Authors: Claire Letemendia
“Those idiots are going to be a disaster in the field – they won’t listen to what they’re told,” Laurence remarked to Wilmot, who was riding just beside him, as the Royalist army snailed through the countryside; some of the younger nobles were bolting impetuously in and out of rank on their fine mounts, as if the rules of military discipline did not apply to them.
“Weren’t you the same at their age?”
“No. I came into war at the bottom, with the foot soldiers. If we didn’t listen, we’d get starved or whipped into obedience.”
“Ah yes, the Spanish foot. Must have been rather a surprise for you, given your cosseted upbringing.”
“It was. Have you ever carried a pike for ten miles?”
“God, why would I! I’ve only served in cavalry,” Wilmot responded, with such disdain that Laurence burst out laughing.
The march from Shrewsbury had been slowed by bad weather, lack of organization, and a shortage of supplies; and as the regiments halted late on an unseasonably bitter afternoon in the fourth week of October, it was discovered that only the King and his immediate circle could be accommodated at the nearest village, Edgecote. Prince Rupert’s men had to seek billets at another village, Wormleighton, while the greater part of the army, including Wilmot’s men, camped spread out for miles over the surrounding fields. No tents were available for cover, firewood was scarce, and as darkness fell they were all cold, worn out, and hungry. Wilmot left to attend a meeting of the Council of War, as they sat shivering over a meagre fire.
Half listening to Wilmot’s officers speculate about how soon the armies would meet, Laurence pondered whether he should urge Falkland to arrest Radcliff straight away. It was hardly a good time, when they were about to engage in battle. And should he not wait, until he had incontrovertible proof?
He had come to no decision when Wilmot reappeared some hours later. All the officers crowded around, anxious to hear what action had been agreed upon. “Byron’s regiment is to march on Banbury and surprise the rebel garrison,” Wilmot announced. “The rest of us will stay behind. Intelligence came in that Essex is still on his way from Worcester, so there’s no prospect of a fight just yet.”
This settled the question for Laurence: while the men were voicing their collective disappointment, he slipped off to find Falkland. It was cloudy overhead, and pitch black once he rode away from the fires. After twenty minutes or so, he calculated that he must soon encounter another Royalist encampment, or hopefully someone who could direct him to Edgecote. He had perhaps gone too far, he realised. Then he spotted a cluster of lights ahead, probably from more campfires.
“Who goes there?” shouted a voice, out of the night.
Startled, he reined in. A pikeman was standing just a few feet from him. He heard the sharp sound of flint being struck, and a match flared up, illuminating the man’s face.
“You with the cavalry?” asked the pikeman.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you doing out here?”
Laurence hesitated; the man had a strong London accent. “I was sent to find some of my men who went looking for firewood,” he replied, assuming an aristocratic tone. “I think I’ve lost my way back.”
“You’ve missed your camp by a long mile, sir – head north, past Kineton Church,” the man said more respectfully, indicating the route.
“Thanks,” said Laurence, and he started off again feeling less than reassured. To his knowledge, there were no Royalist cavalry billets at Kineton.
“Your password, sir,” the man yelled after him. “You didn’t say the password.”
Laurence gave a laugh and swung his horse about. “I’m sorry,” he said, returning to the man. “I seem to have forgotten it.” From the pommel of his saddle, he took down his flask, since refilled with wine less tasty than Mrs. Fulford had provided. “Small comfort,” he said, passing it over, “but you must be freezing.”
The man took a swig. “Very generous of you, sir. It
is
a bleeding cold night.”
He returned the flask to Laurence, who fortified himself similarly. “You’re a Londoner, aren’t you,” Laurence said. “So am I. Whereabouts do you live?”
“Why, I was born and bred in Southwark myself, sir. Do you know it at all?”
“Very well, though I’ve been away for some time – six years, in fact – fighting abroad. Tell me, have there been any changes in the neighbourhood?” Laurence inquired, passing over the flask again.
The man stopped to consider. “One of the bear-baiting rings was torn down, and the poor Cathedral’s in some disrepair. The old Tabard Inn is still standing, however, you’ll be glad to hear. I’ve got soused more often than I can remember at that place,” he added, chuckling, before taking another swig.
