Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (10 page)

‘It was all of us,’ agreed Stryker.

‘Not to worry though, eh?’ Captain Forrester spoke merrily. ‘If the war drags on too long, young Burton,’ he said with a wolfish grin on his round red face, ‘we shall eat you.’

The wood had proved to be an excellent resting spot. A fire had been lit, which was a risk, but Stryker wagered that the mass of branches would shield them from the enemy.

Stryker slumped on to the mushy leaves of the forest floor and sighed with pleasure as the first flickers of life sprang up from the fire. He looked across to his companions as the whickering of horses behind them mingled with the men’s chatter, the banging cooking tins and the sharpening of knives.

A stew of wild mushrooms and rabbit, shot by Skellen that morning, was soon cooked up.

As the men ate and talked and laughed, Stryker delved inside his coat and withdrew a folded piece of worn parchment. He followed the lines and contours of the land on the map spread before him. There was a long way to go, and he did not know what lay ahead. They could all be dead tomorrow. Damn Saxby. And damn the earl. And damn the prince, for that matter. A pox on the lot of them. They viewed him as a tool, a weapon to wield when they saw fit, and he was certain none would lose any sleep over the perils he and his men might face.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ said Skellen. ‘Just wondered ’pon our route for this afternoon and tomorrow.’

‘More of the same,’ replied Stryker. ‘Push south, avoiding the larger towns. We cannot be invisible, so we’ll aim to be fast.
If we’re accosted by our own side, I have the prince’s letter.’ He patted the side of his doublet where, sown into the inner lining, the parchment was concealed.

‘And if we run into the enemy?’ Skellen asked.

Forrester smiled. ‘We ride like blazes in the opposite direction!’

By early evening they reached the brow of a low hill. As they crossed the crest, Forrester pointed to a community below. It was nothing but a little hamlet, wisps of smoke and ramshackle roofs marking its unassuming presence in the rolling countryside. They drew up their mounts to survey the scene, scouring building, tree and shrub for signs of enemy activity.

‘Doesn’t look too threatening, eh?’ Forrester said as he moved alongside his friend.

On Stryker’s order the company set off at a canter. They all knew their captain’s mind; the village would make an ideal billet for the night.

It took another hour to reach the outskirts of the hamlet. The track they had followed had opened out into a clearing, presumably a place to graze livestock, beyond which a wide ring of gorse hedge barred their way, cutting left to right in front of them. As they searched for the hedgerow’s limits, it became clear that the gorse was, in fact, a huge ring, encircling the village.

‘A natural rampart,’ Stryker said appreciatively. It was not a solid hedge, for there were plenty of gaps between the clumps of thorny foliage, but it remained a formidable defensive position.

‘Wouldn’t stop this,’ Skellen replied, tapping his musket’s wooden stock.

‘Stop cavalry though,’ Forrester said.

The first homes were erected on the far side of the hedge. As they entered the clearing the horsemen were tense and watchful. They could not prime matchlock muskets in the saddle, but their carbines were cocked, and swords were scraped in and out of scabbards in an effort to ensure they would not become stuck at a crucial moment.

With weapons trained on various points within the village, Stryker urged Vos into a trot and advanced beyond the first homes on to a small sliver of mud at the centre of the buildings, which he took to be the village green. No one came to greet him, and no shots rang out to fell him. He wrenched his body left and right, acutely aware of his blind left side, scanning doorways, pigsties and frozen water troughs for hostile activity. He felt a trickle of nervousness as he moved, the squelching of hooves unnaturally loud in the silence. He was confident of the men that covered his progress. Confident that an enemy would be put down in short order. But all it took was a single ball and Stryker’s world would be over. At length a creaking sound broke the eerie still of the green. It was the complaint of rusty hinges.

Stryker wheeled Vos round, levelling his carbine in one smooth motion, ready to put a ball through any potential ambusher. The index finger of his right hand curled about the trigger. Most men closed their left eye when they took aim, but Stryker’s lone right eye simply gazed down the short barrel like it was casually watching a bird take flight. And in front of that barrel, through the open doorway, came a man.

He was a tall fellow, dressed in plain brown breeches and a linen shirt. His neat beard and thinning hair were an iron grey. He approached Stryker slowly, hands raised in peace, though his bearing was one of authority.

Stryker saw the man was unarmed, and slowly lowered his weapon. ‘Who are you?’ he called.

The man, about ten paces away now, attempted a friendly smile, though his tension was evident. ‘Thomas Archer,’ he said. ‘I am elder in this village.’

‘Captain Stryker, Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot, His Majesty’s army.’

‘God be praised,’ said the elder.

It was barely a body. The limbs were twisted and the clothes were all gone. It was not a great deal more than a mound of decomposing flesh, abandoned in the sodden scrub at the road’s edge.

‘A man, that was.’ Sergeant Malachi Bain had inspected the corpse with professional disinterestedness. ‘Took a ball in his chest.’

Makepeace was standing with the horses some ten paces away, nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘And they stripped him?’

Bain nodded. ‘V-very thorough job.’ He glanced up. ‘Bandits, probably.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Every man, woman and child we have passed has skulked away from us like we had the plague.’ He jerked his chin toward the cadaver. ‘That is why. This poor bugger might have been robbed by bandits, certainly, but he might equally have been attacked by troops.’

Eli Makepeace had been a soldier for a long time, and he could feel the fear on the roads, in the fields, and in the towns. Folk did not know friend from foe. They could not trust their own kin.

