Stryker paced through the battered town. It was Saturday, market day, but no vendors lined the streets with their wares. Almost four hundred soldiers and citizens had died in the final attack. Though the garrison had fled on to the waiting vessels with most of their valuables, the victorious Royalists had been intent upon wreaking revenge for the days of toil. Some Parliamentarians had been killed in small groups, stubbornly defending positions that conscience would not allow them to vacate, while a few of the Scots had failed to reach the safety of the castle in time, finding themselves overtaken and overwhelmed. Most of the death, however, had been wrought by wanton violence. It had not been as bad as Bolton, but buildings were still burned, homes still robbed, men slain and women raped. Aldermen had banded together beneath a white rag and begged the conquerors to cease, and Rupert had theoretically agreed, but still the destruction had continued in unseen alleys, attics and cellars. Now only a few ventured on to the streets; haggard, stooped wraiths working in gaunt-faced silence, loading waxy, bloated bodies on to creaking wagons.
Stryker skirted round one such team as they dragged a pair of stripped, mottled-blue cadavers from the doorway of a house. One was a male, his throat gaping open from ear to ear, the bloodless flesh flapping like the mouth of a fish. The second was that of a woman, her neck horribly blackened, the bruises shaped like fingers. He looked at the corpses, feeling a pang of guilt, but shook it off. This was war.
A hundred yards on and he reached the bakehouse that was his temporary home. He paused outside, checked he had not been followed, and knocked on the heavy, studded door. It opened to reveal Simeon Barkworth’s yellow eyes. Stryker stepped over the threshold. It was gloomy inside, despite the bright day, and not for the first time he felt a stab of discomfort for bringing Faith Helly to a place full of ovens, given what had come to pass at Bolton. But the girl had taken it in her stride, and he could hear her light, almost musical voice chattering from the next room.
‘There is no infallible interpreter,’ she was saying. ‘Not Pope in Rome, nor Archbishop in Canterbury.’
Stryker weaved his way past an upended worktop, his boots leaving prints in the layer of flour that dusted the stone floor. He tossed his hat at a hook set into the wall, and nodded a greeting to the faces that turned to him. Skellen loomed in the shadows, methodically running a whetstone along the cutting edges of his halberd, while Hood sat opposite Faith, staring intently.
Faith was as usual clutching her Bible. She smiled at Stryker, before returning her gaze to the lieutenant. ‘You see, Thomas,’ she continued, ‘no church, no priest or saint, can be interposed between the soul and God. There is no ordained pathway to Grace. The only interpreter of God’s Word is the individual. You or I.’
Hood frowned. ‘How would I know that what I interpreted was right?’
‘You pray,’ she said, as though it were the most obvious answer imaginable. ‘Pray that you are guided by the Holy Spirit. Read the Word.’ She tapped her fingertips on the small book’s leather cover. ‘And follow your inner voice. Your conscience. Why should a robed bishop tell you how to listen to God’s wisdom? How does that man – an imperfect, sinful son of Adam – have the right to style your belief?’
‘He is educated.’
‘You are educated.’
‘He prays.’
‘And that,’ she said, ‘is why you must pray. Then you will be no weaker than he, in the ways of Scripture.’
Barkworth appeared behind Stryker, and both sat down on dusty chairs. ‘Dangerous talk,’ Stryker said.
‘Thomas is keen to learn,’ Faith said, ‘and I believe God is keen for me to speak.’
‘Lieutenant Hood,’ Stryker replied, ‘should be keen to keep his neck at its current length. Turning Banbury-man is not wise when it is just such men we have so recently fought.’
Hood rose to his feet with an apologetic smile to the girl, and moved away. Faith Helly turned in her seat to face Stryker. Flour speckled the red strands of hair that strayed beyond the coif’s edge. ‘You wish to be rid of me.’
‘I said we would come to a decision once we captured Liverpool. Here we are.’
She set her jaw determinedly. ‘I will not go to the women.’
