William Falkland 01 - The Royalist

by S. J. Deas

  Warbeck signalled me to a cluster of huts hunched around what might once have been a farm worker’s cottage. I nudged the horse as he directed. Paths had been cleared through the drifting snow but more kept falling and the horse moved slowly. We stopped some distance away and dismounted. The doors of the farmhouse were open and the light of oil lanterns spilled out. Warbeck led his pack mule on and saw a young boy appear from a neighbouring tent; he beckoned and the lad came to take the horses away. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve years old.

  ‘Boy!’ Warbeck called after him. ‘Where will we find Black Tom?’

  The lad was hesitant.

  ‘Black Tom?’

  The boy paused a moment more and then tipped his chin at the open farmhouse and hurried away. Warbeck smiled grimly. ‘Well, Falkland, here we are. You ask about him often enough. Now you get to meet him. Good luck.’ He laughed and led the way into a welcome haze of warm, smoky air and a hubbub of men and talk that stopped dead as we entered. Officers – men in red coats with hair cropped close – stared at us. I met their gaze one by one as I looked about. The farmhouse had been gutted, most of it opened out into a single room with a great fire smoking in a hearth. At the head was a single chair and in the centre a table that, I hazarded to guess, would be fed to the fire before long. It wasn’t hard to deduce which one of them must be Fairfax. He was younger than I’d imagined, younger than me by five or ten years. He had hair of jet black and a swarthy complexion. A scar, not old but not fresh, crossed his right cheek. It was certainly a new world that would put this sort of man in charge of an army. I didn’t know what I thought of that. I supposed it must have seemed a delicious insult to put a man like Black Tom at the head of the New Model.

  ‘Warbeck,’ he said, though his eyes had settled to meet my own. ‘This is him, is it?’ Fairfax had the strongest Yorkshire brogue I could remember. The sort of voice that still strikes ridiculous terror in me, even though it’s as dull and simple as most Yorkshiremen are. He didn’t wait for an answer but nodded to himself, then turned to his officers and shooed them out with expansive waves of his arms. They filed out past us, one by one, looking us over, most with expressions utterly devoid of interest, a few with a sneer or a shake of the head. That much I’d expected. What I did not expect were the ones who hurried past nervous and too afraid to meet my eye. One flinched away when I moved, and I was left to wonder what struck them so, like the man from the hut who had seemed to know me. I was no officer with some great string of victories to my name, nor the perpetrator of any great mercy or atrocity. Who was I, I wondered, to be so feared?

  Apart from Warbeck still sloping around the edges of the room, we were alone. Fairfax moved slowly to the chair and sat, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded me. His look was shrewd and calculating. ‘So you’re the intelligencer. What did Cromwell tell you?’ he asked.

  A serving boy appeared with cider and rabbit meat. He placed it on the table and then disappeared. Fairfax nodded to it, indicating that Warbeck and I should eat, though there were no other chairs on which to sit. Warbeck seemed troubled by this but six years of soldiering had taught me to take food when food was to be had. I might have sat on the table itself in other company. As it was I stood, and as I ate and drank I told this Fairfax all that Cromwell had said. I left nothing out. I knew he was testing me.

  ‘It isn’t uncommon that an army would have deaths in winter, Master Falkland,’ mused Fairfax when I was done. Master was certainly his way of speaking down to me. To him I was royalist filth. ‘In an army of this size I wouldn’t care if we lost three hundred men. Soldiers quarrel and fight. They whore with the wrong girl and catch a disease. Accidents occur. And I’ll be honest, Falkland. We haven’t the food to last out the winter without forage and plunder.’

  ‘Yet here I am.’ I’d had the same thoughts, yet somehow Cromwell thought his entire army under threat. There had to be something then, didn’t there? And this Fairfax, something about him needled me. ‘There was a manner about these deaths,’ I said.

  ‘A ritual to it,’ said Fairfax. ‘That’s fair to say. How is it they were drawn to Cromwell’s eye?’

  I opened my mouth to reply that I didn’t know, then saw that no answer was expected. The question was for Warbeck, not for me, and it wasn’t a question at all but a rebuke. ‘There must be rumours,’ I said.

