Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  The first homes were erected on the far side of the hedge. As they entered the clearing the horsemen were tense and watchful. They could not prime matchlock muskets in the saddle, but their carbines were cocked, and swords were scraped in and out of scabbards in an effort to ensure they would not become stuck at a crucial moment.

  With weapons trained on various points within the village, Stryker urged Vos into a trot and advanced beyond the first homes on to a small sliver of mud at the centre of the buildings, which he took to be the village green. No one came to greet him, and no shots rang out to fell him. He wrenched his body left and right, acutely aware of his blind left side, scanning doorways, pigsties and frozen water troughs for hostile activity. He felt a trickle of nervousness as he moved, the squelching of hooves unnaturally loud in the silence. He was confident of the men that covered his progress. Confident that an enemy would be put down in short order. But all it took was a single ball and Stryker’s world would be over. At length a creaking sound broke the eerie still of the green. It was the complaint of rusty hinges.

  Stryker wheeled Vos round, levelling his carbine in one smooth motion, ready to put a ball through any potential ambusher. The index finger of his right hand curled about the trigger. Most men closed their left eye when they took aim, but Stryker’s lone right eye simply gazed down the short barrel like it was casually watching a bird take flight. And in front of that barrel, through the open doorway, came a man.

  He was a tall fellow, dressed in plain brown breeches and a linen shirt. His neat beard and thinning hair were an iron grey. He approached Stryker slowly, hands raised in peace, though his bearing was one of authority.

  Stryker saw the man was unarmed, and slowly lowered his weapon. ‘Who are you?’ he called.

  The man, about ten paces away now, attempted a friendly smile, though his tension was evident. ‘Thomas Archer,’ he said. ‘I am elder in this village.’

  ‘Captain Stryker, Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot, His Majesty’s army.’

  ‘God be praised,’ said the elder.

  It was barely a body. The limbs were twisted and the clothes were all gone. It was not a great deal more than a mound of decomposing flesh, abandoned in the sodden scrub at the road’s edge.

  ‘A man, that was.’ Sergeant Malachi Bain had inspected the corpse with professional disinterestedness. ‘Took a ball in his chest.’

  Makepeace was standing with the horses some ten paces away, nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘And they stripped him?’

  Bain nodded. ‘V-very thorough job.’ He glanced up. ‘Bandits, probably.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Every man, woman and child we have passed has skulked away from us like we had the plague.’ He jerked his chin toward the cadaver. ‘That is why. This poor bugger might have been robbed by bandits, certainly, but he might equally have been attacked by troops.’

  Eli Makepeace had been a soldier for a long time, and he could feel the fear on the roads, in the fields, and in the towns. Folk did not know friend from foe. They could not trust their own kin.

  ‘Oh, Lord God, I beseech you. Forgive us. We, your unworthy subjects, sinners to a man, have betrayed you most heinously. We quarrel among ourselves. We lose sight of your true teachings. England has turned upon herself. She will tumble into the depths of hell. Do not let this happen, Lord God. Protect us from ourselves. Give our king the valour and fortitude to lead us—’

  Father Benjamin Laney, kneeling before the altar of St Peter’s church, was startled from his prayers by the echoing creak of the monstrous wooden door. The priest turned his head of scanty red hair and squinted towards the featureless silhouette that stood like a carved statue in the elaborate nave. Gargoyles, saints and sinners writhed on cold walls as the candlelight, worried by the sudden rush of night air, breathed life into their carved expressions.

  As the priest struggled to his feet in order to gain a better view of the newcomer, the great door swung shut, putting him in mind of the stone that protected Christ’s tomb. A chill traced its way along Benjamin’s spine, and it took every ounce of his faith not to turn and run.

  The hooded figure moved. It paced forward along the nave with purpose, and Benjamin prayed again.

  When the figure was no more than an arm’s length away it stopped, and Father Benjamin frowned, for his nostrils were filled with a raw stench. The creature may have been a denizen of the netherworld, but its odour was decidedly earthly. It stank of leather, sweat and horse flesh.

  ‘Good evening, Father.’

  Father Benjamin’s jaw dropped in surprise. The voice was a woman’s.

  ‘You startled me,’ the father chided while they made their way to the back of the church.

