‘Remember Praise-God Sykes?’
‘Praise-God Sykes,’ Stryker said, his eye staring off into the distance. ‘I haven’t thought on him for a long long time.’
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Burton. ‘But who’s Praise-God Sykes?’
‘He was a corporal. A Puritan – and a vicious bastard who’d quote scripture at you while he beat you black and blue.’ Stryker shook his head at the memory. ‘Captain Forrester and I had the dubious pleasure of his company as junior officers.’
‘Junior officers in a company of mercenaries,’ Forrester added. ‘This bugger was in charge of our training. And by God did we fear him! Worked though, didn’t it?’ The bottle had reached Forrester again, and he drained it, letting out a hefty belch. ‘Look at the state of your commanding officer. I wouldn’t want to fight a bugger like him, would you? He’s fit as a fiddle.’
‘Unlike you,’ Stryker said, a sly smile showing bright across his face in the fire’s glow.
The alcohol had already given Forrester’s cheeks a rosy hue, but he reddened further at the remark. ‘It’s true I’ve been resting on my laurels of late, but you know how it is with us men of the theatre. An impressive physique adds presence on the stage.’
‘In his defence,’ Stryker said to Burton, ‘you watch him if we get into a scrap. He scares the wits out of me.’
Forrester dipped his head at the vote of confidence. ‘Yes, well, Sykes’s efforts weren’t completely wasted. Now can we talk of something else?’ He shot a wry glance at Burton. ‘Do you know, for instance, how Captain Stryker here became such an ugly brute?’
‘Careful, Forry,’ Stryker said in a sharply warning tone. ‘Don’t let the drink rule your tongue.’
But Stryker’s cautionary words were obviously too late, for Forrester had cast Burton a conspiratorial wink. ‘Imagine those dark locks and intense gaze without the scars. He was quite the rakehell. Then he was careless enough to have half his face blown off.’ He took another piece of fish and chewed it exaggeratedly, prolonging the story. ‘He had a little help in that regard from a styptic little weasel named Eli Makepeace,’ he said when his mouth was clear, ‘who just happened to drug him senseless.’
Stryker sighed. Forrester was going to speak whether his commander liked it or not. ‘While another bastard, though not so little, placed me next to a powder keg and set a fuse.’
‘Ah yes,’ Forrester nodded in sudden memory, ‘a beast of a specimen. Malachi Bain, if I’m not mistaken. Never did a more sinful pair of punk-poxed weasels walk God’s earth.’
Stryker twisted round to see that Skellen had returned. He stood suddenly. ‘I’ll take next watch. Get some rest, all of you.’
‘He’s a sensitive sod sometimes,’ Forrester said quietly, as they watched their commander disappear into the night. ‘Perhaps I overstepped the mark a little.’ He glanced at the empty bottle in his hand. ‘Never could hold me drink.’
Some miles to the north and west another fire glowed, though the smoke from these flames billowed up through the brick stack of a chimney. A thin face stared into the heat, the orange glow intensifying his red locks and neat beard. The face had mocking eyes and a hooked nose, a thin jutting chin and small, sharp teeth: at once both handsome and feral. Eli Rushworth Augustus Makepeace was deep in thought.
‘Your throw,’ a voice broke into his reverie and Makepeace turned to his right. He and Bain had taken shelter for the night in a small tavern. The tapster had stared with suspicion when Makepeace had entered, and with fear upon seeing Bain, but he served them their ale promptly and provided reasonable victuals.
‘Eh?’
The man was stout, middle-aged and heavily pockmarked in the face. ‘I said it’s your throw, friend.’
‘So it is,’ Makepeace said, taking the dice. There were four players at the table. Makepeace and Bain had been joined by the fat man and a tall, reedy fellow named Climpet.
Makepeace shook the dice and sent them tumbling across the table’s wooden surface. ‘Fives again, gentlemen!’ he exclaimed happily, gathering up his winnings. ‘My lucky night!’
He collected the dice and passed them to Climpet as more coins were laid down. Climpet rolled.
‘Fuck it all!’ he shrieked in despair as the bone cubes rested with a 1 and a 3 on top.
‘A shame, sir,’ Makepeace said, reaching across to offer the dice to Bain.
Bain threw. Lost. Shrugged.
