‘Fuck me,’ Sergeant Skellen said quietly from somewhere behind Stryker.
‘A petard,’ Stryker breathed. He was as astonished as every other man in the company.
‘How the blazes did ’e get a petard in there?’ Skellen replied.
‘Magic,’ Stryker replied softly, staring ahead. A mighty explosion had reduced the barricade to a jagged mass of gigantic splinters. And between those great, raw stakes streamed the exultant Royalist horsemen.
The company had slowed in the aftermath of the explosion, amazement breaking the usually measured stride, and Stryker blinked himself back to the duty at hand. He turned quickly, facing the stunned ranks as his tall boots kicked up the churned snow. ‘Prince Rupert’s in the town, lads! Do we join him inside?’
The men cheered and the sergeants growled. Stryker drew his sword, a fine weapon of Spanish steel, with a swirling half-basket hilt to protect the hand and a pommel decorated with a large, crimson garnet.
In less than a minute they were at the farm, following in the wake of the horsemen, searching for men to kill. But there were none. The defenders had fled with Rupert’s exultant cavalrymen slashing at their backs. Those that remained were dead, blown to pieces by the initial explosion, and Stryker stepped over scorched limbs and splintered weapons as he led his company on.
Cirencester was a vision of hell.
Bodies lay strewn in the streets, twisted and broken, blood freezing in pools beneath them, faces describing final, horrific moments. Some were clearly soldiers, the unfortunates Lord Stamford had left behind, but it was clear that many – rough-hewn clubs or kitchen utensils still clutched in stiffening fingers – were ordinary folk. Butchers and coopers, tanners and merchants. These were common men sucked into a war against their own kind. And not just men; to Stryker’s right, emerging into view as he turned his head repeatedly to make full use of his one remaining eye, was the body of a woman. Stryker felt little sympathy, since the blood-gleaming scythe, held tight in a grotesquely curled hand, spoke plainly of her willingness to defy the Royalist attackers. But her waxen features and golden hair reminded him of Lisette. His stomach turned.
This lapse angered him, and he swore bitterly. ‘On!’ he snarled, and the company surged forwards, picking their way across the obstacles of rubble and flesh. It soon became clear there were no enemies to confront. Rupert’s lightning charge had had the desired effect. The soldiers and townsfolk manning the initial defences had fallen back into the muddy streets that scored the town, narrow tributaries of the impressive marketplace at Cirencester’s heart, a gigantic cobbled spider in a web of roads and alleys.
Hooves sounded, the ground vibrating beneath Stryker’s feet, and from the direction of the town centre, a place still hidden from Stryker’s view by Cirencester’s close-cropped buildings, came the cavalrymen who had inflicted such damage in that opening assault. This time, though, those men were not yelling in victory, nor standing triumphantly in their stirrups.
A harquebusier came near. One gloved fist gripped a long cavalry sword, blood tracing its way in gleaming beads from tip to hilt, while the other snapped expertly at his mount’s reins, jerking the beast’s muscular neck round to regroup with his troop. Stryker hailed him, but the man paid no heed, absorbed as he was in the moment.
He knew the horseman would probably hear nothing above the rush of his own pulse, a rhythmic, persistent waterfall flowing hard within his skull, but Stryker wanted information. He reached up to take the horse’s bridle in a cold hand. The animal responded by turning fractionally towards him, and the trooper’s face instantly clouded.
‘Damn your pox’n ballocks, you bliddy plodder!’ the trooper snarled, his right arm instinctively lifting the long sword in furious reaction.
‘Captain Stryker! Mowbray’s!’ Stryker barked quickly, hoping his action would not result in a cleaved scalp.
The trooper faltered, blade easing to his side. ‘Pardon, Cap’n, sir.’
Stryker did not know whether it was his rank that had cooled the horseman’s ire, or his name. Nor did he care. ‘No matter. What news, man?’
The trooper stared down at him, chest heaving as he regained composure after what had evidently been a hot fight. ‘Buggers are ’oled up good ’n proper, sir.’
‘Holed up? They have barricades?’
The trooper snorted ruefully. ‘Harrows, sir. Big buggers, stretched ’cross all the roads into the square. And plenty else. Bastards are on the thatches an’ up the church tower. Shootin’ at our fuckin’ heads, sir!’
