‘Hogg was one such man,’ Stryker cut in. ‘A blackguardly priest in those days. I shot him for the attempted hanging of the woman I loved.’
Forrester’s blond brow shot up. ‘Beth? She was a whore, Stryker.’
Stryker nodded. ‘She was a whore, aye. A good one. And I was besotted with her.’
Forrester’s thin lips twitched upwards. ‘Plenty were.’
‘Hogg’s priestly compatriots included. He claimed she bewitched them.’
‘She did,’ Forrester replied.
‘Aye, but she never needed Satan’s help. In truth, Hogg’s privy member grew hard when he clapped eyes on her. He could not reconcile the shame of it, and would happily have seen her die to salve his own conscience. I shot the bastard, and he deserved it.’ He shrugged. ‘I should have killed him then and there.’
William Skellen, for once not the tallest man present, had caught up with the leading group. He gargled a batch of dusty phlegm into his mouth and spat it into the tall grass at the roadside. ‘Bugger sounded sane enough when he condemned you at the hill, sir. Babbled plenty o’ Bible talk as poor Broom kicked ’is last.’
‘The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose, Sergeant,’ Anthony Payne replied. ‘That is from The Merchant of Venice, but it holds great truth.’
Lancelot Forrester clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘I was searching for that exact line, Anthony!’ He glanced across at Stryker, perhaps catching the intrigue in his friend’s face. ‘He is a scholar, Stryker. He might look like a bloody philistine,’ he shot Payne a mischievous wink, ‘but his mind is sharp as a Toledo hanger.’
The land sloped gently downwards as high moor gave way to the first patches of pastureland a couple of miles outside Tavistock. There they found the northbound track that had conveyed Forrester’s company cross-country from Peter Tavy, and it was agreed that that would be the safest route to take. The modest road took them between small copses, over pebble-banked streams, and beyond isolated farmsteads. As they marched Stryker began to feel a little more positive, his despair at the argument with Burton starting to erode as they neared the safety of Cornwall.
‘And what of your new fellows?’ he asked Forrester as the column drew up beside one of the narrow waterways that cut through the land.
Forrester followed his friend’s gaze to where his group of prisoners had gathered at the stream’s edge. ‘Had something of a brabble near Tavistock. This sorry lot staggered into our camp like a herd of cupshot blind men, and we bloodied their noses.’
When Forrester removed his hat, using it to fan his rosy cheeks, Stryker noticed a crusty brown smear across the top of his scalp. ‘Looks as though their noses weren’t all that was bloodied.’
‘Aye, well,’ Forrester muttered, his forefinger appearing through the crown of his hat like a worm from its hole, ‘I have informed Mister Jays that he owes me ten shillings.’
‘Ten?’ echoed Stryker. ‘That old thing cost, what, three at most?’
Forrester tapped the crusty scalp wound. ‘There is the matter of my injuries, old man. The indignity I have suffered in losing such a swathe of hair.’
To Stryker’s eye Forrester’s once lustrous locks had become so thin these past few years that the damage was not all that critical. He decided to keep quiet.
‘In truth,’ Forrester continued, waving the holed hat in the direction of the sombre-faced greycoats who now knelt to plunge cupped hands in the water, ‘Reginald Jays, there, ain’t a bad sort. He’s a stripling. Aged fourteen, fresh of face, and foolish as a virgin in a trugging den. Speaking of which,’ his gaze drifted casually to the rear of the column, where Lieutenant Burton was patting one of the falconets’ horses. ‘What happened between the two of you?’
Stryker stared at Burton for a long time, the feeling of despondency returning. He and the lieutenant had been through a great deal together, and he regarded Burton as something akin to a son. The wedge that had formed between them was near unbearable. ‘Cecily Cade tried to seduce me.’
Forrester regarded him askance. ‘Good Lord.’ His eyes shifted along the riverbank to the place where Cecily stooped, filling a small flask with water. ‘Good Lord.’
Stryker looked at the girl too. ‘It was strange,’ he said, thinking back to that dark night. ‘She didn’t even seem as though she wanted to.’
‘Well lock her up in Bedlam,’ Forrester exclaimed sarcastically, ‘for she must be positively frantic!’
‘Thank you, Forry,’ Stryker said glumly, before walking over to the stream, unfastening his scabbard, and taking a seat on the ground.
