Brothers' Fury (Bleeding Land Trilogy 2) (44 page)

Penn responded with the sort of word the request deserved and Trencher shrugged his powerful shoulders as if to say it was worth a try, as a Puritan minister made his way amongst the mounted men, handing out blessings and commanding them to do God’s will by smiting the Cavaliers.

‘There could well be some smiting done here today,’ Dobson said, chewing a wad of tobacco because the time for pipes had passed, Colonel Haggett having announced that any man caught smoking one would be put on a charge. The giant twisted in his saddle, taking in what he could see of Parliament’s army, then leant and spat a string of black saliva into the wet grass. ‘A rare turn-out is this.’

And so it was. As Tom understood it Essex’s fifteen regiments of foot were arranged into four brigades. To the left of Haggett’s troop stood Colonel John, Lord Robartes’s infantry, whilst to their front, one hundred paces away and a fog of breath hanging above them, waited Sergeant-Major-General
Philip Skippon’s foot. Off to Tom’s right, set slightly back from Skippon’s men and so almost level with Haggett’s harquebusiers, Colonel Harry Barclay’s musketeers were making ready to light their match, whilst his pikemen rested their staves on the ground, grey blades pointing at the sky. Then beyond that, on the right of the field, though obscured by trees, were Colonel James Holbourne’s infantry. Behind Tom waited Essex’s reserve including the five London Trained Band regiments. The bulk of the cavalry was divided into two wings, Colonel John Middleton commanding the left and Sir Philip Stapleton the right.

Yet Colonel Haggett’s troop of sixty-two men – a meagre number ordinarily but a potentially effective force given the terrain – were nearer the centre than the wings, attached to Major-General Skippon’s command as they were. Tom had heard one of the younger men ask Corporal Laney why they were one of only a few troops of horse amongst the main body of Parliament’s army.

‘Because General Skippon wanted some horse to play with and so Essex gave him us rather than strip the flanks of a decent troop,’ Dobson had murmured, earning himself a withering glare from Colonel Haggett.

‘One of General Skippon’s scouts has reported a strong body of musketeers ahead of their lines over yonder brow,’ Haggett had explained in a voice that sounded stronger than he looked. ‘We shall ensure their good behaviour.’

‘Makes sense to send out a forlorn hope over ground like this,’ Trencher had said grudgingly, as a swirling gust had sprayed them with a fine drizzle and brought the clatter of enemy drums. The sound had made some of the men give up a prayer. A trooper three over on Tom’s right had thrown up over his breastplate and not a man had chaffed him for it.

Tom had pulled his sword a little way out of its scabbard just to make sure it did not stick. For a forlorn hope of musketeers meant sword work. He would wager a shilling that at the first
sight of those men up on the ridge Skippon would send Colonel Haggett to chase them off. ‘We ought to be claiming the high ground,’ he had said, satisfied with the blade’s draw. ‘Before they do.’

‘Aye, we ought to,’ Trencher had replied. ‘But don’t let it worry your pretty head. Lord Essex knows his business, Tom.’ He had looked heavenward then. ‘And the Good Lord is with us today.’ He’d inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as though filling with the Holy Spirit itself. ‘Can’t you feel it, lad?’

‘If God is with us, Will, it’s because He loves nothing better than to watch men slaughter each other,’ Tom had said, at which Trencher had shaken his head wearily, Penn had glanced skyward as though expecting divine wrath, and Dobson had muttered that that being the case he was going to give God a show to remember.

Now, to make sure it was still in place, Tom touched the sprig of furze he had wedged between his helmet’s visor and its skull. That morning, their hands cold and their breath clouding, every man in Parliament’s army had picked broom or gorse, or else sent the younger lads in their troops to gather it, for the field sign was to be a green bough worn in their hats. To the amusement of the men Penn had braided three slender broom branches into a ring which he now wore on his pot like a laurel wreath or crown. Some of Haggett’s troopers had taken to calling him
your majesty
and Penn played along, wafting his hands and affecting a haughty air.

‘Try and finish the day in one piece this time, Tom,’ Penn said now as Skippon’s drummers began to beat the Battalia and the brigade began to march. ‘No sleeping on the field tonight.’

