by Oliver Ma
Chapter 2 Prince Rupert
There had been a great change in father the past 4 years, which I have observed and took note of. When the first “disaster” broke out, father had been depressed, almost traumatized. Now, as the shocks gradually sunk in and he grew more used to them, he often tried to fix the problem instead of just sitting in stunned surprise. Even as we drove away from London in the night, father was planning on how to take back what was rightfully his. Father rode on a great horse instead of in his carriage, flanked by his dragoons and ministers. Throughout the entire trip to Oxford, western England, father made plans with his captains and ministers, several of whom won over from the House of Commons, including Edward Hyde and Luscious Cary, who was always preaching to the King about his strange ideas. I spent the trip in my carriage with my brother James and Thumbs. Everyone was silent the entire journey, avoiding each other’s gazes.
One day, about half way between London and Oxford, a lone horseman clad in armor encountered us on the paved road. When we drew close I saw the man to have a dark, swarthy composure, with large lips and warm, dark eyes which shone with intelligence and cunning.
Verney, who led the column, brought it to a stop. Seeing this, the man dismounted and bowed.
“Sir Fairfax here, at your service.” He said to father.
Father nodded. “I have heard of you. What is your business, such that you stop the Royal Procession?”
“I came, sir, to stop you from continuing a grave mistake!” He said.
“If you come to halt my procession to Oxford, I will have you arrested, for it is well known that Sir Fairfax values his Parliament over his king.” Father told him blandly.
“Sir, please listen to what I have to say.” Fairfax begged. “You must give in and make peace to Parliament! If you do not, the___”
Father gave his horse a light kick. The courser began to walk forward.
“Speak not of peace. I shall never give in to the rebels. I will either be a glorious king or a patient martyr!” Father swore.
“Sire! Lord, I am trying to save you from the road of that Martyr!” Fairfax begged.
“If you are indeed, you would not try to stop me from going to Oxford. Everyminute lost now is precious, for I need to organize my court and draft troops there.” The King shouted back has his horse picked up speed into a trot. The whole procession began to move forward again.
“If you will not hear my pleas, perhaps you will read it at your own leisure later!” Fairfax said, running forward and sticking a white letter into father’s boot. Father pretended not to notice, only nudged his horse into a gallop. Fairfax was left in the mud as the procession stormed past. As I passed the man I thought I would look upon the ratty, cunning face of a rebel, one who has renounced his sacred oath to the King, but alas I saw only disappointment and genuine sadness as we passed the knight.
After a week of traveling, our flight finally ended at the royalist stronghold at Oxford. The city was truly a wonder. Built with a taste of classical Greece in mind, it had no walls and all the houses had roofs of red tiles. The renaissance has influenced Oxford in many different ways; there was a museum, a library, and even a university. The city was set in the middle of a large ravine covered with the colorful trees of autumn and located near a large numbers of little streams that snake their way through the ravine. Not only was the city beautiful, but it was easily defended. All the paths that lead to Oxford are narrow and windy, and should they be fortified would be impenetrable to large armies. Adding to the perfection of our new home was the huge Royalist population of Oxford, who welcomed father’s arrival with cheers instead of jeers, upholding their sacred oath of loyalty to their king. Why, my father’s enemies could never touch this haven!
The very first day we arrived father began to build his foundations. The Royal Family, (now down to father, Mary, James, Elizabeth and me) settled in the city hall, which was quickly converted to a palace for our stay. Father established his court in the meeting room of his great hall, which was quickly renovated to look like father’s court back in St. James. Here, the House of Lords and the Privy Council were combined to make his governing body. All of father’s main ministers are relatively new. There was Edward Hyde and Lucious Cary, one who was friendly and the other strange. There was Digby, who received his post through careful words of flattery, and then there were several generals who had served father for years, including Goring, Wilmot, and Hopton, who father made a commander. Hopton’s sworn brother Waller has refused to flee with the King and “betray” his country, and has instead defected to Parliament. Hopton, of course, still wishes to maintain his friendship with Waller, despite the near certainty of the two Generals meeting on the battlefields, for both would likely be sent to their native Wessex. I am glad Anthony and me will probably never meet on the battlefield.
