Treason's Daughter (27 page)

‘We'll join them when they pass below, hey, Pud? That cornet best be keeping them in order, or I'll scrag him.'

Reaching into his saddle, Sam finds the last of the dried, salt meat he's been saving. Spreading his cloak on the ground, he sits and stretches out his legs. He starts to worry at the meat with his teeth.

‘Like a damned picnic, this,' he says to Pudding. ‘Do you think Ned is there?' She reaches across and splutters into the back of his neck, tickling him.

‘Do you know, Pud, we used to fight, me and Ned. But not always. We played too, at soldiers, mostly. Ain't that funny, Pud? Me and Ned toting branches at each other, playing at saints and papists. We'd charge with sticks. Build forts in the garden, though Benny would shout at us. He got to be Gustavus Adolphus, with him the elder.' He takes another bite of meat. ‘Those birds don't half make a racket up here.' He throws a stone at the tree, with a short prayer to land a songbird. Some fresh meat would be exquisite. The birds flutter out of the tree in a fluster, and the singing stops.

Sam realises he is unused to solitude; a soldier's life does not allow much time to be alone. He finds it disquieting. Talking dispels the sinister edge, but he whispers, and looks around him with nervous eyes.

‘Aye, Pud. He drew blood once, with a stick fashioned into a pike. I must have been a little 'un. Five, say, or six. Ripped right through my cheek, it did. And do you know what Ned did, when he saw me bleeding? He cried, my Pudding. He cried.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I
T STARTS WITH THE TRUMPET'S HIGH, INSISTENT CALL
.

Sam is back where he should be, alongside his men. They move off slowly, down the slope. The rebels line the hill opposite; between them lays the battlefield. The place where the reckoning will come. Sam busies himself with details. Are they in close order, three foot from nose to tail, knee to knee? He shouts at one trooper whose horse is skittering sideways.

‘Keep close!'

Knee to knee, they advance at a slow trot. They can see the bastards lined up against them begin to move. And they, Rupert's own, leading the king's men to battle. There is the prince himself, all brawn and fire, leading the slow charge forward. He should be at the back, behind the lifeguards with the king. That's where the commander-in-chief should stand, and Sam heard the muttering from the old-timers. But the prince will charge with them, and they will break the enemy's right, and wheel behind the rebel bastards, and Rupert will then, and only then, join the old men at the back.

Did Alexander skulk at the back, Sam shouts silently to the sky. Did Hector, or Belisarius? Did King Harry at Agincourt?

‘Did they fuck!' he shouts aloud, and Pudding tosses her head at the sound of his voice as it carries over the sound of the trumpet playing the notes of the ‘Carga, Carga', the call to charge, and the drum roll of the horses' hooves shredding the turf.

‘Rupert! Rupert!' he cries, and the men take it up, and the prince waves his sword in acknowledgement, not wavering, his helmeted head facing ever forwards towards the enemy.

On and on they trot, over flat ground now. Suddenly there are gunshots and screams. A horse falls sideways into its line, felling another, and forcing a crab-like movement to the side. Pudding skips a little, and throws her head skyward, seeking reassurance from the hands she knows best.

‘Re-form, re-form!' screams Sam, and the troopers battle with their horses' terror, even as more men and more beasts are caught by unknown assassins.

The bastards are hiding in the bushes to the side of them, picking them off.

‘Ignore the fuckers!' shouts Sam. ‘Advance, advance.' He can hear other voices shouting the same words, but blocks them out. Concentrate on your own job, boy, and let the rest of the army take care of itself. Captain Fenwick told him that once. He presses Pudding onwards with his knees, back straight. On she goes. God, he loves her, his gallant, noble Pud.

‘Swords, swords!' he shouts. ‘No fucker draws pistols until we're on them.' He waves his sword, solid and heavy and deadly in his hand. The cavalry in front are looming larger now. The trumpet will give the call any second, and Sam's men will ratchet up the speed. The line ahead looks inviolable. It moves towards them in immaculate close order. We will break on them. Waves
on a cliff, shattering into spumey foam. Too late now; too late to stop. I will break, oh God, I will break.

The trumpet calls, and they are off. There comes a shard of fear so sharp it is indistinguishable from joy. He shouts now, the terror and the ecstasy tumbling together out of his mouth in an immortal roar. Oaths and obscenities fly from his lips, spit raining on Pudding's neck and his own white-knuckled hand, which clasps the reins so tight his nails have broken the skin of his palm. Smoke wreaths the horsemen ahead of them as they fire at Sam's advancing men.

‘Kiss my arse!' screams the trooper nearest to Sam, as a bullet clangs loudly off his helmet. ‘Kiss my godless arse!'

There are barely metres to go.

‘Charge!' screams Sam, his throat raw.

He fixes his eyes on one helmet coming towards him, praying that Pudding, gallant Pudding, will not swerve, will not break, and then, in an instant, they are upon the enemy. Among them, and smiting them, and pressing them. And the enemy break; they spin and tumble and run. They are running! We are gods! We are fucking immortal! His body is so fiercely alive it cannot possibly die. Spit flies from his open mouth; his heart pummels his chest. He is a giant! He is Titan, hear him roar: ‘Rupert!' he screams. ‘Rupert!'

He pulls back his sword and whirls it around his head. Pudding, brave Pudding, canters on. Sam brings his sword down on a rebel neck, and laughs for joy as he finds the soft skin between helmet and breastplate. Blood erupts. Crescents of it shoot skyward, and Sam laughs again. Now who is dead, you bastard? Not me!
Not me
. You.
You
.

