Mowbray fixed his fourth captain with a hard stare and chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘Fifteen.’
Forrester winced. ‘Aye, Sir Edmund, regrettably.’
Just when Forrester thought Mowbray might explode, the colonel took a step back from the table and sighed heavily. ‘By God, Lancelot, but that’s a heavy toll.’
Forrester thought back to the battle. Just two nights ago, it already seemed like some distant nightmare. The King’s Army, triumphant in Cornwall and confident of pressing the advantage all the way to the heart of Devon, had approached the town of Okehampton, only to be cruelly ambushed at a place called Sourton Down. Despite outnumbering the enemy by three to one, General Hopton’s Royalists had been hammered by a determined assault and confused by the chaos of negotiating unfamiliar terrain in an unusually black night. And then it had rained. To Forrester’s mind it had been a storm conjured in the bowels of hell itself, such was its swirling ferocity, and Hopton’s hitherto unbeatable army had cut and run. He shuddered involuntarily. ‘Might have been a deal worse, sir.’
Mowbray nodded reluctantly. ‘Hopton might have lost his entire army in one fell swoop.’ The colonel, a fastidious little man of compact frame and inexhaustible alacrity, paced across to a sturdy wooden chest in the room’s corner. ‘Drink?’
‘Kind of you, sir.’ Forrester watched his commanding officer pluck a bottle and two glasses from the box.
Mowbray filled the glasses and handed one to the taller man. ‘Mead. Not my drink, if I’m honest, but needs must.’ His brown eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve lost weight, Lancelot.’
Forrester frowned, patting his plump midriff with his free hand. ‘Food is scarce, sir. If I am not careful, I shall have no muscle left, and then where will I be?’
Mowbray’s mouth twitched slightly. ‘Quite.’ He turned back to the table, setting his glass down on the cluttered surface, and stared at the largest sheet of paper. ‘Sourton was a crushing setback, Captain, I do not mind telling you.’
Forrester chose not to comment on the indisputable truth of the statement. Instead he took the liberty of shuffling closer to the desk, peering down at the object of Mowbray’s attention. It was a map. A huge, detailed, exquisitely produced map of the south-western counties; the large block of land that was Devon, the long expanse of Cornwall, tapering westwards into the Atlantic Ocean, and the squirming black line that represented the border between the two. ‘Is Devon lost to us?’
Mowbray did not look up. ‘Perhaps.’ He indicated a spot on the north-west fringe of Dartmoor. It was unmarked, but Forrester knew the location well enough. Sourton Down would be forever etched on his memory. ‘They surprised us on those bleak heights. Humiliated us, even. And now we are back here,’ he moved his finger several inches to the left, ‘in Launceston.’
‘Safe here though, sir.’
Now the colonel met Forrester’s gaze. ‘Safe indeed. And the bloody rebels are safe across the border. We are no better off than we were at Christmas.’
Mowbray straightened. ‘Devon is Parliament heartland, Lancelot. Bideford, Exeter, Okehampton, Dartford, Barnstaple, Plymouth. All declared for Pym’s vipers, and all sit pretty in their treason. We have not touched a single one, and now we have lost ground, by God.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Do you recall how things were when first we came here?’
‘How could I forget, sir?’ Forrester replied, memories of negotiating the Irish Sea still fresh. That torrid, vomit-washed crossing would remain as keen in his mind’s eye for as long as the defeat at Sourton. He shuddered slightly.
‘We were attached to this army because the truce was ending. Hopton wanted a great push eastwards to secure the south-west once and for all.’
‘Such expectation,’ Forrester said.
‘Such naivety,’ Mowbray added sombrely. ‘Now, Captain, we are on the back foot. Hopton left scores of good men on that bleak hill, fifteen of them mine, by Christ. And Lord knows what has become of Stryker.’
That thought had not occurred to Forrester until now. His friend had been sent across Dartmoor to watch the eastern roads while the Royalists swept into Devon. He would not yet know of the shock defeat, nor of the Parliamentarian counterattack that was almost certain to follow. He swallowed back some mead, enjoying the sweet flavour of honey and the slight burn at his throat. His nerves were more frayed than he had realized.
