Charles the King (28 page)

“You call it stupidity,” Henrietta said fiercely, “you talk about making peace and staying in exile as if he would be safe by giving in and trusting to the mercies of his enemies. How dare you say that! How dare you advise me to discourage him when he's on the eve of a major battle!”

Her tears began to overflow and she stopped, she put her hands to her eyes and sobbed and as she looked at her, Elizabeth first shook her head and then shrugged.

“What battle?” she asked quietly. “You never told me. I should like to know—my son Rupert is with him.”

“A place outside Oxford,” Henrietta said at last. “I received a letter yesterday. He says Essex and the Parliament army are gathering outside Oxford on the way to London. Rupert has advised him to march on the capital and they should meet at a point in between called Edgehill.

“God help them,” Elizabeth said slowly. “I should try and calm yourself; weeping will not do any good. I'm afraid you are just at the beginning of your tears.”

As the door closed behind her, Henrietta went quickly into her oratory. Her religion was as unpopular in Holland as it had been in England; that was another complaint Elizabeth made against her. But her faith and her letters from Charles were all the comfort she had left. Edgehill. She fell on her knees in front of the tiny altar and prayed desperately for her husband and her nephew and all their friends and for the outcome of the battle outside Oxford.

The King rose before dawn on October 22nd, 1642. Parry dressed him in the tent which had been set up on the higher slope of the escarpment at Edgehill, surrounded by his personal guards wearing scarlet, which was known as the Royal colour. Three thousand cavalry and dragoons and nine thousand infantry were deployed over the high ground in the rough shape of a half moon. Prince Rupert's four cavalry regiments and Charles' own lifeguards were placed on the right flank, the infantry in the centre and five regiments of horse under the command of Harry Wilmot were on the left. Charles's army had overtaken Essex and the Parliament troops and at Rupert's insistence, they had turned to meet them at Edgehill. It had been a long and weary march through hostile country, where the villagers hid their food and closed their houses, and the Royalists had eaten little during the past two days. They were hungry and tired but their morale was high, and when the King came out of his tent into the early autumn sunshine, he was greeted by a roar of cheering. He wore black velvet, his short cloak lined with ermine, and he mounted a pure white horse. He had spent some time praying quietly in his tent before going out to encourage his troops, and his spirit was composed and confident. He turned as Rupert came riding up towards him on a big bay, the scarlet sash blazing across his breastplate, with half a dozen of his chosen officers close behind him. Rupert raised his sword in salute.

“The army is ready for inspection, Sire.”

“I'm ready,” Charles answered him. “Come with me, Rupert.” He spurred his horse and began to move down among the ranks of infantry. There were tenant farmers from York and the Midlands, labourers and townsmen, bearing arms for the first time in their lives, and for many it was their first close view of the King for whom they were going to fight that day. What they saw was a personification of the ancient sovereigns of England, handsome, grave, supremely dignified in his rich dress with the Royal ermine on his shoulders, riding the magnificent white horse, and when he stopped to speak to them they broke their ranks and crowded round his stirrup, cheering and waving their hats. He waited for some moments, the colour coming into his face and such a mixture of emotions overwhelming him that he did not trust himself to speak. The sun was high above their heads and down below him Charles could see the bright green Avon valley, marked with darker lines of hedges and a few clumps of trees and further still, the mass of Essex's infantry. The light caught flashes of steel among them; from that distance they looked like toys rather than men. On the right a slight ground mist was gathering.

“Silence! Silence for His Majesty the King!” The officers were shouting and he could hear Rupert's voice above them all. He noticed a small man standing a few feet away from him, the red cockade blowing in his hat, and gave him a special smile of recognition. He remembered the man's name was Shuckburgh. He was a local squire who had met the King's army coming through as he was on his way to hunt; after kneeling at the King's feet, he had gone back to fetch his tenants and rejoined the army outside Rawdon. It was the first he had heard of the war. There were many like him.

“Gentlemen!” As Charles spoke, the last cheer died away and there was silence.

