A Falling Star, page 41
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
The fighting just beyond them was increasing in intensity. The Royalist advance guard had been all but cut off by the weight of the Red Regiment’s attack, and now more of Feversham’s foot, and a troop of horse grenadiers, were advancing hastily to the rescue. Alex sent his cousin a wild, flyaway grin that made him resemble no one so much as Louise, plotting mischief. ‘Very well, Cousin, I’ll beat a tactical retreat — and the very best of luck to you!’
And then suddenly Bram heard the tramp of hundreds of marching feet, and much shouting. He whipped round in the saddle to see a torrent of rebels, the musketeers and scythemen of the Green Regiment, with some pikes, pouring round the corner from the direction of the manor, with Lieutenant-Colonel Holmes, who had fought with Cromwell, at their head. The lane was very narrow, and there was hardly room for them to pass the little knot of horsemen occupying the way. Bram’s chestnut reared and snorted, and Holmes yelled something as he pushed past. For a moment there was utter confusion, frightened horses, swearing men, and one of his comrades yelled, ‘Let’s go with them! Monmouth! Soho!’
Tangled up in the Green Regiment, infected by their urgency, Bram and the rest of the cavalry, some three dozen or so in number, were swept along with them. Too busy controlling his horse and drawing his sword, he did not have time to see what had happened to Alex: and then they were in the thick of the fighting.
The next hour or so was a chaotic nightmare, as the men of the Green and Red Regiments, fighting doggedly and with great courage, forced the Royal soldiers back from the barricade with pike and scythe and musket, and the very limited assistance of those few cavalry who could persuade their mounts into the fray. Bram’s chestnut proved obdurate, and in the end he hovered with the rest on the edge of the battle, discharging his pistols at obvious targets, without notable success, and riding down stray enemy fugitives. But in these narrow lanes and thickly hedged fields, they were almost useless: it was the foot soldiers who bore the brunt, and at push of pike the fighting swayed to and fro across the pasture, while men fell underfoot, or crawled away wounded to die in the unripe, rain-battered corn, and the steep muddy slope of the little lane leading up to the barricade flowed with a liquid that ran redder than water.
Rain was beginning to fall: the pearl-grey morning sky had darkened from the west, and now the more distant hills were almost hidden behind the curtain of water pouring down. In such weather, matchlock muskets were all but useless, and powder became damp and unreliable. Grimly, knowing that they must take advantage of their superiority in numbers if not in weaponry, the rebel soldiers fought their way forward from hedge to hedge, the enemy falling back before their dogged, relentless advance, until at last they had retreated beyond the last barrier that separated them from the main body of the Royalist army, drawn up in the wide ploughed expanse of Hinton Field. Breathless and exultant, the rebels lined up behind the hawthorns, glad of the chance to rest and take stock, and those of the cavalry who had joined the attack halted a little to their rear.
Bram looked round at his fellows, and met, in the faces of each one, the expressions that must be mirrored on his own: exhaustion, relief, and above all gladness that they had survived so far. There had been several killed, almost all from the foot, and it seemed that the Royal forces, victims first of that initial murderous musket fire, and then of the bitter hand-to-hand lighting, had lost a considerably larger number. Desultory shots were still being fired, despite the downpour, but then a much vaster, flatter sound shattered the air, and something large and dark sailed over their heads, to bury itself with a splattering thump in the close behind their field. The horses, utterly weary, were hardly in a state to protest at this new horror but the man next to Bram swore ferociously. ‘Field pieces, by God’s bones! Why weren’t they used before?’
‘Perhaps they got bogged down at Midford, as ours did,’ Bram said. ‘Let’s hope their aim continues so poor — for our pathetic little two-pounders can hardly make an adequate reply to that.’
Another deep boom, and a cannon ball landed much further down the valley towards the mill, to a few derisive cheers from the rebel ranks. Bram soothed his horse, who stood unmoving and uncaring, its wet and muddy head hanging to its knees, and steam rising from its flanks. Taylor, who had earlier expressed his contempt for Alex, glanced at him and said, ‘Your friend wasn’t so high and mighty after all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bram stared at his least-liked trooper, suddenly alarmed. He had given no thought to Alex for some time, and had assumed that he had returned to the safety of the village, or Wintercombe.
