Page 67 of By the Sword
In worse news, Cromwell, who had followed the Scots Army south, had met up with Lambert and they were closing in on the city from the south. Despite the best efforts of the Royalists, the bridge at Upton had not been completely destroyed and Lambert took Upton without difficulty, pushing back the Scots and giving his troops free access to the west bank of the Severn.
The King decreed that all loyal subjects were to gather at a field called Pitchencroft just outside the city on the 26th of August. Barely a soul came to the assembly and that night the King sat in the large, pleasant house on the outskirts of the town, ironically named ‘The Commandery’, sunk in the harsh realization that his only resource remained the Scots. The English had abandoned him to his fate.
He attended the meetings at the Commandery and concluded the house had been wrongly named. He saw precious little evidence of command taking place within its walls. In the endless councils that took place in the hall, the young King found himself assailed from all sides by conflicting advice. One man suggested that they attempt to break out and make for London, another that a foray for new supplies should be made.
Jonathan sat back and listened to the exchange, his long fingers beating an impatient tattoo on the arm of his chair. He had been a soldier long enough to recognise the virtue of a strategic withdrawal. In Wales, they stood a chance of bolstering their forces and drawing Cromwell to a fight on unfamiliar territory, although that particular tactic had not worked well in Scotland. When pressed for input, his suggestion that they abandon their position and make for Wales was howled down and he found himself accused of cowardice.
While Cromwell with his thirty thousand troops came closer every day, the interminable, inconclusive councils went on. August turned to September and Cromwell now had the cityunder bombardment from guns positioned to the east at Red Hill. The general himself sat at Evesham, waiting.
Chapter 21
Another evening at the Commandery had ended in bickering and Jonathan trudged wearily back up Friers Street to his billet. Tomorrow would be the third of September, exactly one year since Dunbar. Cromwell was known to be a superstitious man and his incredible deliverance at Dunbar would point auspiciously to another success if the battle were to be brought on the same day.
In the downstairs parlour of the large, half-timbered house, Giles played cards with Kit Lovell, who had recently rejoined them. They were both fiendish card players, with a tendency to cheat, and Jonathan declined their invitation to join them.
He left orders with his orderly that he was only to be disturbed if Cromwell attacked, undid his sword belt, took off his boots and fell still fully clothed onto his bed. Despite his utter weariness, sleep did not come easily as he played out the events of the morrow. The outcome of the battle seemed a foregone conclusion and death– his death–seemed inevitable.
He had not been deliberately careless of his life in the past, but he had known that while his family would grieve, his death would have been viewed without surprise. Now there were people in his life who would mourn him and he knew with utter certainty that he did not want to die.
When sleep came he dreamed of Kate in deepest mourning, weeping. He woke with a start and lay awake staring at the dusty bed hanging above him, the sweat prickling his forehead and his breath coming in short gasps as if he had been running.
For the first time in his life, Jonathan Thornton admitted to himself that he was afraid.
He rose and pulled his boots back on. Downstairs in the parlour, Giles and Kit Lovell still played cards. Jonathan pulled up a chair, and Giles dealt him a hand.
‘Can’t sleep?’ Giles asked.
‘No.’ Jonathan scowled at the cards. ‘Christ, Lovell, did you deliberately deal me this hand or are you determined to take every last coin I own?’
Kit Lovell placed a hand over his heart. ‘Thornton, you wound me. You take the cards as they are dealt.’
So true, Jonathan thought as he set out his wager.
‘Can I join you?’
The men looked up at the youngster who had entered the room. He could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen and wore an unlaced buff leather coat that had been made for a much larger man and seen considerable wear.
‘Only if you have a large purse and a resignation to losing,’ Jonathan said. ‘These two are notorious at cards.’
The boy pulled up a stool beside Lovell.
‘I thought I told you to get some sleep,’ Lovell said tersely, addressing the boy, without looking at him.
‘Belong to you, does he?’ Giles said.
‘My brother, Daniel,’ Lovell waved a hand at Giles and Jonathan. ‘Viscount Longley, Colonel Thornton.’
Giles rolled his eyes. ‘What in God’s name did you bring him for, Lovell?’ he said.
Lovell cast his brother a glance that was at once both reproving and affectionate.
‘He followed me,’ Lovell replied. ‘His mother will hold me responsible if anything happens to him and, God knows, I fear her wrath more than Cromwell, but what could I do?’
‘This may be my last chance,’ the boy said returning his brother’s look with a furrowed brow.
‘Your last chance for what?’ Giles asked. ‘Getting yourself killed?’
‘My last chance to return the King to the throne where he belongs,’ Daniel’s eyes shone with an idealism that had long since escaped Jonathan.