With his foundations set, and a wartime capital established, father began to prepare for total war. He dispatched letters to all his nobles, great and small, asking them to declare for him. Many did, as father treated his nobles justly, but a few in Eastern England refused, as they had been heavily taxed during the last few years when father had no money, declaring instead for Parliament. By the end of March, the situation that faced England has gradually become clearer. Much of Southern and Eastern England had fallen to the rebels, surrounding London with a large, protective ring. Northern England, however, under the control of Cavendish in York, declared for father, as did Wales, which pledged it allegiance to the King before we even fled London. Wessex was engulfed its own little war, with part of the region declaring for father and parts of it declaring for the rebels. Seeing this, father dispatched Hopton with a small army of 200 dragoons south, promising the unsettled man title and nobility if he can win it over for father. Hopton agreed hesitantly, knowing full well that Waller would likely have been given a similar task from Parliament.
England was almost divided evenly in half, but it was Parliament that held the initial advantage. The body of traitors had made plans for an army even before they ousted my father from London. They had bribed many nobles of Eastern England to side with them, and thus as soon as open hostilities began, the rebels had ammunition contributed by the nobles as well as land on which to draft soldiers. What’s more, the rebels has also bribed their way into father’s navy, which shrewdly declared for the rebels, adding about 100 ships to the rebellion and allowing those men in Parliament naval superiority throughout the war. The true advantage they held over father, however, was that the traitors were almost rolling in money. They had refused to impose any taxes when father asked, but as soon as father was ousted they laid heavy taxes on the people whom they claimed to represent. At the same time Parliament also boasted of an effective array of Generals, including Essex, Fairfax, and Sir Waller. Parliament’s army was now recruiting at full speed, swelling every day.
Father, on the other hand, was in a much narrower straight. Much of the royal army was in Ireland, putting down Irish rebellions. Other than his 700 bodyguards, (now down to just 500 men) he must rely on the troops committed by those nobles still loyal to him, as he had no money to hire soldiers otherwise. Those nobles and their relatives would often arrive at Oxford with a small force of trained men, ranging from 20 peasants to 500 trained musketeers. However, while our army also grew continuously, it was much less coherent than those of the rebels, as each noble wanted to be the commander of his own company. This problem would remain unsolved until May, when father moved north with a small force to meet Cavendish at York and encountered a small fleet of Dutch warships.
They were already nearing shore when scouts ahead reported back to father, who was greatly surprised and unsettled, not knowing what to expect. One advantage we had over the rebels was foreign relationships. England’s allies before the rebellion had all refused to recognize the rebels and pledged to help father. The King’s allies included Spain, the Netherlands, Sweden, and even France, which, though a traditional enemy of t
he English, was won over with the help of mother, Marie Henrietta, the sister of King Louis the Eighth. None of the countries, however, had the extra resources to promise to send an overseas force into England for father; at least not yet. Thus for all that father could guess, this fleet could be the harbinger of a foreign invasion.
With our motley army of 500 dragoons, about 5,000 royalist volunteers that joined on our march north and the unruly mess of 4,000 professional soldiers lead by the nobles, father moved toward the beaches to contest the landing. By the time we arrived, the flagship of the fleet of nine Dutch men-of-war was already beached on the shore.
“Who dares violate the sacred shores of England?” Father demanded, attempting to sound intimidating.
A man emerged over the side of the ship. He was dressed in a colorful shirt of red, brown and dark green, wearing a ridiculously large brimmed hat, and treading in huge boots. In his hand he gripped a strange sword, Longer and more thin than the swords of England, but curved so it cannot be a French sword.
“Who am I? Alas to the day that I was captured at Linz, when the world in all its wretchedness forgot my name! I am the commander of the fifth Palatine regiment of horses, the destroyer of the walls of Breda and of Rhineberg, the son of fair Elizabeth and her dear Frederick, and the noble friend of Gustav Adolph, and yet to have one’s name so low that his dear uncle asks him who he is!” screamed the man. From his left a little white head peered out suspiciously at us. It was the head of a small white poodle.
