Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  The first ranks of the enemy passed beyond the hedgerows, the head of a great snake winding its way toward London. Quarles recognized their colours immediately. ‘Salusbury’s chaps!’ he bellowed so that as many of his men could hear as possible. ‘Heard they cut and run at Kineton Fight! They’ll run again, mark my words, boys! You must make ’em run!’ He drew his sword, holding it aloft momentarily, before sweeping down his arm in a silver arc. ‘Fire!’

  The ruby was a thing of beauty. A perfect, shimmering sphere casting shafts of soft red light across the room in all directions to dance playfully along the walls.

  Tainton held it in front of him, wondering at how it had come to be in the girl’s possession. She had stolen it, no doubt. But where had she found such a precious thing?

  He gathered up the objects, depositing them in a small leather bag that he hung about his neck. He knew nothing about the ruby, except that it must be worth a great deal. If he could take it to London, the rebel cause would be aided by the money it would fetch.

  The crackle of musketry was constant now. Tainton paced quickly through the house and out into the courtyard. There he found chaos, for the wounded were being carried back to the house for treatment, while aides scurried to and fro with orders.

  Tainton caught one such man by the sleeve. ‘What news?’

  The aide shrugged him off, fear overcoming respect for the chain of command. ‘Ordered retreat, sir. Back to the bridge. We’re to keep fighting, though. Stall the buggers for as long as we can.’

  Tainton understood. They were no chicken-hearts, the soldiers of Denzil Holles’s Regiment of Foot. They had fought hard against the seemingly irresistible tide of Rupert’s cavalry at Edgehill, and had held steadfast against his three regiments for the last hour, but while heavy cannon and dense hedgerows could limit a cavalry charge, it would not withstand infantry for long. Holles’s men, brave as they undoubtedly were, would soon be swept away if they continued to resist.

  Tainton found his own troop regrouping at the stables to the rear of the house. They had been involved in intermittent but bitter skirmishes with the Cavalier horsemen since the initial attack had been rebuffed by Quarles’s cannon. They would be thankful to leave this place. A trooper appeared, carrying his commander’s polished metal armour in a large hessian sack. Tainton beckoned to him, and the man scuttled over, hefting the jangling sack. ‘God’s teeth, man! That is not a bag of cutlery!’

  Tainton’s eye caught a glimmer of silver in the distance, like the crest of a giant wave. As he stared out at the tall hedgerow beyond the house, he realized that the silver wave was the massed shafts of Salusbury’s dense pike battaile, dipping into the roiling cannon smoke, ramming home against the thinner ranks at Quarles’s command.

  ‘They’ve made it through the hedge,’ he said.

  Tainton waited until the gleaming Milanese armour was fastened to a sturdy but comfortable tension and then met his subordinate’s eye. ‘Fetch my horse, Bowery.’

  Bowery sprinted away towards the stables. Men were killing and screaming, weeping and bleeding and dying in the fields hugging the flanks of the road. Tainton watched as a young lad, one of Salusbury’s drummers, was flung back, spitted on the end of a pike. Blood flowed freely from his mouth while urine dripped from his hose and down his boots.

  A musket-ball splintered the brickwork somewhere behind Tainton. Shots at this range might not be accurate, but his experience of fighting Stryker’s sharpshooters had taught him not to assume too much. He hurriedly put on his helmet.

  Ducking behind the nearby colonnades, he slipped into the familiar pre-action ritual, strapping on gauntlet and cross-belts, checking his carbine’s firing mechanism and sliding the long sword in and out of its scabbard a number of times to ensure that it would not stick when the time came. All the while he watched the battle, counting men and gauging strategy. The men of Holles’s Regiment of Foot were offering staunch resistance, but their fire was becoming increasingly sporadic as more and more of the enemy made it through the gap between the hedges and into the open ground in front of Wynn’s house. It was not a rout yet, for Holles’s lads were retiring in good order, but the regiment of London apprentices were simply too few, and more of them fell back towards the house with every passing moment.

  More smoke-wreathed pikes came into view on the far side of the hedge. Tainton took a few paces away from the building so that the structure did not obstruct his view, and counted two more companies behind the first few. This was a very large force. More, perhaps, than the entire Parliamentarian army between here and the capital could handle.

  He had seen enough. His horse was ready now, and he leapt into the saddle, turning to the remainder of his troop. ‘We’ll not abandon them, lads! By God we will not!’

