Marston Moor (45 page)

‘Tell me again!’ Rupert barked at the wild-eyed trooper, who did not even bother to dismount, such was his anxiety. The prince was already pulling on his coat and breastplate, checking pistols, slinging his baldric and tying his scarf. ‘And make it quick!’

‘Colonel Widdrington’s compliments,’ the rider panted, ‘and you’re to come to the battle forthwith.’

Rupert went to his horse, taking the reins from the waiting aide. ‘Battle?’ He stooped to pat Boye’s shaggy pelt. ‘You say battle, sir?’

‘I do, Highness, for it is battle we have.’

‘Where?’

The messenger wrinkled his nose. ‘Everywhere, Highness. The enemy advances across the entire front.’

‘And?’

‘We have success in most quarters, Highness.’

‘But?’

‘Lord Byron suffers.’ He visibly winced. ‘He crossed the ditch and received a dire beating.’

Rupert glanced at Crane, who was settling into his own saddle. ‘Crossed? I told him to keep behind it.’

Crane nudged his mount forwards. ‘He thought different.’

Rupert crammed on his
Zischägge
. ‘I fear we have missed the day, Sir Richard.’

Crane pursed his lips. ‘At the gallop, Highness?’

Chapter 20

The Allied infantry had advanced through the centre of the battlefield as the cavalry attacked the flanks.

Their front line, commanded by Major-General Crawford, was formed of ten bodies, representing all three armies. On the left, four regiments of the Earl of Manchester’s Eastern Association were already engaged along the line of the ditch, having been drawn into contact by General Cromwell’s insistence that the enemy gun emplacements be neutralized. Next in line were two regiments of Yorkshire Foot, and then four from the Army of the Covenant. Together the forward brigades enfiladed the Royalists lining the ditch. Their numbers were superior, and their momentum, coming off the steep slope, allowed them to strive close to the obstacle before the defenders could gather their wits and properly load their weapons.

The fire-fight flared right the way across the curved line as battle raged between the opposing horsemen on either flank. The storm overhead hampered all, turning powder damp and matches soggy, but enough shots were loosed to make the trench a glimpse of hell on earth. The Parliamentarians and Scots pressed hard, pikemen ready to launch across the barrier as their screening bodies of musketeers rippled with crackling volley fire. Men fell on both sides, punched back by lead, their places filled by those waiting behind. Field pieces, the smaller kind that could be manhandled by teams of men, coughed and recoiled, sending their missiles into the closely formed targets of flesh and metal.

In the Allied front line, Captain John Kendrick sucked hard at his pipe and closed his eyes for just a moment, remembering the wonders of New England and of Esme DeHaan in particular.

‘Stupid bitch,’ he heard himself say.

‘Sir?’ Sergeant Andor Janik was standing right next to his captain.

Kendrick drew on the pipe again. A dense pulse of musketry rattled from the far side of the thorny hedge, but he did not flinch. ‘Miss DeHaan,’ he repeated. ‘You recall?’

Janik noticed one of the hajduks on his right shift backwards a pace, and he reached behind with his halberd, hooking the frightened Hungarian back into line. ‘How could I forget, sir? Her fault we end up in this shit-stinking country.’

Kendrick had fled the Colonies because of Esme’s murder, and it irked him still. ‘Stupid bloody bitch,’ he said again. Then he looked along the line. Crawford was there, mounted and waving his sword this way and that like a mad beast. He looked at Janik. ‘Make ready the men.’

Kendrick’s company had been absorbed into the army of the Eastern Association and placed out on the left flank of the Allied front line, under Major-General Crawford. From here they had witnessed the near destruction of the Royalist right-wing horse, cheering as the reckless Cavaliers had crossed the ditch to their own demise. But then Crawford had taken his infantry to the blood-drenched gully, the musket duel had erupted all around them, and the field had been consumed in acrid fog and bright flame, obscuring all but the few yards in front.

