Also by Michael Arnold
Traitor’s Blood
DEVIL’S CHARGE
MICHAEL ARNOLD
www.johnmurray.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK Company
© Michael Arnold 2011
The right of Michael Arnold to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Maps drawn by Rosie Collins
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eISBN 978-1-84854-409-3
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.johnmurray.co.uk
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Historical Note
To John and Gerry Arnold –
the best parents ever
PROLOGUE
Near Black Brook, Staffordshire, 16 January 1643
It was a good place for an ambush.
The road was turned to swamp by a night-long deluge, making the going desperately slow, while at its flanks grew thick forests shrouded in a mist that made the great trunks appear as sentries guarding an otherworldly realm.
Indeed, it was a very good place for an ambush.
Three men, waiting expectantly in the murky half-light beneath the bough of an ancient oak, glanced at one another. They had all heard the distant rumble of wheels and hoofbeats cut into the dawn. Finally the coach was here. Finally they could set about their work.
The tallest of the three, a middle-aged man of impressive stature and pallid, warty complexion, swallowed hard. He was not a man given to anxiety, but this assignment had burrowed its way beneath his skin like a tick.
He forced himself to study the bend in the road, anxious for the coach to appear, but was startled as one of the advancing horses whinnied from the depths of the gloom. He thumped his thigh viciously, angry at his own timidity, and glanced again at his companions. Like him, they were prepared for the morning’s work: black-clad, heavily armed and resolute.
‘Ready?’ he hissed, running gloved fingers quickly over the firing mechanism of his musket. ‘Remember,’ he added, neck sinews convulsing in a violent spasm as he spoke, ‘the Lord guides us. He sends our fire true and deadly. We do His work. We cannot fail.’
The others nodded, fingering their weapons.
His confidence growing, the leader strode out from the shelter of the oak and approached the edge of the road. The ground sucked at his boots, though he was thankful the sleety rain had finally abated.
As he took up a kneeling position, chilling damp immediately stabbing at his knee, he silently praised God for giving him the foresight to use firelocks instead of matchlocks. He cocked the weapon; there would be no telltale match light for his prey to spy in the darkness.
More sharp clicks nearby told him that his men had made their own weapons ready.
The leader stared back at the road, his body tense as he waited for the coach to appear. It was close now, and he knew the sound of bouncing wheels and pounding hooves would be thunderously loud, but he could hear only the rushing of blood in his own ears.
And then, like a ghoulish apparition, the coach-horses finally materialized from the darkness, their eyes floating like something conjured by witchcraft, nostrils flaring as they pumped gouts of swirling steam into the air around their heads. And there, careening along in the wake of the furious animals, was the prey.
‘Now!’ the tall man snarled, squeezing the firelock’s well-oiled trigger. It eased back smoothly, as he knew it would, and the dawn was shattered by the scream of a dying horse.
The second and third muskets cracked into life, their leaden balls whipping across the short range before the coach driver had time to react, and slamming into the terrified animals, sending blood spraying into the grey air and across the sodden road. The horses stumbled, fell and rolled, and the coach clattered across their broken bodies, throwing the driver and the roof-stacked baggage skyward.
The vehicle itself seemed to take flight for an instant, gliding almost serenely above the bullet-riddled beasts, but then it crashed down in a symphony of splintered wood, sliced chains and shattered axles. The wheels came away as though the coach was no more than a child’s toy, speeding madly into the undergrowth at the road’s verge, and the carriage, now simply a large box, hit the ground, skidding across the mud, spinning once, twice, until it left the road and slammed into the trunk of a gnarled tree.
The tall man stood up, discarding his spent musket and reaching for the spare that was slung on his back. ‘Tom!’
‘Sir!’ the response came from somewhere to the rear.
The leader did not look back, but called over his shoulder as he began to run towards the battered carriage, ‘See to the driver! Micky!’
‘Aye, Major!’ the second man replied.
‘With me!’
As he reached what was left of the vehicle, the tall major cocked and levelled his second firelock, pointing it at the deeply scratched door. ‘Out!’ he called.
Nothing stirred. No voices called, nor figures emerged.
‘Shall I?’ Micky asked, eagerly.
The major nodded. ‘Bring him out.’
Micky, a stocky man whose eye level did not even reach his superior’s shoulders, raised his musket and stepped forward carefully. He shoved the black barrel through the window of the coach, and called again. Still no response. Micky leaned in, poking his head through the frame to inspect the dead passenger within.
The shot that followed almost immediately was more like an explosion within the confines of the coach. From several paces away, the major saw only the bright orange flash, followed by a black pall of smoke that billowed manically out of the windows, rising quickly to mingle with the bare branches of the surrounding oaks. And with the smoke came Micky’s heavy torso, flung back with so much force it was as though God himself had slapped him.
