September 1651

It was evening when he came in sight of his home. The Grange nestled in the valley, surrounded by orchards and fields of corn. There were brambles in the hedgerows and rosehips glowed orange. Summer was fading into autumn and there was a chill to the wind that penetrated the tears in his buff coat. The scent of new mown hay lingered in the air, dispersing the stench of blood, fear and smoke that clung to him even though he had left the battlefield many leagues in his wake. Some stains you couldn't cleanse, though he had halted to wash at every stream he crossed.

The window panes caught the light of the setting sun. No smoke drifted from the chimneys. Philip shifted in the saddle and bent to pat the mare's neck. "It's good to be home," he murmured. Even as he said it he wondered if he was talking to reassure the mare or himself. He would be better for fire and food and the peace of his own hearth.

Old Silas raised his billhook as he passed. "I hear tidings of the battle," he said, "a great victory for the Commonwealth."

Philip was so tired but he smiled and said, "Yes, a great victory, praise the Lord."

He thought back to the violence and the fear and then later the lines of wretched prisoners. Cavaliers in blood stained finery, lace torn from their shirts to bind wounds. The enemy, finally defeated, trailing their pride in the dust.

In the end after all the skirmishes and despite the desperate heroism it had been a rout. The New Model Army moved in, implacable like their leader, and although the cursed royalists fought bravely, they were no match for discipline and superior force.

As was his duty he had chased down wounded men, rounding them up like animals and haltering some for slaughter. He remembered the execution in the cold dawn and the triumph. There had been no glory in that. The lord had died bravely but the young king, the greatest prize, had fled, shielded by his followers. They laid down their lives for him as once men laid down their cloaks so the foot of the monarch should not touch common ground.

There was a price on his head now, one thousand pounds. A fortune to be gained by those eager to hale him to die on a scaffold like his father, the enemy of the people, King Charles the martyr. It was rumoured great Cromwell himself had stood at the bier of the dead king and murmured, "Cruel necessity."

Philip prayed this battle at last might bring peace. There was a sour taste in his mouth. Some of those captured had been so young, scarcely out of boyhood, caught up and broken by dreams of loyalty and glory. Looking for one face that still haunted his dreams he came upon men of his own troop humiliating a prisoner. Philip couldn't stand by and let this happen so he put himself in their way only to be felled by a blow that left him choking on mud. Later he realised he was lucky to escape with his life.

He wasn't proud of his part in that, though in truth what could he have done? The boy was bloody but alive, his hair shorn and his torn clothes barely covering his nakedness. He glared at Philip, spitting curses from his broken mouth. Even as his friends dragged him away, Philip knew by intervening he had sealed the boy's fate. As a seasoned soldier he should have known better. Men had to take out their frustration some way and why was he defending the enemy?

Maybe it was the defiant look in the boy's face that reminded him so much of Francis, his dearest friend, who fled overseas to the young king when the old king died. Francis who loved him more than a brother and who, for the sake of his soul, he had denied. We were drunk, nothing happened, I don't remember!

He remembered the day he let Francis ride out of his life, carrying his heart strung to his saddle bow, if he had dared to confess it.

He put on the uniform of the New Model Army as armour against the weakness of the flesh. He used conscience as a scourge to deny memory and desire. In truth he had found little comfort. Francis had said he cared nothing for his father's oath to parliament and would die for his king. If he was among the prisoners or lay dead or wounded on the field, it was a mercy Philip had not found him.

Summoned by his commander he had mustered no excuses, his battered face witness to the testimony he would not give. His captain, one of the plain russet coated men beloved by Cromwell, had asked no questions but told him now the battle was won there was no need for good yeoman such as himself to stay longer away from their crops and their homes. So Philip found himself honourably discharged, riding back to an empty hearth and an old man across the park at the Hall who even now prayed for news of his son.

The house was shuttered already. The girl who cooked and cleaned for him would be home with her mother for it was unseemly for an unmarried maid to lodge in the house of a bachelor. Although, and this was a thought he scarcely dared heed, her virtue was at no risk from him. He had the reputation of being a sober, godly and righteous young man and he was trusted by the pastor to have a care for this weaker vessel. There were some who said that women had no souls to lose and this was a freedom he envied. His neighbours knew nothing of the brave youth who led a reckless, wine-charmed life at university and gave his love to his dearest friend.

He led the mare into her familiar stall in the barn and she whickered softly, nuzzling his hand. Pulling off his gauntlet, he fetched water from the well for her and filled her manger with hay. Then he unsaddled her and hung her bridle on the hook. He took wisps of straw to rub her down and picked the stones from her hooves. Then he groomed the tangles from her mane, whistling softly as he worked. An old air, something he had heard before. He paused for a moment and thought he heard something, perhaps a caught breath or the scuttling of mice. The sun was setting, he needed to be indoors setting lights and kindling a fire. There was also the question of supper. He had scarce eaten since the battle but it would be foolish to faint with hunger and he carried the remains of his scant rations for the journey home. He smiled thinking of Arbella, his foster sister who kept the stillroom at the hall. Perhaps tomorrow he would ride over to talk with her. There would be salves to soothe old wounds and herbs to take away pain. She had never failed him when he was in need of comfort.

He finished his task, pausing as once again he sensed rather than heard something stirring in the darkest corner of the barn. His hand went to his dagger and he stood, rigid, staring in to the gathering gloom, but all was still and quiet.

His back prickled as he lit the lantern and held it high. Was that the shadow of a bale of hay? There was a pitchfork on the wall ready to his hand. It would be easy enough to find out. Even as he reached for it he felt the aftershock of battle, remembering his sword sliding into flesh and the grate of metal on bone. There had been enough slaughter.

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I found myself curiously detached from the narrative of Lost and Won, the story of how Philip and Francis, two men on opposite sides of history, lost and won their private war as well as the public... (full review)

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Reviewer: Ivy
Review:

At the end of the English Civil War, two former lovers find themselves on opposite sides. Francis comes back from exile to make peace with Phillip, risking imprisonment.

Lost and Won is beautifully written, well grounded in a well-researched historical setting. The style is perfectly appropriate for the setting, and you can feel the characters' despair at what may be a hopeless situation. The romance takes a bit of a back seat to the history, though. Definitely an enjoyable read.

 

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