‘‘Tis filling and hot but I wouldn’t name the meat!’ he joked back. The girl feigned insult, tutted and flounced away. And with that simple interchange, the room relaxed its shoulders and conversations resumed. She brought him a trencher of some sort of gelatinous stew, which he hoped was mostly mutton and which slopped generously over the sides of the shallow wooden platter. It had spoiled him to be fed by Cook for so long. He shook his head, smiling at her true name. Hovering over him until he handed over his pennies, the girl landed a wooden tankard of strong ale on the rough-hewn table besides it and he tried to look grateful. He wiped the thick gravy up with a large chunk of gritty bread which set his teeth on edge but filled his belly. A belch later and he was quaffing a second draught, paid for by his new drinking companion, a stocky man, warmly clothed for travelling and riding, reeking of stables, sweat and tobacco. All was reassuring except for the sword belted around his middle which was handily tucked into the space between the bench and the table, one hand resting lightly on the hilt, whilst the other gripped his tankard. He inclined his body very slightly, but not so much that he couldn’t see the rest of the room, and asked jovially,
‘Long journey, fellow? Far from home?’
‘Aye. Long enough to make that sorry plate taste good,’ laughed Nat, who also looked ahead into the room. There was the silence of two cautious men but Nat was at the disadvantage here.
‘I’m a journeyman looking for a new beginning and thought that I might find some honest work this way.’ Not too much. Not too soon. Not too far from the truth.
‘And what might your trade be then? You don’t seem to carry your tools.’ Observed the man.
‘My trade is whatever’s needed and my tools are my strong back and willing hands. I am loyal to those that deserve it - or pay me well enough to secure it.’ It was true but his insurance was the bag of carpenter’s tools that he’d hidden outside of town far from thieving hands – like his own, he reproved himself.
Silence again while the man nodded sagely. Nat resisted offering more and didn’t fill the vacuum so that his companion turned to look at him directly. Here too was a careful fellow.
‘I may have the employment which you seek but there are too many here who feign no interest in our conversation, I think.’ He gestured towards the door with his head and, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, sauntered out.
The fellow was right. A number of men in the stuffy room pretended not to see or hear them but had heads tilted just enough to say that they did. Nat thought that he’d chosen a dangerous place for his evening meal and was glad that he’d not mentioned his carpenter’s tools. Finding that he had to trust his drinking companion, after a respectable lapse of time, he too left the inn with quiet, ordinary movements designed not to attract attention.
The darkness outside was complete except for a lanthorn which swung gently in the breeze outside the stables. His eyes could just make out the dark outline of the hatted man waiting there. He surveyed the inn yard. There was no one else and the horses were settled, not sensing any threat. He approached the figure who, seeing him, slipped around the corner of the building. Nat followed.
‘Forgive my fondness for shadows but these are nervous times and a man must needs be careful,’ he confided. ‘My name is Marchant and a soldier I, towards my company.’ He paused, gauging Nat’s reaction. It was not an unexpected admission in these embattled times.
‘Ah, but a soldier of which persuasion?’ countered Nat.
‘For Parliament,’ avowed Marchant firmly but quietly, ‘A man who is not, is a traitor to this land and to all true faith.’
Nat heard the zeal in his voice and was pleased to be able to reply. ‘I too. It is our duty to save the King from his malignant company and the clutches of reeking papists!’ he added, hoping that he’d got that about right.
The tension lessened and Marchant gripped his arm. ‘Aye, he is surrounded by traitors who bend the knee to the anti-Christ.’ He spat. ‘But you friend, seem to have a lustiness that lacks purpose at the moment. Do I sense that you bear yourself as a military man – perhaps service in the Low Countries?’
Nat allowed himself to look found out and his new companion nodded knowingly at him.
‘Aye. Many are returned to these shores who can find no satisfaction under a sovereign who bends the knee to a foreign power. I can help you man. I can offer you food, shelter and purpose as a soldier for Parliament.’ He began to warm to his subject. ‘What say you?’
