Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (9 page)

She ignored his rebuke, stepping nimbly passed the beast’s skittish hooves to stand at the saddle’s side. ‘Ribbon for your fancy lady, m’ lordship?’ she cawed, thrusting out a bony claw, a frayed piece of blue ribbon hanging limp in her grasp.

Stryker leant down and gripped her wrist, compelling her to take a rearward step so that Vos could move on. ‘No.’

Instantly her face clouded in anger. ‘Well ger’off with yer then!’ she spat at his back. ‘You ugly devil! Take your fuckin’ soldiers with ya! Leave us! We don’t want you ’ere!’

Stryker understood her. The war had been thrust upon her, and upon all the other civilians in the land. It was, in their view, a matter for the upper classes. A game of high stakes, but a game nonetheless. Men of all backgrounds would be forced to participate in the rich man’s sport, like pawns on a chessboard, but
it was about one type of aristocrat attempting to oust another. Most of the nation would prefer to keep their heads hung low, their eyes down and their mouths shut.

Stryker slowed Vos to a walk as a grubby barrow-boy skirted round the imposing stallion like a whippet. His rags, impregnated with a lifetime of grime, billowed about his skeletal frame as he drove the squeaking wheel over the frozen ruts of the road. ‘Boy!’ Stryker called. The squeaking ceased as the urchin’s head flicked round in a jerking movement, as if he was prepared to be attacked at any second. Stryker’s confident gaze met the boy’s nervous eyes. He tossed him a coin. The movement made the youngster flinch, before his eager eye caught the glint of metal and a bony arm jerked out to pluck his prize from the air.

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ the boy called with a black-toothed grin, and he scampered away in haste.

A
blast of cold night air rushed through the open doorway, its tendrils whistling over mildewed straw and between chairs and tables. A dozen patrons hunched low over their pots, eager to keep close to the warming spiced ale. Most of the men ignored the intrusion, preferring to keep to themselves, though a smattering of growls greeted the newcomer when he was slow to close the door behind him. Two inebriated souls propping up the bar turned to stare bleary-eyed but threateningly at the man who had so gratingly disturbed their peace.

‘B-back to your drinks,’ the man in the doorway commanded.

After a moment’s hesitation, the patrons returned to their pots.

‘Cupshot arseholes,’ the newcomer muttered as he finally shut the door and stepped on to the damp rushes. He scanned the room briefly and then paced purposefully to the far corner, where a man sat alone.

Captain Eli Makepeace looked up from his tankard and frowned. ‘You are late.’

The big man’s top lip wrinkled, but he spoke civilly. ‘Sorry, sir. Had s-some tidying up to do.’

‘Tidying?’ Makepeace raised eyebrows. ‘Judging from your appearance, I find that hard to believe. Were you
tidying
a whore, or
tidying
some unfortunate fellow into a ditch?’ he enquired. ‘Not sure I’d want to know anyway, Sergeant.’

Sergeant Malachi Bain was a giant. A hulking mass of muscle and malice enhanced by the savage-looking halberd he gripped with an easy confidence, as if the weapon were merely an extension of himself. Most sergeants carried the halberd as a sign of rank, but in Bain’s powerful hands the short pole-arm was a lethal implement that would cleave a man in half with little effort. The great blade at its head was designed with three distinct and deadly features: a hook that could dismount a rider or throw an assailant off balance, an axe for hacking, and a long point for stabbing.

Bain propped the halberd against an adjacent wall, and as Makepeace watched him take up the chair opposite he marvelled, not for the first time, at how such a monster had come to be in his service.

‘S-so what is it now?’ Bain grunted, the myriad scars that ran across his face twitching in unison with each stammer. ‘Sir,’ he added.

‘I see your manners are as elegant as ever, Malachi,’ Makepeace said, taking a long swig of his ale and wiping his glistening moustache with the back of his hand.

‘Who d’you want me t-to see?’ the big man asked, scratching thick fingers across the grimy stubble of his right temple.

‘No one. Not yet at least. Girl!’ Makepeace hailed the young woman who bustled about the tavern dishing out and collecting ale pots. ‘Two more,’ he ordered when he had managed to catch her eye.

‘So what is our b-b-b-business to be, Captain?’ Bain kept his voice low.

Makepeace leaned forward, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. ‘Our master has made contact.’

Bain stared at the captain silently for a moment as the serving-girl placed two pots on the sticky table. ‘And?’ he said when the girl had hastened away.

‘He has a task for us.’

Bain made no reply, but quaffed half his ale in a single breath.

