Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (56 page)

Skippon nodded. ‘How many will there be?’

‘Five,’ Essex confirmed, ‘in the Swedish manner. Barclay and Holburn will each take a brigade, as will Lord Robartes. The Trained Bands will be taken by Mainwaring.’

‘Very good, Your Grace.’

Essex glanced at the second man. ‘Stapleton?’

Sir Philip Stapleton kicked forth to come alongside. ‘Sir?’ He had been a landowner in Yorkshire before the war, but, as protégé of Essex’s confidante, John Hampden, had excelled in the army, seeing action at Edgehill and Chalgrove. When Hampden died, Essex had turned increasingly to Stapleton for advice, and, by turns, his star had risen.

‘You’ll take the horse,’ Essex said.

Stapleton was a thin man, with pale skin and the hooded eyes of a man who rarely slept, but he nodded enthusiastically. ‘An honour, Your Grace.’

They moved on, passing in front of the huge force, cheers ringing in their ears from bristling blocks of pike and musket. There were red coats and orange, blue and yellow, and grey and green. The bright tawny of the Earl of Essex was everywhere, in scarves tied around waists and chests, in hatbands and in ribbons adorning saddles and pike staves and sword-hilts. Huge standards waved in the chilly wind, swirled on thick staffs by seasoned ensigns and cornets. Skippon bowed to one phalanx of men when he caught sight of a particular red standard. It bore an arm and sword issuing forth from a cloud over a Bible. ‘My brave lads!’ he bellowed, receiving a renewed crescendo for his trouble.

They passed troop after troop of cavalry, gleaming in their pots and breastplates, formidable on the backs of the snorting beasts. The officers drew their long blades in salute, calling a huzzah to their general.

‘If we do not smash them, gentlemen,’ Essex said as the three commanders reached the artillery train, ‘then I know not how it can be done.’ He pointed at the rows of cannon, like an army of gigantic black toads squatting on the damp terrain. ‘We have plentiful powder and ammunition.’

‘How many cannon, Your Grace?’ Skippon asked.

‘Near fifty,’ Essex said. ‘We will unleash a veritable storm when the chance comes.’

‘I pray it comes swiftly,’ said Skippon. ‘Does the King know?’

‘That we intend to lift his siege? I am not certain.’ He gazed back at the martial cavalcade that was now ready to strike out to the west. ‘One hopes he fears for Oxford yet. It will make him dither.’

‘Can we not try for Oxford, Your Grace?’ Stapleton said, Yorkshire heritage lending a gentle accent to his words.

Essex shook his head. ‘I’d dearly love to rattle that nest of hornets, I assure you. But the Parliament sees Gloucester as a talisman of the rebellion. A symbol of resistance. With the recent peace riots, the people need a hero, and Pym has decided that that man will be Governor Massie. If we can rescue him before his city falls, it will galvanize the public to our cause.’

‘The Oxford Army may be frustrated at Gloucester,’ Skippon warned as they turned their mounts for a second pass in front of the troops, ‘but it is still a dangerous beast.’

‘Agreed,’ Essex said reflectively. ‘It is a venture fraught with risk. But we must attempt it.’

‘And if the attempt ends in defeat,’ Skippon replied grimly, ‘we may lose our entire field army.’

The supreme commander did not answer, for he could not afford to consider the alternative to glory. Skippon was right, the mission might be worth a great deal in Parliamentary propaganda, but it risked the destruction of the greatest rebel force raised since Edgehill.

So Robert Devereux, third Earl of Essex, closed his eyes and prayed, even as the raucous cheering gathered strength again. Because for all his good intentions, he could not win the war at Gloucester, but he could most certainly lose it.

Bletchingdon, Oxfordshire, 1 September 1643

Lieutenant General Henry Wilmot, first Earl of Rochester, swept into the stable block at his headquarters overlooking the River Cherwell and jumped from his saddle like an acrobat. He tore off his gloves, tossing them to a startled junior officer, and quickly unfastened his helmet. ‘Where is the knave?’

The officer, a lieutenant who still fumbled with the lavishly fringed gloves, indicated a corner of the courtyard where a group of bustling harquebusiers were swirling and shouting excitedly, the hooves of their mounts rattling like a monstrous hail-storm on the cobbles. ‘Yonder, my lord.’

Lord Wilmot, commander of His Majesty’s Oxford cavalry, tugged the helm from his head, sweaty clumps of dark golden hair falling about his shoulders. ‘Thank you, Wigram.’

