Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (5 page)

What concerned him, as it must have concerned anyone else unfortunate to be present at the battle, was just how evenly matched the two sides were. Who could win in a fight that was evidently to the death?

‘It’s fuckin’ awful,’ sneered a squat fellow with goggle eyes and a bulbous nose. As if to seal his point, he spat into the fire, the spittle writhing and bubbling as it landed on a glowing log.

‘What is, Corporal?’ a voice asked behind him.

The squat man scrambled to his feet and turned to confront the man who had spoken, his body snapping rigidly to attention.
He fixed his gaze on the crown of the newcomer’s hat, careful not to meet the single eye that peered back at him. ‘B-beg pardon, sir. Just agreeing with Samuels, here,’ he stammered, indicating the man immediately to his right. Samuels, a skinny, feral-looking youth with a bandaged forearm, had also stood bolt upright. In fact all seven men huddled round the fire had followed suit.

‘Agreeing?’

‘Th-that yesterday was a bad show. For both sides, if truth be told, sir.’

Stryker liked this pikeman and his rough ways, but to be a figure of respect for one’s men was important. ‘They’re not used to war here, Jimmy,’ he said, nodding towards the flames. ‘D’you mind?’

Jimmy smiled toothlessly. ‘Course not, sir.’

With that, the men began to relax. He was a hard bastard, Captain Stryker, but a good sort of cove for all that. They had shared many a campfire with him over the years and knew he liked to chew the fat with them on occasion.

Stryker took his place, cross-legged, in the ring of men that huddled close to the fire’s warmth. ‘It’s been so long since this country’s seen land battles that men have forgotten how to fight,’ he said, returning the gaze of each man in turn.

‘There’s a few who knows what they’re about though, sir,’ ventured the weasel-faced Samuels.

‘Aye, there are,’ the captain replied, offering the young man a wolfish grin. As the flames danced in the chill dusk, their tremulous radiance lit up Stryker’s face, highlighting old scars and glittering in that all-seeing eye of his.

By Christ
, the pikeman thought, he looked so much like a minion of Lucifer in that orange glow that Samuels could not help but shiver, despite the fire’s heat. He had seen that terrible scar twist and convulse when the captain’s ire was aroused. He had seen those powerful shoulders wield deadly weapons in a hundred different situations, and had
witnessed the same outcome each time. Samuels, like all of his mates in the company, thought more of this man than any other in His Majesty’s army. They had fought with him and killed with him. And they would always answer his call.

Stryker picked up a stick and began prodding the smouldering logs, sending sparks skywards in a manic rush. ‘Trouble is,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘only those of us who’ve been in Europe have the experience. We are the ones who know what we’re up against, Sammy. The rest are soft.’

His words drew a chorus of consenting grunts. Either force would have been cut to ribbons by the great martial machines they had fought against in mainland Europe.

‘Still,’ a voice came from opposite Stryker, beyond the flames, ‘it wasn’t all bad, was it?’

‘How d’you mean, Sergeant?’ asked another of the men.

Skellen sniffed, as he always did when he wished to show he did not appear to care about a subject. ‘We’ve got the road, haven’t we? That’s what we wanted. That’s what we got.’

Stryker nodded. Both sides had hoped for a crushing victory that would end this feud before it had really begun. Perhaps there was still a chance, given that the road to London had been opened if not by a victory, then by Essex’s failure to block the route south. They’d been ordered to Banbury, which had capitulated, and now Stryker, and evidently Skellen, fully expected the king to dash further south and secure Oxford. Then they could push on to the capital.

The fireside chatter soon turned to other things. The women they had left behind; the taverns they had frequented in former lives; the quality of beer on the Continent. Anything but the horrors of the battle. It had been a hard affair on that plain below Edgehill. Cold and bloody and brutal. The butcher’s bill had reached Stryker as the column decamped in Banbury’s houses and fields.

It was never easy reading, but this one was particularly difficult. Not that it was the worst Stryker had ever seen, but it was hard to stomach by its very nature. This was civil war, and every nameless man whose death was recorded on the bill’s tally was from these islands. From the king’s force five hundred lay dead, another fifteen hundred wounded. Stryker knew similar numbers would be tallied around Parliamentarian campfires at this very moment.

