Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (7 page)

Stryker followed Ruthven’s gaze and, for the first time since he had entered the tent, he saw Prince Rupert, the man he had shared a prison cell with all those years ago, looking self-conscious. Ashamed, even.

‘The traitor is one of my men. A trusted confidant,’ he cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘A shock, to be certain. You recall my secretary, Blake? He wrote the papers. They mention Moxcroft explicitly. They even boast that Blake had turned him.’

Stryker’s grey eye widened. ‘Blake is a Roundhead?’

The prince was crestfallen. ‘Aye, there is no doubt. He used his position with me to identify our chief spy in the south. With the promise of Westminster gold, he has convinced Moxcroft to turn his coat.’

The earl nodded. ‘Blake said there was a complete dossier of Moxcroft’s network. Names, locations, everything. He asks for funds to be made available, so that the rebels might purchase the information.’

Stryker chewed his lip. Men were changing allegiance at an alarming rate, but for a key intelligence officer to throw in his lot with the enemy? That was hard to digest. It was equally shocking that Rupert’s private secretary could be the catalyst for Moxcroft’s defection. ‘And Blake?’

The earl spoke, ‘We have the dog in irons. He’ll be hanged when all necessary information has been . . . extracted.’

Stryker felt a pang for the man. He would be undergoing unspeakable torture.

Rupert spoke now, concern and determination scouring deep lines into his handsome face. ‘Now, Captain Stryker. We need you. You are to take Moxcroft, before he can do our cause further damage. Take him before this underhanded transaction is completed.’

Stryker had been waiting for an order since he had stepped into the tent. But he was astonished. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but you wish me to travel to Hampshire to capture this spy?’

The Earl of Forth came to stand beside Prince Rupert. ‘Blake turned Sir Randolph, lured him into selling his knowledge, and with it the lives of loyal men and women, to Essex. In return for his thirty pieces of silver Moxcroft will jeopardize our cause. Perhaps irreparably. Under the circumstances, I do not think “capture” is the
mot juste
, Captain.’

‘You want him dead,’ Stryker said.

Astley grinned wolfishly. ‘That is the idea, Captain!’

The earl cast an iron glance at Sir Jacob. ‘Actually, no,’ he said, turning back to Stryker. ‘Not dead. I want him alive, unfortunately. You can beat him to within an inch of his life if you wish, but make sure he finds his way back to me. You have heard of Lady Grace Parkes?’

Stryker nodded. The Parkes were an ancient family, tracing their roots back to the Conqueror.

‘She is exceeding rich, Captain,’ Ruthven went on. ‘And much of that wealth currently swells the king’s coffers.’

Stryker frowned. ‘And Moxcroft?’

The earl grimaced sourly. ‘Her cousin. A distant one, but I’d rather he were kept alive for the time being. Wouldn’t want her suspecting we had a hand in his demise, now. Her good favour is crucial. So you will ride out of here with all haste, Captain. Reinforcements for the capture will be made available by Sir John Paulet at Basing House, so take yourself there
en route
. You’ll have a letter with orders for him to relinquish as many men as you feel necessary.’ Stretching out an arm, the earl rescued his pipe from the edge of the table. For a while all was silent as the assembled officers looked on, waiting while he reignited the pungent tobacco. He sucked on the pipe for half a dozen breaths before looking back up to meet Stryker’s single eye.

Confident he had the earl’s attention, Stryker spoke, careful to choose his words. ‘You have reminded me of our precarious
position, my lord. We mean to push for London, but the rebel is only hurt, not vanquished, so he will match our every step with powder and steel. More fighting will follow us like a bloody shadow at dusk, and, it stands to reason, you’ll require people with my experience.’

‘Now more than ever,’ Ruthven agreed.

‘So why, may I ask, does this mission fall to me?’

For the first time since Stryker had entered the tent, the Earl of Forth took his seat. It was a robust affair of polished wood, which creaked satisfyingly as he settled into its embrace. He leaned back. ‘For your answer, I will defer to our General of Horse.’ He glanced up at Rupert, who nodded briefly, before pacing toward the entrance to the tent.

‘Will you walk a while with me, Captain?’

Rupert led the way. ‘Here!’ the prince snapped, as he pushed the awning aside. Stryker was startled as a large white dog raced from the tent as if its very life depended on following the prince.

‘My dog, Boye,’ Rupert said, ruffling the curly pelt.

