Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  Worse still; they had failed. He had failed. He had taken Sir Randolph Moxcroft at the behest of a prince and an earl, and then he had let the spy fall into the enemy’s hands. Moxcroft was free to sell the names of all Royalist informants in the south to an eager and vengeful Parliament. And those informants would die slowly.

  Stryker heard water. It was a heavy flow, a substantial river. He twisted his head to peer over the side of the cart, only to see a wide torrent below. It had to be the Thames, he surmised, for they had passed Richmond some time ago. He looked ahead to the end of the road. A mist was descending, and it coupled with the black shroud of night to obscure his view of the far-off lights. But lights there were. Many of them, glowing orange in the distant gloom, telltale signs of at least a dozen homesteads, with the promise of more beyond. He squinted into the darkness but could discern no further indication of where they might be. It was clearly a settlement of substance.

  As the mist grew thicker, they reached the ferry crossing. Tainton marshalled his men well and they boarded the barges with little ceremony. Even the horses offered only token protest while they were ushered on to the wobbling vessels. They disappeared into the whiteness, the water splashing noisily at the ferry’s flanks, and there was a moment when Stryker wildly considered escape. After all, if he jumped into the water his captors would never be able to pick him out in the mist’s depths. But he was laden with heavy clothes. The visibility was so poor that he might never find his way up the slippery banks, and the water was so cold that it might end him long before his enemies could.

  Tainton had had the foresight to send a rider ahead some time earlier, and the convoy was presented with a replacement cart upon arrival at the north bank.

  ‘Where are we?’ Stryker asked Tainton as the black-armoured captain cantered past, urging his troop to pick up the pace once again. The Thames swirled at their backs now, so he knew they must be heading north. The settlement he had seen earlier was now far closer, its lights burning brightly to his right.

  ‘Syon House, sir,’ Tainton barked. He pointed to his left. ‘Well, the house can be found in that direction, though we’ll not see it. We mean to cross its grounds and join the London Road at Brentford End.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we follow it westwards, away from the town, and find shelter at the home of Sir Richard Wynn.’

  Stryker frowned. ‘He is loyal to the Crown.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Tainton replied, his face splitting in a ghoulish, moonlit grin. ‘But he is not at home.’

  Stryker watched him surge away to retake his place at the column’s head. The carbine-wielding soldier at the vehicle’s far end eyed him lazily, before turning to watch the trees and fields trundle by.

  Sir Richard Wynn was not home, his place as lord of the manor instead filled by one Lieutenant Colonel James Quarles.

  ‘Gone to lick the king’s arse!’ Quarles said of the absent owner upon greeting Tainton outside the house’s grand entrance.

  ‘And Colonel Holles?’

  ‘Gone to lick Devereux’s arse, I don’t doubt,’ Quarles replied. ‘So I find myself here, in charge of this fine body of men.’

  The body of men turned out to be Denzil Holles’s Regiment of Foot. Holles was a Member of Parliament and one of the rebellion’s most staunch supporters, and had raised his regiment from the apprentices of London. Mostly young men of the butchery and dyer trades, they were a well-respected fighting force, for all they lacked in professionalism. They had made quite a name for themselves at Edgehill, where they had held firm amid the anarchy of those first moments after Prince Rupert’s cavalry charge.

  ‘He’ll return in a day, maybe two,’ Quarles had explained. ‘Until then, feel free to report directly to me. And that’s an order.’

  The cart and its prisoners were left outside the house, under heavy guard, while Tainton, Makepeace and Moxcroft – the latter perched upon a chair carried by two burly pikemen – were conducted inside.

  ‘Please, sit,’ James Quarles had said, indicating two of the three wooden chairs in the room that served as his temporary quarters. As well as the chairs, there was a large oak desk, a tall bookcase and an ornate, wall-mounted lantern clock, its weights providing a steady heartbeat. The captains sat and Sir Randolph was set down next to them. ‘You see, gentlemen,’ Quarles continued as he settled into the remaining chair, the one nearest the crackling fire, ‘I am charged with defending this road. That is my concern. I require that you do not interfere with my one obsession. What do you require?’

  Tainton and Makepeace glanced at one another. ‘We must convey our charges to London. It is of the greatest import,’ the latter replied.

