Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  Makepeace, Bain and Moxcroft were summarily taken into custody, until they could be interrogated, and the business of burying the dead was completed in quiet solemnity.

  The survivors had also needed time to see to their own injuries. These were stab wounds and sword slashes in the main, though Brunt had broken his nose under the weight of a musket stock, and O’Hanlon required a bandage to the head where a ball had grazed his left temple. Stryker’s stomach, while painful, was no more than a flesh wound. This was soon closed up, somewhat haphazardly, by Sergeant Skellen’s crude stitching.

  ‘Good as new, sir,’ Skellen said as he wrapped a dressing tightly around his captain’s stomach to keep the wound compressed.

  Two hours later Stryker and his officers, Forrester and Burton, stood before a large table of thick, dark wood. On the opposite side, perched on a massive chair reminiscent of a throne, sat Captain Eli Makepeace. Behind Makepeace, face grim and arms bulging, like a Nubian slave of the Roman Empire, stood the gigantic form of Malachi Bain.

  Skellen and O’Hanlon were guarding the front and rear of the building respectively. Stryker was not inclined to take chances.

  ‘I’ve no fancy for your rhetoric, Makepeace,’ Stryker said. ‘Just tell me what the bloody hell you’re doing here.’

  Makepeace explained that he had been sent with despatches bound for Portsmouth. The crucial harbour city had fallen to Parliament in September, and the king was desperate for local support in order to mount an insurrection against the new governor, Sir William Lewis.

  ‘We’, he glanced back at Bain, ‘set out on a desperate race to the coast. The despatches were bound for a fellow named Gideon Harding, an influential merchant in the town. Our people there inform us that he has some considerable influence over his associates in the mercantile class. And, it is whispered, holds a candle for the king’s cause. The despatches promised him great rewards if he might stir up ill-feeling toward Lewis and his nest of traitors.’

  The mission, he explained, had led him from the throng of humanity at Banbury all the way down through the bleak autumn landscape of middle England, eventually stalling in this forgotten corner of east Hampshire. ‘A perilous journey, for certain,’ Makepeace said. ‘But a more crucial one was never undertook.’ He sucked at his pipe, drawing in a lungful of fragrant smoke before letting it slip through parted lips in measured tendrils that snaked up across his face. ‘We dodged Roundhead patrols at every turn, placing our lives in the hands of the Almighty, praising His name with each passing day.’ A sorrowful expression crossed his face, and he went on to explain that they had successfully reached the outskirts of Petersfield but were ambushed by a Parliamentarian cavalry patrol. ‘We stood and fought,’ he said wistfully, ‘each of us sending a brace of men to the afterlife before we were taken. We might have made good our escape, had my brave steed not taken a shot.’

  ‘And you were brought here, sir?’ Forrester asked dubiously.

  Makepeace winced, a painful memory it seemed. ‘Moxcroft is a traitor,’ he spat the word with venom, ‘as you apparently know. The house is well built, with thick walls and strong locks. The bastard lets them house prisoners here when the Petersfield gaol is full. We were to be transferred back into town for hanging ere long.’

  ‘Hanging?’ echoed a shocked Burton.

  ‘Aye, lad,’ Makepeace said gravely. He glanced at Stryker. ‘You and your men found us before the wicked fellow could . . .’, he drummed lightly on the table, ‘. . . consign us to our fate.’

  ‘But the men we fought weren’t trained soldiers,’ Stryker said.

  ‘Local militia,’ Makepeace said. ‘Loyal to Moxcroft. His own private army.’

  ‘A mightily impressive tale, sir.’ Ensign Burton was clearly in awe of the man seated before him.

  ‘Impressive?’ Makepeace replied. ‘No, young man. I did my duty the only way I knew how, sir. As an officer, I was entrusted with the most crucial of documents, and charged to guard them with my life.’

  ‘And yet you failed to deliver them,’ Stryker said bluntly.

  Makepeace’s brow creased. He looked away. ‘And for that I am ashamed,’ he said, speaking to the ranks of vellum rather than the men before him. ‘I am. When we were taken by these Puritanical whoresons, I was wracked with guilt and distress.’ He allowed himself a sad smile.

