Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  In that instant, he saw Bain. Blood flowed freely from his wounded wrist, but he was standing, tall and belligerent, at the foot of the staircase. The bloody arm was hooked around Lisette Gaillard’s throat, and he was dragging her backwards toward the first steps. Stryker noticed his other hand; it held a smoking pistol.

  ‘Burton!’ Forrester exclaimed, even as Stryker realized what had happened.

  Stryker stooped to draw Matthews’ unused sword, and levelled it at the turncoat. ‘You’re beaten, Bain.’

  Bain screwed his face into a grimace. ‘Not so f-fast. I’ve still got your froggy punk.’ He scraped the pistol butt along Lisette’s scalp. She winced and struggled, but he held her fast. ‘This’ll crack ’er bonce like a duck egg.’

  Stryker glanced down at the prostrate Ensign Burton. Bain followed his gaze. ‘Bugger came at me from nowhere. D-daft bastard.’

  The last shot that had rung out in the brawl had come from Bain’s pistol. Forrester looked up. ‘Took it in his shoulder, sir. He’s out cold.’ A pistol ball was small, but at this range it might have come from one of the sakers outside. Burton would have been virtually touching the muzzle when its powder had ignited and the lead missile entered the top of his arm with crashing, devastating, irresistible force. The ball, Stryker knew all too well, would have smashed Burton’s bone with agonizing ease, flattening as it went, tearing a wide terrible hole, before bursting out through the back of his shoulder to rest somewhere in the wall beyond.

  A dark stain was creeping from somewhere beneath Burton’s upper body, like an ever increasing shadow. As it grew, it spread into a lake, adding to the metallic stench of fresh blood that already choked the cellar.

  The space fell silent. All eyes turned to Bain. He held Lisette in a firm hold.

  ‘I’ll st-still kill you,’ Bain hissed to Stryker, as he backed away. ‘I’ll g-gut you like a trout. But for n-now I’ll bid y-you farewell. We’ve a w-wagon to catch.’

  Forrester moved over to stand with Stryker and Skellen. The latter held the unfired musket, and he passed it to his captain, though there was no chance that Stryker could fire it while Bain held Lisette.

  Holding the girl close, Bain took the first couple of steps towards the stair, careful not to turn his back on the Royalists.

  Bain was concentrating so intensely upon the three former captives that he did not notice the bloody spectre rising from a dark corner of the room, amid the swirling smoke. By the time he caught the sudden movement, Ensign Burton was only an arm’s length away. The young man was ghostly pale, his torso drenched in his own blood, but he was wielding one of Sir Richard Wynn’s glass amphorae in his good arm.

  Bain was completely taken by surprise. As Burton hefted the heavy flask above his head, the sergeant lashed out with his pistol. The solid wooden butt obliterated the glass with an earsplitting crash, drenching the gigantic man and his small captive in dark liquid. In moments the small room was filled with a sharp stench that seared nostrils and stung at the eyes.

  In his shock, Bain allowed Lisette to wriggle free and she broke away, dashing across the room toward Stryker. Snarling with fury, Bain turned to bolt up the staircase, but Stryker called to him, ‘Sergeant! Catch!’

  Stryker had scooped up the smouldering piece of cord that had skidded away from the unfired musket – dropped in the face of Skellen’s assault – as soon as he’d noticed Burton lift the amphora. The match sailed toward Bain, twisting and rolling in the smoke-veiled air, and all Bain could do was watch. His small eyes followed its progress towards the steps, and widened with each turn the burning cord made, triumph turning to trepidation, turning to terror.

  All was still as the match landed on the step at Bain’s feet. For a second, nothing happened. Then the spark found the alcohol, and small, flickering flames emerged across the cold stone.

  A fraction of a second later they raced across the step, surging, roaring, consuming. Before Bain could respond, orange tongues were engulfing his boots and his breeches.

  He screamed. The flames enveloped the vast body, blazing at his alcohol-soaked clothes, melting the skin of his face, frying his eyeballs and mouth. He flailed. He bellowed. He cursed Stryker’s name.

  The people gathered below the steps staggered back as the sergeant writhed, swathed in a raging inferno. Bain slumped to his knees. And then he rocked forwards, toppling off the staircase and crashing on his blackened face against the stone floor. As the stench of charred flesh filled the cellar, Malachi Bain finally fell silent.

