Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  He thought of the ruby. It still hung at his neck, and he lifted a hand to brush his blackened breastplate with gloved fingers. If he could just survive this day, he would be able to convey the jewel back to his masters at Parliament. It might just make up for losing Stryker and the other prisoners.

  But all that was pushed to the back of the captain’s mind. He still had work to do this day. Tainton twisted around in his saddle, catching as many of his men’s eyes as possible. ‘We charge on my mark! Do not engage, for they will present pike, but wheel back and form again! We must keep them at bay for as long as God allows!’

  The men of Sir Edward Tainton’s Regiment of Horse could not see their charges home, for the bristling tertios of pikemen would turn the enemy column into a gigantic hedgehog, spiked and deadly. But by the very act of compelling the enemy to present their pikes – the pikemen having to halt to brace the butt of the pole against their boot – Tainton’s horsemen would slow the oncoming force down, and that delay would, at the very least, force more valuable time to tick by.

  Tainton raised his sword. ‘Charge!’

  The streets of New Brentford teemed with panicked men and women. Lisette had emerged from the grounds of St Lawrence’s church and on to the part of London Road that formed the town’s High Street, only to discover that the advancing Royalist column had not reached this part of town yet. But that, of course, did not stop the terrified citizens from hearing the volleys of approaching musketeers.

  Lisette was beautiful. She knew it because wherever she went she would draw remarks; appreciative ones from leering men, or snide ones from jealous women. Yet today she felt as though she could run naked and screaming through Brentford’s lanes and alleys and no one would pay heed. No one would hail her, no one would accost her. The king was coming, and with him, he brought death.

  Crowds of refugees from the western fringe of the town were pushing and shoving their way past, desperate to get away from the fighting that had already consumed their homes. Lisette fought against the tide, guessing that Tainton’s men would be engaged in the battle toward the town’s western entrance. But this was a battlefield of the narrowest proportions; due to the surrounding houses and the fields beyond, the rivers Thames and Brent, and the rebel barricades, the front line was squeezed into a small area. Had this been a traditional battle, fought across a great plain or fair-meadow, Lisette could never have found her enemy. But here, where the London Road bisected Brentford, Tainton’s whereabouts were easy to predict. She had heard Saxby inform Stryker that the rebels only had horsemen from two troops. One of which was commanded by Roger Tainton. Lisette understood that if she were to locate Parliamentary cavalry, then there would be a good possibility that with them would be Tainton. And the ruby.

  Another volley of musketry crackled in the distance. She thought of Stryker, a pang of concern attacking her. She pushed it away.

  Progress was painfully slow amid the human river. Lisette knew she must push beyond the town centre and out to where the battle was joined in earnest, but it was too far to be travelling at such a dawdling pace and in such sloppy mud.

  ‘Damn it all! Get out of the way!’

  Lisette looked to her right, where, fifty paces away, a man stood in his stirrups, bawling at the people filing past. He was also attempting to travel in the opposite direction to the mass of frightened civilians. His horse was big and sleek and strong.

  Lisette moved as fast as she could towards the man on horseback, dragging her feet from the sucking mud with difficulty. ‘Sir!’ she called up to him.

  The chestnut mount reared, startled by her sudden cry, and the rider glared down at her.

  ‘What the devil . . . madam?’

  ‘I see you swim against the tide. You are going west?’ Lisette demanded, placing a hand on the skittish mount’s filth-specked bridle.

  ‘What is that to you?’ the rider barked, though he could not hide the sparkle that lit his eyes as the young woman brandished a gleaming smile.

  Lisette reached up, resting her free hand on the rider’s knee, squeezing gently. ‘I should like to travel with you.’

  Lisette’s horseman was chirurgeon Ptolemy Banks.

  He was not on any regimental staff – which vexed him, he told Lisette, for he missed out on the daily pay of four shillings – but had served many decades patching men up across the Continent. ‘I retired here,’ he had said as they threaded their way along High Street towards the western limits of New Brentford, ‘for a quiet life, would you believe? No matter, the long and short of it is that the battle has come here, to my home, and I shall help fight the good fight any way I know how.’

