Dear Mother,

I’ve written Anne at the Rectory, to say you could make her a Loan, better a Gift, of the Blankets resting unused in the Chest in my room. I do realize such Generosity will violate Sydney’s policy of allowing Father Sustenance enough to prevent outright Starvation, and ensure abject Misery; nevertheless, for the love of Christ, please do this for me; I shall with that Wretch in my own time. And please, Allow her, whatever she may Request from the Monies I have deposited with you; it is for Father, and Sydney be damned. I will send more as I draw Pay.

We are now east of Worcester, bearing toward (we are fairly certain) Banbury, or perhaps Castle Warwick, on wretched Roads, churned to a Morass by the rain, and by the passage of men and horse and wagons. We are part of the Escort for the Trains of Artillery and Baggage, with the regiment of Col Hampden (who sends greetings); the Van of the Army is about a day's march ahead.

Progress is sluggish (about ten miles a day, I make it); and not merely because of the loathsome state of the Roads. I think I've mention that Lord Essex lacks a certain vigor on the Prosecution of this service, to wit, Finding the King, and closing with him, and offering battle. Captain Cromwell believes that in his heart of hearts Essex is unwilling to strike the first blow, or perhaps any blow; and would prefer to maneuver, and negotiate, and discuss terms, and treat of Settlements, and avoid any effusion of Blood. And, Capt Cromwell thinks, this Attitude is shared by a not inconsiderable number of those in the Parliament, and in the City.

Well, who would not wish to avoid Blood, and the prospect of (for instance) me sheathing my sword in Sydney's Thomas's gut, or vice versa? I beg pardon for the brutal image, but such is the nature of this business, as I learned in America. But, no Battle, and no Resolution. And no Resolution, and this aimless wandering from unknown place to unknown place, purpose mysterious to purpose obscure, in the mud and the rain, amid fear of a sudden assault by Rupert and his legion of demonic Hounds, and the more our Soldiers give themselves over to Drunkenness and Looting, despite the orders of Lord Essex. The Sheldons of Weston were plundered; so too Canning, at Foxcote Manor in Ilmington, and Dr King, the rector of Ilmington. Capt Cromwell, of course, will not tolerate this in our Troop, nor Col Hampden in his Regiment. The London troops are also very well-behaved; Capt Cromwell says this is because these soldiers are, like our troop of Fen-warriors, religious to a man.

But such too is war. Thank you, Mother, for the help you’ll show to Anne, and for remembering me in your Prayers, as you are always in mine.

I am forever your loving son,

Lieutenant Edmund Holyfen, with the Troop of Capt. Oliver Cromwell, Worcestershire.

To Jane Holyfen, the High-Street, Huntingdon