Believe or Die by M.J. Harris

cavalry’s inroads. Muskets began peppering the riders wounding both men and mounts. A distant trumpet sounded from the treeline and the Parliamentarians wheeled away. All except one who roared defiance and ventured one last foray, and it was aimed directly at Wil Pitkin who was struggling to retrieve a sword that someone had dropped in the sodden earth. Despite the adrenalin and the fear, Wil was aware of two balls glancing off the Roundhead’s equipment and part of his horse’s tack being split asunder by a frantically waved pole-arm. Then the rider was upon him with a mighty swing of his sword that split Wil’s crossbelt and drew a tear of flesh down his chest. The Roundhead snarled and hauled his panicking mount away. Then, with one last contemptuous gesture, he raised his visor and glared at Pitkin. Such was the ferocity of the attack, and yet the strangeness of the moment, that for an instant or two, no one made any move towards the Roundhead from the Royalist ranks and he simply turned and began to canter away. Then the shock that Pitkin had just experienced from both the fight and the recognition of his foe abated sufficiently for him to grab a sword in each hand and charge bellowing after Richard Mead. Pitkin’s men dithered for a moment then Captain Duvall was amongst them beating them back into line with the flat of his sword. Two of Rupert’s men, hurriedly mounted, raced after Pitkin, hefted him off his feet and dragged him back. As they did so they pointed out that Foot do not charge Horse – “It ain’t done don’t ye know!”
    Cromwell pondered over the disturbance he could hear but not understand, then he moved his guns forward supported by two infantry regiments. The Royalists pushed two of their Regiments of Foot forward to counter as if a giant game of chess was being played and a brief exchange ensued. While this was occurring, both Mead and Pitkin were being berated by their respective superiors. Generals started battles they were told, there was a form to these things; Gentleman conformed to rules. Dedication to the cause was admirable but it must be controlled. Mead and Pitkin simmered. Both knew full well that, although Generals may very well start the thing, sometimes even agreeing on a time to do so, it was the common soldiers who did the fighting and dying. And that was what it was all about – kill your enemy. Upon being dismissed, both glared at the opposition, both seeking out their own, personal enemy.
    Rupert gnawed on a chicken leg then tossed it aside. He leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware of the noise of skirmishing, made to sound distant by undulating ground and mingled with occasional thunder; distant and, as far as he was concerned, irrelevant until the dawn.
    But a ripple of firing now spread along the Parliamentarian ranks and it began to increase steadily in volume. Suddenly the Roundhead and Scots infantry shuffled forward then broke into a ‘running march’ down the slope. The Royalist skirmishers were caught completely unawares and were not helped in the slightest by a sudden downpour that doused virtually all their matchlock cords in a nonce. Further back, the Parliamentarian commanders looked askance at each other. Who had ordered this attack? It appeared nobody had.
    Now, many were learning that battles have their own momentum and at certain times, battles don’t give a tinker’s cuss what Generals think! Black Tom Fairfax gaped at his now charging infantry and mentally tore up his carefully crafted battle plan. He immediately led four hundred Horse forward in a furious charge that shattered the Royalist cavalry facing him, sending them fleeing away towards York. But this was not good cavalry country and subsequent formations charging under Fairfax the Younger lost their cohesion and velocity amid the hedgerows and bracken. But now Rupert, rudely awakened from his dozing, leapt to his feet and took in the situation at a glance, or