The two men, with Boye at their heels, left the company in the tent and paced off into the vast encampment. It was rapidly becoming dark, but visibility was good amid the myriad white tents glowing bright between raging fires. Common soldiers were everywhere, repairing kit, cleaning muskets, honing blades. They parted like the Red Sea before the two men.

Rupert was so lofty that his head must have been six and a half feet from the ground. He was a man at ease in his own skin. He strode confidently about his troops, knowing instinctively that they revered him, nodding here and there. This man – still barely a man, reflected Stryker, given his youth – exuded confidence. The troubles of his homeland had battered and weathered him until he seemed hewn from granite.

Eventually, Rupert spoke, but his tone was low, his manner subdued. ‘Things are not as they were in the Low Countries, Captain. There, a man knew who he was. What he fought for. And, more to the point, what he fought against.’

‘I know what I fight against, Your Highness.
You
know.’

‘Aye, but you and I are a rare breed, Stryker. What of the rest? The common folk? This is civil war. Neighbour against neighbour, father against son, brother against brother. The lines are blurred.’ The younger man shook his head sadly. ‘Men deceive. They betray. They turn their coats on the word of a preacher, or the whisper of a friend, or for a coin crossing their palm. Take these sorry villains.’ He jerked his head towards a group of figures standing at the tree line on the camp’s edge, some fifty paces away. ‘They are to be shot.’

Stryker remained silent as they moved between and then beyond the dirty white tent awnings and out on to the open ground. As they drew closer to the group at the trees, he understood that a dozen of the men were soldiers, busily making muskets ready for action. Standing flush against the thick oak trunks were five others, in varying states of terror, hands bound at their backs.

‘Taken at the battle?’ he asked.

The prince shook his head. ‘No, Captain. Taken after. They are ours. Two servants, a pair of cooks and this one, the one nearest us, is—’

‘Captain Forde.’

Rupert regarded Stryker with keen eyes. ‘Just so. You know him?’

‘Of him. Distinguished himself at Kineton.’

‘Thomas Forde is a traitor, sir. His heart is black as coke. He is named as a turncoat by Blake. Aye, Captain,’ Rupert said. ‘He is another of Blake’s traitors. To my eternal shame.’

Stryker finally understood. For Prince Rupert of the Rhine, the situation had become a personal matter. Blake, one of the men most trusted by the prince, was Sir Randolph Moxcroft’s Parliamentarian controller. Rupert had taken the betrayal as a personal slight, one for which he felt almost responsible.

‘And that is the heart of the matter,’ Rupert continued. ‘Men like Captain Forde, here, fight like lions one moment, and
would thrust a dirk deep between the king’s shoulders the next. I cannot trust a single man, save my uncle, my brother Maurice, and, perhaps, one Captain Stryker . . .’

Stryker could not help but be startled by the compliment.

Rupert ignored the infantryman’s raised brow. ‘I am young, Captain, but until now I had never considered myself a fool. I trusted Blake with my life, and he was a goddamned rebel all along. Betraying us. Betraying
me
!’ He sounded as astonished as he was angry. ‘If my own secretary is a traitor, then who else? Astley? Lucas? Who? The earl thinks me mad. Says I should simply send word down to Paulet at Basing. Charge him with this mission. But I do not
know
the man. How could I trust him, given recent events? You were imprisoned with me after Vlotho, Stryker. We shared a cell. You saved my life. I hope – I pray – that I can trust
you
.’

‘You can,’ Stryker said simply.

‘That was my hope. You would not be so swayed by politics or faith to turn your coat. You have sided with us, and your particular brand of loyalty will keep you with us.’

Stryker nodded.

‘This issue must be resolved by my hand,’ Rupert continued, ‘as it was my man who betrayed us. Ruthven has agreed. As such, the course of action to be taken is my decision alone. And I cannot place my trust in more souls than I could count on the fingers of my hand. You were my champion once before, and I ask you to be that champion again. Go to Hampshire. Get me that treacherous bastard.’

They reached the tree line. Forde had been bent forward, his spine curved, his head hanging like the bough of an ancient willow, but his hearing was clearly intact, for he straightened as the faintly Teutonic lilt of Rupert’s voice reached him through the crisp air. It was easy to see he had been badly beaten, for one eye was glued shut with crusted blood, while his lips were cracked and oozing. Despite his sorry state, the prisoner managed
a grin. ‘Say your prayers,’ Forde rasped through broken teeth. ‘You have no hope. None. You are lost.’

