Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (28 page)

‘You have something to say?’ Stryker growled.

The soft laughter abated, though Moxcroft’s smirk stayed wide and smug. ‘Why on earth they would entrust any kind of task to men of such ignorance is beyond us.’

Stryker fought back his anger. ‘Speak your mind, before I run you through, Moxcroft.’

Moxcroft’s eyes seemed to take on a feline sparkle against the flames. ‘You believe Charles will have found the courage to attack London? Forgive our laughter, Captain, but we find the very notion highly amusing. The king, in his
divine
wisdom, has decided upon a more cautious advance.’

Stryker frowned. ‘What makes you so certain?’

Moxcroft smiled enigmatically, enjoying his power. ‘One of our men made contact only yesterday. Not long before you . . . arrived.’

It irked Stryker to show interest in Moxcroft’s information, but he yearned for news of the war, even if its source might be playing free with the truth. ‘What of this cautious advance?’ he asked impatiently.

‘Oh, he moves upon the city, sir, that is most true. His very own Teutonic knight gallops ahead of the vanguard.’

‘Prince Rupert.’

‘
Prince
?’ Moxcroft sneered. ‘He is a homeless, landless foreigner, playing at soldier in a country not his own. No wonder the rebels hate him. We are told he has already taken Abingdon, Aylesbury and Maidenhead. How much destruction will that boy cause in the king’s name? You love the talismanic Cavalier, we can tell. But he does you more harm than good.’

Forrester looked to Stryker. ‘If Rupert leads the vanguard, the king cannot be far behind.’

‘Far behind?’ Moxcroft cut in again. ‘You really are a naive gaggle of ruffians. The king has not a single decisive bone in his
diminutive body. When last we heard, he was insisting upon bringing the entire royal army to Parliament’s door. Meanwhile, Essex strolls back to London unopposed. He will put cannon on the Thames and rouse the Trained Bands from their homes. They will be as tough as rawhide when Charles finally attacks.’

‘I was at Banbury,’ Stryker said. ‘The prince pushed for an immediate offensive.’

‘Then you are a fool for believing he holds more influence than the cowardly nay-sayers in his uncle’s employ.’

‘Christ’s blood!’ Stryker hissed.

‘Don’t believe a word that passes the bastard’s lips, sir,’ Skellen said. ‘The man’s a fuckin’ rebel.’

‘But we are not, my slow-witted sergeant,’ Moxcroft said, shaking his head in condescension. ‘We are neither Royalist nor Parliamentarian. Simply a businessman. We care not a groat who wins this war.’

They set off at first light. The mood of the party had lifted with a break in the hitherto constant rainfall, and they trotted along the abysmal roads to the tune of Wendle Brunt’s whistling.

They travelled on through the Hampshire countryside and into Berkshire, along churned roads and across sodden fields. At noon they arrived at a stream, and enjoyed a short rest. The men sat at the grassy bank, watching the clear water pour frantically over smoothed pebbles, exposed tree roots and tiny, darting fish.

The shallow stab wound Stryker had taken at Langrish House had cracked open with the strain of the journey and was leaking blood through to his shirt. Hoping that some cool water would ease the wound, he paced a reasonable distance upstream. Eventually he rounded a bend and walked down the sloping bank to the water’s edge.

He removed the layers of clothing delicately, wincing as the movements occasionally needled the injury, and stooped to cup the icy liquid. As he splashed it on to his stomach, the
immediate chill had its desired effect. And he remembered the way Lisette Gaillard had once bathed his wounds.

After they told him Lisette had died, things had seemed simple. His grieving had distilled small certainties in his mind. Kill or be killed. Live life as you wish. Fight for money and avoid politics. But now she had returned to life. Now he knew she had chosen to leave him, had even staged her own death so that he would not search for her.

As Lisette lay in his arms at Basing, after their mad lovemaking, he had been transported back to The Hague, to his infatuation with the little blonde Norman girl with the eyes of a doe and the spirit of a wolf. But she had chosen her duty again. He had no idea why she had been at Basing House, or why she had left him so abruptly, but he knew that the explanation would lead back to the French wife of King Charles. Lisette Gaillard, Stryker told himself, was a cold-blooded agent of the Crown. She was incapable of true love, and he must put her from his mind for ever.

Further along the riverbank, two men had led their horses down to the trickling current to drink.

‘I am surprised by my own theatrical talent, Bain.’

