James Palmer stood in the doorway, silent and watchful. Shadrach had taken a seat near the broken window after helping himself to a tankard of cider and sat down without waiting for permission. His cloak hung on a chair, and steam rose from it, fuelled by the fire in the grate. His breastplate was detached and lay next to his snapsack. Shadrach stroked the black scarf covering his neck, then his fingers darted to his sternum, as if wishing to scratch something, but reluctant to show the source of his discomfort to company.
A wound? Palmer saw a hint of puckered, grey tissue, but it was dissimilar to the scars criss-crossing the man’s features. There was something that looked…carved. Shadrach’s sapphire eyes turned in his direction, the scarf tightened, and the mysterious chest wound disappeared from view.
Palmer turned away, unwilling to hold the stranger’s questioning glare. He glanced at Sanders’s commanding officers and wondered what they would do next.
“A fearsome weapon, stranger. How did you come by it?” The hybrid was passed to Smythe, who looked suitably impressed; the first time Palmer had ever seen astonishment on the stone-faced colonel.
“I built it,” Shadrach said in a neutral tone. There was neither pride nor defensiveness in his answer.
“The wheel-lock mechanism is particularly fine, Shadrach,” Sanders said, sitting back, visibly at ease now that he had the strange weapon out of his hands. “You are to be congratulated, sir. You could teach the gunsmiths of Birmingham a thing or two.”
“No gunsmith in this country could – or rather, would – build that.”
Palmer felt the warmth of the fire dissipate and the chill of the damp evening settle into his flesh, mingling with the fatigue of the day’s battle and the evening’s reconnaissance ride into the woods. The words of Shadrach chilled him further. He referred to his weapon as though it were a thing to be loathed, feared, rather than a firearm that could win the war for a side who invested in its mass-production.
It was the stranger’s demonstration of its lethal power – as well as his own fighting prowess – that had made the colonels from Launceston hesitate over Shadrach’s fate. By his own admission, the man had killed two dragoons and seriously wounded an infantry sergeant. Any other company and he would have been hanged; shot if he was a recognised soldier.
But this was the Cursed Company, and life was as cheap and valueless for those within its ranks as it was for the Royalists they killed. A man such as Shadrach could have special uses in such a force.
That was the only explanation for the man to be permitted to sit and drink Sanders’s cider and stretch comfortably back on the chair as though this was his own home.
Sanders was nervous, kept trying to catch Palmer’s eye when Smythe and Boughton were looking elsewhere. The message was clear: the commanding officers from Launceston had brought bad news. Another mission, but one that even Sanders feared.
“Your powder cases are strange, also,” Smythe said. “They have the feel of parchment. Waxed, so I am certain they keep the powder dry.” He glanced knowingly at Palmer, and the captain flushed, fully aware of the implication.
“Wax?” Shadrach smiled without humour. “It is a lubricant of a sort. Ask me not where it came from.”
“I recognise the Arabic script, but I cannot decipher it. You have travelled far indeed, Shadrach, to acquire Mohammedan weaponry. And the blade, sir?” Smythe ran a finger along the curved edge, emitting a cold sigh of respect as the steel opened his skin and painted itself red. “I have not seen a metal like it. Sharp, undeniably lethal, yet light as paper. And these markings…”
Smythe angled the blade so the firelight danced on its curved edge. The orange reflection gave a chilling light to the blood and the strange engravings they highlighted. Alien symbols, not even runes, for they belonged to no language Palmer was aware of.
“Damascus steel, Colonel.” Shadrach drained the tankard and placed it on the table. He leant forwards and ran a finger along the flat of the blade, wiping it clean. “I would be careful how you feed it, sir. This blade has drunk more blood than you could ever imagine.”
“It is old, then?” Smythe said. Palmer detected a shudder in the colonel’s shoulders at Shadrach’s words.
“From the Crusades, Colonel. A family heirloom put to good use.” Shadrach lifted the weapon by the handle and pulled the lock. “Ancient weaponry and modern technology can be a powerful combination, and an invaluable aid to the fighting man, but alas, a double-edged one.”
