Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  Stryker lifted his sword, holding it high as if meaning to cleave the giant’s head in two. As he had foreseen, the man braced himself to parry the blow, while his smaller companion, relieved he would not have to tackle the tall captain immediately, let his guard down a fraction. In a heartbeat Stryker had dropped to his knees and rolled sideways, finishing in front of the smaller enemy. He lunged like an adder striking its prey, and rammed his blade deep into the hapless man’s groin. It would be swift, Stryker knew, for he had killed in this fashion many times before. He had been taught that this was how the Roman legionaries had fought, and it was easy to see why. A severed artery in the groin would see a man bleed out inside a minute.

  Turning his attention to the bigger man, Stryker saw that he was already falling back. The ugly grin had dissolved into a worried scowl as the lightning-fast Cavalier sprang to his feet. The big Roundhead had been telling himself that this was an easy kill, that the Royalist officer was a rake and a wastrel, a one-eyed one at that, the foolish follower of a popish king and ripe for slaughter. And yet now, with every fluid, predatory movement Stryker made, capped by his well-practised countenance of pure, calm fury, he knew instinctively that the enemy’s confidence would be trickling away. Stryker’s clean-shaven face bore innumerable ancient scars, while the area that should have housed his left eye was nothing more than a mass of contorted flesh; disfigured and evil-looking. The giant would be staring with fear at that twisted socket, forcing himself to look into the good eye. Stryker, his silver gaze upon the Parliamentarian, looked into him – through him – so that the Roundhead would see his own death.

  Stryker wanted to slash forward with his sword, but he knew the long pike would skewer him before he got close. Hold. Hold. Let him make the first move.

  The big man lost his nerve. Swinging the length of wood like a club, he screamed with aggression, aiming the weapon squarely at the Royalist’s head. But he saw the movement too late. His opponent had ducked beneath the blow, rolled through the bloody snow, and reappeared inches away like an acrobat. The world went black.

  It took three attempts for Stryker to twist his blade free of the gigantic Parliamentarian’s throat, but once it came away the blood flowed freely and the corpse crashed to the earth like a felled oak.

  Stryker turned back to his own men. The push of pike had stalled. It was a crucial moment, where the engagement might break down into a melee, a close-quarters free-for-all where pikes were decommissioned and swords ruled.

  When he reached the block, Stryker could see that his men were wavering. They had had the best of the opening exchanges, but their exhaustion was beginning to tell. The pikes at the centre of the push were vertical now, forced heavenward while the front ranks wrestled chest-to-chest, with no way of keeping the poles horizontal. It would be sheer hell at the centre. Daggers would be drawn, for there was no room for a longer blade in that stinking agonized crush. Men would stab at one another, or bite the faces of the enemy. They would stamp and kick, or butt like rutting rams. Anything to break the opponent.

  On the far side of the chaotic mass, Stryker could see an officer in tawny uniform directing the Roundhead push. Sheathing his sword, Stryker stooped to retrieve a discarded pike from the rapidly freezing slush and made his way along the rear rank of his own troops, so that he was now at the bottom left-hand corner of the block. The opposing officer was on this side too, but was concentrating on the movements of his men. He did not notice Stryker until it was too late.

  The officer died quickly. The pike passed through his unarmoured chest and burst out of his back in a shower of muscle and bone. Immediately, as Stryker had hoped, the Roundhead block began to lose impetus. Men looked unsure of themselves with no officer to command them. Their sergeants kept up their filthy bawling, but no level of verbal threat would match the peril of more than ninety enemy soldiers bearing down on them.

  In moments the push had completely stalled and the melee ensued. Pikes were thrown down in panic and the bluecoats began to flee in the face of Stryker’s men. Stryker allowed the melee to continue for several seconds, giving his men the chance to take out their fury upon a defeated enemy, but he soon gave the order to withhold. The Parliamentarians were racing back toward Kineton. Now was not the time to give chase.

  ‘Mister Skellen,’ Stryker said as his men regrouped, ‘please take these scoundrels back to Sir Edmund. Tell him they’ve had enough for one day.’

