1 Soldier Sailor Beggar Man Thief

Worcester, England, August 1651

CHAPTER ONE

The city of Worcester had been beset with rumours for many days.

Some suggested that the King expected his friends to provide reinforcements from Wales, so he would stand and fight. But when they failed to arrive, the people begin to speak openly of anarchy, and of the chaos that would follow if His Majesty's army was defeated.

Everyone knew that Oliver Cromwell would then enter the city, and even the King was preparing for the end, but would the unthinkable happen?

Could the Parliamentarian army blow holes in the walls of the city and let in a flood of half-starved, half-crazed troops, bent on pillage and punishment?

In the great and glorious city of Worcester, the Royalists had grown soft living under God's protection, but such was the instability of the times that even they could not bring themselves to believe that their destruction was nigh.

Rumours crept like bad smells through the streets, especially when the stone­masons shoring up the city walls told of a mighty army of Parliamentarians marching towards the city. But the joy of war always talks better than it plays, although the prospect of a battle that could be won by bravura was enticing enough to attract a few adventurers. On the evening streets, the city had closed up like a clam. Those with enough money had already left, leaving the rest to make do with locked doors and badly boarded windows.

William spared his surroundings less thought than he did the cold that stung his face and hands, despite the protective clothes he wore as his steel grey eyes combed the land. It was strangely still and nothing moved, save the faintest of breezes, nothing to alarm the sentries by sound, smell or vibration, as they stood together. There was a silence, not an absolute quiet, but a strange, almost reverent, hush in which a raised voice seemed out of place, so no word was spoken by any.

Tonight, cloaked in shadow, sheltering in the icy darkness of the night air, William spared his surroundings less thought than he did the cold that stung his face and hands, despite the protective clothes he wore. There was menace in the air, and the moonlight sliding in and out of the clouds dappled the land below with light and shade as the picquets moved uncertainly. The longer shafts of moonlight lit up faces tense with expectation, and alight with the anticipation of what was to come.

Here and there a tongue moistened dry lips, while broken-nailed fingers flexed on the shafts of swords, muskets and pikes. The roofs of the city, outlined with startling clarity against a sky where the moon hung seemingly suspended above the horizon. Its shifting light concealing any danger in the mystery of its shadows, and even the tiny creatures in the long grass at the edge of the clearing, suspected it enough to flare pink nostrils to the sky, perhaps in search of any threat that lurked in the dark.

But even with the dawn there was little peace for William. Once more, in the old mysterious glimmer, his haunted gaze slipped south towards the river, and then, with a longing just as powerful, towards the now sunlit hills of the north. What good was it to ponder, when his future had already been decreed? He was a soldier and he knew what was to come. There were no variations. Not unless he lived beyond the next day.

But with the morning light, wheels soon rattled as carriages and carts hurried up and down the narrow cobbled streets within the city walls, where garbage and human filth littered the walkways, piled higher than the carriage wheels in places, stacked up against the run-down brick buildings that stood crumbling from age and poverty-induced neglect. The horses were shaking the darkness from their loosened manes and war or no war, the people of Worcester would try to carry on their busy lives as best they could, and in the glorious morning sunshine that would soon beam through open curtains, many a raised window would let in the sound.

It was this same golden sunshine that later danced on the silky dishevelled hair of Margaret Butler, as she stopped before the large mirror hanging over a mahogany half-table, and busied herself pinning up her hair. Then, after covering it with her linen cap, she tucked in a stray curl. To hold her position in the meeting house school, and to satisfy her Father, she found it necessary to adopt puritan severity.

So she stepped back to make sure her white gown hung smoothly from the high waistband, and that no grubby fingers had marred it. Satisfied that even if her Father saw her he would have no cause to blush, she stepped out onto the street.

The bright sunny morning was probably summer's last throw and, war or no war, today was market day and the early risers were already wandering from stall to stall examining the wares.

Margaret's senses were assailed by the delicious freshness of it all, and she stole a moment to relish it, especially when she espied five ladies of the night, wearing swirled dresses of flaming reds and oranges, acid greens and ochre yellows, as they swept by.

The vibrant colours, the cocktail of heavy scents, together with their arro­gant gait, were overpoweringly dramatic, as were their voluminous skirts trailing behind them. The throngs of people appeared to be in a joyous mood, most of whom were dressed more gaily than she was accustomed to seeing. Even the soldiers lounging at street corners appeared less shy than normal, some showing themselves off in their regimentals.

