Believe or Die (5 page)

“To me boy!” commanded a voice and Richard looked around to find a stranger beckoning him. Ketch beckoned again and Richard skittered across amid tumbling bodies and flashing blades. Another shot rang out and a horse tumbled over nearly crushing him. He cowered in breathless confusion for a moment and suddenly a gap opened up in the battling mob. Through it he spotted Wil Pitkin, sword in hand, apparently fighting alongside one of Lord Ashworth’s Gentlemen. Rage welled up and consumed him. He looked wildly around for a weapon and there, on the saddle of the recently downed horse, he spied a holstered pistol. Swiftly, he dragged the weapon from its scabbard. It was but a crude piece but it appeared ready for use. Would it fire or misfire? Only one way to find out. He pulled back the hammer, aimed it at Pitkin, and fired.

Across the way, Wil found his immediate adversary to have been drawn away by the ebb and flow of the confused riot. The Gentleman he had earlier assisted was now on his feet, still winded, but groping for his sword. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Joanna appeared screaming at Wil to come away. She grabbed at his arm trying desperately to pull him free of the press then she abruptly jerked upright, tried to say something, and then collapsed against him. Utterly confused and terrified, Wil grabbed her falling form and held her tightly to his chest. Glancing momentarily over her shoulder, he saw Richard Mead, smoking pistol in hand, its barrel still directed in his direction. Joanna’s inert form slumped from his grip and slid to the ground. Wil became aware of a wetness on his hands. He looked at them. They were covered in blood, Joanna’s blood. He could only stand and stare at it, dumfounded, unable and unwilling to believe the evidence of his senses.

Richard Mead could also only stand and stare. Where had the girl come from? This wasn’t the way it had been meant. He stood frozen to the spot his body refusing to obey him. What had he done?

Abruptly the melee rotated again coming between Mead and Pitkin. Ketch pulled Richard to one side and propelled him into a corner.

“Stay there boy!” he shouted.

The winded Gentleman looked up to see Wil staggering back from a body on the ground. One of Ketch’s riders had caught him with a backhanded blow stunning and momentarily blinding him. The Gentleman grabbed him and half carried the stricken youth away. The lad had saved him; he must return the favour. Recovering his well-trained mount, the Gentleman heaved the now unconscious Wil over the saddle, mounted behind him and called urgently to Lord Ashworth.

His Lordship had done little but shout useless and often contradictory orders to his followers. The affair had turned messy. It was time to go. With a last haughty glare, he and his retinue turned and disappeared up the lane into the growing darkness.

Richard Mead was still wedged into the corner Ketch had put him into, motionless as a statue. He looked uncomprehendingly down at the hand that still held the pistol and with a disgusted cry threw it from him.

“And so it begins,” said a voice from the rapidly descending gloom and Richard blinked through tear sodden eyes to focus on Ketch.

“You appear to have chosen your side young Sir,” said the stranger.

“I did not choose it!” hissed Richard.

“Then the Lord has clearly chosen it for you. Will you therefore come now and join those who would save the country from such anarchy?”

Richard looked over the crossroads. Four men lay dead, a dozen or more wounded. Three horses killed … and one man’s sweetheart. His best friend’s sweetheart killed by he himself, even as his intended had been taken by the other. Anarchy indeed, insanity indeed.

“I have work to do here first,” he replied wearily waving a hand around the scene.

“As you wish. When your mournful duties are done, consult your conscience, pray to the Lord, and seek me out. My name is Jonathan Ketch.”

Richard merely nodded.

In the span of four and twenty hours, the world, or at least that tiny bit of it known as Ruislip, had turned upside down. Mary Thornhill and Joanna Croft were dead. So too was Richard’s father when he returned home. Two formerly inseparable friends had become mortal enemies and Richard Mead was about to take service with a man he would one day come to regard as the spawn of the Devil.

It was the summer of 1642.

