Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (27 page)

Stryker grinned fiercely in the knowledge that Eli Makepeace had been afraid. He withdrew the knife, leaving a small bead
of blood to well up from where the steel had pierced the skin. It rolled down Makepeace’s neck and collected in a blossoming red stain on his shirt collar. As quickly as the blade had appeared, it vanished about Stryker’s person.

Makepeace exhaled with relief, but his assailant did not relax the vicelike grip. ‘You are playing us false, Eli,’ Stryker said. ‘I know it.’ He was less confident about this than he sounded, for he had seen the royal seal on those despatches, but he still hoped to catch Makepeace in an act of treachery.

‘You are mistaken, sir!’ Makepeace managed to yelp as Stryker finally released him.

‘Hold your tongue,’ Forrester snapped.

‘What is to become of us?’ Sir Randolph Moxcroft said as his wheeled chair was pushed into the midst of the officers. Makepeace and Bain had been moved to the adjacent room, under Wendle Brunt’s watchful eye and loaded musket.

‘We’ll take you back to our lines,’ Stryker replied. ‘What happens then is not my decision.’ He thought for a moment, not wishing to talk with the traitor, but unable to leave one question unanswered. ‘Why did you do it, Sir Randolph?’

Moxcroft’s thin lips drew back in a wan smile. ‘We suppose we should not protest our innocence, seeing as you have already mentioned some correspondence regarding ourselves and Mister Blake.’

‘Indeed.’

The spy nodded. ‘Our trade is trade, so to speak. We’re a merchant. Wool, wine, grain, anything that can turn one a decent profit.’

‘And in turning that profit you have built up an extensive network of people who could be extremely useful at a time like this,’ Stryker said.

The thin man’s glassy eyes flitted disconcertingly between each of his captors. ‘People that have, over time, become informants, yes. We’ve been feeding information back to Whitehall
for years. Of course, in times of peace it did nothing more than supplement our income.’

‘But now,’ Forrester said, ‘your news is vital. You must have become very well paid as a result.’

‘Not exactly.’ Moxcroft took a deep swig from a cup of water, the only concession to comfort Stryker had allowed. ‘The king’s staff paid more, certainly, but not what we are worth. Not nearly enough. In the king’s arrogance, he viewed our loyalty as a foregone conclusion.’

‘But it wasn’t,’ Stryker said.

Moxcroft tilted his head back in a squeaking laugh, the pale skin of his face seemingly stretched to breaking point. ‘The divine right. Have you ever heard such delusion of grandeur? King Charles uses it as a stick with which he beats his subjects. To demand their loyalty or take their money, or force them into ill-conceived wars.’

Stryker thought about what Prince Rupert had told him. ‘You made your feelings known?’

Moxcroft nodded. ‘We did. In one of our dispatches. In fact, we told them not to be so damned conceited, and that we were worth a good deal more to them than they were hitherto willing to admit.’

‘And that was when Blake made contact.’

‘Aye. The good Secretary Blake. He turned rebel for reasons of conscience. More fool him.’ Moxcroft waved a slim hand daintily, as if to brush Blake’s death into insignificance.

‘As the prince’s secretary, he would receive your despatches, filter them, pass on any relevant information. He must have sensed your disquiet. That you were ripe for turning.’

‘Aye, one supposes. Though we admit we did not take much turning, as you put it. Oh, do not mistake us, Captain. We share the ideals of the reformers no more than we share the belief that Charles was chosen by God. But Blake explained that Parliament would value us far,
far
more than the king ever did.’

Stryker had no desire to prolong this conversation. He decided instead to verify Makepeace’s story.

‘Tell me about Makepeace and Bain, and how they come to be here?’

Sir Randolph’s brow rose inquiringly. ‘Ah! Those were their names? We did wonder, but their lips were tightly sealed. Some men will do anything for their foolish honour.’

Stryker glanced at Captain Forrester, before returning his eye to Moxcroft. ‘What were they doing here?’

