Marston Moor

by Michael Arnold

  ‘What else did you discover?’ Stryker asked curtly, snapping Barkworth out of his reverie. ‘He threatened me, Simeon, and I would know with what I deal, should our paths cross again.’

  ‘He is a hard-man,’ Barkworth said, ‘after the Croatian fashion.’

  Stryker glanced at the returning Skellen. ‘She is well?’

  The sergeant said that she was. ‘Stuffin’ her face with bread and cheese.’

  ‘Hard-man?’ Lieutenant Hood interjected worriedly. ‘Good God.’

  Barkworth nodded vigorously. ‘That’s what they say, sir. One who claims invincibility. Our friend, the Vulture, believes he cannot be killed by mortal hand.’

  Skellen whistled a lilting tune. ‘Mad as a barrel o’ bees.’

  ‘There are many tales of the hard-men who fight in the Low Countries,’ Hood replied with a wag of an admonishing finger. ‘They exist, for certain.’

  ‘Aye, sir, no doubt about that,’ Skellen replied. ‘I’ve killed a few myself.’

  ‘This is nothing to be mocked, Sergeant,’ Hood said. ‘I have read plenty of tracts claiming—’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Stryker interrupted before the discussion could become heated. ‘He has fought savages in the Americas and Turks in Europe. That makes him dangerous, whether you believe the hard-man tales or not. And he has hajduks in his pay. Hungarian bandits, mercenaries. They’re ruthless.’

  ‘Aye,’ Barkworth agreed. ‘The Vulture earned himself the name for his looks, but the reputation is through deed alone. And it is quite the reputation, make no mistake. The Crown pays a pretty sum for his services. He’s worthy of it, for the sake of fear alone.’ He scratched at the mottled skin that blighted his neck. ‘Do you believe the wee lassie, sir? That he’ll come lookin’ for her?’

  ‘No,’ said Stryker.

  ‘Strange, though.’

  ‘What is strange, Master Barkworth?’

  Barkworth performed a half-turn so that he could point at one of the towers that jutted from the curtain wall. A red flag dangled on a pole thrust through one of its upper loopholes. ‘That’s his mark. The Vulture appears to have flown to Lathom.’

  Stryker had crossed the wide bailey before a thought had entered his mind. He stalked past the central structure of Lathom House, a crenellated keep known as the Eagle Tower, and pressed on towards the portion of wall on the far side from his own billet. It was there that the red flag hung limp from a stout tower, and he did not hesitate as he passed under it.

  Inside was a simple chamber of plain walls. There were doors leading both left and right, and a spiral staircase climbing away immediately to his front.

  ‘You wish to cross blades, Major?’ a familiar voice rang out from somewhere behind. ‘Here?’

  Stryker turned back, stepping out into the open to see Captain John Kendrick’s grinning face. ‘Here.’ He drew his sword. ‘Now.’

  It was folly, he knew. He was outnumbered, for groups of Kendrick’s men were filtering back from all corners of the castle, hastening at the sound of this new commotion. No consideration had gone into the act, simply instinct. He had thought, in that heart-shattering moment, of the Sydall family, of their blood on his boots, and of the wretched girl he had saved, and there seemed no other course to follow but this.

  Kendrick tutted softly. ‘Sweet Jesu, Major, but I am glad to see you again.’ His left hand was encased in its vicious-looking gauntlet, but his right clutched a pipe, the wooden bowl large, smouldering. From its sides glowered horrifying faces, like the gargoyles grimacing atop cathedral walls. He slid the stem between those sharply filed teeth, drawing on it with studied calm so that twin trails of smoke roiled from his hooked nose to cloud the thin face. ‘I have thought of you often. Still, I am surprised to see you on this drab morn.’

  Stryker watched as Kendrick shrugged off his thickly pelted cloak. ‘I mean to gut you, as you gutted those children.’

  ‘If you don’t, sir,’ the constricted words of Simeon Barkworth came from somewhere to his flank, ‘then I will.’

  ‘Hush, evil imp,’ Kendrick warned, though he did not take his eyes from Stryker, ‘lest I decide to teach you some manners.’

  ‘Let’s test your fuckin’ wisdom then, teacher,’ the firebrand Scot snarled.

  ‘No,’ Stryker ordered. ‘You’ll not touch an officer, Simeon.’ He levelled the sword at Kendrick’s breastbone. ‘The Vulture is mine to pluck.’

