Civil Conflict

by Oliver, Marina

  The Royalist infantry then attacked in the centre, and at first it seemed to be pressing the Roundheads back, but reserves of Roundhead infantry were brought up, and the Royalists were pushed back into the valley. The cavalry on the left, under Sir Marmaduke Langdale, then charged across to the attack, but they were met head on by a wave of Roundhead cavalry of far superior numbers, and were swept off the field. As Lysbeth realised what was happening on that far side of the field, she saw another charge of Roundhead cavalry who had come round and were facing the centre of the battle, where the Royalist infantry were hotly engaged, amid gunfire and smoke, shouts and agonising screams, and the clashing of weapons upon armour. Then another troop of dragoons appeared on Lysbeth's right, from behind a double row of bushes running at right angles to the line of battle. They attacked the now hard-pressed Royalists, who were fighting on three sides, and beginning to give way.

  Little as Lysbeth knew of fighting, it was obvious things were going very ill for the King. She looked around, to see what help there was, but there was only a small troop of reserves behind the main army, and that seemed to be moving in the wrong direction, away from the battlefield. Distracted for a moment from the main fighting, she wondered what was happening. She could see a small figure on a magnificent horse riding full tilt past the main body of reserves, and with a shock recognised the King. Was he fleeing? It seemed as though he was urging his mount away from the battle as fast as he could, overtaking his soldiers in the process. Then she saw him reach the head of the column, and raggedly, slowly, it came to a halt. As she watched, wondering, it turned, and the men began to march back towards the battle, while the King again spurred his horse to the front of the column. What had happened? Had someone given the wrong order to march away? Lysbeth was beginning to comprehend the difficulties of controlling a large body of men, moving them about as one wished, to manoeuvre them into good positions.

  It took the column several minutes to move back to the previous position behind the centre of the mile-long front, and by that time the Royalist infantry was almost overwhelmed by the combined Roundhead infantry and cavalry, who greatly outnumbered them and were attacking on both sides, as well as from the front. The Royalist reserve still did not attack. Indeed, there were so few of them that it was very uncertain whether they could have done anything to help their comrades, and as for changing the outcome of the battle, which by now looked a decisive victory for the New Model Army, the thought was merely a fleeting wish, not a conscious hope.

  *

  While the gallant but dwindling Royalist infantry were still fighting off their attackers, the cavalry under Prince Rupert, which had disappeared an hour earlier in pursuit of the Roundhead left wing, came trotting into view over the ridge. Lysbeth's heart gave a lurch. She had, in the excitement of watching the battle in the centre of the field, half-forgotten Arthur was with the Prince, wherever he was. She had been conscious of relief when the Prince's attack had been so successful, and when the horsemen had disappeared she had thought only that Arthur was safely out of the most dangerous area. Now she wondered anxiously why they had been gone for so long, and what would be the likely course of events. She did not know until later the cavalry had come across the baggage train of the Roundheads, and despite the attempts of the Prince and his officers, spent time trying to capture it. The Royalist army had been living off the country for a very long time, and the chance of such pickings from their enemies had proved stronger than their desire to get back to the battle. When the Prince finally led them back, it was nearly over.

  Lysbeth recognised the Prince, tall and dark and magnificently dressed, for she had met him in Oxford. He left the main body of the returning cavalry and, with a few companions, rode over to where the King was waiting with the reserve. She could imagine he was urging them to throw everything into a last attack. It was his way to fight on against all odds, even though his men and horses were tired and unfit to make a second charge, which in any event was a most unusual proceeding. The small group of officers surrounding the King seemed to be arguing fiercely, while the soldiers in the battle were falling to the savage onslaught of the Roundheads. The leaders turned to watch the final minutes of agony, and then after a hurried conference began to organise the retreat, back towards Market Harborough, which they had left with such high hopes in the hours before dawn.

