Red Man Read online

  Years of Blood

  - Book Two -

  Red Man

  Andrew Wareham

  Copyright © 2020 Andrew Wareham

  KINDLE Edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  PublishNation

  www.publishnation.co.uk

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  “To Huntingdon today, Rootes. The Captain said we should put up at the George, being a friendly sort of place to our sort.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but just what is ‘our sort’?”

  Micah turned in his saddle, stared down his nose at his servant.

  “’Our sort’, Rootes? Loyal soldiers who obey those set over us by God and Parliament, as is right. That is who we are.”

  Rootes instantly decided that his nascent interest in things political should be strangled aborning. He had been a footman in a big house and inclined to support the aristocracy and the King, God bless him, but it was his business to obey his red-headed and occasionally fiery master, not to ask him questions or doubt his purposes.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Was only that I wanted to know in case I should be asked.”

  The weather was fine and the road not too dusty – it had rained two days previously and the mud had dried but not cracked yet. They could make reasonable time, a fast walk that did not exhaust the horses and could be kept up for a few hours, and the distance from Stamford was a bare thirty miles.

  They entered the courtyard of the great inn towards mid-afternoon and handed the horses over to the ostlers.

  “Wait here with the saddlebags while I see to a room.”

  Rootes obeyed, asking the ostler who had taken his horse where the servants put up.

  “Fine-looking bloke you are for one of us, master.”

  “I am a soldier and servant to the officer.”

  That seemed a satisfactory explanation of why he was not ragged-arsed like the stable lad.

  “Over yonder. Eats in one place, sleeps next door. Good it is, got straw pallets to sleep on, not like we what kips in the hayloft.”

  Rootes stared across – it seemed no worse than a barracks room.

  Micah came back to tell him that he had taken a room and had paid for Rootes’ board as well and for a couple of pints to wet his whistle.

  “More than that, you will pay for yourself, Rootes. Do not get drunk!”

  “Perish the thought, sir. We shall set out properly early, sir.”

  Rootes sat over his beer and considered his future that evening. If he was to stay with his master, well and good – he needed do nothing other than he was told. If he was, on the other hand, to support the King, then he would be sensible to get out in the middle of the night and hide up for a day or two. There was a substantial amount of his master’s money in his saddlebag and it would be easy to abscond, taking his horse as well.

  The sole question was whether he wanted to find another officer to serve, or possibly to end up as a mere foot soldier. If he joined a King’s regiment, he would be unlikely to discover another master as easy-going and open-handed as the Red Man; most officers were far more conscious of their dignity and demanded much of their servants - and paid little. The chances were that he would end up in the ranks, carrying a pike and waiting for the dragoons to charge. He would have his own horse, but without armour, sword and pistols, he would not be able to join the cavalry.

  He might have a feeling that he preferred the King to the religious sort of folk, but he was even more in favour of enjoying a comfortable existence. As servant to an officer, he shared that officer’s food and slept in a warm bed quite often. As a pikeman in the ranks, he would eat hard tack and salt beef – when he was lucky – and sleep under the stars more often than not. He was older than most soldiers, in his thirties, and did not take so well to hard lying.

  Bugger the King – he was God’s anointed, so he said, and with God on his side he did not need the services of an elderly soldier. Rootes decided he must be seen in chapel on occasion, just to make sure there was no complaint to his master that he was served by a backslider. He suspected that a number of the faithful in the ranks showed their religious dedication as a matter more of convenience than conviction. One more of the same would do no harm.

  He called for another beer and took it through with him as he found a pallet and settled on it, the saddlebags serving as a pillow, to be safe overnight. He was going nowhere, he decided as he went to sleep, his buff coat serving for a blanket.

  Micah enjoyed a considerably more refined evening. The George was renowned throughout the county for the quality of its accommodation and food and fed Micah well with fresh bread and beefsteak and pies and peas and cabbage, all well spiced, and with fruit tarts to follow. They served wine with the meal and brandy after, as a matter of course.

  The bedroom he was taken to was large and possessed a four-poster bed with a thick horsehair mattress covered with a linen sheet and with woollen blankets and a comforter atop. The maidservant was within reason young and sufficiently comely and asked him if he wanted anything else for the night. When he displayed a lack of understanding she placed his hand inside her bodice, making very clear what was on offer, in some quantity. Micah accepted most gratefully and found her a silver crown in the morning, much to her pleasure.

  It was clear that Captain Holdby had been very sensible to direct him to the George. He wondered whether he might not stay for a second night – it would have been unwise, however. He did not think there was likely to be a pursuit for the man he had killed, but it might be foolish to dally.

