Suddenly, amid the anarchic melee, a cry went up from the purple-coated side, a terrified, panicked scream that sent heads turning.
‘Cavalry! Cavalry!’ the man was wailing, and as his comrades followed his petrified gaze, their eyes fell upon a vision of hell. Horsemen were weaving between the buildings to their right, the north side of High Street, and it was clear from their cries, their crimson sashes and their many standards that they were the king’s cavalry. Rupert’s men had ridden around the town and skirted beyond the barricade, surging down through Old Brentford from the north.
Lord Brooke’s men were outflanked and outmanoeuvred.
And then, with a crack of splintering wood, the fences and thick-hewn spikes and all the furniture that had been taken by force from the homes of the townsfolk came crashing down. Like the locusts that had plagued biblical Egypt, exultant Royalist soldiers swarmed through the gaps in their dozens. The Roundheads ran for their lives. The barricade was breached.
Just below the great barricade, at the back of a house that had been barred and bolted shut by residents too stubborn to leave, Eli Makepeace and Sir Randolph Moxcroft had found a bolthole.
It was a little shed, a wooden structure to the rear of one of the big houses overlooking the road. Makepeace had tried to break into the building, but the thick oaken door had resisted the attentions of his boot heel with sturdy ease. Abandoning the premises, Makepeace and Moxcroft had looked over the adjacent property, anxious to conceal themselves before the victorious Cavaliers arrived. But that next building appeared just as strong, just as secure, and Makepeace knew that the gardens would have to suffice.
‘What if the barricade falls?’ Sir Randolph had asked as Makepeace dragged him round the side of the house.
‘When it falls,’ Makepeace corrected. ‘They will not keep that lot at bay for long. They’re just stalling for time. That’s all this is about. If the rebels can prevent the king from reaching the outskirts of the capital by nightfall, he’ll have to wait for dawn to press home the attack. And by then, Parliament will have heard the news of Brentford, they’ll have embellished the gory detail and roused the Trained Bands and citizens to the cause. If every man jack of ’em ’ll turn out to defend the city, they might just stand a chance.’
‘So what happens to us?’
‘We, Sir Randolph, are going to hide. God knows what’s happened to Bain, but I do not suppose it’s anything good, seeing as Stryker appears to have emerged from the cellar unscathed. So it is just the two of us. And without a ready means of transportation, we are trapped in this God-forsaken town. So we’ll hide until the king’s men either flounder at the barricade, which I doubt, or until they knock it flat and march on to London. They’ll leave a garrison behind, naturally, but we’ll play at being good citizens of Brentford and we might just get away.’
Makepeace had come close to soiling his breeches when he’d first cast his eyes to the foot of the slope. He had known the Royalists would be streaming across the bridge and into New Brentford soon, but that did nothing to assuage his shock at seeing the massed ranks so close. As soon as the foremost enemy units rounded the bend at the foot of the sloping road, he realized that he and Moxcroft would be overrun. They were agonizingly close to the vast barricade at the top of the highway, where new town became old, but with the cripple on his back they were never likely to reach the safety of Lord Brooke’s purplecoats in time. He had been tempted to dump his burden and sprint into the fields, or even jump headlong into the Thames, but then he remembered his master. He might evade Stryker this day, but the master – as sure as hell’s fires burned hot – would track him down and inflict a far worse death.
So the turncoat and the spy had made for the houses to the right of the road, close to the protection offered by the barricade. When they first discovered the shed it had been filled with kindling, keeping it dry for winter’s coldest months, but Makepeace scrabbled at the thick splints of oak until there was enough space for two men to lie. He had helped Moxcroft into position first, shifting the immobile legs into the necessary curve to allow his own body to squeeze in. And there they stayed.
Lisette Gaillard found Tainton’s bay stallion outside the boat-builder’s, tethered to a post. The horse did not appreciate this strange new mistress at first, but Lisette was an able rider and quickly managed to gain control. She trotted down the passageway between the workshop and a tannery, until she reached the yards at the rear of the buildings.
