by Dan Davis
‘And it is worse even than that,’ Winstanley said, while he held a plank in place for his wife. ‘Cromwell thinks that he can be ruthless and do evil so long as it is for the ultimate good of society. And what does society even mean? Whatever he wants it to. He is quite mad and I hope you don’t trust him.’
‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Weaver said, without thinking. She wasn’t sure why she said it because she did trust Archer. Really, she did not disagree with what the Winstanleys said about Cromwell.
Winstanley did not reply but she saw him exchange a glance with Susan.
‘What?’ Weaver demanded.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ Winstanley said. Susan hunched her shoulders and hammered in another nail.
‘You never normally shut up, do you,’ Weaver said. ‘So when you don’t say anything it means you’re being funny with me about something. So spit it out. Don’t hold your tongue. I can take it.’ Her thumbnail had a tear in it so she chewed it off.
‘Very well,’ Winstanley said and put down his hammer to look at her. ‘I think the truth of the matter is that you do, in fact, trust anyone. You give your trust freely to anyone who offers it. Or, rather, you trust anyone who appears to be willing to look out for you. Even if they actually do not.’
Weaver was about to tell him to shut up but he had confused her. She knew that he meant well and he wasn’t having a go at her or anything. But she couldn’t understand why he thought she was too trusting. She barely trusted anyone, she was sure.
She spat out her thumbnail. ‘You don’t know me,’ she said
Susan cleared her throat. ‘We don’t know you well enough,’ she said. ‘We’d like to know you better, of course, so we’re just having a little chat, is all. Don’t listen to Gerry, here. He takes himself far too seriously.’
Weaver smiled. ‘That’s true,’ she said.
‘Quite right, don’t listen to me,’ Winstanley said and carried on, scrabbling about for another nail.
‘And thank you so much for helping us with our wagon this morning,’ Susan said, ‘when what you actually want to do is run off to your beautiful pony.’
Weaver shrugged. ‘The men in the troop don’t like me going over too early in the day. I just see them when we have to ride. Which is fine because they stink anyway.’
Susan laughed. ‘Shall I tell you about what we want to do with our travelling garden idea?’
‘If you like,’ Weaver said.
‘The Winstanleys’ travelling garden is going to inspire the soldiers,’ Susan said, grinning. ‘We’re going to have a constant reminder of what they’re fighting for, right here amongst them as we march to fight a pointless, mad battle.’
‘And what are they fighting for?’ Weaver said. ‘Barrels of mud?’
‘When it is done it will be overflowing with life,’ Susan said, waving her arms in the air. ‘Bushes of green leaves cascading over the sides. Herbs filling the air with their wonderful scent, purple grapes and white flowers. We will have tall corn and short barley sticking up all over. Perhaps a small apple tree. The sight of these things travelling with them will remind them of their homes. Of life that goes on even when they are here, being about the business of death.’
‘Soldiers don’t care about stuff like that,’ Weaver said.
‘We think they do,’ Winstanley said. ‘I know they do. Many of these soldiers care very much about growing things. Most were farmers or worked the land in some way, before they were soldiers. The ones who live through this war will be farmers again afterwards. This war what we are in is just a thing that is happening right in this moment. It did not have to be this way but now that it is, at least we know that the war will not last forever. It is not the way things will always be.’
‘One day this war is going to end,’ Winstanley mumbled, holding some nails carefully in his lips. ‘And what will each of us be when that happens? What will the things we did in the name of justice have done to us?’
Weaver had not thought beyond the war, or the army, for quite a while.
She realised that she didn’t want to think about it. Not about where she would live, not about what Archer would be like when he got Writer back, not what she would do or where she would go. She didn’t want to think about any of it.
So she didn’t.
They worked on the wagon for a while longer. Clouds blew in overhead
Neither Winstanley nor Susan carried on talking, except to ask for nails or planks or help with holding one or the other. It was pleasant. They were good people to work with, which was as big a compliment that Weaver knew. She was wondering if she should tell them that when she heard Keeper calling her name from far away.
