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

by Michael Arnold

  ‘Not healthy enough, Major,’ Stamford said. In truth, he was pleased with the results of the rapid muster. He had spared no effort in raising the largest field army possible to deliver a fatal blow to the region’s Royalists. Yet he would never be entirely happy. The Cornish might have been villains to a man, but they were tougher than the swords they carried, and he knew their destruction would be a difficult task indeed. ‘Still, we must net this flock of Cornish choughs before they’re allowed to fly to Hertford.’

  ‘That is their plan?’

  Stamford nodded. ‘Aye, Major, we know it.’ He thought of one of the paper sheets found in General Hopton’s portmanteau. The scrawling lines of ink had ordered the Cornish army into Somerset to merge with Royalist forces from Oxford, under the command of the Marquis of Hertford, the King’s Lieutenant-General for the West. ‘It is a matter of certainty.’

  Lewendon’s nose wrinkled again. ‘Might we wait a week, my lord?’

  Stamford frowned deeply, irritated by Lewendon’s timidity. He was a clever fellow, astute and sensible – the ideal aide – which was why the earl tolerated his company, but the man was as craven as a baby dormouse. ‘We must strike as soon as is practicable, Jonathan.’

  The major’s little brown eyes flickered around the encampment as he evidently searched for the right words. ‘There are other units en route, sir,’ he said finally, fidgeting with the sash at his waist. ‘A detachment comes from Somerset, and men are yet expected from Dawlish, Sidmouth, and Honiton.’

  Stamford resumed his progress through the camp, wincing at his puffy legs, which seared as though gripped by hot pincers. ‘Strength?’ he asked through labouring lungs.

  Lewendon, keeping pace at his side, held his hands at the base of his spine. ‘Another thousand, I’d wager, sir.’

  The Earl of Stamford clicked his tongue as he considered the impact that reserve would make. It would be quite some number to leave behind. Perhaps even the difference between victory and defeat. He passed a pair of bare-chested sergeants locked in private duel, each wielding a huge halberd in knotted hands. They immediately broke away when they spotted him, standing straight-backed, embarrassed that their commander had found them in such an undignified state. But Stamford offered a smile, waved them on, for he was pleased that his men took time to perfect their craft. Soon they would face a formidable foe.

  ‘Another thousand such fighters would be valuable,’ he said to no one in particular, tugging gently at the black hair of his moustache.

  ‘Aye, they would, sir,’ Major Lewendon replied. ‘Invaluable.’

  Stamford sighed. ‘So be it. We linger here a little longer, then. Hopton will still have to guess at the focus of our thrust.’ He halted again, this time to point a threatening finger at his advisor. ‘Not a week, mind, but a matter of days, understand?’

  Lewendon nodded rapidly, again putting the earl in mind of a rodent. ‘Aye, my lord.’

  They walked a while in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts. Eventually the major glanced up, his pinched face creased in concern. ‘The Cornish will not receive us kindly, my lord.’

  ‘Ha!’ Stamford bellowed heartily. ‘You truly are the master of understatement, Major Lewendon!’ He shook his head, the smile still present. ‘No they damn well won’t receive us kindly. Not a bit of it. They’re king’s men through and through. Near as bad as the bloody Welsh. The county will require an amount of persuasion before they bow to the Parliament.’

  Lewendon searched his commander’s face. ‘Persuasion?’

  Henry Grey, First Earl of Stamford, set his jaw, leant heavily against his stick, and rested his free hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Rough wooing, I believe it is called, Major.’

  Major Jonathan Lewendon gnawed his lean bottom lip, swallowed hard, and stared down at the sword. ‘Rough wooing, my lord.’

  Gardner’s Tor, Dartmoor, 7 May 1643

  It was just before midnight, and Stryker decided to make a sweep of the tor. He began at the village, where the horses were tethered and bright-eyed pickets searched the blackness, then made his way carefully about the periphery of the hill, acknowledging his men as he went. Some gambled, eyes straining to see the dice in the gloom, others enjoyed the meat they had cooked the previous night. Some kept careful watch, one or two cleaned and honed weapons, but most snatched much needed sleep.

