Free Marston Moor by Michael Arnold

secured Nottinghamshire still basking in the stunning reverse over Sir John Meldrum’s superior force. He had been charged with delivering a message to Sir Ralph Hopton, commander of the king’s army in southern England. Hopton was advancing rapidly, pushing through Hampshire with the objective of punching rebel London in her less fortified underbelly. But the man opposing him – his dearest friend and most dangerous rival – had marched to block that confident advance. Among the rolling fields east of Winchester, at a sleepy backwater called Cheriton, Sir William Waller, with his newly formed Southern Association Army, inflicted a resounding defeat upon Hopton. Stryker had been caught up in the fight, retreating with the battered Royalist force to Basing House, and had returned north almost immediately to deliver Hopton’s doleful report to a prince incandescent with rage.
    He met Crane’s eye and nodded.
    Crane pushed no further, absently twisting the pearl that hung from his left ear. ‘That battle has ended the king’s ambition to take the capital. Hopton’s army is dashed to pieces, and Winchester has fallen to that dog, Waller.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘A catastrophe indeed. The ghastly rebel news-books make merry with the fact. The Roundheads have their first decisive victory against us. Their tails are up. There is no turning back now.’
    ‘The path has long been too narrow for this horse to turn,’ Stryker said. ‘All hope for peace was lost when the Scots crossed the Tweed. The Committee for Both Kingdoms will prosecute war. That is their mandate.’
    ‘You are right, of course,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Thus we are squeezed to breaking. Waller in the south, the Scots and Fairfaxes in the north. Hopton will regroup, re-engage.’
    ‘Leaving His Highness to deal with the northern threat.’
    Crane’s head bobbed. ‘He marches imminently. Soon as he can rouse our brave drunkards from their cups.’
    Stryker forced himself not to look at Hood. ‘To where will he march, sir?’
    ‘Bury, Stryker. A town just east of here, you know it?’ The shake of Stryker’s head did not appear to bother him. ‘George Goring is en route. The Prince plans to muster there.’
    ‘General Goring? He has the Northern Horse, does he not?’
    ‘Indeed. Five thousand of Newcastle’s very best cavalry. The only part not presently hemmed inside York’s embattled walls.’
    ‘Our army swells, Colonel,’ said Stryker, his mind working through the numbers as he spoke. Rupert had eight thousand men with him. Goring’s division would be a formidable addition.
    ‘That it does,’ Crane agreed. ‘Lancashire will be subdued before long. We intend to take Liverpool. The port will be the ideal route by which our troops might return from Ireland. Then on to Yorkshire, where the villainous Covenanters await.’
    ‘Forgive me, Sir Richard, but is that why you sought me?’
    ‘Indeed!’ Crane bellowed. ‘Your task, Major. You will know that Lady Derby lately held Lathom House in her husband’s name against Rigby’s vile rebel horde.’
    Stryker did. The Earl of Derby was the leading Royalist in Lancashire, but he had been away fighting when his house at Lathom had fallen under siege by Rigby’s forces. The Parliamentarians had pressed it since January, its defenders led by the stoic Countess of Derby. Rupert’s arrival in the region had not only conquered Bolton, but lifted the siege.
    ‘Lord Derby would make his heroic wife a gift,’ Crane explained. ‘We have captured twenty-two Roundhead colours. Many of them, just three days ago, were proudly flourished before her house. They are to be thrust at Lady Derby’s feet, so that she may trample them and know that God is truly with us. I am charged with the delivery of said colours, Major. Additionally, there will be a convoy of munitions in the rear, for the bolstering of Lathom’s future defence, pray God it is never required.’
    ‘And I, Sir Richard?’ Stryker