‘He must have heard what I said,’ Taylor told him smugly. ‘I saw him later in the thick of it, waving a sword about him, just by the barricade, and yelling “Monmouth” and “Soho” with the best. I’m glad to see that no friend of yours is a coward,’ he added slyly.
‘You saw him fighting?’ Bram said in appalled astonishment. ‘But he didn’t have a sword!’
‘He did when I saw him,’ Taylor said with satisfaction. ‘And putting it to good use, too. Couldn’t say what happened to him after that, though — haven’t laid eyes on him since.’
‘Thank you,’ Bram said, through his teeth. A cold dread feeling had settled on him that seemed to be a certain intimation of disaster. Ben was probably safe, but he had given no thought to Alex. Was his one of the huddled lifeless bodies littering the northern outskirts of the village?
He had to find out. He peered through the rain at the ranks of foot sheltering behind the thick hawthorn hedges, their hats pulled well down against the weather. No one was bare-headed, and their motley collection of soaked, ragged, homespun garments bore no resemblance to Alex’s fine grey wool. His urgency, fuelled by that terrible foreboding, made him pull his weary horse around, to ride along the lines of soldiers, seeking the unmistakable height of his cousin, while the King’s guns kept up their intermittent fire.
He had gone perhaps a quarter of the way along the hedge when Colonel Wade caught at his bridle. ‘Cornet! What’s your name?’
‘Loveridge, sir, of Captain Hucker’s troop,’ Bram said, with respect. Wade was well liked by the rebels, who admired his determination and ability. ‘I’m seeking my cousin, sir —’
‘Oh, yes, the half-wit. Well, you can seek him in Norton, and fetch the rest of the horse up, all you can find, as quick as you can — now off with you, man!’
There was no chance to explain, or argue. Bram turned his exhausted horse and urged it into a shambling trot across the lumpy pasture towards the village. He made his way through a gap in the hedge bordering the lane, and at once the chestnut shied wildly away from a corpse lying in the ditch beyond. It clattered in a panic down the lane towards Lyde Green, while Bram heaved vigorously at its reins.
The horse’s fright, however, proved more potent than its weariness, or his strength. It galloped into the manor barton, and shuddered at last to a halt, brought up short by a body of horse coming the other way. Hastily, he shouted the password, ‘Soho!’, and was disproportionately relieved to recognise Captain Hucker, although the likelihood of any Royalist horse being so far in advance of their lines was remote, to say the least. ‘Message from Colonel Wade, sir!’ he added briskly, to disguise his precipitate arrival. ‘He wants all the rest of the horse to advance up to our position, as quickly as possible.’
‘We’re on our way,’ Hucker told him. ‘I tried to send your cousin up to the George, but he’d have none of it, so he’s here, somewhere behind me. I suggest that he attaches himself to you. The rest of the horse are gathered in the meadow above the church, under Captain Tucker.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Bram said, and pulled the chestnut out of their way. Ben, his broad flat face crumpled with bewildered distress, was in the last rank. He gave an inarticulate cry of joy, and pushed his horse across to his cousin’s, tears running down his cheeks.
‘It’s all right,’ Bram told him, as the boy sobbed his name over and over. ‘It’s all right — we’re both safe and unharmed, thank God.’ And so much for us, he thought anxiously: but what of Alex?
With Ben’s horse close behind, he rode through the barton and into West Street. People were peering out of doorways, some, more boldly, standing in the road. A woman ran up, weeping, demanding news, and he said hastily, ‘There’s been some fighting, but we’ve beaten them back, with some loss.’ She wailed something, her husband’s name perhaps, although he knew that very few Norton men, if any, had joined the rebels. There was no comfort that he could give her, and guiltily he forced the chestnut into a trot, turning into Fair Close through an open gate, and to Church Mead beyond, to deliver his message.