  Stryker gazed at the flame-haired officer, his face unreadable. ‘What is it I’ve sometimes heard you say, Forry? There’s daggers in men’s smiles. Isn’t that from Mac—’

  ‘Blast your black soul, Stryker!’ Makepeace shouted. ‘But you’re a devilish cur. Read the bloody letters yourself, if you cannot believe the word of a gentleman!’

  Stryker leant forward, taking a thin pile of parchment from the table. He began to leaf through them, occasionally glancing up at Makepeace.

  ‘You see?’ Makepeace continued. ‘They’re all there. They carry the king’s own seal, for Christ’s sake! Sergeant Bain and I have been through hell itself these past days. We have ridden hard, day and night, upon a mission of the greatest import. We were taken by a patrol and our lives nearly forfeit. And I would not lightly revisit the depths of despair to which I sank during our hateful incarceration within these walls. It has been no less than torture, sir. Your own corporal found us with that bastard spy’s pistols pointed at our heads. He was preparing to murder us before you could come to our aid. And this is how you insult me? By branding me with insinuations and mistrust? It will not do, sir!’ The suffused face of Makepeace sagged and he slumped back into the chair like a marionette with its strings cut. ‘You can ask the bugger yourself, if you don’t believe me.’

  Stryker regarded Makepeace for a long time, the simmering hatred he felt for this man a match to the priming pan of his fury. Without another word, he stalked the few paces to the table and leaned across its polished surface, taking the startled Makepeace by his collar. Makepeace could do nothing but allow himself to be hauled up from his seat, until the table’s edge pushed painfully into his lap and his upper body was suspended in Stryker’s iron grip.

  Bain would have defended his officer, but Burton had drawn his blade. The bald-headed sergeant sneered, but he was unarmed.

  Nose to nose now, Stryker and Makepeace regarded one another with a loathing that seemed to engulf the room. ‘It won’t do?’ Stryker said, his voice low, dripping with threat. ‘It won’t do, eh? I’ll show you what fucking won’t do.’

  Stryker heaved on Makepeace’s collar, twisting him over in a movement so fast that his victim was lying flat against the tabletop before any of the other men could react. From somewhere Stryker had conjured a blade. It was not a long weapon, like the dirk he kept at his waist, or the one in his boot, but a wicked little implement no longer than his index finger. At once the knife was hovering above Makepeace’s throat.

  ‘Good God, man!’ Forrester was calling from somewhere behind him. ‘Have you run mad?’

  Stryker paid no heed. ‘I’m going to kill you, Eli. I’m going to slit your throat and let you bleed out like a dung-smeared pig.’

  Makepeace stared into Stryker’s single grey eye. He had seen that flash of quicksilver before and knew that Stryker wanted his blood. He struggled, bucking against the infantry commander’s lean body, which was all muscle and sinew. The knife broke his skin.

  Stryker grinned fiercely in the knowledge that Eli Makepeace had been afraid. He withdrew the knife, leaving a small bead of blood to well up from where the steel had pierced the skin. It rolled down Makepeace’s neck and collected in a blossoming red stain on his shirt collar. As quickly as the blade had appeared, it vanished about Stryker’s person.

  Makepeace exhaled with relief, but his assailant did not relax the vicelike grip. ‘You are playing us false, Eli,’ Stryker said. ‘I know it.’ He was less confident about this than he sounded, for he had seen the royal seal on those despatches, but he still hoped to catch Makepeace in an act of treachery.

  ‘You are mistaken, sir!’ Makepeac
e managed to yelp as Stryker finally released him.

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ Forrester snapped.

  ‘What is to become of us?’ Sir Randolph Moxcroft said as his wheeled chair was pushed into the midst of the officers. Makepeace and Bain had been moved to the adjacent room, under Wendle Brunt’s watchful eye and loaded musket.

  ‘We’ll take you back to our lines,’ Stryker replied. ‘What happens then is not my decision.’ He thought for a moment, not wishing to talk with the traitor, but unable to leave one question unanswered. ‘Why did you do it, Sir Randolph?’

