“True, sir: had he paid more heed to the voice of his people, this conflict might never have broken out.”
“I am glad you acknowledge his fault,” Purefoy said, with a sarcasm that infuriated Lady Beaumont: it was bad enough that her husband should criticise the King to a rebel, but worse that Purefoy should mistake a genuine opinion for sycophancy. “My lord, you recognise His Majesty’s injustice, yet you have contributed to his coffers, and thereby to the war he is waging against his people. And you have given your sons into his service. If not for the intervention of your friends in this county and a certain officer at our garrison, your property might have suffered the ruin that befell mine.”
A flush rose in Lord Beaumont’s cheeks. “Sir, let me correct you on one point: I did not give His Majesty my sons. They are grown men with consciences of their own who freely picked – one more easily than the other – the cause for which they risk their lives. Had they decided to fight for Parliament, I would not have prevented them, though it would have grieved me. But it grieves me that they must fight at all.”
“My words were poorly chosen,” said Purefoy, in a somewhat chastened voice. He paused, examining the shelves laden with books. “You are renowned for your learning and your interest in the arts, my lord. I was most struck by those statues in your entrance hall. Did you acquire them abroad?”
“Indirectly, sir: I purchased them through an agent and had them transported from Milan.”
“At enormous expense, I would reckon. They must weigh several tons.”
“It was a complicated business,” admitted Lord Beaumont. “Have you an interest in the arts, Colonel?”
“Yes, but I cannot turn my mind to idle luxuries at such a time as this.”
“There we differ: for me, they are not idle luxuries. They are evidence of man’s capacity to create, rather than to destroy, which is a solace to me, especially at such a time as this.”
Lady Beaumont was losing patience with both of them. “Colonel,” she said, “we have fired no muskets at you, and nor shall we impede the provisioning of your troops. May I remind you, lest you do not know, that his lordship’s health is fragile, and we have our two daughters here, and our daughter-in-law who is with child.”
“I pledge my word to respect your family, your ladyship,” said Purefoy. “However, if any of you or your servants attempt any violence against my men, or should we learn that you are hiding from us plate or jewellery or coin or other valuables that might be used to further His Majesty’s tyrannical assault on the lives and liberties of his people, I shall not hesitate to treat your house as Rupert treated mine.”
II.
“Together again, my old cock, and you’ve joined me when I need you most,” Wilmot said to Laurence, over breakfast at his Abingdon headquarters. He bit into a slice of thickly buttered bread, and carried on talking with his mouth full; a contrast to Lord Digby’s scrupulous table manners. “The King had promised me in Council that if Rupert succeeded in relieving our garrison at Newark, I would be sent to combine forces with Hopton in the south and take on Waller’s army. But then it appears he had a change of mind and gave command to Lord Forth, who is of course Hopton’s great friend.”
“And His Majesty’s Lord Marshal, your senior in rank. Isn’t Forth already at Winchester?”
“He is, and yesterday we got a dispatch from him: he’s so ill with gout that he can barely walk, let alone supervise an army in the field.”
“Then Hopton will assume command.”
“Exactly my concern.” Wilmot banged a fist on the table, making their plates jump. “I saved Hopton’s arse at Roundway Down and beat Waller soundly. Now my enemies in Council wish to deny me another triumph. They seem not to understand that if Waller triumphs, we could lose our entire southern army and a clear path to march on London.” He shot Laurence an ominous look. “We may have to engage any day, though Waller’s been dodging us while building up his own strength. He’s had reinforcements from the Earl of Essex: Balfour’s crack regiment of Horse. He could decide to sit down outside our garrison and prolong the stalemate, or he could strike while we’re unprepared and far inferior in numbers. We’re in damnable straits, Beaumont.”
Laurence had to agree: this was not just an instance of Wilmot’s injured vanity. “There’s not much you can do about it yourself.”
“I can still go to the rescue. The garrison is about fifty miles due south of us – you should reach it by tonight or early dawn tomorrow, depending on the roads.”
