Brothers' Fury (Bleeding Land Trilogy 2) (30 page)

‘I did not trust any man more to do the job,’ the Prince lied. Or perhaps that
had
been the truth. Who knew with Prince Rupert? Mun thought to himself.

‘I stole Lord Lidford’s cannon and brought it here,’ Mun admitted. ‘And no doubt having me down in the ground with all that black powder and lit match was the next best thing to watching me hang. I’d wager Lidford blames me for his having a fool for a son, too.’

‘It would seem the boy is headstrong,’ the Prince said, removing his lace falling band for it had dried blood on it, though apparently not his own. ‘That he has no fear.’ Mun had heard men say the same about the Prince.

‘He’s headstrong and a fool, of that I’m sure. But he saved my life,’ Mun said.

Prince Rupert wafted the besmirched collar at Mun. ‘Sir Edmund gripes because he is yet in some discomfort, but he likes the boy really. For all that the lad nearly unseated him when they met.’

Mun did not credit that comment with a reply.

‘So ye thieved the man’s gun, eh?’ The Scot said.

Mun shrugged. ‘He wasn’t using it.’

‘That’ll do me,’ The Scot said with a curt nod. ‘Can you ride?’

‘I have not yet even tried to walk,’ Mun said, shifting uncomfortably, pain thrumming in his right thigh.

‘Walking is nae the issue, Sir Edmund, unless ye want tae walk ninety miles on yer ain.’

‘I can ride,’ Mun said.

‘You see,’ Prince Rupert said, unpinning the lace cuffs from the ends of his doublet sleeves, ‘I told you Sir Edmund was the man for the job.’

THEY HAD RIDDEN
the horses hard, south past Birmingham, which Prince Rupert had burnt after overcoming fierce resistance, then on through the shadow of the great Kenilworth Castle that rose up to dominate the Warwickshire landscape as it had done for centuries. They had kept their distance, though, as the castle had been garrisoned by rebels since the aftermath of Kineton Fight. Then on to Banbury where they spent the night in the castle, for though the townsfolk were mostly for Parliament its castle had been won after Kineton and was now held for the King. Mun’s Lancashire men combined with The Scot’s and Prince Rupert’s men made a body of one hundred and twenty hard, experienced troopers and each man had looked to his mount before he had taken food or rest for himself. Several of the horses, including O’Brien’s, were reshod by an enormous farrier and his wide-eyed apprentice. The lad had all but begged Mun to let him ride on with them, for he had seen nothing of the fighting and wanted a taste of it. But Mun had told the lad that his job in the forge was just as important as fighting, more so, for even the likes of Prince Rupert would be nothing without his cavalry. At which the apprentice had nodded with resignation and no little disappointment.

Mun had found that his right leg hurt more in the saddle
than out of it, for on foot he could keep his leg straight, but on horseback the wound stretched and contracted, the searing pain only dampened by the malmsey which he rationed, having filled two bottles before setting off from Lichfield. And yet you would have thought O’Brien the one who had been shot, for the Irishman’s red bird’s-nest beard could not conceal the misery etched in his face.

‘My arse is never going to forgive me. It’s raw as a skinned coney,’ he complained, lifting his buttocks from the saddle and gingerly rubbing them. The column had slowed to a walk whilst The Scot and a trooper named Foster discussed the route, pointing to woods and the river beyond that flowed past the north side of a sizeable settlement. ‘I’m beginning to miss that tunnel and all its comforts.’

Mun handed him a bottle which the Irishman accepted with a solemn nod, taking a long draught of the strong wine before dragging a hand across his mouth.

‘We must have ridden seventy, eighty miles in the last two days. Poor Margery’s legs are wearing down to stumps,’ he said, patting his mare’s neck. ‘They’re shorter by an inch than when we set off, I’d swear it.’

‘It can’t be far now,’ Mun said, knowing how fortunate he was to have Hector, for the stallion was strong and tireless and Mun doubted there was a finer horse in all the fractured kingdom. ‘That town beyond the river is Thame.’

