‘Then may I ask,’ Astley now interjected, ‘why he ain’t on the staff, my lord?’
Before the earl could answer, Prince Rupert cleared his throat. Eyes swung immediately back in his direction. ‘I can answer that, Sir Jacob. I will give you three reasons why Mister Stryker here is not on our staff, shall I? Firstly, he was asked and he declined.’ The prince paused for effect as three shocked gazes came to rest on the uncomfortable captain. ‘The blasted fellow won’t be asked again. And for that matter, the last thing I require is another infantry plodder whispering villainy in my uncle’s ear.’ The prince glared at Stryker with those youthful, intense eyes, authority and steel united in their glare. Stryker attempted to fix his lone grey eye so that it met Rupert’s with equal strength.
Just as the moment threatened to become uncomfortably tense, Rupert suddenly gave a great guffaw.
‘Christ in His Heaven, Mister Stryker. I have missed you, ’pon my life I have!’ Prince Rupert stepped forward to slap Stryker heartily on the shoulder. ‘Saxby, here, warned me. I wondered if your manners had improved since the old days, but not a flicker!’ He laughed again. ‘Remarkable. I’d have most men whipped from here to Edinburgh for your brand of impertinence, but, by God, you ain’t most men, and that’s for certain.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Stryker acknowledged.
‘No. Thank you, sir,’ the prince retorted. ‘You’re a man of action, and I have always liked that. I am a man of action too, Stryker, as you know. There ain’t many kindred spirits to be found in these dark days,’ he said, shooting a flat glance at the earl, ‘so a true Brother of the Blade is always welcome at my table.’
Brother of the Blade. Stryker remembered the prince’s old saying.
‘Mister Stryker?’ The Earl of Forth took the opportunity to cut in as Rupert went to stand behind his campaign table, the tall and powerful frame craning forward to inspect the giant map. ‘Your assessment of the battle, if you’d care to indulge me.’
Stryker decided to opt for honesty. ‘A stalemate, sir. Plain and simple. A pair of evenly matched sides fighting to a standstill.’
The earl nodded. ‘A fair statement. And the cavalry action?’
Rupert glanced up from the map, his expression darkening. He and the earl had clearly been discussing that particular event in depth. Stryker’s heart began to pound. Was he being tricked into insulting the prince? Or was the earl simply counting on an opinion from a professional soldier? Stryker took a deep intake of breath, and plumped for the latter. ‘Brilliant, sir. One of the most impressive actions I’ve seen for years. And absolutely the most foolhardy.’
Astley and Saxby braced themselves as if awaiting a cannonade. The Earl of Forth looked smug. And Prince Rupert of the Rhine gave another shout of amusement. ‘Jesu, but I should run you through. Really I should.’
His reaction cut the tension like a sabre slashing through silk. The men of the King’s general staff broke into relaxed laughter.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ Saxby said after a while. ‘But the third reason?’
‘Third?’ the prince asked, regaining composure.
‘You mentioned three reasons why my esteemed comrade here is not part of the general staff.’
‘Ah, yes. So I did, indeed. Well, John, if you would be so kind, please tell us his damned name.’
‘His name, sir?’
‘Deuce it, John, but the man must have a Christian name. I refuse to believe he was named just Stryker by his mother. Nor do I believe you’re not privy to this particular morsel of information.’
Saxby shrugged apologetically. ‘I am afraid even I do not have it, Your Highness.’
‘And there, gentlemen, is your third reason,’ Rupert said. ‘I knew this man during a time I would rather forget. He saved my life, and I am indebted to him. And yet not once did he deign to introduce himself properly, and I found it damned infuriating. When you’ve barely grown to man’s estate, and a brutish officer is all that stands between you and Saint Peter, an officer’s pig-headed refusal to give a name must be suffered with dignity. But I’ll not have a man on the staff whose name I don’t know. Good God, it won’t do. It will not do!’
There was silence in the room, bar the sucking of several clay pipes. At length, the Earl of Forth raised his hand to gain the attention of the assembled group. ‘Now, my friends, we must to business. John?’ he said, addressing Saxby. ‘What news of the road?’
