Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles

by Michael Arnold

  ‘Make ready!’ someone shouted from within the circle. Stryker could not discern the voice, for his ears were ringing uncontrollably. ‘Make ready, you idle buggers!’ the voice bawled again, and this time he knew it had been Sergeant William Skellen. With that repeated order his confidence finally began to build, for he understood that his musketeers must have finally loaded and primed enough guns to make a meaningful fist of defence.

  He stepped back from the outermost rank and took up position in the very centre of the formation. He saw Cecily there, curled tight against the turf, Otilwell Broom at her side with his arm across her shoulders. Marcus Bailey was with them too, shivering like a dog in a rainstorm, muttering what Stryker presumed were desperate prayers for survival. The sight of Bailey made him glance across at the wagon. Its timbers were speckled with white patches where Wild’s pistol shots had hit home, splintering the wood.

  ‘Get the wounded back here!’ Stryker bellowed, forcing the terrible thought from his mind. ‘Get them out of the line, damn your hides! Be quick about it!’

  For a time it seemed as though the order had been ignored, for he could not see through the close-packed scarlet coats, but eventually the rear ranks began to shift as bodies were dragged clear. There were plenty of them, more than Stryker had imagined, and he took a vast breath to steady himself. Once the defensive lines had been closed, the dead and dying hauled into the centre, and all gaps filled to present a complete and sturdy front to the enemy, Stryker ran round to the far side of the circle.

  Burton, commanding the men on this side, caught his eye. ‘We’re ready for ’em this time, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad of it, Andrew,’ Stryker responded breathlessly, before turning quickly on his heel. An urgent shout of warning had carried to him from the part of the circle facing the slope. The Roundheads were coming back for more.

  Colonel Gabriel Wild felt like crying. His men had travelled halfway across this God-forsaken moor, demeaning themselves by speaking to dull-witted yokels and persevering through some of the least cavalry-friendly terrain he had ever encountered, but, for all that, they had finally run their quarry to ground. They had outflanked Stryker’s infantrymen, ambushed the captain as he had ambushed them, and been no more than a heartbeat from crushing the life from the red-coated horde. But the grenados had changed everything. The explosions’ roar had been enough to force the horses into hasty flight, but the fire and the wicked, scything shards of iron had truly turned organized attack into a maelstrom of chaos. A dozen of his men had been cruelly cut from their saddles in the blasts, torn and seared by the grenados and their unseen throwers, and, as if with one mind, he and his men had instinctively retreated.

  Wild, at the head of his regrouped force, stared up at the Royalist formation. Obscuring their feet and hose were the remains of his men. The troopers caught in the blasts that shattered so many limbs and pierced so much flesh. Christ, he thought, but some of those flying shards had come perilously close to hitting his own mount. Enough was enough.

  ‘More treachery!’ Wild shouted left and right as his steel-clad line eased into a canter. ‘They cannot defeat us by strength or valour, but by tricks alone!’

  ‘Colonel,’ it was Grantham, at his left side, who spoke. ‘They will be ready with volley fire.’

  Wild shot him a brutal glance. ‘The time for timidity is over, by God! We must put them down!’

  A huzzah greeted his words. They would go again. Shatter the enemy and leave them to bleed out on this desolate heath. He squinted at the faces of the king’s men. Wondered which of them was the one-eyed captain. He knew Stryker was in there, somewhere hidden behind his forest of pikes, sheltering like the most despicable kind of coward. No matter, they would charge again. Weed the bastard out.

  Wild waved his sword high, circled the tip so that all eyes could see, and led his men on once more.

  Once more.

  ‘Wait!’ screamed Sergeant William Skellen. ‘Wait you fuckers!’

  His musketeers were eager. They shuffled forward, pulling right up to the shoulders of their pike-wielding compatriots, trigger fingers itching to unleash bloody chaos.

  Stryker was in the front rank, hand raised, poised to give the signal. He heard the belaying cries of Lieutenant Burton, his other sergeant Moses Heel, and his two corporals, all struggling to keep the formation tight and prepared to fire.

  The cavalry drew closer, cormorant feathers hovering above them like so many black standards. This time they did not split apart, did not attempt to encircle the infantry island, but advanced on a single, wide front, relying on sheer weight of numbers to break the Royalist line.

