Free Rebels and Traitors by Lindsey Davis Page B

time the new arrivals stood in their stations among the blockade, their excitement was becoming more muted. Some had been on parade many times and had fought sham fights for public amusement, but never before had they stood together in such numbers, drawn up in battle array for hours, waiting for real opponents to appear and try to kill them.
    The Earl of Essex cantered along the line on his charger reviewing the regiments. As their general passed, soldiers threw up their caps and shouted ‘Hey for Old Robin!’
    ‘Come, my brave boys,’ urged Skippon calmly again to the Trained Bands. ‘Pray heartily, and fight heartily, and God will bless us.’
    Glancing sideways for some reason, Gideon saw his partner tighten his mouth in a curious expression, and wondered unexpectedly whether Robert Allibone believed in God.
    From the direction of Brentford came movement. Sightseers upped and scattered like a flock of uneasy pigeons.
    Even the newest recruits now became aware of the presence of a large body of troops ahead of them. The King’s army had arrived. From time to time the feeble winter sunlight glinted off weapons and helmets. Gideon, who was keen-sighted, could make out forests of tall pikes, a constant flicker of regimental colours, the restless shifting of cavalry, the occasional traverse of a commander on horseback and in full body armour. On both sides the cannon remained silent, the gunners beside them itching to test their range.
    Gideon was beginning to feel the weight of his armoury. The heavy musket’s four-foot barrel lay on the forked ash-wood rest he had plunged into the turf in front of him, but he had to remain in position, supporting the hard butt against his aching shoulder. Bullets were twelve to the pound; their pouch increasingly dragged. Retrieving shot from the pouch was so slow that he had learned the trick of carrying two bullets ready in his mouth; he was trying to ignore the taste of the lead. Each bullet needed half its weight in fine powder and two-thirds in coarse; he carried both, the fine in a flat flask with a nozzle and the common measured out into a dozen containers popularly called the twelve apostles. This added to his burden and made his every movement noisy. Around him sounded the incessant commotion of metal flasks, since each man carried his twelve powder containers on his bandolier, and all the bandoliers were rattling. They were using up hundreds of yards of match, the lengths of tow twisted into cord and soaked in vinegar to use as a fuse; with the enemy so close they kept it lit ready for action, each holding a short length, which was burning at both ends. Going equipped with their cord alight would become second nature, in itself a cause of accidents as soldiers forgot they had match in their hands.
    As the stand-off continued, they grew accustomed to the situation. They almost relaxed. Hours passed. Stomachs were rumbling. Some members of the Trained Bands slipped away in defiance of their officers and went home for supper and their own beds. The crowd of spectators thinned out too.
    ‘What happens tonight?’ quavered Amyas.
    ‘We sleep in the fields.’
    ‘On the ground?’
    ‘On the cold ground, Amyas.’ Gideon gave their apprentice an owly stare. ‘Just as we are stood to in ranks here, we shall lie down in ranks, justified by our feet.’ Justified was a printing joke; Amyas caught on, nervously. He had been complaining about his feet; he was unused to walking and had not yet worn in the new shoes issued to him as a recruit — two pairs, along with his cap, doublet, britches, two shirts and two pairs of stockings. He was in pain with his first wisdom tooth. Gideon wondered sombrely if he would live to complain about the rest, or even to wear his second new shirt.
    What if I need to piss?’ Amyas demanded, with telling urgency.
    ‘Don’t piss on the rank in front.’
    Amused, Gideon watched the boy working out that to be a soldier was to have no amenities and no