  Kendrick upended the pipe so that the ash could flutter to earth on the weak breeze. ‘Carved from Virginia maplewood, Major. Exquisite, is it not? Took it from a painted savage. He had been decidedly reluctant to hand it over, so I gelded him for it.’

  There were perhaps a score of onlookers now, grunting oaths and threats and encouragement as the pair circled slowly. Stryker caught sight of his three men, but the rest, he knew, would be Kendrick’s. He was vaguely aware of horsemen further off, beyond the tense crowd, but they were too far away to make out.

  Now, finally, Kendrick unsheathed his sword. ‘How fairs your flame-haired punk? Ploughed her yet?’ He swept the blade in two great arcs before his face, making the air zing and the onlookers cheer. ‘A particularly sweet furrow, I’d wager.’

  ‘They say you are a hard-man, Vulture,’ Stryker said.

  The thin lips turned upwards. ‘You wish not to speak of her, eh?’

  That was a shrewd thrust, and Stryker fought to keep his voice level. ‘I know nothing of her.’

  Kendrick’s laughter was echoed by his men. ‘You simply left her there to bathe in blood, did you? Ha! A man after my own heart!’ He swept the sword again, cleaving great arcs that seemed to leave a blurred ghost in the dank air. ‘Yes – I am a hard-man. You cannot vanquish me. It is impossible.’

  ‘I will take the risk,’ Stryker said, stepping in.

  Kendrick let him come, then backed off quickly to maintain the distance. ‘Many before you have embarked on a similar path, Major. The pagans of the New World took rather a dim view of my penchant for swiving their squaws. Lovely dark meat, you know. Yet still I breathe.’

  Stryker attacked, and this time Kendrick held his ground. Blades crossed, clanged loud and crisp between them, the juddering vibration careening through fingers and wrists. Kendrick held Stryker firm, but Stryker was taller, stronger, and he shoved hard, pushing his opponent backwards. Kendrick kept his balance, lost no composure, parried the next crushing blow to the left of his chest, then sent a low strike bouncing away, twisting his sword so that Stryker could not let his keen Toledo steel slide all the way up to glance unpredictably off the hilt.

  They parted, came together again, and Kendrick affected two low sweeps, only to attack with purpose towards Stryker’s neck. Stryker blocked it easily enough, but the man’s technique was unquestionably impressive, unhindered by the hunch in his shoulders, and he hastened to retreat out of range. They circled again. The horsemen seemed to be closer now, more numerous. Some were shouting, though he could not make sense of the words.

  More thrusts came from Kendrick. He parried, flickering his own probing ripostes. Kendrick was not remarkably fast. Certainly Stryker had faced quicker swordsmen in his time, but the Vulture possessed a guile that made him wraithlike in his movements. His was not a technique of serpent strike attacks, but of feint and parry, disguise and intelligence, ghosting out of Stryker’s heaviest lunges and letting the weight of the blow carry his opponent off balance.

  When they locked together again, pushing apart with a guttural grunt and skittering boots, Kendrick smiled, deliberately parting his lips so that the sharpened spikes of his teeth were exposed to the sunlight. He winked, ducked low, like a cat poised to pounce, then retreated, trying to lure Stryker into a careless play that would see him wrong-footed. Stryker kept his feet, kept his grip strong and his knees slightly bent, his elbow loose and ready. He jabbed at the air between them, hoping to unnerve Kendrick, but his only reward was mocking laughter from the men who formed a ring around them. Kendrick swept his blade down
, slicing the air, then quickly up, carving a blurred figure of eight between them in what was evidently his signature flourish, all the while shifting his feet carefully left and right, never leaving his stance flat. He raised his left hand and held it level with Stryker’s face so that the brass gadlings shone bright and malevolent.

  ‘Not too close, Major, or I shall take your other eye.’ Kendrick flexed the iron fingers. ‘Pulp it like a cider apple.’ He patted the gently curved bone handle of the broad knife that jutted from his belt. ‘When you cannot see, I will set my cinquedea to work. It will hurt a great deal.’

  ‘Hold!’

  The voice, a lone bark, was ignored as the duellists edged around their private circle.

  ‘Hold, I say! Damn your insolent hides! Desist, or I shall have every man flogged from here to Dover!’