Once she was safely away from the immediate battle she jumped down from the saddle, feet squelching in the passageway’s chilly mud, and fished a hand within the bag to withdraw the stone. It was everything she had imagined; big and gleaming, rich shards of deepest scarlet glowing against her palm. But Lisette had noted Tainton’s goading words, his talk of the ruby being nothing compared with God’s true plan. At first she had thought him simply pious, a Puritan heretic spouting the usual zealous diatribe, but something about his mocking had perturbed her.
She plunged her hand inside the bag again and pulled out the brooch and posy ring. They were exactly as Henrietta Maria had described; of good quality, finely crafted, the sort of item befitting the Queen of England, but nothing exceptional. Feeling in the pouch again, she laid fingers on a brittle square of parchment, folded tight and unassuming. She drew it from the bag and carefully opened the yellowing scrap to reveal the contents. What she read almost turned her knees to jelly, and she had to steady herself by gripping a nearby water trough. She read it again. And again.
‘Mon Dieu,’ she whispered. ‘Mon Dieu.’
Lisette leapt back on to the saddle. All she had to do was gallop down the slope to the place where the road curved, and take the spur left across the land around St Lawrence’s church. Beyond the church was her coracle. If she could reach it, she would be able to get away from this place, to take the ruby and – her heart raced at the thought – the parchment away from enemy clutches.
But as she looked around her to check her path was clear, Lisette had an excellent view across the yards and gardens of the entire row of buildings. And she noticed something she knew Stryker would want to see.
And then she was galloping up High Street and towards the barricade. Even from several hundred paces away she could see the king’s forces had made a breach, streaming between and beyond the various objects piled together to form the makeshift parapet. Lisette was not interested in the skirmish; she was only interested in Stryker. Even in the midst of the elation she felt at defeating Tainton and her relief at knowing her mission was so nearly complete, Lisette could not abandon the man to whom she owed so much.
The Parliamentarians were in utter disarray. Even the most optimistic of them had begun the day with a fear that the barricade would crumble in the face of the Royalist onslaught, but after withstanding the attentions of five different regiments they could not help but believe a miracle might now be possible. If they had kept the ordnance trained upon the men at the foot of the slope, then perhaps that miracle might have happened on this misty afternoon, but hidden sharpshooters in the doorway of a butcher’s shop had gunned down their artillery crews, leaving the cannon empty and silent. The sixth unit to advance to push of pike had proved to be one too many stresses to bear for the beleaguered regiments of Denzil Holles and Lord Brooke. Now those men – ranks splintered, discipline destroyed – would be forced to stand and fight against the king’s vengeful multitude.
Stryker had battered his way beyond the barricade in those first moments after the breach was made. The noise was a cacophony. A crashing, thunderous cauldron of screams and snarls and drums and steel and explosions and weeping and vomiting.
The man he chose to fight first seemed to have whatever bravery he possessed sapped out of him. He lowered his weapon, perhaps with a vain thought of surrender, but Stryker was through him in a moment, shattering his face with the butt-end of his empty musket.
The next man was there immediately and he swept the proffered tuck aside
contemptuously, the cheap weapon snapping on the musket’s stock. With one hand Stryker reached for the Roundhead’s collar and dragged him forward, splitting the man’s nose with a vicious head-butt. The man staggered back, blinded by blood, and Stryker clubbed him aside. He felt the infantryman’s arm break beneath the weight of the blow, but ignored the man’s scream as he strode on.
And there, as the land sloped away from the tattered remnants of the barricade, stood the packed buildings of Old Brentford. Brooke’s men were retreating along the road, and civilians were dashing between homes and businesses in panicked frenzy.
Stryker watched them, a pang of guilt stabbing at him as he saw their terror in the face of the Royalist advance. This was their town, these buildings their livelihoods, and they could do nothing but hide, wait out the carnage and pray to God for protection.