“I should …? But—”
“Listen to me, man,” said Wilmot, seizing Laurence’s sleeve. “You must address Forth privately on my behalf, to urge Hopton to call for my aid. The moment you bring me word, I’ll be on the move, with my Lifeguard and three hundred of my Oxford Horse.”
“You can’t approach Forth without permission from the Council of War. You’d be up before a court martial.”
“Not if I save our army from defeat. I am relying on you to bend the old man’s deaf ear.”
“Oh Christ, Wilmot! Even if he accepts your offer, what will happen when the King learns that you’ve vanished from your headquarters?”
“A raiding party took me a little out of my way,” Wilmot said, with his confident grin. “When he finds out the truth, it will be too late.”
“And should Forth refuse you?”
“He won’t, if you put it to him as the lesser of two evils.” Wilmot tossed back his mug of ale and stood up, signalling an end to their breakfast and to any more protests from Laurence. “Why didn’t I see you at Their Majesties’ banquet?” he asked, steering Laurence out to the yard. “Jermyn said you’d be there.”
“I was reading in the library, and forgot the hour.”
“You must have been buried in some captivating tome.”
“Yes I was – a … treatise on strategic manoeuvres by a French author.”
“Hmm. Has he any new ideas?”
“In fact he had some penetrating insights – and I’d thought the subject thoroughly explored. But they might be hard to execute without considerable skill and endurance on the part of the troops involved.”
“Typical French,” said Wilmot. “All very fine on paper, but totally useless in practice. Well, good luck to you, Beaumont. I picked a comrade of ours from my Lifeguard to ride with you. Be discreet – all he knows is that you’re delivering a message from me to the Lord Marshal.”
The man waiting for Laurence was Dick Mawson, a veteran from the foreign war who enjoyed his wine and women, and his ribald anecdotes. This morning he was noticeably solemn. “Were you seeing double last night after a few too many rounds?” Laurence teased him, as they mounted their horses.
“No, Beaumont, though it’s odd you should say that,” he replied, “because on a night late in January I mistook another man for you, until I had a close look at him. He would be about twenty or so years older, with cropped hair and a beard.” Laurence remembered the Spaniard in Seward’s vision; and he felt the prickling in his scalp that always warned him of danger. “Otherwise, as God is my witness,” Mawson said, “he was your double.”
III.
After some inquiries at Winchester camp, Laurence and Mawson were directed to a large tent crowded with officers. Laurence left Mawson outside, and walked in to find Sir Ralph Hopton poring over a map. Now in his late forties, Hopton had fought in the Low Countries alongside his friend Waller, the man who had been his opponent at Roundway Down, and might be again if it came to a battle. Such were the ironies of civil war, Laurence mused, as he presented himself to the General and requested to speak to Forth.
“Lord Forth is ill and resting in his coach,” said Hopton. “He has delegated authority to me. What is it you have to say?”
“My Lord Wilmot heard of the Lord Marshal’s indisposition, sir, and is offering to bring reinforcements—”
“Lord Wilmot’s offer is tardy,” cut in Hopton. “We are to raise camp in a matter of hours and march towards the enemy lines. By tonight
we should be within three miles of them, and in the morning we’re to invade the village where the London brigades are billeted. Are you an officer in Wilmot’s Horse?”
“I’m in his Lifeguard.”
“Have you any fighting experience, or are you just one of those roaring boys he keeps for his entertainment?”
“I served six years abroad before entering His Majesty’s ranks.”
“Then I’ll second you to Sir Edward Stawell’s cavalry. We need every good man we can get.” Hopton beckoned to a younger officer, whose proud, upright bearing reminded Laurence of Tom. “This is Mr. Beaumont, Sir Edward. He’ll ride with you today.”
“I have no breastplate or helmet, sir, and Lord Wilmot is expecting me at his headquarters,” objected Laurence, but Hopton had turned back to his map.
“We can equip you,” said Stawell. “Come with me.” Laurence swore, more loudly than he had intended. “Mr. Beaumont,” Stawell snapped, “the rules against blasphemy are strictly enforced here: twelve pence for every curse word. We don’t approve of the vicious behaviour that Lord Wilmot allows in his Horse.”