  For all Banks’s initial reluctance, his assistance had not been difficult to secure, once he’d had a good look at Lisette. He had told her that he was on his way to tend the rebel wounded at the front. Lisette had pleaded that he let her accompany him, for the front was where she must go, too. She had important news for the defenders, she said. Vital news that could not be delayed. Chirurgeon Banks was a Parliamentarian to the core, and had quickly agreed on the grounds that he would not obstruct something that might aid the defenders. In reality, Lisette knew, his capitulation had more to do with the hand she had slowly snaked along his thigh.

  ‘The man I need to find,’ Lisette said as they cantered in and out of the oncoming traffic on their way past the last buildings, ‘is commanding one of the cavalry troops. He wears black armour. Do you know him?’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but I do not,’ Banks called over his shoulder. He offered her a greasy smile.

  Lisette didn’t dislike Banks. She might even forgive him his rebel sympathies at this very moment, because up ahead were perhaps two dozen horsemen. The road curved steadily here, and she could not see what was beyond the troop, but it was clear from their bloodied bodies and labouring animals that they were fresh from the fight. As Lisette watched, the troop halted, and she presumed they had reached a point on the road that was outside the musket range of the most advanced Royalist infantry. The troop checked their horses’ hooves and took long draughts from water flasks. And in their midst was a man on a bay stallion, his head and torso encased in gleaming black.

  Lisette leant forward, pushing her mouth to Banks’s ear, ensuring the chirurgeon’s obedience with her warm breath. ‘May we stop, sir?’

  ‘Why can we not rest here?’ Sir Randolph Moxcroft said. The spy’s arm was hooked around the narrow shoulder of Eli Makepeace as the latter dragged him through New Brentford.

  Having rounded the bend, they were now on the part of High Street that straightened out as it began to climb toward Old Brentford. Makepeace groaned as he hauled Moxcroft’s dead weight through the mud, the spy’s toes lagging behind like a pair of anchors. ‘No we cannot, Sir Randolph!’ He glanced over his shoulder, checking for enemy soldiers. ‘If we rest here, we’ll be skewered in no time. The king’s men were close to smashing the bridge blockade when we left. They’ll surely be on this side of the river by now.’

  Makepeace thought back to that deadly fight. When the enemy had engaged, he had been armed with nothing but his sword. It might as well have been a toothpick in the face of the horde they faced. The man at his right shoulder had been felled by a shot that had dashed his brains, spattering Makepeace from his wide-brimmed hat to his comfortable bucket-top boots. Realizing that the dead man’s musket was still primed, its match keeping a feeble glow despite having been dropped to the bridge’s stone surface, he had snatched it up and taken aim.

  And there, just paces away on the opposing side of the barricade, stood Captain Stryker.

  For the first time since the attack had crashed home, Makepeace felt his spirits lift. He squeezed the trigger steadily, forgetting all around him, and emptied the barrel. A great cough of smoke immediately obscured his vision, but at such close range there was no chance he could have missed.

  As soon as the shot was away, Makepeace turned tail and raced back to where Neal’s men had dumped Moxcroft.
There was a risk that one of the redcoats might take umbrage at seeing him leave the ranks, but they were all far too busy fighting for their lives to spare a thought for him.

  Makepeace decided to aim for the next barricade on the rising land between the new town and the larger Old Brentford, praying that the commander there would not enlist him as the obstinate Sergeant Major Neal had done. He had considered selecting an alternative route to London, but that would take them either north or south, and the idea of facing lawless countryside to the north did not appeal. Negotiating the Thames to the south with Moxcroft on his back was downright impossible.

  They pressed on, grunting in the face of excruciatingly slow progress, cursing the soldiers that ran by without pausing to offer assistance. As Makepeace forged ahead, his efforts were finally rewarded when he caught his first glimpse of the blades that stood glinting above the bristling ranks of Lord Brooke’s Regiment of Foot.

  ‘There!’ he gasped excitedly.

