Dear Mother,

It is past midnight, and I write to tell you that by the time you receive this letter, we may well have joined battle with the King and the issue of this War decided.

It happened that Capt Cromwell, with myself, came in possession of near-certain knowledge that the King is nearby, and that there are Traitors among our army.

Capt-General Essex has called for a general muster at Kineton, about a half-day’s ride before us, to gather the Army so strung out along these sodden Ruts of roads.

Col Hampden has ordered our Troop to ride swift to Essex with this Intelligence, even as he gathers the best of the Foot and the Artillery-train, and follows as quick as the roads and weary men will bear.

Mother, battle is near, blood will be spilled in England, with much grief, but which may bring a Resolution to these Troubles, and allow my return home. Please remember me in your prayers, as you are constantly in mine; and please give my greetings to Father, and to Anne.

Edmund

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.

Dear Mother,

I had a letter from Father a week or so ago (it reached me today, being addressed to my house in London, where it sat before Mrs Beale sent on to me here); I guess by this time he has sent one to you, it being his his usual practice. I would ask you to disregard. It's my understanding from Kilmister there is no need or want in that shambles Father calls his household (almost would be better if the Monks still resided there); it being near mid-month, he is very likely again at the point of needing to ration his wine; reduction of his daily tippling from six bottles to four always triggers these dramaticall effusions. Pray do not advance him so much as a penny. If he should again see ghosts and illusions, and his shouts wake the fear of Black Shuck in every soul across the Fen, he should reflect on his own intemperance, not the neglect of you or I.