FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE episode 5

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 5

‘We have to find fodder for the horses,’ Shabolz pointed out the blindingly obvious. Sweat ran down his face in the midday heat and he took a sip from his waterskin. ‘We riders can get by on the little we have, but they need full bellies, especially if we have to run.’

Valerius swatted vainly at the cloud of flies that buzzed around his face and over his mount’s bobbing head. They’d rationedthe hay they’d gathered in the rush to flee Viminacium as long as they could. Now there as no avoiding it. After days of keeping torough cattle tracks far from the main road signs of habitation were few and far between, but Valerius had no doubt Shabolz would be able to find a farm or a charcoal burner’s camp relatively close by.‘When we reach the next farmstead you can go and barter for what we need,’ he held out a few silver pieces.

‘You don’t know these people, lord.’Shabolz laughed. ‘They’re wolves down here. Like as not they’d take the silver, steal the horse, cut my throat and feed me to their pigs. Waste not, want not, is their way. They trust no-one. It’s not so long ago that the Dacians burned and butchered their way through this valley. The farms will only just be recovering and the farmers will be keeping what they have, just in case.’

‘So it has to be a town?’

‘I doubt we can avoid it, lord.’

‘Then it must be Trimontium.’ Trimontium, the place of the three hills, was the next substantial settlementon their route, an important trading place.Valerius had hoped to avoid the centre of the city, but there was no helping it. Once they reached Trimontium hewould finally have to take the decision he’d been avoiding. ‘How far do you think?’

Shabolz shrugged. ‘We could be there before nightfall, but best we arrive when they’re still waking up. We can be in and out of the city before anyone realizes we were there.’

They camped for the night within sight of the torches on Trimontium’s walls. Farmers began queuing at the gates in the loom of the highest of the city’s three hills well before first light. As dawn broke Valerius and his companions slipped slipped in amongst the carts taking their produce to market.He’d hoped to find some trader withfodder to sell and save them entering, but he hoped in vain. Instead, Shabolz bartered for a squealing suckling pig on a rope that would help them blend in with the crowd.

Valerius led the waythrough the central arch of the gateway without incident and they found themselves ina street that was already crowded. Trimontium was a typically Roman city, laid out on an orderly grid system, with soaring three storey apartment buildings that blocked out the light and open-fronted shops at ground level. At this time of day the shopkeepers were laying out their wares on wooden tables. Bolts of cloth in a dozen different colours, jugs, bowls and pots, leather shoes and jerkins, amphorae of wine stacked against walls. Already the scent of simmering stews and freshly baked bread hung in the air, tantalising the nostrils and reminding Valerius that it wasn’t only the horses that needed resupply. Yet look a little closer and itwasn’t really Roman at all. The people who thronged the streets even at this early hour were dressed in tunics and dresses that would look more at home in the east. To a tutored eye, like Tabitha’s, the detail of the buildings was recognizably Hellenic, which wasn’t surprising, because not so long ago Trimontium had been Philippopolis. Theinhabitantsstill considered themselves Greek and conversed among themselves in a language that was more Greek than Latin.

They led their horses at a walk, with Shabolz and Valerius in the lead and Tabitha following with the children. The squealing suckling pig dug in its heels in on the cobbles and Lucius had to pick up the squirming animal and tuck it under his arm.

‘We need to find a stables,’ Valerius said.

‘Then we should look for an inn,’ Tabitha called. ‘And the best place to find an inn is close to the forum.’

The street they were on proved to be the Decumanus Maximus, one of the city’s two main thoroughfares, which meant it would lead directly to the forum. They pushed their way through the growing throng until they reached a broad open space surrounded by a colonnaded walkway on three sides and dominated by a complex of massive public buildings to the north.

Morestreetsled from the paved forum and on one of them Valerius spotted the sign for an inn, which fortunatelyproved to have an ostler’s yard attached. They tied the horses to a rail and allowed the animalsto drink from a trough while Shabolz strode off to negotiate with the owner for a dozen bags of hay. In the meantime, Tabitha went in search of food while Valerius watched the horses from a corner of the courtyard and the children played nearby, taking turns at chasing thebemusedpiglet.

His attention was so focussed on their antics it never occurred to him that they might be being watched.

