Marston Moor

by Michael Arnold

  ‘That was not my assertion, sir.’

  ‘You thought it,’ Stryker said. ‘And mind your tone, lad.’

  Hood, seated opposite Stryker at the far side of the fire, stared quickly into the flames. ‘I apologize, sir.’

  From the trees the whinnying of horses roused them, and as one they spun around to look. Skellen’s mount, a bay mare named Bess, promptly lifted her tail and deposited a hillock of dung amongst the foliage. The men laughed, Bess trampled her steaming shit, and Stryker’s irritation was gone. ‘No matter,’ he said to Hood. ‘Her presence has set my mind to work.’

  ‘You ponder what your offspring would be like?’ the lieutenant ventured. ‘With Mademoiselle Gaillard, I mean.’

  ‘Fearsome,’ Skellen muttered.

  Stryker smiled. In truth he had thought of little else. Fight the Good Fight of Faith Helly was a firebrand, to be certain, and might one day be a rare beauty, but to him she was the rag doll he had scooped up in the charnel house that was Bolton. She was a child, to be protected, and he could not help but imagine how his own offspring might have been. There was small chance of such a thing, of course, unless he considered the bastard whelps of whores that might, even now, be living out their lives in Zeeland, Frisia, Pomerania or Saxony, unaware of whose blood might have given them raven-black hair, a long, straight nose, or grey eyes that shone silver when anger flared. But children with Lisette? He doubted she would ever want them. She was too damaged for that, her own childhood tale of horror putting paid to the ambition of bringing yet more young lives into the world. And besides, he was not so sure he would ever see her again. He had betrayed her trust when last they had been together. She had been under threat of rape and death, and he had given her tormentors the information she was prepared to die to protect. He had done it for love, and she would never completely forgive him.

  ‘I should be pleased with children like her,’ Hood said, nodding towards the gap between two trunks through which Faith had walked.

  ‘She is a rebel, Tom,’ Stryker chided. ‘Through and through. We should imprison her, rather than protect her.’

  ‘She is courageous, sir,’ Hood argued. ‘Forthright. Educated.’

  Stryker nodded. ‘Aye, she is those things too.’

  ‘What to do with her, though?’ Simeon Barkworth said. He was kneeling before a pot to the side of the fire, preparing the pottage that he would cook for the rest of the day. ‘We cannot see her all the way to Sussex. Not when we likely march north.’

  ‘She stays with the army for the time being,’ Stryker answered. ‘That is all I can say.’

  ‘What of the Vulture, sir?’ Hood said.

  ‘He cares nothing for Mistress Helly, believe me. He ravished the Sydall women, and would have ravished her, had I not stumbled upon his crime.’ Stryker watched as Barkworth dropped various ingredients into his pot. ‘She is right to be frightened of him, but there is no design upon her.’

  ‘What of his clandestine dealings?’ persisted Hood. ‘That fellow he met with. You have not seen him since?’

  ‘No,’ Stryker said. The rendezvous in the field near Standish had unsettled him, but he had not witnessed anything of note, and had nothing to act upon. ‘I would not know Kendrick’s companion if he tripped over my boot, Tom, so dark was it. They were trading sotweed, for all I could tell.’

  ‘What you got there?’ Skellen asked of Barkworth.

  The tiny man held up a bunch of sprigs. ‘Wild fennel. Plenty to be had now that we’re near the coast. Always better near the sea.’ He glanced up at the covering branches of the magnificent tree. ‘I’d like to use beechnuts too, but they’re no ripe yet.’

  Stryker followed his gaze. He guessed the ancient beech was all of ninety feet tall, the smooth silvery-grey of its bark soaring above their little encampment, pointed-oval leaves dripping water when the breeze shook them.

  Barkworth cackled happily. ‘Belittles the concerns of man, sir, does it not?’

  ‘Aye,’ Stryker replied, just as new raindrops began to spatter his face.

  ‘Beechnuts taste no better than punk’s piss,’ Skellen said.

  ‘You’d know,’ replied Barkworth.

  Skellen grinned maliciously as the fire hissed beneath the rain. He held out a spadelike palm. ‘Miss Helly’ll ruin her book if she opens it in this.’

