Marston Moor (14 page)

Manchester’s hazel gaze flickered across the map, fixing on England’s north-west coast. ‘He must take Liverpool.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Then we have time to reduce York.’

Leven moved his hand across the paper until his finger rested on the irregular shape sketched in ink that denoted the city about which their forces gathered. The twin prongs of the rivers Ouse and Foss snaked through it, coming together just south of the city limits, while in several places there were thick crosses marking the placement of enemy batteries. He traced an arc with his fingernail around the area west of the city. ‘My army controls the land from here to here.’ The finger moved to the opposite side. ‘Lord Fairfax and his son have the sector to the east. The north, betwixt the rivers, has hitherto been left open, for lack of available men.’

‘They are strong in artillery?’ the man at Manchester’s side asked. It was the first time he had addressed the group, and Leven was taken by the voice: the easy drawl of flat Norfolk fields, yet deep, dominating the room.

Leven met his steady eyes and nodded. ‘They have divers cannon placed right around the city, and a strong battery on Clifford’s Tower.’ Just then a great boom bellowed from the north. Leven forced a wry smile. ‘Their culverins have ears, it seems.’

‘I saw outworks,’ Manchester cut in, ‘did I not?’

‘To protect the cattle in the pastures.’ It was Sir Thomas Fairfax, lieutenant-general to his ageing father, who spoke. His voice, by contrast with the hard tone of his East Anglian counterpart, was calm and remarkably gentle. The common soldiers, Leven knew, called him Black Tom, and he could see why, for Fairfax’s complexion was as swarthy as his father’s was pale.

‘They keep cattle?’ Manchester’s second in command blurted incredulously. ‘Outside the walls?’

‘Aye, General,’ Fairfax said, unruffled. He moved to the map, leaned over it, and eyed the Earl of Manchester. ‘Perhaps I might detail the situation for you, my lord?’

Manchester sucked at his teeth. After a long pause he nodded.

Sir Thomas Fairfax examined the map, his dark eyes screwed to slits. He drew a circle with his fingertip around the circumference of York. ‘They have good, solid walls of stone that cover much of the city. At the south-west it is lower, less robust, but stout nonetheless.’

‘Much of the city? There is a place without a wall?’

‘Here,’ Fairfax said, tracing a line that ran down York’s western flank, ‘between Layerthorpe Postern and the Red Tower, there is a gap.’

Manchester squinted. ‘Is that supposed to be water?’

‘Aye, my lord. The King’s Fishpond. It is stagnant, and quite shallow, but a formidable obstacle for all that. It stretches a quarter of a mile, perhaps more. We cannot cross it easily.’

Manchester massaged his eyes with his palms. ‘Can we come up against the wall? Throw up ladders?’

‘The outer face of the wall,’ Fairfax countered, ‘is covered by a moat. Often dry, admittedly, but, combined with the sheer height of the rampart above, we could not easily make a successful escalade.’

‘You mentioned the wall was lower in the south-west. What say we strike there?’

Fairfax ran his finger along the relevant black line. ‘Between the Red Tower and Fishergate Postern, my lord, aye. But I must report that it is here, outside that weaker rampart, that the moat is deepest, and always filled.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘One might see the moat as compensation for the wall.’

Manchester blew out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘It seems York is stronger than I had bargained for.’

‘There are towers set at intervals along the wall,’ Fairfax went on mercilessly, ‘and entry is gained only through the four great bars, Micklegate, Bootham, Monk and Walmgate. All four are heavily defended. Moreover, they have occupied a ridge of high ground to the west, erecting three stout sconces so that we may not take that vantage point. It is behind those sconces, before the walls, that they put their cattle to pasture.’

‘How do we bring this stubborn city to heel?’ Manchester said, looking at each man in turn.

His second stepped forwards, face grim, eyes blazing. ‘God is with us, my lords. We must trust in Him! He will see this popish nest smote!’

Manchester placed a staying hand on his lieutenant-general’s elbow. ‘An escalade would be costly in the extreme. We must be cautious.’

‘There is a patch of high ground to the west,’ Fairfax said. ‘At Hesslington. I would take it, for it would serve well as a gun emplacement.’

‘Forgive me, my lord Leven,’ Manchester began, ‘but you have been at the task for some weeks, have you not?’

Leven gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to keep from giving the arrogant pup a good hiding. ‘Without the resources to properly invest the city,’ he said as levelly as he could. ‘Now you are here, my lord, we may move things on apace. Your numbers make it possible to effectively circumvallate the city. We may finally conduct a close siege.’

Manchester indicated the area above York on the huge map. ‘I have inserted my army into the north-western sector, as agreed. Here, between the east bank of the Ouse as it flows into the north-west of the city, and the west bank of the Foss as it flows into the east of the city. Let it be known that my headquarters shall be at Clifton Without. Would it please you, my lord, for our armies to cooperate in joint enterprise?’

Leven frowned. ‘How so?’

‘Here,’ Manchester said. ‘At Poppleton. I would construct a bridge of boats over the Ouse to link our respective forces.’

David Leslie, Lieutenant-General of Horse, moved closer to Leven and cleared his throat pointedly.

‘Tell me, my lord,’ Leven said, reading his comrade’s mind, ‘of the disposition of your men.’

‘We have nine thousand,’ Manchester replied, nonplussed. ‘Six of foot, three of horse. Raised from the East Anglian counties, in the main.’

‘Nay,’ Leven waved the information away, ‘that was not my meaning. Forgive me, but yours is an army of an
Independent
mind, is it not?’

Manchester exchanged a glance with his own lieutenant-general, then looked back at the big Scot. ‘What do you imply, my lord?’

‘My men are God-fearing,’ Leven replied, searching for the most tactful route to tread, ‘but simple. I would be reassured to know that their minds are not—at risk.’

