The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (11 page)

‘What the devil is he waiting for?’ muttered Colonel Peverell, pacing restlessly back and forth between the guns of Fort Royal.
 
‘He’s cut us off from London and Wales, he outnumbers us by roughly two to one and he can cross either river whenever he chooses.
 
So why is he still
waiting?
’

Francis opened his mouth to say he hadn’t the remotest idea … and then closed it again, struck by a sudden thought.
 
He said slowly, ‘For tomorrow?’

Ashley stared at him.
 
‘What?’

‘Tomorrow.
 
September 3
^rd
.
 
The anniversary of his victory at Dunbar?’

‘Christ,’ said Ashley.
 
And, turning to go, added, ‘I’ll tell Hamilton.
 
But don’t worry.
 
I’ll see you get full credit.’

‘I’m sure,’ retorted Francis with asperity. ‘After all, it’s probably just my imagination running away with me.’

*
 
*
 
*

At home in Friar Street, Verity Marriott was finding the tension stifling.
 
For four days, Joshua had been in a foul mood; Barbara was sniping even more than usual; and the intermittent roaring of the great guns at Fort Royal coupled with the thudding replies from Perry Wood and Red Hill were giving everyone a headache and causing a good many breakages in the kitchen.

By mid-afternoon, Verity could stand it no longer and, taking her cloak, slipped out through the back door.
 
The street was busy with soldiers going about their business, few of whom spared her so much as a glance.
 
She walked aimlessly towards the Sidbury Gate and then, when the press of troopers and horses grew thicker, turned right to the Cathedral in the hope that it might be quieter there.

It wasn’t.
 
Commanding superb views to the south and west over the Severn, it was in constant use as a look-out post. Deciding it would be foolish to go inside, she hoisted herself on to a wall and settled down to watch the comings and goings.

Twenty minutes later, Captain Sir Nicholas Austin strode out of the north door and came to an abrupt stop in front of her.

‘My God,’ he said blankly. ‘What are you doing here?’

Stunned to see him again and paralysed by shyness, Verity flushed and muttered something about having come out for a breath of air.

‘You’re alone?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t be.
 
It’s not safe.
 
Haven’t your family any sense?’

His frown dismayed her.
 
She didn’t know about last night’s sortie or the fact that he’d spent the day flying about delivering messages and was tired, hungry and over-stretched.
 
She only knew that he looked cross.
 
She said haltingly, ‘I didn’t tell anyone I was going out.
 
If I had, they’d have stopped me.’

Something in her voice pierced Nicholas’s preoccupation.
 
The heart-shaped face was strained and there were shadows under her eyes.
 
She looked even more vulnerable than she’d done that day outside the Guildhall; and that, of course, was why he remembered her.

Puppies, children and fragile creatures always did well with Nicholas.
 
Since boyhood, his strongest characteristics had been an urge to protect the helpless and a desire to right wrongs.
 
Ashley maintained that he’d been born several centuries too late.
 
Nick ruefully agreed that it was probably true and suspected that it would get him into trouble one day.
 
Now, looking at the girl, an all-too-familiar concern stirred and he said, ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?
 
Do you want to tell me about it?’

The unexpected kindness made her want to cry.
 
She swallowed and shook her head.

‘Not particularly.
 
And you’re busy.’

‘I can spare five minutes,’ lied Nicholas, sitting on the wall beside her.
 
‘Or even ten.’

He smiled and her breath leaked away.
 
She said the only thing that mattered.

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Nicholas Austin.
 
And yours?’

‘Verity. Verity Marriott – though I’m supposed to call myself Vincent now.
 
My mother re-married, you see.’
 
She shook her head. ‘But that doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

She looked up into warm brown eyes and was lost.

‘Yes.
 
But I can’t talk about it.’

Without thinking, Nick took her hand in his.

‘Try,’ he said.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

The morning of September 3
^rd
was spent in a state of heightened tension as the Royalist army continued to await Cromwell’s attack.
 
Colonel Peverell divided the time between his regiment just below Fort Royal, the army’s headquarters in the Commandery and the look-out atop the Cathedral tower.
 
In this way he was able to at least
feel
busy during the last empty hours until it was time to fight.

At around noon, standing amidst a handful of other officers beside the King on the Cathedral tower, he saw and heard the first signs of activity; the crackle of musket-fire and puffs of smoke ascending from Colonel Keith’s outpost in the village of Powick.
 
Ashley’s muscles tightened but he said nothing.
 
The view, even through a perspective glass, was annoyingly indistinct but everyone knew that the outpost was too small to be held against a full attack.
 
Keith’s stand, when it came, would be made at Powick Bridge; the place where, nine years ago, Prince Rupert had won the first victory of the war by defeating Nathaniel Fiennes.

It was harder to watch and wait than to do.
 
By the time it became plain that Colonel Keith had been pushed back and was now fighting desperately to hold the bridge, Ashley was in a fever of impatience.
 