  Stryker found Faith Helly near the edge of the copse. She was perched within the cleft of a tree where the trunk split in two, hunched over the open Bible cradled in her lap. She looked up sharply when he stepped on a crackling branch.

  Stryker held up placating hands. ‘You cannot read in the rain, Mistress Helly. Not even Scripture.’

  She closed the book. ‘I seek comfort in His Word.’

  ‘And the words will soon run off the page. Come back with me. Simeon is cooking pottage for later. Perhaps you might assist?’

  Her eyes narrowed accusingly. ‘Because I am a woman?’

  ‘Because he cooks like a blind fool.’

  She held her rigid stare for a heartbeat, then her lips melted into a smile. ‘Then I will assist.’ She slid down from her lichen-upholstered seat. ‘He is a kind man.’

  ‘Master Barkworth?’ Stryker responded in mock surprise. ‘There’s many who’d tell you otherwise.’

  ‘How was he hurt?’

  He flirted with the fabrication of some heroic tale, but he knew she would see through him immediately. ‘He survived a hanging, Mistress.’ He paused. ‘Do not be so alarmed, he is no demon. He was cut down by those who took pity. Simeon lived, but his voice did not.’

  ‘What was his crime?’

  ‘He may not be a demon,’ Stryker said, ‘but he looks like one. Some Bavarian folk took offence at those yellow eyes and strung him up.’

  She shuddered. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘Save your pity, Mistress Helly, he will not thank you for it.’

  ‘He is so small. Does he fight?’

  He laughed at that. ‘Constantly! And as well as any I’ve known. He was once the personal guard to the Earl of Chesterfield.’

  ‘And now he is yours?’

  ‘You might say that. Though he has no rank, as such. He lives on a pikeman’s pay and whatever he may . . .’ he tailed off, realising the foolishness of his words.

  Faith looked straight into his eye. ‘Plunder?’

  Stryker nodded. ‘Wages are irregular, even for officers. We take what we can, but only from our enemies.’

  He thought she might admonish him, but instead she settled for a sour look and a change of tack. ‘Do you have a woman, sir? A wife?’

  ‘Lisette.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Aye. She is away on Crown business.’

  Faith seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘A fighter?’

  ‘Of sorts.’

  Faith hugged the Bible tight to her chest as they picked their way over the tangled brush. ‘This war has truly opened my eyes. Such people, Major. A warrior woman.’

  He laughed. ‘You and she are not so different.’

  ‘And your giant, Master Skellen,’ she went on, ‘and a tiny soldier, and—’

  ‘And a blind man in command.’

  She blushed. ‘That is not what—’

  ‘We are an ill-fitting troupe,’ Stryker said, ‘I grant you that.’ He turned away into a dense stand of bracken that concealed the main track back to the tents, but soon realized she had not followed. He called once, but Faith was staring, head cocked slightly to the side, like a hound heeding a wind-muffled horn. Stryker called again, though the rain reduced his words to whimpers, and he fought his way back to her side.

  A pig rooted in the muck a short way off, ploughing up clods of sticky filth with its flaring snout, and at first he assumed she was looking at it, but then he saw them. Two figures had appeared below one of the beeches about fifty paces away, half concealed by the low hanging foliage. One of the men was heavy set, with a russet moustache and the curved sabre of Hungarian infantry; the other was thin
and angular, pallid of skin, with a twisted back and a heavy cloak trimmed in a thick, black pelt.

  Faith was already backing away. Stryker caught her by the elbows and moved around and in front of her, shielding her from the stares. She was murmuring something, mouthing over and over a single word like an incantation: ‘Vulture.’

  Stryker placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Beneath the branches of the leaning beech, John Kendrick smirked. His sergeant spat once, gripped his crotch with his great paw, and slid back into the branch-thrown shadows. Kendrick waited a second longer, smiling very slowly, gradually exposing his sharply filed teeth.

  ‘I told you,’ Faith Helly said. ‘I told you.’

  The Vulture winked once, and was gone.

  Before evening, Stryker was ordered up to the ridge overlooking Liverpool. He left Faith under the protection of his three men, the Vulture’s black silhouette turning like a whirlpool in his mind. Kendrick must have come upon them by accident, but Stryker was unsettled nevertheless. As he reached the summit, he thought of the look of terror etched across the girl’s face and a shiver of fury ran through him.

