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

plunder. I’ve always been of the mind that even in the New Model a little plunder must be overlooked, but Cromwell has other ideas, as is his wont. He makes examples of men.’ He tipped his chin up at the cadaver. The snow lit him from beneath and I could see the scar across his face picked out starkly. ‘You look faint, Master Falkland. Are you squeamish?’
    He’d mistaken my expression in the moonlight. It was the first time I’d understood what Cromwell’s New Model could mean. It could mean an end to what came after a battle was done, an end to the sacking of towns and the ravishing of villages. I’d found myself struck by an unexpected moment of admiration, that was all. It bewildered me to think it, but maybe this New Model was worth saving after all. ‘Not squeamish, sir,’ I said. ‘I would have hanged the man myself.’
    ‘Were he one of your soldiers?’
    ‘You mistake me, sir. I’ve never commanded men, only been commanded by them.’
    Fairfax trotted on. ‘Yet I have heard, just as we’ve all heard, what you did in Yorkshire.’
    I hadn’t wanted him to bring it up. I hadn’t wanted Cromwell to do so either, but Yorkshire was Black Tom’s home. I didn’t think we’d clashed on the battlefields up there but the very idea was enough to bring terrible pictures flickering across the backs of my eyes. I could see myself in a ditch, grasping a dead man’s dagger. I could see myself drawing a friend over my head to hide my body from advancing dragoons, his entrails slipping out to make a bloody curtain.
    ‘Come now, Falkland, don’t be coy. A man doesn’t like to be teased! What was it like to stand up to your King like that?’
    I dug my heels into my horse and spurred him on. ‘Tell me yourself,’ I said. ‘You’ve stood up to yours for long enough.’ I wondered if that might anger him but Fairfax only laughed, loud and long.
    We reached the end of the street and there, beyond an inn where no lights were lit, he reined his horse in and bade me stop. When he climbed down, so did I. He marched across the snow and hammered twice at a door. Warbeck followed, silent and simmering. I heard footsteps from within the house and then the door drew back. The woman who stood in the threshold was young and comely. She had black hair cropped as short as a soldier’s and sparkling eyes that made her face come alive. She was dressed in a threadbare woollen cloak and, though the winter evening wind wailed, she didn’t meekly peep around the door but stood tall and brazen and looked Fairfax up and down.
    ‘I have guests for you, Miss Cain,’ said Fairfax.
    As he spoke she looked past him. She spied me and Warbeck and her face turned ashen. It was the expression I’d seen on the man who’d just come out of his hut as we entered the camp. Dread, as if I was the devil. She looked back into the house and barked something. Then turned back. ‘I’ve too many already,’ she said. Her accent told me she was not a native of Crediton and I wondered if she was a follower. Every army I had marched with had its followers: whores, merchants, hunters and thieves making a living out of the soldiers. They could usually be found at an encampment separate from the rest but, I supposed, the rules of warfare had been changed to create the New Model, so perhaps other things had changed as well.
    ‘You have more than enough room after your family’s desertion,’ Fairfax began, ‘and your other guests can now be gone. This man is here at Master Cromwell’s bidding to look into the matter of the suicide tree. I beg you look after him.’ He nodded at Warbeck. ‘Warbeck here will see to emptying your house for you.’
    Miss Cain blinked in surprise and looked me up and down anew. She was afraid but she was hiding it better now. I opened my hands and tried to show her I meant her no harm. ‘An intelligencer?’ she asked. I was fairly certain it was a London accent.
    ‘Of that ilk.’ I peered back at her. Her fear