The day had started well.

One of the soldiers leaning against the Tavern wall was William, now relieved of sentry duty, and until the Tavern opened, he was sober, but ravaged by war and alcohol, it was a rare night when he was not drunk, especially in company, and he could be boisterous when inebriated.

The occasional mistress easily addressed his sexual needs, but most nights he was morosely alone, savage in his drinking, choosing to spend what might be his last night on earth in the arms of a whore. He hardly left the tavern, except to make an appearance when duty called. But this morning he was sober, and his eyes narrowed in surprise as he watched a vision of delight pass by.

Dressed in white, and wearing a bonnet-like linen cap that almost, but not entirely, concealed her hair, his innards warmed as he stared at the little red curls that had escaped her puritan bonnet, and now lay against her cheek. With her steepled hands and guileless eyes, she was the very image of a supplicating saint he'd once seen in a stained-glass window of St. Paul's Cathedral. His conscience, long buried, began to niggle but he couldn't help but wonder what she would look like naked, especially with her soft red hair flowing down her back in thick curls and an unbidden image came instantly to mind. One in which she stood before him wearing nothing, and the blood stirred in his groin making his breeches achingly tight.

Her gaze was like a caress, but she was not the kind of woman who usually captured his interest. He liked his bed mates as notorious as himself, preferably married, so there was no risk of permanent entanglement. But in this woman, he sensed a reticence that made her irresistible. She was a distraction he didn't need, but one he couldn't ignore, and he let his gaze glide over her again before he took a deep breath as he tried to diffuse any notion that she would, or even could, become his mistress. Yet the image, to his distress, would not fade. Never had he seen a woman who intrigued him so much. He thought she looked more innocent and sweeter than anyone he had ever seen, and he watched as she walked away, enjoying the sway of her hips as she grew smaller in the distance.

Whoever she was, this woman was either fearless or incredibly naïve. She was a puritan for certain, but whoever she was, he found her utterly delightful. He was certain that he had never seen eyes as wide as hers before, and he found the spray of freckles across her unpowdered nose quite beguiling.

His first thought, as was usually the case when he discovered a female who piqued his interest, was how to get her out of her clothes the quickest way possible.

Normally, he never pondered a woman past that point. Most didn't care what he was about, and a few dashing smiles and well-placed compliments were enough to get him what he wanted.

But this one challenged him.

She was so obviously an innocent, and the thought of seducing her made his nerve endings burn with thrill of such a challenge. She had offered him no coy smiles from her naturally coral lips, and the soft blush of her cheeks was real and unguarded. Although the square lace edged neckline of her gown, with its grey underskirt, appeared old and worn. At one time it was probably the height of puritan fashion. But it did show off her narrow waist to perfection and accentuated her perfectly moulded shape, though it was not low cut or revealing. In fact, it looked as tight as a strongbox over the tempting swell of her breasts. It was a garment meant to deter even the most stalwart attempts to reach the flesh beneath.

It was not just the uniqueness of the costume. It was the way the lady wore it, the way she moved like flowing water, which gave the impression that somehow, she was more feminine, more alluring. He had found it impossible not to notice the succulent shape of her breasts. They were full of promise, and his palm itched to cup them, while the thought of suckling on her pinky peaks produced a knot in his throat, which he immediately tried to swallow.

Her slender neck had born no necklace, but being from a puritan family it was probably not acceptable, and William had already decided that if she had adorned her neck with jewels, it would detract from her beauty. But he thought her clean, trim figure looked out of place in this sea of humanity.

A movement at the entrance of a dark passage drew his eyes there, and he recognized several men, including a brothel keeper, ogling the woman, who appeared oblivious to the interest she stirred. The brothel keeper, crouched like a cat about to pounce, seemed to be waiting for something. If it was the girl, William couldn't really blame him for wanting to win such a prize, and his own gaze returned to her. Any man would want to clutch her to his chest, even while she resisted, and quiet her protests with his lips, but these men were a dangerous lot, if belligerent and stupid.

He eyed the figures standing just inside the passage entryway again. The brothel keeper was pacing back and forth, which along with his peering outside every five breaths, agitated William. What was going on between them? Would such a man wait so eagerly for her, unless he had already laid claim to her?

