Also by Michael Arnold
Traitor’s Blood
Devil’s Charge
Hunter’s Rage
Michael Arnold
JOHN MURRAY
www.johnmurray.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Michael Arnold 2012
The right of Michael Arnold to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Maps drawn by Rosie Collins
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical
figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84854-413-0
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.johnmurray.co.uk
For my grandparents, Mick and Doreen
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
Historical Note
PROLOGUE
Near Podelwitz, Saxony, 21 September 1631
The soldier had hidden himself well, the thick undergrowth at the road’s edge providing ample camouflage for a patchy coat of russet and dark green. It was a dry day, the first since the battle, and he was thankful that his backside would not get wet as he sat on his haunches, waiting impatiently for the cart to arrive.
He checked his twin pistols one last time, ensuring flint, powder and ball were all in place. He was not fond of the weapon, preferring the robust reliability of a musket rather than that of the small-arm, but this brace, stolen from a Swedish cavalryman’s saddle holsters, would suffice for today’s task. He hefted the pistols in gloved hands, hoping the weapons would lend a fearsome edge to his appearance. The soldier had wanted to burst from the tangled bushes with the ferocity of a demon, all howls and savagery, but he suspected, at just twenty years of age and with a slim frame and long, straight, sable hair, he would appear more feral vagabond than terrifying monstrosity. He had been told that his pale eyes, lupine in their grey depths, gave him a certain roguish quality, but he was beginning to wonder whether that would be enough to cow the men on the cart.
Feeling a tickling sensation cross his knee, he looked down to see a fat bumble-bee crawling across one of the stains that speckled the wool of his breeches. His clothes had collected as many dark, crusty splatter marks as they had lice since he’d enlisted with the company, but this one was different. It still carried that telltale rusty tinge that spoke of its macabre origin. It was a fresh stain and was all that was left of that flashing, screaming, panic-fuelled moment when a man’s life had ended. The soldier shuddered involuntarily. His latest kills had been only days before, on a blood-soaked field at the crossroads between three villages whose names he could not even pronounce. The Swedish army, of which the soldier’s company of English mercenaries had been a part, had finally triumphed over their enemies in the Catholic League, but at a cost that made him shiver.
Feeling sick at reliving that day of death, he flicked the bumble-bee on to the overgrown grass and forced his mind back to the one thing that made life in this war-torn, hate-filled, plague-rotten part of Europe more bearable.
Beth Lipscombe. He smiled at the thought of her. That fiery hair, the lily skin, the heart-searing gaze, the honey voice.
He tilted his head suddenly. There was a sound of something different and not entirely natural above the gentle thrum of the countryside. He waited, breath held, eyes clamped shut.
There it was again: the creaking of wheels.
The soldier took up the pistols in each hand and thrust himself upwards into a squatting position, careful to remain concealed behind the wild chaos of mouldering bracken and tall grass. The sound of wheels was growing ever louder now, joined in discord by the low murmur of voices and the groaning of wood. Using the muzzle of one of the pistols, the soldier eased the undergrowth apart so that he could catch sight of the road. At first he saw only mud, hoof-churned and undulating like a freshly ploughed field. He let his gaze snake to the right, tracing the road until it reached a gentle bend. And there, drawn by a couple of bored-looking ponies, was the cart. His quarry.
The undergrowth grasped and clawed at the soldier’s tall boots as he burst forth from his place of concealment. His knees protested sharply, for he had been concealed there the entire half-hour since sunrise, but the exhilaration of the moment quickly chased the pains away. He turned right as his first boot touched the road, pacing purposefully towards the cart. The driver, he saw, had already spotted him and was desperately hauling back the thin ropes that served as reins. He raised both arms, levelling the twin pistols at the frightened-looking man, and was rewarded to see the lumbering vehicle judder to a slanted stop in one of the road’s deep ruts, one of the rear wheels left to spin in mid-air.
The soldier did not stop. He picked up his pace, eager to be up at the cart before its startled occupants had time to respond. He saw four fellows leap awkwardly from the rear, making the cart rock like a skiff in a gale, and immediately trained one of his firearms on them, keeping the other firmly fixed on the driver. The men were all of similar age, though very different in appearance. Two of them, burly of shoulder, rough of face and dressed in everyday shirt and breeches, were clearly locals. Farmers or millers, the soldier presumed. Labourers of some kind.
The other two faces the soldier recognized instantly. Clothed in more expensive attire than their companions – pristine shirts, black cloaks and high-crowned hats – they had softer features and slimmer frames. Both clutched Bibles. The soldier had never met either of them, but had studied them from afar, and knew them to be clergymen of some kind. He hawked up a dense gobbet of phlegm and spat on the road.
‘Was soll das bedeuten?’ one of the priests called out.
