the raven's banquet (chap 1)

8/12/2019 The Raven's Banquet (chap 1)

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SOLARIS

C L I F F O R D B E A L


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First published 2014 by Solaris

an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

Riverside House, Osney Mead,

Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN: 978 1 78108 325 3

Copyright Clifford Beal 2014

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been

asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

copyright owners.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the

British Library.

Designed & typeset by Rebellion Publishing

Printed in the UK


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For Hannah, Emma

and Samuel


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You cannot take War across the

countryside in a Sack

old German proverb


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CLIFFORD BEAL

9

I

Cold Porridge

JULY1645

Northampton

First of July 1645

YESTERDAYTHEYCAMEfor me.

Five horsemen pounded up the lane at a fast trot, scatteringthe squealing pigs that rooted by the roadside. All in buff and

blackened harness, they reined in and dismounted right in front of

me. I had seen their likes before: troopers of Generals Cromwell

and Ireton. And it was their New Model army that had wreaked

havoc among us only days gone by upon the field at Naseby. It was

also plain to me that I was the object of their intent.

They looked at me like I was some base rogue, smugness in their

thin half-smiles. The one who was their sergeant stepped forward,

spurs a-jingle and hand on sword hilt, the visor of his pot thrown

open, revealing to me the face of a man who had seen much war.


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THE RAVENS BANQUET

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His right cheek was fiercely scarred, the skin seared red and raw.

And the stink of sweat, wood smoke, and gunpowder preceded

him.

Be you Richard Treadwell? he demanded.

I tried to straighten up and put weight on my crutch, the green

wood of the spindly thing bending precariously under my arm.

I am Colonel Richard Treadwell, of His Majestys Army of

Horse. What business do you have with me?

The sergeant reached into his snapsack without taking his sunken

grey eyes from me and drew out a letter. As he did so, I saw out ofthe corner of my eye one of his fellows barge into the house.

Richard Treadwell, he said, rasping in the halting tongue

of a rustic newly acquainted with the written word, You are

hereby taken into the custody of Sir Thomas Fairfax and... by his

authority... thou art to be transported to London, arraigned on

the charge of Treason, and detained at the pleasure of Crown and

Parliament.

He handed me the warrant, which I read ra pidly even as my ears

began to ring. It said little more.

I offered my surrender to Sir John Havers at Naseby. Its

at his pleasure that Im held here, I protested. I see no order

relinquishing that right, and it will take more than this paper to

get me to accompany you.The Sergeants eyes remained locked onto mine. His reply, when

it came, was delivered in quiet firmness. It was my first taste of the

New Order of things in this world.

I am under orders to bring you out whether say you yea or nay.

Or would you have me break the other leg to convince you?

The cold throb deep in my right thigh was no gentle reminder

that I could hardly walk let alone make a run for it. I lowered my

head in recognition that I had now a new warder.

His comrade emerged from the cottage and undid the strap of

his pot helm.


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CLIFFORD BEAL

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None but a woman and her boy inside. Looks like shes got a

full larder. What do you say we stay here for the night and make

our return on the morrow?

The sergeant looked to his companion, then shot me a sideways

glance. He cocked the visor of his pot, turned on his heels, and

removed his gauntlets.

Listen, Bill, spoke up the other again, a good bed lies in the

hall the first bed I have laid eyes upon in near two month.

I saw the sergeant look up to spy where the sun hung in the sky

and so calculate the time. That he had even to think about such achoice when a soldiers feast awaited, was testament to the discipline

of this enemy. If it were me, I would not have hesitated.

Aye, well, he said, tempted by his friend, we would not make

it back to camp before nightfall even if we left straight away. He

turned again and looked at me, measuring me up, reckoning whether

I would be a handful or not. He then swung around to his comrade.

Well stay here the night but start all the sooner come morning.

He called to the remaining three troopers who stood by, holding the

reins of their bedraggled mounts. Fetch the leg irons!

When we six entered the cottage, poor Mistress Hayton was

choked full with dread. She had not expected such company when

she had hurriedly accepted to be my warder the week before. Then,

Sir John had given her kind words and silver coin, bidding her totreat me civilly and to dress my wounds until his return. Her own

husband was off with the same victorious army that now gathered

up the remnants of the Kings shattered host.

It is no natural thing to make war on ones own countrymen. But,

alas, we all were driven to it. After four stinking years in this hellish

fight I confess I still find it a hard thing to put a sword into another

Englishman. Yet not even me, jaded and corrupted as I am, had

expected things to go on this long.

We had danced a grisly reel these past months; the Kings forces

winning a few, Parliaments rebels winning a few more. Now, I fear,


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after Nasebys dreadful harvest, my cause is at an end. Leastways,

my own part in it is now done.

