Page 71 of Feathers in the Wind
‘So we know what t’generals think. What do you think?’ Hewitson looked at his commander.
Adam still watched the place where the horsemen had been. ‘I know Rupert. I believe he intends to force a fight and settle the matter, if not today then tomorrow. Sweet Jesus.’ Where the little group of horsemen had stood, now a much larger force gathered and more beside them until it seemed the entire sky line became one line of soldiery.
‘Seems you were right, Coulter,’ Hewitson noted. ‘How are we expected to hold 't field? With t’infantry gone, we’ve but six thousand horse.’
Adam shook his head. ‘We’ll never hold that number, and if they should prevail then our foot are strung out between here and Tadcaster. Idiots!’ He looked up at the sky. ‘And it's going to rain again.’
‘Looks like battle it is.’ Hewitson sighed. ‘’Tis the waiting I hates the most.’
Adam nodded. ‘Let's deploy the men along the slope a little further.’
A wry grin flashed across Hewitson's face. ‘You're not going to fool them into thinking we've more men than we have?’
Adam shrugged. ‘If nothing else it will give the men something to do. Oh, and tell them that the mark of the day is a white favour in the helm.’
As Hewitson wheeled his horse and trotted across to the troops, Adam pulled a kerchief from his jacket and tore a sizeable piece from it. He unbuckled his helmet and fixed the scrap of cloth to the crown. It seemed an insubstantial distinction between himself and the other Englishmen he faced across the field.
He narrowed his eyes and scanned the force facing him. Goring, he guessed from the colours. It was unlikely that the Marchants would be here today and for that he was thankful. Another heavy shower of rain scudded across the field and Adam hunched his shoulders. Despite the rain it was warm, and beneath his cuirass and buff leather coat he was damp with sweat.
‘The General's compliments, Major, but could you move your troops forward fifty yards?’
Adam turned at the sound of young Richard Ashley's voice.
‘My compliments to the General. It will be done,’ he replied, quickly relaying the instructions to his sergeant. He turned back to the young man. ‘I trust you found your wife well yesterday?’
‘Indeed, sir. My little lad is talking now.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Three, sir.’
‘And my wife?’ If there was the slightest hesitation before the word ‘wife’ Richard Ashley did not notice.
‘No doubt gossiping with mine, sir.’ Ashley blushed. ‘Probably about us.’
‘Quite likely,’ Adam smiled, doubting very much that Perdita Gray would be sharing his bad habits with Kate Ashley. ‘God willing, we shall see them both again before too much longer.’
Richard Ashley saluted and wheeled his horse, cantering back to Fairfax's position.
For some reason best known to the prince, the royalists did not take advantage of the disorder in the parliamentary lines, giving time for the infantry to return to the field intact.
The day wore on and by late afternoon both sides faced each other across Marston Moor in battle order. Despite some desultory cannon fire from the left flank, neither side moved and the hours dragged by. The parliament soldiers began to chant psalms. While it provided some relief from the boredom and a cincture to their taut nerves, Adam found it an eerie sound and in many ways more discomforting than the guns.
He rose in his stirrups and surveyed the field for the tenth time that afternoon. To his left stretched a colourful array of flags and pennants, weapons glinting in the late afternoon sun.
‘I don't like this ground,’ Adam muttered scanning the field before him. Fairfax's horse on the right wing certainly had the worst of the land.
While the bulk of the parliamentary force had been arrayed along a gentle slope, the moor between Sir Thomas's cavalry and the enemy was covered in furze. The only clear access lay along a narrow lane, running at right angles to their position, bounded on one side by a ditch and on the other by a hedge lined with royalist muskets.
It must have been past seven in the evening when Adam detected a general wavering in the royalist lines, as if they had decided that no battle would be fought that day.
‘They're surely not going to fight now,’ Hewitson grumbled, shifting in his saddle. ‘It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.’
Adam agreed. To distract himself from his hunger, he turned his mind away from the thought of battle and turned instead to the problem of Perdita and how he could contrive to return her safely to Preswood. His gloved hand rose to his breast where the silver locket lay heavy against his skin.
A mighty cry from the left flank roused him from his reverie. The parliamentary horse, commanded by an Eastern Association man by the name of Cromwell, charged, taking some of the infantry with them.
Facing Cromwell, Prince Rupert's unbeatable cavalry, for once not the first to charge, fell back. The great guns from both sides began to flash and roar and the field quickly become hazy with smoke.
