by Stella Riley
Francis parried the blow. The force of it jarred every bone in his body.
‘All right,’ he gasped. ‘All right – point taken. But how was I to know?’
‘And what difference would it have made if you had?’ Eden’s blade flashed again and steel rasped on steel. ‘You and your bastards nearly roasted a dozen of my men alive.’
Francis eyed him warily and kept his mouth shut. He’d never been any match for Eden with a sword and still wasn’t.
A disquieting smile curled Eden’s mouth and he attacked again, saying, ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
Defending himself as best he could, Francis said breathlessly, ‘What do you want me to say? Right now, an apology isn’t going to mean much, is it?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Eden’s assault continued with unabated speed and ferocity. ‘But what’s happened to your witty repartee? You used to talk more than anyone I know.’
‘I wouldn’t want to risk … boring you.’ Francis’s wrist ached and his shoulder was on fire. He tried to retreat but was pursued and forced to engage again. Steel ripped through his sleeve, scoring his arm. Involuntarily, he said, ‘Christ, Eden. Finish it, will you?’
Almost before the words had left his lips, he found himself facing the Colonel at close quarters over their locked blades. Eden said irritably, ‘Don’t be a bigger fool than you can help, Francis. We both know I’m not going to kill you.’
‘Do we?’ Major Langley struggled to drag some air into his lungs. ‘Speaking for myself, I never like to take these things for granted.’
Something that might have been humour stirred in the smoke-reddened gaze. There was an infinitesimal pause and then, with an abruptness that nearly dislocated Francis’s wrist, Eden disengaged his sword.
‘Liar,’ he said flatly. ‘You took it for granted I’d get you out of the Tower three years ago, didn’t you? And if you’re grateful, all I can is that you’ve a bloody funny way of showing it.’
‘My lamentable manners,’ murmured Francis, all-too-aware that the moment was fast approaching when, if Eden didn’t take him prisoner, someone else would. Discreetly gathering his reins, he said, ‘I rejoice to see you safe. But I really do hope we don’t meet again for some time.’
‘So do I,’ retorted Eden. And delivered a hefty whack on the rump of Major Langley’s horse at the precise moment that the Major himself applied his spurs.
The horse went off as if fired from a cannon. Francis narrowly avoided being unseated and an uncharacteristic expletive drifted back on the air.
His mouth curling slightly, Eden turned his attention back to the business in hand.
* * *
The defeat at Upton was a bitter blow to the King’s army. Before it, everyone had been able to congratulate themselves on the improvements to Worcester’s defences. After it, said Colonel Peverell, there seemed little point in constructing elaborate earthworks if they were only going to hand them over to Pokenose Noll.
Nevertheless – despite the desultory cannon-fire raining down from the New Model’s hurriedly erected batteries – work on the fortifications proceeded at an even more frenetic pace than before. Foregate was blocked up and the other gates strengthened; ditches were dug and gun-emplacements studded the walls to the north-east; and, most impressive of all, a huge star-shaped mound known as Fort Royal grew rapidly south-east of the Sidbury Gate. To the west, of course, lay the river.
‘It’s not enough, Sir,’ Colonel Peverell told the King bluntly on the evening after the disaster at Upton. ‘Fort Royal is well enough in its way – but we haven’t sufficient artillery to arm it fully and it’s overlooked by the enemy guns at Red Hill and Perry Wood. Fresh regiments and levies of Militia are joining Cromwell with practically every hour that passes, so his total force now must be well in excess of thirty thousand. And the outpost he’s left at Upton under General Fleetwood is so large it stretches nearly as far as Powick.’
Charles, who had spent the day touring the defences and trying to put fresh heart into the despondent Scots, leaned wearily back in his chair and closed his eyes.
‘I know. But what do you suggest we do about it?’
‘There’s little we can do - except to keep Cromwell’s batteries as busy as possible,’ returned Ashley. And then, slowly, ‘Of course … the risks would be greatly reduced if Your Majesty were elsewhere.’
The dark Stuart eyes opened again.
‘No.’
