Wounded men were crawling; dead ones lay on the ground. Kinchin's mother emerged from cover. Flinging her ragged shawl back over her shoulders, she grabbed her daughter's arm and headed for these casualties. The two women hovered cautiously, then grew bolder. Her mother poked the dead to see if that produced any movement, then eagerly began to strip them. She had a rusty knife, which she plunged into her victims, rather than take chances. It was the first time the Tews had plundered like this, but they needed no lessons. Boots, hats, breastplates, jackets, belts and shirts were swiftly peeled from the bodies. Weapons, purses, finger rings, handkerchiefs, medallions, gloves, sashes and riding hose all followed. Kinchin and her mother worked fast and in silence, not stopping to waste time on cries of delight. Before her mother stripped off britches and coats, the girl's small fingers dug deep into pockets, knowing that gentlemen's pockets would probably have three interior divisions, and that she must not miss the smallest, which might be fastened with a button. Their gleanings were rushed away into the woods by other Tews who came running for armfuls of fine clothes and fistfuls of jewellery. One of the boys collected guns and bullets in a cloak, tied up the corners and dragged it away.
An elderly cavalier, heavily built and extremely well dressed, was seriously wounded in the head. Kinchin had ransacked his pockets, unaware that he was still alive until he groaned while her mother was dragging off his bloodied brocade britches. Kinchin jumped back in alarm. After landing a hard kick on the man's bare legs, her mother carried away his expensive suit in triumph. Kinchin lost her nerve. She moved away but later, after the rest of her family burrowed back into the woods to inspect their pickings, she went alone and squatted close to the old man, waiting for night and the cold to finish him off. She wanted his embroidered shirt. Kinchin had always been methodical, and very patient in her scavenging.
Stabbing him dead was beyond her. She had no knife anyway, though she wanted to do it. The Royalist was an aristocrat, like Sir Thomas Holte of Aston. Kinchin hated all his kind. So she crouched in silence, guarding her prey like a fox staring at a chicken house, until she could complete her search. She thought the man knew she was there. She thought he must know why.
As dusk fell, a new group of horsemen approached at a canter, thwarting her. Men dismounted and, looking over their shoulders in case of attack, they began hastily inspecting the now naked bodies. Kinchin Tew clung on there, but eventually a young red-haired cavalier came to the old man. She had lost her chance.
'Denbigh is over here — still breathing! Damme, he's been stripped; can somebody cover him? We must keep him warm. What are you up to, young savage?' Treves demanded of Kinchin sharply. His light blue eyes had summed up her filthy condition and her watchfulness. Suspicious, he dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder.
'I saw he was alive, sir. I wanted to help him.' Flagrantly pretending innocence, Kinchin in turn assessed this young fellow, a sharp-featured carrot-top who sounded too full of confidence. He lost interest in her, and was examining the earl's bloody head wounds, wincing. She eyed Edmund's clothes, which were plainer than those her family had dragged off to the woods, but still worth selling… He had too many men with him to risk it.
'Did you see who looted these bodies?'
'No, sir.'
'This is an important lord, a favourite of Prince Rupert's.' With a grunt of exertion, Treves was helping another man lift and put the badly injured earl over a horse's back. 'He needs attention urgently. Is there a surgeon in Birmingham?'
Reluctantly Kinchin nodded. 'Come up on Faddle.' Moments later, Treves had hoisted her up behind him on his own horse, where she clung on to his wide leather belt as he sped back into town. Adapting rapidly, she soon relaxed, as if riding on horseback behind Royalist gentlemen was her natural mode of travel. Her bare feet bounced against Faddle's hot flank and she now held Edmund round the waist with one skinny bare arm, fully confident she would not fall off.
As they rode into Birmingham, Kinchin squealed at what she saw. Cavaliers were breaking into all the houses. They were frightening the poor, threatening the rich, picking pockets and cursing, some in strange languages. Quartermasters pretended to arrange billets, an excuse for blackmail and bullying. Men were crashing about as they searched for concealed treasure or weapons — peering down wells and into pools, smashing roof tiles, running crazily through gardens. Carts and market trolleys were being piled high with stolen goods. A smell of smoke, different smoke from the normal hearth and forge fires, hung ominously in the damp April air.
