The innkeeper's daughter -- her name was Nell, or Nelly, or “Bold Nelly of the Hedge” –- explained to Firth why she abandoned kith and kin and joined her fortunes to the Horse of Prince Rupert of the Rhine.

“Oh, it's to be among gentlemen,” she said. “I do love a soldier, a gentleman soldier, so lovely in armour, and with their swords. And mounted, as they are, on their fine horses, what’s more lovely? You must admit, Mr William, it's a fair improvement chasing fleas from the sheets at Three Fauns.”

Firth, seated on a drum, took it all down. They –- he, Bold Nelly, and about three hundred of those gentlemen of Rupert she so adored – were some miles south of Worcester. A convoy of plate donated by the Oxford colleges had reached the city two days ago. It hoped to depart that night for King in Shrewsbury. Rupert's orders were to guard the swag from a detachment of Parliamentary horse that yesterday made a half-hearted attempt to seize it -- not much more, near as Firth could gather, than a timid knock at Worcester's Sidbury Gate and a hasty withdrawal when entrance was denied. Rupert, being Rupert, was less interested in guarding than smiting, to which end they’d spent a pointless day mucking about searching for signs of the skittish Parliamentarians. Rupert had called a halt here, in this long rolling meadow between the Severn and the Teme, while he decided where to go next.

“Now, let's see,” Firth said. “Do you believe the King rules by Divine Right, with his every utterance containing the force of Gospel?”

“Oh Mr William, you and your questions.”

“Do you believe it’s the King’s prerogative to confiscate a certain portion of your property to use in whatever manner he sees fit?”

“Property? What property?”

“Your cloak, there; if he demanded you surrender your cloak for the common good. . . ”

“He is the King.”

“Right,” Firth said, writing it down. He had a grand idea for an Anglia Rediviva series: “Portraits of Tyranny,” brief biographies of those following Charles, their thoughts and motivations, from the highest to the lowest. He stretched, stifled a yawn. The troopers were in various stages of relaxation near a hedgerow-lined lane that led to the village of Lower Wick: sleeping, smoking, dicing, drinking, armor unbuckled, horses tethered to stakes.

“Do you think,” Firth said, “it’s the King’s prerogative to replace the reading and study of the Bible with bishops, prelates and memorized prayers?”

“Oh Mr William, I’m just a simple girl, don’t really go to Church much. He does know better than me.”

“But see here, Nell, don’t you think you know better than the King what your soul requires for its salvation?”

“God's wounds, Firth.” Sir Tristram Hall, the nearest trooper and Bold Nell’s current paramour, cast off his cloak and rolled to a sitting position. He yawned and took a swig from a bottle of wine. “You and your damned babbling. Are you a schismatic?”

“Yes I am, Sir Tristram,” Firth said.
“You’re a damned insolent dog, then,” Sir Tristram said. He took another swig and fell back asleep. Firth wrote this down too.

“Ooh,” Nell said. “My Lord approaches.”

My Lord was indeed approaching: Rupert, followed by Boy the poodle, his brother Prince Maurice, and Sir John Byron, who’d brought up the plate from Oxford. Firth stood. Rupert waved a copy of Anglia Rediviva at Firth.

“I do not like this speak,” he said. “As in your story. I speak perfectly well English. You are mocking me, for the amusement of mechanics, feltmakers and other schismatics.”

“Firth is a great schismatic,” Sir Tristram said from his cloak. “He would hang the bishops. He just explained. He’d hang one each Sunday at Tyburn, except on Easter when he’d do twelve.”

“Is that true, Firth? You would the bishops hang?”

“Not hang them, sir; turn them out of their livings, yes I’m much in favor of that. The Bible says nothing of bishops.”

Sir John Byron lit a pipe. He looked bored. Maurice said something in German.

“Ha,” Rupert said. “You are a schismatic, then. We must beat you.”

“Is that completely necessary, your highness?”

“We will spare you,” Rupert said, “If you beg me to do so.”

“I’m afraid that’s just not something I’m willing to do, your highness.”

