Another salvo of musketry battered the damp air, making Bess start and her unborn baby kick. She looked up the drive and saw a thin skein of musket smoke waft up from behind the spinney of birch and sweet chestnut. The men were being drilled, as they were every day, and yet still Bess had not grown used to the horrendous noise. Even when she had watched them load and present their matchlocks, knowing the thin, thunderous cacophony was coming, she could not help but flinch.
Another musket cracked belatedly. Then another. But the fusillade had been neater than usual.
‘They’re getting better,’ Bess said to her mother as she watched Cawley’s train progress up the drive, his cattle lowing and his sheep bleating at the noise. Cawley’s youngest daughter was clinging to her mother’s skirts as they approached the woods beyond which the paltry assemblage of matchlocks had roared their defiance.
‘They will need to if your father does not return before the rebels come,’ Lady Mary said, gesturing for Bess to follow as she walked towards the first of several wooden platforms being erected against the eight-foot-high boundary wall over an earth rampart. Each was a simple construction fifteen foot in length upon which a handful of men could stand head, shoulders, chest and, most importantly, muskets above the wall. ‘There is not enough wood in West Lancashire, nor time or labour to make a proper rampart all the way round,’ Lady Mary said, ‘but Mister Radcliffe assures me that these will give the rebels cause to think. They will buy us some time.’
Looking up at the structure before her Bess doubted these platforms would count for much, doubted the farmers and servants of Radcliffe’s garrison would stand up there for long once the rebels came. But she said nothing, smiling at one of the labourers, who blushed crimson and renewed his hammering with gusto.
‘Do you know what he actually said? Radcliffe, I mean,’ her mother went on, giving that smile of hers that was so controlled, as well schooled as one of Sir Francis’s best mares. ‘“We shall preach to the rebels from these pulpits, m’lady,”’ she said in her best imitation of the one-eyed veteran, ‘“and they shall repent of their pernicious perfidy under fire, brimstone, and musket balls.”’
Bess smiled again, knowing the smile had not lit her eyes. ‘I feel much safer for having Mister Radcliffe here,’ she said, which was almost true. Either side of the wooden platform men were hammering chisels into the boundary wall, cutting loopholes through the red bricks, which was no easy task for the wall was over a yard thick. Bess’s hands instinctively cupped the swell of her belly.
‘He will be back soon,’ Lady Mary said, and Bess knew they were no longer talking about Edward Radcliffe. Her mother had meant her Emmanuel. Her love.
‘And in the meantime your father will keep a close eye on him. He is very fond of Emmanuel. In spite of certain . . . difficult circumstances.’ Bess felt the baby kick again, as though in mockery of her mother’s subtle reproach. ‘I’m certain His Majesty’s Lifeguard will not see any serious fighting. I believe they are held in reserve,’ Lady Mary went on, turning her back on Bess and peering through one of the new loopholes. ‘The King is many things, my dear, but he is not a warrior. I cannot imagine that Emmanuel will get anywhere near the rebels for all his desire to play the soldier.’
‘I pray you are right, Mother,’ Bess said, sickened by the thought of Emmanuel bravely riding into battle, riding to do his duty to his country and king. To her and their unborn child. And yet Bess had found cold comfort in her mother’s words, most of which she had spoken into a hole dug out for matchlocks, unable to meet Bess’s eye.
For in her heart Bess knew that her mother was afraid and that those words were weightless, of no more substance than musket smoke drifting on the breeze.
Osmyn Hooker was a dangerous-looking man. He reminded Mun of other veterans he knew, friends of his father who had fought in the Low Countries, for Hooker had all of their swagger and the self-assured poise of those used to giving commands and having them obeyed. But there was something else about him too, something that made Mun’s flesh crawl and his jaws clamp together so that he realized the muscles in his cheeks ached now as they sat in the shadow-played dark of Emmanuel’s tent. Perhaps it was the livid scar engraved across Hooker’s forehead, the vestige of an old slash wound that could so easily have taken those narrow, malevolent eyes. Or perhaps it was the five musket-ball dents Mun had counted in the man’s forge-black breastplate, only one of which was likely to be the maker’s test shot, for they spoke of Hooker being a man many had tried to kill. Maybe it was the man’s strange accent, which made it impossible to tell where he was from, deepening the enigma and suggesting that this tall, lean soldier was a man without roots. A man without familial ties.
