Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  ‘What news?’ Stryker asked, chin resting on the sill.

  ‘This lot,’ Burton replied, ‘are to be made to march all the way to Oxford.’

  ‘Through mud and snow?’ Stryker said, shocked. ‘Barefoot and fettered?’

  ‘Aye, sir. To beg forgiveness for their treason.’

  Stryker watched the prisoners, realizing that their futures were as precarious as his own. As he stared out on to the sorry scene, a pungent aroma hit his nostrils and he looked at Burton. ‘What happened to you last night?’

  Lieutenant Burton pulled a slack-jawed expression, evidently intended to give the appearance of puzzled innocence. ‘Sir? I was patrolling, sir. Ensuring the men refrained from anything immoral.’

  ‘Patrolling?’ Stryker’s tone dripped with incredulity. ‘Then why might your brow sweat so? And how are you taken so pale?’

  Burton lifted a gloved hand to scratch at the downy beard that fringed his narrow chin. ‘I have a fever, sir.’

  ‘By Christ, Andrew, you are a brazen bloody liar! The air reeks of cheap wine!’

  Burton paused for a moment, considering his response, before adopting the merest flicker of a smile. ‘Not cheap, sir.’

  Skellen snorted.

  Stryker rounded on him. ‘You have something to say, Sergeant?’

  The tall man straightened up. ‘Not a word, sir.’

  For several moments Stryker intently searched the sergeant’s impassive face.

  And Skellen grinned.

  ‘Goddamn it, Sergeant!’ Stryker exclaimed, though he could already feel his anger dissipating.

  Burton leaned close to the window suddenly, his gaze serious. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I should have been there.’

  ‘At my arrest? Christ, Andrew, what would you have done?’

  ‘Knocked some ’eads together?’ Skellen suggested.

  ‘Precisely,’ Burton agreed.

  Stryker almost laughed. ‘Not certain that would have helped my cause.’

  ‘All the same, though, sir,’ said Burton. He looked back to the crowded marketplace. ‘It’s all around the town. The men aren’t happy. They don’t believe you’re guilty.’

  Stryker met the younger man’s eyes. ‘Believe it, Andrew. And tell them not to cause trouble.’

  Burton grimaced. ‘Bit late for that, sir. They’re angry.’

  And suddenly Stryker understood. ‘That’s why you’re going with the prisoners, isn’t it?’

  Burton nodded. ‘They’re separating the regiment, for they fear a riot, sir. Some go to Gloucester with the prince. Others to Oxford with the prisoners and that loud-mouthed fire-worker.’

  ‘Blaze?’

  ‘That’s him, sir.’ Burton’s voice became husky. ‘I would stay, sir, but they are adamant I leave Cirencester immediately.’

  ‘And what would you do if you stayed?’

  ‘Free you both,’ Burton replied in a tone suggesting the answer was obvious.

  ‘Then can you blame them for wanting rid of you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  The leather-faced Sergeant Skellen, with hands rough as bark and eyes hard as iron, stared at the ground, his voice soft. ‘Funny old world, sir.’

  Stryker looked across at him.

  Skellen glanced up. ‘After all this bloody fightin’, we’re to be shot by our own side.’

  Stryker offered a weary smile. ‘Makes you wonder why we bother.’

  ‘How many we got, then, Mister Burton, sir?’ Skellen asked, forcing the issue back to the prisoners lining up outside.

  Lieutenant Burton cast an appraising eye across the long line of disconsolate souls that now stretched from one side of the cobbled marketplace to the other. Ragged and barely clothed, the beaten rebels stared dejectedly at their naked feet as they were shoved and prodded by sneering guards.

  ‘Eleven hundred,’ he replied after a time. ‘Some are Stamford’s, but a fair few are townsfolk. We even have five clergymen!’

  Skellen grinned wickedly. ‘I’ll say a prayer for ’em, sir, if they’ll say one for me.’

  The officers chuckled.

  ‘Still,’ Skellen continued, his face returned to its typically expressionless state. ‘They’re all ballock-out Roun’eads after a fashion, sir, soldiers or no.’

  Burton abruptly tensed, stepping away from the bars behind which his comrades stood. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he hissed over his shoulder. ‘Can’t be seen fraternizing. But do not worry. All is not lost!’ As he paced back towards the prisoners, a group of yellow-coated dragoons trotted past, malevolent glances flickering between the lieutenant and the church.