‘Oh, Lord God, I beseech you. Forgive us. We, your unworthy subjects, sinners to a man, have betrayed you most heinously. We quarrel among ourselves. We lose sight of your true teachings. England has turned upon herself. She will tumble into the depths of hell. Do not let this happen, Lord God. Protect us from ourselves. Give our king the valour and fortitude to lead us—’

Father Benjamin Laney, kneeling before the altar of St Peter’s church, was startled from his prayers by the echoing creak of the monstrous wooden door. The priest turned his head of scanty red hair and squinted towards the featureless silhouette that stood like a carved statue in the elaborate nave. Gargoyles, saints and sinners writhed on cold walls as the candlelight, worried
by the sudden rush of night air, breathed life into their carved expressions.

As the priest struggled to his feet in order to gain a better view of the newcomer, the great door swung shut, putting him in mind of the stone that protected Christ’s tomb. A chill traced its way along Benjamin’s spine, and it took every ounce of his faith not to turn and run.

The hooded figure moved. It paced forward along the nave with purpose, and Benjamin prayed again.

When the figure was no more than an arm’s length away it stopped, and Father Benjamin frowned, for his nostrils were filled with a raw stench. The creature may have been a denizen of the netherworld, but its odour was decidedly earthly. It stank of leather, sweat and horse flesh.

‘Good evening, Father.’

Father Benjamin’s jaw dropped in surprise. The voice was a woman’s.

‘You startled me,’ the father chided while they made their way to the back of the church.

‘My apologies, Father.’ Lisette said.

‘No matter. I am glad to see you again, my child. I never tire of hearing your beautiful accent.’

‘I have news.’

He glanced at her sharply. ‘The queen?’

Lisette shook her head. ‘The queen is well, Father. Raising funds abroad. She sends her regards.’

‘God be praised,’ the priest said. ‘It is many a year since I followed an assignment for Her Majesty, but I am flattered she might think of me.’ He studied Lisette’s face. ‘And yet here you are. The queen’s favourite agent, and my old comrade. I imagine you have not made the journey to Petersfield in order to recant your Catholicism?’

Lisette smiled. ‘No.’

‘Then?’

‘Something very important was stolen from the queen.

Snatched by a traitor in the royal household. A strongbox. I was sent to England to recover it.’

When they reached the priest’s private chambers at the far end of the church, Lisette described her final conversation with Kesley, omitting only the bloody ending. ‘Old Winchester Hill. Where is it, Father?’

Father Benjamin wrinkled his nose as he considered the question. ‘It’s an old fortress. Very old. West of here.’ The priest frowned. ‘You sought this colonel . . . Kesley out?’

She nodded. ‘Aye. Colonel John Kesley. He did not know what was in the box, only that its value to Parliament was mighty. His part in the theft was to find an appropriate place for the strongbox to be held while a buyer was found. I made him . . . he told me the cities were too dangerous to hold such a valuable item, and that the rebel high command had wanted it moved south, near Portsmouth, so that it could quickly be transferred to a ship and carried overseas.’

Benjamin shuddered. ‘Please do not burden my conscience with the detail of your work. Against all probability, I will tell myself he spoke without duress.’

‘As you wish, Father.’ She regarded him with an expression of flint.

‘The location he gave you was Old Winchester Hill.’

‘Aye, buried there. At its summit.’

‘And Kesley told you it lay in the downland near Petersfield,’ the priest completed the thought. ‘Yet you come to me, why?’

‘You are the nearest of the queen’s agents. And I know you are as committed to the Royalist cause as I am, even if you are a heretic.’

Father Benjamin held up a firm hand. ‘Please,
mademoiselle
Lisette. Let us not debate theology tonight. We work for the same king.’

Lisette’s upper lip wrinkled. ‘No. I work for his queen. Henrietta Maria.’

Benjamin sighed. ‘No matter. I will help you, Lisette, but not if I am to be blind. Tell me what bounty the strongbox holds.’

The Frenchwoman narrowed her eyes. ‘I will tell you. But if you betray me, Father, I will slice off your balls and feed them to my horse.’

Benjamin swallowed hard. ‘I do not doubt it.’

‘It is a ruby. A wondrous thing the queen will sell to one of the great monarchs of Europe. She will buy an army for the king with it.’

Benjamin pursed his lips. ‘What gem, no matter how wondrous, can be worth the price of an army?’

‘I know not, nor do I care to ask questions,’ Lisette replied. ‘I have my orders, and I will fulfil them or die in the attempt.’

Benjamin turned away suddenly. ‘Wait here a moment.’

Lisette thought of the strongbox as she watched Father Benjamin disappear into the antechamber at the rear of the small room. It did not contain only a ruby. The queen had spoken of other trinkets. A brooch, a small posy ring and an old letter were all kept within the locked walls of the box. None carried any particular monetary value, but they were all of sentimental worth to Henrietta. It seemed to Lisette that the queen wanted them back as much as she wanted the gem. It did not matter. She was charged with the box’s safe return, and that was enough.

‘Where are the others?’ Father Benjamin was saying as he emerged from the antechamber clutching a tightly bound scroll. ‘The queen would not have sent you alone.’

‘Dead,’ Lisette replied.

Father Benjamin’s copper eyes widened. He swallowed hard and scratched at the wisps of hair covering his shining pate. ‘You were discovered?’

‘Be at ease, Father,’ Lisette said, noticing his fingers tremble a touch. ‘There was a brawl in a tavern overlooking the Thames. Before we could intervene, Jerome had been knifed in the guts.’