‘Captain Stryker?’ a voice from outside the circle broke into the group’s friendly banter. ‘Captain
I.
Stryker, if you please.’

Stryker stood slowly, the aches and pains of the last battle’s exertions crying out against the unwelcome movement. ‘I’m Stryker,’ he said, turning to face the newcomer, whose form was gradually resolving in the darkness.

‘Lieutenant Morris, sir,’ the man said, offering his hand for Stryker to shake. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, but carried himself with an air of confidence that Stryker knew immediately was born of wealth and privilege. ‘Compliments of Lord Saxby, sir, and what is the
I
for?’

‘The
I
?’ Stryker replied in a low, almost threatening voice.

‘In your name, sir,’ Morris went on, unconcerned by his superior’s tone. ‘What, may I ask, does it stand for?’

Around the campfire, the men tensed. None, not even Skellen, knew what Stryker’s Christian name was, and it was common knowledge that to pry was dangerous.

‘No, Lieutenant, you may not ask.’

Morris shrugged. ‘Well, no matter. Lord John requests you attend him forthwith.’

‘Forthwith? It’s cold and late, man. Can I not at least see to my billet first?’

‘ ’Fraid not, sir.’ The lieutenant flashed a sympathetic smile. ‘He was quite insistent.’

Stryker gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw quivering in irritation. Eventually he sighed. ‘Of course he bloody was.’

The room was opulent. A large fire roared in the impressive stone hearth, its light bathing everything in a tremulous glow. Bookcases lined the walls, shelves filled to breaking point with distinguished tomes, their spines crammed together like a regiment of pike. An enormously large chandelier hung glittering from the ceiling, while beneath it sat a vast table of oak, its surface invisible beneath scattered parchments. The owner of the room, and its clutter, was not in attendance.

Stryker had been ushered in by Lieutenant Morris, whom he had followed the short distance from the company’s field of sheep shit, through one of the city gates, and into a quiet street of impressive houses, the hulking shadow of Banbury’s Norman castle looming behind them.

Half the way up the street and past several Royalist patrols, they had reached a large merchant dwelling. Uttering a password to the surly musketeer on sentry duty, they were granted entry. As they walked down a long corridor, they had passed several doors and three more guards before reaching the present room. Once inside, Morris had beaten a hasty retreat while Stryker, alone, had been left to await the man who had summoned him.

Pleased to be sheltered from the bitter night, Stryker ambled across iron-cold flagstones and thick carpets to the great hearth. It was blistering in its intensity, too hot, but he held out his hands to welcome its energy. It was a satisfying feeling. He closed his eye.

Behind him, footsteps shuffled across the carpet.

Stryker spun on his heels, his hand moving instinctively to the sheathed sword at his waist.

The man froze where he stood, palms held up in supplication. ‘Is a duel really necessary, Captain?’ he said. ‘This ruff is new, and the rug is Persian. We will never get the blood stains out and your dozen shillings a day won’t be enough to replace it, I can assure you.’

Stryker shrugged. ‘It is necessary when officers creep up on their men, Colonel.’

‘You would speak to a superior officer in such a fashion, sir?’

‘Only when it is deserved, my lord.’

Colonel Lord John Saxby’s narrow face split into a broad grin. ‘Good God, man, but you always were an insubordinate rogue!’ He let out a great guffaw. ‘It is good to see you, indeed it is. You look positively monstrous, as always.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Stryker, straight-faced.

Saxby brayed again. ‘Sweet Christ on His cross, Stryker, you are a marvel. If I could have had odds on your demise, I’d have bet against you long ago. But here you are.’

Stryker reached out, shaking Saxby’s proffered hand. ‘Here I am, sir.’

‘Here you are indeed. I heard you were in the thick of it.’

Stryker nodded. ‘And I heard you were also, sir.’

The colonel’s eyes glinted. ‘I was. But where are my manners? Sit, Mister Stryker, sit.’

Colonel Lord John Saxby had been born into Dorset’s landed elite. Yet as a second-born son, he was not entitled to his father’s estate. With no inheritance, and no intention of playing second fiddle to a tedious, pious brother, he had joined the army in search of his own fortune. In the two decades that followed, he fought across Europe with the grand Protestant armies, perfecting his skills with sword and saddle. At some point during his military life, his elder brother had been careless enough to be thrown from his horse, making John sole heir to the family fortune. But by then he had fallen in love with his mistress – the army.