  The Parliamentarian defenders kept their fire rapid and their courage strong until the last of the vast Royalist vanguard squeezed through the gap between the hedge-rows and fanned out in the clearing to face the remains of Holles’s regiment.

  Lieutenant Colonel James Quarles was still on the right flank of his beleaguered force. He bellowed orders at the ranks of musketeers who fired, reloaded, fired, reloaded and fired in a professional rhythm that made him proud. To his left a pair of men fell together, a ball ripping through the first’s forehead and out the back of his skull, before punching through the face of the man behind.

  ‘Enough,’ Quarles whispered. His men were being battered by the greatest of hammers and their duty was done.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ a nearby lieutenant called.

  ‘I said, enough,’ Quarles said, louder now. ‘We cannot hold our shape any longer. Not against this many muskets.’ He glanced across the thinning line of redcoats and filled his lungs. ‘Retreat! Retreat! To the bridge!’

  Despite the dank, oppressive air of Sir Richard Wynn’s cellar, Sergeant Malachi Bain was in hog’s heaven.

  ‘M-miss me?’ he said as he reached floor level, a trio of wary musketeers at his back. The soldiers had been guarding the cellar, and were on the verge of abandoning their posts at hearing the commotion outside, when Bain had reappeared.

  Bain stepped forward confidently, muskets levelled behind him, poised to blow holes in the prisoners’ chests. Clutching the big halberd he had liberated from Quarles’s stores, he lowered the shaft so that the blade hovered in line with Stryker’s throat.

  ‘Back so soon?’ Stryker said calmly. He glanced up at the open hatch. ‘And there I was thinking you’d turned your tail as well as your coat.’

  Bain sneered. ‘I ain’t runnin’ away. Not yet, leastwise.’ The big man glanced at the others. ‘D-do you know,’ he said, nodding towards Stryker, ‘I take c-credit for that? I always figured him for an ugly bastard, that’s for certain, but me and the captain made it sure. Didn’t we, Mister Stryker?’

  Stryker stepped forward. ‘Yes. You held me down. You watched while your master lit a fuse and you laughed as the powder took half my face.’

  ‘And now I’ve come to finish what I started all them years ago.’ Bain shook his head confidently. ‘M-Makepeace and the spy are on their way f-from here even n-now. I’ll see to you and meet ’im at the b-bridge.’

  Forrester stepped forward. ‘But we are not yours to kill, Sergeant. Tainton is our gaoler.’

  ‘That p-pious bugger’s got his ’ands full fightin’ the Welshies. He’s forgotten all about you.’ A grin that might have sat well on Lucifer himself spread slowly across Bain’s blunt chin. ‘But I ain’t. So I’m going to make an end of y-you. ’Cept this time I’ll ’ave s-some sport while I’m at it.’ Bain’s eyes, darting and beady, swivelled to where Lisette was standing. ‘Hoped you were dead, missy.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ Lisette said.

  ‘Oh, I ain’t d-disappointed, love. Not a bit. Now come ’ere. I wants a look at your sweet little c-cunny.’

  Lisette spat at him, backing away, but she could not keep the fear from her expression.

  ‘Leave her, Bain!’
snarled Stryker as the sergeant took a step forward.

  Bain let fly a coarse, pitiless laugh. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh? The great Stryker dies defendin’ a froggy slut. Still likes her d-does you?’ He laughed again. ‘Well, you’ll not have so much as a lick now. She’s all mine, sir.’

  Stryker stepped forward, but Bain was fast for a man of his bullock-like physique, and his big fist lashed out to crunch into the Royalist’s cheek. Stryker hit the ground, and when he was able to look up he could no longer see Bain. As he regained his bearings, he located the brawny sergeant at the foot of the staircase. Lisette was on his shoulder, pinned like a trussed lamb. The light streaming in from above illuminated their profiles, and it looked like an angel and a demon hovered on those steps.

  Skellen took Stryker’s hand, hauling him to his feet. The latter made to move toward Bain, but his progress was blocked by the red-coated musketeers who had stepped into the space between the sergeant and Stryker’s men.

  ‘Have you no honour?’ Stryker bellowed, as Bain threw his prize to the cold stone of the floor, pinning her at the throat by his boot heel.

  ‘Honour?’ the demon said, pausing for a moment. ‘You took me honour a decade ago.’

