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

by Michael Arnold

  ‘’Ey!’ Ventura lurched forward, making to stand, but froze when he saw the promise of violence in Wild’s eyes and the glint of honed steel in his fist.

  Wild looked back at Hogg. ‘You and your goddamned diego,’ he repeated with the merest hint of amusement, ‘wish Stryker dead too. So you will stay with me. And we three will search the faces of the men we fight and kill and capture, until we see a man with one grey eye. And then,’ he turned the knife in his hand, the firelight dancing along its keen length, ‘we will dig out that eye and cut off his stones and tear out his tongue.’

  ‘And stretch his neck,’ José Ventura added.

  Osmyn Hogg’s heart still kept a rapid pace. But this time it was not through trepidation but excitement. His old wound ached, but, strangely, he did not mind.

  CHAPTER 18

  Launceston, Cornwall, 12 May 1643

  The young officer reined in beside the two mounted men as they watched the town come alive with scurrying soldiers. He bent briefly, patting the snorting brindle with his good hand before straightening to adjust the leather strap that held his withered right arm in a permanent angled suspension. Jerking his head sharply from side to side so that his neck gave a couple of satisfying cracks, the officer blinked sore eyes and gave a short bow. ‘Sir.’

  Both of the waiting men returned the newcomer’s gesture, though only one spoke. ‘Mister Burton. You are rested, I trust?’

  Lieutenant Andrew Burton studied the speaker, who seemed so small atop the skittish black charger. Sir Ralph Hopton, commander of King Charles’s army in the south-west, was soberly dressed, indicating a man who, though loyal to his sovereign, held beliefs nearer to the Puritan persuasion than most in the King’s Army. His face was serious, an effect exacerbated by deep lines. Burton knew him to be in his mid forties, but the stresses of the rout at Sourton Down made him appear a deal older. ‘Aye, sir, well enough.’

  Burton glanced across at the road where a thick forest of pike staves was steadily growing as men mustered in a cloud of dust, hurriedly finding their companies and files. There were perhaps four hundred already drawn up, with scores more approaching from the various lanes that criss-crossed the town like the threads of a vast cobweb. Sergeants and corporals stood along the road’s edges, berating, cursing, and manhandling their charges into some semblance of order, the hawkish gaze of their officers an ever-present incentive. ‘I see plans move on apace,’ Burton said, genuinely impressed by the speed with which Hopton had mustered an army hitherto so widely spread around Launceston and beyond.

  Hopton pecked a staccato nod. ‘They do, they do. And necessarily so. I was just telling Colonel Trevanion of the dread word we have received.’

  ‘Dread indeed, sir,’ Burton replied, ‘and I pray the news was not too late in the telling.’

  The general gestured the intimated apology away. ‘It is told, and that is what matters.’

  ‘What I do not understand, sir,’ Burton ventured, ‘is why Stamford would choose Stratton. Is it not Sir Bevil Grenville’s territory?’

  ‘The area at large, aye,’ Hopton answered, ‘but not the town.’

  ‘Stratton itself is one of the few rebel garrison positions along the frontier,’ the man Hopton had named as Colonel Trevanion said abruptly. He craned forward to draw a wizened little apple from his saddlebag and bit into it, a pale bead of juice quickly tracing its way down his clean-shaven chin. He watched the various units take shape on the road as he chewed.

  ‘It is also,’ he continued when he had swallowed, ‘an excellent crossing point for the Tamar. The river cuts a broad gash through the rest of the county. It is more easily defended by our lads. At Stratton, Stamford can simply walk round it.’ He took another bite of the apple, before switching his attention to Hopton. ‘We must engage him before he strolls into Cornwall.’

  Hopton’s face became grim. ‘There will be much blood.’

  Trevanion stretched his back as he picked his words. He was tall, with long brown hair and hazel eyes that twinkled with intelligence. ‘I know you would favour some kind of blockade, General. Keep them stuck fast at Stratton, force them to venture south again where we might use the Tamar to our advantage.’

  Hopton’s fleshy head shook. ‘I accept such a thing would fail, but a direct engagement carries grave risk. I understand Stamford’s strength to be comfortably superior to my own.’

  Trevanion tossed the apple core over his shoulder. ‘Hit the bugger quickly, sir. Hit him hard. Push him on to the coast.’

