[SS C/S/50/104]
Sir Mortimer Shay in the kitchen: an iron-grey head among the hanging joints of meat, steam and the thick smell of stew gusting around him, the alehouse serving girl brushing past him and back and wondering at the games of men, an eye in a doorway watching the bustle beyond.
And what do you, Scoutmaster?
Like all good scouts, Francis Ruce was an elusive, insubstantial presence: hardly seen, hard to track. Shay had done two days’ scouting of his own – watching and casual enquiries and mental games on the map – and it had brought him to this alehouse kitchen five minutes before Scoutmaster Ruce had slipped into the alehouse and sat opposite another man. The other had scanned the room, then exchanged words with Ruce, and Ruce had dropped his hat on the bench between them and settled back in his chair.
Not good. The scout should wait, the source visit. Are you scout tonight or source, Mr Ruce?
The scouts were the eyes of the army in the field, the ears. Sharp eyes and ears meant timely readiness to face the enemy; they meant winning the race to the good ground; they meant a powerful line of march and a robust deployment. Dim eyes and dull ears meant surprise, weakness and vulnerability.
At Naseby in ’45 the royal cause had suffered badly. Some said it was the scouting. Francis Ruce had been Scoutmaster. At Preston in ’48, Cromwell had surprised the royal army by the unlikely expedient of staying north of the river.
It was natural for Ruce, as Scoutmaster, to come to such a place in such a manner. If he is to be a good scout, a scout must have his sources, to learn what he must of the enemy’s movements and condition.
A scout who becomes himself a source, is the best possible source.
Are you scout tonight or source?
One of a dozen murmured conversations in the alehouse, Ruce and the other talked on, heads bent, eyes unmeeting, and Shay tried to read the currents of the exchange, to gauge where the power lay in a glance, an expression of watchfulness, a clenched hand.
‘A trumpet call for free Englishmen!’ Every head swung round, and Shay adjusted his glance a moment from the doorway. A young man was standing on a chair at the other end of the room, a paper clutched tight in two hands. Shay’s eyes, no threat seen, flicked back and tried to read the two faces. Had Ruce reacted more quickly?
A scout is naturally alert. A source is naturally uneasy. The blade always has two edges.
After some initial jeers, friendly or indifferent, the young man pressed on defiantly, reading the pamphlet in a voice a little high and unmodulated, and his audience settled. Ruce and the other had returned to their murmuring, and Shay resumed his study of their expressions and postures, only half-hearing the occasional shouts of agreement from the crowd at the reading.
The reading ended, with cheerful jeers and applause and stamping, and then someone started on a ballad, and Ruce’s companion was standing. Was it imagined? The companion crushing something in his fist and pocketing it as he stood? A scrap of paper? These are suspicions only. Scout or source? Without – there: as he picked up his hat in his right hand, Ruce’s left hand went underneath it to support some heavier thing clutched in it.
Information is insubstantial; payment is substantial.
I think I have you, little man.
MERCURIUS FIDELIS
or
The honeſt truth written for every Engliſhman that cares to read it
From MONDAY, JULY 25. to MONDAY, AUGUST 1. 1650.
MONDAAY, JULY 25.
ROMWELL’S army having invaded thrice-wronged SCOTLAND, that vainglorious ſoldier has roamed the countryſide viſiting DEVASTATION upon poor honeſt ſouls and quite failing to ſecure any military purpoſe. As much as he has ſhown himſelf ready to fall upon the innocent and the weak in the homes, ſo he has been ſtrangely behindhand in facing the military ſtrength of the proud SCOTS and the perſon of HIS MAJESTY. Vainly has he tried to tempt the wiſe ROYAL commanders to imprudence, and fruſtration do only increaſe his cruelty.
TUESDAY, JULY 26.
Even as HIS MAJESTY does defy the illegitimate armies of the illegitimate PARLIAMENT, ſo does HIS HIGHNESS the PRINCE RUPERT oſ the RHINE do the like to their bewildered ſhips. Now ſafely berthed with our many friends in Portugal, HIS HIGHNESS continues to torment his tormentors.
FRIDAY, JULY 29.
