punished us less than our iniquities deserve, and hast given us such deliverance as this, should we again break thy commandments.”’ He paused and put the Bible aside. The knife flashed once in the darkness, opening the dying soldier’s throat. He read on. ‘“I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living. I have sworn and I will perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgements.”’
He leaned forward and ran a hand over the dead man’s face, closing his eyes. It was a mercy, that killing.
CHAPTER 5
I came to Devon on the back of a pack mule we found wandering in a farmer’s razed field. For the first hours of the day I rode with my wrists bound behind Warbeck, but he kept sneaking looks over his shoulder as if he thought I might try to throttle him. I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind more than once. The pack mule had been doing well for himself, finding clean shoots among the black stalks, but he wasn’t difficult to capture. I supposed he’d been part of a baggage train attacked and scattered. If so, he was fortunate to get away. I’d eaten my own share of horsemeat in the winters I’d spent in camps, and even a scrawny pack mule like this would have been a delight to a company of ravaged soldiers.
The snows had started to fall in earnest. We seemed to be travelling with the clouds following behind – Warbeck fancied London was entrenched in white now, that the Thames might never thaw again – and as we came into Devon they caught up. By midday the sky was thick with it and for much of the afternoon we were obliged to seek shelter and wait out the worst. I could see how this infuriated Warbeck. By evening the land was so white that it seemed almost day. The hills took on the ghostly glow of winter and we rode on until we came to a small hamlet. Here Warbeck found us quarters with an old spinster who, ignoring the prying eyes of her neighbours, found us more food than we’d seen in the whole of our journey so far and beds more comfortable than I’d had since Oxford. In return we listened to the story of her life – for Warbeck a torture but for me a sweet salve. I was glad to know people still wanted to go on living, even if these truly were the end times.
The hamlet sat on the banks of the River Exe, somewhere downstream of Tiverton, a town whose name I knew. In the morning we followed the water down. There were fish in the river and we boiled soup. It’s remarkable how good food can restore one’s vitals, a lesson every soldier learns but one that still feels like a revelation every time. By the evening Warbeck had changed our course, following a second river, this time against its flow and to my mind very much back the way we’d come. I began to wonder if he was lost, if the snow had confused his bearings. It was a greedy thought and from it grew others – that there might yet be another chance to escape. I was, perhaps for the first time since my imprisonment, daring to think that I was strong again. I wondered how long the feeling would last.
The river wound through two steep hills. I might have been in Yorkshire; and now and then, when a rise or a valley struck me as oddly familiar, the terror of those old battles forced itself upon me as surely as a bloodthirsty soldier upon a captured whore. The hills were thick with hawthorn and gorse. The snow had settled deeply on top of the branches, making winter crowns. There might have been men hiding in any one of a thousand different holes. I said nothing but Warbeck was sensing it too. He kept throwing looks into the forest.
‘We should have made camp by now,’ I said.
Warbeck nodded. ‘We’re almost there.’
Where the river twisted it was starting to freeze. By morning, I thought, it would be a ribbon of ice winding to the sea. We rounded another bend and I saw lights for the first time. We were closer to Crediton than I’d thought and it was, in my opinion, a foolish place to winter an army where roving bands
He leaned forward and ran a hand over the dead man’s face, closing his eyes. It was a mercy, that killing.
CHAPTER 5
I came to Devon on the back of a pack mule we found wandering in a farmer’s razed field. For the first hours of the day I rode with my wrists bound behind Warbeck, but he kept sneaking looks over his shoulder as if he thought I might try to throttle him. I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind more than once. The pack mule had been doing well for himself, finding clean shoots among the black stalks, but he wasn’t difficult to capture. I supposed he’d been part of a baggage train attacked and scattered. If so, he was fortunate to get away. I’d eaten my own share of horsemeat in the winters I’d spent in camps, and even a scrawny pack mule like this would have been a delight to a company of ravaged soldiers.
The snows had started to fall in earnest. We seemed to be travelling with the clouds following behind – Warbeck fancied London was entrenched in white now, that the Thames might never thaw again – and as we came into Devon they caught up. By midday the sky was thick with it and for much of the afternoon we were obliged to seek shelter and wait out the worst. I could see how this infuriated Warbeck. By evening the land was so white that it seemed almost day. The hills took on the ghostly glow of winter and we rode on until we came to a small hamlet. Here Warbeck found us quarters with an old spinster who, ignoring the prying eyes of her neighbours, found us more food than we’d seen in the whole of our journey so far and beds more comfortable than I’d had since Oxford. In return we listened to the story of her life – for Warbeck a torture but for me a sweet salve. I was glad to know people still wanted to go on living, even if these truly were the end times.
The hamlet sat on the banks of the River Exe, somewhere downstream of Tiverton, a town whose name I knew. In the morning we followed the water down. There were fish in the river and we boiled soup. It’s remarkable how good food can restore one’s vitals, a lesson every soldier learns but one that still feels like a revelation every time. By the evening Warbeck had changed our course, following a second river, this time against its flow and to my mind very much back the way we’d come. I began to wonder if he was lost, if the snow had confused his bearings. It was a greedy thought and from it grew others – that there might yet be another chance to escape. I was, perhaps for the first time since my imprisonment, daring to think that I was strong again. I wondered how long the feeling would last.
The river wound through two steep hills. I might have been in Yorkshire; and now and then, when a rise or a valley struck me as oddly familiar, the terror of those old battles forced itself upon me as surely as a bloodthirsty soldier upon a captured whore. The hills were thick with hawthorn and gorse. The snow had settled deeply on top of the branches, making winter crowns. There might have been men hiding in any one of a thousand different holes. I said nothing but Warbeck was sensing it too. He kept throwing looks into the forest.
‘We should have made camp by now,’ I said.
Warbeck nodded. ‘We’re almost there.’
Where the river twisted it was starting to freeze. By morning, I thought, it would be a ribbon of ice winding to the sea. We rounded another bend and I saw lights for the first time. We were closer to Crediton than I’d thought and it was, in my opinion, a foolish place to winter an army where roving bands
Similar Books