  Moxcroft’s thin lips drew back in a wan smile. ‘We suppose we should not protest our innocence, seeing as you have already mentioned some correspondence regarding ourselves and Mister Blake.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The spy nodded. ‘Our trade is trade, so to speak. We’re a merchant. Wool, wine, grain, anything that can turn one a decent profit.’

  ‘And in turning that profit you have built up an extensive network of people who could be extremely useful at a time like this,’ Stryker said.

  The thin man’s glassy eyes flitted disconcertingly between each of his captors. ‘People that have, over time, become informants, yes. We’ve been feeding information back to Whitehall for years. Of course, in times of peace it did nothing more than supplement our income.’

  ‘But now,’ Forrester said, ‘your news is vital. You must have become very well paid as a result.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Moxcroft took a deep swig from a cup of water, the only concession to comfort Stryker had allowed. ‘The king’s staff paid more, certainly, but not what we are worth. Not nearly enough. In the king’s arrogance, he viewed our loyalty as a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ Stryker said.

  Moxcroft tilted his head back in a squeaking laugh, the pale skin of his face seemingly stretched to breaking point. ‘The divine right. Have you ever heard such delusion of grandeur? King Charles uses it as a stick with which he beats his subjects. To demand their loyalty or take their money, or force them into ill-conceived wars.’

  Stryker thought about what Prince Rupert had told him. ‘You made your feelings known?’

  Moxcroft nodded. ‘We did. In one of our dispatches. In fact, we told them not to be so damned conceited, and that we were worth a good deal more to them than they were hitherto willing to admit.’

  ‘And that was when Blake made contact.’

  ‘Aye. The good Secretary Blake. He turned rebel for reasons of conscience. More fool him.’ Moxcroft waved a slim hand daintily, as if to brush Blake’s death into insignificance.

  ‘As the prince’s secretary, he would receive your despatches, filter them, pass on any relevant information. He must have sensed your disquiet. That you were ripe for turning.’

  ‘Aye, one supposes. Though we admit we did not take much turning, as you put it. Oh, do not mistake us, Captain. We share the ideals of the reformers no more than we share the belief that Charles was chosen by God. But Blake explained that Parliament would value us far, far more than the king ever did.’

  Stryker had no desire to prolong this conversation. He decided instead to verify Makepeace’s story.

  ‘Tell me about Makepeace and Bain, and how they come to be here?’

  Sir Randolph’s brow rose inquiringly. ‘Ah! Those were their names? We did wonder, but their lips were tightly sealed. Some men will do anything for their foolish honour.’

  Stryker glanced at Captain Forrester, before returning his eye to Moxcroft. ‘What were they doing here?’

  ‘Petersfield gaol is small. We have often been paid to hold prisoners here. Currently Parliament has ascendancy, so we take theirs. If the king swept through here tomorrow, we would hold Roundheads, for a price.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Forrester cut in. ‘Tomorrow you’re coming with us.’

  CHAPTER 13

  The soldier waited in the shadows, watching while a night patrol of musketeers trudged by. His stomach turned over when they halted some ten paces away, the corporal in command seemingly disturbed by some flicker of movement or unusual sound. The soldier held his breath, preferring burning lungs to capture.

  Just as he thought his chest might explode, the soldier heard the corporal give an order, and the patrol surged into movement again. With unsteady breaths he silently invoked his Saviour.

  The soldier crept out of the shadows and on to the road, keeping a hand on his scabbard so that its jangling would not betray his presence. The moon was full and bright, illuminating the town of Reading, and he scuttled quickly towards the building described in the message.

  ‘Knock three times, wait three seconds, knock three times more’ had been the instruction, and the soldier rapped gently on the stout wooden door. As he counted silently, he listened for sounds from within the building, but none came. Perhaps no one was here after all. He completed the second set of knocks.

  The soldier jumped violently as the door swung open. He was ushered in by a scrawny-looking lad in his mid-teens.

  ‘If you keep me waiting again, Lieutenant, I shan’t be as forgiving,’ said a hooded figure as the soldier entered a dingy room at the building’s rear.