No one spoke. The fire crackled and the hiss of steam from Palmer’s drying buff coat and Shadrach’s riding cloak accompanied the uneasy silence.
It was Sanders who spoke, and Palmer knew what was coming. There was to be no further interrogation of the stranger; no questioning of his accent and his origins; or the books he carried in his snapsack; not even his Christian name. Shadrach was a weapon to be used, just as every other man in the Cursed Company.
“Shadrach. Captain Palmer’s troop is to embark on a mission of the utmost importance. We would request you accompany him.”
Shadrach lowered his hybrid weapon and smiled broadly. “I do not take sides, lieutenant. You would ask me to fight fellow countrymen, men who have chosen the King’s side over the Parliament’s. Why should I?”
“Because we will win,” Boughton snapped. “It is time for all men to choose sides, Shadrach. Pray you do not choose the wrong one, for God is with us. Our cause is just, and cannot fail.”
Shadrach shook his head slowly, his smile fading. “I have heard that so many times, Colonel. I suspect wars will ever be waged in the name of God, even though they are the work of the Devil. Why is your cause just? Because you fight against a ‘tyrant’? And what will the Parliament be if – if – it deposes the King?”
“Be careful, Shadrach,” Sanders hissed.
“England will continue to war against itself, regardless of what happens to the King,” Shadrach continued, paying Sanders no heed. “King Charles will never admit defeat, for he too believes he has God on his side.” Shadrach leant forwards, his eyes burning into Boughton’s. “The Parliament has unleashed a plague of monsters. Monsters who also wear the guise of religion. Ranters, Diggers, Puritans…each with their own interpretation of ‘God’s Word’, who will fight to the death not merely to protect it, but to force it on others.”
“Enough of this!” Smythe snapped, his cheeks colouring. Palmer smiled to see the normally unflappable colonel fighting down his own emotions. “We will not force you to fight, Shadrach, but there will be plenty of incentives for you to accompany Palmer. The fortification at Fairlight is to be taken back from the Royalists. There will be plenty to plunder afterwards –”
“Fairlight? I am surprised anyone would seek to garrison that place. There is nothing of worth there, as far as I am aware. Naught but a disused monastery and an abandoned oratory…of course, if you put credence in the tales of the Black Church, I can understand why you would need reinforcements. Mayhap your men are a’feared of its history?”
Smythe’s cheeks coloured again. “Tales to frighten children. The King’s men took Fairlight to use fear of the town as a weapon. We will not succumb to such childish tales of fantasy.”
“Because God is on your side, and will beat back the darkness,” Shadrach said with a sigh. “But God is not enough. Are you even certain He has a place within the Cursed Company?”
Sanders narrowed his eyes and stared balefully at Palmer. Palmer looked away.
“Nay, Colonel. I heard of your troop long before I met Captain Palmer. Word spreads quickly. It is little wonder you rely on people like Lewis, men with darkness in them. It is little wonder you require my services, and my weaponry, to take the town of Fairlight. All tales have some truth in them.”
Palmer frowned. There was a gleam in Shadrach’s eyes at the mention of Fairlight: a name that for God-fearing men was a byword for evil and devilry, yet its mention had opened a visible hunger, an avaricious desire in Shadrach, but Palmer suspected it h
ad naught to do with the rumoured treasures buried in the crypts and cellars of the village and monastery.
What do you seek, Shadrach? What is within Fairlight that draws you?
Sanders and Smythe were no fools. Palmer watched his superior stroke his chin, while Smythe did his best to examine the hybrid weapon once more. They knew Shadrach was toying with them; knew the stranger would go to Fairlight, with the Cursed Company or not.
“I will accompany you, gentlemen. But do not expect me to take orders. I am a free agent, and I fight as I see fit. Besides,” he turned and grinned at Palmer. “Your men are in no position to give orders. They have much to learn.”
While Palmer flushed again, Sanders stroked his chins and glanced at Smythe. Smythe gave a barely perceptible nod.
Sanders looked at Palmer. “Well, Captain? Is this agreeable to you?”