Then, from the corner of his eye, William saw the men disappear into the shadows. Wise . . . and rather telling, he smiled to himself as he rose from the wall. But the girl seemed not to notice the brothel keeper as he emerged from the alleyway rubbing his greasy palms over his huge belly in an obscenely comforting gesture, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing in his oily face as he started following Margaret.

His cruel gaze was fixed with avid interest as he matched his pace to hers, and so intent was he on his quarry that he didn't notice the Royalist Major. Why should he? The Major was just one of the thousands of soldiers now positioned within the city.

He was perhaps cleaner, and his back straighter than most others but the wary, knowing expression on his face was the same as those around him.

When Margaret turned into a less crowded side street, the brothel keeper slipped behind a cart, following her progress, but there was a malicious gleam in his dark piggy eyes. This pretty puritan maid was going to fetch a pretty penny servicing gentleman in one of his higher-priced brothels, but only after he had sampled what she had to offer.

But although he didn't know it, this wasn't going to be his day.

The brothel keeper flexed his arms. What if a few witless arses noticed him? They might underestimate his strength, but there was muscle enough beneath his thick, jiggling flesh to defend himself, and left alone, it would be easy enough to snatch his intended victim. So when she paused in front of a battered stall in a, less than crowded, side street, he waited patiently.

When Margaret's head bent to study something, her face alight with excitement, the brothel keeper's thick, colourless lips stretched into a smile. This was the moment, so, moving slowly, he waded through the rabble of human scavengers, his gaze was fixed on her petite figure.

William had already noticed that the man was shouldering his way through the throngs of people, intent on stopping close to the puritan maid. As someone who had experienced the pleasures of the brothel, William knew his intention, and he wasn't going to let this particular brothel keeper destroy this image of delight, at least not today.

But he had to move quickly, especially when the brothel keeper shoved his hands into his pockets. William knew what to expect. One hand was probably holding a rag for her mouth, the other a small lead-filled leather cudgel. He'd seen the trappings of this trade before, and realised that in a few more steps the man would be abreast of her, so he quickly slipped close behind the brothel keeper.

Before he snatched the girl, the man looked around. He seemed satisfied that there was no one here who would try and stop him. His gaze even slid complacently over William, but only in passing, as if certain he presented no threat. Perhaps he thought there was no one who was even going to care, all the faces were the same, blank, numb and devoid of anything.

So the man made his move.

Quickly and decisively he surged forward, surprisingly light on his feet for someone so obese, but William was quicker and he stood in front of the brothel keeper blocking his way, making him stop short, his protruding belly colliding into William, who stood his ground.

Surprised by the intervention the man frowned, deep lines scoring his oily forehead.

"Get outta me way ya friggin royalist gutter snipe," he muttered, a note of confusion in his voice.

Most men he knew didn't defy him, unless they wanted to meet their maker, kicked to death in a back alley, so the Major's interference surprised and unsettled him. But there was an aggressive con­fidence and strength of purpose in the Major's features. He certainly had the air of a man who succeeds in all he sets out to achieve.

Standing toe-to-toe, their gazes met on an even level, and although William was dwarfed by the man's massive girth, he didn't attempt to get out of the way.

"What youse want?" the man asked in a snarled whisper, obviously worried about alerting the puritan maid, who was still studying the items offered for sale a few yards away.

Still blocking the man's path, William jerked his head in Margaret's direction, and then he slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving the man's face while he ignored the vile curse which issued from the brothel keeper's contorted lips.

As he studied the Major, openly confounded by his silent guardianship, the fat man muttered.

"Who the bloody hell do you think you are . . . some sort of friggin' royalist hero?" as he shifted on his feet, clearly uncertain what to do as he glanced at Margaret once more.

Once again William shook his head. Words weren't necessary. The man clearly understood that if he tried to snatch Margaret, William was going to stop him. Perhaps the brothel keeper knew that if it came to it, William, being a soldier, could probably fight in a particularly vicious manner, and if he tried to take him on, he might not win. Either way, the object of his attention would certainly be alerted to her danger.

Was she worth all the hurt and bruises he might sustain if he challenged the Major, who so obviously was not going to let the whole thing go?

No! He was going to lose this one, so after aiming a stream of viscous phlegm at the Major's polished boots, the brothel keeper started to edge backward. But just before he'd turned away completely, he darted a glance back at William, whose eyes had never wavered from his, suspecting that if he'd turned his head, the man would probably have tried to club him with the "tickler."