“Ha, arrogant sectarian,” Rupert said. “You English, the most arrogant of peoples, most of all the Puritans.” He sat on the drum and glanced at the sky. “Damned rain,” he said. “Always rain.” Boy licked Rupert's face and barked. Rupert ruffled Boy's fur. Boy looked at Rupert with wet-eyed adoration. Rupert said something in German. Boy looked at Firth and yapped.

Rupert sighed. “Boy says I must not beat you,” he said. “Though you deserve no less. He likes you, for reasons that he will not divulge. Will you, my Boy?”

Boy licked Rupert’s ear and chewed on a lock of the prince's hair. Rupert, smiling, tweaked the poodle’s ears and kissed his muzzle. Firth liked Rupert. He was hard not to like. Rupert seemed to understand that to English eyes he was slightly ludicrous, but didn't much care. He held out a hand. Maurice took a long clay pipe from his cloak and put it in Rupert’s palm. Sir John rolled his eyes. The bowl was a fair rendering of Boy’s head.

Rupert lit up. Sir Tristram sat up, drank from his bottle, and offered to Maurice, who took a long swallow. He offered it to Sir John, who shook his head gruffly.

“So, Firth,” Rupert said. “Where are the rebels?”

“I don’t know, your highness.”

“Would you if you did tell me?”

“Probably not, your highness.”

“If you were with them, would you tell them where to find me?”

“That’s very likely what I’d do, your highness.”

“I wish you were with them, and would tell them,” Rupert said. “Sitting around, waiting for the rain, rain, always rain. I am very bored.”

“And hungry, I am,” Maurice said. “The food here, it is very nasty.”

Sir John glowered. He took his pipe from his mouth. “I suppose then you think it’s so much better in Germany, your highness? All that damned cabbage.”

“Makes one fart,” Sir Tristram said. “That’s what I remember about Germany, farting my guts out. Waking up in the middle of the night and grabbing for my sword, thinking some damned Frenchman had just ripped open my tent, and no, it’s just a great fart.”

“This insolence,” Maurice said.

“Bah,” Rupert said. He was reading Anglia Rediviva, Mr Holyfen’s bit about discovering masque backdrops in a Whitehall backroom. Rupert chuckled and muttered something to Boy, who yapped delightedly. “Thoses masques,” Rupert said. “He is right, they are stupid. Now see here, Firth, tell me again, how your master delivers this about the country?”

“Oh look,” Nell said. “More soldiers, noble men on horse.”

They followed her gaze. Coming out of the lane and into the field was a troop of horse, a long column five abreast.

“I do love a mounted soldier,” Nell said, putting a hand to her breast.

“Especially when on you mounted,” Maurice said. Sir Tristram laughed. Sir John rolled his eyes again.

Rupert stood slowly, his eyes not leaving the horsemen. He swatted Maurice with Anglia Rediviva.

“You. Stupid. I you told to the dragoons the hedges to tell to watch.”

He took a leash from his belt, attached one end to Boy's collar, and handed the other end to Firth. He ran toward his mount, shouting, Sir John and Maurice following.

Sir Tristram rubbed his eyes. “God’s bowels,” he said. “It’s them, it’s the fucking traitors.”

All at once, the sleeping, drinking, dicing, smoking men were afoot – slinging saddles on to horses, buckling armour, charging pistols. Rupert rode among them, waving his sword and shouting. His troopers, including Sir Tristram, gathered around him.

The first several ranks of Parliament’s horse deployed into a line. Those behind wheeled and galloped down the lane

Rupert charged. He and his men crashed into Parliament’s line. Pistols cracked; blades rang. Shouts, screams – a tangle of horses and men, wreathed in smoke. The Parliamentarians collapsed. Rupert pushed through, and led his men down the lane.

A riderless horse trotted by –- Firth grabbed the reins, managed to stop it. He handed the leash to Nell.

“I think not, Mr William,” Nell said. She's suddenly shifted from the manner of a silly, dazed strumpet to that of an English innkeeper who'd brook no nonsense.  “Anything happens to that dog, it’s not going to be on me.”

Firth picked up Boy and threw him across the saddle. Boy barked joyfully. Firth mounted and spurred, Boy raising his head into the breeze. They rode after Rupert. Firth blinked against the smoke. He counted bodies. The fifth was Sir Tristram – pinned beneath a fallen horse, his skull split open, blood and brains oozing out.