Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (11 page)

Lisette told the priest how she and her other companion, Cedric, had hauled the injured man to see the nearest
chirurgeon. While there, as the sawbones had poked and prodded at the writhing Jerome’s innards, they were approached by a soldier of the Westminster Trained Bands. He claimed to recognize the injured party; said he looked like one of the men who had guarded Whitehall Palace. One of the king’s men.

‘Jerome was skewered where he lay by that fucking militia bastard,’ Lisette said simply.

Benjamin’s mouth opened in horror, revealing small, yellowing teeth and long gums. ‘And Cedric?’ he managed to whisper. ‘I worked with him myself when I was sent to spy on Buckingham. He was a good man, Lisette.’

She nodded. ‘Aye. But being good does not keep you alive, Father. Cedric drew his blade in retaliation. Cut the Trained Band whoreson almost in two. But half a dozen of the soldier’s friends appeared. Cedric did not stand a chance.’

‘You escaped?’

‘No. Not really. They simply let me be.’ She shook her head at the memory.

Benjamin understood. ‘They did not take you for one of Cedric’s companions.’

‘Praise God. I played the bystander. The frightened woman. The bastards believed me.’

And then she was alone. It might have been easier to have taken ship back to her mistress in one piece, but Lisette Gaillard loved her queen, and would not give up without a fight.

‘I am sorry, my child,’ Benjamin said.

Lisette noticed the scroll Father Benjamin had retrieved from his antechamber. ‘What’s that?’

She followed Father Benjamin to a small table at the room’s centre, where the clergyman laid out the musty parchment. It was dark outside, and Lisette now noticed a flurry of snow shimmering in the moonlight as it fell, but the room’s guttering candles proved equal to the task of illuminating the varying shades of the map that she now studied.

‘My fair county, Lisette,’ Benjamin said, casting his bespectacled gaze across the intricate lines and minute text that detailed the geography of Hampshire. ‘We are here.’ He jabbed a brittle-looking finger at the word
Petersfield
, scrawled in an almost illegible hand. Moving the finger down and to the left, he rested it at an unmarked point near the map’s centre. ‘And here is Old Winchester Hill. Perhaps ten miles to the south and west of here.’

Benjamin straightened up. ‘But it is not a fort as you imagine, Lisette. It has ramparts, of course, but they are dug into the chalk hillside. The legacy of an ancient city.’ He met Lisette’s gaze levelly. ‘You will travel there?’

‘Of course.’

‘The road is treacherous, my child. Especially during this blizzard. Wait until dawn, I urge you.’

Lisette considered his plea. ‘Aye, I will. If I may rest here.’

‘You need not ask.’

Father Benjamin rolled the parchment into a scroll once more and fastened it with a string tie. He held it out to Lisette. ‘You will need this. The hill is up in the high downland. Not easy to find for someone unused to the area.’

Lisette stared back. ‘That is why you are coming with me, Father.’

Stryker’s eyes flickered open. He lay motionless for a moment, listening intently to the thunder that was shaking the new dawn.

It had rained during the night, and the men had been more than grateful for the room they now shared. Little more than a shed, leaning precariously against the gable-end of Archer’s house, it was cramped and dirty, but a godsend compared with a night under the winter stars. Stryker turned to his side and saw that William Skellen was also awake, staring at the ceiling’s damp timbers.

‘Hear that, sir?’ Skellen said. ‘Strange. Sky was clear when I went out for a piss an hour ago.’

Stryker listened, more keenly this time. ‘Shit.’ He sat bolt upright, startling the others awake as he did so. For outside the world was shaking again – but this time with the rumble of hooves.

Burton was nearest the rickety door, and despite having just awoken from deep sleep, he was alert enough to scramble out into the grey light. He scanned the horizon with squinting eyes while the others got to their feet. ‘Cavalry!’ he called. ‘They’re on the hill to the north. Coming down at a rate.’

‘Are they ours, sir?’ barked Skellen.

‘Can’t tell, Sergeant. But I doubt it. Don’t recognize the colour.’

‘How many?’ said Forrester, a sheen already adorning his red face.