The fat fellow, Binkle, took his turn and was disappointed to see a 4 and a 6. ‘I need more funds, gentlemen. Will you wait? I shall go to my rooms and be back instantly.’
The others agreed, and Binkle disappeared in the direction of the tavern’s back staircase.
Climpet stood as well. ‘Piss.’
Makepeace watched him leave, before glancing at his sergeant. ‘You know, Bain, sometimes I wish I were more like you.’
Bain frowned, suspecting a veiled sarcasm in the captain’s words. ‘Come again, sir?’
‘Seriously, Sergeant. You see something you want and you take it. You do what is required.’
Bain swallowed the meat. ‘I’ve s-seen you kill to get something you wanted, sir.’
‘Quite so,’ Makepeace said impatiently, ‘but only after thought and conscience and scruples have all had a merry old discussion in my noggin. But you, on the other hand, are not troubled by such spectres, are you?’
‘No,’ Bain said, taking a mouthful of his ale.
Makepeace smiled ruefully. ‘I, on the other hand, tend to think too much. My brother was like you in many ways. He took what he wanted to. In fact he took what I wanted too. What should have been mine.’ He saw his sneering older brother Nehemiah, a tall, gap-toothed dolt who bullied him mercilessly. He saw Emily Moffat, the girl with long legs and golden hair and bouncing breasts, and he saw her laugh at his advances, before dancing off into the forest to spread her thighs for his brother.
‘Money or w-women?’
‘Both.’ Makepeace sat back, propping himself up with his left hand, while his right fiddled with one of the golden hoops that hung from his earlobes. ‘He and Stryker ruined my life between them.’
‘Why didn’t you just k-kill your brother?’ Bain asked
‘A good question, Malachi. I’d slaughter the self-righteous arsehole if he were here now. But of course he ain’t.’
‘Stryker is. Well not many miles hence.’ Bain spat. ‘I still owe that bastard.’
Makepeace nodded. He glanced up as Climpet and Binkle returned, forcing his features into a welcoming grin. ‘Shall we resume? My throw, I think.’
Money was placed in a small pile at the table’s centre.
‘Fives!’ Makepeace yelped in delight as the dice came to rest. ‘The good Lord smiles upon my fortunes once again! Let me buy everyone refreshment.’ He turned his head to catch the tapster’s eye. ‘Four ales, kind sir!’
The captain leaned forward, teeth gleaming from behind his broad grin, and made to collect the dice. As he lifted them from the table, he fumbled one of the pieces, dropping it once more. It bounced, once, twice, three times, before settling again.
Climpet’s eyes narrowed. ‘A five, Mister Makepeace.’
Makepeace’s grin vanished. ‘Coincidence, sir, I can assure you.’
‘Then try again,’ Binkle said.
Makepeace scowled suddenly. ‘You question my honour, gentlemen? I am mortally insulted. Am I to be accused of foul play?’
Climpet spoke slowly. ‘No, Mister Makepeace. I am simply asking you to throw again, as a matter of interest, that’s all.’
Makepeace opened his mouth to remonstrate, but was surprised by the chubby hand of Binkle that grasped his sleeve. Binkle’s pockmarked face was red with rage as he shook the dice free of Makepeace’s grip.
Both pieces fell this time, followed by a third from the sleeve of the soldier’s doublet. All eyes dropped to the table as the dice dropped, bounced, spun and rested. The first pair presenting 5s, the third showing a 3.
> That was enough for Binkle, who thrust his chair back to clatter into the table behind. ‘Damn your rotten hide, sir, but you are a cheat!’ His face was bright red, his wobbling jowls seemingly on fire. A dagger was in his hand. ‘No one cheats me!’
Makepeace rose to his feet. ‘Now now, gentlemen. Do not be hasty!’
But before Makepeace could calm the situation, Bain lurched across the table. ‘Oh, no you d-don’t.’ He thrust his balled fist into Binkle’s pudgy stomach. The fat man released the blade and crumpled on to the stone floor, retching as he went.
Climpet’s jaw dropped. He backed away from the table and drew a long sword from the scabbard at his slim waist. But Bain’s own blade was free now, and the massive sergeant cast the table aside so that there were no obstacles between him and his quarry.
