Jimmy smiled toothlessly. ‘Course not, sir.’
With that, the men began to relax. He was a hard bastard, Captain Stryker, but a good sort of cove for all that. They had shared many a campfire with him over the years and knew he liked to chew the fat with them on occasion.
Stryker took his place, cross-legged, in the ring of men that huddled close to the fire’s warmth. ‘It’s been so long since this country’s seen land battles that men have forgotten how to fight,’ he said, returning the gaze of each man in turn.
‘There’s a few who knows what they’re about though, sir,’ ventured the weasel-faced Samuels.
‘Aye, there are,’ the captain replied, offering the young man a wolfish grin. As the flames danced in the chill dusk, their tremulous radiance lit up Stryker’s face, highlighting old scars and glittering in that all-seeing eye of his.
By Christ, the pikeman thought, he looked so much like a minion of Lucifer in that orange glow that Samuels could not help but shiver, despite the fire’s heat. He had seen that terrible scar twist and convulse when the captain’s ire was aroused. He had seen those powerful shoulders wield deadly weapons in a hundred different situations, and had witnessed the same outcome each time. Samuels, like all of his mates in the company, thought more of this man than any other in His Majesty’s army. They had fought with him and killed with him. And they would always answer his call.
Stryker picked up a stick and began prodding the smouldering logs, sending sparks skywards in a manic rush. ‘Trouble is,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘only those of us who’ve been in Europe have the experience. We are the ones who know what we’re up against, Sammy. The rest are soft.’
His words drew a chorus of consenting grunts. Either force would have been cut to ribbons by the great martial machines they had fought against in mainland Europe.
‘Still,’ a voice came from opposite Stryker, beyond the flames, ‘it wasn’t all bad, was it?’
‘How d’you mean, Sergeant?’ asked another of the men.
Skellen sniffed, as he always did when he wished to show he did not appear to care about a subject. ‘We’ve got the road, haven’t we? That’s what we wanted. That’s what we got.’
Stryker nodded. Both sides had hoped for a crushing victory that would end this feud before it had really begun. Perhaps there was still a chance, given that the road to London had been opened if not by a victory, then by Essex’s failure to block the route south. They’d been ordered to Banbury, which had capitulated, and now Stryker, and evidently Skellen, fully expected the king to dash further south and secure Oxford. Then they could push on to the capital.
The fireside chatter soon turned to other things. The women they had left behind; the taverns they had frequented in former lives; the quality of beer on the Continent. Anything but the horrors of the battle. It had been a hard affair on that plain below Edgehill. Cold and bloody and brutal. The butcher’s bill had reached Stryker as the column decamped in Banbury’s houses and fields.
It was never easy reading, but this one was particularly difficult. Not that it was the worst Stryker had ever seen, but it was hard to stomach by its very nature. This was civil war, and every nameless man whose death was recorded on the bill’s tally was from these islands. From the king’s force five hundred lay dead, another fifteen hundred wounded. Stryker knew similar numbers would be tallied around Parliamentarian campfires at this very moment.
‘Captain Stryker?’ a voice from outside the circle broke into the group’s friendly banter. ‘Captain I. Stryker, if you please.’
Stryker stood slowly, the aches and pains of the last battle’s exertions crying out against the unwelcome movement. ‘I’m Stryker,’ he said, turning to face the newcomer, whose form was gradually resolving in the darkness.
‘Lieutenant Morris, sir,’ the man said, offering his hand for Stryker to shake. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, but carried himself with an air of confidence that Stryker knew immediately was born of wealth and privilege. ‘Compliments of Lord Saxby, sir, and what is the I for?’
‘The I?’ Stryker replied in a low, almost threatening voice.
‘In your name, sir,’ Morris went on, unconcerned by his superior’s tone. ‘What, may I ask, does it stand for?’
Around the campfire, the men tensed. None, not even Skellen, knew what Stryker’s Christian name was, and it was common knowledge that to pry was dangerous.
‘No, Lieutenant, you may not ask.’
Morris shrugged. ‘Well, no matter. Lord John requests you attend him forthwith.’