He walked over with Burp lumbering along beside and towering over him. Soldiers and camp followers and horses and dogs always scattered away from Burp so Keeper could walk anywhere in a straight line. He was smiling and holding a sword over his head.
‘Your sword, Weaver,’ Keeper said as he handed it over, the blade protected by a scabbard.
‘Thanks,’ she took it from him carefully. It was a great prize. ‘It’s so light,’ she said, drawing it from the leather scabbard. The blade was straight and it was about as long as her arm from shoulder to fingertips. It was wider than her index finger was long so it looked chunky and powerful. But the metal was thin and flexible and shiny as a mirror.
‘It weighs less than a pound,’ Keeper explained. ‘Very good steel in this army. Better than anything Bede brings in for the Vale. I cut a third off the length of a standard cavalry sabre but I kept the width almost as much as a full-length one and ground it down a little bit. I had to do it so I could get the balance right but the armourer said you need a certain heft to a cavalry sword. The edge is sharp, see how it curves back a bit before the point? The point itself is sharp but it’s best for slashing rather than stabbing. I spent forever polishing it up nice.’
‘It’s the most deadliest thing I’ve ever seen.’ She swished it through the air. It was like her knife but loads better. It felt wonderful in her hand. ‘I love it. Thanks, Keeper.’
‘Just be careful, Weaver,’ Keeper said. ‘I hope you don’t have to use it.’
‘What’s the point of a sword if you can’t use it?’ she said.
‘Never a truer word was spoken,’ Sergeant Gore said as cantered his horse right up to her. ‘Your own sabre, eh? That’s a fine thing.’ Gore glanced at Burp and his horse nervously scraped at the ground. The Sergeant yanked on the reins, hard. ‘Quiet. It’s just a dragon.’
He ignored Winstanley and Susan and they ignored Sergeant Gore. But they both stared at him with loathing.
‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ Waver said.
‘What’s that noise?’ Gore asked. ‘That tapping? You got an animal in that wagon?’
Weaver listened for a moment. ‘That’s just Stearne’s brass arm.’
Sergeant Gore sat up straighter. ‘What’s that, girl?’
‘It’s a mechanical arm I took from a man I defeated in battle,’ Weaver said. ‘It’s got a demon in it or something and it won’t ever shut up.’
Gore scratched his face. ‘Thing like that be worth a pretty penny, I bet.’
‘It’s mine,’ Weaver said. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘You best get ready, Weaver,’ Gore said, scowling up his ugly face. ‘We’re heading out and you need to ready your tack and equipment. Don’t think I’ll let you off for being a little girl. I’m your Sergeant, right? If you’re in my company then you do your job. And your job is doing what I say.’ Gore heaved on his reins and raked his spurs down his horse’s flank. The horse leapt forward and Sergeant Gore rode off.
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ Weaver said, putting her sabre away in the scabbard. ‘I have to go and get Artemis ready for the next patrol,’ she said to the Winstanleys, who looked at her as if they were sad. It made her feel irritated and angry.
‘Thanks again, Keeper,’ she said to him. She felt like hugging him but Burp was hissing a
t her so she just scuffed her toe on the floor. ‘I’ll see you when we stop tonight.’
The soldiers in her company ignored her when she arrived. Captain Smith wasn’t there but seeing Artemis again made her feel happy right away. She brushed down, fed and watered her beautiful pony, talking to her the whole time. It was obvious that Artemis loved her back because she always whinnied and leaned on her. That was how they told you they trust you, Captain Smith had said.
‘You want to keep away from that rabble rouser Winstanley,’ Sergeant Gore said from behind her. ‘He’s no good.’
‘He seems like a good man to me.’ Weaver spoke over her shoulder.
‘Always whispering in your ear, ain’t he,’ Gore said, almost growling. ‘Him and all his men. They’re everywhere. Handing out their pamphlets. Saying Cromwell’s no good. Saying how we should do without soldiers and all share our goods and stuff. Madness. He’s bad news, that one. He’s going to bring the army down with talk like that.’
