Now they were camped at the place that Prince Rupert and his commanders had designated as the battlefield on which the king’s decisive victory would be won. A few miles to the north of York, Marston Moor was a bleak expanse of moorland where two armies could maneuver in the rigid formations of pitched battle.

It was midafternoon when Portia followed Will and Rufus down to the river that flowed at the base of a small tree-studded knoll. They had left the Decatur company preparing their dinner in camp with the rest of the royalist army at the end of a short day’s march. The standards of Parliament’s forces could be seen with the aid of a spyglass, fluttering among the tents at the far side of the moor. The atmosphere in the king’s camp was edgy, and Portia wondered how the enemy were feeling as they prepared to face the hideous reality of the coming dawn.

Will and Rufus didn’t seem to be speaking much, although Portia was too far away to hear even if they had been talking. They reached the bank of the river, and Portia crept close, ducking behind a holly bush. She was close enough now to hear them, but they said nothing to each other, merely threw off their clothes and together waded into the river.

Portia watched with the unabashed delight of a voyeur. It had been so long, it seemed, since she had seen Rufus naked. Now she wondered if he had grown thinner. She fancied his ribs were more pronounced, his back leaner. But his backside was as taut and smooth-muscled as ever, his waist as narrow, his hips as slim. She felt her loins quicken with desire when he bent to splash water over his face and his buttocks tensed and the muscles in his thighs rippled. Will, too, was a fine figure of a man, with the lean suppleness of youth, but no one could compare with Rufus. With his power, his strength, the contained authority of his body.

The two men swam for ten minutes, racing each other across the river, and it seemed to the watcher on the bank that there was a joylessness to the exercise. It was as if it were something they both needed to do for purely mechanical, practical reasons. When Rufus strode from the water, his body rising above the surface with each pace, the water flowing from him, Portia took inventory of his body, of everything that had given her so much pleasure, had filled her with such transcendent delight.

She loved his flat belly, the sharp bones of his hips, the soft pelt on his broad chest. And she adored his navel. Her tongue flickered as she relived the memory of sipping wine from that wonderfully deep indentation in his belly, her tongue delving, stroking, tickling. He would squirm beneath the tickling strokes of her tongue, his thighs would tense, the muscles of his stomach jump. She could taste on her tongue even now the salty tip of his penis, could feel the muscular hardness as she drew him into her mouth, curling her tongue around him.

And as she crouched in the concealment of the holly bush and watched Rufus dry himself carelessly with his shirt, Portia was suddenly swept with a near ungovernable lust, so that her hands trembled, her knees were like water, and she sat down abruptly on the damp mossy undergrowth where the sun rarely reached.

Will came splashing out of the water, much more noisily than his cousin, and flung himself down on the grass. His voice carried easily to Portia.

“If you’re so pessimistic about the outcome of tomorrow’s battle, Rufus, why would you fight it?”

There was a moment’s silence before Rufus replied, “Two reasons. I pledged myself and Decatur men to the king’s cause, and for this battle at least, I’ll stand by my pledge.…” He paused, then said, “I will release any Decatur man from his loyalty to my standard if he chooses not to risk his life.”

“You know no one would do such a thing,” Will objected with some heat. “They’ll give their lives for you.”

“Yes, but why should they give their lives for a lost cause?” Rufus shrugged. “There’re men on both sides must feel that.”

“And the second reason?” Will prompted.

Rufus spoke without expression. “I intend to meet Cato Granville on the field.”

“And killing him will make you happy.” There was no question in Will’s voice.

Rufus lay back on the grass, hands linked behind his head. “It will be duty done.”

“Duty done? No more than that?” Will now sounded incredulous.

Rufus turned on his side, gently encouraging an ant onto a blade of grass. “I seem to have lost my ability to care about anything, Will.”

“Because of Portia?” Will spoke hesitantly. The subject had been taboo, but he sensed something akin to an invitation now.

Again Rufus was silent. Then he sat up and reached for his damp shirt. “I’ve come to the conclusion, Will, that a man can only give himself once to a woman… give himself heart and soul. And if that gift is spurned, it leaves him with very little interest in the future.”

He pulled on his britches. “Come, it’s time we went back to camp.” And his voice was now matter-of-fact, completely without emotion, and utterly forbidding.

Will took his cue and dressed, and the two of them walked back to the camp in much the same silence they’d held on the way to the river.

Portia stayed huddled beneath her bush for a long time before she too made her way back to the campfires.


“So, what d’ye think?”

Cato lowered his spyglass and turned to the man who had spoken at his elbow. Oliver Cromwell was a stocky man with shorn hair and a general air of dishevelment. His collar was stained, his jerkin spotted with grease, his hair clinging lankly to his skull.

“There’s a good four hours of daylight left,” Cato responded thoughtfully. “And judging by the cooking fires, we’ll catch ‘em on the hop.”

“Precisely.” Cromwell rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “What d’ye think, Fairfax?”

Lord Fairfax raised his well-bred nose and appeared to sniff the air. “It seems a trifle unchivalrous,” he observed. “Descending upon the enemy when they’re snug around their fires, about to sit down to dinner. But it’ll surely give us a decisive advantage.”