“Pray excuse me. I’ll dispatch my companion with a message for Lord Wilmot while you calculate my fine.” Laurence simply told Mawson to inform Wilmot that it was too late, and they parted after a hasty goodbye. “What’s Waller’s strength?” he asked, as Stawell took him through the camp.
“Our scouts estimate that he has some three thousand of his own Horse, and five thousand Foot, plus dragoons. And he has two regiments from the London Bands, and Balfour’s cavalry. That’s near on five thousand additional Horse.”
Laurence swallowed more blasphemies: Waller had about twice the Royalist numbers. “How much do I owe you for my improper language?”
“I shall let it pass, on this occasion,” Stawell said, in a cool tone. “Be warned, Lord Wilmot is not favoured by my men, and you may bear the brunt of their dislike.”
“Then I’ll be glad of a helmet and breastplate,” Laurence said, as coolly.
That night Laurence lay rolled up in his cloak among the thousands of other soldiers bivouacked across the hilly countryside. He might as easily have been alone. Stawell’s troops had given him a wide berth, responding with surly indifference to his attempts at conversation. He did not much care, preoccupied by Mawson’s flabbergasting encounter with his double. He had never quite believed what Seward had told him about the Spaniards on board ship; was this now concrete proof of Seward’s occult powers, or coincidence? He thought also about the odds of victory on the morrow, against a far superior force. His borrowed bits of armour were thin and dented, his right arm was still weak, and his shoulder muscle tender to the touch. After his musket wound abroad, he had happily exchanged active duty for the role of a spy. Had he made a bad decision in returning so soon to the field?
The next day, he rode with a vanguard of Stawell’s cavalry into the nearby village, expecting a skirmish with the London brigades. Yet Waller had foxed them again by withdrawing his army to higher ground. Hopton ordered his forces up onto the slopes opposite, and vainly tried to lure Waller onto the plain below. Then scouts reported that Waller’s vanguard of Horse, commanded by Balfour, was heading for the town of Alresford, about seven or eight miles from Winchester and in a crucial position on the main road to London. Stawell’s regiment galloped off to occupy the town first, with the enemy cavalry thundering beside them. It was like some absurd horse race. They beat Balfour to the target, and had next to barricade the town as rapidly as possible to keep him out while they awaited reinforcements. Laurence toiled with Stawell’s men to drag out carts, sacks, and bales of hay that could be torched; and they chopped down trees and ripped doors from barns and stables to block the streets. Not until long past nightfall did the main body of the army tramp in. They made camp on open ground between Alresford and the village of Cheriton, on the border of a wood, separated from Waller’s army less than two miles away by a small hill and a vale.
At sunrise, Laurence woke to a man pissing so close to him that he had to leap up to avoid being wetted by the stream. Risking a fine, he commented disparagingly on the size of the man’s member, and they came to blows. Laurence ducked a couple of punches and hit the man squarely in the jaw, sending him to the ground. “Wilmot’s fart catcher,” he taunted Laurence, through bloodied lips. “You should watch your back today.”
“Go and fuck yourself,” Laurence told him, “though it may be a challenge with that little prick of yours.”
In a rebellious frame of mind, Laurence went out on sortie with a party of Stawell’s Horse; they were to harass the enemy in the intervening ground between the two armies. But Waller released as few troops as Hopton, and no battle would be had that day. Towards dusk, although the Royalists captured another hill with a direct view of Waller’s quarters in a hedge-enclosed field, they would have to spend the night in nearly the identical position as before. Hopton had ordered every man to stay by his horse, every foot soldier to keep his weapon near, and every officer to hold his place; and he had issued them with white tokens to wear in their hats, so that they could identify friend from foe.
Cold and bored, Laurence slipped away, leading his horse up the slope to the front lines where Hopton’s musketeers were stationed to keep watch. Trees hid the enemy ranks down in the valley, but he could hear the faint echo of voices, the lowing of oxen, and the rumble of wheels. He tethered his horse to a branch and crawled on hands and knees to the crest of the ridge, wondering if anyone else had noticed these signs of movement. Then he tensed, catching a rustle in the undergrowth. “God with us,” hissed a brusque young voice; it was the Royalist password, and Laurence answered in kind. “What in hell are you doing here?” the boy snarled at him. “You’re not one of us scouts.”
