Marston Moor

by Michael Arnold

  Hood’s hand went to the empty scabbard and the defiance left him. ‘Bastards,’ he whispered, evidently recalling something of the night. He met Stryker’s hard gaze. ‘Where is my dignity, sir?’ He shrugged. ‘What dignity?’

  ‘You are an officer of the King.’

  Hood’s chuckle was mirthless, embittered. ‘With not a kitten to command.’

  ‘That is beside the point.’

  ‘It is precisely the point, sir,’ Hood answered hotly, insolence rearing within him again.

  ‘Mind your tongue, sirrah,’ Stryker warned.

  Hood held Stryker’s eye for a second, then broke the trance with a pitiful sigh. He studied his boots for a short time, breathing heavily as he steadied his anger. When he looked up, his expression was wretched with contrition. ‘My apologies, sir. Sincerely.’

  Stryker relented. He was angry at Hood, for the young officer was a good man, a competent leader, but his penchant for drink was beginning to be noticed in higher circles, something that would harm his chances of advancement. Hood was right, he had conducted himself no differently to the majority of Royalist officers in the wake of Bolton’s fall, but Stryker would be damned before he saw the young man throw his prospects away for the sake of a fine claret. And yet, deep down, he knew that his interference only seemed to breed resentment. He made to turn. ‘Clean yourself up. Meet me at The Swan.’

  ‘Sir,’ Hood said, though his watery stare had flickered to the open door.

  Stryker caught the gesture and hooked the door with his foot, toeing it closed. Behind it, nestled against the wall, was a substantial flagon. He could see dark liquid just below the brim. Stryker looked back, saw the longing in Hood’s eyes, noticed how the lieutenant’s hands trembled.

  The door swung open, concealing the flagon. ‘Major Stryker? Is he present?’

  Stryker and Hood both turned to the doorway. Under the rotten lintel, wreathed in sunlight, stood a tall, finely dressed man. He wore the caged helmet and russet breastplate of a harquebusier, with lace at his falling band collar, a silver gorget at his throat, and a blue coat that was threaded in silver all the way down the sleeves.

  Stryker squinted, but the light at the man’s back turned his features almost black by contrast. ‘He is, sir.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ the newcomer said, his voice loud and well educated. ‘Get him out here, would you? I have no wish to speak within these walls, for it smells like a latrine.’

  ‘One of my lads claimed he’d seen you in there,’ the dismounted cavalryman said as Stryker and Hood joined him outside. He breathed deeply and theatrically, and unfastened his helm, letting shoulder-length tousles of richly golden hair cascade around the leather straps running between back- and breast-plate. He tossed it to one of the troopers who ringed the group like iron sentinels, and smoothed his thin moustache between gloved thumb and forefinger. ‘Seemed unlikely, but here you are.’ His grin was permanent, etched by a sword slash that had left cleaved his mouth and healed in puckered lines so that his lips, forever upturned, appeared to stretch into his cheeks. But his smile was genuine in its warmth. ‘Well met, Sergeant-Major. Ha! Major. A pleasure to name you by your new rank, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Richard,’ Stryker said, returning the smile. ‘I am not entirely accustomed to it myself, truth told.’

  Sir Richard laughed at that. ‘And how does life treat you in your new role?’

  In truth, life was decidedly more dangerous. Everything had changed. He was still a soldier, still bled for the cause of the king, and yet so much now was alien to him. The sea had changed all that. It had taken a ship called the Kestrel, tossed it and smashed it and turned it to a tangled wreck of floating rigging and splintered spars. On that ship had been Stryker and his company, sailing for the Isles of Scilly and a cache of gold, and they had been sucked into the icy depths with the stricken vessel. A handful – Stryker and Skellen among them – had been thrown up on a hostile shore, and though they had faced yet more tribulation before their mission was complete, they had been the fortunate ones. Stryker’s Company of Foot had been shattered, and the remnants – both the wreck’s survivors and those remaining in quarters with the Oxford Army – no longer amounted to a unit worth salvaging. They had been scattered, dispersed amongst the rest of Sir Edmund Mowbray’s regiment, leaving the officers with nowhere to belong. The common term was reformado, an officer without a command, and that was the status under which Stryker and Lieutenant Hood had found themselves operating. The king’s nephew – and his majesty’s greatest warrior – had long meddled in Stryker’s affairs, often dispatching him on clandestine duties in the face of Sir Edmund’s understandable chagrin. Now Stryker had no colonel to tie him down. He was the prince’s creature; his personal attack-dog, intelligencer and assassin.