Tom’s guts twisted at the cold memory of lying all night with the dead and dying below the Edgehill escarpment. He could smell again the blood and faeces. The earth. That night he had seen men’s ghosts climbing out of stiffening bodies. He had lain half dead himself, besieged by visions and the deepest
terror he had ever known, as looters had sawn off his finger for the ring on it. Perhaps the bitter cold of that night
had
saved him, slowing the blood in his wounds. Or perhaps, as he had said, God had not wanted him for Heaven and Satan had not wanted him for Hell, so that he had lingered, his own thirst for revenge sustaining him. And yet, if he had died would he have been reunited with Martha? Had she been waiting for him only to be denied at the last? Had he failed her again?

‘Remember the watchword, lads!’ Corporal Mabb called above the drums and the officers’ commands, the neighs of excited horses and the roar of cannon to the south of the field. ‘Let’s hear it, young Banks, if you please, lad.’

‘Religion,’ Trooper Banks said, his helmet’s chin strap digging into his hairless face and whitening the flesh.

‘Either my lugs are full of mud or else they’re as old as the rest of me!’ Mabb exclaimed, ‘because for a moment there, Banks, you sounded like a little girl. I asked for the watchword.’

Banks frowned, embarrassed. ‘Religion!’ he yelled, his startled mount tossing its head.

Mabb nodded. ‘That’s better, lad. And don’t forget it, neither,’ he said to them all. ‘And if your pal has lost his greenery be sure to tell him. You don’t want some bugger putting a hole in you only to say how sorry he is when you find out you’re both Parliament men.’

‘Forward!’ Colonel Haggett shouted, his raised hand signalling the advance. Out in front the vanguard, some five thousand men, were moving forward, their collective trepidation filling the grey dawn like the threat of a gathering storm. With them moved field artillery, oxen lowing as conductors urged them over the difficult ground, mud-slathered pioneers doing what they could with spades and levers to ease the passage, and all ensconced within companies of men armed with firelocks who provided close protection. Far off to their left in the Kennet valley Tom could just make out a small body of infantry and more field artillery on the move, the foremost
of them already taking up a defensive position behind a great hedge separating the enclosures around Enbourne from a large force of Royalist horse. Tom supposed those musketeers and pikemen had been charged with preventing the Cavaliers from using the track to Hungerford to disrupt the Lord General’s overall plan, whatever that happened to be. Much of the rest of the army, such as Essex’s reserve of ten infantry regiments – another five thousand men – was hidden from view. And yet even what could be seen was enough to set the blood in men’s limbs trembling like water coming to the boil.

‘God be with you, lads,’ Trencher said to the men around him. ‘Send the devils to their graves. Every man you kill is one that can’t kill you.’

Tom’s loaded pistols were snug in his boots, their long barrels pressing against his flesh, their butts sticking out above the bucket tops but held close against the leg by garters cut from a scarf of Essex orange. His sword hung on its baldrick, the hilt in front of his left hip, the scabbarded blade beginning to whisper of its hunger for blood.

‘I wish Weasel were here,’ Penn said.

‘Nayler, too,’ Tom said, his memory conjuring their friend, bloodied sword in hand just feet from the ranks of the enemy, deep in the fray at Kineton Fight. Tom would have sworn he could hear Nayler now screaming at him to climb up behind him as hot lead shredded the smoke and the battle din filled the world as though the gates of Hell had been hauled open.

Get on, lad, we can’t hang about here!
Nayler had yelled, the words barely out before a musket ball had ripped open his throat.

‘Hang on, what’s going on here?’ Trencher said, jerking Tom back to the present. The big man was lifting himself as much as he could, straining to see what was happening up ahead, and then Tom became aware that the drums were beating new orders and General Skippon’s men had stopped.

‘Hold!’ Colonel Haggett raised a hand and the sixty-one
men at his back stopped too, some of them mumbling the usual curses of soldiers who, having steeled themselves for action, are brought to a halt knowing that their courage will dissipate like smoke on the breeze and they must summon it again before long.

