Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (36 page)

‘That p-pious bugger’s got his ’ands full fightin’ the Welshies. He’s forgotten all about you.’ A grin that might have sat well
on Lucifer himself spread slowly across Bain’s blunt chin. ‘But I ain’t. So I’m going to make an end of y-you. ’Cept this time I’ll ’ave s-some sport while I’m at it.’ Bain’s eyes, darting and beady, swivelled to where Lisette was standing. ‘Hoped you were dead, missy.’

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ Lisette said.

‘Oh, I ain’t d-disappointed, love. Not a bit. Now come ’ere. I wants a look at your sweet little c-cunny.’

Lisette spat at him, backing away, but she could not keep the fear from her expression.

‘Leave her, Bain!’ snarled Stryker as the sergeant took a step forward.

Bain let fly a coarse, pitiless laugh. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh? The great Stryker dies defendin’ a froggy slut. Still likes her d-does you?’ He laughed again. ‘Well, you’ll not have so much as a lick now. She’s all mine,
sir
.’

Stryker stepped forward, but Bain was fast for a man of his bullock-like physique, and his big fist lashed out to crunch into the Royalist’s cheek. Stryker hit the ground, and when he was able to look up he could no longer see Bain. As he regained his bearings, he located the brawny sergeant at the foot of the staircase. Lisette was on his shoulder, pinned like a trussed lamb. The light streaming in from above illuminated their profiles, and it looked like an angel and a demon hovered on those steps.

Skellen took Stryker’s hand, hauling him to his feet. The latter made to move toward Bain, but his progress was blocked by the red-coated musketeers who had stepped into the space between the sergeant and Stryker’s men.

‘Have you no honour?’ Stryker bellowed, as Bain threw his prize to the cold stone of the floor, pinning her at the throat by his boot heel.

‘Honour?’ the demon said, pausing for a moment. ‘You took me honour a decade ago.’

The men of Denzil Holles’s Regiment of Foot had, finally, broken ranks and were streaming on to London Road.

The Royalists of Sir Thomas Salusbury’s Welsh regiment gave chase, ably supported by their eager, but hitherto restrained, cavalry. The rout was not as easily executed as they might have wished, for a well-drilled troop of rebel horsemen, led from the front by a black-clad officer screaming oaths and psalms in equal measure, had kept many of them at bay, allowing a sizeable portion of the fleeing infantry to disappear into Brentford End and towards the bridge beyond. But this small victory was soon secured and the chasing pack recalled, the Royalist commanders keen to maintain discipline even in triumph. There was much fighting yet to come.

The vanguard reformed into its order of battle and continued its eastward advance. The ground around Sir Richard Wynn’s house had been churned up horribly by thousands of feet and hooves, turning hard, frostbitten solidity into a sticky morass, and the men were happy to reach the relative comfort of the road to make good their pursuit. Some of the swarming Royalists diverted their attention to the house and its many outbuildings, but most were bullied by officers and sergeants back into their practised marching formations. Discipline was holding for the time being. They would advance on the bridge.

Below ground, Lisette Gaillard was struggling against Sergeant Malachi Bain’s grinding boot heel. Bain opened his mouth, baring rows of broken yellow and brown stumps. It was a face of lust and anger and savagery and hunger and cruelty. A tear swelled at the corner of Lisette’s eye and tumbled down her cheek.

The light streaming from above Bain shone against the tear, and he saw it gleam as it traced its way down her skin. His grin widened and his eyes darted down to drink in the swell of her chest and curve of her hips beneath the cloak. A guttural grunt
escaped from him then, and he licked his lips slowly. ‘There’s a good girl.’ His voice was thick. He glanced at one of the musketeers, a lanky man with oval eyes and a broken nose. ‘Keep those bastards back, Corporal Matthews. Sh-shoot ’em if any move.’ A flicker of hesitation crossed the redcoat’s face, and Bain glowered. ‘You w-wish to discuss the order?’

The musketeer shook his head quickly.

‘That’s why you helped Makepeace?’ Stryker suddenly blurted, desperate to stall Bain. ‘Why you helped him take my eye?’

‘Eh?’ The sergeant turned towards Stryker. ‘My honour?’ Bain repeated. ‘Aye, me honour. Taken from me – stripped – by an upstart officer after Lutzen.’

Stryker frowned. He had no idea what Bain was talking about, but knew he had to distract him as long as possible. ‘You were at Lutzen?’

‘I was. A musketeer. A g-good one.’

