Pistoleer: Roundway Down

by Smith, Skye

  At dawn they broke camp, tied their prisoners into their saddles and rode away from Cirencester on the bridle path. At each fork they took the high path, which naturally led them closer and higher into the Cotswold Hills and towards the valley of the River Frome which cut through those hills and through the town of Stroud before it join the River Severn.

  They reached a ridge that had a view of Waller's abandoned camp just as the morning mist was thinning. Down on the damp flats below them the camp's many fires were still smouldering but those and the scattered rubbish was all there was left to mark the camp. Those and the stench from the latrines and thousands of horse turds.

  "Do you think our column has reached the Severn yet?" Perk wondered aloud.

  "Perhaps," Rob replied. "It depends on the state of the road. The Frome valley makes a narrow cut through those hills ahead. Luckily most of the heavy cannons and carts took the shorter way from Bristol because the general never had any intention of laying siege to Cirencester."

  "You knew all along, didn't ya?" Perk said almost accusingly, "An' ya didn't trust to let us know."

  "The fewer that knew, the better," Rob replied calmly. "Waller didn't even mention his plan in his dispatches to the Lord General Essex. As far as the rest of parliament's army knows, we are still on our way to lay siege to Cirencester."

  "Think 'o that then," one of the lads snickered. "We know more than the Earl of Essex.'

  Rob did not say that there were many men in this army who knew more than the Earl of Essex, for that would have been disrespectful. Besides which, his attention had been caught by a wave from Fodder who was riding point with two of the lads. They had stopped in front of a hill-herdsman's cottage and had pulled their dragons. He ordered Perk and the five men riding closest to him to swing around the back of the cottage, and then ordered the next five to follow him to support Fodder. The rest he left guarding their many prisoners.

  With a kick, his mare stepped up her pace to hurry forward. Rob could see wisps of smoke coming through the thatch roof, but that did not mean that the cottage was on fire. Hill cottages often had a vent in the roof for the smoke of the fire, rather than a stone or brick chimney. He pulled up just short of where Fodder was facing down a peasant man armed only with a pitchfork. That being said, a pitchfork was a gruesome weapon with range enough to skewer a horse or its rider, and since its tines were barnyard corrupt, any injury would fester with poisons.

  "Hold, everyone hold. Everyone keep calm," Rob yelled out as he dismounted and walked towards the standoff. After one look at the cottage and the cotter, Rob pointed his own dragon directly at Fodder's face. "Corporal, have you forgotten my rules of engagement so soon," he barked at the surprised Fodder.

  Fodder was obviously lost between memory, thought, surprise and fear. He said nothing, but did lower his own dragon.

  "You will not harm," Rob barked, "women, nor children, nor men who believe they are protecting them!" For someone with Rob's experience and strategic thinking, this was an obvious term. These days groups of Clubmen were being organized in every town for one purpose, to protect the families of those towns from the lawlessness caused by two armies circling each other around the kingdom. By respecting and helping the Clubmen, they became allies.

  Fodder looked down at his filthy boots and said in apology, "Sorry, captain. I didn't realize that there were women in the cottage," and then he looked up and added, "He never said."

  "You expect him to tell you, a stranger, a heavily armed stranger, that he has women in his home. Give your head a shake. Even way out here he will have heard the stories of Prince Rupert's campaign of rape and pillage.” Rob sighed. "Put your dragon away, offer the man your hand, and ask his forgiveness."

  Fodder did as he was told. It wasn't until his hand was taken by the shepherd that he realized how strong the man was. He would have given a good account of himself in any fight. But then the man visibly winced. "Are you hurt?" Fodder asked the shepherd.

  "My wrists," the shepherd replied. "The king's scouts tied me up. Cruelly so.” He held up a wrist that was raw and oozing blood. "After they left I wrenched my hands free, and the twine did that."

  Fodder was about to say something, but Rob spoke over him, "Then there were scouts here? How many?"