17
‘Seduc’d by impious arts’
Louise had been watching, and waiting, for hours, while the distant sounds of battle filtered muffled through the window of Mistress Prescott’s chamber. Fretting with powerless impatience, she had longed to run downstairs, to ask the first person she met, anyone, the Duke himself, what was happening. Harry Prescott had come up, perhaps an hour or more after her arrival, to give them what news he could: that the fighting was thick at the barricade at the end of North Street, and that some of the Royalists had briefly broken through but, in grave danger of being cut off, had retreated with considerable losses. He had added that Sir Alexander had gone out to discover more, and would doubtless be able to tell her all the details when he returned.
But Alex had not returned, and Louise, cooped up with a stranger, however pleasant, had grown increasingly restless. When some of the horse began to straggle into Church Mead, and little Henry shouted the news from his post by the window, she rushed to look. But amongst the increasing numbers of ill-assorted cavalry, she could see no sign of Bram, or Ben: and indeed, at this distance, she knew that she could have little hope of doing so.
But she stayed by the window, with the two small boys, Henry and Tom, on either side of her, agog to see the soldiers and any fighting. The minutes and hours ticked by, counted by Mistress Prescott’s handsome clock, and although more horsemen entered the mead, and some left, there was no real activity. The far-off musket shots diminished in number, and then came a much louder, flatter sound that rattled a loose pane of glass and made the children jump.
‘It must be cannon,’ Louise said, as Moll Prescott leapt to her feet and came running, and the nursemaid picked up the youngest child, who had burst into frightened tears. ‘But I didn’t know Monmouth had any.’
‘He has three or four — I saw them going past this morning,’ said Moll Prescott doubtfully. ‘But they were very small — only two-pounders, so Harry said. Surely they wouldn’t sound so loud as that?’
Another explosion gave point to her words. The baby wailed louder, and his mother turned to take him from his nurse’s arms. Louise, gazing intently through the greenish glass, saw the cavalry in the mead begin to split up. A considerable number of them were leaving, while the rest were being grouped in some sort of order by an officer with a fervently waving arm.
The bombardment continued, still distant, but loud and fierce enough to intrude. Louise watched avidly as the first group disappeared out of her view, and two men rode into the field. From this distance, the first could have been anyone, but the second, slouching ungracefully in the saddle, was quite unmistakable. ‘Mistress Prescott, I’ve just seen my cousins — I’m going to find out what is happening.’
‘Is that wise?’ the other woman asked anxiously, rising to her feet. ‘There must still be fighting, we don’t know where or how fierce —’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t venture outside unless I’m sure that it’s safe,’ Louise assured her. ‘But I do want to see my cousins — they may know what’s going on, and where Sir Alexander is.’ She gave Mistress Prescott a confident smile that did not exactly reflect her true feelings, and fairly ran from the chamber before her hostess’s frantic protests could delay her.
She found Jem, one of the tapsters, tapping a barrel. In stark contrast to the crowded confusion earlier, the George now seemed quiet and empty. A man of few words, he nodded to her. ‘A’ternoon, Mistress Chevalier.’
‘What’s happening, Jem? Where is everyone? Have you seen Sir Alexander?’
‘Not since he were sat over there drinking beer with Master Prescott.’ Jem finished his task, and straightened. ‘Haven’t been outside, Mistress — can’t tell ee much, save that all the wounded have been brung back to our stable.’
‘Thank you,’ Louise said, with equivalent lack of ceremony, and peered cautiously out of the door which led to the small inner courtyard. This was crowded with men, many wounded and groaning, being helped to the stable building at the end. She glanced to her right, under the archway and out into the marketplace. Some of Monmouth’s waggons still stood there in the driving rain, with a curious assortment of plough-horses and oxen drooping in the shafts, and from North Street came a group of rebel soldiers, supporting more wounded amongst them. As she watched, they were carried past her, to join their fellows outside the stable. On the cobbled stones, blood lay in a bright spattered trail.
Wherever the fighting was taking place, it was plainly not in the immediate vicinity of the George, and the intermittent cannonfire seemed, even here in the open, to be quite distant. Louise pulled her Brandenburg coat on over her gown — she had left off her pattens, in which it was difficult to walk quickly — and hurried out into the marketplace.