  It was obvious all was lost. Lysbeth began to think then of her own situation. She could not distinguish Arthur amongst the Prince's cavalry, but even if she could she ought not to approach him in the present circumstances. He would have enough to do helping to rally the remaining Royalists for the retreat. What should she do? If she did not leave here soon, the place would be overrun with Roundhead soldiers, and she dared not think what might happen to her then. She ought to try to get back to the cottage and Mistress Weston as soon as possible, then try to rejoin the remnants of the army with whom they might be reasonably safe. She went to the mare and mounted, but still she could not bear to leave the field until she knew Arthur was safe. Her thoughts were in a turmoil. How could she discover it?

  As she waited, indecisive, the cavalry began to move away, and she was sorely tempted to follow them, when her attention was caught by more horses coming over the ridge. They were being led, and had men strapped to the saddles. Lysbeth caught her breath. They must be the wounded cavalry from the Prince's charge. She was suddenly apprehensive. Having been confident of Arthur's safety, she was now equally certain he was wounded and amongst that sorry cavalcade, if he were not killed. No longer caring for concealment, she turned Polly towards this group, and cantered up to it. As she came near, she saw with horror that one of the men leading the horses was John, Arthur's servant, who had ridden to battle with him. He was leading Nero, Arthur's favourite horse, and there, strapped across Nero's back, was Arthur himself. She rode up to them, ignoring the surprised looks of the other men, and flung herself out of the saddle. She ran the last few yards towards John, and grasped the reins he was holding.

  *

  'Arthur!' she gasped. 'John, what's happened? Tell me.'

  Without waiting for an answer, she went to Arthur's head and cradled it in her arms. To her relief, he was alive, and recognised her. John came round the horse and spoke.

  'He is badly wounded, my lady. He should not travel far in this state. He is losing much blood.'

  'Then let us take him to a house, to shelter. Quickly, John, we must do something.'

  'My lady, begging your pardon, where? There's no house near here that would dare give refuge to a Cavalier now. Soon the Roundheads will be searching the whole area for survivors, and the Lord only knows what treatment they will give us.'

  'Then what can we do? We cannot go on with Arthur in this state. We must find somewhere for him to rest. Perhaps a church? Can we not ask for sanctuary? Yes, John, that is it. There is a small village not far away. Surely we can get him that far. Come, John.'

  John was sadly shaking his head. 'I've heard these Puritans do not respect sanctuary. We would find no safety there.'

  At that moment Arthur, who had not so far spoken, murmured weakly, and they both turned to catch his words.

  'I cannot last much longer. I am mortally wounded. Lay me down under yonder hedge, then go and look to your own safety.'

  John looked at Lysbeth. 'I fear he is right, my lady. We can do nought for him.'

  'We must! We cannot just leave him to die in the hedgerow, like a beast of the field! John, for the love of God, think of something!'

  Arthur summoned up the strength to argue. 'You must do as I say, my dear. At least my last hours would be more comfortable lying in the hedgerow than trussed on to the saddle.'

  Lysbeth could think of no other way, so she and John led Nero over to the hedge, and gently lifting Arthur from the saddle, propped him against a fallen tree. He smiled weakly at her, and she sank down beside him, wiping the beads of sweat from his face and ineffectually trying to staunch the blood that flowed from his wounds
with lengths of cloth torn from her shift. She was racked with tears, and unable to speak, for besides being the last of her family, she had always been very close to Arthur. John hovered uncertainly in the background. The others of the party had not stopped and were now out of sight, following the defeated Royalists away from the field. There was an uncanny silence, after the din of the battle, and an ever-increasing stench of blood and gunpowder and sweat and entrails.

  'John!' Arthur had gathered enough strength to speak again.

  'Sir?' John came near and knelt to catch the faint words.

  'You must escort my sister back to the cottage where we rested, and then take her and Mistress Weston to my mother's brother near York. 'Tis no longer any use for you to follow the King. Methinks this defeat has been the end for him. We have few troops left, and divided councils. She will be safer there than with the army.'

  'I will do that, Sir Arthur. You may rely on't.'

  'No! I will not leave you, Arthur! How can you ask it of me?'

