‘Why ever not?’ Ensign Chase said in surprise. ‘The moor may be Devon land, but it nestles beside the most loyal county in England.’
‘And since Launceston,’ Skellen added, ‘old Hopton’s grip tightens daily.’
Stryker nodded agreement. ‘You may not have heard, master carter, but Chudleigh attacked us at Launceston on the 23rd.’
‘And he scurried back over the blessed Tamar with two black eyes and his tail twix’t his legs!’ Skellen growled, eliciting a chorus of boisterous cheers. ‘The messenger spared nothing in his bloody account!’
The carter shook his head sadly. ‘I fear your messenger was sent out a day too soon.’
Stryker felt his guts begin to churn. ‘How so?’
‘You have not heard?’ the carter said, wincing as he spoke as though the revelation would somehow bring about his own demise. ‘There was—a battle. A big battle. Up at Sourton Down. Not two days since your victory at Launceston.’
Stryker and Burton shared a glance.
‘Well?’ Barkworth snapped.
The carter cleared his throat. ‘General Hopton – God protect him – was routed by Parliament’s forces. Driven back into Cornwall with mighty losses, I heard.’
And in that moment Stryker understood. He understood why a large rebel unit had strolled so confidently into Bovey Tracey; why Colonel Wild had not expected to encounter Royalist troops; why the furious cavalryman had been so confident that Stryker would never reach the Royalist lines. Those lines, he now realized, were all the way back on the River Tamar.
He cursed angrily.
The carter winced, holding up his palms as though Stryker was pointing a musket at his chest. ‘I am sorry, sir. I pass on only what I hear.’
‘Fret not, master carter,’ Stryker said. ‘You are not accountable for this.’
Sergeant Skellen scraped calloused fingers across his dark stubble. ‘Now we know why them horsemen were so bloody cocksure. Weren’t even checkin’ the road for us. Sounds like our boys took a thrashin’.’
‘Christ on His cross,’ Barkworth hissed.
Ensign Chase sat up straight. ‘Does that mean we’re alone on Dartmoor, sir?’
‘Not alone,’ Burton replied morosely. ‘We’ll be overrun by Parliament men before we reach home.’
‘And therein lies our problem.’ Stryker glanced at the wagon and its valuable bounty. ‘If we’re to make haste, we must abandon our prize.’
‘And yet,’ Burton replied, ‘the army will be in dire need of it now.’
Stryker inhaled slowly as he thought. His tawdry mission to watch a quiet rural road had transformed into something far more important. Eventually he exhaled slowly, meeting the gaze of each of his men. ‘We keep the wagon. Lieutenant Burton is in the right of it; General Hopton will want us – no, expect us – to deliver it to him, regardless of the danger.’
He paused to allow comment, but none came. ‘Of course, we cannot simply march back to Launceston now. If our new friend here speaks true—’
‘I do, I do, sir,’ the nervous carter blurted. ‘’Pon my very life.’
‘So the moor will soon be swarming with Roundheads. We cannot trust the roads.’
‘Roads?’ Skellen grunted scornfully. ‘There aren’t no tracks worth the bloody name hereabouts, sir.’
The group fell silent, and Stryker knew each must be pondering the days to come. It would have been hard enough to drag the heavily laden wagon across Dartmoor’s dubious thoroughfares without having to negotiate the bogs and hills of open country.
‘Forgive another intrusion, sir,’ the carter ventured, ‘but I know the moor as I know my wife’s face. I could—’
‘Hold your tongue,’ Simeon Barkworth rasped with sudden venom, the revelation of Sourton Down having evidently eroded what little sanguinity he possessed. He threw a slit-eyed glance at Stryker. ‘How can we trust this knave, sir? We found him with the enemy, did we not?’
‘Forced, sir!’ the carter bleated, once again fearing for his life. ‘Forced to drive their wagon, that is all, I swear it! I am a loyal subject of—’
Stryker held up a hand for calm. ‘I care nothing for professed allegiances, master carter. Simply know this—’
He made certain the carter’s gaze was on his. Transfixed by the single grey eye that, he knew, would appear silver as his expression hardened. The raised palm dropped to his waist and patted the swirling steel of his sword’s ornate basket hilt. ‘I have need of a new scabbard. If you betray me, it will be your skin I use for the job. Is that clear?’