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE EPISODE 4

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 4

It took two months after the battle at Mons Graupius for Valerius’s injuries to recover sufficiently for him to resume his duties aslegatus iuridicus at the governor’s palace in Londinium, though his shattered leg had never properly healed. Julius Agricola, whom Valerius suspected of sacrificing Valerius and his group of trusted bodyguards and friends, stayed in the north hunting down bands of rebel Celts, obsessed by Calgacus, the mighty Caledonian war chief whose body had never been found.

Though outwardly their lives returned to normal, Valerius and Tabitha were never able to relax. Emperor Domitian, though he basked in the glory of Agricola’s victory, had more than one reason to wish Gaius Valerius Verrens dead, and Domitian was a vengeful man. Every meal, however carefully prepared, might contain the potential for a painful death. Every dark passage could conceal the glint of an assassin’s knife. Valerius had finally allowed himself to believe they might yet survive when the news came. They were ordered to Rome immediately.

Run? What chance would they have when he was certain Domitian and Agricola were watching their every movement? No, they had no option but to return. Logic dictated that even a man as twisted as Domitian must have a reason for wishing to look Valerius in the eye. In that reason he might find some sort of salvation. Another cause for hope lay in Valerius’s friendship with the Emperor’s wife, Domitia Augusta. In her most recent communication Domitia had hinted that she held some power over her husband, and as long as that should be the case Valerius had nothing to fear. Valerius suspected her influence had something to do with the sudden and unexplained death of the Emperor’s predecessor, his brother, Valerius’s friend Titus.

An anxious three week journey, each day mired in doubt and the children never allowed even an arm’s length away. By sea to Gesoriacum, a fast galley through Gaul on the Sequanna, overland to the Rhodanus, the port of Massilia and another ship across the Mare Nostrum to the capital. And confusion.

Not a death sentence, as it turned out, but a welcome. Summoned to Domitian’s palace on the Palatine Hill, Valerius entered a court bustling with preparations for war. A Dacian army had swarmed across the Danuvius frontier and attacked the province of Moesia. Sabinus, governor of the beleaguered province, had been butchered and his legions defeated bythe barbarians.

‘The emperor praises your valour and your achievements in war,’ Domitian’s freedman Lucianus told him. ‘He wishes you to act as military adviser to the Praetorian Prefect Cornelius Fuscus when he pushes the Dacians back beyond the Danuvius. The Emperor himself will command the first stage of the campaign and it is his desire that your wife accompany you as companion to the Augusta. You will have all the honours and facilities that accompany your current rank.’

Fuscus would lead a force of three legions, First and Second Adiutrix and Fourth Flavia. Their commanders quickly accepted Valerius as one of their own, but Tabitha summed up their position best.

‘If he cannot kill you,’ she whispered as they walked along a marbled corridor to the quarters they’d been allocated, ‘he wants you close enough to touch, for when the time comes. And it will come. He will try to lull us with soothing words, but we have never been in greater danger.’

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 3

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 3

They would probably have been dead already if it hadn’t been for Shabolz’s skills and knowledge of the country. It wasn’thiscountry. Pannonia lay far to the west behind them. He’d somehow kept them on a course parallel with the Via Militaris, the road that carried official traffic between Singidum and far off Byzantium. As far as Valerius could tell they were somewhere in the eastof Moesia, perhaps even in Thrace, twoday’s ride or more south of the mighty Danuvius river. A land of towering, precipitous mountains where eagles soared on the breeze, deep aboveshadowed tree-linedgorges filled with tumbling streams and sometimes impassable rivers. Yet Shabolz always seemed to know when a river valley would have a potential escape route instead of a dead end. He never hesitated when they came to a fork in the forest track and he understood the ways of the animals and birds and every subtlety of their alarm signals. A jay’s cry was different if it had been disturbed by a weasel or a badger. A fox gave a different bark if a bear or a wolf was close. Each of them had a specific cry for man.

Those skills had never been more vital than in the forest. Four days earlier the Pannonian had sensed some presence in their wake. He’d waited until they’d reached an area where they could dismount and lead their horses up a rock incline away from the track and into hiding in the forest above. Twenty minutes later Valerius watched from a crag as a well-armed column of twenty menin black cloaks passed on the track below, so close hecould hear the sound of their mounts’ hooves. Theyhad a wariness and a sense of purpose that Valerius understood all too well.Not soldiers, hired killers. When their leader turned to scan his surroundings with flat, dead eyes, Valerius had recognized the pale featureswith a shiver of dread. Claudius Durio, Domitian’s most feared torturer and assassin. He’d vowed there and then that Tabitha, Lucius and Olivia would never be allowed to fall into Durio’s hands.

