The King's Daughter (45 page)

“Well, don’t let it excite you, my boy. He doesn’t know we’re heading through Wrotham. How could he?” He grappled his reins, the matter concluded. “No, he’s well on his way to Gravesend by now, depend on it. Now go see to those munitions dolts before they—”

He broke off. Another scout was galloping furiously toward them down the Wrotham road. The scout’s face was ashen under its speckling of mud. “Sir Henry!” he cried.

Isley and Martin glanced at one another. The scout’s expression could only mean bad news.

It was a perfect spot for an ambush. No noise came from Abergavenny’s motionless army ranged out on either side of Barrow Green, nothing but the faint sounds of waiting: the soft clack of arrows joggled in a quiver, the jingle of a horse’s harness as it shook its head, the occasional cough. The road through Wrotham parish passed over Barrow Green, and with Carlos’s advice Abergavenny had expertly positioned his men just inside the woods that rimmed this field—the cavalry and half the infantry on one side of the road, the remainder of infantry on the other. Every eye was fixed on the road that led out of the close-packed trees to the south where the rising ground mist lay shredded among the jagged boughs. Abergavenny’s scout had reported back that Isley’s whole force was moving ahead quickly. Any moment now they would march into the trap.

Carlos sat his horse—a fine, mettlesome roan gelding borrowed from Abergavenny—and stretched his right knee in the stirrup to ease the pain that cold, damp weather like this always inflicted. His bruised side still ached, too. But his eyes were focused on the row of cavalry to his left, ranged just inside the trees. He was mentally checking their gear, their expressions, the nervousness they imparted to their mounts—calculating which men he could rely on, and which would freeze in action. There were forty-two horsemen in all. They were yeomen or gentlemen of Kent, some young, some middle-aged, all freshly recruited into this cobbled-together company, and all, except a handful of the older ones who’d seen service in France, untried in battle. Carlos had had only three hours in a torchlit predawn field outside Malling to train them.

A sound snapped the silence—a rook flapping up from a tall pine to the south, rattling the branch beneath it. Half the soldiers edging the field stiffened with fright. A horse shied and whinnied. Its rider had difficulty keeping it in line. Another horseman nervously crossed himself. Carlos shook his head.

Voices beside him commented softly:

“Are the rebels now mustering rooks?”

“That’s all they can attract, I warrant.”

These whispered jests had come from the two young men sitting their horses to Carlos’s right, his new lieutenants: Wentworth, a calm, flat-nosed farmer, and Swift, a lanky, thatch-haired yeoman’s son. Though farmers, both of them rode like they were born in the saddle, and both listened well and learned quickly. Carlos had handpicked them, passing over the haughty sons of the gentry. Surprisingly, the cavalrycaptain had stepped aside without protest when Abergavenny had installed Carlos in his place. Carlos suspected that the man, as untried as his recruits, had been secretly relieved.

The company waited for two hours. The mist cleared. The morning turned overcast and dull. There was no sign of Isley.

The men became restless. Carlos watched with mounting disgust as the infantry lines began to fray. Some men weary of standing squatted to rest their legs. A few archers had moved over to the fletcher’s cart, pretending their bow strings needed repair, and were lounging there. On either side of the field, among both infantry and cavalry, men quietly chattered.

Exasperated, Abergavenny trotted his high-stepping mount up beside Carlos. “Where the devil is Isley? Blast his eyes, what would make him stop his march so soon after leaving his camp?”

Carlos said nothing. His gaze had been drawn to a broad hill about two miles to the north, its bare crown just visible above the wooded fringe around Barrow Green. When they had arrived here, Abergavenny had told him that the road to Rochester followed that mound, called Wrotham Hill. Now, Carlos suggested quietly, “Send another scout.”

“Why?” Abergavenny snapped. “The last one hasn’t even come back yet.” His horse lowered its head to cough. Abergavenny tugged back the reins so fiercely that the horse grimaced at the pinching bit.

“Not south,” Carlos said. He pointed north toward the hill. “That way.”

Martin St. Leger threw back his head and laughed. The relief was exhilarating, like the breeze that eddied around him on the slope of Wrotham Hill, ruffling his hair as he watched his company of soldiers below him slowly move up the hill. He had pulled off his steel helmet to let the breeze chill his sweaty scalp. He admitted now that he’d been afraid; it had given him no satisfaction back there to have his suspicions about Abergavenny proved right. He only thanked God that the scout had reported the planned ambush in time, and that Isley had instantly recalled the courier bound for Wyatt. Nevertheless, this last hour had been tense.