  The ridge was called Everton Heights, and it was the ideal site for Prince Rupert’s headquarters, for it afforded an extensive panorama of the port, including a distant view of the Cheshire side of the River Mersey. Rupert had his billet in a comfortable house near the village green, his officers placed in homes around him, but it was at the beacon that Stryker finally reined in.

  He dismounted, kneecaps groaning like rusty hinges as his boots squelched in the earth. Prince Rupert and Sir Richard Crane were already there, both on foot, and they nodded as he bowed low.

  ‘Men settled, Sergeant-Major?’ Crane asked.

  ‘They are, sir, thank you.’ Stryker stole a glance at Rupert, who was staring out over Liverpool, his handsome smile a grim slash across his narrow face.

  ‘Good.’ Crane pointed to the plain, square edifice that capped the ridge behind them. ‘Shall we?’

  Stryker followed the men as they strode the few yards up to the beacon. The structure itself was two storeys in height and built in dull, reddish stone. Narrow steps on the outside wall led up to the first floor, and then to the flat roof.

  ‘They perform marriages here, Stryker!’ Crane exclaimed as he climbed. ‘Can you believe such a thing?’

  ‘The clergy having been driven from the town?’ Stryker guessed.

  ‘You have it!’

  Rupert abruptly stopped and the others shunted into each other. ‘The indignity is astounding.’

  ‘It is, Highness,’ Stryker said quickly.

  They were on the roof now. At the south-west corner there was a large cistern, empty and black now, half filled with water, where the wood for the old beacon would have been piled and lit. The rest was empty, an open platform, perfect for the prince’s needs. Almost immediately he had his perspective glass in both hands, training it on the fortifications below. Crane had one too, snatching a look and then handing it to Stryker.

  Stryker scanned the land before him. The rough slope ran steeply towards river and town, broken only by the glistening silver of a broad mere about a third of the way down. Some of the army’s purloined cattle were watering there, several musketeers placed in guard around them. He eased the scope further down towards the Mersey and the settlement perched on a swell of land against its east bank. He saw walls, earthworks, bastions and ditches. It was not encouraging. ‘They will resist?’

  ‘Not if they possess an ounce of wit,’ Rupert snapped coldly.

  ‘There are more than a thousand residents in the town, so we are informed,’ Sir Richard Crane advised. ‘And they are of a rebel disposition in the main. They alone would make for a stern test, truth told, but we have the additional obstacle of the governor and his garrison.’

  ‘Colonel Moore.’ The prince spat the words. ‘Never did a more unconscionable rogue hold sway over so crucial a place.’

  ‘Colonel Moore,’ Crane said, choosing his words carefully, ‘may be a rogue, Highness, but he has more than six hundred men under his command, supplemented, I dare say, by a goodly number of sailors.’ He tapped Stryker’s elbow. ‘Look to the river, Major. You will see several ships. Many are men-o’-war.’

  ‘Forgive me, Highness,’ Stryker said, ‘but I would not surrender, were I Colonel Moore.’

  Rupert lowered the glass, his kidskin gloves pulling taut as he gripped the ivory tube hard. For a moment it looked as though he might fly into a rage, but instead he blew a blast of cold air through his long nose. ‘But we must take it, Stryker. Liverpool is the most important port on this part of the coast. We need it to bring in supplies from the sea, and troops from Ireland.’

  ‘How long have the rebels held it, Highness?’

  ‘A full year.’

  ‘Then they’ll have it well fortified.’

  Crane pointed out the targets to Stryker. ‘The east side is protected by an inlet of the river, while the rest has a substantial mud wall and ditch, as you will see.’

  Stryker pressed the cold metal of the perspective glass to his eye socket as he examined the town. Much of Liverpool’s eastern extremity was covered by the spur of river that essentially formed a huge moat. At the north end, where the water did not impinge, there were the grey remains of an ancient stone wall, patched together by new works of mud and timber, while a ditch provided another layer of defence. ‘Substantial?’

  ‘Locals tell us the ditch is all of twelve yards across, and three deep.’

  ‘Is that a castle, sir?’ Stryker asked as he peered over the southern end.

