Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (4 page)

‘Well and truly, sir. Old Seek Wisdom’s ranting at ’em with every swig.’

Stryker offered a rueful smile. Seek Wisdom and Fear the Lord Gardner had joined the company as preacher shortly after the Battle of Stratton two months earlier. He was eccentric – some said insane – but Stryker liked him. He often wondered if his haranguing of the men was more for his own amusement than to save their mortal souls. ‘If he comes in here, you have my permission to shoot him.’

‘Right you are, Captain,’ Skellen said, his face serious. ‘Beer here!’

‘As for Hood,’ Forrester said quietly, as Skellen dealt with the tapster, ‘it will get better, Stryker. He comes well recommended, and will do well for you. I’m told he is competent.’

‘That is not—’

‘It will get better!’ Forrester exclaimed suddenly, slapping Stryker between the shoulder blades. ‘And we will continue our glorious ways!’

‘Glorious?’ Stryker echoed bleakly. ‘How many died for this wretched place?’

‘You know it needed to be done as well as I, Stryker,’ Forrester said, wagging a reproachful finger. ‘We have the West.
Finally
, we have it. Now we shall surge into Parliament heartland and make a road of rebel bodies for Charlie to stroll across. All the way to the capital. Come now, old friend. They cannot beat us! The Prince has them running like frightened kittens, and we have swept all before us since Stratton, have we not?’

Stryker was unconvinced. ‘Aye, well, things change quickly in war, as well you know.’

‘No no no. The king’s name is a tower of strength, as the Bard would say! More victories await us, Stryker. The rebels scatter like mice, and we will catch them one at a time, if needs be. An army of tomcats!’ He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘And then you will have your way.’

‘Oh?’

‘Come now, old man, I’m no fool. You are London-bound, for that is where your heart lies.’

Skellen peered down at his captain. ‘She still there, sir?’

Stryker nodded. ‘Aye, the last I heard.’

Forrester chuckled. ‘Seething, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Stryker did not doubt it. He had been assigned to aid her. Had planned to travel direct to London in the earliest weeks of the summer. But the campaign in the west had shifted, become more dangerous, more bitter, more bloody. Priorities had changed, though he knew Lisette would not understand. ‘Her mission foundered when Hopton was wounded.’

‘Perhaps now you’ll be unleashed, eh?’ Forrester suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ Stryker agreed, and hoped his friend was correct. For that was truly where he wanted to be. London.

CHAPTER 2

London, 1 August 1643

Lisette Gaillard peered out from the depths of her heavy hood as the wherry rocked. It was a wide, stable boat, but one of her fellow passengers – a fat, shiny-faced man in a scarlet robe – could not seem to sit still for more than a matter of seconds without feeling the need to shift his huge rump. Thus the vessel lurched like a warship in a storm, great waves of brown Thames water slopping over the bows to dampen shoes and spirits alike.

Lisette whispered a vicious oath beneath her breath, a silent hand snaking to the hilt of a dirk within the voluminous folds of the cloak, but she knew she could not challenge the plump fool. No one would recognize her here, of course, but London was still the capital of her enemies. Parliament’s headquarters, its heartland. The vipers’ nest. A knife-wielding Frenchwoman would not go unnoticed. She stifled a smile at the thought, nevertheless.

‘Blackfriars!’ the waterman called suddenly, lifting his oars from the river. He leant back to rest briefly while the vessel slid gently to its berth.

Lisette stared out across the water, scanning the shoreline for danger. There was none, and, as the wherry touched the submerged shore, she waited her turn while the rest of the passengers rose to alight. The fat man stood, a catastrophic motion that caused the boat to rock wildly, and she gripped the damp timbers to steady herself, but soon he was on the stairs, puffing and grunting his way up the slick wedges of cut stone. Lisette – last off – shuffled forwards. She lunged for a cold ring of iron that dangled from the dank staircase, letting it take her weight as she steadied herself, and twisted back to toss the waterman a coin. He nodded his thanks, wiped his long, glistening nose with a crusty sleeve, and pushed off towards Southwark. Lisette Gaillard watched him go, crossed herself beneath the concealing cloak, and scuttled quickly up Blackfriars Stairs to street level.