The march had been difficult as they’d made a wide arc around Barrow Green on a track little used even in summer, and tortuous in winter—half slippery muck, half iron-hard ruts. Martin had nervously watched the trees that had hemmed in the slow-moving company on either side, afraid every moment that Abergavenny’s soldiers would fall upon their rear. But they had reached the foot of Wrotham Hill unhindered, and had flowed smoothly back onto the road to Rochester leading up the hill, and Abergavenny was miles behind them now. Isley’s whole company—four hundred and sixty foot soldiers, twenty-five horsemen, munitions wagons and mule carts—was advancing confidently up the long slope. The tramp and jangle of their marching rang with fresh vigor.

In sheer delight Martin kicked his heels against his horse’s flanks and bounded down to join the company. As he trotted past Robert, Martin grinned at him. Robert smiled back and nodded his head in approval.

Martin sought out the commander, for he was longing to get Isley’s permission to let fly the company’s pennons now that they were in the clear. The breeze, he thought with a smile, had risen like a victory celebration, bidding them to rejoice in their success. They had given Abergavenny the slip.

Carlos sat his horse at the head of the stilled cavalry ranks, fuming. It had been a good half hour since the scout, sent north at Carlos’s urging, had galloped back to report that Isley had evaded the ambush. The scout had seen the churned up track in the woods where Isley’s company hadpassed Barrow Green. Now, Carlos itched to pursue the enemy. But,
Madre de Dios,
it was taking longer to kick this mess of farmers into marching order than to hustle drunk soldiers out of a whorehouse.

Behind him and his cavalry, the field was a scene of confusion. Where the road funneled into the trees a rut had snagged the wheel of a fletcher’s cart, toppling it, and infantrymen were picking their way around the spilled litter of arrows and longbows. Others were jammed up behind the bottleneck. The cavalry, clear of the mess, was waiting—Carlos’s swift orders had resulted in a reasonably orderly falling in of their ranks—but this rabble of infantry was hopeless. No one was moving out.

Irritably, Carlos scratched his neck above the steel cuirass. It was too small. The breastplate was on loan from Abergavenny, like the horse, sword, and demilance—and like his freedom, Carlos thought bitterly. Abergavenny had made it clear that any hope of a pardon depended on the success of this engagement against Isley.

Carlos glanced around at the thick trees. From here he could no longer see Wrotham Hill to the north. He pulled away from the cavalry ranks, edged around the chaotically milling infantrymen, and trotted out into the middle of the field again. Nearby, Abergavenny and a young captain were badgering the scout. Carlos looked back up at the hill. No movement there. The enemy must still be somewhere in the woods between this field and the hill. It was not too late to pursue them. If only Abergavenny would move.

“How could you possibly lose his trail,” Abergavenny ranted at the scout. “He’s got five hundred men trampling the earth!”

“Not lose him exactly, my lord,” the scout said. “But there’s three or four tracks in the trees yonder. They branch out beyond where I saw he’d passed. He might be on any one of them. His people are from hereabouts. They know these woods.”

“My lord,” the young captain ventured bleakly, “Isley might even be
over
Wrotham Hill by now. If so, we’ll never catch him with a lead like that.”

“Christ on the cross,” Abergavenny growled, “he’ll be halfway to Rochester by the time we stumble on his cold trail.”

A shout came from the wreckage at the bottleneck. A mule had got loose and was running for the field. Men picking up broken arrows stumbled out of its way.

In exasperation Carlos threw his head back to suck in a furious breath. And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught the wild splashes of color on distant Wrotham Hill. Threads of red that flicked like viper’s tongues. Pennons.

He tugged the reins to bring his horse around for a clear view. There was no mistake. Not quite at the crown of the hill—edging just above the treetop fringe of Barrow Green—were eight or nine red pennons, snapping in the breeze above a company of soldiers.

Carlos did not hesitate. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks as he called out to Abergavenny and pointed at the hill, “There!” He bolted past Abergavenny and galloped to his waiting line of cavalry.

“Don’t be daft, Robert,” Martin said with a laugh. “Of course we must be married by you.”

