Marston Moor

by Michael Arnold

The men on the rampart vanished. There was a lull. Prince Rupert, Stryker and the others waited in the cold dawn. And then, even as musketry and pistol shots crackled through the roads and alleyways of the walled port, the gates of its ancient castle groaned open.

  Liverpool had fallen.

  Chapter 11

  York, 14 June 1644

  ‘Four shillings. Not a penny more.’

  The butcher wrinkled his nose as he leaned out from the hatch. It was a timber platform, hanging on strained hinges, over which was draped a relatively clean cloth and various cuts of meat. He sucked at his wiry moustache as if mulling over the offer. ‘Five.’

  The customer, a chubby soldier in a red coat and wide-brimmed hat, rested one hand on the hilt of his sword and jangled his leather purse in the other. ‘Five, then. You will require the extra shilling for physic.’

  The butcher frowned. ‘I do not need phy—’ he began, but his wife, plucking a scrawny bird on one of the tables in the main shop behind him, cleared her throat. The butcher glanced over his shoulder, then at the customer, his face draining of colour. ‘Four it is.’

  Captain Lancelot Forrester offered his sweetest smile as he handed over the coins. ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘The making of a deal with menaces,’ Forrester’s companion muttered as the captain picked up the limp carcass of the chicken he had purchased, ‘is hardly Christlike.’

  Forrester shrugged. ‘The only menace was that blackguard’s greed. The common rate is four shillings for a hen, and he damned well knows it.’

  Seek Wisdom and Fear the Lord Gardner spat into the mud as they paced down the road. ‘I suppose it matters not, boy, for soon we will have none such trouble.’

  ‘They have us well strangled,’ Forrester agreed. ‘Still, we have supplies for the time being, and negotiations continue.’

  ‘Do you hear this fool, Lord?’ Gardner screeched at the grubby-looking sky. ‘He believes our grandees negotiate!’

  Indeed, Forrester had suspected a tentative conversation had been conducted for several days now, for the furious activity of the Allied gunners had diminished markedly. He suspected, though official hostility continued, that offer and counter-offer had somehow been conveyed between the opposing lines, culminating in the official ceasefire that had been initiated earlier in the day. The guns had been silent for several hours now, precipitating the bustling market that had sprung up, seemingly out of nowhere.

  ‘The parley is not scheduled until eight of the clock,’ Forrester said. ‘We will know more after that hour.’

  ‘Parley,’ Gardner scoffed. ‘It is pomp and lies. Piss and wind. Dung and dishonour.’

  ‘The commissioners are out there this very moment,’ Forrester retorted in exasperation, waving the flaccid hen in the vague direction of Micklegate Bar. ‘A tent has been erected for the sole purpose of agreeing terms.’

  ‘Newcastle dallies,’ Gardner replied derisively, ‘in the hope of divine intervention. The devil’s alliance discuss terms while they dig their cursed tunnels. Duplicity on all sides.’

  ‘I suppose God has told you this?’

  ‘Common sense tells me this, you bloody beef-witted Cavalier.’ The priest ferreted in his filthy coat, finding a hunk of bread that looked dubious at best. He tore into it, offering half to Forrester. ‘It’ll all come to nothing.’

  The bread looked to have more grit than grain, but Forrester took it with thanks. ‘Mother would make paste of apricot,’ he said, suddenly wistful. ‘We’d spread lashings of the stuff on a fresh crust.’

  ‘Apricot?’ Gardner whistled. ‘And broke your fast on griddled swan and roasted crocodile, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Forrester ignored him. ‘Pear, if no apricots could be found. It was delicious.’

  They walked on in the direction of the bar, its towers looming over the market. On its battlements, and along the walls to either side, soldiers waited, staring out at the siegeworks and the tent that hosted the meeting.

  Gardner wiggled a bony finger in his face. ‘Your mind should be full of the Lord’s word, yet it is full of your belly’s demands. I shall preach on the subject.’

  ‘Not to me, Father,’ Forrester said as they skirted a particularly malodorous pile of horse manure. ‘I must attend the Minster on Sunday.’

  Gardner cackled, patting Forrester’s right shoulder. ‘Aye, you’re his grace’s lapdog now, I forget!’

  ‘It is an honour to be noticed,’ Forrest replied dutifully. He looked down at the cross of red and blue that he had paid a seamstress to sew in place. It looked slightly out of kilter against the red of his coat, but he was proud nonetheless.

  ‘Remember, boy,’ the priest continued. ‘The Minster’s a grand enough pile o’ stone, but no man ever reached heaven by praying to gilt candlesticks and gaudy murals.’

