The pair paused while a heavy cart full of hogsheads trundled past. The driver screamed obscenities at the harnessed oxen that loped and bellowed and defecated, seemingly oblivious to his commands.
Forrester’s snapsack was nearby. He stooped for it, suddenly craving his pipe. ‘What do you want, Mister Killigrew?’
Killigrew gnawed the inside of his cheek as he chose his words. ‘Times are troubling, I’m sure you’ll agree. Newbury was all failure.’
‘We were not defeated,’ Forrester mumbled through teeth clamped around the clay pipe stem.
‘Ah, but nor were we victorious. And we withdrew first, do not forget. We slithered off the field under cover of darkness.’
‘That sounds very much,’ Forrester said, beckoning the hanging-tree sentry with a wave of his arm, ‘like something your young master might say.’
‘And he has said it, Captain,’ Killigrew replied as he watched the musketeer hurry over the trampled grass. ‘He urged His Majesty to hold the field overnight but he was not heeded. Faint hearts won out, as so often is the case. Prince Rupert’s view is that our withdrawal turned stalemate into outright defeat. Essex returns to London like Caesar himself, and we find ourselves back in Oxford, licking our divers wounds.’
The red-coated sentry reached them, doffed his cap and set down his musket. Coiled about his forearm like a thin snake was a length of match-cord, the tip between his middle and ringfinger smouldering gently, for he was obliged to keep it alive should he need to make use of his weapon. He briefly blew on the embers and dunked it into the pipe bowl while his commanding officer sucked the tobacco into fragrant life.
‘Newbury was certainly costly,’ Forrester said once the sentry had returned to his post. ‘I hear Lord Falkland fell.’
Killigrew’s eyes narrowed through the pall of smoke. ‘He did. Carnarvon and Sunderland, too.’
‘That may prove a greater loss when all is tallied.’
Killigrew gave a rueful grunt. ‘You are a shrewd man, Captain. More of our best leaders fall at each hurdle. Ever since Lindsey and Aubigny were lost at Kineton Fight we have felt that particular sting.’
Forrester sucked hard on the pipe, drinking in the pungent smoke so that his chest seared satisfyingly. ‘Northampton at Hopton Heath,’ he said on the billowing outbreath. ‘Denbigh at Birmingham, Grenville at Lansdown.’ A commotion ripped the calm afternoon as a ring of soldiers some hundred paces away bawled and crowed at two of their number – shirtless and wild-eyed – who were circling in what looked to be a prearranged wrestling bout. Forrester let his gaze shift to the fight, absently noting which of his men were in attendance. He smiled, pleased they were able to take their ease after the horrors of recent days. ‘Grandison, Trevanion and Slanning all cut down in the streets of Bristol. There will soon be no good men left.’
‘Save the prince,’ Killigrew said pointedly.
‘Indeed.’ Forrester glanced down at the shrewish power-broker. ‘And where is our dashing young General of Horse?’
‘My master harries Essex’s forces to the east.’
‘You do not follow your master into battle, sir?’ Forrester said, aware that needling the little man was not a good idea, but unable to resist. ‘I am surprised. His other dog is always at his side.’
Killigrew’s mouth split in a mean grin. ‘Now, now, Lancelot, keep a civil tongue, I beg you.’ He nodded at the executed men, gently swaying at the end of their taut ropes. ‘You wouldn’t wish to find yourself joining those poor fellows, I’d wager.’
Forrester drew on his pipe and blew a huge pall of smoke to conceal his fear. ‘You threaten me, sir?’
‘Never, Captain.’ Killigrew stepped into the roiling cloud. ‘I simply advise you that your burgeoning reputation does not negate the need for proper manners.’
There followed a moment’s silence. The wrestlers met, torsos slapping together like two slabs of cold beef, and the watching crowd bellowed their appreciation. Occasionally flashes of white skin punctuated the ring of bodies as the fighters took to their feet, but they came together quickly, twisting and wrenching at each other, hitting the churned earth to a chorus of cheers.
Forrester watched in amusement before upending his pipe, tapping away the blackened debris to scatter in the breeze. ‘If Rupert is away, and you know Stryker is elsewhere, what can I do for you, Mister Killigrew?’
Killigrew’s face set hard. ‘Word reaches us from London that the Parliament has made an alliance with the Scots.’