‘Forgive me, Sir. But --’
‘No,’ said Charles again. ‘I haven’t come this far to turn back now and I’ve no intention of deserting all those who have given up everything for me. And even if I was prepared to leave – where could I go?’
Sighing, Ashley acknowledged the truth of this but immediately added that the King might at least move to more secure lodgings.
‘Why?’ His Majesty glanced around the comfortable, panelled room of the small house off the Corn Market where he had chosen to establish himself. ‘If Cromwell gets this far, it will be because all is lost. Until then, I’m safer here than I would be down at the Commandery with Hamilton and the rest.’ He smiled faintly and added, ‘You worry too much, Ash.’
‘A martyr to my nerves. Quite, Sir. I could do with a distraction.’
‘So why don’t you come to the point?’
A reluctant grin dawned.
‘Am I so transparent?’
‘As glass. Well? You’re keeping me from my supper, you know.’
‘My apologies, Sir.’ Colonel Peverell bowed, now entirely without humour. ‘I’ll be brief. What I had in mind was a sortie against the artillery on Cromwell’s extreme left at Bund’s Hill. I’ve spoken to his Grace of Hamilton about it and he agrees that, in addition to spiking the guns, it would be to our advantage to try and sink the bridge of boats which Cromwell is assembling across the Severn between himself and General Fleetwood.’ He paused and fixed his King with a gleaming green-gold stare. ‘With your permission, Sir – and, of course that of General Leslie – I’d thought of attempting something of the sort tomorrow night.’
* * *
Having obtained the King’s consent and spent a further two hours discussing the details of his idea with Hamilton, Will Legge and a handful of other commanders, Colonel Peverell eventually joined Major Langley and Captain Austin in the Cardinal’s Hat on Friar Street. Noisy, cheerful and wreathed in pipe-smoke, the tap-room was packed with the usual random mixture of soldiers and locals. Ashley jammed himself into a corner, freed his elbows long enough to eat a slice of beef pie and then said softly, ‘Don’t make any plans for tomorrow night.’
Francis and Nicholas both looked at him with perfect comprehension but said nothing.
‘I’ll give you the minutiae later but our basic aims will be to disable artillery and wreck communications. Major Knox, meanwhile, will be doing the same elsewhere.’ Ashley smiled blandly at Francis. ‘Perhaps this will stop you brooding about Upton.’
Level brows rose over expressionless blue eyes.
‘Who said that I was?’
‘Me. Or has the unaccustomed reserve that’s settled over you since yesterday another cause entirely?’
Francis hesitated. He’d said little about what had happened at Upton – less because he was unwilling to admit he’d met an old friend among the enemy there than because of what he might be led into saying about his old friend’s wife. Celia … who had abandoned both husband and children to become Hugo Verney’s mistress and who was Francis’s own sister. He also wasn’t sure what to make of his encounter with Eden. Three years ago there had been enough friendship left between them for Eden to help him flee the country; yesterday it seemed as if all that remained was a memory. And that was somewhat ironic because, in the days when they had done everything together, they’d had almost nothing in common – whereas now, Francis suspected they’d become more alike than either of them would wish to admit.
Some of the ash from Nick’s pipe settled on Francis’s cuff and he
brushed it fastidiously aside. Then, meeting Colonel Peverell’s eyes, he said lightly, ‘Reserve? Perish the thought. It’s merely that I don’t see the point in giving one’s friends the chance to say I told you so.’
‘Well, I did tell you so – and Ned Massey too, come to that,’ retorted Ashley. ‘We should have deployed more men out there if we expected to hold the position.’
‘Quite. But what’s done is done – so let’s just hope for better fortune tomorrow,’ remarked Nicholas philosophically. ‘God knows, we could do with a bit of good luck – if only to cheer up the Scots. Half of ’em are prophesying doom and disaster and the rest are crying into their porridge and wishing they’d stayed at home.’
Francis and Ashley exchanged glances. Then Francis said dryly, ‘We all occasionally wish that. But the Scots are more fortunate than most of us. At least they have homes to which they may legitimately return.’