“Waller may be quitting the field.”
“That’s for me to report. Get to camp.”
Laurence turned to fetch his horse. Mist obscured the valley, perhaps muffling the sounds of an army on the retreat. He was half inclined to ride straight to Wilmot and relay the news that Waller had once more dodged a fight. But he thought it best to stay, and see Hopton and Forth in the morning to deal diplomatically with any repercussions from Wilmot’s unsolicited offer. It was sheer luck for the Royalists that Waller had chosen to withdraw. As for himself, he felt a cowardly relief.
IV.
“Waller had not withdrawn, as we learnt the next day.” Beaumont fell silent, staring at the floor. He looked remarkably smart in his black clothes, his hair damp from a bath, and his face properly shaved. “You did not tidy yourself up to visit me,” Seward had observed on greeting him, but he had made no response. He needed to talk about the battle, so Seward had held back his own distressing news and listened.
“The mist was thicker at dawn,” continued Beaumont eventually, “and by the time it dispersed, we saw that Waller’s musketeers had occupied the wood. Our armies were only separated by the ridge he had seized, and by a valley that we couldn’t enter except by a narrow lane bordered with tall hedgerows. He’d lined up infantry and guns behind the hedges. He knew our Horse couldn’t push through to attack the main part of his army without suffering heavy losses. On a second try, Hopton recaptured the wood, and then we waited for hours and hours. And the men grew impatient. One of his commanders of Foot dashed out and launched an unexpected sally on the Parliament Horse.”
“Poor discipline,” said Seward.
“Extremely poor,” said Beaumont, “and in the disorder, Balfour’s cavalry swooped down upon our infantry. His Majesty’s cousin, Lord John Stuart, was sent to their aid, without success. Then it was the turn of my regiment, to run the gauntlet of those infantry and guns hidden in the hedgerows.”
Seward shuddered as Beaumont described the scene: enemy guns burning great gaps in the spring hedges; men trapped, struggling to free themselves as their mounts collapsed beneath them; the stew of mud and gore; and the chaos of smoke and whistling shot and screaming.
“Stawel
l pressed all the way through with his vanguard. The rest of us were stuck and had to reverse down that narrow lane. When those of us who weren’t killed or wounded escaped, we were ordered to keep charging. But with each charge, the enemy Foot drove us back up to the top of the hill, again and again. There was no point in fighting on.” Beaumont smiled bleakly at Seward. “Hopton and Forth deserve credit for extricating the cannon, the baggage train, and the remaining troops. I heard that Forth commanded the final rearguard of Horse, and was the last to abandon the hill, in the company of his page.”
“Brave man,” said Seward.
“Nonetheless, it was a serious defeat – some three or four hundred dead, including a great number of officers. During the night I saw cartfuls of wounded roll in to Basing House, where we’d sought refuge. Stawell was captured, as was the leader of that mad infantry offensive. Every man from his regiment who hadn’t been cut down in the valley was taken prisoner. His Majesty’s cousin died of his wounds – Lord d’Aubigny’s brother, twenty-two years old. That was Cheriton Field,” concluded Beaumont. “Now a great part of our southern army is pretty much destroyed.”
“Might Wilmot have saved the day, had he been there?”
“He would have improved our numbers and he might have put the fear of God into Waller’s troops. But in my view, Seward, we shouldn’t have engaged Waller to begin with – we were at a huge disadvantage. And Wilmot has thrown me from the frying pan right into the fire. This afternoon I must testify to the Council of War in support of his charge that Hopton’s incompetence lost us the battle.”
“By Jesus, he is a vainglorious fellow. His accusation is unjustified, and you must say so.”
“I can’t, or he may be stripped of his command. Although he has powerful enemies in Digby, Rupert, and Hopton, and the King openly dislikes him, he’s as skilled an officer as Rupert. And his men are fiercely loyal to him. If they were to mutiny, the King would be in a catastrophic position.”
The Licence of War Page 29