‘Forthwith? It’s cold and late, man. Can I not at least see to my billet first?’
‘ ’Fraid not, sir.’ The lieutenant flashed a sympathetic smile. ‘He was quite insistent.’
Stryker gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw quivering in irritation. Eventually he sighed. ‘Of course he bloody was.’
The room was opulent. A large fire roared in the impressive stone hearth, its light bathing everything in a tremulous glow. Bookcases lined the walls, shelves filled to breaking point with distinguished tomes, their spines crammed together like a regiment of pike. An enormously large chandelier hung glittering from the ceiling, while beneath it sat a vast table of oak, its surface invisible beneath scattered parchments. The owner of the room, and its clutter, was not in attendance.
Stryker had been ushered in by Lieutenant Morris, whom he had followed the short distance from the company’s field of sheep shit, through one of the city gates, and into a quiet street of impressive houses, the hulking shadow of Banbury’s Norman castle looming behind them.
Half the way up the street and past several Royalist patrols, they had reached a large merchant dwelling. Uttering a password to the surly musketeer on sentry duty, they were granted entry. As they walked down a long corridor, they had passed several doors and three more guards before reaching the present room. Once inside, Morris had beaten a hasty retreat while Stryker, alone, had been left to await the man who had summoned him.
Pleased to be sheltered from the bitter night, Stryker ambled across iron-cold flagstones and thick carpets to the great hearth. It was blistering in its intensity, too hot, but he held out his hands to welcome its energy. It was a satisfying feeling. He closed his eye.
Behind him, footsteps shuffled across the carpet.
Stryker spun on his heels, his hand moving instinctively to the sheathed sword at his waist.
The man froze where he stood, palms held up in supplication. ‘Is a duel really necessary, Captain?’ he said. ‘This ruff is new, and the rug is Persian. We will never get the blood stains out and your dozen shillings a day won’t be enough to replace it, I can assure you.’
Stryker shrugged. ‘It is necessary when officers creep up on their men, Colonel.’
‘You would speak to a superior officer in such a fashion, sir?’
‘Only when it is deserved, my lord.’
Colonel Lord John Saxby’s narrow face split into a broad grin. ‘Good God, man, but you always were an insubordinate rogue!’ He let out a great guffaw. ‘It is good to see you, indeed it is. You look positively monstrous, as always.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Stryker, straight-faced.
Saxby brayed again. ‘Sweet Christ on His cross, Stryker, you are a marvel. If I could have had odds on your demise, I’d have bet against you long ago. But here you are.’
Stryker reached out, shaking Saxby’s proffered hand. ‘Here I am, sir.’
‘Here you are indeed. I heard you were in the thick of it.’
Stryker nodded. ‘And I heard you were also, sir.’
The colonel’s eyes glinted. ‘I was. But where are my manners? Sit, Mister Stryker, sit.’
Colonel Lord John Saxby had been born into Dorset’s landed elite. Yet as a second-born son, he was not entitled to his father’s estate. With no inheritance, and no intention of playing second fiddle to a tedious, pious brother, he had joined the army in search of his own fortune. In
the two decades that followed, he fought across Europe with the grand Protestant armies, perfecting his skills with sword and saddle. At some point during his military life, his elder brother had been careless enough to be thrown from his horse, making John sole heir to the family fortune. But by then he had fallen in love with his mistress – the army.
Having inherited his father’s title and estates, Sir John was one of King Charles’s most outspoken supporters and an invaluable asset to the Royalist cause. He was a close friend and confidant of Prince Rupert of the Rhine, and, it was said, had the ear of the king himself.
The friendship between Sir John and Stryker was an unlikely one. Stryker was well known, as feted and feared in England’s great houses as he was in its lowly taverns. The Royalist elite wanted him as a leader of men, but that did not mean he was one of their own. Stryker knew he was the king’s attack dog, a blunt instrument to be wielded in desperate times. If the Royalists should win the war, he would not be expecting an invitation to dine with the elite at Whitehall Palace.