  Fairfax snorted, ‘Master Falkland, an army without rumours? That’s like a dancing girl without the itch.’

  ‘All the same,’ I said again, ‘here I am. I’m told there have been desertions.’

  He nodded. It was a curt nod that said: Cromwell sent you; I did not ask. ‘Aren’t there always? They’re nothing Cromwell needs concern himself with. Men who haven’t the stomach to fight in my army have no place here.’

  I thought of the two men who had rescued me from the pantry. They’d deserted from the New Model. Had they come from here? They’d been seasoned soldiers, not scared raw recruits yet to be bloodied.

  All of a sudden Black Tom grinned. I wasn’t expecting it and it made a curious picture with the big sabre scar on his face. ‘We’ll look after you, Master Falkland. We’ll provision you and put a roof over you. More than you’ve been used to. Do as you are required to do. You’ll see soon enough that all’s well.’

  It sounded the same as prison to me. I hoped the food was better.

  ‘There is even entertainment, if it’s entertainment you’re after.’

  ‘Entertainment?’

  ‘These boys can’t be drilled all winter long, Master Falkland. They’ll have tournaments. Duels. Contests. Anything to while away the hours.’ There was a change in him now. His arms were open and the smile had turned into a beam that took over his entire face. It was like a strange mockery of an innkeeper working his hardest to win trade, and I wasn’t sure of the jest. ‘Come with me, Master Falkland. I’ll see you and Warbeck to your quarters.’

  Black Tom pulled the fastenings tight on his leather jerkin and swept past me towards the open door. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather see the camp,’ I said.

  ‘The camp? Tonight?’ In the corner of my eye I saw Warbeck give an imperceptible shake of the head. But I’d been told what to do by that sickly sweet impostor for long enough. The sooner I got out of here the better. I meant to be done with this and return to my Caro. Cromwell was concerned as to the well-being of his army, was he? I wasn’t sure why I should care, nor why he thought that I might.

  ‘With respect, sir, I didn’t come here for entertainment,’ I said. ‘I didn’t come here for tournaments or contests. I came here because I have a task. As soon as it’s done I can be gone.’

  Fairfax studied me for a second too long, enough to make me think I’d spoken too forcefully. ‘Master Falkland,’ he said with a sudden weariness. ‘It is dark. It’s snowing.’

  I looked behind me through the door. ‘The snow has stopped, sir.’ And yes, it was dark, but the clouds had parted and there was a moon to light our way.

  ‘We can see the camp as we pass through it, Master Falkland. I’ll send you a guide in the morning.’ He spoke with a finality that would brook no argument. Warbeck gave me a sour look. Fairfax, meanwhile, opened his arms and I was bustled out to wait in the cold while a boy was sent for our mounts. When they were brought I rode on Warbeck’s horse, though truth be known I preferred the pack animal; I’d grown accustomed to its disaffected wheeze.

  We rode through the makeshift town that had grown up around Crediton and I realised how fortunate we’d been coming at it the way we had, which was as close to Fairfax’s farm as could be; or else it wasn’t luck at all but Warbeck had known the camp and chosen his approach deliberately. We came down a broad track and crossed a stone bridge over a freezing brook. In the fields on the other side, horses had been corralled. I hadn’t expected the cavalry would be wintering here as well. Cromwell was the New Model’s cavalry man and I had supposed they had all cantered back to London with him. Some
of the animals looked better fed than the men we passed. It wouldn’t last long though. A few would be stewed before Christmas, I was sure.

  Past the field we came back among tents and shelters. The closer we got to the stone cottages the more complete the camp seemed. Some of the new buildings were made of stone. Some were even thatched. It was a simple kind of thatching, without any art, but now that snow was piled high on top it was as good a roof as any. Outside one of the older cottages a soldier stood watch, shuffling from one foot to the other and blowing on his hands, trying to keep warm through this bitter night.