  Finally the bolt across Stryker’s mind slid back as the mob began to thin with the arrival of the group of horsemen. Kendrick lowered his sword too, risking a glance behind once he could be sure Stryker was keeping his distance.

  ‘What the devil transpires here, sirs?’ the barking voice came again, this time louder. One of the riders pushed out from the troop; he was a huge, black-haired man on a huge, black destrier. He wore the garments of a harquebusier – plate at back and breast, gloved right hand, gauntleted left, boots unfolded right up to his groin – but his buff-coat was trimmed in gold thread, his hat ostentatiously feathered, and his waist swathed in a rich red scarf that was tied in a deliberately large knot. He glowered at the two fighters, furious eyes dark as jet against pale skin blazing over a long, straight nose. ‘By Jesu’s wounds, speak quickly!’

  Stryker bowed low. ‘A matter of honour, Your Highness.’

  Rupert, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavaria, First Duke of Cumberland, First Earl of Holderness, President of Wales and general of the king’s forces in the region, also known as Prince Robber by his enemies and Prince Robert by his friends, threw a withering glance at Sir Richard Crane, who had reined in at his side, before fixing his imperious gaze upon Stryker. ‘Honour?’ He laughed with not a hint of mirth. ‘A pair of my best officers think to murder one another? Tell me where I might find the honour here, sirrah.’

  Stryker realized his blade was still exposed, and he sheathed it quickly. ‘Highness, I—’

  ‘Jesu, Stryker, but you’ll not duel here. No, sir, you will not!’

  ‘I beg forgiveness, Highness,’ Stryker managed to say. His mouth was bone dry as he stared up at the general. Prince Rupert of the Rhine was still only in his early twenties, yet he had been in almost constant military service for more than a decade, and every man knew he was not one to be trifled with. ‘He slaughtered a family.’

  The prince did not flinch. ‘Many terrible acts befall a town under sack, Major.’

  ‘He raped the women.’ He looked to Crane, but the blue eyes gleamed hard in the shade of his hat. ‘Murdered children.’

  Rupert’s eyes swivelled to pinion Kendrick. ‘Well?’

  ‘He lies, Highness.’

  If Kendrick was a vulture, hunched and glowering, then Prince Rupert had the noble ferocity of a hawk, and his unflinching gaze seemed to twinkle as he spoke words dripping with danger. ‘This is Sergeant-Major Stryker, Captain Kendrick. A man of senior rank and dignity.’

  Kendrick was not to be cowed, though the smirk had faded. ‘He is Sergeant-Major with no command, Highness. A reformado.’ He twisted his narrow face, as if the word itself brought putrefaction to his tongue. ‘I bring sixty-three men to your army.’

  ‘He is a particular associate of mine,’ Rupert replied, ‘and I can assure you, regiment or no, Stryker brings plenty to my army. Have a care with your accusations, Captain.’ The eyes shifted, lancing Stryker. ‘Major?’

  ‘Highness.’

  ‘This,’ the prince said, nodding at the Vulture, ‘is Captain John Kendrick. Also an associate of mine, and a very great leader of men. I need both of you. Have a care with your own accusations.’

  Stryker gritted his teeth. ‘Highness.’

  ‘The fact remains,’ Kendrick said, ‘that he challenged me to armed combat.’ He swept his brutish gauntlet across the hushed crowd. ‘Witnesses aplenty. Honour must be served, Highness, do you not agree?’

  Prince Rupert of the Rhine paused for a second, pursing his lips in thought. ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ he said eventually. ‘Fight your damnable duel.’ He patted the hilt of the sword that hung at his hip. ‘My own blade awaits the victor. We are agreed?’ He waited as the two men first glanced at one another, then back at him, their mouths firmly shut. Rupert flicked his reins. His black stallion shook its head as it turned away, nostrils flaring as it whinnied. ‘I thought not,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Back to quarters Captain, Major. I mean to march on Liverpool, and I would have you both with me!’

  Chapter 5

  York, 3 June 1644

  The Parliamentarian Army of the Eastern Association arrived on the outskirts of York as rain lashed the ancient city. It was halfway through the afternoon, but angry clouds had transformed the sky to a blanket of black, and out of the tempest, illuminated by jagged spears of lightning, marched the great warlike column that represented the third arm of Roundhead power in the north.