‘So you have repeatedly stated. Yet I cannot very well stroll down to Sussex with you, and nor will I send you alone.’
‘Then?’
‘Then it is to the Prince you will go. He can decide your future.’
She held his gaze for a second, her knuckles blanching as they gripped the Bible tighter. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘He is a Papist in all but name.’
‘He is my general. He is the king’s nephew.’ Stryker stood. ‘He will treat you fairly and honourably.’
Faith did not move. ‘He will hand me to the Vulture.’
Stryker pressed a palm into his eye, rubbing hard as if it would cleanse his exasperation. ‘For the last time, Mistress Helly,’ he muttered through gritted teeth, ‘the Vulture does not want you. He toys with your fear for his own amusement. And besides, why would the Prince give you to him?’
She grunted a derisive chuckle. ‘Prince Rupert is a murderer. He commanded at Bolton.’ She waved the Bible in the direction of one of the half-shuttered windows. ‘Look around you, Major. Liverpool is a dead place. Your general does Beelzebub’s work, and I will not go to him.’
‘Sir,’ Hood cut in suddenly. ‘I would ask that she stay.’
Stryker turned to glare at the young officer. ‘You would ask, would you?’
‘She has helped me these last days,’ Hood persisted, though his voice trembled.
‘Helped?’ Stryker echoed incredulously.
Now Faith stood, moving to stand between the two men. ‘The Book of Proverbs warns us against strong drink, Major Stryker.’ She closed her eyes as she recited, ‘In the end, thereof, it will bite like a serpent, and hurt like a cockatrice.’
‘She has helped me, sir,’ Hood said. ‘Truly. I owe her a great deal. I will stay with her.’ He offered a bashful smile. ‘Be her very own lifeguard.’
‘And when we march?’ Stryker asked, hearing heat inflect his words. ‘When we are ordered on some mission? What then? You’ll simply disobey? Refuse the Prince? Refuse me?’
‘I—’ Hood began, but tailed off, cowed by his commander’s voice.
Stryker spun on his heels and walked out. When he was outside, he realized Barkworth and Skellen had followed. He glowered. ‘Spit it out!’
Skellen grimaced. ‘He means well, sir.’
‘He is young and stupid,’ Stryker snarled.
‘He lost two sisters to the bloody flux,’ Barkworth said. ‘It haunts him still.’
‘And?’
Barkworth thrust a tiny hand towards the open doorway. ‘And now he has a new sister to protect.’
Skellen nodded. ‘And she preaches at him.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ Stryker said sourly.
‘It reassures him, sir,’ Barkworth said. ‘He is happier.’
‘He don’t shake no more,’ Skellen said.
And Stryker realized that his sergeant was right. Hood did seem calmer. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Then we keep her? Our very own hot-gospelling Puritan, to keep Thomas Hood from drowning in wine?’ The others offered nothing but shrugs. ‘Christ,’ Stryker muttered. He waved them away. ‘Begone. Sergeant, find us kindling for the fire. Simeon, fetch vittels for this evening.’
Barkworth’s lips parted in a wolfish grin. ‘Vaughn’s have a good store o’ salted fish.’
‘I do not care who you rob, Master Barkworth, just see that you are not caught.’ He felt the cool pricks of raindrops on his head. ‘Jesu, I have left my hat inside.’
He sensed something was amiss as soon as he re-entered the bakery. He slunk behind a thick post and hurriedly primed and loaded his pistol. Softly, he eased the hammer to half-cock, wincing at the click that suddenly seemed a hundred times louder than usual. Then he was moving, slowly, carefully, grateful
for the flour dust that muffled each step. Up ahead, Faith and Hood were standing against the conical form of the biggest bread oven. They were closely flanked by two men brandishing swords. Stryker hung back, concealed by the gloom.
