Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  Makepeace lowered his sword marginally and jammed it into the reeling clubman’s midriff. It met with stiff resistance at first, the keen tip driving through the thick layers of the man’s coat, but enough of the force remained to carry it beyond the tough hide and into the softness beyond.

  The clubman screamed. Makepeace twisted the blade, feeling it slicing at his victim’s guts, before wrenching it free. The wounded man pitched back as the weapon jerked loose. His frightened horse bolted, leaving the stricken clubman to flail haphazardly, bent backwards across its hindquarters, a spray of bright blood staining the air in his wake.

  Makepeace turned to the man carrying the scythe. ‘Your turn, lad.’

  The clubman threw down his weapon, pulled savagely on his mount’s reins, and galloped away. Eli Makepeace threw down his sword and laughed to the heavens with triumph and exhaustion.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘S-skewered one,’ Sergeant Malachi Bain said as he greeted Makepeace back at the junction, ‘and the other two skulked off without a fight. Weren’t up to much, were they, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know so much,’ Makepeace said ruefully. He stood holding his own horse by its bridle. ‘My goddamned mare’s lame.’

  Bain cocked his head to the side, studying the animal’s wound. ‘Pistol.’

  ‘Of course it was a bloody pistol. They didn’t have cannon, did they?’

  Bain ignored him. ‘Shoot her, sir.’

  Makepeace nodded. ‘It’ll be damnably slow going for yours with two to carry though.’ He turned away, muttering angrily as he unfastened the buckles and straps that attached the tack to his ailing horse.

  He hefted the saddle on to his shoulder and staggered over to the dense tangle of thorns at the road’s edge. ‘Bloody Roundheads can reimburse me for this,’ he said, before hurling the heavy leather seat over the hedge, followed by the bridle and reins.

  ‘Throw me the saddlebag, sir,’ Bain said. ‘Hercules, here, is strong. H-he’ll manage.’ Bain hooked the extra bag to his saddle, while the officer fiddled with his carbine’s firing mechanism.

  Makepeace strode up to the limping mare and shot it between the eyes. ‘Now let’s waste no more time.’

  The light-cavalry commander was Frederick Lawrence, recently promoted to the rank of major by his current master, Sir John Paulet, the Marquis of Winchester. He laughed aloud at Stryker’s revelation, and jumped down from his expensive saddle. Feet squelching in the sodden, ice-crusted soil, Lawrence had stridden confidently over to the trees to offer Stryker his hand. He did not ask the small company to prove their allegiance, for he knew Stryker’s name from countless Royalist despatches. He had naturally been shocked to find the group so far from home, but a glance at Prince Rupert’s seal on Stryker’s precious letter of introduction had been explanation enough.

  ‘I am Sir John’s bodyguard,’ the major announced cheerfully, glancing around at Stryker and his men, who had squeezed on to the horses behind his own troopers. The group, now nine strong, made their way south to Basing House. It was a grand home, a palace in all but name, rising from the lush fields of north Hampshire. Paulet maintained a small but elite garrison within his walls, part of it, he now learned, being a cavalry force commanded by Major Lawrence. ‘His attack dog, he calls me! Though I don’t attack much at present. Our eastern flank, Sussex and Kent, is almost entirely for Parliament. There’s fair support for our cause in Hampshire, but the buggers are spreading their pestilence further west all the time. We’re on the defensive, Captain. Ever on the defensive.’

  Frederick Lawrence was clean-shaven, big-nosed, thin-lipped and afflicted by an involuntary tick that made his eyelids flicker as he spoke. He might have been an exceptionally tall man – taller, even, than Prince Rupert – had it not been for his unusually hunched and rounded shoulders. His spindly frame curved forward midway up the spine, so that he stooped like a willow.

  ‘Had to get this plate fashioned ’specially,’ he said, wrapping knuckles against the polished steel at his chest. ‘Damn this cursed hump. Set me back a mort, I don’t mind telling you. Still, I’m mighty glad I could afford the trappings. Wouldn’t have lasted a moment in the infantry! Besides, I like horses. They’re loyal, they’re fast, and they don’t answer back.’ He paused. ‘Surprised you’re out here on foot, if I’m honest, Captain Stryker.’

