Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles

by Michael Arnold

  A man, perched at the very top of the stone, raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘I will that, sir!’

  Stryker turned back to Burton. ‘We’ll have to forget the barn for the time being. Have the men sleep on the upper slopes. I want them in amongst the stones near the crest.’ He pointed to the distant cavalry troop. ‘No easy pickings for those whoresons, understand?’

  ‘Sir.’ Burton glanced back at the interior, where the sprawling jumble of building-sized stones dominated the hill. ‘The wagon is to be kept in there?’

  ‘As I said, Lieutenant, we keep it in the big cave.’ It seemed strange giving a rickety old vehicle pride of place in their new fort, but too much blood had already nourished Dartmoor’s heather in its protection, and Stryker was damned if it would be lost to them now.

  ‘And what of the girl?’

  Stryker caught the almost imperceptible twitch in Burton’s cheek as the young man spoke, and realized that he would naturally be interested in such a beauty. He nodded warily. ‘She stays on the crest too, with Broom and Bailey.’

  Burton turned on his heel, leaving Stryker to stare after him. In all the turmoil of recent days he had not given enough consideration to the impact Cecily Cade would doubtless have on a large group of soldiers. And now they were all trapped together on a small hill.

  Quietly, he swore.

  Two Miles West of Merrivale, Dartmoor, 1 May 1643

  The horseman’s arrival was greeted with a level of excitement that spoke more of the soldiers’ boredom than of his innate importance. The men, redcoats of Captain Lancelot Forrester’s Company of Foot in the main, had spent the better part of two days camped in the same field, making do with dried biscuit and gritty stream water, and the arrival of a newcomer was accompanied with great interest.

  The outlying pickets let the lone rider approach their commanders, for he had given the field word of General Hopton. He galloped expertly along the bridleway tracing the corrugated stream, confident and stern atop his sleek-flanked, froth-mouthed bay; a creature that would have set most of the infantrymen back more than a year’s pay to purchase. The men, at liberty beside the water or under the broad trees, immediately rose to their feet, wondering what news he might be carrying.

  Forrester and Payne had been puffing on tobacco and discussing the merits of Shakespeare’s King Richard the Third when they saw him, and abruptly tapped their clay pipe bowls clear, pacing quickly into the rider’s path.

  ‘Ho there, friend!’ Forrester called up to the newcomer. ‘What news?’

  With a deft tug of his reins, the horseman brought his muscular bay to a juddering stop, and greeted them with a wave of his buff-gloved hand. ‘Captain Forrester?’

  Forrester took off his hat. ‘’Tis I, sir.’

  The rider gave a curt nod and dismounted. He wore civilian dress; tall, spurred boots, green breeches and russet coat, with a dishevelled falling band collar and grey hat. Every inch the costume of a gentleman’s outdoor servant, which, Forrester presumed, was exactly what he had been before the war had changed everything. ‘My name is Richardson, aide to Sir Ralph Hopton.’

  ‘Well met, sir,’ Forrester replied, sensing a huge shadow appearing at his side. ‘May I present to you Mister Anthony Payne.’

  Richardson’s eyes drifted away from Forrester and rose, widening as they went, until they settled on Payne’s face. He removed his own hat in salute, revealing a head of close-cropped brown hair that gave a hint of copper in the sun’s rays. Forrester noticed the ribbon tied about the hat’s crown. It was an old piece of material, mud-spattered from the ride, but it was, undoubtedly, red. ‘Well met, Mister Payne,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘If I could venture—’

  ‘Four inches above seven feet, sir,’ Payne replied in his ocean-deep voice.

  ‘My apologies,’ Richardson muttered, embarrassed. ‘You must be frequently asked.’

  ‘Every so often, sir.’

  ‘And,’ Forrester cut in, suppressing an amused snort, ‘do you carry the King’s commission?’

  Richardson looked at the captain, hazel eyes narrowing slightly, as though he were attempting to gain Forrester’s measure. ‘I do, sir. But my duties are invariably—’

  ‘Of a private nature?’ Forrester suggested when the pause had lingered too long.

  Richardson’s thin lips lifted at the corners. ‘Aye, you might say as much.’

  ‘Then, sir,’ Forrester went on, ‘I can only assume you have come from General Hopton on some important matter?’