Mowbray lifted his own glass to thin lips, drained the contents in one gulp, and fixed Forrester with a level stare. ‘Now we must force ourselves out of this mire. Seize the initiative.’ The colonel’s eyes lit with a sudden spark. ‘And for that, we require something—extraordinary.’
‘I don’t follow, sir.’
Sir Edmund Mowbray’s face cracked in a half-smile. ‘Come with me.’
Off the Devon Coast, 27 April 1643
The ship thudded into the pitch-dark sea, sending up clouds of salty water to soak the decks. It was a vicious squall – a nasty, vengeful bitch of a thing, the skipper had muttered as he commanded all fare-paying passengers below – so that the Curlew’s decks were almost bare. But one person remained at the prow. One stubborn man who was neither sailor nor officer. Like the carved figurehead at the foremost point of a warship, he stood still and silent, wrapped tight in a hooded cloak drenched black by the sea.
Braced against the Curlew’s wooden rail, Osmyn Hogg ignored the gale-hewn seamen as they scuttled about behind him like so many crabs. He narrowed his eyes against the stinging spray and ignored the timbers as they groaned beneath his boots. He cared little for the inclement weather, thinking only upon his duty and trusting in God to see the ship safely to port. She was a nimble vessel, or so the captain had proclaimed. A cutter, not ten years out of Buckler’s Hard, all sleek lines and snapping sail, yet this morning’s squall had given her quite the fight. The fickle wind, pulsing east or west without warning or mercy, tortured the vessel in the choppy swell it conjured, lashing at the rigging and causing even the oldest sailor to stagger across the slick boards.
‘Tempest’s up, sir!’ a voice cried suddenly above the roaring wind. ‘She dares us to make our run for Plymouth Sound!’
Hogg glanced to his right to see the craggy features of the Curlew’s skipper. ‘The Devil does not wish me to reach land, Captain Tubb.’
Tubb, a powerfully built old sea dog with leathery skin and one milky eye, drew his own hood over thinning brown hair, whipped ragged by the storm, and furnished his passenger with a near toothless grimace. ‘He may succeed if you remain here, sir!’
‘Do not speak such things into the world, Captain,’ Hogg replied acidly, causing the skipper to break eye contact.
‘I merely meant it is unsafe, sir,’ Tubb muttered, studying the ever-filling horizon.
Hogg followed the stocky sailor’s gaze. Land had appeared just after dawn, a black smudge on the grey distance, and he had watched it grow in size and detail ever since. And, though the wind whipped stronger with each passing moment, Hogg had rejected his fear. Even as powerful gusts buffeted the barnacled hull and raced like an army of screaming banshees through the shrouds, he had remained steadfast, keeping his eyes on land and his thoughts in prayer. For the Lord had brought him here, and He would see the Curlew came to no harm. But it was not, Hogg reflected, merely the weather that Satan might employ. ‘What of the king’s ships, Captain Tubb?’
Tubb looked up at the taller man. ‘The bastards show ’emselves ever more, sir, ’tis true.’
Hogg nodded thoughtfully, for he had heard as much. Parliament held most of the navy, the squadrons having declared for the rebellion at the war’s outset, but a few captains had favoured the king’s cause and, bolstered by vessels from Ireland and the Continent, the small Royalist fleet was beginning to grow in strength and self-belief.
‘But we’re safe enough here,’ Tubb continued. ‘So close now to Plymouth. The Parliament holds these waters in the main.’
The conversation ended abruptly as the Curlew lurched on a big swell, topp
ling over its white crest and slamming into the next rising wave. They bowed their heads against the blinding spray, only daring to look up when the swell seemed to subside.
‘The malignants do not sail here?’ Hogg eventually asked.
‘Oh, the Cavaliers sail here, right enough, but nothin’ of concern. Men o’ war, or the like. Small vessels only, prized for speed and seekin’ no brabble.’
‘Smugglers?’
‘Aye. Runnin’ powder, shot and men to their Cornish army, or those Pope’s turd Welshies.’
Hogg stared back at the dark smear of land and felt his heart surge, for a mass of white sail had emerged from the gloom like a low-lying cloud.
Captain Tubb grinned when he saw his passenger’s expression. ‘Plymouth Bay, Master Hogg. We shall survive this after all.’