* * *
The next day brought yet more bad news when the Earl of Derby arrived with only a handful of personal followers in place of the promised army. The fifteen hundred Royalists he had recruited through the north, he explained, had been decimated at Wigan six days ago by Robert Lilburne. Despondency deepened amongst the Scots and the need for some small success to revive morale became critical. Colonel Peverell resolved to do his best.
By evening, he and Major Knox had done everything in their power to ensure both the success of their respective missions and also to synchronise the attacks. Fortunately, the night was comfortingly dark and, in order to help tell friend from foe, it had been ordained that both assault parties would wear their shirts over their back-and-breast plates.
‘I should prefer,’ shuddered Francis, when told of this, ‘not to be seen dead in such a guise.’
‘And I would prefer,’ retorted Ashley, ‘that neither of us will be seen dead at all.’
Wraith-like in their white shirts, the two troops Ashley had selected assembled in the courtyard of the Commandery and listened to their Colonel’s final instructions. Then, without further ado, they set off into the night.
Getting a hundred troopers over even a small distance in the dark is not easy. Doing it in silence is more difficult still. Previously, Francis had scarcely noticed the creak of leather or the metallic rasp of weapons. Tonight, it deafened him. And the number of men who stumbled, grunting, into pot-holes began to fray imperceptibly at his nerves … until, that was, he did it himself and wrenched his ankle.
A few camp-fires glowed along the Parliamentary lines but all seemed quiet. According to Colonel Peverell’s scouts, the Bund’s Hill guns were guarded by no more than two hundred musketeers who, if they could be taken by surprise, should not be difficult to overpower. Ashley took his men as close as was wise before pausing to form them up for the last, mad dash. Then he gave the signal.
His little force poured across the Kempsey road, still in silence but with a turn of speed that was little short of miraculous. At the same moment, rows of heads appeared in the entrenchments in front of them and the night erupted into a murderous hail of musket-fire.
Six of Ashley’s men dropped like stones. The rest threw themselves instinctively on to their stomachs and set about shooting back. Grimly and with a minimum of communication, Ashley and Francis addressed themselves to the task of losing as few men as possible – but even so, eleven more men died and seventeen others were injured before the retreat was completed. And by then, Ashley was boiling over with bitter rage.
As soon as the danger was behind them and it was possible to speak, he said unevenly, ‘They knew we were coming, God damn it!’ Then, half under his breath, ‘Hell and the devil confound it. Can nothing go right?’
* * *
Major Knox’s assault on Red Hill was equally unsuccessful and resulted in considerable loss of life – one of which was his own. Enquiries into the betrayal were instantly set in hand and, within hours, a tailor named Guise was hauled off to the gallows.
‘One wonders how he got his information,’ remarked Francis.
‘The usual way. Some stupid bugger got drunk and shot his mouth off,’ snapped Ashley. ‘It’s always happening. That’s why telling no one more than they need to know – and not even that until the last minute – is a sodding necessity if you want to stay alive.’
* * *
By noon on September 2nd, dispositions in both armies were largely complete. Ready to repulse any advance made by Generals Fleetwood and Lambert from Upton, Pitscotty’s highlanders sat north-east of the Teme’s confluence with the Severn and Colonel Keith had established outposts at Powick. The Cavaliers under the King and Lord Hamilton stood between Fort Royal and the New Model troops at Perry Wood and Red Hill … and, in solitary splendour, General Leslie’s Horse occupied the Pitchcroft. Even the bridges of boats that Cromwell had been busily assembling over the Severn and the Teme lay ready and waiting; and yet, surprisingly, he made no move to attack.
‘What the devil is he waiting for?’ muttered Colonel Peverell, pacing restlessly back and forth between the guns of Fort Royal. ‘He’s cut us off from London and Wales, he outnumbers us by roughly two to one and he can cross either river whenever he chooses. So why is he still waiting?’
Francis opened his mouth to say he hadn’t the remotest idea … and then closed it again, struck by a sudden thought. He said slowly, ‘For tomorrow?’