  Stryker described the skirmish at Archer’s village and the loss of their horses. Lawrence grimaced. ‘My sympathies, sir. A good steed is hard to come by in times such as these. Stone me if they weren’t all snaffled up by the armies in quick time.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right enough,’ Stryker agreed. ‘My own, Vos, was with me for many a year. Never found another like him.’

  ‘Vos?’ Lawrence considered the unusual name. ‘He was red then?’

  Stryker grinned. ‘Aye, sir. Sorrell. Had a chestnut hide that shines red in the sun.’ He was not a sentimental man, but Vos had been a constant since his Flanders days. He had galloped through gunfire and taken many a wound, even saving Stryker’s life on occasion with his rapid hooves.

  ‘He?’ Lawrence said. ‘Not a gelding, I’d wager.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Lawrence’s eyes twitched busily. ‘Stallion’s a grand beast if you can tame him. Not for the faint of heart. Ordinarily I’d advise against ’em for battle. Too blasted skittish. But if you win their trust there’s no animal finer.’ He leaned forward, stroking a gloved hand along his steed’s auburn mane. ‘Samson has his stones. I considered chopping them off when I purchased him, but I didn’t want to douse your fire, did I, boy?’ He straightened up. ‘Yes indeed. Just don’t get yourself a pale one, grey or white, or the like.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ Burton asked.

  ‘Because you’ll shine like a bloody beacon when the moon’s out,’ Stryker replied.

  ‘You have it, Captain,’ Lawrence agreed, nodding vigorously. ‘Mark my words. A white horse’ll get you killed quicker than dropping a match in a powder magazine!’

  Lawrence had been on patrol when he’d bumped into Stryker’s group. His orders were simple: scout for the enemy. If the opposing force was small, make all haste to engage them in battle. If, however, the force was too big to handle, and therefore a genuine threat to Basing, he was to retreat smartly and report to his superiors.

  Sir John Paulet, Lawrence told them, was nervous. Not exactly frightened, for he was not a man to be easily cowed. ‘But he knows the sons of rancid whores’ll be at him soon if he ain’t careful,’ the major had said. Paulet was sending out as many patrols as he could muster without leaving the palace dangerously weakened.

  ‘You’re a fair trek from home, though, sir,’ Forrester said.

  ‘Perhaps for you plodders, but it’s less than a couple of days in the saddle.’

  Lawrence led the way, his helmet tethered to the bright leather saddle that had been polished to a keen shine by hours of contact with his rump. He held the reins in one hand, and ran the other through auburn hair that fell about his shoulders in tightly packed curls. A look of embarrassment crept across his face. ‘I thought you the vanguard of some greater pack. When we galloped after you, you took flight. It settled the matter in my mind.’

  ‘Well I’m just glad your carbines failed to catch any of my lads before we resolved the error,’ Stryker said dryly.

  ‘As am I, Captain. Your reputation precedes you. I’d have been a dead man. Still, no harm done, eh?’ the major said, his mood brightening. ‘And I’m devilish glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Reputation?’

  Lawrence grinned, displaying an impressively complete set of small white teeth. ‘Come now, Captain, don’t be coy. Your service on the Continent is almost the stuff of legend. To those of us of a martial persuasion, anyway.’

  Stryker nodded briefly at the compliment. ‘Kind of you to say, Major.’

  The cavalry officer eased himself straight suddenly, wincing as his spine protested. ‘God punishes me for something,’ he s
aid with a long groan, before slouching again. ‘And what of Kineton Fight?’

  ‘We all four played our part,’ Stryker said.

  ‘Then I must congratulate you all, gentlemen,’ Lawrence exclaimed.

  ‘We were there to fight these hard-nosed Puritan arseholes, sir,’ Skellen growled. ‘We did what we had to.’

  The major turned to look at him. ‘It may surprise you to learn, Sergeant,’ Lawrence said, in an almost sheepish tone, ‘that I am a reformer.’

  ‘A Puritan?’ Skellen replied, unable to hide his surprise and discomfort.

  ‘Your words, not mine,’ the major replied. ‘I prefer reformer. And “Sir”, for that matter, Sergeant, when you address me.’

  ‘Perhaps you fight for the wrong side, sir?’ Ensign Burton broke in.

