Treason's Daughter (28 page)

‘Sir,' screams one of Rupert's staff officers. ‘We must return to the field, sir.'

There, in front of them, is the bastards' baggage train. Stuffed with food and stores. With musket-balls and cannonballs. Groaning with cash from those rich fuckers in London who fund the rebels. It must be. Why else would they defend it so rigorously? The handful of men guarding it stand firm and shoot decided volleys at Rupert's horse, who circle and pick at it like scavenging crows.

We could take it, thinks Sam. Just a little more time. Just a little more.

As if hearing his thoughts, the prince, nearby, says: ‘Not enough time,' and swears vociferously in his thick home tongue. They turn then, back towards the field, following the drums and the thunder of the guns. Up the hill they ride, trudging back the way they had flown. They couldn't get where they wanted to be, round the back of the rebels' right flank to fuck Cromwell's Ironsides from behind. Too few of them have regrouped from the charge, despite the urgent tarantaring of the trumpets. And there are hosts of the bastards this side of Moot Hill's summit, hidden from the king where he stands on Dust Hill. They'd have to fight through all the reserves to get to Cromwell.

No, back the way they have come then. They pause on the great circling route round the field to come behind their own army again. On a ridge of high ground they can see the battle laid out like a chess game; too far to hear individual screams, or to smell the thick mix of blood, shit and gunpowder smoke.
They can see the two hills where the armies faced each other at the off, and the slopes down to the flat field between. It is like a flat-bottomed pudding basin, with the chaos now contained in its centre. And Sam hears the prince swearing again; at least that is what he imagines those thick vowels and vicious consonants must be. For it is obvious from up here that things are falling apart. The charge to the enemy's left with the best of Rupert's horse and foot was supposed to have destroyed that flank, ripping open a route to the New Noddle's heart. And yet the bastards are holding. From the pattern of the ensigns, it looks as if Colonel Pride's regiment has come up from reserve to bolster Skippon.

There is worse. On the rebels' right, Cromwell has clearly stuffed the Northern Horse, and is now assailing the king's exposed left flank. The royalist reserves are all committed now, yet still there are hundreds of the rebel bastards milling away behind the hill or at its crest.

Bizarrely, on the other side of hill, are a herd of cows, munching at bush and grass. One lifts its head to stare at Sam, chewing lazily.

As they pause, taking in the patchwork of the battle below them, Rupert and his men can taste the loss to come. They can see already the looming humiliation. They know, in their warriors' hearts, that this day will end badly. Sam glances sideways at Rupert, who wears a taut, impassive face, his eyes darting to take it all in. This loss will be laid at his door. Sam, for a heartbeat, thinks about turning Pudding round. We could run, my Pudding and I. This fight is lost; we need not be. He almost makes the move. The muscles of his right thigh begin to squeeze, to tell Pudding: Let us live, my darling, let us live.

Then Rupert turns to them, and says as if he is inviting them to tennis: ‘Gentlemen, shall we?'

It is not really a question. Sam looks straight ahead, trying not to catch any eyes. What if they knew what I was thinking? Despite the fear that courses though him, he presses both knees and urges Pudding on, back to the fray. As he descends back down to the chaos of smoke and death, some instinct makes him look over his shoulder. And he sees the unmistakable form of Piers Langton, mounted on his priceless black charger, cantering away in the opposite direction.

There is a respite now. The front line has moved forward, leaving Skippon's mangled regiment some room to breathe and lick its countless wounds. Ned sees a horseman come by, helmetless. He waves his sword and shouts, ‘Well done, my brave boys. God our strength!'

It is Fairfax, this apparition, and the men around Ned mumble in appreciation of the general's bravery, of his willingness to get mucky in the heart of the battle.

Ned raps orders at Sergeant Fowler. Wounded there, we'll deal with later. Get ready for a return. Five minutes rest, and then close order.

‘I'm going to check on the major-general,' he tells the sergeant. He clambers up the hill behind him, slipping once and grabbing onto a gorse bush, which lacerates his palm. He picks at the thorns with his teeth. Suddenly, there is Skippon walking down the hill, chased by a remonstrating lieutenant. The major-general
is white-faced, and a bandage on his arm is soaked red.

‘Ned!' he shouts. ‘Hot work this, hey, my boy.'

‘Yes, sir,' says Ned, dropping in next to Skippon and retracing his steps.

