They moved on through the parting crowd. ‘Will he come?’ Armitage asked.
Sir Richard Byron halted as another piece of ordnance boomed from the direction of the Spittal. A reply barked from Newark’s battlements. He met Armitage’s gaze levelly. ‘I pray he will.’
‘And has he the strength to defeat Meldrum?’
Byron glanced left and right, ensuring no one was within earshot. Then he shook his head. ‘No.’
16 March 1644
The castle at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, grown from a fortified manor house, was the axle around which Royalist spokes turned in a county largely hostile to the Crown. The estate, already eminently defensible with towers of grey stone and high walls, had been further strengthened by the man with whom Major Innocent Stryker now shared a hearty and welcome repast.
‘Cleared many of the trees out on the park,’ muttered Sir Henry Hastings, High Sheriff of Leicestershire and First Baron Loughborough, through a mouthful of fresh bread and roasted pork. He reached for a deep pewter goblet, took a long draught of claret and wiped his whiskered lips with a leathery sleeve. ‘Pity. A lovely scene thus obliterated. But the destruction affords a practicable killing field into which we may fire from the rampart.’
Stryker skewered a hunk of hard-edged cheese with a small knife, inspecting the ragged cube as he spoke. ‘And the earthwork is a new addition, my lord?’
Like Stryker, Loughborough had lost his left eye, and now he sat back, lifting the black patch with the forefinger of one hand and rubbing the ruined socket beneath with the thumb of the other. ‘Aye, Major, it is,’ he said, in reference to the shallow ditch that encircled the modest fortress. ‘Thrown up in haste, I’ll admit, but it’ll do for the moment. The bastards do not strive as far as my gates. Not yet, at least.’
Stryker popped the cheese into the side of his mouth, revelling in the tart tang. He nodded. Sir Henry Hastings had been made a baron for his services to the king during the first year of the war. Aside from sacrificing an eye for the cause, the man had launched attack after attack from his base at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and had carved a fearsome reputation for himself. Stryker did not doubt that the rebels in the region would steer a wide berth around the castle until such time as their strength was unassailable. Indeed, this was precisely why Stryker had come to Ashby. There had probably been pockets of Royalist strength much closer to North Muskham. Father Bertram had suggested a force at Wiverton Hall in particular, but that place was perilously close to the town of Bingham, and Bingham was known to support a sizable Roundhead troop. Ashby Castle, however, was home to a man known to be fearless in the face of so many enemies. Moreover, Loughborough had a significant force of his own.
The four Royalist fugitives had struck south from St Wilfrid’s church, staying close enough to the Fosse Way to follow its route, but keeping tight to the protection of trees and hedgerows. They saw two mounted patrols on the great Roman thoroughfare. Neither were distinct in allegiance, for their field signs were sprigs of dark brown – hawthorn, perhaps – and not known to Stryker, but it seemed likely, given the area’s sensibilities, that they would be Parliamentarians. They had stayed still and silent on both occasions, letting the patrols trot past, and had veered further away from the road when it led them into the dangerous land around Bingham. Nottingham, away to the west, and Grantham to the east were also hubs for the Parliament, and they were forced to move only in darkness after the first day, keeping to the most difficult terrain in the hope that enemy parties would not risk their horses’ ankles amid such mired earth. By the third night, in torrential rain, they finally pushed far enough to swing westward, reaching the rapidly swelling River Soar just before dawn. It took longer than they had hoped to join a sunken bridleway and locate the lichen-clothed stone bridge Father Bertram had mentioned, but, as the rain finally ebbed and the woods crackled under a weak sun, they had crossed into Loughborough’s territory. Within an hour they had encountered a flying column of light cavalry, the sun bright against ribbons and scarfs of Cavalier red.
‘And you would have me march to Byron’s aid, Major?’ Loughborough asked now.
‘I would, my lord.’ In reality, of course, Stryker was less concerned with the relief of the town than with the obliteration of Meldrum’s siege-works, for it was within that encampment that one Lornell McCroskey, the most effective spy for the Committee for Both Kingdoms, had found his bolt-hole.
