concentrate on my present fog-hung surroundings, the vision refuted.
The land turned upward, and I drove Kalimir for the clearing that I prayed was at the top of the incline. To occupy my dream-stunned mind, I went over my calculations once again. With these thick fog banks, Duncan’s force would be reduced to a crawl. That force could not have gotten past me in the time they had. They had to be on the moor still. I needed to find them before the Roundheads in Bolton became aware of them.
I jerked my horse to a stop. Directly in front of me, what sounded like a sled being pulled through mud came to my attention, underscored by what were surely men grunting. I reined Kalimir hard to the right and down a slope into dense fog, hoping to avoid them until I could determine who they were.
Moments later, I reeled back in shock, straining my balance in the saddle.
A mobilized gun carriage consisting of limber, metal-strapped wheels, and huge iron cannon, approached to within mere feet of where I had stood. The limber, that wheeled conveyance that attached to the gun carriage and thereby created a four-wheeled means of transport, had passed into the thick mist. Now, the big cannon materialized before me, its breech thrusting upwards beyond the carriage wheels into the vapor. A transport like this was normally part of a siege train. I had seen my share of them approaching Tor House not that many months ago.
I regained my breath, pulled my sword and lay it across the pommel, then backed Kalimir carefully. The sound of men groaning with effort came closer. I kept my silence, listening, but soon their shadows appeared before me, straining at the spokes of the massive carriage wheels, pushing and pulling wherever they could gain purchase, slowly working the cannon up the hill. Six to eight horses or oxen normally hauled cannon. Yet I had completely missed them. I wasn’t about to go looking for them either, though it wasn’t unheard of, especially in a tight spot, for men to heave cannon.
Draft animals or no, this was no Royalist vanguard. In fact, I was certain it was a lagging Roundhead artillery transport still making its way from Tor House. Artillery trains were infamous, both Royalist and Roundhead, for being the last to arrive at any given point. Captain Wallace had told me this, the two of us standing on the watch-tower roof, as we watched the guns being positioned around Tor House back in February. Any relieving force was reduced to the speed of its artillery, he had assured me. But the Roundhead Colonel Rigby had happily not missed this cannon transport, which had probably become separated and lost in the fog.
Afraid to run Kalimir over the broken, rocky ground in the thick mist, I sheathed my sword, dismounted, and led him downward, hardly able to see a step ahead of me. We neared an upslope and something in the rocks spooked him. He threw up his head, dancing and snorting. It was all I could do to keep hold of the reins.
Behind me, voices bawled in the fog.
I grasped the bridle to hold the nervous horse in place, mounted on the second try, and moved away as fast as I dared across treacherous ground. A shot flew past me. Another shot went far to my right, and another farther still. They were shooting randomly, could not see me anymore than I could see them. And they must have been as afraid of me as I was of them, for moments passed in anxious silence. Still astride and effectively blind, I moved uphill.
Later, the gun carriage wheels resumed sucking through the mud again, growing fainter. By the time the land began its next upward slope, there was silence, no sound of the transport or its men. We topped a rise in a thin mist, I took a heavy breath of relief, and looked up.
My heart plummeted to my wet toes. An armored rider came out of the mist in front of me, long-barreled pistol raised, that black barrel aimed straight at me.
“Hold,” he growled.
He wore cavalry riding boots and a fine buff coat. His bridle
The land turned upward, and I drove Kalimir for the clearing that I prayed was at the top of the incline. To occupy my dream-stunned mind, I went over my calculations once again. With these thick fog banks, Duncan’s force would be reduced to a crawl. That force could not have gotten past me in the time they had. They had to be on the moor still. I needed to find them before the Roundheads in Bolton became aware of them.
I jerked my horse to a stop. Directly in front of me, what sounded like a sled being pulled through mud came to my attention, underscored by what were surely men grunting. I reined Kalimir hard to the right and down a slope into dense fog, hoping to avoid them until I could determine who they were.
Moments later, I reeled back in shock, straining my balance in the saddle.
A mobilized gun carriage consisting of limber, metal-strapped wheels, and huge iron cannon, approached to within mere feet of where I had stood. The limber, that wheeled conveyance that attached to the gun carriage and thereby created a four-wheeled means of transport, had passed into the thick mist. Now, the big cannon materialized before me, its breech thrusting upwards beyond the carriage wheels into the vapor. A transport like this was normally part of a siege train. I had seen my share of them approaching Tor House not that many months ago.
I regained my breath, pulled my sword and lay it across the pommel, then backed Kalimir carefully. The sound of men groaning with effort came closer. I kept my silence, listening, but soon their shadows appeared before me, straining at the spokes of the massive carriage wheels, pushing and pulling wherever they could gain purchase, slowly working the cannon up the hill. Six to eight horses or oxen normally hauled cannon. Yet I had completely missed them. I wasn’t about to go looking for them either, though it wasn’t unheard of, especially in a tight spot, for men to heave cannon.
Draft animals or no, this was no Royalist vanguard. In fact, I was certain it was a lagging Roundhead artillery transport still making its way from Tor House. Artillery trains were infamous, both Royalist and Roundhead, for being the last to arrive at any given point. Captain Wallace had told me this, the two of us standing on the watch-tower roof, as we watched the guns being positioned around Tor House back in February. Any relieving force was reduced to the speed of its artillery, he had assured me. But the Roundhead Colonel Rigby had happily not missed this cannon transport, which had probably become separated and lost in the fog.
Afraid to run Kalimir over the broken, rocky ground in the thick mist, I sheathed my sword, dismounted, and led him downward, hardly able to see a step ahead of me. We neared an upslope and something in the rocks spooked him. He threw up his head, dancing and snorting. It was all I could do to keep hold of the reins.
Behind me, voices bawled in the fog.
I grasped the bridle to hold the nervous horse in place, mounted on the second try, and moved away as fast as I dared across treacherous ground. A shot flew past me. Another shot went far to my right, and another farther still. They were shooting randomly, could not see me anymore than I could see them. And they must have been as afraid of me as I was of them, for moments passed in anxious silence. Still astride and effectively blind, I moved uphill.
Later, the gun carriage wheels resumed sucking through the mud again, growing fainter. By the time the land began its next upward slope, there was silence, no sound of the transport or its men. We topped a rise in a thin mist, I took a heavy breath of relief, and looked up.
My heart plummeted to my wet toes. An armored rider came out of the mist in front of me, long-barreled pistol raised, that black barrel aimed straight at me.
“Hold,” he growled.
He wore cavalry riding boots and a fine buff coat. His bridle
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