‘They are strong in artillery?’ the man at Manchester’s side asked. It was the first time he had addressed the group, and Leven was taken by the voice: the easy drawl of flat Norfolk fields, yet deep, dominating the room.
Leven met his steady eyes and nodded. ‘They have divers cannon placed right around the city, and a strong battery on Clifford’s Tower.’ Just then a great boom bellowed from the north. Leven forced a wry smile. ‘Their culverins have ears, it seems.’
‘I saw outworks,’ Manchester cut in, ‘did I not?’
‘To protect the cattle in the pastures.’ It was Sir Thomas Fairfax, lieutenant-general to his ageing father, who spoke. His voice, by contrast with the hard tone of his East Anglian counterpart, was calm and remarkably gentle. The common soldiers, Leven knew, called him Black Tom, and he could see why, for Fairfax’s complexion was as swarthy as his father’s was pale.
‘They keep cattle?’ Manchester’s second in command blurted incredulously. ‘Outside the walls?’
‘Aye, General,’ Fairfax said, unruffled. He moved to the map, leaned over it, and eyed the Earl of Manchester. ‘Perhaps I might detail the situation for you, my lord?’
Manchester sucked at his teeth. After a long pause he nodded.
Sir Thomas Fairfax examined the map, his dark eyes screwed to slits. He drew a circle with his fingertip around the circumference of York. ‘They have good, solid walls of stone that cover much of the city. At the south-west it is lower, less robust, but stout nonetheless.’
‘Much of the city? There is a place without a wall?’
‘Here,’ Fairfax said, tracing a line that ran down York’s western flank, ‘between Layerthorpe Postern and the Red Tower, there is a gap.’
Manchester squinted. ‘Is that supposed to be water?’
‘Aye, my lord. The King’s Fishpond. It is stagnant, and quite shallow, but a formidable obstacle for all that. It stretches a quarter of a mile, perhaps more. We cannot cross it easily.’
Manchester massaged his eyes with his palms. ‘Can we come up against the wall? Throw up ladders?’
‘The outer face of the wall,’ Fairfax countered, ‘is covered by a moat. Often dry, admittedly, but, combined with the sheer height of the rampart above, we could not easily make a successful escalade.’
‘You mentioned the wall was lower in the south-west. What say we strike there?’
Fairfax ran his finger along the relevant black line. ‘Between the Red Tower and Fishergate Postern, my lord, aye. But I must report that it is here, outside that weaker rampart, that the moat is deepest, and always filled.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘One might see the moat as compensation for the wall.’
Manchester blew out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘It seems York is stronger than I had bargained for.’
‘There are towers set at intervals along the wall,’ Fairfax went on mercilessly, ‘and entry is gained only through the four great bars, Micklegate, Bootham, Monk and Walmgate. All four are heavily defended. Moreover, they have occupied a ridge of high ground to the west, erecting three stout sconces so that we may not take that vantage point. It is behind those sconces, before the walls, that they put their cattle to pasture.’
‘How do we bring this stubborn city to heel?’ Manchester said, looking at each man in turn.
His second stepped forwards, face grim, eyes blazing. ‘God is with us, my lords. We must trust in Him! He will see this popish nest smote!’
Manchester placed a staying hand on his lieutenant-general’s elbow. ‘An escalade would be costly in the extreme. We must be cautious.’
‘There is a patch of high ground to the west,’ Fairfax said. ‘At Hesslington. I would take it, for it would serve well as a gun emplacement.’
‘Forgive me, my lord Leven,’ Manchester began, ‘but you have been at the task for some weeks, have you not?’
Leven gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to keep from giving the arrogant pup a good hiding. ‘Without the resources to properly invest the city,’ he said as levelly as he could. ‘Now you are here, my lord, we may move things on apace. Your numbers make it possible to effectively circumvallate the city. We may finally conduct a close siege.’
Manchester indicated the area above York on the huge map. ‘I have inserted my army into the north-western sector, as agreed. Here, between the east bank of the Ouse as it flows into the north-west of the city, and the west bank of the Foss as it flows into the east of the city. Let it be known that my headquarters shall be at Clifton Without. Would it please you, my lord, for our armies to cooperate in joint enterprise?’