“I would welcome the gentleman’s expertise and battle experience, sir,” Palmer said stiffly. “I would also welcome any intelligence he may be willing to share on our destination.”
“Tales to frighten children, Captain,” Shadrach said with a knowing smile. “But rest assured, I do have a few tales of my own.”
The fire burned brighter, more fiercely, but Palmer felt no warmth. The wintry smile in the stranger’s eyes was as dark as the night sky, and the captain looked away. Through the cracked window pane, the stars were dull, tarnished sequins in a blanket of grey.
Stars…
Palmer frowned. The words the stranger had said, when they first met two hours and a lifetime ago, had been about stars. The dangerous traveller had been staring with rapt attention to the pinpricks in the darkening sky, seeing a pattern only he could discern. And had there not been fear in the man’s eyes?
“Shadrach. What was it you said earlier, about the stars?”
Shadrach’s smile vanished, and his voice trembled slightly as he replied:
“The stars are right, Captain Palmer. I said the stars are right.”
Now the chill enveloped all in the small farmhouse. And even Shadrach began to shiver.
CHAPTER FOUR
Captain Palmer felt a wave of guilt as he made final preparations to ride away from Haverton Farm. He had spent a sleepless night listening to the screams of dying men, had shuddered each time the surgeon’s saw cut through bone and flesh. Each limb that slopped onto the sodden straw was another reminder of his incompetence and unworthiness to lead.
Another footsoldier ministered to by the tender steel of the surgeon’s saw – another boy who would not be able to work his father’s farm when he went home from the wars. Another soldier who would spend his days begging on the streets of Dorchester for charity.
He felt slightly better when the watery sun broke through the misty headland. He knew he was too hard on himself. Had he asked for command? Had he even sought to fight in this war without an enemy?
How did it come to this? he asked himself as he saddled his horse and affixed the bridle. A printer’s apprentice, who joined the London Trained Bands when the material he read – seditious reading, his master had spat before burning the manuscripts and slamming the door on the revolutionary would-be clients – inspired him to seek the company of others dissatisfied with the status quo. With the standard issue of pike, musket and buffcoat, he – like his fellow “warriors” – thought they could take on the world.
It mattered not that his father disowned him when he heard his wayward son had abandoned his trade; worse, sided with rebels against God’s Anointed. A wry smile as he remembered their final confrontation, his father roaring at the folly of youth and how the young always rebel against the old. You will rue the day, James!
The illusions and arrogance of youth were rapidly shattered after Turnham Green. Standing alongside veterans from Edgehill, the first engagement of the war, had shown him the reality of battle and the true cost of fighting for ideals. While Turnham Green ended as nothing more than a stand-off, a bloodless engagement which nevertheless saved London from the King, it had introduced the young James Palmer to Colonel Sanders and a new, darker path.
Colonel, Palmer snorted as he led his mount out of the stables and into the cold air. Of course, Sanders had not been demoted then. He had distinguished himself at Edgehill – or rather, his company had – and was yet to fall from grace. And what a fall it’s been, Palmer thought sadly.
“Captain!”
The call made him turn. It was unmistakeably from Jethro Lewis, but the words were pitched high, strain evident in his voice. Palmer stared, disbelieving, as the giant sergeant hobbled towards him. The surgeon had saved his leg – a miracle – but he no longer seemed fit for active service.
“Lewis. Why are you not abed?”
The sergeant’s brutish face cracked into a grin. “Ye sound like my mother. I need no nursemaid, captain. A scratch such as this’ll not hinder me.”
“You cannot march.”
“I can ride. Sanders insisted I accompany you and that Shadrach man.” The name was followed by a thick gobbet of phlegm, spat onto the rimed grass where it steamed in the dawn air. Palmer wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“I see he has no care for your recovery. The wound needs to heal; a hard ride will open it again. And no surgeon will accompany us.”
Lewis folded his arms and stared defiantly. “Orders is orders, Captain.”