Loughborough pursed his lips. ‘All to the good,’ he muttered, non-committaly. They were in the great hall now, a rectangular space with tiled floor, thick stone walls and a huge hearth at one end. It was dark outside, for they had been made to wait several hours for Loughborough to return from a raid upon a nearby Roundhead outpost, but still the rich colours of the large stained glass windows depicting the Hastings coat of arms glowed. Loughborough, Stryker and Hood were seated at the head table, nearest the flames dancing below the spit, and half a dozen of the garrison’s highest ranking officers had joined them. On another table there were officers of more junior status, while other men, valued enough to be invited to dine, but too lowly to share food with Loughborough’s more esteemed guests, had been accommodated at the far end of the room. Barkworth and Skellen were there, seeming content enough with so welcome a meal spread before them.
The baron leaned in on magnificently upholstered elbows. ‘Hopton,’ he said abruptly.
Stryker was caught off guard. ‘General Hopton, my lord?’
‘Not the man, Stryker, the place! Hopton Heath. You were there, were you not?’
‘I was there, my lord.’
‘A hot fight,’ Loughborough barked, slapping the table so that he startled his fellow diners into straight-backed attention. He gazed at each man in turn. ‘Many of you had not joined my hardy band back then. Almost a year ago to this day.’ His single eye, dark and slim of brow, darted back to Stryker. ‘Poor Northampton cut down, of course.’
‘And many more besides.’
Loughborough’s eye crinkled a touch as he looked at Stryker, and Stryker returned the stare. Sir Henry Hastings, as he had been at Hopton Fight, had aged in the year since that bloody battle. He was still handsome, for the patch covered whatever grotesque residue the rebel pistol ball had left behind, and his clothes were cut with the same lace-fringed extravagance that marked him as the archetypal Cavalier. But there were more wrinkles at his brow than Stryker remembered, and slim streaks of silver shimmered in his long hair. His cheeks were darker now, stained by powder burns, and his hands were visibly calloused. Stryker knew they were almost exactly the same age, and he wondered whether the other men looked upon his own face with the same thoughts. Loughborough sat back, snapping his fingers as if some great epiphany had struck him. ‘You made a name for yourself on Hopton field.’
‘As did you, my lord,’ replied Stryker, recalling the repeated cavalry charges led by Loughborough against a ridge crammed with rebel pike and shot.
‘Zounds, man, cease your arse licking and answer the question,’ the baron snapped. He levelled a finger at Stryker’s chest. ‘You were with Northampton when he perished. Almost saved his skin.’
The Royalist commander at Hopton Heath had been Spencer Compton, the Earl of Northampton. He had been a courageous leader, but reckless too, and he had found himself unhorsed in the aftermath of one of the crashing charges that marked the day’s slaughter. Stryker had been with him, and had cut a swathe through the swarm of grey-coated Parliamentarians as they had surrounded the earl. Northampton had been cut down just as Stryker had reached him. ‘Almost, my lord,’ he repeated.
Loughborough sighed. ‘With every fight, we lose more good men. Soon there will be none left.’ He blinked hard, looking around the table at the rapt faces. ‘Mark me well, my lads, this is one such man.’ The goblet was in his hand, and he raised it suddenly. ‘To Sergeant-Major Stryker. A hunter of the king’s enemies, and an example to us all.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Stryker said, deeply embarrassed.
‘You are a fortunate man to have such a tutor,’ Loughborough shouted out to Lieutenant Hood.
Hood, seated at the far end of the long table and awed into silence for much of the evening, simply offered a lopsided nod. ‘My lord.’
Loughborough glanced at the goblet in Hood’s grip. ‘In vino veritas!’
Stryker was as irritated by Lieutenant Hood’s wine-addled gawking as by the cup-shot catcalls of Barkworth and Skellen echoing from the far end of the hall. He would chastise the entire group when the meal was done, but he sensed there was more to come. Loughborough’s eye had narrowed. ‘My lord?’ he prompted tentatively, feeling akin to a speared hog.
Loughborough’s grin was shark-like. ‘You will return to Newark. Keep that grey eye of yours on Meldrum.’
Stryker almost spat out his bread. ‘My lord? But will you not help, sir? Newark must be saved. The intelligencer, McCroskey, must be brought to heel.’
