The Bleeding Land (21 page)

‘Why have the men of this town ignored the summons of His Royal Majesty King Charles?’ the man asked through a twist of lips. ‘We are at war, damn your eyes! And yet you hold your market? Are you traitors?’

‘We are no traitors!’ a man exclaimed, stepping out from the crowd on Mun’s right. A leatherworker by the looks of the tools in the sack slung across his hips, he was short and ruddy-faced and either brave, or a fool.

The rider glared at the leatherworker and Mun saw blood-lust in his eyes, knew the man for a hunter who sought his kill at the chase’s end.

‘The folk of Hucknall Torkard have never broken our faith with the King! Not this king or his father before him!’ the man shouted, stirring a chorus of ayes from the crowd which was growing bolder now, inspired by their new spokesman.

‘We are loyal subjects,’ the minister agreed, ‘and you trespass, sir! You break the law by threatening honest folk exercising their right to hold a market here in this town.’

‘Threaten?’ the horseman clamoured. ‘You count a few
shots
into the sky threats, rector?’ He smiled but there was no joy in his eyes. ‘This, sirrah, is a threat!’ And with that he spurred his mare forward and the crowd edged back in panic, but for the minister and the leatherworker. And Mun. The rider swung his blade, smacking the flat of it against the leatherworker’s head, and he dropped like a stone to the baked clay earth.

Mun wanted to move, to either run or fight, but he could not. His muscles gripped his bones, paralysing him, and he stood there uselessly, his right hand clutching Hector’s reins, his left gripping the rapier’s hilt at his hip.

‘How dare you attack us?’ the minister challenged the cavalry officer, even daring to step closer to man and beast. ‘What is your name, you devil?’

Some of the other riders laughed at this, seemingly enjoying the fear on the faces before them. Their horses neighed and whinnied, their blood running hot.

‘My name is Captain Nehemiah Boone,’ the officer announced proudly, ‘of His Highness Prince Rupert’s Royal Horse. And you, sir,’ he spat, ‘are a traitor!’

‘I say again we are no traitors!’ the minister declared. No one had dared move to the aid of the leatherworker who lay motionless. But still alive, Mun was almost sure. ‘I will answer His Majesty the King myself. Let him judge what we are,’ the churchman said.

Nehemiah Boone seemed to consider this for a moment, then he glanced at one of his men who still brandished a carbine that was cocked and ready to tear a hole in a man.

‘Silver plate,’ Boone announced. ‘Bring me what you have and I will speak favourably for . . .’ he looked around at the abandoned stalls, ‘this nest of vipers.’

‘You are here to pillage God’s House?’ The minister was incredulous, his brows knitted together, mouth hanging open.

‘The King’s army needs arms. Powder and shot,’ Boone said tiredly, as though he’d had to explain this numerous times
before
. ‘Loyal men need food in their bellies to fight the rebels. Horses need fodder. Who should pay for the defence of the realm if not the people it protects? You who prosper in the munificent shadow of your sovereign lord.’

Through the gaps that opened and closed as these riders controlled their mounts Mun could see the rest of Boone’s men. They had dismounted, some holding the horses whilst others scavenged amongst the deserted stalls, stuffing all manner of goods into sacks. It was an odd sight to Mun’s eyes, these gaily plumed gentlemen rapaciously plundering vegetables and grain, linen, leather and iron work; buckles, strap ends and spring clips.

Their curiosity having to some extent overcome their fears, the folk of Hucknall Torkard had been drawn back to the fray and now watched helplessly from the edges of the market.

‘You are common thieves!’ the minister said, trembling with rage now, his hat clutched over his chest. ‘You shall not enter my church, Nehemiah Boone. For you are a disgrace to your master. You are a coward, sir!’

In the shadow of his broad hat Boone’s eyes bulged and his lips pulled back from a predator’s teeth.

‘Hold your tongue, traitor!’ one of Boone’s men yelled, drawing his sword and spurring his mount forward. The minister shrieked and raised his arms across his face just as Mun stepped in front of him and grabbed the beast’s bridle, twisting it down and to the right. The horse screamed and sidestepped and came crashing to the ground, trapping its horrified master. He was screaming now, his leg likely broken, and some of the other riders dismounted to help their friend whilst Boone hauled his belt-hung carbine up from his right side and pointed it at Mun.

‘Holster your carbine, sir!’ someone ordered. It was Emmanuel, who stood behind Boone pointing both of his wheellocks at the captain.

‘No, Emmanuel!’ Mun yelled, too late, as another of Boone’s men came up behind Emmanuel and smashed a sword hilt into the back of his head. Emmanuel staggered and fell to the ground, one of the pistols discharging harmlessly.