Kendrick took a final lungful of fragrant smoke, letting it meander through the gaps in his filed teeth, then drew a breath that was dirtier. ‘Test your matches!’

Pan covers were closed, protecting the black powder within, and each man carefully worked his trigger to pivot the serpent, checking that the match would fall in the centre of the pan when the time came to fire. A couple required adjustment, most did not, and Kendrick emptied his pipe, thrusting it into his fur-trimmed cloak as he bellowed: ‘Blow off your coals!’

Muskets were lifted to chins, lips pursed, and every man blew gently on the lit end of his match, still dangling limp in the serpent, to ensure that it glowed brightly in spite of the rain. Kendrick took a last look at them, his fine company of swash-and-buckler men. Though the failure at Skipton smarted like a livid wound, they had followed him, turned their coats as he had turned his, and he was proud of every single one.

‘Present your piece!’

The company – an amalgam of English cutthroats and Hungarian sell-swords, of French footpads and Swiss thieves – shifted forwards, extending the left leg to turn bodies in profile as they lifted the long-arms into position, nestling wooden stocks against shoulders and training the barrels at points along the defended hedge line.

John Kendrick pulled his cloak tighter against his neck and cheeks, finding comfort in the thick bear pelt. He drew his sword with his gloved hand, pulled free his broad cinquedea with the metallic fingers of the other, and hauled air into his chest. ‘Give fire!’

The volley tore across their first two ranks. It was joined by that of the rest of Crawford’s left flank, creating a vast torrent of lead shot, which sprayed forth over the ditch, splintering and fraying the hedgerow. A lull in return fire told Kendrick that a heavy toll had been paid by the defenders. Crawford emerged from the smoke, screaming orders that none could hear, but the drums repeated them in a deep, reverberating thrum that shook boots and ribs, and the Allied brigades shunted forwards. They faced a formidable foe. On the far side of the hedge were the regiments of Rupert’s army. Many, beneath the banners of Broughton and Tillier, were fresh from the war in Ireland; sturdy fighters turned ruthless and cruel, skills barbed and poisoned by sectarian hatred. But they were outnumbered, overwhelmed, and they could not return fire with the weight mustered by the Army of Both Kingdoms; they would surely be falling back under so great a pressure.

‘I am a
hard-man
!’ Kendrick shouted to his followers. ‘I have supped of the conjurer’s brew, and cannot be killed! With me, my lads! Let us play butcher for the day!’

The Royalist centre, like that of their enemies, was made up of infantrymen. They had around ten thousand pikemen and musketeers, but it was only roughly half the Allied number, and Lancelot Forrester, standing beneath his red banner adorned with two white diamonds and the cross of Saint George, expected to die.

As part of the York garrison, Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot were positioned in the Royalist core, at the middle of the second infantry line and brigaded together with a regiment of Northern Foot. It was from this position that Forrester witnessed the disintegration of the front line under Tillier. It all happened so quickly. The respective armies engaged across the ditch and hedge, the whole area marked in seconds by rising pillars of smoke that billowed outward, melded together and smothered the moor like a vast, grit-flecked blanket. Then out of that shroud came the Allied foot, too numerous for Tillier’s veterans to turn back. The Earl of Manchester’s crossed first, for their section of ditch was shallowest, and immediately they wheeled to their right, giving flanking fire that enfiladed the Royalist musketeers, forcing them to a steady retreat. And all the while, Lord Fairfax’s regiments at the very centre came on to the Royalist side of the moor, and the Scots under their swirling saltires joined them to the east, and then they were all across.

‘’S’precious blood,’ Forrester hissed through gritted teeth. ‘This will be a hard pull.’

‘Trevor’s gone.’

Forrester looked up to see that Sir Edmund Mowbray had reined in beside him. ‘Dead, sir?’

Mowbray smoothed down his russet moustache, as was his way when anxiety pulled taut. ‘Engaged on the right. Caught up with Byron.’

‘Jesu,’ Forrester muttered. Colonel Marcus Trevor’s Regiment of Horse were supposed to be held in support of the infantry. ‘Then we have no succour?’