  He took a leisurely breakfast and asked the serving girl whether the road was clear and if there had been malcontents seen in the area.

  The maid knew nothing of such things, called the landlord to the table to answer so difficult a set of questions.

  “Begging thy pardon, Master, but the nature of malcontents may change, depending on who you might be.”

  “I am a lieutenant of Colonel Knighton’s Regiment, now on my way to London Town to seek a place as officer with the Trained Bands there. The Sergeant Major General, Mr Philip Skippon, has made a call, I am told, for experienced soldiers to join his ranks and lead and train his willing men.”

  “Ah! From the garrison at Newark, sir?”

  “From Major Holdby’s people at Stamford, in fact.”

  “I have heard that Stamford is a God-fearing town that has purged itself of malignant elements in the past months, sir.”

  “Perfectly true, landlord. The town now stands firmly for God and Parliament.”

  “As do all honest men, sir. There is some word
that the King may be making a progress north, sir, and might well pass through Stamford on his way to York or Nottingham. He may well be seeking men to march at his tail, sir.”

  “He will find few around the lowland parts of Lincolnshire, I believe, landlord.”

  The landlord agreed. The eastern parts of the country were strong for Parliament and the honest people of the land.

  “That said, sir, there is a trickle of disaffected men moving north towards Nottingham where the King’s forces are mustering. Not huge numbers – often no more than a single gentleman and two or three retainers. They can make trouble on the road, I am told, challenging those they see travelling in another direction.”

  Micah smiled quietly – he did not think he would be too much bothered by a small group of belligerent but untrained gentlemen.

  “Perhaps as well to wear breast-and-back on the road, underneath a travelling cape, perhaps.”

  “Pistols and sword as well, sir.”

  Micah nodded and paid his score and paced out to the stableyard.

  “Rootes, a moment before we set out. All six of my heavy pistols, if you would be so good. Loaded and primed, two to the waist belt and the remainder across my chest. Breast-and-back first. Then prepare yourself against need.”

  Rootes carried a pair of dragoon pistols, long-barrelled and large-bored, meant to be discharged as part of a volley into the massed ranks of a company of pikes but dangerous enough at a range of ten feet or less.

  “Villains on the road, sir?”

  “So I am told – mostly no more than green boys off to join the King’s Party, but possibly willing to accost their betters on the road. I hope that the sight of a man willing to defend himself will cause them to pass by quietly. If not – well, upon their own heads be it.”

  “I put a sharp on thy sword before we came away from Stamford, sir.”

  “Thank’ee, Rootes. I would like to pick up one of those long, heavy messers Major Holdby spoke of – fine swords for a man who is of more powerful build than most, so he tells me.”

  Rootes had never heard of such a thing, gave a blank look. As a manservant, he was very good at not understanding the conversations of his betters and had perfected the necessary stare of incomprehension. He had learned that nothing annoyed the gentry more than to have the menials laugh at their jokes or nod in appreciation of a debating point they had just made.

  “Messer, did ye say, sir? I’ll keep me eye out for one, sir.”

  Micah was not fooled – he had served in the ranks and not so long back.

  “Pity I did not pick up one of those flintlock muskets, Rootes. Be useful to have one of those along.”

  His servant made no comment, thinking it to be more of a rhetorical lament.

  They rode out, still no more than walking their horses – there was a long way to go and no need to hurry.

  The road was easy to follow – far more than a mud trace like the typical country track, it was the Great North Road, one of the premier arteries of the whole country. The highway was two hundred feet wide generally, with a hard lane down the centre and a wide stretch of turf to either side. At the proper time of year it would be full of herds of kine and swine and flocks of sheep and gaggles of geese, all making their way south to the markets of London and the bellies of Londoners. In late summer the activity was mostly to the north, yearlings being brought down from upland grazing to winter where it was less cold and they could survive in pens, eating hay and turnips before fattening up in the spring ready to traipse off to slaughter.

  There were drovers’ inns at regular intervals, rough sorts of places that the gentry, and officers, must avoid, for being unwelcome in such company. Less frequent were the inns where travellers could put up. Most commonly, the monied folk took rooms in town, more comfortable and far safer in a land where there was no such thing as a policeman outside of the urban areas.

  At St Neots they turned off on the fork to Bedford, travelling little more than twenty miles in the day, Micah deciding that they could afford the extra time rather than stretch the horses the twenty-five extra miles to Ware.

  “There are none to ask us why we arrive on one day rather than another, Rootes, and they say that Bedford is a busy town with much in its favour.”

  Not merely busy, Bedford was a rich town with a river trade to the coast as well as farms that served London. The road to the town was full of carts and there was a steady flow of horsemen. Micah noticed that the men rode in groups, never singly, rarely just a pair.