“I come among you on this day to tell you that your King is both your cause, your quarrel and your captain; come life or death your King will bear you company, and ever keep this field, this place and this day's service in his grateful remembrance. God bless you all!”

“God Save The King!”

That shout and the tremendous cheer that followed it were clearly heard in the furthest ranks of Essex's army down the hill.

The army of Parliament numbered nearly thirteen thousand; eleven thousand foot and two thousand horse, with dragoons, musketeers and artillery. The Earl of Essex had great confidence in his ability to blow the Royalists off the field with his superior cannon, but to his chagrin, less than half the artillery trains had caught up with his main force. He placed what guns he had between his infantry brigades and moved his cavalry regiments under the commands of Sir William Balfour, Sir Philip Stapleton and Sir James Ramsay forward to repel the Royalist foot.

Essex had also reviewed his troops that morning, and one of the minor officers in the cavalry was Oliver Cromwell, having his first major experience of combat. The Puritan preachers had travelled with them, and they passed among the men exhorting them to fight in the name of religion and the ancient laws of England and praying for a signal victory over the unbelievers. The Royalists cheered the King and the Parliamentarians retaliated with psalms. Through his spyglass Essex glimpsed the King on his white horse riding up the high edges of the escarpment, followed by his Standard Bearer carrying the flag with the Royal Arms of England. That would be the core of the battle, that spot where the slight figure in black stood, with his Standard blowing out in a stiff breeze above his head.

Essex called a hurried conference with his officers, and decided not to wait any longer in the hope of his artillery arriving in time. At two in the afternoon, Essex's guns opened fire.

The first cannonade struck a crowded infantry encampment. The Royalists were sitting down, their swords and muskets on the ground beside them, making a wretched meal of coarse bread and a ration of ale and the balls crashed in among them with terrible effect. The screams of the wounded mingled with the noise of gunfire as battery after battery opened up on the Royalist forces, and with the shouts and curses of the officers who ran in and out of the shattered ranks, trying to calm their men and have the injured dragged out of range.

Charles himself started to spur down towards them.

“Order our guns to open fire,” he shouted to Sir Jacob Astley, the general in command of the foot. “Stop those cannons!”

Astley passed on the order and held on to the rein of Charles' horse to stop him going into danger.

“Hold on, Sire, hold on a moment I Our guns will silence them … If you go any further you'll come within range!

“If your batteries don't come into action in another minute, Astley, I'll order the advance and stop them.” Charles said angrily. “What are we supposed to do, stay here and be shot to pieces?”

“There's our reply, Sire,” Astley shouted; he had to shout to be heard at all, for the few Royalists' guns began a thunderous cannonade at the enemy.

“Thank God,” Charles pulled his horse's head round. “Astley, we seem to be missing—we haven't touched a man in that battery on the left! Tell them they're aiming too high, the balls are going above them!”

“The guns are on high ground, Sire,” a perspiring officer from the batteries ran up to him, “we can't deflect the muzzles and we can't get a true aim. Their aim is right on us, we've had heavy casualties among the dragoons in the van.”

Charles swung round on him, “Where is Prince Rupert?”

“Coming now, Sire.”

Rupert was riding towards him, scattering men on either side. His face was dark with rage, and an old sword scar which ran across his forehead was livid. He looked like an incarnation of the devil as he pulled his horse up within a few feet of the King.

“This is madness,” he yelled. “Those fools placed their guns too high up to hit anything but the birds, and they're up there pouring out our ammunition to no purpose! Uncle, for God's sake have them stopped.” He turned savagely on Astley. Already his temper was proverbial. He had quarrelled violently with the senior officers, insisting on the importance of his cavalry in the strategic plan.

“What the devil are you doing, man, to let the artillery waste its fire and get in the way of my horse! Stop them at once or I'll ride down on them and spike those guns myself!”

“When His Majesty commands,” Astley shouted back. “I take my orders from him, not from you!”

Charles turned quickly on them both.