Ashley stared at him. ‘What?’
‘Tomorrow. September 3rd. The anniversary of his victory at Dunbar?’
‘Christ,’ said Ashley. And, turning to go, added, ‘I’ll tell Hamilton. But don’t worry. I’ll see you get full credit.’
‘I’m sure,’ retorted Francis with asperity. ‘After all, it’s probably just my imagination running away with me.’
* * *
At home in Friar Street, Verity Marriott was finding the tension stifling. For four days, Joshua had been in a foul mood; Barbara was sniping even more than usual; and the intermittent roaring of the great guns at Fort Royal coupled with the thudding replies from Perry Wood and Red Hill were giving everyone a headache and causing a good many breakages in the kitchen.
By mid-afternoon, Verity could stand it no longer and, taking her cloak, slipped out through the back door. The street was busy with soldiers going about their business, few of whom spared her so much as a glance. She walked aimlessly towards the Sidbury Gate and then, when the press of troopers and horses grew thicker, turned right to the Cathedral in the hope that it might be quieter there.
It wasn’t. Commanding superb views to the south and west over the Severn, it was in constant use as a look-out post. Deciding it would be foolish to go inside, she hoisted herself on to a wall and settled down to watch the comings and goings.
Twenty minutes later, Captain Sir Nicholas Austin strode out of the north door and came to an abrupt stop in front of her.
‘My God,’ he said blankly. ‘What are you doing here?’
Stunned to see him again and paralysed by shyness, Verity flushed and muttered something about having come out for a breath of air.
‘You’re alone?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be. It’s not safe. Haven’t your family any sense?’
His frown dismayed her. She didn’t know about last night’s sortie or the fact that he’d spent the day flying about delivering messages and was tired, hungry and over-stretched. She only knew that he looked cross. She said haltingly, ‘I didn’t tell anyone I was going out. If I had, they’d have stopped me.’
Something in her voice pierced Nicholas’s preoccupation. The heart-shaped face was strained and there were shadows under her eyes. She looked even more vulnerable than she’d done that day outside the Guildhall; and that, of course, was why he remembered her.
Puppies, children and fragile creatures always did well with Nicholas. Since boyhood, his strongest characteristics had been an urge to protect the helpless and a desire to right wrongs. Ashley maintained that he’d been born several ce
nturies too late. Nick ruefully agreed that it was probably true and suspected that it would get him into trouble one day. Now, looking at the girl, an all-too-familiar concern stirred and he said, ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Do you want to tell me about it?’
The unexpected kindness made her want to cry. She swallowed and shook her head.
‘Not particularly. And you’re busy.’
‘I can spare five minutes,’ lied Nicholas, sitting on the wall beside her. ‘Or even ten.’
He smiled and her breath leaked away. She said the only thing that mattered.
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Nicholas Austin. And yours?’
‘Verity. Verity Marriott – though I’m supposed to call myself Vincent now. My mother re-married, you see.’ She shook her head. ‘But that doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
She looked up into warm brown eyes and was lost.
‘Yes. But I can’t talk about it.’
Without thinking, Nick took her hand in his.
‘Try,’ he said.
~ * * ~ * * ~
EIGHT
The morning of September 3rd was spent in a state of heightened tension as the Royalist army continued to await Cromwell’s attack. Colonel Peverell divided the time between his regiment just below Fort Royal, the army’s headquarters in the Commandery and the look-out atop the Cathedral tower. In this way he was able to at least feel busy during the last empty hours until it was time to fight.
At around noon, standing amidst a handful of other officers beside the King on the Cathedral tower, he saw and heard the first signs of activity; the crackle of musket-fire and puffs of smoke ascending from Colonel Keith’s outpost in the village of Powick. Ashley’s muscles tightened but he said nothing. The view, even through a perspective glass, was annoyingly indistinct but everyone knew that the outpost was too small to be held against a full attack. Keith’s stand, when it came, would be made at Powick Bridge; the place where, nine years ago, Prince Rupert had won the first victory of the war by defeating Nathaniel Fiennes.