“What about Mistress Edwards’ house in Blackman Street?”
“Fancy establishment – too fancy for the likes of me, sir, though perhaps not you, as I can tell you’re a gentleman. But Parliament’s been closing all of them brothels, so like as not it’s gone. I wish I were back in the city, sir,” the man confided next. “I could have joined the Trained Bands and slept safe in my own bed, instead of marching over hill and dale till my boots wore out. And this wilderness don’t agree with me. I’ve never been out of London all my life till now.” He emitted a belch. “Still, old Robin Essex won’t let us down, will he? Did you see him this morning, smoking his pipe as though nought were amiss.”
“Yet he must be worried.”
“He must, at that. How come the ordnance got stuck behind us? Short of draught horses, they say. I say there’s some at the top who are short of brains – no offence, sir, if you’re one of them – but poor Essex must make up the slack, and he’ll be blamed if the King steals past him and threatens London.”
“So he will.” As the man handed him the flask, Laurence noted with regret that it was almost empty. “I’ll have worries of my own if I don’t get back to my men. Good night to you.”
“What’s your name, sir, if you don’t mind me asking, in case we meet again?”
“Harry Illingsworth,” said Laurence. “And yours?”
“Peter Ascroft, sir.” Laurence held out his hand, which Ascroft grasped as if it were a privilege. “Now you follow a straight path, sir,” he said, blowing out his match, “and if I might be so bold, sir, the password tonight is ‘Praise Jesus.’”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
Laurence waved goodbye and headed off in the direction of Parliament’s army, to take a look at the enemy camp. As he rode through the fields, the password was useful in fooling two other sentries, enabling him, with the aid of his last few drops of liquor, to glean more information. Then he decided not to press his luck any further and retreated as fast as he could, hoping to rejoin his own side.
After a couple of miles, he dimly heard some riders ahead. “Hold your fire,” he shouted, as they closed in on them, pistols at the ready. They were Rupert’s men, so he gave the Royalist password this time, reining in, and they followed suit, their beasts snorting and stamping. “I’m with Wilmot’s Lifeguard,” he explained.
“At ease, boys,” called out one of them, moving forward. “Lieutenant Clement Martin, sir,” he said, with a brief salute.
“Laurence Beaumont. Do you know that Essex has reached Kineton?” Laurence asked him next.
“No, but we suspected as much. As we got to Wormleighton we ran into some of his quartermasters hunting out billets in the village. We arrested the bunch of them and His Royal Highness has since ordered us out on reconnaissance. Were you in Kineton?”
“Very near. We still have the advantage. Essex is more ignorant of our movements than we are of his, and he has no artillery for the moment.” Laurence recounted what he had found out from Ascroft and the other sentries, and what he had seen of the enemy camp.
“You must inform His Highness the Prince,” said Martin. “Carter, go with him,” he added, to a member of his troop. “We’ll follow once we’ve confirmed your report. Make speed, Mr. Beaumont.”
Laurence did not speak and neither did his escort as they raced back to Wormleighton. Carter took him to a farmhouse where another part of Rupert’s regiment had made camp. Much to Laurence’s irritation, he saw Corporal Wilson standing at the door, and then Colonel Hoare emerged.
“What brings you here?” he asked Laurence, with frigid politeness.
“I’m to report to the Prince, on Lieutenant Martin’s command,” Laurence said, as politely.
“Don’t you try to get around me,” Hoare said, abandoning all pretence of civility.
Laurence ignored him and dismounted, about to enter the house, but Prince Rupert himself suddenly came striding out, his cloak flapping behind him, Boy at his heels. “Mr. Beaumont, is it not?” he asked. No wonder his men loved him, Laurence thought, with such a memory for names. “Have you news?” And he paced about, listening keenly, until Laurence had finished. “When Martin returns, we shall call another meeting of Council,” he said to Hoare. “If all this proves correct, the attack on Banbury must be countermanded. Instead we should strike at Essex before he knows of our position.” He turned back to Laurence. “Where was it, again, that we last met, sir?”
“In Nottingham, Your Highness.”
“Mr. Beaumont is an agent of mine,” Hoare intervened, in a proprietary tone.
“I thank you, sir – you’ve done His Majesty a vital service tonight,” the Prince told Laurence, and hurried away, followed by Boy.