The carter’s jaw dropped, eyes widening and Adam’s apple bobbing in a pronounced gulp.
‘He says yes, sir,’ Skellen spoke for the dumbstruck man.
Stryker’s stare did not falter. ‘Then we have an understanding that, in my experience, ought to suffice. You know the moor?’
The carter nodded.
‘Which route would you have us take, Master —?’
‘Bailey, sir,’ the carter replied. ‘Marcus Bailey.’
‘It is a bad idea, sir,’ Barkworth warned.
Stryker finally broke eye contact with the terrified carter and glanced at the fiery-tempered Scot. ‘Then you would have us stay on the road?’ He waited while Barkworth’s mouth worked for a moment, but no words were forthcoming. ‘I thought not.’
‘Over there,’ Bailey said, ‘less’n a mile thither, is the place where East Dart meets West.’
‘The rivers?’ Burton asked.
‘Aye, sir, you have it,’ Bailey nodded eagerly, desperate to please.
‘The confluence of two waterways can be a tempestuous place to cross,’ Stryker said, his expression sceptical.
‘But further up stream,’ Bailey went on, ‘there’s an old clapper bridge over the East Dart. I will show you. When we are over the river, I can guide you to the start of a small track. It runs due north beside the west bank.’
‘Taking us away from the West Dart,’ Stryker spoke his thoughts aloud, ‘and the road.’
Bailey nodded rapidly again, putting Stryker in mind of a small bird pecking the ground. ‘It is narrow, near impassable in winter, but not so bad now. Eventually it will sweep westward, taking us through the marshes at Bellever.’
Stryker gnawed his upper lip. ‘A difficult route indeed.’
For the first time, Marcus Bailey risked the merest hint of a smile. ‘But a safe one.’
CHAPTER 4
Near Bellever Tor, Dartmoor, 29 April 1643
The morning was bright, a welcome change from the recent oppressive gloom, and the sun’s first rays were quick to burn away the vestiges of dawn mist that lingered like a pale broth on the boggy terrain.
Stryker’s company had crossed the ancient stone clapper bridge over the East Dart without hindrance the previous day, and spirits were high as, sure enough, Marcus Bailey’s promise of a concealed route through the ancient marshes had come to pass. But the going had been slow after that. It had taken the scarlet-coated column till dusk to negotiate the narrow causeway, marching four abreast and fighting to keep their boots from sinking into the black morass. The presence of the ammunition wagon, placed near the very front of the column, had made things all the more difficult; its big wheels ploughed deep furrows in the viscous mud, which sucked at the vehicle, as if engaged in a tug of war with the horses that laboured to pull it along.
Now, having passed a thankfully mild night huddled around small fires, singing mournful tunes and eating some of the food they had taken from Ilsington, the infantrymen and their precious bounty were on the march again.
After an hour’s trudge the track began to zigzag, wending its way around impenetrable bulrush thickets that had been there long before people, and making it impossible to see more than twenty paces ahead. Stryker, setting the pace at the head of the column, stared left and right, ears pricked for any sound that might signal a threat. He had men scouting out in front, and others some distance at the rear, but still he felt uneasy. ‘How m
uch further?’ he called over his shoulder.
Marcus Bailey, sitting atop the wagon, reins looped in gnarled hands, furrowed his craggy brow. ‘A few minutes only, I’d say, sir.’ He had promised the track would soon become wider and less suffocated by the maze of reeds and bog as the marsh gave way to one of the larger roads across Dartmoor. And, though the soldiers were nervous of crossing that thoroughfare, they were eager to pick up the pace, even for a short time.
Stryker nodded his satisfaction and turned to face the track again. Suddenly gunfire crackled somewhere up ahead. Stryker glanced sideways at Burton. ‘Only a brace, Andrew. Just as easily poachers out for a meal.’
‘The lads out front’ll bring news, I’m sure,’ the lieutenant agreed, though the tension on his face was clear.
Lisette Gaillard. Stryker thought of her again. Of the small details. Her laugh, the way her sapphire eyes wrinkled at the corners when she teased him, the shape of her mouth, the scent of her body, the little white scar that blemished her narrow chin. He quickened his step in an effort to shake her away, hoping the men would assume it was a result of the muffled musketry.
