‘Amen to that,’ was the general response from his company. Then the King strode out of the house, the rest following him, and the Colonel would have been gone with them if Joe had not stepped forward quickly.
‘Sir! I’ve come from Sotherleigh to ’elp with the ’orses!’
Robert halted in astonishment, narrowing his eyes as he sought to recognize the upturned face of the lad standing before him.
‘Your name, boy?’
‘Joe Berry, sir. I’m the scullion and would have been the assistant cook if I hadn’t come away.’
Robert had not been in to the kitchen quarters of his home since childhood, but he knew this boy who was often to be seen hanging about the stables of Sotherleigh instead of being at his duties in the house. ‘I know you now. Give me Mrs Pallister’s letter then, Berry.’ He held out his hand for the expected correspondence. ‘And those you are doubtless carrying from Mistress Katherine and my daughter.’
Joe gaped at him. ‘I don’t ’ave no letters, sir.’
An anxious expression contracted his master’s face. ‘Are the ladies not well?’ he demanded harshly.
‘Oh, yes. In good ’ealth, sir. But you see nobody at Sotherleigh knew I was leaving.’
Robert stared at him in furious disbelief. ‘You set off without having the wit to realize what it would have meant to your mistress and my mother to send a note to me, or me to receive it?’
‘I didn’t dare tell ’em, sir. They would ’ave stopped me from coming.’
With difficulty Robert suppressed his rage and an urge to strike the lad for his thoughtlessness, but his sense of justice prevailed. It was true that Anne would never have allowed the boy to come to war. He heaved a heavy sigh. ‘You’ll find my horses in the stables of the Red Fox tavern. If you know anything about grooming, now is your chance to prove it because Whitington, the groom you knew from Sotherleigh, became a turncoat two days ago. You can have his accommodation, which is in an attic room at the tavern. I’m busy now, but later you shall give me the latest news from Sotherleigh and tell me how you came here.’
Joe’s freckled face was one big grin from ear to ear as he went to tell Henry of his good fortune. Just as his appearing went unnoticed when he joined the travelling party, so did his leaving it again. At the tavern he met the servants he knew from Sotherleigh, all of them armed and wearing a regimental colour in their hats and as eager as their master had been for news from home. That evening, when he went to give an account of his journey to the Colonel, he found Michael Pallister there too, both gentlemen seated with their pipes at a table in the tavern, tankards in front of them. They heard him out, asked questions, and were amiable towards him.
‘I should think all that talking has given you a thirst, Berry,’ Robert remarked when the interview was concluded, and put a coin into Joe’s hand. Michael did the same. They watched the lad walk jauntily away to another tavern where the ale was of rougher quality and cheaper. Then they looked at each other in shared amusement.
‘That artful little devil is aiming to be head groom at Sotherleigh,’ Michael commented with a chuckle.
‘I could tell that too,’ Robert agreed with a grin. ‘Well, he showed initiative and that’s to his credit.’
When morning came father and son watched from the city wall as Cromwell arrived with thirty thousand troops and strong artillery. A brilliant military strategist, he proceeded to virtually encircle the city, his intention obvious. The King was to be caught in a net.
Preparation for battle began. Charles was cool-headed and determined, less experienced than his enemy, but not lacking in ability as a leader and soldier. At his orders four bridges leading into the city were put out of use and regiments under the command of Robert and three others were set to guard the fields west of the city at the confluence of two rivers Cromwell was likely to cross with the boats he was known to have waiting. Before taking up his position to defend that area, Robert entrusted a letter, written to Anne, into Joe’s charge. He was certain the lad was wily enough to survive and get back again to Sotherleigh again no matter what happened to anyone else. Michael did likewise with his letter home. He and Robert clasped hands before they parted to take up their respective posts.
‘May God protect you, my son.’
‘You too, sir. We’ll celebrate the King’s victory when we’re back at Sotherleigh.’