  Stryker looked directly into the blue eyes of Rupert’s close friend. ‘It treats me well, Sir Richard.’

  ‘You’ll have your own regiment next. Lieutenant-colonel follows major, as night follows day, and then full colonel.’ He broke into a rueful chuckle. ‘Particularly when one considers the rate at which our senior officers seem presently to expire.’ Crane wrinkled his slightly crooked nose as he regarded the dishevelled form of Thomas Hood. ‘You look abysmal, son.’

  ‘It was a sleepless night, sir,’ Hood muttered.

  ‘That it was,’ Sir Richard barked happily, twisting back to observe the troopers that still clattered into the area in his wake. A large pearl earring winked from behind his golden tresses. ‘My brave boys have been a-hunting. The moors are infested with Roundheads. Still, we have cleared the way, have no doubt.’

  Stryker had no doubt at all, because Colonel Sir Richard Crane was a killer. One of the king’s true veterans, Crane was the younger son of minor nobility, destined for a life denied inherited wealth. Like so many of his kind, he had seen only two avenues left open: a career in the clergy, or a career at war. Having chosen the latter, Crane had seen service with the Protestant armies on the Continent, returning when the Royal standard had been hoisted at Nottingham almost two years before. Since then his post as the commanding officer of a troop of horse had taken him across the country. Like Stryker, he had witnessed the opening salvos of England’s tribulation at Kineton Field, and had been embroiled in the storming of both Cirencester and Bristol. But Stryker knew he had done so much more. Crane would have been at Chalgrove and Bristol, Newbury and Market Drayton and Chinnor and countless other fights. He was a man forged in the furnace of this civil war, because Crane’s was no ordinary command.

  Stryker stared up at the horsemen that packed the road. They were mud-spattered, their mounts’ fetlocks wet and ingrained with grime, but their bearing, to a man, betrayed nothing of the hard riding to which they had been subjected. They wore scarves of ruby red at their waists, and every trooper’s hair flowed long, framing lean, hard faces and restless eyes. These, Stryker knew, were the elite: Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard, a troop of a hundred and fifty riders, gentlemen all, forming the razor edge to his Regiment of Horse. Sir Richard Crane had the honour of their command, and he revelled in it.

  ‘Sergeant Skellen!’ Crane bellowed, touching a finger to his temple in acknowledgement. ‘You survived, I see.’

  ‘’Course, Colonel, sir.’ Skellen, who had been waiting outside the door with Barkworth, sidled forth and bowed low.

  Crane beamed. ‘If the world were to burn tomorrow, I do declare this man would come through the conflagration with nought but a singe.’ He looked back to address his watchful horsemen. ‘These men are to be afforded all respect, you rogues. They may appear to be a party of vagabonds, but they serve upon good Prince Robert’s business, and they enjoy his protection.’ He met Stryker’s gaze again. ‘I’ve not seen you since Newark, Major. What a day that was! His Highness would not have outfoxed Meldrum without you. Verily sings your praises!’

  Stryker felt heat pulse at his cheeks and he stared hard at the ground. ‘Kind of you to say, sir.’ It was true that he had play
ed his part in that unlikely victory, but the praise embarrassed him nonetheless. ‘I did my duty.’

  ‘You’d have been well employed at Cheriton, I suspect,’ Crane went on, his tone turning sour. ‘What a dungheap of a campaign that turned out to be.’

  ‘I was at Cheriton.’

  Crane’s pale brow climbed to crinkle his high forehead. ‘As bad as they say?’

  Stryker thought of that race southwards through a newly secured Nottinghamshire still basking in the stunning reverse over Sir John Meldrum’s superior force. He had been charged with delivering a message to Sir Ralph Hopton, commander of the king’s army in southern England. Hopton was advancing rapidly, pushing through Hampshire with the objective of punching rebel London in her less fortified underbelly. But the man opposing him – his dearest friend and most dangerous rival – had marched to block that confident advance. Among the rolling fields east of Winchester, at a sleepy backwater called Cheriton, Sir William Waller, with his newly formed Southern Association Army, inflicted a resounding defeat upon Hopton. Stryker had been caught up in the fight, retreating with the battered Royalist force to Basing House, and had returned north almost immediately to deliver Hopton’s doleful report to a prince incandescent with rage.