Having inherited his father’s title and estates, Sir John was one of King Charles’s most outspoken supporters and an invaluable asset to the Royalist cause. He was a close friend and confidant of Prince Rupert of the Rhine, and, it was said, had the ear of the king himself.

The friendship between Sir John and Stryker was an unlikely one. Stryker was well known, as feted and feared
in England’s great houses as he was in its lowly taverns. The Royalist elite wanted him as a leader of men, but that did not mean he was one of their own. Stryker knew he was the king’s attack dog, a blunt instrument to be wielded in desperate times. If the Royalists should win the war, he would not be expecting an invitation to dine with the elite at Whitehall Palace.

Yet an invitation would most certainly come from Saxby House. Stryker and Saxby had met more than a decade ago, thrust together by war. The fiery struggle in the Low Countries had been hard and unforgiving, and a generation of young soldiers had been forged in its flames. These young men were now returning to England, some as Cavaliers, some as Roundheads, and their shared history bonded them in a way polite society never could.

The chair Stryker now occupied was an intricately carved affair. He leant back, pleased to feel its strength support his weary bones, as Saxby took his place opposite. The lord was of a similar height to Stryker, though of slimmer build. His eyes contained a clever, almost mocking glint in their brown depths, but not the arrogance that characterized the likes of Makepeace or Morris. His clothes were magnificent. The finest velvet cloth, cut by a genius, shone in the fire’s soft light, complementing the sandy hair and neat beard. In all, he was in stark contrast to Stryker’s battered appearance.

‘Sir,’ Stryker said after a while, ‘I saw you follow the prince out on the right, sir. Quite extraordinary.’

Saxby grinned. ‘Quite insane, actually, Captain. Not to be found in any treatise on warfare.’

‘Why?’ asked Stryker, as his superior began prodding at the glowing logs with a metal poker.

‘Not His Majesty’s decision, you understand. He knows, deep down, that he needs people like me, like Rupert, at his disposal. But my lord the Earl of Forth ain’t too happy. Says the
Prince let us lose our heads. Led us off on a merry dance and to hell with the rest of you.’

‘I saw you crush Ramsey’s horse though, sir. It turned the day in our favour for sure.’

Saxby glanced up from the flames, his expression sheepish. ‘But we didn’t come back, d’you see? After we’d finished with Ramsey we sacked the Roundhead baggage. In the cold light of day, Captain, we should have turned back. Should have supported the foot. As it happens you held admirably. But Forth believes we’d have taken the field for certain if the Prince’s charge had been a tad more . . .’ he turned his attention back to the fire and eventually said ‘. . . controlled.’

Stryker was at a loss to find a suitable response. The Prince’s charge had been one of the most impressive cavalry actions he had ever witnessed. But it had also been reckless and potentially fatal for the Royalist foot brigades left to defend themselves.

‘I can see you agree, Captain,’ said Saxby when Stryker failed to respond. ‘Worry ye not. You were in the centre of that damned brawl. You were dodging pike and ball while we lined our saddle bags with plunder.’ He paused to pick up a long pipe that lay on the stone hearth. It had already been packed with tobacco, and Saxby grimaced as he rummaged in the folds of his tunic for a length of match, which eventually appeared from a concealed pocket. ‘Oh, don’t mistake me, Captain,’ he said, as he dangled the match over the roaring flames until its end began to glow. ‘I ain’t ashamed. We damn well routed Ramsey’s lads and it saved us a deal of aggravation later in the day. But it don’t require a genius to see now that our help was needed in the centre. For that I’m damnably sorry.’

‘No matter.’ Stryker shrugged as Saxby lit his pipe, smoke billowing around him in thick plumes. ‘Taking the baggage train must have had some benefit, sir.’

Saxby’s small white teeth and gleaming eyes shone through the smoke. ‘Ah-ha! You always were a bright one, Mister Stryker. You are quite right. Some of the booty we took, it
turns out, could be of profound significance to our worthy cause.’

Stryker raised his eyebrows, the web of scars puckering and creasing as he did so. ‘Will you be so good as to make your meaning plain, sir?’ he asked quietly.

T
he large tent glowed orange with candlelight in the cold night.