‘On your knees, dog!’ a massive corporal with a bright yellow feathered plume yelled beside Mun. The Hucknall folk had seen enough and were scurrying off, like rats from a kicked nest. Then a grey-haired, raw-boned soldier stepped in and rammed the butt of his carbine into Mun’s stomach, doubling him over. Desperately Mun tried to suck air into his screaming lungs, then Yellow Plume cracked a fist against his temple and all of a sudden blows were raining down on him and it was all he could do to keep his feet as he clasped his fingers at the back of his head, his forearms taking some of the blows aimed at his face. But then hands gripped his arms, hauling them wide, and instinctively he dropped his chin to his chest as a fist hammered against his forehead and he heard finger bones snap. The next fist slammed into his mouth, bursting his lower lip in a spray of blood.

‘This is a fine horse, Captain,’ a soldier said, taking hold of Hector’s bridle and patting his thick neck.

‘Take your hands off him,’ Mun snarled, blood flying from his mouth.

‘Shut your mouth!’ Yellow Plume said, ramming a fist into Mun’s tortured guts.

‘Teach the cur what we do to enemies of the King!’ someone hollered.

‘In the name of God, stop!’ the minister yelled despite the wicked point of a rapier that was wavering an inch from his throat. ‘Show some mercy, you devils!’

Something struck Mun behind his knees and his legs buckled but he did not hit the ground because someone still gripped him by the shoulders.

‘Don’t go down,’ a big man growled into his ear, ‘they’ll kick you to death.’ Yet, he was too weak to try to stand again and
so
sagged pathetically against this soldier’s huge chest, dazed and bleeding and beaten. He was hazily aware of Nehemiah Boone dismounting and striding towards him, removing his riding gloves, which he clasped in his left hand whilst balling his right.

‘Turn him round, O’Brien,’ Boone commanded, at which Mun was brought face to face with the man.

Boone stood before him and glared for several heartbeats, then grinned savagely, drew back his arm across his chest and released it, cracking the back of his open hand across Mun’s right cheek. No breaking of knuckles for Captain Nehemiah Boone.

A flash of white-hot light filled Mun’s world, then scalding pain that made his head spin.

‘You’re a bloody fool, Captain,’ he spat, ‘if you think this is the way to bring men to the King’s army.’ Behind Boone two of his men hauled Emmanuel to his feet and restrained him, though he looked barely conscious.

‘And what would you know, sir?’ Boone sneered, raising his hand to strike again.

‘Knock the cur’s head off, Captain,’ the big corporal growled, gripping a shortened but wicked-looking halberd.

‘Hold, Captain!’ someone yelled from the back of an enormous mare that was white as fresh snow and trotting neatly up the market square towards the church. A large hunting poodle, as white as the mare, ran alongside yapping orders of his own. ‘Stand off, Captain Boone!’

Boone spat on the ground by Mun’s feet, then stepped away, gesturing for the men holding Mun to do the same. They did and Mun fell to his knees; his head sagged so that phlegmy blood dangled in strings from his nose and mouth to his chest. He wanted to curl up on the ground, to cradle his pain-racked body and address each hurt, giving each the attention it craved, but his pride would not let him. And so he grimaced and climbed to his feet, expecting another blow.

‘Who are you?’ the newcomer asked, gesturing at Mun to lift his chin so that he might see his face better. For some reason he did not understand, Mun obeyed and lifted his head, locking eyes with this handsome rider whose curls and feathers mirrored his horse’s elaborately luxuriant mane. And then, despite the pain and humiliation and the hunger for revenge, Mun laughed, at which Boone and his men looked to each other with confused frowns and shrugs.

‘You find something amusing, sir?’ the man on the white horse asked, a half smile playing at his own lips.

‘I am sorry, Your Highness,’ Mun said, ‘it’s just that I had not thought I would meet you quite like this.’ He dragged a sleeve through the wet gore on his face, his tongue probing for broken or loose teeth.

‘You know me?’ the handsome man asked, cocking his head to one side.

‘Your Highness, yes I know you,’ Mun said, relieved that he had lost no teeth. ‘You are Prince Rupert of the Rhine, Duke of Cumberland and General of His Majesty’s Horse.’

Prince Rupert smiled. ‘My family call me Robert le Diable. Rupert the Devil,’ he said, his accent German in the main but cut with other flavours too, ‘which is altogether much less of a mouthful. A soldier’s name. For a soldier.’

‘Your Highness’s men have acted most dishonourably,’ the minister announced, ‘no better than common brigands. They are thieves and scoundrels.’

