I wondered if I had lost the campaign, or possibly the entire war, with that single suggestion.
“But this field—” Lipton waved a hand in the direction of the enemy. “This will be different. It will be decided by push of pike. For enemy horse may not attempt those hedges, and the hedges conceal our soldiers from the firelocks. The rebels must drive their pikes at us till we break, or they give up, or our succor arrives.”
Our succor was at least twelve hours away, or so I calculated. “Have you any more of these cheerful little posies to scatter before me?” I asked.
He rubbed his unshaven chin with a powder-blackened hand. “You must hearten the foot, that they not run. Tell them help is on its way, and hope the gods may forgive your lie.”
I raised the telescope again, and made another attempt to count the flags that swarmed before my eyes. I made my best approximation and handed the telescope back to Lipton. His men were madly refilling the powder barrels with wooden scoops.
“Do your best to kill the enemy today,” I said. “And if you knock off Clayborne’s head, I’ll buy you a nice bottle of claret.”
Lipton doffed his cap in mock humility. “I’m sure that is the best a common soldier such as I can hope for or deserve.” I rode on after Utterback, and found him by the stone huts where we had spent the night, dismounted and writing on his camp table.
“I counted ten regiments of foot,” said I, “and two of horse, and in addition three batteries of guns. And there are more enemy behind them.”
This last statement was the only one in which I had confidence. I had done my best, but all I could say for certain was that we were severely outnumbered. For we had four regiments of foot, the equivalent of a regiment of cavalry, and Lipton’s eight field pieces.
Lord Utterback duly added my numbers to his message, then sanded and sealed the paper. “I pray the Knight Marshal credits the report.”
“So do I.”
He gave the message to Oscar, and detailed one of his own troopers to ride alongside the boy. “As fast as ever you can, now,” he said. “And give it right to the Marshal’s hand.”
“Ay, sir.” Oscar touched his brow, vaulted onto one of Lord Utterback’s spare chargers, and made off at a trot.
I turned to look at the cavalry, which were regrouping under the expert guidance of Lord Barkin. The troopers had sorted themselves out into their units, and were dismounted and for the most part spending their time caring for their horses.
“You might wish to move the cavalry back,” I said to Utterback. “Here they will be exposed to artillery.”
“You may order that, with my authority.” So, I trotted up to Lord Barkin, and told him that he could draw the cavalry back to where our wagons had been grouped.
“You and all the horse have the Captain General’s compliments!” I said, in a voice loud enough for those near to hear. “You have struck the enemy hard, and they will be a long time recovering!”
This seemed to cheer the weary troopers, and I hoped it was at least partly true. I leaned closer to Lord Barkin and said in a voice for him alone. “Move them back and put some heart into them, for if the foot give way, you must retrieve the situation.”
He nodded. “Ay,” he said. “I shall try to have them ready.” His expression told me he didn’t expect the foot to hold out for long.
I returned to Lord Utterback, who I found sitting heavily on his camp chair with his helmet in his lap. His eyes were fixed on the mountain peaks to the north, as if he were expecting something from that direction, a message or a sign or a rescue.
“Are you all right, my lord?” I asked him. “You are not wounded?”
“No, I am well.” He searched himself with his hands, as if assuring himself of his own well-being. “I am ready to fight,” he said. “I will fight. But I am a little tired right now.”
“Will you join me in a glass of cider?” It was all I could think to say.
He considered my question. “Brandy would be better.”
I dismounted and found the cask and a pair of silver glasses, took the stopper out of the bunghole, and poured. I handed Lord Utterback his glass, and squatted by him. I raised my glass.
“To victory,” I said.
He looked at me as if the word “victory” were a stranger to him, but then he raised his glass.
“Whyever should I not?” he said. “To victory, then.”
He drank half the brandy in one gulp, then sat for a moment contemplating the glass in his hand. The first stirrings of wind began to sigh down the pasture.
“This is all so unlike what I expected,” he said. He looked sidelong at me. “Is it the same for you?”
“I don’t know what I expected,” I said. “But I rather thought war would be better organized.”
He offered an amused smile. “I thought that once the fighting began, it would be over quickly. Victory or defeat, like the last act of a play. Instead, it just seems to continue.”
I sipped my brandy, and the harsh fumes stung the back of my throat. “My lord, the men are standing behind the hedge with nothing to do but watch the enemy come in large numbers onto the field. They must be told what is happening.”
Lord Utterback slowly nodded and sipped his brandy. “Yes,” he said. “They must. I see that they must.”
“They must be told that help is coming, that the whole army is coming. That they must fight on until the Marshal comes.”
Utterback gave another slow nod, then drank off the rest of the brandy and handed the empty glass to me. He clapped his hands to his knees and heaved himself upright in a clatter of armor.
“Hold Amfortas for me, will you?”
I rose and took the charger’s bridle. Lord Utterback put on his helmet and tied the chin strap, then got a foot into a stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle.
“I shall give the men some good cheer,” he said. “You keep the rebels under observation, and report to me when necessary.”
And off he trotted, while his flag-bearer scrambled to get into his seat. I pulled the flag from the ground and handed it to the ensign, who raced off after Utterback, the blue flag snapping in the wind.
Lord Utterback was developing the habit of leaving his people behind whenever he made up his mind to take some form of action.
I finished my brandy, then mounted Phrenzy and returned to the knoll where Lipton was remixing more gunpowder. I looked at the enemy with my cardboard telescope, and I could see them filing onto the far end of Exton Scales, huge dense blocks of men glittering with weapons. Rebel scouts and officers ranged forward to try to get a look at what was behind the hedges. The royal banner of the Carrociro had not yet reached the field on its cart.
The pot helmet was murdering my skull. The sun had warmed my breastplate and back, and between that and the thick buff coat, I was growing hot. I took the helmet off and wiped my forehead.
Then I heard cheering from the far end of the field, and I turned my glass to see Lord Utterback on his horse, addressing Ruthven’s soldiers. As he came into focus, I saw him brandish a fist, and cheers roared out again.
He seemed to be raising their spirits. I wished someone would raise mine.
Lord Utterback progressed down the field, addressing each group of soldiers in turn. He sent the bandsmen back to the wagons for their instruments, and soon there was music, pipes and drums, sackbuts and trumpets, each of the bands playing in turn. The morning took on a jaunty air, and I thought it was well that the soldiers had things to occupy their minds other than their own present doom.
Doom, on the other hand, was very much on my mind as I watched the enemy come onto the field.
The diversions continued for another two hours, in which I relieved Phrenzy of my weight and searched the saddlebags for biscuits to gnaw on. By now, the Carrociro was on the field, and the growing breeze rippled the great white flag so that I could see the shield on it, with the tritons of Fornland quartered with the griffons of Bonille, the shield supported by the horses of the Emelins. I began to feel an echo of Lord Utterback’s impatience: war seemed mainly to consist of standing and waiting.