Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  To Eli Makepeace, standing in the entrance hall, the doorway took on the manner of the gates to hell. Black-flecked smoke roiled between the beams of the wooden frame, as if mocking them with the prospect of imminent death. Makepeace could make out a tangle of shattered ribs among the crimson gore of the chest of the late Dick Marrow who lay in the hallway.

  Makepeace had underestimated Stryker. He knew he still had four of the six Marrow brothers, plus himself, Jem and Bain, to fight against Stryker’s six. But he was beginning to doubt that his opponent was merely mortal. The attackers were supposed to be unarmed. Now they were inside the house, bearing weapons they must have somehow concealed until this point. Makepeace decided they should split into two groups, circle round the invaders, and lay siege until they surrendered or died. Fond though he was of his own skin, he frankly preferred the latter option.

  The thick-set Jem came trotting into the hallway from the direction of the gardens. He was red-faced, furious and grief-stricken at the loss of his sons, and now thought only of revenge. ‘They’ve barricaded themselves in, Captain.’

  ‘Barricaded?’ Makepeace said sceptically. ‘How?’

  ‘Looks to be a tabletop. Pushed up to the window. It’s flush against the stone. We can’t fire round.’

  Makepeace’s heart sank.

  ‘Finish this, Mister Marrow. They’re trapped in their own little prison. Make sure it stays that way. Make sure it becomes their fuckin’ tomb.’

  ‘How exactly do we break out of this shite-hole, sir?’

  ‘Draw their fire,’ Stryker replied calmly to O’Hanlon’s question. He moved rapidly across the room, pressing his back against the wall, and risked a peek around the edge of the open doorway. Immediately he recoiled as a brace of musket balls flew through the air where his head had been, burrowing tunnels in the opposite wall. ‘There are only five of them,’ he said. ‘Two ’ve just shot at me, which leaves three who have still got their dicks up for us.’ He nodded towards the chairs that had been tucked beneath the table. ‘Let’s see what they make of those, eh?’

  ‘Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!’ Forrester snarled. ‘Sir?

  Henry IV, Part I?’ replied Burton.

  Forrester sighed. ‘Fuck it, Ensign. Let’s just have at ’em.’

  Jem Marrow was not a soldier, but a clubman, armed only for the protection of his village. Yet now, for reasons he did not begin to understand, a band of determined fighters had brought fear and violence to his rural home. And two of his children were dead.

  Jem and his remaining sons were out in the hallway, three still bearing loaded weapons trained upon the open door, ready to eviscerate the enemy with fire and lead in vengeance for the brothers they had lost. When an exquisitely crafted chair, oak sprig motif visible on the high-back, flew from the depths of the drawing room, they let rip, their small volley finding nothing but splintering wood.

  ‘Out! Out! Out!’ screamed Stryker as soon as the trio of firing pieces had been discharged. It was exactly as he had hoped. The Royalists had flung the chairs through the open doorway, and their enemies had reacted to the movement with their trigger fingers before they fully understood what it was they were aiming at. Their rash response was even more amateurish than he had expected.

  The six Royalists discarded their empty muskets and flooded into the entrance hall, where their bewildered enemies stood slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The first man fell before he had a chance to move. Stryker, leading from the front, punched the guard of his sword into the man’s terror-stricken face. It severed lips and shattered teeth, turning his mouth into a gory mass. The wounded man’s head snapped back, but he was strong and his feet kept their balance, rigid like stalagmites, so Stryker kicked him in the chest, felling the body and piercing the chest with the tip of his blade.

  There were no shots now, only the sound of steel upon steel. A second defender fell in a heap of blood and torn flesh. The Royalists appeared comfortably superior now that fighting was at such close range.

  To Stryker’s left William Skellen’s teeth were bared in a wolfish, predatory mask, as he battered a man down with the edge of his blade. His opponent parried the first blow with his own sword, but did not possess the strength or will to raise it for the Portsmouth man’s reverse sweep. The sergeant scythed low, cutting deep into the defender’s midriff, and his opponent went down with a pitiful moan.

  Moments after the first mad dash from the drawing room, there were only two defenders left.