  ‘My apologies, Father.’ Lisette said.

  ‘No matter. I am glad to see you again, my child. I never tire of hearing your beautiful accent.’

  ‘I have news.’

  He glanced at her sharply. ‘The queen?’

  Lisette shook her head. ‘The queen is well, Father. Raising funds abroad. She sends her regards.’

  ‘God be praised,’ the priest said. ‘It is many a year since I followed an assignment for Her Majesty, but I am flattered she might think of me.’ He studied Lisette’s face. ‘And yet here you are. The queen’s favourite agent, and my old comrade. I imagine you have not made the journey to Petersfield in order to recant your Catholicism?’

  Lisette smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Something very important was stolen from the queen.

  Snatched by a traitor in the royal household. A strongbox. I was sent to England to recover it.’

  When they reached the priest’s private chambers at the far end of the church, Lisette described her final conversation with Kesley, omitting only the bloody ending. ‘Old Winchester Hill. Where is it, Father?’

  Father Benjamin wrinkled his nose as he considered the question. ‘It’s an old fortress. Very old. West of here.’ The priest frowned. ‘You sought this colonel . . . Kesley out?’

  She nodded. ‘Aye. Colonel John Kesley. He did not know what was in the box, only that its value to Parliament was mighty. His part in the theft was to find an appropriate place for the strongbox to be held while a buyer was found. I made him . . . he told me the cities were too dangerous to hold such a valuable item, and that the rebel high command had wanted it moved south, near Portsmouth, so that it could quickly be transferred to a ship and carried overseas.’

  Benjamin shuddered. ‘Please do not burden my conscience with the detail of your work. Against all probability, I will tell myself he spoke without duress.’

  ‘As you wish, Father.’ She regarded him with an expression of flint.

  ‘The location he gave you was Old Winchester Hill.’

  ‘Aye, buried there. At its summit.’

  ‘And Kesley told you it lay in the downland near Petersfield,’ the priest completed the thought. ‘Yet you come to me, why?’

  ‘You are the nearest of the queen’s agents. And I know you are as committed to the Royalist cause as I am, even if you are a heretic.’

  Father Benjamin held up a firm hand. ‘Please, mademoiselle Lisette. Let us not debate theology tonight. We work for the same king.’

  Lisette’s upper lip wrinkled. ‘No. I work for his queen. Henrietta Maria.’

  Benjamin sighed. ‘No matter. I will help you, Lisette, but not if I am to be blind. Tell me what bounty the strongbox holds.’

  The Frenchwoman narrowed her eyes. ‘I will tell you. But if you betray me, Father, I will slice off your balls and feed them to my horse.’

  Benjamin swallowed hard. ‘I do not doubt it.’

  ‘It is a ruby. A wondrous thing the queen will sell to one of the great monarchs of Europe. She will buy an army for the king with it.’

  Benjamin pursed his lips. ‘What gem, no matter how wondrous, can be worth the price of an army?’

  ‘I know not, nor do I care to ask questions,’ Lisette replied. ‘I have my order
s, and I will fulfil them or die in the attempt.’

  Benjamin turned away suddenly. ‘Wait here a moment.’

  Lisette thought of the strongbox as she watched Father Benjamin disappear into the antechamber at the rear of the small room. It did not contain only a ruby. The queen had spoken of other trinkets. A brooch, a small posy ring and an old letter were all kept within the locked walls of the box. None carried any particular monetary value, but they were all of sentimental worth to Henrietta. It seemed to Lisette that the queen wanted them back as much as she wanted the gem. It did not matter. She was charged with the box’s safe return, and that was enough.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Father Benjamin was saying as he emerged from the antechamber clutching a tightly bound scroll. ‘The queen would not have sent you alone.’

  ‘Dead,’ Lisette replied.

  Father Benjamin’s copper eyes widened. He swallowed hard and scratched at the wisps of hair covering his shining pate. ‘You were discovered?’

  ‘Be at ease, Father,’ Lisette said, noticing his fingers tremble a touch. ‘There was a brawl in a tavern overlooking the Thames. Before we could intervene, Jerome had been knifed in the guts.’