He was pleased when one of the scouts appeared from the dense marshland, for the distraction was enough to regain focus, but immediately the man’s expression gave cause for concern.
‘Well?’
‘Trouble, sir,’ the musketeer blurted, stooping slightly as he heaved air into his strained lungs.
Stryker opened his mouth to speak,but the words never came. Because somewhere, someone was screaming.
Near Peter Tavy, Dartmoor, 29 April 1643
Pikeman Tristan Rix had not been a pleasant man. His pinched face, sharp nose, and squinty eyes had given him a stoatlike appearance, and his whining voice, acid tongue, and propensity to thieve had only enhanced the image. The men had disliked him, as had his captain, yet today it was that officer that still held his rapidly stiffening hand.
‘He’s gone,’ Lancelot Forrester said quietly as he moved his free hand to close Pikeman Rix’s eyelids.
‘Aye,’ the man standing behind Forrester replied.
‘He didn’t cry.’
‘No.’
‘Said he wouldn’t, and he didn’t.’
‘A brave lad,’ Anthony Payne spoke again.
Forrester stared at the gaping hole that a slashing sword had left in Rix’s throat, the exposed flesh glistening like a bag of rubies, and noticed that the wound had finally stopped pumping blood on to the soil. He prised his hand free, carefully uncurling the pikeman’s fingers, and stood, turning to look up at Payne. ‘He was a sour little creature, Mister Payne, God forgive me for saying so. But he stood up to that big sergeant like a damned Spartan.’
Payne nodded, glancing at the corpse. ‘Man’s a hero, sir. Way he was first ’cross the ford.’
‘Right enough,’ Forrester said, stooping to retrieve his snapsack and fishing out the pipe from within. He clamped it between his teeth and, after another quick rummage in the snapsack, produced a small plug of dark tobacco that he crumbled between thumb and forefinger, sprinkling it into the clay bowl. ‘Light here!’ he called through teeth that still held the pipe in place, and one of his redcoats immediately scampered across from where he perched on a nearby chunk of mossy rock. He was a musketeer, and his slow-burning match still carried strong embers, so it took only moments for the tobacco to ignite.
Through the billowing, fragrant pall soon engulfing him, Forrester watched his men. There were thirty-seven of them now, for he had lost three in the fight to cross the River Tavy, and they lounged at ease, drinking from the blood-tainted waterway, eating the stale bread and hard, chalky cheese they had taken from Launceston, or puffing on tooth-worn pipes. Some laughed, some diced, others napped, and he begrudged not one of them. The company, along with Payne and his six Cornishmen, had marched eastwards the day before. Forrester had been kept firmly – and infuriatingly – in the dark as to the exact nature of the mission, but he had gleaned that they were heading for some kind of rendezvous at the village of Merrivale. To avoid the rebel-held Tavistock, they had ventured as far east as Milton Abbot, before veering away from the road and tracing a bridleway to the hamlet of Peter Tavy, whereupon Payne had said they should ford the fast-flowing river and continue south-east across open country. It was only a matter of three more miles to Merrivale, and, though the terrain would be rough and wild, Payne was keen that they reach the meeting point by midnight.
But the ford had been guarded by a small unit of grey-coated musketeers. Like a gang of folk-tale trolls protecting a bridge, the Parliamentarians had emerged on the Tavy’s east bank with a chorus of oaths and challenges. As soon as allegiances were established, the shooting had begun. The defenders had been outnumbered and outclassed, but they knew their duty and stuck to it for as long as reserves of ammunition and bravery had allowed. Forrester’s force was larger, however, and his musketeers had lined the western bank and flayed the rebel positions until the return fire almost petered out. They had swarmed across the ford’s shallows then, screaming curses and spitting threats, and the fighting – swords, daggers and musket butts – had been swift and dirty. A melee. A gutter brawl. In amongst that Royalist force had been a giant. A man of almost impossible size and strength, hefting a halberd as though it were a twig, and the Roundheads had quailed before him, turning tail at the mere sight of his storm-cloud shadow.