  They needed sleep, because none had been free to them during daylight. The bombardment from the pair of small cannon had been relentless, ceasing only when darkness fell. The round shot were just small things, meant for tearing flesh on the battlefield, not hammering holes in stone, but the noise and the flying, lethal debris had forced the Royalists to huddle in tightly packed groups behind the biggest granite shelters, wondering with each shot whether a land attack was being launched as they impotently cowered. None came, although the lack of rest, the cramped conditions, and the merciless volleys took a serious toll. Darkness had not come soon enough.

  Stryker, finally free to roam, walked the avenue as soon as he reached the flat top, nodding to the lookouts positioned on the pinnacles of the core, cannon-pocked stacks. His boot clanged against something hard, and he had to quickly leap to avoid a pile of discarded pikes, cursing softly as he went.

  The noise must have reached the caves further along the passage, for a figure emerged from one of the larger ones.

  ‘Is everything as it should be, Miss Cade?’ Stryker asked as Cecily, near luminescent in the darkness, approached him.

  He could not see her face clearly yet, even though her voice rang smooth and clear from the night. ‘Just so, Captain, thank you.’

  Stryker tried to see past her to the other small caves. ‘Bailey?’

  ‘He sleeps, sir. His snoring wakes me, even through our stone curtain.’ She began to turn away. ‘May we speak privately, sir?’

  Stryker nodded, padding quietly in her wake. She returned to the cavern set in the foot of the granite stack, and he stooped to follow her inside. Not for the first time, Stryker was impressed by the thickness of the walls. It might have been the lowest form of abode in which the girl had ever stayed, but at least it would keep her perfectly safe from the falconets out on the plain.

  ‘You have spoken with Andrew?’ Cecily’s voice emanated from the very rear of the chamber.

  ‘Lieutenant Burton?’ Stryker, only a pace inside the low entrance, could barely see her, so he aimed his voice at the place where he thought she stood. ‘Aye. He is—’ he searched quickly for the right word, ‘—disappointed.’

  ‘And I am sorry for that, truly. He’s a kind man.’

  ‘That he is.’ It seemed strange to speak about his comrade, and Stryker felt suddenly awkward. ‘I do not wish to be rude, Miss Cade, but is there something you want?’

  With that, Cecily emerged from the back of the cave, features coming into focus as she stepped nearer to Stryker and the moonlit entrance. ‘I want to leave this place.’

  Stryker barely stifled a laugh, such was his surprise. ‘You still sail that course? Have you seen what is out there?’

  The girl’s face was almost silver in the feeble glow, and beautiful as ever, but he noticed a tension in the eyes and mouth. It was not an expression of fear, he thought, but one of determination. ‘Aye, sir. We are surrounded, they have cannon, and we are all going to die.’ She shrugged. ‘Hence my need to be away.’

  Stryker was taken aback. The terrified, trembling, orphaned child seemed to have been overthrown by a resolute, single-minded woman. The tear-puffed eyes were wide as ever, but now the glisten of moisture had hardened into a glint of steel. ‘Did you not see what they did to Otilwell Broom?’

  She nodded firmly. ‘I did, sir, and it cut me to the quick.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But that changes nothing.’ She stepped closer, eyes boring into his. ‘I must leave. It is imperative.’

  ‘Why?’ Stryker asked, baffled. ‘It is dangerous here, I freely admit, but you are safer with my men than out
there alone. And there’ll be no clemency for you. They have condemned you as a witch.’

  ‘I will take my chances, Captain.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, miss, you will not.’

  Her pale face lifted in a tight smile. ‘I know how a man’s mind turns, Captain. I have seen the way you look at me.’

  She approached him then, slowly, silently. Stryker held her gaze, and saw that the green eyes were unblinking, huge, and intense. Her fragile hands rose into view, thin fingertips fumbling at the lace that fastened the plunging neckline of her saffron bodice.

  ‘Cecily,’ was all Stryker could say, his voice low and thick. He knew the protest was pathetic, even reluctant, but no other words would come. Still he stared, still her dextrous hands worked, and then the string was free, the ends hanging slack, and Stryker felt himself stir as she grasped the detached halves and eased them apart. Gradually the uppermost parts of her breasts were exposed to the midnight air, pure white and swelling gently with her measured breath. Stryker stared at them, and at the dark cleft between, imagining what else would soon be free. It was not a hot night, but he felt sweat prickle at his neck.