  ‘Careful there!’ Sir Randolph Moxcroft snapped. Bain, pushing the wheelchair at an incredible pace, had nearly sent the spy crashing into a tall vase. ‘You are here to rescue us, not kill us!’ Small eyes darted up to the man running at his side. ‘By He who is above, Captain Makepeace, this is hardly the plan of rescue for which we might have hoped!’

  Makepeace and Bain had been at the rear of the hallway, as far from the drawing room as possible. This was ostensibly to protect Sir Randolph, though Makepeace had not truly trusted the Marrow boys, and was waiting to see how they faired against Stryker’s men before he would commit his own skin to the fray. As Jem’s fearsome-looking but idiotic offspring had let fly their knuckle-headed volley, Makepeace realized that to stand and fight would be suicide.

  And now the three of them were racing along one of the house’s long passageways, making for a small storeroom at the rear of the building.

  ‘We’ll never get away, Captain,’ Moxcroft said urgently. ‘If they’re the men you claim, Jem and his lads won’t last a moment.’

  ‘Will he fight?’

  ‘Jem? Aye, he will. He’s lost Dick and Nathan. They’ll all fight now.’

  ‘Good. That buys us time, at least.’

  Moxcroft looked up at him. ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Time for this.’

  They had reached the storeroom. As Bain drew the wheeled chair to a halt, Makepeace handed Sir Randolph his sword and carbine. Bain did the same. ‘Lock us in here.’ Makepeace indicated the storeroom. ‘They’ll search the house. When they find you, they’ll discover you have prisoners.’

  Moxcroft looked mildly amused, his oily half-smile reappearing. ‘So you wish us to pretend that we have you under lock and key?’

  Makepeace nodded. ‘You have it, Sir Randolph.’

  ‘I can see that this might help you absolve yourself of any wrongdoing.’ Moxcroft raised thin eyebrows. ‘But how might that aid ourselves? They are here for us, after all.’

  Makepeace stooped, bringing his face close to that of the spy. ‘Precisely! They cannot kill you, Sir Randolph, for their orders were to bring you back to Prince Rupert alive. I, on the other hand, am likely to be strung up from the nearest branch.’

  In the entrance hall Stryker saw Ensign Burton locked in a violent embrace with a thickset pig-nosed fellow. The man was shorter than Burton by a full head, but he seemed proficient with his long sword and the obscenities he screamed, though unintelligible, spelled out his intentions.

  Stryker turned to his men. ‘Scatter. Check all the rooms. Skellen?’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Get outside and make sure no one’s made a run for it.’

  The men did as they were told. Stryker went to assist his ensign, but found the way blocked by the only other member of the enemy left standing.

  Stryker stepped forward and faced up to the blade-wielding soldier. He was tall, taller still than Stryker, and slashed the space between them in an impressive flourish. It was only when the tall man lunged again, and they closed together for Stryker to block the heavy stroke, that the captain noticed the close resemblance between his immediate enemy and the broad man flailing wildly at Ensign Burton.

  Stryker shoved the tall man backwards, but as soon as the defender regained his balance he lurched forward again in a sudden lunge that caught Stryker by surprise. The outstretched sword darted toward Stryker’s belly, its wicked point plunging into its target’s buff-coat, finding resistance immediately. Stryker leapt back, stumbling
on a prone body, and barely managed to keep his footing. His enemy’s grin grew broader, all yellow teeth and wide eyes.

  Stryker was in pain, for the tip of the blade had found flesh. He was thankful for the excellent padding afforded by his coat, since the worst of the lunge’s force had been absorbed within the tough hide. The lanky defender was closing with him now, waving the tuck from side to side and keeping his knees bent in readiness to launch a killing stroke.

  Stryker knew his own reactions were becoming dull, blunted by the pulsating pain. Suddenly, sheathing his sword, he dropped to one knee and scooped up a discarded musket, presenting it at chest height in imitation of the port position. The solid wooden butt pointed skywards, preparing to receive and parry the next blow when it came.

  When the defender made his move, it was a low, hard thrust. The tuck again met with resistance in the area already weeping a deal of blood, a dark, almost black stain blooming on Stryker’s coat, but this time Stryker’s jolt backwards just saved him from feeling the metal enter his flesh. Now the defender was off balance, for he had had to straddle the corpse to reach Stryker. He was desperately trying to bring his trailing leg over to Stryker’s side of the body.

