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

by Michael Arnold

  Collings’s deep-set eyes, like twin sepulchres in his lily-coloured face, narrowed with malice. ‘He is pathetic.’

  Hogg thought about that. About the scornful treatment Wild had received since their ignominious return from the defeat on Dartmoor. It seemed to him as though Collings had gone out of his way to puncture the colonel’s hitherto inflated sense of pride. ‘You would have him hate you?’

  Collings halted, purple lips twitching at the corners. ‘I understand the workings of his simple mind, Master Hogg. He will blame Stryker for this. For the defeat, quite rightly, but also for the humiliation he has since suffered. Even now he will be plotting his revenge.’

  Hogg nodded in sudden understanding. ‘And strive all the harder for the villain’s downfall.’ Collings was deliberately goading Wild into a frenzy of hatred and bloodlust. When the time came, the general would release him knowing that Wild’s only thought would be murder. When he looked into Collings’s face, Hogg saw that the general regarded him with renewed interest. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You yearn for Stryker’s demise as well,’ Collings said. It was not a question.

  Hogg breathed in through his long nose, held the breath for a heartbeat, and released it slowly. ‘He and I have a shared history.’

  ‘A history that has set you against one another?’

  ‘Aye, General.’

  Collings began to walk again, ragged corn stems rustling against his shins. ‘Stratton is ours,’ he said as the first of the village’s low buildings came into view. ‘Yet the king’s champion, Sir Bevil Grenville, has a home here. Ironic, is it not?’ When Hogg did not answer, too engrossed in his own thoughts to think of the paradoxes of this conflict, Collings spoke again. ‘That is why you would remain at Wild’s side, yes?’

  The question jolted Hogg. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your personal antipathy towards Stryker. I ordered you to remain with the army, but not necessarily with Wild. You choose to stay close in the hope that he is able to hunt the man down.’ He bobbed his head as they drew nearer to Stratton’s outermost buildings. Small timber-framed structures with filthy ancient thatches. ‘Reasonable. I’d have done the same. And yet you have another duty to perform before you seek any vengeance.’

  ‘Oh?’ Hogg enquired warily.

  They had reached one of the shabby buildings. Its beams were rotten and worm-ridden, and, even from several feet away, Hogg could smell the ripe odour of damp and mould. Collings rapped knuckles briskly on the low door. It creaked open, the face of a soldier appearing from the far side. Collings looked up at Hogg. ‘Speak with a prisoner for me.’

  Hogg stayed still. ‘I am a witch-catcher, sir, not a soldier. I cannot employ my more—rough-handed—techniques for a secular task.’

  ‘Upon the orders of General Chudleigh,’ Collings retorted calmly.

  Hogg frowned and moved his stick from one hand to the other as his palm began to ache. ‘Is Lord Stamford not in charge here?’

  Collings’s grunt dripped contempt. ‘When he arrives, yes, but he has yet to show his face.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘Perhaps the gout has spread to his horse.’

  Collings led Hogg and Ventura into the room. He stepped to one side, allowing them to peer unhindered at the ghostly figure at the room’s far end.

  Hogg blinked rapidly as his eyes acclimatized to the poor light, though it was Ventura who recognized the figure first. ‘She was one on the tor,’ he hissed in his master’s ear.

  And then Hogg found he could place her too. It was surreal to find her here, of all places, but here she was. ‘The witch.’

  ‘Well now she is our prisoner,’ Erasmus Collings said from his place beside the door.

  Hogg stared back at him. ‘She was with Stryker.’

  That seemed to elicit a flash of interest from Collings’s magpie gaze. ‘She was with a large group of enemy foot when captured.’

  ‘And Stryker?’

  ‘I was not told. Our man mentioned a much larger force than he was expecting.’

  Hogg nodded. ‘Wild’s troop were bested because Stryker received reinforcements. They appeared right out of the wood as though spawned by the very trees.’

  To his surprise, Collings shrugged. ‘No matter. Miss Cade is of greater import. It appears she knows the location of a goodly store of treasure. Chudleigh would have her share that location with us.’

  The woman’s eyes were wide, unblinking, but her headshake was firm. ‘I’ll not speak a word.’

  ‘Do you recognize me, girl?’ Osmyn Hogg asked. He stepped closer so that she could see his face more clearly. ‘Or Señor Ventura, perhaps?’