  They were in a small house, left empty when its Parliamentarian owners fled the town in the face of King Charles’s arrival. The soldier bowed, offering a hurried apology. The hooded man’s voice had been low, quiet, but its measured timbre did not conceal the threat of his displeasure.

  The soldier straightened up, staring hard at the shadow of deepest black that hid the cloaked man’s face, but, as ever, he could not discern a single feature.

  The figure stirred, making the soldier flinch violently, though he had only shifted position in his chair. ‘Tiffin?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ the soldier murmured nervously. ‘Lieutenant James Tiffin.’

  ‘You had no difficulty in crossing our lines covertly, I hope?’

  Tiffin shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ the figure said. ‘I would not wish you to be subject to any unwanted interest.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The figure shifted in his seat. ‘Well? You carry word from London?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Tiffin replied. ‘There . . . there . . .’ He could not force the words past his dry lips, such was his dread at the reaction they might garner. He did not know the identity of this man, but that had not prevented the rumours reaching his ears. Rumours of the things this man was capable of. Terrible things.

  ‘Speak.’

  Tiffin took a deep, steadying breath. ‘There has been no word from Captain Makepeace.’ The silence that followed was agonizing. Tiffin cleared his throat nervously. ‘They wish me to . . . remind you of the price of failure, sir. To remind you that you have promised to deliver Sir Randolph to them. His knowledge is worth a great deal.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Lieutenant. Quite aware.’

  ‘Do you have a message for them?’

  ‘Message?’ the hooded man said, his voice carrying huskily on an out-breath. ‘You might remind them that it was I who dealt with Moxcroft in the first place, who made his co-operation a possibility. The fools here believe they have cleared their house by dispatching Blake, but he was nothing. You may tell Pym, with my compliments, that his patience will be rewarded. My man will deliver the spy. I have promised it; it will be done.’ He added under his breath: ‘Captain Makepeace knows better than to disappoint me.’

  His head jerked upward slightly. Instinctively Tiffin turned, and was jostled out of the way by another man, who made straight for the master’s chair, leaning close to the tar-black hood.

  Lieutenant Tiffin waited while the men conferred. They whispered, but he could hear that their voices were strained, anxious. He caught only two words. One was Winchester. The other sounded like ladder? Or was it letter?

  The lieutenant was anxious to leave before the sun rose. ‘Sir?’

  The agitated whispers ceased and the men looked up.

  ‘You
are dismissed, Lieutenant!’ the hooded man snarled suddenly. ‘Tell Pym that Moxcroft will be brought to them, his knowledge protected.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Tiffin said, backing away.

  ‘Get out!’

  They departed beneath a dawn of slate-grey skies.

  Stryker’s duty was to make all haste towards the king’s lines. But where were those lines? Stryker had been warned that the Royalist forces would make their next move quickly, pushing south and east towards London. They would pass through Oxford and then on to Reading, the town where Rupert had ordered Moxcroft to be taken.

  But since their progress had been significantly slowed, the army might by now be further advanced than Stryker was anticipating. He decided to make for Reading, regardless of any other possibility, in the hope that intelligence would reach his ever-growing company along the way.

  There were nine of them in the party; eight soldiers were on horseback, while Moxcroft was slumped with little dignity in the back of a small cart. Sir Randolph grumbled intermittently as it rocked and jolted across the cloying, chalky mud, but Stryker ignored his complaints. A pair of skinny geldings that had been taken – along with the cart – from Moxcroft’s stables drew the vehicle admirably, though it was arduous toil for their spindly legs and they staggered across the treacherous terrain.

  The group was exhausted and chatter was scarce. Even Forrester had little to say. Makepeace, now riding Jared Dance’s horse, was insouciant enough in his manner, though it was obvious that most in the party shared Stryker’s distrust. Sergeant Skellen, in particular, was hostile in his demeanour. Nevertheless, Stryker had ordered that no one harm the flamehaired captain. Moreover, the imposing figure of Malachi Bain was constantly at Makepeace’s shoulder, a powerful deterrent to anyone who considered turning thought to action.