‘Then that lot must be Essex’s men,’ O’Brien said, nodding south-west. They could see a small troop of horse riding along the far bank of the river towards the town. But the rebels showed no sign of being interested in them and The Scot raised a hand and pushed it twice towards the south-east, indicating a course that would take them around Thame and Essex’s headquarters, towards Buckinghamshire and the Chiltern Hills.

O’Brien stuck his finger into his mouth and then held it up beside his head.

‘What are you testing the wind for, Corporal?’ Trooper
Goulding asked – the men had assigned O’Brien that rank, albeit unofficially, and the Irishman had certainly done nothing to discourage them.

‘Why, I’m testing to make sure that bleak-faced Scotsman up ahead is still on our side, young Goulding, for I could swear the wind is due a change.’ One of The Scot’s men evidently overheard for he turned in the saddle and the Irishman affected a look of innocence, pursing his lips and whistling a merry tune, so that the other man grimaced and turned back round.

‘They broke good horses to bring the information to the Prince,’ Mun said, ‘and their arses must be sorer than yours.’ In truth he did not trust The Scot entirely. How could you fully trust a man who but three days earlier had fought in Parliament’s army? Perhaps the Prince didn’t trust him either, and maybe that was why he had convinced him to take Mun and his men south, so that Mun was there to ensure The Scot’s loyalty. Mun felt a wan smile curl his lips at that thought, for his own loyalty was not untarnished, the blood in his veins having led him to treachery for his brother’s sake. Yet blood was blood. Who knew what had made The Scot come over to the King, but Mun suspected it might be no other reason than the man having come to see that the rebels could not win this war. If this was indeed his reason, was prudence any more contemptible than blind loyalty?

The Scot had come hard to Lichfield with news for Prince Rupert of a convoy out of London bound for Thame. There were, he said, three carts whose twelve wheels bore a king’s fortune at barely a walking pace. Twenty thousand pounds in silver and coin. Furthermore, the rebels had put their faith in God and in stealth, rather than in brute force, so that all that silver was protected by fewer than seventy-five men.

‘The best bit of it all,’ The Scot had said, even then not smiling, ‘is that the men are half dead with some disease. We may have to crawl through shite and piss to get to the silver but no one is going to stop us.’

‘Their commander?’ Prince Rupert had asked. Mun knew he always put as much stock, maybe more, in who led as in who were being led.

‘A Colonel Haggett. A damned incompetent,’ The Scot had replied. ‘Last time I saw him he was all but shitting in his boots. There’s four others with them and these you’ll be glad to get yer hands on.’ His eyes were hard as old ice. ‘They blew up the press in Oxford that spits out yer news sheet.
Mercurius Aulicus
.’

‘I won’t ask how you know that,’ Prince Rupert had said, ‘so long as you discharge your duty now and claim that coin for my uncle. I will lend you sixty harquebusiers for the job. No, Sir Edmund, not Captain’s Boone’s troop I’m afraid. I need them myself.’

Seeming content with that arrangement The Scot had gone on to say how he had convinced Colonel Haggett that the King’s men were marching on Thame and that the convoy must stay hidden in the woods or else be lost.

With any luck that’s where the rebels were still, Mun was thinking now, when a shout went up from the column’s rear that a rider was approaching.

Mun and O’Brien walked their mounts out of the column so as to watch the rider, the Irishman murmuring that it had better not be orders coming for them to ride all the way back to Lichfield because if so his arse would have to protest most forcefully. The rider was cantering towards them through a damp patch of mire which they had skirted, and for twenty strides the man’s horse seemed unsure, its feet coming up high and its head swinging from side to side. But its master pushed it on, heedless of the treacherous ground, and it was this contrariety between horse and rider that Mun recognized.

‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘It’s Lidford’s son Jonathan.’

‘Is he coming to kill you or save your life?’ O’Brien asked with a shrug. ‘Young men these days don’t know what they want if you ask me.’

Jonathan Lidford rode right along the column and up to Mun, who signalled to The Scot that all was well.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mun asked. The column was moving again and Mun and O’Brien pulled their mounts back round to resume a good trot, moving with their horses’ two-beat rhythm.

