by Dan Davis
‘Permission to stretch our legs, sir?’ Sergeant Gore called back.
Captain Smith gave his assent, Gore ordered a short gallop toward the battlefield. It was uphill but when she kicked her heels back and Artemis sprang forward, her legs drumming at the ground.
The feeling was like nothing else. It was better than flying in a stupid balloon. And it was a hundred times better than being flung around in a soaking wet boat.
When this battle was over, she’d ask if she could keep Artemis for when she got home to the Vale. She could gallop down Sweetwater Street from end to end in half a morning, she bet. There had never been a horse as fine and swift as her Artemis in the Vale, she was sure of that. Everyone would want to speak to her, to pat Artemis on the neck and flanks and ask Weaver how she was and if she’d had a fun ride.
Her name was Isolda.
It was the strangest thing. All this time she had tried hard to remember things about her mum and dad, even though it hurt to think about it. And now that she remembered that one thing, her own name, the memories came tumbling back into her head. It was like there had been a pit in her head and the memories were sliding and falling back in to fill it up. She remembered her mum planting with her in their kitchen garden by her house. She remembered her dad teaching her to plough a straight furrow in the rain and them both slipping over and laughing.
‘Wake up, girl,’ Captain Smith growled at her. Her company were stopped and lined up twenty across and two deep. There were many hundreds more horse forming up to the right but they were the farthest on the left. ‘What’s the matter with you, today?’
She wiped the wet from her cheeks. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Pay attention today, of all days,’ Captain Smith said. ‘Or do you want me to send you back to Winstanley and that terrible dragon?’
‘No, please,’ Weaver said. ‘I’m fine. I can fight.’
‘Very well,’ Smith said and rode to his men’s lines to inspect them while she waited at the back.
‘We’ll show them, won’t we, Artemis?’ she whispered and slid off her saddle.
Her pony shook her mane and whinnied. That beautiful sound made her feel like everything was going to be all right, in the end. Weaver may not have her parents any more but she had Artemis and that was almost as good. She fed her horse one of the last apples. It was soft and wormy but Artemis still chomped it up good and tossed her head to say thank you.
‘I’ll get you more oats and honey later,’ she said and the pony rested her big head on Weaver’s shoulder. Artemis understood her words, she knew that. No one had ever told her than horses understood people before. There were so many interesting things in the world that no one had told her about. She kissed Artemis on the nose, smelling her hot, apply breath.
Cannons sounds in the distance over the brow of the hill, echoing around. Men shouted and smoke drifted. Drums were playing somewhere, hammering a rousing beat and a tin whistle tooted out a jaunty tune. A horse messenger galloped right by her up to Captain Smith.
‘Mount up,’ Sergeant Gore shouted at her and she jumped on Artemis’ back.
‘Slow advance,’ Captain Smith shouted and they walked their horses forward.
There was a lovely little farmhouse just under the brow of the hill ahead. It was clad in flint and whitewashed so it gleamed a brilliant white. There were stables and buildings here and there around. Between her and the house was a huge kitchen garden, planted in neat rows on long ploughed ridges. She recognised the bright green seedlings in some of the rows as carrots, others were turnip and kale and lettuce.
She felt a pang of loss for her own home.
Her name was Isolda.
‘We must clear that farmhouse,’ Captain Smith shouted, pointing with his sword. ‘Make sure there’s no Cavaliers inside or hiding in the outbuildings and stables. Sergeant, take Weaver and ten men and scour it out.’
‘With me,’ Sergeant Gore ordered her and pointed out the men he wanted.
‘On, Artemis,’ she shouted and galloped after Gore and the others. They galloped through the kitchen garden of the farmhouse, trampling down the seedlings and flinging them behind the horse’s hooves in sods of earth. Her heart ached to see such destruction but then the men were leaping from their saddles and kicking the door in.
Screams came from inside and an old man, an old woman and a mother and two children were dragged out crying and begging for mercy.
‘Quiet,’ Sergeant Gore screamed at them from atop his horse. ‘Where are the Cavaliers?’