  "There were only three left," the cotter replied. "At one time there were twenty, but this morning there were just three. They only just rode away. They must have seen you coming."

  "Which way?"

  "Lit out along the ridge way in front of you, o'course," the cotter replied while shrugging.

  "Corporal, take your squad and catch them. Now man. Ride now. They are the last, so you can use your guns. Whatever happens they must not be allowed to double back to Cirencester.” Rob watched as Fodder leaped into his saddle and then called to his lads by name. They were all away at a run within the minute.

  Rob waited until the column of prisoners and guards got closer and then he called to an older man, Cor of Corston, "Bring your bag, Cor." He pointed to the shepherd with the vicious looking pitch fork. "This man needs salve and bandages."

  "You 'ave a barber with you?" the shepherd asked. "Then per'aps he can see to my women. They are inside still tied to our bed. The king's men, well, they 'urt 'em."

  Rob did not enter the cottage with Cor and the shepherd. Only they and the young lad, John, who carried the barber bag went through the low door. Instead Rob went to tell the prisoners not to dismount, but to water their horses in the small pond beyond the cottage, and not to move from there.

  The lad came out of the cottage with a beet red face. Rob laughed at the lad's obvious embarrassment at seeing women naked and tied spread open on a bed.

  "It's nay a laughin' matter," John hissed at him. "The men what did that should be strung up." It wasn't embarrassment that had reddened his face, then, but hot anger. "I was sent away to fetch samples of what was growin' in their kitchen garden.” He walked to his horse to fetch his axe which he would use as a shovel, and then walked off behind the cottage to look for healing herbs in the garden.

  Rob sat on a bench made from two stumps and a plank and watched his column water their horses further down the trail. Beyond them, the sides of the Frome valley steepened as it was crushed between the hills. It felt good to be alone, even for just a moment. He opened his map just to remind himself of what lay ahead between here and the River Severn.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

  Chapter 13 - Marching by Night to Cross the Severn in March 1643

  The young lad John was just congratulating himself on finding some comfrey root when he heard the snort of an animal. What made him turn and look was that it didn't come from the bridle path side of the cottage, but from a thicket of young trees about a hundred yards back along the path towards Cirencester. He put down his basket of greens and roots and picked up his axe and walked towards the sound with his ears pricked. Had he actually heard an animal, or was it just two trees rubbing together?

  The bridle path ran along the south edge of the woods, but to approach the animal down wind he had to walk to the north side. He felt a fool. The women in the cottage needed his herbs. Why was he wasting his time looking for hoot owls. And then he saw it. A glint, a flash of color, a horse on this edge of the woods out of sight of the bridle path and the cottage. "Easy there, go easy," he called soothingly. The head came up and stared at him. Oh what a horse.

  If not for the snap of a dry twig to one side of him, John would have been a dead man. Because he twirled towards the snapping noise the thrust of the sword blade stabbed through his upper right arm rather than through his back just below his boiled leather chest armour. Such a low blow would have ruptured his kidneys. He screamed in pain as the blade was yanked out, and then howled in terror at the thought that the next thrust would finish him. He wasn't old enough to die.

  John's scream saved him from being finished by the swordsm
an in the wide brimmed, plumed hat, for he pulled his next thrust and instead began to walk quickly towards his horse. "No," John howled, for the man was escaping, a royalist scout was escaping, and there was no one but him to stop him. He surged forward churning his legs to get to top speed, but the scout turned to meet his charge with his blade. Just as John had done a hundred times before on the football pitch, he dropped backwards and as he fell he slid his feet into the swordsman's legs.

  For an instant they were both on the ground. Now instead of thrusting his blade, the swordsman was trying to slash at him with it, but John was too quick. He had followed through on his football tackle and used the momentum to stand again ready to steal the ball. Only there was no ball. Only an angry swordsman getting to his feet. No ball, but there was his axe. He had dropped it when the blade had stabbed his arm and now he raced over to pick it up.

