Read Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles Online
Authors: Michael Arnold
Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles
Also by Michael Arnold
Traitor’s Blood
Devil’s Charge
Hunter’s Rage
Assassin’s Reign
Michael Arnold
JOHN MURRAY
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © Michael Arnold 2013
The right of Michael Arnold to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Maps drawn by Rosie Collins
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84854-758-2
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For my niece, Bethany Gunn
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
The Bath road, east of Bristol, 26 July 1643
Jonas Crick cursed softly as his shoe snagged on a raised root.
He glanced down instinctively, and then he glanced back along the road. It was empty, save for the phalanxes of trees standing on either side of the thoroughfare, and the darkness was so impenetrable, it was fit only for thieves.
Crick allowed himself a small smirk. ‘Lost you, you fat old bastard.’
And then a crack, like a muffled pistol. No: a snap. A branch under foot.
Crick’s pulse quickened. He swallowed back a jet of throat-singeing bile, and shrank into the darkest part of the road’s edge. He opened his eyes wider to draw in any chink of light that might be had, feeling the sting of the cool air. But nothing emerged from the gloom. No winged demon or fanged ghoul. No creeping enemy with sharpened blade and blackened heart. Only stillness. Enveloping, suffocating stillness. He glanced up through the heavy canopy above, catching the movement of clouds as they scudded in vast, charcoal smears across the night sky. There seemed to be no moon at all.
Another sound sent manic prickles racing across Crick’s skin. He tensed, willing himself to become one of the trees, until with a rush of relief he realized that it was just the hoot of an owl. He let out a huge breath as he stepped back out on to the road and swore harshly, thumping a thigh with his balled fist.
The blow when it came was not heavy, but sharp, precise. Even as the pain settled between his shoulder blades, he could sense the power leaching from his limbs. He lurched forward wordlessly, a dull ache spreading through his body as the sound of drums began to thrum in his skull. Staggering sideways suddenly, he managed to turn to face his assailant. What little breath he had caught in his throat.
‘Hello, Jonas,’ the man’s voice said evenly. ‘Or should I say Judas?’
‘We have failed,’ Crick managed to murmur, the words sounding eerily distant to his own ears. ‘Bristol has fallen. It is over.’
The big man grunted his amusement. ‘No, Jonas. The plan has not failed. It is merely altered. We shall await his next move.’ The dark shape of his shoulders bunched as he shrugged. ‘Perhaps Gloucester? Or even London? An opportunity will present itself, be sure of that.’ He chuckled deeply, and the sound seemed to reverberate in the darkness. ‘But you shall never know of it. A shame.’
Jonas Crick stared up at the large form looming like a cliff face before him. He made to respond, but his mouth simply flapped open and shut like a landed trout, no words reaching his lips. A dread cold trickled down his spine, spreading out like icy talons to coil about his arms and legs. His face was suddenly numb. And then he was falling.
CHAPTER 1
Lawford’s Gate, Bristol, 27 July 1643
Dawn was only a few minutes old when the scarred and battered gates groaned open.
A single face peered out from behind the studded oaken barrier, like a mouse venturing from its hole, nose tilted up as if to sniff the sulphurous air, eyes wide and alert. It was the face of what had once been a young man, now turned black and haggard by a night spent in hell. A night illuminated by fire and the dragon-breath flashes of musketry and ordnance, its silence shattered by the screams of the wounded and the sobs of the dying.
Gradually, the head grew a neck, shoulders and torso. The buff-coated body – dressed in what had once been the finest quality – was as black as the face, caked in the grime of powder smoke and sweat. The man edged further out until his shabby form was free of the gate’s protection.
And the noise began.
It started as a low thrum, like a distant thunderclap bounced among the dark Mendips that loomed to the south. But far from fading, this thunder grew, gathered power, hostility, until it shook the pockmarked walls and charred timbers of Bristol as though some gigantic beast had been sent by God Himself to devour the city.