He doesn't wait to watch the man fall, but finds another, and another. His sword is part of his arm, and both are coated in blood. Not mine, he screams. Their blood. Theirs! He is so light, and so alive, he might float up to the sky. He grips Pudding tighter with trembling thighs, and again he shouts: ‘Rupert!'

Ned watches as Ireton's horse gives in front of Rupert's charge.

‘Jesus, what arseholes,' mutters a voice behind him.

‘Silence,' orders Ned. ‘Sergeant, take that man's name. If he lives, I'll flog him myself.'

The men behind him shift at their stations. But they have more to worry them than their hard-horse lieutenant. The horse was first, but here comes the foot.

‘Fire in ranks!' Ned shouts.

The frontline of muskets kneels and fires, and the second comes forward, kneels and fires, and on they go. Slowly, in good order. Lord God, thank you for these men, these wonderful men. Their pikes bristle at the enemy, and Ned is so ferociously proud of their courage, he feels as if God's breath is pushing them forward. And then – then they collide with the king's foot in a grunt of pain and relief and terror.

Pudding is flying. Like Pegasus, she whistles over ditches; she glides over the churned grass. Sam laughs with the joy of the chase. They are one, Sam and his Pud, and they have unlocked
the secret. They know how to do this. They can run for ever. She stretches out her long neck and legs. She is a goddess among horses, his Pud. Blood has dried on his arm, crusting into a cast that makes moving awkward. He finds he wants more, fresh and liquid. And Pud shall help him find it. The rebels run and he shall have their brushes. He will carve them and cut them and stuff them, the bastards. Alongside him, a herd of troopers flies with him, chasing them down.

His brothers! His glorious, beautiful brothers. He can see the fuckers ahead. Frightened and scrambling, as well they might be. Cuckolds, we come!

Behind him, something nags at him. A sound tries to intrude upon him. How dare it? He is an avenging god! He shakes his head, but there it is, the trumpet call. Sam tries to ignore it, but it thrums in his head, until at last he listens to it.

‘Halt!' he screams, pulling at the reins, checking poor Pudding's glorious flight. She judders to a stop, tossing her head. He strokes her sweat-slick shoulder, trying to find his mind. He is all limbs and thunder, raging blood and fire.

Orders, Sam. Give some orders.

He calls out: ‘Regroup, regroup. Retreat to the colours. The colours!'

Some of the men listen to him. He fights his way back to control and takes stock. Half the troop stands watching him, horses gulping at the air, men clutching at their sanity. A few others are galloping still, heedless and beyond discipline. The ones that remain look confused. They stare around at the field, as if awakening from some extraordinary dream. He looks for the right words to marshal them, but he doesn't know what to
say. Words seem stupid, empty vessels. The bloodlust leaks out of him, and he is just a boy on a horse, in a field.

There, over there! Rupert. Unmistakable. Relief floods Sam, and he calls them to him, and they canter towards their chief. Tell us what to do, thinks Sam. Make sense of it.

‘Hold them! Hold them!' Ned screams, rage fighting frustration. They are being pushed back, slowly, inexorably. They slide and scrabble in the mud. To fall is to die.

‘On your feet. Your feet!' Ned shouts, even as his own boots fight for traction. Oh God, how is it Your will that they, these papist scum, will push us backwards? How can we be dying? Where are you, Lord? Where are you?

Ned looks behind him to see Hugh Peter, Cromwell's chaplain, riding behind the lines. A Bible in one hand, a pistol in the other, he is shouting them on, but Ned can't hear him.

A ripple along the ranks. Skippon is hit. Oh Lord, not thy best servant. Please, oh Lord. He feels the men sag around him. Skippon down. The men next to him deflate like a kicked pig's bladder.

Ned tries to rally them. He screams and he cajoles from the middle of his pack of men. But he can see the front pikes sliding away, melting into the mud and gore and blood. On his left, exposed by the flight of Ireton's cavalry, their flank is being energetically stormed. Their muskets are hemmed in by their own pikes, wheeled round in a hasty manoeuvre to protect against the royalist horse. The charge is ferocious, and at the push of
pike they are losing. They are being squeezed and pressed, front and left; juiced like summer fruit, their blood puddling in the trenches raked up by their desperate feet.

Beside him, Ensign Somers grips the colours, and the banner still waves. But the boy is crying and shaking with the effort of keeping the flag up. He has lost his helmet in the scrum, and he looks ludicrously young. Snot dribbles from his nose, and Ned, absurdly, wishes he could offer the boy a handkerchief.

‘Head up, boy,' he exhorts, instead. ‘Show the papist scum how God's anointed die.'

The boy just looks at him, as if through a fog, his eyes unfocused and red-rimmed, tears dropping fast. And then, somehow, a musket-ball finds its way through the pack to punch a hole between his weeping eyes. His head falls forward, chin lolling on his chest, but the press of men keeps him upright. Ned lurches forward to grab hold of the colours from the boy's hand. He drops his sword to catch the pole, and it is lost in the mud.

He holds on to the pole with desperate ferocity. God's banner is our sword. He thinks of the words emblazoned on the six foot of silk above his head.

‘In God we trust!' he screams. ‘In God we trust.'

And then, from behind him, comes a roar, a rising surge of men and shouting. The men, feeling the reinforcements coming rather than seeing them, stiffen, and in the stiffening lessen the pressure. Ned, for the first time, thinks they might survive this. God has heard him.