Marston Moor

by Michael Arnold

  There were dray carts loaded with coils of match-cord parked on the village green, a trio of small boys racing between them as they kicked a ball amid shrieks of delight. A group of harquebusiers cantered along the main street, helmets bright, scarves a livid red in the noonday sun. Stryker nodded to their leader as Vos stepped past, receiving a knuckled visor in reply, and let the big stallion climb the hill. When he reached the brick-built house he handed Vos’s reins to a welt-chinned ostler and bounded up the flight of steps to the large, red door, knocking hard and turning to look out over Liverpool. It seemed so tranquil from up on the ridge, the damage to its walls almost imperceptible.

  The door opened to reveal a fresh-faced lieutenant who looked as though the angel of death had personally come for his soul. ‘Y—yes?’

  Stryker smiled widely, knowing the gesture would only tug gruesomely at the mottled scars across his left cheek and eye socket. ‘Major Stryker to see His Highness.’

  The lieutenant swallowed thickly. ‘Welcome, sir. I’ll show you through.’

  Stryker blinked hard as his eye adjusted to the dim light of candles. The corridor smelt of rosewater and fresh flowers. He removed the hat he had fetched from the bakery by cover of darkness, tapping it against his palm lest any traces of flour remained.

  At the end of a long passageway another door opened and the young lieutenant stepped out of Stryker’s path, ushering him inside. It was brighter in the room, bathed as it was in the daylight of three broad windows with vertical mullions and painted sills. Stryker stared at the faces before him. There were many he did not recognise, but plenty he could guess. Sir Richard Crane was present, and he offered Stryker a brisk bow, but there were others too. Lieutenant-General Goring, the famed leader of the Northern Horse, and Lord John Byron, Rupert’s second in command, with Lucas and Langdale standing close. Grandees of Foot, such as the unflappable Henry Tillier, the earnest Tyldesley and the elegant Napier, were gathered too, each one listening intently to the man who was seated in an ornately carved chair studying a small sheet of paper that lay, with dozens of others, on a large, untidy table.

  ‘Nephew,’ Prince Rupert of the Rhine read aloud as a large dog with tightly curled fur ambled to his side. It slumped beside the chair, watching the prince’s foot as it tapped rapidly. ‘First I must congratulate with you for your good successes, assuring you that the things themselves are no more welcome to me than that you are the means. I know the importance of the supplying you with powder, for which I have taken all possible ways, having sent both to Ireland and Bristol.’ He looked up, spearing a clerk sitting at the far end of the table with his rapier stare. ‘Dated the 14th. Should expect a consignment any day, roads permitting.’

  The black-fingered clerk was hunched over his own stack of paperwork. He nodded mutely, scratching something with a long quill as the prince scanned through the next few lines.

  It was the first time Stryker had been summoned to army headquarters since their arrival. He suspected that the rumours of imminent action, whispered on the barren streets and in the bawdy taverns, were not coincidental. Now, as he stood stock still in the opulent drawing-room, he could hear his own pulse rush in his ears as his general shared with them a dispatch from a monarch.

  ‘But now I must give you the true state of my affairs,’ Rupert continued, ‘which if their condition be such as enforces me to give you more peremptory commands than I would willingly do, you must not take it ill.’ The prince paused. He stood up and walked to a window. All eyes followed. Rupert glanced down at the letter once more. ‘If York be lost I shall esteem my crown little less; unless supported by your sudden march to me; and a miraculous conquest in the south, before the effects of their northern power can be found here. But if York be relieved, and you beat the rebels’ army of both kingdoms which are before it; then – but not otherwise – I may make a shift, upon the defensive, to spin out time until you come to assist me.’

  ‘Spin out time?’

  ‘That,’ Rupert replied, jabbing a long forefinger at the text, ‘is what he says, Sir Richard.’

  Crane, commander of Rupert’s Lifeguard of Horse, picked with his nails at the wide, puckered scar that gave him his forever-grin. He frowned. ‘Forgive me, Highness. He says that, should you relieve York, and beat the devil’s alliance in the field, he can hold out against Essex and Waller until we march south to his aid?’

  ‘That seems to be the crux of it,’ Rupert said.

  ‘Thus, it is a command for you to engage the Allies?’