Forrester joined him. ‘Cecily Cade, the mysterious beauty.’ It was then that a great shadow crossed overhead. They both turned, expecting rain, only to see Anthony Payne. ‘Cade, Mister Payne,’ Forrester said. ‘What is that, a Cornish name?’
‘Cade?’ repeated Payne. His eyes narrowed suddenly beneath a deeply furrowed brow. ‘Cade, you say?’
‘Aye, sir,’ Forrester nodded. ‘Cecily Cade.’ He leaned forward to peer along the course of the meandering river, pointing at the only female in the company. She was still absently taking refreshment some fifty paces upstream. ‘The siren in our midst.’
Payne’s face seemed to blanch, the colour draining clear away, and his neck convulsed as though he was trying to swallow an entire egg. ‘That is Cecily Cade?’
Forrester sighed impatiently. ‘That is what I said, Mister Payne, yes. Stryker’s damsel in distress.’
But Payne did not seem to be listening. Already he had turned away and was stalking along the bank.
‘Mister Payne?’ Stryker called to him, clambering up from the ground when the big Cornishman failed to respond. ‘What is it?’
Forrester scrambled to his feet as well, disturbed by the giant’s sudden change in disposition. ‘Anthony?’
Now Payne seemed to register their voices, for he paused to glance round. ‘Sirs, I must speak with her.’ He fixed Stryker with a gaze that spoke of a man who would not be denied. ‘Please, Captain. It is a matter of the utmost import. I must speak with Miss Cade this very moment.’
Beaworthy, Devon, 9 May 1643
Terrence Richardson had made camp in fields just outside the village. Here, flanked by thick hedgerows and taunted by crows, his threescore cavalrymen had waited the best part of a week for the arrival of a Cornish giant, a foppish Cavalier, and their precious cargo. Yet none had come, Richardson’s men had become increasingly agitated, and the crows seemed to jeer his failure.
It was with great fuss, then, that the pickets first spotted the lone rider on the eastern horizon. Richardson had been examining a jagged notch on his backsword’s single cutting edge when the message was relayed to him. He forgot the irritating blemish all at once. Thrusting the blade back through the throat of his scabbard, he strode straight out of his tent and across the field to the tumbledown gate that served as the camp’s main entrance, not even taking pause to put on his coat.
The rider was an incongruous sight, for he wore the clothes of an infantryman, and was clearly uncomfortable on the exhausted nag that snorted and whinnied its way through the gate. Richardson knew at once that this must be one of Forrester’s men.
‘News from Mister Payne, one hopes,’ he said as casually as he could, though he sensed the tightness within his throat.
The rider took off his cap in salute. ‘Aye, sir, with his compliments, and where might I find General Hopton?’
Richardson’s head was bare, and he lifted a hand to ruffle his close-cropped brown hair, wincing apologetically as he did so. ‘I am sorry to report, sir, that he is engaged further north with the main army.’ He offered an embarrassed shrug. ‘He could not linger here forever, you understand.’
One of Richardson’s men sidled up to the heaving horse and took the reins as the redcoat jumped down. ‘I suppose not, sir, but my report is for the general only.’
Richardson pursed his narrow lips and pulled at the brown bristles of his moustache. ‘And who
rode all the way out to tell you to march to Beaworthy?’ he asked calmly.
The redcoat’s eyes darted left and right. ‘Y—You did, sir.’
Richardson smiled urbanely, and patted the infantryman on the shoulder. ‘Then you may pass your news to me, good fellow, for you know that to speak with me is to speak with Hopton himself.’
Some of the cavalrymen were gathering around the pair of them now, and the messenger’s shoulders seemed to sag in resignation. ‘Aye, sir, I’m sure you’re right.’
Richardson smiled again, flashing teeth he knew to be bright against his whiskers. ‘Good man!’ He glanced at one of his men. ‘Get this wise fellow a blackjack brim full of our best ale.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the redcoat said, eyes still pinned open with intimidation.
‘No matter,’ Richardson waved away the thanks dismissively, deciding the man was now ripe for questioning. ‘They have located Cade?’
The rider shook his head. ‘Not exactly, sir.’
Richardson exhaled noisily, dropping the act of smooth charm in favour of something more direct. ‘Well spit it out, you dissembling numbskull.’