Forrester stared down at him, desperate to read some trace of jest. ‘A—military alliance?’
Killigrew nodded slowly, hushing his tone. ‘They do not concur on the ideal conclusion for this endeavour. That is to say, the English seek to win a war above all else, the Scots seek religious conformity. I suspect they will not remain friends for long, but for now they agree that the only way to achieve their objectives is to smash King Charles in the field.’
‘Christ’s beard,’ Forrester heard himself mutter. His mind swam, tossed by currents whipped up by this new revelation. ‘The Scots want Parliament to follow their lead in religious matters?’
‘And in return they will give Westminster their army.’
Forrester blasphemed again, because the Scottish army was a truly formidable force. It would change the course of the war for certain. ‘You are working against this impending calamity, I trust, Mister Killigrew?’
The intelligencer’s eyelids flickered. ‘In my own small way. I find myself attached to Lord Hopton’s staff for the time being. I do his bidding while he recovers.’
Mention of Hopton, raised to the peerage as Baron Hopton of Stratton, caught Forrester’s attention, for he had served under the general at the battle that had given its name to his new title. ‘And he does recover?’
‘Oh, yes, admirably so. The explosion burned him badly, but his skin heals with time, as does his hearing, thank the Lord.’
‘Good,’ Forrester said genuinely. He liked Hopton, and had been terribly shocked when news spread through the camp after the battle at Lansdown that the victorious commander had been severely wounded when an errant spark somehow found its way into an ammunition waggon.
‘Yesterday there was a council of war,’ said Killigrew.
‘So I understand.’
‘One consequence was Hopton’s appointment to a new post.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was governor of Bristol after the prince took it last July, but he feels his recuperation moves on apace. Warrants a return to the field.’
‘In what capacity?’ Forrester asked. ‘With what purpose?’
Killigrew dug at his raw gums with a sharp fingernail. ‘He will command a new army. His Majesty tasks him with clearing Dorset, Wiltshire and Hampshire of rebellious elements.’ The wrestlers rose briefly, entwined in a grunting, sweating, grime-caked embrace before crashing down once more. Killigrew grimaced. ‘Once those counties are ours, Baron Hopton will strike at London itself.’
‘So simple?’ Forrester said, neither willing nor able to keep the incredulity from his tone.
Killigrew stared up at him and nodded. ‘So simple.’ His face betrayed nothing.
So that was to be the new strategy, thought Forrester. They would abandon the advance through the Thames valley, instead thrusting deep into the south-east and punching London in her soft underbelly. ‘I appreciate the information, Mister Killigrew, but—’
‘But why would I deign to inform you in person?’ Killigrew cut in. A great cheer erupted from the throng watching the wrestling match, and he waited a moment for the noise to die off. ‘I have a task for you. Or, rather, Lord Hopton has a task for you. He recalls your service in Devonshire this last spring. Would employ you again.’
Forrester’s heart quickened a touch. ‘And what service would he have me perform this time?’
‘You know of Basing House?’
Forrester nodded. He knew it all too well. It had been the place at which he and Stryker h
ad rested on their way into enemy territory almost exactly a year ago. That mission – to catch a rebel double agent – had nearly made an end of them, and he was not inclined to dwell upon it. ‘The seat of the Marquess of Winchester.’
‘Once a very pretty seat, by all accounts. Though now turned to martial duty. It is made a fortress.’
‘In a sea of Roundheads.’
‘Quite so. The great house sits in disputed land, surrounded by enemies and a stone’s throw from the rebel garrison at Farnham. But the marquess is loyal and ready to fight. We would alert him to Hopton’s intentions. Warn him of our coming so that his resolve is strengthened. Urge him to sally out from his fortress, take the fight to the enemy.’
Forrester nodded. ‘Divert the rebel eye from Hopton’s advance. An advance now made all the more vital after the news from Westminster.’
‘Shrewd indeed, Captain.’
Forrester shrugged. ‘It is a logical tactic. You would have me take this message?’
‘You know the place. You know the marquess personally, do you not?’
Forrester’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I met him once, briefly.’
‘And your reputation has grown immeasurably since Crown and Parliament came to blows. The marquess has heard empty promises of aid before. We fear he will ignore them, unless they are conveyed by the right person.’