Saxby frowned. ‘Not a great deal, my lord, truth be told.’ They all knew the road south, to London, was the key. The prize that must be seized in order to move on the capital. ‘Patrols here, scouts there, spies everywhere. But no armies. No major force to block our progress.’
‘Good,’ said the earl quietly, deep in thought. ‘Good.’
‘Oxford next, eh?’ the prince said, his spirits high. ‘I would ride on London, as you all know. I’ll ask my uncle for a force, not too many, mark, but a force enough to strike south effectively. We take London now, lance the boil while our needle is hot . . . and, gentlemen, we’ll knock the stuffing out of ’em, mark my words.’
‘Caution, Your Highness,’ the earl said in his level tones. ‘Let us secure our stronghold in Oxford before we make any rash moves.’
The younger man gritted his teeth in annoyance. ‘Damn your caution, Patrick, we must strike now! Take London and leave Essex in our wake. He is weakened after the battle.’
‘As are we,’ the earl said levelly, long since used to cooling the young cavalryman’s hot temper. ‘You could ride on the capital and take it, certainly. But for how long? The main army is grievously harmed. We could not march to your support for some days. London is a vast swathe of humanity, much of which is set against your uncle, though he would not admit it. You would be spread too thin, I fear, and not able to hold it without us.’
‘Then I would sack it. Sack Westminster. Teach those dogs a royal lesson.’
‘And when you eventually withdraw, and withdraw you must, what will you have achieved? A sacking. You’ll have wounded Parliament and its supporters, but not mortally. Simply enough to enrage them, and set them against us all the more fervently. It is not a sensible move. Valiant, surely, but not sensible.’
The prince made a gesture of exasperation, but chose not to argue his case further. He knew that to sack London would be to stir up a fearsome hornet’s nest. The earl turned his attention back to Stryker. ‘Captain Stryker. Has the colonel explained why you have been summoned here?’
Now to the nub of it, Stryker thought. ‘In part, my lord.’
‘Which part?’
Stryker recounted the conversation with Saxby. How he had described the cavalry’s heroic sacking of the Roundhead baggage train. ‘And I understand certain papers were captured, sir.’
The earl nodded. ‘It was just a small leather satchel. Looked wretchedly unimportant, I can tell you. Remarkably fortunate the prince’s men paid it a second’s notice,’ he said with a meaningful glance at Rupert. ‘Within this bag was a mass of information about our movements. The combined efforts of a dozen spies in Essex’s pay. Their network is prodigious.’
‘Parliament has deep pockets, my lord.’
‘Aye, it does, Captain. And deeper than even I had foreseen.’ The Earl of Forth moved round to the far side of the gigantic campaign table and jabbed a meaty finger at a specific point on the map. ‘Look here, Stryker. I believe you know it?’
Stryker moved to the table and leaned across to study the map. It was upside down from his position and his eyes quickly skimmed across the different shades of green that denoted the island’s eclectic topography. Down through Scotland and the Pennines, across the Midlands, past the army’s current position at Banbury, beyond London and down to the counties that hugged the south coast. And there his eyes rested upon the earl’s hand and his home shire. He nodded. ‘I grew up on Hampshire’s border with Sussex, my lord. A place called Petersfield.’
The earl smiled. ‘Aye, that’s what we were counting on.�
��
‘My lord?’
‘When you mentioned the depth of the enemy’s pockets, Captain, you were more right than you know. The papers we captured were indeed of great import to us. As a means to identify his damned spies.’ The earl paced slowly around the table to face Stryker. ‘Two in particular. The first is a certain Sir Randolph Moxcroft. You know who he is?’
Stryker thought for a moment. ‘Yes, my lord. His estate is at Langrish, not far from Petersfield.’
The earl nodded slowly. ‘Moxcroft is a spy, sir. Not just a spy, but a spy master. We know he controls a significant network across Hampshire and beyond, and the most damnable thing about it is that until now he has been one of His Majesty’s most trusted, and vital, sources of information. He was our man.’
‘Until now?’
The earl’s face darkened. His brogue thickened slightly. ‘The papers captured at Edgehill were in a familiar hand.’ The Scots nobleman cut a sharp glance in the prince’s direction. ‘A hand all here know well.’