Loughborough smiled. ‘We are aware of events at Newark, Major. Well aware and well readied. The prince rides to Sir Richard Byron’s aid.’
Stryker did not bother to hide his surprise. ‘Prince Rupert?’
‘The same, sir. He has linked with Tillier’s foot at Bridgnorth.’ Loughborough snatched up a scrap of crumpled vellum from the table beside his trencher. He waved it at Stryker. ‘Or so this morning’s message claimed. The same message ordered my own forces ready to move, and to have the enclosures between here and Newark laid open.’
Stryker was beginning to grasp the situation. Rupert would want to move quickly, and the state of the roads meant that a new passage through the countryside would need to be cut.
‘So you see, Major,’ Loughborough continued, ‘We will soon welcome the prince to Ashby, and then, as one body, we shall march to destroy Meldrum. Your wish will be granted.’
‘And I, my lord?’
Loughborough shrugged. ‘When the prince arrives, he will demand to know everything, from the number of guns Meldrum possesses, right down to how many fleas infest his coat. Who better to send than you, Major? The grand rebel-hunter!’
‘Very well, my lord,’ Stryker said. How could he refuse?
‘Then we are of one mind.’ The baron beamed. ‘And when Prince Rupert arrives, we will smash the rebel horde together.’ He gulped down more wine. ‘Come now, Stryker, do not be so glum. We shall soon kill Roundheads, sir! Is that not why you joined His Majesty’s army in the first place?’
Stryker considered this. He had joined a company of English cut-throats when he was little more than a lad, because he had been hungry, and because the alternative had been a noose and a short drop. In the fearsome contest that raged across Europe, he had learnt his trade, earned his reputation and lost an eye. And when war had torn the nation of his birth apart, he had simply followed it home. ‘Aye, sir,’ he lied. ‘That, and my loyalty to the king.’
‘Quite right, Stryker,’ Loughborough brayed to the rafters. ‘You’ll wish to make haste, I dare say. You will depart, with my heartiest blessings, before first light!’
17 March 1644
The three deer roamed in the half-light along a hoof-worn track that traced the hill’s grassy crest. They moved in single file, the big stag out in front, a reddish doe behind and brittle-legged fawn in the rear, always attentive, heads jerking quickly up whenever a bird took flight from one of the nearby bushes, but never panicked. Stryker, squatting within the unforgiving embrace of a dense gorse thicket, ignored his burning thighs and kept his breaths shallow. He watched them pass, less than a hundred paces away, noting the lazy way in which all three grazed, their profiles dark against the gathering murk.
Beacon Hill was the nearest piece of high ground to Newark, providing a good view of the town. It seemed the most logical place from which one might gauge the disposition of Sir John Meldrum’s forces, but, for that very reason, seemed likely to be heavily guarded. But as Stryker had tied his horse in an ancient copse a mile to the south-west, it had quickly become apparent that the summit, visible from afar due to the scarcity of trees, was bare of soldiers. Having ridden hard from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, by way of Kinoulton to change his mount, the vantage point was something of a godsend. Now, after spending almost two hours on the promontory, he was satisfied with his work. He checked the deer again. Any approaching patrols would startle them long before Stryker discerned the threat, but they continued to graze in the greying dusk. Satisfied, he lifted the leather-bound perspective glass borrowed from a generous Lord Loughborough, and pressed it to his eye. The instinct to shut his missing left eye was overwhelming, and he felt the puckered skin convulse. Doing his best to ignore the sensation, he trained the glass on the town below. Newark seemed sleepy from up here, its rooftops of tile and thatch clustered close, quickly vanishing in the haze of a dying day and the funnels of meandering woodsmoke that marked each hearth. Soon, he thought, those fires would be snuffed out one by one as the fuel ran out. After a while their food would run out too, and then the true horror of war would descend. He had seen it in Germany.
