Edward peered down at me. What colour there was in his cheeks left them in an instant. He gave a gabble of terror, saying that the plague child had come from the pit for him and dug his spurs in his horse.
I sprang forward, shouting that I must talk to him and almost caught his reins. But I was hampered on the one side by the hawker, saying surely I wanted to save my life for a shilling, and on the other by two pairs of hands slapping down on my shoulders in a tight grip.
‘I like the scar!’ said Luke.
‘That’ll terrify the Cavaliers!’ said Will.
They fell on me with delight, Will immediately claiming the half crown he had bet that I would be there for the fight, Luke disputing that there would be one.
‘Essex will cut and run, like he’s done before.’
By this time Edward had gone, and I discovered that, once again, I had missed Lord Stonehouse. Luke found out that Lord Stonehouse had left with Essex, and promised to show me where to find him. But when I walked Patch back to their camp there were orders to strike it.
There was a ditch for a privy, but it had become so choked and foul, men preferred to shit where they found themselves. Thousands of men spread over fields and hamlets were struggling to pack their knapsacks and check – or find – their weapons, for theft was rife. They were loaded like pack horses, with pot helmets and body armour – which many discarded in order to move more freely. Musketeers not only had to carry their cumbersome weapons but musket rests and bandoleers of gunpowder charges round their necks. These bounced and rattled in the wind as I saw a familiar shape, head and shoulders above everyone else, lifting his pike.
I could not say I hugged Big Jed, for I could not get my arms round his body, but he squeezed every breath from mine, half-lifting me from the ground.
‘I have something for thee,’ he said. ‘A carrier reached us just after we left Highpoint.’
He took a letter from his knapsack. It looked as if it had travelled from place to place to reach the unit. It was covered with grease marks from a piece of cheese which almost obliterated my name, but my heart thumped painfully as I recognised the childish hand and broke what remained of the seal. I felt a rush of joy and guilt that Anne, who had painstakingly struggled to learn to write that summer, had got a letter through, where I, who wrote so easily, had not even tried. It was short.
I wood have wrote longer but it is Mye first Lettre & the Carrier is waiting to go to Warre. I Hope Youe doe Think of Mee as I of Youe and not of Your Countess.
My Countess? What on earth did she mean?
I Knowe your Poeme by heart noue & can reed it. I Praye for Thee Every Daye & God send you back to your lovinge Anne, Amen.
I read it, kissed it, folded it to put it in my jerkin, unfolded it, read it again to make sure the words were still there, doing this several times until I realised Luke was watching me, grinning. I stuffed the letter in my jerkin, whereupon Luke opened his to show me his letter from Charity.
‘The war is turning women into writers,’ he said.
The field, which had been crowded, was half-empty. I looked round for Patch, but she was nowhere in sight. Nobody had seen her go. She had become more than a horse to me; she had shared everything since leaving London; she was London. People looked at me indifferently as I ran around calling for her.
‘She’s probably been requisitioned,’ said Will. ‘I’ll give you a chit.’
‘I don’t want a bloody chit,’ I screamed at him. ‘I want my horse.’
‘You’re foot. Not cavalry.’
‘I’ve got to find Lord Stonehouse.’
‘Here,’ said Jed, putting a pike, almost three times as tall as myself, into my hand. ‘I’ve just requisitioned it.’
* * *
Towards the end of that morning Edward Stonehouse finally found his way to the Royalist army on high ground overlooking some of the most fertile land in England, an escarpment known locally as Edgehill. Only then, at the sight of his King, did he become calmer. Scarlet standard flying, black armour glittering, Charles was riding through his troops with his officers and peers. He had always portrayed himself as a warrior prince, but Englishmen had not fought one another on English soil since the Wars of the Roses almost two centuries ago. Wars happened elsewhere – in Europe, Ireland or Scotland. In the century so far, all across the great stretch of these green fields had been peace, disturbed only by sporadic food riots. All of Henry VIII’s peers had experienced war abroad; of the peers crowding close to listen to Charles, only one in five had done so. Like their King, most still felt they were performing in a masque. But as he went on, discarding many of his usual flourishes, his voice took on a new strength, an urgency of tone.