‘Traipse across hostile territory,’ Forrester said, ‘to take a message to a man who will likely dismiss my platitudes out of hand.’ The wound on his shoulder seemed to throb a little more at the thought. But then he glanced up at the swinging cadavers, their faces purple, eyeballs bulging, lips distended. He hated the insidious lethargy that camp life could engender, and overseeing executions for the next few weeks was not his idea of soldiering. Besides, Stryker had been let off the army’s leash, so why not he? He blew out his cheeks and straightened his back. ‘When do I leave?’
The ghost of a smile flickered across Killigrew’s face. ‘The morrow will be sufficient. You’ll go alone, for secrecy’s sake.’
‘The morrow, then.’
‘Take this,’ Killigrew said, producing a folded square of vellum from within the depths of his cloak. It was held fast by a chunky seal of red wax. ‘A letter from Hopton for the marquess. And make certain you take a good horse.’ He stole a glance at Forrester’s ample midriff as the captain took the paper. ‘Your reputation is not the only thing to have grown immeasurably these past months.’
CHAPTER 2
Atlantic Ocean, 1 October 1643
It was the sand that woke Innocent Stryker. The gritty crunch reverberated around his skull as his teeth ground together. The tang of salt was on his tongue, and he felt suddenly cold and wet. He opened his eye. More sand. Richly yellow, darkly flecked and smooth, stretching away in a golden band towards an off-kilter horizon. He heard the mad caw of gulls somewhere above. It was a beach. But the world was wrong, spun about, turned on its head, the coast running at a strange tangent that seemed to take an age to become clear in his mind. Half of his face felt colder than the rest, and he realized, slowly, that the odd sensation was the tide-lapped sand pressing against the scar tissue where once his left eye-socket had been. His face was part of the beach, driven a good inch into the soft terrain like some washed-up spar. He pushed himself up on to all fours, hands and knees sinking with the movement, and failed to stifle a groan as a juddering violence rippled up from deep within him. He vomited. It was mostly sea water. The salt burned in his throat. He swore savagely, coughed, vomited again. The gulls seemed to jeer.
Coughing and hacking from somewhere at his flank made him look up, ignoring the hammering in his head. His vision was blurred, but he could see the figure of a man well enough. Red-coated, doubled over and evacuating the brackish water from his own innards. There were others with him. Half a dozen, he reckoned, some in their distinctive red, others down to shirts, all looking like scarecrows thrown up to frighten the gulls. Stryker forced himself to stand. His clothes felt inordinately heavy, and he realized he was soaked to the skin, shivering madly and swaying like a willow in a breeze. He stumbled towards the first coughing redcoat. The beach was littered with debris, black and brown smudges punctuating the wind-whipped shore, the detritus of the night’s rage. The sky was a mix of grey and white, placid for now but full of threat. To his left, the sand sloped up to a high ridge of lichen-draped rocks, a natural palisade against the elements. He could not see what was beyond.
He pulled the gloves from his hands and dropped them at his feet. Planting a cold, bluish palm against his eye, he pressed, rubbing and grinding mercilessly until it hurt. He stared again, forcing himself to focus on this battered stretch of coast. Still things were blurry, but the mist was beginning to clear. He could discern more edges from the darker smudges and knew now that they were people. Or at least they were bodies, punctuating the shore at intervals for as far as he could see. Some were up, crouched or standing, bewildered and staring mutely at these harsh new surroundings. Others did not move. They lay crumpled and twisted, faces flat against the sand, ominous in sheer inertia.
It was chaos. Carnage. As though some great maritime battle had been fought off shore, the dead and wounded spewed up by the ocean with the spars and shrouds shredded by flaming cannon and whistling shot. Except war had not come to this cold place, nor had guns belched across the waves. But battle, it seemed to Stryker, had been joined nevertheless. Man had taken on nature, and he had been found wanting.
‘Beelzebub’s ballocks,’ a deep, droning voice intoned behind him.
Stryker managed to turn and focus. The man he saw was tall and thin. He wore no coat, for the garment had seemingly been stripped off by the night’s furious tides, and the shirt left behind was dishevelled and tattered. ‘Sergeant Skellen,’ he said. ‘How fare you?’
