Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (6 page)

Snatching off his hat in salute to the sentry at the tent’s entrance, Saxby stooped through the opening, its grimy awning flapping in the bitter breeze. As Stryker followed, he was instantly plunged into a fog of pungent, bittersweet tobacco. It took several moments for his eye to cease watering as it strained against the gloom. At length he was able to force the shapes before him into focus through the thick fug.

Three men, members of the King’s general staff, stood at a large circular table. Stryker, recognizing the expensive clothes and confident gazes, drew himself to attention, desperately searching for something to dispel the tension he felt. He was not easily intimidated, but this was eminent company. He looked again at the sturdy table and found himself wondering what a mighty endeavour it must have been to drag such a gigantic piece of furniture on campaign.

Saxby made an ostentatious bow and took a small step forward. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he began smoothly. ‘May I present Captain Stryker? Lately of Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Foot, though you’ll doubtless have memory of him from days past.’

‘Of course, John,’ replied a man in the centre of the group. ‘Of course.’ There was a silver goblet at the edge of the table,
and the speaker, a head taller than his companions, raised it in salute. ‘Welcome, Stryker. It has been too long.’

Stryker remembered that curious accent well. Impeccable English, lifting almost imperceptibly at the beginning and end of each sentence. Impossible to pinpoint, a tribute to the speaker’s pan-continental upbringing. This was an accent born in his native Bohemia, forged in The Hague, where he spent his childhood, and finished in England, where his restless and adventurous heart had found a home.

Prince Rupert, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavaria, was the king’s nephew and General of Royalist Horse. Rupert was no more than 23, yet he commanded more respect than any man Stryker had met. The ill-fated Westphalia campaign had been fought nearly five years ago, and Stryker remembered the dashing Prince, a teenager then, had fought as fiercely and skilfully as a seasoned veteran.

Rupert broke away from his companions. He approached Stryker, bright eyes constantly alert, appraising him. Stryker wondered what sort of figure he himself cut before such an elegant member of royalty. Now, under Rupert’s questioning stare, Stryker found himself wishing that he had followed Saxby’s suggestion that he groom himself for the interview ahead. The general would be taking in the mutilated face, the long dark hair tied at the nape of the neck and falling in tousled clumps, fused together by sweat and gunpowder. He would be inspecting the bedraggled breeches and doublet, stained and frayed, and would doubtless have also noticed the blackened hands and scuffed boots.

Stryker shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to hide his discomfort, but the prince only smiled more broadly. ‘How do you fare, Captain?’ he said, as Stryker shook the proffered hand.

‘Very well, Your Highness. Thank you.’

‘Excellent. You were at our centre?’

‘I was, Your Highness.’

‘You may address me as
sir
, of course, Captain.’

Stryker dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sir. Yes, I was at the centre, sir.’

‘Fires of hell, what?’ The voice came from one of the men around the table. Stryker glanced beyond Prince Rupert to see a man of middle height, slim build and greying whiskers.

‘Captain Stryker,’ Saxby said, ‘may I introduce you to Sir Jacob Astley?’

Sir Jacob Astley, Sergeant-Major-General of Foot, had led the king’s troops at the centre of the battle.

Stryker dipped his head. ‘Hellish, to be certain, Sir Jacob. I saw you lead out the lads. It was a tremendous effort, sir.’

Astley nodded, his obvious pride betrayed by the mere flicker of a smile. ‘High praise indeed, Captain. Your reputation precedes you. I was in the Low Countries as well, do not forget.’

‘As was I,’ a third man interjected, and Stryker immediately recognized the booming voice with its Scots overtones. The big man strode forward, offering his hand, which Stryker accepted warmly. ‘Pleased to renew your acquaintance, Captain. It’s been too long.’

‘That it has, my lord.’

Patrick Ruthven, Earl of Forth and Captain-General of the king’s forces, was 70 years old, but still cut the imposing figure Stryker had been introduced to a decade ago. A consummate professional soldier, the earl had fought countless campaigns, learning his trade from that champion of Protestantism, Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. He had assumed command at Edgehill on the eve of the battle when Lord Lyndsey resigned his commission, and Stryker could not have been happier with the decision.

‘I must say though, Captain, you’re still an ugly-looking brute,’ the earl chided.

‘I am sorry to hear that, my lord,’ Stryker replied solemnly. ‘I thought I was improving.’

