The troop held their ground until the man was within ten paces of the nearest horse. The captain’s mount, responding to a gentle shake of its reins, lurched forward from the centre of the group. The fearsome stallion, bay hide glistening with sweat, halted a mere sword’s length from the villager.
Stryker looked on, studying his adversary. ‘Don’t let me down again, damn you,’ he whispered through clenched teeth.
The horse commander was young and his expensive attire betrayed an upbringing of privilege. He had dispensed with the buff-coat worn by his subordinates, preferring the comfort of a black woollen coat adorned with ornate gold trim. He wore body armour that had been enamelled black and studded with dozens of gilt rivets, crowned by a gleaming black helmet that he now removed to reveal a head of short blond hair. He had grown a beard and moustache, though the straggly facial hair only served to reinforce the impression that he had barely reached his twenties.
Stryker glanced at Forrester, handing him his musket. ‘I have to hear what they’re saying. Hold this, Forry.’ His bandolier was to follow, eased carefully over his shoulders, and then the scabbard was unhooked from his belt. It was a painstaking and awkward process, but a necessary evil.
He crouched low, careful to keep below the windowsill, and crept to the rear of the room and then down the stairs, the creaking of each step seeming inordinately loud to his alert senses.
He quickly crossed the main reception room of Archer’s modest home and secreted himself behind the small door through which the elder had passed. It was still ajar, a keen chill filling the room, and Stryker was able to squint through the crack where the door met its hinges. His lone eye flicked from left to right, taking in the green, the soldiers, their horses and Archer in one sweep.
‘A loyal follower of God and Parliament. Like yourself,’ the elder was saying nervously, nodding at the orange sash tied diagonally about the captain’s torso. In this new war it was the only sign of a soldier’s allegiance upon which common folk could rely. The Royalist cavalry had taken, more often than not, to wearing a blood-red sash.
‘God, Parliament and King Charles, sir,’ the captain retorted. ‘For we fight to liberate our liege lord from the influences currently clouding his judgement.’ He paused. ‘Do we not?’
‘Aye . . . we do,’ the villager replied.
The officer, seemingly satisfied with Archer’s display of loyalty, reached out to the left and handed his helmet to one of the two trumpeters that rode with the troop. He then swung his legs, clad in high leather boots, over the saddle and jumped on to the sticky mud.
‘Captain Roger Tainton at your service,’ he said, offering a gloved hand. The servile villager shook it enthusiastically, for he was relieved. Men on horseback, bristling with steel, were to be feared regardless of apparent allegiance.
‘You are most welcome, Captain,’ said the elder earnestly, ‘but I fear we do not have sufficient feed for your mounts here in the village. There are stables out toward the church.’ He pointed eastward, to a field beyond the gorse ring, at the far end of which stood a small chapel and some dilapidated outbuildings. ‘Perhaps you might like to decamp there while I see to your victuals?’
Good, thought Stryker. Archer was following his instructions to the letter, drawing the Roundhead force away so that the Royalists could escape.
‘Thank you,’ replied Tainton curtly. ‘But I shall take refreshment now.’
Roger Tainton was of noble blood. ‘My father even had the ear of the king,’ he said, ‘before this . . . mess.’ He waved a hand about in an attempt to describe the war that now raged. ‘He now leads our men as colonel.’
They were seated in Thomas Archer’s modest home. Tainton was in the best chair, while the elder and his wife were perched on a bench opposite. Between them was a sturdy, though rough-hewn table that was not truly flat. The meal was laid out in wooden bowls, which tilted precariously.
The bulk of the troop had cantered off toward the chapel and its adjacent stables, but, much to Stryker’s vexation, Tainton had given responsibility for the men to a lieutenant, preferring to take his own victuals immediately. A pair of troopers had been stationed outside the house to guard their commander while the rest were away. Thus, Stryker and his three companions remained trapped in the house.
Stryker was now installed in a narrow, cool room, which served as the couple’s pantry. It was adjacent to the kitchen, and provided a perfect place from which to eavesdrop.