The soldier was within ten paces of his captives now, and he brandished what he hoped would be a suitably wolfish grin. ‘Don’t sprechen the tongue, Herr Canker-Blossom.’
The priest, a man perhaps ten years the soldier’s senior, pulled a sour expression, wrinkling his hooked, beaklike nose. ‘I asked, what is the meaning of this?’
The soldier frowned, as annoyed at the man’s evident lack of fear as he was surprised to hear the accent. ‘English?’
‘Aye, sir,’ the priest called back, ‘and a saddened one to learn that he may be robbed by his own countryman.’
The soldier shook his head vigorously, sending the dark locks cascading about his shoulders. ‘No robbery here, sir. Merely rescue.
’
‘Rescue?’ the black-cloaked man repeated incredulously, but then his small eyes, brown and intelligent, narrowed, and he looked up at the cart. ‘And the Lord sheds light.’
The soldier stepped a pace closer, stabbing the air at his front with the pistols. ‘Release her, sir, or so help me I’ll stick lead in your face.’
The locals, judging by their plate-eyed expressions, probably did not comprehend a word of the exchange, and began stumbling backwards at the renewed threat. The driver stayed in his seat, careful not to move an inch lest he draw the young brigand’s attention.
To the soldier’s surprise, the English priest stared directly down the mouth of the pistol barrel and shook his head slowly. ‘We take this witch to the hanging tree, where she will know God’s judgement.’
The soldier gritted his teeth. ‘Have a care for your words, fellow.’
‘The witch must hang!’ the priest bellowed suddenly, his expression darkening with explosive anger. ‘Hang, I say!’
A new face appeared then, popping up from within the cart. Narrow and white, with high, delicate cheekbones and glittering hazel eyes, all framed by a shock of flame-red hair that flowed like a sun-dappled waterfall. ‘Hang me, you dry old bastard, but then you’ll never get your privy member polished.’ She grinned; an expression of wickedness and defiance, of pearly teeth and crimson lips.
To the soldier at least, it was a smile of flesh-scorching beauty. He winked at her.
‘This wench is a harridan of Satan,’ the second priest spluttered. He was fresher-faced than his compatriot, tall and willowy.
The soldier tore his gaze from the girl to meet that of the new speaker, who, to his surprise, was also English. ‘She truly looks a frightening creature, sir.’
‘She is a witch!’ the first priest interjected with outraged indignation. ‘I have proof she worships Lucifer.’
A chorus of low mutterings came from the driver and the locals. They may not have been able to comprehend the discussion, but they all knew the name of the Devil well enough. The second priest sketched the sign of the cross over his chest.
‘Proof!’ the girl screeched from up on the cart. ‘And I got proof of no wrongdoing!’ Her hands were bound in front, but somehow she managed to angle them so that her long, thin fingers could fish for something from within the neckline of her bodice. When she withdrew them, they grasped a glinting disc of metal. ‘The king’s shilling! Payment for a night’s work,’ she jerked her chin at the taller priest, ‘with this young gentleman!’
‘She bewitched me!’ the second priest wailed, his tone shrill and desperate. ‘Befuddled my senses!’
The soldier’s lip upturned in an amused sneer. ‘Turn your head did she? She’s a rare beauty, I grant you.’
‘I—I—’ the willowy priest stammered, unable to find a suitable retort.
‘What are you, son?’ the soldier went on. ‘Sixteen years? Seventeen? I bet she befuddled you well.’
‘She is the Devil’s whore!’ the older priest bellowed.
The soldier shook his head. ‘She’s a whore, certainly, sir. But more angel than demon.’
‘Blasphemy!’ The priest almost spat the word. ‘You should have your neck stretched beside her!’
‘Perhaps,’ the soldier replied casually, ‘but at least I can sleep at night. You goddamned priests want her just as any other man, and hate yourselves when you’ve shot your bolt. You would see her hang to salve your vile consciences.’ The younger priest’s pale face immediately reddened, and he knew he had spoken true. He glanced up at the cart. ‘Beth! Get down here!’
Beth did as she was told. Wrists still bound, she swung her legs over the side of the vehicle and dropped down to the road with a squelch, pushing her way past the indignant men to stand beside her rescuer. She held up wrists that had been rubbed raw by the coarse bindings. He handed her one of the pistols, and she trained it on the group as, with his free hand, the soldier drew a small blade from his belt and cut her bonds.
He grinned as she pecked him on the cheek.
The locals began to mutter their dissent at her release, but they remained frozen to the mud, frightened by the pistols into bovine acquiescence.
The soldier pursed his lips and gave a short, high-pitched whistle. The undergrowth at the road’s edge immediately began to rustle and crack as branches, vines, bracken and grass were thrust aside and a bay mare trudged on to the rutted road.
‘Get on, Beth,’ the soldier ordered, taking back the pistol and backing slowly away from the group.
