Skellen snorted. ‘Poor bastards just want to get out, sir.’
A light touch at Stryker’s elbow captured his attention. It was Lancelot Forrester. ‘I know we were only to recapture the horses, old man, but this bloody mess certainly wasn’t meant to be in the play. Surely we could write our own third act now, wouldn’t you say?’
It had become a rout. In a matter of minutes the grand, brave, reckless column of Royalist cavalry had been shattered by the Parliamentarian ambush like a rotten apple struck by a mallet. When Tainton’s modest band of riders had emerged from their various positions to close with the enemy, it had seemed as though an entire regiment was falling upon the ill-fated Cavaliers. At least a dozen Royalists lay dead, hacked down by merciless steel, while the rest had scattered. Some rallied in small groups, valiantly attempting to stand their ground, while others made straight for the track from where they had come. That track, however, had immediately become a dangerous bottleneck, and those that tried to force their mounts through, rather than take their chances in the treacherous forest, received a savage beating.
The harquebusiers of Sir Edward Tainton’s Regiment of Horse were exultant as they stabbed at those Royalists unfortunate enough to be at the rear of the fleeing troop. A young man, no more than 16, snatched off his helmet in order to increase his field of vision, desperately seeking an alternative escape route. He did not notice the blade scything diagonally from behind. He lurched forward under a searing blow to the back of his head. The pale blade crashed through hair, skin and bone, cleaving the crown clean off. A middle-aged comrade fought valiantly at his side, working his blade furiously as the mount wheeled and skittered beneath him, but there were too many blows to parry. He raised his weapon high, blocking a downward swing from his left, only to crumple forwards in a rush of agony as a low blade came at him from his exposed right, punching through armour and intestines with evil power.
Captain Roger Tainton remained in the centre of the clearing. He had removed his helmet, revealing blond locks now matted with sweat, and stood in his stirrups to direct proceedings as if he was conducting the royal musicians at Whitehall. The black enamelled armour gleamed in the autumn light as he surveyed the tiny battlefield. He had lost just two men in the skirmish.
As he shouted orders to his rampant troopers, pointing out quarry with a dripping sword, a strange crack, thud and cry somewhere to his rear made him twist his shoulders just in time to see the young cornet hit the frozen ground in a sickening crash. Before he could react, another shot rang out from the direction of the village and whistled past his head.
‘Alarm! Alarm! Have a care!’ he cried, realizing the danger his men were in as they manoeuvred their mounts across the exposed open ground. ‘Take cover!’ He replaced his helmet and slewed his horse around, kicking it into a gallop and making for the protection of the nearest copse.
More shots. Another man was plucked from his horse with a heavy sigh as the air was punched from his chest. Tainton bent low over his horse’s mane as he followed his men into the trees. He drew up as soon as he was certain to be out of musket range. ‘Where are they?’ he growled, squinting across the open ground to the nearest buildings. ‘Where the bloody hell are they, eh? By God, I’ll cut these curs to pieces.’ There was nothing to be seen but the occasional spark of musketry. No uniforms. No insignia. And certainly no faces. ‘Move out, Murray. Draw ’em out, damn it.’
The nearest trooper nodded and nervously urged his mount out from the tree line. He had travelled no more than a few yards before a thick bough to his left splintered under the impact of a lead ball. It was clearly the limit of the shooter’s range, for the damage was minimal as the ball bounced weakly to the ground, but the warning shot served its purpose. The trooper lost his nerve, backing away to regain cover.
‘The bastards shoot well,’ Tainton conceded. He scanned the buildings again. ‘But there ain’t many of ’em. Caught us on the hop, didn’t they? A full company would’ve flayed us alive.’
Behind Tainton, a trooper reined in, sending gobbets of mud and leaves in all directions. ‘Enemy have gone, sir,’ the man reported breathlessly. ‘High-tailed it west.’
Tainton shrugged. ‘No matter. We’ll track ’em down. The game has changed somewhat.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Lieutenant. Take half the men round to the right. Sweep beyond the village and come at them from the rear.’
‘Sir.’
‘No more than a handful’s my guess, so we’ll keep ’em sniping at us. You kill them all.’