Yet an invitation would most certainly come from Saxby House. Stryker and Saxby had met more than a decade ago, thrust together by war. The fiery struggle in the Low Countries had been hard and unforgiving, and a generation of young soldiers had been forged in its flames. These young men were now returning to England, some as Cavaliers, some as Roundheads, and their shared history bonded them in a way polite society never could.
The chair Stryker now occupied was an intricately carved affair. He leant back, pleased to feel its strength support his weary bones, as Saxby took his place opposite. The lord was of a similar height to Stryker, though of slimmer build. His eyes contained a clever, almost mocking glint in their brown depths, but not the arrogance that characterized the likes of Makepeace or Morris. His clothes were magnificent. The finest velvet cloth, cut by a genius, shone in the fire’s soft light, complementing the sandy hair and neat beard. In all, he was in stark contrast to Stryker’s battered appearance.
‘Sir,’ Stryker said after a while, ‘I saw you follow the prince out on the right, sir. Quite extraordinary.’
Saxby grinned. ‘Quite insane, actually, Captain. Not to be found in any treatise on warfare.’
‘Why?’ asked Stryker, as his superior began prodding at the glowing logs with a metal poker.
‘Not His Majesty’s decision, you understand. He knows, deep down, that he needs people like me, like Rupert, at his disposal. But my lord the Earl of Forth ain’t too happy. Says the Prince let us lose our heads. Led us off on a merry dance and to hell with the rest of you.’
‘I saw you crush Ramsey’s horse though, sir. It turned the day in our favour for sure.’
Saxby glanced up from the flames, his expression sheepish. ‘But we didn’t come back, d’you see? After we’d finished with Ramsey we sacked the Roundhead baggage. In the cold light of day, Captain, we should have turned back. Should have supported the foot. As it happens you held admirably. But Forth believes we’d have taken the field for certain if the Prince’s charge had been a tad more . . .’ he turned his attention back to the fire and eventually said ‘. . . controlled.’
Stryker was at a loss to find a suitable response. The Prince’s charge had been one of the most impressive cavalry actions he had ever witnessed. But it had also been reckless and potentially fatal for the Royalist foot brigades left to defend themselves.
‘I can see you agree, Captain,’ said Saxby when Stryker failed to respond. ‘Worry ye not. You were in the centre of that damned brawl. You were dodging pike and ball while we lined our saddle bags with plunder.’ He paused to pick up a long pipe that lay on the stone hearth. It had already been packed with tobacco, and Saxby grimaced as he rummaged in the folds of his tunic for a length of match, which eventually appeared from a concealed pocket. ‘Oh, don’t mistake me, Captain,’ he said, as he dangled the match over the roaring flames until its end began to glow. ‘I ain’t ashamed. We damn well routed Ramsey’s lads and it saved us a deal of aggravation later in the day. But it don’t require a genius to see now that our help was needed in the centre. For that I’m damnably sorry.’
‘No matter.’ Stryker shrugged as Saxby lit his pipe, smoke billowing around him in thick plumes. ‘Taking the baggage train must have had some benefit, sir.’
Saxby’s small white teeth and gleaming eyes shone through the smoke. ‘Ah-ha! You always were a bright one, Mister Stryker. You are quite right. Some of the booty we took, it turns out, could be of profound significance to our worthy cause.’
Stryker raised his eyebrows, the web of scars puckering and creasing as he did so. ‘Will you be so good as to make your meaning plain, sir?’ he asked quietly.
CHAPTER 3
The large tent glowed orange with candlelight in the cold night.
Snatching off his hat in salute to the sentry at the tent’s entrance, Saxby stooped through the opening, its grimy awning flapping in the bitter breeze. As Stryker followed, he was instantly plunged into a fog of pungent, bittersweet tobacco. It took several moments for his eye to cease watering as it strained against the gloom. At length he was able to force the shapes before him into focus through the thick fug.
Three men, members of the King’s general staff, stood at a large circular table. Stryker, recognizing the expensive clothes and confident gazes, drew himself to attention, desperately searching for something to dispel the tension he felt. He was not easily intimidated, but this was eminent company. He looked again at the sturdy table and found himself wondering what a mighty endeavour it must have been to drag such a gigantic piece of furniture on campaign.