She moved swiftly, keen to keep out of the prying gaze of surly apprentices or Parliamentarian troops. They roamed the streets in these dangerous days, eager to spy out men – and women – who might say or do something that marked them as Royalist. Lisette was not unduly worried, for her training made her hard to track and harder to fight, but this was the very epicentre of the rebellion. The place where the enemy was strongest and most numerous. Plenty of Londoners would harbour sympathies for the king, she did not doubt, but those voices had been hushed, at least for now.

Moving up to a large stone building that had once been part of the old Dominican friary, Lisette made for an alley on its far side. She plunged into the narrow thoroughfare, thankful for its protective gloom, and scuttled its muddy course, skirting a stick-toting child terrorizing a small dog, a couple of large women squabbling over some trivial matter, and the outstretched legs of a prostrate drunk. And then she was in full daylight again, bathed in late summer sun, and enveloped by London’s chaos.

It was still early, yet already the city broiled with life. There were bustling shops and slant-walled homes, and squawking peddlers, barrow-boys, servants and well-to-do personages with their noses thrust up at the clouds. Piles of dung looked like small, steaming islands in the vast ocean that was the road, their stench stinging the eyes in the balmy heat. Above, and looming like God’s own sentinel, was the grand edifice of St Paul’s Cathedral, and Lisette made straight for it, glad that she might use the vast church to plot her course. She had been in this cursed place since June, but, preferring to spend much of her time amongst the less salubrious, and, by turns, less closely watched neighbourhoods on the Surrey side of the river, she still struggled to grasp the infuriatingly intricate web of London’s streets and alleys. Best, she had decided, to keep the city’s landmarks at the forefront of her mind. To travel directly south from Smithfield would take her to the safe house on Pie Corner, while aiming for the spires of the Tower would, regardless of the road she chose, ultimately lead to the little gilder’s premises beside Custom House that was used to pass messages between the king’s agents. St Paul’s, though, was the greatest marker of all, and she knew that keeping the big, squared-off tower to her left would guide her on to Carter Lane, which was where the latest rendezvous would take place.

Lisette saw Christopher Quigg long before he noticed her approach, and the fact irked her immediately. She could accept that some of the king’s agents had been thrust into this life without prior knowledge or training, but still their amateurish nature astonished her. Quigg was not the worst – not by a long stretch – but he remained an ill-judged conscript for the world of the spy. Nor, she reflected as Quigg loitered conspicuously beside a small pie-seller’s stall, was he a good choice if his recruiter had been aiming for one who might blend in with the folk on London’s busy streets. He was of average height and build, which, at least, was of benefit, but the rest of him left a great deal to be desired. His face had been ravaged by smallpox, the skin pitted so deeply it was as if an army of mice had feasted on his cheeks, chin and neck. His teeth were all but rotted away, leaving empty discoloured gums with which to chew, and his nose was severely canted to one side. But most startling of all were his eyes. They positively bulged. Great chestnut and white orbs, shot through with fine tentacles of livid scarlet, seemingly exploding from his pitted forehead as though there were simply no room in his skull.

Quigg finally spotted Lisette when she was half a dozen paces away, and hailed her heartily. She walked straight past, leaving the bulbous eyes to strain in her wake, wet lips flapping mutely. Eventually she ducked into an alley, turned, and doubled back, reaching the bewildered spy before he could speak. The knife she held beneath her sleeve was pressed firmly at Quigg’s side.

‘Hush your breath or you will feel it leak between your ribs.’

Quigg winced, blinked like a great toad and nodded. ‘My apologies, mademoiselle,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘It is all rather new to me, truth told.’

She removed the blade and cast him a withering gaze. ‘Let us go somewhere more private to speak.’

Quigg nodded again, though she had already walked away.

They reconvened beside a cartload of purple plums. The heady smell – earthy but sweet – filled the space all around, lingering in the warm breezeless air and overcoming some of the Thames’ stench of putrefaction.

Lisette Gaillard breathed deeply, letting the plums take her back to France. How strange it was that the place could invoke such longing. Normandy had been the scene of so much horror for her, such grief, that at one time she had vowed never to return. Yet here she was, revelling in memories conjured by overripe fruit.

‘Mademoiselle?’ Quigg asked tentatively.

Lisette waved him away. ‘No matter. I have been here all summer with no success. I grow frustrated.’ Stepping close to whisper, she leaned in, all the while raking her gaze along the road for signs of trouble. ‘I did not wish to threaten you before, Monsieur Quigg. But, you understand, a Frenchwoman in London brings suspicion, for she may be
Papiste
.’

