Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  A small man – pinched, rodent-like face the colour of rose petals in the cold – trudged slowly through the makeshift camp. His eyes, black and gleaming, like coals in contrast to his grey hair, twitched left and right, studying the narrow alleys between off-white tents. His gaze raked across the groups of soldiers huddled around the beleaguered flames of wind-harried fires, always assessing, always evaluating, ever alert to potential danger. Yet here, at least, he felt relatively safe. Safe as he ever could. Here he was surrounded by friends, like-minded individuals who would die for the cause as readily as he.

  ‘Colonel Black, sir.’

  The small man looked up to see a figure step into his path. He smiled a greeting, pleased to hear his real name uttered after so long existing under a different guise. And though he would never say it, the way in which his rank was uttered with such deference was particularly agreeable. It might only have been a nominal title, but that did not stop it sounding fine to his ears.

  ‘Where is she?’

  The man who had hailed Black stepped aside, stretching out a hand to show the way. ‘In the town. Follow me, sir, if you would.’

  Colonel Abel Black – known sometimes as Abel Menjam – nodded curtly. ‘Lead on, Major Roberts.’

  ‘They walked in silence for a time, Black’s eyes twitching ceaselessly. ‘She is safe?’

  Major Roberts glanced back. ‘The Generalissima is safe and strong as ever, Colonel.’

  ‘But your crossing—’

  ‘Was difficult, to say the least.’ Roberts halted at the approach of a grime-faced man bearing a partizan and a sour countenance. ‘Corporal?’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sirs, but I’ve come direct from Her She-Majesty,’ the corporal said, bowing low in the face of the high-ranking glares. ‘She—er—wants to know when we can be off, sir.’

  Roberts let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘We are on our way to the Queen now. I will speak with her.’ The corporal nodded, evidently relieved he did not have to deal with the sovereign’s wife himself, and moved quickly from their path.

  ‘She is eager to leave?’ Black asked as they resumed their walk.

  Roberts nodded. ‘She wishes to seek shelter with the Earl of Newcastle at York.’

  ‘And you do not?’ Black replied, sensing the unease in the major’s tone.

  ‘There is a sizeable party of rebels at Hull. As soon as our army moves from here, we will be intercepted. I urge her simply to delay our departure until we can be sure we will not be attacked.’

  Black was amused, for he could well imagine the difficulty Roberts must have had in persuading the queen to stay in Bridlington. ‘I take it the Generalissima was less than receptive to your caution, Major?’

  Roberts laughed at that. ‘By God, she was not!’

  Black shrugged. ‘She is eager to win the war for her husband.’

  Roberts looked him squarely in the eye. ‘And I am eager to keep her safe.’

  ‘And for that you have my utmost respect, Major, truly. Then what of your voyage?’

  ‘As I said, it was difficult. We were turned back twice by blockade and gale. But she is stubborn.’

  ‘That she is.’

  ‘And she would not be dissuaded by enemy or element.’

  They had reached the centre of the sprawling encampment, the roofs of the town’s low timber-framed structures poking above the awnings in the distance. Black listened intently as they walked, though he had already heard the tale of how Queen Henrietta Maria and her convoy of much needed supplies and munitions – bankrolled by the great and good of Europe – had finally reached England after several abortive attempts. His contacts in Lichfield, and in Derby, Sheffield and York, had all relayed the story, and with that news, Black had travelled north, into the Royalist territory of Yorkshire, and, finally, to the camp of Her She-Majesty, Generalissima, Henrietta Maria.

  ‘Roundheads in the north had the ports covered, ready to chase us back into the sea,’ Roberts continued, ‘and that big navy o’ theirs snaked up and down the east coast.’ He grinned suddenly, with pride and more than a hint of relief. ‘But here we are. Made landfall at Bridlington Bay some eight days back. Five rebel men-o’-war bombarded the town when they realised we’d slipped their treacherous net.’

  ‘I heard tell they near met with success.’

  Roberts nodded, his face serious. ‘Her Majesty’s lodgings were struck by cannon fire, aye.’

  Black whistled softly. ‘Dear God.’

  ‘But she was unhurt, Colonel. The Lord’s protection was upon her.’

  ‘That and a deep ditch.’

