Sacrifice (32 page)

“Close order,” rasped Woodhouse, calming a little, “three files.”

The old man’s troop had drilled for just two days before being despatched from Shrewsbury. Henry racked his brains to remember the meaning of close order - was that the length of a horse between each rank, or three paces? No, the former was open order. And was that geometrical paces, or steps? Woodhouse had been undecided on the training ground, switching from one to the other as the whim took him. There was little agreement on the subject among the King’s officers, all of whom appeared to have read different textbooks. 

Henry was not the only one confused. While Woodhouse yelled at them, red-faced and straining to make himself heard above the shouts of his fellow officers and the screech of trumpets, his men lurched about as though lost in the dark.

At last they arranged themselves in three ragged files, as Woodhouse preferred, with his strongest men in the front rank of fifteen abreast. A second rank of fifteen was drawn up behind them,and an incomplete rank of ten made up the third.

These last were the weakest men. Unsurprisingly, Henry was among them, with the long, gloomy form of Honest Carter to his left.

“I don’t know how to fight,” said the youth, watching the enemy pour over the bridge with sheer terror dancing in his eyes, “no-one ever taught me. I can shoot a little, but that’s all.”

“I’m the same,” said Henry with an awkward smile, trying to reassure him, “and so are many others, on both sides. None of us are veterans.”

Carter didn’t seem to hear. “I shot rabbits,” he said, staring at the pistol in his hand, “on the heath outside our village. For the pot. Now I have to shoot men. Fellow men. Christians. I can’t shoot fellow Christians.”

You must, Henry was about to reply, or your fellow Christians will shoot you, but they were interrupted by the shrill, ear-popping note of a trumpet.

“Charge!” roared Prince Rupert. His snowy white gelding reared onto her haunches, and for a brief moment the the prince resembled some god of war - a black-haired giant standing tall in his stirrups, naked steel flaming in his hand, the royal colours fluttering bravely above his head.

The mound of cringing white fur tucked against his left arm was Boye, drenching his master’s blue silken sleeve as the beast pissed itself in terror.  

Rupert’s horse sped forward, straight at the Roundheads struggling to deploy on the marshy ground north of the bridge. His cornet cheered and galloped after, followed by the gleaming throng of the Life Guards.

The recruits strung out behind them either rode forward or hung back, depending on inclination, and the result was a ragged, messy advance that nevertheless gained momentum with the prince at its head, rampaging fearlessly towards the enemy as though riding to hounds instead of battle.

Stuck at the rear, Henry spurred Faith into a canter. He heard Carter mumbling prayers to his left, another man sobbing somewhere behind him. Fierce or frightened, Woodhouse’s company stumbled forward.

Then Henry saw their captain’s right foot slowly slipping from the stirrup as he bent low in the saddle, coughing up his guts.

“Sir William is taken ill!” he shouted. None of the pale, wild-eyed faces around him took any notice. They were lost to reason or distraction now, naked swords gleaming in their hands. The drumming of hoofs rose like a storm, pounding inside Henry’s skull, rendering him deaf and mute.

More gunfire erupted ahead, wreathing the bridge and the boggy ground in smoke. Henry risked standing up in his stirrups, trying to see beyond the mass of helmeted heads bobbing up and down in front of him. He caught a glimpse of shadowy figures moving in the smoke, the glimmer of threshing blades, a red spurt of blood.

A group of orange-sashed dragoons emerged from the chaos, unshaven faces contorted with rage under the nasal bars of their helmets. They flung themselves at the charging Royalists, and then the compact body of men and horses broke up, wheeling away or straining to get closer to the fight - pistols banging right and left, horses shrieking, men bellowing curses or calling on the Lord, mixed with screams and whimpers of pain.

Unwilling to crash into the knot of riders, Faith stumbled to a halt, almost throwing Henry over her neck. Swearing through gritted teeth, Henry righted himself and twisted his head to the right, distracted by a horrible shriek of agony.

