by Smith, Skye
By this time the ensign and his men were locked into a brutal fight with members of the king's personal guard. The fight was not about capturing the king, nor his princes, nor even for a treasure. They were fighting for possession of a pole with a large flag flapping from it ... the king's standard.
"A flag,” Daniel yelled at Arthur. "You are fighting over a bloody flag when the king's two young sons are not fifty feet away and ripe for capture and ransom."
"But it's the royal standard,” Arthur told him. He had both hands firmly gripping the pole but then so did one of the king's officers and the two of them were yanking the stupid thing back and forth with all their might. Neither was giving ground and neither was letting go, not even with one hand so they could grab a weapon, for that would mean losing the standard to the other.
The complete stupidity of this tug of war for a bloody flag, while Englishmen were dying all around this battlefield, made Daniel want to bash both of their heads together. Capturing the princes could bring a pause in this battle which meant that men would stop killing each other. What was so important about a bloody flag. Nothing, but this was not the time to argue the point. Daniel, like most Dutch pistoleers, carried a light battle axe rather than a sabre because an axe was so much more useful. He now pulled it up and out of the straps that held it to his saddle, and held it out above the king's officer to frighten him into leaving go of the standard.
The man tried to duck under the pole to protect his head, but in doing so the end of the pole poked Femke in the ribs, and she jumped a bit. Daniel grabbed at the saddle to keep his balance, but that meant that he lost control of his axe and it fell. "Oops, sorry,” Daniel said automatically.
There was a scream of anguish from the officer because the razor sharp axe had separated him from his right hand. There was a scream of victory from Arthur because he now had the standard all to himself. He held it over his head and waved it to show his men. It was all a bit obscene because the other man's separated hand still had a firm grip on it.
With the standard now captured, the other men on both sides who had been fighting for it stood back from each other to regroup. "Right, then,” Daniel told Arthur. "Now you can get on with capturing the royal princes." He may as well have been talking to a wall. With the king's standard in his hand, Arthur and some of his men were leaping down the slope, heading back to Essex's camp to show off what they had captured. The rest of Arthur's men were soon following them.
Frantically Daniel looked around for any men wearing orange sashes who could help him to capture the princes. He needed perhaps ten, or even just five men. His look around showed him that other than the one handed man who had been left behind by his own men, he was by himself. Meanwhile the princes were being physically carried away to safety by the men who had just lost the royal standard.
Although orange was now definitely winning this battle, the only orange force that seemed to actually know what they were doing were Balfour's cuirassiers. Unfortunately they were out of ear shot on the north side of the king's headquarters where they were putting the run on gunners and disabling the large cannon that had been firing down on the orange army. As he watched them, they finished cutting away all the ropes and fittings and blocks and tackle from the big guns so they could not be hauled away or repositioned. He waved to them. Oh how he waved to them, hoping that they would look up and look over and see that there was almost no one between them and the royal marquee. Instead they raced back down the slope to attack another field gun emplacement down on the flats.
The only men at hand capable of taking the king's headquarters were the Freiston men. It would be embarrassing to have to change his tune completely and beg them to join the battle, but what choice did he have. When he looked around to wave to them, they were almost at the top of the ridge. Before he could reach them they would be over it and down the other side. He felt like screaming in frustration. The king was right there to be captured. He could see his marquee and could imagine him in it pacing back and forth and watching the battle, but there was no one around to help him capture the bastard.
His own frustration was interrupted by a pitiful groan. The one handed man laying on the ground groaned again and then fainted, likely from the loss of blood. Daniel slid off Femke and tore a strip from the man's shirt and used it to tightly bind the truncated wrist to staunch the spurting blood. That done, he made a quick search of the man. Giving away all his gold eights had left Daniel a bit short of ready coin, so he found and pocketed the man's purse. On his remaining hand, the man was wearing a fine gold and ruby ring and a chain bracelet made of gold, obviously family heirlooms. Daniel couldn't leave him wearing them else the first battlefield gleaner who came along would cut off his remaining hand to get them.
That they would be stolen anyway was a good enough excuse to steal them himself, and that thought did go through his mind as he wrenched the jewelry off the man, but not more than six or eight times. In the end he left the jewelry out of sight inside the man's hose in hopes that no gleaner would be hard up enough to steal some stinking hosiery. Boots yes, hose no.
There was a very surreal feeling around him as he took care of this man who had so bravely yet idiotically defended a scrap of cloth on a pole. Perhaps it was because the Freiston men were on their way home, so the mission he had set for himself was now complete and successful. Perhaps it was because he had survived a brutal battle that he had no business being in. Perhaps it was because the barking sounds of a powder battle were fading and being replaced by the sounds of trumpets and the sounds of the wounded. Perhaps it was because from up here on the slope he could see all of the orange and red clouds of the sunset.
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The Pistoleer - Edgehill by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14
Chapter 27 - Collecting prisoners at Kineton, November 1642
Trumpets? Daniel pulled out his looker. First he checked the king's marquee. Was he even there or was he fleeing with his sons? He couldn't see the king but he could see the young princes. He dropped the angle of the scope to scan the steep slopes down to the flats. There were plenty of orange sashes on the slope, but lower down. The strange thing was that now the all important high ground of the ridge was theirs for the claiming, they had all but stopped climbing the slope. One last push up the slop and the red infantry would have surrendered. Yes the two sides were taking pot shots at each other, but no one on either side seemed to be organizing an attack. Meanwhile they were losing the light, and then what?