‘Petersfield gaol is small. We have often been paid to hold prisoners here. Currently Parliament has ascendancy, so we take theirs. If the king swept through here tomorrow, we would hold Roundheads, for a price.’

‘Not likely,’ Forrester cut in. ‘Tomorrow you’re coming with us.’

T
he soldier waited in the shadows, watching while a night patrol of musketeers trudged by. His stomach turned over when they halted some ten paces away, the corporal in command seemingly disturbed by some flicker of movement or unusual sound. The soldier held his breath, preferring burning lungs to capture.

Just as he thought his chest might explode, the soldier heard the corporal give an order, and the patrol surged into movement again. With unsteady breaths he silently invoked his Saviour.

The soldier crept out of the shadows and on to the road, keeping a hand on his scabbard so that its jangling would not betray his presence. The moon was full and bright, illuminating the town of Reading, and he scuttled quickly towards the building described in the message.

‘Knock three times, wait three seconds, knock three times more’ had been the instruction, and the soldier rapped gently on the stout wooden door. As he counted silently, he listened for sounds from within the building, but none came. Perhaps no one was here after all. He completed the second set of knocks.

The soldier jumped violently as the door swung open. He was ushered in by a scrawny-looking lad in his mid-teens.

‘If you keep me waiting again, Lieutenant, I shan’t be as forgiving,’ said a hooded figure as the soldier entered a dingy room at the building’s rear.

They were in a small house, left empty when its Parliamentarian owners fled the town in the face of King Charles’s arrival. The soldier bowed, offering a hurried apology. The hooded man’s voice had been low, quiet, but its measured timbre did not conceal the threat of his displeasure.

The soldier straightened up, staring hard at the shadow of deepest black that hid the cloaked man’s face, but, as ever, he could not discern a single feature.

The figure stirred, making the soldier flinch violently, though he had only shifted position in his chair. ‘Tiffin?’

‘Aye, sir,’ the soldier murmured nervously. ‘Lieutenant James Tiffin.’

‘You had no difficulty in crossing our lines covertly, I hope?’

Tiffin shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Good,’ the figure said. ‘I would not wish you to be subject to any unwanted interest.’

‘Sir.’

The figure shifted in his seat. ‘Well? You carry word from London?’

‘Aye, sir,’ Tiffin replied. ‘There . . . there . . .’ He could not force the words past his dry lips, such was his dread at the reaction they might garner. He did not know the identity of this man, but that had not prevented the rumours reaching his ears. Rumours of the things this man was capable of. Terrible things.

‘Speak.’

Tiffin took a deep, steadying breath. ‘There has been no word from Captain Makepeace.’ The silence that followed was agonizing. Tiffin cleared his throat nervously. ‘They wish me to . . . remind you of the price of failure, sir. To remind you that you have promised to deliver Sir Randolph to them. His knowledge is worth a great deal.’

‘I am aware of that, Lieutenant. Quite aware.’

‘Do you have a message for them?’

‘Message?’ the hooded man said, his voice carrying huskily on an out-breath. ‘You might remind them that it was I who dealt
with Moxcroft in the first place, who made his co-operation a possibility. The fools here believe they have cleared their house by dispatching Blake, but he was nothing. You may tell Pym, with my compliments, that his patience will be rewarded. My man will deliver the spy. I have promised it; it will be done.’ He added under his breath: ‘Captain Makepeace knows better than to disappoint me.’

His head jerked upward slightly. Instinctively Tiffin turned, and was jostled out of the way by another man, who made straight for the master’s chair, leaning close to the tar-black hood.

Lieutenant Tiffin waited while the men conferred. They whispered, but he could hear that their voices were strained, anxious. He caught only two words. One was
Winchester
. The other sounded like
ladder
? Or was it
letter
?

The lieutenant was anxious to leave before the sun rose. ‘Sir?’

The agitated whispers ceased and the men looked up.

‘You are dismissed, Lieutenant!’ the hooded man snarled suddenly. ‘Tell Pym that Moxcroft will be brought to them, his knowledge protected.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Tiffin said, backing away.

‘Get out!’

