The Licence of War (60 page)

“Where’s that goddamned regiment,” growled Wilmot, a mile further on.

At last Laurence spotted a scout racing towards them. “Waller drove into us from the southern bridge,” the boy said, reining in. “Northampton has the edge on him, my lord, but your Horse is in the thick of the action.”

An attack on two sides, like a pincer, Laurence thought admiringly: Waller was an experienced strategist.

“Nothing for it, then,” Wilmot said to his men. “We must do what we can by ourselves.”

When they raced back to the field, Sir Bernard’s Lifeguard had already achieved its goal: some of the rebels had retreated in broken formation to Cropredy Bridge. Cleveland had withdrawn his Horse and was making a stand in preparation for a second charge. Facing him were more of Middleton’s Horse and knots of Foot loading their muskets behind tall hedgerows.

“Hand and sword!” roared Wilmot, urging his men on, as Cleveland’s began to advance.

At a swift canter, they locked in combat with the enemy. Laurence struck at the thigh of the nearest rebel horseman; his blade sliced through, and the man lost his seat, to be trampled by his own mount. Another pointed his pistol at Laurence’s face, but before he could fire, Laurence hacked at his forearm, and he dropped his weapon to clutch his bloodied sleeve. Deafened by a close shot, Laurence beheld Wilmot swaying in the saddle, also gripping his arm, encircled by Middleton’s troops who knew they had a valuable prisoner. A young officer wearing the Royal Lifeguard’s colours dived in to snatch Wilmot’s bridle, and Laurence grabbed his pistol from its holster to fire on a trooper behind Wilmot. Red spouted from the man’s forehead, and he crashed to the ground. Wilmot was free, though injured.

“Beaumont, to your left!” he cried.

Laurence saw a flash of steel: an infantryman’s tuck, not an inch from him. He brushed aside the weapon with his own. Rather than pierce him, the sword arced and sank partway into the glossy breast of his Arab stallion, which screamed in pain, rearing and plunging; Laurence nearly slipped from his saddle as he reached down to withdraw the blade. The infantryman was staggering back to avoid the horse’s flailing hooves. Laurence had a clear target. He righted himself, tore out his other pistol, calculated his aim, and blew a shot between the man’s eyes.

Still smarting from his humiliation, Digby had watched Wilmot’s near capture and regretted that he was not taken hostage. The King had brightened, viewing the subsequent rout: Cleveland’s second charge, bolstered by Stuart and Wilmot, was wreaking havoc on the enemy Horse and Foot. More than ten pieces of cannon had been left on the field as they bolted for Cropredy Bridge; they had even deserted their Master of Ordnance, who was instantly surrounded, and lifted his arms in a gesture of surrender. The Royalists attempted to recapture the bridge, but the Parliamentary guns stalled their advance, allowing most of Middleton’s forces to escape. Opposite the bridge, at a distance from the gunfire, Sir Bernard Stuart had reassembled his cavalry. Cleveland’s men were starting to round up prisoners, and wounded from both armies; most of the dead were enemy cannoniers.

“Your Majesty, did you hear the rebels’ field word today: ‘Victory without quarter’?” asked Digby.

“
They
shall have quarter,” said the King, “once we have command of the bridge, and Waller sues for terms.”

Later in the afternoon, Digby bade Quayle hand him his timepiece: three of the clock, and already the King’s army had reunited in the field with few losses. His commanding officers now gathered about him to debate a renewed assault. Digby saw Wilmot gallop up, the picture of martial triumph, his coat torn and bloodstained, a sling about one arm, and the other hand bandaged.

“My lord, what a lucky day for you,” Digby remarked.

“I was rescued twice in the second charge, thanks to some brave fellows,” Wilmot said. “That boy Howard from the Royal Lifeguard deserves a knighthood: eighteen years old, and he fought like a gladiator when I was surrounded the last time. And I have our friend Beaumont to thank, also – and His Majesty, for permitting Beaumont to ride with me. It must have vexed you, my lord, to miss all of the action.”

“And you must be in
excruciating
pain, my lord, from your injuries.”

“They’re scratches, as compared to some of my old battle wounds.”

“I am immensely gladdened to hear that. Where
is
Mr. Beaumont?”

“He’s tending to that stallion of his – it was gashed in the breast. He had a close shave himself in the final charge.”

