They reached the tree line. Forde had been bent forward, his spine curved, his head hanging like the bough of an ancient willow, but his hearing was clearly intact, for he straightened as the faintly Teutonic lilt of Rupert’s voice reached him through the crisp air. It was easy to see he had been badly beaten, for one eye was glued shut with crusted blood, while his lips were cracked and oozing. Despite his sorry state, the prisoner managed a grin. ‘Say your prayers,’ Forde rasped through broken teeth. ‘You have no hope. None. You are lost.’
Rupert sighed theatrically. ‘I doubt that, Thomas, really I do.’
Forde’s grin turned to a cackle that bordered on the hysterical. ‘There is a storm coming. It will wash you clean away.’
‘Fancy yourself Noah, do you?’ the prince mocked.
Forde’s good eye narrowed, flitting rapidly between Rupert and Stryker, but never settling. ‘I am nothing but a servant of God. Our ark is Parliament. We will sail clear of this tribulation while the king and his Cavaliers are purged by the Lord’s wrath.’
The prince nodded toward the assembled, and readied, musketeers. ‘Well, there’s only one place you’re sailing today, Forde.’
Captain Forde lowered his head. ‘If that is God’s will.’
Rupert stepped forward, suddenly riled. ‘It is my will, damn you!’
‘It will see you burn in Hell’s fires, Your Highness,’ Forde replied, as he lifted his chin again, grunting with the effort, to meet the young general’s stare.
Rupert shook his head. ‘Jesu, but you Puritans are tiresome. Stone me, but you are.’ He turned to the firing squad’s commander, a burly, coarse-whiskered sergeant in his forties. ‘Shoot the bugger.’
‘A storm brews, sir!’ Forde was shouting now, desperate to enrage the prince with his dying breath, as a dozen muskets were ranged upon him. ‘Mark me, it brews!’ He laughed, high-pitched and wild. Unsettling. ‘Our pieces are in place! At the very heart of your army. They move even now to undermine you!’
‘If you mean our dear friend Master Blake,’ Rupert spoke over the sergeant’s orders, ‘you might care to know that he rots in a cell even now.’ The prince turned away haughtily.
Forde’s laughter died away, but to Stryker’s surprise, his expression melted into a mask of calm. He smiled. ‘Blake?’
Forde shook his head as if attempting to rid it of bees. ‘He is nothing. You know nothing.’
The world exploded in flame and smoke. Captain Thomas Forde’s shattered body was lifted clean off its feet and sent crashing into the tree behind.
The silence that followed was shocking in its intensity.
As the thick cloud of gun smoke meandered into the dark sky, Rupert finally turned his back on the scene. ‘Such men frighten me you know, Captain.’
Stryker looked up at him. ‘They are zealots, sir. Nothing more.’
Rupert met his eye, concern tainting his handsome features. ‘But imagine, Stryker. Just imagine what men like Forde, men with such conviction, would be able to achieve with a truly charismatic leader.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but I’ll wager you cannot name a man like that in the rebel ranks.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘Not yet. But God help us all when they have him.’
CHAPTER 4
The man sat at the window, staring out at dark clouds pregnant with moisture. The road below was quiet, the creeping dusk having driven travellers from England’s highways for the night. ‘You tore my shirt,’ he said matter-of-factly, not looking round.
‘Do you really mind?’ a gently accented voice responded from the recesses of the room.
The man smiled, fingering his collar’s damaged fabric. ‘No. I like my sport rough.’ Lithe arms snaked around his neck and he lowered his nose to take in the intoxicating aroma of her skin. ‘You are wondrous, Melisande.’
‘I am French. We have more passion than you English.’
‘I cannot disagree, my love.’ He inhaled the scent of her skin again. ‘You bewitch me,’ he said with his out-breath. ‘I am yours.’ When a response did not come, the man twisted round to meet the girl’s pale blue gaze. ‘What is it?’
She freed her arms and paced further into the room. ‘I am afraid, John.’
Colonel John Kesley rose from the chair, slipping his legs into breeches hurriedly discarded during their lovemaking. Still barefoot, he padded over to her. ‘Why? Tell me.’