Makepeace was triumphant. The forged despatches to the fictional Gideon Harding had loaded the dice squarely in his favour. Corporal O’Hanlon was a short distance away, evidence of Stryker’s reluctance to grant Makepeace and Bain complete freedom, but they had avoided a lynching at Langrish House.

‘Had them eating right from my palm, didn’t I? It is quite exhilarating, lying through your teeth.’

Bain did not share the captain’s elation. Yes, they had technically been granted their freedom, but the atmosphere of suspicion was thick.

‘So what the fuck do we do now?’ Bain said.

Makepeace scowled. ‘Watch your damned tongue. I’m still your superior.’

The corner of Bain’s mouth twitched. ‘Superior? I followed you ’cause you p-promised me r-riches. I could squeal to Stryker now if I wanted.’

‘And he’ll run you through as soon as he’s finished with me,’ Makepeace hissed. ‘You’ll still get your reward. We’ll see this through and complete our mission. Moxcroft honoured his side of the bargain, didn’t he?’

‘Thought he’d betray us.’

Makepeace scoffed. ‘Think upon it. He betrayed the Royalists for wealth. Money is his God. It seemed logical that he would aid us for the same reason.’

Eli Makepeace had promised Moxcroft gold. Not from his own purse, but from Parliament’s. Some time ago his master had mentioned that a great gem had been obtained, one that would be sold to increase the rebellion’s wealth a hundredfold. It was a slice of this wealth that Makepeace had been promised, and it was that same wealth Makepeace had used to persuade Sir Randolph to play the role of gaoler and save their skins.

‘W-what now?’ Bain asked again as he glanced back at O’Hanlon, ensuring the corporal was not within earshot. ‘Make a run for it?’

‘No, Sergeant, we cannot leave now. Even if we made an escape, they’d track us easily. Ride us down.’

Bain shrugged. ‘We’ll be quicker, sir.’

‘Would you bet against that damned fiend? I, for one, would not.’

‘But he’s wounded, sir. They were patching his gut earlier. Besides, they’ve got to draw that b-bloody wagon.’

‘You’d run without Moxcroft?’ Makepeace turned away to stare across at the far bank. ‘Not I. We must use stealth, our wits. We still have a job to complete. Otherwise we won’t get paid. Anyway, our master will be no more forgiving than Stryker. He will have us swinging from the nearest tree, if we fail. Or do worse, if he cannot.’ For a moment he was silent, glancing up to meet Bain’s dull stare. ‘No, Sergeant. Our immediate future
must lie with the good captain and his men. We will stick with them. They’ll watch the spy like bloody hawks for now, and us for that matter, but at some point they’ll relax, take their eye off him.We’ll wait.’

‘We continue,’ Stryker said as night drew steadily in.

‘No rest?’ Makepeace asked. ‘I’m exhausted!’

‘Stop your whining, Captain,’ Stryker growled. ‘I must take our guest to Prince Rupert. You rested at the stream. I saw you dozing. You can ride through the night with the rest of us.’

‘But it’s bloody dark, Captain,’ Makepeace said. ‘There are brigands on the road and the horses will break a leg if they cannot see true ground from fox-hole.’

Stryker sneered. ‘Eight soldiers should fear common bandits?’

Makepeace kept silent.

‘Besides,’ Forrester put in, ‘the road hereabouts is good. We’re out of the fields now, so the horses should fair well enough. And the moon’s nice and full. Visibility ain’t at all bad.’

They rode on, following a bridleway that skirted the village of Shinfield, taking them through a coppiced forest of hazel, oak and ash. When they came to an old stone barn, Stryker ordered the company to stop for a short while in order to stretch backs and shake life back into numbed bodies.

The wagon was drawn up flush against the side of the barn, and the animals were led inside to be tethered below the high beams. A little way beyond the structure was a rickety wattle fence, probably the remains of a livestock enclosure, and the men propped their muskets against it while they took on water and gnawed at hunks of dried bread, chattering and telling stories. Stryker threw some bread and a flask to Moxcroft. The prisoner, his pasty skin luminous beneath the bright moon, was slumped in the corner of the wagon. He caught the food and began to nibble at its hard edge, keeping his face averted from the soldiers.