Stryker moved the glass, carefully tracing the line of Newark’s old wall. It protected the eastern side, as the River Trent protected the west, but he was impressed with what had been added in more recent times. Loughborough had given him a basic map of the area, but it had not contained more modern features. The land around the medieval stone wall had been cleared and flattened so that it was now a desolate plain, devoid of trees or hedgerows or houses. It was a killing field, an open space where attackers would be afforded no shelter from Newark’s guns. Between the killing field and the old wall there ran a line of earthworks that had been cut from the soil by hand and axe. Two wide brown slashes in the turf marked twin barriers: an outer ditch and an inner. The outer ditch was relatively small – no more than a few feet wide and probably the same deep – but it would still form a difficult obstacle for any attacker to cross. Moreover, Stryker expected the base of that first trench to be lined with small, thorny bushes, from which the defenders would have hung bells, so that any man thinking to creep across undetected would inadvertently raise the alarm and find himself riddled with musket balls. Above the first ditch was an embankment that had been rammed smooth and angled so that it might deflect incoming cannon balls, and beyond that was a walkway for Newark’s musketeers to patrol. Immediately behind the walkway, dropping away to a depth Stryker could not discern, was the very core of the works. The inner ditch was, he guessed, around thirty feet wide, though it might have been more. It would be faced with sheer spoil slopes that were timber-clad and impossible to scale, and, like its smaller sibling, was capped by an angled embankment that would send projectiles skittering away. The whole site was joined together by stout bastions lined with sharpened stakes, soldiers moving back and forth along their protected parapets, the occasional billow of smoke marking a potshot aimed towards the siege lines.
To a raw recruit the defences would appear formidable, but Stryker knew that it was not the fearsome network it seemed. In the earlier daylight he had been able to conduct a cursory count of Sir Richard Byron’s artillery positions, each black piece gleaming from its battery along the walls, and he was fairly certain the defenders had fewer than a dozen cannon – not enough to cause significant damage to a besieging force. Nor were the earthworks finished in stone, which would make them extremely vulnerable to the heavy guns Meldrum so clearly had at his disposal. Moreover, the huge encampment that the Parliamentarian army had set up around the charred ruin Loughborough had identified as the Spittal, was heavily fortified. They could launch a daring raid, perhaps through a hidden sally port in the wall, but all they might achieve would be their own quick slaughter.
Stryker moved the glass away from the lines of off-white tents clustered about the Spittal’s shallow ditch, instead trying to discern the lie of the land to the west. Newark Castle, pressed up against the Trent to guard the town bridge, blocked his view for the most part, but he could see the course of the river well enough. It divided above and bel
ow Newark, so that two separate branches flowed on its western side, cutting away an oval shaped piece of land that Loughborough’s map had labelled the Island. Even from this far out, he could see that a large number of troops had been placed on that section of flat fair-meadow. He could also see the bridge at its north end, where the Great North Road crossed the river on its way to the bridge below the castle walls. That northerly crossing was called Muskham Bridge, and two observations piqued his interest. Firstly, Muskham Bridge was protected, on its Island bank, by a small fort, pear-shaped and flat-topped. From its epicentre, rising proud and stark above the row of sharpened stakes intended to dissuade attack by cavalry, was a tall pole, the length of a pike. From that pole hung a flag that was instantly recognisable to Stryker, despite the distance across which he was squinting. It was tawny and yellow, with a thick-lettered motto daubed in black ink. He had seen that same colour fluttering between the trees during the firefight that had precipitated Lornell McCroskey’s escape. The second point of interest only confirmed Stryker’s assessment, for there was a new bridge now, its fresh cut timbers pale in the deepening gloom. Someone had built a bridge of boats, with planks set all the way across so that guns and horses might have a clear route. So Meldrum controlled Muskham Bridge, and had constructed a second crossing, which meant that he controlled the Island. Sir Richard Byron’s garrison was utterly cut off.
He lowered the perspective glass, considering the implication, just as the big stag looked up. This time the beast’s eyes shone, and Stryker could hear his staccato snort. In response, the doe turned to run, her fawn skittering after, both plunging down the side of the escarpment. The stag paused, canted his head as he sniffed the breeze, then turned to follow them, hooves thundering down the slope, antlers vanishing over the brow with a last shake. And Stryker followed.
The Prince's Gambit: Major Stryker and the the Relief of Newark Page 4
