The Ravens’ Banquet

First published 2014 by Solaris

an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

Riverside House, Osney Mead,

Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-756-2

ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-756-9

Copyright © Clifford Beal 2014

Cover Art by Pye Parr

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

“You cannot take War across the countryside in a Sack”

– old German proverb

Y
ESTERDAY THEY CAME
for me.

Five horsemen pounded up the lane at a fast trot, scattering the squealing pigs that rooted by the roadside. All in buff and blackened harness, they reined in and dismounted right in front of me. I had seen their likes before: troopers of generals Cromwell and Ireton. And it was their New Model army that had wreaked havoc among us only days gone by upon the field at Naseby. It was also plain to me that I was the object of their intent.

They looked at me like I was some base rogue, smugness in their thin half-smiles. The one who was their sergeant stepped forward, spurs a-jingle and hand on sword hilt, the visor of his pot thrown open, revealing to me the face of a man who had seen much war. His right cheek was fiercely scarred, the skin seared red and raw. And the stink of sweat, wood smoke, and gunpowder preceded him.

“Be you Richard Treadwell?” he demanded.

I tried to straighten up and put weight on my crutch, the green wood of the spindly thing bending precariously under my arm.

“I am Colonel Richard Treadwell, of His Majesty's Army of Horse. What business do you have with me?”

The sergeant reached into his snapsack without taking his sunken grey eyes from me and drew out a letter. As he did so, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of his fellows barge into the house.

“Richard Treadwell,” he said, rasping in the halting tongue of a rustic newly acquainted with the written word, “You are hereby taken into the custody of Sir Thomas Fairfax and... by his authority... thou art to be transported to London, arraigned on the charge of Treason, and detained at the pleasure of Crown and Parliament.”

He handed me the warrant, which I read rapidly even as my ears began to ring. It said little more.

“I offered my surrender to Sir John Havers at Naseby. It’s at his pleasure that I’m held here,” I protested. “I see no order relinquishing that right, and it will take more than this paper to get me to accompany you.”

The Sergeant’s eyes remained locked onto mine. His reply, when it came, was delivered in quiet firmness. It was my first taste of the New Order of things in this world.

“I am under orders to bring you out whether say you yea or nay. Or would you have me break the other leg to convince you?”

The cold throb deep in my right thigh was no gentle reminder that I could hardly walk let alone make a run for it. I lowered my head in recognition that I had now a new warder.

His comrade emerged from the cottage and undid the strap of his pot helm.

“None but a woman and her boy inside. Looks like she’s got a full larder. What do you say we stay here for the night and make our return on the morrow?”

The sergeant looked to his companion, then shot me a sideways glance. He cocked the visor of his pot, turned on his heels, and removed his gauntlets.

“Listen, Bill,” spoke up the other again, “a good bed lies in the hall – the first bed I have laid eyes upon in near two month.”

I saw the sergeant look up to spy where the sun hung in the sky and so calculate the time. That he had even to think about such a choice when a soldier’s feast awaited, was testament to the discipline of this enemy. If it were me, I would not have hesitated.

“Aye, well,” he said, tempted by his friend, “we would not make it back to camp before nightfall even if we left straight away.” He turned again and looked at me, measuring me up, reckoning whether I would be a handful or not. He then swung around to his comrade.

“We’ll stay here the night but start all the sooner come morning.” He called to the remaining three troopers who stood by, holding the reins of their bedraggled mounts. “Fetch the leg irons!”

When we six entered the cottage; poor Mistress Hayton was choked full with dread. She had not expected such company when she had hurriedly accepted to be my warder the week before. Then, Sir John had given her kind words and silver coin, bidding her to treat me civilly and to dress my wounds until his return. Her own husband was off with the same victorious army that now gathered up the remnants of the King’s shattered host.

It is no natural thing to make war on one’s own countrymen. But, alas, we all were driven to it. After four stinking years in this hellish fight I confess I still find it a hard thing to put a sword into another Englishman. Yet not even me, jaded and corrupted as I am, had expected things to go on this long.

We had danced a grisly reel these past months; the King’s forces winning a few, Parliament’s rebels winning a few more. Now, I fear, after Naseby’s dreadful harvest, my Cause is at an end. Leastways, my own part in it is now done.

The goodwife scuttled about the house as the rebels tracked in a week’s worth of grime. She said not a word, but cooked them a meal and brought them beer and lit a taper for their pipes. As for me, I was evicted from the bed in the loft and shackled near the cool stone of the hearth. One cuff around my good ankle, the other end set and clamped upon an iron ring in the fireplace. And so we spent the evening: the three troopers well fed upon the settle and chair, laughing and cussing; the sergeant and his corporal at the table; Mistress Hayton perched upon the four-poster bed next to her boy and awaiting every barked command; and me, sitting in the dust of the hearth like a dog, far too close to the fire for a summer’s night and slurping cold porridge.

Sometime after the sole tallow candle had burned down to just a thumb-length, the corporal took his leave up the stairs for the bed he had long dreamt of. The three troopers, no doubt deprived of good sleep for more days than they could remember, had by now succumbed to the comfort of their surroundings and all snorted, snored and gurgled in their slumbers. The sergeant too, his head full of drink and chin upon chest, drifted off even as he sat in his chair, elbows propped.

The mistress had barely moved or spoken for some time. I could just see her white cap and neckcloth in the gloom as she stroked her son upon the bed. Then I heard her quiet voice speak. And she was speaking to me.