Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (23 page)

‘Well, I apologize for Sergeant Bain all the same,’ Makepeace replied. ‘We had a small altercation with some clubmen a few days back, and it has left him irritable. He’s no gentleman when he’s irritable.’

Makepeace found Sir Randolph Moxcroft disconcerting. He had expected a frightened rabbit, but Sir Randolph Moxcroft was entirely at odds with this preconception. An easy, flowing confidence marked every languid movement of his long arms, while his eyes, small and translucent, roamed with the lazy alertness of a reptile. The spy was indeed crippled, as Makepeace had been informed, but the limitations of his immobile legs were counterbalanced by a wicker chair, ingeniously adjusted to include axle and wheels.

‘Sir Randolph, I must urge you to treat what I have to say with the utmost urgency,’ Makepeace said. ‘A godless villain named Stryker comes for you even now. You must leave at the earliest opportunity, with us as your protectors. Your new Parliamentarian masters are waiting in London to give you safe harbour.’

‘Indeed,’ said Moxcroft impassively. ‘This is grave news.’

‘I was half expecting Stryker to have reached you by now, such was our unfortunate delay in reaching your house. But it seems luck is still with us. Let us not try it longer.’

Moxcroft’s eyes, the palest blue Makepeace had ever seen,
settled on a point somewhere over his shoulder. ‘How were we discovered?’

‘Papers – written in Blake’s hand – taken at Kineton Fight. They allude to the agreement he brokered with you.’

The long fingers rubbed at Moxcroft’s pointed chin. ‘And our good friend Blake?’

‘Dead. Or soon will be. Forde was shot before we left Banbury. Our shared master is not inclined to lose your knowledge as well.’

Moxcroft nodded. ‘Then we must leave without delay.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Allow us a short while to gather our things.’

‘Take as little as possible, sir,’ Makepeace urged. ‘We must leave with all haste.’

A sudden rap at the door made both men look up. Bain spun round, alert and ready for a fight, but, as he inched the door open, dirk at the ready, only the drooped face of Ruth, the maid-of-all-work, peered through from the corridor beyond.

Moxcroft leaned to one side so that he could see past the captain. ‘What is it?’

She bowed, casting eyes at the floorboards. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Randolph, but Jem Marrow’s spotted more men. They’re riding down the track from Bordean.’

‘How many?’ Eli Makepeace snapped, his heart suddenly racing. ‘How
many
?’

‘Seven. He reckons they look like soldiers, Jem does.’

‘Why here?’ Father Benjamin asked Lisette as she joined him on the high ramparts.

‘So that we are not overheard, of course. Walls have ears, Father, except perhaps ones that touch the clouds.’

The pair had reprised their parts of Benedict and Ethelbert to gain access to the walls, the pious guards eager for them to pray blessings upon Basing House and its defenders.

‘You succeeded then?’ Benjamin said earnestly, hope sharpening his tone.

‘What makes you think so?’

He spread his palms. ‘If you had not, you would be dead.’

The priest studied the elfin face, partially concealed within the cowl of her long, dark cloak, and he saw her azure eyes brighten in triumph.

‘Bless you, Lisette.’ He paused. ‘Well? What is it like?’

‘I have not seen it. The box is locked.’

‘Of course, of course. I was simply curious. Where is it now?’

Lisette rapped her knuckles against her right thigh. The sound was like the knock on a wooden door.

Benjamin seemed surprised. ‘You can walk with this weighty object at your leg?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, it is not heavy. I have it fastened with twine. Besides, I was carrying it in my arms, concealed in cloth, and a thieving bastard thought he could take it off me, just because I was a foreigner and anything I had should be his. I am not taking the risk again.’

The priest’s jaw dropped. ‘You fought him off?’

‘Aye. Barely.’ But Lisette had not fought him off. She thought of the man with one eye and a lethal broadsword, and of how his very appearance had scattered the crowd like sparrows before a hawk. The man who would never know how close she had come to abandoning her queen and her God, simply to be with him. She forced her mind back to the priest. ‘What have you discovered?’

While Lisette had been scaling the high rampart of Old Winchester Hill, Father Benjamin had ridden north to meet a Royalist agent in a chapel near the Thames, a man who would have word of England’s shipping lanes. They had agreed to meet at Basing to exchange their news. ‘There is a ship bound for the Netherlands in a week’s time.’

‘From where?’

Benjamin winced. ‘London.’

The Frenchwoman looked as though she might attack. ‘London? Tell me you jest, Father!’

He shook his head, placing a calming hand on her elbow. ‘It is the only such ship making the journey. The ports are in turmoil, and the weather does not help matters. I cannot guarantee when the next crossing might be. London is your only route out of England. At least this side of Advent.’

Lisette ground her teeth together. ‘It is the heart of the rebellion. The whoreson Puritans will have sentries on every street corner.’

Benjamin’s expression was serious. ‘Aye. And that is why you cannot enter the capital by land. I have arranged for a barge to take you to the coast. You will make rendezvous at Richmond. They are less likely to accost you if you travel by river.’

‘I suppose.’

‘The captain of the barge is called Horace Crumb. He conveys wool to the Port of London. If you can be concealed within that consignment, you will be put on the ship without hindrance.’

Lisette blew out her cheeks. ‘
Merde
.’

The priest remained silent. He knew enough French to agree with her.

The track was steep and the horses nervous, gingerly picking their way through the slick and sticky mud.