  ‘Dragoons, sir!’ a musketeer called from one of the ranks to Stryker’s right.

  Ensign Burton limped across using the stump of a shattered halberd as a walking stick. ‘Charge for horse?’

  Stryker shook his head. ‘No. Not now. They won’t take us on, it gets too dark. And the bastards are not even in battle formation. They mean to hold the ground.’ He turned to a barrel-chested drum-major. ‘Sound the retreat.’

  ‘If they want this godforsaken field they can have it,’ he said wearily as the company performed an orderly retreat, in step and facing the enemy, to the sound of the drum’s familiar call. ‘Fall back.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Thunder rolled down from the craggy hills. A boy, playing with his younger sisters in the snow, squinted up at the sky. His mother, widowed the previous summer by the ague that had decimated this part of town, dashed out of their hovel to gather up her brood. As he was being ushered inside, her son was reminded of the hens they kept in the house; his mother too ran to and fro, clucking admonishingly, flapping her arms and scolding.

  ‘Ma,’ the boy began, but his mother cuffed him to silence. He clamped his mouth firmly shut, then watched as his mother stood briefly in the threshold, nose tilted slightly upwards like an animal sniffing the wind, then turned inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

  The rumble grew in intensity as the widow joined her son and daughters at a low window. The boy could sense his mother’s tension, and, as he peered across the street, he realized that other families too were similarly sheltered behind their walls, staring through rickety-shuttered windows out on to the road’s frozen mud. And then the boy understood. Like his mother and his neighbours, he knew what caused the noise long before he saw it, for word of the impending arrival had long since reached them.

  Horses. Oxen. Cannon. Carts. Men. An army.

  He saw the horses first; the small group of cavalrymen that made up the column’s vanguard. It was a disappointing sight. He had expected some pomp and ceremony. The great army of the King of England, marching into his little town! He had expected gallant knights cantering through the snow, waving bright banners and brandishing gleaming swords. He had imagined fearsome pikemen in gleaming armour, flanked by rows and rows of musketeers, rakish and dashing in their finery.

  The horses seemed as listless as the grey afternoon. Their riders were tattered and unkempt, and their entrance brought no fanfare or cheering.

  The boy looked on, kept close by his mother’s vicelike grip, as the cavalry units petered out, replaced by a seemingly endless column of infantry. The first to pass their home were pikemen. No precise marching order here; simply a tired loping. Some of them did not even carry weapons.

  In amongst the pikemen were units of musketeers, powder flasks swaying rhythmically from the bandoliers against their chests, blackened muskets pointed skyward from shoulders. Flanking the infantry were the drummers and, occasionally, fifes. But in this tired ensemble they neglected to strike up a tune, preferring simply to keep pace with their regiments.

  Behind these men came a dozen carts, drawn by sullen oxen. These vehicles were packed full of men, some moaning as the great wheels bounced, rigid and unforgiving, along the road’s frozen ruts.

  ‘The wounded,’ the widow whispered in her son’s ear. ‘God help ’em.’

  Behind the carts came another team of oxen. This time, though, their burden was not human. These were the heavy guns, the great cannon that the citizens of Banbury had heard rumbling across the horizon three days earlier. The children watched in awe whi
le the heavy iron pieces thundered past on bouncing wheels, traces and chains jangling in protest.

  Behind the ordnance came other groups of pikemen and musketeers, a great ragged river winding away into the fields beyond the town.

  ‘Come away, children,’ the widow said after a while.

  ‘But Ma—’ the boy began to protest.

  ‘No arguments,’ she replied, finality in her tone. ‘Come. It’s rabbit stew tonight.’

  Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot had been at the centre of that great marching column. As weary as the rest of the army, they had welcomed the chance to rest when the gates of Banbury opened.

  There was no great enmity towards the king here, despite the fact that it had been a Parliamentarian town. Indeed, to the common folk, this war was not one in which they wished to take sides. But invading armies had a habit, on taking an enemy stronghold, of laying waste to its interior. Rumours of rape and pillage had been rife in the days since the battle, and the fearful inhabitants were staying indoors. They were taking no unnecessary chances.