  Moxcroft stared up to the crest of the slope, to where the barricade stood strong and proud. He glanced sideways at Makepeace. ‘Then pick up the pace, Captain.’

  Makepeace glared at him. ‘I’m going as fast as I bloody can, Sir Randolph!’

  As Moxcroft twisted his head to glance back down the incline, his eyes widened as he took in the sea of men that were appearing from the road’s curve. ‘So are they.’

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘Thank you, Ptolemy.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Chirurgeon Banks said, blushing profusely as Lisette jumped down from the saddle. He winked at her. ‘Anything for a beautiful woman.’

  She left Banks at the large house the chirurgeon intended to use to treat casualties. He wished her Godspeed, and even risked a little pat on her bottom.

  Now she was running down High Street, through New Brentford, Brooke’s barricade at her back and the Royalist column gradually appearing from the road’s curve at her front. She skirted units of retreating redcoats, the occasional walking wounded, and several galloping staff officers carrying messages. One such officer, a callow youth on a black mare, had responded to her hail, reining in beside her. ‘You are lost, madam?’ he called down, his face speckled with mud and sweat. ‘I suggest you turn back. You’ll find only trouble this way.’

  Lisette took a breath. ‘I have a message for Captain Tainton.’ She pressed on before the officer could speak. ‘I am sent from Lord Brooke.’ She pointed to a building across the road with a swinging open door, its occupants long since evacuated in the face of the impending Royalist storm. She stepped toward the horseman, eyes burning with intensity. ‘Captain Tainton must come to here immediately. Tell him it concerns Captain Stryker.’

  The youth gaped at her.

  Lisette glared. ‘Do you think we have time to dither? I do not wish to report your incompetence to Lord Brooke!’

  Her forcefulness seemed to shock him into action. ‘I shall report to Captain Tainton, of course.’ As the officer kicked at his mount, he suddenly pulled back on the reins, halting the horse. Doubt had twisted his face into a confused frown. ‘Wait! Who are you?’

  But Lisette was already gone.

  ‘Well?’ the familiar bark echoed around the abandoned building. ‘I was told Lord Brooke had news of my prisoners.’

  Lisette had waited several minutes before Tainton appeared. The building must have been the workshop of a boat-builder, for it still contained tools, wood shavings and a large vat of tar that – judging by the small wisps of steam wafting into the air – carried the last vestiges of warmth. The low-beamed, rectangular room had been mostly emptied – hastily, judging by the open door and discarded objects – and now stood cavernous and bare.

  Captain Roger Tainton stalked in, his sword still in its scabbard and his helmet in his hand, and snapped at the hooded figure who stood in the centre of the room.

  ‘Well?’ he said again. ‘This had better be of great import, sir. What do you want? Come, sir, the king’s men are almost at the door!’

  Lisette drew back her hood. ‘You know what I want, Captain.’

  The Royalist army surged through New Brentford. It was no more than a matter of a few hundred paces between the bridge and their current position, at the end of the road’s curve, but to the attackers it represented a marker laid down, a Rubicon crossed. They were now on the east side of the Brent, choking this defiant town with their men and horses and weapons. Brentford was falling at the king’s feet. In days the capital would surely follow and the rebels would be pushed into the Channel, where they would drown in the angry swell, choking on their treachery to the Crown.

  They passed big brick houses, home to local gentry or merchants, and the smaller, ramshackle dwellings of the common folk. There were the premises of tanners, blacksmiths, bakers and coopers. They marched beneath the shadow of the great church, St Lawrence’s, and felt God’s blessing upon them.

  Stryker and his men were back in step with a company of musketeers, and the captain let his eye dart left and right, examining the buildings for any sign of danger. At least, he noted with relief, the Parliamentarian cavalry under Vivers and Tainton had finally ceased the continual raids that had forced the column to move at such a sluggish pace. The Royalist cavalry should have been there to ward them off, but word had spread that they were delayed at Brentford End.

  ‘Fuckin’ cavalry!’ Skellen had snarled. ‘After plunder while we do the hard work.’