  ‘If the way to heaven is to dress like a madman and rant at the clouds, I question whether it is there that I wish to go upon my demise.’

  ‘You blaspheme, you decadent English arsehole.’

  ‘And you stink, you mad Welsh—’

  Gardner had reached out to grip Forrester’s elbow. He nodded towards the gate. ‘What d’you make of that, boy?’ Micklegate Bar had opened just enough for seven finely robed courtiers to push through. At their backs came a stream of blank-faced musketeers. ‘Parley’s over, by the looks o’ them.’

  ‘Jesu,’ Forrester muttered. He had no business asking anything directly of the marquis’s delegates, but, as soon as they had stormed past, he waylaid the captain commanding the honour guard of musketeers. ‘Well?’

  ‘The rebel commissioners demanded too much,’ the officer said, happy to be the source of news. ‘Our commissioners raged out of the tent without so much as receiving the enemy’s propositions.’

  Forrester exchanged a glance with Gardner. ‘Then there will be no agreement.’

  The officer shook his head. ‘And no surrender.’

  Middlethorpe, near York, 15 June 1644

  ‘I understand their commissioners flounced home empty-handed, but a drummer was sent into the city with our propositions, was he not?’

  The speaker was Sir Henry Vane; Harry to most, for his father went by the same name. He was a large man, powerfully built, with the same fierce eyes and bushy brows as Sir Henry the Elder. His face was lean, spare and without whisker or beard, so that he looked younger than his thirty-one years, yet his bearing was proud and his jaw angled prominently to give him a face that his wife often bemoaned was as belligerent as a bulldog with a bone. He liked the description, knew other men were intimidated by him, and thanked God daily, for life, faith and war had led him along a path that required such qualities in abundance. Providence had seen him shift from courtier to New World power-broker and back to the mother country, and now, as he clambered out of his father’s long shadow, he had found himself seated at a table with three of the greatest lords in the disputed realm.

  Across from Vane sat Alexander Leslie, Earl of Leven. The Scottish warlord smoothed down his sandy-grey moustache and leaned back in his creaking chair. He plucked the creased square of vellum from the ever-cluttered table in the centre of his campaign room, and handed it to an aide. ‘He has returned with this reply.’

  The aide scuttled around the table’s perimeter, passing David Leslie, then both Fairfaxes, father and son, the Earl of Manchester and General Cromwell, eventually bowing and giving the letter to Vane, who unfolded it slowly.

  ‘Considering the way in which the negotiations crumbled,’ Vane said, ‘I will not hold my breath in expectation of capitulation.’

  Leven gave a rueful snort. ‘Wise, Sir Harry.’

  Vane cast his eye over the spidery black scrawl. ‘I have perused the conditions and demands your lordship sent,’ he read aloud, then scanned the next few lines until he reached the nub of the matter. ‘I cannot suppose that your lordships do imagine that persons of honour can possibly condescend to any of these propositions.’ He looked up. The moonlight streaming through
the arched window made the paper appear translucent in his big hand. He was not a lord, nor a grand military leader, but that did not diminish his standing in such lofty company. Indeed, he was at ease with the half-dozen generals, confident in his mandate from Parliament and potent in his role as the mouthpiece of the Committee for Both Kingdoms. He had been sent here on behalf of the latter institution, the new body that represented the interests of Scots and English alike, and that wielded complete power over the alliance that converged against York. Vane’s task had been to report on the progress of the siege, and, as news of the destruction of Lancashire reached Westminster, the Committee had ordered him to persuade Leven, Manchester and Fairfax of the need to release troops from York to intercept Prince Rupert. But the generals had convinced him that such a course would be wrong, and that York’s capture was the greater mission. Now, with the parley finished and rumours rife of a possible relief force gathering on the far side of the Fells, he wondered whether they had committed a grave mistake. He stared at each man in turn. ‘The negotiations are truly done, gentlemen. The ceasefire is at an end.’

  A vigorous rap on the door startled the room.

  Leven looked round. ‘Come!’

  A junior officer shuffled nervously in. ‘The malignants have lit a fire, my lord. Up on the Minster.’

  Leven glanced around the table. ‘A signal?’

  The messenger cleared his throat. ‘It is answered distantly, my lord.’

  ‘Answered?’

  ‘To the south-west.’

  Leven caught the eye of the younger Fairfax. ‘What say you?’

  ‘Pontefract Castle,’ Sir Thomas answered. ‘Held for the King.’