‘Cade is dead, sir.’
That stopped Richardson in his tracks. He thought for a moment that he would vomit. ‘Dead?’
‘Aye, sir. Ambushed and killed by brigands. But we have located his daughter. Captain Forrester and Mister Payne bring her here even now.’
‘Daughter?’ Richardson repeated absently. It was as though he could not see, could not think, beyond the realization that Sir Alfred Cade was dead. He felt swamped, trapped in a miasma of despair by this gut-wrenching news. ‘Christ, man,’ he muttered as the situation turned in his mind, ‘what use is she?’
The redcoat suddenly stepped closer. ‘Sir,’ he said, voice falling to barely a whisper, ‘she has the information.’
The miasma cleared. The painful pounding of Richardson’s heart was suddenly a soft murmur, twisted bowels easing back to comfort. ‘You’re—you’re certain?’
‘Aye, sir.’ He offered a non-committal shrug. ‘That is what I was told to tell General Hopton, sir. I am not privy to anything further.’
‘Of course not,’ Richardson replied distantly, his mind already tumbling thoughts like so many acrobats.
‘Sir?’
Richardson forced himself to look up. ‘Hmm?’
‘Might I ask,’ the messenger said, staring about the encampment curiously now that his information had been imparted, ‘which regiment these men are from?’
Richardson placed a hand firmly on the redcoat’s shoulder and steered him back towards his waiting mount. ‘I think we’re finished here, are we not?’
‘But, sir,’ the confused infantryman spluttered, ‘do I not have ale on the way?’
‘I’m afraid not, good man. Time’s of the essence, eh?’
‘Might I not stay a little while to rest?’ the redcoat complained, trying to shrug Richardson’s hand away.
Richardson stopped dead, fixing the redcoat with a blistering stare. ‘No, man, you may not. Be gone with you, and tell Payne and Forrester to bring Miss Cade to me forthwith.’
It was then that Richardson saw the redcoat’s eyes narrow as they fixed on a point just over his shoulder. He released his grip, turning to see what the man had noticed, only to catch a smudge of tawny over in the hedge line at the other side of the field.
‘Christ,’ Richardson hissed angrily, ‘but that man’ll be on a damned charge before the day is through, by God he will.’
The redcoat gaped, eyes darting between Richardson, his surly gang of cavalrymen, and the tawny sash. ‘Sir?’
Richardson sighed, rubbed his eyes in a tired manner, and stepped back. ‘I had hoped to avoid this, good fellow, you must believe me.’
The pistol cracked before the redcoat even knew it was at his temple. Its echo reverberated around the trees and hedges, sending all manner of birds skyward in fright. The messenger slumped to his knees, swayed there a moment, and crashed on to his face, the grass about his skull stained rapidly dark.
Torrington, Devon, 9 May 1643
Henry Grey, First Earl of Stamford, was examining a large map of south-west England at his expansive campaign table when his second-in-command, Major-General James Chudleigh, strode beneath the doorway’s high lintel.
‘How do you like my new billet, General?’
Chudleigh plucked the leather gloves from his hands and stuffed them into the crown of his upturned hat. He peered about the room, the wooden panelling shining brightly in the sunlight that streamed through the large windows. ‘Very much, my lord. You were on the upper floor before, were you not?’
Stamford nodded, indicating his left leg. It jutted out to the side of his chair, useless and inert. ‘The gout rages again. I am utterly trapped by it.’
Chudleigh was a young man, of reedy neck and willowy frame, yet his woollen coat, leather doublet, and dark green cloak gave him a formidably martial appearance. He looked down at the leg, noticing that Stamford’s pale hose were stretched tight by the swollen calf. ‘My sympathies, my lord, truly. It is an agonizing affliction.’
‘Jesu, but it is, James. Yet I have not summoned you to speak of such matters.’
Chudleigh ran a hand through his long hair in an effort to untangle the black curls that massed around his shoulders like shavings of jet. ‘I had thought not, sir.’
‘Firstly,’ Stamford said through teeth gritted against a sudden wave of pain, ‘I should like to know of the victuals for the men. Have the provisions been requisitioned?’