The sergeant he remembered first; that strong, proud face, with hard eyes and a hedge of russet moustache. Stryker had seen him at Bolton, at Lathom House and again in the copse below the Everton ridge. On the other side was a man who was near featureless; he had no hair, no brow, no eyelashes, and some ravenous disease had eaten away most of his nose so that it was little more than a gaping maw out of which foul liquid appeared to seep. Both wore long, blue coats and clutched curved sabres, with which they herded their quarry together so that they could not ignore a third man as he spoke.
‘Where is it, whore?’
‘I am no whore!’ Faith Helly protested, pressing into Lieutenant Hood’s side.
‘Well?’ Captain John Kendrick continued. He faced away from Stryker, but there was no mistaking him. ‘Where is it? Tell me now, Sydall whelp, or you will be fucked and then you will be flayed.’
Hood made to move towards the interrogator, but a snarl from the two Hungarians froze him in his tracks.
Faith’s arms were folded tight over her Bible. ‘I do not understand, sir,’ she answered, voice pleading. ‘I know nothing of what you ask.’
The Vulture tilted back his head, casting his eyes up to the roof in exasperated dismay. ‘The golden flagon,’ he said slowly, as if entreating a halfwit to repeat a simple phrase. In a flash his knife, the broad cinquedea, was free and he jabbed the space between himself and his captives. ‘The cipher, damn you, you God-bothering bitch!’
‘You speak in riddles, sir!” she cried back.
‘Do not dissemble with me, girl.’ He twirled the cinquedea deftly between his fingers. ‘The cipher is hidden in a golden flagon, my dear. Give it to me. That is all I want.’
‘Cipher? What is a cipher, sir?’
‘We searched the house,’ Kendrick went on as though she had not spoken, ‘and it was not there. Someone took it. Someone has it. Hate-Evil Sydall would never have been so desperate to perish had he not first brought his whelps into the greedy scheme. Give me the flagon.’
‘But I am not Master Sydall’s daugh—’ Faith began. She was abruptly cut off by a backhanded slap to her cheek.
Kendrick watched as she dabbed cool fingers against the hot skin. ‘I’d be happy to cause you pain, my lovely,’ he said eventually.
Stryker stepped out, drew the pistol to full cock, and aimed it at the back of Kendrick’s head. ‘And I’d be happy to scatter your brains over that oven.’
For a heartbeat no one moved. The Hungarians growled, but they could do nothing without Kendrick’s word. He turned, observed Stryker as the latter approached, and slid his knife back into the sheath at his belt. ‘She is a rebel spy, Stryker, do not be a fool.’
‘Then why do you sneak into my quarters like common thieves, Captain?’ Stryker said. ‘Why not bring half the army to capture this notorious agent?’
‘I applaud your bravado, Major, though I question your intelligence. There are three of us. You will pull that trigger and be cut to ribbons.’
Stryker smiled. ‘But you will be dead.’
Kendrick canted his head to the side, weighing up his choices. He evidently decided they were limited, for he glanced back suddenly at his two men. ‘Turn them loose, Sergeant Janik.’
Stryker was now skirting the group, arm still rigid, level with Kendrick’s face. He walked sideways like a crab, feeling his route through the debris with shuffling feet and an outstretched left hand. He reached a side door, pushing it open with his rump as Hood and Faith slid behind him. It was raining harder now, and their boots splashed as they backed out into the bakehouse’s small yard. Their own horses were stabled in a chapel with the thoroughbreds of the Lifeguard, but the absent baker had kept a sturdy little pony, and the tatty-coated beast twitched nervously as they approached. Hood unfastened its tether, slipping the reins from an iron ring set into a patchy wall, and Stryker ordered him to run. For a moment he hesitated, but then he scurried away, sliding every few strides, holding his balance enough to vanish under an arch and out on to the main road. Stryker handed the pistol to Faith, leapt up on to the pony, and took the weapon back. He trained it on the doorway for a heartbeat, ensuring there were no curved sabres at their backs, then uncocked the hammer, propped it between his thighs, and bent low so that he could hook his hands under Faith’s armpits. She yelped as he threw her over the saddle, belly down, like a sack of grain.