Now the king’s men were resting on that coveted east bank, its grass trampled, its defenders routed and scattered, three redcoats and seven rebels dead. Forrester found himself wondering whether the ford had been worth the cost. After all, he did not even know why they were here.
Near the tree line, some thirty paces away, a group of men stabbed and scraped at the cloying soil with swords, heels and jagged bits of rock. A mass grave that would lie unmarked and untended. Nine of the bodies, stripped and pasty, already mottled purple at their extremities, waited by the fresh tomb, and Forrester instinctively turned back to the Tavy’s blood-blackened edge where Pikeman Tristan Rix, the last man to die, still lay. To his surprise, he saw Anthony Payne looming over the body like one of the vast standing stones that stood guard over the moor. He watched, transfixed, as the biggest, most fearsome man he had ever seen, crouched suddenly, gently slid his culverin forearms beneath Rix’s skinny torso, and hoisted it into the air as though it were no heavier than a willow wand.
Payne caught Forrester’s eye. ‘Like I said, sir. The man fought bravely.’
Forrester nodded mutely, sucked at his pipe, and watched Payne pace carefully across the slick grass to where the grave was being hastily carved out. The giant knelt slowly, easing Rix’s inert body into its place in the line of dead. When he straightened, he noticed the captain’s interested gaze, and raised his own dark brow in response.
Forrester felt himself blush. ‘My apologies, Mister Payne, I did not mean to stare.’
Payne strode across to stand in Forrester’s tobacco smoke. ‘Then?’
Forrester offered an embarrassed shrug. ‘It is simply not often a man of such—’ he waved the pipe in a tight circle as he searched for the word, ‘—robust frame is seen to care for God’s creations. Forgive me, sir, but I was impressed by your compassion.’
Payne met Forrester’s blue gaze with his large brown eyes. ‘O, it is excellent to have a giant’s strength,’ he said slowly, the depth of his tone vibrating inside Forrester’s chest, ‘but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.’
Captain Lancelot Forrester almost dropped his pipe, such was the surprise he felt. ‘Measure for Measure!’ he exclaimed, beaming widely. ‘Act 2, Scene 2!’ He shook his head in astonishment. ‘Well I am impressed to the very core of my being, sir, and that is God’s own truth. You are a student of the great Bard, Mister Payne!’
Payne offered a wry smile. ‘Is it so great a thing for you to fathom, Captain? I am a large fellow, sir, but not a dullard.’
Forrester coloured again, feeling the heat fill his cheeks. He
cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘It seems I cannot keep my boot from my mouth, Mister Payne.’
Payne’s smile grew to a grin. ‘No matter, sir. In truth, I am pleased to make the acquaintance of a fellow Shakespeare devotee.’ He stooped forward conspiratorially. ‘But do not be fooled to thinking my scholarly nature precludes the occasional warlike moment, sir.’
From what he had witnessed during the fight for the ford, Forrester thought, that was fairly unlikely.
Near Bellever Tor, Dartmoor, 29 April 1643
The road between Postbridge and Two Bridges was, in reality, no more than a wide bridleway cutting diagonally across the north-west fringe of the ancient marsh. The clawing terrain eventually regained its sticky grasp of the land to the north of the road, but, for twenty paces either side, the territory was flat and drained clear.
Stryker, running at the head of his half-dozen scouts, bounded over a knee-high clump of bowing reeds, slipping as his boot squelched when it hit the soft scrub but managing to right himself just in time to round the body of black water. He emerged into the clearing with mind sharp and senses keen. It was times like these when he felt more wild beast than man. The possibility of danger seemed to hone his sight, amplify his hearing, and make his body prickle with nervous excitement. He drew his sword, comforted to catch the gleam of the red garnet set into its pommel, an ornament that spoke of the blade’s reliable craftsmanship.
The pounding of more feet carried to him, and he glanced over a shoulder to see Skellen at his back with a score of redcoats. The tall sergeant hefted his vicious halberd as though it weighed nothing. His arms, Stryker knew, might have been long and thin, but they were knotted with sinew, like the tree roots of the primordial forest they traversed, and were covered by a network of raised veins, telling of the brute power contained within. William Skellen was the best fighter Stryker had ever known, and he never failed to be glad to have him at his side.
Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 7