The ruse that had taken them to the crag, and the diversion that followed, bought them time and space, but both were now running out. At the start of each day a decision must be made.

As the children finished preparing the horses, Valerius, Tabitha and Shabolz crouched over a patch of dry earth. Valerius drew a dagger from his belt and scratched three lines in the dirt. ‘North, south or do we continue due east?’

‘East,’ Tabitha said firmly. ‘We agreed that only in Emesa will we be safe.’ Emesa was the Syrian city where she had been brought up. They would be under the protection of her uncle, the king. ‘Whatever we do to put them off our scent we must always move east.’ She saw the doubt on Shabolz’s face. ‘We can make a feint to north or south once we are on the move. They’ll be expecting a change of direction. We can use that to our advantage.’

‘Shabolz?’

‘The only reason for going north is to take ship on the Danuvius. If we do it, we have to be certain of a boat. That means a big town, Oescus or Novae. They’re busy ports, places where tongues wag. We will only have one chance. No boat and we risk being trapped against the river and taken.’

‘We’d also have to sell the horses,’ Valerius said thoughtfully ‘But if we can reach the river, we can be on the Great Sea within days instead of weeks. The Great Sea will carry us to Trezibond. From Trezibond it is onlya three day ride to the Euphrates Valley and the Euphrates will carry us as far south as Zeugma. From Zeugma I can lead us to Antioch blindfolded,’ he smiled at Tabitha. ‘And from Antioch you will guide us home.’

‘Not south, lord?’ Shabolz wondered.

If they turned south they could reach the Mare Adriaticum in less than a week, perhaps at Phillipi, where they could take ship directly to Syria. But the man who wanted them dead would know that too. The authorities at every port on the coast between Thesssalonica and Neapolis had likely already been alerted.

‘No,’Valeriusdecided.‘That would make it easy for them. Tabitha is right. We will continue east for the moment.’

Olivia – a miniature replica of her mother in tunic and braccae - and Lucius were already in the saddle, holding the reins of the remaining horses. Before he mounted, Valerius secured the leather sack to his saddle pommel. The misshapen object inside made it awkward and he wondered, as he did each morning, whether it would be better to throw it in therivernearest river or bury it deep where it would never be found.

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 2

Herewith the second part of my Authors Without Borders story. Enjoy.

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 2

Valerius drew back his blanket and pushed himself to his feet, grunting with the acheof half a dozen old wounds. His back felt as if he’d lain on a bed of knives and his twisted leftleg shook when he put his weight on it.A stiff cowhidestockover his forearm held in positionthe oak fist that replaced the right hand he’dlost so long ago in Britannia. In normal times he would have removed it to sleep,but these were not normal times. He untied the laces with the practised fingers of his left hand and pulled the stock free of the arm.From a leather sack at his side he retrieved a clay bottle and uncorked it with his teeth to pour a little of the oil inside on the chafed flesh of his stump. After replacing cork and bottle he massaged the oil into his flesh, resisting the impulse to groan with the pleasure of it. When it was done he slipped the socket back in place and redid the laces.

Another,less bulky figure appeared from the darkness and he didn’t require the gift of sight to be aware of the presence of his wife.

‘You should have woken me earlier,’ he said as Tabithathrust a crust of bread into his hand and bent to buckle a long cavalry sword to his belt. ‘And Shabolz thinks it’s not fitting that a princess of Emesa should have to work like a common serving girl.’

‘Shabolz stayed awake on guard all night.’ It wasn’t news. The Pannonian had kept watch every night since they’d been forced to flee Viminacium, sleeping in the saddle during the day to maintain his strength. ‘There,’ she completed her task. ‘You old men need your sleep,’ she continued. ‘Or you become irritable.’

‘Old?’ His mock outrage made her smile, as it always did. ‘If you’d still been under the blanket when I woke I’d have showed you ...’

‘Hush,’ she put afinger to his lips. ‘The children are close.’