  Hopton turned back to the massing troops. ‘It will be a rare fight. We are grievous outnumbered.’

  Trevanion grinned at that. ‘But you have the Cornish, sir.’

  A trace of a smile twitched at Hopton’s own lips. ‘Aye, John, I have the Cornish.’

  ‘Besides,’ Trevanion said briskly, ‘how, might I ask, do we know they attack? Is it certain? We have had no news for days.’

  Hopton’s wide brow shot up. ‘Apologies, Colonel, I am remiss.’ He indicated Burton. ‘I present to you Lieutenant Andrew Burton. The source of my new-found knowledge.’

  Trevanion leant across, saddle creaking beneath his shifting rump, and stretched out a gloved hand. ‘Well met, Lieutenant. I am Colonel John Trevanion.’

  Burton shook the colonel’s hand. He judged Trevanion to be no more than thirty, though his voice was strong and his bearing confident. ‘I know who you are, sir, of course.’ He glanced at the burgeoning ranks of pikemen and musketeers. ‘These are yours, are they not?’

  ‘The whole raggedy lot,’ Trevanion said happily. ‘Seven hundred at last count, and I’m proud of each. And with whom do you serve, Mister Burton?’

  ‘I’m with Mowbray’s regiment, sir.’

  Trevanion’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Mowbray? Ain’t he out watching the Okehampton road?’

  Burton nodded. ‘Aye, sir, he is. That is to say, lately my company have been on,’ he paused for a heartbeat, ‘detached duties. I am come direct from Captain Stryker at Beaworthy.’

  The youthful colonel’s lips drew back to expose neat white teeth. ‘Stryker?’

  ‘You know him, sir?’ Burton could not hide his surprise.

  ‘Of him, Lieutenant. Prince Maurice speaks very highly of Stryker.’

  That made sense, thought Burton as he nodded. ‘The captain has served the Prince’s brother many times.’

  ‘Well if Rupert of the Rhine has cause to trust him,’ Trevanion declared, ‘then he must be a rare character.’

  And, in the most unlikely of places, Burton was forced to think upon his captain. He had wanted to kill Stryker in that cave. Cecily Cade had turned Burton down, only to engage in a clandestine tryst with the captain. It must have been going on for days. They must have been mocking Burton’s lovelorn advances the entire time. Yes, he had hated Stryker for that. But now, after daylight and distance had provided some small perspective, he was beginning to wonder if things had really been entirely as they seemed.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘He is a hero.’ Perhaps it was worth discussing matters with Stryker. After everything they had been through together, the captain deserved that.

  ‘When did you discover Stamford’s purpose, Lieutenant?’ Colonel Trevanion was asking.

  Burton blinked to clear his thoughts. ‘Two days since, sir. My horse stumbled, broke its leg. It took time to find a new one.’

  Hopton snorted. ‘And time to reach me, no doubt.’

  Burton offered a rueful smile. It had indeed been difficult securing an audience with Sir Ralph without knowledge of the army’s new field word. ‘Your guards are scrupulous, General, aye.’

  Hopton shrugged. ‘What matters is that I know. I know Stamford has launched his offensive, and I know where he will strike. We are to advance northward at sunrise with as many men as we might gather hereabouts.’

  ‘You have summoned Slanning?’ Trevanion asked. He glanced at Burton. ‘He has a thousand good men at Saltash.’

  ‘Naturally,�
� Hopton nodded. ‘And Lord Mohun from Liskeard. They will be with us by the morrow. We leave as soon as our forces are joined. With God’s breath in our sails we shall reach Stratton in no more than two days.’

  ‘Sir Bevil is already there?’ enquired Trevanion.

  Hopton twisted his little greying beard between a thumb and forefinger. ‘He has twelve hundred troops in the vicinity, certainly. I have sent a rider to inform him of the enemy’s approach and to order him not to engage. He must await my arrival.’

  Trevanion sucked air into his chest, easing it out through clenched teeth. ‘To Stratton then, sirs.’

  ‘To Stratton,’ Hopton agreed. ‘Where we will destroy the rebellion in the south-west.’