  Lawrence rounded on him, twisting rapidly in the saddle to thrust an accusatory finger toward the young man’s chest. ‘Curb your impertinence, boy,’ he snarled, eyelids flickering maniacally, his former affability vanishing like a shadow at dusk, ‘or I’ll have it flogged from you.’

  For a moment the assembled group froze, horses drawing to a standstill, the clang and jangle of horses and men and kit ceasing simultaneously. Burton’s companions tensed, their hands falling instinctively to waiting sword hilts.

  Stryker cleared his throat. ‘Apologize, Andrew,’ he said.

  Burton seemed to shrink beneath his captain’s stare. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, Major Lawrence. My curiosity overcomes me at times and—’

  ‘No,’ Lawrence interrupted before the ensign could complete his stammering apology. ‘You must forgive me.’ When the muscles of his face had regained composure, Lawrence grinned in sudden return of his former cordiality. ‘In these times one becomes defensive, too much so perhaps.’

  The major turned to face the road again and, gathering up the limp reins, urged his horse onwards. The rest of the group followed suit.

  ‘My sensibilities’, Lawrence said once the animals had reached their requisite trotting pace, ‘tend towards the Puritan persuasion, ’tis true. But Puritan does not equal rebel. You are all men of the world . . . well, most of you.’ He glanced, mischievously this time, at Burton, the flicker in his eyelid perhaps a wink. ‘So you must know that God has not chosen to daub this earth in black and white. There is no distinct camp into which a man should fall by dint of his faith. I am a minimalist in religion. I abhor the trappings and baubles of the Church, and I despise the excesses of the Papacy with every ounce of my being. But I am no Parliamentarian, nor one of those confounded dissenters, springing up from the dark like toadstools. My religious taste is for reform, yes, but my conscience dictates that I am foremost loyal to the Crown. If King Charles were to turn papist, I would pray for his immortal soul, but I would not take up arms against him.’

  ‘There are many of your persuasion, Major,’ replied Forrester. ‘Fortunately for our side.’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘Aye, many. And the enemy’s ranks are swollen with those who would gladly bow to their king should he acknowledge Parliament’s place in the world. It is a matter of conscience, my friends. A man must think upon it. Plumb the depths of his soul. Choose his allegiance and be able to sleep sound at night.’

  ‘My family are for the king in the main, sir,’ Ensign Burton said with careful deference, ‘though my cousin William took a commission with Balfour.’

  Stryker frowned. ‘We faced Balfour’s cavalry at Edgehill. Was your cousin on the field?’

  Burton shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir, truth be told. Though I pray not.’

  Lawrence blinked, and nodded sagely. ‘Aye, it is a common tale. Families are split like wood on an axe. Brother fights brother. Father fights son. It is the end of things. The end of life in this land, even.’

  Stryker pondered those words as he watched the ridges and furrows of the sucking road pass beneath him. How many times had he foreseen the end of his own life? They were beyond calculation. But there was one moment he would never forget. He did not remember much detail. He recalled the burning, searing flame and the blinding whiteness. He remembered vividly the laughter, the high, almost shrill chuckle of Eli Makepeace.

  But Stryker had not died. His face might have been disfigured into a grotesque mask, his eye gone, but his life force remained. There were times, as the agony pulsed in his head, when he had yearned to die and prayed that God would grant him the sweet release of death. But then she was there. She had brought him – no, carried him – through to safety. Bandaging and cleaning and soothing. Loving. He did not die, because she would not allow it.

  She had saved him, but she had not saved herself.

  Stryker concentrated on the ground moving below him. But he still saw her face. Her hair and her eyes and her slender neck.

  When she had died, the world ended for Stryker. He lived on, but all around him was ruins. That was why he no longer feared man nor beast, nor the devil himself.

  They rode into a night obscured by gentle snowfall. The temperature dropped rapidly, turning the stagnant water in the road’s furrows to brown ice. The horses found it difficult to pick their way between the treacherous potholes, especially while carrying two riders. When they came across a deserted tithe barn, Lawrence announced it was time to rest.

  ‘I’m sorry, Major,’ Stryker said, ‘but I cannot afford further delay. With your leave, we’ll forge on.’