‘Jesus,’ Stryker whispered, releasing the bridle. Forrester’s assessment of pitchfork-wielding peasants might have been accurate, but they were peasants ready and willing to fight. And fight hard. A harrow may have been more typically seen on a farm, but the heavy, spiked chains were lethal barriers for horses to negotiate.
‘Mowbray’s!’ Another voice snapped sharp and crisp above the din of the milling Royalist infantry. ‘Mowbray’s, to me! Form up!’
Stryker saw it was his commanding officer, Sir Edmund. The armour-clad colonel had finally managed to negotiate the dense mass of men still pouring from the direction of Barton Farm and was now cantering his grey gelding to the head of his regiment. The silver-streaked auburn of his hair and beard shone bright above the dark-coated infantrymen, a beacon his men might follow. The colonel would never consider the fact that his appearance, and pale horse, would also draw the eye of a potential sniper.
‘Cavalry are stalling, sir!’ Stryker bellowed at Mowbray.
Sir Edmund caught the familiar voice and scanned the mass of men for sight of his second captain. ‘Stalling? Why? We’re goddamned through!’
‘Chained harrows, sir!’
Mowbray paused as thoughts raced through his mind. He fixed Stryker with a hard stare. ‘Take your boys, Captain!’ He pointed to where the cavalryman had come. ‘Take ’em down that road and find those harrows. The general has cutters, but he’ll need covering fire!’
The sharp reports of musket fire carried to Stryker’s ears as he led the way. The road curved to the right, and, as it finally began to straighten, the company saw the full horror of their task. Up ahead was the marketplace, the vast parish church of St John looming beside it. It was here that the rebels would make their final stand. And it was here that they had draped their vicious harrows from one side of the street to the other.
Stryker saw Prince Rupert standing tall in silver stirrups, bellowing orders, desperate to break through the unexpected obstacles. If Mowbray was right and the prince’s men had brought cutting tools, then they would probably make light work of the harrows, but how could they hope to get close enough to conduct the task?
Muskets coughed from the thatched roofs all around, spitting deadly venom down on the attackers. The range was far enough that their bullets did not find a mark, but it kept the Royalists at bay.
‘Musketeers!’ Stryker ordered, and the men wielding primed long-arms hastened to the front of the company. ‘Get up to that bloody harrow and give fire! The horse’ll deal with the chains if you cover their heads!’
The montero-capped musketeers surged forward, splitting to the left and right of the street, until they were up against the harrow. From there they aimed their weapons into the great open space that was the marketplace, finding targets amongst the wooden barricades and up in the windows that looked out upon the town centre.
Prince Rupert surged forward, waving his own men on, for they knew their work would be unhindered as soon as Mowbray’s infantrymen opened fire.
‘Cut that bloody chain, goddamn you! Cut that bloody chain!’ Rupert thundered, eyes wild, sword tip tracing manic circles above his head.
The musketeers gave fire. It was no ordered volley, but then this was not open battle. It was hard, vicious street fighting that required nothing more than guts and brutality.
Sure enough, the rebel fire seemed to ebb in the face of this new assault. Perhaps Mowbray’s men had found their marks, or perh
aps the enemy snipers possessed little skill and ancient weapons.
The harrow was cut. The chains fell. Rupert and his horsemen surged through like avenging angels. They fanned out, picking off the easiest prey first, leaving the bulk of the rebels at the centre of the open ground.
‘A gift for us, is it?’ Sergeant Skellen droned to Stryker’s right.
Stryker ignored him. He ran forward, jumping the pile of cut chains that had been hitherto so formidable. He shouted at his men, and knew they were at his back as he burst through to sweep the final defenders aside. But those defenders did not know when they were beaten, and they strode out from behind their makeshift shields – wagons and barrels and table-tops and wooden chests – to meet the Royalists, and Stryker’s men, bolstered now by Mowbray’s other companies.
It might have been the fair-meadow below Edgehill, or the barricades of Old Brentford, or the killing fields of Lützen. It was always the same. Always melee; always chaos. Pick a man, bring him down, move on. Cut, thrust, parry, slash. The natural rhythm of men groomed in warfare.
