Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  All was still until a voice called out from the mist. ‘Bugger all,’ it said. The men unhooked their match-cords and went to meet the sergeant.

  There was no enemy beyond the bend. No party of bloodthirsty rebels ready to shatter the morning peace with fire and lead. Instead, Skellen presented them with a narrow, rickety bridge. Their passage south.

  ‘My pa sold a bullock up here once,’ Skellen said as they made their way through the damp countryside. ‘Yeah, in Harwell it was. Funny how things turn out. We lived at Newbury in them days, before we moved down to the docks, and we drove this bullock up here one year, me and Dad. Henry was his name.’

  ‘Your father?’ Burton asked.

  ‘No, the bull, sir,’ Skellen replied. ‘It pissed with rain the whole bloody way. The road was like treacle. I lost a boot to it. Fortunately there were lots of taverns along the way. They do a fine Ould Hum in these parts. You can feel it in your toes from the first swig! Gets you bumpsy as a magistrate, I can tell you. Smooth as honey.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind a drop myself,’ Forrester said enthusiastically. ‘Strong ale and a warm woman. What a heavenly mixture.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Stryker replied flatly. ‘Especially after last night.’

  Forrester coloured. ‘Yes, well. I’ve apologized, haven’t I?’

  ‘Died of a fever in the end,’ Skellen was saying.

  ‘The bull?’ asked Burton.

  ‘No, Pa. Well, it was either fever or Ould Hum. He loved a drop, did Pa.’

  As the day wore on they saw only lonesome drovers and farm-hands in the fields. No soldiers blocked their progress and spirits were high, since the men foresaw renewing provisions, especially ammunition, at Basing House. They had been well equipped on leaving the field army at Banbury, but the long journey south had drained their supplies alarmingly. Stryker had accepted the loss of a few musket-balls as trade for venison and rabbit. After all, the men had to eat. But the meeting with Roger Tainton’s cavalry had taken a heavy and unexpected toll. Match-cord, powder and bullets had been expended against the Roundhead ranks, and Stryker wanted to restock the ammunition and refill the bandoliers. Most crucially of all, their allies at Basing would, God-willing, provide them with new horses.

  At midday a flock of geese sailed on the wind overhead, wings flapping in unison with powerful grace. The men knew a first-class meal when they saw one. Skellen and Burton began to light match-cords as the birds were sighted in the distance, frantic to have the weapons loaded by the time they were in range, but Stryker was quick to curb their enthusiasm. ‘No muskets,’ he had growled harshly. ‘You want to alert the whole shire?’

  The matches were reluctantly snuffed into oblivion.

  They gave Newbury a wide birth, preferring to stay a safe distance from the town’s garrison. On passing Baughurst they reached a thin stream that provided fresh water to quench their collective thirst. The men dropped muskets and dipped flasks and mouths to the icy water that coursed across smooth grey pebbles, brown silt and shadowy stickleback.

  Stryker alone did not stop to drink immediately. He was gazing at a distant hedgerow. Beyond it the air was filled with small dark patches that rose and fell in a peculiar manner. He knew what they were: clumps of earth, tossed up by hooves. ‘Into the trees!’ he ordered suddenly, startling his three companions from their brief rest. ‘The road’s the other side of that hedge.’ He pointed to where the earth was being churned. ‘We’ll have company ere long.’

  Sure enough, as they gathered up their kit and scrambled across the sticky pasture to conceal themselves among the trees at the field’s flanks, a group of horsemen rounded the hedgerow and came fully into view.

  There were five men in leather buff-coats and tall bucket-tops. Their chests were encased in iron and, even from a distance, the two-foot-long barrels of their carbines were visible, hanging from baldrics that crossed over from each shoulder.

  As Stryker followed his men towards safety, he heard a crack as one of the carbines was discharged. For a moment he held his breath, waiting for one of his comrades to fall – but no one even faltered. His first reaction was relief, but a shot had been fired. They must have been seen. He snatched a glance over his shoulder, trying to discern the allegiance of their aggressors. They did not have any clear insignia, though they were evidently light cavalry. Stryker’s guts began to churn. A terrible thought had struck him: were these Tainton’s harquebusiers?