Leven frowned. ‘How so?’
‘Here,’ Manchester said. ‘At Poppleton. I would construct a bridge of boats over the Ouse to link our respective forces.’
David Leslie, Lieutenant-General of Horse, moved closer to Leven and cleared his throat pointedly.
‘Tell me, my lord,’ Leven said, reading his comrade’s mind, ‘of the disposition of your men.’
‘We have nine thousand,’ Manchester replied, nonplussed. ‘Six of foot, three of horse. Raised from the East Anglian counties, in the main.’
‘Nay,’ Leven waved the information away, ‘that was not my meaning. Forgive me, but yours is an army of an Independent mind, is it not?’
Manchester exchanged a glance with his own lieutenant-general, then looked back at the big Scot. ‘What do you imply, my lord?’
‘My men are God-fearing,’ Leven replied, searching for the most tactful route to tread, ‘but simple. I would be reassured to know that their minds are not—at risk.’
Manchester’s genial expression became strained. He folded his arms defensively. ‘Mine is a Godly army, sir, and that is what is important. I am Presbyterian,’ he shrugged, ‘while others of my force are not. But we are all believers, all saved.’ He nodded at his second. ‘This man, the commander of my horse, is one such Independent. I assure you, my lord, that he will prove invaluable, despite your reservations. There will be no preaching by my men, sir. Is that not so, Oliver?’
The taciturn subordinate nodded. ‘No minds will be manipulated, my lords.’
Leven found he could not look away from the horseman with the reverberating voice. His large eyes seemed to impale him like twin spears, and he was transfixed by the large wart that danced on the man’s creased right brow. ‘Then all is well,’ he said eventually. ‘Lieutenant-General Cromwell. You are to provide protective cordon for our entire alliance. Screen our troops, escort supplies, warn of enemy advances. Understood?’
Oliver Cromwell bowed. ‘I will do my duty, my lord.’
Leven tore himself away, staring at the map to hide his discomfiture. ‘We must bring matters close to their walls. Enough of this cannon-play, for it resolves nothing. We will begin undermining the defences as soon as is practicable.’ He looked at the Fairfaxes. ‘Sir Thomas, will you press against the gate in your sector?’
The younger Fairfax nodded. ‘Walmgate Bar, my lord. I plan to place a battery nearby, to entertain the enemy ordnance at Clifford’s Tower. Once their focus is taken by that gun, I will send in my sappers.’
‘I shall look to mine the north wall, my lords,’ the Earl of Manchester added. He squinted at the map. ‘What is this?’
He was examining the angled lines inked along the north and west limits of York. They were irregular, jutting out from the otherwise continuous circuit of the wall, bulging from the surface like the burl of a diseased tree. ‘The Abbey of St Mary’s, now known simply as the Manor. The church itself has been ruined since the Papists left, but the manor house stands strong nearby. They will have troops stationed therein. The grounds have their own wall, connected to the corner of the main wall.’
‘In effect, it adds a compound to their circuit?’ Manchester said.
Leven nodded, but urged caution. ‘It is crenellated for defence.’
‘But weaker than the proper wall,’ pressed Manchester. He looked at Cromwell. ‘What say you?
Cromwell
frowned. ‘I know it, my lord. There is a tower set into the northernmost corner of the Manor boundary wall.’
Sir Thomas Fairfax said, ‘St Mary’s.’
Cromwell nodded, then looked at his commander. ‘That is where we must mine, my lord.’
Then all was silent, save the bellowing of artillery that rumbled back and forth like a far-off storm. Alexander Leslie, Earl of Leven, stepped back from the map and set his jaw. ‘Then we are agreed, gentlemen. We will close upon this malignant city, build properly fortified leaguers for our troops, squeeze her inhabitants and bring down her walls. God be with us.’
