Marston Moor (43 page)

Sir Thomas Fairfax prayed, and he cursed, and he challenged death. And then he slammed into the Royalist line.

Immediately his horse faltered. They had run into a wall of horsemen, squeezed on both sides by grimacing Cavaliers who hacked and slashed at man and horse. Sir Thomas was tangled, his thighs crushed against those of his enemies, and he found himself parrying heavy blades on both sides, one with his sword, the other with his gauntleted forearm. One of the blows made it through and clanged against his breastplate, rocking him back so that his groin screamed in anguish as he gripped to stay in the saddle. He was vaguely aware of his own men, pushing in from behind, and he knew he could no longer retreat, even if he had a mind to. The opponent on his left hit him again, this time slipping past the gauntlet, and the cutting edge bounced off the crest of his pot. Sir Thomas saw the sword come down on his other side, parried it desperately, and instinctively cringed in expectation of the first man’s follow-up thrust. But his helmet had sent the weapon glancing away with such a jolt that the hilt had slipped from his enemy’s grip. The Cavalier’s lips worked furiously behind steel bars as his empty hand fumbled at his saddle holster. Sir Thomas blocked another swipe on his right, then drew his own pistol, cocking it in one motion. Both men fired at once. The Royalist’s arm was low, and Sir Thomas felt a judder ripple through his horse as the pistol ball thumped into its hindquarters. His own bullet had taken his would-be killer in the throat, and the man was already wilting sideways. Sir Thomas remembered the foe on his right, twisted round too late, and took a jabbing sword thrust to his own face, the point passing between the protective bars to jar against his cheekbone. It seared like a glowing brand, blinding him for a moment, and he braced for the final cut. The man screamed. Sir Thomas forced open his eyes to see his personal cornet, a dark-blue acanthus pattern over a blue field, jabbing time and again at the Cavalier’s face. His standard-bearer was at his side, kicking his horse into the cacophonous press and using his banner as a lance.

Then they were through. The fight was raging away to Sir Thomas’s left as the rest of his fragmented wing fell upon Goring’s solid line, but the few hundred who had come along the lane with their general had carved a channel through the extreme edge, and those Royalists were peeling away, turning tail to bolt back in the direction of York. Sir Thomas bellowed for his men to leave them, to rein in their natural urge to pursue in order to turn the Royalist flank and surround the enemy. But they ignored him, too drunk with bloodlust to heed his cries, spurring into a whooping gallop to chase Goring’s routing troopers. So Black Tom went too, praying that Colonel Lambert would have the same success against what remained of the Royalist left wing.

Whilst the Parliamentarian and Covenanter horsemen were crossing the ditch to the east, the Allied left wing was coming down from Bilton Bream at the walk. Opposite, on the Royalist right flank, John, Lord Byron, tugged at his freshly trimmed beard. His part of the moor was already veiled in smoke, but he could see enough glimpses of tawny scarves and the scraps of white paper tied to wrists or thrust into helmet visors to know that Cromwell’s daunting horde was on the move.

Byron checked his pistols. His bodyguard, a burly Irishman who had been a wrestler and champion at the prize play, swung a loaded carbine across his back and nodded. Byron swallowed. It hurt, his mouth parched and sticky. He took a last look at the men under his command. In the front line were eleven hundred harquebusiers; the sum of Byron’s own regiment, and those of Urry, Vaughn and Trevor, veterans all. On the extreme right, set slightly back in a protective stance, were two hundred more under Samuel Tuke, then a second full line, comprising the regiments of Molyneux, Tyldesley and Leveson, with the formidable sight of Rupert’s own cavalry forming their left flank. Byron had two thousand, six hundred horse in all, and, though he reckoned they were outnumbered by the enemy horsemen, he had absolute faith in their ability. And that was why he was considering an attack.

He had been ordered to remain in position, to stand his ground, relying upon the ditch to disrupt any enemy attack. He had musketeers there too, both in the channel and on his side of the ditch, so that any advance by the Eastern Association would be met with heavy fire. And yet his cavalrymen were eager. Byron was eager. He looked at the big Irishman. ‘Shall we give ’em a hiding, d’you think, O’Reilly?’