The earl grinned. ‘Ah, Stryker, you always were an impudent fellow.’

‘My lord.’

‘Aye, well you’re certainly a villain.’ Ruthven turned to his fellow staff officers. ‘This, gentlemen, is the best fighter I ever laid eyes upon. Should be burnt at the stake, if you ask me, for he becomes a veritable demon in a melee. And he has more campaign experience than all the soldiers in the king’s army put together.’

‘Then may I ask,’ Astley now interjected, ‘why he ain’t on the staff, my lord?’

Before the earl could answer, Prince Rupert cleared his throat. Eyes swung immediately back in his direction. ‘I can answer that, Sir Jacob. I will give you three reasons why Mister Stryker here is not on our staff, shall I? Firstly, he was asked and he declined.’ The prince paused for effect as three shocked gazes came to rest on the uncomfortable captain. ‘The blasted fellow won’t be asked again. And for that matter, the last thing I require is another infantry plodder whispering villainy in my uncle’s ear.’ The prince glared at Stryker with those youthful, intense eyes, authority and steel united in their glare. Stryker attempted to fix his lone grey eye so that it met Rupert’s with equal strength.

Just as the moment threatened to become uncomfortably tense, Rupert suddenly gave a great guffaw.

‘Christ in His Heaven, Mister Stryker. I have missed you, ’pon my life I have!’ Prince Rupert stepped forward to slap Stryker heartily on the shoulder. ‘Saxby, here, warned me. I wondered if your manners had improved since the old days, but not a flicker!’ He laughed again. ‘Remarkable. I’d have most men whipped from here to Edinburgh for your brand of impertinence, but, by God, you ain’t most men, and that’s for certain.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Stryker acknowledged.

‘No. Thank
you
, sir,’ the prince retorted. ‘You’re a man of
action, and I have always liked that. I am a man of action too, Stryker, as you know. There ain’t many kindred spirits to be found in these dark days,’ he said, shooting a flat glance at the earl, ‘so a true Brother of the Blade is always welcome at my table.’

Brother of the Blade
. Stryker remembered the prince’s old saying.

‘Mister Stryker?’ The Earl of Forth took the opportunity to cut in as Rupert went to stand behind his campaign table, the tall and powerful frame craning forward to inspect the giant map. ‘Your assessment of the battle, if you’d care to indulge me.’

Stryker decided to opt for honesty. ‘A stalemate, sir. Plain and simple. A pair of evenly matched sides fighting to a standstill.’

The earl nodded. ‘A fair statement. And the cavalry action?’

Rupert glanced up from the map, his expression darkening. He and the earl had clearly been discussing that particular event in depth. Stryker’s heart began to pound. Was he being tricked into insulting the prince? Or was the earl simply counting on an opinion from a professional soldier? Stryker took a deep intake of breath, and plumped for the latter. ‘Brilliant, sir. One of the most impressive actions I’ve seen for years. And absolutely the most foolhardy.’

Astley and Saxby braced themselves as if awaiting a cannonade. The Earl of Forth looked smug. And Prince Rupert of the Rhine gave another shout of amusement. ‘Jesu, but I should run you through. Really I should.’

His reaction cut the tension like a sabre slashing through silk. The men of the King’s general staff broke into relaxed laughter.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ Saxby said after a while. ‘But the third reason?’

‘Third?’ the prince asked, regaining composure.

‘You mentioned three reasons why my esteemed comrade here is not part of the general staff.’

‘Ah, yes. So I did, indeed. Well, John, if you would be so kind, please tell us his damned name.’

‘His name, sir?’

‘Deuce it, John, but the man must have a Christian name. I refuse to believe he was named just
Stryker
by his mother. Nor do I believe you’re not privy to this particular morsel of information.’

Saxby shrugged apologetically. ‘I am afraid even I do not have it, Your Highness.’

‘And there, gentlemen, is your third reason,’ Rupert said. ‘I knew this man during a time I would rather forget. He saved my life, and I am indebted to him. And yet not once did he deign to introduce himself properly, and I found it damned infuriating. When you’ve barely grown to man’s estate, and a brutish officer is all that stands between you and Saint Peter, an officer’s pig-headed refusal to give a name must be suffered with dignity. But I’ll not have a man on the staff whose name I don’t know. Good God, it won’t do.
It will not do!
’

There was silence in the room, bar the sucking of several clay pipes. At length, the Earl of Forth raised his hand to gain the attention of the assembled group. ‘Now, my friends, we must to business. John?’ he said, addressing Saxby. ‘What news of the road?’