  Lisette told the priest how she and her other companion, Cedric, had hauled the injured man to see the nearest chirurgeon. While there, as the sawbones had poked and prodded at the writhing Jerome’s innards, they were approached by a soldier of the Westminster Trained Bands. He claimed to recognize the injured party; said he looked like one of the men who had guarded Whitehall Palace. One of the king’s men.

  ‘Jerome was skewered where he lay by that fucking militia bastard,’ Lisette said simply.

  Benjamin’s mouth opened in horror, revealing small, yellowing teeth and long gums. ‘And Cedric?’ he managed to whisper. ‘I worked with him myself when I was sent to spy on Buckingham. He was a good man, Lisette.’

  She nodded. ‘Aye. But being good does not keep you alive, Father. Cedric drew his blade in retaliation. Cut the Trained Band whoreson almost in two. But half a dozen of the soldier’s friends appeared. Cedric did not stand a chance.’

  ‘You escaped?’

  ‘No. Not really. They simply let me be.’ She shook her head at the memory.

  Benjamin understood. ‘They did not take you for one of Cedric’s companions.’

  ‘Praise God. I played the bystander. The frightened woman. The bastards believed me.’

  And then she was alone. It might have been easier to have taken ship back to her mistress in one piece, but Lisette Gaillard loved her queen, and would not give up without a fight.

  ‘I am sorry, my child,’ Benjamin said.

  Lisette noticed the scroll Father Benjamin had retrieved from his antechamber. ‘What’s that?’

  She followed Father Benjamin to a small table at the room’s centre, where the clergyman laid out the musty parchment. It was dark outside, and Lisette now noticed a flurry of snow shimmering in the moonlight as it fell, but the room’s guttering candles proved equal to the task of illuminating the varying shades of the map that she now studied.

  ‘My fair county, Lisette,’ Benjamin said, casting his bespectacled gaze across the intricate lines and minute text that detailed the geography of Hampshire. ‘We are here.’ He jabbed a brittle-looking finger at the word Petersfield, scrawled in an almost illegible hand. Moving the finger down and to the left, he rested it at an unmarked point near the map’s centre. ‘And here is Old Winchester Hill. Perhaps ten miles to the south and west of here.’

  Benjamin straightened up. ‘But it is not a fort as you imagine, Lisette. It has ramparts, of course, but they are dug into the chalk hillside. The legacy of an ancient city.’ He met Lisette’s gaze levelly. ‘You will travel there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The road is treacherous, my child. Especially during this blizzard. Wait until dawn, I urge you.’

  Lisette considered his plea. ‘Aye, I will. If I may rest here.’

  ‘You need not ask.’

  Father Benjamin rolled the parchment into a scroll once more and fastened it with a string tie. He held it out to Lisette. ‘You will need this. The hill is up in the high downland. Not easy to find for someone unused to the area.’

  Lisette stared back. ‘That is why you are coming with me, Father.’

  Stryker’s eyes flickered open. He lay motionless for a moment, listening intently to the thunder that was shaking the new dawn.

  It had rained during the night, and the men had been more than grateful for the room they now shared. Little more than a shed, leaning precariously against the gable-end of Archer’s house, it was cramped and dirty, but a godsend compared with a night under the winter stars. Stryker turned to his side and saw that William Skellen was also awake, staring at the ceiling’s damp timbers.

  ‘Hear that, sir?’ Skellen said. ‘Strange. Sky was clear when I went out for a piss an hour ago.’

  Stryker listened, more keenly this time. ‘Shit.’ He sat bolt upright, startling the others awake as he did so. For outside the world was shaking again – but this time with the rumble of hooves.

  Burton was nearest the rickety door, and despite having just awoken from deep sleep, he was alert enough to scramble out into the grey light. He scanned the horizon with squinting eyes while the others got to their feet. ‘Cavalry!’ he called. ‘They’re on the hill to the north. Coming down at a rate.’

  ‘Are they ours, sir?’ barked Skellen.

  ‘Can’t tell, Sergeant. But I doubt it. Don’t recognize the colour.’

  ‘How many?’ said Forrester, a sheen already adorning his red face.

  ‘A score at least.’

  As Burton spoke, another man raced from the house’s main entrance to join them. It was Archer. ‘I am sorry!’ he cried, lungs gasping with his exertion, and with fear. ‘Please believe me, Captain.’

