Late morning on the Great North Road, man and horse shrouded in a thick swirling mist. Ahead, scouts reported, was the house of Sir Richard Wynn; beyond that, Brentford.

Rupert ordered one of his regiments forward.

Sir Philip Clucas swigged from a bottle, passed it to Firth. Firth, wrinkling his nose in disgust, offered it to Rupert. Rupert -- bright-eyed, gloved finger drumming the hilt of his sword, his boots twitching in their stirrups -- ignored it. Prince Maurice took it and drank.

The mist closed around the advancing troopers; the sound of them faded too. Rupert smiled. It was an ugly smile. Sir Philip burped. Rupert had last night "liberated" all wine, ale and beer from the King's army and the surrounding countryside. He distributed it this morning to his men. He meant, he explained to Firth, to "their tastes wet" and "them ferocious for more make."

Sir Philip burped. Prince Maurice hummed tunelessly. Sir Philip hiccupped, then again, once more, and again. “Your breath hold and to six count, stupid,” Rupert said. “Maurice, that moaning, stop or you I will kill.”

Then, all at once: Muskets rattling, swords clashing, horses screaming. Hoofs thudding on turf, men shouting. The mist swirled, went thicker as the smoke of gunpowder combined with it. Rupert chuckled. Boy, in his usual place astride Firth's saddle, looked at Firth and whined.

Rupert tweaked the dog's ear. He clapped Firth’s shoulder. "You, young schimastic atheist," he said, "are soon to for the first time war to witness, Those stupid brawls north, was nothing. War, you are to taste war.”

Firth touched the pistol in his pocket "I look forward to it, sir."

Sir Philip laughed. "I intend to have my taste of five," he said. That was a reference to the Imposition of Gallantry competition. He hiccupped. "You, silly fucking apprentice.” He hiccupped three times. “I'll lend you one, when I'm done with her."

A dark shape loomed in the mist -- grey then black; it cohered into a gasping trooper, helmetless, his sword broken, face smeared with blood.

"The house, sir," he gasped. "The fucking rebels -- a damned nest of butchers and dyers, the house, they've fortified . . ."

"Humph," Rupert said. "The Foot, to call."

Sir Philip took the bottle back from Maurice and tossed it to the helmetless rider. "What's that –- hic hic -- your highness?"

"He wants," Firth said, "You to ride to General Ruthven and order him to bring up the Foot, and for the Foot to attack the house."

"Oh, I hiccup can do that," Sir Philip said. He spurred and galloped away.

"Well then, young schismatical," Rupert said with the same ugly grin. "Today, great fun we shall have."

The regiment began to coalesce out of the mist: angry voices, clanking armor, the creak of leather. Horse, leather, sour wine: the smell of Rupert's army.

"It's my hope my fellow schismatics rain on your design, sir," Firth said.

Rupert laughed delightedly.

Drums, trumpets, marching feet. The Foot appeared. They grumbled insults at the Horse.

"You," Rupert bellowed. "Shut up. You men, your honor you lost at Edgehill, running like furry little bunnies from the horse of the schismatics. I hope you will here regain it."

Still grumbling, the Foot disappeared into the mist.

Sir Philip hiccupped. Maurice sang, a song about a girl named Elise. Rupert threatened them both with beatings and murder.

And once again, shouts. Muskets and screams. An explosion, then another. Rupert giggled. Sir Philip, still hiccuping, reappeared with a fresh bottle. He drank as men, unseen, fought and died before them.