Traitor's Field (59 page)
Authors: Robert Wilton
[SS C/T/50/79]
On the table in front of Cromwell, four papers showing the signs of having recently been in his unhappy fist. ‘It has never been my habit to retreat, gentlemen. But I think this a false battle, and I do not think we can win it. These latest news from inside Edinburgh confirm what Thurloe’s report told us a day ago: the royal whelp has put his neck in the Scottish leash. None of them will be negotiating with us now. None of them will be crossing the lines to join us.’ He shook his head, great glum swings from shoulder to shoulder, discontented at the whole world. ‘My palsied Army shrinks daily on this wasteland, and it will not do.’
Thurloe remembered uncomfortably yesterday’s pride, hurrying in to Cromwell with his paper, the news that Charles Stuart had signed the declaration days earlier. Excitement at the clever arrangements that had got a paper from Edinburgh to Newcastle and near back again in less than two days. Excitement that he had the information that others did not. Excitement that the information was significant.
I did not care a penny for the significance itself
. Now he saw the real significance, in the bitter faces of Scot, Lambert – swiftly rescued after his capture by the Royalists, but still smarting at the indignity – and most of all Oliver Cromwell.
‘We must withdraw from this place, as best we may.’
‘Shay.’
‘Leslie.’
David Leslie’s flowing curls were white now, the moustache likewise. ‘What would Prince Maurice have made of us?’
Shay’s mouth curled. ‘Not much, I fear. He’d want another half a year with your levies, at the least. But then he always was a miserable old goat. Gustavus Adolphus, now. . .’
Leslie’s eyes brightened. ‘Would attack.’ In the angular Scotch accent, the word snapped sharp.
‘Spoken like his favourite lieutenant.’ He glanced at the room around them. There was a briskness to the bustle of the Court men and the soldiers. ‘You’re ready to give open battle?’ The words were lower.
Leslie’s voiced dropped accordingly, but the hunger was still in the face. ‘Cromwell knows he can’t split us now. And he hasn’t the supplies for a campaign, and his men get more miserable by the hour. The cavalry are chivvying him daily – wearing him down. The only decision is whether we wait for him to retreat – merely push him out of Scotland.’
‘You want more, of course.’
‘He retreats; he returns. He’s weak, now, and we won’t have a like chance again. And if we wait any longer the Church men hereabout will find some way to lose the opportunity.’ The accent emphasized the irritation. He leaned forward. ‘If I could somehow fix Cromwell – surround him – I would shatter the myth for ever.’
Shay nodded, slowly. Then he patted Leslie roughly on the arm. ‘Let’s see what comes, old horse. All these Godly prayerful men around, perhaps you’ll get lucky.’
Leslie nodded brightly and strode off, bent-backed but spry.
Shay watched him go, then looked around. Balfour was sitting on a chair near the door, as ever quiet and watchful. ‘Tom.’ He was up and across in a moment. ‘I’ll have a little journey for you.’
T
O
M
R
I. S.,
AT THE
G
EORGE, IN
N
EWCASTLE
Sir,
Where previously there was great appetite for violence, I rejoice to say that the majority here now finds the pleasures of peace more seductive. The caprices of the Church leadership here do infuriate the young King’s advisors, but such is their hold over the simple men who make up most of the army that there is nothing the Court men may do. The Church party are now most satisfied that General Cromwell is departing their land and, wanting in the final reckoning to be on terms with him as comfortable as the recent fluctuations do allow, are reluctant to press their military advantage and waste lives. I think they will do what they can ahorse to harry your forces away as fast as is possible, but happily the foot-men are mostly kept behind their stout defences in the city and should not be risked against Cromwell.
I write thus to you, in haste, in anticipation that you will soon be travelling southward again, and accordingly to wish you safe journey homeward, that we may continue to correspond, with our consciences untroubled by any clash of arms or further difference between us.
[SS C/T/50/89]
Oliver Cromwell on campaign was an even more volatile prospect than when in London, and Thomas Scot composed his brittle dignity before entering the inn-room that served as his headquarters.
Cromwell’s big eyes rolled up ominously.
‘General, I regret that I have no useful intelligence to offer you on the Scottish manoeuvrings or intentions. Our most promising channel has grown quite cold. I fear this must encourage a more precipit—’
‘No matter.’ The eyes had dropped again, and Cromwell was drifting back into the papers on the table in front of him. ‘Thurloe has a report that the Scots don’t want to fight. They want us away from Edinburgh, which I will gladly manage, for this month at least, but they’ll not throw more than a few horsemen at us. We have time to move towards Berwick without abandoning our supplies or artillery. If the supplies keep coming in by sea we may even find a new safe base nearby.’
Scot left, unsure whether he was supposed to feel grateful or vengeful towards Thurloe.
Thurloe himself was woken early by the increasingly familiar sound of military urgency. The two men who’d been sharing his room were gone, and he dressed quickly and hurried downstairs into the dawn to find a riot of galloping and shouting. Weapons were being grabbed, papers were being burned, and a stream of white-faced couriers was emerging from Cromwell’s room.
The Scottish army was advancing from Edinburgh. A detachment of its infantry had circled the English and blocked the road south. Cromwell and his Army were surrounded.
Thurloe first absorbed the news with his usual dogged grappling at military affairs. Then he reabsorbed it, with a growing queasiness in his belly, and hurried off to find Thomas Scot.
The sun rose feeble out of the sea and began to climb the Doon Hill. As it reached the top it picked out a line of men and then, breaking over them, began to hurry down the western slope in the footsteps of the Scottish army, tramping towards battle. But the light was losing against the clouds that were being chased in off the water by an angry wind, and growing heavy.
Among the small group on the crest, Sir Mortimer Shay: dark pride.
The letter to the Parliament man: reassurance, the Scots unlikely to bring out their infantry, no need for Cromwell to hurry.
I have created this.
The landscape rolled out below him like a map. In the distance, the sea, a white blank margin to the world and to what was possible in it. Immediately in front of him, backs and boots dropping away down the hill, the army that he had helped to pull together and bring to this place, Scottish soldiers fighting for his King. At the foot of the Doon Hill, protecting the new Scottish position, the river wandered from outside his leftward vision across the scene to the sea. Between the advancing Scots and the empty sea was the English Army, smudges of men spread across the plain.
Teach said: ‘Seems a pity to be abandoning this high ground.’ He had to articulate the words with care to make them carry.
‘I never generalled a battle. All my fighting was hand-to-hand.’ Shay shrugged slightly. ‘I never saw my enemy’s plan, or his dispositions, or his regiments. Only his face.’
Teach grunted agreement. ‘Leslie says that since there is no chance Cromwell will climb the hill to meet us, we must go down to him. And if we don’t force him to battle, he’ll have time to escape by sea.’
‘Mm. And these Scots are miserable enough without spending another hour on this god-forsaken mountain.’ As he said it, the wind blustered up again and this time it brought moisture, and they and the others on the hill hunched and looked instinctively for shelter.
The backs of the soldiers bent a little as the rain came on. Behind them, their commanders wrapped cloaks around themselves more tightly and began to follow them down out of the wind.
‘We have him now, regardless.’ Teach had to shout the words.