  Stryker thrust his arms forward, throwing the heavy musket so that it ploughed into the man’s upper body with all the force the captain could muster. His opponent raised his sword, but the musket crashed through his defence, the butt end forcefully meeting the side of his head.

  Stryker was advancing as soon as the musket had left his grip. In one smooth motion, the fingers of his right hand closed around the hilt of his sword, the steel hissing its way out of the scabbard.

  The dazed man stabbed at Stryker again, this time aiming high, hoping to catch the throat. Stryker sidestepped the thrust with ease.

  The balance had tipped back in his favour, and Stryker was focussed on killing his prey. A flick of Stryker’s wrist saw the tuck leave its owner’s white-knuckled grip and clatter to the bloodstained tiles several feet away. The defender’s expression of disbelief was frozen as the gleaming sword sliced deftly across his protruding Adam’s apple.

  Stryker was past the tall man before he had even hit the ground. He was making for the foot of the wide staircase, to where Ensign Burton’s duel had staggered. Burton’s stocky adversary was spitting oaths of vengeance. Burton had held his ground thus far, for the pair were now circling like rutting stags. Burton stood tall, wafting his tuck from side to side in front of the man’s flat nose, while his opponent had sunk into a low crouch, holding his heavy blade level with the youth’s chest.

  The shorter man pounced like a great cat, launching himself upwards at Burton. The ensign had time enough to brace himself for the impact, and his sword took the full force of the incoming blade. A clang of metal upon metal rang out like a church bell and Burton was forced back. The broad man let his weapon drop to a few inches above the ground and lashed it at Burton’s legs in a vicious swipe. The singing edge missed Burton’s ankles by a hair’s breadth, and the ensign was forced to retreat again, this time ascending the first few steps up the staircase.

  Jem Marrow would not go down without a fight and, by God and all His Saints, he’d take of a few of the bastards with him. He had seen his beloved sons cut to ribbons, losing their lives in the wake of a counterattack led by a Cyclopean monstrosity in soldier’s uniform. But before Marrow would go to meet his maker, he would dispatch as many of these demons as the Lord would allow, starting with the callow youth before him.

  Marrow had just placed a booted foot on the bottom step of the staircase, preparing himself for another attack, when something thudded into the back of his leg, just above the knee. His leg crumpled and he found himself kneeling on the second step. At first it felt as though he had been punched, but when he attempted to straighten the limb he found it would not respond. When the pain arrived, it coursed up and down the leg, stabbing into his buttock and gnawing at his toes. He tried again to stand, but the agony washed over him again, sending a wave of nausea to his guts. He twisted around, peering down over his right shoulder. And there, lodged as firmly as an arrow in a tree trunk, was a dagger, its handle long and plain, sticky with his pulsing blood.

  If the stocky defender had made any further progress up the staircase, Burton was quite prepared to turn tail and escape. His enemy might not have been blessed with the finesse of Stryker or Forrester, but Burton recognized a visceral fury in those small, anguish-filled eyes that terrified his very soul.

  But when the short man fell, it gave Burton the advantage he needed. He jumped the couple of stairs that separated them and launched a thunderous kick to the swinelike face. There was a tremendous, sickening crunch, the sound of crushing bone. As the sword went skittering and his enemy crashed on to his back amid bloody tiles and bodies, Ensign Burton leapt down to finish the job. The stricken defender saw him coming and tried to sit up, but Burton was moving too fast, and he was above the injured enemy in a heartbeat, plunging his tuck deep into the broad exposed throat.

  Burton drove in the steel with all his might, forcing it through skin and muscle and spine until it burst out the other side like a needle through a muslin sack. The tuck struck the tiles beneath the man’s head and its tip snapped, but such was its force that the tile shattered and the next inch of the blade embedded itself in the ground beneath.

  Stryker surveyed the carnage for a few moments. Twisted bodies were strewn around the entrance hall, a pall of black smoke roiled against the high ceiling and the familiar, stomach-turning stench of death was all around. Burton slumped to his knees, the shock of the action turning his limbs to jelly.