The couple appeared to be listening intently to Tainton’s words, though Stryker presumed this was more out of appeasement than fascination. Between mouthfuls of bread and meat their guest regaled them with stories of how the rebels would reap revenge upon God’s papist enemies. ‘And I shall play my own small part.’
‘The pamphlets?’ Archer said, remembering the anti-Royalist parchments Tainton’s men had nailed to the sides of some of the village buildings.
Tainton nodded. ‘We must not let our enemies win the hearts and minds of the common folk. We have not yet secured this region. The king enjoys as much support in these shires as our own army. Therefore certain regiments have been dispatched to town and village alike to proclaim the rights of Parliament. Your village in particular, as you are in the path of any attack from the king. If he marches from Oxford, he will surely pass this way toward London. It is left to me to ensure that all men will rise up against his tyranny.’
‘Amen,’ Archer said stoically. ‘I assure you, Captain, our village is steadfast in its support for Mister Pym and his Parliament. You can be certain of that.’
‘That is good, sir. After all, I feel sure you would not wish me to compel you to offer support.’
‘Compel, sir?’
‘Aye,’ Tainton’s voice was low, his eyes narrow. ‘If you are for the enemy, my friend, then you cannot continue here. I am authorized to facilitate your . . . movement,’ he said, lacing the last word with a spine-chilling darkness.
Stryker knew what that meant, though he could scarcely imagine such a threat being carried out in England. He had seen the skeletal remains of towns and villages in the Netherlands and Germany. He’d heard the screams and smelled the charred flesh. The anguished wails of widows, lamenting the loss of their men, rang in his ears and twisted his guts. He’d seen the death throes of an entire family as they were hanged from the creaking bough of a tree. He remembered the youngest boy’s thrashing legs, the urine dripping from his shoes to stain the earth, and could not help but think of the lad he had seen at Banbury.
Tainton brightened suddenly. ‘But I have other duties also, of course. I must recruit new men to our ranks. Our strength must be irresistible when next we take to the field.’
‘There will be further battle then?’
‘Aye, sir, of that I am certain. No great advantage was gained at Kineton Fight, so we must regroup our army, bolster our faith and pray for one last reckoning. The papists are said to be already mustering their forces, just as we are.’
Thrusting the last piece of bread into his mouth, Tainton pushed the plate away from him with a satisfied grunt. When the bread was swallowed down, the captain’s lips parted to speak again, but he was interrupted by a vigorous knocking at the door.
‘My men,’ the cavalry officer said. He fished in a pocket and withdrew an intricately woven square of linen. Calmly touching it to the corners of his mouth, he stood and, with a sharp nod to his hosts, paced from the room.
From his hiding place, Stryker could not hear the conversation, but the guard’s words were spoken in undoubtedly urgent tones. Instinctively he knew the source of the man’s animation and his heart sank.
Tainton paced back into the kitchen. ‘There are horses in your house’s annexe, Mister Archer.’
‘They are mine, Captain.’
‘You own four horses?’ Tainton sneered incredulously. ‘And four sets of tack?’
Archer took a step backward. One of his wife’s hands moved to clasp his elbow. ‘I . . . I do, sir.
’
Stryker fished a dirk from his doublet. The Archers had taken them in. Fed them and given them respite. He felt obliged to defend them, even to the detriment of his own mission.
‘And you keep your four horses in a small shed, when, in your own words, there is ample stabling at the chapel?’
Archer remained silent.
Tainton stepped forward. ‘I believe you have lied to me, Mister Archer.’
‘No, sir. Please!’ Archer and his wife backed away further, recoiling from the captain’s rising anger as though he breathed fire. ‘We use them to draw carts to market.’
Tainton grinned wolfishly. ‘Market? They do not sound like tuppence nags, sir. My trooper tells me they are fine beasts. Warhorses.’
Stryker tightened the grip on his blade and began to move.
‘Sir? Sir!’ the guard burst into the room, shattering the tense atmosphere.
Tainton turned. ‘What is it now, man?’
‘The enemy, sir. Cavalry. Up in the hills!’
‘How many?’ Tainton snapped.