DUNBAR having fallen to the voracious Parliamentarian HORDE, and MUSSELBURGH too, Cromwell has found himſelt unable to gain anything by theſe hollow performances except the malicious ſatiſfaction of innocent ſuffering, and his bold ſhow of force towards the great walls of EDINBURGH on this day was met only with muſket balls and SCORN, and he was obliged to retire to nurſe his wounds.
SATURDAY, JULY 30.
Indeed, ſo great was his ſhame, and so little his ſucceſs, that this CROMWELL had on the next day following to retreat all the way to MUSSELBURGH, there to reconſider his hubris. SHAME upon ſhame was his only lot, for he found that he had loſt more in the RETREAT than mere hirelings and PRIDE and ravaged land. Having reached what he conſidered SAFETY, he diſcovered that he had careleſſly left behind him his ſecond abettor in theſe VIOLENT proceedings, General LAMBERT, captured by the quick-footed ROYAL ſoldiers.
SUNDAY, JULY 31.
HIS MAJESTY attended HOLY SERVICE, and was heard to remark on the greatneſs of GOD and on his many MERCIES to thoſe who do truly and humbly LOVE him. A FISH being opened at a table in GLASGOW town, it was found to contain an other fiſh whole inſide it, and this was taken to PORTEND great developments from the preſent ſtate of AFFAIRS. This day a gallant band of LANCERS under the excellent MONTGOMERY attacked CROMWELL even in his own camp, and he remains under conſtant ſtrife and preſs of events.
[SS C/T/50/71]
Another long day, and Francis Ruce felt it in his shoulders as he rode, felt it in the jolts of his equally tired horse as it tramped stiff-legged through the evening.
I have deserved more than this.
A burned-out cottage ahead, an unpleasant outline against the field.
I don’t think I’ve slept easy these five years or more. Ten. Always between the lines. Always on the edge.
A shadow moving near the ruin? Careful. It was a lonely road. There had been attacks. Vicious locals; bitter starving peasants stunned by another lost harvest; scavenging deserters from any one of the armies that had crossed this land in the last few years. Everyone had a reason to steal these days, and no one had a reason not to kill.
I will survive, and I will survive with something to show for it.
The shadow broke from the edge of the building, and became a man. Ruce reached for his pistol.
‘Ruce!’ Ruce kept his hand on the pistol, pulled the horse up. ‘I’d have hoped for no one better.’ Ruce peered into the gloom. He knew the man, surely, by sight. ‘Come in here, will you? Need your help.’ A man of influence among the Generals. A man worth respecting, worth cultivating. But in the waist-high remnant of a doorway a weight smashing on the back of his neck and Ruce was stumbling and then his legs were kicked away and he dropped into the rubble, felt a hand driving his face into the ground, felt through his panic a blade at his throat. ‘Hands!’ A squawk of confusion. ‘Your hands behind you or I cut your throat!’ Now a knee pressing his head down, and his hands were quickly tied behind him, and he was wrenched face-up again, shoulders and elbows and hips ungainly and sore.
The man stood upright, and watched him. Ruce shuffled backwards to a sitting position against the slumped wall. Then the man was looming down at him, squatting close by, a knife in his hand.
A moment more, of thought. Then, ‘Ruce: you should know. You’re probably going to die tonight. At my hand.’ Ruce’s eyes wide, mouth gaping to speak and a hand was thrust into it and his head slammed back against the stone. ‘You should learn to speak when asked. Understand?’ A nod, and the hand was pulled away. ‘But know that when you speak, your life depends on it. Understand?’
Ruce nodded again, instinctive, but wari
er.
‘You’ve sold us, Ruce. Time and again. Tonight you’ll—’
‘I never—’ and the knife flashed forward and pierced his throat.
A prick merely, but Ruce froze in the shock.
Deliberately, the man pulled the knife back and shifted his grip, took Ruce’s collar in two hands and ripped downwards, baring the chest. Then he adjusted the knife again and, with the same deliberation, carved a shallow cut across Ruce’s breast, and Ruce gasped shrill and shocked.
‘You’ve sold us, Ruce. Time and again.’ This time the man stopped, and waited for the reaction. Ruce was gasping, cold, eyes wide. ‘You tell me. Everything, yes. Who you told. What you told.’ He flicked the knife up and caught the haft between finger and thumb and, casually, angled the blade forward and tapped Ruce on the nose.