  Forrester and Brunt appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘Not a peep up here, sir,’ the officer rasped, his chest labouring.

  ‘Nor here, sir,’ another voice came from the ground floor, and Stryker twisted to see Sergeant Skellen emerge from the front door. ‘Gardens are bloody empty.’

  From the depths of a long, dark corridor there came the clamour of voices. Stryker’s men tensed, preparing themselves for another battle, but a familiar face appeared.

  ‘Find anything, Corporal?’ Stryker said.

  O’Hanlon smiled broadly. ‘That I did, sir. That I did.’

  Another figure emerged beside the Ulsterman. Plainly clothed, and clearly unarmed, with foxy and handsome features. He had long red hair that fell about his shoulders like a mane, a neat red beard, waxed to an impressively sharp point, and golden hoops dangling from each ear.

  ‘Hello, mon Capitaine,’ said Eli Makepeace.

  Lisette Gaillard might have chosen her queen before her lover, but it had been a closer contest than she would ever admit to Stryker.

  Now their paths had split again, for Stryker had continued south while Lisette’s mission took her north, and yet she was thinking of him as she rode against the spitting rain and spiteful breeze. Lisette had believed, when she left him that June day, that she was hard enough, staunch enough in her beliefs, to walk away without remorse. Now their frantic coupling in the copse had awoken emotions and memories she thought she had under control.

  After she and Father Benjamin had passed below Basing’s impressive gatehouse, crossing the bridge over the River Lodden and plunging into the shadows cast by tangled trees across the northern road, her companion had prayed with her. It had been a strange experience, for the priest was a High Anglican and Lisette a Roman Catholic, but she had come to trust the kindly clergyman as much as Queen Henrietta clearly did. When they parted for the last time, she had leaned across from her saddle and kissed him tenderly on his cheek.

  ‘Dawn, Lisette,’ Father Benjamin had whispered hurriedly, fighting to regain composure. ‘Crumb is a loyal man,’ he added, seeing the look of misgiving in the Frenchwoman’s eyes.

  ‘You really trust him?’ she asked dubiously.

  Benjamin shook his head. ‘I have learned to trust no one. But he professes to be the king’s man. Besides, I have paid him well.’

  ‘Dawn,
then.’

  He nodded. ‘He will be waiting at his barge, the Cormorant. Speak the message and you will be allowed aboard.’

  And that had been the last word spoken between them. Benjamin Laney would return to his parish, while Lisette would take the strongbox to The Hague and, she imagined with a pleasant pang of encouragement, a delighted queen. It felt strange, wrong somehow, to be taking the precious ruby to England’s capital, for it was there that its theft had originally been engineered, and there where the rebellion’s heart beat strongest. But it was her only foreseeable route to the Continent. Her only way.

  Eli Makepeace grinned like a shark. ‘I never thought I’d say this. But you are nothing short of manna from heaven, Captain.’

  They were in Sir Randolph Moxcroft’s small, scroll-laden chamber at the rear of Langrish House. Night had fallen fast, but the walls and scrolls, furniture and faces glowed bright amid phalanxes of candles.

  After the skirmish the men had cleaned their blades and checked through the effects of the dead. Stryker turned a blind eye to this practice, so common among soldiers. After all, what use did a dead man have for material things? Once pockets had been searched and the few coins, musket-balls, knives or cartridges salvaged, they had lined the bodies in a row, shoulder to shoulder, on the grass near to the front path where Jared Dance had fallen. Eight in all: Dance, Marrow and his six sons.

  Stryker’s response when he saw the grinning face of Eli Makepeace had been to surge across the entrance hall, leaping over prone bodies and discarded weaponry, and add one more corpse to the butcher’s bill. But Lancelot Forrester had stopped Stryker in his tracks.

  ‘This is neither the time nor the place for murder,’ Forrester had argued breathlessly. Stryker understood. Even amid so much death and destruction, he could not allow his men to see an execution in cold blood. ‘They’ve acquitted themselves with skill and valour my friend. Now let them see that these men died for the nobler cause, rather not to satisfy a thirst for blood.’ Forrester had doused Stryker’s fire, like many times before, and the blood-spattered captain was able to master himself.