  'My dear, there is no longer anything you can do for me, but you must look to yourself. Promise me to go. I have not long, and I must die with the knowledge you will be secure.'

  Lysbeth sobbed. 'As you wish. Oh, Arthur!'

  She bent her head to hide her tears, and he caressed her hair. Soon his hand dropped to his side and he seemed to sleep. His heart still beat faintly. Lysbeth beckoned John, who was standing a little way off.

  'I cannot leave him thus. I must stay till the end. But you must go and fetch Mistress Weston, and my baggage. I have my mare, and will follow when – when – ' Her voice broke, and she turned away, overcome with tears.

  'My lady, I cannot leave you here!'

  Lysbeth made a valiant effort to master her grief. 'I order you to go, John. I will make my way after you and meet you on the road to Harborough. The Roundheads will not harm me, a defenceless girl.'

  John was still reluctant, but at last he consented to go, taking Nero as his mount, since the horse was very much superior to his own and would serve his purpose better. He rode away, leaving Lysbeth to her vigil beside Arthur, who seemed to be sleeping. How long she waited, she did not know. The sun had been high in the heavens when the battle had finished, but after the shock of the meeting with Arthur, Lysbeth sank into a half-conscious state herself, and noticed nothing of the passing of time.

  Arthur moved no more, and after some time Lysbeth tried to make him more comfortable, though deep within her she knew her care could avail little, and the end was very near. She was sitting stroking his hand, as the sun was setting, when he moved slightly, opened his eyes and smiled at her.

  He was too weakened by loss of blood to move or speak, but he seemed to understand the endearments she murmured. Then, with a suddenness she was unprepared for, there was a gush of blood into his mouth, and his head fell to one side. It was the end. Lysbeth sobbed aloud, and clung to him for a long time, but could feel no further beating of the heart. At last, worn with grief, she roused herself, closed his eyes, and, catching sight of a ring of his father's that he had worn since Marston Moor, she gently eased it from his finger and placed it on her own. Then she bent to give him a last kiss, and stood up.

  *

  'Very touching, my dear,' said a mocking voice behind her.

  Startled, she swung round, to see a grimy soldier, his red coat and dark grey breeches muddy and torn and stained with blood, leering at her. He had approached unheard, and she had no idea how long he had been there. Instinctively she moved to put herself between him and her brother, but he roughly pushed her aside and stooped to inspect Arthur. A cursory examination satisfied him, and he rose, kicking the body contemptuously. Lysbeth protested, at which he laughed mirthlessly.

  'One more misguided devil out of the way,' he threw at her, as he turned back to his horse which was grazing several yards away.

  An uncontrollable fit of weeping shook Lysbeth, and she turned away to hide her distress from the Roundhead. Despite his apparent hardness, probably induced by the horrors he had been a part of, he was touched, and after mounting his horse he rode back to her.

  'Take my advice, lass, and get away from here as fast as ye may. There's orders gone out to maim or kill all the camp followers that can be found. Ye cannot do your man any good by staying here. Go, while there is yet time to save yourself.'

  Lysbeth looked at him, scarce comprehending his words. He repeated his warning and rode off in the direction of the Roundhead army.

  She bent over her brother again, to take a last farewell, then went with downcast head to where the mare had waited patiently all through the long afternoon.

  Lysbeth buried her face in Polly's mane, and wept. When she was more in control of herself, she mounted and turned the mare's head to the north, towards the place where she was to meet John. She looked no more at Arthur's body, but set off at a canter, trying to plan for the next few days, when she and John must travel to Yorkshire, avoiding the bands of Roundheads who would undoubtedly be scouring the countryside for stray Royalists. She must get to safety.

  She had gone less than half a mile when she was surprised by a horseman coming out of a thicket into her path. She was forced to rein in sharply, then noticed he wore the same red coat and dark breeches as the man who had spoken to her earlier. Another Roundhead!

  He grasped her bridle as she attempted to ride past him on the narrow track.

  'Ho-ho! Not so fast, my fine lady! Where are you off to in such a hurry?'

