Marston Moor (22 page)

That silenced Wheatley, who eventually waddled down to ground level. ‘Hang the buggers high till death, sir,’ he muttered angrily. ‘That’s the only road to discipline.’

‘I find such a road all too often leads to mutiny, Colonel.’

Wheatley thrust chubby palms on to his ample waist, taking a wide stance like a sea captain on a storm-ravaged deck. ‘Then how, pray, would you resolve the plague of indiscipline, Stryker?’

‘Coin, Colonel.’

‘Coin?’

‘Pay. A man does not consider mutiny with ease, sir. He understands he will be ordered to march long and hard, to fight, to kill, to die, mayhap. In my experience, even the most craven man will do all these things with a stout heart, if he receives pay enough to keep himself fed and warm.’ He pointed with his pipe stem at the battery. ‘These men are not soldiers, so I pay them in drink, but the principle remains.’

‘Pigswill!’ Lieutenant-Colonel Wheatley guffawed. ‘A womanly whimsy, Stryker. Thought better of you than that. No, sir. Hang the mutinous curs high and let ’em dangle for the crows, I say. That’ll frighten some obedience into the rest.’ He clapped his hands suddenly, eyes twinkling as he stared up at the stone and earth walls before them. ‘Now, Major. I believe it is time we got to work!’

The bombardment began and never seemed to cease, so many smoking muzzles were in play. For though the prince had three chief batteries, sixteen guns in all, his opponents within the town had many more. They were mounted all the way along the wall, and out on the approaches to the river-cum-moat, and amongst the earthworks to the north and on the castle to the south. Moreover, the ships of Parliament’s powerful navy, anchored out in the estuary, belched fire and iron from their inland-facing broadsides, sending their whining shot over the rooftops of Liverpool and out into the encroaching siege-lines. It was a conversation – a violent one – that could find neither conclusion nor compromise, reply after raging reply filling the air with stinking mist. The round-shot flung by the Parliamentarian guns smashed into the land, driving up great clods of earth and making the sappers and engineers shy away as they worked tirelessly to carve their trenches ever closer to the walls. All the while the Royalist guns boomed fire and threat, the heaviest sending cannon balls weighing sixty pounds apiece to smash relentlessly at the fortifications, and taking an almost immediate toll. The guns roared, flamed, smoked and recoiled by turns, their steaming barrels methodically scoured of soot and ember by sheepskin sponges after every salvo. and the bombardment did not let up. They quickly found the weaker places, those where timber and mud peeled away from the stone foundations like sun-parched daub to crumble into the ditch below, and it was there that the fire was concentrated in the hope that a significant fissure would soon be carved. And all the while, up high at the beacon, Prince Rupert made his plans.

Near Linton-on-Ouse, Yorkshire, 8 June 1644

More than a hundred miles to the north-east of Liverpool a lone rider made his way towards another great siege. He was a short man, skinny as a reed, features gaunt below a grubby Montero cap, the scabs infesting his cheeks whipped sore by the wind. The horse, a bay mare with docile temperament, had been a blessing, though the going had been slow in the marshland that passed for roads, and the rider whispered encouragement as she gamely struggled on. He took the reins in one hand and tugged down the Montero’s woollen flaps with the other, cursing the cold that made his ears leak pus that stank and dried crusty on his neck. At least it had stopped raining, he thought ruefully, glancing up at the pregnant clouds. Thank the Holy Mother for that.

The journey had not been as perilous as Devlin Greer had feared. Crossing the hills around Wetherby had taken time, although he had been forced to evade enemy units only twice during the arduous ride. But on this day, the third with his new horse, all was changed. Now the Roundheads were everywhere. Squadrons of mounted killers galloped in dense lines, fanning out to guard the approaches to York. They swirled around the roads and hedgerows, a sweeping cordon of menace, quick to attack and slow to question. Devlin Greer had ridden close enough to see the revealing glint of sunlight against a trooper’s helm, but could not risk anything more ambitious. As an Irishman, capture would mean a swift beating, like as not, followed by an airborne jig from a high, creaking bough. Best to keep his distance and employ a measure of guile.