Chapter 6
Wigan, Lancashire, 5 June 1644
Faith Helly could scarce believe the sheer scale of the army as it converged upon the small town. She had never seen so many folk in one place. There were men borne on the backs of magnificent horses, saddles heavy with weapons, bodies encased in metal. Some were dusty and grim-faced, others proud like cockerels, their hats and helmets resplendent in colourful plumage, defying the ominously slate-grey sky as if their very grandiosity kept the rain at bay. Men marched on foot too, slopping through the ankle-deep filth. They moved in great blocks behind bright banners of red and gold and green and blue, shifting over the mud in unison. Some of those formations bristled with long pikes so that it seemed to Faith that each block was not made of men at all, but was like some great beast: the Leviathan, made flesh by the sins of the time to crawl off the pages of Scripture. Master Sydall’s Bible was close by, and she could not help but glance at it. ‘By the greatness of this monster Leviathan,’ she whispered the quote, ‘God showeth His greatness and His power, which nothing can resist.’ She felt tears prick her eyes. ‘God showeth His greatness through this monster?’ She blinked hard and stared back at the marching column, wondering how much sin must have washed over the earth for this to be the necessary correction. These warriors were the king’s horde. The malignants, Hate-Evil Sydall had called them. The very personification of sin. She had questioned him then, but he had been right, so profoundly, horrifically right. One day in Bolton-le-Moors had proved it. ‘Not His greatness,’ she said to the oaken trunk behind which she was concealed, ‘but His judgement.’
‘This is not God’s doing, but that of man.’
Faith spun on her heels. ‘Major Stryker,’ she panted, hands clamped at her chest to quell the hammering of her heart. ‘You startled me.’
The tall officer removed his hat. ‘My apologies, Mistress Helly.’ His long, grimy and matted hair flowed free, and he gathered the strands at the nape of his neck, tying them off with a piece of frayed string.
The effect was to expose the hideous scar that dominated the left side of his face, and she fought back the gasp that caught at her throat. Instead she offered a smile that she prayed would appear as genuine as it was meant. ‘It is I who should apologise, sir. I spoke sharply before, I hate your king. I hate your cause. I do not hate you.’
Stryker nodded. ‘You have suffered much, Mistress. And I have been unkind.’
She smiled. ‘You are brusque, sir, but not cruel.’ She went back to her tree, looking out at the road that still thronged with activity while careful to stay out of sight. ‘But you are wrong. This is God’s work. Everything is God’s work, one way or another.’
Near Wetherby, Yorkshire, 5 June 1644
Devlin Greer changed his horse at a sleepy inn called The Star. It hugged a bend in the winding River Wharfe, to the south and east of the town, and had once been a bustling haven for shepherds and farmhands. Now it was almost deserted, which suited Greer well enough, because fewer patrons meant fewer questions.
‘And she’s fleet o’ foot?’ he said to the stable boy when the grubby urchin had guided him to where his new mount waited.
‘Fast as lightnin’, sir.’
Greer led the bay mare out into the yard, patting her hard on the neck. ‘She’d better be. There’s hard riding to be done, so there is.’
The lad pushed lank hair from his eyes. ‘She’s the best we got, sir.’
‘Good,’ Greer said. He had been riding for two days, the route over the rugged hills virtually impassable in places, and always perilous. There was another day’s travel ahead, and weariness was beginning to creep in. ‘And my gelding?’
‘In good hands, sir. I’ll have him fresh for your return.’
‘See that you do, lad. See that you do.’
The boy met his eye as he clambered up into the saddle. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but—’
Greer raised his brow. ‘But?’
‘I’ve never been out o’ the West Riding, sir.’ His eyes, blue and bright, were lit with excitement. ‘Are you a fighter, sir? Do you go to war?’
Devlin Greer tugged at the reins and the mare paced away. He twisted back once, to call, ‘I go to the very place where this war will be won and lost. I go to York!’
Wigan, Lancashire, 5 June 1644
‘The Northern Horse,’ Stryker said, going to stand beside Faith and briefly checking their dense shield of tangled foliage for prying eyes. ‘They could do nothing for Lord Newcastle inside York. It was wiser to let them roam.’