‘Say on and tell me of whom you serve.’
‘I am in service to the best of them all — Lord Thomas Fairfax’s company — and we have need of Englishmen who are loyal to this land. I can take you with me now and give you the prospect of a new life when we overthrow the tyranny of the antichrist. Come man. For sure, it is a better life than working wood for nought but pennies. His Lordship offers six shillings each week and he gives a generous windfall after each skirmish! You could make your fortune man.’
Nat could hear the hot glow of the zealot in his enthusiasm and the skill of the recruitment sergeant. Nat knew of Fairfax. History concluded that he was the better general but that Cromwell took the glory. Here was Nat’s chance to earn enough for a stake in a business and within the military he would have protection and support should Moorcroft ever track him down — and he didn’t put it past the man. All he had to do was risk his life, just like any soldier in any age.
He had decided but thought it prudent not to be too eager, ‘Is that so?’ he responded softly and then with more affirmation, ‘Then, aye, Sir. For a soldier then and for Parliament!’ It had the feel of a recruitment encounter with all the practised bonhomie of such a moment. Nat had a feeling that he’d taken a shilling — if not the King’s. Marchant clapped him on the back and asked, ‘Are you horsed?’ He got his answer and replied, ‘Then we shall share my steed and travel as brothers in the one true cause.’ The conscription was complete.
37
Special Forces
Nat’s memories of soldiering were mostly good - but not this part. Marchant brought him into a small camp not far away, on the edge of a forest and it was obvious that supplies were low. The men’s packs were dumped on the ground. They carried what they could for small creature comforts. Some had thick woollen blankets tied around them and nearly all had tarred canvas bags slung across them, carrying meagre rations which frequently tasted of the bag itself. They lived off the land with no supply train to feed them they were a plague of locusts settling on farms and landowners. He remembered how it was, far from support. Camaraderie wore thin as hunger bit. Their camp was a temporary site while they scouted for an estate which might sustain them.
Baggage had been dropped from their weary shoulders and they’d sagged down where it fell, too dispirited to trudge further. Fires were set in an effort to stave off the chill and they found what warmth and shelter they could amongst the trees and the mossy roots. Despite their exhaustion, the sergeant insisted on latrines being dug at a distance from the camp. It was a good sign, thought Nat. What he didn’t understand was how few men there were: no more than fifteen men, two officers and a sergeant. Marchant deposited Nat with the group and set off. Clearly, his role was recruitment. Nat learned that Fairfax’s main army was a day behind them, tending to the wounded and scouring the countryside for supplies. Fairfax was scouting ahead. Nat thought it a reasonable tactical decision.
With Marchant’s introduction, he was accepted swiftly. Recruits were always welcome. He was told to sign his mark on a long scroll and surprised them all by signing his name. He was given two shillings in his hand and told that next week he would get the full six. The tired soldiers were quick to share nuggets about their general. They were a little narked that Fairfax had an aversion to camp followers - the women on whom the men normally relied for their comforts. He had broken with the custom of wives and children travelling with their men and it was causing disquiet. They wanted a hot meal. Nat would have given a great deal f
or a bar of calorie-rich chocolate. Weary to their very bones, these few men were the elite of the troop. Nat wondered was the rest of them looked like as they burrowed their heads into packs resting on steel helmets, settling down for an uncomfortable night on the soggy woodland floor.
This was a new army. It had started out as men of commitment, believing in better government and a Parliament that had real power rather than a corrupt court and monarch. Now, these same men were weary with the skirmishes and the bloodshed and still it was not over - not quite. Naseby would be the beginning of the end. Nat wondered how many of these bedraggled young men might make a different choice if it were offered to them again, as they dreamed of home.