Trumpets and drums played out, shrill cries sharpening the beating thrust. It was the order he had expected. ‘Old Oak! Get that colour up, if you please!’

Michael Oakley, sixty years of age and, so he claimed, all of twenty stones of pure muscle, hefted Forrester’s ensign into the wet air. It was a gesture rather than a tactical move, for the company had been absorbed into the huge battaile of men and weaponry, but he felt a swell of pride all the same as the staff creaked like a mast, the taffeta banner sweeping back and forth as the other regimental colours began to churn in unison.

Forrester drew his sword and stepped out of line, nerves jangling uncontrollably. The drumbeats quickened as the men paced forward by a half-dozen long strides, settling where a green-cheeked lieutenant waved a partisan horizontally at waist height, indicating the extent of the formation. When they were arranged, the brigade adjacent to the others of the second line, a preacher strode out in front, shrieking damnation upon the advancing enemy. Two small field pieces coughed from the ditch. One took the preacher’s head clean off, the other careened through an entire file of Mowbray’s pikemen. The great ash staves tumbled, rattling on those behind, and a groan of horror rippled through the formation.

‘God and the King!’ Sir Edmund shouted from high up in the saddle. ‘God and the King!’

Most echoed the cry, though their efforts were muted.

Forrester suddenly needed to urinate, so he went there and then, the hot liquid strange in breeches made so cold by the rain. The guns fired again, one missing, the other taking a sergeant at knee-height only yards from where Forrester stood. The Allied army cheered, and to his ears it sounded like the gates of hell called to him. He swallowed back a rush of bile that seared his throat and soured his tongue.

‘We move up to support General Tillier!’ Mowbray was calling.

Forrester looked along the line. There were whitecoats to the left and right. They were formed up tightly, swaying forests of pike in each battaile’s centre, with thick blocks of shot on either side. Dotted around, from company to company, were the red banners of the Marquis of Newcastle, white crosses, like Mowbray’s diamonds, denoting the status of each company commander. Forrester slipped a hand to his own shoulder, touching the fabric of the silken cross the marquis had awarded him. Now that he was in line with the whitecoats, it somehow mattered.

He twisted back, finding Mowbray. ‘In case I am slain, sir.’

Mowbray stared over his nose at the captain. ‘Well?’

‘Killigrew is a traitor.’

That threw the colonel. He blinked rapidly. ‘Ezra Killigrew? The spymaster?’

‘He masters spies for the Parliament as well as for the King.’

Mowbray laughed wildly, as if the revelation sat logically on so terrible a day. He unsheathed his sword as the next set of drumbeats sounded the advance. ‘Well I’ll be damned. You did well to tell me, Lancelot.’
The musket-ball took Mowbray square in the face, erasing his features in a single moment. His head snapped back, then his body fell.

Forrester felt a new dampness on his cheeks as his colonel’s blood sprayed forth, mingling with the raindrops. ‘Christ,’ was all he could murmur, but then the whole Royalist second line was in motion, lurching forwards to fill the space left by the routed first, and he was forced to forget Mowbray and move on.

There were no more than thirty paces between Royalist and Parliamentarian now. The powder smoke was heavy, filthy, and Forrester’s gums seemed fouled with grit, but the shifting murk was not opaque. He squinted as they surged forwards, pushing through the gaps between what was left of the first line. Ahead was a sea of men, of morion pots, pike staves, Monmouth caps and banners, rolling like an incoming tide.

The fear vanished, as it always did. Forrester knew he would die, and the terror that had been twisting his innards to knots only moments before dissolved. Now all he felt was a serene detachment, as if he floated above the killing field. He cocked his pistol without thinking. The enemy were close now, a matter of two-dozen yards, and they fired their dense volleys. Mowbray’s regiment shivered with the impact, but it kept going, pace by bloody pace, and the musketeers on either flank fired their own weapons en masse, causing the Parliament men to falter.