Thwarted, the obese man shambled toward a recessed doorway, tripping over the crates and the rubbish choking the steps, before disappearing into the dingy interior. William waited a full two minutes before deciding that the brothel keeper had truly given up the hunt, and, as it was high noon, the streets were full of people, so nothing was now going to happen.

But her trusting, blissful, innocent smile had made him feel immeasurably younger than his twenty seven years, so, after clearing his throat, he reluctantly turned away, his mind awash with images far beyond her imagination. Although he was beset by a sudden need to speak to her, William knew that such behaviour on his part was unacceptable. He was after all part of the upper echelons of the royal society that had invaded this city, and she, as a puritan, would undoubtedly be scandalized by it, but nothing ventured.

"Major," two of his men suddenly greeted as they passed, reminding him who he was. He couldn't stay any longer. His attention diverted, William didn't see the fat man slinking out of the shadows, watching as the maid and the Major made their separate ways along the thronged market square.

Thus far, the month of September had been a period of strong excitement and profound anxiety on both sides of the vague and shifting line that divided the parliamentarians from the misguided, but courageous, royalists and those now standing vigil on the city wall were quietly lost in their own thoughts and fears.

They had been through thousands of emotions but they always seemed to return to the same paralyzing fear. Worcester was about to become a hell on earth, ignited by the burning desire of General Crowell to do away with the King. His Majesty and his Royalist Army would bravely defend the city whatever the odds, but for the defenders it seemed as if the world they knew had stopped moving in any rational sense, although Cromwell probably had unbounded cause for exultation.

During the latter part of August, His Majesty had been overwhelmed with disaster after disaster, except here in Worcester. Scarcely a soldier of His Majesty's army was now left alive in England, and what remained of the Royalist Army was now waiting for Cromwell within the fortifications erected years earlier for the defence of the city.

A little to the north lay the New Model Army, which had proudly claimed that it had swept the King's Scottish invaders from the land, and under General Oliver Cromwell might just be formidable enough to tax the Cavalier's skill and strength to the utmost, but had yet to take Worcester.

Time seemed to race at double speed, except here, in this place.

Here time had ceased to move as the pallor of uncertainty descended, and a silence, unlike any other, shrouded the area, sucking all loud and unnatural noises from the air. This was as near to complete peace as it was possible to come, yet even this would melt away in the heat of battle, leaving only a faint memory in the mind's eye of those who had actually stopped long enough to notice its beauty.

As the sun climbed higher, it flooded every section of the narrow streets with slats of bright light glinting brightly off the horseshoe outside the door of the blacksmith's forge. A crowd of soldiers stood watching the low mound of coals, which throbbed like the heart of some giant beast, and occasionally a patch of gold sparks flared into existence and raced across the surface of the metal being worked before vanishing back into the white-hot forge.

Until she saw the soldiers, Margaret had forgotten what a foul place the city had become since the King's army had returned. The pause made her suddenly aware of the rough loose flagstones bruising her feet, but worst of all was the occasional something that squished stinking between her toes. She wrinkled her nose and kept moving and she shivered, even though it wasn't cold. Trembling with a sudden awareness that the city was still full of life and full of danger, especially when she heard the yowl of a cat accompanied by the rustle and scurry that was probably rats.

But most dangerous of all were the distant human sounds, especially the loud voices and raucous laughter that was almost certainly soldiers, coming from some sort of tavern. This had once been the most fashionable part of the city, and there were still many fine streets.

But woven among them, like worm holes in fruit, lay warrens of decay, vice and violence. The passageways were unfit, ill-paved cluttered with people and slippery with refuse, ash and excrement, for few had enough coppers to spare for the midden-shovellers. There was an indefinable stench about such places, a blend of decay, urine, damp plas­ter, unwashed people and animal dung which offended her sense of smell. This was especially true in the complexity of lanes and alleys that led towards the river, which had once been the haunt of bargemen, brothel­-pimps, whores, vagrants and the hovels of the impover­ished, but had now become the quarters of the Cavaliers, the King's army.