“Oh my noble Boye, my friend Boye, those men down there have no hearts!” He pointed at us. “But we shall meet them anyways, for we are wanted neither in Spain nor France nor Wonderful Germany.” He said, jumping off the side of the ship and into the waist high waves even as his crew extended a plank off the side for him to walk down. His dog followed.
“Rupert?” Father asked, still suspicious, as the man splashed toward us.
“Ay, tis me!” Said the man, running at father while his little white dog swam after him. “Back from the Dungeons!” He laughed merrily as he stumbled out of the waves and onto the sand, sheathing his sword. I took a closer look at his face. The man was handsome, with long curls of brown hair, sharp, piercing eyes, a sharp nose and a handsome mustache. He came to a stop directly in front of father. No one moved to stop him, for it seems that father’s staff had recognized the man.
“Sire, here I have almost a thousand trained horsemen, fresh from the Spanish prisons to join you in your war!” He said jokingly.
“A thousand men is a thousand, and I trust they have to be rightfully veteran to survive the Siege of Linz” Father replied.
“Ay they did. These horsemen will make the Knights of King Arthur tremble in fear!” He boasted.
“That is good news! I trust you can command these men with little effort?” Father asked.
“Yes!” The man said. “Why? Are you so afraid of the furies of my dogs that you force me to put leashes of them?” The man bent down to pet his poodle, which had caught up after shaking itself dry.
“Well, that too, but you see, I have myself a fine force of almost 10,000 men, but no one to lead it and train it.” Father signed.
“Ahh! I see your problem. Uncle, you are like the French, hiding their true intentions behind questions and hints. I would love to take command of your army, but I fear I am sorely unfit for the job! Although I have marched with the men for nine years now, I am still only twenty-two, and most of my experience in the Thirty Years War was spent leading regiments of dashing cavalry rather than whole armies. To be frank, Sir, I fear I have as little experience managing campaigns as has that infidel John Pym!”
Father hid his disappointment behind a smile. “It is well then….you shall be the lord of all the horses in the Royalist army, and should my men doubt you because of your age, send them to me, and I shall tell them stories of your heroic victories in the Thirty Years War!” father declared.
“Oh you flatter me, Uncle. They are but raids.” Rupert blushed. His dog yelped from where it stood, attentively listening to the conversation.
“And of course, my Boye here” Rupert said, picking up his dog “contributed more to those victories than I myself did.” He gave a wink.
Father laughed as he turned to face the ships.
“I hope you do not speak of witchcraft, for there are many religious men in my ranks!” He joked. “Oh well. Unload your ships, and we can march north towards York in one body!”
Rupert bowed deeply, a flourish of grace, motioning to the men on his ships to come ashore. They did, walking down the planks from all three ships. None of them had armor or weapon, but all of them were large, burly men that carried themselves upright, their eyes bright, so different from the drafted peasants, who slouched and looked only at the ground on the march. Rupert was true to his words. These men were veterans straight from prison.
Our march north quickly resumed after Rupert’s men joined our ranks. I was very interested in his dog, who I found playful and intelligent. Instead of being carried by Rupert on his horse, the small dog ran tirelessly next to its master, barking at the joy of being off the ship. Throughout the trip north I rode near Rupert, asking him many questions and found the young man to be brilliant, innovative, and positive. It’s refreshing to finally talk to someone who does not disguise every word in flowery language and sew their intentions with flattery. For example, when I asked Rupert why he credited his successful career in Europe to his dog, he smiled and asked me a personal question.
“The stink of Emperor Charles’s prisons have befuddled my memory. How old are you now Charles?” He asked.
“I just turned 13.” I told him, confused by his strange response to my question.
“Ah…then no doubt you will be present when we confront the rebels. Follow me disguised as part of my retinue if you’d like, and you can participate in some of my less risky raids…..that is, less risky because I chose when to attack.” He said, before cursing good naturedly at his dog, who yelped in objection.
I frowned at Rupert’s answer at the same time as I inflated like a balloon from excitement.
“Participate in your raids! I’d love to! Will you give me weapons, and armor, and let me pretend to be a member of your horsemen?” I beseeched him.
