The Bleeding Land (23 page)

A horse whinnied, wrenching Mun from his thoughts as they rode along a ridge skirting a yardland of wheat stubble a mile south of Worcester. The King had sent his nephew to secure the city, for, among other reasons, Sir John Byron was heading there with a large amount of plate from Oxford, which would be smelted into coin to finance Charles’s cause. However, on examination the Prince had concluded that Worcester could not be defended and the Royalists were withdrawing even as Essex’s vanguard was scouting the approaches to the city.

Now Mun found himself two miles south of the city near a village called Powick. A musket-shot to his east flowed the Severn River. Ahead of them the Teme, a tributary of the Severn, snaked from the north-west. They rode in column, two abreast, with a great hedge of hawthorn, blackthorn, field maple and hazel on their left along which they now and then passed folk, girls and boys mostly, out gathering fruits and nuts. Within this ancient boundary hedge sheep, goats, fowl and some draught horses scavenged amongst the stubble, but these creatures were safe enough from Boone’s men this day. The Prince himself rode at the head of the column, his orders to secure Powick Bridge and thus cover the Royalist rear. Behind Mun’s column followed another nine hundred troopers, some three hundred of which were dragoons, mounted men who fought on foot as infantry, their job to break up enemy formations with musketry before the cavalry charged. In all it was a sizeable force of men armed with shot, steel and speed. His father’s own troop was with the main army and the King, but Mun was glad to be where he was. Near the enemy. His eyes scoured the landscape for signs of Essex’s rebels, in case any had been foolish enough to try to overtake them. And there was nowhere in all of England that Mun Rivers would rather be.

Damn this rain though.

‘Ground’s getting too bloody soft for cavalry,’ the trooper
riding
next to Mun said. A raw-boned, grey-bearded man in his forties, Daniel Bard was one of the oldest men in Boone’s troop. He had fought with the Prince on the continent, had ridden at the head of Rupert’s rash – most said mad – cavalry charge at Vlemgo on the Weser four years before and, even more impressive, had survived it.

‘It’s those poor wretches in the artillery train I pity,’ said the big, red-bearded man named O’Brien, riding just ahead, raising his voice above the hissing rain. O’Brien was the man who, when they were battering Mun at Hucknall Torkard, had warned him not to go down. The giant’s advice had spared Mun a rare beating, though Mun had never thanked him for it. ‘Those bastards have it the hardest,’ the Irishman went on. ‘I just hope they get the chance to rip the rebels to wet shreds with their guns after dragging the buggers across half of England.’

The talk round the cookfire was that O’Brien’s enormous buff-coat had been specially made for him at the equally enormous cost of fourteen pounds, but Mun thought it probably a fair price, for the thing looked tough enough to stop a ball from a cannon royal! More importantly right now, it was keeping the Irishman dry.

‘You just keep your powder dry, O’Brien,’ Boone called over his shoulder, ‘and don’t let that big Irish heart of yours bleed for those daft bastard gunners. They make a deal of noise and smoke and doubtless some of the rebels will piss down their legs at the sight of ’em, but those muddy whoresons don’t win battles. We do.’

‘Listen to Captain Boone, men,’ the Prince, who was riding beside him, added, and Mun did not have to see the Prince’s face to know that that infectious smile was on it. ‘Done properly and with unswerving courage a cavalry charge is a beautiful thing to behold, better still to be a part of it and see the fear in your enemies’ eyes.’