They stood together, basking in the comfort of each other’s presence, passing the crust between them and taking alternate sips of icy river water from a brass cup. In the pre-dawnsilenceValeriuscould hear Lucius preparing the horses for the day and showing his sister how to secure the various straps and buckles. The boy was at the stage where he seemed to grow a few inches every week. At the age of twelvehis head already reached to his father’s shoulder. A good boy, gentle and kind, perhaps too gentle for his own good, but with a keen intelligence and quick mind that undoubtedlycame from his mother. Olivia, five years younger, and with Tabitha’s golden skin and raven hair, had a mercurial quality that kept her constantly on the move, and an insatiable curiosity about her surroundings that Shabolz cheerfully satisfied.He heard her yelp of delight as the Pannonian went to help them with the saddles. Six horses, four saddled and two spares that also carried their provisions, what little they hadleft.

The sun rose in the trees behind Valerius and the dappledlight fell on Tabitha’s face. Her slim figure hidden beneath a baggy peasant’s tunic and green braccae, she was as beautiful as she had been on the day he had saved her life on the road to Apamea. True,tiny lines etched the skin at the corners of her eyes and her dark hair was shot with silver. But old? They didn’t feel old or, when the opportunity arose, act it either, but they were certainly getting older. Valerius was close to fifty now, and his once dark hair was almost white. Yet,his wounds apart, he was still vigorous and his mind remained as sharp as it had ever been. It needed to be.

Their eyes met and he knew Tabitha’s thoughts precisely mirrored his own.

How could everyone act so normally when they could all be dead by the time the sun went down?

This s the first segment of my Authors Without Borders story Flight of the Eagle, which tells the story of Gaius Valerius Verrens adventures in Dacia and the Roman east during the campaigns of the Emperor Domitian. I'll post another part of the story here and on my personal Facebook page every weekday for about the next three or four weeks.

FLIGHT OF THE EAGLE 1

In the dream, Fuscus spoke to him, but not the Fuscus he had known, fat and jovial and with a wit as sharp as the point of a gladius. This Fuscus had flesh the colour of week old ashes and his pale lips were drawn back from teeth bared in a snarl, or more likely a grimace of agony. Valerius held Fuscus’s severed head in his hand. He knew he was dreaming, but the weight of the head was comfortingly familiar, because this was not the first time he had carried the late governor of Moesia’s skull. His memory drifted idly to another dreamlike day, his feet tethered beneath the belly of a Dacian pony and his fingers twisted in the dark curls Fuscus of which had been so proud. The warriors of King Decebalus’s bodyguard had laughed as they passed among the rotting, naked corpses carpeting the field of sorrow at Tapae, all that remained of the mighty Fifth Legion Alaudae. Cornelius Fuscus had led them, under protest, at the direct command of his Emperor, to ambush and defeat beyond the Danuvius, and, dishonoured by the loss of the legion’s eagle, fought to the last when he could have fled. Gaius Valerius Verrens had fought at his side.

For a few moments he struggled to understand what Fuscus was trying to tell him. The mangled lips moved, but the sound was faint as a distant whisper and the words blurred together. He might have been talking a different language and not the polished, aristocratic Latin of a former Prefect of the Praetorian Guard.
Then, as if a curtain had been drawn back, it came to him. ‘Flee, Valerius,’ the gaping mouth screamed. ‘Flee for your life and that of your family. His is a hatred that will never die. He will never stop hounding you.’
He.

Titus Flavius Caesar Domitianus Augustus. Emperor of Rome. Master and God. Pontifex Maximus. Murderer. Torturer. Betrayer. Enemy unto death.

Domitian.

‘Lord?’ The dream faded to be replaced by a moment of confusion. A callused hand shook his shoulder. ‘Lord, we must be moving at dawn. They cannot be far behind.’
He opened his eyes to find a shadowy figure stooped over him silhouetted by stars that glittered sharply in the inky sky. Other shadows bustled around the tethered horses down by the stream. A little dell surrounded by trees, he remembered, reached by rocky ground and far enough from the road to feel secure. No fire, of course, the flames would invite a spear between the shoulders. With a jolt of fear he realised something was missing.
‘Tabitha?’
‘The lady is preparing our food lord.’ The voice took on a disapproving tone.
‘At least she won’t poison us, Shabolz. Unlike one of your stews.’
His words brought a bark of laughter from Shabolz, the man who had carried him from the field of Mons Graupius when Gnaeus Julius Agricola would have left him for dead. The man who had vowed to serve him unto death. They’d been on cold rations for a week or more and would break their fast with stale bread, hard cheese and perhaps a few dried out olives. Tall and slim with close-cropped sandy hair, serious gray eyes and handsome regular features, the Pannonian cavalryman had barely changed since the day they’d met at Valerius’s villa outside Rome seven years earlier. A warrior born to the saddle, he was all that was left of Valerius’s bodyguard. Shabolz walked off chuckling and Valerius’s spirits rose. For all their peril he could not have been favoured with better companions.