  Stryker’s own company were in their usual marching position at the rear of Mowbray’s regiment. The men were bruised and battered, but above all cold. The battle had not been a defeat, far from it. In fact, the Royalist leadership were losing no time in proclaiming a great victory. After all, the objective had been to secure the road to London, which they had done. Now the way was open for the king to take his capital and end this war, and Banbury was the first step to that end.

  But for all the elation in the higher echelons, the soldiers were hungry and tired and numbed to the bone. As a result, the column trudged through this grey October evening looking for all the world like a defeated army.

  Stryker was on foot. His stallion, Vos, walked at the company’s rear, led by one of the wagon-master’s men. Stryker gazed at the shadowy faces that peered fearfully from their windows, trying to catch the eye of some, revelling privately in the terrified expressions of those that met his scarred mask.

  For a few terrible years his hideous appearance had pressed down upon him, slowly eating him alive. Every time a child cried as they looked into his face, he hated himself. Hated what he had become. Gradually he’d succeeded in shedding the burden. She had helped him do that. She had drawn that black bile from him like poison from a wound. She . . .

  ‘Company . . . halt!’ The cry of a sergeant further up the column cut into Stryker’s thoughts, dragging him away from that faint, lovely, terrible memory. The call to halt echoed its way down the column’s length.

  An officer cantered down the line, repeating an order that became audible as he reached Mowbray’s Foot. ‘Column to stand down and find billets for the night.’

  As the officer approached Stryker’s company, he reined in beside the captain with a white-toothed grin. ‘Alive then,’ he said, in a voice that belied his cheery countenance. Stryker replied by turning his head away.

  The officer wore a pristine costume of russet and gold, his chest encased with armoured plates that gleamed brightly, defying the drabness of the day. His hair was red, hanging in long tendrils about his shoulders. His beard was small and immaculately trimmed, its tip waxed into a sharp point that met the billowing material of a dazzling white ruff as it sprang up about his neck like the petals of a flower. The wide-brimmed hat, worn at a rakish angle, was a ruby red, the same colour as the sash that ran from shoulder to hip.

  ‘Oh, come now, Captain Stryker, surely we can be civil,’ the officer said, pushing an unruly strand of hair behind an ear, exposing the gold hoop that dangled from its lobe. Stryker was like stone. He sneered. ‘Have it your way, but do not say I didn’t attempt a modicum of cordiality.’

  Stryker stared levelly up at where the man sat like a cockerel, perched on his glossy mount. ‘You have no right to speak to me, Eli,’ he growled. ‘Leave now, while you can.’

  ‘I am under orders from the king himself, mon Capitaine,’ the officer replied in his haughty, mocking voice. ‘So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’

  Stryker’s right arm shot upwards. Before the mounted officer could react, he found an uncomfortable pressure needling his midriff.

  Stryker’s face was a mask of calm. ‘Don’t look down. Don’t struggle,’ he growled quietly, as Eli’s face drained of colour. ‘There is a dirk resting nicely against your gut. I would dearly love to spill your innards over those pretty britches.’

  The horseman steeled himself, forcing his features into a defiant expression. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he rasped. ‘There are too many witnesses. There’s a whole army here, you damned fool.’

  Stryker narrowed his eye. For a moment neither man moved, then Sergeant Skellen’s big hand fell upon his commander’s shoulder.

  ‘No,’ said Stryker eventually, not taking his gaze from the mounted man. ‘No, I wouldn’t. But one day, you piece of horse shit. One day we will be alone, and that day will be one I will treasure. Now ride away, Eli. Now.’

  Stryker retracted his arm in a swift movement that saw the blade back in its sheath without arousing attention from the soldiers around them. The rattled cavalryman kicked his steed’s flanks, and galloped off down the line of infantry.

  Skellen turned to Stryker.

  Stryker sighed. ‘An old acquaintance, Sergeant.’

  Skellen looked dubious. ‘I don’t know him.’

  The captain smiled sourly. ‘We go a long way back. Further even than you and I.’

  Skellen snorted. ‘That would be a long way back, sir.’ He had been at Stryker’s side for more than half a decade. Marching and fighting, drinking and whoring. He knew the captain as well as any man. They were both just over thirty years old. Skellen knew that Stryker had been a soldier for nearly fifteen years. He knew that the captain was not a man to be disrespected.