‘Ain’t no Cavaliers here, sir,’ the old man said. He had one leg missing from the knee down and was leaning on a walking stick.
Gore nodded at the soldier holding him who smacked the man about the head.
‘Ain’t seen em,’ the old man said again. ‘You best be off.
Gore nodded to his man who kicked the walking stick from the old man and shoved him to the ground.
‘You lie, old man,’ Sergeant Gore shouted. ‘You lie. Where are they?’
The soldier picked up the walking stick and raised it above his head ready to smack it down on the poor man.
‘Saw some through the trees,’ the old lady said. ‘Don’t know who they was. Just horsemen, riding away that way.’
‘If you’re lying to me,’ Gore said to her. ‘So help me, you shall regret it.’
‘I ain’t lying.’ The old woman said, contempt in her voice and staring straight back at Gore as if he was something she’d found under her shoe.
‘They’re with the Alchemists,’ Sergeant Gore shouted to his men. ‘Take what you want and burn the place to the ground.’
‘No,’ the man shouted and got a kick or two in the belly. The men, laughing, ran inside to steal everything of value, as they had the day before in the nearby village of Naseby. A fire was started in no time and then the men were out and mounted again, carrying trinkets, bits, and bobs.
‘They’re stealing,’ Weaver pointed out. ‘Captain Smith said it’s against the rules to steal from normal people,’ she said, exaggerating a little. ‘That’s what makes us different from the Cavaliers.’
Gore spat off the side of his horse. ‘Captain Smith is just a boy. A gentleman. A country squire. A rich man’s son. Green as grass, he is. And what Smith don’t know won’t hurt him.’
Weaver shifted in her saddle. ‘I don’t care what Smith thinks. I just reckon...’ She sighed. ‘It don’t matter.’
Sergeant Gore was looking at her. ‘Not upset, are you, girl?’
‘No,’ Weaver said.
‘Good,’ Gore said then raised his voice. ‘We’re going after them Cavaliers. They were running away so we’ll have to ride hard to catch them. Wilkins, ride back to our sweet Captain and politely request he follow to support our attack. The rest of you, with me.’
They rode onward, around the farm that already had flames flicking out of a window or two.
Gore reigned in his stallion and called Weaver to him. She curbed Artemis with barely a thought and her pony trotted closer to Gore. The Sergeant was peering ahead, frowning.
‘What is it?’ Weaver shouted at him, squinting the way he was looking. All she could see was the dark shadow of trees. The trunks close together and evergreen holy and twisted vines filled the gaps.
‘Listen, Weaver,’ Sergeant Gore called to her. ‘I realise I was wrong about you. You are a good soldier. Why don’t you do us the honour of leading our charge?’
‘Captain Smith told me to stay back,’ she said, warily.
‘A good soldier knows when to bend his orders,’ Sergeant Gore said, grinning his big toothy grin. Gore had unusually good teeth, white and straight.
‘Alright,’ Weaver said.
She urged Artemis faster.
Sergeant Gore grinned. ‘That’s it, girl,’ he said as she rode past him.
‘Come on, Artemis,’ Weaver cried. ‘Let’s show them what we can do.’ She drew her sword. Even though she did not want to hurt anyone, she needed it in cas
e the enemy attacked her.
Weaver glanced over as they galloped and saw Gore and others wheeling their horses away from her, in perfect formation. Some were smiling. Gore was laughing.
‘Where are you going?’ Weaver shouted as they swerved away.
A noise in the wood in front of her. Artemis faltered.
A wide swathe of white smoke billowed out of the shadows under the trees ahead.
Artemis reared.
Weaver clung on the saddle but Artemis reared up and up and Weaver fell. As she landed, Weaver’s sword went flying from her grip and the earth slammed Weaver in the back. Artemis screamed and fell back and sideways. Weaver rolled to the side, half a moment before Artemis fell upon her, avoiding being crushed by her horse’s body.
Gore and her horse company charged past with their swords drawn and crashed into the horsemen hidden in the trees.
Weaver caught her Sergeant’s face as he charged by. He was grinning.
