Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (29 page)

Brunt was a professional soldier, a veteran of countless campaigns and proficient with sword in hand, even against mounted troops. But the blade now pointed toward the Roundhead horseman was held in his weaker hand and wavered unsteadily as the musketeer, engulfed in agony as he was, dared his enemy to attack.

The cavalryman swept across the Royalist’s side, slashing down at Brunt’s head as his mount carried him past. Brunt sidestepped and parried the blow, deflecting it in a clang of steel and a spark of light. The cavalryman hauled on his reins, wheeling the horse around, sending a spray of leaf mulch into the air.
He kicked at his beast’s flanks, urging it back into the fray, and Brunt prepared himself again, but this time his defence was found wanting and he mistimed the parry. His blade met the cavalryman’s downward sweep but connected in a place that could not fully absorb its force.

The sword capitulated at an awkward angle under the blow, forcing the hilt to break from his grip, prising his desperate fingers apart in a painful jolt. And as his own blade plummeted to earth, so his enemy’s drove into his face. The slash had been aimed high, designed to take Brunt at the crown, but the slight deflection meant that it veered lower and cleaved a deep gash vertically through the centre of Brunt’s nose, then on through his mouth and chin. Brunt recoiled in an explosion of blood, his jawbone glowing white in the moonlight, one hand clawing helplessly at his shattered face, the other hanging limp at his side. This time the cavalryman did not gallop past his opponent, but simply allowed his horse to close with the wounded soldier. In a heartbeat he was within range and battered down again. The sword met with the top of Brunt’s head with a satisfying crack, his skull splitting open instantly. By the time Brunt’s corpse had hit the ground, the horseman was already kicking his mount away in search of other prey.

Another Roundhead singled Stryker out. He did not know whether it was because he was the nearest of the panicked infantry or because he had been marked as the leader. It did not matter. Stryker, clutching the heavy musket in his left hand, drew his blade with the right, holding it high in readiness to receive the crushing downward blow.

At the last moment, as steel swung towards steel, Stryker fell to earth. The Roundhead pulled on his reins in an attempt to slew his horse round, assuming his opponent had slipped on the rain-beaded leaves, but his mount did not respond. Another frantic tug on the leather straps achieved nothing and a sickening knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He tried to free his bucket-tops from the stirrups, aware that the beast was falling,
but they were stuck fast and he felt himself crumble with his mount.

Stryker was up on one knee, keeping himself beneath the scything arc of the oncoming cavalry sword, and he swept his own blade horizontally in a vicious backhanded blow to catch the horse’s front-left ankle. The weapon had sung as it first cut air, then skin and bone and crunched through to find air once again. Stryker’s blow was executed with such vicious finesse that the horse did not even break stride. As it planted the shortened limb where it expected the ground to be, the ragged stump plunged into the forest floor. In a shriek of agony the beast lost its footing, toppling forward to roll in a cacophonous crash along the damp soil. Its screaming rider disappeared in a gruesome tangle of limbs, leather, flesh and metal.

Stryker took the burning match from his mouth. It had been dangling there throughout his duel with the felled cavalryman and the glowing tip had burned his neck in several places, but until now he had barely noticed the marks that fizzed on his skin. He forced the cord into the teeth of his musket’s serpent mechanism and took aim as the next trooper attempted to run him down. For a moment his eye roved beyond the trooper’s buff-coated shoulder to focus upon a cavalryman further back among the trees. The rider wore dark armour and perched confidently upon a large bay horse with wild eyes and muscular shoulders. At first Stryker did not spare the man a second’s thought, but then he remembered a black-clad officer with distinctive blond hair and expensive weapons. Roger Tainton.

The nearer trooper spurred his horse toward Stryker and his eye refocussed, taking aim along the five feet of musket barrel that stretched before him. When he squeezed the cold trigger, his vision was obscured by the familiar spark and cloud. The heavy thud of a body hitting the ground let him know that the shot had flown true.

As the powder smoke dissipated, twisting and writhing its way through the forest canopy, he caught a glimpse of gold rivets dancing in the gloom about forty paces away.