There were plenty of village people about, standing and staring, so she did not feel conspicuous, or in any danger. Indeed, their curious, avid faces were more appropriate to a fair or some other holiday spectacle, rather than the presence of two warring armies. As more groups of wounded emerged from North Street, she ran down West Street through the rain, hoping that she would not be too late to find Bram.
The last of the horse were coming briskly through Fair Close, and trotting up towards her. She drew in to the side of the road, already regretting the pattens, for her skirts were soaked and spattered with mud. At last, her searching eyes located Bram, almost unrecognisable as the confident, handsome cavalryman with whom she had conversed that morning. He was coated with mud and soaking wet, his hair snaking from under his hat, and his face beneath the dirt was grey, weary, and sick with worry. From the look of him, the day had not gone well for the rebels.
She hailed him urgently, and at her second call he turned his head and saw her, standing by the wall that bounded Fair Close. At once he brought his chestnut to a halt, waited until the men on either side had passed him, and then steered the horse towards her. Behind him, to her relief, was Ben, grinning a welcome.
‘Louise! I thought you were supposed to be safe in the George,’ Bram said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see what was happening,’ she said breathlessly. He seemed so different, so changed from the cheerful, exuberant companion of those carefree days in Taunton, only a scant few weeks ago. Now, with rebellion and warfare erupted in the West Country, that time seemed inexpressibly distant and the Louise and Bram who had discussed Monmouth so lightly in Jonah’s bookshop to be different people entirely.
‘There’s been a battle — well, a fight, really,’ Bram told her. ‘We’ve driven them back, though, thanks to Wade and Holmes, and now they’re drawn up in a field about a quarter of a mile along the Bath road, and our men are lined up behind the hedge, facing them. It’s too wet for musket fire now.’
‘But I can hear cannon.’
‘It’s easier to keep their match dry, or so I believe,’ Bram told her: he knew nothing at all about the arcane mysteries of artillery. He added, with a renewed surge of anxiety, ‘Louise — have you seen Alex at all?’
‘Alex?’ She stared up at him, bewildered. ‘No — no, I haven’t, not since he left me at the George, hours ago.’
The look on Bram’s face made her blood run suddenly cold. ‘He met me,’ her cousin said quietly. ‘He spoke to me, in the lane that runs up from Lyde Green. He seemed strange…and then one of my men saw him, in the middle of the fighting, and he had a sword.’
‘A sword? But he wasn’t wearing one,’ Louise said in disbelief. ‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘I didn’t see him so I only have another’s word for it — but he’s not exactly inconspicuous, is he? Of course,’ Bram said, clutching at hope, ‘he may be with our foot, up by that hedge — I only had time to look for him amongst a few of them before Colonel Wade sent me back to collect the rest of the horse. But…it’s foolish, I know, and he would be the first to mock me for it, but I can’t help being anxious.’
‘They are bringing the wounded from North Street to the George,’ Louise said. Her mouth had gone dry, and her mind reeled in horror from the thought of Alex, whom she had thought safe, inviolable, lying dead or hurt, perhaps only a hundred yards distant from where she was standing.
‘Then can you go and look for him there?’ Bram asked her. ‘And somehow get a message to me — Ben, go with Louise, look for Alex, and you follow me and tell me whether you’ve found him. I’m sorry, Louise, I have to go — but I won’t give up if I can help it, and I’ll let you know if he’s safe.’
She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes against the steady rain, and managed a brave smile. ‘Thank you, Bram. And — good luck!’
Ben followed her meekly enough back to the George. By now, the small courtyard was packed with rebel soldiers, mostly with minor injuries: the more serious cases had presumably been carried inside, out of the rain. She left her cousin and his horse standing by the archway, reminding him not to impede the people coming and going, and by dint of apology, explanation and her most charming smile, managed to squeeze her way into the stable.
It was fortunate that the light within was so bad: as it was, the stench of blood and sweat, and more unpleasant odours, caught her unawares, and made her retch. By force of will, she managed not to vomit: she swallowed fiercely, and accosted the first uninjured person she saw, a young man wearing a bloodstained leather apron, with some surgeon’s implement in his hand. ‘Please, sir, is my cousin here? Sir Alexander St Barbe?’