Oliver Cromwell, Lieutenant-General of Horse, thanked God for the gift of this sector, for it posed few of the questions being asked of his compatriot on the far side. There was still the gully, of course, defended by musketeers, but Tockwith’s enclosures did not encroach upon the battlefield like those near Long Marston, nor were there any lanes or mature hedgerows to add complication. He could see the Royalist horse waiting for him on the far side of the obstacle. Moreover, the first throws of the fight had begun on this flank, and the enemy muskets were already entrenched within their own brawl, occupied by the tussle with Crawford’s foot regiments that had earlier descended to support the cannon. As it was, Cromwell felt confident. He commanded his line to halt, then lifted his helmet’s visor. ‘Fraser!’

The extreme left of Cromwell’s formation was made up of a regiment of Scottish dragoons, and their colonel, receiving the summons by a chain of shouts, peeled his mount away from his men and kicked it to Cromwell’s side. ‘General.’

Cromwell stole a brief glance at the ditch. ‘As things stand, we must fight through those malignants.’ He looked back at Fraser, the rain wetting his cheeks and stinging his eyes. ‘And then, when disordered on the far side, we will be charged by Byron’s horse.’

The Scot, a wiry man with a sharp, red nose and watery eyes, nodded. ‘Aye, sir, that’s the sum of it.’

‘I would have your men ride down there, Colonel Fraser, and purge the ditch.’

Fraser’s thin mouth pressed into a line. ‘Purge, sir?’

Cromwell touched a hand to his chest. ‘Beneath this cold steel,’ he said, patting the plate, ‘buttoned beside my heart, there is a pamphlet. A soldier’s Bible. Sixteen pages containing nought but the word of God. They give fortitude to those who would fight the enemies of King Jesus.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Deuteronomy, chapter twenty, verse four:
For the Lord your God goeth with you, to fight for you against your enemies, and to save you.
’ He fixed the dragoon colonel with an unflinching stare. ‘God goeth with us, Fraser. We cannot lose. Now get your men down there and purge the ditch.’

The Scottish dragoons poured down the slope as Cromwell’s plate-clad harquebusiers resumed their steady walk. Dragoons were mounted infantry and, as such, they carried muskets. Their function was speed and mobility. Their horses, though not as swift or powerful as those used by full cavalry, were able to move them around a battlefield with a swiftness traditional foot regiments could never match, and, as Cromwell looked on, he knew he had made the right decision. The dragoons slid free of their saddles within musket shot of the ditch, all the while drawing heavy fire, and immediately shrank behind the bodies of their horses for shelter. Then they were shooting back, protected by their shields of leather and flesh, and their concentrated volleys were far more effective than the desultory barks snapping up from the smoke-capped trench in response.

It was a matter of moments before the Royalist defenders were overwhelmed, and they fell back, scrambling up the north bank of the channel and running for their own lines, while the dragoons edged forth to secure their prize.

Cromwell lowered his visor, looking at Fraser. ‘A fine job, Colonel. Your men did well. God grants them victory.’

Fraser dipped his face ‘Thank you, General. May God grant you success also.’

Cromwell shook his head. ‘God has preordained all. Pray for nought but His will.’ He reached for his sword-hilt and bellowed: ‘We ride out right away, good fellows, and fear no earthly enemy! King Jesus has brought victory to the righteous! We must simply give thanks, draw swords, and receive His bounty!’ The long, heavy, single-edged blade was pulled free. ‘God and Parliament!’

‘God and Parliament!’ the men echoed.

Cromwell spurred Blackjack into a gallop while praying to reach the ditch before his malignant counterpart could respond. A heavy jolt punched his hip, but God had given him a mind to don tassets this day, and leg armour beneath his buff-coat skirts, and one of those thick pieces mercifully deflected the ball. Then they moved, the Royalists, lurching forward in two deep lines. They were quickly at full speed, and their blades came loose, shimmering like a shoal of trout under the hoary clouds. Then they were leaping the ditch, whooping and laughing as though they rode to hounds. They were dashing and valiant, the flower of the king’s court, mounted on expensive destriers shipped from France and waging war dressed in silk and feathers. At their head was Lord Byron’s banner, flapping like the tongue of a vast serpent.