A flask of alcohol was passed around, although what it was Nat couldn’t have said except that it took his breath away and made him want more but alcohol didn’t warm you for long. As the sun went down, the woodland was plunged into darkness and chilling cold. They tried to fall asleep but it was hard to sleep with cold feet. Nat slipped the whittled flute which never left him, from the warmth inside his jerkin and began to blow a few soft notes. He paused, wondering if he was disturbing his fellows, but a gruff voice cracked out of the blackness,
‘Nay, lad, play on. Our souls are as weary as our flesh and a little music may restore some grace to us.’ An officer raised his head from his makeshift pillow of lumpy provisions and saddle, a broad black hat lay over his face obscuring it but when he pushed it up and smiled, Nat thought that he might well have been the Laughing Cavalier!
‘Aye, my Lord,’ Nat nodded, recognising the man for their general, Thomas, Lord Fairfax. Marchant had told him of how the Earl’s horse had been recently piked through. He’d been fond of that horse, it was said, and sore grieved by its death. Tales had been told of the revenge he’d taken on its slaughterer.
Used to the sycophants who surrounded him, the man had the common touch and camped amongst his men on occasion — a habit that irritated his more comfort-driven officers. It seemed that the loss of his horse gave him occasion to be with those who were on foot and to share his martyrdom with them. Nat wasn’t fooled by the sacrifice; no doubt this Lord had ridden most of the route on some other poor bugger’s horse but he knew well what the stuff of legends was made of — especially the campfire stories of generals in their midst.
Nat found the notes for Greensleeves and the woody, breathy melody quivered in the damp air. No one moved or sang but the stillness told him that they were listening all right. It was good to have a sound that was not the clash of metal on metal, the cries of wounded men, the screams of blood-crazed soldiers or the whinnies of terrified and dying horses.
Fairfax took in a deep breath as the last note evaporated.
‘Very pretty, lad. A king’s tune, eh! And what a king Old Harry was! Would that his line . . .’ It was known that Fairfax had once been close to Charles Stuart and had tried to persuade him of a better path but he was exiled for his troubles.
Nat was overcome with sympathy for the man’s loss — and not just the horse. ‘Another tune, my Lord?’
‘Nay. They’ll sleep now, though I may find the narrative of the day less easy to quell.’ He paused and shifted his focus. He needed a conversation that was not a series of commands. ‘Here man. Sit close by. I would converse a while. What is your trade?’ None in this army was a professional soldier. All had left a life behind.
Nat was suddenly struck with what he might have said.
‘Well, my Lord,’ Fairfax smiled at the acknowledgment, ‘I have been a student and a musician in my time and recently, I’m known for my carpentry skills, but my soul, is that of a soldier it seems.’ It struck him how true it was. Since he’d joined with the Roundheads, he’d felt more at home than anywhere else since he’d arrived here, amongst other fighting men, knowing their fears and the thrill of the savagery of battle. He was never proud of enjoying the excitement of it.
‘Mmm.’ His lordship was pensive. ‘Most here already regret their dreams of glory! Perhaps you and I are the rare ones who find a home in such conflict.’ It seemed to cause him distress to think so. ‘Although, I have had my fill of blood and gore in these stale skirmishes!’ His expression darkened as he tried to clear his thoughts, ‘Tell, me about your music . . . ’
‘Nathaniel Haslet, my Lord.’
‘Well then, Nat Haslet, speak to me of music and let that bathe our ferocious blood-thirsty souls for a moment or two,’ he grinned. ‘We will remember the life and loves we have left and for which, we fight.’
Nat found it easy to talk to the man, ‘My father was a clergyman, sir, and fond of music. In truth, he would not have abided by those today who despise a good tune in church. He taught me to play the organ - I think it was mostly to aid his longer sermons.’
Fairfax chuckled. ‘Aye, and there are too many of those by preachers who like the sound of their own voices.’
‘Music came naturally to me but he soon rued the day that he’d taught me, for I could often be found with . . . minstrels in the town — and the taverns – learning their instruments and their less than holy songs.’ It was all true. Nat’s father warned him against the temptations of bands, playing in pubs and disreputable establishments but it had never stopped Nat doing it.
‘Did he beat you for it?’ Fairfax was sanguine.
‘No, Sir. Never. He was a man who believed in the convictions of words and faith and not beating goodness into youths.’