Robert gave a serious smile. ‘I pray it will be so.’
Michael watched his father ride away and then returned to the foot-soldiers under his command.
The bombardment of Worcester by the Parliamentary cannons began almost as soon as they were in position. Women within their houses screamed and gathered their children to seek shelter in the cellars. Windows within the Cathedral were shattered, but its richly hued glass had been destroyed by the Roundheads several years before when they had pillaged the city and it was only plain glass that fell to the ground. Charles rode about the city doing everything in his power to cheer his men in readiness for the assault when it came, but such misfortune had dogged him all the way from Scotland that few had any hope of its changing in the face of the overwhelming odds in full preparation outside the city walls. Under the orders of their officers, Michael holding the rank of lieutenant, the Royalist soldiers drilled on the College Green, cleaned their muskets, sharpened swords, polished pikes and checked that their powder was dry, but there was little heart in any but the most optimistic and those more resolute than the rest who would not contemplate defeat.
A three-columned attack came on the third day of September. The King went with a spy-glass up to the top of the Cathedral tower and, seeing Cromwell’s men to the west crossing the two rivers on bridges of boats as well as beating back the defenders of the bridge there, decided to launch a surprise counter-attack to the south-east where the enemy forces would be reduced in number. If he could capture the enemy artillery there, the day would be his! He leapt down the tower steps and ran out into the sunlight to lead a charge out of the Sidbury Gate, the crimson plumes streaming from his gold-crested helmet, his gilded breastplate shining.
A torrent of men and cavalry burst out of the gate with him under a forest of multi-hued banners, their armour, helmets and weapons gleaming. Michael was among them, yelling and swearing, half deaf from the din of the covering Royalist artillery. The cannons created so much smoke that at times he and his men appeared ghostlike in the greyish swathes as they pressed on uphill all the way. It was out of this smoke that he came suddenly upon the enemy and for the next three hours knew nothing but the clash of steel, the explosion of muskets, the whistling of balls past his head and the screams of the wounded and the dying. The King was in the midst of the whole affray, his courage and tenacity rousing spirit and hope in men untouched before. He took a cavalry horse that had lost its rider and rode from regiment to regiment to fight alongside, charging again and again upon the enemy, and giving aid in the saddle or on foot wherever his soldiers were particularly hard pressed. When ammunition ran out, the butts of muskets were used by both sides, often the struggling men too closely packed in the general melee to gain enough elbow room to thrust with a pike.
Briefly it seemed that victory was with Charles as the enemy artillery was captured and the Roundheads fell back. But Cromwell had received word of what was happening and sent reinforcements that arrived in such numbers that the Royalists fled in defeat back into the city. Michael, running for the Sidbury Gate close on the heels of the King, felt the Roundheads closing in on them and the way ahead was blocked by overturned and damaged wagons, dead men, horses and oxen. Then Charles clambered through the wheels of an upturned wagon just as a Roundhead snatched at his coat-tails and hung on to haul him back. Michael, his sword still in his hand, swung it wildly to save the King. The coat-tails were released and the soldier’s head spun away like a thrown ball. Michael dived through the wheels himself and with lungs bursting reached the safety of the Sidbury Gate only seconds after the King.
Leaning aga
inst a wall, he gasped to get his breath back. Sweat was running down into his eyes and his shirt was sticking to him beneath his slashed coat, parts of it hanging in ribbons. It was as he lifted his hand wearily to unbuckle his helmet that he realized he had received a sword-cut to the left arm. In his state of exhaustion the pain surprised him and he saw that his sleeve was lying open, the wound running blood down his arm to drip from his fingers.
‘Mr Michael, sir!’
He raised his drooped head and saw Joe offering him a shoulder to lean on. ‘I’m not that weak,’ he said with a grin, ‘but you can find some linen to bind me up.’
‘I have it ready at the Red Fox, sir.’
‘Have you seen my father?’