‘Yes sir.’
The lieutenant nodded gravely and swung his horse round, kicking it into a gallop. The nearest seven troopers followed in a blur of hoofbeats and mud.
‘Rest of you,’ Tainton ordered to the seven that remained at his side, ‘take up your pistols. Give ’em fire. Let’s keep those dogs facing this way, eh?’
At once the men rushed to obey. They dismounted, taking position behind the thickest trunks of the tree line. Each man had a brace of pistols wedged into holsters on either side in front of his saddle. They were shorter than the carbine, less accurate still, and fired smaller bullets, but would still provide ample cover for the lieutenant’s attack. They knew that they were unlikely to hit a barn door at this range, but it was worth the effort for the distraction it would cause.
Tainton, on foot himself now, loaded his own pieces, pouring the powder down the thin muzzle with deliberate care. He edged up to an ancient tree, made stout by age, and peered out from behind its thick trunk. Another flash burst out from the side of the nearest building, sending a ball into the withering autumnal canopy above his head. The ground between the tree line and the enemy was littered with bodies. Mostly Royalist cavalrymen, admittedly, but now an extra pair of dead lay where they had fallen, musket-balls lodged deep within them. Joshua Blundell, the young cornet, lay in a twisted heap, his face a grotesque mask.
‘Fucking peasants,’ Tainton said to no one in particular. He’d torch this village when he had dealt with it. ‘Make ready! Fire!’
‘Counted no more ’an twenty shots, sir,’ Skellen said, as he hurriedly reloaded the smoking long-arm.
Stryker nodded. Swinging open the musket’s priming pan, he snatched a charge from his cartridge bag. He had a dozen wooden bandolier flasks hanging from his cross-belt, each holding enough black powder to fire off a shot, but it was a slow loading option and he preferred to leave them in reserve. He tore open the cartridge with his teeth, the ball dropping beneath his tongue, and poured some of its contents into the priming pan, filling it to the brim. With a deft flick of his right thumb, he snapped the pan shut and blew hard on the mechanism to clear any gunpowder residue. ‘I counted eighteen,’ he said. Up-ending the musket, Stryker tipped the cartridge so that the rest of its contents plummeted into the muzzle. Pursing his lips over the entrance to the barrel, he spat, and the small black ball tumbled from between his teeth and down to land on the bed of powder at the bottom of the dark shaft. The spent cartridge paper was promptly screwed into a ball and shoved unceremoniously into the barrel to provide wadding so that the powder and ball would not fall out. He unhooked his scouring stick from the underside of the gun and jammed it down the long shaft to flatten the wadding down. ‘Which means, Ensign Burton?’ he said, reconnecting the stick and wedging his slowly burning match into the teeth of the poised serpent.
‘Which means,’ Burton replied, as he prepared his own firearms, loading musket and carbine in succession, ‘and assuming they have two pistols each, that wasn’t their full quota. They’ve probably sent the rest to outflank us.’
‘Good, Mister Burton. You’re a quick study.’ Stryker had held the match between the index and middle fingers of his left hand, careful that its smouldering end did not come into contact with cartridge or priming pan during the loading routine. Now he pushed the cord into the metallic serpent’s jaws and blew on its glowing tip. ‘So we’ll expect company from the rear.’
‘William!’ Forrester barked. �
�Get over there and cover our arses. You too, Ensign.’ Forrester had indicated the buildings on the far side of the village green, and the men sprinted across the ground to take up positions facing the northern approaches to the village. ‘Will two serve, do you think?’
‘Two’ll have to do, Forry,’ Stryker nodded. ‘You and I need to keep pointing at that bastard. Just make certain you have both guns to hand. Let’s at least give them as much fire as we can muster.’ He hefted his musket to a well-muscled shoulder and blew on the match’s orange tip. It glowed just a few inches from his face, willing him to unleash its fury. He flicked open the pan and aligned the musket with the trees where a black-clad horseman waited. ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘If you dare.’