  Crediton itself wasn’t as small as I’d reckoned. We approached from the south and part of the town was obscured by a great wall with posts like the turrets of a castle. Cauldrons of fire were stoked along the ramparts. Sometimes I could see the black outline of a man as he passed, walking his watch. Through a gap in the wall I saw the church. It dominated the town. I thought it an old church but I didn’t know if it was always with the King or against, or had changed hands back and forth as so many places had done. We passed through the gap and rode among the stone cottages. There were men walking the street here and there, a few busy about some errand or other, others in pairs with pikes over their shoulders, marking out their watches. Some passed in groups but I saw no drunken revellers. Most men simply moved aside to let us pass. Several recognised Fairfax and doffed their hats. I saw two whose eyes glanced nervously back and forth between us and lingered more on me than on their general; as we passed they ran quickly away. Less than a minute later a young soldier – so young he was scarcely more than a boy – came running past on some errand and stopped as he saw us. He looked at me long and hard and smiled as if deeply satisfied. When he ran on I could swear it was with a spring in his step.

  We came presently into the shadow of the church. Deep drifts of snow grew up against it and the gravestones of the churchyard were topped with thick white hats. As we passed I saw a glimpse of movement in a narrow alley almost black with shadow. I turned to look and saw two men stare back at me from beside the graveyard. The moonlight revealed their faces, aghast, before they turned and ran as though I was the devil.

  ‘Stop!’ I drew my horse to a halt. One of the men, I was sure, had dropped something. As I dismounted, Warbeck glared at me with impatient disbelief. Fairfax merely frowned. I handed my reins to Warbeck as though he was my servant – I’ll admit to taking some pleasure in that – and walked into the alley. It was impenetrably dark and I immediately gave up any thought of pursuing these men. Why, though, had they been so afraid?

  Perhaps the answer was in what I found, dropped in the snow. By fortune I had my back to Warbeck and Fairfax when I took it. It was a Catholic’s rosary. The New Model not only had the King’s men in its ranks, it harboured papists too. I wondered if Fairfax knew. I supposed he must. Perhaps these men had heard that some inquisitor from Cromwell was coming, then – had that been the root of their fear? If so then I would be quite a disappointment, for I’d long since lost any care as to how any man might worship his God.

  I pocketed the rosary and determined to say nothing.

  CHAPTER 6

  A little way past the church we reached the town square. There were more tents here, formed in rings around a pyramid of steps where a market cross used to sit. I’d seen the same thing in my journeys before Newgate. Even a market cross was considered an icon by the most ardent of the Puritans. Wherever they roamed, whether with the New Model or one of the militias before it, they tore them down and smashed them up, revelling in the anguished looks of the people who watched. It had been a long time since I cared for gods and devils and heavens and hells. For me, a cross was just a cross, nothing more, nothing less, but I could never look at young men tearing up objects somebody else thought sacred and think it godly work.

  Some of the tents we passed spilled light. There were soldiers inside, lounging or playing the games of stones I used to play. Most were young men. Many would never grow old and I felt a surge of pity for them. I’d shed my youth by the time I first started soldiering and age had better prepared me for its horrors. When they saw us trot past, some came out to watch. A few saw Fairfax and cheered but yet again I saw eyes fixed upon me with strangely mixed expressions: of awe and wonder and now and then of fear. ‘It is him?’ I heard one of them ask.

  ‘Who do they think I am?’ I asked Fairfax. ‘What have you told them?’

  ‘Nothing at all. You’re an intelligencer. One does not shout the arrival of an intelligencer. Though one can’t account for rumour . . .’ He seemed less perplexed than vexed. I fancied he knew the answer to my question but rather wished he didn’t.

  We came around the square and into an older part of town. There was a high street, broad and cobbled, and up and down it lights in the houses. I wondered how many were the folk of Crediton and how many houses had been requisitioned for soldiers. I’d not heard it was a Cromwell tactic to drive people from their homes, but I didn’t know about Fairfax and I shuddered to guess. One thing was certain – there would barely be a house in Crediton that wasn’t bunking soldiers from floor to ceiling, whether the locals had stayed or not.

  At the far end of this street loomed a tall horse chestnut, branches heavy with snow. Underneath was a scaffold. As we closed upon it I saw the shadow of a hanged man dangling from the biggest bough. He looked a wretched sight and I fancied he had been up there for weeks. Half of him was frozen and the birds would have difficulty taking what was left until he thawed, but the other half of him was gone. He had no eyes, and not even his mother would tell who he was.