‘The Lord provides,’ Hogg said, feeling the capricious squall change direction again. He flinched as one of the huge sails cracked like thunder above their heads, and mouthed a short prayer.
‘What trade you in, sir, if you don’t mind my askin’?’ said Captain Tubb.
‘I do mind,’ Hogg replied bluntly.
‘Doctor?’ Tubb went on undeterred. ‘Some kind o’ cleric, perhaps?’
Osmyn Hogg looked down at the captain, fixing him with a look that made Tubb turn away. ‘I am a hunter, sir, by God’s grace.’
Tubb swallowed hard, and stared out to sea. ‘And what is your quarry, sir?’ he asked, his voice unnaturally thick.
‘Demons,’ Hogg replied. ‘And the folk who would harbour them.’
And soon, Hogg thought as he watched Plymouth draw ever closer, he would be home. After all these years. And the Devil’s minions would suffer.
Launceston, Cornwall, 27 April 1643
Sir Edmund Mowbray led his fourth captain into a building some hundred paces along St Thomas Road. Like Mowbray’s billet, it was a timber-framed house, though this one was far larger, a great cavernous mansion of big windows, high-ceiling rooms and labyrinthine corridors.
After a minute or two pacing quickly along one of those passageways, the pair reached a thick wooden door guarded by two burly halberdiers. To Forrester’s surprise, they received no challenge, the fearsome weapons snapping apart with an impatient wave of Mowbray’s hand.
Mowbray grasped the iron hoop that served as the handle and jerked it upwards so that the door creaked ajar. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hat off, Lancelot.’
Forrester did as he was ordered and followed Mowbray inside.
‘Sir Edmund! It heartens the soul to see you well!’ The speaker was perched on the edge of a large chair at the far end of the rectangular chamber. He had evidently been leafing through a vast pile of papers, an aide assisting at his shoulder, but leaned back at the sight of the newcomers.
Forrester stared at the man in surprise, for his chirpy voice was rather at odds with his appearance. The man’s cropped hair and sombre clothes, plain in cut and colour, made him seem more Parliamentarian than Royalist.
‘And you, General,’ Mowbray was saying, before indicating Forrester with a snappy nod. ‘Please allow me to introduce to you Captain Lancelot Forrester.’
The man at the desk shifted his brown eyes to meet Forrester, and the captain suddenly found himself studying his boots. ‘Your—your servant, General Hopton.’
Sir Ralph Hopton, commander of the king’s forces in this south-western corner of England, grinned broadly. ‘The pleasure is mine, Captain, I assure you,’ he said in the rounded tones of Somerset. At the edge of the table sat a wooden trencher holding the remains of a meal of fine bread, cheese and meat pie, the smell making Forrester’s stomach growl. ‘It is good to finally put a countenance to the name.’
Forrester looked up, unable to hide his surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘The reputation of Sir Edmund’s regiment grows fast and formidable,’ Hopton elaborated, leaning back in the big chair and making a steeple of his fingers. ‘Many of his officers have received much praise. You among them.’
Forrester felt his cheeks colour. ‘Kind of you to say, sir. Too kind.’
‘Indeed, I was most impressed to hear of your service with the late Earl of Northampton’s force. God rest him.’
‘A bloody and terrible day, sir,’ Forrester said, thinking upon the battle that had raged on a ridge outside Stafford. ‘The Earl fought bravely,’ he added, trying in vain not to sound awkward, ‘and died a hero.’
Somewhere in the town, the church clock struck nine of the hour. Hopton drew breath to speak, but held it, allowing the toll to run its melancholy course, and Forrester found himself staring at the great man. Though seated, it was clear that Sir Ralph was probably of average height, with mousy hair and moustache and a beard that tipped his chin in a sharp point. He was plump, a fact which surprised Forrester, for the tale of Sir Ralph’s death-defying expedition to rescue Elizabeth of Bohemia – Prince Rupert’s mother – from Prague had become soldiering legend. But, he reminded himself, that had been more than twenty years ago, and the general would now be in his late forties.
‘May I introduce to you gentlemen,’ Hopton finally said when the peeling had ceased, ‘my commander in Cornwall, Sir Bevil Grenville.’
