‘Just so, just so. But before that time, while the south-east remains in the balance, I should be, I shall be, taking the fight beyond these walls, cutting at the Roundheads as I can. I do not wish simply to hide.’ Paulet leaned over the rampart to point at the road below. ‘Well within range,’ he said, brightening. ‘The rebels will want to use that road.’
‘And you’ll be glad of it, sir.’ Stryker finished the thought again. He imagined the carnage, the downpour of lead that would meet the men marching past, turning the dusty road into a killing ground.
‘Of course, they will find other routes,’ Paulet said, ‘but with some decent cannon I might ensure they take the long way round.’
Stryker nodded. ‘And those other routes aren’t suitable for an army, if I recall, sir. They’re barely more than ancient tracks.’
‘And by the time they’ve widened them sufficiently, the war will be long finished,’ Paulet said. ‘So you see, gentlemen, I need more men, and more muskets, and more cannon. But for now I am lame. Impotent.’ He sighed, and slapped his thigh. ‘Enough. Let’s have a bloody drink.’
Stryker’s men were welcomed in fine fashion. Sir John had been curious to learn of the military and political developments in the aftermath of Edgehill. And he yearned to know every detail of the first great battle of this war. He had clapped at the tale of Prince Rupert’s mad, inspirational charge, and shaken his head sadly when told of the loss of Sir Edmund Verney, the king’s standard-bearer.
‘He fought like a lion, I’d wager,’ the marquis had said.
‘They had to hack the very hand from his arm, sir,’ Forrester had said truthfully. ‘For he would not relinquish the colour. Even when he was dead.’
‘Quite a man,’ Paulet said wistfully. ‘We should all wish to die so bravely.’ He fixed Stryker with a hard stare. ‘Now, sir, to business. You know I am hardly delighted by this order, but I shall of course respect the prince’s wish. Will three men suffice?’
The barrack buildings were low, wooden rectangles. They were a recent addition to the great mansion, hastily erected to house the burgeoning ranks of Paulet’s regiment. Inside they were sparsely equipped, containing no amenities but rows of straw pallets.
It was here that Stryker and his men awaited the arrival of their three new comrades. The delay might only be an hour, while Paulet’s musketeers gathered their kit and saddled their mounts, but to be in a place away from the elements and be able to take some rest were luxuries now, and were to be appreciated as long as they might last. Young Burton aside, they had marched and fought through some of the most inhospitable lands on the Continent, and regularly bivouacked beneath stars, in tumbledown shacks or haystacks. They had slept on battle-fields, their dreams penetrated by the moans of dying men. A dry room, with a solid roof, soft pallets and warm blankets, was comfortable indeed.
Stryker lay back, palms behind his head, staring at the beams above him and listening to the sounds of life in Basing House that reverberated around the great buildings. He had seen so much misery and pain in his life, had lost the one person he had truly loved, had killed more men than he cared to remember and even tortured a few of them. Now he was on a suicidal mission across countryside riddled with treachery and plagued by rebels. Yet here, in this isolated Royalist outpost, he found that he was as content as he could allow himself to be.
A heavy knock at the barrack-room door heralded the arrival of Paulet’s reinforcements. Stryker and his companions rose from their pallets, and Skellen loped across the room, jerking at the handle to allow a stream of light to bathe the interior.
The three men on the far side of the door were musketeers, the most senior of whom was a stocky, ruddy-faced corporal with gunmetal grey hair and wire-brush moustaches. He was a man of advancing years, but his powerful chest and shoulder muscles spoke of a tough campaigner.
‘My apologies for our late arrival, sir,’ the corporal said in the nasal brogue of County Antrim. He patted a thick piece of wood that jutted from his belt like a cudgel. ‘Couldn’t find old Aggie. Wouldn’t do to leave home without her, so it wouldn’t.’
Stryker glanced to where the corporal’s powerful and abundantly scarred paw had come to rest, and realized that the wood was the handle of a fearsome-looking hammer.
‘Used to be a smith, sir,’ the Ulsterman said in explanation, while he and his fellow musketeers stepped into the barrack-room, snatching off their montero caps in salute. ‘But I found I was even better at fighting. Still carry old Aggie wi’ me though, right enough.’