“Tell him to come to me,” Digby told Quayle.

“Leave him be,” Wilmot said, in such a threatening tone that he provoked gasps from the nearest officers.

Digby plucked off a glove, then hesitated. The occasion was not right; they would duel another day. “My lord,” he said, “at the banquet held in Oxford to celebrate our victory at Marlborough, in December of ’42, you accused me of trying to steal Mr. Beaumont away from you. He said he had no owner that he knew of. He was wrong. He answered to Lord Falkland then. And now he answers to me. By the bye,” Digby murmured, “you have been heard to declare that His Majesty cannot win this war, and that a settlement should be negotiated with my Lord Essex to end it.”

“Many of us feared defeat before the King slipped out of Oxford.”

“I’d no more submit to Essex than would His Majesty.”

Wilmot laughed in his face. “If you wish to talk so valiantly, my lord, you shouldn’t have resigned your military commission last year. You didn’t stake your life in the field today, as I did. And your pygmy barbs can’t hurt me. I can take Beaumont from you at the drop of a hat. Just ask him where
his
loyalties lie.”

“I hope to God this works,” Laurence said to Price. He had rinsed the stallion’s wound with a solution of vinegar and water, and was now smearing on a remedy of Jacob’s: a poultice of mashed-up stinging nettles and ground willow bark. “Price, were the scouts sure of their information about the enemy reinforcements? You should have dispatched them again to confirm it: three hundred rebel cavalry can’t vanish into thin air.”

“I know,” said Price, in a sheepish voice. “I was so confused that I forgot. I might have cost us the battle.”

Laurence eyed him coolly. “Don’t exaggerate your own importance. Send the boys north tonight, to see what they can find out.”

“Mr. Beaumont! Mr. Price!” Quayle was riding towards them from the main camp. “His lordship wishes to speak with you.”

Laurence gave his stallion’s nose a last affectionate caress, wondering what punishment Digby had devised for him. He and Price went with Quayle, past a smaller, roped-off section of the field crowded with enemy prisoners. Some were pleading for their wounds to be dressed, yet the field surgeons would only come to them after the Royalist injured had received care, by which time more dead would be heaped upon the pile of naked corpses.

“Sorry buggers,” jeered Price.

Quayle led them to a tent where Digby was sitting on a travelling coffer, reading a thick volume: a Bible. He looked up and smiled. “Gentlemen, we may have another fight on our hands tomorrow. Waller remains camped on the other side of the river, and he has declined His Majesty’s offer of grace and pardon if he and his officers and soldiers would lay down their arms. He claims that he cannot negotiate without Parliament’s blessing.”

“I was unaware of the offer, my lord,” Laurence said.

“You were distracted from events while nursing your horse. I trust it will recover. Those Arabians are hardy beasts. And I must congratulate you both, sirs, on your conduct today. His Majesty made special note of your gallant rescue of Lord Wilmot, Mr. Beaumont. I acknowledge my error, in trying to prevent you from taking to the field. If we engage once more in the morning, I shall be pleased to put you again at Lord Wilmot’s disposal.”

“I thank you, my lord.”

“Oh, you shall soon repay me, sir,” Digby told him.

——

There was no action, and throughout the next day, both armies held their ground. At an open-air ceremony of thanksgiving, the King knighted several officers, among them young Robert Howard, for his part in Wilmot’s rescue. Then around six o’clock, Price rushed in with intelligence confirmed by several sources: about four and a half thousand Parliamentary troops from London had occupied Buckingham and were aiming to join up with Waller. At this, the King drew off his army, crossed over the Cherwell, and marched for the Cotswolds, where he could await news from the north of Prince Rupert’s progress.

On the second of July, the Royalists established their camp on the rolling hills by Moreton-in-Marsh, a bare six miles from Chipping Campden. Laurence was pondering whether to ask Digby’s leave for a quick visit, until Digby announced to him, “Essex and Waller claimed that they could not respond to His Majesty’s overtures without the agreement of Westminster. His Majesty is therefore sending a message of peace and good faith, and terms of pardon, to the rebel Parliament. Monsieur Sabron, the French agent, is to deliver it, and you shall travel with him. You will be protected from arrest on the way by his diplomatic credentials, and in London you will be as immune, lodged with him at the French embassy. I believe you know what you must accomplish for me, while you are in the capital. Save her, sir.”