  ‘We will trade,’ Cecily whispered. ‘You will give me a horse and free passage. And I will give you—’ Gently, she began to pull the bodice down further, revealing more and more flesh.

  Stryker knew he should tear his gaze away, but, in that silent moment, he found that he did not want to. She was truly something to behold. A vision of pure, breathtaking, heart-jolting beauty in this place of loneliness and death.

  And then he thought of Lisette.

  ‘Cecily,’ he said finally, some clarity falteringly restored. ‘Miss Cade. This is insane.’

  Cecily moved closer, so that there was less than an arm’s length between them. ‘What have you to lose, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Stryker said with a resolve that startled even him. He took her wrists in his hands and drew them away from her chest. ‘This is wrong. I have a woman.’ He took the ends of the lace and refastened the bodice. ‘And you are in my care, Miss Cade.’

  Suddenly Cecily’s eyes seemed to dim. The temptress was gone, chased away by the frightened girl. ‘But—’ she stammered, ‘but I thought—’

  Stryker smiled as he finished tying. ‘You are a rare beauty, Miss Cade, and I confess that I am a weak enough man. But my affections are elsewhere.’

  ‘But I am desperate, sir,’ Cecily pleaded, hands grasping his to her sternum. ‘I have important—’

  ‘What?’ Stryker snapped. ‘Important what?’

  She shook her head in mute defeat.

  Stryker sighed. ‘Then you will stay with the company.’

  ‘Now I understand,’ a man’s voice echoed suddenly about the low chamber.

  Stryker had to turn to see the newcomer, but he recognized the voice well enough. ‘Andrew,’ he said, pulling his hands from Cecily’s grasp.

  Lieutenant Andrew Burton was a young man. Yes, he was a veteran of many a fight, battle-hewn and tough as rawhide, but he was still just a stripling in Stryker’s paternal eye. Still the nervous boy packed off to war not even a year since by a proud father and clucking mother. Yet now, here, in this dingy recess on an isolated Devonshire hill, his face bore all the marks of a man who had lived ten lifetimes. It was a mask of sorrow, etched and furrowed by deep despair. ‘I sensed it.’

  ‘Hold,’ Stryker began, raising palms as if trying to calm a skittish colt. ‘You have it wrong.’

  Burton’s gaze, harder than Stryker had ever seen it, flicked from his captain to Cecily and back again. ‘You encouraged me.’ He seemed to swallow hard suddenly, as if bile had spewed into his throat. ‘When all the while you knew she would not—’

  Abruptly the stunned lieutenant turned away, stooping to leave the cave as if the air within was poisoned.

  ‘Wait, Andrew,’ Stryker tried again, following Burton out into the night. ‘It is not—’

  Burton twisted back, thrusting a finger forcefully into his captain’s chest. ‘Damn you, sir.’ And then he was walking again, striding away down the grey-walled avenue towards the south-east edge of the crest. Stryker followed, keeping pace but maintaining the distance, not wishing to confront his subordinate until they were beyond the range of prying eyes and ears.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Stryker near growled when Burton had come to a standstill at an outcrop of shoulder-height rock part way down the slope. ‘Have a care.’

  Burton rounded on him, hissing angrily, ‘Do not bring rank to bear here, sir. It demeans us both. I am young, but I am not stupid.’

  Stryker was taken aback by the savagery in the younger man’s tone. He lifted placating hands. ‘Mark me well, Andrew. She is not all she seems.’

  But it was as though he had addressed one of the boulders, for Burton’s expression did not flinch or soften. ‘Damn you, Captain,’ he muttered in the lowest of voices, a look of utter hatred in his eyes. ‘God damn you.’

  ‘I did nothing,’ Stryker protested forlornly. ‘Mark me well, Andrew, she is hiding something. She meant to seduce me in order that I should allow her to leave.’

  But even as he uttered the words Stryker knew how ridiculous they sounded, and it was no surprise to see Burton’s look of bitter incredulity. ‘You have Lisette, sir.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘How many more women do you want?’

  Stryker had had enough of his junior officer’s attitude and gritted his teeth, stepping close so that Burton would see the dangerous glint of quicksilver in his eye. ‘Rein in your manners, Lieutenant.’