Prince Rupert waved the accusation away with a gauntleted hand. ‘Save your hyperbole for the pulpit, sir. We are at war,’ he said, glancing at the unhorsed man who had been dragged off to the side and was being plied with wine to numb his pain. ‘What should be of more concern to you is my uncle’s disappointment that so few of your townsmen have come to help him put down this vile rebellion. If you are slow to do your duty, we who obey our king must take matters into our own hands.’

‘Your Highness!’ the minister blurted, but was silenced by the Prince’s raised hand.

‘Well, sir,’ Prince Rupert said, turning back to Mun, a note of intrigue playing across his lean, long face. Mun guessed the Prince was but a year or two older than he. ‘Who are you and why did you attack one of my men?’ Those lips that seemed to be fixed in a knowing smile twitched again. ‘I dare say it was you that unhorsed that poor fellow. Or was it your friend with the wheellocks?’ He thumbed back towards Emmanuel, who was bleeding from his head. ‘I will not believe the good minister here put a King’s man on his arse.’

This day has not gone as planned, Mun thought, beginning to wish he had forgone his prayers for a few pints of cool ale in the Dancing Bear.

‘My name is Edmund Rivers, Your Highness,’ he said, ‘and my father is Sir Francis Rivers, a friend of His Majesty the King your uncle, and recently made a Colonel of Horse. He serves in the King’s Lifeguard.’ The Prince’s keen, intelligent eyes widened then, but in his peripheral vision Mun saw Captain Nehemiah Boone scowl.

‘My uncle’s show troop,’ the Prince said. ‘Fine-looking soldiers.’

Mun ignored the barely veiled insult. He had had enough trouble for one day.

‘MacCarthy’s leg is broken, sir,’ Boone said. ‘This . . . gentleman took hold of his bridle and pulled his horse down upon him.’

Prince Rupert’s dark eyebrows arched. ‘Did he indeed?’

‘That man was about to strike me down,’ the minister put in, pointing at the trooper with the broken leg whose pain-racked face was sheened in sweat. ‘This young man, Edmund Rivers, saved my life.’

‘He broke MacCarthy’s leg!’ Boone protested. ‘Could have killed him.’

‘Nevertheless, Captain, a neat trick to bring down a horse of
that
size. But then my uncle has spoken of Sir Francis Rivers’s mastery of manège,’ he said, looking back to Mun. ‘It would appear the son has inherited the father’s gift with horses.’

‘It takes but little skill to lie a horse down,’ Mun replied, thinking how unlikely it was, though not impossible, that word of his father’s love of manège should have reached the Prince’s ear. ‘I am sure Your Highness knows horses as well as any man,’ he said, tasting blood but not wanting to spit in the Prince’s presence.

‘It is true I have inherited my mother’s affinity for animals,’ the Prince said, glancing at his white dog, which was sitting obediently, looking up at its master. ‘Did you know, Edmund Rivers, that I have domesticated a hare and taught it to follow me at heel?’

‘If only your men showed such dutifulness,’ Mun dared, glaring at Captain Boone.

‘Insolent dog,’ Boone snarled.

The corner of the Prince’s mouth twitched, his brown eyes fixed on Mun.

‘Perhaps you could demonstrate whatever skill you do possess, Master Rivers,’ he said, gesturing over to Hector who was still in the custody of one of Boone’s men.

‘Your Highness?’ Mun said, wincing at the pain in his side that sharpened with each breath. He would have put money on it that that damned carbine butt had cracked a rib.

‘You have robbed me of a good man, Rivers,’ the Prince said. ‘If you prove yourself as good as or better than MacCarthy, I will take you into my troop as recompense. You will serve under Captain Boone. I shall arrange it with your father.’

‘I don’t want him, sir!’ Boone blurted.

Again that flap of the royal hand. ‘Well, Rivers? Will you show us some rare horsemanship? Or have Captain Boone’s . . . attentions left you too sore to ride?’

Mun could no more ignore that challenge than he could demand the King’s General of Horse have his men return to
the
folk of Hucknall Torkard all that they had stuffed into their bulging sacks. And so he stood taller, gritting his teeth against the many pains.

‘With Your Highness’s leave,’ he said, bowing neatly.

Prince Rupert smiled and nodded and Captain Nehemiah Boone curled his lip in disgust. Released by a royal nod, Emmanuel winced and rubbed the back of his head and watched. MacCarthy cursed and moaned and drank to numb the pain whilst the other soldiers continued procuring assistance from the traders and merchants and good townsfolk against the Earl of Essex’s rebels. The minister protested boldly, if carefully, but was ignored by all except the Prince’s white poodle, Boy, who yapped at him tirelessly.