  There was a long silence before the light of understanding seemed to flood across the woman’s face. Her eyes darted manically between Hogg, his walking cane, and his assistant. ‘Murderers!’

  ‘Witch-hunters, my dear,’ Hogg replied smoothly. ‘And you are one such imp-suckler according to the man, Otilwell Broom.’

  Cecily Cade’s hands shook now. Her face was ashen grey and her bottom lip quivered violently. ‘You killed him in cold blood.’

  Hogg calmly fished within the folds of his black doublet, drawing out a square of paper, which he carefully unfolded. ‘I killed him in God’s righteousness.’

  Collings took the paper and scanned through its inky scrawl. ‘Broom named her as Satan’s whore?’

  Hogg gave the hint of a nod. ‘To you this woman is but a prisoner. To me, she is a witch.’ He stabbed at the paper with an outstretched finger. ‘You hold my proof.’

  Collings stared at the paper a while longer. When he looked up, his eyes glittered like black diamonds in the murky room. Cecily staggered back against the far wall, a high-pitched mewing sound escaping her throat, but all he did was smile.

  ‘Then treat her as such.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Bude, Cornwall, 15 May 1643

  Stryker paced briskly through the dark, the imposing structure’s solid black mass blocking out the stars behind.

  It was two hours before midnight, but Ebbingford Manor seemed abuzz with activity. Bude itself was a little community nestled against the north Cornwall coast, around a mile to the west of Stratton, and the logical staging post for Hopton’s move against the Earl of Stamford. But within the unassuming village, full of plain thatched houses and drab fishermens’ hovels, one home stood out above the rest. It was a grand house of hoary granite and intricately carved archways, of low outbuildings, expansive courtyards, and imposing, high-beamed roof. The largest and best-appointed building in the area, its owners had fled when rumours of war had been whispered some days back. Thus, Sir Ralph Hopton, General of His Majesty’s Army in Cornwall, had chosen Ebbingford Manor as his headquarters.

  Stryker made his way briskly across the courtyard, flames lighting the way, dancing at the ends of torches that sprouted from the exterior walls. He made straight for the main entrance, the open doorway flanked by a pair of thick-set sentries, each sporting a gleaming halberd and stony grimace. They waved Stryker through at the mention of his name, and he strode across the wooden floors of the reception hall and into a narrow corridor, the tapping of his companion’s boot heels mingling with his own.

  ‘This will not go well for us.’

  Stryker glanced back to look at the tubby fellow scuttling at his heels. Like Stryker, the man was dishevelled and tired, the lines framing his perpetually red cheeks ingrained with grime. He wore a stained brown doublet beneath a well-worn buff-coat, waxy breeches appearing above the creased leather of tall boots, and a hat on his head that had seen far better days. Stryker offered a wan smile. ‘Come, Forry, we were betrayed.’

  ‘Betrayal or no,’ Lancelot Forrester bit back anxiously, ‘Payne and I were charged with bringing Sir Alfred Cade safely to Hopton. Not only did we fail in that, but we lost the old man’s bloody daughter too. And do not think you’ll escape with a clean nose either, Stryker, for you held the proverbial reins when Richardson galloped off with her.’

  They made their way
between a couple more surly, if respectful, guards and reached a heavy door of reddish wood and black rivets. Stryker knocked sharply, waited as the door creaked open, stole a last look back at Forrester’s nervous face, and stepped beneath the lintel.

  The room glowed dull orange as flames from a big hearth and a dozen fat beeswax candles fought to break through the fug of several billowing pipes. Stryker’s single eye immediately began to water, stung by the sheer amount of pungent smoke roiling about the men, the furniture, and the stout beams above. He blinked as fast as he could, eager to appear focussed in the presence of such company. As the blurred shapes became distinct lines, he noticed that the room, for all its modest size, was fairly crowded. A couple of faces he recognized immediately, most he did not, but all, he knew for sure, were men of renown. Their bearing was confident, their clothing of obvious quality, and their faces expressed an innate sense of their own abilities. He snatched his hat clean away, bowing before the men he knew to be the driving force behind the king’s western war machine. The young, brash, courageous Cavaliers of Cornwall.

  One of the assembled men, the only one sitting, looked up from the far side of a sturdy desk of broad surface and short legs. ‘Captain Forrester,’ he said brightly. ‘It is good to see you again. And the famous Captain Stryker. I should thank you for bringing me the extra powder and guns, sir. It is more welcome than you know.’

