by Stella Riley
‘Well, since this is probably the best chance Charles will ever have of mounting any kind of invasion, we may as well go on looking forward to it.’
‘Thank you. Did you say we?’
‘Unless my dubious talents are required elsewhere, yes. If there’s the smallest chance of Charles regaining his throne, I want to be there to see it.’ The mobile mouth twisted wryly. ‘Then again … for the likes of us, what else is there?’
‘Delectable red-haired actresses?’ asked Francis, grinning. ‘Of whom you may now tell me every luscious detail.’
* * *
In the month that followed, Argyll returned but still refused to speak to Hamilton; the army established itself in a strong position at Stirling; and a good many people spent a lot of time inspecting defences and discussing strategy. Colonel Peverell was not despatched on any further missions … and in due course, Major Langley and Captain Austin learned that he had been given command of their own regiment.
‘Christ,’ breathed Nicholas feebly. ‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Mine,’ returned the Colonel. ‘I thought you deserved an officer who understands you. But perhaps you dislike the idea?’
‘Not at all,’ sighed Francis. ‘Only think what a happy family we shall be.’
‘Quite,’ grinned Ashley. ‘Only think.’
* * *
On May 29th, the King’s twenty-first birthday was celebrated with bells, bonfires and salvoes of artillery. Four days later, Charles received precisely the gift he wanted when the Act of Classes was finally repealed, allowing the Engagers to return openly … and, within a week, it was being enthusiastically reported that ‘the King’s power is absolute, all factions composed and the army cheerful, accomplished and numerous’.
It wasn’t, as Ashley remarked, strictly true; but it did a lot for everyone’s joie-de-vivre.
* * *
By the end of June, the situation was promising enough to make General Leslie agree with the King’s determination to advance and the army marched to Torwood in the hills south of Sterling. The result was that Cromwell spent the next fortnight attempting to bring them to battle; and Major Langley discovered why Nicholas had turned pale at the prospect of having Ashley Peverell as their Colonel.
The problem, quite simply, was one of keeping up. He was never still, blindingly capable and had eyes in the back of his head. At the end of a week, Francis came to the conclusion that it was not unlike serving under Prince Rupert; at the end of two, he decided that it was actually much worse; and, after three, respect was becoming tarnished with the natural aggravation born of dealing with perfection on a daily basis. Then, just as Francis’s temper began to fray, the business at Inverkeithing changed everything.
It began on July 17th when Cromwell shipped a couple of thousand men across the Forth at Queensferry to cut the Scots off from their supplies in Stirling. Colonel Peverell urged an immediate attack. General Leslie dismissed the notion and, instead, sent some four thousand men under Sir John Brown to stem the tide. Two days later, scouts reported that the English had been reinforced by a further two thousand men commanded by Major-General Lambert … and this time Ashley asked Leslie for permission to personally assist Brown but was met with a flat refusal. He was still arguing when Lambert engaged Brown at Inverkeithing and wiped the floor with him. And that was when Francis saw the paragon hurl a number of accurate but unforgivable accusations at General Leslie’s head and lose his temper so thoroughly that he had to be physically removed.
Shown unceremoniously back to his quarters, with orders to stay there, Colonel Peverell flung his hat across the room and himself into a chair. Then, fixing his Major with a wild, green stare he said, ‘Bloody buggering hell! Has he any sodding idea what he’s doing? He’s supposed to be a General, for Christ’s sake! Is he going to sit on his arse through the entire campaign, leaving his men to be needlessly butchered? Does the stupid bastard intend to fight at all – or is he just along for the ride? Because if he is …. if he is, I for one would sooner be court-martialled than follow his fucking orders!’
Francis waited until the tirade ground to a halt and then said reflectively, ‘How fortunate we’re not in England. By my calculations, that speech would have cost you more than you have in your pockets.’ Then, when all he got was another smouldering glance, ‘All right. By all means, let’s wallow. Then you can take a deep breath and consider the fact that General Leslie is unlikely to forgive you.’
Shrugging, Ashley described tersely and in the vernacular, what General Leslie might do with himself.