“Aye, and war’s hardly a chivalrous business,” Cato returned. He raised his spyglass again and looked across the expanse of moor to the enemy fires. Was Rufus Decatur among the royalist force? It was likely, and if so, if both of them survived the vagaries of battle, there was a chance they would meet on the field. A meeting that would bring an end one way or the other to the feud of their fathers. If he himself died today, either at Decatur’s hands or on the battlefield, he had no heir to perpetuate the feud. It was not a burden to be carried by daughters. And by the same token, Rufus Decatur had no legitimate heirs to bear the burden of vengeance for the house of Rothbury.

Cato was unaware that his lips were tightly compressed as he returned his concentration to the conversation continuing around him.

“They’ll have their glasses trained on us as we have ours on them.” Lord Leven pursed his mouth in thought. “They’ll observe any overt preparations for attack.”

Cromwell’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and when he spoke with conviction and authority, it was clear to his listeners that his battle plan had been made long since. “But if Fairfax brings his force to make a flanking attack to the right, their approach will be concealed by the wood… and if the Scots take the left flank, they’ll be hidden for the first hundred yards by that hill.” He gestured with his whip to the small rise in question. “The main body of the army will make a frontal attack as soon as you’ve surprised the enemy.”

“Aye, they’ll be far too occupied wi‘ us to notice ye.” Lord Leven rubbed his hands and chuckled. “I reckon we’ll have won the day by sundown.”

It was unusual for the generally somber Scot to sound so optimistic, but all three men felt a surge of confidence as they envisaged the peaceful scene of an army at its evening camp-fires thrown into panic and disarray by an unexpected full-force attack.

“Let’s do it, then.” Cromwell spoke decisively, and with a brief handshake the four men parted to see to their dispositions.


Portia was squatting on her heels beside a campfire, eating a sausage pierced on the tip of her dagger while throwing dice with two farmers’ lads from Cumbria, both of whom were terrified at the prospect of the upcoming battle, their first experience of being under fire. Portia’s idle chatter and the fact that she was steadily winning on the throw of the dice served to take their minds off their fear, and she reflected that she was performing a useful community service while lining her empty pockets.

The conversation she had overheard between Rufus and Will sent her alternately to the peaks of hope and into the pits of despair. Rufus had said he loved her. But he’d also spoken with utterly flat finality about the destruction of that love. And time was running out. Tonight she had to find him. She told herself she would finish this game, and then she would go.

The first confused sounds-shouts, the crack of musket fire, the pounding of hooves, the clash of steel-came just as she was scooping up a handful of coins amid the vigorous oaths of her fellow players. The group of men around the campfire leaped to their feet, casting aside food and ale tankards, bemusedly grabbing for their weapons lying carelessly on the grass beside them. Pandemonium ensued, men running hither and thither like headless chickens until their sergeant bellowed for order and they came to a shuffling halt while the sounds of attack continued from beyond the small copse where they had made their bivouac.

Portia unobtrusively slipped away into the trees. She had not come to Marston Moor to fight to the death on the battlefield… to expose her unborn baby to a pointless danger. She found that her mind was crystal clear, her body moving fluidly through the trees as she approached the fighting.

It was clear to her that the rebel army had launched a surprise attack, and her thoughts now were concentrated with a deadly precision upon the Decatur men. She knew they were bivouacked on the right flank of the line, and she could hear the fierceness of battle coming from that direction as she made her way toward their position.

A horse came crashing through the underbrush, and a magnificent black destrier reared above her. The cavalry officer on his back was resplendent in silk and lace, flourishing a curved sword.

“Hey, you there!” He stood up in his stirrups, as his horse plunged and reared at the end of a short rein. “What battalion?”

“Decatur,” Portia said.

“Then why aren’t you with them?” His sword cut through the air in a sweeping arc that would have parted Portia’s head from her shoulders if she hadn’t jumped back. His face was red with a furious panic, his eyes bloodshot and wildly ferocious.

“I was visitin‘ another bivouac, sir,” she gasped. The man was taking her for a deserter. “I’m on me way back to me company. But what’s ’appenin‘, sir?”

“Get back to your company. Your sergeant will tell you what you need to know.” He wheeled his horse and galloped back through the trees.

Portia pulled off her helmet and knitted cap, shaking her hair loose. It was time to discard the trappings of a soldier. She unstrapped her breastplate and cast it aside into the underbrush and then crept forward to the very edge of the copse. Now she could smell the gunpowder; the clash of steel and the crack of musket fire were very close. Shouts and screams rent the air; frantic yells mingling terror with exultation sent shivers down her back.

Portia shinnied up an oak tree, her blood pounding in her ears, her mouth parched with her own fear. A fear that was not for herself. Halfway up the tree, she settled herself into the crook of the trunk, her legs straddling a wide branch. Parting the screen of leaves in front of her, she had a clear view over the moor.

At first she couldn’t tell what was happening. The scene was anarchical, straight from the pits of Chaos. She couldn’t distinguish royalists from rebels amid the surging, swaying lines of men. The smoke of musket and cannon obscured whole sections of the field, clearing suddenly to reveal the ground littered with the writhing bodies of men and horses. Riderless horses galloped panicked across the field, trampling dead and wounded alike beneath their iron-shod hooves; infantrymen wandered dazed in circles amid the fighting, looking for their own companies, seemingly unaware of the target they presented for the massive chargers bearing down on them, and the swooping swords of the cavalry bringing death from above.