  Skellen screwed up his leathery brow. ‘He looks too young to’ve known you so very long, sir.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving, Mister Skellen. Captain Eli Makepeace. An evil bastard, make no mistake. And he’s not so young; he’s the same age as me, give or take a year. But he was born to money, lots of it.’

  ‘Hence the fancy attire.’

  ‘Indeed. And his fucking arrogance.’

  ‘A proper Cavalier, sir,’ said Skellen, hawking up a wad of phlegm and depositing it in a great globule at his feet.

  Stryker nodded. ‘Cavalier, rake, wastrel, the lot. A pamphleteer’s dream.’

  ‘No wonder you didn’t take to him, sir. Bit surprised you pulled a blade though, beggin’ your pardon.’

  Stryker sighed. ‘We had a disagreement, Makepeace and I, many years ago. I could have guessed he’d be back with the army, but I didn’t expect to see him on this day.’

  ‘With the utmost respect, sir,’ Skellen began, choosing his words carefully now, watching a familiar shadow pass across Stryker’s features. ‘But you’ve had quite a few disagreements over the years. It ain’t my place to say so, sir, but you’re not often bothered as to who it is you disagree with. Least of all brash little peacocks like that. With respect to the officer, like, sir.’

  ‘The disagreement in question,’ Stryker said, his expression still grim, ‘left me with this.’ He waved a dirty hand toward the mangled remnants of his face.

  Skellen’s stubble-darkened jaw dropped. ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ he whispered.

  Nightfall was icy. Most of the regiments had decamped within Banbury, hiding behind the walls of houses, barns and taverns to keep themselves warm. But, despite the low temperature the sky was beautifully clear, and many units, mostly the hardened veterans, were happy to pitch up beyond the town. As darkness drew in, the white awnings of tents glowed like angels or ghosts against the orange beacons of a hundred fires. From Banbury’s walls, it must have seemed as if the heavenly host had descended.

  Stryker paced across the field he’d chosen for the company’s temporary home. The frozen grass crunched rhythmically beneath his boots, and he tried to stop thinking of Eli Makepeace. He
marvelled at how that sneering peacock was still, after all these years, able to crawl beneath his skin. That face, framed by the red hair and golden earrings, still needled him. Still inspired feelings of murder.

  Meanwhile, he had his responsibilities. The situation was bleak. Two hastily recruited armies made up primarily of raw recruits had been forced out into weather that would freeze the balls off Satan himself, and made to stand firm in the face of musket fire and artillery. There was a smattering of professionals on either side, convinced, cajoled or bribed into whichever regiment they now found themselves, but they were too few to make a great deal of difference. No wonder, then, Stryker had to concede, that the two armies had staggered across the plain at Edgehill like a pair of drunken brawlers.

  What concerned him, as it must have concerned anyone else unfortunate to be present at the battle, was just how evenly matched the two sides were. Who could win in a fight that was evidently to the death?

  ‘It’s fuckin’ awful,’ sneered a squat fellow with goggle eyes and a bulbous nose. As if to seal his point, he spat into the fire, the spittle writhing and bubbling as it landed on a glowing log.

  ‘What is, Corporal?’ a voice asked behind him.

  The squat man scrambled to his feet and turned to confront the man who had spoken, his body snapping rigidly to attention. He fixed his gaze on the crown of the newcomer’s hat, careful not to meet the single eye that peered back at him. ‘B-beg pardon, sir. Just agreeing with Samuels, here,’ he stammered, indicating the man immediately to his right. Samuels, a skinny, feral-looking youth with a bandaged forearm, had also stood bolt upright. In fact all seven men huddled round the fire had followed suit.

  ‘Agreeing?’

  ‘Th-that yesterday was a bad show. For both sides, if truth be told, sir.’

  Stryker liked this pikeman and his rough ways, but to be a figure of respect for one’s men was important. ‘They’re not used to war here, Jimmy,’ he said, nodding towards the flames. ‘D’you mind?’