  CHAPTER 18

  Captain Roger Tainton was in retreat. His troop had joined the desperate skirmish at Sir Richard Wynn’s house, the first of Parliament’s defensive positions along the road to London, and had harried the advancing Royalists with skill and valour.

  Tainton had agreed with Lieutenant Colonel Quarles’s bellowed order to break ranks. They had retreated in good order for as long as was possible, forcing the myriad enemy infantrymen to fight tooth and nail for every inch of ground. It had been an impressively pugnacious strategy from Quarles, and necessary in order to give the men at the bridge time to build up the barricade. The bridge was crucial, worth the lives of some of Holles’s redcoats, for it was the only route over the River Brent for miles and the Royalists would have to cross it. That bridge would form a narrow pass, where the defenders could pour their stinging fire, at least for a time. And time was what they needed, for messengers had already been despatched to London, alerting Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, to muster his field army. If the Royalists could be delayed, even for a few hours, that might be enough.

  Tainton was cantering at the head of his troop. They were well clear of the slow-moving enemy column, and he would not be seen to panic. The houses of Brentford End came into his sights quickly. It surprised him that civilians still seemed to be abroad here, for he had thought they would have scurried across the river and into the new town like rats from a sinking ship, but many remained. He presumed they were either supporters of the king or misguided individuals who believed they might successfully defend their property from the inevitable orgy of plunder. He shook his head at their lamentable ignorance.

  The three settlements that formed Brentford hugged the north bank of the Thames. The River Brent, a tributary of the great river, spurred away northward, separating Brentford End and New Brentford. As Tainton’s troop rode beyond the last of Brentford End’s buildings, the narrow stone bridge came into view. On the far side of the river, the east bank, Holles’s redcoats were massing, making muskets ready and passing dozens of objects – barrels and stakes mostly – to the men on the crossing, in order for them to bolster the rapidly growing barricade.

  Quarles was on the bridge, overseeing the barricade’s construction, and he hailed the horsemen. ‘Captain Tainton!’

  Tainton raised a hand. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Bad business back there, eh? Glad you survived.’

  ‘May we cross, Colonel?’

  Stryker and Lisette emerged coughing into a large room at the rear of Sir Richard Wynn’s house. Forrester was behind them, and he turned to haul Sergeant Skellen into the light. Across the latter’s shoulders was Ensign Burton. The lad had slipped back into unconsciousness, blacking out as the pain of lifting the amphora overwhelmed him.

  ‘Check in there!’ a voice cried from out in the corridor on to which the room’s door opened.

  ‘Hold up your hands!’ Stryker told the still spluttering group. They did as they were told.

  The door’s painted timbers cracked as it was kicked savagely open, and a group of musketeers burst through, immediately aiming their weapons at Stryker and his companions.

  To his surprise, Stryker saw that these men were not wearing the red uniforms of Denzil Holles. ‘King’s! King’s!’ he shouted urgently, desperate for the soldiers not to shoot on sight.

  His Royalist cry, coupled with the group’s raised palms, caused the musketeers to hesitate. ‘Who are you?’ the heavily accented soldier snapped.
/>   ‘Captain Stryker, Mowbray’s Foot. We’ve been held prisoner down there.’ He pointed to the open hatch.

  The musketeers were Welshmen, part of Salusbury’s regiment, and they had continued to doubt the allegiance of their new captives until Stryker produced the prince’s letter. The text meant nothing to the soldiers, but they could see the imprint of Rupert’s seal right enough.

  ‘Leave ’im ’ere, sir,’ the lead musketeer, Gareth Howell, had said on laying eyes upon Burton’s shattered shoulder. ‘They’re settin’ this place up for the chirurgeons.’

  Sure enough, as they paced through the main entrance hall of Sir Richard Wynn’s large home, they could see that the area was already filling with the battle’s wounded.

  Skellen laid the ensign down gently, careful not to damage the wound further. Burton’s eyelids flickered tremulously at the unwelcome movement, but he did not regain consciousness.

  Stryker took a handful of the nearest chirurgeon’s shirt collar. ‘See that he is well cared for, sir.’