Martin sat his mount beside his brother who marched at the edge of the company as it moved up Wrotham Hill. They had reached a broad plateau and settled into an easy stride on the flatter ground. About a quarter-mile ahead the slope rose again to the hill’s crown. “Isabel wants you to officiate,” Martin said, “and so do I.” He smiled, his eyes on the fluttering red pennons ahead, his mind on Isabel.

“Nothing would make me happier,” Robert said, “but you must face facts, Martin. To the present English Church I am an outcast because I have a wife. If I conduct the ceremony, will your marriage be legal? Will it be sanctioned? This is what you must consider.”

“You’re one of God’s priests,” Martin said definitively, turning his helmet in his free hand, about to put it back on. “You were anointed with holy oil by the Bishop. No half-Spanish papist can undo that fact, Queen or no.”

Robert’s admonition was stern. “Parliament can.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. “And I confess, I know not what
God’s
word on your union would be.”

“Getting married are you, sir?” the man marching beside Robert asked, looking up at Martin.

Martin grinned. “That’s right. Just as soon as you and I have swept the Spaniards out.”

“Well, sir,” the man replied scratching his chin stubbled with silvery fuzz, “marrying looks good to the man that’s roaring to get into it. But marrying can be a trial for the man that’s been some time
settled
in it. Now, if there’s a chance that the vows you’re about to take be not fast in the eyes of the Lord, like the good Father here says, my advice is, jump at that chance.” He winked at Martin. “There’s many a man would dance and sing, waking up of a morning to find his marriage chain’s been broke.”

Martin laughed. “I’ll never be one of those, you can—”

He did not finish. An odd sound was carried on the breeze—or rather, it was no sound at all, more like a stopping of all the noise of the hill. Martin twisted in his saddle. The company behind had halted. Martin stood in his stirrups, still looking over his shoulder. The rump of the column on the slope had halted too. In the silence a low, deep thudding reverberated. Martin felt the vibration tremble up his horse’s bones and tingle his backbone. Then the dull drumming blended with another low sound from the soldiers at the lip of the plateau—a hum of fear. Martin yanked his horse around. As he saw where the thudding was coming from, his helmet slipped from his grip and hit the ground. Enemy cavalry was storming up the hill.

“Archers!”

Martin yelled the command, his voice clashing with the shouts of a half-dozen other officers. “Archers!” they cried.

In the forest of frozen foot soldiers, only scattered hand-fuls of men were obeying the order. They whipped arrows from their quivers, pulled taut their bowstrings, and let the arrows fly. But the paltry barrage fell like a sprinkle of water on a house afire. The cavalrymen’s charge came on unbroken. Their line thundered up the slope, swords high, lances out-thrust—a bristling, monstrous wave rolling implacably uphill. There was a moment more of stunned immobility from Isley’s foot soldiers. And then they broke.

They ran sideways across the plateau in both directions. Even Isley’s horsemen galloped headlong to escape. Martin tried to hold steady his panicked mount as the tide of stampeding men streamed around him. He could no longer see Robert.

The enemy cavalry burst over the lip of the slope. On the flat ground their advance became unstoppable. The man leading the charge shot out his lance to the right in a gesture of command, and half his horsemen swung around in an arc to contain the foot soldiers running toward that eastward side. Cornered, Isley’s men turned on their heels and started to tear westward across the plateau. The horsemen stormed after them, reached the fleeing men, and their swords came hacking down. They were merciless. The victims staggered, toppled, wailed, and bled.

Martin’s ears rang with the screams all around him. He held high his sword while trying to tug his horse around. He looked frantically for Robert. If he could haul Robert up behind him they could gallop out of this massacre. The westward slope led down to forest. The horsemen would not follow into those dense woods.

As Martin finally turned the horse, a foot soldier stumbled toward him, his arm severed at the elbow, and crashed into the horse’s chest. Crimson jets spurted from the elbow with the regular rhythm of heartbeats. Terrified by the smell of the blood, Martin’s horse reared. “Martin, look out!” It was Robert’s voice.

Martin twisted in the saddle. Robert stood behind him. Unarmed, he was pointing in warning. Martin twisted back to look. A horseman was bearing down on him with a lance outstretched. Its tip glistened with blood. Martin knew he had to move fast, but he could not leave Robert unarmed. He whipped around and tossed Robert his sword. Robert caught it. Martin kicked his horse, making it spring sideways out of the path of the attacker, then he swung around to go back for Robert.