Dear Mr Holyfen,

I write in haste. Yesterday I accompanied Rupert on a Scouting expedition, and we discovered the army of Essex strung out on the roads between Stratford-on-Avon and Kineton, with the van (and I assume Essex himself) approaching that Village (and I presume there now, and also presume sleeping). Rupert implored the King, in a Council at midnight, to join battle; and the King has called for a general Muster of his army (quartered in Wormleighton, Copredy, Ratley, a few other Towns I don’t recall) on top of Edgehill, a very high hill about two miles from Kineton, which offers a clear Prospect of the entire valley into which Essex’s army must needs march. It’s from top of this Noble Mount that I write, as the keeper of Rupert’s reknowned Dog. He and the King and the rest of his so-called Court, including the Earl of Lindsay, with an expression of utter aggravated Martyrdom, like a Papist Statue, are fifteen feet from me, squinting through glasses toward Kineton, from which the smoke of Cook-fires seems to be rising.

It’s my sense the King shall soon lose the advantage of Surprise, his Army being slow to gather (it is now seven, I make it, and it appears the main part of the Horse shall not join us here for another three hours) and by that time, I am confident, Essex’s army in the Village should have stirred.

You’ll be amused to know, that on the Scouting expedition, Prince Rupert and I came across none other than your brother from America. He looks much like you, only more thin and nervous. He was in the company of a trooper and your uncle Capt Cromwell, who did not seem (as you once described him) “unhinged” but quite able and serious about the business, more so than most officers.

I am dispatching this by a Village boy who wandered up here to avoid his Chores and Observe the soldierly, to the Cat and String in Kineton, where it’s my hope you will one day find it.

William Firth