The goodwife scuttled about the house as the rebels tracked in

a weeks worth of grime. She said not a word, but cooked them a

meal and brought them beer and lit a taper for their pipes. As for

me, I was evicted from the bed in the loft and shackled near the cool

stone of the hearth. One cuff around my good ankle, the other end

set and clamped upon an iron ring in the fireplace. And so we spent

the evening: the three troopers well fed upon the settle and chair,

laughing and cussing; the sergeant and his corporal at the table;Mistress Hayton perched upon the four-poster bed next to her boy

and awaiting every barked command; and me, sitting in the dust of

the hearth like a dog, far too close to the fire for a summers night,

and slurping cold porridge.

Sometime after the sole tallow candle had burned down to just a

thumb-length, the corporal took his leave up the stairs for the bed

he had long dreamt of. The three troopers, no doubt deprived of

good sleep for more days than they could remember, had by now

succumbed to the comfort of their surroundings and all snorted,

snored and gurgled in their slumbers. The sergeant too, his head full

of drink and chin upon chest, drifted off even as he sat in his chair,

elbows propped.

The mistress had barely moved or spoken for some time. I couldjust see her white cap and neckcloth in the gloom as she stroked her

son upon the bed. Then I heard her quiet voice speak. And she was

speaking to me.

Its not of my doing, sir.

I know, I replied. Dont reproach yourself, goodwife. It was

my choice to live to see this fate.

She was silent for a moment, looking at me where I lay.

How did they take you? she whispered.

I wondered why it had taken her a week to ask me. I stared into

the glowing coals at my side.


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CLIFFORD BEAL

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It was my choice to live. I think my decision was hastened by the

pistol muzzle pressed against my skull and the sound of the lock as

the owner pulled back the hammer.

So then, you had no choice, sir. I sorrow for you.

I shook my head and wagged a finger at her from the floor. Nay,

goodwife, I couldhave chosen at that instant to be transported,

delivered from all of my misery. Just one word to that trooper.

I could have dared him to blow my brains out. It would have

ended right there. But I didnt say a word and I dropped my sword

instead.Any a man would have done the same, sir, she whispered,

quickly looking over to the sleeping sergeant, fearful that her words

would bring down his wrath. Her face was pale in the fire glow.

Theres no shame in it. To have done otherwise would have been a

sin in the eyes of God.

I remain of two minds on that score, mistress, I replied.

There was silence between us for a moment or two, and then she

spoke up again.

Tell me, sir, what is it that youre writing upon those sheaves

these past few days? Are these letters to gain your liberty?

Her question took me aback. In truth, I wasnt even sure myself

why I was scribbling my thoughts down upon paper. Letters? Nay

goodwife, not letters as such... more like a journal of what hasbefallen me.

But they were letters: letters to myself. Thoughts that bubbled

up like a high-fired cauldron; hissing, spitting, and random. The

contradictions of my uneasy life and recent circumstances could be

contained inside my head no longer.

But who is it for, sir? Your wife? she asked.

I blinked in the gloom a few times as her question reached my

ears. My dear wife, poor thing, this would go down hard, I knew.

It is for no one, no one but me. And it is an idle and desperate

exercise.


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I realised that I had confounded the poor woman for she didnt

reply. Finally, after a long silence, she ventured to speak again. The

whisper that she hissed was near enough swallowed by the heavy

linen curtains of the bed. What should I tell Sir John when he

returns to claim you?

And in spite of my sorry condition I found myself laughing.

Tell him, madam, that I fear he has lost his ransom prize.

THEYWOKEMEearly, stiff as a corpse and in agony of my wound asthe heavy boots of the troopers stamped upon the floorboards. They

unchained me and led me out back for my morning necessary. I had

barely time to lace up my breeches whereupon the sergeant said we

were setting out. Mistress Hayton just looked on, saying nothing

about this hasty change of custody. Full glad of the fact that they

had not raped or beaten her, she was just happy to be rid of all of

us. Without protest she put together a sack with some fresh linen,

my paper, pen and ink, and two loaves of bread. It is all the baggage

I now possess. I pulled off one of my rings and pressed it into the

womans hand just before I limped out the door of the cottage that

had been my gentle prison.

For your trouble, goodwife, I said.

She nodded in response, God keep you, sir.Fear not, woman, grinned the sergeant as he untied the reins of

his horse, well make sure that hes safely delivered to the Lord or

the Devil soon enough.

Her lad and another trooper helped lift me into the saddle of

the spare mount and I must say in shame that I cried out with the

pain. Thank Jesus they were of a mind to ride slowly that day.

Even so, we made Northampton by evening, and I as sick as a dog.

My thigh wound was nearly split open wide again, the heat was

strong enough to make one swoon, and the flies a plague the whole

of the way.