Mun wondered if Hector was ready for battle, for the noise and the chaos. For the cannon. During the previous weeks
he
had done his best to get the stallion used to the smell of gunpowder by firing small trains of it in Hector’s manger, at first a little distance from the horse, but repeating the process closer by degrees. He had done the same thing with firing his pistol and banging a blade against his breastplate, and he had even paid a drummer to beat out a rhythm in the stable to get Hector accustomed to the noise until eventually the horse would eat his oats from the drum head. Nehemiah Boone had said that it was an achievement for any raw trooper not to cut off his horse’s ears when training to fight mounted, and Mun, who had his father to thank for his advanced skill in this regard, knew his commanding officer had not spoken in jest. Now Boone had them galloping up to an ancient set of harquebus armour hung on a pole and for the first fifty charges Hector would veer off at the last, Boone screaming that Mun would never ride in his troop until he could bend his mount to his will. But in the end and partly to Mun’s horror, though he did not admit it, Hector would overthrow the obstacle and trample it viciously. But still Mun did not know how the horse would behave in a real fight; did not know how he himself would react, either, and feared shaming himself or proving a coward in front of the other men.

Something down amongst the nettles and brambles caught Mun’s eye. A weasel stood tall on its back legs, a half-eaten blackberry in its paws as it watched the men and horses for a few moments before bounding off into the undergrowth. Run to your hole and hide, little one, he thought. Do not linger here, for war is coming.

‘We will rest in yonder meadow!’ the Prince called, pointing back the way they had come, beyond the hedged enclosures to the open meadow on the other side. To his front, three hundred paces further along the narrow road, stood Powick Bridge, its five stone arches spanning the River Teme, carrying the road southwards. ‘Dragoons will take up positions behind these hedgerows either side of the road. Captain Boone, bring your
troop
across the river so that we may appreciate the terrain beyond.’ Boy, the Prince’s white poodle, echoed his master’s orders with a salvo of shrill yaps as two officers peeled off and rode back down the column repeating Rupert’s commands. Then the Prince led seventy men up onto the road and across the bridge, the horses’ hooves scuffing and clopping on the stone.

Mun leant over his saddle to look down onto the slow-moving river and as he did so he saw the last dimples across its surface fade and vanish as the rain stopped. At that same moment a pale gold light broke from the heavens, washing over the bridge and the fields and the glistening hedgerows lining the road, so that Mun almost believed God had stopped the downpour because it was midday and the Prince wanted to take his ease.

After a brief reconnoitre of the open fields south of the Teme the Prince seemed satisfied and wheeled his horse round, leading them back across the bridge, from which a foggy vapour was rising in the warm sunlight. Yet Mun felt a slight shiver run up his spine as they funnelled back along the road between the two tall hedgerows, because he knew that beyond them now, hidden from his sight, were some three hundred dragoons armed with firelocks, wheellocks and carbines.

A little further and they left the road and joined the six hundred men who had dismounted and were removing their armour and their buff-coats, watering their mounts, smoking pipes and enjoying the feel of the sun on their faces.

And three miles away on the other side of the Teme, a force of one thousand horse under Colonel John Brown rode up the Severn River’s western bank. Heading for Worcester.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MUN WAS WOKEN
by a Fierce Crackling which in the dream of a heartbeat ago had been a fire blazing in the grate of the parlour at Shear House. But as he pushed himself up from the breastplate and blanket he had been using as a pillow he knew the ragged barrage of cracks for what it was.

‘On your feet, Rivers!’ Captain Boone roared in his ear as Mun looked round, for a brief moment taking in the scene of men waking from a haze like himself, others frantically fumbling at the straps on breastplates, helmets and saddles, and still others who were mounted and wheeling their excited horses, trying to keep them under control.

He glanced up at the sun. Late afternoon.

‘Bloody rebels are on top of us!’ O’Brien said through a grin, his pale blue eyes wide with the thrill of it as his thick thumbs thrust the hooks through the eyes sewn down the inside of his great buff-coat.

‘God bless the dragoons for giving them a proper welcome,’ Vincent Rowe exclaimed, a smile on his handsome face as he hauled himself up into his saddle. ‘Hope they leave some for us.’

Prince Rupert was mounted and yelling orders, the butt of his two-foot-long Dutch wheellock carbine resting on his thigh, his
other
hand loosely gripping the reins. His white mare seemed perfectly composed.
This is it
, Mun thought.
It is happening
.