‘He sounds like a holy man — or a fool!’
‘He was a sai…’
Fairfax’s brows rose at the notion of saints.
‘He was a kind father Sir and a caring minister.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Aye, my Lord. Long gone.’ A moment of respect passed between them until Nat tried to lift the mood by adding, ‘But it is composing music that I enjoy.’ He had no idea why he felt so compelled to tell this man so but it was true. He had loved arranging music and found real pleasure in writing songs which friends and family enjoyed and which he sometimes got to play in a smoky pub to a less appreciative audience. A galaxy far, far away. He smiled ruefully and thought how strange it was that much of the truth could be told to a stranger in these unsettled times. Perhaps that was why he could tell him.
‘My daughters are very fond of music. Too fond, perhaps for their mother’s liking! She is inclined to feel it frivolous and slightly immodest!’ Fairfax confided. ‘Fine woman but finds herself inclined to be a Puritan!’ And he chuckled quietly again at the thoughts of home.
Nat thought that everyone around them was asleep now as they spoke quietly together. There was a pause.
‘I lost my horse today. A fine steed. I’d bred him and raised him myself. He was a noble animal.’ His mood darkened. ‘Some low-bred Spaniard piked him in the guts. They stank.’ The memory of the pierced intestines caused him to wrinkle his nose in remembered disgust and he spat the memory into the leaves.
Nat wasn’t sure what to say. ‘His name, My Lord?’
‘Hilde. Good name for a warhorse. An ancient word for battle. I dispatched him swiftly, as he deserved. Hope someone might do the same for me when that day comes.’
Nat wracked his brain to try and think what end Fairfax achieved but not much came. He only knew that he retired before Charles’ execution.
‘Well, he died well, Sir, surely.’ It was a trite observation and Fairfax saw it.
‘No horse dies well, lad. They desire only to live and to run. He reproached me with his eyes as he drew his last breath. It is the same for a man. There is no dignity in death but in life alone.’ He realised that he was speaking of his own fears and changed his direction, ‘What else did this remarkable pastor of a father teach you — for I’ll warrant it wasn’t soldiering!’ his interest was piqued.
‘Carpentry, Sir. He taught me to mend what was broken and to carve a little. That was also necessary in his parish but in truth, it has kept me clothed and fed these past two years since I came back here.’
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br /> ‘A lad of many talents!’ He paused for a moment and then said, ‘Where did you soldier? Lowlands? You have the sound of a Dutchman about you.’
Nat made up a story about leaving England precipitously after a girl’s family presented themselves to his parents and accused him. He was expected to marry. He’d escaped to the continent and joined with the House of Orange’s naval troops, learning his craft with them and rising to officer as those around him fell. Once England had become divided, he came home, knowing that no shame could fall on his parents who had died. There was no inheritance and he’d had to live off his skills. It was a deception worthy of Florence.
If Fairfax doubted him, he didn’t say so, simply asking, ‘How well do you fight at close quarters Nat Haslet?’
‘Well, my Lord – although I am less skilled with the blade than I once was, having had little recent practice.’ It was a lie he would regret.
‘There’ll be no shortage of opportunity to wield one in my employ. Get you some sleep now and I shall remember you in the morning.’ The conversation was over. Fairfax turned over, having been distracted for a short while, from visions of his mutilated horse.
It was not quite dawn when the attack came. The sentries, as tired as any other men, were also sleeping. Later, Fairfax had them hanged without trial or question and had to be talked out of running their officer through with his own blade. He was told that it would not be well received with the man’s family who were generous in their funding of Parliament’s forces.
Fortunately, Nat snapped out of sleep easily and swiftly. He knew this, knew what it was. From the beginning of his training, they’d all been subjected to ‘pranks’ throughout the nights. Water was sprayed on to them — or worse – and surprise attacks and ambushes were the norm. You soon learned to sleep lightly and wake immediately with your wits about you, if you wanted to survive a beating. It had stood him well as a raw lieutenant in The Falklands.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 35