Makepeace waited for Bain’s concentration to return before he spoke further. ‘At Kineton Fight, Rupert’s boys sacked Essex’s baggage train. They stumbled upon some interesting papers,’ he said, leaning back to cool his own throat with a long draught of ale. He belched appreciatively.

Bain rubbed a meaty hand over his stubble. ‘So what’s on these papers?’

Makepeace’s voice remained a whisper. ‘The names of agents, Malachi. Spies. Traitors.’

‘Like us, then,’ Bain grunted.

‘Quite so, my dear Sergeant Bain.’ Makepeace smiled slightly. ‘Fortunately, it did not mention either of us. Have you ever heard the name Blake?’

Bain’s head shook slowly.

‘Longshanks’ personal secretary,’ Makepeace elaborated. ‘He was a spy for the Parliamentarians. He wrote to Essex, requesting greater remuneration for his clandestine work. That letter was in amongst the captured baggage.’

Bain almost spat his ale across the table. ‘Bet that pleased the prince!’

‘Voice down! Sergeant, have you no discretion?’ Makepeace hissed. ‘They will cut Blake up or wring his neck, or both, I don’t doubt.’

Bain took another gulp and sat forward. ‘So what of him, anyway?’

Makepeace leaned closer too. ‘Blake
also
mentions, in his letter, that he has come to an understanding with one Sir Randolph Moxcroft, who can be found in a place called Langrish. In Hampshire.’

‘Hampshire?’ Bain spat. ‘The arsehole of England, if you ask me, sir.’

‘Quite. Moxcroft is the biggest shit in it. He controls a spy ring for the king across the southern counties, but had struck a deal that would see him sell all the spies’ names to Parliament. Blake’s letter requested funds to secure the transaction.’

‘So what the fuck has it to do with us? Long as our names aren’t involved.’

For answer, Makepeace fished inside his doublet until the unmistakable chink of metal came from within its folds. Bain’s eyes narrowed as a purse, heavy with coin, appeared, dropping on to the table in front of him.

Bain’s hand snaked forward, quickly sweeping the purse from the table. As he lowered it on to his lap and loosened the string, his jaw dropped. ‘Gold.’

Makepeace nodded. ‘Angels and Unites. More than a year’s wages there, Sergeant,’ he whispered, as Bain hungrily inspected the bulging purse. ‘Our master has assured me he will increase that tenfold if we succeed in our mission.’

Bain’s hard gaze rose to meet that of Makepeace. ‘He must want something b-big this time.’

‘Now listen,’ snapped Makepeace. ‘He’s learned that the Royalists are sending a detachment south. They aim to take Moxcroft. You and I have to get there first. Rescue the bugger.’

Bain stared back at the captain, nonplussed. ‘You’re tellin’ me that we have to ride all the w-way to the c-coast?’ He shook his head. ‘I hate bloody ’orses, sir.’

‘I know,’ Makepeace nodded, ‘but you
can
ride when you so choose and you’re bloody well
going
to so choose. We already lag behind, for the other detachment left this morning.’

‘Why us?’

Makepeace leaned as close to Bain as possible, ignoring the fetid breath wafting from the sergeant’s mouth. ‘Because our master only had three senior agents posing as the king’s loyal men. Forde is now executed, and Blake is captured.’

Bain grunted. ‘Leaving you, sir.’

‘Precisely. Resources are suddenly scarce. He has no one else left to call upon, not until the usual man from Parliament makes contact, but Christ knows when that might be. That is why he requires my services now more than ever. He will pay me well for this. And you, Malachi, and you.’

Bain chewed the inside of his lip as he studied the leather bag. ‘You said they’re a day ahead, sir. How can we b-beat ’em to Langrish?’

‘I am informed they are due to pick up reinforcements at Basing.’

‘That’ll hold ’em up, right enough.’

‘Indeed. So as long as we maintain our own speed, and we’ll be travelling light and faster than them, we should reach Moxcroft first.’

‘And we snatch him and sod off.’

Makepeace clicked his fingers. ‘You have it, Sergeant. My orders are to convey Sir Randolph direct to the Commons. Mister Pym himself has a particular interest in the matter, for the names of all the king’s southern spies will be crucial to his war effort. The Royalist arrest party won’t even know we were there. All they’ll find is an empty house.’

Bain thrust a wide finger into an even wider nostril and wiped the resulting gloopy tendril on his buff-coat. ‘H-how do we know that ain’t what
we’ll
find, sir?’

Makepeace arched an eyebrow. ‘Speak, Sergeant.’

‘What’s to say he’ll be h-home when we come a-callin’?’