The cold stab of steel replaced the stab of guilt, and Stryker realized that a dirk had scraped against his ribs. He dropped the musket and swore as burning pain careered along his diaphragm. Cursing himself for the lapse in concentration, he swivelled around to see a purple-coated soldier wielding the offending weapon. The blow had been wild, inaccurate, for the soldier was already wounded and could barely stand. Stryker kicked him in the chest, where a musket-ball had evidently entered, and the man crumpled with a great shudder and a cough of blood.
Stryker looked around, scanning the chaos for a glimpse of his two comrades. As he searched the bodies – both prone and standing – his eye fell upon the rangy figure of Will Skellen. The sergeant was holding court, his halberd, the blade glistening now, sweeping back and forth in great horizontal arcs, cleaving as it went. The men coming against him were numerous, but the tall, lithe man from the south coast went at them with all the serenity of a farmer cutting wheat with his great scythe.
Ahead was Captain Forrester. The man, all florid face and sweaty jowls, was screaming at one of Brooke’s men with livid ferocity. He parried a heavy blow from a long sword and whipped his own blade down the length of the opposing steel as the weapons clashed. The move, executed at the speed of a striking snake, sent his blade ricocheting off his enemy’s guard and into the purplecoat’s upper arm. With a shrill cry the Roundhead saw that his bicep was torn open, and as he stared in horror at the gaping wound, his fingers seemed to lose their feeling and he released the sword. It was over before the man could wrest his gaze from the split flesh, and Forrester moved with deceptive agility to face the next man who fancied his chances.
‘Captain!’ a warning cry snapped from somewhere behind Stryker. He turned to see a Parliamentarian pikeman lurching at him, mouth peeled back in a yellow-toothed leer, a short-handled axe raised high in his right hand.
Stryker saw the attack and just managed to lurch backwards as the axe plunged down from above his assailant’s head. The cutting edge passed excruciatingly close to Stryker’s face, for he felt the air part alongside his chin, but the blow missed. The Parliamentarian tried to bring his weapon up in a back-handed swipe, but Stryker stepped close and jammed his elbow into the man’s throat. The attacker stumbled back, gargling pain and anger as spittle frothed at his lips.
Stryker strode on, turning back to see that a blue-coated corporal – one of Rivers’ boys – was engaged in a desperate struggle. He had lost his tuck and was locked in an embrace with a big man in Holles’s red uniform.
The big Roundhead collapsed suddenly, the air hissing from his lungs like a great pair of bellows. Stryker jerked the dirk free, twisting it so that the suction of the flesh would be broken, and nodded to the corporal. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said. ‘Consider the debt repaid.’
The corporal grinned.
‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ Skellen’s voice chopped through Stryker’s whirling thoughts. ‘The houses! They went into one of those houses!’
Patrick Ruthven’s black mount twitched nervously as he cantered through the town.
The order to send Rupert’s cavalry into the fray had signalled the final death knell for Lord Brooke’s courageous regiment. They had cut and run in the face of the victorious Royalist infantry, but remained defiant in small pockets along London Road. The cavalry had ended that, for the few Parliamentarians who continued to fight were not able to withstand a mounted charge. Ruthven had ordered the town purged of rebels, and it had been done.
Now Ruthven, the Earl of Forth, commander of the king’s army, would take the remainder of his twelve-thousand-strong force and make good his victory. They would stay on London Road and consolidate this crushing blow by sweeping through Chiswick and then Hammersmith and beyond until they were at the gates of London itself. He had a vision of offering the king his own horse, leading him in to cries of welcome from loyal subjects.
Brentford had made it possible.
‘A good day’s work, Marcus!’ Ruthven called to the nearest staff officer.
The man twisted in his saddle to catch the earl’s eye. He nodded sagely, ‘Aye, right enough, my lord. God’s mercies abound.’
Ruthven laughed. ‘Lord love you, Marcus, but you’re a pious wretch! At least you’re on our side!’
One of Prince Rupert’s aides galloped in from the fields beyond Old Brentford’s eastern fringe.
‘Compliments of His Royal Highness, my lord,’ the messenger said breathlessly.