Skellen was there. Stryker could not see him in the mass of snarling faces and slashing weaponry, but he heard his guttural roar and knew the halberd would be scything a path through the enemy for others to follow.
A woman was on her knees, cradling a man’s head in her blood-drenched hands, and Stryker stepped over her, deaf to her wails. A youngster came at him, no more than a boy, toting a thick table leg that had already seen action, judging by its scarred surface and bloody sheen. Stryker ducked the wild swipe, ducked the reverse swing, and jammed the ornate hilt of his sword into the lad’s mouth. He heard teeth smash, felt the wet spray of fresh blood course across his fingers, saw the boy fall to his knees. Stryker cursed, for a bloody hilt was no aid to effective swordsmanship. He kicked the boy in the face, and moved quickly on.
Mowbray’s men enjoyed massively superior numbers and already the defenders were beginning to thin. Many lay where they had fought, while others took flight into the surrounding alleys, only to be tracked down like foxes by Rupert’s huntsmen.
‘You men!’ A shout came from somewhere to the rear, and Stryker turned to see Lancelot Forrester, red-faced and sweating like a roast hog, hailing a group of his men. ‘Get up in that fucking church, Tobin! Clear out those blasted snipers!’
The day was won. Rupert’s vast force had ultimately swamped Cirencester’s courageous but outnumbered defenders, and, from the moment the Barton’s barricade had been blown, their victory was assured.
Some of the conquering soldiers were already looting. Stryker saw one of his own pikemen lay down his weapon and crouch beside one of Lord Stamford’s fallen men. Ordinarily he would not frown upon the practice of emptying a vanquished enemy’s pockets, but the fight had not finished, and he suddenly felt a surge of anger. He strode over and kicked the pikeman hard in the ribs, snarling a furious rebuke.
All around them Cirencester began to burn. Some of the houses had been subjected to grenadoes, the small incendiaries tossed through windows and doors where snipers were suspected. Other buildings were fired as a simple means of instilling terror into the townsfolk. Stryker stared at the fires, watching the burgeoning flames lap indiscriminately at thatch and beam.
The rebel came unseen from the direction of the church, darting out from its shadows, across the marketplace and barrelling into Stryker, sending them both to the hard cobbles. Stryker was first to recover, but found he was without his sword, for his grip on the slippery hilt had failed him. The blade went skittering away and he had no time to retrieve it, for his assailant was quickly on his feet, holding out a broad-bladed knife, teeth bared in a grimace of pure hatred.
The man was young, his body thin, his clothes those of a peasant, and fury had transformed him into a formidable opponent.
He came at him in a series of arcing swipes, and Stryker swayed out of the weapon’s reach, stepping ever backwards. But luck was not on his side, and his heels met, perhaps inevitably, with a prone body. His balance gone, Stryker was sent tumbling backwards, clattering on to the ice-cold cobbles for a second time. The townsman was instantly upon him, stabbing down with all the force he could muster.
Stryker was not heavily muscled like some of his pikemen, but he was stronger than most. He fended off the wild young man, gripping at wrists and at the throat, scrabbling at eyes, anything to put the man off his killing stride, but one stab made it through his desperate defence. One blow, clean and hard, found the flesh of his left shoulder. He felt the blood pulse warm and steaming down his arm, and for a moment he thought he saw death approaching, but the youth, even in his second of triumph, had frozen. His eyes were locked on the wound he had inflicted, and his hands were rooted at the blade’s hilt, unable to draw it from his victim.
‘Never seen blood before?’ Stryker hissed, and launched upwards, pulverizing the man’s face with his forehead. The blow sent fresh pain streaking through Stryker’s own skull, blurring his vision, but the weight suddenly lifted from him and he was able to scramble to his feet. When the mist cleared, he saw the youth was lying flat on his back, nose gushing crimson, eyelids fluttering feebly.
‘Christ’s robes, Stryker!’ Forrester appeared at Stryker’s side.
Stryker followed his friend’s gaze, only to find a pair of iron shears protruding from the flesh of his shoulder. ‘Not pitchforks, Forry,’ he said quietly, jerking the unlikely weapon free with a wince and a fresh spout of blood, ‘but you weren’t far off.’