  The chirurgeon’s brow rose and his mouth opened. When he met Stryker’s single eye, his mouth shut. He nodded mutely.

  As the group made their way out into the afternoon sunlight, Stryker turned to Howell. ‘Have you taken any other prisoners?’

  ‘We have, sir,’ the musketeer confirmed. ‘Many.’

  ‘A red-haired man? He wears a ring of gold in each ear.’

  The Welshman shook his head. ‘None by that description, sir.’

  ‘A crippled man, then?’ Stryker persisted. ‘He has no use of his legs. Plump and pale-faced.’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen, Captain.’

  Forrester thumped a fist against his ample thigh. ‘Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.’ He glanced at Stryker. ‘Makepeace and us, don’t you think?’

  ‘Forget them!’ Lisette snapped. She turned to Musketeer Howell. ‘What of a horseman? He is blond, like me, and wears black armour.’

  The Welshman stopped in his tracks. ‘Not took as prisoner, ma’am. But I seen such a man out in the fight. Couldn’t say as to his ’air colour, but he’s the only feller I seen with blackened plate. Rides a big bay thing.’

  ‘That’s him!’ Lisette exclaimed. She turned to Stryker, clutching his shoulder. ‘That is him!’

  Stryker shook his head. ‘But he’s not been taken, Lisette. He’s out there still.’

  ‘So I will find him!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Stryker snarled, more aggressively than he had intended. ‘You cannot hunt the man on a battlefield!’

  ‘Where is that bastard Makepeace?’ replied Lisette calmly. Stryker did not answer. ‘Precisely. He is somewhere out there, too. With your spy, I should not wonder. Will you let him go?’ When Stryker remained silent, she brandished a determined smile. ‘Then we both hunt, Captain.’

  ‘Where the blazes have you been?’ Lord John Saxby barked from his highly polished saddle. ‘And who the devil is that?’

  Stryker and his three remaining companions had joined the Royalist force as they advanced through Brentford End, collecting up discarded weapons as they went. Stryker was thankful for meeting Howell and his men, for their presence ensured the dishevelled party would not be taken for enemy deserters or spies.

  The huge infantry column was pacing rhythmically along the high road, small bands of musketeers breaking away to search the buildings at their flanks, scouring the windows for hidden snipers. At the rear of the last tertio, Stryker spotted a group of mounted staff officers. Among them, proud and resplendent atop his expensive animal, was Saxby.

  ‘We’ve been out for a stroll, sir,’ Stryker said. ‘Weather was lovely.’ Saxby guffawed. Stryker grinned back. ‘And this is Lisette Gaillard, sir.’

  Saxby’s jaw dropped. ‘Dear God.’ He squinted down at her, disbelieving. ‘Dear God. It is. I thought you were—’

  ‘Dead, my lord?’ Lisette replied.

  Saxby nodded slowly. ‘Aye.’ He looked at Stryker. ‘Drowned.’

  ‘Lisette is here on the queen’s business,’ Stryker said.

  Saxby’s stare lingered on the woman for a long moment. ‘I dare say she is.’ The colonel was clearly taken aback.

  ‘May we join you, Colonel?’

  Saxby tore his gaze away from the diminutive Frenchwoman. ‘Join us? Ain’t you tired, Captain? With all due respect, man, the earl don’t need more bodies. We’re taking care of this bit of business splendidly!’

  Stryker grimaced apologetically. ‘My mission is . . . incomplete, sir.’

  Saxby frowned in consternation. ‘Moxcroft evaded you?’

  ‘A turncoat betrayed us.’

  Saxby chewed the inside of his mouth, staring off into the distance.

  ‘Sir?’ Stryker prompted.

  ‘Sorry, Captain,’ the colonel said, jolted back to the man at his horse’s flank. ‘The prince will not be pleased. Still, nothing you can do about it now, I suppose.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir,’ Stryker said, urgency lacing his voice. ‘The traitor is here. Somewhere in Brentford. And he has Moxcroft with him.’

  Saxby shook his head. ‘Go to the doctors, Stryker, there’s a good man. Have your wounds seen to.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘That’s not going to answer, is it?’ asked the colonel quietly.

  More silence.

  ‘Damn it, man,’ snapped Saxby. He kicked up his horse. ‘I give you leave to do as you will. Go and find your traitor, if you must. Just grant me one boon. Try not to perish in the attempt.’