Manchester’s genial expression became strained. He folded his arms defensively. ‘Mine is a Godly army, sir, and that is what is important. I am Presbyterian,’ he shrugged, ‘while others of my force are not. But we are all believers, all saved.’ He nodded at his second. ‘This man, the commander of my horse, is one such Independent. I assure you, my lord, that he will prove invaluable, despite your reservations. There will be no preaching by my men, sir. Is that not so, Oliver?’

The taciturn subordinate nodded. ‘No minds will be manipulated, my lords.’

Leven found he could not look away from the horseman with the reverberating voice. His large eyes seemed to impale him like twin spears, and he was transfixed by the large wart that danced on the man’s creased right brow. ‘Then all is well,’ he said eventually. ‘Lieutenant-General Cromwell. You are to provide protective cordon for our entire alliance. Screen our troops, escort supplies, warn of enemy advances. Understood?’

Oliver Cromwell bowed. ‘I will do my duty, my lord.’

Leven tore himself away, staring at the map to hide his discomfiture. ‘We must bring matters close to their walls. Enough of this cannon-play, for it resolves nothing. We will begin undermining the defences as soon as is practicable.’ He looked at the Fairfaxes. ‘Sir Thomas, will you press against the gate in your sector?’

The younger Fairfax nodded. ‘Walmgate Bar, my lord. I plan to place a battery nearby, to entertain the enemy ordnance at Clifford’s Tower. Once their focus is taken by that gun, I will send in my sappers.’

‘I shall look to mine the north wall, my lords,’ the Earl of Manchester added. He squinted at the map. ‘What is this?’

He was examining the angled lines inked along the north and west limits of York. They were irregular, jutting out from the otherwise continuous circuit of the wall, bulging from the surface like the burl of a diseased tree. ‘The Abbey of St Mary’s, now known simply as the Manor. The church itself has been ruined since the Papists left, but the manor house stands strong nearby. They will have troops stationed therein. The grounds have their own wall, connected to the corner of the main wall.’

‘In effect, it adds a compound to their circuit?’ Manchester said.

Leven nodded, but urged caution. ‘It is crenellated for defence.’

‘But weaker than the proper wall,’ pressed Manchester. He looked at Cromwell. ‘What say you?

Cromwell frowned. ‘I know it, my lord. There is a tower set into the northernmost corner of the Manor boundary wall.’

Sir Thomas Fairfax said, ‘St Mary’s.’

Cromwell nodded, then looked at his commander. ‘That is where we must mine, my lord.’

Then all was silent, save the bellowing of artillery that rumbled back and forth like a far-off storm. Alexander Leslie, Earl of Leven, stepped back from the map and set his jaw. ‘Then we are agreed, gentlemen. We will close upon this malignant city, build properly fortified leaguers for our troops, squeeze her inhabitants and bring down her walls. God be with us.’

Chapter 6

Wigan, Lancashire, 5 June 1644

Faith Helly could scarce believe the sheer scale of the army as it converged upon the small town. She had never seen so many folk in one place. There were men borne on the backs of magnificent horses, saddles heavy with weapons, bodies encased in metal. Some were dusty and grim-faced, others proud like cockerels, their hats and helmets resplendent in colourful plumage, defying the ominously slate-grey sky as if their very grandiosity kept the rain at bay. Men marched on foot too, slopping through the ankle-deep filth. They moved in great blocks behind bright banners of red and gold and green and blue, shifting over the mud in unison. Some of those formations bristled with long pikes so that it seemed to Faith that each block was not made of men at all, but was like some great beast: the Leviathan, made flesh by the sins of the time to crawl off the pages of Scripture. Master Sydall’s Bible was close by, and she could not help but glance at it. ‘By the greatness of this monster Leviathan,’ she whispered the quote, ‘God showeth His greatness and His power, which nothing can resist.’ She felt tears prick her eyes. ‘God showeth His greatness through this monster?’ She blinked hard and stared back at the marching column, wondering how much sin must have washed over the earth for this to be the necessary correction. These warriors were the king’s horde. The malignants, Hate-Evil Sydall had called them. The very personification of sin. She had questioned him then, but he had been right, so profoundly, horrifically right. One day in Bolton-le-Moors had proved it. ‘Not His greatness,’ she said to the oaken trunk behind which she was concealed, ‘but His judgement.’

‘This is not God’s doing, but that of man.’

Faith spun on her heels. ‘Major Stryker,’ she panted, hands clamped at her chest to quell the hammering of her heart. ‘You startled me.’

The tall officer removed his hat. ‘My apologies, Mistress Helly.’ His long, grimy and matted hair flowed free, and he gathered the strands at the nape of his neck, tying them off with a piece of frayed string.

The effect was to expose the hideous scar that dominated the left side of his face, and she fought back the gasp that caught at her throat. Instead she offered a smile that she prayed would appear as genuine as it was meant. ‘It is I who should apologise, sir. I spoke sharply before, I hate your king. I hate your cause. I do not hate you.’

Stryker nodded. ‘You have suffered much, Mistress. And I have been unkind.’

She smiled. ‘You are brusque, sir, but not cruel.’ She went back to her tree, looking out at the road that still thronged with activity while careful to stay out of sight. ‘But you are wrong. This is God’s work. Everything is God’s work, one way or another.’

Near Wetherby, Yorkshire, 5 June 1644

Devlin Greer changed his horse at a sleepy inn called The Star. It hugged a bend in the winding River Wharfe, to the south and east of the town, and had once been a bustling haven for shepherds and farmhands. Now it was almost deserted, which suited Greer well enough, because fewer patrons meant fewer questions.

‘And she’s fleet o’ foot?’ he said to the stable boy when the grubby urchin had guided him to where his new mount waited.