  Lawrence’s face reddened and twitched as he jumped down from his mount. ‘Hold your tongue, sir! The horses require rest. I hold seniority here, and I say that’s the end of the discussion.’

  Stryker gritted his teeth. ‘You hold the rank, sir, but I am about the business of a prince.’

  The mention of Prince Rupert calmed Lawrence’s irritation immediately. ‘An hour then. Enough for the animals to draw breath. What say you?’

  Stryker nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to argue with you, but I am eager to make haste.’

  ‘You’ll find no argument from me,’ replied the major. ‘This road is haunted by as many Roundheads as Royalists. The sooner we’re behind Basing’s walls the better.’

  At midnight the fort was a blackish, ominous mass rising from the land amid a sky of an even deeper hue.

  Along a narrow animal track skirting the fort’s forested base, a figure moved, silent and watchful, its outline glinting momentarily. Progress was slow as it halted at every rustle from the bowels of the labyrinthine wood that swallowed the whole valley with looming density, but no shouts of alarm split the night to turn wariness to alarm.

  Lisette picked her way between ancient boughs and wizened branches, the grasping hands of a hundred skeletal giants. In twenty paces or so, her target would be reached. The point she had identified during the daylight hours where the southern slope was at its most steep. It would be difficult to scale, but the sharp angle rendered it near impossible for men on the hill’s summit to see directly down on to the grassy incline. She could ascend the slope undetected.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God,’ Lisette whispered, and breached the tree line, taking her first steps on to the cleared earth. It was steep, even here at its lowest point, and she fell forward, wrenching herself up the springy turf with fingernails as well as feet.

  Without the protection of the branches, Lisette felt exposed, her heart thundering against her ribcage and blood roaring in her ears. But she kept going, crawling, holding breath, tensing muscles, praying, praying, praying.

  Above her, the outline of formidable Iron Age ramparts could be seen, gently lit by countless stars, but those earthworks were so high, they gave the impression of being man-made clouds in an otherwise clear sky.

  ‘You must move in darkness,’ Benjamin had said. ‘Strike while the fort sleeps.’

  Lisette had been trained in the use of diverse weapons by the French army, and she had the stealth and guile required by a spy, but she knew well that she lacked patience. She had first scorned Father Benjamin’s words of counsel, reluctant to leave the fort once they were ins
ide, but the priest had eventually convinced her. Of course, there would still be guards on the crest, patrolling the high perimeter, and the panoramic views afforded during daylight would render even the cleverest approach futile. A night-time assault was the only way.

  The peninsula’s single inland-facing side, while choked with woodland, was heavily guarded, and there was simply no chance of entering the fort unseen from this direction. The assault would have to come from the south, from the deep valley over which the fort loomed. In summer, an approach from here might have been safe, for the forest in that valley would be thick and verdant, but it was November, and the branches were bare. The merest flicker of movement would be spotted from the soaring ramparts. Moreover, Lisette had not been able to gauge the frequency and strength of the men on the hill’s periphery. She needed an opportunity to watch them. To gauge what she faced.

  ‘You need to draw them away, Father,’ she had said.

  Benjamin thought for a moment, rubbing his spectacles on the hem of his cloak. Eventually he nodded. ‘A sermon for the whole garrison. Hunter told us the cavalry troop ride out every morning. We do not know if their captain would welcome my ministrations, but the sergeant-major will. We will wait until the cavalry are gone, leaving Hunter in charge. From what we have seen of him, he’ll think a sermon important enough for everyone to hear.’

  Once again, the priest had been right. Lisette had not witnessed Benjamin resume the part of Father Benedict, for she had been heading down into the valley while he led the sentries in worship, but she knew he must have succeeded, for her dawn dash through the wood to the hill’s foot had not been impeded. By the time the patrols resumed, and, she fervently prayed, Benjamin was on his way back to the safety of Petersfield, Lisette was ensconced behind a thick tangle of scrub that would conceal her well but allow her to watch the hill. Sure enough, she spent the remainder of the day staring up at the high crest, watching patrols come and go, observing that a guard, three-strong, paced along the southernmost edge every ten minutes or so. After two hours there was a break of an extra ten minutes while the personnel changed. And that was the information she needed, for Lisette calculated that at midnight no guard would patrol the rampart for a full twenty minutes. Time enough for her to scale the slope.