  On rounding the bend beyond St Lawrence’s, High Street began to slope upward on its way towards the old town. Stryker’s gaze followed this gradual incline until it reached the brow of the rise. ‘Look,’ he said.

  Forrester followed Stryker’s stare. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Brooke’s lads.’

  It was another barricade. There were fences that stretched from one side of the street to the other, pushed flush against the flanking buildings so that the Royalist army could not simply walk round. It was an even more impressive and daunting sight than the work at the bridge. More sharpened pikes, more bales, more barrels. And more men. Lord Brooke’s Regiment of Foot was out in force, distinctive in their purple uniforms. They were massed behind that barricade, pikes lofted high, ready for the fight. Their officers could be heard bellowing orders up and down the ranks, while the men themselves called challenges to the oncoming king’s men.

  ‘Company! Halt!’ The shout reverberated along the great Royalist column, repeated by sergeants and captains as each unit’s turn came to hold the advance. The drums reiterated the call to take heed. They were to advance in regimental order, keeping discipline at all times.

  A mounted officer reined in nearby and Stryker hailed him. The man nodded towards the barricade, ‘We’re to go straight at ’em, sir.’

  ‘Can we not work around the flanks?’ Forrester asked.

  The officer shook his head, his expression rueful. ‘Would that were possible, sir. But there ain’t enough room between the buildings on our right flank and the river beyond. It’d be a narrower pass to negotiate than the damned road.’ He switched his gaze to the left flank. ‘And over there they’ve stationed plenty o’ musket and pike. It’d be a bugger picking our way through. Take too long. Besides, the earl wants to make an example of ’em.’

  ‘A show of strength,’ Stryker said.

  ‘You have it, sir. Wear ’em down, so to speak. One regiment at a time. Advance, discharge muskets, push the bastards back. Simple as that. And our cavalry will work round to their right flank. They’ll take a longer route round, but it’ll be easier than letting the infantry do it.’

  ‘Who’ll take the lead at the barricade, Lieutenant?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘Salusbury’s boys need a rest, I dare say, so it’ll be Earl Rivers’ men.’

  Stryker glanced back to the defensive works that lay in wait. ‘It’s a bloody big barricade. It’s higher, deeper and manned with fresh troops. I’d say it’ll be a deal of trouble digging them out.’

  The rider grunted. ‘Like a big-jawed t
ick. You’re most likely right, sir. Well,’ he continued, looking back down to the men on foot, ‘I believe Gerrard will take up the challenge if Rivers fails, and Lord Molyneux is to be third. Not certain after that, truth be told.’

  ‘Sir!’ Skellen’s coarse tone was urgent. ‘To the right o’ the work, sir.’ He pointed up the sloping road and indicated a spot where the barricade came flush up against the buildings. ‘A couple o’ houses down. What d’you make of those?’

  Stryker and Forrester followed the sergeant’s lead towards a house near the slope’s crest. It was unremarkable, save for the pair of figures that stood outside, staring down at the oncoming mass of Royalists.

  ‘Less I’m mistaken,’ Skellen said, ‘one’s holding t’other up.’

  ‘You are surprised to see me?’ Lisette said.

  She and Tainton stood on the wide floor of the abandoned boat-builder’s workshop, the sounds of battle emanating from beyond the building.

  Tainton nodded. ‘I confess, madam, I did not expect to see you again.’

  They regarded each other silently. Tainton was heavily armed. His body was encased in the ostentatious black-enamelled armour, with its gilded rivets, his left arm safe within an iron gauntlet. The cross-belts that passed over his shoulders carried the long sword at his left hip and an exquisitely crafted, but empty, carbine at his right.

  Lisette had snatched up a discarded sword from outside on the road, but she carried no firearms and had no other protection. Her blue eyes darted down to the cavalryman’s scabbard. Tainton had let his right hand drop in a diagonal sweep, and his fingers were tickling the top of the iron hilt.

  ‘Give me the strongbox, Captain,’ Lisette said.

  Tainton smiled.‘The box? You imagine I hefted that thing into battle?’