Captain Roger Tainton’s mount fidgeted beneath him, willing him to kick it into a charge, but he knew better than that. He would love to rush this meagre band, cut them down like dogs, but they would get a volley off before the charge hammered home, and he would be damned if he’d risk getting killed for a gaggle of disaffected peasantry. No – he’d wait for the lieutenant to draw the enemy fire.
His horse skittered back as another musket cracked. ‘Steady,’ he said soothingly, patting the animal’s broad neck, but immediately he knew something was amiss, for there was no splinter of bark at the tree line. He glanced at the nearest trooper. ‘Was that shot at us?’
‘No, sir,’ was the reply he both feared and expected.
‘Well, I dare say you’ll see these turds move away in a moment. I am sure our men will do their duty.’ But Tainton was not sure, for the occasional flash of tawny coat or the brim of a hat behind the walls opposite betrayed the continued presence of the enemy.
The cavalry troop waited beyond the trees for several minutes before clattering hooves signalled the return of two Roundheads. Their swords were still drawn, but not bloodied. The mounts’ nostrils flared wildly, while their flanks were crisscrossed by rivulets of sweat.
Tainton’s hand went to the pommel of his sword, his knuckles white. ‘Where,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘is the lieutenant?’
‘Gone, sir,’ was the breathless reply.
‘Gone?’ Tainton shouted. ‘You mean killed?’
The trooper nodded meekly. ‘Shot ’im straight off his saddle, sir.’
‘God damn their eyes!’ Tainton exploded. ‘God damn them! How many are there, man? How many? What weaponry do they possess?’ He gave a bark of rueful laughter. ‘Who employs them? We don’t even know who they are, for Christ’s sake!’
The trooper shrugged. ‘Well, they’re not ours, sir.’
Tainton steeled himself, lest he strike his subordinate. ‘Clearly. But are they regimentals? Are they bloody poachers? Are they bandits?’
No one answered.
‘Well done, lads,’ Stryker said as his two men returned unscathed.
‘Sent ’em packing, eh?’ Forrester grinned. ‘My particular congratulations to you, Mister Burton. You’re certainly proving your mettle.’
‘Indeed,’ Stryker continued. ‘What happened, Ensign?’
Burton shrugged. ‘There were eight of them, sir. We sent a shot each before they reached the village. Only hit one, I’m afraid to say, but he was the leader. The rest turned tail as soon as he went down.’
‘Good work, Ensign,’ Stryker said, gracing the proud young man with his scar-twisted grin. ‘Always take out the man in charge.’ He turned to Sergeant Skellen. ‘Well done, Will.’
The fight had not gone the way Stryker had intended. He had planned to wait until the two cavalry troops were locked in mortal trial, each concentrating solely on the other, while he and his men quietly ambushed the men guarding their stolen horses. But events had overtaken them. The Royalists had been smashed so quickly that there had been no pitched battle, simply mad, blood-soaked carnage and a shockingly swift victory for Tainton. Stryker had elected to intervene. To help his fellow Royalists and perhaps force Tainton to abandon the captured mounts, but the blond-haired captain was not so easily spooked, and all Stryker had done was push them further away from his grasp.
He drew air into his lungs and bellowed, ‘Leave the horses and we’ll hold our fire!’
Tainton could not believe he had failed to make the connection. The horses. Warhorses! As the memory of those animals – large, well groomed and muscular – resonated in his mind, he came to a startling realization. These were no peasants. They were soldiers.
He turned to the nearest officer. ‘They’re after their bloody horses. That’s what this is about.’
The officer glanced along the tree line to where the captured animals were corralled amid the cavalry mounts. ‘But there are only four of them, sir.’
Tainton nodded. ‘Impressive, eh? There may well be four, but perhaps there are more. The way they’ve conducted their fire gives us no clue. Can you tell me how many muskets we face?’
‘No sir.’
‘Precisely. And I have no muskets of my own.’ He had the pistols and carbines that had done for the unsuspecting Royalist force, but this new, deadly opponent would scornfully ignore what little threat they posed. Tainton had horses, but they would be easily wounded or killed by the hidden snipers. He had the best plate armour money could buy, but a well-placed shot could find even the smallest chink. So he had a hard decision to make; should he charge the village and destroy the enemy, but suffer a number of certain losses, or ride into the hills? He could hardly bear to contemplate the latter option.