Laurence suppressed a laugh: a complete blunder on his part had turned out to his benefit, and he was thoroughly enjoying the rancorous scowl on Hoare’s face.
He was about to climb back into the saddle when Hoare seized the reins of his horse. “Whatever you did tonight, Beaumont, you’re sleeping on your other mission. If you make it through until tomorrow in one piece, you’re mine. I won’t let you wander off any more, no matter how many of your high-flown friends try to prevent me.”
“Good night to you, then, sir,” said Laurence, bowing.
After such unexpected good fortune, he decided not to risk another foray into the dark countryside, but rather mounted and galloped back to Wilmot’s camp. If his luck held, he would speak with Falkland after the battle.
“I
ngram,” whispered Radcliff, shaking his arm to wake him. “What hour is it?”
“Six o’clock. We have orders to fall into rank on Edgehill.”
Ingram sat up, his face still flushed and his eyes puffy from sleep, like a child’s. “I don’t understand. I thought we weren’t going to fight.”
“Prince Rupert’s scouts found out that Essex arrived at Kineton last night. The Prince wanted to move straight away and catch him unawares, but that plan was overruled. We’ll give him battle today, instead.”
“This could decide the course of the war,” Ingram said soberly.
“Yes, it might,” said Radcliff, although he had foreseen in His Majesty’s horoscope that the conflict would not be over, whether King or Parliament triumphed on this momentous day. He felt choked, as though he were about to cry; if he had less self-control, he would have embraced his brother-in-law, who was now looking at him with a candid trust that pierced his heart. “You remember what I bade you do?” he asked.
“Take Kate your letter.”
“On condition that you are absolutely certain of my death,” Radcliff reiterated.
But death in battle was not what he most feared for himself; what concerned him was the plan he must execute. He had to let himself be captured by the Parliamentary forces. As an officer he expected to be given quarter if he surrendered his arms, and there was a safe conduct from the Earl of Pembroke sewn inside his doublet that would allow him to enter London. Nevertheless, what he was attempting could easily go awry if His Majesty’s forces proved victorious.
Dawn had already broken as they assembled on the crest of the hill, in the right wing, along with the rest of Prince Rupert’s Horse. The infantry was apparently still some miles away, and so the cavalry dismounted to wait. They could see their own breath and that of their horses in the misty air and, beyond the mist, the sparse shapes of trees.
Radcliff squinted over to the left, where Wilmot’s men were assembling. Beaumont must be with them, he thought, and he offered up a brief prayer that some Parliamentary soldier would do him the favour of slaughtering the man. After that gift of the sword, he knew that Beaumont had fingered him. They were playing a waiting game, in the middle of the greater game of war, but at least he had his letters safely hidden away, he reminded himself.
“Colder than a witch’s teat on this hill,” Ingram commented, as he fiddled with his pipe and a damp match.
“And we’ll be here a good few hours before we see any fighting,” said Radcliff.
At midday, as a pale sun climbed the sky amidst grey clouds, Ingram pointed to their left flank. “The infantry is arriving. That looks like Colonel Gerard’s regiment over on the other side of Prince Maurice’s.”
They watched the long columns move into position, many of the infantry armed only with clubs and cudgels. To the right, the King’s Lifeguard had been given pride of place, on their own request, covered by a regiment of dragoons whose inferior mounts would be used only to ferry them from one part of the field to another. Then the order
came for everyone to shift from the top of Edgehill to the plain below. The probable aim, Radcliff explained to Ingram, was to provoke an attack by Essex, since the Royalist troops were short of rations and should fight as soon as possible before they lost what energy they had.
Once the move was accomplished, a cheer surged up from the assembled men at the sight of His Majesty riding up and down, the young Princes Charles and James behind him. The King wore a dark breastplate, a cloak lined with ermine, and a fine plumed hat; his sons were as richly attired, and waving vigorously. He halted to deliver a speech that could barely be heard over the brisk wind that rippled and tore at their standards. Prince Rupert also took his turn to give each troop some words of counsel, reminding them yet again to go in with the sword and hold fire until the enemy scattered, so as not to waste valuable shot. Next, the chaplains began praying, and the men bared their heads in response.