“Yes, of course. But we will have to be careful to make sure you fit in with the rest of my band, so that the enemy does not know who you actually are and put less priority on shooting you. You will, of course, be strictly forbidden from engaging any enemy!” He told me. My balloon deflated a slight bit, but I stilled grinned at the thought of the opportunity I had just been offered.
When we arrived at York Rupert started to whip the army into shape. He immediately contributed his own sums to father’s cause and asked others to do the same. Many nobles did gladly, with Cavendish going as far as renting his estates and throwing his entire fortune at the King. With this new sum Rupert began recruiting volunteers from Royalists regions throughout England. These men were equipped with pikes or muskets and trained by veterans of past war from whatever village they came. To expunge the noble’s stubborn insistence of leading their own men in battle, Rupert put all the nobles, father’s dragoons, as well as some of the trained horsemen contributed by the nobles, into an organized body of horsemen, which would be known as the Cavaliers throughout the war. They would later build up a reputation of being stylish, well dressed in plumed hats, laced shirts of bright colors and large boot, frivolous, bold and daring, capable of being polite, and extremely well-armed and well trained. (Most nobles were trained in swordsmanship at a young age, and could afford quality armor and chargers.) Every single member of father’s cavaliers would copy Rupert’s wild, shoulder length hair. These men would indeed be a hammer for the King in the coming war, putting to shame the Parliamentary cavalry, (which consisted of little more than drafted peasants given weapons and put on plow horses).
With father’s army continuously growing
and training, a war plan began to form. I was allowed to attend father’s council of war, and learned much as a result. Since the rebels drafted peasants to bolster their ranks, they could call upon a force of 20,000 men with ease, while father could only boast of 10,000. However, it was said that the Royal army is of much higher quality and had higher morale, with Digby (in a fit to please the King) claiming the royal army consists of honorable men wanting to maintain their loyalty to the King rather than join Parliament’s army of slaves and hired cut throats. Regardless of the truth behind Digby’s statement, all of father’s generals opted for a quick, decisive punch at the Parliamentary army, fracturing it and capturing London, putting the war at end with one pitched battle and a few sieges at best. Thus, on the 21st of August father and his army of 9,000 men departed from Oxford and forced marched straight for London, intending to bypass the Parliamentary army, (getting between the Rebel army and London) and thus force the rebels to attack on grounds of our choosing. The force march worked. Near Nottingham our scouts reported the Parliamentary Army to be garrisoned in the Town, led by Devereux of Essex, one of father’s rebellious Nobles. Rupert led his force of cavalry, numbering in the 2,000s, circling around Nottingham before heading north. Rupert’s move paid off, and Essex led his army north to follow Rupert’s cavalry. Father’s army gave the rebels a wide berth as they slipped past, and before the Earl knew it, we were between his army and London, and a desperate race began. If father’s forces can outrun the forces of Parliament and capture London with the rebels behind us, then the war was as good as won. If the Parliamentary army does catch up, a great pitched battle would have to be fought.
Try as he might, however, father’s men were slowed down by the baggage train and the artillery pieces, and soon Essex’s cavalry was nipping at the tail of our column. Seeing this Rupert led 1,000 horsemen to confront the rebel vanguard, a force numbering about 1,500. I slipped away from father’s side and confronted Rupert, asking if I will be able to go along with him. He consented, and found me a small sized uniform/armor, and gave me a pistol. (I had wanted a sword, but he told me I would never be allowed to get close enough to use a sword.) As he helped me onto a juvenile charger, he warned me seriously (the first time I have seen him behave seriously thus far) to stay at the back of the squadrons and not to do anything to attract attention. I promised, and the band departed.
For two hours we galloped west, attempting to seek out the enemy band of pursuing cavalry men. Rupert sent several scouts about two miles ahead of the main column, and they would contributed partly to our eventual victory, but only Rupert’s (and Boye’s) talent gave us the decisive victory we were able to achieve.
Near the little town of Worcester, at about five in the afternoon, our scouts found the main enemy column setting up camp and preparing to rest for the night, probably intending to get a good night’s sleep before rising early and striking father’s army the next da. The swift scouts quickly reported their findings to Rupert, who’s eyes glistened like any good tactician’s would when they find an enemy’s blunder.