  Richardson crammed his hat back on to his head and lifted a hand to smooth down his brown moustache. ‘You are in the right of it, Captain, yes indeed.’ His face hardened as his thoughts turned to business. ‘We are on the move.’

  ‘Move?’ Payne rumbled.

  ‘The army, Mister Payne. General Hopton has received intelligence of Lord Stamford’s plans.’

  ‘Stamford?’ Payne’s face creased into a scowl as he echoed the name. ‘What plans might that rogue be hatching now?’

  ‘We hear he musters as many men as possible at Torrington, sir. All available garrisons in Devon and Somerset have been stripped of horse, foot and supplies.’

  ‘He means to strike into Cornwall?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Aye, that is the fear. He is emboldened after Sourton.’

  To Forrester, Payne’s eyes were already as big as plums, but somehow they seemed to enlarge further. Seeing that the giant had been struck dumb by the news, he prompted, ‘What is it, old man? You look as though you’ve lost a cannon and found a carbine.’

  Payne’s gaze shifted from Richardson to Forrester. ‘Cornwall is my home, Captain.’

  Richardson went on, more concerned with imparting his message than dealing with the feelings of those who were in receipt of it. ‘Needless to say that Sir Ralph makes plans to intercept the rebels forthwith. Make hazard of a battle, if needs be.’

  ‘But where will Stamford advance?’ asked Forrester.

  Richardson screwed his mouth into a grimace. ‘That is our problem, sir. We do not know.’

  ‘Which is why the army moves out from Launceston.’

  ‘Indeed. Lord Mohun has been sent west to Liskeard, Slanning goes to Saltash, and John Trevanion is to remain at Launceston.’

  Payne stepped up. ‘What of Sir Bevil Grenville, sir? Where does his regiment march?’

  Richardson paused in thought, then snapped his fingers. ‘North. Up towards Stratton. But most importantly, Hopton advances upon Beaworthy.’

  ‘Beaworthy?’ echoed Forrester. ‘Never heard of it.’

  Payne looked down at him. ‘A small place between Launceston and Okehampton.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Richardson said brightly. ‘Sir Ralph would block the road to Launceston, lest Stamford choose that route.’ He offered a hand for both men to shake. ‘And now I must be away.’

  Forrester followed the messenger as Richardson strode briskly back to his horse. ‘Wait, sir. That is not all your news, surely?’

  ‘Why ever not?’ said Richardson, turning. He leant against the saddle, gathering the looped reins in a hand. ‘I understand you men are charged with bringing your—’ he glanced skyward in search of the word, ‘bounty to Hopton. For his part, he will no longer be at Launceston. Does it not make plain sense that you should be alerted to this new destination?’

  And that was the crux of the matter, thought Forrester. He did not know if it made sense. ‘I suppose,’ he muttered, unwilling to look the fool in front of Richardson.

  In a flash, Richardson was back in his saddle, clicking softly in his mighty steed’s ear. Without the need for brusque commands or raking spurs, the horse slipped easily into a canter. ‘Then adieu, gentlemen!’ He lifted the grey hat briefly, planted it back on his skull, and was gone.

  As the hoofbeats faded, they were replaced by Payne’s heavy steps, and Forrester turned sharply to face him. ‘An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told.’

  Payne levelly met the captain’s gaze. �
��More from King Richard, sir. Though something tells me you did not wish to demonstrate your impressive knowledge of theatre.’

  Forrester stepped closer so that they were out of earshot of the men. ‘That man was no ordinary messenger. He was an intelligencer.’

  Payne pursed his lips. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Of course you bloody would!’ Forrester hissed. ‘Aside from his cocksure bloody demeanour, the bugger rode a horse fit for royalty. Royalty or intrigue.’ He waited for a response, persevering when none came. ‘So Hopton sends a spy simply to tell us that he’s no longer in Launceston.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘This man we’re to meet. He really is as important as you say, isn’t he?’

  Payne nodded sombrely. ‘The general would have us take him direct to Beaworthy, if that is where he will soon be. He must speak with him with all haste.’