‘Can’t tell exactly, sir, but it’s quite a number. Threescore, p’rhaps.’
Tainton’s jaw quivered. ‘They head in this direction?’
The messenger nodded, and Tainton cursed, glancing back towards Archer. He was clearly tempted to linger long enough to continue the enquiry into the mysterious horses, but there was no time to lose. ‘Run to the stables, Chaloner. Fetch the men and tell them to saddle up.’
The Parliamentarian troop streamed out of the village’s southern entrance. They were significantly outnumbered but better equipped, and their heads were carried high, their backs straight as they cantered in tight formation. They had had little time to resaddle mounts and strap on the heavy back and breast plates that had been removed earlier in the day, but the danger posed by an approaching enemy of such obvious size and strength worked wonders in quickening a man’s step and energizing weary bones. In short order the Roundhead cavalrymen were arranged in double file, a resplendent Captain Tainton leading the way beside his cornet. ‘Follow me, my lads!’ Tainton cried over his shoulder as he urged his excited horse on. ‘Follow me!’
Stryker’s small party had left their hiding places within Archer’s house as soon as the rear rank of Tainton’s column left the village. The Roundhead commander was a brave man, Stryker thought, or an insane one. A full troop of enemy cavalry was cantering down towards the village, threescore men bringing threescore blades, and he would ride out to meet them head to head. Stryker, too, had fought terrible battles against insurmountable odds, just because he wanted to. Now he watched as a younger version of himself kicked his steed into a gallop at the head of twenty metal-clad men, and knew just what that man would be feeling.
‘But what if our boys get into trouble, sir?’ asked Ensign Andrew Burton, as they ran to their mounts.
‘Then they get into trouble,’ Stryker replied. ‘Our mission is too important to risk on a random skirmish.’
‘Besides,’ Skellen said, ‘there’s bloody loads of ’em. If our lads get their arses tanned by a couple o’ dozen Roundheads, I’ll eat me boots.’
Forrester reached the lean-to first and wrenched open the groaning door, peering into the gloom. When he turned back to Stryker, his face was drained of its usual colour. ‘My kingdom for a horse.’
‘Bastards,’ Skellen grumbled as they crouched amid the village’s gorse perimeter. ‘Bloody bastards. I was beginning to like old Bess.’
Bess, the sergeant’s brown mare, was at the rear of Tainton’s column. She and the other horses had evidently been confiscated. Tainton clearly had not believed Archer’s claim to ownership.
‘We’re getting them back,’ Stryker had declared. ‘We’ll wait ’til they engage and isolate them.’
The four men were ensconced within the tangled claws of gorse, muskets and carbines primed, waiting for their chance.
‘Sir,’ Burton whispered sharply. ‘What are they doing? They seem to be circling back.’
The men followed his gaze. Tainton’s cavalry were assembled in the open ground between the hedge and the forest. Stryker had fully expected them to thunder through that flat area, past the trees, and up the track to smash into the head of the enemy formation. He was wrong: the Roundheads were doubling back on themselves. At least some of them were. Tainton had led his troop on to the churned clearing, but rather than taking them up the track, he was perched in his stirrups, calling to individual horsemen. As each received his orders, small groups were peeling away from the main force to gallop in different directions.
‘They mean to ambush ’em,’ Forrester said. ‘Sneaky bugger.’
‘Clever bugger,’ said Stryker. ‘He’ll put some in the trees where the track opens on to the clearing. Some’ll stay in the open to entice them in. And some,’ he said with a dawning dread, ‘will circle back this way.’
As if on cue, a group of three Roundhead cavalrymen urged their mounts towards the tangle of gorse that hemmed the village. They could not see Stryker’s men yet, for the tendrils of the hedge were dense and dark, but they were heading for a gap in the thick brush and would spot the four men as soon as they had plunged through to the village side.
Stryker’s group scrambled back towards the village, keeping as low as possible, and dived behind the nearest building. In moments, the three horsemen were through the gap. Mercifully, they had no intention of continuing into the village. They were, as Stryker had anticipated, to be stationed this side of the gorse in order to surprise the Royalist arrivals.