Climpet darted forward, jabbing the sword’s point at Bain’s throat, but a deft and disdainful flick of the big man’s wrist pushed the weapon aside with ease. And then Makepeace was beside his sergeant, blade in hand, and Climpet backed away, understanding that this was a fight he could not win.
The fire’s heat was suddenly intense at his back, and he found he could go no further. He levelled his blade.
Makepeace stabbed him. Bain had feinted high and Makepeace had thrust low, and the razor-sharp tip of the captain’s sword had plunged deep into Climpet’s skinny midriff.
Climpet fell back into the fire, his clothes blazing sudden and bright.
With agonized screams ringing in their ears, Eli Makepeace and Malachi Bain ran from the building.
CHAPTER 8
Lisette Gaillard woke in alarm.
‘What is it?’ a man’s voice cut through the sound of her rapid breaths.
She sat bolt upright and looked across to where the outline of Father Benjamin Laney lay a few feet away. He had turned to look at her, propping his head up on an elbow.
‘Nothing. A dream.’
She could see the priest’s eyes narrow in the gloom, studying her. ‘You must have suffered much in your short life, my child.’
Lisette gave a little snort of derision. ‘We must get up. It is dawn.’ She knew she would later regret the brusqueness of her tone, but, in the half-light of that newborn morning, she was still under the oppressive weight of her nightmare. The shrill cries of terrified children. The sickly sweet stench of charred flesh. The tears and blood. The laughter of men. Soldiers.
Father Benjamin heaved himself up, stretching to the low ceiling as his spine complained with a chorus of clicks. ‘God be with us today.’
Yes, thought Lisette. God be with us.
Sergeant-Major Tobias Hunter was a pious man, a Parliamentarian for reasons of faith rather than politics.
He had been feeling bereft without the presence of a chaplain at the new fort. He viewed the sudden appearance of Benedict and Ethelbert as gifts from the Almighty, and was not inclined to query their presence more vigorously than some cursory questions regarding religion; questions Benjamin was able to answer with ease.
Lisette stayed a pace behind Benjamin, allowing the true priest to play a character close to his own. She kept utterly silent and watchful.
‘We’re down from Farnham,’ Hunter had told them as they toured the fort’s wide summit. ‘Captain Wither holds the castle there.’
‘You and your men have been detached for the purpose of raising this fort?’ Benjamin ventured.
Hunter smiled coyly. ‘I am afraid that is something I cannot discuss, Father.’
‘I understand, Sergeant-Major,’ Benjamin said, but added, ‘She’ll be a true beauty when complete, Praise the Lord. I look forward to praying with you and your men, sir. And shall I be praying with cavalrymen too?’
Hunter glanced at him sharply.
‘Your Sergeant Drake told me the fort’s commander was a horseman,’ Father Benjamin said quickly.
Hunter nodded. ‘Aye. I lead the infantry and engineers, but a troop of harquebusiers arrived a few weeks back. Their commander, Colonel Wild, holds temporary command while they are with us. I doubt he will be joining us. He has . . . other duties to perform.’
‘But no harquebusiers are here now, I see,’ Benjamin said as Hunter gazed south toward the murky swathe of the Solent.
Hunter waved a large hand, protected from the elements by a soft, fringe-cuffed leather glove, towards the distant coast. ‘No. They ride out to keep the land between here and Portsmouth safe.’
Benjamin spent the rest of the day ministering the troops. He prayed and worshipped and heard confession and preached God’s word, raving against the king at every opportunity for good measure. Lisette remained close by, and kept watch over the largest of the burial mounds. The barrow, a stark hump amid the flat crest, lay toward the western end of the hill fort. It was here that the heaviest guard had been placed.
It did not seem a place of any significance. A small, filthy tent had been erected at its base. And that tent was where the guard stood, six strong, all armed with blade and musket.
So Lisette watched. She observed the guards change every two hours, replaced by equally formidable comrades. Never flinching, always vigilant, exceptionally well drilled. The cream of Hunter’s men, it seemed.
When dusk threatened its approach, and Old Winchester Hill’s ramparts began to cast gigantic shadows across her green slopes, Fathers Benedict and Ethelbert bade their farewells and set off to the north, in the direction of West Meon, and the church of St John the Evangelist.