They departed beneath a dawn of slate-grey skies.

Stryker’s duty was to make all haste towards the king’s lines. But where were those lines? Stryker had been warned that the Royalist forces would make their next move quickly, pushing south and east towards London. They would pass through Oxford and then on to Reading, the town where Rupert had ordered Moxcroft to be taken.

But since their progress had been significantly slowed, the army might by now be further advanced than Stryker was anticipating. He decided to make for Reading, regardless of any
other possibility, in the hope that intelligence would reach his ever-growing company along the way.

There were nine of them in the party; eight soldiers were on horseback, while Moxcroft was slumped with little dignity in the back of a small cart. Sir Randolph grumbled intermittently as it rocked and jolted across the cloying, chalky mud, but Stryker ignored his complaints. A pair of skinny geldings that had been taken – along with the cart – from Moxcroft’s stables drew the vehicle admirably, though it was arduous toil for their spindly legs and they staggered across the treacherous terrain.

The group was exhausted and chatter was scarce. Even Forrester had little to say. Makepeace, now riding Jared Dance’s horse, was insouciant enough in his manner, though it was obvious that most in the party shared Stryker’s distrust. Sergeant Skellen, in particular, was hostile in his demeanour. Nevertheless, Stryker had ordered that no one harm the flamehaired captain. Moreover, the imposing figure of Malachi Bain was constantly at Makepeace’s shoulder, a powerful deterrent to anyone who considered turning thought to action.

The countryside was deserted. Folk were not abroad in the foul weather and only by late evening on that first day did they come across another living soul, a lone shepherd labouring in a long smock heavy with rain. The shepherd kept his eyes latched firmly upon the soil at his feet.

Forrester asked him why there were no soldiers on the roads. He murmured in reply, ‘They’s mostly gone from here, sir. Took the London road.’

‘London,’ Forrester had said thoughtfully as they set forth once again. ‘Significant, wouldn’t you say?’

‘We won’t be making for Reading then, sir?’ Burton asked as they gathered around a small fire. The company had taken shelter for the night within a tithe barn’s high walls of slippery stone. The soldiers sat around the flames in a wide ring, enjoying the shelter’s protection as rain came down like shot on the
towering roof. Even Makepeace and Bain took their places, keeping silent as they ate.

Stryker tore at a piece of rabbit and wiped the juices away from a chin that had not seen the edge of a blade for some days. ‘We’ll keep our present course, Ensign.’

Burton looked at him quizzically. ‘But if the king’s marched on London, sir, surely our lads will be well clear of Reading by now.’

‘
If
he’s marched. I am ordered to make for Reading, and until I’m presented with evidence more solid than local hearsay, Reading is where we’ll go.’ Stryker stood and went to where his buff-coat was hanging. They had propped their muskets and swords against the nearest wall, and various items of clothing were draped from them in the vain hope of drying. ‘Of course, we must also trust’, he said as he felt the buff-coat between thumb and forefinger, frowning at the obvious discovery of a still damp garment, ‘that His Majesty has not already found more trouble than he’d foreseen and taken the high road back to Oxford.’

‘Pray God we’ll find him sitting pretty at Whitehall,’ Forrester added.

Stryker nodded.

Burton was delighted. ‘You mean to say the war may be ended, sir?’

Stryker leaned forward to stab another piece of sizzling rabbit flesh with his knife. The carcass bubbled on a makeshift spit over their small fire. They had shot three such animals during the day, and the hearty food was as welcome as the fire’s warmth. ‘Aye, it might. In London at least, though it’ll take time to crush the resistance elsewhere. The capital is not the only place where the enemy has set down roots, though it’s the heartland.’

A low sound came from the rear wall. Soft, effete, like a child’s giggle. The men twisted round to where their prisoner sat. Moxcroft was not bound, for his lifeless legs rendered it impossible to make any bid for freedom. Stryker had not
wanted the traitor anywhere near his men, and would not allow him to share the fire, but he had been afforded shelter from the elements. After all, he was to be delivered alive.