  Roberts’s smile was rueful. ‘You have it, sir, aye. The Israelites were sent manna, we were sent a ditch! The Queen and her retinue fled there, just outside the town, till the bombardment stopped. Thankfully, our Dutch escort was still in the bay and threatened to engage the rebel fleet lest they hold their fire. Now we camp outside the town for our own safety. Vice-Admiral Batten is a dogged old palliard, and may yet return.’

  ‘How long does Her Majesty intend to stay in the north?’

  ‘As short a time as possible, Colonel,’ Roberts replied. ‘She would march south, rendezvous with the King.’

  Abel Black frowned. ‘She will be disappointed, then.’

  Roberts raised his eyebrows. ‘She expects her nephew to have cut through the rebel strongholds by now.’

  Black gave a regretful grimace. ‘She expects too much,’ as was so often the case, he thought. ‘Prince Rupert fights hard in the Midlands, and will undoubtedly take it in, perhaps, a few months, but Parliament is strong in the region.’

  Roberts seemed unsettled. ‘You are certain?’

  Black nodded. ‘I have come from there, Major. The Queen may yet lead her army to Oxford, but not until summer. Prince Rupert must clear the road first.’

  ‘I will let you break the news to her, sir. She is already displeased with me for keeping her in Bridlington.’

  ‘I thought you might afford me that pleasure, Major Roberts.’

  ‘We are here, sir.’

  It was the largest tent in the sprawling encampment, sitting centrally amid the teeming humanity of an army on campaign. A fat spider sitting in a complex web of grimy awnings and flickering fires, bustling camp followers washing clothes in troughs of icy water, and men shouting and drinking and sharpening blades. Hardly a fitting home for the Queen of England, but it would not, Black knew, deprive Henrietta of sleep. She was beautiful, in her own sharp-featured way, and valued things of equal beauty, be they silken garments, exquisite jewels or the opulent furnishings to which her privileged lifestyle had made her accustomed. And yet, Black thought, as he approached the tent’s humble entrance, the queen had proven herself uniquely and admirably resolute. She may have been chased from Whitehall by the rising Parliamentarian tide, and she might have fled the country almost exactly a year previously, but that time in exile had served to harden her resolve. She had pawned those magnificent jewels, and swallowed her pride to beg help from royal kin in France and Spain. She had faced hardships hitherto unknown in her advantaged life, and now she had returned with an iron determination, a newly flourishing loyalty to her husband and king, and with an army at her back. The sentries at the tent’s entrance moved aside for the face they knew well, and, with quickening pulse, Colonel Abel Black went inside.

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  Queen Henrietta Maria was perched on a sturdy, high-backed chair set towards the rear of the tent. She wore a simple dress beneath a fur-trimmed cloak that shielded her from the worst of the bitter March air, yet in Black’s eyes she was like a goddess. Straight-spined, beautiful and imperious. Everything a queen should be. That was why he had served her for so many years. He bowed as low as his back would allow.

  ‘Stand, Abel, stand,’ Henrietta said, her voice friendly. ‘Fare you well?’

  Black straightened up. ‘Well enough, Majesty.’

  ‘Oh?’ the queen said, her almond-shaped eyes falling upon the ga
sh at his forehead. It had healed well in the days since the attack, but the line of congealed scarlet was still livid against the pale hue of his wispy hair.

  Black touched a hand to the wound. ‘This? Nothing, Majesty. A mere scratch compared with your own tribulations.’

  ‘You always were a modest thing, Colonel,’ the queen chided gently. She rose from her chair and walked to a small chest of swirling walnut that sat nearby, its four drawers adorned with a pattern of delicate apple blossoms, skilfully crafted in mother-of-pearl. ‘It is colonel, I take it? Or do you carry some other fanciful rank now? Captain-General perhaps?’

  Black knew better than to note the queen’s own colourful use of military titles. ‘Colonel will do, Majesty.’

  She smiled warmly. ‘As you wish, Colonel. After all, I would not begin to question how one of my chief intelligencers conducts his business.’ From the walnut chest Henrietta took a small leather pouch. She moved quickly to where Black stood, handing it to him. It jangled metallically. ‘You have served me well for half a lifetime, Abel, and I would afford you any title you wish. Save King, naturally.’