  Lancelot Forrester stood on the fire-step of the shallow trench, well ensconced within his deep hood, rain sluicing in maddened rivulets off the oiled cloth swathing his shoulders. Around him his men were collecting the valuable tools of trench work – shovels, picks, dog carts – and preparing to abandon the flooded sap for the fortress looming at their backs. They chatted as they worked, cheerful in spite of numbed hands and feet, because blazing hearths awaited. But it was more than that, Forrester knew. He felt it too: a yearning to be inside the walls as this new threat surged up from the south. He would lead his men back to their saps, he felt sure. Creep out to dig deeper, strive further, set new pickets, place new marksmen. For now, though, they were best to get out of the way until they knew where precisely the Earl of Manchester’s fresh forces would be allocated.

  ‘If they’ve any sense, they will push around to the north,’ Forrester muttered to no one in particular. ‘Take up the final unguarded section.’

  ‘The last stopper in our confounded bottle.’

  Forrester glanced to his right, icy droplets skittering off the edge of his hood. ‘Quite.’

  Seek Wisdom and Fear the Lord Gardner was himself cowled, though his long, white beard extended beyond the reach of the hood so that raindrops gathered like dew on the wiry bristles. He shook his head. ‘How many?’

  ‘Six thousand foot, so says Master Killigrew.’

  Gardner screwed up his craggy face. ‘Killigrew spews more dung than a donkey’s arse.’

  Forrester grunted his amusement, though the sound was lost in a sudden clap of thunder. ‘He is an intelligencer, Father, and that is the intelligence he imparts.’

  ‘Horse?’

  ‘They’re detached. Ravaging the county this very moment, I shouldn’t wonder. Three thousand, as I understand it.’

  ‘What happened to the Oxford Army?’ Gardner’s voice was strong with the accent of the Welsh mountains. ‘Don’t like the rain do they, boy?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Forrester mused, searching the storm-hazed horizon for regimental colours. ‘Though I rather suspect the defeat at Cheriton has put the King on edge. He would rather lose York than Oxford.’

  ‘If he loses York, he loses the north.’ The old man hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into the swelling quagmire at his feet. ‘If he loses the north, then we’re all buggered.’

  Seek Wisdom and Fear the Lord Gardner was the de facto preacher to Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot. It was a curious arrangement, for the man, who might have seen anything from sixty winters to ninety, was a Puritan. Or, at least, he had been in earlier days. Father Gardner, as they tended to address him, had been found by Stryker’s company during their flight from a troop of enemy cavalry the previous summ
er. He had been living alone on Dartmoor; a cantankerous, foul-mouthed hermit, who appeared unable to maintain his sanity from one moment to the next. But the madness, it became clear, was a screen for an active and sharp mind, and Gardner had proved himself invaluable in the escape of Stryker’s embattled force. His shrewd advice had resulted in Stryker’s request for Gardner to counsel his rough, jaded men. It was an unlikely appointment, given the obvious scarcity of those with Puritan leanings amongst the Royalist faction, but Stryker had wanted it, and Mowbray had not demurred. The irony, of course, was that Stryker’s company had lasted a matter of months before its obliteration, leaving Seek Wisdom with no home in an army generally hostile to his particular beliefs. But then the regimental preacher had died, his heart giving out one snow-sprinkled day in January, and somehow old Seek Wisdom had taken over his duties. He had been forced to tone down his austere rhetoric, naturally, and carry out some of the ceremonial tasks required by the High Church, but Seek Wisdom and Fear the Lord Gardner was a survivor, and he had done what was necessary. Now the short, wiry priest gave a cackle that was pitched high and nasal. ‘If I’d have known how poorly your bastard army would conduct this war, I’d have joined the other side.’

  Forrester looked down upon him with a baleful expression. ‘You have time yet, Father.’

  ‘I may agree with the dissenters, Lancelot, but I do not like ’em.’ Gardner rocked back suddenly, tilting his head up at the violent sky. ‘Do not like ’em, Lord, do I?’

  ‘Oh?’ Forrester prompted when the priest had finished staring at the roiling abyss.

  ‘Gaggle o’ dour old goats.’ Gardner spat again. ‘The Godly, as we call ourselves’ – he shot Forrester an impish wink – ‘are imbued with the fear of the Almighty, but such divine blessing does not always inspire us to nurture a love of His creatures.’