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

promised myself that long ago, that I was not truly in the service of any man at all. Nor was I in the service of God – who, though He has always been there, has never once stooped so low as to lend me His hand.
    No. What Cromwell could not know was that I was in the service of only one man. His name was William James Falkland. He had a wife and two beautiful children whose lives he was missing and somehow, come hell or high water, come roundhead or cavalier, he was going to piece his family back together.
    My escort paused, waiting for me to catch up. ‘Don’t fret, Falkland.’ He sounded weary. ‘I’ll be there to keep a watch over you, there and back again. Have no fear on that account.’

CHAPTER 3
     
    My escort who had brought me from Newgate now led me to where I was to be billeted for the night, above one of the old Inns of Court where Cromwell had once studied.
    ‘Cromwell thinks you’re something special, Falkland, but I don’t. Make sure your feet still fit in your boots come the morning.’ He gave me a curious look then. ‘Still, it’s no small thing to disobey your King. Were you not afraid?’
    I answered him truthfully that no, I hadn’t been, that I hadn’t given it a thought. I couldn’t have told him why, had he asked, only that I did what was right to be done. I might have said something about how a man who follows what he knows to be right walks without fear, thinking perhaps that any man who was a part of Cromwell’s coterie might understand that; might understand that even kings can be wrong. Afterwards, after I was done and saw the brute swinging dead, then I’d had my doubts. But not before. ‘If we’re to be companions on the road, sir, might I know your name?’
    He hesitated only a moment. ‘Warbeck,’ he said. ‘Henry Warbeck, and I’m no sir or lord. We’ll see, Falkland, whether or not you’re afraid of Black Tom. A King’s man poking around his army? He’ll not like you for that, not one bit, and nor that Cromwell sent you neither.’ He eyed me closely. ‘A King’s man might like nothing more than to spread a little discord in our New Model. It won’t make a bit of difference. The King’s done for.’
    He spat the words out in disgust, a sentiment heightened by his rotten breath. Perhaps he meant it as provocation but if so then he sorely missed his mark. ‘Good riddance to this war then,’ I answered; and then: ‘Cromwell and Fairfax? Do they not trust one another?’ From our side it had always seemed they were as thick as thieves.
    Warbeck glared. For a moment I thought he might raise his fists and after four months in the cells I wasn’t sure I could best him. But he slowly mastered himself. ‘I would say they do, Falkland,’ he said at last. ‘As much as any two great men in these times. When this is done they will rule England between them and we’ll all be better for it. But the New Model is . . .’ He hesitated, searching for the right word, I thought. ‘It’s precious to Cromwell.’ He backed away and as he parted I was left in no doubt of my place. The key turned in the lock behind me. Out of my cell or not, I was still a prisoner.
    My room was a small chamber with a single bedstead – a menial little room, but it felt a palace after that cell in Newgate. A candle stub guttered on the ledge and the window was so thick with ice that I could hardly look out, but no matter – it had these things. For the first time since the summer I might wake in the morning and see daylight. I stood at my window and stared as a man parched might stare at the sea. Through the frost I saw the green grass and skeletal trees of Gray’s Inn. A man in long black robes marched purposefully with a small white dog trotting behind and I had a sudden surge of feeling. Prince Rupert, in whose lines I had oftentimes fought, had had a dog just the same until Cromwell and his men had butchered it on Marston Moor. The dog was called Boy and, until that day, seemed