“Men, ready your weapon, don your armor….we are about to strike at some infidels!”
The horsemen, all of whom have taken off their armor in the heat of the march, began to dismount to replace it.
“No no, you understood me wrong! We have no time to loose. Put on your armor while we charge!” He commanded. “Right now we make for the enemy camp.”
Reluctantly, the men all mounted their horses as the squadron began to gallop again.
Rupert divided his column into two squadrons of 500 men each. He personally led one, and handed command of the other to his old mentor, Sir Jacob Astley. With his squadron Rupert rode to the other side of the rebel camp, so we would be able to attack the rebels from both sides. We were about 500 yards from the enemy camp, and they still hadn’t noticed us.
The camp was actually fairly heavily defended. There was a ditch surrounding the rebel tents, and several musket armed sentries were on guard, walking around the camp. Near the center of the tents I can see the parliamentarian banner raised. It was very simple, blood red with a white cross in the upper left corner. It seemed so barbaric, so over looked when compared to father’s royal banner.
Rupert smacked his lips as if the enemy camp was one ripe plum, but he did not give the order to attack. I was very confused, as to me, everything seemed to be in order. Our men were lined up, the enemy was as prepared as he would ever be…I looked at Rupert, my eyes silently asking “Why aren’t we attacking?”
“Now you are about to find out why they in Europe call me the “mad cavalier”…..where my reputation for recklessness and boldness comes from.” He chuckled, glancing down at his feet.
My eyes followed his and rested on the dog Boye. As crazy as it seems, the white poodle seemed to be concentrating intensely. It had one foot lifted, and it kept on tilting its head left and right, as if it was making a tough decision. It must have finally contented itself, for it gave a yelp and started trotting forward, right towards the enemy camp!
“The raid shall succeed!” Rupert shouted, giving his horse a kick and sending it into a gallop for the camp. All around him, the other horses picked up speed. I was bewildered. Rupert lets a dog decide whether he will attack or not! To our left a trumpeter blew several notes on his instrument, signaling our attack. Hopefully Astley on the other side of the camp will also launch his attack. All around me, the air was filled with the clop clop sound made by galloping horses. I even heard the flapping of armor, as many of the men had not had time to fully strap on their armor. As we galloped toward the enemy camp, I couldn’t help but wonder at the dog. It was extremely small and looked so fragile, but it charged forward bravely, running ahead of all the horsemen, yelping the entire way. Surely, I thought, the dog would be killed in the coming fray, but somehow I know it would not. This dog has survived hundreds of skirmishes, and each time it came out smarter than the last.
Up ahead we saw the sentries running about, and rebels beginning to pile out of tents, desperate to form a line. It was too late however. The horses of Rupert’s cavalry easily leapt over the ditch surrounding the camp, and they fell upon the rebels in seconds. Sabers flashing, pistols firing, the horsemen cut down enemy after enemy. I stayed well in the back, truthful to Rupert’s orders, watching the fray. The chargers spread great havoc among the enemy, knocking down tents, kicking down men, while their riders hacked left and right at their virtually defenseless enemies.
As I watched, however, I heard footstep near me.
There was a fair sized man standing behind me, dressed in a green shirt, which is smeared with yellow dirt. His face was red, and the skin of his neck wrinkly. His hair was loose and light in the wind and his face winced in pain. I guessed he was knocked down by horses. Indeed, his left arm hung awkwardly. I felt sick looking at it, but my eyes were drawn away to his, which glared at me intently. It was glassy and desperate. In his right hand he held a blade, one of cheap quality that you would find in a farmer’s cottage, but a blade all the same. He held it menacingly as he advanced. I felt rooted to the spot.