  Fifty paces. The land began to tremble, shivering up into knees and hips.

  Forty paces. The sound of the Roundheads’ snarls carried to them above the thunder of hooves. Stryker’s pikemen charged their pikes, angling the lethal spears upwards.

  Thirty paces. Stryker took a last deep breath.

  Twenty. He brought his arm down in a snapping arc.

  ‘Fire!’ the sergeants bawled.

  The first rank of musketeers fired, perhaps twenty shots in all. Stryker felt the air pulse either side of his neck, his ears clanged as though filled with church bells, and the leading Roundhead saddles were immediately emptied. The relief that washed over the beleaguered defenders was almost palpable, for the blast had done its work.

  ‘Good lads!’ Stryker bellowed above the din. A surge of pride bolted through him as the bulk of the harquebusiers wheeled rapidly away. ‘Empties move to the rear!’

  The shooters did as they were told, shifting back into the clear space in the circle’s centre to reload their weapons, and Stryker caught sight of a grey uniform within the throng to his right. ‘Barkworth!’

  The diminutive Scot shouldered his way through the infantrymen. ‘Sir!’

  Out on the slope, Wild’s visor-faced riders were already regrouping to launch an immediate assault.

  Stryker looked down at Barkworth. ‘Find the lieutenant.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Tell him to give me a score of muskets.’

  Barkworth frowned. ‘Will that not leave our rear exposed?’

  ‘They’re only attacking here,’ Stryker replied quickly, ‘so he can spare them.’

  Barkworth scampered into the centre of the ring and Stryker stared back at the approaching cavalry. They were coming again, but this time the gallop had waned to a fast canter as though the Roundheads charged into a gale. They had made a grave mistake by attacking on a single front, a sign, he thought, of desperation. Perhaps, after all, there was hope.

  The thick volley had almost been enough for Colonel Gabriel Wild to call off the attack, but his men were the best the western Parliamentarian army had to offer, and he’d be damned to hell if he abandoned matters now. They had bravely faced that angry hail of lead, soaked up the Royalist barrage, and still regrouped. The toll had been heavy, but now he felt certain Stryker could bring no more musketry to bear. The volley had contained at least twenty shots, he reckoned, which meant it had involved every musketeer on this side of the circle, and Stryker was too cowardly to risk leaving his rear unguarded. Which meant Wild’s brave gallopers would most certainly reach the red-coated line before the malignants had time to reload.

  Wild dipped his chin, locked his eyes on the foremost pikemen, and prepared to slam home. His horse would be reluctant to charge the waiting pikes, for those bloody spears could skewer it with ease, but he was a skilled horseman and would refuse to allow the beast its way. He would veer to the side of the great ash lance, knock down its point with his blade, and slash the neck of its handler wide open.

  ‘Parliament!’ he screamed. ‘Parliament!’

  ‘Compliments of Lieutenant Burton, sir!’

  Stryker turned, seeing Barkworth approach with the fresh musketeers. ‘Put them straight into the front rank and give fire when the bastards reach us, Mister Barkworth.’

  ‘Wi’ pleasure, sir!’ Barkwort
h croaked as loud as his noose-crushed windpipe would allow. He flashed Stryker a sharp-toothed grin, eyes twinkling, and went to work.

  The little Scot gave the order as soon as the horsemen were within range, and the men released by Lieutenant Burton snapped back their triggers as one, the volley rippling unevenly across this part of the circle, leaving powder smoke to drift sideways over the open moor.

  Stryker took a couple of throat-singeing gulps of air to steady his nerves. The moor stank of blood and sulphur. He peered through the acrid cloud, braced for the terrible sight of horsemen emerging from the miasma. But none came. Nothing. Hooves still sounded, still rumbled on the heather and gorse, but their sound was fading with each moment. The second volley, comparatively weak though it was, had been more than the Roundheads were willing to bear. It had driven them back down the slope to count losses and lick wounds.

  Stryker scanned the sooty faces of his musketeers, seeing that the first rank were virtually ready to fire again, and a palpable sense of relief hit him, because he knew Wild had been beaten.

  ‘Sir?’