  ‘A trustworthy man?’ Stryker spat as he and his companions hurriedly collected up their weapons. ‘He was supposed to warn us, goddamn it!’

  Archer was in a cold sweat, clearly fearing Stryker’s wrath as much as the approaching cavalry. ‘I beg forgiveness, sir. Marcus is trustworthy, upon my honour. He must have fallen asleep.’

  Stryker fought to gain control of his temper. He had given the young farm-hand a shilling – more than a day’s pay for one of his pikemen – and expected to be woken as soon as soldiers were spotted.

  ‘I am mortified, sir, truly,’ Archer was saying.

  Stryker did not have time to discuss the situation. He shouldered Archer aside, making for the rear of the lean-to where the horses were tethered.

  ‘Jesu!’ he exclaimed, as he reached Vos, remembering in a flash of annoyance that the beast was not saddled.

  Forrester turned to him. ‘They’ll be here before we tack up.’

  Stryker nodded and glanced at the others. ‘We have no choice. Put the horses in there,’ he ordered, indicating the lean-to.

  ‘There’s no room,’ Forrester argued. ‘They’ll kick each other to pieces!’

  Stryker rounded on him, ‘You have a better idea?’

  Forrester did not.

  Stryker led Vos to the shed’s door, patting the stallion’s neck as the muscular beast obediently disappeared into the gloom. The others followed suit, though it was indeed a tight squeeze.

  ‘What now, sir?’ Burton asked anxiously. ‘We’re trapped.’

  ‘Have faith, Andrew,’ Stryker replied, and turned to Thomas Archer. ‘Time for you to make amends, Mister Archer.’

  CHAPTER 6

  The troop cantered into the centre of the village; they were led by an officer mounted on a large bay. The men wore thick yellow hide coats extending over the thigh, and pristine back and breast armour that shimmered like pearls in the dawn; each wore a steel helmet with three vertical face protectors attached to a hinged peak. Heavy single-edged swords swung at their sides, slapping against leather boots.

  Beside the leading officer rode the cornet. He bore the blue
and white standard high on its pole, yet it hung limp in the still air. Stryker, watching from one of the upper windows of Archer’s home, did not recognize the symbols that marked the flag’s owner, but he knew who they fought for well enough. ‘Bollocks,’ he whispered.

  ‘Whose bollocks?’ a familiar voice hissed beside him.

  Stryker’s hand instinctively went to his belt, grasping the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. ‘Jesu, Forry,’ he said. ‘I could have filleted you.’

  Forrester displayed a mischievous grin. ‘That’s why I came to your right, old man. Didn’t want to blind-side you, if you’ll excuse the phrase. So, what are we facing?’

  Stryker shook his head in exasperation, turning his attention back to the unwelcome cavalry. ‘I don’t know exactly, but they’re not ours.’

  ‘Do we take them?’ Burton’s voice came from somewhere to the rear. Stryker twisted round to see that Skellen had joined them as well. The order for them to stay in the back-rooms of the house had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘Take them?’ Stryker stared. ‘You’ll make a fine officer, Andrew, but only if you learn when to display caution. They’re harquebusiers. They’re well trained. They ride well. They’re superbly equipped. They’re confident. No, we don’t take them. We’d each get a shot off, and the remaining sixteen of them would ride us down like rabbits.’

  ‘That’s if they let us out,’ Skellen added. ‘They’d probably fire the house to save ’emselves the trouble.’

  ‘Still,’ Forrester said chirpily, offering a hand for Burton to shake. ‘Admire your bravado, Ensign. Said like a young Captain Stryker.’

  The cavalry halted on the village green. The tired steeds were clearly in need of rest and they walked listlessly about, foraging for the remnants of grass, their bloodied flanks heaving in unison.

  The harquebusier captain remained in his saddle and surveyed the immediate area warily.

  Thomas Archer, the tall village elder, appeared from his doorway, and the soldiers bristled in their saddles. Some reached to unsheathe lethal weapons that rested against the horses’ muscular flanks. Archer raised submissive palms, as he had upon greeting Stryker. He called to the cavalrymen, though Stryker could not hear his words.