afterwards in my eye. It was Warbeck I’d seen up there and the flash had been the pan of a musket. ‘Quickly!’ I screamed.
It would take him an age to prime the musket again but I already knew that he carried three or four and I didn’t dare risk the chance that he’d primed a one-man regiment for the night. We hurried through the stall door. Warbeck’s horse, spooked by the shot, whinnied and refused to take the halter. I whispered to him but he didn’t hear. In the neighbouring stall one of the deserters had already mounted my own horse. He pushed it quickly out and reined it in just outside the stall door.
‘Hurry!’ he yelled.
I looked over my shoulder. The second man had already abandoned the stall and was scrambling onto the horse behind his companion. They waited for a second before the first man kicked his heels into the horse’s rump and forced it forward.
The boom of a musket fired again into the night and I knew I was right about Warbeck and his arsenal. I heard a scream and saw the second man fall from the back of my horse as they vanished into the night. The other didn’t so much as pause. A moment and he was gone.
I was alone but all was not lost yet. I turned again to try and calm Warbeck’s horse. Its eyes rolled at me in the silvery light. I took a slow step forward and then another. The horse had stopped panicking but it still made low, throaty sounds. At last it allowed me to lay a hand on its mane. I ran my fingers softly in its hair. I teased its ears between my forefinger and thumb. ‘Come on, girl,’ I said. ‘You’ve been through worse than this. You’ve charged a row of pikes, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ve . . .’
The horse froze and I knew something was wrong. Its eye, once fixed only on me, shifted and I dared to think I could see a glimmer of a reflection. Somebody was staring at me out of that eye. A man.
I turned very slowly around. In the open stall door Warbeck stared at me down the barrel of his musket, a weapon with a range of a hundred yards. Then again they misfired as often as not. He’d already had his share of luck plucking one of the deserters from the back of my horse. I fancied I should risk it. Three days ago I’d been going to die anyway. But there was no point without his horse. Silently a part of me begged him to fire, to get it over with and see which way the die would fall. Another part prayed that he would not. It felt a cowardly part there in that moment.
‘Who were they?’ Warbeck asked. He was only slightly breathless, his perfect composure hardly touched.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did you get word to them?’
There had always been a lot of paranoia about ciphers and codes but surely he wasn’t superstitious enough to believe that I’d somehow delivered a message through a locked pantry door. ‘They were New Model,’ I said.
‘New Model soldiers don’t desert. They’re paid. They’re fed.’
Cromwell had spoken otherwise. ‘They do if they’re King’s men. Warbeck,’ I said, and here I faltered. Suddenly I was tired. I was hungry. I was cold. ‘How did Cromwell do it? Turn royalists to the Parliament?’
Warbeck must have sensed I wasn’t going to run and slowly lowered the musket. There was nothing between us now but the ice cold air making mist of our breath.
‘Every man has his price, Falkland,’ he whispered. ‘For most Englishmen it’s not much more than a sausage.’ He reached to a loop on his belt and threw me a manacle for my ankles. Out in the gloom of night, a ghastly moaning stopped us both short. Warbeck lifted his musket again, pointing it now into the night, perhaps thinking it was some animal, but he must have come to the same answer as I did for the musket turned sharply back on me just as the thought came again that I should run. The sound was from the man he’d shot, not yet dead. That was the horror of these wars. Musket balls rarely offered a gracious end. They tore holes in flesh and bone
It would take him an age to prime the musket again but I already knew that he carried three or four and I didn’t dare risk the chance that he’d primed a one-man regiment for the night. We hurried through the stall door. Warbeck’s horse, spooked by the shot, whinnied and refused to take the halter. I whispered to him but he didn’t hear. In the neighbouring stall one of the deserters had already mounted my own horse. He pushed it quickly out and reined it in just outside the stall door.
‘Hurry!’ he yelled.
I looked over my shoulder. The second man had already abandoned the stall and was scrambling onto the horse behind his companion. They waited for a second before the first man kicked his heels into the horse’s rump and forced it forward.
The boom of a musket fired again into the night and I knew I was right about Warbeck and his arsenal. I heard a scream and saw the second man fall from the back of my horse as they vanished into the night. The other didn’t so much as pause. A moment and he was gone.
I was alone but all was not lost yet. I turned again to try and calm Warbeck’s horse. Its eyes rolled at me in the silvery light. I took a slow step forward and then another. The horse had stopped panicking but it still made low, throaty sounds. At last it allowed me to lay a hand on its mane. I ran my fingers softly in its hair. I teased its ears between my forefinger and thumb. ‘Come on, girl,’ I said. ‘You’ve been through worse than this. You’ve charged a row of pikes, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ve . . .’
The horse froze and I knew something was wrong. Its eye, once fixed only on me, shifted and I dared to think I could see a glimmer of a reflection. Somebody was staring at me out of that eye. A man.
I turned very slowly around. In the open stall door Warbeck stared at me down the barrel of his musket, a weapon with a range of a hundred yards. Then again they misfired as often as not. He’d already had his share of luck plucking one of the deserters from the back of my horse. I fancied I should risk it. Three days ago I’d been going to die anyway. But there was no point without his horse. Silently a part of me begged him to fire, to get it over with and see which way the die would fall. Another part prayed that he would not. It felt a cowardly part there in that moment.
‘Who were they?’ Warbeck asked. He was only slightly breathless, his perfect composure hardly touched.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did you get word to them?’
There had always been a lot of paranoia about ciphers and codes but surely he wasn’t superstitious enough to believe that I’d somehow delivered a message through a locked pantry door. ‘They were New Model,’ I said.
‘New Model soldiers don’t desert. They’re paid. They’re fed.’
Cromwell had spoken otherwise. ‘They do if they’re King’s men. Warbeck,’ I said, and here I faltered. Suddenly I was tired. I was hungry. I was cold. ‘How did Cromwell do it? Turn royalists to the Parliament?’
Warbeck must have sensed I wasn’t going to run and slowly lowered the musket. There was nothing between us now but the ice cold air making mist of our breath.
‘Every man has his price, Falkland,’ he whispered. ‘For most Englishmen it’s not much more than a sausage.’ He reached to a loop on his belt and threw me a manacle for my ankles. Out in the gloom of night, a ghastly moaning stopped us both short. Warbeck lifted his musket again, pointing it now into the night, perhaps thinking it was some animal, but he must have come to the same answer as I did for the musket turned sharply back on me just as the thought came again that I should run. The sound was from the man he’d shot, not yet dead. That was the horror of these wars. Musket balls rarely offered a gracious end. They tore holes in flesh and bone
Similar Books