And yet it was none of those things. Mun’s unease at being in Osmyn Hooker’s company was, he knew, down to the fact that Hooker’s only loyalty was to money. For the man standing before him there was no King or Parliament, no religious ideal or appetite for social revolution; there was just crowns, shillings and pennies.
Which was exactly why they had sought him out.
‘The risks are great,’ Hooker said, ‘for all of us.’ The man’s stare was biting. It took all of Mun’s composure just to hold his eye.
‘We are prepared for the risks,’ Emmanuel put in, squatting beside them as the breeze played against the canvas. Mun glanced at him and Emmanuel nodded, confirming that he was willing to play his part in the plan that could see them all shot or swinging on the end of a rope if it went awry.
‘Just play your part, Hooker,’ Mun said, ‘and we shall all get what we want.’
Hooker leant forward, so that Mun caught the scent of tobacco smoke that clung to the mercenary’s curled moustaches. ‘As to what I want,’ Hooker said, ‘I shall expect the balance of what we agreed at sundown the following day. I will send someone to collect it from you. Make sure he leaves with it.’
‘We are good for it, sir,’ Emmanuel said, bridling.
Hooker’s teeth gleamed in the dull yellow bloom of a single candle. ‘Oh, I know you will pay,’ Hooker said, turning his piercing stare on Emmanuel, ‘for you fine gentlemen know that I will cut your throats if you don’t.’
Mun felt Emmanuel tense at this, but to his relief his friend did not bite back.
‘I will have the money ready,’ Mun said. We are supping with the Devil here, he thought.
Osmyn Hooker leant back on his stool and pulled his beard through a scarred fist.
‘Who is this man to you,’ he asked Mun, ‘that you risk so much, not least your father’s reputation?’
Mun was taken aback but tried not to show it. He had not revealed his name to the mercenary and yet Hooker knew he was Sir Francis Rivers’s son. ‘He is my brother,’ he said.
Those eyes weevilled into Mun’s soul. He got the strange feeling that the mercenary was somehow divining the pain in his heart, the torment of a family betrayed by a son, the sorrow of a brother set against his brother.
‘“He who brings trouble on his family will inherit only wind,”’ Hooker said, one eyebrow arched, and Mun was surprised for the second time for he had not expected such a man as this to quote from the Bible. He wondered too whether the quote was aimed at Tom or at Mun himself, for if their plan failed it would be questionable which of them had dragged the family name into the deeper mire.
Hooker stood, opened the tent’s flap and peered out at the camp. Two men engaged in hushed conversation passed close by and the mercenary waited at the threshold until they had gone, then he turned and locked eyes with Mun one last time.
‘Tomorrow night, then. Be ready.’ Mun’s eyes flicked to Emmanuel, then he nodded. But Hooker had gone.
‘I can see why Colonel Lunsford tried to recruit the man,’ Mun said. ‘I get the impression it would be better to have Osmyn Hooker in your pay than in your enemy’s.’ He worked a crick out of his neck, surprised how relieved he was that the mercenary was gone. ‘Where on earth did you find the fellow?’
Emmanuel g
rinned. ‘It was Hooker and his men that brought the silver out of Oxford. Officially it was Sir John Byron’s task, of course. Doesn’t look good His Majesty turning to the likes of Hooker to get jobs done. It’s too easy for folk to imagine the King will do the same thing to win this war . . . pay mercenaries from Ireland or the continent. But it was Hooker that delivered all that plate . . .’ Emmanuel smiled again, ‘while you were giving the rebels a good hiding at Powick Bridge. Gods, I wish I had been there.’
‘I would not wish for such a thing if I were you,’ Mun said, a shiver running through him as a fusillade of bloody, chaotic images exploded in his mind’s eye.
Emmanuel shrugged. ‘When Colonel Lunsford said he wanted to find Hooker before the rebels did, I volunteered to go recruiting.’
‘So Hooker is working for Lunsford? For the King?’ That thought was horrifying, considering what they had just planned with the mercenary.
