could not see how. If I’d ever made such an impression on a man, would I not remember? And even if I had, what unlikely twist of fate would cause our paths to cross again in such a way?
Warbeck signalled me to a cluster of huts hunched around what might once have been a farm worker’s cottage. I nudged the horse as he directed. Paths had been cleared through the drifting snow but more kept falling and the horse moved slowly. We stopped some distance away and dismounted. The doors of the farmhouse were open and the light of oil lanterns spilled out. Warbeck led his pack mule on and saw a young boy appear from a neighbouring tent; he beckoned and the lad came to take the horses away. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve years old.
‘Boy!’ Warbeck called after him. ‘Where will we find Black Tom?’
The lad was hesitant.
‘Black Tom?’
The boy paused a moment more and then tipped his chin at the open farmhouse and hurried away. Warbeck smiled grimly. ‘Well, Falkland, here we are. You ask about him often enough. Now you get to meet him. Good luck.’ He laughed and led the way into a welcome haze of warm, smoky air and a hubbub of men and talk that stopped dead as we entered. Officers – men in red coats with hair cropped close – stared at us. I met their gaze one by one as I looked about. The farmhouse had been gutted, most of it opened out into a single room with a great fire smoking in a hearth. At the head was a single chair and in the centre a table that, I hazarded to guess, would be fed to the fire before long. It wasn’t hard to deduce which one of them must be Fairfax. He was younger than I’d imagined, younger than me by five or ten years. He had hair of jet black and a swarthy complexion. A scar, not old but not fresh, crossed his right cheek. It was certainly a new world that would put this sort of man in charge of an army. I didn’t know what I thought of that. I supposed it must have seemed a delicious insult to put a man like Black Tom at the head of the New Model.
‘Warbeck,’ he said, though his eyes had settled to meet my own. ‘This is him, is it?’ Fairfax had the strongest Yorkshire brogue I could remember. The sort of voice that still strikes ridiculous terror in me, even though it’s as dull and simple as most Yorkshiremen are. He didn’t wait for an answer but nodded to himself, then turned to his officers and shooed them out with expansive waves of his arms. They filed out past us, one by one, looking us over, most with expressions utterly devoid of interest, a few with a sneer or a shake of the head. That much I’d expected. What I did not expect were the ones who hurried past nervous and too afraid to meet my eye. One flinched away when I moved, and I was left to wonder what struck them so, like the man from the hut who had seemed to know me. I was no officer with some great string of victories to my name, nor the perpetrator of any great mercy or atrocity. Who was I, I wondered, to be so feared?
Apart from Warbeck still sloping around the edges of the room, we were alone. Fairfax moved slowly to the chair and sat, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded me. His look was shrewd and calculating. ‘So you’re the intelligencer. What did Cromwell tell you?’ he asked.
A serving boy appeared with cider and rabbit meat. He placed it on the table and then disappeared. Fairfax nodded to it, indicating that Warbeck and I should eat, though there were no other chairs on which to sit. Warbeck seemed troubled by this but six years of soldiering had taught me to take food when food was to be had. I might have sat on the table itself in other company. As it was I stood, and as I ate and drank I told this Fairfax all that Cromwell had said. I left nothing out. I knew he was testing me.
‘It isn’t uncommon that an army would have deaths in winter, Master Falkland,’ mused Fairfax when I was done. Master was certainly his way of speaking down to me. To him I
Warbeck signalled me to a cluster of huts hunched around what might once have been a farm worker’s cottage. I nudged the horse as he directed. Paths had been cleared through the drifting snow but more kept falling and the horse moved slowly. We stopped some distance away and dismounted. The doors of the farmhouse were open and the light of oil lanterns spilled out. Warbeck led his pack mule on and saw a young boy appear from a neighbouring tent; he beckoned and the lad came to take the horses away. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve years old.
‘Boy!’ Warbeck called after him. ‘Where will we find Black Tom?’
The lad was hesitant.
‘Black Tom?’
The boy paused a moment more and then tipped his chin at the open farmhouse and hurried away. Warbeck smiled grimly. ‘Well, Falkland, here we are. You ask about him often enough. Now you get to meet him. Good luck.’ He laughed and led the way into a welcome haze of warm, smoky air and a hubbub of men and talk that stopped dead as we entered. Officers – men in red coats with hair cropped close – stared at us. I met their gaze one by one as I looked about. The farmhouse had been gutted, most of it opened out into a single room with a great fire smoking in a hearth. At the head was a single chair and in the centre a table that, I hazarded to guess, would be fed to the fire before long. It wasn’t hard to deduce which one of them must be Fairfax. He was younger than I’d imagined, younger than me by five or ten years. He had hair of jet black and a swarthy complexion. A scar, not old but not fresh, crossed his right cheek. It was certainly a new world that would put this sort of man in charge of an army. I didn’t know what I thought of that. I supposed it must have seemed a delicious insult to put a man like Black Tom at the head of the New Model.
‘Warbeck,’ he said, though his eyes had settled to meet my own. ‘This is him, is it?’ Fairfax had the strongest Yorkshire brogue I could remember. The sort of voice that still strikes ridiculous terror in me, even though it’s as dull and simple as most Yorkshiremen are. He didn’t wait for an answer but nodded to himself, then turned to his officers and shooed them out with expansive waves of his arms. They filed out past us, one by one, looking us over, most with expressions utterly devoid of interest, a few with a sneer or a shake of the head. That much I’d expected. What I did not expect were the ones who hurried past nervous and too afraid to meet my eye. One flinched away when I moved, and I was left to wonder what struck them so, like the man from the hut who had seemed to know me. I was no officer with some great string of victories to my name, nor the perpetrator of any great mercy or atrocity. Who was I, I wondered, to be so feared?
Apart from Warbeck still sloping around the edges of the room, we were alone. Fairfax moved slowly to the chair and sat, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded me. His look was shrewd and calculating. ‘So you’re the intelligencer. What did Cromwell tell you?’ he asked.
A serving boy appeared with cider and rabbit meat. He placed it on the table and then disappeared. Fairfax nodded to it, indicating that Warbeck and I should eat, though there were no other chairs on which to sit. Warbeck seemed troubled by this but six years of soldiering had taught me to take food when food was to be had. I might have sat on the table itself in other company. As it was I stood, and as I ate and drank I told this Fairfax all that Cromwell had said. I left nothing out. I knew he was testing me.
‘It isn’t uncommon that an army would have deaths in winter, Master Falkland,’ mused Fairfax when I was done. Master was certainly his way of speaking down to me. To him I
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