Their morals included less than discreet sexual dalliances, extravagance in dress, gambling and a passionate intrigue for prestige and place, all carried on a rhythm of external refinement, elegant manners and compulsory gaiety. By reputation, the Cavaliers could also be cruel, greedy, and violent, and Margaret shuddered, just thinking about it. Then something strange interrupted her thoughts. Her slow, almost absent-minded, pursuit of her situation suddenly made her aware that something was amiss.

Despite their reputation, or perhaps because of it, the Cavalier's arrival had introduced something new, and yes . . . exciting, into her mundane world, and a growing restlessness seemed to have taken possession of her recently. Like an unbidden madness, or perhaps a sexual thrum, she had never felt this way before.

But there it was, somewhere inside her body, a mad restless feeling that made her heart beat violently for no apparent reason. Strangely, she had only felt it since the Royalists had invaded this great city, but truth to tell, the Cavaliers had a dash about them that the Puritans lacked.

A spell of urgent purpose perhaps, and they had certainly cast a spell over the ladies of the city. However, the likelihood of one of them seeking her out for anything other than a good gloat, was non-existent, although it was said that no woman was safe after dark.

Margaret often imagined the Cavaliers as shadows moving silently through the streets, swift, black, gigantic shapes, altering each space with the brutality of an eclipse. But when Cromwell attacked, would the Cavaliers and Roundheads rob the city of its stillness?

Only the promise she had given to her Father to look after him and be his companion compelled her to live in this dreadful place, where each day was filled with nothing but prayer, work, mud, cold, disease and yet more prayer.

When somewhere above her head she heard a wooden shutter bang against stone, it disturbed her reverie. It was probably only a servant or a householder, opening a window to let the air in before the sun became too hot. Then she watched with glee as the Cooper's apprentices raced their barrels over the cobbles. Clattering, bumping and jolting, they raced against each other to get to the taverns before their rivals, their wooden charges rolling and jerking awkwardly over the uneven ground.

Like the cart wheels, they creaked, stuck and squealed from time to time as they rumbled towards the main square. It simply added to the mayhem, as did the tower clock on the cathedral when it struck the quarter hour with a resounding thud.

CHAPTER TWO

When, almost without warning, the tower clock on the Cathedral struck the quarter hour with a resonating thud, it made the hairs on Major William Crane's arms prickle as once again he stood erect, ever watchful, and as unmoving as marble. Relief was still a few hours away, and despite the sunshine, a cold breath of fear had descended on those standing watch. A chilling foreboding fear, like nothing they had ever experienced before, gripped them as they wondered if William had noticed the dust cloud that had suddenly appeared on the Eastern horizon.

William chanced a sideways glance at his companion Lieutenant Smith who seemed less at ease. He was a smaller man with wide, staring eyes and he had a way of constantly turning his head, which suggested not so much caution, but a kind of ceaseless, nervous tension.

William shrugged impatiently without answering the unasked question before twisting round and rummaging with one hand through the contents of his saddle bag until he found the telescope. As he did so his fingers touched his silver drinking flask.

Time for a drink!

The metal container was cool to the touch as he took a small sip of the liqueur, which tasted of elderberries, mead and mulled cider, and seared the inside of his mouth. The heat suffused his face, but within seconds his weariness began to re­cede as the restorative properties of the liquid took effect. When William shook the flask, to his concern it felt as if more than a third of the precious liqueur was already gone, even though he thought that he had only con­sumed a single mouthful once before.

'I have to be more careful with it in the future,' he thought, watching as the dust on the horizon slowly resolved itself into individual men stretching as far as the eye could see. Using his telescope, he could see from his high vantage point what looked like flashing armour and gleaming helmets. Even the sounds, although distant, were unmistakable and by listening carefully, he realised that what he could hear was the stirring of hooves, coupled to the jingle of curb chains.

Only horses on the move made such sounds, and he only half wondered if they were Roundheads. Whoever they were, they were still some way away, and the river was between them. It might be nothing more than a ribbon of a sorrowful blackness, but it did form a barrier and he could see beyond it. Rising from where the others had risen, came a whole column of cavalry in loose marching order. At a distance behind these came another cloud of dust which looked at first like the haze from a great grass fire. But it was a cloud of dust enveloping even more and more troops, their arms and their accoutrements reflecting the sun as the whole body approached slowly.