  As soon as it was in his hand he spun around to face the swordsman again. At least now perhaps he could block the blade. But the cool swordsman was not interested in fighting a lout. His only interest was in getting away, and quickly. While John had been picking up his axe, his ordinary felling axe, the swordsman had reached his horse and was untying it. John looked around towards the cottage but it was hidden behind the trees. He listened, and thought he could hear hoofs but was not sure that the thumping he heard wasn't just the pumping of blood in his ears. He must stop this scout, but how.

  Without a better plan, he ran at the scout with his axe raised. The swordsman simply side stepped him and slashed at his back below his poor armour. Again John screamed in pain, which turned into a howl of frustration as the scout gained his saddle. There was only one thing left for John to try, and it was the one thing that his corporal had always warned him never to do. Throwing a weapon rarely achieved anything other than disarming yourself during a fight, at the cost of arming your enemy. Throwing an axe blade meant spinning the axe, head over handle, which had less than a one in ten chance of hitting blade-on.

  In desperation John swung his felling axe up over his head and forward, but at the last second he decided not to release it with the jerk that would spin head over handle, so it flew head on and straight. It seemed to fly through the air for ever, but it flew true and the butt end of the axe head knocked that fancy Spanish hat flying.

  But it was not enough. The scout certainly wasn't going to dismount to pick up his fallen hat, and instead he spurred his fine stallion and they were away, overland in the direction of Cirencester. John howled in pain and rage. Pain because throwing the damn axe had opened both the hole in his arm and the slash across his lower back and they stung. Oh how they stung. He barely heard the hoof falls behind him because of his own bellowing, but when he did hear them he instinctively ducked and turned to face his next enemy.

  It was Captain Blake galloping one handed with his dragon in his free hand. "Go! Go! Go!" John yelled to him. "He's a royalist scout. Stop him!" Instead his captain was slowing his horse to see how he was. "No! No! No! Forget me. Stop the scout!"

  "He's not going anywhere," Rob called back to the lad. "See for yourself."

  John twisted his head over his shoulder so he could see the scout. Sure enough the scout's horse had stopped running and the scout was slumping in his saddle, and then he sort of oozed out of the saddle and fell headfirst onto the ground. John hooted in joy and began to run towards the fallen scout, but his captain called him back.

  "I'll see to him lad. You'd best just sit down and rest. Did you know that your back is covered in blood. Once I've made sure yon cavalryer won't escape, I'll come back and help you to the cottage."

  John sat down on an old stump to watch his captain make the capture, but then he gently rolled himself into the thick fresh spring grass around the stump so he could put his head down and hide his tears of pain and shame.

  * * * * *

  "Took ya long enough to catch up, sir," Fodder said carelessly as his captain rode up leading a fine horse with a finely dressed body riding belly down on a costly saddle. "We caught two of the scouts and we wus wonderin' what 'appened ta the third."

  "Yours were the decoy so that this one could escape us to Cirencester," Rob replied.

  "How'd'e die. Slowly I hope," Fodder grumbled.

  "The lad Johnny, the barber's helper, found him hiding in the woods and fought him axe against sword. The axe won. Serves him right. His vanity was the death of him. If he'd have been wearing a proper helmet instead of that fancy hat, he'd have been well on his way."

  Fodder looked around. "Where is the lad?"

  "Lying in a bed with a grateful wife and two daughters tending his slashes. Lucky bugger. This one and the two you caught were the ones that ravished them. Even if John hadn't killed this one, I doubt whether I would have stopped the shepherd from driving his pitch fork through him."

  "So John's the hero then," Fodder nodded, " to be written up in dispatches and be given fancy-hat's horse, armour and sword."

  "Nay, my dispatch will say that fancy hat died from a fall from his horse while bravely making a dash to take his scouting report to his general. I'll not mention John by name."

  "That's not fair."