‘My noggin, sir,’ Skellen said, lifting a hand to his bald head. ‘Feels like I’ve been cudgelled by a bleedin’ bear.’ His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms that were long, and, though thin, knotted with lean, taut muscle. The veins on his hands and wrists were raised, as if the skin was layered in an intricate web of whipcord, and his palms were like shovels. He was several inches taller than Stryker, with eyes set deep within darkly hooded sockets.
‘You look hearty enough to me, Sergeant,’ Stryker said.
Skellen ran a huge hand over his stubble-shadowed chin as he perceived his captain. ‘You don’t, sir.’ Squinting down the length of the curving shoreline, he said, ‘Think we’ve lost a few.’
Stryker used his tongue to corral a few errant grains of sand from along his gums, spitting them into the wind. ‘More than a few.’
He followed Skellen’s narrow gaze. Of the forty or so people he could make out amongst the wreckage of the Kestrel, only half of those were visibly moving. And in that moment he understood that Stryker’s Company of Foot would never be the same again. He had lost them. Or, at the very least, a good portion. They had been swallowed by the sea, chewed in its vengeful maw and tossed on to this lonely beach. He stared out at the slate-grey water. How many were still out there, food for the monsters of the deep?
‘Muster the men, Will. Let us see what we have left.’
Stryker stood on the rocky ridge and stared down at the men on the beach. He could hardly countenance what he saw. Debris was everywhere, lapping on the gentle tide or working its way on to the saffron-coloured sand. A single sail bobbed in the surf a little way out to sea, while a large amount of rigging wallowed in vast tangles that made the shallows appear to be infested by a colony of giant octopuses. Amid those hempen tentacles were black shapes, the detritus of life aboard a ship. Splintered timbers, square trenchers, sacks, barrels, clothing, blackjacks and a myriad of other items, all turned to flotsam by the great storm that had put an end to the doughty Dutch fluyt. There were bodies, too. Face down for the most part, drifting with the water out of reach, already becoming bloated and pale.
‘That’s the lot
, sir,’ Sergeant William Skellen announced morosely as he clambered up to his commanding officer’s granite perch. He spat towards the sea in impotent defiance. ‘Eleven lads left.’
Stryker nodded as he counted the ragged line of survivors for himself. They were arranged below the ridge, wan and exhausted, mere shadows of the hard men they had been. ‘Eleven. Along with you and I.’
‘And Jack-Sprat.’
‘Must you?’ Stryker admonished, though he did not begrudge Skellen his laconic mirth in so dire a place. He gave a wintry smile. ‘And where is he?’
For answer, the tall sergeant pointed to their left, his long bony finger tracing the curved spine of rocks. Sure enough, perhaps a hundred paces away, the diminutive figure of Simeon Barkworth, formerly the Earl of Chesterfield’s bodyguard and a member of the feared Scots Brigade before that, was gesticulating animatedly at a trio of men. All were taller than the bald fellow, who was no bigger than a dwarf, but each nodded with every gesture as though he were their natural superior. He might have been small, Stryker mused, but with eyes as yellow as a feline and a temper as explosive as black powder, he was as intimidating as a rabid ban-dog.
‘Getting’ the pit dug,’ Skellen elaborated when Stryker did not speak. ‘Plenty o’ bodies to be rid of.’
Stryker stared at the Scot’s three companions. ‘Our sailors?’
‘Aye. Them three’s all that survived.’
‘Jesu,’ Stryker rasped on a sighing outbreath. So three of the ship’s twenty-strong crew had made it to shore, in addition to eleven of Stryker’s thirty musketeers. He shook his head with the sorrow of it. ‘We lost nineteen men as well as Ensign Chase, Corporal Mookes and Drummer Lipscombe.’
‘That we did, sir. A terrible day.’
Stryker nodded, though in truth it was a miracle that any had survived. He remembered nothing after the ship went down. It was cold and black and then he was in the angry sea. He understood in that moment, as chill salt water poured into his mouth and nose and ears, that he would die. The next thing Stryker knew, he was awake on a beach. At least, he reflected as he turned his back on the shore to study the terrain inland, he had only taken half the company. The rest of his officers and all twenty of his pikemen were safely back in Oxford. He supposed he ought to thank God for that small grace. His company had come through the smoke-wreathed hell of Newbury relatively unscathed. If the Almighty saw fit to temper Stryker’s growing confidence by wiping out half his men in one fell swoop, then it was truly a cruel lesson to learn. He blinked and stared down at the island.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 3