  Stryker and Skellen watched as Burton paced along the line of despairing humanity, his face a cold mask, any natural revulsion buried deep. Here and there he would lean in to pull at the ropes binding the captives’ wrists, ensuring no unnecessary slack had been allowed, while his corporals – Tresick, Shephard and Mookes – tugged roughly at the ropes fastened at their charges’ necks. The rebels might have been unarmed and threadbare, but this many men were still a force to be reckoned with, and Burton had had the good sense to order them bound tight and guarded close.

  As the lieutenant moved slowly across the slush-blanketed cobbles, his attention was apparently caught by a moaning sound further up the line. Stryker watched as he made his way towards the spot where a young man stood, his bulrush-thin frame shaking against the cold. He was probably no more than twenty, though it was hard to tell given his battered state.

  ‘Stone me,’ Stryker said, for a vision came to him of a skinny lad brandishing a pair of rusty shears.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ asked Skellen.

  Stryker said nothing, but touched a finger to the spot where the shears had snagged his shoulder.

  Skellen whistled softly. ‘Why that fuckin’ doddypoll! Should have torn ’im a new—’

  ‘Just a whelp, Sergeant,’ Stryker replied calmly. ‘Not a great deal more than a child.’

  And then the discussion was drowned out by the beat of drums. The captives watched through their tiny window, winter breeze stinging their eyes, as Stryker’s company and their miserable human chain marched briskly out of the marketplace. To Oxford.

  Lechlade Road, Gloucestershire, 3 February 1643

  As the grey light of midday spread across the beech forests and steep coombs of the wold plateau, the column from Cirencester snaked ever eastward. Mowbray’s men, two of his companies, formed vanguard, rearguard and flanks. They had six wagons packed tight with arms and provisions taken from the town, another smaller cart to convey the fourteen captured Parliamentarian colours, and several horse crews to drag the five captured cannon. Ahead of those vehicles trudged the prisoners, with a slow step born of despair and exacerbated by mired roads. The winter’s snowfall had been a sporadic affair, frequent and heavy but quick to thaw, leaving roads choked with filth and difficult enough for any man to negotiate, let alone one forced to march barefoot.

  ‘We’ll lose a few before we reach Oxford, sir,’ Ensign Chase said, seemingly reading his lieutenant’s thoughts.

  The man temporarily commanding Stryker’s company instinctively glanced down at the large square of red taffeta held proudly by the bull-necked ensign. ‘They’re fortunate to’ve survived the sacking, Matthew,’ Lieutenant Andrew Burton said. He adjusted the reins briefly, ensuring they were looped tightly around his withered right arm. ‘They may live yet.’

  Burton studied the distant terrain as wintry land met pale sky. Not an inch of soil could be considered friendly in this war, and, though they headed for the king’s temporary capital, he did not take his eye from a horizon that might yet betray the glint of an enemy pike.

  They marched along the Lechlade road, the tethered prisoners silent, traipsing with bovine acquiescence to an uncertain fate.

  Burton rode at the head, his chestnut gelding, Bruce, loping uneasily across the terrain. At his side was the regiment’s most senior captain, Aad Kuyt, while behind him the squelching of bare feet in mud
dy slush filled the crisp air, punctuated only by the occasional bark of a corporal as a rebel slid off the pace.

  A pang of concern gripped him as he thought of Stryker and Skellen. By God, he hoped the plan would work.

  It was dusk by the time the human chain reached the outskirts of Lechlade. Ordinarily they might have expected to cover that small distance in perhaps four or five hours, but the prisoners, encumbered by ropes and knee-deep in mud, were reduced to a painfully slow pace. To make matters worse, the five cannon, small though they were, proved near impossible to draw along the clogged roads.

  ‘We rest a short while,’ Captain Kuyt said, ordering the brown-coated soldiers to stand down. As the instruction rippled along the column, setting forth a wave of appreciative mutterings from men finally able to take refreshment or light up a pipe, the Dutch mercenary summoned Lieutenant Burton.

  The pair, followed by two other mounted and hooded men, walked their horses some distance down the cloying road, plunging into the gathering darkness, careful to be away from eavesdroppers.

  When they had reached a point where Kuyt felt comfortable, he turned his horse to face the group. ‘Now is the time. We are far enough away from Cirencester’s prying eyes.’

  The two men who had followed Kuyt out of the column drew back their cowls.

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ fire-worker Jonathan Blaze said. ‘I hear Parliament’s new spymaster has placed a considerable price on my head.’

  ‘Sir Samuel Luke,’ Jesper Rontry added, his tone laced with loathing. ‘A vile creature.’

  Blaze ignored his assistant. ‘Which way now?’

  Kuyt twisted round to point further eastwards along the road. ‘Lechlade is up ahead. The road forks in the village. Take the left-hand route, it leads north.’ He glanced at Burton. ‘The lieutenant, here, knows the way.’