Chudleigh nodded, glancing out the window at the wisps of white cloud that drifted aimlessly above. Soon, he thought grimly, the clouds would be gritty, hot, and stinking of sulphur. ‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Provisions?’ came a new voice from the doorway.
Chudleigh turned to see a man of similar height and build to himself, though the flowing curls that had once been as black as his own were now distinguished by silver flecks. He stretched out his hand. ‘Are you well, Father?’
Sir George Chudleigh paced briskly into the room, spurred boots clomping loudly on the wooden floor. He shook his son’s hand warmly. ‘Well indeed, James. Well indeed. We have a fine army mustered.’ He removed his hat, bowing to Stamford. ‘My lord.’
Stamford smiled. ‘It heartens me to see you, Sir George. You will forgive me if I do not rise to greet you.’
‘Naturally, my lord,’ Sir George agreed as he and his son approached the earl’s table. ‘And I must beg your pardon for my tardiness, sir. My horse tripped and is lame.’
‘No matter,’ Stamford replied, shifting his rump in the creaking chair, a tiny yelp of pain escaping his mouth as he aggravated the immobile limb. He took a moment to compose himself, patted the wrinkles from his bright blue doublet before meeting Sir George’s brown eyes once more.
‘Now to business. We were speaking of the provisions, Sir George. We have ordered the garrisons hereabouts to send supplies from the towns. Some will provide meat, others milk, others bread. Barnstaple, for instance, has agreed to send biscuit, bacon, peas, and small beer.’ He grasped a scrap of paper from the cluttered desk and held it out for Sir George to take. ‘Here.’
Sir George studied the requisition order. ‘Send to Stratton,’ he read aloud, before looking up sharply. ‘Our target?’
Stamford nodded. ‘You have it.’
Sir George Chudleigh stared at the name on the paper once more before glancing across at his son. ‘You are aware that Stratton is Grenville’s heartland?’
‘His estates are thereabouts, aye,’ Stamford snapped hotly, clearly irked by the older man’s deferral to his son, ‘but the town itself shifts for the Parliament.’ He jabbed a finger at the place on the map marked Plymouth, and tracked an irregular ink line northward with his nail. ‘As you both know, the River Tamar forms the only natural barrier between Devon and Cornwall, and for many miles it is easily defended by the Cornish.’
James Ch
udleigh looked at his father. ‘The river rises in the north. It is the simplest crossing point.’
Stamford tapped a spot on the north coast labelled with the word Stratton. ‘This is where we must strike. We’ll make our base at Stratton itself, and it is there that Hopton will have to come and face us. It is there, gentlemen, that we will trap his army by the sea.’
Sir George took a deep breath, let it out gently, and whispered, ‘God be with us.’
‘God be with us, Sir George,’ Stamford corrected, pointing between himself and the younger Chudleigh.
Sir George’s brow rose at the intimation. ‘My lord?’
The earl propped a hand under his narrow chin. ‘Hopton knows we shall attack soon. And he knows we will likely outnumber him. To that end, he plans – according to my intelligencers – to raise a posse down at Bodmin as soon as he discovers the exact nature of our thrust.’
Sir George nodded, considering the words. ‘That would alleviate the disparity in numbers somewhat.’
‘Thus,’ Stamford went on, ‘said posse must never be allowed to form. And that is where I need you, Sir George, as my Commander of Horse. How many troopers do you have at your disposal?’
‘Twelve hundred, my lord,’ the older man answered smartly.
‘Then I want them tacked, saddled, and ready to ride for Bodmin. The moment we march upon Stratton, you will go south. You will surround that damned town and prevent High Sheriff Grylls from mustering a single man against us. Understood?’
‘Of course, my lord.’
James Chudleigh cleared his throat. ‘And we shall lead the main assault, my lord?’
Stamford’s gaze switched to the more youthful, if higher-ranked Chudleigh. He smoothed down his moustache for a few moments, as though he needed the time to choose his words. ‘The gout makes travel tedious and slow, General.’
Chudleigh dipped his head. ‘I do not doubt it, my lord.’
‘Consequently my presence with the army will prove only a hindrance.’ Stamford straightened, collecting up the assortment of parchment scrolls and paper that littered the table and bunching them into a neat pile. When he had laid them flat he looked up into Chudleigh’s expectant gaze. ‘You will therefore lead the van.’
Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 30