Stryker strolled over to the fence and rested his elbows on its ridge, hearing the satisfying creak as it took his weight. He would deliver Moxcroft to Reading, and though there might well be a reward for his efforts, nothing would be more welcome than to return to his comrades in Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot. He looked forward to sharing a brandy and a pipeful of choice tobacco with the other officers. He closed his single eyelid, imagining those luxuries, tasting the fiery liquid and smelling the fragrant smoke, letting his senses fantasize for a moment.

Then his eye snapped open. He had heard the terrible, unmistakable rumble of cavalry.

T
hey came out of the darkness like demons, a torrent of men and horses, blades, screams and bullets. Stryker knew that night engagements were harrowing. You could not see your enemy, only the glint of his steel in the moon-shimmer and the flash of orange when guns burst forth like a dragon’s breath, sending puffs of blue smoke skyward. But tonight was worse. They’d been taken almost unawares.

Two-dozen orange tongues of fire sent his men ducking low, praying the wattle fence was not rotten or compromised by woodworm.

Stryker had been tempted to order the company into the confines of the stone barn as soon as the thunder of the horses’ hooves came to his ears. But, though the barn’s walls were thick and sturdy, providing ample protection against steel or fire, there was but one door. One exit – or entrance. A retreat to the barn would provide protection at first, but would also mean they’d be surrounded in short order, trapped like rats in a barrel.

In fact, Stryker’s options were almost non-existent. Knowing they could never hope to outrun a swarm of fast cavalry, Stryker held the men at the only defensible position he could see.

The wattle fence might once have formed part of a shelter for goats or pigs, but now it might be a life-saver for Stryker and his beleaguered force. Its knitted lengths of hazel were old and brittle, but the original workmanship had been of a
high standard, and the fence was densely woven. Stryker had expected the first volley to obliterate their makeshift defence, but the fence held firm and that, coupled with the high-pitched cracks coming from night-veiled assailants, made him realize that it was not musket fire that poured down on them like a plague, but carbine and pistol. He could imagine the men on horseback aiming wildly in the direction of their foe, with no hope of a deliberate hit but every assurance of instilling panic within the enemy ranks.

Stryker knew that they could not hold their position for long. The ragged volley of short-arm pieces had failed to penetrate the barricade, but the enemy’s main strength was based not on firepower but on horses. The thrum of hooves was drawing louder and closer. It was not a full troop by any means, but the detachment was large enough that it could simply circle round the wattle fence and chop down the small band with ease. The problem for Stryker was that his men would be equally vulnerable if they broke cover and made a run for it.

He thought of Moxcroft, and twisted back to see if the wagon had been struck. It had, for a couple of small marks shone bright in the dark timbers of its side, but it did not look as though the small carbine balls had found a way through, and he was satisfied that his precious cargo was alive – for now at least. Moxcroft would have to lie low and pray while Stryker’s men fought it out.

Stryker cast his gaze left and right at the men hurriedly loading their muskets. ‘Spread out!’ he screamed. ‘Into the trees!’

It was clear that an all-out retreat would see swords slashing at their backs, so on Stryker’s order the men fanned out, each dimly sighting the nearest thicket of coppiced stems and moving quickly to get behind its shelter. It offered woefully scant protection against cavalry, but it at least meant that they were not forced to face the vengeful blades in the open.

Stryker leapt over the fence and made for a likely tree. It was dark, but he could make out most of his group among the
trunks around him. ‘Keep your charge!’ he screamed, casting his order into the dark all around, praying his men would hear amid the chaos. ‘Do not waste it, d’you hear? Wait until they’re upon you!’

A score of horsemen exploded from the surrounding trees. Breastplates, pots and blades gleamed, teeth flashed in terrible contorted grins, horses charged and reared with shrill, blood-freezing whinnies. It seemed, in that dark, lonely place, that Armageddon had come.

The cavalry weaved in and out of the broad shafts of oak and the thinner clusters of hazel, clumps of mud and leaves flying up from their collective wake.

The first man to fall was Wendle Brunt.

As an enemy horseman charged him down, he fired his musket, but the aim was not true and the ball flew harmlessly into the canopy beyond. He unsheathed his sword, but a carbine ball caught his sword arm with a sickening crack, shattering the elbow. Immediately his fingers lost their feeling and Brunt dropped the tuck, a look of horror sliding across his face. The tuck fell vertically, and a combination of sharp blade and wet ground meant that its point drove easily into the mud, presenting its hilt for Brunt’s eager retrieval. He snatched up the weapon in his left hand and held it aloft, bracing himself for the impact of the oncoming cavalryman.