All around him deadly duels were raging. Cavalryman beating down upon infantryman. In any other circumstance the men on foot would be cut down like the dummies used in cavalry drill. But the close-cropped trees did not allow enough space for the Parliamentarians to manoeuvre easily, while the men facing them were agile and well trained.

The surviving Royalists were getting their own shots off now. They had held firm with blade and ferocity against the first wave of the ambush, and now, as the cavalry broke off to regroup, they were able to follow Stryker’s example and affix matches to the already loaded long-arms. Small explosions that announced the successful ignition of a priming pan cracked across the forest, echoing far into the night sky, and three Roundheads toppled from their saddles.

Stryker scanned the scene as best he could. Will Skellen was to his left and, though much of his vision on that side was impaired, he caught the occasional glimpse of the lanky sergeant jabbing his long blade up at a Parliamentarian who was doubtless regretting having chosen the experienced fighter for single combat.

Skellen disappeared from view suddenly and for a moment Stryker’s heart was in his mouth, but a chilling shriek from the muscular horse told him that the sergeant had used the sword to stab around the palomino’s fetlocks, toppling both man and beast.

Somewhere behind him Stryker could hear Corporal O’Hanlon. The tough Ulsterman was screaming obscenities at all and sundry, daring the Roundhead force to test him if they had the stomach for it. Three riders took up the challenge and kicked their mounts towards the muscular, blood-caked figure, and Stryker had an almost irresistible urge to take up position at O’Hanlon’s shoulder and face the assault with him, but he was
too far away to reach the musketeer in time. O’Hanlon was on his own.

Infantry could not defeat cavalry, especially when the unmounted soldiers were in such disarray. It was only a matter of time before Tainton’s men overran them. They might have kept the Parliamentarians at a distance had they been formed in a block, able to muster closely packed volley fire, but even then there were probably not enough muskets to make a difference.

Stryker glanced down at his own gun. Ordinarily, he would keep holding it during battle, even when its charge was spent, for it made an effective club; but it was next to useless against a man high up on a horse. He discarded it, dumping it in a patch of rotting, brown bracken, and drew his sword again, backing away from his position, hoping to make it back to the cart to protect Moxcroft. He glanced back to check that the spy had not been harmed. Despite his doubts about them, he was relieved to see Captain Makepeace and Sergeant Bain standing beside the vehicle, swords drawn, ready to take on any cavalryman that might make a target of the prisoner.

A screamed challenge rang loud in Stryker’s ears. He turned back to face the horseman who stood in his stirrups, his lavish black armour, riveted in gold, gleaming under the moon’s illumination.

Tainton did not slow his horse, recognizing the danger of putting the beast within range of Stryker’s blade. He spurred past the waiting Royalist, slashing down at the tall enemy, forcing him to raise his own weapon in a desperate parry. The two blades met and Stryker staggered back under the weight of the blow, while Tainton wheeled his horse about to make a second pass. Again he came, standing high in the stirrups, hacking down at the Royalist with impressive power and practised accuracy. Stryker wanted to stoop, to strike low at the horse’s fetlocks, but he did not rate his chances of delivering the blow while avoiding the Roundhead’s blade. He chose to hold his ground, to seek and exploit a weakness; but the collision of
steel had jarred his arm from fingers to shoulder and he knew he would not best this well-trained officer.

Tainton came again; charge, stand, hack, wheel. Stryker presented his blade, braced, parried, turned.

This time, though, as he turned, he saw the wagon in which Moxcroft had been carried. Makepeace remained in position, but was now bending low, carefully, never taking his eyes from the attackers. Bain was bowing too, repeating his companion’s odd gesture.

And then Stryker understood.

Makepeace was not defending Moxcroft against the cavalry. Bain was not beating away Roundhead assailants in a gallant attempt to protect the company or keep the prisoner. For there was no one attacking them. With a lurching stomach, Stryker saw that neither man held his sword, and he realized that Makepeace and Bain were surrendering.

And then he knew all was lost. Stryker had started the skirmish with the odds stacked against him, but, just as his small company had begun to offer valiant resistance, two of his men had surrendered.