The first column of horses had now ascended into full view, and they formed a lively spectacle as they rode along the high ground in marching order, backed by the pale blue sky and lit by the southerly sun. Their uniforms were bright and attractive; white buckskin pantaloons, three-quarter boots, scarlet shakos set off with lace, mustachios waxed to a needle point; and above all, those richly ornamented blue jackets mantled with the historic pelisse, a fascination to women but encumbrance to the wearers themselves.

Even as he watched, he could see behind them what looked like parliamentarian militia straggling untidily along a mud track that ran northwards to where he now stood. Men who were once weavers, brewers, carpenters, smiths, masons, and bricklayers had become bloodthirsty killers, with no conscience and no mercy. Some even appeared to be marching on their knees with their arseholes close to the ground, looking like half-dead men. Perhaps they were trying to dispel the rotting food or the bad wine they had stolen and then guzzled on the way.

Intelligence said they were only conscripts, an improvised army, and they were certainly carrying an array of ludicrous weapons. So they were not members of the New Model Army. True, he could see a few shouldered fowling pieces, and here and there a sword being brandished. But more than half seemed to be armed with pikes fashioned out of scythes, as formidable to the eye as they were clumsy to the hand.

"The vultures are gathering," he muttered, "but it's not time to raise the alarm yet. Let those who can rest a little longer."

"Major!"

William leaned over the balustrade to see Captain Lucius Higgs, his second in command, scrambling up the uneven stone steps.

"Major!" Lucius shouted up at him, his face pale and his breath heavy from running.

"They are coming!"

William squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side, as if he too refused to believe what he was seeing. But there was no time for doubt. Spinning on his heel he watched as Captain Higgs raced up the steps, taking three at a time.

"Captain . . . we have time to prepare. . . .but soon we will need every arm available.

"Orders, Major, please!"

"I want every man alert and ready at my command Lucius."

"Major!"

But William's words had broken through the silence, and in the still air, those on watch could hear the faint calls and muffled orders which floated towards them before they slipped into the silence that seemed so easy and natural for them. Together they continued their silent watch, waiting for, but not wanting, the battle that could forever change the course of history.

Then, quite suddenly, one of the men stationed on the wall became engaged in a spirited banter with his compatriot, outlining in a peculiarly lucid manner his plan for the defence of Worcester. But he was soon opposed by others who advocated that there were other plans, and they clamoured at each other making futile bids for attention as the last vestiges of weariness vanished and the time for the relief approached. For now, all they could do was study the battle­field, note the placement of the men, the occupation of buildings and the various pieces of war machinery being assembled, and a thrill of feral excitement ran through them as the defenders scoured the countryside, which extended outward from the walls of the city.

A hundred yards away at the bottom of the slope ran a brook, no more than three feet wide, crossed by the road over a brick culvert which then climbed the opposite slope into a lane that was no more than a cart track.

A blackbird singing undisturbed on the outskirts of a small wood showed that there was nothing alarming there, and in the other direction, along the river, it was plain to see that all was empty and quiet. However they all knew that this area would, all too soon, become the killing field.

At the top of the bank, close to where the blackbird sang, sat a number of ramshackle hovels and beyond them was the river. The hovels were crammed one against another with hardly enough room for a horse to pass be­tween. These were the dwellings of those too poor to afford a house within the city, and most appeared to be deserted. A score or more of the meanest and closest to the river were burn­ing, and even as they watched the fires spread, suddenly leaping from one thatched roof to another. The miserable dwellings were being demolished to create a swath so that the Parliamentarians could not approach the city without being seen.

William, leaning against a parapet, smoothed his palms over the stone's surface.

It was cleanly worked, neatly mortared, and its facing and joints offered no toe-holds for any parliamentarians who might seek to scale it. That didn't surprise him since this thick curtain of rock had protected the City of Worcester for centuries.

But if the rumours were to be believed, even if the parliamentarians got this far, the enemy was so pathetic and if they managed to find the strength to lift their guns, they had no artillery to help them. If they managed to scale their way upwards, there were enough stalwart cavaliers on the battlements ready to drown the parliamentarians with their piss and mockery.

Behind him, within the city walls, war or no war, the people would try to carry on their busy lives as best they could. He could hear the wheels rattling as horses and carts hurried up and down the cobbled streets.

The clean air smelt like honeysuckle to William as he continued to stare at the river in the distance, as he had done on so many days and nights before. But this morning, the glitter of sunlight on the river's sturdy current had suddenly become blinding. It was to be expected, it was after all only September, and the sun was still high, although he had noticed that some of the leaves on the trees had already turned russet and gold, and even as he watched some drifted down to join the gilded carpet on the ground.