‘Yes, he’s there too. A musket-ball skimmed his ribs, but it’s not serious. He was brought in with the other wounded half an hour ago while you were in the field.’
In spite of the reassurance, Michael was concerned. As he and Joe made their way to the tavern they saw Charles in the saddle of a fresh horse. He was riding round urging his soldiers to take heart, but they had collapsed everywhere in exhaustion, casting aside their armour and their weapons, the Scots among them wanting nothing more than to be back in the land of their birth.
‘Why not shoot me?’ Charles roared at a group of them. ‘I have no wish to live and see the terrible consequences of this day if we do not stand firm again now!’
They would not listen and made no move, continuing to lie where they were sprawled or sitting with drooped heads, blood-stained and dirty. Charles jerked on his reins, making his horse rear as he swung about to try to rouse others elsewhere.
When Michael and Joe reached the Red Fox, Robert was not there. The tavern-keeper’s wife had bound up his wound and she told them that nothing would make him rest.
‘He refused to take my advice, sir. Now he’s gone to the King’s lodgings.’
Michael was somewhat relieved to know that at least his father was fit enough to be mobile and resolved to go to the house himself as soon as his wound was dressed.
That was not to happen. Some of Charles’s soldiers were so set on surrender that they had made sure the Sidbury Gate was not closed. Cromwell’s men stormed in and once again Michael found himself in the midst of hand-to-hand fighting, but this time in narrow streets, in and out of doors, on steps and under archways. Many who had turned away from the King rallied again to defend him and the wounding and killing went on until it was reduced to the slaughter of any Royalist fighting beside dead comrades. Already the King’s men had begun to scatter and flee by whatever escape route presented itself.
Robert, searching for the King, heard a clash of blades in a side-alley and found him engaging two Roundheads. Immediately he plunged in with his own sword. Together they felled their adversaries and when Charles would have rushed to find fresh conflict, Robert seized him by the arm and thrust him back against a wall, protocol disregarded.
‘You must leave, sire! Now!’
Charles thrust him off, both of them breathing heavily from exertion. ‘My life doesn’t matter! If I’m killed I have a brother safely at The Hague to continue the monarchy! Then there’s Harry as well.’
‘But the day is lost! There’s nothing more to be done and if you are captured, sire, you’ll give Cromwell all the bargaining power he needs! You’ll be a political pawn!’
For a matter of seconds Charles stared at him. Then he gave a bitter nod. ‘There are a few things in my lodgings I must collect. Let us go.’
They were not far from the house and they met three senior officers all anxious to get him safely away. In the lodging house the Cavaliers discarded distinguishing Royalist colours and the King stripped himself of all that marked him as Cromwell’s prime quarry. He was downstairs putting the last of what he wanted to take with him into his pockets when one or more of the enemy began forcing a way into the front of the house. A window smashed.
‘Quick, sire!’ Robert stood indicating the way. ‘Out the back door!’
Charles ran and the rest followed, ready to stand and fight to cover his escape if necessary, but they all emerged into a small yard, the last man being Robert, who locked the door after him to cause some small delay. Once out of the gate they found themselves in such a melee that they were able to make their way through it without being noticed. There was shouting and shoving as townspeople tried to protect their property from looting, prisoners being hurried along and pockets of fighting still in progress. All the gates in the city walls had been opened. One of the four bridges Charles had ordered to be destroyed had been patched up by Roundhead engineers and was adding to the flow in and out of the city.
Robert looked about him as he went, hoping to catch sight of his son, but it was in vain. The escape party went undetected through St Martin’s Gate, but the danger was still with them. Beyond the city walls Roundheads were spreading out to round up Royalists who had fled and once it was discovered that the King was still alive and missing, the whole country would be combed for him. Whatever happened, nothing must delay the King in his escape from Cromwell.