‘How could he do that?’ Weaver said, turning round. She had no idea Winstanley was so powerful. She’d never heard Sergeant Gore say so much at once before.
‘If enough of the men put down their weapons then we won’t have an army no more, will we. Then old Charlie Stuart and his men will be back in charge again. Winstanley’s dangerous.’
‘If you say so,’ Weaver said. ‘I don’t care about Winstanley. Let’s get riding.’
She’d never had such a good time as she did over the next few days. The army would shake itself awake every morning, crawling forward like some old man; moving painfully slow because of the landships, the ordinance and the vast wagon train that followed it.
To carry the cannonballs and gunpowder for the ordinance and the coal for the landships they had hundreds of wagons pulled by oxen. And the oxen needed feeding so they had hundreds of wagons full of hay and oats and feed for the draught animals. And there were hundreds of wagon drivers. And to feed the men there had to be food and drink and more wagons.
The army stretched over miles and miles. By the time the last of the mass of people and animals and wagons got moving at the back of the army, the soldiers at the front were already miles away and starting to make camp for the night at the next location.
But not Weaver. Not Captain Smith’s company of horse. They rode out ahead of the army. They rode to either side. They rode north and west, pushing into the King’s territory. And always there were Cavaliers on the horizon.
The landscape was sometimes flat and wide, with vast skies. At other times they rode through hills and woodland. There were villages and towns that they usually avoided altogether.
The army pushed on. Weaver’s company ranged far and wide. Each night they went back to the army and she brushed down Artemis. The rest of the company went to their bedrolls. Weaver went back to sleep at Burp’s wagon along with Archer and Keeper. Before she went on patrol, she helped Winstanley for an hour or so, either outside the army camp or helping prepare the potions for the physicians and medics.
Her company knew the armies were close. More and more they encountered Cavalier patrols in the distance. Her company sought to avoid direct confrontation. If they were attacked, Captain Smith ordered, then they would defend themselves. Otherwise, their purpose was to observe and screen their own forces from view.
But the word was that the King’s Army were camped somewhere close, in a city called Leicester or perhaps Birmingham or another one called Coventry. They were said to be just waiting for the New Model Army to get close so they could spring their trap. It was clear to Weaver that no one actually knew anything.
On the sixth day, they followed a retreating Cavalier patrol. Smith’s company was spread out in a thin line and slowly pushing the Cavaliers north, away from the New Model’s forces. The ground was undulating and covered in copses of trees. Keeping track of the enemy was tricky. But Weaver never cared about stuff like that. She just kept near Captain Smith or Sergeant Gore and did what she was told.
Gore was a horrible man. He was nasty and rude and she didn’t like him in any way but he did know about soldiering. Everyone said so.
In that way, he was exactly the opposite of the Winstanleys. They were nice, kind, decent people who knew absolutely nothing about anything useful. And while she was happy to help them build their ridiculous wagon every now and then, they couldn’t help her. They were pleasant enough to work with but when they started going on about not fighting and about everyone being free, she felt like they were having a go at her. They were needling her. Trying to get her to change what she loved doing more than anything, which was riding with Artemis with the wind in her hair and the earth drumming underneath Artemis’ hooves. She knew she’d never give that up, not ever.
Weaver was lost in thought for a long while. So lost in thought that she had paid no heed to her surroundings. Artemis had taken the lead and roamed where she wanted and Weaver had done no more than hold on. Artemis cantered down a hill and rounded a little stand of elder that was just coming into flower, when she swerved to a halt and Weaver was startled out of her reverie.
A man was there. Bent over with one of his horse’s hooves in his hands. The man looked up with terror in his eyes.
He had big curly hair and a fancy orange coat. His sword and a pistol were on the ground next to him. The horse was magnificent and shining black. Finer than any horse she’d seen before, even Artemis.
Cavalier.