Emmanuel grinned. ‘Not tomorrow night, he’s not,’ he said.
The wind had been building and by sunset next day it was whipping through the Royalist camp, causing tent canvas to snap loudly and unsettling the horses. The camp was spread across mostly open ground and the best the King’s men could do was lash down their tents, soothe their horses, and hunker down. It was too windy even for fires other than those set in pits dug out of the earth, and this was good, Mun knew, because it meant the camp was even darker than usual.
Grumbling of loose bowels, he had left Rowe and O’Brien drinking beer in their tent and, snatching up a hand axe from a wood block, had walked east through the camp to where one of the many powder magazines had been set up in open ground away from camp fires and soldiers with their tobacco pipes. It loomed as a great silhouette now against the inky horizon as he and Emmanuel crouched in a ditch beside a boundary hedge. They were near enough to thousands of men and horses to hear them settling down for the night, talking and laughing, and close enough to catch their stink now and then on the wind. But they were removed enough, Mun hoped, not to be noticed as they skulked in the dark like foxes by a hen coop. Two tents had been erected, one inside the other, to ensure the neatly stacked barrels inside, or rather the precious black powder within them, stayed dry. Two guards, musketeers with lit match between their fingers, walked in opposite circles around the magazine, the flax cords burning fast and angry in the gusts. Inside would be one, maybe two more men, though these would be armed only with blades to avoid any unwanted accidents with sparks igniting the cache.
Still, they will have blades, Mun thought, and blades can kill as well as matchlocks. A blade can keep coming.
The plan was simple. One that relied on men’s natural fears, on their base instincts to survive. But Mun had already seen enough of battle, of the confusion that descends when hooves pound the earth and flame licks black powder to know that even the simplest plan can go to hell in the time it takes to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. Besides which, some men, sometimes, could be stupidly brave. Or just plain stupid. And Mun could not still the nerves that writhed and twisted like serpents in his guts, making him nauseous. Emmanuel, on the other hand, seemed more excited than afraid. Eager, even. As though he thirsted for the danger. Which made Mun fear for the man’s safety even more. He offered up a silent prayer to God to keep Emmanuel from harm, but a sudden wash of doubt and guilt flooded him. Was he mad? Coercing Emmanuel, the man whom Bess would marry, into playing a leading role in this reckless act. As for himself, Mun was already a traitor. He had all but killed a man on his own side, his corporal no less, to save his brother’s life. And the rebel captain, a good man it seemed to Mun, had died too. But now he was making Emmanuel a traitor also.
Emmanuel put a hand on Mun’s shoulder. ‘I chose freely,’ he said as though he had read Mun’s thoughts. Mun could only nod. Then Emmanuel tipped the slipware cup he held so that Mun could look inside. The length of match curled within was smouldering, one end glowing menacingly. Mun nodded again. Hidden inside the cup the lit match would not give them away in the dark. In his other hand Emmanuel held a stick, around one end of which he’d wrapped a swath of pitch-soaked linen, its tarry scent whipped this way and that by the wind. Attached to his belt was a powder flask with a thin spout. The man was up to his neck in it now come what may.
‘Thank you,’ Mun said, those two words seeming short measure though he hoped his friend felt the weight in them. Somewhere out in the dark, amongst the wind’s howl, an owl screeched. Mun glanced around to make sure they were alone. There was almost no moon, just a nail-paring and even that obscured more often than not by clouds that raced across the sky as though fleeing from some celestial terror.
‘We are family,’ Emmanuel said in a low voice that would not be carried off in the wind. ‘At least, we will be soon enough.’
‘Soon enough,’ Mun agreed, smiling. ‘Can we trust him?’ he added, letting the axe’s short haft fall through his hand until he gripped it by the neck. He had not brought his sword because it might rattle in the scabbard or trip him and he needed stealth more than steel. He had brought his two pistols, though, had loaded them and shoved them into his belt just in case.
‘We have no choice,’ Emmanuel said.
Mun knew that was the truth of it. ‘I saw men building gallows today. Bard said they’re for the prisoners. They’re going to hang them, Emmanuel. As an example.’