Mun had just got his backplate in place when Daniel Bard walked his horse up. ‘No time for that, lad,’ the veteran said, leaning over to take hold of Hector’s bridle. ‘Up you get.’ So Mun dropped the backplate and slung his baldrick over his right shoulder, the sword scabbard falling between his legs and almost tripping him as he snatched up his helmet with its woollen skullcap nestled inside. Then he thrust the pot down, fumbled at the thong beneath his chin, placed his left foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up whilst Daniel Bard held the stallion steady.

‘Pistols loaded?’ the veteran asked, nodding down at the two firelocks hanging either side of the front of Mun’s saddle.

Mun tried to speak but his mouth was too dry so he nodded. Then Bard wheeled off and Mun gave Hector his heels and followed, trotting to join the loose mass of cavalry that eddied and swirled round Prince Rupert like fierce white water around a rock. Horses were moving their bowels with nerves and excitement, and Mun felt a sudden desperate urge to empty his own bladder. To their south towards the bridge, firearms cracked sporadically, the faint noise of battle, of horses whinnying and men shouting, growing louder with each passing moment.

‘Do not fire until you are upon them!’ Rupert yelled, his usual easy nature replaced by a savageness, teeth bared like a wolf’s.

Or . . . a child of war. That was what Sir Francis had said of the Prince and only now did Mun truly understand what he’d meant by that. ‘For King Charles and for God!’ Rupert yelled, thrusting his carbine into the air, and with that he gave the mare his spurs and she screamed and surged forward, and a great roar went up as his men followed.

Mun filled with the mad, terrifying joy of the chase as he gripped with his knees to show Hector he was still in command,
yet
allowed the beast’s herd instinct to drive them on through the press of horseflesh, riders, leather and steel. Somewhere in his mind something screamed,
Pull back! Let other men be the first. More experienced men
.

Instead he found his voice. ‘Heya! Come on, Hector! Come on, boy!’

The hooves of six hundred galloping horses beat out a frantic, furious rhythm on the soft earth. Tack jangled and armour clanked and men dug their spurs in, yelling wildly, willing the battle frenzy to seize them in its maw where there is no terror, only madness.

Then suddenly, up ahead, the rebels broke through a gap in the hedgerow, flooding the meadow towards them, desperate to escape the narrow road and the murderous fire of the Royalist dragoons behind the hedges.

‘Kill the traitors!’ a man yelled.

‘King Charles!’ roared another.

Clods of mud and turf were flying past Mun and then he could see his enemies’ faces, see them raising their pistols. Instinctively he drew inwards, dipped his head, teeth clenched hard enough to crack his jaw bones, as a ragged volley of flame, smoke and flying lead thundered maliciously. And he rode into that storm.

Smoke wreathed the rebels but Mun could see that they were panicking, some drawing blades, others desperately fumbling with spanners at their wheellocks, having yet to fire.

‘King Charles!’ Mun roared into the wind, filled with a feral elation because he had not been hit; no lead ball had ripped into his flesh and smashed his bones.

‘For England!’ someone beside him screamed. Then the men around Mun gave fire and so he drew and cocked one of his own pistols, pointed it at the enemy mass, the long barrel jolting, his aim wild, and pulled the trigger. Men on both sides fell back in their saddles or slumped sidewards, dropping their swords. Then before Mun could draw another weapon the two
forces
collided in a great crash like a wave thrown onto the shore, and men and horses screamed. Pistols spat flame and steel blades clattered off breastplates and helmets and chaos reigned. Something struck Mun’s helmet and he tried to haul Hector back around but there was no room and so he snatched his righthand pistol from its saddle holster and shoved its barrel into the side of a rebel who twisted and glared with terrified eyes as Mun pulled the trigger and a ball plunged into the man’s innards, erupting from his other side leaving a hole the size of a dining platter and spraying shards of rib and gobbets of gore over the buff-coat of the man beside him.

Suddenly it was not a battle of hundreds against hundreds but of man against man, the wider conflict shrunken to personal fights, to brutal murder.