  Another carbine split the air. This time its missile whipped past the fleeing Royalists at head height and punched into the tree line beyond. ‘Into the trees! Into the trees!’ he repeated the order frantically, though it was almost unnecessary. The men knew not to face mounted cavalry on open ground and would get behind the widest bole they could find. In seconds they would be shouldering muskets and attempting to fight off the pursuers.

  The four fugitives reached the cover of the broad trunks at more or less the same moment. They pressed bodies against the damp bark, hiding limbs from the sting of the little lead balls that rained on them mercilessly. Stryker peered out from the safety of the tree, to see the horsemen galloping at an impressive pace, swallowing up the space between them. The leading trooper kicked at his coal-black mount savagely, urging the beast on with gritted teeth and wild eyes. Stryker could see they understood the risk they were running. To charge four muskets was dangerous sport. But these riders were closing down the distance immediately. They knew that to give musketeers the time to load their firing pieces was to invite death. The horsemen would be in amongst the trees before priming pans were filled, and long before muskets were presented.

  They knew their business, Stryker thought. But, then again, so did he. ‘Shoulder arms!’ he yelled, levelling his own weapon, aligning the dark barrel with the chest of the nearest horse.

  ‘It’s not loaded, sir!’ Ensign Burton called from somewhere to his right.

  ‘Just get the bloody thing up, Andrew. Make ’em think it is!’

  Burton hurried to obey. The others followed suit.

  And the harquebusiers stopped.

  They stopped because they saw black holes at the end of black barrels that hovered at shoulder height among the green lichen and brown leaves. They stopped because they saw gun muzzles. And in those muzzles they saw death.

  The five jerked hard on their reins, slewing their mounts to a muddy, churning, frantic halt. Stryker’s men watched them as they pulled the muscular necks round, turning their backs on a tree line that had suddenly bristled with muskets, and kicked the beasts into a thunderous retreat.

  Moments later they drew up again, hovering at the full range of a musket, safe in the knowledge that, though a ball might carry to them, its accuracy and power would not be a match for plate armour.

  ‘Hold your aim,’ Stryker ordered, as a single trooper broke away from the rest, letting his horse canter back toward the trees, stopping only when there were twenty paces between him and the musketeers.

  ‘Lay down your arms,’ the horseman called to the men behind the muzzles.

  ‘No, thankee,’ Stryker called back.

  The cavalryman smiled and raised his sword. ‘I salute your defiance, sir! But please step out from the trees.’

  ‘I said no,’ Stryker replied. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, you have a number of muskets trained upon you. Don’t throw away your lives for the sake of bravado.’

  ‘Bravado?’ The man laughed this time. ‘I see a number of items pointed at me. But not guns. For they have no bullets.’

  Stryker knew the horseman could not be certain. ‘I can assure you they are loaded and made ready,’ he called.

  ‘You lie, sir,’ the cavalry officer said dismissively. ‘Why else did you not fire when you had the chance? We were well within range.’

  ‘Then charge again, sir,’ Stryker replied. ‘You are most welcome to test your theory.’

  Several tense moments passed as harquebusiers eyed infantrymen. Stryker’s gamble seemed to have worked, since the ris
k of charging armed musketeers appeared not to be to the taste of the mounted troopers. At close range it would mean carnage.

  ‘I am unwilling to risk my men on your goddamned muskets,’ the cavalry officer said at last. He tugged at the black beast’s reigns, turning its head back toward his four companions. The horse complied with a flare of its nostrils, sending a plume of vapour into the wintry air. The remaining troopers sheathed unbloodied swords and prepared to turn their own steeds away. ‘But mark your back, rebel dog,’ their leader called over his shoulder. ‘Mark your back. We’ll be watching for you.’