Juggling the genres

I'm back.

My excuse for the prolonged absence is that I've been struggling for a while with family and work commitments, but hopefully this is the start of regular contributions again. I plan to do a series on my favourite parts of my books, why and what I felt when I was writing the passages.

First though, a new departure. I've just self-published a book called War Games on Amazon Kindle. It's a crime novel and why, I hear you ask, would I be straying into another genre when I already write historical fiction as myself and thrillers as James Douglas? The simple reason is that the book existed, in fact there are two of them.

When I wrote The End of The Emperor's Elephant (which went on to become Caligula and Claudius), I had no idea if it would ever be published and I had no idea where to go next. The answer was to write another book. I knew I could write historical fiction, so why not try something else? That very night I came up with a character who created himself in my sleep and talked to me in a voice that I knew would be a great backdrop to a novel. His name was Glen Savage and he was a Falklands War veteran who'd repressed an intermittent psychic gift for thirty years. Now he uses the gift to help the police find the bodies of missing murder victims: the last resort after all the other last resorts have struck out. I wrote the book in the first person and the effect was like a Sam Spade voiceover for one of those Fifties noir movies.

I offered the book to my publisher, but I already had two parallel strands going with them and they declined. What's the point of writing a book if nobody can read it? Transworld said they were happy for me to self-publish it and Amazon provided the means. Obviously, there's also a financial incentive. Amazon offers royalties of between thirty and seventy percent, against the publisher's twenty five, that allows me to price the book low, but still make a reasonable return. Hopefully, the low price will attract more readers who'll be impressed enough to buy the second book when I publish it later in the year.

There are obvious drawbacks to self-publishing. You don't have the back-up of big publishing resources, editors, copy editors and proof-readers, and the only promotion the book will get is on blogs like this and through word of mouth, so it's basically flying solo. Fortunately, I've had help from my agent and I'd like to thank my friend, and veteran self-publisher, Simon Turney, (The brilliant Marius Mules series) for his patient advice as I struggled with formats and uploading.

The upside is that you have the flexibility to publish what you want, when you want and get an immediate return for your efforts. Hopefully, you'll like Glen Savage as much as I do. Give him a try for less than the price of a skinny latte for a limited period only!

One for the writers: A synopsis masterclass

One skill many writers find difficult is turning their brilliant idea into a synopsis that will grab the attention of a publisher or an agent. So this is one for the authors among you who are interested in being published by the traditional route, although I think it also has resonance with self-publishers, because the same rules apply to the description you use to market your book on Kindle and the like.

The key is that a synopsis isn't a regurgitation of the plot, action and characters of your book - who did what, where and when - not even in a simplified cut-down version. It has to be a distillation of all those elements that visualises your story into a kind of literary film trailer, but more crucially provides whoever's reading it with the very essence of what you're trying to achieve.

So, for what it's worth here's a pitch I put together a few years ago for an English Civil War series. It didn't work out at the time not because it was a bad idea, or that the publisher didn't think I could write the books, but for the simple reason that they'd accepted a similar approach from the very talented Giles Kristian for his Bleeding Land series about a week before. I think they would have been very complex, multi-layered books, with lots of interesting secondary characters, because the civil war was hugely complicated by religious and social factors that went far beyond the political.

You have two options in portraying such a wide-ranging conflict, either telling the story through multiple points of view, or placing your main protagonist in such a position that he's privy to all the main elements and the action behind the scenes. That's what I chose to do with Nate Pride, who starts off defending the college silver and ends up being so close to his commander that he's branded 'Cromwell's conscience'. Like all books it would have developed, and, looking back, some of the scenarios are a little clichéd, but they, or something like them, happened, and sometimes life is just one big cliché.