  Quarles smiled with his teeth. ‘Then you may be on your way as soon as the peace is signed.’ He was a handsome man, with a long face and strong jaw, but his features carried a hint of steel, a warning to any man tempted to provoke his ire.

  ‘We understand, Colonel,’ Moxcroft spoke now, his smooth voice full of its old confidence again, ‘but our cause is of the utmost importance, we can assure you. John Pym himself will wish to speak with us.’

  ‘By “us” you mean yourself only?’

  ‘We do indeed.’

  Quarles examined Moxcroft dubiously. The man before him had a fragile physique. His pale complexion and languorous movements were at odds with Quarles’s own powerful build and vigorous energy. At length realization dawned. ‘You are a spy of some kind?’

  Moxcroft nodded. ‘Of some kind.’

  Quarles looked away. The invocation of Pym’s name had unsettled him. He rubbed his chin, his stubble scraping beneath calloused fingers. He met Tainton’s gaze, happier to be addressing the kind of man he understood. ‘And those vagabonds you hold?’

  A crackle of musketry rippled into the cold night somewhere beyond the house. The drill-master’s stentorian tones carried on the air, berating, commending or correcting his men. ‘You have heard of a Captain Stryker?’ Tainton asked.

  Bushy black eyebrows shot up Quarles’s high forehead. ‘Aye! His reputation is impressive. You have him?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Tainton was unable to keep the pride from his voice. ‘He had captured Sir Randolph, here. Then we captured him.’

  ‘Then I commend you on both the rescue and the capture.’ Quarles stretched out his long, booted legs and stared at the ceiling. Then he glanced back to the pair of officers sitting expectantly before him. ‘But, while I understand you must take your party to London, and forgive me if I repeat myself, my priority is the road and, therefore, the defence of Brentford.’ Tainton opened his mouth to speak but Quarles held up a big hand to silence him. ‘I cannot spare you, now that you are here. Nor can I afford to spare anyone else to convey the prisoners and Sir Randolph to Westminster. There are rooms in this house that can be secured as well as any gaol, and enough armed men to guard them. You will remain here until the peace has been agreed, or until we have all perished in the attempt. I must depend on the former eventuality. So must you.’

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel,’ Moxcroft said calmly, ‘We protest. Our knowledge is crucial to the rebel cause.’

  Quarles stood to leave. ‘I’m certain it is, sir. But if the peace talks falter and we are attacked, Brentford must be held. If it falls, there will be no rebel cause left.’

  Outside, the prisoners on the cart were wide awake. It was a misty, peat-black night, but fires had been set all around Sir Richard Wynn’s house and gardens, by which the red-coated men of Denzil Holles’s Regiment of Foot warmed their hands and faces.

  The orange glow of the fires gently illuminated the house. The building was an impressive pile, though not, Stryker suspected, a match for Syon House, the great stately home that stood on the north bank of the Thames. More of Holles’s men would be there, staring into the blackness for signs of an enemy that was gathered only a few hours’ march away.

  ‘Sir Richard would not be enamoured to find them camped around his home,’ Forrester said, staring up a
t the house, the vapour from his breath rising in a white puff above their heads. ‘Still, it’s as good a place as any to watch the road.’

  ‘You’ve been here before, sir?’ Burton asked.

  ‘I have been past here many times,’ Forrester replied. ‘London is to the east, the main highway toward Windsor runs through Brentford old town and up past here.’ They had travelled along the Great West Road for a short time after crossing the Thames. The house perched on the highway’s southern edge. It was a perfect place to set pickets. ‘If the talks fail and Charles chooses to attack, he’ll have to come through here.’

  ‘Why, sir?’ Burton said. ‘Could he not sail down the Thames, or swarm his army across country, rather than funnelling them down such a narrow road?’

  ‘Aye, it’s not impossible. But Parliament controls the river upstream and will have artillery pointed direct at the water. Our boats would be kindling inside an hour.’

  Burton nodded. ‘And a land assault?’