‘I see by all your loyal faces . . . that just as no son can relinquish his father, no subject can relinquish his lawful king . . .’
Struggling to focus by squeezing his eyes tight, Edward picked out the familiar shape of his brother, sitting straight on his horse, head bowed.
‘My regal authority being obtained from God, we have marched long in the hope the enemy will realise their error, but now we have come upon them. Matters are to be decided not by the word, but the sword, and we must try the doubtful hazard of war. May the justness of our cause make you courageous, and God make you victorious!’
The resounding cheers reached us on the meadows below. To Will’s disgust, we arrived late and were in the reserves on the left flank, near abandoned farm buildings straddling the Kineton road. I caught a glimpse of the King’s upraised sword and an arm of black armour. The sun came out and glinted on it, and a murmur rippled through the ranks as some soldiers took it as a sign against us. A Puritan preacher responded by chanting: ‘Let the saints be joyful in their glory . . .’ Soldiers round him joined in: ‘Let the high praises of God be in their mouths!’
The single roar of a cannon silenced both the cheers and the chanting.
It was two o’clock. The two armies were now less than a mile apart. Essex had decided it was impracticable to retreat, but was in no hurry to fight. It would be suicidal to attack uphill. His cannon might have dislodged them from their superior position, but the range was too great. Like those of the answering cannon, the balls merely dropped in the soft mud of the meadows. Essex could see several peers grouped round the King. It seemed as though some kind of argument was taking place. The disagreement was between the sixty-year-old Earl of Lindsey, in charge of the infantry, and Richard’s hero, Prince Rupert, who wanted to command the infantry as well as the horse. As Richard, spellbound, watched Lindsey throw down his baton and say if he was not fit to be a general he would die as a colonel at the head of his regiment, he saw his brother. He knew only too well that agitated state and moved to be with him. He put an arm round Edward’s shoulder, calming him as he heard about the devil pursuing him, and led him to the lip of the escarpment. His eyes were as strong as his brother’s were weak. He could see our banner: a red cross lettered with FOR GOD AND PARLIAMENT. He glimpsed my red hair.
‘Has he seen father?’ Richard asked Edward.
‘He was looking for him.’
Richard could see Essex’s banner, a good half mile away on the other flank. He picked me out again, among the pikemen, laughed and said he could see not a drop of lime on me, unfortunately. I was just like the rest, one of the rabble. Edward thanked God for his elder brother supporting him, just as he had done on that dreadful night when he stood up for him before his father, saying the child could not possibly be Edward’s since their relationship was only a few months old.
Fortified by Richard’s support, Edward went as one of the chaplains to Sir Jacob Astley, who had taken over from Lindsey, joining now with especial fervour in his brief prayer: ‘O Lord, thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget thee, do not thou forget me.’
It was mid-afternoon, still clear, but what warmth there had been in the day was beginning to leave it. I was convinced we would not fight that day – there would only be more circling and
manoeuvring, more psalms and speeches. Then we saw their cavalry delicately, carefully, almost sedately, picking their way down the steep escarpment. There was a fall of rocks and one horse almost fell. On more gently sloping ground the cavalry broke into a trot, then the trumpet sounded the charge.
Stupidly I watched, thrilled at the sight and sound, the colours of the pennants, the flash of their drawn sabres, as if I was staring at a performance in an arena. I was a boy again, watching the sights of London, the pageantry, the royal processions. Other faces gaped. We were all Londoners, wood turners, tailors, tanners, bakers and printers, carters and watermen. Some still wore the clothes of their trade. We had been rigorously trained, but in drill manoeuvres and weapon orders – there were forty-eight musket orders, and sixty-five for the pike. The only experience of fighting for most of us was as part of the London mob. Like me, most seemed hypnotised by the wonderful spectacle galloping across Kineton meadows towards us.