Wil Pitkin stood on tiptoe, using his pike as a support, to try and peer over the mass of his comrades at the enemy. It would be his first battle and he was fighting for the King. For weeks, as the Royalist forces had been assembling, even as they marched north, Pitkin and his fellow recruits had struggled to learn their new trade. Drills and counter-drills, trying to understand the orders transferred via the drum, the bewildering array of flags, and the confusion. And amongst all this, trying to master that hideously cumbersome instrument of death, the pike. Sixteen feet of ash tipped with an iron point that refused to go in any direction that Pitkin wanted it to. Veterans of the Swedish and Dutch wars swore and pummelled the raw would-be soldiers into some semblance of formation and made their lives a misery as they gradually transformed a rabble of enthusiastic clods into a workable Tercio of Pike. Wil had not wanted to carry the pike, he wanted to be a musketeer, but firearms were in short supply and pikes were cheap. The colour bearer in front of the Tercio twirled his six-foot banner in elaborate arcs. The design upon it was that chosen by the pompous Lord Ashworth.
Lord Ashworth’s Regiment of Foot
e it grandly proclaimed, yet his Lordship had managed to raise less than fifty men for the King’s cause and these he had promptly ‘loaned’ to Colonel Charles Gerrard to bolster the latter’s brigade. Ashworth himself had had suddenly found urgent business elsewhere when it became obvious that a confrontation was imminent.

A thunderous pounding of hoofs to the right announced the arrival of Prince Rupert’s cavalry. Wil had never seen such splendid clothing and equipment, each Cavalier intent on outshining his fellows.

“Can those peacocks fight I wonder?” said a voice behind Wil.

“Aye, they can fight well enough lad,” replied someone else. “If they aren’t too busy getting pissed or whoring!”

Wil was still focused on the amazing variety of colours and the luxuriousness of materials displayed by the horsemen. His own garb consisted of a rain-sodden Montero cap, torn breeches and shoes with more holes than leather. They were the very same shoes he had been wearing on that fateful night in Ruislip. He frowned, trying to recall how he had got from there to here, wherever ‘here’ was. Darker thoughts began crowding in. Once again he mentally saw Joanna Croft’s eyes wide with pain and the onset of death; Richard Mead – pistol in hand. He shook his head to dissolve the images and attempted again to get a clear view of the Parliamentarian line. Perhaps Mead was somewhere over there in that very Army. If so, then he was a dead man.

A shuffling amid the ranks and files created a narrow lane in the Tercio through which Colonel Gerrard made his way to the van of his open-ordered brigade. He glared across at Rupert’s cavalry as if assessing their reliability and usefulness. The Colonel’s clothing was almost the exact opposite of the gaudily caparisoned Cavaliers. A thick russet coat he wore - expensive but plain - a black painted cuirass worn on the front only (it being said that he had never turned his back on an enemy and thus saw no reason to wear a backplate), thick gauntlets, stout boots and a broad plain hat enlivened only by an egret’s feather. Indeed, apart from his huge red sash, one could easily have thought him a Methodist Parliamentarian, particularly as he wore his hair uncommonly short for a Royalist. He turned and with a malicious gleam in his eyes, addressed his men.

“Right my lads, let us see how long it takes to make the Roundheads run!” The Colonel drew his sword as a loud cheer acknowledged his words. Gerrard was not fooled. He knew most of his command was there because of an absence of employment, and hungry men are apt to do strange things, even join the Army!

Illogically, considering the circumstances, Wil’s thoughts were still on the absurdities of fashion when a voice recalled him from his mental meanderings.

“Master Pitkin. How do I find you upon this fine day?” It was Captain Duvall, that same ‘Gentleman’ who had been assisted by Pitkin in the brawl at Ruislip; the same Gentleman who had then returned the favour and carried Wil away from the tragic scene. Duvall it was then whom Wil had followed into the King’s Army simply because he hadn’t known what else to do. Pitkin was about to reply when a dull boom echoed from the Parliamentarian lines. A cannonade had begun and the whole Tercio twitched as if one entity. All except Duvall that was, who merely brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his splendid blue coat, grinned, and turned to go forward to stand behind Gerrard. The Colonel himself seemed supremely indifferent to the increasing cannon fire and simply growled at the nearest colour bearer to
move your arse away a yard before that twirling flag removes an eye
!

“Captain!” called Wil. “What is the name of this place?”

Duvall paused, considered for a moment or two, and then clicked his fingers.

“Ah, I have it! Edgehill Pitkin, it is called Edgehill!” A cloud passed over between sun and earth casting an odd, almost bat-shaped shadow over the field. Wil shivered and knew fear.