‘Fuck it!’ Skellen rasped, fighting to regain control of his mount as its hooves slipped.

‘Steady, Will,’ Captain Stryker, out in front, called back to his sergeant.

The seven men had galloped across the sapping terrain like a small herd of deer, weaving in and out of trees, over fallen branches, across man-made ditches and water-worn furrows.

They had reached the hamlet perched high on Bordean Hill and funnelled on to the track that would take them down to a place called Langrish.

‘The final act, eh lads?’ Captain Forrester shouted.

It had nearly meant their deaths more than once, but Stryker had successfully brought them to this place, so far from home, and now they would complete their mission.

The men were all infantry by trade, but today, having replenished and improved their uniforms at Paulet’s cavernous stores, they looked more like a group of light cavalry. Buff-coated torsos were crossed by two belts, from which hung a sword on one side and a carbine on the other. High bucket-top boots poked through stirrups, while saddlebags slapped the animals’ flanks, heavy with spare clothing, gun oil, dry match, food, water, knives, spoons, sewing kit and tinderbox. They had also relieved Basing of ammunition, wadding and prickers. In short, they bristled.

‘How much further?’ panted the portly man, mounted to Stryker’s left.

‘Struggling, Forry?’ Stryker said, noting his fellow officer’s crimson cheeks and dripping brow. ‘But your horse is doing all the work!’

‘We’, Captain Lancelot Forrester replied, patting his bouncing stomach, ‘have seen better days.’

‘
Julius Caesar
, sir?’ Ensign Burton chirped in from somewhere to the rear.

‘Give me strength!’ Forrester barked, casting his eyes heavenward. ‘
Timon of Athens
, you ill-educated youth. Act four, scene two, as any fool knows. What are they teaching children these days?’

The group reached the foot of the hill, emerging from the random tangles of the trees, and passed the first of the village’s buildings, the church of St John. Stryker slowed his mount, scanning the surrounding hamlet quickly, dragging a faint image of the place from distant memory.

He pointed south. ‘That way.’

‘Can’t see much, sir,’ Sergeant William Skellen said flatly.

‘Where the road bends.’ Stryker said. ‘The house is just beyond those trees.’

He kicked his horse into a gallop, the beast responding enthusiastically now that they were on flat ground, and the others followed. As they rounded the road’s curve, a building gradually began to resolve from the high canopy of leaves.

Stryker had led his men as far south as the high, escarpment-fringed plateau that cut through the land between Petersfield and Alresford. There they had briefly rested their horses at the White Horse inn, suffering the locals’ suspicious stares and threatening glances, before covering the final distance.

Now, as dusk rapidly crept toward them, they cantered into the cleared land of the house’s estate. The area around Langrish was a mass of small hillocks, the land undulating like furrows in a ploughed field. They reached the top of one such rise, the gardens sloping away from them down towards the house, which stood in a miniature valley. Stryker led the way, trotting down toward the building.

Langrish House had been grand once. But now, as the bitter November wind whistled through untilled fields, Stryker saw that the manor was not as well kept as it might have been. He recalled Prince Rupert’s description of Moxcroft. He knew that the crippled spy could not work his own land, and presumed there had once been a considerable workforce of servants and groundsmen here. They would likely have fled the approaching tide of danger or joined the burgeoning ranks themselves, and now no one was left to care for the estate.

The company reached a cluster of bare trees that stood just a few paces out from the gable end of the house, their branches straining toward the sky like giant claws. A wave of Stryker’s hand signalled for the men to dismount, and they jumped down, grass streaking them to their knees with moisture. Stryker turned to meet the eye of each of his companions.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll take him and go. Kill anyone who gets in the way.’ Making for the front of the house, he turned back suddenly. ‘Prime your muskets.’

Stryker glanced down at his own weapon, checked the pan remained covered, and pulled on the well-oiled trigger. It slipped back easily under the pressure and the glowing match arced down to touch the metal. Satisfied that all was well, he strode to the sturdy-looking door and hammered a fist against it.

There was no response.

Stryker repeated the action, but to no avail.

He looked round and caught the eye of Corporal O’Hanlon. The grey brows were raised in expectation.

Stryker jerked his chin toward the side of the building. ‘Off with you, Corporal. Find someone to let us in. There must be a servant around the place.’

But when the Ulsterman returned, he shook his head. ‘Sorry sir. Not a soul about. Rear door’s locked tight too.’

Stryker’s jaw quivered in irritation. ‘If he wants to make it difficult for us, we’ll return the favour.’ He looked to the gap-toothed musketeer who had joined them with O’Hanlon, and jerked his thumb at the stout wooden front door. ‘Mister Dance. Let’s have this bugger down, if you please.’

Dance grinned and flicked open the cover of his musket’s priming pan, exposing the charge to the burning match that hovered ominously above it. He took a step forward, levelled his weapon and launched a massive kick at the big wooden door. There was a satisfying crack on the opposite side and Dance knew he had inflicted damage, so he kicked again, and a third time.

Jared Dance was still grinning as he hit the ground.

The shot had come from the gloom beyond the door. As the lock had broken and the door swung wildly inwards an almighty crack rang out, followed by a plume of thick, black smoke that filled the doorway. One moment Musketeer
Jared Dance was battering a door, the next he was on the ground, staring at the weak sun, a clean hole ripped in his windpipe. A pool of blood raced out from beneath Dance’s head, widening with every second and simmering under fine droplets of rain, the sticky liquid pumping rapidly from the large exit wound.