‘I want to be with you, you know that. But you say we cannot be together – properly I mean – until this war is over. How will you ever overcome the king’s forces, my love? How can you?’
Kesley reached out, placing comforting hands on his lover’s slender shoulders. She was dressed like a man, boots, breeches and shirt, yet she still sent a wave of longing through him. ‘How? We build an army,’ he said. ‘An irresistible fighting force. Professional and vast.’
‘But how?’ She punched his chest in frustration. ‘Do not mock me, John, I beg you. Please, tell me how there is to be such an army. I fear for my life. For yours. You told me the king’s cavalry are unbeatable. How can my lord Essex begin to challenge them?’
‘He can pray,’ Kesley said. It was his stock answer to a question she had asked half a dozen times.
This girl had beguiled him from the start with her skin like milk and cloud of golden hair. She had dazzled him with her delicate Gallic accent and gorgeous, sapphire eyes. As he watched her now, strutting away from him, he knew she was angry. He made a decision. ‘And he can purchase.’
His lover turned, her eyes raking across him. ‘Purchase?’ she repeated the word. Kesley smiled slightly. ‘Do you mock me still, John?’
Kesley held up a placating hand. ‘Hold, my love. Hold.’ She relented, and he stepped forward, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of honesty. ‘I do not mock you. I speak plain, upon my honour.’
‘How so?’
The colonel trod across the creaking boards to take a seat by the window. He gnawed on a fingernail. The Frenchwoman had followed him, hooked upon his words, and he took her by the wrists, urging her down on to his lap. ‘The enemy have wealth,’ Kesley began slowly. ‘They have gold and plate to sell, and with it they will swell their ranks. And yet they are bereft, for they lack the single most valuable object of all.’
‘Which is?’
Kesley thought for a moment, considering his words. ‘At the turning of the year, we saw that war approached. We put plans into action. One of those plans was to ensure that the king would not use his wealth to procure an army so powerful it would swallow us whole.’ He paused, staring out towards the dark outline of the distant hills.
‘Like that man in – where was it – Cambridge?’ Melisande said. ‘You told me of his daring capture of the university silver.’
Kesley nodded. ‘Aye, precisely like that. We must lay our hands on as much of the king’s riches as we can. But impressive as Captain Cromwell’s success at Cambridge was, it was a mere drop in the ocean.’
‘How do you mean, my love?’
Kesley stared at her, his eyes serious. ‘A loyal agent managed to relieve the queen of her most precious possession.’
His lover looked at him, askance. ‘The crown jewels?’
Kesley gave a bark of laughter. ‘No, dear. This is a jewel so rare, so precious, that every other gem is like clay by comparison.’
The girl fixed her eyes on the soldier’s handsome face, her jaw dropping slightly as she absorbed his words.
Kesley leaned back, satisfied with the effect of his revelation. ‘A gem. A ruby. I have not seen it myself, for it is kept locked in a strongbox, but they say ’tis large as a goose egg.’
She gazed at him, studying his expression for a sign of amusement. ‘I do not believe it. You still jest, John.’
‘On the contrary. The gem is real, hidden for centuries in the bowels of Whitehall, they say. Knowledge of its existence was entrusted to just a handful of each reigning monarch’s closest confidants.’ He grinned, wide and triumphant. ‘But,
in these times, who is to be trusted? One of those confidants is our man. Parliament’s man.’
His companion tried to speak, but a broad finger came to press against her lips. Kesley shook his head. ‘I am sorry, my sweet. Even I do not know his identity.’
‘And where is it kept, this ruby? Please tell me, John, I should love to know.’ He frowned at her and she kissed him hungrily on the lips. ‘You are so clever, my love. So clever and so strong.’
‘I . . . I cannot,’ Kesley said, licking his lips slowly. ‘I would love to, for you would know just how close we are to changing the course of this war, but I must remain silent.’
Lisette Gaillard did not press him. Her heart soared, nevertheless. She had found it.
‘So take heart,’ Kesley was saying. ‘And keep faith, for God has given us a great jewel. It is hard and cold and it gleams like the sun. And with it we will buy ourselves an army greater than King Charles could have imagined.’
Lisette leaned close. ‘And you shall defeat the king?’