Saxby frowned. ‘Not a great deal, my lord, truth be told.’ They all knew the road south, to London, was the key. The prize that must be seized in order to move on the capital. ‘Patrols here, scouts there, spies everywhere. But no armies. No major force to block our progress.’

‘Good,’ said the earl quietly, deep in thought. ‘Good.’

‘Oxford next, eh?’ the prince said, his spirits high. ‘I would ride on London, as you all know. I’ll ask my uncle for a force, not too many, mark, but a force enough to strike south effectively. We take London now, lance the boil while our needle is hot . . . and, gentlemen, we’ll knock the stuffing out of ’em, mark my words.’

‘Caution, Your Highness,’ the earl said in his level tones. ‘Let us secure our stronghold in Oxford before we make any rash moves.’

The younger man gritted his teeth in annoyance. ‘Damn your caution, Patrick, we must strike now! Take London and leave Essex in our wake. He is weakened after the battle.’

‘As are we,’ the earl said levelly, long since used to cooling the young cavalryman’s hot temper. ‘You could ride on the capital and take it, certainly. But for how long? The main army is grievously harmed. We could not march to your support for some days. London is a vast swathe of humanity, much of which is set against your uncle, though he would not admit it. You would be spread too thin, I fear, and not able to hold it without us.’

‘Then I would sack it. Sack Westminster. Teach those dogs a royal lesson.’

‘And when you eventually withdraw, and withdraw you must, what will you have achieved? A sacking. You’ll have wounded Parliament and its supporters, but not mortally. Simply enough to enrage them, and set them against us all the more fervently. It is not a sensible move. Valiant, surely, but not sensible.’

The prince made a gesture of exasperation, but chose not to argue his case further. He knew that to sack London would be to stir up a fearsome hornet’s nest. The earl turned his attention back to Stryker. ‘Captain Stryker. Has the colonel explained why you have been summoned here?’

Now to the nub of it, Stryker thought. ‘In part, my lord.’

‘Which part?’

Stryker recounted the conversation with Saxby. How he had described the cavalry’s heroic sacking of the Roundhead baggage train. ‘And I understand certain papers were captured, sir.’

The earl nodded. ‘It was just a small leather satchel. Looked wretchedly unimportant, I can tell you. Remarkably fortunate the prince’s men paid it a second’s notice,’ he said with
a meaningful glance at Rupert. ‘Within this bag was a mass of information about our movements. The combined efforts of a dozen spies in Essex’s pay. Their network is prodigious.’

‘Parliament has deep pockets, my lord.’

‘Aye, it does, Captain. And deeper than even I had foreseen.’ The Earl of Forth moved round to the far side of the gigantic campaign table and jabbed a meaty finger at a specific point on the map. ‘Look here, Stryker. I believe you know it?’

Stryker moved to the table and leaned across to study the map. It was upside down from his position and his eyes quickly skimmed across the different shades of green that denoted the island’s eclectic topography. Down through Scotland and the Pennines, across the Midlands, past the army’s current position at Banbury, beyond London and down to the counties that hugged the south coast. And there his eyes rested upon the earl’s hand and his home shire. He nodded. ‘I grew up on Hampshire’s border with Sussex, my lord. A place called Petersfield.’

The earl smiled. ‘Aye, that’s what we were counting on.’

‘My lord?’

‘When you mentioned the depth of the enemy’s pockets, Captain, you were more right than you know. The papers we captured were indeed of great import to us. As a means to identify his damned spies.’ The earl paced slowly around the table to face Stryker. ‘Two in particular. The first is a certain Sir Randolph Moxcroft. You know who he is?’

Stryker thought for a moment. ‘Yes, my lord. His estate is at Langrish, not far from Petersfield.’

The earl nodded slowly. ‘Moxcroft is a spy, sir. Not just a spy, but a spy
master
. We know he controls a significant network across Hampshire and beyond, and the most damnable thing about it is that until now he has been one of His Majesty’s most trusted, and vital, sources of information. He was
our
man.’

‘Until now?’

The earl’s face darkened. His brogue thickened slightly. ‘The papers captured at Edgehill were in a familiar hand.’ The Scots nobleman cut a sharp glance in the prince’s direction. ‘A hand all here know well.’