  Stryker turned to see Lieutenant Burton approach. ‘Aye.’

  ‘They’ll be back, sir. We can’t stay out here.’

  Stryker wholeheartedly agreed. To remain on the open moor with paltry supplies and no shelter would simply invite the Parliamentarian cavalrymen to keep harrying them, blocking the western road, and chipping away at the company with impunity until the Royalists had no choice but to surrender. But surrender was not an option, for Stryker remembered Wild’s vengeful oaths back at Bovey Tracey. He felt a sharp stab of guilt for bringing this fate upon them, and he stared up at the sky as if the clouds could provide the answer.

  ‘There,’ he said suddenly.

  Burton’s brow rose. ‘Sir?’

  Stryker was staring at the northern horizon, or rather the stone-cluttered hill that dominated the near distance. It was the tor he had seen earlier. The flat-topped promontory that was lower than its cousins to the west, with shallower slopes and a summit crowded with sheltering clumps of granite. ‘Make ready the men, Andrew. Load the dead in the cart as best you can. That’s where we’re going.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Okehampton, Devon, 1 May 1643

  Witch-finder Osmyn Hogg stared about the chamber with satisfaction. ‘You’ve done well, José. Very well indeed.’

  José Ventura, Hogg’s Spanish assistant, peered back at him through the gloom, dark eyes twinkling like polished orbs of jet in the firelight. ‘The Lord wish everything to be just so, sir. The right cond—condish?’

  ‘Conditions. And He has guided your hand perfectly.’

  Ventura bowed and moved to warm his hands above the burning brazier at the centre of the dusty floor. ‘As only He can, of course.’

  Indeed, thought Hogg, the gracious Lord had certainly provided great inspiration for Ventura this time. When Hogg’s request for private quarters had been met with the suggestion that they use some derelict outbuildings in the fields to the rear of the White Horse, it had seemed as though the dead-eyed Major-General Collings had once again been mocking them. But the buildings – a pair of musty old storage huts with rotten doors and sagging roof beams – were certainly well positioned, far enough away from prying eyes and ears, and, after a day of clearing out the cobwebbed debris, Ventura had transformed the place into the perfect examination room.

  ‘Should I fetch them?’

  Hogg limped to the brazier, pulled one of the iron rods from the grill’s red-white bowels, and held his free hand a few inches from its glowing tip. The air between the rod and his skin became fiercely hot in the time it took for his heart to beat but twice. ‘Aye, bring them to me.’

  As Ventura disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness, Hogg stared at the fire, losing himself in the searing, pulsating embers.

  Stryker. That name. How long had it been?

  Stryker. A word that made Osmyn Hogg both enraged and sickened.

  ‘Stryker,’ he said aloud, thrusting the iron savagely back into the brazier’s depths, frantic sparks spewing out to shower the floor.

  Osmyn Hogg considered himself to be a rational man. Educated, principled, and above all righteous. God’s representative on Earth. He had little time for petty squabbles or the base need for revenge. And yet when he had heard that name uttered across Major-General Collings’s dinner table, it was as though a lightning bolt had travelled straight through his chest. He had wanted to leave then and there. Run – no, limp, he corrected himself ruefully – from the room, saddle the nearest horse and ride for Colonel Wild’s troop. He had said as much to Collings, pleaded with the slightly bemused – and doubtless amused – Parliamentarian to grant him his leave. But Collings had refused, on the grounds that he did not know where exactly Wild would be. Whether that was truly the case, or whether it had more to do with Hogg’s refusal to explain his reasoning, he did not know. But ultimately, it did not matter. He had remained in Okehampton. Stuck here, in this vile little town, when Stryker – Stryker – was so near. The very idea made his heart ache.

  The door swung open revealing three figures silhouetted against the moon.

  ‘Welcome to the Lord’s house,’ said Hogg quietly. ‘A place for you to cleanse your corrupt souls.’

  ‘In.’ The speaker was José Ventura. Hogg saw that he was standing at the rear of the trio, a round, black shape in the darkness, his chubby hands shoving at his companions’ backs.

  The two prisoners – a man and a woman – shuffled slowly in. Hogg glanced beyond them to Ventura. ‘Are we protected?’