The major looked on in disbelief and horror as Micky came to rest in the sopping grass and rotten bracken, his face a mess of torn flesh and gushing blood.
The major raced forwards. He yanked open the battered door, wisps of dirty smoke still playing around him, and shoved his musket into the gloomy interior, pulling the trigger as he did so.
The ball thudded home, tearing a hole in one of the empty seats. Of the passenger, there was no sign.
The major had made great efforts to cleanse his language since the true faith had cleansed his soul, but now he screamed his fury to the dawn in
a stream of oaths. He cast down the empty firelock, twisting away to snatch up Micky’s still-loaded weapon, and bolted into the dense forest after his quarry.
He kept his step artificially high to avoid tripping on the winter debris, praying aloud with each breathless moment, beseeching Christ to forgive his failure and show him the path his enemy had taken.
And there, some twenty paces ahead, lumbering like a terrified bullock between bent trunks and beneath the grabbing claws of branches, was the man he had come to kill. The fat, sweating, despicable, Popish excuse for a man he had dreamt of dispatching for so long.
But, to his surprise, he saw a second person in the misty distance. A slighter, hooded figure, gripping a pistol in one hand. The other hand tore at the fat man’s bulky arm, urging him on, forcing him deeper into the mist’s protection.
The major wondered then at Tom’s whereabouts, for he had but a single shot, and could not hope to take down both fugitives. But the report of a musket somewhere to his left told him that the young man was still busy making an end of the coach driver.
He would have to choose which of the two fleeing figures was to die. The thought rankled, for, though the fat man was his intended target, he dearly wished to put a bullet in Micky’s killer.
He resolved to place duty before vengeance. He halted, levelled Micky’s firelock, and finding his target along its slim barrel, pulled the trigger.
For a moment the fugitives vanished in the cloud of smoke that belched from the musket. But the major knew his business and was confident of the shot. As the scene cleared, he thanked God for His providence. Only the thinner figure was weaving its way further into the safety of the wood.
‘Driver’s a dead’un, Major,’ a voice broke into the tall man’s thoughts.
The major turned, seeing Tom emerge from the trees to his left. ‘Well done, lad.’
Tom frowned. ‘You get him, sir?’
‘I did. Praise the good Lord, I did.’
Tom squinted as he scanned the scene before them. He saw the distant figure disappear into the depths of the forest, his form gradually swallowed by the mist. ‘There were two?’
‘Aye, there were. Romish coward had a bodyguard.’
‘Shall I go after ’im?’ Tom asked eagerly.
The major scratched a wart on his pointed chin. He shook his head. ‘We shan’t catch him now. Let him go. Our work today is done.’ He turned away.
Tom stared after him. ‘Today, sir?’
‘Sir Samuel gave us two targets,’ the major replied, not looking back. ‘Lazarus is no more. Now we must locate the other. Fetch the horses, Corporal.’
CHAPTER 1
Cirencester, Gloucestershire, 2 February 1643
It was perhaps three hours after midnight, and the town was still and silent.
The sky was crammed with thick, grey clouds and the earth was ankle-deep in snow. The scant moonlight danced brightly on the sparkling white blanket, illuminating streets and rooftops with an ethereal glow.
And gliding like a wraith in that strange half-light, shoulders hunched, eyes keenly attentive, was a tall, cloaked man. He moved swiftly along the outside of the town’s ramshackle defences, tracing the path of the ancient walls, the legacy of a long since fallen empire, rows of densely packed streets always on his left, fields and hills rising away to the right. He was wary of patrols, acutely aware of the fatal consequences capture would bring.
At length he came to a halt where the crumbling walls had been built up with new stone and topped with wooden stakes to form a makeshift palisade. This, he remembered, was where the road from the south-west pierced the town limits. He stared into the darkness for several moments, until he was able to discern the road from the fields at its flanks. There was a pile of rubble near by, left over from the day’s frantic rebuilding, and the man dropped down and scrambled towards it on hands and knees. Here, in this place of relative concealment, he scrutinized the road, eyes straining to distinguish its path, until his gaze settled on a group of shapes some three hundred paces away. It resolved into walls, buildings, rooftops. A farm.
‘There she is,’ he whispered.
The man waited for a few moments, ensuring there were no movements on the exposed ground between his hiding place and the distant buildings, before breaking forwards again.
He ran beside the road, following it away from the town walls, praying silently, desperately, that he would not be seen.
He reached the farm’s outer wall, dropping with his back against it, chest heaving rhythmically, yearning for his nerves to calm. Footsteps crunched through the brittle snow close by. They were shockingly close, the other side of the wall, and he held his breath sharply, gritting his teeth as icy air needled labouring lungs.