‘Ground your bloody pike,’ said Jed, who had much less imagination but far more sense.
Muskets were as little use in that first charge as the cannon. A horse was hit and I saw a man’s head disappear, his horse riding on, one hand clutching at the reins, the other at his slipping sabre. Most muskets were fired too soon and there was no time to reload. Their riders came at an angle, smashing into the flank of the Parliamentary cavalry, sweeping through into the first lines of infantry, which duly fled. A man ran screaming towards us, blood spurting from a sabre cut in his neck. He fell, Jed half-stumbling on him before shoving him away.
‘Hold your pikes!’ yelled Will. ‘If you run, you’re dead!’
He stood, beating at and pleading with the fleeing soldiers to stay and fight, while Luke, who had broken all the rules in the reloading of muskets, tried to bring calm to the scattering musketeers with a kind of forced, dazed politeness.
‘Match cord. Reload. Present.’
Whinnying horses, nostrils flaring, were as terrified as the men. One ran at the stand of pikes as if they were a fence at a hunt and came down, impaling himself, yellow guts spilling out on a meadow that was disappearing into churned-up mud. The bandoleer of gunpowder charges round the neck of one of Luke’s musketeers caught alight, one charge setting off another. The man spun round like a screaming firework, beating at his burning clothes, falling into the back of our line as the thrashing, dying horse fell into the front. Slashing, hacking, the Cavaliers cut through and careered straight on. Only one checked his horse and wheeled. Even at that moment I thought it a superb piece of horsemanship. Richard was crouched low on the saddle, the slightest of smiles on his face, focusing his whole being on the point not the blade. I was transfixed by the sight, the blade inches from me, when there was a great roar, more animal than man. Jed brought up the butt of his pike, deflecting the blade. Richard slashed at him. Jed stumbled, dropping his pike. Screaming, I brought up my pike. Richard’s horse reared, almost unseating him, before he was swept on by the hindmost of the charging horses.
Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone, carrying a group of our stationary horses with them. If they had turned on our rear, it would all have been over. But they were no more disciplined than we were. The fleeing troops were to them like so many foxes, vermin who troubled their estates, but who also gave them the delight of the hunt. They rode down and killed stragglers for about two miles, until they reached the Parliamentary baggage trains at Kineton, and then they looted.
There was a strange, stupefied lull in which the yelling and the thunder of the horses were replaced by the cries of the wounded. I could not see Jed. I was stumbling about like a drunk, as were many others. At the sight of a blackened, bloody face lurching towards me, I brought up my pike only to discover it was Will. Wordlessly, he shoved me forward. I thought it was over, but we were lining up again. Unbelievably, their infantry were coming our way. Unlike the horses, which tore through us in a crashing wave, they were a slow-moving sea, inching inexorably forward. There were many more of them, and if they had been properly armed that, too, would have been the end of it. But many had only cudgels, picking up swords or muskets from the dead and wounded as they walked over them.
It was what the manuals called ‘push of pike’ in planned regular movements which bore no relationship to the chaos and carnage as each side gained a yard then lost it, stumbling over bodies, ducking, weaving, slipping over grass that had vanished in mud pooled with blood.
Luke was running low on match cord and went down the line with it, struggling to keep some kind of order, but that soon vanished. We were like ants which, when a nest is disturbed, scurry around performing tasks endlessly, repetitively, trampling over fallers to take their places. They were demons before us, with blackened, bloodied faces. My particular demon had an open mouth with broken teeth and a large wart at the side of his nose. When my pike went through him there was a bloodthirsty howl of satisfaction. It was a moment before I realised the howl came from my own throat.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the sun went down. Through the gloom I saw a group of Royalist cavalry on the Kineton road and thought, almost with indifference, that they would finish us. But they were surprised by a unit of Roundhead cavalry, led by a tousle-headed man who had lost his helmet, which charged ferociously to scatter them.