  The Spaniard nodded, sweaty jowls shaking. ‘Collings give two guards, sir. They at the door.’

  ‘All is ready, then.’ Hogg turned his attention to the subjects of the morning’s work. The accused. They were of late middle age, dressed in the threadbare clothes of common folk. He met the frightened gaze of the man. ‘Master Merriman?’

  The man, tall and wiry with a narrow jaw and deeply pitted cheeks, nodded at the woman beside him. ‘An’ this is m’ goodwife, Elspeth, sir.’

  Hogg looked at the woman. She was a head shorter than her husband, with a stout frame and warty complexion. ‘Eve to our Adam.’

  ‘M’lord?’ Elspeth replied.

  Hogg smiled unpleasantly. ‘No matter.’ He turned, limping back towards the centre of the room, where the brazier waited. Only when he had reached a place where he knew the firelight would cast suitably sinister shadows across his features did he look back at the Merrimans. He was pleased to see the fear dance in their eyes. He stood as tall as his pains would allow, attempting not to lean on his stick, and withdrew a sheet of crinkled paper from the folds of his black cloak. ‘John and Elspeth Merriman. You are accused of witchcraft.’

  ‘That’s a lie, sir,’ Merriman bleated immediately.

  Ventura stood on tiptoes and slapped him hard across the face. ‘Shut your mouth while Master Hogg speak!’ Too stunned to argue, Merriman fell silent. Elspeth began to sob.

  ‘A man known to you both,’ Hogg continued, glancing down at the paper, ‘one Michael Hood of Okehampton, has testified that he did see you both abroad under cover of darkness a month since. Suspicious for what your dark business might be, this Hood did follow you to an ancient grove beyond the town limits.’

  ‘How can this be?’ Elspeth suddenly shrieked. She gripped her husband’s arm. ‘Tell him, John! Tell him Hood lies!’

  ‘And there,’ Hogg continued, raising his voice above the woman’s shrill pleading, ‘you were seen consorting with the Devil, who came to you in the form of a young man. This man was heard to promise you all your worldly desires if you would deny God and wholly trust in him.’

  ‘Madness!’ Merriman interrupted, finally finding his voice. ‘Michael Hood is a low, Godless knave. He hates us!’

  Hogg glanced at Ventura, who immediately cracked a beefy fist into Merriman’s stomach, causing the prisoner to double over and vomit.

  Wrinkling his long nose in distas
te, Hogg examined the testimony again. ‘Hood claims that he heard you,’ he looked at them in turn, ‘both of you, make compact with the Devil, and that thereafter his newborn son did hasten to sickness and perish.’

  Elspeth stepped forward a pace. Her wide, flat face was red, her little eyes puffy. ‘Please, sir, believe us when we say it is all falsehood.’ She held out her hands as if grasping the air between her and Hogg. ‘Michael Hood did lose his child, that is true, and it was a terrible sad time. But it turned his mind bad, I swear it. He wants rid of us, and would use that tragic thing for his own profit.’

  ‘We quarrelled, he and I,’ John Merriman wheezed, still crumpled over but craning his neck up to look into Hogg’s face. ‘He has let resentment brew ever since. And then his poor boy passed, and it was Elspeth and I he blamed.’

  Hogg turned his attention to Elspeth. ‘Witchery is a grievous thing, Goodwife Merriman.’

  ‘But I—’ she blurted.

  Without a word, Ventura stepped past the still gasping Merriman and took hold of his wife’s arm. She was evidently a tough woman, for she shook him free and it took the Spaniard several attempts to regain the grip. Eventually, though, he was able to snare her, the hem of her moss-green shawl bunching within his stubby fingers, and he dragged her across the room.

  ‘No!’ Merriman had straightened now, concern for his wife stiffening his resolve. But Hogg knew he would not move to her aid. He’d have seen the armed guards at the door, after all.

  ‘Book of Micah,’ Hogg intoned in his deepest, most reverential voice as Elspeth was thrust violently against the crumbling cell wall. ‘Chapter 5, verses 12 and 13: “And I will cut off witchcrafts out of thine hand”.’

  Elspeth shrieked. Ventura belted her round the side of the skull, and drew a long, thin dirk.