And Ruce told him: a conversation in a brothel, years back, a man who knew everything about him, his needs, his weaknesses. Not a demand but a suggestion, a sharing of information to facilitate stalemate, fewer deaths. How much did he offer to pay you? Just expenses, and why shouldn’t I? And still the heavy face bored into him. Who? Describe him? Different men, no names, but they all seemed to know him. His mother. His debts. And had anyone truly looked after him all these years?
Shay watched him, tired. An ideal weakling. Vulnerable on so many points, and someone had known it.
How were you summoned? How were you met?
Simple codes, simple alerts. Anonymous meetings in alehouses and woodland clearings. Anonymous men; masked men.
A name. Give me a name, or you may die this night.
But Francis Ruce, shivering and weak-bladdered, could give no name.
And Mortimer Shay, short of time and frustrated, leaned forward and clamped his hand over the gabbling mouth again and cut the throat.
It bulged crimson and he watched it, bored, and wondered.
Rachel read the Mercurius Fidelis sitting in the arbour in the flower garden, as if it were some precious secret of romance.
Either I want to shelter in this garden for ever, like some vestal virgin of horticulture, or I want the world of this news-sheet. This was Shay’s world: the politics, the plots, the armies and the sieges. This news-sheet was him talking to her. He would, presumably, want her to care about the defiance of Edinburgh against the English Army. He was working to bring the Scottish Church and the Scottish leaders around in support of his King.
My King. Those Scotsmen are the leaders of my cause now.
The news-sheet was ridiculous, of course. The portrait of Cromwell as some bewildered demon staggering around the Scottish countryside was presumably exaggerated. But then she remembered all the times soldiers had come to Astbury: the wilfulness, the damage, the feeling that there were no longer any limits to what might be about to happen; and she wondered about the women of Musselburgh and Dunbar.
She tried to imagine how Thurloe fitted in Cromwell’s rampaging organism. He seemed far too careful, too cerebral, too. . . gentle, to be part of the chaos of horses and cannons and big men in uniform and shouting that was her image of an army. Perhaps Cromwell used decent men like Thurloe to soften the image of his rule. Or perhaps Thurloe was just a convenient tool of Cromwell’s world – one who could write a letter, or pursue a case at law. Or put clever pressure on a family like the Astburys.
Or might it be the other way round? Might the Army be the tool of the clever men – a necessary tool to achieve the new kind of stability they desired? She wondered about a world ruled by Thurloes: thoughtful, surely. Principled, or merely indifferent?
He has a wife, I think. She wondered about Mrs Thurloe. A dowdy breeder of the offspring of a clever man; or his clever partner, trading Greek quips in the parlour?
If Shay and his Scotsmen do not win, is that the kind of man I am supposed to marry?
William Seymour, grey hair bobbing behind him as he walked stiffly over the flagstones, heard his name from the shadows and turned to see the outline of two men on a bench. One rose and stepped to the edge of the light.
‘Shay. How do you?’
‘Well enough. How is the young King?’
Seymour preferred to move as little as possible, and did not see why Shay should not do the walking, but discretion overcame him and he stepped closer to the shadows. Miles Teach stood, respectful, but stayed back against the wall. ‘He is. . . a different sort of man to his father.’
‘That’s certainly true.’ Shay managed a heavy smile. ‘Poor Seymour. Your service has deserved more stability than this, I think.’
Seymour seemed to take it as licence to express his frustrations. ‘These people, Shay!’ His head came closer, and the cracked voice dropped further still. ‘Such a hotpot of politicking and religion as you never saw. The man Cromwell has advanced again and sent envoys to the Church leaders here offering negotiations. He knows their suspicions of the King; he knows our divisions. Yesterday’ – the voice was a shrill whisper – ‘the Church leaders demanded – demanded! – that the King sign a paper disowning the religion of his parents and restating his own support to the Scottish religious settlement.’
‘I heard as much. He’ll sign, I hope.’
Seymour’s eyes went wider still. ‘No, Shay! He will not. Young Charles cares nothing for his father’s beliefs, I think, but he has all of his father’s pride.’
‘He must be persuaded. Leslie’s army would simply disappear. If the Scottish leaders withdraw their support, we are lost.’