  ‘Aye,’ Crane said. ‘It dominates the south wall. Also protected by a ditch which is filled with water from the river.’

  ‘The bastions look strong.’ Stryker caught the glint of weak sunlight on black iron. ‘They have gun batteries at regular intervals.’ He looked at the prince and then at Crane. ‘Do we know how they prepare within the walls?’

  Crane nodded. ‘Spies say the streets are barricaded. Many have palisades and even cannon. The entire perimeter of the wall is lined on the inner face with wool-packs to dampen any bombardment we care to give.’

  ‘And will we bombard?’

  Now the prince turned, glowering. ‘Of course we will bombard them, Stryker, if they do not surrender! And then we will storm them! And then we will slaughter them!’

  This, Stryker thought, was why he had been dragged up to this rain-soaked hill to face an angry prince. ‘Am I to assume I have a part to play, Highness?’

  ‘You will command a body of men,’ Rupert said, ‘should we embark upon an escalade.’

  ‘Your service at Newark did you great credit, Stryker,’ Crane added.

  Or great harm, thought Stryker. He bowed nonetheless. ‘You honour me, Highness.’

  Prince Rupert turned away with a deep scowl. ‘I will send another herald on the morrow. Pray God they accept my terms and open the damned gates,’ he said darkly, ‘for I would not wish to have another Bolton on my hands.’

  Chapter 9

  St Anthony’s Hall, York, 8 June 1644

  The men lay in rows on the flagstones because beds were in short supply. Their groans formed a baleful orchestra, reverberating around the stone walls and up into the sweeping rafters. Women tended the wounds, skirts bustling as they swept up and down between the pitiful lines, reacting with tired eyes and crimson hands to the barks of the chirurgeon who was sovereign in this empire of weeping men and rotting flesh.

  The casualties from the fight at the Mount had been brought here. The women – gentlefolk turned by siege to chirurgeon’s apprentices – brought up sheets and boiled water; they ferried jars of maggots to and from the patients with longer term, festering wounds, and held men down as the chirurgeon plied his saw.

  ‘This place has been a hospital,’ the tall, slim man said as he walked through the busy hall, voice muffled by the nosegay pushed to his face to mask the stink of putrefaction, ‘a workhouse, a house of cor
rection and detention, and a knitting school for poor girls. Now it is turned full circle, and is a hospital once more.’

  ‘Though ’tis a prison too,’ the man at his side said. ‘We have a score of Roundheads locked in the cellars.’

  ‘Quite so, Jamie,’ the first replied. He had an elegant gait, made more elegant still by the exquisite cut of a scarlet suit trimmed in lace. ‘A building of versatility.’

  Jamie laughed politely. He was dressed more soberly in black and white, with a sharp chin and carefully trimmed hair, moustache and beard, all of which were silver now but showed signs of a formerly reddish hue. ‘How is your wound, Captain?’

  Lancelot Forrester, walking slightly behind, stared in awe at both of them. The taller, clad in red, was the most powerful man in all of northern England. William Cavendish, Marquis of Newcastle, was unfathomably wealthy, possessed of vast swathes of land and one of the best armies in all three kingdoms of the British Isles, and was a personal friend of King Charles. His companion, the man who had once had hair the colour of copper, was James King, Lord Eythin, a Scottish soldier of great repute and military adviser to the marquis. Forrester could barely believe that he had been graced by their presence, let alone in this dank, stinking hole that masqueraded as a hospital. He touched a finger to the patched cut at his temple, exchanging a baffled glance with Elias Croak, who walked at his side. ‘A scratch, my lord.’ His mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘Good,’ Eythin said. ‘Praise God.’

  ‘I suspect,’ Newcastle broke in, halting in the middle of the hall, and lowering the nosegay reluctantly, ‘you ponder as to my visit, Captain.’

  ‘The question had crossed my mind, my lord, aye.’

  Newcastle offered a white-toothed smile of easy warmth. ‘I would see you, sir, to award you this.’ He nodded at Eythin, who produced a ball of silk and handed it to him. Newcastle unfurled it, revealing two strips of material – one blue, one red – sewn together in the shape of a cross. He held it out. ‘The enemy pamphleteers dub it a popish sign, but it is nothing of the sort. A matter of honour, only.’