‘An interesting idea – but scarcely conducive to Anglo-Scottish harmony.’
‘Tell that to the poor devils who died today – most of them needlessly, I might add.’
‘Point taken. But will creating ill-feeling throughout the army bring them back? And are all our efforts and His Majesty’s prospects to be buried with them?’
There was a long silence while the latent fury gradually faded from Ashley’s face. Then, shutting his eyes and letting his head drop back against his chair, he said tonelessly, ‘Hell. You’d better find me a sheet of paper.’
It was unexpected.
‘Paper? Why?’
‘Why do you think?’ His eyes opened again, their expression bitterly ironic. ‘I’ll have to swallow my bile and apologise. And since Leslie won’t receive me, I’m going to have to write him a damned love-letter.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
FOUR
Thanks to some tactful intervention by the King, General Leslie was eventually persuaded to accept Colonel Peverell’s apology and allow him to return to duty. This was just as well for, during the week that followed, Cromwell started moving slowly and circuitously northwards, taking Inchgarvie and Burntisland. And that, as everyone in the Royalist camp was well-aware, gave them a choice between turning back to defend Perth or letting it fall while they marched south.
As far as Charles was concerned, there was only one answer to this question and, on July 30th, he finally forced General Leslie to accept it. Argyll (who couldn’t accept it at all) promptly went off in a huff again – causing Hamilton to remark that all the rogues had now left them. And Charles swept into the billet shared by Ashley, Francis and Nicholas saying, ‘I’ve done it. We march for Carlisle tomorrow.’
Nicholas’s grin threatened to split his face.
‘Oh well done, Sir – well done indeed! Now we’ll show them! Just wait till I tell the men.’ He paused on his way to the door. ‘I can tell them, can’t I?’
‘By all means.’ Smiling a little, the King stepped aside to let him pass. Then, looking at Colonel Peverell, ‘Well, Ash? Will we show them?’
‘I hope so, Sir. We’ll certainly do our best.’
‘I know,’ returned Charles. ‘If I didn’t, we’d be heading for Perth instead. Or then again – perhaps not. This opportunity may not come again and they say that the secret of success lies in seizing the hour.’ The smile returned, albeit sardonically. ‘I just hope the hour I’m seizing isn’t the wrong one.’
When he had gone, Francis murmured meditatively, ‘So this is it, then. The day we’ve all been waiting for.’
‘Bring on the drums and trumpets.’
‘How long before Cromwell sets out after us?’
‘Three or four days, perhaps. Without reinforcements, Perth will fall like a ripe plum. But it isn’t only Cromwell we have to worry about,’ said Ashley a trifle grimly. ‘It’s Lilburne and Harrison in the north and hostile local militia just about everywhere else. It’s the difficulty of recruiting along the way without wasting time – and the four hundred miles lying between us and London.’ He paused briefly. ‘If anyone thinks this is going to be fun, they’re deluding themselves.’
* * *
They crossed the border on August 6th with sixteen thousand men and reached Carlisle three days later. They were not made welcome. Meanwhile, the Duke of Buckingham (who had been sulking at not being given a senior command) was sent on ahead with General Ma
ssey to do some advance recruiting while, behind them, Cromwell took Perth and set off in apparently leisurely pursuit. Worried by the lack of haste, Colonel Peverell obtained permission to undertake some personal reconnaissance and returned with the sobering news that Lambert was already well on his way to join Harrison with between three and four thousand Horse.
Charles looked up from the map he’d been perusing with Hamilton.
‘Where?’ he demanded. ‘Where will they try to stop us?’
‘I can’t be sure, Sir – but I’d hazard a guess at somewhere in the region of Preston.’ Ashley’s mouth curled slightly. ‘There’s nothing like familiar ground, after all. And they probably hope it will be as lucky for them now as it was in ’48.’
He didn’t add that they could do with a little luck themselves. He didn’t think he needed to.
The dark Stuart eyes rested on him broodingly.
‘You were there, weren’t you?’
‘At Preston? Yes, Sir.’