‘A score at least.’

As Burton spoke, another man raced from the house’s main entrance to join them. It was Archer. ‘I am sorry!’ he cried, lungs gasping with his exertion, and with fear. ‘Please believe me, Captain.’

‘A trustworthy man?’ Stryker spat as he and his companions hurriedly collected up their weapons. ‘He was supposed to warn us, goddamn it!’

Archer was in a cold sweat, clearly fearing Stryker’s wrath as much as the approaching cavalry. ‘I beg forgiveness, sir. Marcus
is
trustworthy, upon my honour. He must have fallen asleep.’

Stryker fought to gain control of his temper. He had given the young farm-hand a shilling – more than a day’s pay for one of his pikemen – and expected to be woken as soon as soldiers were spotted.

‘I am mortified, sir, truly,’ Archer was saying.

Stryker did not have time to discuss the situation. He shouldered Archer aside, making for the rear of the lean-to where the horses were tethered.

‘
Jesu!
’ he exclaimed, as he reached Vos, remembering in a flash of annoyance that the beast was not saddled.

Forrester turned to him. ‘They’ll be here before we tack up.’

Stryker nodded and glanced at the others. ‘We have no choice. Put the horses in there,’ he ordered, indicating the lean-to.

‘There’s no room,’ Forrester argued. ‘They’ll kick each other to pieces!’

Stryker rounded on him, ‘You have a better idea?’

Forrester did not.

Stryker led Vos to the shed’s door, patting the stallion’s neck as the muscular beast obediently disappeared into the gloom. The others followed suit, though it was indeed a tight squeeze.

‘What now, sir?’ Burton asked anxiously. ‘We’re trapped.’

‘Have faith, Andrew,’ Stryker replied, and turned to Thomas Archer. ‘Time for you to make amends, Mister Archer.’

T
he troop cantered into the centre of the village; they were led by an officer mounted on a large bay. The men wore thick yellow hide coats extending over the thigh, and pristine back and breast armour that shimmered like pearls in the dawn; each wore a steel helmet with three vertical face protectors attached to a hinged peak. Heavy single-edged swords swung at their sides, slapping against leather boots.

Beside the leading officer rode the cornet. He bore the blue and white standard high on its pole, yet it hung limp in the still air. Stryker, watching from one of the upper windows of Archer’s home, did not recognize the symbols that marked the flag’s owner, but he knew who they fought for well enough. ‘Bollocks,’ he whispered.

‘Whose bollocks?’ a familiar voice hissed beside him.

Stryker’s hand instinctively went to his belt, grasping the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. ‘Jesu, Forry,’ he said. ‘I could have filleted you.’

Forrester displayed a mischievous grin. ‘That’s why I came to your right, old man. Didn’t want to blind-side you, if you’ll excuse the phrase. So, what are we facing?’

Stryker shook his head in exasperation, turning his attention back to the unwelcome cavalry. ‘I don’t know exactly, but they’re not ours.’

‘Do we take them?’ Burton’s voice came from somewhere to the rear. Stryker twisted round to see that Skellen had joined them as well. The order for them to stay in the back-rooms of the house had fallen on deaf ears.

‘Take them?’ Stryker stared. ‘You’ll make a fine officer, Andrew, but only if you learn when to display caution. They’re harquebusiers. They’re well trained. They ride well. They’re superbly equipped. They’re confident. No, we don’t take them. We’d each get a shot off, and the remaining sixteen of them would ride us down like rabbits.’

‘That’s if they let us out,’ Skellen added. ‘They’d probably fire the house to save ’emselves the trouble.’

‘Still,’ Forrester said chirpily, offering a hand for Burton to shake. ‘Admire your bravado, Ensign. Said like a young Captain Stryker.’

The cavalry halted on the village green. The tired steeds were clearly in need of rest and they walked listlessly about, foraging for the remnants of grass, their bloodied flanks heaving in unison.

The harquebusier captain remained in his saddle and surveyed the immediate area warily.