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CLIFFORD BEAL

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* * *

St. Albans

Second of July 1645

IT HAS BEEN a hellish journey thus far; were to spend the night

here at the garrison and on the morrow to continue for London, a

destination I have no reason to be thankful for. The remnants of the

Kings army have been marched on the same road as I, only a week

before. Like Caesar, General Fairfax has paraded his four thousandprisoners in chains through London to make a Triumph for himself

and to prove to that rabble of his Senate that the New Model Army

stands to protect the Republic.

This morning, as I was escorted back into the guardroom

from the privy, I was set upon with taunts from some troopers.

My appearance, by now, is like some harum-scarum fellow: torn

breeches, bloodstained coat, mud-specked and matted hair.

Poor cavvy! cried one.

Papist lickspittle! said another.

One, a beanpole of a Roundhead, all arms and legs, barred my

passage, stabbing at my chest with a long bony finger. Romish

bastard! Youre no better than dog shit. Plotting to bring an army of

Catholics to rape and murder our womenfolk and this in your owncountry! By Christ, it will be a length of hemp for you!

I, who had campaigned against the Roman Antichrist himself the

Hapsburg Emperor! I, who had shed more blood in the Protestant

Cause than this rogue had pissed in his miserable life!

I drove the knee of my good leg into his balls with all my might

and the knave bent over and cast up his accounts on the floor. Two

others were on me in an instant and I lashed out at them both. I

heard ones nose crack as my fist struck him, then the second hurdled

into me and we both went to the floor. The whole pack of curs was

soon at me, raining blows down. I felt a boot on my neck and was


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full expecting a knife in the guts when an officer came in and began

beating the louts back with the flat of his sword. The sergeant of the

guard was right behind him and I was hauled up to my feet again.

By whose leave do you abuse the prisoner? demanded the

officer, spitting with rage. He was met with silence.

Arrest the lot! he said to the sergeant. Then he cast a cold eye

on the troopers. This man is under protection of Parliament and is

entrusted to my care. Ill not lose my commission because of your

bear-baiting.

And I was led out into the street and over to the officers chambers.I am a gentleman and a Colonel-of-Horse, I told him as I wiped

blood from my lip. Those ill-disciplined dog-apes dared call me a

papist. Ill not suffer such handling by any man.

A trooper pushed me into a chair.

I know who you are, said the officer. There wont be any cakes

and ale for you in my custody, sirrah. Ive undertaken to deliver you

to London in one piece and that I will do. I dont care a fig whether

youre a goddamned Catholic or not. Your judgement is not in my

hands.

What did they mean by that rimble-ramble about Catholic

plotting? I asked.

There have been some revelations since your capture, Colonel. Ill

tidings from the pen of Charles Stuart, that fool who thinks hes stillking. And he handed me a newly-printed tract just arrived from

London.

The Kings Cabinet Opend, I read aloud.

Read on, said the officer, It makes for good instruction.

And so I learned that even as I was offering up my sword to the

enemy, the King had fled the field of Naseby and the entire Royal

Baggage was taken. Also taken was the coach of State and with it a

silken rope to hang our cause for good. All the papers of state had

fallen into Parliaments hands: the Kings personal correspondence

with his agents abroad and with foreign potentates. And most


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damning, described in full, a letter wherein his plans to invade

England with an army of Irish Catholics.

Then it struck me why I had been taken and charged. Like some

loyal fool, I had given to the King a small service with my pen a few

months earlier. I had written to Duke Frederick of Denmark (whom

I had served with against the Swedes), asking him to convince his

father, King Christian, to come to the aid of Charles, his blood

relative. Other letters followed. Any one of these would serve as my

death warrant.

At least I know now what Im up against. And with what time Ihave left, I shall write about the path that has led me to this grim

crossroads. I swear that all I have written here is Gods Truth, even

though some may say it is the stuff of lies or the ramblings of a

confused mind. The words that follow tell of what befell me in

Germany when I was a youth. You may call it a confessional.

It was of my own free will that I made Fortune my mistress and

followed her, a captive of her charms. I was given good instruction

in the art of bloodletting many leagues from these shores in rolling

green fields and in shadow-laden forests, grown tall on the dust of

Roman bones. A place where I came to witness things no man ever

should and to do things that no man ought to be asked. A place

where the Devil stood at my side.

So then, you ask, how did I become a soldier? And how did I endmy days in defeat following a losing cause led by an unwise king?

Well, that is the heart of my tale, a tale that I pray I have the time

to tell in full, before Judgement comes. A tale that begins twenty

years ago.


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About the Author

Clifford Beal, originally from Providence, Rhode Island, worked

for 20 years as an international journalist and is the former

editor-in-chief of Janes Defence Weekly in London. He is the

author of Quelchs Gold (Praeger Books 2007), the true story

of a little-known but remarkable early 18th century Anglo-

American pirate.

the raven's banquet (chap 1)

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