Free William Falkland 01 - The Royalist by S.J. Deas

preferred the pack animal; I’d grown accustomed to its disaffected wheeze.
    We rode through the makeshift town that had grown up around Crediton and I realised how fortunate we’d been coming at it the way we had, which was as close to Fairfax’s farm as could be; or else it wasn’t luck at all but Warbeck had known the camp and chosen his approach deliberately. We came down a broad track and crossed a stone bridge over a freezing brook. In the fields on the other side, horses had been corralled. I hadn’t expected the cavalry would be wintering here as well. Cromwell was the New Model’s cavalry man and I had supposed they had all cantered back to London with him. Some of the animals looked better fed than the men we passed. It wouldn’t last long though. A few would be stewed before Christmas, I was sure.
    Past the field we came back among tents and shelters. The closer we got to the stone cottages the more complete the camp seemed. Some of the new buildings were made of stone. Some were even thatched. It was a simple kind of thatching, without any art, but now that snow was piled high on top it was as good a roof as any. Outside one of the older cottages a soldier stood watch, shuffling from one foot to the other and blowing on his hands, trying to keep warm through this bitter night.
    Crediton itself wasn’t as small as I’d reckoned. We approached from the south and part of the town was obscured by a great wall with posts like the turrets of a castle. Cauldrons of fire were stoked along the ramparts. Sometimes I could see the black outline of a man as he passed, walking his watch. Through a gap in the wall I saw the church. It dominated the town. I thought it an old church but I didn’t know if it was always with the King or against, or had changed hands back and forth as so many places had done. We passed through the gap and rode among the stone cottages. There were men walking the street here and there, a few busy about some errand or other, others in pairs with pikes over their shoulders, marking out their watches. Some passed in groups but I saw no drunken revellers. Most men simply moved aside to let us pass. Several recognised Fairfax and doffed their hats. I saw two whose eyes glanced nervously back and forth between us and lingered more on me than on their general; as we passed they ran quickly away. Less than a minute later a young soldier – so young he was scarcely more than a boy – came running past on some errand and stopped as he saw us. He looked at me long and hard and smiled as if deeply satisfied. When he ran on I could swear it was with a spring in his step.
    We came presently into the shadow of the church. Deep drifts of snow grew up against it and the gravestones of the churchyard were topped with thick white hats. As we passed I saw a glimpse of movement in a narrow alley almost black with shadow. I turned to look and saw two men stare back at me from beside the graveyard. The moonlight revealed their faces, aghast, before they turned and ran as though I was the devil.
    ‘Stop!’ I drew my horse to a halt. One of the men, I was sure, had dropped something. As I dismounted, Warbeck glared at me with impatient disbelief. Fairfax merely frowned. I handed my reins to Warbeck as though he was my servant – I’ll admit to taking some pleasure in that – and walked into the alley. It was impenetrably dark and I immediately gave up any thought of pursuing these men. Why, though, had they been so afraid?
    Perhaps the answer was in what I found, dropped in the snow. By fortune I had my back to Warbeck and Fairfax when I took it. It was a Catholic’s rosary. The New Model not only had the King’s men in its ranks, it harboured papists too. I wondered if Fairfax knew. I supposed he must. Perhaps these men had heard that some inquisitor from Cromwell was coming, then – had that been the root of their fear? If so then I would be quite a disappointment, for I’d long since lost any care as