‘And was it luck that gave the New Model their victory?’
Ashley hesitated for a moment, wondering how to answer in a way that was neither discouraging nor untruthful. Then, unable to think of one, he said bluntly, ‘No, Sir. It was bad leadership on our side. If Lord Callander had sent even a thousand more men to Sir Marmaduke Langdale, the outcome might have been very different.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No.’ Ashley stopped again and then, looking the King directly in the eye, said, ‘Sir, some generals have a tendency to hold back the reserves until it’s too late to use them at all.’
‘And Cromwell?’
‘Isn’t one of them.’
‘I see.’ Charles restored his attention to the map. ‘Thank you.’
* * *
The army resumed its plodding march into England and the Scots grew grumpier with every passing mile. Charles was proclaimed King at Penrith; Kendal and Lancaster fell wearily behind them and Preston, when they got there, proved miraculously free of the enemy. Warrington, on the other hand, did not. Major-Generals Lambert and Harrison lay south of the river with roughly nine thousand Horse.
‘Ah well,’ said Ashley to his unservile servant. ‘I was right about them choosing familiar ground. They’ll probably try to hold the bridge against us. But if memory serves me correctly, they may find that difficult.’
Jem Barker spat on the Colonel’s breast-plate and polished it with his sleeve.
‘How come?’
‘According to my information, the bulk of their force is cavalry – and cavalry need open ground. Amidst the hedges and ditches south of Warrington Bridge, there is no open ground. Consequently, I doubt they’ll be able to hold us.’
‘Less of the ‘us’,’ Jem grunted. ‘I’ve told you afore. I give up fighting after Marston Moor and I ain’t about to take it up again now. Still … it’s good you’ve got it all worked out. Busy as a body-louse, ain’t you?’
‘You know me. No task too large, no detail too small.’
‘Maybe so. But you’re seeking a hare in a hen’s nest this time, Captain. Noticed General Leslie’s face, have you? Looks as miserable as a gib-cat, he does.’
‘That’s his natural expression,’ murmured Ashley. ‘Jem … do you have to spit on my armour?’
‘Being as we ain’t got no polish – yes.’ Mr Barker set about buckling the back and breast into position. ‘I heard as Hamilton said this caper was ‘grasp all or lose all’. Wouldn’t dice on them odds, myself. And I can’t see a fop-doodle like Buckingham bringing good, honest northern lads flocking in, neither.’
Nor could Colonel Peverell but he merely said, ‘I’d like to be ready today, if possible.’
‘Put your sword on, then,’ retorted Jem, stepping back. ‘I’m done. Fine as a lord’s bastard you look, too. Major Langley’ll be using you as a mirror.’
It was the morning of August 16th. Having ascertained the enemy’s position, the Royalist army covered the remaining miles to Warrington with increased alertness and arrived at the bridge over the Mersey in time to see Lambert and Harrison pulling their troops back to guard the London road rather than engage over unfavourable ground.
Colonel Peverell watched appreciatively for a time and then, finding the King beside him, said blandly, ‘Such a nice, orderly retreat. Do I have permission to spoil it a bit?’
Charles smiled.
‘More than that, Ash. You have my express order to do so. And Leslie can go hang.’
Ashley grinned and, wheeling his horse, threw a series of concise orders to his Major. Fortunately, Francis had been expecting them … and, in less than five minutes, the regiment was trotting smartly across the bridge in the wake of Lambert’s rear-guard.
It was only a brief skirmish and it inflicted little damage. It did, however, clear a path for the advancing Royalists and its effect on morale was enormous. By evening, even the dourest Scots were talking about how the New Model had fled before them; and Ashley’s own men – having fought their first action under his leadership – were as one in deciding that their pernickety Colonel might be a rattling good fellow after all.
* * *
It was the first and only moment of encouragement. Despite all the King’s high hopes, the Lancashire Royalists did not flock to his banner as he moved on south and no Catholics appeared at all. This was a bitter blow. Charles had known that his English supporters might be reluctant to join with the Covenanters but he had counted on using his personal presence to sway them. What he hadn’t bargained for was that the Royalist leaders who hadn’t compounded for their estates were mostly in prison … or that when General Massey left to go recruiting again, he took with him a declaration from the ministers of the Kirk, telling the Presbyterians not to associate with the Malignants. The result was that the Cavaliers stayed offendedly at home and recruits only arrived by the handful.