  'Pray release me, Sir!' Lysbeth ordered, her temper roused by his attitude.

  'Why? You surely aren't in a hurry to get away from our victorious army? We've much to celebrate, and need company!'

  'I have nought to do with you. Pray allow me to go about my business!'

  'Not so fast. We've orders to cut off the noses of the fine Royalist ladies we find.'

  Lysbeth paled. The man went on.

  'But your little nose deserves a better fate. I've a proposition. We were to enjoy the serving wenches before doing away with them. Let me offer you a compromise. I'll allow you to go free, unmaimed, if you give me what the serving wenches would give – and they would not escape afterwards.'

  'How dare you be so impertinent? Let me go immediately, or your commanding officer shall hear of this!'

  'It would do you no service to report me, my fine one. You would merely receive the punishment decreed for all your kind. I'm offering you a way of escape, in return for a service I'll warrant you'll enjoy before it's over!'

  Lysbeth's hauteur deserted her. She was weary, weak from lack of food and sleep, and racked with grief. She began to plead with her captor, but he merely took it as a sign she was weakening, and he pulled her from the mare and dragged her into the thicket which had earlier concealed him.

  *

  Chapter 9

  Lysbeth's tiredness deserted her, and she wriggled furiously to escape her captor's grasp, at the same time screaming at the top of her voice for help. Swearing lustily, the Roundhead let go of one of Lysbeth's arms and put his hand across her mouth. She bit it furiously, and with an oath he was forced to release her mouth for a moment, sufficient for her to let more screams escape. At the same time she was struggling to try and get away from him,, and it was with great difficulty he managed to secure her in such a way that both her arms were held, and he was able once more to stifle the screams by holding his hand over her mouth. He was almost choking her, as this time he was also holding her nose so she could not breathe. She was doing her utmost to kick him, but he was much stronger than she, and eventually managed to pick her up, and Lysbeth, her feet flailing helplessly in the air, was carried into the thicket. She felt the bushes tearing at her skirt as he pushed his way through, and was in despair. From the way she was being carried, Lysbeth could see little except some trees and the occasional open sky through gaps in the trees.

  After what seemed an eternity, the Roundhead stopped, and Lysbeth renewed her struggles to escape. He set her down roughly on
to the ground, still holding her arms twisted behind her.

  'Will ye behave,' he asked, 'or must I hurt ye still more?'

  Lysbeth could not speak for the hand over her mouth, but her furious eyes gave him answer. With a suddenness she was unprepared for, he released her, only to grasp at the edges of her riding habit. With a fierce jerk he tore the habit from neck to hem, and began to tear it from the girl. She renewed her struggles and her screams, but with a curse he hit her on the side of the head with such fierceness that for a moment she was partially stunned and unable to prevent him from tearing her habit away completely. Then he grasped her shift, and Lysbeth, in her dazed condition, could no longer resist him. She had fallen to the ground in her struggle, and was half kneeling, half crouching beneath the man. Her thoughts and impressions were so incoherent it was some time before she realised his grasp of her was gone. She had been released. She looked dazedly round and saw, a little to the side of her, the Roundhead bully rising to his feet, drawing his sword out of his scabbard as he did so. She glanced about her and to her amazement recognised Sir James Howard standing a little way off, and with his own sword at the ready.

  Lysbeth exclaimed in surprise, and Sir James glanced briefly in her direction.

  'Are you hurt, Mistress?' he enquired.

  'I think not overmuch,' Lysbeth answered. Her voice, to her annoyance, seemed weak and shaking.

  'Good.' Sir James nodded briefly. 'Then we will teach this rogue a lesson.'

  Lysbeth looked at the Roundhead who had by now regained his feet. He was approaching Sir James cautiously, and he, with a grim smile on his lips, waited calmly. Lysbeth perceived they were in a small clearing, scarcely large enough to allow the two men freedom of movement. She pulled herself to her feet and somewhat feebly moved to the edge of the clearing so as to be out of their way, then sank down to rest her head against the trunk of one of the trees.