What kind of insanity was this? Holding this edge would give Essex control of this entire region, including the roads to Banbury and the highways to Oxford and London. Why were they not forcing the surrender of the red infantry? It didn't make sense. Trumpets again. They were coming from Essex's side of the battlefield. Was Essex signaling a general recall? What was Essex thinking? He had won the battle so why wasn't he pressing the win? With the ridge as his, he would again be between the king's army and London. Hadn't that always been Essex's strategy? Worse still, why wasn't he sending Balfour and his cuirassiers to capture the king, which would end the war? Why a recall? It was sheer insanity.
Back and forth, over and over, he scanned the fields with the looker. From this vantage he could see the entire battlefield. There was damn little fighting going on anywhere any more. Clots of pikemen in red sashes were being allowed to walk off the field in almost every direction. Perhaps these were pressed men, like his clansmen, who had decided to go home while the going was good.
The red infantry and the orange infantry were staying away from each other and carrying the dead, the injured, and the prisoners back to their original lines. There were small pockets of cavalry from both sides moving back and forth but only to escort prisoners or their own injured men. Where were the rest of the cavalry? He could see neither the bulk of the red nor the orange cavalry.
Eventually he focused on the village of Kineton. There was a bloody hand to hand battle royal going on
within the parliamentary camp that ringed that village. That was where Rupert's flying army were. Was that why Essex had recalled his men back from the ridge? Why? To save a baggage train rather than capture the king. It still made no sense.
An angry sound from Femke brought him back out of his looker and he spun around in her direction. He had been so involved in the surreal feeling and the surreal view, that he had been oblivious to what was happening on the ridge. The reds were returning, and he was the only orange near here. A group of red musketeers were near Femke and making ready to grab her so that Daniel couldn't use her to escape them. They must have thought him an officer worthy of capture, otherwise they would have shot him by now.
"Kick, kick, kick,” Daniel yelled out to her and that was exactly what she did. Suddenly the men around her were diving away from her hoofs. She trotted up to him and he swung himself aboard without slowing her ... another advantage of riding a short horse. She had been heading south along the traverse path, and that was good enough for him. Southward should be safe enough because most of the returning reds were headed towards the northern end of the ridge where the king was. A few of the musketeers now took shots at him, so he ducked a little in the saddle.
It was a good thing he didn't duck lower else whatever hit him in the back would have hit him in the neck. As it was, the power of the hit pushed him forward and sent pins and needles and pain shooting through his shoulders and shoulder blades. A musket ball must have hit him square in the back between the shoulder blades. He reached around to feel for the stickiness of blood, but he felt none. He did, however, finger a deep dent in his body armour.
The denting would cause an aching bruise that would pain him for a week but at least it was not serious. The thin Dutch steel of his chest armour had saved him yet again. He said a quiet thank you to the king's amateur musketeers who didn't have the sense or the training to know that the easiest way to stop a mounted man was to shoot the horse, not the man.
Once he was a quarter mile southward along the trail, the immense hurt of the hit forced him stop and dismount. It stung so much that he checked again to make sure that it wasn't bleeding. It wasn't, but it was every bit as painful as stubbing the same toe over and over again. The pain brought him out of surreal feeling and into the here and now of the very real. What the hell was he still doing on this slope? Why hadn't he joined the Freiston men in their march towards Banbury and then home? He could still catch them up, yes, but something was nagging at him, as if he had forgotten something.
The Earl of Lindsey. He had wounded Lindsey and had seen his son and his other officers carry him away from the skirmish at the field guns, but was he dead or soon to be dead, or would he live? If he didn't die then the next time he was anywhere near Boston with his army, he would avenge himself on those villagers yet again. He had to make certain that Lindsey was dead. That was why he was still on Edgehill and not marching home with his clansmen.
Through his looker he again scanned the battlefield, this time searching for Lindsey, or somewhere that Lindsey was likely to be. The last time he had seen him, he and his son had been surrounded by orange infantry, so they were sure to be captives. Where would captive officers be assembled and guarded? Rupert's flying army had now been beaten away from Kineton for they were riding in a mass just north of the battlefield on their way back to the ridge and the king. This was important to know, not just for his own safety, but because it meant that now Kineton and the camp would be safe again, and that was where all important prisoners would be taken.
That made sense, and it was about the only thing that did make sense in all of the insanity. Unfortunately Daniel was as diagonally opposite from Kineton as he could be, and between he and Kineton was a darkening battlefield strewn with the injured, the dying, and the dead, patrolled by cavalrymen, and every opportunistic cut throat in the service of two armies. He stretched out his shoulders and winced. His armour was likely bent inwards and rubbing his bruises. It would take too long to take it off and pound out the dent, for by that time that was done he would be making his way in the dark. Instead he bore the pain and willed Femke down the hill and took the shortest diagonal course towards Kineton.
