Lisette shook her head. ‘No.’ Stryker stopped in his tracks. ‘Do not misunderstand me, mon amour, it is a gem of extraordinary value.’ She leaned close to, fishing in the neckline of her dress. In moments she had produced a small, wrinkled piece of parchment, which she unfolded with great care. ‘But this is what I was sent for. I did not know it, and most of the rebels who guarded it did not know either. But the thief must have.’
Stryker frowned, considering the implication. ‘Saxby?’
‘Perhaps. But I would not wish him questioned,’ she said, handing Stryker the parchment, ‘for none must know of this. It is worth more than all the gems in Whitehall Palace.’
Stryker cast his grey eye across the parchment’s brief lines of black text. He laughed suddenly. ‘It is a love letter.’
Lisette nodded. ‘From a king to a queen. Very romantic.’
Stryker read the letter again, and a third time. It was a letter in the hand of King Charles, expressing his undying devotion to Queen Henrietta Maria. He was about to hand the parchment back to Lisette, when his eye caught the very last line again, and he understood.
‘I pray the Holy Mother will keep you safe and guide you always,’ he read aloud.
Stryker stared at Lisette.
‘Just a single line,’ the Frenchwoman said. ‘But in rebel hands—’
‘In rebel hands,’ Stryker said slowly, ‘it would be devastating. The ultimate proof of the king’s papist sympathies. He could try denying it. Say he was merely appealing to his wife’s sensibilities.’
‘But the damage would be done, mon amour. It is in his own hand. That would be enough.’
‘My God,’ Stryker whispered. ‘No wonder they stole it. Little wonder the queen was so desperate to have it back.’
‘And you see why I was sent to recover it? A rebel named Kesley told me they were keeping the ruby hidden until it could be removed from England. I believe the letter would have stayed, found its way to the printing presses. But they were keeping it safe, to use only in the direst time.’
Stryker nodded. ‘A final gambit to use if the war turned against them.’
‘You see why the queen could not trust an Englishman with this. Not when his religious beliefs appear to change with each tide.’
Stryker laughed, pushing the parchment back into Lisette’s grasp. ‘It will go to The Hague?’
Lisette nodded firmly. ‘It will. The ship leaves at dawn. I would rather see it burnt to ash, but it is precious to my queen.’
Stryker felt a pang of sorrow. ‘And you?’
She looked down, unable to meet his gaze, and when he lifted her chin so that the blue eyes stared straight at him, they were glistening with tears. ‘I sail too.’
He smiled sadly. It was the answer he knew would come. ‘I am to lose you again.’
‘No,’ Lisette shook her head. ‘I must go to Queen Henrietta, for I am bound to her as you now are to Prince Rupert. I will do my duty. But I love you. As God is my witness.’
They walked, arms tightly interlinked, back to the men gathered at the steps below Ruthven’s billet. ‘Must you leave tonight?’ Stryker asked.
She nodded. ‘But I have one more thing to say.’ She raised her voice so the others could hear. ‘One more dark secret you must all know, lest my ship founder and the knowledge be lost forever.’
‘Mademoiselle Gaillard?’ asked Prince Rupert, his voice curious.
Lisette leaned forward, hooking her arms around Stryker’s neck, pulling him close. And then they were kissing; long, warm, luxurious.
She released her arms, and was striding away before Stryker had even begun to regain his wits. The men stared after her. When she was thirty or so paces away, she turned back, her voice carrying down the road to them. ‘Captain Stryker’s name, good sirs. His Christian name. The name, gentlemen, is Innocent.’
And she was gone, vanished into the darkness.
‘Innocent Stryker?’ Prince Rupert said thoughtfully.
It was dark and it was cold, but the night was suddenly merry with the sounds of raucous laughter.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would never have seen the light of day without the help and support of a number of people.
I am greatly indebted to my agent Rupert Heath, for his unswerving belief in the Stryker Chronicles from the very start, and to everyone at John Murray for their support and enthusiasm. Special thanks go to my editor Kate Parkin, for her invaluable advice and for steering me towards a smarter, leaner story.
I would also like to thank Malcolm Watkins of Heritage Matters for casting an expert eye over the manuscript, Simon Wright of the Sealed Knot for taking the time to answer some of my questions around regimental hierarchy and, as promised a decade ago, I must thank my friend Gus for telling me to get off my backside and write a ‘proper’ novel.
My poor parents have bravely waded through the reams of pretty terrible prose I’ve churned out over the years. For that, and for their pearls of wisdom, their dependability and their constant encouragement, I am truly grateful. And last, but absolutely not least, much love and gratitude go to my wife Rebecca and my son Joshua, for just being there when I need them.
HISTORICAL NOTE
The period generally known as the English Civil War was, in reality, a conflict made up of three distinct wars, spanning the years 1642 to 1651, and encompassing the entire British Isles. This was arguably the most pivotal era in British history, a time that saw the death of feudalism, the birth of constitutional monarchy and the beginnings of a national standing army.