  The prince found his place half way down the handwritten sheet. ‘Wherefore I command and conjure you, by the duty and affection which I know you bear me, that all new enterprises laid aside, you immediately march, according to your first intention, with all your force to the relief of York.’

  The men in the room exchanged glances. Crane nodded. ‘Then we have our orders.’

  ‘But,’ Rupert said sharply, reading on as if Crane had not spoken, ‘if that be either lost, or have freed themselves from the besiegers, or that, from want of powder, you cannot undertake that work, that you immediately march with your whole strength, directly to Worcester, to assist me and my army.’

  One of the others, a gruff, silver-whiskered commander from one of the infantry regiments, cleared his throat. ‘We lack powder,’ he said pointedly, ‘and men. And the city will surely be lost before long. Thus, His Majesty orders we march to Worcester.’

  ‘Without which, or you having relieved York by beating the Scots, all the successes you can afterwards have must infallibly be useless unto me. You may believe that nothing but an extreme necessity could make me write thus unto you; wherefore, in this case, I can no ways doubt of your punctual compliance with. Your loving and most faithful friend, Charles R.’

  Prince Rupert of the Rhine walked back to the table and placed the letter upon a stack of other correspondence. ‘He makes no disguise as to York’s import. And he freely admits that in order to relieve that poor city, we must fight the Scotch.’

  ‘We have not the strength to fight them,’ said a tall man with intelligent brown eyes, light brown hair, and a brown suit of expensive material that shimmered in the light’s beams. Stryker knew him to be James Stanley, Earl of Derby, master of Lathom House and leading Royalist in Lancashire. His sharply waxed beard and moustache twitched as he spoke. ‘This is not an order, Highness, but news and advice. His Majesty, God preserve him, would not have you dash your army in so raw a state at so formidable a foe. He gives you leave to avoid a pitched confrontation if you are not in a position to emerge the victor.’

  Men murmured agreement. Others grunted repudiation.

  Rupert gnawed his bottom lip. He picked up the letter again. ‘Immediately march, according to your first intention, with all your force to the relief of York.’ He sucked in a lungful of air, blasting it out through his long nose, and fixed each man in turn with that baleful glower. ‘It is a command, gentlemen. Not only to relieve York, but also to fight the Scots and Roundheads that lay siege to it.’

  Derby shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘It is ambiguous at best, Highness.’

  ‘It is a sovereign directive, my lord,’ Rupert said scathingly.

  ‘You have conquered Lancashire,’ Derby responded tightly, ‘is that not enough?’

  ‘It will never be enough. Not until the last beat of the last rebel heart.’

  Derby’s face was pained, contorted by fear of a prince, and a prince’s intent. ‘To face the Allies in the field is to invite only ruin and death. Is that what you want, Highness?’

  ‘What I want, my lord, is not worth a groat.’ Rupert held the paper aloft, waving it as though it were a flag. ‘What the King wants, however, is victory. And I mean to give it to him.’

  The ostler returned Vos, accepted a clipped silver coin for his trouble, and slipped back to the stable. Stryker breathed in the air that seemed so much cleaner up on the ridge and poked his toes through the first stirrup. Some of the othe
r officers, joined by waiting aides and subordinates, came down the steps, fielding the inevitable questions as they awaited their own mounts. It was then that Stryker saw Kendrick standing alone in the centre of the village green. Stryker had not yet pushed up on to the saddle, and for a heartbeat he froze, half dangling, for he could barely believe that the Vulture would strut across his path so openly after their last encounter. But there he was, swathed in his bearskin pelt, face pale as milk, eyes black as coal pebbles.

  People were filling the road now, eager to discover the army’s next move, and Stryker knew it was folly to threaten Kendrick publicly. And yet he took a fistful of Vos’s reins and stalked over to the green.

  ‘Ah, Major Stryker.’ Kendrick flashed his dagger grin. ‘A joy to see you again.’

  ‘You are up to no good, Vulture.’

  ‘I have as much right to be here as any, sir,’ Kendrick answered, spitting the final word out. ‘I report to Colonel Chisenall for the time being, and he, as you will know, has been at audience with young Longshanks. Though, I confess, it is apt to meet you here. I have been meaning to ask: what is your name? It has been bothering me.’