Hopton glanced over his shoulder at the man Forrester had taken to be the general’s aide. He was of a similar age to Sir Ralph, but more athletically built, with light-brown hair that seemed almost bronze. Those locks were curled and left long so that they cascaded beyond his shoulders and across the expensive white collar and silver-laced coat. If Hopton wanted to discuss reputations, then to Forrester’s mind, Sir Bevil Grenville was worth speaking of. For all his Cavalier airs, Grenville was a hard-bitten and respected campaigner. A veteran of the Bishops’ Wars, he had become known throughout England as a true leader of men, and fearless fighter.
‘Well met, sirs,’ Grenville said in a broad Cornish accent. ‘Your regiment played an active role at Sourton, if I recall correctly. You helped us protect the artillery train.’
Protect, thought Forrester. Active role. Words could never describe that hell. The black night, the storm crashing around them, the showers of lead cutting men down, the swords and the hooves and the screams. It had been confusion. Blood-spattered anarchy.
‘It was, Sir Bevil,’ Mowbray replied.
Grenville dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then we are friends already.’
‘Sir Bevil is my most trusted and able man,’ Hopton said. ‘Was responsible for driving Parliament’s supporters across the Tamar at the war’s very birth.’
Grenville’s lips twitched. ‘Too kind, Sir Ralph, but a small matter in truth. I summoned the posse comitatus and had the devils expelled before they could make trouble.’
‘A small matter loyal men failed to achieve in almost every other county,’ Forrester said, genuinely impressed.
Grenville offered a small shrug, evidently embarrassed by the attention. ‘Cornwall is ferociously loyal, Captain. The number of rebels to be expelled was not great, truth be told.’
‘Since then, of course,’ Hopton continued, ‘Sir Bevil’s Cornish army has quickly garnered repute for reckless valour.’
Grenville’s jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth. ‘A recklessness that has cost us dear of late, I am ashamed to say.’
‘There will be time and opportunity to rectify events at Sourton Down, sir,’ Hopton replied.
‘I pray both come swiftly,’ said Grenville.
Hopton looked back at Mowbray and Forrester. ‘Where are my manners, eh? Sit gentlemen, please.’
The men drew up a pair of chairs that had been tucked under the general’s campaign table, and awaited his next words.
‘The Cornish lads are raw, Captain Forrester,’ Hopton said after a short time. ‘They fight hard enough, by God they do, but they’re striplings in the ways of war. Men experienced in soldiering are difficult to find.’ He paused then, letting the words linger.
Forrester caught the intimation well enough. ‘Men like me, sir
?’
‘Precisely. I am sending one of my best men, courtesy of Sir Bevil—’
Grenville bowed. ‘Your servant, General—’
‘On a task of a—’ Hopton made a steeple of his fingers again, ‘delicate nature.’
‘And I?’ Forrester prompted.
The general leaned back. ‘Escort him, Forrester. See that he is protected should there be trouble.’
Forrester glanced at Grenville.
‘We have spoken of my men’s tendency to reckless bravery, Captain,’ the Cornish commander said. ‘They are utterly formidable upon the field of battle, but,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘perhaps not best suited to tasks requiring a more—subtle touch.’
‘Sir Edmund tells me your company is solid as any he has,’ Hopton took up the explanation, ‘and I understand you have personally undertaken many similar missions for Prince Rupert in the past.’
‘Right enough, sir.’
‘And he tells me you are rather easily bored.’
Forrester felt his cheeks become instantly hot. ‘I—that is to say—’
‘It is no bad thing to be a man of energy, Captain. And I expect to remain here for some weeks yet. We have need of respite after our recent—setback.’
‘I—I certainly relish a challenge, sir, ’tis true.’
‘Then you are indeed the right man. Your company will escort a smaller task force south to the rendezvous point. Put simply, your role will be to keep him alive so that he might carry out his duty.’
‘His?’
Hopton nodded. ‘Sir Bevil’s man. Perhaps you have heard of him?’ Hopton rattled an empty pewter goblet on the table top, and the door at the room’s far end edged open, the face of one of the sentries appearing from the other side. ‘Show Payne in, Corporal Andrews.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Andrews murmured, and promptly shrank back.
In less than a minute the door swung open again, this time to its full extent, allowing a man to step through. And Lancelot Forrester wondered if he was trapped in some strange dream.
Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 4