In a derelict shed not far from St Martin’s Gate, Michael lay unconscious. He would have been taken prisoner, senseless as he was, if Joe had not been following him at a safe distance during the fighting in the streets and finally dragged him out of sight into the ill-smelling refuge. Michael had been engaged in a sword-fight when another Roundhead saw that his comrade was getting the worst of it. He came from behind and knocked Michael down with the butt of a musket. The resulting cut was small due to the protection given by his helmet, which Joe had removed from his head at once, but there was a swelling large as a duck’s egg that was going to cause him discomfort when he was himself again.
Joe did not know much about nursing, minor accidents in the kitchen being his only source, but he remembered how a maidservant had been treated after she had fallen and cracked her head. So he had taken off his own coat to cover the unconscious man with it, even though the day was mild. With strips of linen brought from the tavern he had given the young man’s arm a fresh dressing and placed a wad against the cut on the head, which he had secured with a hat he had been wearing himself. Satisfied with what he had done so far, he realized he must get some transport to convey his charge out of the city while getting away was still possible. He recalled that the maidservant had been groggy on her feet when she recovered consciousness, which meant that the heir to Sotherleigh would be in no condition to walk for a while.
Cautiously he slipped out of the shed. It was in a street of warehouses, everything closed by reason of the city’s turmoil, and there were no inquisitive eyes to peer at him from windows as he ran off on his errand. When he returned he was leading the same horse and cart that had brought him to Worcester. He had found the stable deserted, no sign of Henry, and in the noise and confusion prevailing all around the stable nobody had noticed him backing the horse into the shafts. He scavenged a few items in the streets that he thought would be useful as a disguise for his young master and tossed them into the cart.
Back in the shed the unconscious man groaned as his Cavalier coat was removed and he was pulled into a scarlet one taken from a dead Roundhead officer, the left sleeve slit to the shoulder to enable his wounded arm to be more easily accommodated. An orange sash filched from another of the enemy was wound around his waist. Into it Joe tucked a Roundhead officer’s baton of office, which he had found in the gutter in the midst of several fallen men. He stood back and regarded his efforts critically. To all appearances the Cavalier had gone and a wounded Roundhead lay in his place. There was still a helmet in the cart, its lobster tail and some kind of insignia on the front showing it belonged to a Parliamentarian, but his master’s head was too tender for the pressure of anything hard and the hat was softer for him.
‘Come on now, sir.’ Joe looped Michael’s arm about his neck. ‘You and me ’ave some travelling to do. It’s my bet you’ll be as glad to get back to Sotherleigh as I will be.’
Once beyond the bridge Joe climbed into the cart’s driving seat and urged the horse to a good speed. The road was full of people, military and civilian, but after a while, when he turned at a crossroads to take the road south, he had the highway more or less to himself. The sun was setting when he heard the fast beat of horses’ hooves coming behind him.
‘You, there! Halt in the name of the Commonwealth!’
He had not expected the enemy to be scavenging the countryside yet for fleeing Royalists, but as he drew up and looked back over his shoulder he saw in the gathering dusk that several prisoners under guard had come into sight from a side road, some Scottish plaid to be seen. A Roundhead sergeant was riding up to him.
‘Yes, sir?’ He tried to hit the right note to show he was neither nervous nor afraid, but his stomach was churning.
The sergeant had seen the orange sash. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked more leniently, looking down into the cart.
‘Captain Praise-to-the-Lord Fotheringill,’ Joe replied glibly, using a Puritan name he had heard one day in Chichester. ‘I was given payment by a senior officer to transport this wounded gentleman to his home near here where he can be attended.’ He produced from his pocket a gold coin that he had taken from Michael’s purse to cover any emergency. It had seemed to him that such a task would not be worth less in the eyes of anybody questioning him.
‘Where is the Captain’s home?’
‘The village of Amberley,’ he replied, taking a chance that the sergeant would be no more familiar with the county of Worcestershire than he was himself.
Circle of Pearls Page 11