The younger of the priests simply stared mutely at the ground as the object of his lust clambered up into the waiting saddle, his thin lips working frantically in what looked like silent prayer.
The senior priest took a step forwards, dropping his voice to a low growl. ‘She seduced this God-fearing, Christian man, sir. Poisoned his mind with wicked desire. And she will swing for it.’
The soldier’s angular jaw quivered as he gritted his teeth. ‘Not today.’
The shot echoed about the trees as a fat halo of acrid smoke obscured the air around the soldier. He heard the priest scream and knew the ball had found its mark, but did not wait to see the result until he was safely in the saddle, Beth Lipscombe’s lithe arms snaked tightly about his waist.
Only when he had holstered the spent weapon and handed the remaining pistol to Beth did he look down at the men gathered around the cart. The priest was rolling in the sticky mud, a hand clutched at the tattered flesh of his backside.
‘Let that be a lesson to you, sir!’ he called down at the wounded, writhing man. ‘And be thankful I showed you the mercy you would not have shown this woman.’
The priest looked up at him, blood seeping through fingers held tight to his breeches, face creased with fury and pain. ‘I will find you, witch’s helper! I will hunt you down, so help me God! I may not have your name, but—’
‘No, sir, you will not!’ the soldier called. ‘For we will be long away from this cursed country by the time your arse heals! So you may have my name.’ He grasped the reins, slashing them against the bay’s broad neck, propelling them on in a surge of power and a spray of mud. He crowed his victory to the thick canopy above, glancing back only to shout his name. And they were gone.
CHAPTER 1
Near Bovey Tracey, Devon, 26 April 1643
Captain Innocent Stryker was in a foul mood. It might have been late afternoon, but it was still warm, too warm for a man in a woollen coat and breeches, and the Devon sky was smothered in a pelt of pregnant clouds that made the skin prickle with humidity. The steepness of the hill seemed to make his pumping chest burn and tightening calves ache. All these things made a march difficult, and, in turn, his mood darken. But worse still, Captain Innocent Stryker was running away. And that, more than any other trial, turned his temper as black and as explosive as gunpowder.
‘Maybe we could go back?’ a voice came from behind him.
Stryker rounded on the speaker, causing the long line of scarlet-coated soldiers to halt their march. ‘God’s blood, Ensign Chase! I’ll send you back down there alone if you say something so dull-witted again.’
Chase, the man charged with bearing the company standard – a large square of blood-red taffeta, with the cross of St George at the top corner and two white diamonds in the field – stared into his captain’s face. That face was narrow, weather-hardened and spoiled by a mass of swirling scar tissue in the place where his left eye should have been. He swallowed hard. ‘Sir.’
The tremble of shoulders caught Stryker’s lone grey eye. He turned to glare at a man who stood taller than any other in the company, a man whose mottled-toothed smirk immediately vanished. ‘And you’ll join him, Sergeant Skellen, do not think I jest.’
Skellen’s face, layered with dark stubble and criss-crossed with its own creases and scars, became a well-practised mask, blank and unreadable. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’
Stryker turned away to stare back down the
road. ‘Got out just in time,’ he muttered to no one in particular.
They had marched out of Bovey Tracey some three hours earlier, with word of an advancing Parliamentarian unit hastening every step. Stryker eyed the town’s thatches, tiny smudges of gold and russet from this distance, huddled at the foot of the tree-choked hill his men now climbed. With the uneasy truce in the south-west close to ending, Hopton, the Royalist general, had become increasingly nervous, and Stryker had been stationed here, at Dartmoor’s south-eastern fringe, to guard one of the few routes into the bleak wilderness. But now he had been driven to the hills like a deer in the face of hounds. He swore viciously.
‘Least they didn’t catch us sleeping,’ a new voice reached Stryker from further down the road.
Stryker peered along the line of soaring pike staves and shouldered muskets until he saw the speaker, a man whose hard face and battle-ravaged body belied the fact that he was only in his late teens. Stryker nodded acknowledgement to his second-in-command. ‘That is something I suppose, Lieutenant Burton. Still, I hate to turn tail.’
Burton smiled. ‘Strategic retreat is not cowardice, sir.’
Stryker glanced at him, single brow raised. ‘When did our roles reverse, Andrew?’
‘Sir?’
‘It was not so long ago that you were as green as cabbage,’ Stryker said, though without malice. ‘Now you offer me advice.’
Burton absently adjusted the leather sling that cradled his right arm. That arm had been shattered at the shoulder by a pistol ball the previous year and was now withered and next to useless. ‘Seen a deal of soldiering now, sir.’
That was true, Stryker reflected. Youthful innocence had been marched, slashed and shot from young Burton, so that the lieutenant was now an extremely proficient officer, and one of the few men Stryker trusted with his life. He was proud of Burton, strange though it was for him to admit.
Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 1