And when, away to Keith’s
 
left, the New Model started pouring across the bridge of boats at the mouth of the Teme towards Pitscotty’s brigade, he said tersely, ‘They’re trying to turn our right wing.
 
Doesn’t anyone think it might be a good idea to stop them?’

Several pairs of eyes, their expressions varying from disapproval to agreement, turned simultaneously in his direction.
 
Then Lord Rothes said simply, ‘Quite right.
 
If Keith is forced to give ground, Pitscotty will have to retreat or be cut off – and
vice versa
.
 
And if both of them are driven back on Montgomery, our whole flank could be rolled right back to the city.’

A brief debate ensued until the King – as anxious as Ashley to be in the thick of things – said, ‘I’ll go down and assess the situation in person.’

General Middleton’s brows shot up.

‘I’d rather ye didn’t, Sir.
 
It’s tae greet a risk.’

‘This whole venture is a risk, General.
 
And my presence may be just the encouragement the men need.’
 
Charles glanced around him.
 
‘Colonel Legge – Colonel Peverell.
 
Bring up a couple of dozen of your best men and let’s go.’

Will Legge saluted.
 
‘At once, Sir.’
 
And, discreetly, to Ashley, ‘Thank God for that.
 
I thought for a minute he was going to take Wilmot.’

‘And I,’ muttered Ashley, ‘thought I was going to be stuck up this tower all day.’

They left the city by Bridgegate and rode fast.
 
Activity along the banks of the Teme was now extremely fierce.
 
Colonel Keith was still holding the bridge in the teeth of some heavy opposition from Fleetwood’s troops and, also refusing to give ground, Pitscotty’s highlanders were engaged in a vicious struggle with Major-General Lambert’s infantry.
 
Pikeheads pierced the smoke-laden air, bugles shrilled and steel rasped on steel.
 
The overall impression was of sheer pandemonium.

Colonel Keith, a dogged Scots officer of some experience, had his hands full but the arrival of the King caused his face to lighten fractionally and he said, ‘It isna going sae bad, Your Majesty – not that we couldna do wi’ a wee bit o’ support, ye understand.
 
But I dinna doot ma laddies will fight the harder for seeing ye here.’

‘They seem to be fighting like demons already,’ replied Charles.
 
‘I can ask no more of them and only wished to say how greatly their efforts – and yours, Colonel – are appreciated.’
 
He paused briefly, surveying the fray.
 
‘I don’t need to tell you how vital it is that this bridge is held.’

‘No, Sir – ye don’t.
 
And ye have ma word that we’ll hold it as long as we can.
 
Tae the last man, if needs be.’

Charles met the Colonel’s eyes unsmilingly but with sincerity.

‘Thank you.
 
And whatever comes of today, you may be sure I won’t forget.’

As the King turned to move on eastwards towards the Severn, Ashley said rapidly, ‘Sir – with Lambert’s fellows already on this side of the river, it would be madness to risk yourself visiting General Pitscotty.
 
He seems to be holding them – just.
 
But if something were to happen to Your Majesty …’ He stopped.
 
Then, ‘I’ll go, if you wish.
 
Meanwhile, perhaps you might put some heart into Montgomery and Dalziel.’

Charles drew a short breath, loosed it and looked at Colonel Legge who said, ‘I agree, Sir. Pitscotty’s position is no place for you at the moment.’

‘Very well.’
 
The King’s gaze, heavy with frustration, turned back to Colonel Peverell. ‘Use your charm and make my apologies for not coming in person.
 
Ah – and Ash?’

Already turning his horse, Ashley checked. ‘Sir?’

‘Enjoy yourself, by all means.
 
But don’t forget to come back, will you?’

*
 
*
 
*

While Colonel Peverell was presenting His Majesty’s compliments to General Pitscotty and begging him to stand firm, Colonel Maxwell was wiping the sweat from his eyes and trying to ease the cramp from his sword-hand whilst conferring briskly with the Major-General.

‘They won’t budge.
 
We’ve thrown everything we’ve got against them and are continuing to battle over the same few yards.
 
Pitscotty must be one hell of a General.’

‘Clearly,’ agreed Lambert.
 
‘And I’m informed that Deane’s fellows are faring no better at Powick.
 
Yet one or other of us
must
push through.
 
It doesn’t matter which.
 
If we can make Pitscotty retreat, his colleague at Powick will have to do the same.
 
But if both of them stand, our whole strategy of driving their right wing back to the city will fail.
 
The trouble is that neither Deane nor myself has any more men to send.’

‘So what are your orders?’ asked Eden, preparing to re-join his men.

‘Try again?
 
For the moment, that’s all we can do.
 
And in the meantime, I’ll apprise Fleetwood of the situation.’

Colonel Maxwell gave a short, sardonic laugh.
 
All the officers knew that Charles Fleetwood suffered from a chronic inability to make a decision and stick to it.
 
What they
didn’t
know was why Cromwell had made him second-in-command instead of Lambert.

Under his breath, Eden muttered, ‘That will be a big help, I’m sure.’ And rode off before the Major-General could ask him to repeat himself.