Bain dropped to his knees, straddling Lisette just above her waist. ‘Enough talk!’ He glared down at the woman, her hair splayed out across the floor in a great golden fan. He dropped a hand to his belt and drew out a nasty-looking dirk, thin and long and sharp.

Rather than cowing her, the sight of the blade made Lisette thrash and struggle, scratch and curse, trying to push Bain’s weight from her. But he thrust out his free hand and clamped thick fingers round her neck, slamming her back on to the stone floor. She spluttered, her tongue forced out slightly between blueing lips, as Bain loomed over her. Lisette could smell the man’s breath as he leaned close. ‘I’m going to f-f-f-fuck you n-now, f-froggy whore,’ he hissed, the frenzy of the moment aggravating his stammer. ‘And I ain’t p-partial to a f-f-fuck while you’re leaking bl-blood everywhere. So lay nice and still. Try anythin’ and you’ll ’ave it through your eyeball qu-quicker than you can b-blink.’ His tongue darted out to lick hers. It was vile and she would have vomited if she’d been able to breathe.

He licked her mouth again, a tendril of saliva hanging stubbornly between them. ‘Very tasty.’

Bain turned his head to glance up to the redcoats, their brows furrowed in concern. ‘Keep your eyes f-f-front, damn you.’

The musketeers averted their collective gaze. Bain’s attention drifted beyond them, fixing his predatory stare on Stryker. ‘You stay still too, Cap’n. I w-wants you to s-see this. You do as I say, she might live. You turn away or make any move—’ He jerked his chin toward the dirk in his strong grip. ‘G-got it?’

Stryker nodded. His eye swivelled to catch Forrester’s for a moment. He was half tempted to charge the muskets down, but the match-cords were glowing ominously in the half-light, like three malevolent spirits, and they would lash down on to opened priming pans instantly if he made a move. He thought of the way Bain had earlier lost focus.

‘I was at Lutzen, Sergeant!’

Bain looked up again. ‘I know you f-f-fuckin’ were!’

The ferocity of Bain’s response startled Stryker. ‘I don’t remember you.’

The sergeant gritted his teeth. ‘But do you remember the corporal what got a hundred pissin’ lashes and broken back to the rank an’ file? Do you remember
that
?’

A memory came to Stryker then. The memory of a defeated tertio of pike, and of one of the most brutal melees he had ever had the displeasure to be a part of. And Bain’s words rang somehow true. There
had
been a corporal, a callow piece of spittle as he remembered, whom he had found hidden under a pile of bodies. Hidden and cowering. Stryker had passed him by, marched over him when the Swedish army had gone forward to secure their victory. But afterwards he had spotted that same corporal lording it up in a tavern, telling tall tales of his great valour.

‘That was you?’

Bain sneered. ‘No it fuckin’ wasn’t.’

‘Then who was it?’

‘My
b-b-brother
.’ Bain could barely force the words out. ‘He was humiliated when you told the provosts he was yellow. Humiliated and h-hated.’

Stryker frowned. ‘It was no more than he deserved.’

Malachi Bain’s little black eyes glistened in the dim light. He still clutched the long dirk and he still had Lisette’s body pinned between oak-bough thighs, but his mind was wandering. ‘They beat him,’ he said. ‘His own company. Own mates. They b-beat him for the d-dishonour he’d brought the unit.’ He refocussed, eyes burning bright with what seemed to Stryker to be a new depth of hatred. ‘I found him next mornin’, swinging from a tree, eyes p-pecked at by ravens. Took ’is own l-life. They stuck the bugger in a pit. Nameless. Honourless. It were you what done th-that.’

The knife Lisette Gaillard produced was tiny, no longer than her little finger, so small that she had been able to conceal it as a hair pin against her scalp. But the blade was nevertheless strong, and keenly sharp, and it drove into the fleshy underside of Malachi Bain’s wrist with little resistance.

Bain brayed in stunned anguish, releasing the dirk so that it bounced on the smooth flagstones and skittered away. The three redcoats turned, instinctively looking for the source of the terrible sound.

Stryker pounced like an animal. In three paces he had closed the gap between himself and Corporal Matthews and his hand darted out like a viper’s bite to grasp the barrel of the tall man’s musket. Matthews was alert enough to pull the trigger, but by the time the smouldering match had sparked in the priming pan the barrel was pointed at the cellar’s high ceiling. The pan flashed, coughing a billowing pall of smoke into the room.