Kendrick’s hajduks were at the doorway when he looked up. Sergeant Janik was in the lead, sword in hand, and Stryker knew there was no time to snatch up the pistol. Instead, he kicked him in the face.
Janik brayed like a gelded hog as he reeled back, dropping the blade and landing with a wet smack in the mud.
‘Spit out your teeth,’ Stryker commanded as the bald man and Kendrick burst from the doorway. Janik did as he was told, a fountain of blood and bits of broken tooth spilling into his lap as he mewed in pain. Stryker had the pistol now, and he yanked back the hammer. ‘Try it again, and it’ll be your guts spewing on the mud.’
‘Major Stryker!’ Kendrick called up to him. His furious face shone luminous in the rain. ‘Do not be a fool!’
Stryker raked his spurs along the pony’s flanks. The beast screamed, jolted forwards, and they were on their way.
‘You did not believe me.’
The clouds were gathered over Liverpool, forming a pall that turned day to dusk as the roads became rivers. Thunder rumbled as though cannon fire had returned to the defeated town, and lightning lit up the castle and the river and the hills. Stryker and Faith had galloped as fast as the squat beast’s matted hooves would allow, only easing when the girl spotted Hood loitering in the doorway of an abandoned house. They walked after that, sending the horse on its way, and found themselves outside the old fish market. The lieutenant was dispatched to find Skellen and Barkworth, and after less than an hour he had returned with both men and a raft of questions.
‘He mentioned a golden flagon,’ Stryker said, sitting on a pile of empty sacks and threadbare netting. ‘A cipher.’
‘You did not believe me, Major,’ Faith Helly repeated herself, more loudly this time.
She was slumped against one of the cold pillars opposite him, and Stryker met her angry stare. ‘A matter of regret, Mistress, truly. You were right about Kendrick. He does have designs upon you, but not in the way you imagined. He does not wish you dead. He wants this cipher.’ He saw the bafflement in her eyes. ‘A secret way of writing. A way to keep things hidden.’
‘It is how spies communicate,’ Thomas Hood added pointedly.
‘I know nothing of any secret writing,’ she said, her voice muffled under the hammering of rain on the roof above. She removed her coif, shaking free her hair. It made her look much younger. ‘Nor any golden goblet.’
‘He believes you are a Sydall,’ Hood said.
‘But I am not.’
‘Kendrick does not know that,’ said Stryker. ‘He stumbled across you at Bolton, and that was by chance. But it was no accident that led him to Master Sydall’s house in the first place. He wanted something that Sydall possessed. He thought – he thinks – you know of its whereabouts.’
She shook her head and sniffed against the onset of tears. ‘Why?’
‘Because he believes you are Hate-Evil Sydall’s daughter.’
Hood glanced left and right, checking that Skellen still guarded one side of the market and Barkworth the other. ‘We could tell him he is mistaken. Tell him Mistress Helly’s story.’
Stryker stifled a laugh. ‘You think he would believe such a tale?’
‘Then he will try again,’ Faith said, as colour dyed Hood’s cheeks.
Stryker nodded. ‘Aye, this is certain.’
‘Then we must alert the Prince,’ Hood said. ‘Call upon his protection.’
‘I am no spy, sir,’ retorted Faith hotly.
‘But Kendrick will say otherwise. I do not imagine Prince Rupert will provide any more protection than we, and perhaps a deal less.’ They fell silent as a cart trundled past on Skellen’s side of the building, thick brown spray flinging out from its wheels. The driver’s bellows echoed about the colonnaded expanse like worship through a cloister. Stryker plucked the gloves from his hands and pulled the twine band from his soaking hair. It fell freely over his shoulders, and he ruffled it, then bunched it in a fist at the nape of his neck. ‘Jesu,’ he hissed, as water cascaded over his fingers. ‘I found that hat on a German battlefield. It has brought me luck.’
Marston Moor Page 19