Bletchley was lying on his back, writhing in unspeakable pain. His pistol had gone off by accident and blown away a chunk of his jaw. The former gamekeeper’s florid pudding-like face was now a repellent mass of blood and shattered teeth, eyes wet with tears, one hand clawing at the grass, the other dabbing pathetically at his dreadful wound.

Henry could only gape at the dying man before instinct warned him to look to his left. A dragoon came hurtling out of the smoke and swirling bodies, his face contorted with rage, blood streaming from a sword-cut to his shoulder.

The words “God and Parliament!” rang in Henry’s ears as he flung up his own sword to block the other man’s strike. Their blades rang and slithered together, and Henry cried out in pain as the shock of the impact flowed down the length of his arm, jarring his shoulder. 

His opponent was bigger and stronger, though scarcely any more of a swordsman. They flailed at each other like a couple of angry children duelling with sticks, until a chance blow slashed Henry across the knuckles and made his fingers spring open, dropping his sword.

Howling, he threw his right arm about the Roundhead’s neck, unwilling to give him room for another blow. With his left he scrabbled for his pistol, dragging it from the saddle holster and clumsily reversing to grip by the barrel.

“Traitor! Villain!” the Roundhead yelled as he battered at Henry with his sword-hilt. If he had thought to use the blade, Henry would have had no defence, but instead he used his weapon like a cudgel. The hilt thumped into Henry’s chest and collar-bone, where the thickness of his buff coat soaked up most of the impact.

Henry struck wildly, smashing the butt of his pistol against the cheek of the Roundhead’s helmet. There was a metallic clang, and the helmet was knocked awry, falling over his opponent’s left eye. Henry hit him again, and again, beating on his head like a drum, while their horses whinnied in panic and staggered in circles, their riders locked together in a farcical death-grapple.

Summoning all his meagre strength, Henry took advantage of the Roundhead’s dazed state to try and push him out of the saddle. The other man clung on desperately to his bridle until a fresh squall of trumpets panicked his horse. She sprang away, squealing in fright, and vanished into the throng, taking him with her.

Henry was left panting and wiping away the cold sweat pouring down his face. While his heart slowed from a gallop to a canter, it slowly dawned on him that his protection had worked.

The covenant holds true!
he thought,
I survived my first fight, and not a scratch on me. Against a man twice my strength!

A fresh crackle of gunfire reminded him the skirmish was not over. The smoke obscuring the lane had cleared a little, and he could see the Roundheads in full flight, fleeing back the way they had come towards the bridge. Rupert’s reckless head-on charge had broken them, though not without cost: the twitching, bullet-ridden bodies of Royalist men and horses lay scattered near the hedgerows.

The prince’s Life Guards were flying in pursuit, hacking down any fugitives they caught. Henry looked to the bridge, and saw a company of dismounted Parliament dragoons hurrying into position on the south bank. Unlike the vanguard, these men had kept their heads, and arranged themselves into three close ranks under the cool direction of an officer on horseback. He evidently knew his business, and arranged them to fire all together: front rank kneeling, second stooping, third standing.

As the Royalists raced towards the bridge, the towering figure of Rupert at their head, the soldiers drawn up on the opposite side calmly levelled their muskets.

Henry watched, mesmerised by the taste and stench of powder, and the sight of rows of burning matches. The Royalists ploughed on regardless to the bridge, drunk on blood and eager to slay as many of their foes as possible.

“Fire!”

The Roundhead dragoons unleashed a single concentrated volley, lines of orange flame igniting down the length of their ranks.

Their fire was accurate, and stopped the pursuing Royalists dead. Henry saw three or four of his comrades go down, their horses shrieking and tossing injured riders to the ground.

The prince, despite being at the head of the pursuit, was miraculously unscathed. Seeing his men founder under the hail of bullets, he stopped short of the bridge and confined himself to hurling insults over the bloodstained waters.