‘Well? Spit it out, man!’ the earl barked.
‘Our cavalry has the field, my lord. Their right flank scattered into enclosures to the north. We circled around them. Cut them down in their scores, sir. The left flank routed. Most took their chances in the Thames.’
Ruthven nodded his satisfaction. Dozens – perhaps hundreds – would have died attempting to swim the deathly cold river. ‘All is well, then.’ He patted his horse’s muscular neck, feeling comfort in the trusty beast’s solid lines and raw strength. After a moment, he glanced up at the rider. ‘We can advance on the city’s gates before Essex musters his field army.’ He raised his voice so all his staff officers could hear. ‘That’s the crux of the matter, gentlemen! Get to London before the rebels have time to turn out their full force.’
‘And the Bands, sir,’ a nearby major added.
‘Aye,’ Ruthven agreed. ‘Skippon’s Trained Bands add a fair few thousand to their tally. We must reach the city before they have time to organize a defence.’
The aide cleared his throat nervously. ‘That is the second part of the message, my lord. Greencoats. Hampden’s regiment. They’re blocking the road.’
Ruthven’s shoulders sagged. ‘Then the day is not yet done,’ he said quietly. ‘Where?’
‘Open fields outside the town, sir. Toward Turnham Green.’
CHAPTER 20
A portion of Ruthven’s units – those paying the highest price at the barricades – were afforded respite. The earl would have to leave a force to garrison the newly conquered Brentford, and that posting would be their reward. The majority, however, were ordered to continue straight through the town. They were to hammer home the Royalist advantage, to get as near to London as possible before the dying light failed entirely.
Captain Stryker was back on High Street, standing amid the carnage of the destroyed barricade. All about him were bodies, mostly marked by their uniforms of red and purple, though some carried the blue or tawny of the Royalist ranks. He ignored them. The men he sought had not fought bravely for either side. He peeled away from what was left of the defensive work, and ran to the buildings on the right-hand side of the road.
With the Roundhead position shattered, he reached the houses unhindered and kicked the door of the first, smashing its hinges. As soon as he crossed the threshold he was set upon by a Parliamentarian corporal who had secreted himself in a dark corner. He beat the man senseless with his fists before striding into the first room. In moments Forrester and Skellen were at his back and he turned to them. ‘Search every room! Every corner!’
The first enemy troops to come past the woodshed were Salusbury’s men. Makepeace, balled in the foetal posi
tion with Moxcroft lying silently curled behind, could not see them, but the Welsh accents were unmistakable. Curled in the mildewed darkness, the scent of ripe wood swirling around him, Makepeace willed the Royalists to move on. He clamped his eyes shut, held his breath, kept the tightest check on his every muscle. They were close – agonizingly close – and he found himself wishing he had collected a discarded sword before taking up this position.
The soldiers had evidently abandoned the skirmish, for they seemed to be moving aimlessly. And then he smelled the haze of alcohol. It wafted, acidic and strong, into the shed, overpowering even the tang of mould and wood. The men were drunk. The odours of ale, wine and spirits mingled in the gathering dusk. Makepeace silently cursed. The Royalists, like any victorious army, were ransacking the town for drink and anything else lootable.
Eventually, after several terrible minutes had ticked past, the soldiers began to drift away, melting back into the tall shadows cast by Brentford’s houses. Perhaps they were seeking further spoils, perhaps they were responding to the faint sound of beating drums echoing in from the east. ‘Jesu,’ Makepeace whispered.
‘Come,’ Moxcroft’s voice came from behind him. ‘Let us take our leave of this cursed place.’
‘No,’ Makepeace said. ‘We should wait until dark.’
‘But the damned Royalists are sacking the town, Captain. They are cupshot already. We must get out while we can, before they regain control of this rabble and set a proper garrison.’
There was wisdom in those words. Makepeace relented. ‘Fine, Sir Randolph. Have it your way. But we cannot simply stroll away. You are not as light as you may look.’
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