The corporal’s name was Maurice O’Hanlon. He was a fervent Catholic and as passionate a Royalist as Paulet. He introduced his two men as Wendle Brunt and Jared Dance. Brunt hailed from the rough dockside slums of Plymouth. He was a thin man with deep-set, small eyes, giving him a slightly rodent-like appearance. Dance was younger than Brunt, probably in his early twenties, with a shaven head, evidently the result of a lice infestation, and big teeth split by large gaps.
‘A bloody Irisher,’ Skellen said under his breath, as he inspected the men. ‘And a papist to boot.’
The corporal grinned, clearly not about to take offence. He flattened a hand to his chest in dramatic affront. ‘These words are razors to my wounded heart, Sergeant.’
‘Titus Andronicus!’ Forrester blurted in delight.
O’Hanlon nodded. ‘It is, sir.’
‘Act one, scene one. Ah-ha! A kindred spirit in my midst at last!’
‘I had the fortune to spend some time down in the capital a while back,’ O’Hanlon said. ‘I’m no expert, sir, but I caught a fair few plays.’
‘You were in London?’ Stryker spoke dubiously. ‘A dangerous place to visit, given the general slaughter of Protestants over in your homeland.’
The corporal grinned enigmatically. ‘O’Neill’s rebellion had nothin’ to do wi’ me, sir. I came to England for a woman. Married her, so I did. She was well worth the risk. We spent a glorious six months in each other’s arms, before she was struck down wi’ the plague.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Corporal,’ Stryker said.
‘No matter, sir.’ He sighed. ‘Anyhow, I came south, joined the marquis’s lads, and here I am. Ready and willing to cut down the Puritan horde like the spavined heretics they are!’
‘Should I tell him we’re Protestants?’ Skellen said to Stryker. ‘Or shall I leave that to you, sir?’
‘The Lord will forgive you this once, Sergeant,’ O’Hanlon said cheerfully, ‘as long as you fight for good King Charles. We can’t let the bloody Roundheads win in this heathen country, or they’ll take their guns over the pond to play havoc with God’s true chosen people.’
Skellen produced a scowl, without making it entirely convincing. ‘He’s got a big mouth, Captain. Why don’t we ask for someone else?’
‘Because you need me, Mister Skellen. The blessed men of Ireland have forgotten more about fightin’ than you English bastards’ll ever know,’ Corporal O’Hanlon replied quickly.
Stryker began to laugh. He had a feeling O’Hanlon would prove useful.
It was early afternoon, and Stryker was keen to leave the comforts of Basing immediately. The men had been left to get their kit together, and would presently be at the stables to saddle new horses.
Stryker, alone now, stepped out of the barracks. He had pulled on boots and breeches, and strapped on his sword, but wore no other garments, for he had decided to bathe while the men were making ready for their impending departure.
The barrack buildings were on one side of Basing’s large circular courtyard and on the other was a deep trough of water. Clutching his shirt in one hand, he made his way north across the courtyard that was little more than a filthy morass sucking relentlessly at his boots.
Stryker ignored the taunting whistles and leers as he passed a group of women heading in the opposite direction. His disfigured face, when not inspiring revulsion, often impressed women, perhaps marking him out as a heroic man of action, an impression his
sinewy shoulders and slim waist did not dispel.
He peered over the edge of the trough, hoping the water would not be a solid block of ice. It was not – and he cupped his hands, plunged them into the painfully cold depths, and raised them to splash his face. It was shocking, agonizing and exhilarating in equal measure, and he repeated the process several times more until he was shivering, reasonably clean and fully alert. He hurriedly put on his white linen shirt, grimy as it was, to ward off the chill.
They needed to depart soon, but Stryker knew the men would not have the horses, arms and provisions ready for perhaps another hour, so he resolved to climb the high walls and take a look at the terrain they would soon negotiate.
Reaching the bridge-tower, Stryker passed the two guardsmen without hindrance and climbed the winding wooden staircase, eventually emerging into the chill breeze at the structure’s summit.
