Marston Moor (33 page)

Middlethorpe, near York, 26 June 1644

Alexander Leslie, Earl of Leven, and Sir Henry Vane were enjoying a repast of fresh bread and boiled duck eggs when the messenger was shown in.

‘The Prince is at Skipton Castle, my lord,’ the messenger said without prompt. His face was sweaty and his long buff-coat and tall riding boots were caked with mud. ‘There he makes rendezvous with Newcastle’s cavalry.’

Leven had been holding an egg between thumb and forefinger, and he set it slowly down on his plate. He looked at Vane. ‘The Northern Horse, under General Goring.’

Vane furiously chewed, swallowing down the last of his mouthful. ‘Goring is a drunk and a wastrel.’

‘Goring is a born soldier. Together, he and the Prince are formidable.’ Leven waved the messenger away, waiting until the door was firmly shut. ‘We pursue our objective.’

‘Skipton?’ Vane asked. ‘Is that not rather close?’

‘Forty miles, or thereabouts. But he must yet pass through the hills.’ Leven pushed back his chair and went to the campaign table and the map spread across its surface. ‘The most direct route is the southern road, taking him through Wetherby.’

‘He is nothing if not direct.’

‘Aye.’ Leven jabbed the map with his forefinger and went back to his meal. He clapped his hands loudly before he regained his seat, and the door creaked open, the sheepish face of an aide poking through. ‘Summon Lieutenant-General Leslie.’ The aide vanished, and Leven looked at Vane. ‘That is the route he will take, I’ve no doubt. I will order Davey to get his riders out to block the southern approach. Cromwell will do the same.’

Vane smiled slyly. ‘If Manchester agrees.’

‘The Committee for Both Kingdoms will support the directive, will it not?’

Vane nodded. ‘Aye, my lord, I believe it will.’

‘Then Manchester will agree.’ Leven picked up his egg again, rolling and squeezing the soft white flesh in his fingers. ‘We will block Prince Robber and his wee army in the hills. And then, Sir Harry, we shall devour him.’ He pushed the egg into his mouth and chewed.

Skipton, Yorkshire, 28–29 June 1644

John Kendrick scraped the iron file back and forth between his front teeth as he watched the horse dealer with interest. The noise grated in his skull, but he was used to it. To his satisfaction, the horse dealer looked positively nauseous.

‘You see, Andor,’ Kendrick said, licking the file and slipping it back inside the folds of his cloak, ‘you must observe the animal in all situations. In the stable, when tethered or fed or mucked out. While grooming, of course, and during time with other mounts. All these aspects of a horse’s life are crucial, and a man must take care to witness each one before parting with his tin.’

They were in a barn, the high noonday sun shining through owl holes set amongst the rafters. The floor was paved in brick to allow carts to trundle in and out, while the corners were roped off to form makeshift stabling. The horse they had come to see was a black mare with a white spot on her face and three white fetlocks. The dealer – a short, wiry Dutchman with huge hands and eyes that were never still – dipped under the rope to pat the beast. ‘I can assure you, gen’men, this horse is the best I’ve to offer. She is, she is.’

Kendrick swung his legs over the rope. As he did so, he brandished his broadest smile, exposing as many sharpened teeth as he could. ‘It had better be.’ He stroked the mare, who pushed her neck into his hand willingly. ‘We must be alert to the subduing of the creature,’ he said to Sergeant Janik, who remained outside the ring. ‘It is not uncommon for an unscrupulous tradesman to pacify a naturally flighty disposition by the administration of potions, or simply to run the poor devil into the ground.’

‘You’ll find none o’ that, sir,’ the dealer said hurriedly. He ducked to indicate the beast’s undercarriage. ‘No sweat under there, has she, has she?’

Kendrick took a cursory glance. ‘What say you, Andor?’

The big Hungarian pursed lividly bruised lips so that his moustache smothered his nose. ‘I hate horses.’