So here it is: the ROUNDHEAD series © Doug Jackson (if anybody pinches the ideas herein, I'll be after them for twenty per cent). In the unlikely event I ever get one of these Writer in Residence gigs I apply for, this will be the subject of one of my Masterclass workshops.

ROUNDHEAD

By Douglas Jackson

THE new four part series featuring 20-year-old Nathaniel ‘Nate’ Pride, a Cambridge student who in 1642 defies his family to join little known, but charismatic cavalry captain, Oliver Cromwell, as the schisms between Parliament and King, Puritanism and Popery drag the country relentlessly into civil war. 

Nate’s talent with sword and pistol and his ability as a leader quickly establish him among his commander’s favourites, but his lack of religious fervour makes him appear suspect to some of his comrades. As the conflict continues, his growing doubts over the bloody cost of dethroning the king earns him the sneering sobriquet ‘Cromwell’s conscience’ and only the Parliamentary leader’s tolerance protects him.

If the war must be fought, Nate will risk all to ensure it is won, but nothing prepares him for the terrible cost to his family. His brother Edward dies in his arms on the blood-slick slope of Edgehill, his manor house at Paxton Hall is burned, brother in law Thomas murdered and his sister Elizabeth raped by a Royalist raiding party led by landowner, Sir Henry Collingsby, who will be his nemesis until the final shots of the war.

From the first clash of blades, the ROUNDHEAD series is a gripping, epic tale of divided loyalties, human tragedy, and the merciless slaughter of a war that tore the nation apart, and in which no man, woman or child could afford to be neutral. 

ROUNDHEAD

Power of the Sword

1642

TORN between loyalty to his family and the strength of his own convictions, Nate Pride attempts to concentrate on his studies in Cambridge as the world disintegrates around him. But everything changes after Royalists attempt to carry off the university treasure and he is persuaded by firebrand politician Oliver Cromwell to help stop them. When war breaks out it’s taken for granted that he’ll join Cromwell’s troop.

While the two sides manoeuvre for position and Cromwell’s reputation grows Nate is called home to bury his father and discovers that his brother Edward has decided to join the Royalists. As he’s leaving the house Nate has a fateful encounter with local landowner, Sir Henry Collingsby, and his son Ralph that will haunt him until the end of the war.

In the early skirmishes, Nate surrounds himself with men he can trust and proves himself a resourceful leader as he discovers the true merciless nature of a conflict that pitches father against son and brother against brother. In an act of compassion he may live to regret he saves the young servant Margaret, who appoints herself his personal camp follower, and whose presence tries Cromwell’s patience.

King Charles raises his standard in the North and Parliament sends the Earl of Essex with an army to persuade him away from the counsellors who have misguided him. Out of favour, Nate is attached to Essex’s force and while on a scouting mission is led into a blundering engagement with Prince Rupert’s cavalry at Powick Bridge that almost costs him his life. Nate’s dragoons cover the Roundhead retreat and he watches appalled as the Parliamentary cavalry are routed and realizes that Puritan farm boys and apprentices are no match for the gaudily uniformed professionals of the King’s army.

Yet the first true test of arms is yet to come, where two great armies will join battle for the soul of the nation and where Nate will come face to face with his brother Edward for the first time since their father died - on the field of Edgehill.

ROUNDHEAD

Men of Iron

1644

THEY said Edgehill was a stalemate but to Nate Pride it felt very much like a defeat. As Nate recovers from his wounds, King Charles is thwarted in his attempt to take London, but the Royalists are winning in the West and the North and there is a rumour they’ll soon be joined by the Irish and the Scots. Yet Nate is strangely happy. He has been reconciled with Cromwell who, although he turned up too late for the fight, had been informed of the young scholar’s heroics. Cromwell is forming his own cavalry formation and when he is fit Nate will command a squadron.

In the meantime, he returns to Paxton Hall to visit Elizabeth and her husband, and is given the glad news that he’s about to become an uncle. While there Elizabeth encourages him to call upon Jane Faversham, his childhood friend, and he quickly realises that friendship has developed into something much greater. He has another reason to survive.

It can only be time before another major confrontation between the Parliamentary and Royalist forces and Nate works his men hard to prepare for the battle, fighting in the victories at Grantham and Gainsborough, but his efforts are interrupted by a frantic letter from Jane asking him to return to Paxton immediately. He goes back to find the house a blackened ruin and Edward dead, at the hands of cavalrymen wearing distinctive blue cockades. Elizabeth is utterly traumatised and being nursed by Jane. Cromwell’s intelligence chief confirms the raid was the work of Collingsby’s men.