When it was almost too dark to see, both sides, as if by mutual consent, retreated a number of paces. They were like two wounded beasts, reluctant to give ground but too exhausted to fight or even to move one limb after another. There were a few scattered musket shots. One or two men stumbled away. Most did nothing but stand there, clutching their weapons, swaying in a daze, staring across at the fading, ghost-like shapes opposite.
Finally we dragged ourselves back to where we had started from. So did they, each side doggedly clinging to the tradition that to leave the field of battle would be an admission of defeat.
The moon rose. I scarcely noticed at first it was Ben bandaging a wound in my leg. I could not remember when it had happened, but it was throbbing painfully. Ben had been with the baggage train, but had managed to rescue his medical supplies before the Cavaliers looted it. I had not spoken since I got back, but now I found my voice.
‘Jed is out there . . . He was wounded.’
‘He got back. I’ve seen to him.’ Ben went to Luke, who had a head wound. ‘He may lose his arm. Get some water.’
Near the abandoned farm buildings was a small stream. I took a bucket and limped across to it. It was a clear night and there was already a nip of frost in the air which carried sharply the cries from the battlefield – men calling out for God or their mothers. There was nothing I could do, and I wished I could shut it out, for it was returning me to a painful humanity I did not want. Not yet. I wanted to remain in this numb, unfeeling state. Then my mind picked out from that dreadful chorus a sound of sanity – the snicker of a horse.
‘Patch!’ I cried.
I ran round the buildings as fast as my leg would allow me and found the stables. In the dim light I was sure it was Patch until I was a few paces away. Then I saw the horse was black, and several hands higher than mine. Still, it was a horse and, at that moment, I felt closer to it than to any human being. I put down the bucket and clicked softly to the horse.
‘Are you a horse stealer as well?’
Richard’s relaxed, mocking tone sent a chill running through me. I spun round but before I could reach my knife the point of his sword was at my throat. His face was in darkness, the tattered folds of his cloak hanging over his sword arm.
‘I have no quarrel with you, Father,’ I said, as steadily as my voice would allow.
He smiled, moving into the weak shaft of moonlight that spilled through the door. ‘You’re an ingenious child. First you pretend to be Father’s child, then Edward’s, and now it’s my turn. I told you: you are John Lloyd’s child.’
‘He came back from the grave to make love to her then. John Lloyd went to Ireland the previous summer and was killed there.’
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‘There is still no proof you are my child!’
‘I have the letters you sent to my mother. From the first lines of undying love to “here is a crown for some whore’s physic”. I showed them to your father this morning.’
He was quite still. The point came down to my heart. I was aware all the time of his feet, his balance. If his balance shifted to his right foot, I had a split second before he killed me. The bucket had dropped on a bale of straw. I stretched my hand towards it but could only agonisingly brush it with my fingertips.
The blade lowered fractionally – then came back sharply. ‘You’re lying. My brother said you were looking for Father. You never found him, did you? I was watching. You would never have ended up with the pikemen if you’d found him.’
I began to move towards him; not away from the blade but into it. I stopped watching his feet and looked directly into his eyes. I tried to become that human being I was before the battlefield. It was one thing for him to get someone else to kill me, another for a father to kill his own son. I struggled to say as much.
‘That’s because you’re part of the rabble. Nobles do it all the time,’ he said with contempt. But he kept evading my gaze, then being drawn back to it with an awful fascination. I could almost see the thought slipping in and out of his eyes: My child. My child . . . I must not plead. I must not beg. That was what the rabble did. I must somehow stop being the plague child in his eyes. I must become the child he might have wanted. All the while, as I moved forward he was backing towards the wall of the stable. The point penetrated my jerkin, pricking my flesh, but he was too close to me to make a fatal thrust.
Plague Child Page 33