  Lisette Gaillard had been ordered to stay at the rear of the column by Lord John. The colonel was a member of the king and queen’s inner circle, fully aware of Lisette’s skills, but even that was not enough to convince him that a woman had a place in the front rank of battle. Lisette had spat her refusal, but Saxby was most insistent.

  As Stryker conveyed her to the protection of the Royalist artillery train, he paused briefly, holding her shoulders in firm hands. ‘You promise to remain here?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not for a moment.’

  Stryker smiled. ‘Then stay safe.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Back in the cellar, when you attacked Makepeace. You wept.’

  Lisette looked at her boots. ‘I remembered what he did to you, Stryker.’ She raised her chin, meeting his eye, and held out a hand to his scarred face. ‘It was the worst time of my life.’

  ‘You did not have to tend my wounds, Lisette. I did not ask it of you.’

  She glared. ‘No, you great oaf! It was not the worst time because I had to care for you. But because I loved you. With all my being.’ She stood on the tips of her toes. ‘And that is why I cried. He made me remember that love.’

  She kissed him, hard and intense, before turning away. She was gone before he could say a word.

  Stryker, Skellen and Forrester moved to the head of the advancing force, eager to get to the bridge, for it was there that Bain had said Makepeace would be. Although this was far from certain, Stryker guessed that Makepeace would not wish to stay west of the River Brent, given the fact that the area had now entirely fallen to the Royalists.

  Although the breeze was weak, it managed to carry the beat of drums like a whisper across the rank and file. It was not music that the drummers played, but coded messages. They contained orders for the men to follow. A young lad, his instrument dwarfing his torso amid the experienced drummers that marched with him, paused to vomit on the side of the road. The grizzled veteran at his side did not break his rhythm as he called words of encouragement to the youngster. He affected not to notice the wet patch on the boy’s crotch.

  As the force passed through Brentford End, frightened faces could be seen peering cautiously from windows and doors. The shops and houses that lined both sides of the road were scarred from battle, and yet more musket-balls thudded into their wooden frames when Holles’s men were spotted seeking shelter within. Most doors, however, were shut and barred, and the Royalist companies passed them
by. There would be plenty of time for plunder, of course, but later, once the enemy had been destroyed.

  The Royalists made good progress through the westerly part of the town, receiving and giving fire as small pockets of retreating redcoats appeared before them, but for the most part their massively superior numbers ensured a safe passage until the Brent’s glistening water could be clearly seen beyond the buildings. And then the bridge itself came into view. It was a stout, well-built affair of three stone arches. Across its crest was a makeshift barricade of wattle fencing, upturned tables, large barrels, sharpened stakes, earth-filled bushels and bales of rotten hay, behind which the remainder of Denzil Holles’s Regiment of Foot lay in wait with primed muskets and charged pikes. This was evidently to be the next protracted stand the rebels would make.

  Lord John Saxby galloped up and down the road, shouting and encouraging the infantry as he passed, whipping them into a bloodthirsty frenzy. ‘Smash ’em here, boys! New Brentford lies on the far side o’ that bridge! Then the old town! Kill the buggers dead, and it’s on to London! We’ll be sipping mulled ale in the Commons come Christmas!’

  Captain Eli Rushworth Augustus Makepeace was already at the bridge. The going had been infuriatingly slow, for the road was sticky and the cart’s wheels had slipped and skidded every few yards, but eventually Makepeace and Sir Randolph Moxcroft had reached the comparative safety of the barricade. They paid little heed to the panicking residents of Brentford End, who scuttled back and forth on all sides, collecting their worldly goods before escaping into the fields to the north. The men bellowed at their offspring, women chivvied and scolded, children wailed, scrawny pet dogs scampered back and forth, energized by the excitement. With the vast force of angry Royalists coming from the west, the people’s natural escape route to the east was the bridge, and that had been barricaded by Parliament’s soldiers, while the swirling torrent of the Thames hugged the town’s southern edge. Those cold, boggy enclosures to the north were the only remaining option, and they would lead them out into open country infested with brigands. Makepeace couldn’t care less. He had a spy in his cart, the man whose knowledge might even change the course of the war.