Kendrick laughed. He looked at the dealer again. ‘Be sure in this, sir. I will slice off your stones should your word prove false. And you shall eat them, one by one.’

The diminutive Dutchman swallowed hard. ‘She a good horse, sir. She is, she is, she is. We have thousand new cavalry here.’

Kendrick glanced at Janik. ‘Goring brings them from Cumberland and Westmoreland.’

The horse dealer nodded earnestly. ‘And you ask them. You ask, you ask. I do excellent price for many of their comrades. And I shoe their mounts, and groom. Never a complaint. Never, never.’

‘Then we shall do business,’ Kendrick said. He winked, holding out a tight fist.

The horse dealer extended a hand. ‘You are dragooners, sir?’ he said, as his customer’s fingers uncoiled to loose a trickle of coins that dropped like a waterfall into his waiting palm. ‘Your men, I notice, carry muskets.’

‘No, sir, we are foot,’ replied Kendrick. ‘But duty compels us north, into the hills, and I’ll be damned before I walk. I purchase a new mount for the expedition, and two more for my best men.’

The dealer’s eyes lit up. ‘I have plenty more.’

‘Three will do.’

‘When do you depart? I can have them ready within the hour.’

‘An hour it is.’ Kendrick turned to his sergeant. ‘Prepare the men.’

‘Then God preserve you, sir,’ the dealer said as he watched Andor Janik stalk from the barn. The coins vanished about his person. ‘And God save the King.’

Prince Rupert’s army had arrived at Skipton two days earlier in order to rendezvous with Lord Newcastle’s Northern Horse. The place itself was small, a market town hedged by woodland and moor, the shadow of the Dales looming to the north. It was a modest, sleepy place, with more sheep on its verdant hills than people on its streets. But it was a high point in the pass through the hills, and it had a castle – a strong, ancient, thick-walled structure surrounded by an outer curtain wall and protected by a formidable entrance of gatehouse and two stout drum towers. The main building was not large, by the standards of most medieval fortresses, but it boasted six more drum towers fringed with sturdy battlements, and these were topped with cannon and pierced by loopholes. It was the ideal place, then, for Rupert to defend, should the need arise, and Rupert had ordered his newly bolstered ranks to rest awhile as they set camp both within and without the town. Rest, because word had spread of the king’s orders. All knew that they were en route to relieve the city of York, and all knew that such an act would provoke the Allied rebels to battle.

Lieutenant Heathcliff Brownell’s Troop of Horse was quartered in an imposing two-storeyed tavern in the shadow of the castle. It was a comfortable enough billet. Indeed, given the size of the army and the scarcity of rooms within the town, Stryker had been astonished that such a place might be allocated to them, until Brownell had jangled a full purse with an impish wink.

‘Grease the wheels,’ he said as they sat beside one another on a long bench between a crude table and a wall hung with shepherds’ crooks and scythes. ‘Papa always said so.’ Brownell was in his element. He had invited Stryker and his men to join him and his troopers, and clicked his fingers as he noticed their pots nearing empty. A woman, no older than his own eighteen years, sidled over. She wore a tight coif and her face was plain, but her apron and skirts did nothing to conceal the swing of her hips. ‘More ale, if you please.’

She smiled, leaning over the table to upend a blackjack into each of the cups.

Brownell beamed. ‘And have you wine? No cheap muck, understand, but a good drop.’

‘We have a passable claret, sir,’ the girl answered.

He ordered she bring a jug up, then slid the ale pots to Barkworth, Skellen and Hood. ‘Your health, gentlemen.’

Stryker glanced through the window as he took his own drink. It was dark outside, but the air was dry for once, and the shutters had been thrown open to release some of the smoke. On the far side of the street he could see a couple rutting against a wall, the man’s lily-white buttocks thrusting in and out of the shadows, his companion’s face appearing intermittently over his shoulder. She opened her eyes, caught Stryker’s stare and winked. Stryker laughed and took a long draught of ale.

Brownell belched and wiped his golden whiskers with a sleeve. ‘This is the life, eh? Where is your niece, sir? The red-headed preacher? Will she not join us?’