  ‘Sir,’ Stryker murmured, dipping his head in acknowledgement, though his insides burned with the knowledge that the gift might have been so much greater.

  ‘And how fairs Sir Edmund?’

  Stryker returned his gaze to the seated man, the man he knew to be Sir Ralph Hopton. He kept his expression impassive, but found himself wishing he had spent more time cleaning himself up. ‘In truth, sir, I have not seen our colonel these past three weeks. My company has spent much time out towards Bovey Tracy. But I understand the regiment is strong.’

  Hopton’s round, fleshy face twitched in a tight smile. ‘A shame they could not join us for our current expedition, but I required solid men to protect the rest of the county.’

  ‘I understand, sir. I only hope Captain Forrester and I will represent Sir Edmund as well as he might expect.’

  Hopton nodded. ‘I am sure you will. And I would thank you both for sending your young lieutenant to warn me of the enemy’s plans.’ The general jolted upright suddenly, peering through the fragrant smog at the other men assembled. ‘My apologies, Captain. Introductions must be made. You will know the names, naturally, but perhaps you have never been fortunate enough to have met my young Cornish scrappers?’

  Stryker let his gaze move around the room. Two of the pipe-puffing men stood behind Hopton like foppish sentinels, another pair leaned nonchalantly beside a window, and others had been standing at the corners of the general’s big table, evidently studying the huge campaign map spread out across its surface. ‘I fear not, sir.’

  ‘Then let us redress the situation.’ Hopton nodded towards a point on the wall at Stryker’s back. He and Forrester turned to see a pair of faces they knew well. ‘Sir Bevil you know, of course, and his man, Anthony Payne.’

  The captains bowed low, each with a smile of greeting for the huge Payne, a man they had come to revere.

  ‘And I would introduce you to Sir Thomas Basset, my Major-General of Foot,’ Hopton said, eliciting a short bow from one of the men beside the window. ‘And here we have Colonel Sir John Berkeley, Lord Mohun, and Colonel John Trevanion.’

  Stryker nodded to each one in turn, praying that he would remember which smoke-shrouded face belonged to which great man. ‘Well met, sirs.’

  ‘Colonels Sir Nicholas Slanning, William Godolphin,’ Hopton continued, finally pointing a slender forefinger at one of the men who had been craning over the map, ‘and the man charged with leading our mounted troops, Sir John Digby.’

  Stryker bowed low again. He found the presence of such powerful men extremely discomforting. What exactly did the Cornish commanders make of him? Their respective regiments were famed for coarse manners, after all, and each company and tertio raised in defence of the ancient county boasted rank upon rank of rough-hewn, scrap-toughened men, the like and frequency of which were found nowhere else. But tonight they beheld a man of slim, sinewy stature, with a head of long, raven-black hair tied at the nape of the neck. A man of narrow, angular face, one half of which was mutilated fit for nightmare, the other dominated by a bright, quicksilver eye that would not have been out of place on a wolf. He felt their collective gaze falling upon him, and fought to keep his well-practised stare, unflinching and iron-cold, on a point on the oak-panelled wall behind Hopton.

  The first Stryker had seen of Sir Ralph Hopton’s army was the smudge of slate-grey on the southern horizon. Sir Bevil Grenville’s regiment, twelve hundred of Cornwall’s most grizzled fighters, had remained in the environs of Marhamchurch until, as dusk spread its stealth over the land the evening before, a scout from General Hopton had arrived to say that the larger Royalist force was drawing closer. Hopton had been waylaid, the scout informed them, by a skirmish with rebel cavalry, and had been forced to bivouac at a place called Week St Mary before pushing on towards Grenville’s position. The delay had been irritating for all concerned, for it meant that the Devon Roundheads would have an extra day to prepare for whatever engagement lay ahead, but at least, finally, the king’s men had rendezvoused, combined, and marched into Bude.

  They had not had things all their own way, of course. The River Neet bisected the land between Royalist Bude and Parliamentarian Stratton, and Roundhead pickets had been placed at the various crossing points to snipe at any vanguard sent across by Hopton. Sir Ralph, though, was in no mood to dally any longer, and sent a solid party of musketeers to clear one such crossing. This they did by cover of dusk, pushing the enemy pickets, and those stationed elsewhere along the river, back to the main rebel position.

