The Smallest Man by Frances Quinn

Author:Frances Quinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2021-01-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-one

With what I’d overheard, it was easy to pinpoint where the Parliamentarians intended to attack. While the queen’s party stayed, well guarded, in camp, Lord Newcastle took a contingent of our troops to ambush theirs at the very place they’d expected to ambush us. They came back whooping and hollering in triumph: they’d caught the other side completely by surprise, thanks to the same dense woodlands Sarenbrant’s men had been planning to hide in. The soldiers Sarenbrant had expected to pick off the queen’s guards one by one had got picked off themselves, and they’d got a good proportion of the ones that came behind them too.

‘To our secret weapon,’ said Lord Newcastle, the old hypocrite, as he raised his tankard to me that night. As always, the queen insisted we eat outside, sitting round a fire just as the soldiers did. Extra rations of ale had been given out to celebrate the victory, and through the haze of woodsmoke came periodic cheers, as the circles of men round their fires recounted the events of the day.

‘They must be cursing now, trying to work out how we knew,’ said Henry. ‘Here’s to Nat Davy, the queen’s spy.’

When dinner was over, the queen said she had an an-nouncement to make. Henry nudged me: ‘Wait till you hear this.’

Thanks to me, she said, we’d been able not just to foil the kidnap plot, but do some real damage to the other side.

‘You showed true courage, Nathaniel, and it deserves to be recognised.’

Lord Newcastle nodded.

‘Very well deserved,’ he said.

My heart thumped. They’d realised I could be useful. I didn’t dare hope I’d be assigned to a troop, but even if they let me ride along on a skirmish, that would…

‘I am appointing you Honorary Captain of Horse,’ she said. ‘With my thanks.’

It took me a moment to recognise the words. Honorary Captain of Horse. The same title the king had given their eldest son, nine-year-old Prince Charles, when the war began. I thanked her, of course, but as I looked around at the real soldiers who’d fought that day, I couldn’t feel proud of a made-up honour fit only for a child who would never see the field of battle. Other men proved themselves with strength and skill, but the only talent I’d shown was being small enough to fit into a potato sack. The soldiers cheered, but they weren’t cheering me as one of their own.

As we sat on into the night, celebrating the victory, I drank my share of the ale and sang my share of the songs, so the queen wouldn’t think I was ungrateful. But disappointment sat in my guts like a stone. And I kept thinking about the girl, Arabella. If anyone had shown courage it was her, and her mother: they’d seen what Major Sarenbrant was willing to do to anyone who so much as argued with him, yet they’d taken the risk, to save the queen. And we’d left them to it. Ever since I’d

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