The Roundheads left scores of dead and wounded littered about the lane and the adjoining fields. Defeated if not destroyed, the survivors of the brief fight re-formed on the southern side of the Teme, rallied by the officer who had organised the dragoons on foot.

While the victorious Royalists jeered, the entire Roundhead force slunk back into the woods, their retreat covered by the men at the bridge. Relief swept through Henry, and he joined in the mockery of the beaten enemy, waving his hat and braying with laughter. Henry seldom had cause to laugh, and the sound was strange to his ears, high-pitched and unrestrained, with a touch of hysteria.

His laughter died as he remembered Bletchley. He looked around and spotted his comrade still lying a few yards away. The ex-gamekeeper, who ought not to have dragged his aged bones to war at all, lay still and dead now, his eyes staring glassily into the hereafter.

“God speed,” murmured Henry, lowering his hat, “you died in a godly cause, and your soul will have its reward.”

But not mine,
he thought fearfully,
mine is damned.

*

Before returning to Worcester, Prince Rupert had his men count and assess the dead. Most of the wounded Roundheads left on the field were quietly finished off, save a few who claimed to be gentry.

“You ought to be knocked on the head along with the rest,” Henry overhead the prince brusquely informing one of them, but still their lives were spared.

A handful of gentlemen on either side had been slain in the skirmish. Those on the Roundhead side were identified by the prisoners, and the bodies of friend and foe laid side by side, ready to be taken away for burial or - eventually - returned to their families.

Henry inspected the dead, and was saddened but not surprised to see his captain, Sir William Woodhouse, among them. Whether the seizure that gripped the old man at the start of the fight had put an end to him, or the pistol ball that entered his thigh, rupturing the artery, was impossible to say.

“We must find a new captain now,” remarked Honest Carter, who had survived unhurt. He had clearly overcome his scruples about firing on fellow Christians: Henry noticed four of the twelve powder boxes strung along his bandolier were empty.

Rice Hughes was also still alive. He had suffered a gash to his cheek, and held a bloody cloth against it as the three men gazed sadly at the body of their former leader.

“Have a care,” the Welshman muttered, standing to attention, “royalty cometh.”

Prince Rupert strode into view, escorted by four dragoons. He had suffered a cut to the bicep of his right arm in the fighting, and wore a bandage carelessly tied around the wound. In his left he cradled Boye. The little scrap of fur and flesh gazed with frightened eyes at Henry, who had witnessed the prince carry his pet into the thick of the fight.

With Rupert was one of the gentlemen prisoners. He, a wispy young man, white from loss of blood, ran a bleak eye over the Roundhead dead.

“Sir Thomas Wheeler,” he said, nodding at one of the corpses, “a knight of Salop, and a valiant man.”

“Now valiantly explaining his crimes to God,” snapped Rupert, “what of the fellow next to him?”

The youth squinted at the next corpse. “John Bolton,” he said finally, “a gentleman farmer of Sedgley in Staffordshire. I knew him.”

He sighed. “Scarcely nineteen years of age. We toasted his birthday in Coventry, but three days ago.”

Henry’s head swam. John Bolton! Almost certainly a member of the Bolton clan he loathed with all his being.

The covenant is working
, he thought, twisting his long fingers together,
I survived the fighting, and a Bolton has died. My wishes are being granted.

Another thrill of fear cut through him.

Now I am truly damned.

6.

Sir Francis Bolton rarely found peace. One of the few places he found it, if only for a little while, was the old Norman church of All Saints near Cromford. 

Here several generations of his family had been christened, married and buried. Below the church was a vault, built by his ancestor Edward Bolton to house the remains of the more prominent members of their family. The others lay at rest in the peaceful little cemetery outside.

On a comfortless, wind-blown day in early October, Francis sat alone in the church, head bowed in silent prayer. As a strict Calvinist, he refused to kneel when at his prayers, or remove his hat. Francis was grateful for this new observance, not only because it accorded with his faith, but it spared his ageing knees from the agony of cold stone.