The opposing artillery exchanged cannonades for an hour or so while dragoons and musketeers fought for possession of the hedgerows on either flank. The King’s men gradually gained the upper hand and began pushing their Parliamentarian opposite numbers back. A body of flamboyant horsemen came forward and took up position on the right of the main Royalist cavalry and thus on the flank of Gerrard’s brigade. The Colonel swung round and glared in the direction of the King’s standard for the horsemen just arrived were the King’s Lifeguard who had no business leaving their sovereign unprotected at such a time. It also meant that there was now no reserve of Horse should the affair turn sour. But now the game was afoot. The Royalist cavalry advanced on both flanks and the Parliamentarian left wing began disintegrating almost immediately. A troop of Roundhead Horse under the command of one Sir Faithful Fortesque drew their pistols, fired them into the ground, and promptly changed sides. Prince Rupert saw his chance and led his Cavaliers into and through the Parliamentarian lines sending Roundheads fleeing to their rear. Desperate officers tried valiantly to stop the panic caused by Rupert’s multicoloured tidal wave of riders but it was too late. Or was it? Rupert’s Cavaliers, proud and arrogant Gentlemen all, had been let off the leash and they were now beyond control. They felt they had won the day with a single charge. Now it was time to gather in the spoils as was customary in their way of waging war. The frantically praying Parliamentary Foot of Ballard’s brigade, convinced they were about to die, were amazed to see Rupert’s men sweep around them and gallop pell-mell down the road towards Kineton and the Parliamentarian baggage train.

On the other flank, things were looking equally bad for Parliament. Here the Royalist Horse had also easily routed their foes and could have destroyed them utterly. But no, for these Gentlemen also soon disappeared from what they perceived as a battle won and careered off in search of plunder. Nonetheless, Parliament’s forces were in chaos all over the field. The King’s Cavalry may have absconded but his infantry had yet to be committed and now was clearly the time to do so.

Sir Jacob Astley, commander of the Royalist Infantry needed no urging. He frowned at the fast vanishing cavalry then raised his hands and eyes to heaven.

“O Lord, thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget thee, do not thou forget me!”

He drew his sword, glanced left and right at his men, then called, “March on boys!”

The Royalist Foot advanced down the slope with its second line hurrying forward to fill in the gaps between brigades to produce a single battle line. The drums impelled them onwards and somewhere near the centre, Wil Pitkin could not conceive how anything could stand against such a force, let alone the disorganised rabble he could see to his front. The cannons roared again and the acrid powder smoke began stinging eyes and causing already fear-dried lips to taste bitter and foul.

The King’s Horse may have won the cavalry conflicts but it had not completely destroyed Parliament’s mounted formations and now they had no one to oppose them; here was an opportunity indeed.

Unaware that enemy Horse might still be a threat, the Royalist Foot crashed into the Parliamentarian lines, which wavered but did not break. The lines swayed this way and that and cursing, sweating and bloody men tried to gain the advantage and at that moment, the Roundhead Horse under Sir William Balfour, dismissed as already beaten, suddenly emerged from a fold in the ground. They passed through their infantry colleagues and fell upon the flanks of the Royalist battalions. With no cavalry to protect them, the King’s men tried desperately to change formation with musketeers running into the defensive squares their pikemen were attempting to form to resist the Roundhead Horse. Some brigades managed this; others were not so fortunate. Fielding’s men were cut to ribbons by a heavily-armoured unit of Cuirassiers and fled back towards Edgehill. The Royalists were now under attack from both Horse and Foot and had neither the experience nor the skill to rapidly form and reform to meet the alternating threats. Roundhead musketeers poured lead into the tightly packed ranks, while the King’s musketeers could not load to return fire as they were crouched under their comrades’ pikes. Now through the smoke appeared the re-ordered blocks of Parliamentarian pikes and the hideous business of ‘Push of Pike’ began. While the opposing infantry snarled, stabbed, thrust and hacked at each other amid the bile-inducing smoke and the stench of excrement and blood, the Parliamentarian cavalry broke free of the melee. Balfour’s troops reached the King’s cannons only to find that none of them had any nails with which to spike the guns. In exasperation, Sir William had all the towing ropes cut and the gunners killed. All around them Royalist Foot were falling back up the slopes of Edgehill whilst individual units remained on the field with no thought now other than survival. A Roundhead cavalry force under Sir Philip Stapleton charged a body of Royalist Foot, but its hedgehog of pikes remained resolute and they were repelled. As Stapleton drew away he suddenly spotted the King’s standard surrounded by musketeers in the centre of that fiercely resisting body and the bit was instantly and firmly back between his teeth.