  ‘Who is he, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I am sorry, Captain Forrester. You know I cannot—’

  ‘And yet here we are,’ Forrester muttered, staring out across the field that had become their home for the last two days, ‘without the first clue where this fellow’s got to.’ He turned back to Payne. ‘Shall we have a peek to the east on the morrow? We’ve waited here long enough.’

  Payne considered the question for a moment, before letting out a sigh that sounded like a gale through oak branches. ‘East.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The Tor, Dartmoor, 2 May 1643

  The large square of red taffeta flapped in the breeze. It had a Cross of St George in one corner and two white diamonds in the field, telling all who cared to look that the tor was garrisoned by Captain Stryker’s Regiment of Foot.

  Stryker, standing on the lip of the crest to greet the breaking dawn, gnawed a stale biscuit and stared up at his flag. Its colour was bleached and its edges frayed, here and there were patches where it had been so often repaired, and he noticed a couple of small holes that had doubtless been rent by recent pistol fire. He snorted with laughter.

  ‘What amuses you so?’

  Stryker turned abruptly to see Cecily Cade. He swallowed his mouthful of the gritty biscuit, watching her as she approached. She still wore the pale yellow dress, and it was becoming increasingly dishevelled. But, for all that, Stryker found her utterly beguiling. ‘I was thinking how alike my ensign and I are.’

  ‘Mister Chase?’ She walked to his side, pushing a stray lock of black hair behind her ear. ‘Really? He is shorter and has a beard.’

  He smiled. ‘Not that ensign, Miss Cade.’ He pointed up at the flag with his half-eaten biscuit. ‘That ensign. Weather-beaten and oft stitched back together.’

  She returned the smile, though her cheeks reddened slightly.

  ‘No matter, Miss Cade.’

  ‘I told you,’ she chided, tapping his arm gently, ‘you must call me Cecily.’

  Stryker looked back to a horizon rapidly flooding with orange light. In the near distance, where the tor’s steep flank ended, the terrain still gently sloped for the best part of a mile, interrupted only by the river. Further off, the undulating pattern of tors and ridges was undeniably spectacular, though it served only to compound his feeling of isolation. They really were alone out in this wilderness. Alone in the cause of King Charles, at least, for the dawn was steadily revealing glinting armour in the distance, the signal that Wild had placed pickets at regular intervals all around the tor. They were constantly watching, waiting for Stryker’s next move.

  ‘I must say,’ Cecily ventured, ‘you’ve made a fine job of this place.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Turning a bleak tor into a little castle, I mean.’

  Stryker shrugged. ‘The walls were already here, and most are thicker than anything you’d find built by man.’

  She nodded. ‘Still, I’m a tad surprised you’ve kept the horses up on the hillside.’

  Stryker frowned. ‘They can hardly be kept down there,’ he said, pointing to the flat heathland stretching endlessly in front of them. ‘Aside from the threat from the enemy, there’d be nowhere to tie them.’

  It was Cecily’s turn to point, but her finger stretched slightly to their right, south-east of the tor. ‘But they might have been stabled in the village simply enough.’

  Stryker followed the direction of her arm until his eye settled on a place some two hundred and fifty paces away, perhaps fifty strides beyond the glistening river. He had seen it before, of course, but paid no real attention, for it had appeared at first glance to be no more than a wild area of meshed gorse, tangling bilberry bushes, and boulders. But as he studied the messy outcrop shapes began to form. Clear lines were discernible within the rubble. The more he stared, the more he understood that it was all that remained of a settlement; ancient, certainly, and crumbled to near invisibility where nature had reclaimed it for her own, but a settlement all the same. As Cecily said, it had, at one time, been a village.

  ‘You’re right,’ Stryker muttered, still amazed that the place had lain hidden from them until now. ‘Those walls are waist height.’

  ‘Higher in places,’ Cecily added.

  ‘Aye, so they are. We could certainly keep the horses penned there.’ Immediately he stepped back from the brow and hailed the nearest man. ‘Gather a party of half a dozen lads. Get down to that patch of rubble and see what’s there.’

  The soldier nodded, turning on his heel to carry out the order, and Stryker looked at the grinning Cecily. He stole a glance at her inviting lips, and felt the sudden impulse to kiss them.

  ‘Will you give me one of the horses?’ Cecily asked abruptly.