This morning, having passed the cold night amongst the mouldy hay of a tumbledown forester’s shed in the deepest recesses of the groaning wood, the pair were preparing to repeat the journey to Old Winchester Hill’s bleak summit. This time, however, Lisette was determined not to leave empty-handed.
‘You are quite certain?’ Benjamin said while they tethered the mare to its gnarled trunk for the third day.
‘No. But why else would they guard this bloody tent?’
Benjamin relented. ‘You are probably right.’
‘I am right. They would not put six men to guard a tent full of nothing. The only other items worth protecting like that are guns and powder. We saw where they kept these. What else could it be?’
‘Unless Kesley deceived you.’
Lisette thought back to the colonel’s wide eyes and whimpered pleas. ‘He did not deceive me.’
They made their way along the track they had travelled twice before, the wet ground slippery beneath their feet as they wound their way up the hill.
‘You remember what we agreed?’ Lisette said as she fought to free a shoe from the sucking sludge.
Benjamin caught her eye. ‘Do not think me a fool, my child.’
Lisette nodded. ‘I do not.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Thank you, Father.’
The priest spoke as if gauging his words carefully. ‘What was the dream?’
Lisette clenched her jaw. The realization that today might very well be her last dawned clear and bright in her mind. ‘I dreamed about when I was 7. My father was a cavalry officer, sent south to fight the Huguenots. My mother and I went too. One morning my father’s company was ambushed . . .’ She paused.
‘Go on,’ Benjamin prompted gently.
‘They destroyed the company. Completely. And then they turned on the baggage train and the camp followers. Fired the wagons. Killed the people. Stole the animals.’
‘But you escaped.’
‘I was small. I hid. God protected me. I crouched and I watched them kill and I heard them laugh.’ She fell silent.
Benjamin waited until finally she lifted her head, blue eyes burning bright and intense from the gloom of her hood. ‘They raped her. My mother. Murdered her. All the while calling her a papist fucking whore.’
Father Benjamin said nothing.
‘So now you know,’ Lisette said, her voice barely a whisper.
Her companion nodded. ‘I certainly understand why you hate us Protestants.’
She stared at him again, but this time the
eyes were softer, some of the fire gone. ‘Not all of you.’
‘How did you come to serve the queen?’
‘I was picked up – found – when the next column of my father’s army marched through. They took me in. I followed the camp. I had nowhere else to go.’ Lisette’s memories flowed more easily now. At 14 she had married Michel Gaillard, a cavalry captain, and at her request he had taught his bride how to wield a sword and a musket. Taught her how to fight and ride as well as any man.
‘What happened to him?’ Father Benjamin said.
‘A fever. He left me with nothing but my skills. Of course, my face was fair. I caught the eye of one of King Louis’s courtiers and found my way to the royal court in Paris. Henrietta was visiting her brother there when she saw me. She asked if I might be transferred to her service.’
Benjamin thought for a moment. ‘Why you, if you do not mind my asking? There must have been dozens of beautiful women at the palace.’
Lisette laughed. ‘It was not for my beauty, Father. One of the palace guards thought he’d have me.’
‘He failed?’
‘He did. Rumours of how he received his injuries began to circulate. The whispers reached the queen’s ear. She is a clever woman, Father. She felt I might be useful in a way her brawny ruffians could not be.’
‘She was right.’
Lisette broke off. ‘There it is,’ she said, as the familiar Iron Age ramparts came into distant view between the myriad boughs and branches. ‘Are you ready?’
In the lingering morning mist the small company tracked the Ock eastwards for about an hour, eventually coming to a sharp bend in the river. They could not see beyond, for willows and bulrushes obscured their view, and so they approached with caution, nerves fraying, muskets primed. Skellen went first, cantering through the sodden grass at the water’s edge, his weapon levelled in front of him. A musket was a heavy beast, but Skellen was a pikeman and could wield it without a flicker of discomfort. The remaining men followed a short distance behind, prepared to give covering fire, as Skellen’s tall, loping frame evaporated into the mist. It was disconcerting, for Skellen’s shape seemed to grow more ghostly with each step, but they could still see the orange glow of his match as it rose from the musket’s serpent. Skellen would have the priming pan closed to prevent the weapon accidentally firing, but the pan could be clicked back in a fraction of a second to present black powder for the match to ignite.
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