  "Can't be helped. Look at the horse, look at the finery. The armour is of lightweight German steel and has a crest etched into it. The sword has a jeweled sheath. Fancy-hat is the son of someone very, very important. If I report his death as anything but a valiant accident, then he will be avenged. I'll wager you a decent jug of ale that General Waller sends the corpse, the horse, and the gear back to the parents, or back to the king. You know how the nobs are with other nobs. All respectful, no matter what side they are on, or who they last raped or tortured."

  "Purse too?" Fodder asked.

  "I left all his silver with the shepherd as recompense for what they did to his women. The daughters may have been ruined but a good dowry will still see them married. The gold I will hold back for John. He deserves it."

  "How'd he do it. How did a green lad like him beat a trained cavalryer, and with a felling axe? That nob would have been doing sword drills since he could walk."

  "He threw his axe and knocked the fancy hat off the nob's head," Rob told him, "and was lucky enough to crack his skull in the process."

  "The damn fool. I'll box his ears the next time I see him. How many times must I tell them not to throw their weapons."

  "Let's present him with a sword and some decent armour instead," Rob laughed. "I think he's earned it, don't you? Because of him, no word of Waller's march through the night will reach Cirencester."

  * * * * *

  By the time they caught up with Waller's column, it was taking a rest in the low fields between the town of Stroud and the banks of the River Severn. The river was running high and Waller had called a halt while he decided upon how best to cross it, for cross it they must if they were going to take the Welsh army by surprise at Highnam.

  It was a dilemma. If they followed the Severn closer to Gloucester, they may be able to ford it, or use the bridges at Gloucester, but then they would loose the element of surprise. There was a ford here at low water, but right now the water was running high enough to turn such a crossing into a disaster. Rob found Waller in conference with his senior officers. His staff were pressing Waller to send to Gloucester for boats.

  "Sir," Rob waved his hand to be noticed. He had been a short man all of his adult life, so he no longer got angry when he got lost in a crowd, he simply waved and grunted. "Sir, we've just moved heaven and earth to capture every royalist scout in the hills. Even so, by now Cirencester must be getting the first reports that you have abandoned the camp. You don't have time to wait for boats from Gloucester. You must press on."

  Arthur Haselrig, Waller's second in command, called out, "Rob, you've just arrived so you haven't yet seen how high the river is running? Besides, by now a dozen locals will be riding to the royalists to earn some coppers for telling them where we are."

  "These locals?" Rob replied. "Not on your life. In
truth, I am astonished that you haven't yet asked for their help in getting you across the river."

  Haselrig was infuriated by the glib answer and was about to retort, but Waller interrupted him. "Rob, tell me more of these locals."

  "They are mostly Huguenots," Rob explained. "Descendants of the French and Flemish survivors of the Saint Bartholomew's day massacre. Afterwards they fled and were allowed to settle here."

  "That explains nothing," Haselrig muttered.

  Rob looked at him and said, "Arthur, the massacre was ordered by the French queen, Catherine d'Medici, the mother of our own queen, Henrietta. These folk will help you out of no other reason than to spite a daughter of the Medici’s. They will refuse help to Charles for the same reason."

  "How is your French, Rob?" Waller asked. "I've always found the French to be uncommonly stubborn about not speaking English, even when they are fluent."

  "My French is middling bad. Enough for me to trade for wine in Cherbourg, but they will speak to me in English." The others in the room laughed at such a claim. They all had first hand experience with the stubbornness of Frenchmen.

  * * * * *

  "It would be prudent for you to help this army get across the Severn," Rob told the Mayor of Stroud and his councilors in his Cherbourg dockside French. The mayor was old enough to have been one of the original Huguenot refugees to this valley, but his councilors were all younger, and would have been babe's in arms during those terrifying times.

  "Your general has thousands of men with nothing better to do," one of the councilors pointed out in formal French. "Why do they need our help?"

  "To be done..." Rob began but was interrupted.

  "Where did you learn such horrible French?" the mayor asked in pure Parisienne.

  "The grammar in school, the accent in Cherbourg," Rob replied. "My father had a shipping business which traded for wine there."