  But Burton simply gave a rueful sneer. ‘A pox on your threats, sir.’ To Stryker’s amazement, he spat on the ground between them. ‘And a pox on your false words, and on your greed and on your lust and on your goddamned treachery.’

  ‘But—’

  Burton turned away then, swift and abrupt, breaking through Stryker’s sentence and stalking into the darkness. Stryker wanted to follow, to chase his protégé through the granite gauntlet of the tor’s steep face and shake some sense into him. But he knew it would do no good. The younger man was in an incandescent rage, a fire burning so bright in his jealous heart that no amount of discussion would dowse it. And Stryker did not wish to give Burton the opportunity to turn the matter physical, for that could lead nowhere good. Instead he slumped back against the nearest stone and watched him go.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Barn Near Gardner’s Tor, Dartmoor, 8 May 1643

  Colonel Gabriel Wild strode out from the shit-carpeted building just as the falconets resumed their barrage. It was a new dawn, one that would finally see Stryker prised from his hill like a flea trapped between thumb and forefinger. Wild filled his lungs with the bracing air, revelling in the faint smell of sulphur it carried from the powder smoke, hawked up a gritty clump of saliva and despatched it on to the earth some yards away. He dug filthy fingertips into his bleary eyes, rubbed clear the last dregs of tiredness, and shook his head to untangle the long hair that had become so knotted during a fitful night’s sleep.

  ‘Spare me the rhetoric, Mister Hogg,’ Wild growled as he noticed the witch-finder hobble into his field of vision. ‘Your efforts have come to nothing. They will never surrender Stryker or his wench.’

  The enormous Spaniard, José Ventura, waddled up behind Hogg, a sweaty sheen already glimmering across his blubbery face. He swept a tendril of oily hair from his forehead. ‘His men must be greater devils than he.’

  Wild smirked. ‘Undoubtedly. Though I’m hardly shocked that they protect the girl. I would.’

  Ventura looked aghast. ‘But she is a witch, Co-lo-nel.’

  ‘A witch with a young face and a snout-fair pair of tits, from what I could make out.’

  Hogg held up his walking cane when his assistant made to argue. ‘I would still see him hang.’

  Wild looked at the witch-finder, his face becoming serious. ‘Oh, the captain will die, sir, have no fear.’ He bent down to pull the folded bucket-top boots up to his groin. ‘
Though I shall cut off his stones before he so much as sees a noose.’ He straightened, scratched an itch at his stubbly chin and fastened the string at the top of his shirt. ‘If he does not bleed out, then he’s yours to dangle.’

  Hogg nodded reluctant agreement. ‘The man is a God-forgotten follower of Satan, Colonel. Señor Ventura and I have made it our life’s work to seek out and destroy such men. Stryker is the worst of them. He must hang. And I must do it.’

  ‘You have my word,’ Wild said, clicking his fingers at a nearby trooper. ‘But I get the girl.’

  ‘So be it,’ Hogg agreed.

  The rapidity of the reply surprised Wild, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not want her neck stretched?’

  Hogg bit the inside of his lip. ‘I would see her hang, of course, Colonel. But she is irrelevant when compared with Stryker.’

  The trooper had scuttled up to Wild with a sack full of kit, and he was busily laying out the colonel’s gloves, gauntlet, and armour. Wild watched him carefully, braced to give the man a swift kick should he drop an item in the mud, but when he spoke it was to Hogg. ‘Stryker means that much to you?’

  ‘He does.’ He paused as the twin cannon blasts shattered the morning. ‘God tells me that he, above all others, must be sent to hell.’

  ‘Then you’re in luck, sir, for I would attack this very morn.’

  ‘Not luck,’ Ventura muttered.

  Wild glanced at him. ‘As you like, señor.’

  ‘You attack?’ Hogg asked. ‘It will succeed this time?’

  Wild nodded confidently. ‘We have cannon now, so they cannot man the lower slope, which, in turn, means we can send in our men without fear of those bloody muskets.’ He shrugged. ‘At least until our advance is well underway. Without the falconets that one-eyed Pope-swiver would place his musketeers down on the flat, and we wouldn’t get close. But if the gunners keep up steady fire till the last moment, forcing Stryker on to the highest ground, we’ll get a storming party to the slopes before he can respond. And once we can get enough men on that damned tor, we will overwhelm them.’