  They stopped at a country inn for a beer and to give the horses a break and Rootes spoke with the stable lads while Micah exchanged pleasantries with the landlord. Both came away with the knowledge that there had been confrontations between the townspeople, mostly strong in their Reformed beliefs, and the country gentry, almost all of them King’s Men and inclined to support Laud’s guidance of the Church of England towards a more Papist habit of worship and obedience. There had not as yet been bloodshed as such, more by way of the occasional scuffle and throwing of mud and one or two half-bricks. All expected more and the people at the inn had been quick to establish just who Micah was and which side he supported.

  “We could give Bedford town the go-by, Rootes, but I am more inclined to stay there overnight and discover more of what is going on. The landlord here tells me that news comes to Bedford which they do not come across here in the countryside.”

  Rootes was of the same opinion.

  “The ostler says as how there’s a good chance of a big fight in town at any time, sir. Wondering whether he should walk so far, he is, just for the fun of it. More than two hours afoot is a long way just to watch a scrap, sir – though he says it might turn into a good riot with shopfronts broken open…”

  “And a chance to lay his hands on some of their contents, no doubt, Rootes!”

  “He didn’t exactly say that, sir…”

  They laughed and climbed back into the saddle.

  “Some useful stock here, sir.”

  Micah followed the pointing hand.

  “Stables are full, Rootes?”

  “Horse fair last week, sir. I saw the number of nags and asked for why there was so many. From what the ostler said, the local folks are keeping their hands in their pockets for fear of troubles coming. They don’t know much, these country joskins, but they do know that if an army comes through then their horses are likely to go with it when it moves on, so they ain’t buying more stock for any reason. The landlord picked up a round dozen of packhorses, for pennies almost, reckoning he might be able to sell them on at a profit to local young gentlemen who are going off to war and want a second horse to carry their bags.”

  “Did you look them over, Rootes?”

  “Couple of strong beasts among them, sir. Do well for the work. Jem Ostler says as how if you was to offer his master gold coins in his hand, he would be more than willing to sell a good one and a pack saddle with it.”

  “Call him across, Rootes.”

  Twenty minutes later – no time at all – they walked out of the yard leading a strong pack pony. The addition was not the biggest in the yard but was healthy and well trained to his work, a gelding as well and less likely to be a nuisance on the road.

  “Beg thy pardon, sir, but having the carrying space now, we could buy more by way of campaigning gear, cheaper hereabouts for not being in London. Best picked up now before the armies take the field and start to take all up. They did say as how they have heard of colonels being granted commissions to raise regiments just lately, both by King and by the Parliament itself and separately.”

  The King had the ancient right to raise an army and could do so at any time at his own whim. Parliament had no legal power to raise an armed force and was effectively standing in rebellion by doing so. It seemed that the talking had come to an end.

  “Best we should see what can be purchased in Bedford, Rootes.”

  A pair of solid, heavy, cast iron cooking pans met all of Rootes’ desire
s for the coming campaigns.

  “Can fry a couple of eggs and boil up a pot of beans, sir. Don’t need nothing more. If so be we lays our hands on meat – which ain’t going to be often, from what the old hands told me - we can skewer that over the open fire.”

  Micah agreed – a hot meal was always welcome and they needed the simple means to cook one.

  “Water bottles as well, Rootes. There will be times when we need water, even in England, which is by no means a dry country. I remember being at the top of a hill in the North Country, not so far from York. There was a stream at the bottom and forty Scots rogues camped on it. It could have been nasty, had it not been that we found a way down the other side. Water for a day will always be handy.”

  “A leather carrying bag be the best, sir. Bottles as such don’t work for being heavy; glass costs money and breaks as well. Pewter leaks, sooner or later. Wooden barrels are heavy and awkward to carry.”

  “Then leather it is, Rootes. Gives the water a taste, but that’s better than being dry.”

  They discussed their other needs and agreed that a second leather groundsheet apiece made sense.

  “A thick blanket as well, for winter. Felted and warm. Woolly stockings besides.”

  That seemed sufficient to carry.

  “Perhaps a fowling piece, sir? Useful to knock down a rabbit or a pigeon or two or pick up a duck in passing.”

  “I shall look inside a gunsmith’s, Rootes. You make a good argument.”

  The large inn they first came to in town had rooms available – the landlord said that the bulk of travellers were anxious to get on their way and few stayed more than a single night. Previously, many had delayed a day or two in town but now they were in a hurry to do whatever business brought them in and then get back home again.

  “Worried, sir. Half expecting to find their houses burned down when they get home again, so they are. How long do you wish to stay, sir?”