  The question threw Stryker at first and he simply stared into her eyes as he absorbed her words. ‘I do not follow,’ he replied eventually.

  She moved closer, her voice becoming a whisper. ‘I must leave here, Captain Stryker. It is important. I have given you the village. Now will you help me?’

  Stryker half expected her to smirk then, admit that it was all in jest, but all he saw was the rigid set of her jaw as determination shadowed her expression. ‘Leave? I understand it is frightening up here, and I know you wished to reach your father’s estates, but you saw what happened. I had no choice.’ He looked down at the river. ‘We’ll fight our way out of here before long.’

  Cecily laughed bitterly. ‘I am not stupid, Captain. You spin your brave tale, but cannot look me in the eye when you do it.’ She bit her upper lip, moving a hand to grip his elbow. He noticed she was trembling slightly. ‘I must be away from here, sir. Please, I beg you, there is precious little time—’

  ‘For what?’ Stryker cut across her. He held her gaze. ‘Time for what, Miss Cade?’

  ‘Captain!’ The voice of William Skellen jolted them like the crack of a pistol.

  ‘This isn’t over,’ Stryker whispered, before looking up at the sergeant. ‘What is it?’

  Skellen scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Not really sure, if truth be told, sir.’

  ‘Spit it out man!’ Stryker snapped.

  ‘Apologies, sir,’ Skellen replied, ‘but seein’s believin’, ain’t it?’

  The sergeant was not given to unnecessary dramatics. ‘Very well,’ Stryker sighed, turning back to Cecily, but she was gone.

  Stryker’s first impression was of a vagrant. A man probably in his sixties, skinny as a weasel, with filthy, matted grey hair and a beard, also grey, that stretched all the way to his concave belly. His breeches were brown, though they might have begun life a lighter colour, and his shirt and doeskin singlet were darkened by a network of old stains.

  ‘Found ’im sniffin’ around one o’ the stone piles to the sou’west,’ Sergeant William Skellen said.

  Stryker turned back to the newcomer, who was standing between a pair of burly redcoats. ‘Who are you?’

  The bearded man, whose dishevelled appearance was exacerbated by a slight stoop, glared up at him with eyes that were a surprisingly clear shade of blue. ‘The Lord God Almighty’s representative in this shit stinkin’ countr
y,’ he said in an accent that reminded Stryker of the soldiers from Sir Thomas Salusbury’s regiment he had encountered at Brentford Fight.

  ‘A Welshman?’

  The man did not shift his eyes from Stryker, or blink even once. ‘You don’t call a man from Wales Welsh, my boy!’ he exclaimed in a shrill cry. ‘You calls him sir!’

  On another day Stryker might have been amused, but he was still irked by the strange conversation with Cecily, and the newcomer’s antics irritated him further. ‘I’ve no time for this.’ He glanced at Skellen. ‘Get rid of him, Sergeant.’

  ‘Ha!’ the old man shrieked, blue eyes darting like some feral creature. ‘You’d have me killed off here and now, would you?’ He craned his head up to the wispy clouds. ‘You hear that, Almighty? Have me sent to meet you before my time, he would! Can you fathom it?’

  Stryker shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Of course not, you old fool. See that he is fed and watered, Sergeant Skellen, then take him across the river and get yourselves back here.’

  ‘Across my river?’ the old man exclaimed. He looked heavenward again. ‘Now why would he want me to cross my own river, eh, when it is he who sits pretty in my home?’

  Stryker ground his jaw. ‘Your home?’

  The Welshman grinned, exposing little stubs of blackened teeth, and seemed to dance from side to side as though his bare feet were touching hot coals. ‘This here hill’s my house, isn’t it, boy? My house and my home and my fucking castle all in one. Gardner’s Tor, the good Lord calls it. God-given, it is.’

  ‘This is Gardner’s Tor?’

  The old man nodded violently, twisting the point of his beard about a talon-tipped forefinger. ‘That’s me, it is. An’ this is my house. So it is Gardner’s Tor.’

  ‘You’re this Gardner?’ Stryker asked incredulously.

  The man ran a flickering tongue over cracked lips and suddenly bent into a low bow. ‘You have it, my boy. Seek Wisdom and Fear the Lord Gardner, to be precise and exact!’