Stryker followed Ruthven’s gaze and, for the first time since he had entered the tent, he saw Prince Rupert, the man he had shared a prison cell with all those years ago, looking self-conscious. Ashamed, even.
‘The traitor is one of my men. A trusted confidant,’ he cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘A shock, to be certain. You recall my secretary, Blake? He wrote the papers. They mention Moxcroft explicitly. They even boast that Blake had turned him.’
Stryker’s grey eye widened. ‘Blake is a Roundhead?’
The prince was crestfallen. ‘Aye, there is no doubt. He used his position with me to identify our chief spy in the south. With the promise of Westminster gold, he has convinced Moxcroft to turn his coat.’
The earl nodded. ‘Blake said there was a complete dossier of Moxcroft’s network. Names, locations, everything. He asks for funds to be made available, so that the rebels might purchase the information.’
Stryker chewed his lip. Men were changing allegiance at an alarming rate, but for a key intelligence officer to throw in his lot with the enemy? That was hard to digest. It was equally shocking that Rupert’s private secretary could be the catalyst for Moxcroft’s defection. ‘And Blake?’
The earl spoke, ‘We have the dog in irons. He’ll be hanged when all necessary information has been . . . extracted.’
Stryker felt a pang for the man. He would be undergoing unspeakable torture.
Rupert spoke now, concern and determination scouring deep lines into his handsome face. ‘Now, Captain Stryker. We need you. You are to take Moxcroft, before he can do our cause further damage. Take him before this underhanded transaction is completed.’
Stryker had been waiting for an order since he had stepped into the tent. But he was astonished. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but you wish me to travel to Hampshire to capture this spy?’
The Earl of Forth came to stand beside Prince Rupert. ‘Blake turned Sir Randolph, lured him into selling his knowledge, and with it the lives of loyal men and women, to Essex. In return for his thirty pieces of silver Moxcroft will jeopardize our cause. Perhaps irreparably. Under the circumstances, I do not think “capture” is the mot juste, Captain.’
‘You want him dead,’ Stryker said.
Astley grinned wolfishly. ‘That is the idea, Captain!’
The earl cast an iron glance at Sir Jacob. ‘Actually, no,’ he said, turning back to Stryker. ‘Not dead. I want him alive, unfortunately. You can beat him to within an inch of his life if you wish, but make sure he finds his way back to me. You have heard of Lady Grace Parkes?’
Stryker nodded. The Parkes were an ancient family, tracing their roots back to the Conqueror.
‘She is exceeding rich, Captain,’ Ruthven went on. ‘And much of that wealth currently swells the king’s coffers.’
Stryker frowned. ‘And Moxcroft?’
The earl grimaced sourly. ‘Her cousin. A distant one, but I’d rather he were kept alive for the time being. Wouldn’t want her suspecting we had a hand in his demise, now. Her good favour is crucial. So you will ride out of here with all haste, Captain. Reinforcements for the capture will be made available by Sir John Paulet at Basing House, so take yourself there en route. You’ll have a letter with orders for him to relinquish as many men as you feel necessary.’ Stretching out an arm, the earl rescued his pipe from the edge of the table. For a while all was silent as the assembled officers looked on, waiting while he reignited the pungent tobacco. He sucked on the pipe for half a dozen breaths before looking back up to meet Stryker’s single eye.
Confident he had the earl’s attention, Stryker spoke, careful to choose his words. ‘You have reminded me of our precarious position, my lord. We mean to push for London, but the rebel is only hurt, not vanquished, so he will match our every step with powder and steel. More fighting will follow us like a bloody shadow at dusk, and, it stands to reason, you’ll require people with my experience.’
‘Now more than ever,’ Ruthven agreed.
‘So why, may I ask, does this mission fall to me?’
For the first time since Stryker had entered the tent, the Earl of Forth took his seat. It was a robust affair of polished wood, which creaked satisfyingly as he settled into its embrace. He leaned back. ‘For your answer, I will defer to our General of Horse.’ He glanced up at Rupert, who nodded briefly, before pacing toward the entrance to the tent.
‘Will you walk a while with me, Captain?’