The bridge-tower stood sentry over the eastern approaches. It rose above the main bridge that linked the two houses, and from its pinnacle Stryker could comfortably see down on to the new house. The mansion was unlike the original house in both size and appearance. It was of angular design, forming a great rectangular shape that was partitioned from north to south so that it contained two separate courtyards.
Stryker cast his eyes over the high walls that enclosed the entire estate. They were not, he considered, as impregnable as Paulet would like to believe. He had seen heavy ordnance make short work of even the thickest stone, and he wondered how long these particular ramparts would last under sustained bombardment. He did, however, note that all about the estate were huge defensive earthworks. These large, benign-looking ditches, carved deep into the hill, would make any assault hellishly difficult for even the best storming party. Stryker had both stormed and defended great man-killing trenches such as these and could well imagine the desperate defenders pouring cannon fire and musketry into a struggling mass of Roundheads caught at the bottom of those ditches. If Parliament’s forces could punch holes in Paulet’s walls with their artillery, then they would have to throw men at the breach, and the Royalists would use their own firearms to funnel those attackers into the earthworks, where they would be trapped like rats in a barrel. Perhaps Basing could withstand a siege after all.
After one last glance to the north, where the village was still, the river fast and the forest barren, Stryker turned and walked towards the steps leading down to the muddy courtyard. He took the stairs two at a time in an effort to keep his limbs warm, and on reaching ground level, started back to the barrack buildings.
He crossed the courtyard quickly, always careful not to become embroiled in the ground’s thick slop, but his attention was drawn by the sounds of a commotion nearby, raised voices squawking in anger like argumentative rooks.
To his left there was a small crowd of men and women encircling an invisible figure at their centre, accusing, jostling. Stryker moved nearer. A distinctive, somehow familiar female voice rang high and loud above the others.
‘Ordure! Ordure!’
It was strange, Stryker thought as he approached, to hear someone speaking French here. The French were not popular in the towns and cities of England. Parliament had been successful in using the queen’s nationality against the king to foment mistrust and rebellion.
Stryker stood on his toes, craning his neck to identify the source of the fracas. ‘Leave me, you bastard!’ the woman shouted, this time in English. Stryker could not trust his ears, but the tone was clear and the accent was one he remembered well.
‘Gi’ me that, Froggy!’ a fat man with no neck snarled, making a grab for a bundle of linen the woman was clutching tightly to her chest.
The woman dodged him, hooking the bundle under one arm and producing a knife with the other. ‘I’ll cut you, son of whore. By God, I will do it!’
Stryker shouldered through the periphery of the crowd, knocking bodies left and right. And there she stood. He later realized that she scarcely required assistance, for a more capable hand never wielded a blade. His own sword was freed with viperous rapidity, but there was no call to use it. The crowd dispersed quickly when they saw the look in Stryker’s eye.
All that remained were a tall, dark soldier and a petite, fair-haired woman. She slipped the dirk back within the folds of her cloak. Stryker’s sword returned to its scabbard.
Eventually the woman blinked hard, her eyes round as moons and blue as the Mediterranean. ‘Hello, mon amour,’ she whispered.
‘Hello, Lisette,’ replied Stryker in a voice he found hard to keep steady.
The parade ground was a stretch of grass outside the high walls. Beyond the grass was a small copse, dense and tangled, and among its branches stood a man and a woman, still staring intensely at one another.
Lisette had followed Stryker’s impulse, which was to drag her out through the high gate toward this secluded group of trees. He did not know why he had chosen this place, only that it was private and away from prying eyes and ears. They were close enough to hear the instructor’s bellowed orders, but still some hundred paces away.
‘Who are you?’ Stryker finally said, his voice an unintentional whisper, as though the shock had squeezed his windpipe almost shut. He devoured his slender companion with his eye as she stood before him, taking in everything about her physical presence. The golden hair, bright beneath the late autumn canopy, the wide eyes, the small scar that marred her chin, the way her brow furrowed when she frowned or smiled. She must either be a figment of his imagination or a ghost. The real woman of flesh and blood had long since been laid to rest in his memory.
Lisette, still cradling the bundle of linen, studied Stryker. ‘You look well,’ she said after a time. He shook his head slowly and her face coloured. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ repeated Stryker.