If Lieutenant-General Fleetwood came up with any good ideas, Eden never found out what they were.
 
He spent the next half hour directing another assault against the highlanders – and was just resigning himself to yet another failure when reinforcements started pouring over the second bridge of boats which lay across the Severn.
 
The Captain-General, it appeared, had decided to lend a hand in person and was leading three brigades against Pitscotty’s left flank.

Even as he re-formed his men to support the unexpected reinforcements, Eden realised that bringing troops to support Lambert was probably the last thing Cromwell wanted to do since it might enable the Royalists to make a sally against his men on Red Hill.
 
On the other hand, if the Scots were to be driven back and trapped in the city, there wasn’t really any alternative.
 
And even now, attacked on two sides simultaneously by vastly superior numbers, Pitscotty’s fellows were still standing firm and fighting like demons.
 
Eden found himself hoping they weren’t going to hold their ground to the last man.
 
They deserved better than that.

*
 
*
 
*

On the point of re-joining the King, Ashley Peverell hesitated, watching the m
ê
l
é
e and swearing under his breath.
 
Then, setting spurs to his horse, he galloped off at break-neck speed to obtain the order necessary to get help.

Charles gave it in two words.

‘Fetch Leslie,’ he said.
 
‘I’ll send Montgomery to hold them until he gets there.
 
Join me back at the Commandery.’

Ashley nodded curtly and set off again.
 
Minutes later and breathing rather hard, he was at the Pitchcroft, telling David Leslie what he wanted.

The General took his time about answering.
 
Then he said, ‘His Majesty cannot have considered the matter.
 
The ground above the Teme is too broken with hedges to be suitable for cavalry.
 
I do not see how we could make a charge.’

‘I appreciate that, sir,’ said Ashley with commendable patience. ‘But the situation is grave.
 
And I’m sure your great experience will suggest some way --’

‘My great experience, Colonel, tells me that my Horse is not to be wasted where it can do little good.’

‘
But the highlanders are being cut to pieces!
’ began Ashley.
 
And then stopped, realising how little this would mean to the man who’d defeated Montrose.
 
Sitting very straight and holding Leslie’s eye, he said, ‘General Pitscotty and his men are demonstrating loyalty and valour as great as any I’ve ever seen – and they’re paying dearly for it.
 
Perhaps that doesn’t concern you.
 
But the King has commanded your presence, sir.
 
Are you refusing his order?’

‘From all I’ve been privileged to see of you, young man,’ came the irascible retort, ‘I’ve little doubt that this notion originates less from His Majesty than from yourself.
 
And since it is so obviously foolish --’

‘You’re wasting time, General.
 
Are you going to bring your cavalry up or not?’

There was a brief, explosive silence.
 
‘No, Colonel.
 
I am not.’

‘I see.’
 
Ashley’s gaze was like flint.
 
‘Then I hope you can live with the consequences – and that your men are proud of you.’
 
Upon which he jerked his horse’s head about and rode fulminatingly back to Worcester.

Inside the Commandery, a Council of War was in progress.
 
As Ashley entered, however, all eyes turned towards him and the King said, ‘Well?’

‘General Leslie,’ announced Ashley carefully, ‘considers the ground unsuitable for Horse.
 
He won’t advance.’

There was a tiny pause and then everybody started talking at once.
 
Only the King remained silent, his expression bitter but oddly unsurprised.
 
Then, raising his voice over the din, the Duke of Hamilton said, ‘Gentlemen – please!
 
We’ve time neither to damn Leslie’s caution nor coerce him into action.’

Colonel Peverell threw down his hat.

‘What’s Pitscotty’s present situation?’

‘He’s making a fighting retreat – and losing a great many men in the process,’ answered Will Legge grimly. ‘As for Colonel Keith, he’s been isolated and is being forced back from the bridge.
 
If we don’t do something soon, our forces west of the Severn will be in total disarray.’

‘Or worse,’ said Ashley.

‘Yes.
 
Or worse.’

‘The men Cromwell is leading against Pitscotty are ones he drew off from Perry Wood and Red Hill,’ remarked Charles, frowning down at the large map on the table.
 
‘Might either location be vulnerable to an assault?’

Hamilton and Legge exchanged glances.
 
Then Hamilton said slowly, ‘As vulnerable as they’ll ever be.’

‘So it’s worth a try,’ breathed Will. ‘At least it may relieve the pressure on Montgomery and our other friends across the river.’

The King looked from one to the other of them and nodded.

‘Very well, gentlemen.
 
We’d better get busy.’

*
 
*
 
*

A short time later, Colonel Peverell descended purposefully upon his regiment’s position south-east of Fort Royal and, finding Major Langley, said, ‘We’re going to advance against Red Hill.
 
Are our fellows ready?’

‘What do you think?’
 
Francis hated the inevitable lull before battle and having the whole morning and half the afternoon to kill had made him irritable.
 
‘I’ve had them standing to arms since before noon.’