  He met Crane’s eye and nodded.

  Crane pushed no further, absently twisting the pearl that hung from his left ear. ‘That battle has ended the king’s ambition to take the capital. Hopton’s army is dashed to pieces, and Winchester has fallen to that dog, Waller.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘A catastrophe indeed. The ghastly rebel news-books make merry with the fact. The Roundheads have their first decisive victory against us. Their tails are up. There is no turning back now.’

  ‘The path has long been too narrow for this horse to turn,’ Stryker said. ‘All hope for peace was lost when the Scots crossed the Tweed. The Committee for Both Kingdoms will prosecute war. That is their mandate.’

  ‘You are right, of course,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Thus we are squeezed to breaking. Waller in the south, the Scots and Fairfaxes in the north. Hopton will regroup, re-engage.’

  ‘Leaving His Highness to deal with the northern threat.’

  Crane’s head bobbed. ‘He marches imminently. Soon as he can rouse our brave drunkards from their cups.’

  Stryker forced himself not to look at Hood. ‘To where will he march, sir?’

  ‘Bury, Stryker. A town just east of here, you know it?’ The shake of Stryker’s head did not appear to bother him. ‘George Goring is en route. The Prince plans to muster there.’

  ‘General Goring? He has the Northern Horse, does he not?’

  ‘Indeed. Five thousand of Newcastle’s very best cavalry. The only part not presently hemmed inside York’s embattled walls.’

  ‘Our army swells, Colonel,’ said Stryker, his mind working through the numbers as he spoke. Rupert had eight thousand men with him. Goring’s division would be a formidable addition.

  ‘That it does,’ Crane agreed. ‘Lancashire will be subdued before long. We intend to take Liverpool. The port will be the ideal route by which our troops might return from Ireland. Then on to Yorkshire, where the villainous Covenanters await.’

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Richard, but is that why you sought me?’

  ‘Indeed!’ Crane bellowed. ‘Your task, Major. You will know that Lady Derby lately held Lathom House in her husband’s name against Rigby’s vile rebel horde.’

  Stryker did. The Earl of Derby was the leading Royalist in Lancashire, but he had been away fighting when his house at Lathom had fallen under siege by Rigby’s forces. The Parliamentarians had pressed it since January, its defenders led by the stoic Countess of Derby. Rupert’s arrival in the region had not only conquered Bolton, but lifted the siege.

  ‘Lord Derby would make his heroic wife a gift,’ Crane explained. ‘We have captured twenty-two Roundhead colours. Many of them, just three days ago, were proudly flourished before her house. They are to be thrust at Lady Derby’s feet, so that she may trample them and know that God is truly with us. I am charged with the delivery of said colours, Major. Additionally, there will be a convoy of munitions in the rear, for the bolstering of Lathom’s future defence, pray God it is never required.’

  ‘And I, Sir Richard?’ Stryker prompted.

  ‘The high roads are not safe in their entirety. Not yet. Thus I require a sturdy fellow to oversee my munitions. I hear tell you are currently employed as Lord High Gaoler of Bolton. True?’

  Stryker laughed. ‘True.’

  ‘You enjoy the duty?’

  ‘Nay, sir, I do not.’

  ‘Good. Then you, Major Stryker, will command my convoy.’

  Chapter 4

  Lathom House, Lancashire, 29–31 May 1644

  The candlelight was enchanting. It danced along the walls, casting tremulous shadows across the tapestries so that the colourful depictions of saints and sinners, monsters and heroes, seemed charged by magic to play out their scenes for the assembled throng. And a welcome throng it was, declared Charlotte Stanley, Countess of Derby, from her high seat at one of the great hall’s soaring gable ends. Before her – beneath her – the audience tittered and clapped as she accepted their praise, one bejewelled hand twinkling as it waved, the other cradling a large goblet of spiced claret sent with the compliments of Prince Rupert of the Rhine. But it was her husband’s gift that took centre stage. From her dais, the countess peered over a snub nose to regard the standards of Alexander Rigby’s routed regiment, arrayed in two great columns at either side of the room, each held by a stiff-backed ensign. There were so many of the huge taffeta squares that her guests, Lathom House’s most senior inhabitants, joined this night by Sir Richard Crane and the Lifeguard of Horse, were almost draped in the colours of Parliament.