Quigg nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘A woman alone in London earns the suspicion of the Puritans, for they accuse her of harlotry.’

He nodded again.

‘And a woman in a heavy cowl, bearing concealed weapons, earns the suspicion of the Roundheads, for she may be an enemy of their cursed Parliament.’

Quigg swallowed nervously, big eyes darting to the floor. ‘I shall be more discreet in future.’

‘
Bon
!’ Lisette flashing her sweetest smile. ‘If not, I will slice off your stones and toss them in the Thames.’ She watched Quigg’s face, gnarled as the apples in the cart, convulse briefly before continuing. ‘Now, I understand she has been moved.’

‘Just so,’ Quigg chirped, clearly relieved to have the subject turn to business.

Lisette swore harshly. ‘I have been gone three weeks. Three goddamned weeks, and they move her.’

‘Beg pardon, madame, but might you have been meeting your friend?’

‘Friend?’

‘The one you said was coming. The captain. Strider, was it? Strifer?’

Lisette tensed at the name. She gritted her teeth. ‘Stryker. No, he has not come.’

Quigg’s insect eyes widened further. ‘But I thought he was coming to help us. To rescue the girl.’

Lisette felt her cheeks flush, and hated herself for it. ‘Well, he is not.’

Quigg looked at his boots again. ‘A shame.’

‘Indeed. Forget Stryker. I have.’

‘Then why no contact? I thought you might be dead. Caught out by some enemy patrol.’

‘An ague,’ Lisette said simply, though in truth the sickness had laid her very low. There had been moments as she sweated on her palliasse in the Surrey safe house, digging desperate fingernails into her griping guts, when she had expected to expire with her very next breath.

‘You are recovered?’ Quigg asked.

‘
Oui
.’ She grasped Quigg’s sleeve suddenly. ‘Where did they take the girl?’

‘Some old monastic building up beyond Moor Fields.’

‘Certain?’

Quigg nodded firmly. ‘I watched ’em leave. Followed the lot of them up through Cripplegate with me own eyes.’

And what eyes, thought Lisette. ‘The lot of them? How many?’

‘The girl, obviously,’ Quigg replied, gnawing the inside of his mouth as he spoke. ‘That pasty-faced colonel . . .’

‘He’s a general,’ Lisette corrected.

‘And a score o’ soldiers in black coats. Seems a lot of steel for one lass.’

Lisette ignored him. Quigg did not need to know the identity of the girl. ‘But why? Why move her now?’

Quigg shrugged. ‘Getting twitchy, I reckon.’

Lisette frowned at the unfamiliar word. ‘
Twitchy
?’

Quigg reached back into the cart, plucking a plum from the heap and sending others tumbling in a purple avalanche. He bit into it, wincing as the tart juices hit his tongue. Before taking a second bite, he looked down at Lisette. ‘There’s been a lot o’ bad news for Parliament coming out of the West Country. Heavy defeats, ’specially at the hands of the Cornish, who they seem to fear beyond all logic. And William the Conqueror’s army smashed over at Devizes. Now Bristol’s fallen, by all accounts.’

‘I heard as much,’ Lisette said. She kept her expression blank, but her heart was racing. Bristol. That was where he had last been. She and Stryker had not spoken directly for weeks, but her contacts within the Royalist intelligence network provided reasonably accurate information as to his whereabouts whenever she made the request. He had been with Hopton’s army in the west since April, chasing the rebels from Cornwall and Devon into Somerset, Wiltshire and beyond. The battles of Stratton, Lansdown and Roundway had, by all accounts, been bloody affairs, and she had thanked the Holy Mother for Stryker’s continued survival. But Bristol was different. Rumours had reached the capital. Rumours that whispered of fire and carnage on a new scale. Even now, it was said, the tattered and humiliated Parliamentarian garrison were on their way back to London, hounded and mocked by the country folk along the way, losing men by the hour to the twin enemies of gangrene and camp fever. A sudden pang stabbed at her guts. Maybe Stryker had been one of those to fall in Bristol’s narrow streets, stripped naked and stacked with the rest of the corpses to turn black in the summer sun. The image brought cold dread to her mind, and she shuddered involuntarily. She forced the feeling away. God damn Stryker. He had abandoned her, left her here to face this cursed city. He had broken his word.