Rupert sighed theatrically. ‘I doubt that, Thomas, really I do.’

Forde’s grin turned to a cackle that bordered on the hysterical. ‘There is a storm coming. It will wash you clean away.’

‘Fancy yourself Noah, do you?’ the prince mocked.

Forde’s good eye narrowed, flitting rapidly between Rupert and Stryker, but never settling. ‘I am nothing but a servant of God. Our ark is Parliament. We will sail clear of this tribulation while the king and his Cavaliers are purged by the Lord’s wrath.’

The prince nodded toward the assembled, and readied, musketeers. ‘Well, there’s only one place you’re sailing today, Forde.’

Captain Forde lowered his head. ‘If that is God’s will.’

Rupert stepped forward, suddenly riled. ‘It is
my
will, damn you!’

‘It will see you burn in Hell’s fires, Your Highness,’ Forde replied, as he lifted his chin again, grunting with the effort, to meet the young general’s stare.

Rupert shook his head. ‘Jesu, but you Puritans are tiresome. Stone me, but you are.’ He turned to the firing squad’s commander, a burly, coarse-whiskered sergeant in his forties. ‘Shoot the bugger.’

‘A storm brews, sir!’ Forde was shouting now, desperate to enrage the prince with his dying breath, as a dozen muskets were ranged upon him. ‘Mark me, it brews!’ He laughed, high-pitched and wild. Unsettling. ‘Our pieces are in place! At the very heart of your army. They move even now to undermine you!’

‘If you mean our dear friend Master Blake,’ Rupert spoke over the sergeant’s orders, ‘you might care to know that he rots in a cell even now.’ The prince turned away haughtily.

Forde’s laughter died away, but to Stryker’s surprise, his expression melted into a mask of calm. He smiled. ‘Blake?’

Forde shook his head as if attempting to rid it of bees. ‘He is nothing. You know
nothing
.’

The world exploded in flame and smoke. Captain Thomas Forde’s shattered body was lifted clean off its feet and sent crashing into the tree behind.

The silence that followed was shocking in its intensity.

As the thick cloud of gun smoke meandered into the dark sky, Rupert finally turned his back on the scene. ‘Such men frighten me you know, Captain.’

Stryker looked up at him. ‘They are zealots, sir. Nothing more.’

Rupert met his eye, concern tainting his handsome features. ‘But imagine, Stryker. Just imagine what men like Forde, men with such conviction, would be able to achieve with a truly charismatic leader.’

‘Forgive me, sir, but I’ll wager you cannot name a man like that in the rebel ranks.’

Rupert shook his head. ‘Not yet. But God help us all when they have him.’

T
he man sat at the window, staring out at dark clouds pregnant with moisture. The road below was quiet, the creeping dusk having driven travellers from England’s highways for the night. ‘You tore my shirt,’ he said matter-of-factly, not looking round.

‘Do you really mind?’ a gently accented voice responded from the recesses of the room.

The man smiled, fingering his collar’s damaged fabric. ‘No. I like my sport rough.’ Lithe arms snaked around his neck and he lowered his nose to take in the intoxicating aroma of her skin. ‘You are wondrous, Melisande.’

‘I am French. We have more passion than you English.’

‘I cannot disagree, my love.’ He inhaled the scent of her skin again. ‘You bewitch me,’ he said with his out-breath. ‘I am yours.’ When a response did not come, the man twisted round to meet the girl’s pale blue gaze. ‘What is it?’

She freed her arms and paced further into the room. ‘I am afraid, John.’

Colonel John Kesley rose from the chair, slipping his legs into breeches hurriedly discarded during their lovemaking. Still barefoot, he padded over to her. ‘Why? Tell me.’

‘I want to be with you, you know that. But you say we cannot be together – properly I mean – until this war is over. How will you ever overcome the king’s forces, my love? How can you?’

Kesley reached out, placing comforting hands on his lover’s slender shoulders. She was dressed like a man, boots, breeches and shirt, yet she still sent a wave of longing through him. ‘How? We build an army,’ he said. ‘An irresistible fighting force. Professional and vast.’

‘But
how
?’ She punched his chest in frustration. ‘Do not mock me, John, I beg you. Please, tell me how there is to be such an army. I fear for my life. For yours. You told me the king’s cavalry are unbeatable. How can my lord Essex begin to challenge them?’