Palmer sighed. What was Sanders playing at? A company of five had been settled upon, and Sanders had already selected the men he considered most suitable for the advance mission – without consulting me, Palmer thought sourly. The inclusion of Shadrach was a gamble, a calculated risk; but adding Jethro Lewis into the mix was a dangerous – nay, foolhardy – ingredient. He could see the desire for vengeance in the sergeant’s eyes.
“Where is the bastard?” Lewis continued.
“He slept in Sanders’s quarters. I believe the lieutenant himself insisted on it. Perhaps he believed one of his sergeants would be…less than hospitable to our guest.”
Lewis snorted. “Very funny. Perhaps he meant to question ‘im further. Or to discuss the mission…something he did not wish ye to hear.”
Palmer’s eyes narrowed. “See to your horse, Sergeant. We have all the information we require.”
“Do we, Captain Palmer? Do we really?”
* * *
Shadrach emerged from the farmhouse, his cloak fastened against the autumn chill and his snapsack on his shoulder. The monstrous hybrid weapon with its murderous blade was hidden from view, for which Palmer was thankful. Yet the man’s gaze unsettled him; the eyes were still a piercing blue that sparkled like dark jewels.
Or stars, Palmer thought. He shuddered. The stars are right. What did that mean? Shadrach had not expanded much on his strange message, save to mention he had followed them from a distant battle on the Continent, as though he were some Magus following a portent to a miraculous birth. Shadrach had smiled at the comparison and replied: Perhaps I am. But if so, there is nothing holy about this birth. To you, the stars sparkle. To me, they’re dying beacons of lost hope in a shroud of never ending blackness.
Was it an omen, an augury for the Parliament? Or did it have another meaning? The stars were right for who?
Not who. What. Shadrach had said nothing more.
His rest had not refreshed him. As Shadrach’s horse trotted to the men clustered by the farm gate, Palmer saw the dark circles under the man’s eyes, noted the pale skin and his slack jaw.
Mayhap Lewis is right. Sanders did tell him something; something that kept him awake. But why was Palmer not informed? Was he not, after all, in command of this mission?
What other secrets are being kept from me?
“Good day, Shadrach,” Palmer said quietly. The two dragoons – mounted infantry comprised of men more lethal on horseback than they would be on the ground – did not follow his lead, and stared at the black-clad stranger. They had all heard of this interloper and his murderous weapon, seen for themselves what he had done to Lewis. Shadrach
gazed at them, a brief flicker of his eyes over each face, analysing them. Some looked away, as if their innermost thoughts had been read, and paid attention to their muskets and ensured their bandoliers of gunpowder were made fast. Palmer suspected Shadrach would be given a wide berth.
“Gentlemen.” Shadrach touched the brim of his hat and pulled it forward as he turned his horse into the road – little more than a dirt track with frozen hoof marks – up a steep incline and heading east to the sea and rising sun. “I believe you know your orders. We should make Fairlight by nightfall if we ride hard. Follow me.”
Palmer felt as though he’d been smacked in the mouth. A muted chuckle from Lewis made the sting harder.
“Who be in charge, Captain?”
Palmer dug his boot-heels into the flanks of his steed, harder than necessary. The horse whinnied and its hoofs dug chunks of frozen earth from the dirt track as Palmer urged his mount onwards, to pull abreast of Shadrach. His ears burned with the cold and the mocking laughter from the six soldiers who made no haste to follow.
“I think we should establish a few ground rules, Shadrach.”
“You are correct, of course.” Shadrach did not face him. “But that can wait. This is no time to quarrel over command, Captain. The men accompanying us have no respect for your title, but soon will come the time to prove you are a capable leader.”
“You mock me, Shadrach,” Palmer growled.
“On the contrary.” Now Shadrach faced him, his gaze softening. “I have seen men suffer the same situation as you. War means rapid promotion, and men gain rank they are not ready for purely by necessity. Dead men’s boots may feel loose and uncomfortable, but you will soon grow into them; and you will enjoy the sensation. You made mistakes – what does it matter? You will again.”
“Mistakes cost lives.”
Dreaming In Darkness Page 15