  ‘It is winter,’ Stryker took up the explanation. ‘The fields are sodden and treacherous. No good for a large army on the march. And besides, they are not open. The land hereabouts is all turned to pasture. It is not a great expanse of fair-meadow like Kineton, but a patchwork of ditch and enclosure, else the livestock would be lost to the hills and the river.’

  ‘You saw how we laboured along the main roads to Banbury, Ensign,’ Forrester said. ‘It was tough going, but we had no alternative, for it is an even slower march that must negotiate hedgerow after hedgerow. And if battle were joined while on that march, cavalry would be rendered next to useless, for they could muster only the weakest of charges.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Charles is confined to the road.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a musketeer from the house. He made his way across the flagstones that swept along the front of the building and on to the muddy path where the cart and its guards were stood. He was a youngster, with wispy red fluff for a beard, and he spoke briefly with one of his comrades, who in turn stepped forward.

  ‘Right, lads,’ he said, his head obscured by a cloud of vapour as he spoke. ‘Orders from the colonel. Let’s get this lot inside. Stick ’em in the cellar.’

  ‘I hope there’s sufficient wine for us down there,’ Lancelot Forrester said as the rear of the cart was unbolted. ‘A passable claret would go down rather nicely.’ He addressed the company in general. ‘I once played King Lear in a cellar. The stage floor caved in, all rotten you see, so they moved the whole production down with the barrels. By the final act there wasn’t a sober man, woman or child in the house. Great fun. Now where was it?’

  ‘Shut yer face!’ the nearest of the red-coated guards snarled as he approached the cart. He was tall, reedy and blue from the cold. ‘Out you get then, you popish arse’oles,’ he sneered, a bubble of slime blooming at one of his nostrils.

  The redcoat sidled up to the cart, peering from one face to the next, counting them off on his fingers. As he laid eyes on Stryker, he cocked his head to the side like a curious animal. ‘Stone me, Ben!’ he called to one of his colleagues. ‘Ever seen an uglier bugger ’an this?’

  Stryker head-butted him.

  It wasn’t a heavy blow, for Stryker had been craning upwards to reach the tall guard, but its speed and trajectory caught the musketeer flat-footed and unprepared. Stryker’s forehead hammered into the Parliamentarian’s mouth, turning purple lips red, smashing into the teeth beyond. As the lanky soldier crumpled to the frozen ground, whimpering like a puppy, his comrades surged forward. Blades were scraped clear of scabbards, muskets levelled.

  ‘Hold! Hold I say!’ Tainton had stalked from the house on hearing the commotion and strode into the thick of the redcoated, angry throng. ‘That man is my prisoner. As are the others. Harm them and you’ll have me to deal with.’

  ‘But look what ’e done, sir,’ one of Holles’s men remonstrated, pointing a grimy finger at his prone friend, who was fingering his mouth. ‘We should ’ang ’im.’

  Tainton rounded on the soldier. ‘You’ll do as I say, Corporal,’ he snapped, his voice full of patrician authority. ‘Retribution for this man’s crimes will be fast on his heels, I can assure you, but not before I command it.’ He glanced down at the crumpled form of the injured musketeer. ‘Yon fellow got a little too close. That is the sum of it. Take it as a warning and hold him at arm’s length. The captain is dangerous as an adder.’ Tainton about-turned and strode back towards the house.

  ‘What about the prisoners, sir?’

  ‘God’s teeth, Corporal, lock them up!’ Tainton called angrily over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 16

  Stryker and his men were herded into a cellar. Fetters removed, they were manhandled from the cart and prodded through the house’s dark corridors until they reached a hatch in the floor at the rear of the building.

  Sir Richard Wynn clearly took pride in his fine cellar of wines and various other intoxicants, the produce of the oast houses of Kent, the vineyards of Provence and beyond.

  Descending the stone steps into the bowels of the house, Lancelot Forrester had reverently gazed upon the tightly stacked barrels and translucent amphorae that lined the damp walls. ‘I’ faith, but he knows how to take care of himself.’

  ‘Surprised the butcher boys haven’t had a proper pot-walk already,’ Skellen said, his deep-set eyes sepulchral in the gloom. They had all reached the hard flagstones of the floor now and it was very dark, but the tall sergeant’s wiry frame was outlined by the light that dribbled through the open hatch above them.