Tainton was wrenching his mount round again, kicking up clods of wet earth in a wide arc while he built up speed to smash through Stryker once and for all. He had thought of revenge every hour of every day since the retreat from Thomas Archer’s village, where this raggle-taggle band of Royalists had seen him off with such humiliating ease. He had not known the identity of his conquerors at the time, only assuming they were professional soldiers by the quality of their fire and the condition of their mounts, but upon his return to the puny hamlet a few well-placed questions, made at the end of his carbine, had revealed the truth about the musketeers.

He had sought them out, tracking them through the countryside in search of retribution. But the trail had ended on the banks of the River Ock. It was several days before the questioning of
every pilgrim, farm-hand and innkeeper he encountered had revealed anything significant. But significant it had been, for he had been willing to gamble a great deal that there were not two tall, dark one-eyed men roaming southern England, leading a band of heavily armed soldiers.

He kicked again, savagely raking his horse’s flanks, demanding more speed, more power. He would aim the muscular steed directly at Stryker. Even if Stryker were able to parry the blade, he would be mown down by the horse’s bulk.

Tainton raised his sword high, savouring the moment, drawing in a great breath, as if he could muster an extra ounce of power as he exhaled with the downward thrust.

Stryker gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as Tainton bore down upon him. The armour-encased Roundhead, blonde locks poking out beneath his helmet, was up in his stirrups, long cavalry sword held aloft, poised for the killing blow. Stryker braced himself. Perhaps he could duck beneath the stroke or dive clear of the thundering hooves. But there was no chance at all. He closed his eye, wondering where he would be going after his life was cut from him by this young officer’s blade.

It was only when the hooves had passed by and the whinnying and snorting of Tainton’s massive charger was behind him that he realized Tainton had withdrawn his weapon. It had been at the last moment certainly, for the sound of the blade had sliced across the top of Stryker’s head at alarmingly close proximity.

Roger Tainton wheeled round, levelling his blade at Stryker’s throat. ‘Do you yield, sir? You have no chance of victory or escape.’

The very idea of surrender nauseated Stryker. But then he saw the body of Wendle Brunt. He had already lost at least one man in this fight and he had lost his prisoner, the very man they had made this journey to capture. Could he allow the rest of them now to die here in ignominy if he chose to fight
on? He would not – could not – sacrifice what remained of his company for the sake of his pride.

Stryker thrust his sword into the ground in front of him. The blade, a glistening shade of crimson, was left to quiver in the earth.

He looked up at Tainton. The Parliamentarian was still standing, hovering above the ornate saddle, and he pointed his unbloodied sword at Stryker.

‘You accept my invitation, sir?’ Tainton called and Stryker heard the granite in his voice.

‘Aye,’ Stryker replied in a low voice. He nodded toward the length of red metal that still trembled before him. ‘You have my sword, Captain.’

Tainton twisted in his saddle, surveying the panorama of destruction that lay all about them. ‘Hold!’ he screamed above the continued clamour of the melee. ‘Hold, I say!’

Gradually, the Parliamentarian troopers disengaged. Stryker scanned the carnage, locating his comrades within the jumble of men and horses. The battle, which had come on them so suddenly and catastrophically, was over.

‘We lost Maurice,’ said Skellen, cradling a deep gash to his left forearm. The Royalist company were being herded, at sword-point, into a line. They were to be bound and put on the cart.

Stryker was genuinely sorry to hear the news, for he had liked and respected the jovial and outspoken Ulsterman. He turned to meet his sergeant’s stare. ‘What happened?’

‘Blade nicked him ’cross the temple,’ Skellen replied. ‘He fell back and the bastard swept low. Took him in the crotch. Bled out, poor bugger.’ Skellen twisted round to glare at Makepeace, who stood at the end of the line with Sergeant Bain. ‘We might have been all right yet if those fuckin’ cowards hadn’t dropped us in it.’

Bain loomed threateningly. ‘You watch your p-pissin’ tongue! Else I’ll give you the same pretty face what I g-gave your captain.’

Stryker stood back in response to the sword waved at him by a Parliamentarian guard. He glared up at the vast man at Makepeace’s shoulder. ‘Make that little speech again, Bain, and I’ll cut your balls off.’

Bain grinned broadly. ‘When,
sir
? You’re a prisoner.’