CHAPTER 2
The final defenders of Cirencester fled south and east in the direction of Cricklade and Lechlade, Byron’s troop of horse close at their heels. The unfortunate folk left behind in the broken settlement scuttled like rats from the terrier of Royalist retribution, seeking shelter behind barred doors and deep within cellars.
Stryker stood in the marketplace, surveying the scene. Already discipline was dissolving. The Royalists, revelling in the heady mix of victory and promised riches, were breaking ranks to form gangs that would seek ale and plunder. The cavalry were long gone, galloping into the streets and lanes to find easy kills and easier treasure, but many of the infantry, slower and more tired as they were, had not yet disappeared.
He stooped to retrieve his sword, blood gleaming in wet streaks from tip to hilt, and raised it high, bellowing into the rapidly dispersing throng. ‘Stryker’s! Stryker’s!’
The sergeants and corporals within earshot followed suit, bawling oath-laden threats to the soldiers standing close, and gradually the light of bloodlust and greed began to fade from those red-ringed eyes as pikemen and musketeers acknowledged their officer.
Feeling he had but a few moments before thoughts would turn back to pillage, Stryker stalked into the mass of weary men that marched to his command. They were battered and bloodied, chests heaving with exhaustion. They had been part of a great victory, and he was never more proud of them. ‘You deserve ale and food, lads!’
‘And loot!’ an unidentified voice chirped from within the mass of brown-coated infantry. The words were greeted with a low cheer.
Stryker nodded. ‘Aye, loot too!’
Another cheer, heartier this time.
‘But,’ he continued, his one eye meeting the gaze of each of his men in turn, ‘do not allow just reward to become unjust revenge. Any man murders when blood’s cold, or takes a woman against her will, you shall have me to answer to.’
Will Skellen, standing a full head above any other in the company, strolled up to Stryker’s side and glowered at the milling soldiers. He was leaning, lazy and relaxed, against his halberd, but the threat was clear in his glinting dark eyes and the pole-arm’s scarlet stained shaft. Flanking Skellen was his fellow sergeant, Moses Heel, the bullock-shaped Devonshire farmhand who prayed as hard as he fought.
‘Now,’ Stryker shouted into the crowd, content the implication had been understood, ‘enough of care! Be gone!’
‘How quickly nature falls into revolt when gold becomes h
er object,’ said a voice on Stryker’s blind side.
The latter did not turn to look at his friend. ‘Henry the Fourth.’
Captain Lancelot Forrester brayed. ‘Got to offer up an easy one now and again, Stryker!’
‘Shakespeare was in the right of it,’ Stryker said absently, still watching his men melt into the alleyways leading away from the marketplace. ‘I had hoped, after Brentford, that the prince might have seen sense. It does not help our cause to destroy everything to cross our path. With every town sacked, we turn countless folk against our cause.’
‘The cropheads will sack their conquered towns too,’ Forrester replied. ‘Mind you, though, we’ve all heard the tales.’
There were rumours of the more pious elements in Parliament’s ranks recruiting none but the godliest men. Those men, it was said, proved more courageous, more chivalrous and more disciplined than their Royalist counterparts.
‘Stories,’ Stryker replied. ‘Nicely embellished to put the fear of a vengeful Christ into our rakish Cavaliers.’
‘Aye, well. Good thing that gutter-mouthed sergeant of yours had the good sense to follow you into the king’s service.’ Forrester had raised his voice so that Skellen would hear.
Stryker agreed.
The sacking continued into the night. Gangs of soldiers roamed the cobbled thoroughfares, cramming pockets and snapsacks with what loot they might, bellies full with the bounty of ransacked kitchens, heads foggy with plundered ale.
Having spent the early evening propped on a low stool receiving the ministrations of Mowbray’s chirurgeon, George Whorlebatt, Stryker paced into the crisp night – shoulder bound tight beneath grimy bandages – and made his way back towards the billet chosen by Sir Edmund for his officers.
Stryker stalked quickly across the marketplace. Marauding gangs of soldiers quarrelled over plunder, their language ripe and threats deadly. The intermittent smash of a splintered door or shattered window rang out as new loot was discovered, while raucous tones drifted from the taphouses as men toasted their victory again and again.
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