  Stryker lowered his musket. ‘Hold!’ he shouted. The cavalrymen turned in surprise. ‘You call me rebel?’

  The leader of the horsemen nodded. ‘Dog. Devil. Turd. You may choose the description that fits best, sir.’

  Stryker ignored the insults. ‘I’m no rebel.’

  The third excursion along the narrow track to Old Winchester Hill would, Lisette and Benjamin hoped, finally bear the fruit of their carefully laid plans.

  Lisette and Benjamin knew where the first sentry would be, and they parted company long before Sergeant Drake, or one of his comrades, could intercept them. They followed the trail from the north-west as it swept down toward the south and east, until they reached the place they had identified the previous day. A point beneath the dripping canopy where the fort-bound pathway splintered, forming a fork. Father Benjamin sketched the sign of the cross in the air. ‘God be with you, my child.’

  ‘And with you, Father,’ Lisette said. She felt a pang of compassion and it surprised her. She smiled at the priest. ‘Thank you for everything. Truly.’

  Benjamin nodded and turned away, following the path that would take him to Old Winchester Hill and its defenders. Lisette pulled the hood as far across her head as it would reach, drew a long, lingering breath, and took the route where the path forked away. Their reconnaissance had discovered that this second path, a slender tributary of the main track, led directly south, plunging down the steep, wooded slopes to the valley below. It bypassed the barren peninsula altogether, emerging from the dense forest at the base of the fort’s southern slope. That southern slope was where Lisette needed to be. And she was ready to kill any man who stood in her way.

  ‘They’re g-gaining!’

  ‘I can see that, Sergeant! But thank you for your quick insight!’

  Eli Makepeace and Malachi Bain had galloped from the tavern, leaving the ancient building to crackle and spit as the flames leapt from Climpet’s blackened body to devour drapes and timbers. But they hadn’t expected the band of vigilantes swiftly assembled to hunt them down.

  It had been a shock to spy half a dozen horsemen on the road behind them, kicking heels into the flanks of exhausted mounts, whooping and calling to one another in predatory glee.

  Makepeace had heard stories of the way common folk would sometimes react to the misdeeds of soldiers. To protect their smallholdings, possessions, food and women from the companies of armed men now roaming the countryside, local men had begun to form their own small forces. Armed with clubs and cudgels, these vigilantes were neither Royalist nor Parliamentarian. But they were willing to stand up against ravaging soldiers, regardless of which army they might be from. The fight, murder and subsequent fire at the tavern had, it seemed, drawn the attention of just such a band.

  ‘We’ll ’ave to f-fight the bastards!’ Bain called above the thunder of his horse’s hooves.

  Makepeace kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘There are too many! They would surround us! We need to get off this bloody road and split ’em up! There! Up ahead!’

  Their main route south was bisected by the east–west road, and Makepeace knew that their only chance of survival would be to divide the chasing pack.

  He kicked harder, urging his steed to greater speed. It began to pull away from the labouring beast that struggled beneath Bain’s massive bulk. He twisted back to stare briefly at their pursuers and then at Bain. ‘See the junction? We separate. You take the left road, I’ll go right.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Hopefully they’ll split, leaving three each. As soon as they do, double back and kill ’em.’

  As they reached the junction, Makepeace squeezed his thighs in a well-practised manoeuvre that told his horse to take the right-hand fork. Bain, lagging behind now, wrenched on his reins with the brute force of his powerful forearms, forcing his horse to slew to the left.

  For a few moments they each cantered along their chosen routes, allowing the chasing pack to reach the junction, before wheeling round to face the main south road again.

  ‘This way! This way!’

  The cry could be heard several moments before the first of the clubmen rounded the corner, and Makepeace drew his sword. He also carried a brace of carbines, but the surprise appearance of the six horsemen and the subsequent frenzied chase had not afforded him time to load either.

  The leader of the vigilantes was a grim-looking fellow of advancing age. The loose skin of red jowls jangled almost comically beneath his shock of white hair, but Makepeace was instantly wary, for the old man’s twisted nose and broad shoulders betrayed the sort of hard existence that was unlikely to have spawned a weakling.

