Lowler Hedges on the Huntingdon-Cambridge Road; Edmund Holyfen on a bay shirehorse, drumming gloved fingers on the hilt of his sword as he watched his uncle march musketeers hand-picked from the shire’s Trained-Bands past the Castle, over the Cam and east into the town toward King’s College, where the University’s plate was said gathered and waiting transport North to the army King Charles was mustering against the Parliament of England. To Edmund’s left, along the hedgerow, his own little troop: three men from Holyfen village, muskets trained on the college spires: Magdalen, St John’s, Trinity. It was near noon, rain-grey clouds scudding along the great dome of sky that commanded the low earth, the great fen of East Anglia.

A horse, galloping. Edmund wheeled the bay, half-drew one of pistols from the saddle-holster; released it slowly on recognizing the rider: his cousin James Hathaway, dispatched earlier to spy out the byways east of Cambridge, over which the plate of St John’s had escaped sometime in the night.

James drew to a halt, his dripping horse nickering. Edmund’s neighed in response. Edmund remembered – fourteen years ago, before he stowed away on Arabella to the Massachussets colony – a three-year-old who pulled a wooden duck named Deuteronomy through the damp halls of the Manor; now long hair bound back with a blue ribbon, a pointed beard, Master of Arts from Sidney Sussex College, holder of a Wednesday lectureship at St Mary’s in Godmanchester endowed by the Earl of Warwick, most powerful of the Puritan peers of England.

“Barren,” he said. “A wilderness, a waste, a barren land. But for the postrider. Here.” He took a packet from his doublet and tossed it to the village men.

“You rode where?” Edmund seemed an iron spring compressed by a supreme act of will, all tense muscles and nerves constraining a cold rage, eyes like stamped iron deep in an angular face, its pallor compounded by his black coat and breeches and tall back hat. Its buckle green from sea-air: he had arrived in England from America less than two weeks ago.

“Where sent: Oakington to Dry Drayton – wretched track, the mud – to Madingley, the manor. Remember the black rabbits, Edmund? In the parkland? Old Oakton and his son’s boy, they’d returned from a chase; he asked about you. . .”

“What did you ask him? Anyone hiding in the park?”

“Yes – that is, yes I asked him that, and no, he had seen no one . .”

“And you believed him? Has he declared for the Parliament? Or the King?”

“Neither, Edmund – old Oakton, he loves his dogs and his pipe. . .”

“The postrider. From what direction? What had he seen?”

“From London, toward Huntingdon. Your mother’s house. He had seen nothing; neither plate, nor rumors of plate . . .”

“Christ’s bowels, James. Just the point, without the babble.”

“Edmund, please. . .”

Edmund raised a hand. “No. You please. This is a serious business. If we fail, we hang. We may hang anyway.” As well you should, traitor – that sick churning in his gut. The villagers had opened the packet, and were gathered around a broadsheet. Edmund flushed. “You. You, there – yes, you. What are you doing?”

They looked up, glanced at each other. One stepped forward. He did not touch his hat, or any other show of deference. Kilmister? Edmund was fairly certain that was his name. A thick beard now, a broken nose, a Bible in his satchel – but that jutting chin and the wart on his cheek could very well belong to the boy with whom he’d been the terror of every orchard from Huntingdon to Holyfen to Ely – a lifetime ago, Sarah and the boy ago . . .

“Reading, sir,” Kilmister said.

“Read later. You’re on service.”

Kilmister handed Edmund the broadsheet.

“It’s very helpful, sir. Explain the why.”

ANGLIA REDIVIVA. So read the title. A woodcut of a slender, elegant man with a prominent ears and a pointed beard – the King, obviously – a scepter in one hand, a Papist crucifix in the other. A woman with a rosary muttering in his ear – that would be the Queen – and cassocked Jesuits skulking at his feet. Below the woodcut, Observations of his majesty’s wreckage of the once Happy state of England: ‘A system of thorough Plunder of the tradesmen and Manufacturers of this nation of England by this Government, though less Violent as Effective as Pirates, hath deadened the Woolens trade, the Coal trade. . .” Beside that, in a box formed of rosary beads, The Prelate’s Devotional Cabinet, Opened. ‘Today I mediate Less, on the Mystery of the Bread made Flesh by hoc est corpus and Genuflections above what not Two Hours earlier Lay in the Oven, but consider how, by the Means of earthly Bread and Charity, by the promise of Full Bellies, and Appeals to tender Conscience, we shall Level the Liberties of England. . .”

Edmund looked up. “What is this?”

“Something Sydney sends up from London,” James said.

“Master Holyfen,” Kilmister said. He nodded toward Cambridge.