“My lord, I’ll do everything I can, but please may I first say goodbye to my family?” Laurence begged, knowing how little protection the French ambassador would afford him. “It may be our farewell.”

“No, sir. Monsieur Sabron sets out today for Oxford, where he will rest overnight at Governor Aston’s house before carrying on to London. Your order is to accompany him. And you are not to discuss our business with him or with any officials at the embassy – or with
anyone
,” Digby added, his face solemn and unyielding, rather like the King’s. “I cannot have His Majesty hearing of it. He would accuse me of wasting my best agent on a hopeless mission of rescue. If he does hear, after the fact, I shall insist that you engaged alone on it and that I was unaware of your intentions. You are on your own, although I’ll
provide you with funds, from my pocket. Now go, sir, and make yourself ready.”

Laurence considered writing to Lord Beaumont, yet what would he say about a venture that even Digby knew was all but hopeless? He thought of Catherine; he could not tell her, either, that he was about to risk his life for the woman he still loved, above her. Nor could he tell her that the faint prospect of seeing Isabella again filled him with longing.

Stretched out on his back amid tall, thick grass, Tom could hear the echo of fire from the battlefield. If he turned his head in that direction, he glimpsed sporadic, dazzling little explosions; the other direction, in contrast, seemed an impenetrable darkness. He was vaguely aware of whispering around him, and furtive rustling noises. He nearly called out: he could not be the only man hiding here, of the thousands who had fled, Royalists, and men from the Scots and Parliament forces alike. But he was unarmed and defenceless. Who might come, if he raised his voice?

Tom closed his eyes, and tried to remember how he had been shot. It had all been such a chaos. When Rupert had sounded the order to withdraw, Tom had ignored it. Never had they caved to the enemy. One charge would win the day; his idol could not be vanquished. Yet everywhere around him had been a swarm of men, cavalry wheeling their horses about and infantry stumbling through the muck, over dead and wounded; and he had no choice but to follow. He had jerked so violently at his reins that his mount bucked and threw him, and joined the stampede. Struggling to his feet, he had seen Smith gallop to his aid and reach out a hand to pull him up behind. Tom had grasped it just as a musket ball skimmed past, effortlessly splattering apart Smith’s face. Tom had stared at the gobbets of flesh and bone, and the singed hair on Smith’s skull. Then out of instinct he had thrust Smith forwards and leapt into the saddle, determined to carry his
friend from the field. The body was impossibly awkward, sliding and bumping against the horse’s neck and breast; in the end, Tom had heaved it to the ground. Had he waited a fraction longer, the next ball, from a pistol, would have ploughed into Smith’s right thigh and not his. The searing pain had torn through his muscle and spread, as if along a fuse, into his groin and lower spine. All he could do was cling to the animal’s mane as it chased after the panicked hordes. He must have tumbled a second time to the ground, because he could not recollect anything else, until a few moments ago.

Tom pressed his fingertips gingerly to his head and felt no contusions; it was the bleeding and the shock that had knocked him out. He rolled onto his left hip and peered down at the ragged, oozing hole in his thigh. The pain had dulled, and his leg was tremendously heavy and stiff. Wrestling off the sash that Adam had tied proudly across his breastplate as they had prepared to ride into action, he bound the fabric over his wound, knotted it, and lay back once more, his sweating brow cooled by the breeze rippling through the grasses. He wanted to sleep. Footsteps, muttered talk, and the slow thud of hooves jolted him awake again. In the moonlight he distinguished clumps of figures, some leading horses. Two separated and walked towards him: they were bare-headed, and their faces must have been black with smoke; as they approached he could see only the whites of the eyes. “Tom?”

“Ingram?” Tom still could not recognise his brother-in-law’s features beneath the grime, but he knew the voice. “How did you find me?”

The other man was Adam, who started to cry, in great choking gulps. ‘Thank God you’re alive, sir.”

“We’ve been searching at least an hour for you in the moors.” Ingram squatted beside Tom. “Where are you hurt?”

“I took a ball in the thigh, from a pistol,” Tom said, wishing Adam would be quiet. “Did the Prince charge again? Did we rout the enemy?”

“They routed us. It was a defeat,” added Ingram, unnecessarily.

“The Prince wasn’t captured?”