Rupert led the way. ‘Here!’ the prince snapped, as he pushed the awning aside. Stryker was startled as a large white dog raced from the tent as if its very life depended on following the prince.
‘My dog, Boye,’ Rupert said, ruffling the curly pelt.
The two men, with Boye at their heels, left the company in the tent and paced off into the vast encampment. It was rapidly becoming dark, but visibility was good amid the myriad white tents glowing bright between raging fires. Common soldiers were everywhere, repairing kit, cleaning muskets, honing blades. They parted like the Red Sea before the two men.
Rupert was so lofty that his head must have been six and a half feet from the ground. He was a man at ease in his own skin. He strode confidently about his troops, knowing instinctively that they revered him, nodding here and there. This man – still barely a man, reflected Stryker, given his youth – exuded confidence. The troubles of his homeland had battered and weathered him until he seemed hewn from granite.
Eventually, Rupert spoke, but his tone was low, his manner subdued. ‘Things are not as they were in the Low Countries, Captain. There, a man knew who he was. What he fought for. And, more to the point, what he fought against.’
‘I know what I fight against, Your Highness. You know.’
‘Aye, but you and I are a rare breed, Stryker. What of the rest? The common folk? This is civil war. Neighbour against neighbour, father against son, brother against brother. The lines are blurred.’ The younger man shook his head sadly. ‘Men deceive. They betray. They turn their coats on the word of a preacher, or the whisper of a friend, or for a coin crossing their palm. Take these sorry villains.’ He jerked his head towards a group of figures standing at the tree line on the camp’s edge, some fifty paces away. ‘They are to be shot.’
Stryker remained silent as they moved between and then beyond the dirty white tent awnings and out on to the open ground. As they drew closer to the group at the trees, he understood that a dozen of the men were soldiers, busily making muskets ready for action. Standing flush against the thick oak trunks were five others, in varying states of terror, hands bound at their backs.
‘Taken at the battle?’ he asked.
The prince shook his head. ‘No, Captain. Taken after. They are ours. Two servants, a pair of cooks and this one, the one nearest us, is—’
‘Captain Forde.’
Rupert regarded Stryker with keen eyes. ‘Just so. You know him?’
‘Of him. Distinguished himself at Kineton.’
‘Thomas Forde is a traitor, sir.
His heart is black as coke. He is named as a turncoat by Blake. Aye, Captain,’ Rupert said. ‘He is another of Blake’s traitors. To my eternal shame.’
Stryker finally understood. For Prince Rupert of the Rhine, the situation had become a personal matter. Blake, one of the men most trusted by the prince, was Sir Randolph Moxcroft’s Parliamentarian controller. Rupert had taken the betrayal as a personal slight, one for which he felt almost responsible.
‘And that is the heart of the matter,’ Rupert continued. ‘Men like Captain Forde, here, fight like lions one moment, and would thrust a dirk deep between the king’s shoulders the next. I cannot trust a single man, save my uncle, my brother Maurice, and, perhaps, one Captain Stryker . . .’
Stryker could not help but be startled by the compliment.
Rupert ignored the infantryman’s raised brow. ‘I am young, Captain, but until now I had never considered myself a fool. I trusted Blake with my life, and he was a goddamned rebel all along. Betraying us. Betraying me!’ He sounded as astonished as he was angry. ‘If my own secretary is a traitor, then who else? Astley? Lucas? Who? The earl thinks me mad. Says I should simply send word down to Paulet at Basing. Charge him with this mission. But I do not know the man. How could I trust him, given recent events? You were imprisoned with me after Vlotho, Stryker. We shared a cell. You saved my life. I hope – I pray – that I can trust you.’
‘You can,’ Stryker said simply.
‘That was my hope. You would not be so swayed by politics or faith to turn your coat. You have sided with us, and your particular brand of loyalty will keep you with us.’
Stryker nodded.
‘This issue must be resolved by my hand,’ Rupert continued, ‘as it was my man who betrayed us. Ruthven has agreed. As such, the course of action to be taken is my decision alone. And I cannot place my trust in more souls than I could count on the fingers of my hand. You were my champion once before, and I ask you to be that champion again. Go to Hampshire. Get me that treacherous bastard.’
Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) Page 5