“Enough, enough, gentlemen,” he said angrily. “Astley, the Prince is right. I gave the order, now I rescind it. Cease firing!
”
With a furious glance at Rupert, Astley rode down towards the artillery and Charles said, “It was my mistake, Rupert, not his. Don't make any more enemies, for God's sake. What is the next move?”

“The cavalry,” his nephew answered. “They're ready to charge now. Give me the word, Uncle, and I'll take my four regiments out and sweep these scum off the face of the earth!”

“Charge then, and God go with you!” the King called out and as he spoke the Royalist guns ceased firing. He watched Rupert riding headlong down through the ranks of foot soldiers and he pulled his horse round and urged it to higher ground. From there he heard a ringing shout, surely given by Rupert in his powerful voice. And from there he saw the first wave of troopers leave the escarpment and begin their headlong gallop down the slope, their swords glittering in the sunshine, led by that towering figure on the big bay horse. The single cry, “For England and the King,” became a roar from fifteen hundred throats and they swept down and forward across the bright green ground below, gathering speed until they met the outposts of Essex's troops.

As Charles watched, he saw the first shock of impact as the mass of horsemen collided with the enemy foot-soldiers; the cries and shouts and the thunder of hooves came clearly to him and then saw the Roundhead lines divide and scatter. The men were running like insects before the terrible onrush of that charge and as they ran they fell and the victorious cavalry rode over them and beyond into the second line and in a matter of moments the right flank of Essex's army was disintegrating, flying for their lives. More horse were following Rupert, and Charles saw that they were the reserve, under Sir John Byron, following that magnificent charge in spite of orders to remain behind. His cavalry overran the enemy guns and the cannonades were silenced; a wild cheer broke out from the Royalist army and at the same moment Wilmot's cavalry descended on the left, and the battlefield became a mass of men and horses, shrouded in dust and smoke.

Then the Roundhead infantry advanced from the centre. They should have been unprotected by cavalry, for Rupert had routed the Parliament horse on the right and Wilmot must surely have attacked the troopers of Stapleton and Balfour. But in the confusion, blinded by the speed of their advance and the treacherous ground mist which had remained since early morning, Wilmot's charge had missed them, and as Charles watched, he saw the regiments of mounted soldiers wheel and charge his infantry who had not a single horse left to protect them.

What followed was a nightmare. The armies fought hand to hand and slowly, with terrible losses, the Royalist infantry gave ground. Someone seized the King's bridle and forced him further back out of danger. He saw his Standard surrounded, and Sir Ralph Verney into whose charge he had given it that morning, fighting with sword and fist to protect it. It was surrounded and it was overwhelmed. As Verney fell dying from a dozen wounds, a Roundhead soldier hacked the hand grasping the Standard from his arm. Out of Charles' sight the gallant Lord Lindsey received a pike thrust through the chest, and round him the remnants of the Royal foot-guards fought the levies of the Parliamentarian Brooke, neither side yielding a yard. It was the bitterest fight between Englishmen that had taken place since the Wars of the Roses two centuries before, and there was no sign of Rupert and his cavalry returning to change what seemed a certain defeat into a victory.

But if Charles had no reserves, neither had Essex. Both sides had exhausted themselves in a tumultuous and bloody mêlée which lasted until dusk, and as the darkness fell, the sounds of fighting died away, leaving only the thin cries of the wounded and dying and the eternal silence of five thousand dead upon the battlefield.

At eight o'clock that night, Charles sat once more in his tent. The twelve-year-old Prince of Wales and the nine-year-old Duke of York were with him. The little boys' faces were pale; they sat beside their silent father not daring to speak. When Parry served some food and wine the King sent it away untasted. No one knew whether it was victory or defeat, and the young Prince of Wales had spent the day hidden on the top of the escarpment in a ditch with his brother and his tutor, Doctor Harvey. He watched his father closely; from the expression on his face the boy decided that the battle must be lost. He felt very lonely and afraid and wished that his mother were with them. He might have questioned her, or approached his cousin Rupert who was always kind and treated him as an equal instead of a child, but he dared not speak to Charles.