  The men of Denzil Holles’s Regiment of Foot had, finally, broken ranks and were streaming on to London Road.

  The Royalists of Sir Thomas Salusbury’s Welsh regiment gave chase, ably supported by their eager, but hitherto restrained, cavalry. The rout was not as easily executed as they might have wished, for a well-drilled troop of rebel horsemen, led from the front by a black-clad officer screaming oaths and psalms in equal measure, had kept many of them at bay, allowing a sizeable portion of the fleeing infantry to disappear into Brentford End and towards the bridge beyond. But this small victory was soon secured and the chasing pack recalled, the Royalist commanders keen to maintain discipline even in triumph. There was much fighting yet to come.

  The vanguard reformed into its order of battle and continued its eastward advance. The ground around Sir Richard Wynn’s house had been churned up horribly by thousands of feet and hooves, turning hard, frostbitten solidity into a sticky morass, and the men were happy to reach the relative comfort of the road to make good their pursuit. Some of the swarming Royalists diverted their attention to the house and its many outbuildings, but most were bullied by officers and sergeants back into their practised marching formations. Discipline was holding for the time being. They would advance on the bridge.

  Below ground, Lisette Gaillard was struggling against Sergeant Malachi Bain’s grinding boot heel. Bain opened his mouth, baring rows of broken yellow and brown stumps. It was a face of lust and anger and savagery and hunger and cruelty. A tear swelled at the corner of Lisette’s eye and tumbled down her cheek.

  The light streaming from above Bain shone against the tear, and he saw it gleam as it traced its way down her skin. His grin widened and his eyes darted down to drink in the swell of her chest and curve of her hips beneath the cloak. A guttural grunt escaped from him then, and he licked his lips slowly. ‘There’s a good girl.’ His voice was thick. He glanced at one of the musketeers, a lanky man with oval eyes and a broken nose. ‘Keep those bastards back, Corporal Matthews. Sh-shoot ’em if any move.’ A flicker of hesitation crossed the redcoat’s face, and Bain glowered. ‘You w-wish to discuss the order?’

  The musketeer shook his head quickly.

  ‘That’s why you helped Makepeace?’ Stryker suddenly blurted, desperate to stall Bain. ‘Why you helped him take my eye?’

  ‘Eh?’ The sergeant turned towards Stryker. ‘My honour?’ Bain repeated. ‘Aye, me honour. Taken from me – stripped – by an upstart officer after Lutzen.’

  Stryker frowned. He had no idea what Bain was talking about, but knew he had to distract him as long as possible. ‘You were at Lutzen?’

  ‘I was. A musketeer. A g-good one.’

  Bain dropped to his knees, straddling Lisette just above her waist. ‘Enough talk!’ He glared down at the woman, her hair splayed out across the floor in a great golden fan. He dropped a hand to his belt and drew out a nasty-looking dirk, thin and long and sharp.

  Rather than cowing her, the sight of the blade made Lisette thrash and struggle, scratch and curse, trying to push Bain’s weight from her. But he thrust out his free hand and clamped thick fingers round her neck, slamming her back on to the stone floor. She spluttered, her tongue forced out slightly between blueing lips, as Bain loomed over her. Lisette could smell the man’s breath as he leaned close. ‘I’m going to f-f-f-fuck you n-now, f-froggy whore,’ he hissed, the frenzy of the moment aggravating his stammer. ‘And I ain’t p-partial to a f-f-fuck while you’re leaking bl-blood everywhere. So lay nice and still. Try anythin’ and you’ll ’ave it through your eyeball qu-quicker than you can b-blink.’ His tongue darted out to lick hers. It was vile and she would have vomited if she’d been able to breathe.

  He licked her mouth again, a tendril of saliva hanging stubbornly between them. ‘Very tasty.’

  Bain turned his head to glance up to the redcoats, their brows furrowed in concern. ‘Keep your eyes f-f-front, damn you.’

  The musketeers averted their collective gaze. Bain’s attention drifted beyond them, fixing his predatory stare on Stryker. ‘You stay still too, Cap’n. I w-wants you to s-see this. You do as I say, she might live. You turn away or make any move—’ He jerked his chin toward the dirk in his strong grip. ‘G-got it?’

  Stryker nodded. His eye swivelled to catch Forrester’s for a moment. He was half tempted to charge the muskets down, but the match-cords were glowing ominously in the half-light, like three malevolent spirits, and they would lash down on to opened priming pans instantly if he made a move. He thought of the way Bain had earlier lost focus.