Wilmot strode quickly across the open ground, pleased by the way the gallant cavalrymen, dashing, murderous peacocks all, deferred to him, swerving their whinnying mounts out of his path. They were Rupert’s riders in truth, the Teutonic Knight’s colourful rakehells who had terrified Parliament’s forces up and down the land, but Wilmot had led them at Roundway, spearheaded the charges that destroyed Waller’s entire Western Army, and now, gloriously, they believed in the young lord too.

Wilmot had been stationed out here to sit between Oxford and the advancing rebel multitude, watching for the roads they chose to take, and ready to harry them at every step. He had also been told to impede any move they might make upon Gloucester, which meant that, barring Christ snatching up Essex’s pious men, he would see action one way or another. Wilmot felt alive, his limbs tingling with the smell of horseflesh and the promise of battle, and his generous lips widened in a broad smile as he reached the chattering group.

‘Well? What does he have to say?’

The courtyard was hemmed by high brick walls, and in one of the corners, sat on his rump with shoulders thrust firmly against the brickwork, was a boy with curly hair the colour of russetted armour. Over him stood three of Wilmot’s officers, all bare-headed but still dressed in the buff leather and grass-speckled plate they had worn for the day’s patrol.

One of the officers, a man in his twenties, with short black hair and sharply trimmed beard and moustache, offered Wilmot a curt bow. ‘Not a lot, my lord. Sweating like a sow in a shambles.’

Wilmot grimaced at the analogy. ‘Delightful.’

‘I niver did it, zir!’ the lad bawled in an accent so thick that Wilmot found himself cocking his ear to the side as he spoke, as though that might help in disentangling the local drawl.

‘Never did what, young man?’

The boy struggled to stand, but one of the looming cavalrymen thrust him back to earth with rough hands. ‘Niver did whatever they says oi did, zir!’

Wilmot met the boy’s brown gaze and wondered how old he was. No more than fourteen, he surmised. ‘It is not what you did that troubles me, fellow, but what you said.’

‘Then I zed nought, zir, ’pon my honour.’

‘Honour?’ Wilmot said with a smile. ‘At least you’re blessed with a sense of humour, I suppose.’ He looked at the officer with the black beard. ‘Good God, Percy, he’s harder to understand than the folk at Breda.’

Percy grinned. ‘Worse, my lord. Took him out near the bridge.’

‘And?’

‘Says he’s a goat-herd, my lord.’

Wilmot peered down at the boy. ‘Does he now?’ He reached for the lace at his collar, tugging it gently down across his silver gorget so that it was straight. A robust hack out in the countryside inevitably resulted in dishevelled clothing. ‘Good fellow,’ he said when he was happy with the collar, ‘where are your goats?’

The youngster scratched the curls at his temple. ‘Zir?’ He glanced between Percy and Wilmot, evidently gathering the latter’s proper title, for he quickly added, ‘M’lord.’

‘Your goats,’ Wilmot persisted. ‘The ones you herd.’

The boy wrinkled his freckled nose. ‘Oi can’t rightly zay, m’lord.’

Wilmot breathed in deeply, letting the air out through his nostrils as he considered matters. ‘Figments, young man,’ he said after a moment. ‘Of your dull-witted mind. You were spying for the rebels.’

‘No, m’lord,’ the boy protested weakly.

‘Yes, boy, you were.’ With that, the lieutenant general tossed his helmet to a waiting servant and drew his sword slowly, deliberately letting the hiss of steel linger in the air between them as it cleared the scabbard’s throat. He held the weapon up, examining it for nicks, letting the afternoon light play along its length, before lowering it so that the tip rested against the prisoner’s sternum. ‘Now I am disinclined to befoul my blade,’ he said coolly, ‘but believe me when I say that I shall most certainly run you through if you give me cause.’

The youngster quailed, his bravado immediately folding like wet paper. ‘I was, m’lord,’ he mumbled. ‘Watchin’ you, that iz.’

Wilmot sighed. ‘Well, I must say you are an even worse spy than you are a goat-herd.’ The assembled troopers laughed at that, causing the boy to flinch. ‘Still, you may help me now, should you wish to avoid being sliced in two.’

‘Anythin’, m’lord.’

‘The Parliament men muster where?’

‘Baynard’s Green,’ the terrified youngster blurted. ‘’Tween Bicester an’ Brackley. Though they’re on the move again.’