  After securing the river crossing, Hopton had ordered the bulk of his force across the Neet and eastwards beyond the town. They had reached a patch of high, sandy common ground overlooking the sea. It was the land separating Bude from Stratton, and there, amongst the coarse tufts of wind-harried grass and barren dunes, the men made camp. Or at least, Stryker mused, a camp of sorts. In truth there would be no tents, no drinking, and no fires. No dice would be thrown and no women would make their way up from the countryside to earn some coin. Sir Ralph, acutely aware of the enemy’s remarkably strong position, was mindful of a night attack by the waiting rebels, and had ordered the Royalist troops to stand at arms during the starry night. Stryker and Forrester had been organizing their men in the chill coastal breeze when the summons came from Ebbingford Manor.

  ‘Have no fear, gentlemen,’ Hopton was saying now, ‘Sir Bevil has explained Richardson’s treachery. You are not responsible for losing Miss Cade.’

  Losing Miss Cade. The three words alone sent a pang up and down Stryker’s spine, finishing in a knot within his guts. ‘I wish I could make amends, sir,’ was all he could think to say. Behind him, Forrester echoed the feeble sentiment.

  Hopton straightened. ‘But I would have you bring her back.’

  Stryker glanced across at Forrester.

  ‘I cannot exaggerate the importance of the Cade fortune, Captain,’ Hopton went on when Stryker had evidently paused too long. ‘It must be retrieved at all costs.’

  Forrester cleared his throat. ‘But Sir Alfred’s daughter will be with Stamford, sir. She may even have shared her knowledge by now.’

  ‘My intelligencers do not believe the earl has yet arrived on the field.’ The general shrugged. ‘It may delay their dealings with her. I’d guess she is confined somewhere in Stratton itself.’ Though Stryker still examined the wall beyond Hopton, he could feel the general’s gaze rake across his face. ‘Choose a man, Stryker. Send him into the village tonight. Discover her whereabouts.’

  That surprised Stryker, and he risked a glance directly at Hopton. ‘I will go.’

/>   ‘No, sir, you will not. There will soon be a fight, and you must be here to lead your men. I’d send Mister Payne, for he would see this mission through to its conclusion. But he is a tad conspicuous for the task. With the utmost respect, Mister Payne.’

  Stryker could not see the giant’s response, but Hopton’s quick grin told him no offence had been taken. ‘I will pick one of my best, sir,’ he said when Hopton’s gaze returned.

  ‘Will we join battle on the morrow, General?’ Forrester asked abruptly.

  For answer, Hopton waved him and the rest of the men closer, and they converged around the huge map. Stryker stared down at it. At first he had no idea what he was studying, for it seemed like no map of England he had ever seen, but then he noticed the looping ink scrawls that labelled Bude and Stratton, saw the jagged line representing the coast, and the tapering V shape that sat in the very centre like a fat spider in its web.

  Hopton stabbed the spider with his thumb. ‘The enemy are camped on the summit of this damned hill. It is steep, it is difficult to approach, and it is crammed with five, perhaps nearer six, thousand souls. We are also aware of several fieldpieces. A dozen or thereabouts.’ He looked up sharply. ‘And yet we have one advantage, gentlemen.’

  ‘They have no horse,’ Sir Bevil Grenville replied.

  ‘And ours,’ Sir John Digby cut in swiftly, ‘cannot assault such a sheer position.’

  ‘True enough,’ Grenville agreed patiently, evidently sensing the cavalry commander’s tension. ‘But our foot will carry the day against theirs.’

  ‘With half as many men?’ Digby persisted.

  Grenville stepped further into the room, leaving Payne silent and watchful beside the doorway like the Colossus of Rhodes. He made his way to the table and its detailed map, the others looking to him with interest. ‘Difficult odds, Sir John, I readily accept. But Sir George Chudleigh has a flying column of horse here,’ he thrust a gloved finger on to the map and snaked it south-westwards from the north Cornish coast to rest upon one of the handwritten labels scrawled at a place in the centre of the county, ‘at Bodmin. Either we engage the Stratton multitude now, or wait until they have twelve hundred harquebusiers at our backs.’ His other hand hovered over Stratton and, with deliberate slowness, he slid it across the page to collide with the one at Bodmin. ‘Between the two, we’d be crushed like a rotten apple in an eagle’s claw.’