  ‘A mark of solidarity,’ the Earl of Manchester ventured.

  Sir Henry Vane leaned in, placing his thick elbows on the polished walnut surface. ‘Or a message that Prince Robber is on the move.’

  Sir Thomas’s father, the elderly Lord Fairfax of Cameron, had brought a small pouch with him, and now he opened it on the table to reveal a nest of sugar plums. ‘He remains at Liverpool,’ he said dismissively as he popped one into the corner of his mouth.

  His son seemed to wince. ‘It is dangerous to underestimate the Prince, Father.’

  ‘Tish and pish,’ Lord Fairfax muttered, stuffing more of the treats past cracked lips.

  Vane stifled a wry smile. He could see why men at Westminster whispered of an ineffectual general in the north, holding his rank and dignity by right of birth while leaning heavily on his son’s skill at arms. ‘Do you believe he will move against us?’

  Sir Thomas nodded. ‘I fear it, Sir Harry, aye.’

  Leven folded his arms. ‘Our spies say nothing of the sort. Pray God he consolidates only.’

  ‘But he may make a play for York,’ Sir Thomas argued. ‘His army is strong, and after Liverpool their morale will be high.’

  Vane interjected before the others could respond. ‘The Committee writes thus …’ He glanced down at a scroll unfurled beneath his nose, pinned at top and bottom by small weights. ‘That the Earl of Denbigh is to muster his forces and rendezvous with Sir John Meldrum at Manchester.’

  ‘The same Sir John Meldrum,’ came a derisive voice from beside the Earl of Manchester, ‘so utterly outwitted by Prince Robber at Newark?’

  Vane looked at Lieutenant-General Cromwell, holding his cool gaze with difficulty. ‘The same.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ Leven said, louder now, in an apparent effort to regain his authority. ‘A Scot. He will do well, I’ve no doubt. Additionally, I understand that Colonel Hutchinson, the governor of Nottingham, has been ordered to join forces with Lord Denbigh. Together they will stop the Bohemian viper slithering o’er the Fells.’ He raked his pale gaze around the table. ‘For our part, I say we continue our efforts here. Rupert will not come.’

  ‘He will come.’

  Leven’s eyes darted back to Oliver Cromwell. ‘General?’

  ‘He will come, my lord,’ Cromwell replied with measured calm. ‘Because he is clever, and because he is brave, and because he is driven by the devil.’

  Leven shook his head. ‘I will not break off this siege, sirrah.’

  ‘And nor should you, my lord,’ Cromwell said. ‘But mark me well, for God hath granted me a dream so vivid I thought it as real as this very meeting. The Cavaliers will come for us, my lords, and we will scourge the earth of their vile turpitude.’

  A silence followed, each lord and his second keeping private council. Vane studied their faces, marvelling at how such different men could work for the same goal. After a minute or two, he stood. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my lords, I should make my report to the Committee.’ He looked at Leven, the man who believed, at least, that he held overall command. ‘What is your next move, my lord?’

  Leven stood too, the others following suit. ‘A coordinated attack, Sir Harry.’

  ‘Your mines are ready?’ Vane asked.

  ‘They flood daily,’ Leven said, then let his gaze slide towards the Fairfaxes.

  Sir Thomas swept a hand through his black hair. ‘I need more time. It will be ready to spring within the week, my lord.’

  ‘My charges,’ the Earl of Manchester interrupted, his voice smug, ‘are in place.’

  Vane looked pointedly at him. ‘Where, my lord?’

  ‘The Manor. Originally the abbey abutting the city walls to the north-west. It was built in the abbey grounds following the Suppression. We have a mine dug beneath the corner tower, St Mary’s, and our battery has made a breach in the wall adjacent.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Vane mused.

  Leven nodded. ‘But we must wait for Sir Thomas’s mine to reach conclusion. Spring them together, attack the walls at as many points as possible. They will be so alarmed by the twin explosions that our storming parties will be up their ladders before Newcastle knows what has become of his grand fortress.’

  Vane studied their faces. Fairfax seemed happy, but Manchester was clearly disgruntled. He stepped back from the table before an argument could erupt. ‘Thank you again, my lords. I shall leave you to dig your mines, and will make the Committee aware of your plans. Pray God you will break the city soon, for storm clouds gather in the west.’

