Read William Falkland 01 - The Royalist for Free Online Page A

had once been farmland but now only wild grasses grew. It had been dark for hours already and I could see a sweep of majestic stars. The inn door was locked but Warbeck made a special knock and, after much fumbling, we were invited inside. A candle flickered and I could see what had once been the inn’s front room in a state of disarray. Only a single stool remained. Apart from that the building had been gutted. Even the floor had been torn apart, the boards stolen to be burned to keep soldiers warm through a freezing night. The innkeeper returned from a back room with a bottle of something dark which he gave to Warbeck without a word. Then he shuffled away. I watched him go.
    ‘Don’t bother yourself with him, Falkland. We keep him well fed. That’s about all he can ask for.’
    ‘Your soldiers gutted this place,’ I said.
    Warbeck didn’t dispute it. He handed me the bottle. ‘Drink,’ he insisted. ‘You’ll freeze.’
    I supposed there was some wisdom to that and took a long swallow from the bottle. It was strong, sweet wine and in seconds I felt light-headed. Starvation and deprivation do that to a man.
    ‘Time to rest, Falkland. There’ll be no carriage for us in the morning. From here, we ride.’
    In the morning there were two horses waiting in the stable. Both were piebald and difficult to saddle but they looked better fed than any soldier I’d seen since almost the start of the war. From the way he took to his horse I supposed Warbeck had been a cavalryman as well. He whispered into its ears just the same as I would, knew when to console and when to cajole. I wondered if we’d once met in battle.
    We rode in silence. By the afternoon the land looked untouched by the war and I began to think that there was something worth saving in England after all. I’d been so long between battlefields and then in a prison cell that I’d forgotten there was indeed a country worth fighting for. Even though the fields were brown and the trees out of leaf, I was reminded of the little farm on which I had imagined Caro and myself living out our days. I knew I wasn’t headed there but, all the same, with every hour that passed I was an hour closer. In the evening, Warbeck demanded to know why I seemed so happy. I told him it was only the fresh air, the sight of England that had renewed my spirits, but that was only a part of the truth. I was thinking of my family and it no longer hurt as it had in that Newgate cell.
    Warbeck pushed us on towards Andover. The King’s armies under Hopton had been driven out of this part of England two years back but that hadn’t stopped the fighting from swinging back and forth until the New Model had come. I had no notion of how things stood now – back before I was taken, Winchester and Basing House both remained for the King, though both had been attacked several times. Near midday we passed within a few miles of the latter. It occurred to me then that I had no idea through whose England we were travelling now, whether any soldiers we might encounter would most likely be roundheads or cavaliers or – most likely of all – deserters. Twice Warbeck hurried us off the road when he saw soldiers. He must have seen my face the second time, some sparking hope of escape, because he rounded on me after the soldiers were past. ‘Don’t get up your hopes, Falkland. Winchester surrendered a month ago. Cromwell and the New Model took Basing House by storm shortly after.’ He had a look in his eye as though he’d been there himself. A fiery glee. ‘After we looted the place, some fool set it alight. It burned for a day and a night and when it was done there was naught left but bare walls and chimneys. Before he left it, Cromwell’s orders were to tear them down, demolish the ruin and cart away the bricks and stones. There’s nothing left of your King here.’
    I said nothing by reply but I saw we still kept away from the road when bands of soldiers hove into view. In truth I had little