Saxby made an ostentatious bow and took a small step forward. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he began smoothly. ‘May I present Captain Stryker? Lately of Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Foot, though you’ll doubtless have memory of him from days past.’
‘Of course, John,’ replied a man in the centre of the group. ‘Of course.’ There was a silver goblet at the edge of the table, and the speaker, a head taller than his companions, raised it in salute. ‘Welcome, Stryker. It has been too long.’
Stryker remembered that curious accent well. Impeccable English, lifting almost imperceptibly at the beginning and end of each sentence. Impossible to pinpoint, a tribute to the speaker’s pan-continental upbringing. This was an accent born in his native Bohemia, forged in The Hague, where he spent his childhood, and finished in England, where his restless and adventurous heart had found a home.
Prince Rupert, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavaria, was the king’s nephew and General of Royalist Horse. Rupert was no more than 23, yet he commanded more respect than any man Stryker had met. The ill-fated Westphalia campaign had been fought nearly five years ago, and Stryker remembered the dashing Prince, a teenager then, had fought as fiercely and skilfully as a seasoned veteran.
Rupert broke away from his companions. He approached Stryker, bright eyes constantly alert, appraising him. Stryker wondered what sort of figure he himself cut before such an elegant member of royalty. Now, under Rupert’s questioning stare, Stryker found himself wishing that he had followed Saxby’s suggestion that he groom himself for the interview ahead. The general would be taking in the mutilated face, the long dark hair tied at the nape of the neck and falling in tousled clumps, fused together by sweat and gunpowder. He would be inspecting the bedraggled breeches and doublet, stained and frayed, and would doubtless have also noticed the blackened hands and scuffed boots.
Stryker shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to hide his discomfort, but the prince only smiled more broadly. ‘How do you fare, Captain?’ he said, as Stryker shook the proffered hand.
‘Very well, Your Highness. Thank you.’
‘Excellent. You were at our centre?’
‘I was, Your Highness.’
‘You may address me as sir, of course, Captain.’
Stryker dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sir. Yes, I was at the centre, sir.’
‘Fires of hell, wh
at?’ The voice came from one of the men around the table. Stryker glanced beyond Prince Rupert to see a man of middle height, slim build and greying whiskers.
‘Captain Stryker,’ Saxby said, ‘may I introduce you to Sir Jacob Astley?’
Sir Jacob Astley, Sergeant-Major-General of Foot, had led the king’s troops at the centre of the battle.
Stryker dipped his head. ‘Hellish, to be certain, Sir Jacob. I saw you lead out the lads. It was a tremendous effort, sir.’
Astley nodded, his obvious pride betrayed by the mere flicker of a smile. ‘High praise indeed, Captain. Your reputation precedes you. I was in the Low Countries as well, do not forget.’
‘As was I,’ a third man interjected, and Stryker immediately recognized the booming voice with its Scots overtones. The big man strode forward, offering his hand, which Stryker accepted warmly. ‘Pleased to renew your acquaintance, Captain. It’s been too long.’
‘That it has, my lord.’
Patrick Ruthven, Earl of Forth and Captain-General of the king’s forces, was 70 years old, but still cut the imposing figure Stryker had been introduced to a decade ago. A consummate professional soldier, the earl had fought countless campaigns, learning his trade from that champion of Protestantism, Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. He had assumed command at Edgehill on the eve of the battle when Lord Lyndsey resigned his commission, and Stryker could not have been happier with the decision.
‘I must say though, Captain, you’re still an ugly-looking brute,’ the earl chided.
‘I am sorry to hear that, my lord,’ Stryker replied solemnly. ‘I thought I was improving.’
The earl grinned. ‘Ah, Stryker, you always were an impudent fellow.’
‘My lord.’
‘Aye, well you’re certainly a villain.’ Ruthven turned to his fellow staff officers. ‘This, gentlemen, is the best fighter I ever laid eyes upon. Should be burnt at the stake, if you ask me, for he becomes a veritable demon in a melee. And he has more campaign experience than all the soldiers in the king’s army put together.’
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