>>5389666>>5389663>>5389655>>5389647>>5389649The horse must be the priority. They are the army's sword hand, if they remain then the rest can still fight, but once they've been destroyed you can chase the rest through the country at your leisure till their blood flows in every well in England. It is less dramatic, perhaps, but perhaps wiser.
You split off four troops of light horse, 200 men, under your brother Edmund, to chase the Parliamentary cavalry - it is green, and in disarray. If you can catch it, you can kill it - you send your brother off with a cry of godspeed, though your words are lost in the maelstrom of gunsmoke and horseflesh. What men remain to you are heavily outnumbered, and their lives balance on the edge of a blade - if you allow yourself to be surrounded, you'll be ground to mincemeat. If you stay still, you'll be shredded by the mass of musketfire. And so, you do neither. It is a difficult thing to convey orders in the midst of the fight, as your troops circle, weave, charge and withdraw, but you've a damn talented bugler, and the horn rings out louder than the crack of musketfire.
Your lifeguard hold the heart of your formation together, and with them to steady the rest you manage to retain something like good order. Your breath slows, and the rest of the battle, of the world, seems to fall away, as you yourself charge in, sabre raised. The back of the Parliamentary force is steadying, and it seems your attack has forced what cowards were among them to find the steel in themselves, stand and fight. Peals of pistol-fire from your light horse support ou in the charge - three times your armour glances off bullets that should have killed you, and three times you thank god for his mercy.
Your lifeguard charge in, swing their sabres into the packed mass of men, whirl around, and charge again. The troupes of light horse charge like mad saracens whenever they spot an opportunity - you've put fire in them, and your presence keeps them from panicking, even as men begin to fall in ever greater numbers. Marksmen, armed with better muskets and carbines, hit many men clean between the eyes and send them to god. A good many are skewered on pikes - you catch a heavy sabre-blow to the off-hand - you bleed through your white doeskin gloves, and you can barely feel your fingers, though they grip your reins iron tight.
You have the sense that your men cannot last much longer. There is so much blood. Horses wail in their dying. You cannot see your lifeguard.
>Roll, by the Grace of God; 1d6 and 1d20 