Edmund looked up. A minor exodus from the town: robed scholars, tradesmen and laborers in russet, black and green; at least twenty, and trickling after them. No sign of terror, flight from fire or sword: strolling purposefully yet easily, as though to Saturday market, or Sunday worship, and gathering on the side of the road.

“Advance, sir?” Kilmister said.

Edmund nodded. He spurred, galloped. No sign of armed men, not on the road, nor near the castle; dreaming spires beneath the gathering rain. He reined up before two scholars, his mount’s hooves peppering them with the road’s mud.

“I say,” one said. “My dear man,” said the other.

“Out for a ramble?” Edmund said. “Shouldn’t you be wrestling with your Aristotle?”

One scholar shrugged. “Emmm. . .” said the other. They were both thin, pale, the robes hanging like drapes on their narrow shoulders. Both had large noses; one twisted slightly to the left, the other to the right.

“We lost our hawk,” said Right Twist.

“He lies. We wish to wrestle with Aristotle in the sunshine,” said Left Twist.

“Sunshine?” Edmund said.

“We were misinformed,” Right Twist said.

“You both lie,” Edmund said, and drew his sword.

“That’s hardly necessary,” Left Twist said.

“If you must know,” Right Twist said, “there is plague inside. And we mean to escape it.”

“There was plague in the summer, and we fear its return,” said the Left Twist. “Oh, hullo Hathaway.”

“Handy,” James said, slowing to a halt beside Edmund. “Smith.” Kilmister and the villagers were athwart the road, muskets at port arms.

“Was your lectureship disendowed?” said Handy, the one with the right twist.

“With Warwick in Whitehall, and the King in the North?”

“I am pleased to see there are livings for scholars, in these troubled times,” Smith said. “I am, though, less pleased it’s soldiering.”

“What’s on in the colleges?” George said.

“Our Member of Parliament is suppressing some rumpus at King’s,” Handy said. “This seemed best vantage from which to observe his triumphant recessional, so here we are.”

“Care to introduce us to your captain?” Smith said.

“My cousin,” James said, a touch of pride in his voice. “Edmund Holyfen. From the America.”

Smith’s jaw dropped. Handy fingered his chin, impressed.

“Edmund Holyfen,” Smith said. “The Hammer of the Pequots.”

“We have read of your service there,” Handy said.

Edmund remembered America: the long swamp trails, the fires of Mystic’s burning, the screams of the savages: the world a wilderness, destroyed cities, confused noise, a garment rolled in blood, women ravished and pitiless cruelty – Sarah and his son and HATE, clear pure HATE.

“Sir, I did wonder.” Smith said. “Your wife. How were the savages able to take. . .”

His voice trailed to silence as Edmund smiled. It was an unpleasant, even ugly smile. Smith stepped back. Edmund raised his sword. Smith stumbled. Handy caught him, and raised an arm to shield him.

Then, all at once – a roar of musketfire inside Cambridge. Shouts, the distant sound of a deep voice laughing. Edmund’s mount reared. The castle gates opened and out rumbled a coach-and-four, the coachman whipping the team with the vigor of fear.

“God smiled on you today,” Edmund said to the scholars. He spurred toward Cambridge, sheathed his sword, and drew a pistol.

The coachman stood, raised his whip. Edmund shot him. The coachman tumbled. Edmund collided with the shrieking team – his heavy horse blocked, slowed them; a tangle of harness and lather and terrified horse.

Edmund broke free, leapt from his mount. Kilmister was there, holding the team by its lead-rope: “I’ve got them, sir.”

Edmund drew the second pistol from its holster. He ran to the carriage, threw open the door.

A fat man, red face bobbing in a sweat-stained lace collar. Stacked chests and trunks.

“How dare . .”

Edmund grabbed a fist of velvet doublet, slung the man out. He climbed into the carriage, lifted a trunk. Stamped with some heraldry – a shield, three roses, a lion, a fleur-de-lys – he hurled it into the road.

The hinges snapped. The lid split. Candlesticks, pitchers, snuffboxes, platters. Silver and gold.

The fat man crawled to all fours.

“The University loves its King,” Edmund said. “And to you the privilege of dying for him. On your feet? Or on your knees?"

The fat man stood – wobbling.

Edmund raised his pistol. The ugly smile, which had never left his face, widened slightly.

The fat man cowered. A low Oooo from the crowd.

Edmund pulled the trigger, just as the flat of a sword stung his forearm. The bullet dug dirt. A rider overwhelmed his field of vision, as did the storm-clouds the East Anglian sky: broad shoulders, a proud nose, a plain honest face, piercing brown eyes.

The member of Parliament for Cambridge, his uncle, Oliver Cromwell.