  Stryker, standing at the very rear of the richly upholstered crowd, allowed himself a wry smile as a servant filled his proffered goblet. The man, dressed in the Earl of Derby’s livery, had been reluctant to approach, and now, as the last drips rippled the surface of the wine, he shied quickly away to meld into the rows of bodies.

  ‘You frightened him, sir,’ Thomas Hood, standing at Stryker’s right hand, said in a low voice.

  ‘I have that effect on folk.’ He lifted the cup, gulping back the claret.

  Another liveried servant appeared and handed Hood a goblet. He took it, looking furtively at Stryker as it was filled, then sipped with deliberate slowness. ‘Lady Derby basks, rather.’

  Stryker ignored the wine in his lieutenant’s hand. ‘She has earned it. The house has been under close siege for most of the year. She held it with honour. Fortified it well to resist bombardment.’

  Both men raised their goblets as one of the officers at the front proposed what might have been the tenth toast of the evening.

  ‘I thank you, sir, for your gracious words,’ the countess said. She was probably in her mid forties, Stryker guessed. Plump and pale, with dark, determined eyes and black hair that was styled with ringlets in a pastiche of the queen. Indeed, she reminded Stryker a great deal of Her Majesty, Henrietta Maria, for the women both spoke with the exotic tones of France. ‘Now I must make mention of Monsieur Tipper,’ purred Charlotte Stanley, who had been born Charlotte de La Trémoille. ‘You will know that my success is due, in no small part, to the militia of expert marksmen who garrison my home. Tipper is chief of them.’ She raised her cup, nodding to a spot within the crowd where Tipper evidently stood. The audience drank and cheered.

  ‘Does she not put you in mind of Madame Lisette, sir?’ Hood said, tilting back his head to take a long draught.

  Stryker did not drink this time, but left the rim of his goblet to brush at his bottom lip. He had tried to put Lisette squarely from his mind. Now, as the rich Gallic voice wafted around the rafters, mingling with the heady fug of woodsmoke, beeswax and lavender, the final word of the incantation had been articulated: her name. All at once she was there, hair like spun gold, eyes like flaming sapphires, her image crowding his
mind’s eye, unwilling to let him see anything else. There was nothing left but the memory. He blinked hard, grinding his lone eyelid down in a vain attempt to eradicate her. The servant drifted by, and Stryker thrust the vessel into the startled man’s hand, pushing his way out of the hall.

  Outside, the dying light and melding clouds had turned the world a uniform grey. There were small fires around the courtyard, but this time they had been lit for the warmth of sentries rather than the cooking flames of an entrenched garrison. Lathom House was more castle than manor, with a thick stone wall punctuated by eighteen imposing towers that provided plenty of billets for all the men. Stryker’s group were quartered in a modest guardroom close to the armoury, where their trio of heavily laden wagons had been placed for the night. He made his way there, leaving Hood to doubtless sink well into his cups before the night was over.

  A pair of musketeers watched him approach the armoury from up high on the rampart, and he plucked off his hat to acknowledge them. Even in the gathering gloom, they evidently recognised him, for both let him pass unchallenged through the archway below their feet. On the far side of the arch was a smaller yard serving the armoury rooms. His three carts were here, their stoic palfreys tethered to rings set into the stonework nearby. At dawn the vehicles would be unloaded, the powder barrels stored in the stout subterranean chamber serving as Lathom’s magazine, while the firearms, musket-balls and coils of match would be carefully stacked in the armoury’s cavernous rooms. It was much darker here, for the presence of black powder, despite the heavy, damp sheet that covered the cargo, made torches far too hazardous, and he had to speak softly to soothe the animals who scraped their hooves in agitation at his approach. His own mount, Vos, nuzzled into his touch. He was a powerful thing, a Dutch warhorse, trained to snap and kick at enemies and to ignore the thunder of cannon. He had been in battle many times, been shot at and stabbed, been captured at Newbury the previous March and liberated by Prince Rupert’s genius. Yet even he, Stryker reflected fondly, needed reassurance on occasion.