Now he was close to the gushing river, one of two that cut a course into the city. He brought the mare to a standstill at the thick scrub that tangled the water’s edge, and slid down on to the soft earth, cursing the ache in his thighs. Greer stared at the southern horizon, eyeing the thick grey funnels that spilled skyward from York’s chimneys. There seemed to be more than he remembered, and he realized that the smoke must be coming from fires outside the city. The Parliamentarians had evidently managed to swing round and plug the northern gap that had been his means of entry and exit. ‘What, in God’s name, has come to pass?’ he muttered.

‘There’s a siege, sir.’

Greer spun on his heels, pulling a short, hooked knife from his saddle. ‘Who are you?’

The man before him was old and stooped, a fishing rod in one hand, an empty pail in the other. ‘For—forgive me, sir!’ He dropped both items and raised both hands. ‘I did not mean to startle you! My name is Richard Weeks.’

Greer kept the knife raised. ‘Where’ve you come from?’

Richard Weeks jerked his bald head rearwards, indicating the river. ‘Yon Ouse, sir. Hunting supper, was I.’

‘My apologies,’ Greer said, lowering the little blade. ‘I am on edge, as you can see.’ He pointed towards the city. ‘You mentioned the siege.’

‘Aye, sir. ’Tis in its third month, if you can believe that.’

‘I know, friend,’ Greer replied, not bothering to conceal his accent, for he guessed the fellow would not know an Irishman from a Dutchman. ‘But I wondered how it is that the rebels do stretch their reach all the way up here, to the north of the city. When I was last here, they had not the manpower.’

‘Ah,’ the fisherman beamed, ‘that’ll be the lord Manchester. He’s brought with him an army from Lincoln.’

Richard Weeks, it transpired, lived in the nearby village of Linton but spent a great deal of his time in a modest shack on the edge of the river on account of a nagging wife, five squawking daughters and half a dozen Scottish musketeers. ‘I swear they do drive me deaf, sir,’ he exclaimed as he showed Devlin Greer into the tumbledown pile of timber.

‘The soldiers?’ Greer said, taking the low stool offered by his host.

Weeks shook his head. ‘The bloody girls. I’d have married ’em off before now, ’cept they look too much like their mother. No bugger’ll have them.’

Greer laughed. ‘I can see this place would be a haven. A pleasant bolt-hole, if ever I saw one. But are you not a trifle near the armies? Do they not cause you bother?’

Weeks shook his head. ‘They come by, from time to time, but they leave me be, for they know I’m no bother to ’owt but the fish. Besides, I’m sheltering and feeding six o’ their surly fedaries, so I’m doing m’ bit.’

Greer leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘Forgive my rudeness, Master Weeks, but you appear to know plenty about the siege, so you do.’

Weeks pulled a grim face. ‘The Parliament has three armies camped outside the walls o’ York, sir. Every household has the honour of providing the men shelter. My lot are good enough lads, though Goody Weeks claims they’ve brought us lice.’

They’ll probably bring you the pox to-boot, thought Greer wryly. ‘And you say the city is surrounded?’

‘Now that Manchester’s rabble are here, sir, aye. The Cavaliers could get in and out till the new lot came, but now ’tis truly bottled up tight.’

Devlin Greer swore softly. Then a thought struck him. ‘The river flows south, yes?’

Weeks nodded. ‘Through York, then on to Selby.’

‘You have a boat?’

‘A small thing, aye. Few holes,’ he chuckled, ‘but nowt a bucket and some hard graft won’t cure.’

Greer drew his knife slowly. ‘Is it nearby, good Master Weeks?’

Richard Weeks said that it was, and Devlin Greer went to commit murder.

