The sun was setting; rather, the sky dissolving from the overcast that defined this October in the Midlands to full-on night. The wind was chilly; it promised if not rain, then perpetual damp, a morning frost. Cromwell, Edmund and Trooper Kitson, having crossed the Avon at Stratford some hours earlier, rode a rutted track along the eastern bank in which direction lay, they’d been told, a handsome church and a manor house, property of the Lucy family, which might provide quartering for the troop. And indeed, against the darkening sky a church tower could be seen.

“There’s a story,” Edmund said, “Shakespeare was caught poaching on the estate.”

“Really,” Cromwell said. “I wasn’t aware.”

“They’ve shut the theaters,” Trooper Kitson said. “Vile dens of lechery.”

“The history plays are edifying,” Cromwell said. “The theaters themselves, on the other hand. . . wait. What’s this?”

Two riders were approaching, cohering out of the gloom.

“Stragglers from Essex?” Edmund said. “He’s still a day’s march ahead. ”

“Stragglers, maybe,” Cromwell said. “Or another troop seeking quarter. If it’s deserters, or looters, then God help them. Hello, there!” he shouted.

The riders halted. One looked to be a yokel, matted hair beneath a shapeless hat, a muddy smock, mismatched stockings. The other, a young man of perhaps sixteen, wore black with a small lace collar and tall riding-boots.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the young man said. “May I interest you in some apples?” Indeed, there were apples, in panniers across the back of the yokel’s mount.

“Apples?” Kitson said, incredulously.

“Apples indeed,” the young man said calmly. “My name is William, and I am a retailer of apples, with my servant, my servant Robert. And you are . . .”

“Trooper Kitson, of the troop of Captain Cromwell, who’s there, and next to him is Lieutenant Holyfen there . . .”

William blinked. He stared at Edmund.

“That’s enough, Kitson,” Cromwell said.

“Why are you selling apples in the dark of the night?” Edmund said.

“It’s not dark yet, sir,” William said. He squinted at Edmund. “I can see you just fine, sir.”

“It’s close.”

“Money doesn’t sleep in the dark, nor fear it, sir,” William said. “Nor hunger.”

“Fine horses,” Cromwell said.

“Indeed,” William said. “Alas, all that was left of my poor father’s estate after the King and his rabble marched through. They took everything: paintings, silver spoons, a little organ made for my mother, who so dearly loved to play in the evenings, trunks of lace. All but these horses, that my servant and I managed to save.”

“And the apples,” Cromwell said.

“Through the sale of which we’ll endeavor to recapture some of our loss.”

“When did the King’s troops liberate your father’s silver spoons?”

William paused. “Two, no, three days ago, sir.

“And his estate is where?”

“Wroxhall. Outside Wroxhall, north of here.”

“You’re rather a long way from Wroxhall, selling your apples.”

“Well sir,” William said, slightly impatient. “I am trying to avoid them, aren’t I? A more vile and loathsome rabble of papists, scoundrels, drunkards, whoremasters, rakehells, ignoramuses, atheists and servants of Antichrist, given over to all lewdness and dissolution, fearing neither God nor man – you’d ride the other way too, sir, if you were just a poor simple boy like me, and not a man-at-arms. The King, he’s a foul stuttering fool, a fit tyrant. . .” Robert began to twitch and mutter under his breath.

Cromwell laughed. “Enough, boy. How much for your apples?”

“Err, well,” William said. “I’ll let you have the lot of them, for two shillings.”

“One shilling.”

“One shilling fivepence.”

“One shilling onepence and no more.”

“Done. You, Robert,” William said. “Surrender the apples.”

Robert handed the panniers to Trooper Kitson. Cromwell paid William.

“The King,” Cromwell said. “Was marching in which direction?”

“Toward Southam,” William said. “In Birmingham, the direction of,” said Robert.

Cromwell, Kitson, and Edmund looked at Robert. His voice was strange; it sounded as if he’d said “Verminkhamf, ze durrektyun ov.”

“The horse went toward Birmingham,” William said. “The foot toward Southam.”

“No, both toward Birmingham went,” Robert said, angrily.

“Well?” Edmund said. “Which is it?”

“Birmingham!” Robert roared. “North, they north went!” Nort, zey nort vent.

“Please pay him no mind,” William said. “He’s a lowborn sort, given to fits. He’s very excitable, can’t restrain his base passions. Not that he’s ever known another sort. And I imagine he’s still distraught, the tragedy of the manor sacked. He’s a very poor servant, we keep him on only from charity.”

“Anyone at the manor?” Edmund said.

“The manor?” William said. He squinted again at Edmund. “My manor? Well, Mother I suppose, trying to eke out what’s left of her life from whatever crusts the King’s bullies left her.”

“No, the one up ahead, at Charlecote.”

“Err, didn’t call there, actually sir; my grandfather, he and Shakespeare were caught poaching deer in the park during the reign of Bess and the family’s not been welcome since.”

“We the army of the Parliament have heard is in this direction,” Robert said abruptly. “Is it?”

Trooper Kitson made to speak; Cromwell waved him silent.

“What business is it of yours?” Cromwell said.

“Apples, to sell.”

“You’ve sold them all.”

“We will more get!”

“Please, kind sirs, please,” William said. “I beg you, please don’t upset poor Robert. He’s not very bright, his mother was a strumpet, his father was a notorious forger hung at quarter-sessions during the last year of James’ reign, he ate glass as a child and shredded his tongue, which is why he talks savagely. He means nothing, he’s just slow and stupid and means well; he’s trying, poor thing, to identify some kind souls to whom, if we had them, we might sell apples.”

Cromwell laughed. “Of course. Well, for that matter, boy, the army of Parliament is marching north. Toward Birmingham. After the King. That being the direction the King’s going in, as your man there so cleverly observed. And we, as well, after we find quarters for the ten thousand horse and twenty thousand foot that’s marching up from London to join us. If you ride south, you’ll run into them, eventually. A good evening to you.”

“And to you, Captain,” William said, gratefully. “Robert, come.”

He swept off his hat, bowing in his saddle. He spurred his horse, and rode between Edmund and Cromwell, brushing against the latter.

The two trotted down the track, broke east and galloped across the meadow, vanishing into the darkness.

“Peculiar,” Edmund said. “God’s bowels, if they’re deserters, the army’s better off without them.”

Cromwell held up a folded piece of paper. “The boy tossed this in my lap. Let’s see.”

He unfolded it, held it to the last light of the gray, cold day, and read aloud:

DEAR READER. THANKS TO HEAVAN I HAVE FOUND YOU. THE ARMY OF PARLIAMENT IS IN PERIL. SIR FAITHFUL FORTESCUE OR FOSKUE, AN IRISHMAN COMMANDING A TROOP OF HORSE, MEANS TO TURN ON PARLIAMENT WHEN BATTLE IS JOINED. THE KING’S ARMY PLANS MUSTER TOMORROW NEAR WORMLEIGHTON. I AM A TRUE FRIEND OF THE LIBERTIES AND RELIGION OF ENGLAND AND A SERVANT OF CHRIST CRUCIFIED.

Cromwell folded the paper carefully. “I think,” he said, “I should like to share this with Colonel Hampden.”

He wheeled, and galloped the way they had came, toward Stratford. Edmund and Trooper Kitson glanced at each other and followed.