  The white-haired man was immediately joined by two younger fellows. They were darker in complexion, but carried the leader’s thick brow and sturdy build.

  The three advanced, slowing to a canter now that their quarry had finally turned to face them. The odds were not good for the lone soldier, but, despite facing three blades, he was confident. After all, three was better than six. The others must have gone after Bain.

  The sharp report of a pistol cracked the crisp air. The shot had not come from any of the men on this side of the southern road, but it threw Makepeace’s confidence. He had not bargained on firearms.

  Kicking his mount forward, he raised his tuck high, challenging the trio of yokels to close with him. They duly obliged, and, as their own beasts surged forward, Makepeace caught the glint of light bouncing against the dark grey of pistol barrels. He kicked forward suddenly, compelling his horse to charge, clamping eyes tight shut as his body was jolted back by the animal’s motion.

  The clubmen fired. Three high-pitched coughs making his guts twist. But the aims were not true.

  Slash. The old man went down, Makepeace’s blade sliding along his opponent’s own weapon, glancing up off the hilt and into the jowl-fringed jaw.

  Makepeace galloped past while the body rocked back from the saddle, the wails of his victim’s sons ringing as he wheeled his horse round for the next assault.

  It came quickly and viciously. One of the sons, round-faced, with bushy black eyebrows and teeth that jutted from his mouth like tusks, came surging forward, swinging what looked like a partizan high above his head. As Makepeace engaged him, he wondered distractedly at the presence of such a weapon here, of all places, but almost laughed when he realized it was nothing more than a scythe.

  The clubman’s blow was heavy, but Makepeace knew how to counter such force with the correct stroke and an even balance. He parried the makeshift weapon, slewing round again for the next attack. This time the second son joined his brother, a meaty cudgel lofted in a huge fist.

  ‘Well I say!’ Makepeace cackled wildly. ‘This one’s an even uglier brute than his father and brother combined! My commiserations!’

  The man screamed an obscenity at him and powered forward, spittle foaming at fat, purple lips. Makepeace let his body sway beyond the cudgel’s short range, easily evading the blunt shaft, and lashed out with a venomous back-handed stroke. It did not penetrate the hide coat deep enough to kill, but the force was such that the cutting edge connected with flesh all the same, making the clubman cry out, arching his back against the fiery pain.

  Makepeace did not stay long enough to carry out the killing stroke, for the second clubman was there again, swiping the air near the captain’s head with the curved scythe. The weapon was unwieldy and, thoug
h fearsome to look at, required a great deal of skill to be made effective. Makepeace found little trouble in parrying the advances, yet he could not come close enough to ply a decisive stroke of his own, such was the length of the scythe.

  Makepeace’s horse stumbled. It did not threaten to throw him from the saddle, but the beast’s rhythm had gone, its comfortable footing momentarily lost. Makepeace rounded the cudgel-bearer again and blocked the scythe, and as the animals passed one another to turn again like a group of medieval jousters, he glanced down to the horse’s right flank. There it was. A patch of crimson against the beast’s light-brown coat. Small and round, as if someone had ground a raspberry into the short, bristly hairs, it seemed innocuous, but Makepeace knew well that in a short time the horse’s strength would fail and its balance would wane still further. One of the three clubmen had not been entirely ineffective when aiming his pistol.

  Makepeace decided that the skirmish would need to be brought to an abrupt end.

  He chose the spittle-faced man with the cudgel as his target. Closing quickly, while his steed still had the strength to carry the fight to the enemy, he stabbed forward with a series of short, sharp thrusts. The clubman dodged the blade admirably, avoiding all but one of the strokes, but the last caught him in the flesh of his shoulder. It was not deep, but the steel had penetrated nerves and muscle, and his hand jerked in involuntary spasm, releasing the cudgel meekly to bounce along the churned mud. A look of horror swept across the man’s face, and he raised his arm to block the next attack.