‘Make for the bridleway,’ he said after a time. ‘Do not move into the clearing. They’ll put a ball through you before you can blink. Just follow the line of the trees until you reach the bridleway and continue up the hill. We’ll track the remnants of that Cavalier troop. Finish them off.’
Roger Tainton had made his decision. Routing a full troop of Cavaliers was one thing, but an unnecessary skirmish against what was probably no more than a handful of men would be viewed with utter disdain at Westminster.
As the men of Sir Edward Tainton’s Regiment of Horse cantered from the forest and out on to the bridleway their commander stole one last glance down towards the village.
‘What of our dead, sir?’ ventured the man cantering to his left.
‘Leave them,’ Tainton said flatly.
CHAPTER 7
As night drew close, Stryker and his men set about burying the dead. A deep pit was carved from the open land beyond the community and the men spent a few awkward minutes staring down at the freshly back-filled tomb. It had been hard work, scraping at the frozen earth with brittle spades and numb fingers, and the men sweated as they bowed their heads in respect.
The parish chaplain had died of a late-summer ague a few weeks previously, and the assembly looked to the most senior officer to lead proceedings. Stryker had never been comfortable with spiritual matters, especially given the number of people he had sent to meet their Maker. However, after several pairs of eyes had swivelled up to stare at him expectantly, he reluctantly cleared his throat. ‘God have mercy on their souls,’ he murmured briefly. It was all he could think to say.
‘Omnia mors aequat, eh what?’ murmured Forrester.
‘Sorry, Captain?’ Skellen replied.
‘Death. I said it’s the great leveller. They hated one another, these fellows. Killed one another, or tried to. And now they’re dead and gone and will lie side by side in this pit for eternity. We’ll probably be joining them one fine day soon.’
Stryker shook his head. ‘Enough. We have work to do.’ He turned his back on the dark swell of soil and stalked back to the village.
The evening was spent making preparations for the march. And a march it would be, after the theft of their steeds. Weapons were sharpened, muskets cleaned and snapsacks crammed with provisions. Stryker had spent some time discussing Tainton’s surprise arrival with Marcus Gammy, the farm-hand who had dozed on watch. The young man was now up on the high ground, keeping a keen gaze on the southern hills, having been given a black eye and the
chance to truly earn his shilling.
Stryker fully expected to see a troop of avenging Parliamentarian horsemen explode from the night’s depths, but the darkness remained still and peaceful. The men slept.
Stryker roused his company to action long before the first dawn rays appeared on the eastern horizon. Thomas Archer, the village elder, had scorned Stryker’s insistence that the villagers should abandon the settlement. Tainton would not have been pleased to be forced to gallop into the hills by a band of faceless men with stout hearts and a good aim. He had been humbled. ‘He’ll be angry,’ Stryker had said. ‘He’ll take his troop south and annihilate what’s left of that hapless cavalry. And then he might turn around and come back for a taste of revenge.’
‘If it is God’s will for us to meet the good Captain Tainton again, then so be it,’ Archer had said. ‘But we shall not leave. Not for the likes of him.’ He gave a small, bitter smile. ‘Where would you have us go? We are loyal to our king, yet we cannot say the next village shares our beliefs. The country is dangerous, Captain. We do not know who to trust or where to run, my friend. We’ll stay and take our chances.’
In the darkness just before dawn, Stryker’s men had said their farewells and plunged into the forest’s gloom, climbing the hill that would lead them south.
‘Hold!’
The sentry stepped out on to the path and levelled a glinting pole-arm at the hooded figure’s chest.
The newcomer’s shadowed eyes fixed on the weapon, its curved head, made from an agricultural scythe, appearing all the more fearsome in the grey dawn. He did as he was told, raising his hands. ‘Good-day to you, my son.’
The sentry’s gaze dropped briefly to the hooded man’s neck, where a small wooden crucifix dangled. ‘You are a priest?’ he asked dubiously.
Father Benjamin Laney slowly moved one of his open palms to the edge of the hood and pulled it down to his shoulders, smiling benignly. ‘I am . . . Sergeant?’
Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) Page 10