  ‘Stryker.’

  Kendrick’s thin brow shot up. ‘You were christened, Sergeant-Major? Curious.’

  Stryker would not take the bait. ‘You are brazen, sirrah. You attack my men in broad daylight and expect no consequence.’

  ‘I attacked a rebel spy that you see fit to shield.’

  Stryker looped the reins about his grip, putting his free hand to his sword-hilt. ‘If you touch the girl again, I will pull those fangs out through your nose.’

  Kendrick licked his lips. ‘Know her way around a privy member, does she, sir?’

  ‘I am warning you, Kendrick.’

  ‘I want—no—’ Kendrick paused, glancing at the grey clouds as he searched for the right words. ‘I need the girl.’

  ‘You will not have her.’

  ‘Trust that it is for the good of the Crown, Major.’

  ‘If it were for the good of the Crown, you would have informed the authorities. Whatever your design, it is not for the Prince’s ears.’

  Kendrick sighed. ‘Then consider this, Major Stryker. If you do not hand her to me, I will tell the Prince. I shall tell him that you harbour a Puritan polecat who lets you swive her in return for information.’ He thrust a finger in Stryker’s face. ‘He’ll not be best pleased.’

  ‘You will not tell the Prince,’ Stryker said, sure that Kendrick would already have taken such a tack had it been in his interest. ‘You think she possesses something. This golden flagon. You should know that she does not.’

  ‘You lie,’ Kendrick said contemptuously. ‘And you cannot trumpet her presence either, can you? She would be ejected from this army, at best, and left to my tender mercies. Thus we reach an impasse. You will try to protect her, and I will take her from you.’

  ‘You,’ Stryker said, ‘will stay away from the girl!’ He pulled his sword halfway out of the scabbard.

  Kendrick retreated hastily over the lawn. Stryker dropped Vos’s reins and pursued him, freeing the rest of the blade so that sunlight danced along its length.

  ‘Gentlemen!’

  Stryker halted. Kendrick did too. The voice was sharp and clear and terrifying. Stryker slid the sword into its scabbard as quickly as it had come free, turning with slow dread. On the top step of the grand house stood Prince Rupert. The lip-chewing, foot-tapping tension that had marked the Council of War had been washed away as if by a deluge. Now he was the warrior-prince again, almost six and a half feet of handsome, fearsome, menacing soldier, and he filled the door-frame, a head higher than the lintel behind, big hands on his hips, jaw set firmly as he surveyed the officers and men gathered at the foot of the steps. Stryker breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that the prince had not addressed him and Kendrick, but the crowd at large.

  ‘Friends!’ Rupert bellowed as if he hawked pies at a country fayre. ‘I have been ordered by His Majesty, King Charles, to march upon York and destroy those who would take it from the royal bosom! To that end, the Scots lion must be tamed! Who is with me?’

  A great huzzah roared up from the throng that was growing with every moment, soldiers and common folk swelling the nucleus of generals. Rupert raised a clenched fist, as though the very decision signified an end to the war, and cheers rose to a deafening crescendo.

  John Kendrick appeared at Stryker’s side. ‘The German hawk will tame the Scots lion,’ he said, just loudly enough for Stryker alone to hear, ‘and the Vulture will skin the one-eyed wolf.’ People were filling the green, moving between them, jostling for a view of the triumphal prince. Kendrick had walked backwards before Stryker could reply, melding into the mass of bodies. Just as he disappeared, he clamped shut an eye in grinning mockery. ‘Watch for me, Major! Watch for me!’

  Chapter 14

  Lancashire, 22–26 June 1644

  The Royalist army was fifteen thousand strong when it marched out of Liverpool. It was eleven days after the port had fallen. Prince Rupert left a substantial garrison, for the route needed to be kept open to convoys from Ireland, but the majority formed a vast column that stretched for the better part of five miles.

  They went north, reaching Preston by nightfall, and, as a weak light tinged a rain-lashed dawn, pushed forth into the great fells that ran like a spine through England’s core. The Northern Horse, under Goring and Lucas, peeled away after Preston, taking a more northerly route that would protect Rupert’s flank and take them via the potential recruiting grounds of Hornby and Settle, while the rest tramped into the rising sun as the hills became steep and the horizon jagged.