Leaving the volatile Earl of Derby to use his local influence to mend matters, Charles decided to march on by way of Whitchurch and the Welsh borders in the hope of finding more support there than he had in the north. Once more, he was disappointed. When he sent the Governor of Shrewsbury a cordial summons to surrender, he received a curt refusal addressed to ‘The Commander-in-Chief of the Scottish Army’. Gloom descended once more on the weary, travel-stained army; and Colonel Peverell found maintaining his customary éclat required a good deal of well-concealed effort.
Sometimes, when fatigue and anxiety regarding the current situation started to weigh more heavily than usual, Ashley strove to restore his mental balance by letting himself drift briefly into a memory. Anything would do so long as it was far removed from the all-too-frequent responsibility he bore for the lives of men … both the ones he did his damnedest to save in battle and the ones he’d occasionally been required to snuff out in secret. The latter had a nasty habit of crawling wraith-like from the shadows of his mind when he tried to snatch a couple of hours sleep. And when telling himself that he’d never killed anyone he hadn’t had to didn’t banish them, he summoned brighter times to push them back into the dark.
It was a well-practised trick and one that generally served him well. Unfortunately – and for no good reason that he could think of – when he employed it these days the image that came to mind was always the same. The image of a slender, red-haired girl in a blue gown, illuminated by a dozen candles. In one sense, this was highly enjoyable. In another, it was bloody aggravating – because indulging in mildly erotic fantasies whilst sharing quarters with Francis and Nicholas was not just ridiculous but potentially downright embarrassing.
So he gritted his teeth, shoved Athenais de Galzain back with the other spectres … and lay open-eyed, staring into the dark.
* * *
Lichfield and Wolverhampton fell gradually away behind them … then Kidderminster and Hartlebury. And on Friday August 22nd, having marched three hundred miles in three weeks, they arrived at the gates of the one place they felt might actually welcome them. Worcester; the first cit
y to declare for Charles 1 and one of the last to surrender. A jewel set between the Severn and the Teme, backed by the Malvern hills … and known, proudly, as the Loyal City.
It was a place Ashley Peverell knew very well indeed. For the truth – which not even Jem Barker knew – was that his home lay not a dozen miles distant.
He hadn’t been near it since the day, shortly after Naseby, when – with their father scarcely cold upstairs – his elder brother had calmly announced that he was turning his coat to the winning side before they lost everything. There had been a monumental row and Ashley had left before the funeral. That had grieved him – but, at the time, it had seemed better than watching James lick the Parliament’s boots and overturn everything their father had stood for.
Worse was to come. When he went back a few weeks later, ready to apologise for his loss of temper and to suggest that he and James could somehow manage their differences with a degree of civility, it was to discover that the girl to whom he had given his heart – and who he’d believed had given hers to him – had decided a baronet with a tidy estate would suit her better than a virtually penniless younger son. In short, she’d married his brother.
Now, however, was no time to think of that. Although people were flooding out to greet them, there were still all the usual formalities to be gone through and the matter of Parliament’s small garrison to be dealt with before the army could enter the city – all of which probably amounted to a minor action, followed by yet another night under canvas. And that, when one was responsible for tired, dispirited troopers whose clothes were in ruins and some of whom lacked shoes, was all that should concern one.
Sufficient to the day, Ashley told himself firmly as he formed the freshest of his men into an advance party. But as he entered the city, he still couldn’t help hoping that he didn’t meet anyone who knew him.
He didn’t. And, aided by droves of enthusiastic citizens, ejecting Lambert’s five hundred men proved a relatively simple matter. Watching them ride hell for leather in the direction of Gloucester, Ashley was aware that he ought to order some sort of pursuit. Unfortunately, he also knew that his fellows didn’t have the energy.