Ahead of them, the infantry who crumbled at the royalists' first charge have been regrouped in some sense of order by their officers. Much depleted by death and running, they are ready, nonetheless, to be thrown at the sagging enemy. Beyond them, the royalist foot is stretched and close to breaking, and entirely unaware of this new tide building.

‘Well, Ned,' says Skippon. ‘Let's finish them.'

Sam and the captain ride among the fleeing Northern Horse, urging them back. But they are too far gone, horses and riders, lost in fear and life-lust.

Behind him, Sam knows, the Ironsides have reformed in calm order and are pressing the royalist flank. We should have done that, he thinks, disloyally. What training it must take to hold fast after a charge, to calm your blood and the raging life beneath you. What conviction and leadership, to hold, to re-form and to wheel back round in order. He thinks of his own mad charge after Ireton's horse.

Aye, but we had to make sure they were cleared, he thinks, determined to be loyal to the last. Rupert was right, he tells himself, as he reins in, giving up the last attempt to quell the Northern flight. Surely Rupert was right.

Oh, the glory of it! They harry and chase the king. His Majesty's muskets attempt a covering fire, but they are no match for the remorseless advance of God's own army. Advance, kneel, fire, reload! Advance, kneel, fire, reload! It sings out like a psalm. Advance, kneel, fire, reload. A mighty victory paean to the God who has given this victory. Oh my Lord, Ned sings in his heart. Oh my Lord.

Captain Fenwick appears at Sam's side, and together they shout and rally what horse they have left. No sign of their colours. Ten of them. Just ten. They canter up and down aimlessly for a while, rattling their swords. They have lost their bearings but will not admit it, even to each other. Each man secretly hoping that they will stay lost in these cursed and malevolent hillocks.

They mount a slope and see their own baggage train. It is being driven up hill through remorseless gorse, horses and men white-eyed and spit-flecked with effort and fear. Sam's pathetic troop rides to guard their rear. Over a crest comes a party of horsemen. Whose? Hard to tell. Assume it's an enemy. The pistol shots ring out, confirming it. Behind him, Sam hears the sound of dropping axels, of scrabbling feet and swearing. They're running, and God, who can blame them, the poor saps who have to piss about on two feet while the Ironsides advance on thundering four. Sam half-heartedly swears at them to halt their run, but he
knows he would do the same, God help him. No better target for a cavalry sword than a single, running man zigzagging across a battlefield like a cornered hare.

On Fenwick's shouted command, they stand and draw pistols. ‘No fucker fires till he can see their eyes,' shouts the captain, his voice high and cracking.

On they come, and finally, as they canter forward in a towering line, Sam feels his bladder give, and shame and piss leak from him.

He thinks, suddenly, of his father's face. The old man's creased and smiling eyes. Poor old bastard tried to warn us it would be like this. Oh God, he thinks, Ned. He imagines Ned's face in victory. The smug compassion. He can't bear the thought of it, the bastard's pity and his righteousness. The thought of being humbled before Ned and his implacable God shrivels him.

‘Fire!' shouts the captain, and Sam pulls the trigger. He pulls out his other pistol and sets his sights on one Ironside. Something about the way he is mounted, something about the set of his shoulders, makes Sam hate him, violently. He fires and the man falls, and then they are in a mêlée all together – swords swinging, the sound of steel striking armour, and the grunts of the men mingling with the high-pitched whinnies of the frightened horses.

Suddenly, Sam finds that the fury of the little fight has spewed him out of the side. He sees Fenwick, feet still in the stirrups, flung backwards across his horse's haunches, arms out wide, only Fenwick has no nose and no chin.

Sam expands with rage. He wants to chase them, to close in again and to kill the buggers. He presses his knees, but Pudding, gallant Pudding, mutinies for the first and only time in her life.
She refuses to go forward. She turns and runs, and Sam loves her more for taking the decision away from him than he has ever loved any creature in his whole short life.

They crest one hill, Pudding and Sam, and then another, before Sam realizes that she is slow, too slow. Too late he looks down and sees the blood tumbling down her right thigh. He checks her and throws himself to the ground. With his weight gone, she seems to fold, his Pud, and lurches forward onto her knees. They are in one of the dips in this treacherous, benighted landscape, and it feels as if they are all alone. She shudders and then pauses.

‘Come on, Pud, my darling Pud,' says Sam.

But she falls horribly, finally still under his stroking hand. He puts his arms round her warm, bloodied neck and buries his face in her mane. The sound of horses' hooves looms apocalyptically behind him. Now, at the end, he weeps.