  It was an ambitious gambit, to say the least, for Rupert, invigorated by the urgency in the king’s order, risked fatal exposure in the hills and mountains. The Army of Both Kingdoms loomed to the east like a ravenous beast, disturbing the dreams of even the hardiest campaigner, and the almost endless rain turned roads to streams, streams to rivers, and rivers to torrents. But spirits were high for all that. The army had prised their way into Stockport and Bolton and then Liverpool, albeit to great cost, and now they felt as though they had earned their freedom from smoke-shrouded trenches and corpse-strewn streets. They could fool themselves, just for a short time, that no enemy lay in wait.

  Stryker’s party was somewhere towards the middle of the column, at the rear of the remaining cavalry but ahead of the laboriously slogging infantry, artillery and baggage. It suited him, for it meant that they no longer needed to conceal Faith Helly. The High Command were a long way to the front, and Kendrick’s Company of Foot languished far behind.

  Heathcliff Brownell – the grinning, fair-haired youngster who had brought the news of Liverpool’s capitulation – commanded the unit to which, for the ease of the quartermaster, they were temporarily attached. ‘Prince Robert,’ the young lieutenant had chimed as his chestnut horse struggled gainfully through a swollen brook, ‘speaks highly of you, sir.’

  ‘It gladdens me to hear,’ Stryker replied. He doubted the prince knew this chirpy stripling referred to him by the name coined by his inner circle of friends, but he smiled nevertheless.

  ‘Says you have spilt blood in every European nation!’ Brownell exclaimed.

  ‘I have had my own blood spilt in every European nation,’ Stryker said as Vos sloshed over the brook’s shifting pebbles. Faith was pressed behind him, twig-thin arms wrapped tight around his midriff, though every so often a hand would snake away to pat the saddlebag in which Sydall’s Bible had been stowed. ‘Not quite the same.’

  Brownell seemed crest-fallen, and then beamed. ‘You jest, sir!’ He slapped a hand across his thigh. ‘By Jesu! Major Stryker jests with Heathcliff Brownell. I shall write to Papa at once!’

  All that dreary Sunday they marched, pausing briefly for rapid sermons delivered by harassed clergymen, moving east and north along the foot of a large escarpment known as Longridge Fell. It was marked by a sharp drop, they were told, at its n
orthern edge, so they should feel grateful that the prince was leading them along that gentler southern slope. Except that further south, running parallel with their course, the River Ribble smashed its roaring way back towards the Irish Sea, and that river had broken its banks, flooding field, forest and road. The army, then, were funnelled like penned sheep between the dark hill and the silver water, and it took them all day to cleave a way to the rendezvous at a place called Ribchester.

  ‘It is Roman, sir,’ Brownell had announced as his troop had filed into the village. Many of the houses were flooded, and much of the army was being sent out to seek billets in the surrounding farmsteads.

  ‘You have made a study of the place, Lieutenant?’ Stryker asked while a surly quartermaster bellowed orders for them to locate a hamlet named locally as Stydd.

  ‘I am intrigued by matters of antiquity, Major,’ Brownell explained, his fifty horsemen jangling behind in double file. ‘It is a disease, Mama says. Ribchester was an important place, once. Long ago, mind, but they yet discover great stones carved with ancient symbols, and coins with faces long forgotten.’ He sighed. ‘Now it is a place for cotton weaving, more’s the pity.’

  Stydd lay to the north of Ribchester. It was a modest collection of single-storey hovels, all of which were built in the same sandstone rubble that could be seen along the river valley. At its centre was a sparse chapel, St Saviour’s, and it was there that Brownell and Stryker chose for the night’s quartering. It was a simple affair of porch, nave and sanctuary, laid out in a rectangle with straw on the floor beneath a slate roof. There was no seating of any kind, which suited them, for the horses could be brought in from the rain, and as darkness descended so the heat from the many bodies warmed the interior and steamed the glazed windows. Faith had seen enough of the world to be wary of a night spent in a single chamber with more than fifty men, but Stryker warned the others off, and they had kept their distance.

  ‘You do not tell folk your name,’ Faith said as she lay on her side when the salt pork had gone and the tall tales were exhausted. Skellen and Hood were already asleep, and Barkworth was on watch.