The man at the gate winced and shrank back. His ears still rang as though crammed with chiming church bells, but now they were overwhelmed by the collective voices of his enemies. They were the voices of demons, laughing, jeering, grotesque. Tones made hoarse by a night screaming their Cornish war cries into air clogged with black powder and roiling smoke. And now, as the streets still stank of rotten eggs and burning timber, those Cornishmen – finally victorious with the surrender of these last desperate rebels – craned from windows and doorways, spilled from the mouths of narrow alleys and lined the muddy streets, all determined to give the departing rebels the farewell they felt was so richly deserved.
The man whispered a short prayer, took a deep breath, straightened the dishevelled tawny scarf at his waist, and peered back over his shoulder. Beyond, within Bristol’s beleaguered inner sanctum, massed ranks of pale, moon-eyed faces clustered together like a vast flock of sheep. He tried to meet as many of the frightened stares as he could, and injected his tone with a bravado he did not feel. ‘Steady now. Do not let the dogs smell your fear.’
‘Colonel Fiennes, sir.’
Fiennes looked to his left, where a hollow-cheeked junior officer clutched his horse’s reins in a trembling fist. He took the leather straps and forced a smile. ‘Thank you, Masterson.’ He glanced back at the exhausted defenders. Soldiers and townsfolk together; not just men, but women and children too. His people. They had been finally overwhelmed, pushed back into this last enclave until there was nowhere left to make a stand. There had been no other choice in the end, and he thanked God for giving him the wisdom to spare their lives. It did not have to end in slaughter. This was not Germany. He swallowed hard, suddenly wondering if Westminster would see it that way.
And then he gave a curt order for the gate to be thrust wide, a final gaping breach the Royalists had failed to make themselves, and the defenders surged forth, abandoning the town they had held at such a high cost.
Colonel Nathaniel Fiennes, Parliamentarian governor of England’s second largest city, clambered up on to his creaking saddle, and urged his whickering mount into the muddy street, hot tears pricking his eyes.
The lieutenant weaved along the street for twenty jelly-kneed paces, shouldering his way through the baying mob, cannoning from surly musketeer to glowering pikeman like a saker ball fired down a narrow alley, until he spied a sturdy-looking water trough. He staggered to it quickly, studying his feet to keep from tripping, slumped against the cold stone, and vomited. For a moment the nearest soldiers, dressed in an array of coat colours that reflected the eclectic nature of the king’s army, turned harsh glares towards him, ready to damn his eyes – or worse – as the acidic stench singed their nostrils, but quickly turned away as they recognized him as an officer. The lieutenant did not care, for sweet relief had come with the violent evacuation of his stomach.
‘Praise God and Jesus and everyone else,’ he hissed through sore throat and gasped breaths. ‘Praise God indeed.’ He wiped a dangling tendril of mucus from the end of his long nose and straightened tentatively, still propped by an elbow against the trough, and peered between the shoulders and heads of the crowd. The throng was convulsing now, lurching forward as if with one mind as the defeated Roundheads marched sullenly past. A hail of insults, threats, spittle, stones and mud greeted them, a final gauntlet for the trudging enemy to run. Penance for their collective treason.
Gulping down another jet of bile, the lieutenant managed to straighten, determined to witness the end of Parliamentarian resistance in this grand old city. The head of the column was made up of officers, all mounted and straight-spined, though each with an expression as black as Bristol’s walls. The lieutenant had never seen any of these men in the flesh, but he knew their names right enough. It would be Colonel Fiennes at the very front, with his brother, John at his side. Popham would be there too, flanked by the brightest lights of the bloodied garrison. Brave souls all, followed by the exhausted ranks of fighting men, and many women too, sooty faces flashing between the clamouring bodies of the lieutenant’s own army. Despite himself, the lieutenant felt a pang of respect for these crestfallen people. They had been beaten, it was true, but the cost to the king’s army had been huge. Even now, a day following the truce, the dead of both sides were still being retrieved from streets and houses.