Kinchin guided Treves to the surgeon's house and was put down to knock, but a maid came out looking flustered. The girl informed them that Mr Tillam had himself been shot, very seriously in the leg and thigh, as he stood at his house door, wanting to welcome the cavaliers. He was a Royalist supporter — or had been.
The surgeon's maid shot Kinchin a look of amazement. 'Get out of the road, Kinchin Tew, or the mad devils will shoot you too! I'm for hiding in the attic, me.'
Kinchin felt very frightened. Darkness had fallen. There was more noise than she ever remembered in Birmingham; the strange hubbub was clearly hazardous. Evening was for scavengers, but the Tews had lost their rights in Birmingham tonight. Louder, stronger, wickeder men had taken over.
After a brief debate with his fellow soldiers, Treves opted to carry the injured earl to the prince's headquarters; Rupert had bedded in at the Ship Inn. 'Where can I take you, mistress?' he enquired of Kinchin politely, leaning down from Faddle. The barefoot girl was still standing in the street, wondering what to do next. Having brought her as his guide, Edmund felt concerned; he knew what was likely to happen in this town tonight. But Denbigh was fading, so he was in a hurry.
Kinchin thought Treves was jesting. He must see her grimy condition. His genuine gallantry impressed her, however. She considered him an innocent; she even thought him stupid — yet she felt touched.
Her predicament was awkward. She could not ask to be taken back to her family, hiding up in the woods with their plunder. Instead, she assured Treves she had friends nearby. She convinced the cavalier the Swan Inn was a place of safety. So Kinchin watched her red-haired gallant move off through the chaos towards the Ship, where the prince was. She felt a sense of loss, and almost wished she had stayed with Treves, riding high on Faddle, to see out her adventure.
As soon as she was left alone, Kinchin panicked. Gunsmoke and the stench of burned houses made the air close. Many more soldiers were noisily pouring into town; they must have come up from Henley-in-Arden during the afternoon. All around her were sounds of assault.
Birmingham would normally be dark and still at this hour, with only a warm hum from tavern interiors; now it seemed alive with violence. Breaking window glass crashed and splintered. Men's harsh voices bellowed and swore. Women screamed. A group of prisoners were marched up to the Bull Ring, jostled and bullied by cavaliers who intended their racket to be heard and feared. Kinchin watched them searching the prisoners for money, amid threats and demands for large ransoms.
Nervously, she crept into the Swan's small courtyard, relieved that this dim area seemed comparatively quiet. A lantern swung beside the taproom. The door stood closed against the evening chill. A streak of faint light came from the stables. It was oddly still. She missed the normal buzz from regular drinkers. Even so, nothing seemed too badly amiss in those first moments.
Horses clattered up suddenly. As riders burst through the gateway, Kinchin froze. Alert for new customers, Thomas threw open a stable door and emerged from the warm stalls as he always did, ready to take the horses. He limped forwards obligingly, one hand outstretched to gather bridles, a smile of welcome blossoming.
Pistols shot. The ostler fell to the cobbles. Three cavaliers trotted right over him, and dismounted. They shouldered open the taproom door and entered, calling loudly for ale. None glanced back.
The flurry of noise over, there was silence. Kinchin stared. Thomas lay face down in the dark yard, one arm still outstretched. He must be dead. Who would do that? Why do it? He was not a threat. He was only doing his duty, coming to take their horses.
A new Royalist rode in. In a terrible miscalculation Kinchin believed this man brought help. Hard eyes took in the dead ostler, the dark pool of blood around Thomas, and the shaking girl. He levelled a gun. She had made a mistake.
He was covering her with the carbine. Faint light from the stable fell across him. Kinchin would never lose that image: the man ready to kill her, the huge horse, the filled moneybags tied to the saddlebow, the heavy spurred riding boots, the aimed gun in his gloved hand — and the reckless tilt to his curling brimmed black hat, with its bright turquoise band.
He chose not to shoot. The day was ending; he wanted rest and ale.
She felt the hot breath of his high-spirited horse as the rider pressed forwards to the taproom, then she clutched up her skirts, passed by him and ran like a rat, sliding out of the Swan gate in one long speechless streak,