Skippon’s drums had fallen silent, but others beating on, towards Biggs Hill to their south and still more to the north towards the River Kennet, along with sporadic musket fire and the deeper cough of field artillery, announced that the battle was on.

‘Seems we’re to be held back,’ Corporal Mabb said, not sounding unhappy at the prospect.

‘We had better not be,’ Tom gnarred, for he had not come to watch other men fight.

‘Patience, lad,’ Trencher said. ‘We’re the only horse hereabouts. Someone will find a job for us before long.’

‘Well look who it is!’ Ellis Lay, a trooper with a sharp beardless chin, announced, as the Lord General himself came over the rise to their left on a fine grey horse. Around him rode a retinue of cuirassiers, their armour dull in the dull day, and several harquebusiers armed to the teeth. And as the men in Skippon’s vanguard saw their Lord General they cheered, the musketeers lifting their montero-caps to wave them in the air, and Essex acknowledged them with a stiff wave before disappearing from Tom’s sight behind the massed ranks.

‘Now we’re safe,’ someone called out. ‘One glimpse o’ the earl and Prince Rupert will take to ’is heels and be back in Germany before nightfall.’ Men laughed and another trooper said he’d wager a half crown if he had one that Essex had come to order the general retreat on account of a hare having crossed his path, or having yellow speckles on his fingernails, or because his right cheek was burning which meant someone was talking ill of him. For Essex was known to be a superstitious man.

‘Or because the enemy has taken the field and if we don’t scarper he’ll have to fight the buggers,’ James Bowyer put in.

‘Hold your damn tongues,’ Corporal Mabb barked, as Colonel Haggett twisted in his saddle to shoot his men a reproachful look before turning back to greet an officer from the Lord General’s party whom Tom had seen coming at a fair canter.

‘I keep expecting to see the bastards coming over that spur,’ Dobson said into his beard, eyes scouring the rising ground up towards Wash Common. ‘The King’s whole damned army and that devil prince.’

‘Not seeing them is worse than seeing them,’ Tom replied and Dobson agreed. For the shifting breeze was from the east again now, bringing the calls of the enemy’s drums though the Cavaliers were still hidden from view.

‘Listen up, lads,’ Corporal Laney called as Colonel Haggett walked his horse towards them and the other officer cantered off, his horse’s hooves flinging clods of dew-soaked earth.

‘Men! Lord Essex will lead the vanguard! Sergeant-Major-General Skippon will remain with the reserve and assume command of Lieutenant-General Stapleton’s horse. Our task is to ride up the escarpment and secure the highest point before the enemy does.’

‘He doesn’t look happy about it,’ Trencher murmured.

‘I’d imagine Essex chose him for the task because he did such a fine job of getting all that silver to Thame,’ Penn put in, sharing a knowing look with Tom. But if that
was
true and Haggett’s superiors thought him a brave and resourceful commander Tom did not mind in the least. Because they were to ride towards the enemy who waited unseen beyond the escarpment.

And his sword was hungry.

THEY RODE UP
a sunken lane at the sitting trot, bodies tense and shoulders hunched because they feared the sudden musket fire of King’s men lining the hedges either side. The air here was still and heavy and Tom breathed deeply of it, savouring its damp earthiness, the meagre warmth of a low, corn-coloured sun now and then touching his left cheek through gaps in the hedgerow.

But the ambush never came and they continued round a bend, ascending the northern spur of the escarpment from the west-south-west knowing that they could not be seen by the enemy from their quarters in the Kennet valley. They kept an easy pace until midway up the escarpment where the gradient became more daunting for a stretch and here Tom and some of the others drew their pistols because they thought if an ambush was coming it would be at that place.

‘If I were them I’d have killed us by now,’ Trencher said a little later as the lane began to level out again. A cock pheasant clattered up from the hedge on their left, a streak of copper, metallic green and red, its
korr kok
carrying out across the fields. And men who had been startled had only just pulled their heads out of their shoulders when a ragged volley of musketry crackled to their right. A man ahead of Tom named Delbridge
slumped forward and fell from his horse, so those behind were trying not to trample him even as they drew pistols and hauled carbines round. Somewhere else a horse was screaming.