  Abel Black weighed the pouch in his hand, feeling the satisfying burden of coin, and bowed. ‘Naturellement, Majesté.’ When he met her gaze again he saw the glint of iron that made the daughter of the old King of France so formidable. He decided to nip the anticipated tirade in the bud. ‘I agree with Major Roberts.’

  Black’s words caught the queen off guard and she seemed momentarily taken aback.

  ‘With respect, Majesty,’ Black added smoothly.

  ‘It does not surprise me,’ Henrietta said eventually. ‘You always were as coddling as Roberts.’

  ‘When it comes to your safety, Majesty, yes,’ Black replied.

  The queen wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘Captain Hotham—’

  ‘Of Hull?’

  ‘The same. He came here three days hence to exchange prisoners.’ She gazed at the tent’s ceiling, watching it quiver in the North Sea wind as she reflected on the event. ‘He was—def—def—’

  ‘Defiant?’ Black offered. Even with her fluent grasp of English, some words remained elusive.

  The queen shook her head, angry at herself for the slip. ‘Non! Opposite of that, Abel. Quite the opposite! Deferment?’

  Black frowned. ‘Deferent?’

  ‘Oui!’ Queen Henrietta clapped gloved hands in delight and relief. ‘He was deferent. So much so that I thought he might declare fealty to me then and there.’

  Black understood. ‘And that is why you wish to move to York quickly?’

  She nodded her head, its dark ringlets trembling at her cheeks. ‘Aye, Colonel. Hotham will not attack us, I am certain. His loyalty to Parliament wavers at best.’

  ‘Then I will go to Hull, Majesty. Treat with Hotham. Make him see the righteousness of our cause.’

  She nodded. ‘Just so. Just so.’ Suddenly the brown gaze was enquiring again. ‘But tell me of this wound, Abel, do. You are an old friend and I shan’t have you dismiss such things as mere trivialities.’

  Black sighed as though the gash was of no consequence. ‘I was ambushed by men sent by the Parliament.’

  ‘Careless of you, Abel.’

  ‘Aye, Your Majesty, that it was. I had spent some weeks in London, as you instructed, coordinating our resistance efforts. I was discovered.’

  The queen raised her brow in surprise.

  Black felt his cheeks burn. ‘A former associate recognized me on Lombard Street. He knew me as a king’s man.’

  ‘And he a rebel?’

  ‘You have it. Denounced me there and then. In the middle of the street!’ He shuddered at the horrific recollection. ‘I was fortunate to escape with my skin intact. I resolved to go to the safe house at Lichfield, and when I left the capital I believed I had done so undetected. I was wrong. They had sent a team of dragooners in my wake. The devils caught up with me on the road north.’

  Henrietta Maria was enthralled, and she wound a sleek ringlet of hair around one of her fingers as she listened. ‘How did you escape your ambushers?’

  It was then that Abel Black halted his tale, for the surreal night was difficult enough to remember, let alone recount. ‘The most curious event, Majesty. I was rescued. Quite by chance. Some fellows burst from the darkness in my moment of need.’

  ‘Perhaps they were angels?’

  Black tilted his head to the side. ‘Perhaps. Though I had not imagined the heavenly host to be so skilfully murderous, nor so foul-mouthed.’

  The corners of her thin lips twitched. ‘They were for our cause?’

  ‘Aye, Majesty, they were. Though they did not seem to be on king’s business, but rather they were searching for someone, from what I could glean. A girl.’

  Her face darkened. ‘But you kept your own business private, I trust?’

  ‘To be certain, Majesty. I travelled with them so far as my agent’s home, and then we parted.’

  ‘And the rebels?’

  ‘All dead,’ Black replied confidently.

  Queen Henrietta Maria nodded, her mood lightening again. ‘Then all is well. And praise God for the timely intervention of your bloodthirsty angels. Did they give you their names?’

  ‘No, Majesty. Aliases only. They were guarded, as was I.’

  ‘A shame. I should have liked to reward them.’

  ‘Alas,’ Black shook his small head. ‘The only genuine name I heard whispered was that of the woman they sought. Undoubtedly one of their favourite callets. Strange name to hear in Staffordshire, though, I’ll admit. Lisette, I think it was.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Lichfield, Staffordshire, 2 March 1643

  A storm smouldered on the horizon, clouds melding and parting in inky confusion.