  Near Marhamchurch, Cornwall, 13 May 1643

  The twin companies of Captains Innocent Stryker and Lancelot Forrester bivouacked in mist-fringed fields to the north of Marhamchurch. The village lay astride the road from Launceston, and it was along that road, Stryker hoped, that the army of King Charles would soon appear. To the north lay Stratton. They had visited the place that may soon become a battlefield, only for their scouts to tell of a populace roused for the cause of Parliament and of an approaching wagon train of provisions. That train might have been a tempting target for the weary redcoats, a chance to fill snapsacks and bellies, but the large escort of firelocks quickly put paid to the idea.

  ‘At least we know Richardson’s man spoke true,’ Forrester said when he found Stryker squatting on a crumbling log and inspecting the stitching of one of his boot soles.

  Stryker looked up. ‘The firelocks?’

  Forrester nodded, rosy cheeks quivering. ‘Why send them unless there’s more to guard than victuals?’

  That was true enough, thought Stryker. Firelocks were employed to guard wagon trains when an errant spark could spell carnage. Their presence almost certainly meant that the convoy carried black powder as well as food. And that meant that Stratton was indeed the place where Stamford’s forces were headed. But what could Stryker do, except wait this side of the little town and hope Burton had reached Hopton with the news? Now, as the morning mist was cleared by salty coastal gusts, his men rested and his pickets watched the north and east, their eyes trained on the horizon from which the Roundheads would surely emerge.

  Forrester removed his hat, fanned his face with it, and went to sit beside Stryker, clay pipe appearing in his free hand as if conjured from thin air. ‘Will Andrew come round, do you think?’

  Stryker abandoned the scrutiny of his boot and jammed it back on to his foot. ‘I don’t know, Forry.’

  There was a short but awkward silence as Stryker jerked the tall boot tight over his calf, while Forrester peered around at the small groups of men who squatted at fires, diced, or drank smoke. ‘She’s a singular beauty,’ the latter said eventually.

  Stryker looked across sharply. ‘And?’

  Forrester shrugged. ‘And any man with red blood and an underused pizzle—’

  ‘Nothing happened, for Christ’s sake!’

  Forrester lifted his hat as if to shield himself from his friend’s wrath. ‘I’m sorry, Stryker.’

  Stryker relented as his fellow officer pretended to cower. He shook his head, half in exasperation, half in bewilderment. ‘She thought to seduce me.’

  ‘In order to convince you to let her leave the tor.’ Forrester returned his hat to its perch of thin blond hair and clamped the pipe stem between his teeth. ‘But you held firm, and Burton let his jealousy get the better of him. You have done nothing to give concern.’

  Stryker thought back to that night, to the dark cave and the pale-skinned woman. He wondered whether Burton had truly been mistaken. ‘I almost took up the offer, Forry. Despite Andrew’s interest in her.’

  Forrester was lighting his pipe, pungent grey gusts swirling about his face as he sucked the tobacco into life. ‘Then why did you turn her down?’ He took the pipe from between his teeth, blew out the remnants of smoke from his lungs, and stared hard at Stryker. ‘Not sure I’d have been as strong-willed.’

  Stryker offered a simple shrug. ‘Lisette.’

  ‘Ha!’ Forrester snorted, lurching back with the laughter so that he almost fell from the log. ‘And yet she—’

  ‘Have a care, Captain.’

  The mirth left Forrester’s moon-round face almost immediately as he caught sight of Stryker’s hard, silver-streaked eye. ‘Well, you know what I would say.’

  ‘That she betrays me at every turn?’ Stryker retorted bitterly. ‘That she gallops off to God knows where at the click of the Queen’s fingers? Does God knows what, with God knows whom?’

  Forrester took another long breath from his pipe, letting the fingers of smoke drift lazily between his lips to envelope his head like a waterfall in reverse. ‘That’s about the size of it, aye.’

  The quick anger had left Stryker now, for he knew his old friend was right. ‘And yet I am faithful. Do you think me weak? An unmarried cuckold?’

  Forrester stared across at Stryker for a long while, teeth clamped on the clay stem, gaze steady. Eventually the merest trace of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth and he slapped Stryker’s shoulder. ‘Aye!’

  Stryker began to laugh, but immediately something caught his attention. A man, tall and rangy, ran briskly towards them, the four men Stryker had set as pickets scuttling in his languorous wake.

  ‘What is it?’ Stryker called, recognizing Sergeant Skellen.

  ‘We got company, sir!’ Skellen bellowed through cupped hands, before turning back to the south.