Artemis was kicking her legs and whinnying. Weaver crawled over to her head and saw that she had been shot in the chest many times.
‘Artemis.’ She fell upon the horse’s neck. Artemis tried to raise her head and place it on Weaver’s shoulder but her head fell back.
‘It’s alright, girl. Lay still,’ Weaver whispered.
Artemis snorted.
‘I’m sorry,’ Weaver said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sergeant Gore rode back to her. ‘Crying, are you? Ha. Just a little girl after all.’ He sneered. ‘Now you see that war is no game. It’s not for children. Especially not for little girls who cry over a useless dead pony that was only a year from the knackers’ yard anyway. Artemis? Should have called it dog meat.’
Some of the men laughed. Men who were supposed to be in her company.
Weaver sprang forward, grabbed up her sword from the ground and, with a cry of rage and grief, threw it overarm at Gore.
It span toward Gore’s face, fast. His horse jerked back and stepped sideways in surprise. The Sergeant parried Weaver’s spinning blade away with a desperate blow, sending it spinning into the ground with a ringing clash of steel.
‘So that’s it, is it,’ Gore said, bringing his horse under control. He drew his pistol, pulled back the hammer so it was ready to fire, and pointed it at Weaver’s face.
‘What is going on here?’ Captain Smith shouted as he rode up with the rest of the troopers.
‘She attacked me, sir,’ Gore said, nodding at her. ‘Hanging offence, that is.’
Smith looked at Artemis and then at his men. ‘Put that pistol away,’ he snapped at Gore.
‘Yes, sir,’ Gore said, grinning. He laughed and laughed.
‘And stop crying, Weaver. There’s a battle to fight,’ Captain Smith said, looking irritated. ‘We’ll find you a new pony. A better one.’
Weaver stared at Smith, his face full of contempt. She looked at Gore, who laughed. The men of her company grinned at each other and chuckled.
She understood that they were not her friends. They had never been her friends. They were enemies.
Weaver dropped to the earth and thrust her hands deep into the dirt.
She felt her power flowing through her and out into the ground and the earth shook. A gate opened inside her and the force flowed without a thing to stop it. She gave in to it, allowed it, and welcomed it. The earth groaned and bucked under her.
Men and horses cried and fled and the trees rattled and smashed against each other, scattering branches. Still the power grew.
There was no thought in her head. Just a chasm of grief and a terrible, bottomless rage.
Writer’s Revenge
Writer stood with Lord High Alchemist Bacon looking out at a hilly landscape that was about to become a battlefield. They stood in the centre of the King’s Army, back from the front lines, near to the battlemages lead by Cedd and Bede.
The King and his huge retinue of perfumed, fabulous lords were behind her. The lords sat laughing and nattering on painted chairs set out on the very top of the hill so that they could get view of the battle. They were attended by richly dressed servants who brought their masters morsels and wine in crystal goblets upon silver platters. The King himself was unseen, inside a gilded carriage parked at the centre of the group. Hitched to the carriage was a team of gorgeous white horses with ribbons in their manes and tails.
‘How can he direct the battle from in there?’ Writer asked Bacon.
‘Quite,’ Bacon said.
The King’s Army stood in deep lines from her left to right across the long ridge, stretching for a mile. The soldiers of the regiments stood shoulder to shoulder with the men to either side, their muskets resting for now on the floor. The men stood in rows, called ranks, three men deep.
On the opposite hill, Cromwell’s New Model Army matched the width of the King’s Army. Only, Cromwell had more men, so the formations were deeper. The musketeers in their red coats were four or six men deep. The lines of musketeers were dense, wide block formations in the centre of their armies.
On both sides of the lines of musketeers stood thousands of horsemen, arranged in rows and standing in line. Here and there, horses were walked back and forth or exercised by galloping back and forth at the edges and in front of the lines.
There were wooded areas and dense hedgerows here and there, dividing the hills and the space between them into irregular parcels of land. Mostly at the edges of what was soon to become the battlefield, then she saw flashes of shining metal and colour. The movements betraying the hundreds or even thousands more men and horse that were out of her sight in and amongst those trees.