With the city surrounded, William knew that sooner or later, perhaps even tomorrow, he and his fellow Cavaliers would have do battle against their own countrymen. But seemingly unaware of the danger, the stream of humanity in the narrow streets below thronged into the square.

Despite his best efforts, William was unable to keep his keen eyes from straying to look at the girls, both pretty and plain. He thought some looked happy, some angry, some lonely, but a few looked loved. Fools they were, rushing in wicked frenzy upon their ruin.

Over time he had enjoyed the occasional flirtation, and had probably learned more than most men about women. But passionate love was an emotion he had never felt.

Unfortunately, he seemed to inspire it in impressionable young ladies, and when it came to the fairer sex, he was certain of only one thing . . . he enjoyed them.

He revelled in the enfolding resilience of the fat ones, savoured the litheness of the thin ones, and relished the way the short ones looked up at him. He appreciated the elegance of the noble ones and admired the down-to-earth practicality of the harlots who plied their age-old trade in the army's wake. With rare exceptions, he found something likeable in almost every woman he met, and he did enjoy pursuing each and every one. But today, his hot intrepid blood, inherited from his Somersetshire mother, remained cool amidst all the frenzied fanatical heat of rebellion.

As the sole male survivor of the Crane bloodline, William was born scandalous. There were doubts about his parentage, and his reputation did not improve with time. He had always known he was wicked. He was every bit his mother's son. He had inherited the crystal clarity of eyes that shimmered like the finest of emeralds, the exquisite artistry of features that were in perfect balance, her fine dark hair . . . but in . . . well, other ways as well. Indeed, he was convinced, in every way . . .

He suspected that his mother had many lovers, and that he was the result of one. Of course it was one of those things that no one talked about openly, but it was discussed in hushed, quiet whispers and William was a precocious little boy who absorbed every last word of the servants' gossip.

His tutors however pronounced him hopeless, undisciplined, disruptive, inattentive and unruly and he didn't excel in any of his studies. Somehow he was always doing things he shouldn't, thinking things he mustn't and saying things that were perhaps better left unsaid. It was little wonder that he was ever at odds with his father.

Although clean shaven, William's face was marred by dark brows which slashed his forehead, giving him a mocking knowing expression. His emerald green eyes were striking and piercing, but hidden deep in them was a cynicism, watchful and mocking. It was as if he found the world a dubious place to be. Even his father had once said that he looked as if he lacked any sensitivity or imagination. Unfortunately he was blessed with too much, which made him a good officer, but just being an officer was a roguish, devil-may-care sort of profession, perfectly suited to a man who spent his life in the pursuit of pleasure.

Aware of the confidence his men had in him, especially when he was able to predict the likely movements of the enemy, he was inclined to be too sympathetic towards the foe and less careful of himself. William knew in his bones that this year might see him dead, and if that were so, he wanted it to come quickly and unannounced. Not, please God, a long-drawn-out, unbearable suffering. He was too strong to die easily. In his blackest moment of despair and self-pity he silently begged whatever God there was to help - and meant it.

War or no war, market day was, as always, a time for celebration for all who lived here, and today was going to be no exception. Although the only entry or exit to or from the City was through St.Martin's Gate, the narrow streets of the City were soon filled with hawkers, merchants, livestock, soldiers and farriers, all jostling and barging each other.

Some were shouting to friends and customers alike despite the presence of so many soldiers, and as the town's people went about their day to day business, every thoroughfare and alley buzzed with the sights, the smells and the sounds associated with market day. Seemingly, the danger beyond the walls went unrecognised, and life went on as it always had. The bells of the churches still marked the devotional hours of the day, the priests still sang in the Great Gothic cathedral, and even in the humble dwellings beyond the fortified walls chil­dren played, women worked, merchants, peasants and guildsmen ate, talked and played dice. But everyone was aware that it was the King's soldiers who guarded the gate.

They nodded most people through without question, but stopped the occasional vagabond, beggar or gypsy, demanding to know their busi­ness, while searching their belongings, sometimes more roughly than was necessary. Only when a small jug of ale or perhaps a coin changed hands did they move quickly on to their next victim.

It was ever thus with soldiers.