‘Oh?’ Wilmot asked, his interest piqued. He had been scouting all day in order to get a handle on the oncoming rebel army, and knew that they had been at Baynard’s Green, but had no idea as to where next the wily Earl of Essex meant to march.

‘T’ords Deddin’ton, mostly, an’ some to Aynho.’

‘Deddington,’ Percy said when Wilmot looked to him for clarification. ‘Due west of Baynard’s Green. Aynho is north of there.’

Wilmot stared at the prisoner. ‘West and north? You are certain?’

The lad nodded rapidly. ‘Aye, m’lord.’

‘Not south?’ A shake of the head served as an answer, and Lord Wilmot withdrew his sword, sheathing it smartly. ‘Well, you have been of great help, good fellow.’ He looked up. ‘Percy, take half the men. Oxford is not the target.’

‘Gloucester?’ asked Percy.

‘Gloucester. But we’ll stop them.’ Wilmot cracked each one of his knuckles in turn and retrieved the helmet from his servant. ‘By God, we will stop them.’ He made to move, energized by the prospect of battle, eager to return to the saddle, but he caught a meaningful glance from Percy. He sighed, irritated by having to deal with the ginger-headed urchin. ‘Oh, string him up.’

‘What?’ the boy cried, eyes popping from their freckled sockets. ‘M’lord? No, m’lord, you can’t!’

Wilmot ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and jammed the lobster-tailed helm back over his skull. ‘I can do whatever I wish, good fellow. And you, sir, are a spy.’

‘But you zed—’ the boy babbled, trying in vain to shuffle backwards as if his feeble weight could push through the brick wall. ‘You zed you wouldn’t kill me if ’n oi talked!’

Lord Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, stared down at the hapless prisoner through his triple-barred visor. ‘I said I wouldn’t run you through, and I shan’t. But you’re a rebel spy and you’ll swing for it.’ He turned away with a quick glance at Percy. ‘Get on with it. Time is of the essence.’

The boy’s screams faded as he was dragged away by a pair of surly soldiers, while all around the courtyard troopers fastened helmets and tugged on gloves. They hauled themselves up on to skittish mounts and called in boisterous tones to one another as though they were riding to hounds. Wilmot reached his own horse, the black stallion greeting him with a whicker and a shake of the head, and he stroked its soft mane, brushed to perfection by the servants while the lieutenant general had been conducting his unpleasant exchange with the local lad.

‘Let us find some rebels!’ he shouted to the massing men who clattered like so many mythical centaurs across the cobbles. ‘Essex looks to Gloucester, but all he’ll find is cold steel and warm lead!’

The men brayed a chorus of huzzahs, and Wilmot grinned broadly, feeling the stiff golden hairs of his whiskers tickle at his nose. And then he froze, because a new, quite unexpected voice had pierced his reverie.

‘My lord Wilmot?’ the woman said again.

Wilmot stared down at the speaker. She was small and lithe, dressed all in black and seated on a grey pony. Her hair was long and golden, though a lighter shade than his own, and her eyes were as blue as sapphires. Beside her, atop a slightly larger chestnut mare, was another woman. This one was a brunette, pale as a ghost, with large, brown and green eyes shaped like almonds.

‘And who might you be?’ Lord Wilmot asked, utterly thrown by this new vision.

The blonde woman, speaking with a French accent, offered a smile at his obvious discomfiture. ‘I am Lisette Gaillard, and this is Cecily Cade. We are on king’s business, my lord.’

CHAPTER 23

The eastern trenches, Gloucester, 2 September 1643

‘It’s a race against time,’ Sergeant William Skellen droned. He lifted his musket, poked the barrel over the top of the stone-filled gabion, and took aim at a gunner whose head ventured just above the high parapet. He fired, cursing softly when he saw that the shot had missed.

Captain Stryker slopped down into the splashing grime at the bottom of the sap and nodded in agreement. The mining operation, set back by daring assault and inclement weather, was still not complete. The attempts to approach the walls with small parties of men under cover of darkness, thereby avoiding the bloody escalades so abhorrent to King Charles, had ended in abject failure. The artillery bombardments, though resumed with vigour now that a fresh supply of ammunition had finally arrived from the Royalist foundries, had done little more than smash rooftops and peck at walls that had been cleverly buttressed with cushioning turf. Even the saps, creeping closer to the city by the hour, had become waterlogged pits almost impossible to drain and painstaking to dig. ‘A race against the Earl of Essex,’ he replied, for the whole army now knew that a large, well-equipped relief force was marching to Massie’s aid.