Kesley nodded. ‘Oh yes, my love. As God is my witness. We shall defeat the king and, when the war is over, I will make you my bride.’ When Lisette smiled, he bent low to kiss her tenderly. ‘Now,’ he said, turning towards the remainder of his kit, that was piled in a heap at the foot of the bed, ‘I must beg your leave, Melisande. We have a consignment of muskets due tonight. Every single weapon aids our cause, does it not?’
Silence.
‘Does it not?’ he repeated, straightening up.
Lisette’s knife was at his throat before he could turn, pressed uncomfortably at the Adam’s apple, easing a bead of crimson from the skin.
‘Our cause?’ she said coldly. ‘I hate your cause, sir.’
Kesley swallowed hard, wincing as his throat moved beneath the blade, and the blood escaped down his neck and bloomed like rose petals in the white linen of his torn collar. ‘Forgive me, madam,’ he whispered, the confidence drained from his voice. ‘What is my offence?’
Lisette Gaillard’s mouth twisted in disgust. ‘The very sight of you offends me, sir.’
Kesley glanced down at the weapon, then at the arm that held it. She knew he was weighing up his chances of escape. But her knife was poised to kill. The grip was strong. The arm was steady.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a viper, and I will bite you,’ she said, her beautiful blue eyes narrowing.
‘I . . . I do not—’ Kesley stammered, panicking now, for he sensed no weakness. Only cruel triumph.
‘I am vengeance.’
The wind bit like a whip, ice-cold breath stinging Lisette’s eyes. She hunched lower, dipping her hooded head. It was barely light, but enough of the sun’s weak rays pushed past the heavy clouds for her to be sure that day was breaking and the roads would finally be clear of the bandits that infested the darkest hours. It was still not safe. A woman travelling alone across land crawling with soldiers could not feel at ease. But Lisette was strong, and she had her purpose.
As she reached the stables and coaxed out the horse she had saddled in the inky depths of the night before, Lisette considered the danger she was facing. It was worth the risk.
The road was clear and the horse swift. Lisette hunkered down close to the beast’s muscular neck, the acrid scent of sweat and hay that wafted from its chestnut mane making her think of the tavern again, and of that dark room where a man who prided himself on his virility had collapsed before her, bleating secrets in a vain attempt to save his throat being cut like a sheep’s. She thought of the blood that pulsed warm from John Kesley’s throat. She saw the life fade from his eyes. He was not the first man she had killed. The act was committed for her mistress and her God, and that was enough.
John Kesley had not died well, and that gave her no pleasure. However, she had needed the information more than she needed to salve her conscience. Lisette’s knife had moved and he had given her what she needed.
She had time to make good her escape before they found Kesley’s body. The hue and cry would come before long. Soldiers and common folk alike would be searching the countryside for her, but she would be further away than they could imagine. She was beyond their reach, moving ever southwards with spirits soaring as pounding hooves beat out their rhythm. She thanked the Lord for her good fortune. She would succeed. She had no choice.
Stryker sat in the small tent as a choir of blackbirds heralded the breaking dawn outside. Carefully he inspected the nicks and chips that plagued the cutting edge of his sword, thumbing each one in turn, ruefully considering the battering Edgehill had given this perfect blade.
‘Good God, man, I’ve never even furnished a woman with so much attention! Well, there was that Frenchy. What was her name, Stryker? Botheration! What was it? Françoise perhaps?’
Stryker looked up from his ministrations to see a beaming round red face through an opening in the tent flap. ‘Claudette. As you know damned well, Forry. You were in love that time.’
The grin flattened out slightly. ‘Ah, yes, Claudette. Porcelain skin, raven locks, and the most inviting pair of—’
‘Forry,’ Stryker interrupted. ‘I’m sorry to tear you from such pleasant thoughts, but we have urgent business. You received my message?’
‘Of course. And here I am.’ In a blinding stream of morning light, Captain Lancelot Forrester, formerly of the London Trained Bands, lately aide-de-camp to General Gerrard, thrust back the awning and ducked into the cramped interior. He was a rotund fellow in his middle thirties, with thinning sandy hair and a ruddy complexion.