In the unventilated chamber, the roiling, acrid cloud obscured everything and Stryker’s men took advantage of it. To his left, Stryker caught a glimpse of Will Skellen, the sinewy sergeant surging forward to grapple with one of Matthews’ men. Skellen was upon the musketeer before the man had turned. Stryker
heard the long-arm clatter noisily to the stone slabs, its smouldering match jolting free of the serpent.

To his right, Forrester went for the third musketeer, but the guard was able to bring the musket to bear before Forrester could reach him. There was a second shot, unnaturally cacophonous in the subterranean dungeon.

Stryker was still locked in a hand-to-hand struggle with Corporal Matthews. He was shorter than Matthews but far stronger, and he used his muscular frame to force the Parliamentarian back towards the stairs. Matthews kicked out, but Stryker hardly felt the blow and thrust his head forward in a brutal move that smashed Matthews’ nose. Matthews released his grip on the musket and Stryker drove his fist into the redcoat’s stomach, doubling him over. Behind the two men there was a great flash and a scream, and the room seemed to glow orange. Matthews vomited and Stryker pressed his boot heel into the open mouth. Matthews was felled like an oak, crashing to the ground in a mass of flesh and steel.

Stryker vaulted the body and plunged into the gun smoke, trying desperately to gain his bearings amid the chaos. Two shots had rung out in the small melee. Stryker saw Skellen battering his opponent with the remaining musket.

He saw too that Forrester had bested one of the musketeers with the Roundhead’s own sword. The dead man’s musket was lying at his side, a thin wisp of smoke drifting up from the muzzle. Forrester pulled a face. ‘Silly bugger missed.’

In that instant, he saw Bain. Blood flowed freely from his wounded wrist, but he was standing, tall and belligerent, at the foot of the staircase. The bloody arm was hooked around Lisette Gaillard’s throat, and he was dragging her backwards toward the first steps. Stryker noticed his other hand; it held a smoking pistol.

‘Burton!’ Forrester exclaimed, even as Stryker realized what had happened.

Stryker stooped to draw Matthews’ unused sword, and levelled it at the turncoat. ‘You’re beaten, Bain.’

Bain screwed his face into a grimace. ‘Not so f-fast. I’ve still got your froggy punk.’ He scraped the pistol butt along Lisette’s scalp. She winced and struggled, but he held her fast. ‘This’ll crack ’er bonce like a duck egg.’

Stryker glanced down at the prostrate Ensign Burton. Bain followed his gaze. ‘Bugger came at me from nowhere. D-daft bastard.’

The last shot that had rung out in the brawl had come from Bain’s pistol. Forrester looked up. ‘Took it in his shoulder, sir. He’s out cold.’ A pistol ball was small, but at this range it might have come from one of the sakers outside. Burton would have been virtually touching the muzzle when its powder had ignited and the lead missile entered the top of his arm with crashing, devastating, irresistible force. The ball, Stryker knew all too well, would have smashed Burton’s bone with agonizing ease, flattening as it went, tearing a wide terrible hole, before bursting out through the back of his shoulder to rest somewhere in the wall beyond.

A dark stain was creeping from somewhere beneath Burton’s upper body, like an ever increasing shadow. As it grew, it spread into a lake, adding to the metallic stench of fresh blood that already choked the cellar.

The space fell silent. All eyes turned to Bain. He held Lisette in a firm hold.

‘I’ll st-still kill you,’ Bain hissed to Stryker, as he backed away. ‘I’ll g-gut you like a trout. But for n-now I’ll bid y-you farewell. We’ve a w-wagon to catch.’

Forrester moved over to stand with Stryker and Skellen. The latter held the unfired musket, and he passed it to his captain, though there was no chance that Stryker could fire it while Bain held Lisette.

Holding the girl close, Bain took the first couple of steps towards the stair, careful not to turn his back on the Royalists.

Bain was concentrating so intensely upon the three former captives that he did not notice the bloody spectre rising from a dark corner of the room, amid the swirling smoke. By the time he caught the sudden movement, Ensign Burton was only an arm’s length away. The young man was ghostly pale, his torso drenched in his own blood, but he was wielding one of Sir Richard Wynn’s glass amphorae in his good arm.

Bain was completely taken by surprise. As Burton hefted the heavy flask above his head, the sergeant lashed out with his pistol. The solid wooden butt obliterated the glass with an earsplitting crash, drenching the gigantic man and his small captive in dark liquid. In moments the small room was filled with a sharp stench that seared nostrils and stung at the eyes.

In his shock, Bain allowed Lisette to wriggle free and she broke away, dashing across the room toward Stryker. Snarling with fury, Bain turned to bolt up the staircase, but Stryker called to him, ‘Sergeant! Catch!’