‘I want to join your troop,’ Jonathan said, and Mun glanced over to see that the young man’s cheeks were flushing red beneath his three-bar helmet.

‘God and Mary!’ O’Brien blurted.

‘I don’t want you,’ Mun said.

‘But I can fight. And I can ride,’ Jonathan protested.

‘I’ve seen you kill but I’ve not seen you fight. As for riding, this big Irish troll beside me rides better and the Irish usually only use horses for eating.’

‘Bastard,’ O’Brien rumbled.

‘Only because he’s too heavy for his mare to throw him. ’Twould otherwise,’ the young man said petulantly.

‘Watch your mouth, youngen,’ O’Brien said.

‘I don’t want you,’ Mun repeated. ‘Besides which, what would your father say? He’ll tell the Prince I’ve carried you off and I’ll end up in some hole again with five barrels of black powder and a short fuse.’

‘My father knows. He said I could ride with you.’

‘Ballocks,’ O’Brien rumbled.

‘Your father would never countenance it,’ Mun said.

‘Maybe that’s a reason for taking him,’ O’Brien suggested, a smile appearing in the forest of his red beard.

‘Why me?’ Mun asked. ‘Why my troop?’

The hooves beat their pattern on the earth and tack jangled and Mun waited for his answer.

‘Because you fight,’ Jonathan said, ‘and I want to fight too. If I stay with my father I’ll never get a proper chance to fight for my king. My father is too protective. I am his only son.’

‘Your father doesn’t want you to get killed,’ Mun said.

‘I want to ride with you,’ Jonathan countered.

‘Ah,’ O’Brien interjected. ‘Distant hills look green so they do. Only when you’re on top of ’em do you realize they’re covered in shite.’

‘Why now?’ Mun asked. ‘Why did you not ride out with us?’

‘Because you would have forbidden me to come. Likely you would have told my father and he would never let me go with you.’ There was a tone to the young man’s voice that told Mun that that was not all, that there was something else, and so he waited and sure enough along it came. ‘And because first I asked His Highness the Prince if I could ride for him. But he did not want me either.’

‘Aha! So we were not even your first choice,’ O’Brien barked. ‘You’ve broken me old heart, buttercup.’

‘His Highness said I should ride after you, that you would welcome me into your troop as he once welcomed you into his.’

‘That crafty German devil,’ Mun said, for he knew this had been Prince Rupert’s way of getting one over on his old enemy Lord Lidford after having to smooth the waters in the matter of the man’s stolen cannon. Lidford would be enraged that his son had ridden off to fight without his consent, but he could not blame anyone for it. Other than Mun perhaps.

‘I believe you owe me,’ Jonathan dared, keeping his eyes to the front, his big Cleveland Bay tossing her large head.

This was true enough, Mun thought. Though he did not like to admit it, he would have been buried beneath Lichfield if not for this boy.

‘Let me play my part in beating the rebels,’ Jonathan said, and Mun was reminded of his friend and Bess’s betrothed, Emmanuel, who had been brave to the point of foolhardy and eager to do his bit in the war. Emmanuel who had fought so courageously beside Mun’s father at Edgehill trying to save the King’s ensign and the army’s honour. And what had Emmanuel got for his lion-heartedness and his zeal? Not even a proper grave. For the rebels had killed him and Sir Francis on that
bloody day and Mun had seen neither again, their bodies having been stripped by looters and lost amongst the corpse piles.

‘We can always use another eager soul,’ O’Brien suggested, sitting as Margery’s inside hind leg hit the ground and rising as the outside leg hit, and grimacing all the while for his sore backside. ‘What do you say, Mun?’

But Mun was watching a troop of dragoons milling atop a ridge of high ground to the south-west.

‘Brave bastards, ain’t they!’ Tobias Fitch remarked, his big mason’s hand cranking the spanner on his wheellock as he looked up the hill towards the dragoons, who had all dismounted and stood loading their pistols while their horses were led out of sight beyond the ridge.

‘We’ll see how brave they are,’ John Cole said, holding his reins in one hand whilst the fingers of his other hand finished the knot of the helmet strap beneath his bearded chin.