  Edward Montagu, whose proper title was Second Earl of Godmanchester, had taken leave of the campaign room and now stooped below the lintel of Middlethorpe Manor and stepped out into the night. The air was crisp, the clouds thin. He stretched, worked his jaw until it cracked, and planted his hat atop his head. He looked due north, towards the battered city. The glow from the Minster was impossibly bright against the black cloth of night. It emanated from up on the highest tower, alive with tremulous flame, and he wondered exactly what game the Marquis of Newcastle was playing. He turned away to stare along the cinder path that stretched from the main doors to watch Sir Henry Vane dissolving into the night. ‘We shall lend a juicy morsel to your Committee’s report, Vane,’ he muttered to the big man’s retreating back.

  ‘My lord?’

  Manchester – name shortened to avoid blasphemy – did not look round. He knew the voice well enough; had expected it. ‘The vain Master Vane,’ he said softly, ‘writes to the Committee. I say we give him a tale worthy of the telling, General Crawford.’

  Out of the gloom stepped a man swathed in a long cassock, silver buttons glimmering at chest and sleeves. ‘The men are ready,’ he said, his accent coloured by Lowland Scots. ‘I have six hundred itching for the assault.’

  Manchester felt his cheek twitch gently. ‘The breach is practicable?’

  Major-General Lawrence Crawford nodded enthusiastically, blue eyes sparkling in his thin, cleanly shaven face. ‘The malignants have barricaded it with soil and dung, and Lord knows what else, but once the tower’s been blown they’ll forget the breach is even there.’

  Manchester looked back at the manor house, making sure there were no prying eyes at the windows. ‘Do what you must.’

  Lawrence Crawford grinned excitedly. He was forty-thre
e years old, but his demeanour was akin to that of a schoolboy. ‘Does Cromwell know?’

  Manchester shook his head. ‘You do not like him, do you?’

  Crawford screwed up his face in disgust. ‘He’s nought but a country ploughman. A turnip tugger. I should be at Council, not he.’

  ‘If it comforts you, I do not hold with Independents in high places. It breeds mutiny amongst the men. I trust you, Lawrence, because you are as staunch a Presbyterian as I.’ In truth he knew he should chastise the ambitious Crawford, but Manchester was well accustomed to such feelings himself. It was he, as senior Englishman in the York alliance, who should wield overall command. Everyone knew it. But the doddery old Fairfax cared more for sweet treats and sweeter young girls than he did for the etiquette of warfare, and Leven – dour and decrepit and barely literate – possessed the most powerful of the three armies in situ. There was nothing Manchester could do.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘But,’ Manchester went on, ‘Cromwell is a natural soldier. Keeps a level head under fire and commands the respect of his men. His moral austerity makes for perhaps the best troops I have seen. They do not steal, do not swear, do not terrorize the common folk.’

  ‘He has served nowhere,’ Lawrence protested bitterly. ‘He is a novice. Claims he was commanded to war by God Himself.’

  ‘Were we not all of us commanded by God?’ Manchester patted Crawford on the shoulder. ‘I do not hold with Cromwell’s burgeoning power, so perhaps on the morrow you will give the Committee reason to supplant him with a man more suitable?’

  Crawford’s head bobbed in the moonlight. ‘I will, my lord.’

  ‘And Lawrence?’

  ‘My lord?’

  Manchester turned away, boots crunching loudly. ‘Breathe a word of this conversation to another soul and it will be the last breath you draw.’

  Chapter 12

  Liverpool, Lancashire, 15 June 1644

  The Royalist army took respite at Liverpool. It had been a frenetic and dangerous few weeks as they had fought their way across Lancashire, and the capitulation of Colonel Moore’s garrison marked a logical moment for Prince Rupert to take stock. The men still talked of York, but they talked, too, of joining the Oxford army – the king’s main field army – and combining to destroy threats further south. None knew what was to come. It was their duty simply to wait and wonder as to the machinations of their Bohemian chieftain, who galloped in and out of the shattered town on matters of high business, flanked always by grim members of his Lifeguard. The fighting column had suffered heavy casualties at Liverpool, and expended vast quantities of powder and ammunition, which meant they had to wait for more to come up from the magazines at Bristol and Worcester. Moreover, there were new recruits to be enlisted and trained, more horses to be purchased and supplies to be hoarded. In the meantime, the men revelled in their rest, savoured the stability of steady billets with dry roofs and hot hearths. They played Queenes and Hazard, bragged of the spoils they had plundered and toasted their success. With the exception of the stoutly held town of Manchester, all of Lancashire was now under Royalist control, and with the conquest of Liverpool, the king’s men had secured a crucial landing place for the expected troops from Ireland. Reinforcements that would soon sail across the sea to counterbalance the unholy alliance of Scotland and Westminster.