  We slowed as we came around the dead man and I gave him a wider berth than Fairfax, who seemed not even to notice. My fellows used to say it was a curious thing about me, that I’d killed so many men and still cringed from a dead body. In my own mind, the strange part was the killing, not the other.

  Fairfax had trotted ahead of me. When he realised we were apart he slowed and looked round. ‘Is this it?’ I asked. ‘One of the boys?’ I could see my words as fog in front of my mouth.

  ‘In the middle of town, Master Falkland? I’d reckoned on you being cleverer than that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You’d be better asking Master Cromwell.’ He brought his horse back to mine. Together we peered up at the dangling man. ‘He was a pikeman. He ravished the daughter of one of the merchants here soon after we came in for the winter. What you see is the result . . .’

  ‘Cromwell did this?’ I asked, a little too brusquely.

  ‘Discipline is important in any army, Master Falkland. I dare say you know that. How does a soldier make his living?’

  I cocked my head at him. ‘In your New Model he’s paid, is he not?’

  ‘So he is; but in any other army he makes his living from the aftermath of battle, from loot and plunder. I’ve always been of the mind that even in the New Model a little plunder must be overlooked, but Cromwell has other ideas, as is his wont. He makes examples of men.’ He tipped his chin up at the cadaver. The snow lit him from beneath and I could see the scar across his face picked out starkly. ‘You look faint, Master Falkland. Are you squeamish?’

  He’d mistaken my expression in the moonlight. It was the first time I’d understood what Cromwell’s New Model could mean. It could mean an end to what came after a battle was done, an end to the sacking of towns and the ravishing of villages. I’d found myself struck by an unexpected moment of admiration, that was all. It bewildered me to think it, but maybe this New Model was worth saving after all. ‘Not squeamish, sir,’ I said. ‘I would have hanged the man myself.’

  ‘Were he one of your soldiers?’

  ‘You mistake me, sir. I’ve never commanded men, only been commanded by them.’

  Fairfax trotted on. ‘Yet I have heard, just as we’ve all heard, what you did in Yorkshire.’

  I hadn’t wanted him to bring it up. I hadn’t wanted Cromwell to do so either, but Yorkshire was Black Tom’s home. I didn’t think w
e’d clashed on the battlefields up there but the very idea was enough to bring terrible pictures flickering across the backs of my eyes. I could see myself in a ditch, grasping a dead man’s dagger. I could see myself drawing a friend over my head to hide my body from advancing dragoons, his entrails slipping out to make a bloody curtain.

  ‘Come now, Falkland, don’t be coy. A man doesn’t like to be teased! What was it like to stand up to your King like that?’

  I dug my heels into my horse and spurred him on. ‘Tell me yourself,’ I said. ‘You’ve stood up to yours for long enough.’ I wondered if that might anger him but Fairfax only laughed, loud and long.

  We reached the end of the street and there, beyond an inn where no lights were lit, he reined his horse in and bade me stop. When he climbed down, so did I. He marched across the snow and hammered twice at a door. Warbeck followed, silent and simmering. I heard footsteps from within the house and then the door drew back. The woman who stood in the threshold was young and comely. She had black hair cropped as short as a soldier’s and sparkling eyes that made her face come alive. She was dressed in a threadbare woollen cloak and, though the winter evening wind wailed, she didn’t meekly peep around the door but stood tall and brazen and looked Fairfax up and down.

  ‘I have guests for you, Miss Cain,’ said Fairfax.

  As he spoke she looked past him. She spied me and Warbeck and her face turned ashen. It was the expression I’d seen on the man who’d just come out of his hut as we entered the camp. Dread, as if I was the devil. She looked back into the house and barked something. Then turned back. ‘I’ve too many already,’ she said. Her accent told me she was not a native of Crediton and I wondered if she was a follower. Every army I had marched with had its followers: whores, merchants, hunters and thieves making a living out of the soldiers. They could usually be found at an encampment separate from the rest but, I supposed, the rules of warfare had been changed to create the New Model, so perhaps other things had changed as well.