  ‘The curse of abstinence,’ Forrester replied sorrowfully. He was tracing the outer limits of the cellar, feeling his way around the barrels and clattering into the great glass jars. ‘Denzil’s lads are Puritans in the main, Sergeant. They wouldn’t even know what to do with all this.’

  ‘All the more for us then, sir,’ Burton said, wincing slightly.

  ‘Indeed, Ensign,’ Forrester agreed enthusiastically. ‘Despite the circumstances, I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.’ He raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Burton, but the latter didn’t rise to the bait for once.

  ‘Touch the drink and I’ll kill you myself,’ Stryker growled. ‘I need you all sharp.’

  ‘For what, beg’ pardon, sir?’ Burton asked, adding the courtesy hastily. ‘If we’re to die down here, or presently—’

  ‘We’re not going to die, Ensign,’ Stryker said, but before he could continue a hollow patter of boots tapping down the stone stairs echoed around the room.

  ‘I trust you are comfortable?’ Roger Tainton asked. Makepeace was with him, his face split in a sharp-toothed foxy grin. The hulking form of Malachi Bain followed them through the hatch, lumbering slowly down into the dark depths.

  The newcomers reached the cold stone floor and paced back and forth before their captives, reminding Stryker of a pack of wolves he had once seen in the forests after the Battle of Lutzen. The pack had eventually closed upon their hapless prey. He winced at the memory, for the prey had been a Bavarian aristocrat, and he had screamed and flailed and bled until finally vanishing amid a blur of frenzied jaws and matted pelts. It had been Stryker’s blade that had opened the German’s guts, sending the smell of a fresh wound drifting into the forest.

  ‘I see you’re still in league with this treacherous snake,’ Forrester was saying to Tainton, jerking his head towards Makepeace.

  ‘Come now, Lancelot,’ Makepeace interjected. ‘I am hardly treacherous. Only a loyal servant to God and His Parliament. Captain Tainton and I share similar goals.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘To reach London. I have Sir Randolph safe. Captain Tainton, here, has you four as prisoners.’

  ‘Then why do we remain here?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘Sadly,’ it was Tainton who replied, ‘duty prevents us from escorting you to Westminster. At least for now. We are bound to Brentford until there is peace.’

  ‘Then we have a long wait,’ said Str
yker.

  When their captors had gone, the four Royalists searched the cellar once more, aided by narrow chinks of light that forced their way through the gaps at the sides of the hatch. But their efforts discovered nothing useful. It was a square room with a low ceiling and no features save the staircase. The barrels were pushed tight to one another but, after heaving them apart, it was clear that they hid nothing but the damp, slime-smeared walls. Neither a hole nor a weak point could be found in the solid structure.

  It was a cold night, and the group stayed close to share their warmth. As they shivered they winced, wounds old and fresh complaining. Skellen had a gash on his forearm that remained livid and leaked blood through his dirty bandage, while Burton had suffered a number of knocks in the fight at Langrish and the forest ambush. Forrester had cuts along his knuckles and a long, angry stripe where a sword had sliced him above the ear. Stryker’s own injuries still plagued him, throbbing uncontrollably when he shifted his position on the hard ground.

  Above them, in the warmth of a small reception room, elegantly furnished and warmed by a substantial hearth, Eli Makepeace enjoyed a brandy. He leant back in his comfortable chair and took a brief sip. Grimacing pleasurably as the liquid burned his throat, he glanced up. ‘We must remove ourselves, and our honoured guest, from this infernal place as soon as we are able.’

  Bain had been holding out calloused palms towards the roaring flames, eager to absorb the heat. He looked down with a puzzled stare. ‘What’s so infernal about it? We’ve g-got the spy, T-Tainton’s protecting us and we’ve reached the rebel lines. What more d’you want?’

  Makepeace glowered. ‘You will address me correctly, Sergeant!’

  ‘Sir,’ Bain added.

  Makepeace took another sip, before meeting his sergeant’s cold stare. ‘What I want is to reach safety. You think that pompous prig Tainton has our best interests at heart? Of course he doesn’t. You’re right; we have succeeded in securing Moxcroft. But where are we? Bloody Brentford, that’s where. The war’s front fucking line!’