‘They’ll not hang Tom,’ Emmanuel replied with a half grin.
Mun had not told Emmanuel about the events of four nights past, and the admission that he had been the one who all but killed Corporal Scrope rose in his throat. But he swallowed it back down. Breaking his brother out of a Royalist gaol was one thing. Murdering the corporal of his own troop was quite another and he could not risk his friend abandoning him at this stage. He hated himself for exposing Emmanuel to this risk, but he needed him, too.
‘It’s time,’ Mun said, glancing around. It had been properly dark for an hour now and Hooker and his men would be in position. Waiting for his signal. ‘If something goes wrong,’ he began, locking eyes with his friend, ‘run. Understand? Do whatever it takes to get away.’
Emmanuel’s brows arched, though he said nothing, didn’t need to. Mun knew full well that the chances of them, two troopers from Prince Rupert’s Horse, getting to their mounts and breaking clear of the Royalist camp if something went wrong were slim. Even if they escaped, then what? Their and their families’ reputations would be ruined.
What would become of Bess? his mind questioned. What of her fatherless child? ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, pushing such thoughts away. Emmanuel nodded, checking the match in the slipware cup again, then setting it on the ground to free up his hands. Then he dug his fingers into the soil and scraped up clumps of damp earth and Mun did the same, smearing the muck across his own face and beard, the rich smell of wet soil filling his nose.
‘How do I look?’ Emmanuel asked, his teeth and eyes glowing against his pitch-black face.
‘Much improved,’ Mun replied through a strained smile, and almost said that at last he could see what Bess saw in him, but thought better of it. Better to leave Bess out of it for now.
Some creature, of a fair size by the sound of it, rustled in the hawthorn hedge, breaking twigs as it scurried away from them.
‘Let us hope those men don’t want to die today,’ Mun said, gesturing with the short axe towards the gunpowder store. And with that he crawled out of the ditch, keeping low like a predator, the wet ground soaking his breeches, his sleeves wicking water. He suddenly wanted to speak to his friend again, to run through the plan one last time, but the time for talking had passed and now God would see them either triumphant or destroyed.
He fell flat, his face down in the grass, and sensed Emmanuel do the same as one of the guards stopped on his round some thirty-five paces away. Mun did not even look up. He feared the whites of his eyes might betray him or else the musketeer might sense that he was being watched the way men sometimes could. He held his breath. The wind moan
ed above him and somewhere to the east beyond the powder magazine a dog was howling and Mun’s ears were straining to detect any movement from the guard that might suggest they had been seen. Then he heard the intermittent splatter of liquid and exhaled slowly because the musketeer had only stopped to relieve himself. The clatter of the wooden powder flasks hanging from the man’s bandolier told Mun he had pulled up his breeches and recommenced his round and so Mun dared lift his face from the grass. Emmanuel was already moving again.
Damn you, Tom, a voice seethed somewhere in his mind.
It was achingly slow going, using their forearms to drag themselves forward inch by inch. Then there must have been a tear in the cloud because suddenly Mun could see a guard’s face as he came round the righthand end of the tent; could see that his breeches were grey and his tunic was blue, could count each of the twelve powder boxes hanging on its pair of strings from the bandolier across his left shoulder. Mun’s mind screamed a curse as he let go of the axe’s haft, his hands squirming down to the pistols tucked in his belt. Surely they would be seen. He braced for Hell to break loose, for the musketeer to yell and raise his matchlock and fire. But the guard kept walking and Mun whispered thanks to God, though he knew they were by no means in the clear yet.
Rein in your fear, he commanded himself silently. They know there are thirteen thousand loyal men around them. They are complacent. They will not see us.
They will not see us.
He froze again, relieved to sense that Emmanuel had too. They could go no closer without being seen. He felt the cold sweat on his back, his heart pounding against his breastbone. Now, no more than twenty paces away, it was time to wait. Every few minutes there came a point when one guard had passed their position so his back was to them and the other was still on the tent’s far side, yet to round the corner. Mun’s muscles bunched. With ghost movements, slight contractions of sinew and tendon, he told each of his limbs what was expected of it.
The Bleeding Land Page 23