Stryker shook his head. ‘She will not enter the taproom.’

Barkworth cackled and glanced at the blackened ceiling beams. ‘She prays above us this very second, sir.’

‘How long have you served, sir?’ Thomas Hood asked.

‘Six months,’
 
Brownell said without a shred of embarrassment. ‘Papa was proud as a bloody peacock, and no mistake. Mama less so.’

‘She did not approve?’

Brownell shook his head. ‘She lost a daughter to plague, a son to a Spanish war-hammer at Rheinfelden.’ He shrugged. ‘I could hardly begrudge her caution.’ He paused as the serving girl set a large earthenware flagon of claret on the table. ‘Still, all is well. I have my own troop, until a new captain can be found to replace the old, leastwise.’

Skellen sniffed. ‘He died, sir?’

‘Stabbed in the rump, of all things,’ Brownell said. ‘Stepped over a corpse. Well, he thought it was a corpse.’ He lifted the flagon of wine and took a lingering swig.

‘Wager it were a corpse,’ Barkworth said, ‘a moment later, sir.’

Brownell’s chuckle was rueful. ‘But not before the sly bastard had jabbed a dirk into poor Captain Roberts’ arse. Looked innocuous enough, but it went bad.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Stank to the heavens. Christ, but that stink’ll never leave me.’

‘You inherited his troop?’ asked Stryker.

The young lieutenant nodded. ‘I am captain of forty-seven men, in all but title, and I intend to relish it.’ He drank more claret directly from the large vessel. ‘And I fight alongside the famous Major Stryker!’ Now he lowered the flagon and poured a large measure into his pot where the ale had been. He poured some for Hood, whose own cup had been drained, and pushed it across the table to him. ‘She keeps dogs, you know. Tiny ones. They yap so. Shit too. Jesu, but Papa is oftentimes hoarse with raging at the little demons.’ Brownell’s eyes were glassy. ‘I miss them.’

‘Your mother and father?’ Stryker said.

‘The dogs,’ Brownell replied. ‘Foolish, is it not?’ He put the pot to his lips and drank the wine in a single gulp. ‘Will we win, sir?’

‘For certain.’

Brownell’s gaze narrowed. ‘You lie, sir. It is said they have near thirty thousand. We have fifteen, or thereabouts.’

‘If we join with Newcastle’s army, we’ll have twenty,’ Stryker said.

‘And the rebels are shittin’ water, so they say,’
 
Barkworth said. ‘The pestis robs them of a good many men.’

‘And we have Rupert,’ Hood added, raising the wine to his lips.

‘To Prince Rupert!’ Heathcliff Brownell exclaimed. He raised the pot high above his head. ‘God save the King! And a pox on Parliament!’

The whole tavern echoed the toast, and then Brownell slid sideways off the bench.

Stryker had seen plenty of hardened men collapse when in their cups, had been victim himself more times than he cared to admit, yet this was too quick. He ducked while the others laughed, pushing his head under the table top to get a look at Brownell, who lay on the floor, curled like a foetus. What he saw made his guts convulse.

Brownell shook. It was violent, juddering, his boots kicking at Stryker’s shins as his legs jerked uncontrollably. Stryker shot out from under the table and slapped the pot of claret clean out of Thomas Hood’s hand. Then he went back down, half turning Brownell to see his face. The lieutenant stared wildly back at Stryker, unblinking, pupils huge like black moons. Saliva frothed at his lips, jaw working maniacally, and then there was blood in the bubbling spittle, his tongue cleaved open by gnashing teeth. Brownell spasmed, his spine arching with such ferocity that Stryker felt sure it would snap. He made a hideous choking sound, then gasped once, a colossal gulp that would befit a man set to drown, and slumped back as if his very lungs had burst. Pink froth slid down both sides of Brownell’s chin, glistening like jewels in his triangle of beard and staining his collar. His eyes stared intently, but they saw no more.