The boat was rot-eaten and mouldy, with a full inch of stinking bilge slopping around Devlin Greer’s feet as he perched on the edge of the single, rickety bench. But with York surrounded, he had no choice. The River Ouse was always powerful, but now, swollen by rain, it had a malicious streak that snagged the boat as it bobbed out into the deeper reaches, hurling it along with the current so that he barely needed to use the paddle. For the most part, he was content to let the Ouse do its work, concentrating instead on baling out the encroaching water.

Southward he was borne, ever vigilant for prying eyes on the banks, but he saw no one. The land reminded him of his war-torn homeland, and he found himself recalling the hours he had spent on the Boyne, knotting rope to high branches overhanging the crystal clear water so that he and his brothers could swing out, dropping into the chill depths on warm summer’s days. He had made love for the first time on those grassy banks, and he smiled as he remembered the lithe body of Molly Peirce and the slow hiss of a swan’s wings as it had flown close above them. Well, Molly was gone now, her family slain by the heretics. He felt his heart ache at the memory. The flames and the screams.

The uprising had been glorious in the beginning. A God-given revolt for the defence and liberty of the native Irish. The insurgency was not intended to harm the king, nor any of his subjects, except that matters had tumbled out of control, and Protestants had been massacred. It had never been meant to happen that way, but the die had been cast, Catholics had been slaughtered in reprisal, and before anyone knew different there was a full-scale war. Greer had become involved after Molly’s death. He had been with Rory O’More at Drogheda, and the victory had promised so much. But then England and Scotland had sent more troops to defend the Protestant settlers, and defeat had followed defeat. Ireland was in flames, its people destroyed by plague and famine. There were victories, of course, but not enough. And always there was death and destruction, and Devlin Greer had realized that the only way to save Ireland was to defeat the rebellion in England. Because, though the insurgency fought against King Charles, everyone knew he secretly sympathized with the plight of the Catholic majority. How could he not, when he was married to the staunchly Catholic Henrietta Maria? Indeed, it was said that, even now, he was making peace with the Confederates. But the English parliament was driven by Puritan zeal. Westminster – and London itself – was the very bedrock of everything that the native Irish despised, and if ever they secured victory in England, Ireland would be next.

Ahead of him, just beyond the river’s rising east bank, he saw a man seated on a large horse. The man wore a helmet with three bars attached to a visor, caging a face that was grim and hard, and his body was encased in armour. He was a cavalryman. Worse still, he wore the tawny scarf of the Parliament, which made him an English cavalryman. Running into a Scot would have been bad enough, Greer knew, but the English Roundheads posed the most danger. The English hated foreigners, but they hated Catholics more. As an Irishman, Greer was both. He grinned, offering a cheery, confident wave.

The cavalryman watched. He cocked his head to the side, examining the boat and its passenger in the way a cat might eye a mouse. With a squeeze of his thighs the horse turned, walking south, increasing its speed to keep pace with the boat. Greer stared up at the horseman, feeling as though he might vomit. He had been an intelligencer for many masters, both in Ireland and England, and knew his business well. Here he was a sitting duck to be pistol-pocked if the Roundhead so wished.

‘Where go you, friend?’ the horseman called suddenly.

Greer forced the rising bile back down his throat. ‘York,’ he called back, dry-mouthed. ‘That is to say, the Godly army now laying siege to York.’

‘Whence d’you hail?’ the horseman demanded. ‘You’ve an unusual voice.’

‘Wales, sir,’
 
Greer replied, thinking of the most exotic location he could muster. ‘Came to England seeking work.’

‘What kind?’

‘I am a cordwainer, sir.’ Greer’s bowels churned. ‘A good one.’

The Roundhead smiled behind his visor. ‘There are plenty o’ latchets need mending.’

‘That was my hope, sir,’ Greer called, twisting as the boat moved further ahead so that he sat athwart the bench. ‘Thousands of feet mean thousands of shoes.’

The horse slowed. ‘Good fortune, then!’ its rider called as the boat slipped further downstream. ‘But you’ll have to walk, my friend, for we have built a new bridge down at Poppleton! You’ll not get through!’