  Stryker looked beyond Skellen and the pickets to see a broad line of shapes moving within the veil of mist. At first the shapes were hazy, intangible, and a part of him hoped it was nothing more than a herd of deer, but a man’s voice called sharply from within the white cloak, followed by the startling beat of drums. Stryker stared as the shapes resolved. They were men, hundreds of men, and they carried pikes and muskets, halberds, scythes, pitchforks, swords, poleaxes, and partizans. The first ranks darkened as they burst beyond the pale wisps, and Stryker searched them for signs of a consistent coat colour or field sign. Nothing.

  Forrester was immediately beside him. ‘See an ensign?’

  Stryker shook his head for answer. ‘Get your men ready, Forry. If it is Stamford, we must be ready to run.’

  ‘God’s fingertips,’ Forrester muttered, fingering the sword-hilt at his waist, ‘let’s bloody well pray not.’

  But then the first of the great standards appeared, looming from the mist like the prow of a Viking ship of old. It was a large flag of dark blue, hanging limp in the still air from a stout wooden staff, and, though it carried no device, his jangling nerves immediately began to settle.

  ‘There are no blue ensigns in the Devon foot,’ Lancelot Forrester was saying at Stryker’s flank. ‘Who could it be?’

  Stryker shot his friend a rare smile. ‘Sir Bevil Grenville.’

  Launcells, Cornwall, 13 May 1643

  The grey edifice of St Swithin’s Church dominated the village, casting its elongated shadow over most of the small, timber-framed hovels that clustered beneath mouldering thatches.

  ‘Half granite, half soapstone.’

  Terrence Richardson, intelligencer and double agent, frowned at his commander’s words. ‘Sir?’

  Major-General James Chudleigh was standing at the big church’s main entrance, head tilted back so that he could stare up at the soaring stone tower rising above the efficient Norman arch. Buff-sleeved arms folded across his chest, Chudleigh did not look round. ‘St Swithin’s. I have a particular interest in architecture. Of course, the proper term is polyphant, but soapstone persists.’

  Richardson’s shoulders bunched. ‘If you say so, General.’

  ‘I wonder what they would make of its current use,’ Chudleigh said, almost regretfully, as his chin jerked down. He peered through the open doorway, listening to the whickering of horses from within the long nave.

  ‘I do not suppo
se they’d be happy, sir,’ Richardson said.

  ‘No,’ Chudleigh muttered, before finally looking round at the spy with a rueful smile. ‘And he must needs go that the devil drives.’

  ‘Quite,’ Richardson replied, considering how apt Shakespeare’s words were for his own situation. He had gone to such pains to hide his duplicity; lied, cheated, and murdered to keep himself concealed. And yet events had conspired against him. He had ambushed Forrester and Payne, and that had been beautifully planned and timed, yet the force of redcoats he had encountered was far greater than expected, and his plan to kill every last man had been quickly aborted. He had revealed himself to the enemy, and now he could never return to Hopton’s side. ‘Needs must.’

  But the young general was no longer listening. His brown eyes had drifted across the intelligencer’s shoulder to take in a new sight. His right cheek flickered slightly. ‘You have brought her. Good.’

  Richardson turned to face the woman who had accompanied him from her heavily guarded quarters in the village. She was clothed in a clean, straight dress of pale blue, her raven-black hair tightly imprisoned by a pristine white coif. He waved a hand to indicate that she should approach. She obeyed, shuffling closer.

  ‘Do you know who is entombed here?’ Major-General Chudleigh asked suddenly, eyes fixed on the woman. ‘I dare say you do not. Sir John Chamond. A great man of Cornwall, by all accounts. High Sheriff of the county, Custos Rotulorum.’

  ‘Keeper of the Rolls,’ the woman said, eliciting a broad smile from the general.

  ‘Very good, Miss Cade. But what else?’

  Terrence Richardson moved aside as his superior paced towards their captive. ‘Member of Parliament,’ he said, addressing Chudleigh’s back.

  Chudleigh did not turn, his gaze instead fixed firmly upon the woman. ‘Member of Parliament. Parliament, Miss Cade. That is the crucial institution. The one whom a man – or woman – must look to for guidance. Even a man like Sir John Chamond. A good man of Kernow.’ Chudleigh had moved to within an arm’s length of his prisoner, and he leant in further, voice low. ‘Do your duty for the Parliament, Miss Cade.’ He straightened suddenly. ‘Well? I am waiting, girl.’