Thomas Archer, the tall village elder, appeared from his doorway, and the soldiers bristled in their saddles. Some reached to unsheathe lethal weapons that rested against the horses’ muscular flanks. Archer raised submissive palms, as he had upon greeting Stryker. He called to the cavalrymen, though Stryker could not hear his words.

The troop held their ground until the man was within ten paces of the nearest horse. The captain’s mount, responding to a gentle shake of its reins, lurched forward from the centre of the group. The fearsome stallion, bay hide glistening with sweat, halted a mere sword’s length from the villager.

Stryker looked on, studying his adversary. ‘Don’t let me down again, damn you,’ he whispered through clenched teeth.

The horse commander was young and his expensive attire betrayed an upbringing of privilege. He had dispensed with the buff-coat worn by his subordinates, preferring the comfort of a black woollen coat adorned with ornate gold trim. He wore body armour that had been enamelled black and studded with dozens of gilt rivets, crowned by a gleaming black helmet that he now removed to reveal a head of short blond hair. He had grown a beard and moustache, though the straggly facial hair only served to reinforce the impression that he had barely reached his twenties.

Stryker glanced at Forrester, handing him his musket. ‘I have to hear what they’re saying. Hold this, Forry.’ His bandolier was to follow, eased carefully over his shoulders, and then the scabbard was unhooked from his belt. It was a painstaking and awkward process, but a necessary evil.

He crouched low, careful to keep below the windowsill, and crept to the rear of the room and then down the stairs, the creaking of each step seeming inordinately loud to his alert senses.

He quickly crossed the main reception room of Archer’s modest home and secreted himself behind the small door through which the elder had passed. It was still ajar, a keen chill filling the room, and Stryker was able to squint through the crack where the door met its hinges. His lone eye flicked from left to right, taking in the green, the soldiers, their horses and Archer in one sweep.

‘A loyal follower of God and Parliament. Like yourself,’ the elder was saying nervously, nodding at the orange sash tied diagonally about the captain’s torso. In this new war it was the only sign of a soldier’s allegiance upon which common folk could rely. The Royalist cavalry had taken, more often than not, to wearing a blood-red sash.

‘God, Parliament and King Charles, sir,’ the captain retorted. ‘For we fight to liberate our liege lord from the influences currently clouding his judgement.’ He paused. ‘Do we not?’

‘Aye . . . we do,’ the villager replied.

The officer, seemingly satisfied with Archer’s display of loyalty, reached out to the left and handed his helmet to one of the two trumpeters that rode with the troop. He then swung his legs, clad in high leather boots, over the saddle and jumped on to the sticky mud.

‘Captain Roger Tainton at your service,’ he said, offering a gloved hand. The servile villager shook it enthusiastically, for he was relieved. Men on horseback, bristling with steel, were to be feared regardless of apparent allegiance.

‘You are most welcome, Captain,’ said the elder earnestly, ‘but I fear we do not have sufficient feed for your mounts here in the village. There are stables out toward the church.’ He pointed eastward, to a field beyond the gorse ring, at the far end of which stood a small chapel and some dilapidated outbuildings. ‘Perhaps you might like to decamp there while I see to your victuals?’

Good, thought Stryker. Archer was following his instructions to the letter, drawing the Roundhead force away so that the Royalists could escape.

‘Thank you,’ replied Tainton curtly. ‘But I shall take refreshment now.’

Roger Tainton was of noble blood. ‘My father even had the ear of the king,’ he said, ‘before this . . . mess.’ He waved a hand about in an attempt to describe the war that now raged. ‘He now leads our men as colonel.’

They were seated in Thomas Archer’s modest home. Tainton was in the best chair, while the elder and his wife were perched on a bench opposite. Between them was a sturdy, though rough-hewn table that was not truly flat. The meal was laid out in wooden bowls, which tilted precariously.

The bulk of the troop had cantered off toward the chapel and its adjacent stables, but, much to Stryker’s vexation, Tainton had given responsibility for the men to a lieutenant, preferring
to take his own victuals immediately. A pair of troopers had been stationed outside the house to guard their commander while the rest were away. Thus, Stryker and his three companions remained trapped in the house.