Nate has seen many such tragedies and finds himself strangely detached from Edward’s death and the loss of his home. 

Cromwell and his Ironsides march North to confront Prince Rupert’s army as it attempts to relieve York. Before the two sides meet Nate receives word from Jane confessing that Elizabeth was raped by Collingsby. In a haze of righteous fury, he leads his men into the battle where he will cross swords with Rupert himself and discover the true depths of a vengeful man’s inhumanity when he finally catches up with Ralph Collingsby among the chaos and carnage of Marston Moor.

ROUNDHEAD

Turn of the tide

1645

IS there to be no end to the killing? Nate is a changed man after the slaughterhouse of Marston Moor, but he consoles himself that surely the king must now sue for terms. Yet the glorious Parliamentary victory is followed by humiliating defeat. In September word comes of disaster in Scotland where a Royalist force led by Montrose has smashed the Covenanters and in the south where Charles himself has forced the surrender of the Earl of Essex’s army. Cromwell’s impatience with his fellow commanders is growing and he enlists Nate’s aid in finding a way to get rid of Essex and his other rivals at the head of the Parliamentary army.

Meanwhile, Cromwell persuades Parliament to reward Nate for his suicidal courage at Marston Moor and for the loss of Paxton Hall by granting him Collingsby’s estate. With his financial future secure, he asks Jane to marry him, but in an emotional confrontation as Lady Collingsby and her household are evicted, she turns him down. The Nate she sees now is not the man she thought she loved.

Nate’s spirits reach a new low and his faith in Cromwell is tested by the general’s failure at the battle of Newbury. When Cromwell asks him to undertake a secret mission which could bring the war to an early close, he accepts. Forced deep into enemy territory, Nate is recognised by one of Collingsby’s retainers and the hunt is up. He completes his task, but realises Cromwell’s hopes are in vain, and only just reaches Parliamentary lines ahead of his pursuers. But his ordeal is far from over. While he is being questioned about his sudden reappearance he is condemned as a deserter by a man he accused of cowardice at Newbury. Only a last-minute intervention saves his life as the muskets are cocked.

While he has been away, Parliament’s forces have undergone a revolution. Cromwell is now second in command of the New Model Army and Nate will lead one of the his Regiments of Horse. He is back with his old command, the Ironsides, and death or glory await in the battle which will break Royalist military power - at Naseby.

ROUNDHEAD

 Divine justice

1647

MAJOR Nate Pride watches the Royalist garrison at Bristol march out with its colours flying and wonders at a war which so arbitrarily slaughters some of the defeated and honours others. Cromwell has tasked Nate with escorting the Royal commander, Prince Rupert to Oxford and he is surprised to find himself liking the German prince who almost killed him at Marston Moor. It seems only a matter of time before the war is won.

The following May, Charles surrenders to the Scots and Cromwell summons Nate to discuss the future of the New Model Army. He talks of taking his soldiers to the Continent to fight for the Palatine Emperor, but Nate says he would rather go home.

Awarded leave, Nate sets out for his estate and narrowly escapes an ambush by Royalist deserters led by his old enemy Lord Collingsby, now reduced to banditry and his loathing multiplied by the loss of everything in the king’s cause. Collingsby has Nate at his mercy and only a misfiring pistol saves him before his attacker flees.

But after five years of conflict Nate finds it difficult to settle down to the life of a country gentleman and he pesters Cromwell for a new appointment. Peace has brought its own problems Cromwell’s fears for his New Model Army are well founded. Nate finds himself caught between the men he served with and the Parliament he fought to defend. He reluctantly puts down a mutiny in support of the Levellers, a radical group intent on abolishing the monarchy and the House of Lords. Without warning the war reignites with the escape of King Charles from Hampton Court and rebellion in Wales, Kent and Essex, but the greatest danger comes from a Scottish army which invades the North in support of the king. Cromwell and Nate force the Scots to battle and destroy them at Preston where Nate has his own personal demon to exorcise - Collingsby.

Preston is the final dying gasp of a dying cause, but Cromwell is determined that one more death is required before his task is complete. The king’s.