‘I know that!’ Seymour was spitting his frustration. He caught himself, hissed in a deep breath, and stared at Shay.
Shay gripped his narrow arm. ‘I understand. What a pit we’re in, eh?’ He stepped back. ‘Tell me if – No, let me offer now. I have a young man – Vyse, Bernard Vyse’s boy. A fine lad, and it’s time he got acquainted with the Court and his duties there. May I send him to assist you?’
Seymour thought for a moment, nodded, and turned and stalked uncomfortably away.
Teach, closer now, said: ‘Trouble?’
Shay, over his shoulder: ‘Perhaps. Cromwell knows our cracks and is pulling at them. The King must bow his head to these miserable Scotch faith-pedlars, or we can all go and live in permanent exile.’
TO MR I. S., AT THE GEORGE, IN NEWCASTLE
Sir,
The hopes for peace, I fear, have taken their heaviest blow since your General Cromwell brought his army over the border. I learned from a man at breakfast today that yesterday night His Majesty, at last, under much persuasion from his friends, signed the paper demanded of him by the leaders of the Scottish Church party. He has disavowed the beliefs of his own parents, and repeated his support to the new Scottish settlement. The Scots are cock-a-hoop at this, which they see as confirmation of their power over the King, and as a reinforcement to the strength of their movement. The King’s friends, meanwhile, are likewise delighted, knowing that the Scots are now full committed to fight against Cromwell in the King’s interest. These squabbling fractions of men are for now united, in religion and in desire for war.
[SS C/T/50/79]
On the table in front of Cromwell, four papers showing the signs of having recently been in his unhappy fist. ‘It has never been my habit to retreat, gentlemen. But I think this a false battle, and I do not think we can win it. These latest news from inside Edinburgh confirm what Thurloe’s report told us a day ago: the royal whelp has put his neck in the Scottish leash. None of them will be negotiating with us now. None of them will be crossing the lines to join us.’ He shook his head, great glum swings from shoulder to shoulder, discontented at the whole world. ‘My palsied Army shrinks daily on this wasteland, and it will not do.’
Thurloe remembered uncomfortably yesterday’s pride, hurrying in to Cromwell with his paper, the news that Charles Stuart had signed the declaration days earlier. Excitement at the clever arrangements that had got a paper from Edinburgh to Newcastle and near back again in less than two days. Excitement that he had the information that others did no
t. Excitement that the information was significant.
I did not care a penny for the significance itself. Now he saw the real significance, in the bitter faces of Scot, Lambert – swiftly rescued after his capture by the Royalists, but still smarting at the indignity – and most of all Oliver Cromwell.
‘We must withdraw from this place, as best we may.’
‘Shay.’
‘Leslie.’
David Leslie’s flowing curls were white now, the moustache likewise. ‘What would Prince Maurice have made of us?’
Shay’s mouth curled. ‘Not much, I fear. He’d want another half a year with your levies, at the least. But then he always was a miserable old goat. Gustavus Adolphus, now. . .’
Leslie’s eyes brightened. ‘Would attack.’ In the angular Scotch accent, the word snapped sharp.
‘Spoken like his favourite lieutenant.’ He glanced at the room around them. There was a briskness to the bustle of the Court men and the soldiers. ‘You’re ready to give open battle?’ The words were lower.
Leslie’s voiced dropped accordingly, but the hunger was still in the face. ‘Cromwell knows he can’t split us now. And he hasn’t the supplies for a campaign, and his men get more miserable by the hour. The cavalry are chivvying him daily – wearing him down. The only decision is whether we wait for him to retreat – merely push him out of Scotland.’
‘You want more, of course.’
‘He retreats; he returns. He’s weak, now, and we won’t have a like chance again. And if we wait any longer the Church men hereabout will find some way to lose the opportunity.’ The accent emphasized the irritation. He leaned forward. ‘If I could somehow fix Cromwell – surround him – I would shatter the myth for ever.’
Shay nodded, slowly. Then he patted Leslie roughly on the arm. ‘Let’s see what comes, old horse. All these Godly prayerful men around, perhaps you’ll get lucky.’
Leslie nodded brightly and strode off, bent-backed but spry.
Traitor's Field Page 33