Weaver did not know what to do.
She knew what she was supposed to do. The man was her enemy. The only thing that she could do was shoot him. Or run him through with a blade. But she did not want to do that. She did not want to actually hurt anyone. The very idea of it made her afraid.
He saw then that she was a child, she supposed, because the Cavalier smiled and dropped his horse’s hoof.
He bowed to her.
‘My name is Rupert,’ the fancy bloke said, smiling. ‘What is your name, miss?’
Weaver stared at him. ‘Erm...’ she said.
‘Interesting name,’ the Cavalier called Rupert said, with a stupid little grin on his face. ‘And what, precisely, are you supposed to be? Are you their mascot? Where are you friends, girl?’
‘Shut up,’ Weaver said. She drew her sword and urged Artemis onward. She lowered the curved point of her blade against his neck. He was very tall and splendid looking. ‘You just shut up, fancy pants.’
The Cavalier’s eyes darted about, looking for his weapons.
‘No you don’t, sunshine,’ Weaver said, pushing the point against his skin.
He flinched and looked warily at her. ‘You are just a child.’
‘And what are you, then, granddad?’ Weaver asked. She hoped Sergeant Gore and the others would catch up with her soon.
Rupert glanced at his horse, then down at his weapons. ‘How about you and I come to some sort of arrangement?’
‘Yeah, alright,’ Weaver said. ‘You can come with me right now or I’ll sort of arrangement your face three ways from Sunday.’
The Cavalier laughed, as if he didn’t care.
She pushed the point forward, just a touch. His laughter turned to a gasp as the point pricked the skin on his neck. He stepped back until he bumped into his horse, who stepped sideways away from him a step, snorting in annoyance.
‘Weaver!’ A shout came from behind her. She turned to see Sergeant Gore galloping towards her with his sabre drawn. Two more of the men charged from the trees behind him. ‘Stop him.’
She turned back to her prisoner to see him leaping across his horse’s back.
‘Stop!’ Weaver shouted and charged Artemis forward. The Cavalier thumped his horse on the rump and it kicked up its powerful legs and thundered off. That magnificent horse was so fast, Weaver couldn’t believe it. Poor Artemis, with her shorter legs, had no hope of gaining on it but still Weaver urged her on toward the fleeing Cavalier.
Gore and the others overtook Artemis without even bothering to glance at Weave
r.
But not for long. Just ahead of her, they pulled up and swerved away to the side, away from the fleeing Rupert on his magnificent horse. Weaver followed their lead and looked beyond them to see why there had broken off the chase.
Two more Cavaliers had emerged from the trees ahead, and then three more and then a whole troop came charging up. A carbine or pistol fired and then another.
The fancy Cavalier reached the safety of his friends.
Rupert wheeled his horse about in a shower of earth thrown up by his horse’s great hooves. The fancy pants stood up in his stirrups, lifted his floppy hat and gave her a dramatic bow from the back of his horse.
He shoved his hat back on his head, laughing.
‘Let’s go,’ Sergeant Gore growled at her and they pulled back to where she had first found the man. Weaver rode behind Gore, feeling her heart pounding like a mallet on a wooden steak.
Gore leapt off his horse and scooped up the discarded weapons.
Captain Smith and a few more of her company came up. ‘There’s too many of them,’ Smith said to Sergeant Gore. ‘We’ll go back for another company or two in case they try anything. What’s that you’ve got there?’
Gore pulled the sword from the scabbard. It was beautiful, Weaver saw, the blade shining like silver and the hilt covered in sparkling jewels.
Captain Smith whistled appreciatively. ‘Where’s the owner?’ he asked Gore.
‘Got away,’ Sergeant Gore said. ‘Weaver let him escape.’
‘What?’ Weaver said. ‘I had him under my sword until you charged in and he ran away.’
The Sergeant scoffed. ‘Idiot girl. If he escaped then he was not your prisoner.’
‘He must have been an important man,’ Smith observed. ‘To afford weapons as fine as those.’