Lisette thought for a moment, struggling to pick words that might carry some semblance of worth. ‘I hurt you, I know that. And, yes, I am sorry.’
Stryker made a strange noise in his throat. ‘You died! You died, Lisette. One day I had you, we were happy, the next you were gone. Drowned. Lost at sea. They told me.’ He shook his head, felt his eye prick, amazed now at how easy it had been to believe it.
Lisette touched his shoulder gently.
He shrugged off her fingertips with a jolt. ‘I knew your work. Creeping in and out of corridors, whispering secrets, telling lies, committing murders. I shouldn’t have been surprised at one further deception, no matter what the cost to me.’
Lisette frowned. ‘We are neither of us saints, are we, sir?’
If a single person on this earth knew of Stryker’s sins, it was Lisette Gaillard. ‘But you were mine,’ he said. ‘I was yours. I did not know your duty would come before us, Lisette. I did not suspect that.’ He paused. ‘I was broken when you left,’ he said simply, the furious indignation now starting to slip away.
‘Damn you, Captain,’ Lisette suddenly snapped. ‘You are a hard bastard. You always were. The scars healed well, I am sure, and I do not refer to your face.’
‘Cast about!’ the sergeant’s voice echoed from beyond the copse. ‘That’s it, boys! The musket and match must stay in the left hand. Shove the stock on the ground on the outside of your left boot. Now place the charge!’ With their muskets held in the cast-about position, the men poured the remaining charge from their flasks down their barrels. Once the charge was placed, each tapped the butt of the musket sharply on the frozen ground in order to compact the powder, then fished in their pockets and bags for a musket-ball to follow it.
The sergeant nodded his approval. ‘Now place your wadding!’ The men reached into their pouches to grasp small pieces of wadding. They crammed what they retrieved into their barrels, too busy to notice the pair of figures in the dense brush.
‘Ram your wadding!’ Still in the cast-about position, the recruits removed a scouring stick from the housing beneath their guns, pushing it down the barrel until the wadding was compressed against the top of the charge and
its smooth projectile. The sergeant marched forward a few paces to confront one of the recruits. ‘Don’t hold the end of the stick, you puke-brained bastard!’ he bawled. ‘If the bloody gun goes off now, it’ll punch a hole straight through your palm!’
Lisette’s reflexes were not fast enough to avoid Stryker’s arm as it lashed forward. He slapped her cheek, sending her thumping on to the leafy soil, her heavy burden spinning away into a patch of soaking bracken. The tall soldier leapt forward, straddling her slim torso, pinioning her wrists with hands like iron claws.
‘God damn you, Lisette!’ he snarled, his grey eye gleaming silver in the weak light. ‘Go back to hell!’
Lisette spat in his face. His grip loosened momentarily and she wrenched an arm free to rake her fingernails down Stryker’s cheek. He cursed, letting the other arm go, and she thrust it low, grasping and twisting at his groin so that he scrambled back to his feet. She was up now as well, closing with Stryker as he retreated, and all he could do was swat away her fists as she targeted the sides of his head with buffeting punches. He took a pace backwards, and another, until the backs of his knees met with a broad log. Having nowhere left to retreat, Stryker leaned into the blows, ducking low, seizing Lisette around her waist. She swore as he hoisted her into the air, and he opened his mouth to command her to stop, but no words passed his lips, only a gush of warm air as the breath cannoned from his lungs. She had thrust her knee into his crotch, hammering pain into the very core of his guts, and she laughed in triumph as he dropped her to the floor.
Stryker collapsed over the log, his back slapping on to the mouldering earth. Lisette was no ghost. This was the same battling, snarling, wicked, gorgeous firebrand he had once loved, and, though he hated her, he wanted to laugh and dance and sing under the murky autumn sky, for she had been returned to him.
‘Return to port,’ the sergeant ordered. The musketeers levelled their weapons, achieving the port position. The sergeant filled his lungs, ready for the final, all-important orders. ‘Musketeers! Prepare to give fire!’ His little eyes momentarily shifted to the tangled branches some hundred paces to his side, for he thought he had seen a flicker of movement, but it had vanished as quickly as it had come, and he wondered if his eyes deceived him.
Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) Page 16