‘I am forever in your debt, Forry.’ Stryker said, consigning his sword back to its scabbard and thrusting booted legs out in front of him, the small stool on which he perched creaking its discontent.
Forrester was short and could stand upright in the tent. He rubbed his back exaggeratedly, wincing as he did so. ‘Ah, my poor spine. Hasn’t given me this sort of trouble since I trod the boards at the Bear Tavern in Southwick. Remember, Stryker? The course of true love never did run smooth!’
‘I remember it,’ said Stryker, bracing himself. He was relieved that for once Forrester spared him a Shakespeare recital.
‘Anyway, the battle gave my back a royal battering, and no mistake.’
Stryker’s eyebrows rose. ‘The battle? Did a lot of fighting, did you?’
‘Oh come now, Stryker, my role was crucial. Crucial!’
‘Your role as Gerrard’s lapdog?’
Forrester’s brow clouded. ‘We aides perform a valuable service, as you bloody well know. You plodders wouldn’t stand a chance if we weren’t relaying orders. Jesu, Stryker—’
‘A joke, Forry.’ Stryker raised placating hands as he grinned mischievously. ‘Just a joke. Here,’ he said, indicating another wooden stool, ‘have a seat.’
Forrester needed no further encouragement and dropped down on to the stool with an exaggerated sigh. ‘So what’s the rub?’ he said brightly, once he had settled himself into a comfortable slouch.
‘I have been ordered south, to Hampshire, in order to arrest a spy. You’re coming with me.’
Forrester’s eyes widened as he leant forward. ‘I am?’
‘Yes.’
Forrester frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I asked for you.’
‘You asked for me?’ Forrester looked like an incredulous cherub. ‘Damn it all, Stryker, but I have my duties with Gerrard now. You cannot simply thrust a sword in my hand and assume I’ll follow you out of some misguided loyalty.’
Stryker smiled slightly. ‘You used to.’
‘Before I grew up, yes. I’m too old for charging over hill and dale on a mission. Moreover, Gerrard won’t allow it. And Mowbray would have a thing or two to say about one of his captains up and leaving the field army.’
Stryker shook his head. ‘This is Prince Rupert’s mission. A mission sanctioned, I might add, by Ruthven. Mowbray had no choice in the matter.’ He caught Forrester’s eye. ‘Nor does Gerrard.’
Forres
ter looked at him askance. ‘You’ve already asked?’
‘An hour ago. I cannot force you, Forry. I wouldn’t. But the prince has granted my request to hand-pick my team. I’d like you with me.’
Forrester stared at his boots. ‘I am not so . . . agile . . . as I once was, Stryker. You need speed, stealth. I have neither.’
Stryker grinned. ‘You’re certainly not the proposition you were a few years back.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I’d wager you can still handle a sword.’
‘Yes, well, I know one end from the other,’ Forrester said, the colour rising in his cheeks.
‘And you have other qualities. Remember Father Johan? We would never have escaped that German patrol after Wittstock without him.’
Forrester smiled at the memory. ‘Played the good father well, didn’t I? My role as Friar Laurence at the Golden Goose stood me in good stead for the part.’
‘That’s what I need, Forry. I need brawn, but I need wits too.’
‘The prince trusts you. But why would he trust me?’ Forrester asked.
Stryker grinned ferociously. ‘Because he knows I’ll kill you if you betray me.’
‘Good grief, Stryker, but you are an animal,’ Forrester exclaimed. ‘And who else will be gracing us with their presence on this foolhardy escapade? I presume that brute of a sergeant will be coming.’
‘That brute of a sergeant, yes,’ Stryker said. Skellen would rather like the description. ‘And Ensign Burton.’
Forrester was taken aback. ‘You think that callow youth will pull his weight?’
‘He is green, of course,’ Stryker admitted, ‘but so were you and I once. And he did damned well at Kineton Fight.’
‘So be it,’ Forrester relented. ‘When are we buggering off?’
Banbury stood at the junction of two ancient roads. To the west and south of the town was Salt Way, taking travellers from Droitwich in Worcestershire down to London and the southeast, while Banbury Lane began near Northampton before running through Banbury’s High Street and on towards the Fosse Way at Stow-on-the-Wold. It was the latter road that Stryker’s party took.
Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) Page 6