“No…No..” I whispered under my breath. He continued his advance, stubbornly intent on running me through, taking his time as he made his approach. Within 3 feet of me he lifted the sword and prepared to swing. I couldn’t move, but my horse probably felt the man’s evil intentions, and, feeling nervous, attempted to leap forward right when the man swung his weapon. The horse’s last second action saved my life. The sword swing, originally to hew off my vulnerable arm, instead glanced off the high quality armor on my back. My horse jumped away in fear. This series of actions jolted me to attention, and hastily I produced my pistol, which hung around my belt. Shakily, without thinking I leveled it at the man, and, not even bothering to aim, discharged the weapon at the surprised man. There was a tremendous boom, and I dropped the pistol. My horse and I were shrouded in smoke. The man stalking me was gone. He lay on the ground, writhing on the ground l
ike a fish out of the water. Blood was oozing out of a peanut sized hole in his chest, flowing away into the ground. His face was pale white, in stark contrast to the crimson blood that was smeared all over him.
I lost track of time after that. Perhaps it was a minute later, or half an hour, but Rupert sounded the horn of retreat, and our great throng of horsemen began streaming out of the camp and jumping the ditch once again. I didn’t know how to make my horse turn, but luckily it followed its fellow horses, and we rode out of the half burning camp.
I met Rupert outside as our band rode away. He was cleaning his sword. Boye was near him, his white fur covered with dirt. We had lost only two horsemen and twenty three wounded, most with fairly minor injuries. Rupert was rightfully merry from his feat.
“Ay, my little friend? How many rebels did you slay?” He asked me. His eyes were full of joy, but I also glimpsed a bit of triumph, of arrogance in his eyes.
“I….I think I killed someone.” I said remorsefully. Another wave of vomit was building up. Trying to take my mind off my disgust I turned to Rupert. “Why did you retreat though?”
“Ah….Boye decided when to retreat….he realized that if we lingered too long our horsemen would be bogged down and destroyed by the enemy infantry, so we must leave before the enemy could get organized….still, I’d say we killed fifty of them and crippled another 200 out of the war.” He gave a slight laugh. “Now, tell me about this kill of yours!”
“I…..he was advancing on my with a sword, so I produced my pistol and shot at him…….but….I hope he’s not dead!” I cried.
“Not dead? You wuss, you should be jolly at your first kill. You are now a man! I’ll tell you, that was an awfully nice shot. Dead center in the stomach. No man can survive that!” He chuckled as he rode away.
An image of the man, falling flat on his face flashed through my head. How could I kill him? What right do I have to take his life? He was once a boy, playing happily in the field. He had a mama that loved and cared for him. He was a well polished thing, fed, cared for, loved, a master piece of his parents and his clan. He had thoughts, beleifs, passions, he was so big, so much, so overwhelming. How could all this be brought to an abrupt stop by a pull of a finger, by the innocent flight of a ball of lead? As he lay there dying, he must have took note of everything around his final resting place. The dirt, the blood, the smell of powder in the air. What a terrible way, what a terrible place to die!
My eyes trailed after the disappearing figure of Rupert. How could he digest taking a man’s life so easily, with so little thought? Does he not feel the guilt crushing him? How can he still maintain a jolly demeanor immediately after he executed a maneuver that led to the death of so many people?
Then I jolted to reailty. Something didn’t add up. Rupert’s laugh, as he left. It was jolly, it was lighthearted, but it was also pretty cocky. Rupert had said I shot the man in the stomach. How could he have known that? It was as if he nearby when I shot. I looked down at my belt. My pistol! I reached for it, then groaned when I realized I had dropped it in the camp. It came flashing back to me. I had never loaded that thing! Rupert had told me when he handed it to me. He had put some powder in the gun for me, in case I get lost or fall into trouble, so I could use the gun as a flare. He didn’t put a bullet in it though, cause he told me he never expect me to use it. If there was never a bullet in the gun, then….
I looked up at the retreating form of Rupert. He was chatting with a soldier now, a jolly smile on his face and eyes twinkling. They seemed as innocent as those of my brother Henry, so different from the cold eyes I would expect on the face of a murderer. Is it possible? Rupert was a full 20 feet away when my assailant was shot. There was no way he could hit him from that far away. But then, I didn’t shoot the man…..it could only be him!
Rupert was so humble! I realized shockingly. He puts his brilliant victories on his dog, and he doesn’t even boast about saving my life! What a star, what a genius! With him leading father’s army, victory would always be in sight, I thought to myself. This would be put to the test in less than a week at Edgehill, the “decisive” pitched battle father’s staff had dreamed about.