Oliver Cromwell could not believe what he was seeing. It was a miracle, and he praised God for it, because he did not have to cross the ditch. Instead he gave the signal for his wing to slow their advance and wait for the courageous enemy horsemen to come to them. For Lord Byron was very brave. And he was also, Cromwell realised, fatally foolish.

John, Lord Byron, knew he had made a mistake as soon as his dun-coloured gelding crossed the ditch. His men had been straining at their invisible leash and he had yearned to release them. And then the Scots dragoons had swept away his screen of musketeers, leaving a clear path for the waiting harquebusiers, and Byron had decided to seize the initiative before the Eastern Association cavalry had the chance to gather momentum.

By crossing the obstacle, Byron knew he had thrown away any advantage he had. His men in the ditch might have been scoured from their positions, but he yet had a strong body in reserve, and, had he been thinking clearly, he might have moved them up to pelt the advancing cavalry with a hail of lead. Now his front line of eleven hundred was further advanced than that reserve, blocking their line of sight, nullifying any muskets they might bring to bear. But more importantly, he had risked a crossing of the one barrier that would throw Cromwell on to the back foot by interrupting his neat formation. Now, Byron knew, it was his own men who would enter the fray confused and disordered.

He looked left and right, reassuring himself that his troopers had, at least, made it across with him. Of course they had, because they were the cream of his battle-forged killers. Men who had been at Edgehill, Burford and Cirencester, at Roundway Down and Newbury. Men who knew how to fight. But they were no longer set in their snug lines; they were being riven, splintered into small groups, gaps appearing all across what should have been a horse-flesh breastwork. And then the enemy were at the charge, and he felt his guts flip as their snarling faces bore down, lips pared back and eyes wide.

The first body of rebel horse hit them like a surging tide. Bryon saw steel and teeth. He had sword in hand, and he cleaved the air, aiming at nothing and everything at once. His gelding could not move. He reached for his pistol, clicked back its dog lock, fired into the mass, but already his ragged line was shunting backwards, pushed inexorably towards the ditch behind.

Byron called for his men to hold firm, to push back, and for a heartbeat hope soared within him as the momentum was wrested back, but then another body of Parliamentarian horse careened in behind the first, and their weight tipped the scales again. Byron caught a vague glimpse of a trooper squeezing his black stallion between two comrades to come face to face with him. His bodyguard, O’Reilly, was there immediately, and the trooper vanished as the big Irishman levelled his carbine and shot him square in the chest, but the stallion, frightened now, began to snap its grass-stained teeth at Byron’s gelding. He found himself high up as his mount reared, jerked aloft as though he rode the crest of a wave. It took every ounce of his horsemanship to keep control. And in this moment he knew that the fight was lost, for his briefly raised vantage showed him a line of Royalist cavalry that was bowed and fragmented, and on the brink of collapse.

From his position on the right side of Rupert’s cavalry reserve, Stryker watched the disintegration of Byron’s first line with mounting horror. They had advanced, inexplicably, and it had cost them dearly.

He kicked hard, letting Vos take him across the face of his fifty harquebusiers, finding Sir Edward Widdrington out in front of his brigade. ‘Where is the Prince?’ he called. ‘Where in hell’s name is Rupert?’

Widdrington, an austere man in his early fifties, offered a meek shrug as he tugged his mare round to receive Stryker. ‘We cannot find him. I have riders at the search.’

‘Christ,’ Stryker hissed. He pointed back in the direction of the Royalist right flank, where the cavalry battle raged beyond the ditch. ‘Will you come, Sir Edward?’

‘I will not, Sergeant-Major,’ Widdrington snapped. ‘By God, I will not. We are the reserve. Byron must attend to his own misfortune.’