‘Now what?’ grunted Skellen.
‘Now we wait,’ Stryker said as the first of the Royalists whooped their excitement at spotting the Parliamentarian horsemen, Tainton’s bait, milling in seemingly aimless fashion at the centre of the open ground. ‘And we watch.’
The Royalist troops were impressive, but utterly chaotic. They were mostly recruits riding new mounts in shiny armour bought by proud parents. While there were always men like Stryker in any unit who brought coveted experience and professionalism to war, most soldiers were a bright shade of green. Skirmishes on horseback were all too often anarchic affairs, with formations collapsing amid swordplay of great enthusiasm and little finesse.
As a thin flurry of late October snow began to pepper the hard land, a column of zealous youths burst from the ancient bridleway and into the clearing. Like their Roundhead counterparts, they were light cavalry: harquebusiers. They wore leather buff-coats with armour protecting the head, chest and bridle arm. Carried at each side and attached to belts crossing both shoulders were a broadsword and carbine. Emblazoned across all of this standard regalia was the bright-red sash of Royalist allegiance. They clearly intended to blood themselves on the handful of unfortunate Parliamentarians, whose horses fidgeted nervously at the sight of the oncoming tide of enemy troops. The Royalist captain had probably dreamt of this first encounter. Heroism. Valour. Risking all for king and country.
The young man was not the first – and certainly would not be the last – leader to be tricked by his enemy in the battlefield, but that knowledge would provide no comfort this day. As the first of his men fell on to the hard earth, small spheres of lead embedded in their flesh, Stryker could not help but feel sorry for the captain.
A moment later more pistols coughed, and a lead ball traced its way across the open land to puncture the lad’s helmet, his skull and his brain. The Royalist leader slumped from his saddle. In all, a dozen hot carbine balls whistled across the clearing, like angry wasps, to pluck the flanking troopers from their mounts. Tainton had planned the ambush perfectly. He had known a pitched battle could not possibly have resulted in victory, so had staked his chances on an impetuous and inexperienced officer leading the enemy troop. For the gamble to pay off, he needed to introduce confusion into the Royalist ranks. He had selected a carbine volley to do the job. Traditional muskets were too long and unwieldy for mounted troops, so cavalry favoured the shorter carbines with barrels
no longer than two and a half feet. The carbines were fired from all angles and, though notoriously inaccurate, and not generally deadly against plate armour, would still do a fine job of sending panic through the enemy ranks.
The plan had worked, and the Royalist commander had been taken down in that first volley. Now for the hammer blow.
‘Charge!’ Tainton screamed, as his horse emerged snorting and rearing from the depths of the copse. The image must have been terrifying to the startled, leaderless Royalists, who shied away from the snarling man in black. Then more Roundheads emerged to hack down at them with blade and venomous bloodlust. In disarray, the Royalists did not heed their remaining officers’ commands, but attempted to scatter as more and more enemies came at them from out of thin air in a blaze of hooves, screams and steel.
‘Look,’ Forrester said, witnessing the unfolding chaos from the edge of the village, ‘our friends are off, too.’ As he spoke, the three cavalrymen hidden behind the gorse made their way through the narrow gap and on to the killing field.
‘Unbelievable,’ Will Skellen whispered as an immaculately clad Royalist was felled by a professional back-handed sword slash. The blade sliced the young man’s face as if it were a strip of silk. Another, taken savagely just below the Adam’s apple, writhed pitifully on the ground as iron-shod hooves pummelled the life from him.
Still the horsemen came. Scything. Slashing. Gaping holes began to appear in the Royalist ranks. Wounded young men cried out for their mothers, others gurgled quietly, gasping through eviscerated lungs. Those that could flee, did so.
‘Fuckin’ unbelievable,’ Skellen said again. ‘Help me take off my boots. If I start now, I’ll have ’em eaten by sundown.’
‘They’re running,’ Burton said. ‘But they still have the advantage.’
‘In numbers only,’ Stryker replied sourly.
‘They’re like a ship with no rudder!’ Forrester exclaimed. ‘There’s no bugger steering them.’
Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) Page 9