to avoid most people until now by hiding and avoiding big groups of people; buying provisions from isolated farms and tiny villages.
Cedd grunted. ‘Too late, they’ve seen us.’ Cedd had spent hundreds of years wandering England. Nothing seemed to concern him very much.
‘Should we destroy them?’ Bede asked, craning his long neck.
Cedd shook his head. ‘They could be just the men we need. And anyway, that kind of trouble gets you noticed. And getting noticed slows you down.’
The alchemists were surely not concerned with being captured or harmed. They were far too powerful for that.
The horsemen drew closer and she could see that they were dusty and tired but they were festooned with quality equipment. Many had shiny metal or jewels on their swords. The pistols, stuffed into colourful sashes about their waists, were ornate and beautiful. Their hats were large and one or two of the men had enormous feathers stuffed into them.
She thought she should ask these fancy soldiers for help. She should tell them who she was, who the alchemists were and how they had kidnapped her. But she thought that if she exposed them, if she backed them into a corner like that, that then Cedd and Bede might kill the soldiers rather than allow them to rescue her. And then of course the deaths of the soldiers would be her fault, in a way.
And, of course, if the soldiers did rescue her from the alchemists, how could she know if they’d help her any more than that? Surely, no one would help her get across the country and back to the Vale. The last outsiders she met had tried to convict her of being a witch.
The horsemen were close enough to see clearly now and all of them were sitting straighter in their saddles and readying themselves for action. Some checked their pistols, others slipped their swords in and out of the scabbards.
But if she did not escape now, when there were witnesses, then she could wait until they were sleeping in an inn again, or even when she went for a wee in the bushes.
But the alchemists were wily. They seemed unconcerned with her running off. It seemed to Writer that they did not ever watch her closely or pay her much mind at all. She could not decide whether that meant they were certain they could catch her and stop her. Or if they were certain that she would never attempt to escape.
That worried her.
Did they think she was a coward? They were as wise as it was possible to be; wisdom gained over many normal lifetimes of experience. Did they know that she was a coward? She did not think that she was but if not then why did she never try to escape?