The vanguard under Sir Richard Crane had been in Wigan since the previous afternoon, Crane leading his thundering section into the town unopposed. Perhaps the prior notice was why, with the arrival of the main field army, bolstered further by the troops they had gathered at Bury, the townsfolk now lined the road, casting flowers and green boughs to the sides of the filthy highway in welcome, cheering the Teutonic prince who had almost entirely wrested Lancashire from Parliamentarian control. Stryker wondered whether the war-weary folk truly meant this display, or whether it was done through fear. Either way, the night had slipped by uneventfully, with Crane placing his troopers in a well-appointed district around a substantial church, the householders promised compensation for their trouble, the horses stabled in the chancel and nave, while Stryker and his group had found quarters in a modest taphouse near the southern gate. Crane had ordered that he and Kendrick stay away from one another, and both had been true to their respective promises, keeping far apart during the march. Moreover, Stryker had heard that the Vulture’s company were lodging on the north side of Wigan, and that suited him fine. He had noticed Faith Helly’s disappearance after a brief visit to the latrine, and had initially panicked, but Barkworth assuaged his worry, explaining that he had escorted her to this hiding place so that she might watch the huge force enter town. Now here they were, in a tangled copse on the crest of a slight ridge, staring down at the tramping units as they turned the road to a quagmire. And Faith Helly, to his amazement, was smiling.
It was a strange sensation, witnessing that smile, as if he were seeing her for the very first time. She had been around him almost constantly since Bolton, looked after by Skellen, who made sure that she could wash, exchange her apprentice’s garb for the clothes of a woman and keep her wounds clean. But now, in this instant, her smile transformed her into a real person, with real hopes and dreams. Skinny, freckled, with a nose that would have been dainty had not a gauntleted fist clubbed it to a swollen mess. Her hair, a mass of copper tresses, had been locked away in a new coif as soon as Skellen could locate one, which made her appear even more vulnerable. Her eyes were green, her mouth wide, and her skin was impossibly pale. Stryker wanted to place his arm round her narrow shoulders, and promise her she would be safe. He knew it would be a lie.
‘Part of me feels lighter, somehow,’ Faith said, looking back through the branches to view the spectacle down on the road.
‘Lighter?’
‘I did not wish James dead, never that, but I am free of a marriage I did not want. Is that wicked?’
Stryker did not know how to answer. ‘Why did you not want it?’
‘James was sweet—’
‘But?’
‘But Master Sydall was not. He did not like me.’
‘Then why wed his son to you?’
She turned, casting Stryker a withering
look. ‘An alliance in the name of trade. But when the malignants broke in to Bolton, he cast me from his home, looking only to the preservation of his blood.’
Now it all made sense. Stryker had wondered how she had managed to survive until his timely interruption. ‘That was why you were hidden in the oven?’ he said, remembering the soot stains that had blighted her clothes.
She nodded. ‘I was too frightened to stay on the street, so I crept through a window, crawled inside the oven. I thought I would be safe there.’ She began to weep softly. ‘How wrong I was.’
‘The lad, James,’ Stryker said, recalling the killing in the road that had provoked him to enter the house. ‘He sought you in the street, yes? That was why he was out there alone.’
‘Defied his father and was slain for it,’ Faith said. ‘I carry the burden of his death.’ Stryker made to argue, but she waved him away, anger flashing across the green eyes. ‘A man like you would not understand.’
Stryker retreated a pace. ‘Like me?’
‘A soldier.’
‘You mean a malignant.’ His voice was bitter. ‘You would follow me, girl, be as a limpet on my arm, yet bear me ill-will?’
‘You saved my life, risked your own in the saving, and for that I will ever be grateful.’ The weeping had ceased, and she was older again, wiser and harder. ‘But you are loyal to a tyrant, sir. It was your army destroyed Bolton.’ She looked quickly away. ‘Poor, poor Bolton.’
‘It is war, Mistress.’
She laughed, but there was neither warmth nor mirth in the sound. ‘That was not war. You slaughtered women, children.’ The words were tumbling now. They had avoided the subject, focussing on her recuperation, on keeping her alive while keeping her hidden. Yet the sight of Rupert’s army had released the memories that set her jaw stiff and blazed in her stare. ‘Men too. Not soldiers, Major, but civilians. Unarmed and fearful. Begging for their lives. Pleading for quarter and receiving none.’
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