  ‘I was at Lutzen, Sergeant!’

  Bain looked up again. ‘I know you f-f-fuckin’ were!’

  The ferocity of Bain’s response startled Stryker. ‘I don’t remember you.’

  The sergeant gritted his teeth. ‘But do you remember the corporal what got a hundred pissin’ lashes and broken back to the rank an’ file? Do you remember that?’

  A memory came to Stryker then. The memory of a defeated tertio of pike, and of one of the most brutal melees he had ever had the displeasure to be a part of. And Bain’s words rang somehow true. There had been a corporal, a callow piece of spittle as he remembered, whom he had found hidden under a pile of bodies. Hidden and cowering. Stryker had passed him by, marched over him when the Swedish army had gone forward to secure their victory. But afterwards he had spotted that same corporal lording it up in a tavern, telling tall tales of his great valour.

  ‘That was you?’

  Bain sneered. ‘No it fuckin’ wasn’t.’

  ‘Then who was it?’

  ‘My b-b-brother.’ Bain could barely force the words out. ‘He was humiliated when you told the provosts he was yellow. Humiliated and h-hated.’

  Stryker frowned. ‘It was no more than he deserved.’

  Malachi Bain’s little black eyes glistened in the dim light. He still clutched the long dirk and he still had Lisette’s body pinned between oak-bough thighs, but his mind was wandering. ‘They beat him,’ he said. ‘His own company. Own mates. They b-beat him for the d-dishonour he’d brought the unit.’ He refocussed, eyes burning bright with what seemed to Stryker to be a new depth of hatred. ‘I found him next mornin’, swinging from a tree, eyes p-pecked at by ravens. Took ’is own l-life. They stuck the bugger in a pit. Nameless. Honourless. It were you what done th-that.’

  The knife Lisette Gaillard produced was tiny, no longer than her little finger, so small that she had been able to conceal it as a hair pin against her scalp. But the blade was nevertheless strong, and keenly sharp, and it drove into the fleshy underside of Malachi Bain’s wrist with little resistance.

  Bain brayed in stunned anguish, releasing the dirk so that it bounced on the smooth flagstones and skittered away. The three redcoats turned, instinctive
ly looking for the source of the terrible sound.

  Stryker pounced like an animal. In three paces he had closed the gap between himself and Corporal Matthews and his hand darted out like a viper’s bite to grasp the barrel of the tall man’s musket. Matthews was alert enough to pull the trigger, but by the time the smouldering match had sparked in the priming pan the barrel was pointed at the cellar’s high ceiling. The pan flashed, coughing a billowing pall of smoke into the room.

  In the unventilated chamber, the roiling, acrid cloud obscured everything and Stryker’s men took advantage of it. To his left, Stryker caught a glimpse of Will Skellen, the sinewy sergeant surging forward to grapple with one of Matthews’ men. Skellen was upon the musketeer before the man had turned. Stryker heard the long-arm clatter noisily to the stone slabs, its smouldering match jolting free of the serpent.

  To his right, Forrester went for the third musketeer, but the guard was able to bring the musket to bear before Forrester could reach him. There was a second shot, unnaturally cacophonous in the subterranean dungeon.

  Stryker was still locked in a hand-to-hand struggle with Corporal Matthews. He was shorter than Matthews but far stronger, and he used his muscular frame to force the Parliamentarian back towards the stairs. Matthews kicked out, but Stryker hardly felt the blow and thrust his head forward in a brutal move that smashed Matthews’ nose. Matthews released his grip on the musket and Stryker drove his fist into the redcoat’s stomach, doubling him over. Behind the two men there was a great flash and a scream, and the room seemed to glow orange. Matthews vomited and Stryker pressed his boot heel into the open mouth. Matthews was felled like an oak, crashing to the ground in a mass of flesh and steel.

  Stryker vaulted the body and plunged into the gun smoke, trying desperately to gain his bearings amid the chaos. Two shots had rung out in the small melee. Stryker saw Skellen battering his opponent with the remaining musket.

  He saw too that Forrester had bested one of the musketeers with the Roundhead’s own sword. The dead man’s musket was lying at his side, a thin wisp of smoke drifting up from the muzzle. Forrester pulled a face. ‘Silly bugger missed.’