  High up on the square viewing platform of the cathedral’s central tower, spire soaring into the air above their heads, three men gazed out upon the town, watching with grim interest as the purple-coated regiment of Lord Brooke decamped in Lichfield’s streets and houses.

  ‘To think,’ Captain Lancelot Forrester said, his voice bleak as the March wind, ‘I could have stayed with the army. Stayed in Oxford. Found a cosy corner of some fuggy tavern, with a cup of spiced claret in hand and a big-bosomed wench on my lap. But instead I find myself here. With the pair of you. About to be flayed alive by a rabid pack of Roundheads. Again.’

  Stryker, Forrester and Skellen had fallen back to the Close with the rest of the Royalist garrison as the Parliamentarians swarmed up Dam Street. They had climbed the spiral staircase of the tallest of the three towers to watch their enemy tighten its grip on the town, and now, as the early morning air carried the metallic aroma of impending rain to their nostrils, they could do nothing but consider their predicament with a growing sense of dread.

  ‘Does seem you’ve made some bad choices, sir,’ Skellen replied.

  ‘I must be positively addled.’

  Stryker remained silent as he watched the tiny figures scuttle busily beyond the high walls. Brooke had advanced through a town markedly devoid of traffic as far as the south side of the Close, and from there, it seemed, he would launch whatever offensive he had planned. Now his men had exchanged muskets for spades, and, just out of musket range, were busily digging earthworks in preparation for a siege.

  ‘Let me see if I have this true.’

  It was Forrester’s voice that broke into his reverie, and Stryker looked at him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We are stuck here, in this fortified church, holding a town that – for the most part – don’t even want us.’

  Stryker grimaced in reply to the stark summation. He looked up at the brooding clouds. The buzzard was there again, hunting on the freshening breeze, and he watched it glide silently over the town, wings curved upwards as Barkworth had told him. It soared and banked without a care, save the pursuit of some small field-dwelling creature, and Stryker found himself yearning to share just a fraction of its freedom.

  ‘And our esteemed leader,’
Forrester went on morosely, ‘is a craven, gouty old pachyderm, lacking in any warlike quality or military experience, who can bring no more than three hundred, largely rather green, men to arms.’

  ‘And we face the Lord Brooke,’ Skellen said sourly.

  ‘A man hearsay tells us to be young, forthright and courageous,’ said Forrester, counting the Roundhead general’s ominously impressive qualities on each of his fingers. ‘He has a force of, what, twelve or thirteen hundred men? Most of ’em veterans we three have already faced in this new war, and who, one must concede, fought impressively last autumn against horrifying odds.’

  Skellen scratched his chin. ‘And they’re all Puritans. They’ll be itchin’ to pull this place down around our ears.’

  ‘Indeed. And they have that fuckin’ monstrosity in their train, so it shouldn’t prove too taxing.’

  Stryker and Skellen followed Forrester’s pointing hand to a place deep within Lichfield’s heart. It was there that, after several moments of scrutiny, they finally laid eyes upon a huge, black cylinder. It was propped on wheels and was being drawn northwards along Dam Street by a half-dozen labouring nags, wending its inexorable way towards the Close.

  ‘Christ, they have a demi-culverin,’ Stryker said quietly.

  ‘A castle-killer,’ Skellen droned. ‘Now we’re for it.’

  The cannon finally came to rest far nearer to the Close than Stryker had expected. The three watched mutely as Brooke’s artillery crews manoeuvred the vast gun to the point where Dam Street met the raised causeway across Minster Pool. The range was no more than a hundred paces, making the sturdy gate an ominously easy target for even the most inexperienced gunner.

  ‘They’ll be firing point-blank,’ Skellen said tonelessly. ‘That gate’ll be kindling afore luncheon.’

  Stryker heard the first cracks of shots being fired by Lichfield’s defenders. He leant over the platform’s parapet and took in the scene below. Perched on the rickety scaffolding that ran along the inside of the high boundary walls, Chesterfield’s men were beginning to offer sporadic musketry. The action took little effect, for the Roundheads had sent a party of infantry ahead of the long siege piece to erect a barricade of wagons, hay bales, grain sacks and barrels in order to protect the men tasked with operating the demi-culverin. But at least the garrison was offering some level of defiance.