Makepeace sat forward eagerly. ‘He is a recluse. Took a pistol ball in his back a few years ago and has hardly been able to walk since. The buggers come to him; farmers, yeomen, merchants. He just sits like a fat spider in the centre of the web. Unless he’s already learnt the game is up, he’ll be home. We’ll put Sir Randolph in a nice comfortable cart and trundle up to the capital like we’re taking a sow to market.’

Bain stared at his ale pot, considering the plan. ‘And then we simply stroll back into the regiments?’

‘Aye,’ Makepeace said confidently. ‘Our master has provided legitimate documents to be delivered to Portsmouth. And we are charged with their delivery. That’s the beauty of it, Sergeant. Our trip will be sanctioned by an officer in the highest ranks of the king’s army!’

Bain, deep in thought, picked at his front teeth with a short dirk that appeared from somewhere up his sleeve. Half a dozen blackened stumps jutted from his raw gums. ‘Fuckin’ r-risky,’ he said, ignoring his companion’s disgusted wince.

‘Aye, it is, but you’ll be a rich man by the end of it.’ A broad, predatory grin spread its way across the captain’s features, giving him a demonic quality in the tavern’s restless candlelight. ‘Oh, and you’ll have the satisfaction of fucking up the plans of the arrest party. And its commander.’

‘Who?’

‘Did I not mention he’s an old friend?’

Bain stared back woodenly.

‘In fact . . .’ Makepeace paused. ‘It is none other than Captain Stryker.’

For the first time, Bain returned his superior’s expression of enthusiasm. ‘You know what, sir? I fuckin’ l-love Hampshire. Always ’ave.’

‘You truly are ill-matched,’ Lancelot Forrester laughed, as they broke camp on the second day.

The pike-thin Ensign Burton leaned forward to pat his chestnut gelding’s broad neck. ‘Pay him no heed, Bruce.’ He spoke soothingly into the sharply pricked ear, then straightened up. ‘Sixteen hands is perhaps a touch on the large side. But he was a gift from Father.’

They were headed south, but Stryker was making sure they avoided the major roads that bound England like arteries. Progress was painstaking as they picked their way through the hilly Oxfordshire terrain. Fields gave way to rocky climbs, which would suddenly dive into river-cut valleys. It was not safe to be isolated from the main army in this hotly contested region, and Stryker was acutely aware that just beyond the nearest hills there could be a restless enemy eager to fight.

‘There’s nothin’ like the countryside,’ droned Sergeant William Skellen, slowing his bay mare as they approached a crossroads.

They were four individuals in tawny buff-coats, muskets slung across their backs, with no obvious sign of rank to differentiate them. Stryker had insisted they be issued new kit; new swords, known as tucks to the men, sturdy bucket-top boots, well-sewn snapsacks and quality riding tack.

‘You like the countryside, Sergeant Skellen?’ asked Ensign Burton, drawing Bruce up beside the sinewy veteran.

‘Of course, sir. Wet feet, cold bones, stench o’ dung crawling up your nostrils. Love it.’

‘You’re a city boy, Will, I know,’ Stryker said. ‘But out here, you get to eat. You can fill your belly ’til you can’t move.’

Skellen shrugged. ‘I can do that in Portsmouth, sir, thank’ee. Or London, or Newbury or anywhere. That’s the beauty of the city, see? Full of taphouses.’

‘And wenches,’ offered Forrester.

‘Aye!’ agreed Skellen. ‘There’s women in the countryside, but they’re mostly a gaggle of gap-toothed rig-muttons.’ This drew a chorus of jeers and laughter. ‘But the city’s full of occupyin’ houses, ain’t it, so the product has to be that much better, see? Why, I’ve seen some places where every girl in there’s been nice as a nanny hen.’

‘Well, your theory won’t hold much longer, Sergeant. Well put as it was.’

‘How so, Captain?’ Burton asked.

‘We’re at war, Andrew,’ Stryker said.

‘With respect, sir,’ Burton replied, ‘Aren’t we always at war? With the Dutch or the Scotch or the French?’

‘And where do we fight these wars, Ensign? Where do the grand armies march? Up Ermine Street? Through Seven Dials? Across the Downs?’ Stryker paused as the young officer thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘They get on ships and take the fight to the Continent. And merry old England stays untroubled.’

‘’Cept for the taxes we all ’as to pay, sir,’ offered Skellen.

‘And what happens if the war slips into the year after, or the one after that?’ asked Burton. ‘I heard what happened in the Low Countries, sir.’

‘It weren’t just the towns neither,’ continued Skellen. ‘The peasants in the fields looked like ghosts, they were so wretched and skinny. I remember ’em clear as day. I should – it were me and my mates what took their food.’