Battlefields after a battle had always bothered him deep down in his soul. There was something uncaring and inhumane about the way that badly injured men were treated. Instead of them being carried off the field to be treated first by the surgeons, they were often the last. The first men surgeons would treat were nobles and officers no matter which side they were on. Next they would treat the badly injured who had the best chance of survival. Only then would they spare time for the badly injured who had little chance. The walking wounded were often left to fend for themselves.
Since that was the sequence of the surgeons, that was also the sequence that men were carried to the surgeons. In Holland he had too often seen that main cause of death on battlefields was not the clean kill of a weapon, but the slow painful death of neglect. He expected no different here and he wasn't disappointed, or rather, he was. He forced himself to keep riding and ignore the many men who called out to him for help. The Wyred Sisters had interwoven his fate with that of Lindsey and he must make sure that man was dead before he got sidetracked by any act of mercy or goodness.
When he was almost to Kineton a glow came from high on the ridge. Someone had started a giant bonfire. Though his looker was useless without good light, the light of this great fire was enough for him to see what was going on. The king, the princes and the generals were parading about the fire, not to keep warm, but to be seen so that their disorganized and spread out army could see where their camp was, and that the king was still with them. The orange army was certainly in complete control of the field and the lower slopes, and no one was stopping them from dragging all the cannons, both of the orange and the red, towards Kineton.
The first thing he noticed on entering Essex's camp was that it had been shredded. The next thing he noticed was that none of the soldiers were eating hot food or meat. This was yet another mystery because they would all be famished. This mystery lasted only until he reached the cart train that marked the kitchens. The slaughter was horrible to behold. These were not soldiers lying carved to pieces in the dust. They were carters and porters and cooks and kitchen lads, all of them unarmed and all of them hacked to pieces as if they had been animals in a slaughterhouse.
The stench of blood and offal was so strong that Femke complained about being there, so he turned her way to leave this place. That was when he heard his name called.
"Daniel,” the call came again. "Daniel how fare thee? You don't look well. Have you need of a physician?" It was Oliver, Captain Cromwell looking tired but not bloody.
"Oliver, well met. I am tired and wounded but not badly. Take me somewhere where I can breath fresh air again."
Oliver rode over to him and then pointed towards the east side of the village, to the windward where there was clean air and towards the river where there were clean wells. As they rode together he said, "I just arrived with my Cambridge men. Too late for today's battle but in good time to secure the camp."
Daniel couldn't ride anymore because his back was killing him, so he stepped gingerly down and led Femke. She too deserved a rest. Oliver dismounted so they could walk together. "We got here just in time to see Denzil Holles and his London mob put the run on Prince Rupert. In truth it may have been the arrival of my two hundred fresh horse that caused Rupert to retire. Have you seen Valentine? I've been looking all over for him."
"Not since Warwick castle,” Daniel replied. "He has fine men riding with him."
"Fine men, pah,” Oliver said in a hoarse whisper. "None of our troopers are fine men. If you want to see fine men you must look to Rupert's troopers. They are gentlemen and persons of quality."
Daniel stopped in his tracks partly because he could not believe his ears and partly because their way was blocked by the corpses of a half a dozen lads who were too young to carry weapons and so had joine
d up to carry water to the battle lines. None of the kills had been clean. Daniel grabbed Oliver by the collar and wrenched his head down so he could take a closer look at the trampled and cleaved bodies. "There is what your gentlemen, your person's of quality are all about. Take a good look. That is what fine breeding and noble blood brings to this land. I would rather fight alongside country louts and town tapsters than alongside the men who could do this to unarmed boys."
Oliver hit his hand away and scrambled back up and away from the corpses. "Still, the point has to be made to Hampden and Pym. Rupert's men are too good for us to take on without gentlemen taking to the saddle against them."
Daniel tried to tell himself that Oliver had not been here to see how well the orange troopers had kept Rupert's flying army away from the battlefield, and at great risk to their own lives. He tried to calm his temper but the word gentlemen brought back the memory of the young mum, Cerys, and the type of bruises that three 'gentlemen' had given her in her own cottage. Her words about gentlemen rang in his head. "Good, then write to them and make it official. What we need to do is to raise a troop of gentlemen the equal of Rupert’s and have them battle it out to the death once and for all. Half of the kingdom's gentlemen on one side and half on the other."
He was being sarcastic but Oliver never did do sarcasm very well. "All right, I will,” Oliver hissed and then turned on a heel and led his horse away.
Femke pulled Daniel towards clean water on the banks of the tiny river upstream from the camp and village. By doing so she also found the surgeons, physicians, injured men, and captives for Daniel. The last thing he needed was to see more suffering, but he couldn't leave this place until he found out if Lindsey was here. The first place he checked was a long shed, the largest building near the river.
It was filled with the wounded survivors of Rupert's brave attack on the army kitchen. Daniel walked about looking at the faces just to make sure that Lindsey wasn't here. There was a smell about the place that bothered him, a smell beyond that of wounded men. Fresh straw had been laid down to make beds for the men and he kicked some out of the way and stared at the bare ground in the stalls. Pigshit