The steps seemed to be heading away from his position, but, then, in a moment of utter terror, he heard voices to his right. They had circled round, and were now on his side of the wall. Like ghostly apparitions, their bodies gradually resolved from the darkness just a few paces away. There were half a dozen; soldiers all. Lord Stamford’s men. They stood chatting, a couple leaning on the very wall he was crouched beside. He smelled the smoke from their pipes, heard their inane banter.
He did not move, praying the soldiers would fail to notice him in his shadowy place. He allowed air into his lungs again, for fear they would burst, but kept his breathing shallow, lest he send plumes of vapour into the air like a hideous beacon.
The soldiers did not spot him. He heard them speak of the large force encamped a mile away from the hastily bolstered walls of this newly garrisoned farmyard, but they were not expecting the enemy to be sneaking about on this side of their pickets.
The soldiers left, heading towards the farm’s central cluster of buildings, and the ghostly figure was finally able to edge out of his protective shadows.
He reached the farm’s first structure, flattening himself against its wattle and daub wall, then edging carefully to peer out beyond the gable end. Satisfied there were no more patrols, nor common folk abroad that might accidentally catch sight of him, the figure took his first steps into the dangerously exposed area between the farmhouse and its outbuildings.
A screech startled him before he had taken a dozen strides, and his stomach twisted violently, but no soldiers burst from secret hiding places, no priming pans flared, no halberds sliced at his head. As his pulse settled, and the prickling of skin began to fade, he realised with a gush of relief that the sound was not human. Perhaps a fox, perhaps not, but certainly not the alarm his anxious mind had conjured.
Pulling the long cloak tighter about his shoulders, the man set forth once again, this time at a run. His goal was up ahead, less than twenty paces away, and the sooner he reached it the sooner this damnable mission would be complete.
A stout barricade was the target. The farm sat adjacent to the south-west road and, on hearing of the enemy’s return, Stamford’s men had decided that it would make the most logical place of defence. They had erected a barrier of stakes and wagons and bushels, of old fences and of commandeered furniture, and, as an attacking force spent their energy against its dense strength, the defenders would pour fire upon them from the walls and buildings of the farm complex.
He reached the makeshift barricade without obstruction and studied the tightly packed array of objects which comprised it. Presently his eyes fixed upon a large cart, stacked full of mouldering hay. It was wedged at the very centre of the temporary defensive work.
The vehicle had been destined for the town the previous evening as dusk had closed in. But the soldiers manning the ever-growing barricade had stepped into the road, unbridled the two scrawny oxen, and ignored the driver’s pleas.
‘Please, sirs!’ the old man, bent and withered by age, had spluttered through a wracking cough that sent large globules of spittle to rest on the settling snow. ‘Please, sirs, have mercy! She’s me livelihood! I’ll perish without her to carry me wares.’
The sentries had been deaf to his ap
peal, stating in surly tones that the rickety vehicle would be used for the good of the town. He had grasped at their sleeves, begged them to relent, but they just thrust him aside.
The old man had wept. ‘Jus’ let me warm these old bones while the snow falls,’ he had pleaded. ‘Let me find shelter in the town, sirs!’
The sentries had growled and cursed their displeasure at the old fool’s ramblings, for no pilgrims were to be granted freedom of the town while the great army threatened its very existence, but it was snowing hard and they had no wish to stand and argue when they could be warming their hands at the farm’s hearths.
‘I swear I’ll not see mornin’ else!’ the old man had whined, though the sergeant in command was already stalking back to the shelter of his billet, thinking of the plump whore waiting within.
‘I want you gone by this time on the morrow!’ he had barked over his shoulder at the cart’s driver. ‘Dusk on the morrow, you old palliard, hear me?’
The snowfall had faded since then, and the carter had found an inn. But after the tired oxen were led away by a spotty stable-boy, the carter had not slept and had taken only small beer. Instead of resting, he sharpened the dirk hitherto concealed within a filthy boot, and rather than sheltering from the foul weather, he had waited for the dead of night and crept out into the snow once more.
The man was not old. Nor was he infirm, though it had pleased him to give that impression to the sentries. He was a man of war; a petardier.
Now, as he crunched his way across the last few paces and climbed up into the cart, burrowing his way beneath the damp, snow-encrusted hay, nostrils overwhelmed by the ripe stench of putrefaction, the petardier knew that the wheels of victory had been set in motion.
He almost pitied the rebellious townsfolk.
Almost.
Captain Innocent Stryker, of Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot, was not a pious man. Indeed, he was not sure he believed in any higher power than a loaded gun and a keen blade. But today he prayed. He prayed for a white flag. He yearned to see it flutter tentatively from the town’s beleaguered walls, a grimy symbol of the citizens’ submission. But, as he watched the black funnels of smoke thicken as they rose from the defenders’ belching artillery to smudge the pale horizon, he knew that God would not answer his prayer.
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