The ordinance — the cannons, mounted on carriages and pulled by draught horses — was arrayed on the edge of and behind the musketeers. Carriages delivered barrels of gunpowder and men unloaded cannonballs into piles by each of the formidable weapons.
Cedd and Bede were with their battlemages in the centre of the whole army, between the ranks of musketeers and the King.
With the battlemages stood a group of ox-drawn wagons loaded with casks and barrels. Those bombs were to be tossed across the wide battlefield by the spells of the alchemists, to explode against the thick armour of the dreaded landships.
And there they were. Writer’s eye was drawn to the machines.
Opposite them, on the far side of the battlefield and behind Cromwell’s distant regiments of musketeers were six landships. Hulking great machines, belching smoke and crawling with men rolling slowly forward, trailed by wagons and men. Covered in thick, riveted metal plates that made sloping sides with hatches on the top for the men to climb out. The things looked like the hulls of steel boats, turned upside down with rows of wide wheel protruding underneath.
Writer had destroyed a machine like one of those many weeks ago. She had done so by diverting the Sweetwater River and flooding the machine, putting out its fires and sinking it in the mud.
There was no river here that would help her.
On her side, orders were shouted by the officers and messengers galloped up and down the lines. Servants scurried about everywhere, pushing through the musketeers, carrying bunches of water bottles, bags of musketballs and chunks of bread. The whole hillside reeked of unwashed men and horse dung.
It was all rather exhilarating and confusing.
‘Do you understand how battles work?’ Bacon asked her.
‘Only somewhat,’ she admitted. ‘Presumably thousands of idiots attempt to kill each other.’
Bacon wheezed. ‘In my day, when I was young, in my first lifetime’s worth of life, I saw battles. Try as I might to avoid them. Battles were simple, back then. Knights and men-at-arms in armour in the middle, fighting on foot or mounted on great big horses. One side would attack the other and they’d go at it with swords and maces and one side would give up and run away.’
‘That’s not what happens now?’ Writer asked, looking out at the two sides, lined up.
‘I suppose it is a matter of degrees,’ Bacon said. ‘It has
become rather more complicated. There are now many parts to an army, as you can see. Each side seeks to destroy their counterpart. The musketeers seek to defeat the other musketeers. The horse on each side will match the opposing horse. The cannons will attempt to silence each other. And the landships will seek to destroy the battlemages.’
‘So in truth it is many individual battles,’ Writer said. It seemed perfectly reasonable. Yet something nagged at her. ‘But why do they not attack each other differently? Why not have the King’s horse and German and Dutch musketeers attack together? Both horse and men could focus only upon Cromwell’s musketeers. That way we would have an advantage.’
Bacon pointed across the battlefield. ‘That would leave the Parliament horse free to attack the rear of our Cavaliers unopposed. Or perhaps they would avoid that battle, ride through the flank and attack our ordinance or the rear of our lines? Go straight for the King, perhaps.’
‘Suppose we ready our mages to oppose that attack?’ Writer argued.
‘That would leave the battlemages exposed and vulnerable to attack by the landships. No, if you begin to disrupt the balance it would create chaos.’
‘Perhaps chaos would be desirable,’ Writer suggested. ‘If you wish to win against a larger opponent where you may be outnumbered in each individual encounter.’
Bacon sighed. ‘No doubt you are correct. I am from a simpler age. Even then, I never had a mind for this kind of barbarity. But, safe to say, you need only to cause your enemy to flee, rather than destroy their bodies. You must destroy your enemy’s will to fight. Then you have won.’
A messenger thundered right by them and pulled his horse to a halt next to Cedd. Writer was too far away to hear what words were exchanged. The messenger thundered off the way he had come, toward the right wing.
Whatever it was, Bede and Cedd began arguing about it.
Bacon chuckled. ‘Let us discover out what vexes our colleagues.’
Writer and Bacon walked over, unnoticed.
Cedd’s voice was raised. ‘The King must see us when we destroy Cromwell’s army. He must see it with his own eyes. Then he will know, deep in his bones, that he owes us his kingdom.’