The events described in Traitor’s Blood take place at the beginning of the First Civil War. On the evening of 22 October 1642, the armies of King Charles and the Earl of Essex blundered into one another. The following morning, the first major engagement of the English Civil War was fought below the ridge at Edgehill, Warwickshire. Often referred to as ‘Kineton Fight’, the battle was marked by incredible heroism, abject cowardice and levels of military expertise touching both ends of the spectrum. Edgehill ended in stalemate with both sides claiming victory, though King Charles perhaps took what advantage there was by securing the road to London.
Following the battle, and after taking Banbury and Oxford, the latter becoming Charles’s headquarters for the remainder of the conflict, the Royalists advanced on London along the Thames Valley. On 12 November a large detachment took advantage of a thick mist and attacked two Parliamentarian regiments quartered in Brentford – Holles’s redcoats and Brooke’s purplecoats – covering the approach to the city from the west.
I have alluded to a certain amount of confusion within Holles’s ranks at the start of the fight, due to their belief that a truce had been signed. While there was not strictly a truce, the king had agreed to meet a Parliamentarian delegation for peace talks at Colnbrook. It seems he ordered the attack on Brentford – thereby positioning his army within easy striking distance of London – as a means to strengthen his position at the negotiating table.
I have described the battle as accurately as possible, with fighting concentrated first at the house of Sir Richard Wynn, and then at barricades erected at the bridge over the River Brent and along the road at the western end of Old Brentford. The fighting was hard, bloody and at close quarters throughout. John Gwyn, a soldier serving in Sir Thomas Salusbury’s Welsh Regiment of Foot, described Royalist tactics: ‘after once firing suddenly to advance up to push of pikes and the butt end of muskets’.
The second barricade proved extremely difficult for the Royalists to overcome. They sent regiments forward to attack in turn, and it was only after the sixth – that of Sir Edward Fitton – had engaged that it finally gave way. The Parliamentarians were routed, and then pursued by Rupert’s cavalry who had ridden around the town to outflank them. In desperation, many took their chances swimming the Thames, and though reports of exact numbers differ wildly, perhaps as many as 200 were drowned in the attempt.
The Royalists were eventually victorious and Bren
tford subjected to what became a notorious sacking, but their army was severely delayed by the dogged Parliamentarian resistance described in Traitor’s Blood. To the east of the town they encountered the fresh troops of John Hampden’s regiment. Though vastly outnumbered, Hampden’s greencoats charged the exhausted Royalist army five times, keeping the larger force at bay until the light finally faded. This delay allowed the Parliamentary field army and London militia to muster on Turnham Green the following day, thereby halting the king’s advance.
This would be the closest Charles would ever come to London during the course of the war. When, seven years after the events of Traitor’s Blood, he eventually returned, it would be for trial and execution.
All the locations in the book are real, and can be visited today. The magnificent Tudor palace of Basing House came under Parliamentarian attack on three occasions during the First Civil War, and its fascinating, if rather haunting, remains are well worth seeing. I won’t detail Basing’s fortunes here, as I have a feeling Stryker may play a part in the forthcoming action, but the final story of this Royalist stronghold in the heart of rebel territory is one of excitement, violence and heroism that I look forward to telling.
Langrish House (now a hotel) was built early in the seventeenth century. While Sir Randolph Moxcroft is a fictional character, it is believed the house’s true owners were probably of Parliamentarian persuasion, to which its series of subterranean vaults, carved out by Royalist prisoners after the battle of Cheriton in 1644, seem to testify.
Old Winchester Hill, to the north-west of Portsmouth, is now a nature reserve. It is, as I have described, crowned by an imposing Iron Age hill fort, but the events involving that fort are entirely fictional. There is certainly no evidence that it was used in any capacity during the war.
Captain Stryker did not fight at Edgehill, nor did he face Brentford’s barricades, and there was no Forrester or Skellen, Makepeace or Lisette, but the wars have highlighted the lives of many similarly colourful and very real characters. Of these, perhaps the most fascinating is Prince Rupert of the Rhine. A giant, both physically and metaphorically, the king’s nephew (just twenty-two years of age during the events of Traitor’s Blood) was one of the most dazzling, reckless, loved and vilified figures of the entire period. His exploits – ranging from army general to naval admiral, inventor, and renowned tennis player – are too numerous to list here, but I heartily recommend Charles Spencer’s biography Prince Rupert: The Last Cavalier (Phoenix, 2008) to anyone who might wish to learn more about Rupert’s incredible life.
While I have attempted to make Traitor’s Blood as true to history as possible, there will be the odd inaccuracy hidden among these pages. For this I apologise. All mistakes are, of course, my own.
And what now for Stryker and his men? The war is just beginning and there is much for them to do. There are many old enemies to be encountered, battles to be fought and new foes to meet as they march into the bloody turmoil of 1643.
Captain Stryker will return.
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