  ‘Sir?’ Burton said suspiciously.

  ‘Stryker believed you’d make a good leader,’ Kuyt replied. ‘Now is your chance to prove him right. You will escort Master Blaze to Kenilworth Castle.’

  Burton’s eyes widened. ‘He is not bound for Oxford, sir?’

  ‘No, Lieutenant.’

  Blaze looked Burton up and down, though he addressed Kuyt. ‘You send a cripple for my protection?’

  Burton’s mouth opened to deliver a stinging retort, but Kuyt intervened. ‘This man is one of our best, Master Blaze. He will see you safe.’

  Blaze wrinkled his big nose. ‘Can he ride?’

  Kuyt nodded. ‘Better than most, sir.’

  ‘I possess enough strength in this arm to hold Bruce’s reins,’ Burton said, tapping right hand with left.

  ‘And when you draw your sword?’ Blaze replied incredulously.

  ‘When I fight my knees command the horse.’

  Kuyt offered an appreciative smile. ‘It is quite something to behold, I can assure you. But let us hope you will not have need of the lieutenant’s blade. Besides,’ he said, waving towards the main column, the gesture causing a group of horsemen to emerge from the gloom, ‘Prince Rupert has given seven of his best cavalrymen for this task, so you will be a formidable party.’

  Blaze nodded slowly, replacing his hood. ‘Then let us be away, gentlemen.’

  Cirencester, Gloucestershire, 9 February 1643

  The wine sloshed over the goblet’s pewter rim like the crest of a miniature wave. It hit the flagstones, splashing widely, speckling the corporal’s shoes in glistening crimson.

  ‘Bugger it!’ the corporal said, though with little conviction. ‘They’s m’ new latchets.’ He stared down at the damp leather, nearly pitching forwards with the movement, then quickly straightened up, deciding to ignore the spill. ‘Deal with it in mornin’.’

  ‘Quite right, sir!’ the corporal’s fat companion exclaimed, raising his own cup in a hearty toast. ‘Drink up, good man, and leave your cares for the morrow!’

  The corporal grinned and quaffed the last of his wine, red beads tracing their way down his chin to add to the mess on the floor. When the goblet was empty, he slumped back in his chair, letting out a vast, rumbling belch, and gazed about the room. At his feet lay the inebriated form of his fellow corporal, while the two musketeers sat either side of the small, heavy-barred door were slumped forwards, heads lolling between knees, snoring like a pair of sows.

  ‘More wine, Corporal Dove?’ the fat man said, lifting a wooden jug.

  The room spun as the corporal looked at his new acquaintance. He held out his goblet. ‘One more to ward off the chill, Barnaby, eh?’

  ‘That’s the spirit, sir! A man after my own heart, and that’s God’s honest truth!’ Barnaby tilted the jug, filling Corporal Dove’s cup to the brim.

  ‘Mus’ say,’ Dove slurred, ‘you’re the kin’est fedary a man could meet.’

  The round face, pulpy, boil-infested and loose, creased in a grin. ‘Kind in you to say, sir.’

  Dove took another huge gulp. ‘You’re sure y’ain’t required at yon alehouse? Mus’ be busy as a Southwick bawdy.’

  Barnaby set down the jug and scratched at his hooded head. ‘Damned pox. Left m’ skin falling off in clumps.’

  Corporal Dove shuddered.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Barnaby went on, ‘the advantage o’ tapsterin’ is being master of your own domain.’ He paused to release a juddering hiccup. ‘The girls’ll take great care o’ my beloved Jolly Drover, do not worry. My duty is to refresh the brave lads what took this town back from Stamford’s Bible-thumpin’ bloody Puritanicals.’

  Dove raised the goblet to his purple-stained lips. ‘Amen to that.’ He swallowed the luxurious liquid down. ‘Well, I’m glad you brought your wares here, Barnaby, for we couldn’t have left our posts, les’ we wanted to be on a charge.’ He glanced at the table where a small wine barrel had been propped at midnight. An hour had since elapsed, and that vessel, he suspected, was now almost empty. ‘Guard duty’s fuckin’ tiresome, an’ no mistake. We been watchin’ these buggers all o’ five nights now.’

  ‘Sounds like you lads done the crime, sir!’

  ‘Aye, you’re in the right of it,’ Dove replied bitterly. ‘We’re to hold this pair till their trial. An’ that can’t ’appen till young Longshanks returns.’

  ‘A bad business.’ The disease-ridden tapster patted Dove’s swaying shoulder. ‘But as I say, sir, m’ first duty is to you. I’m simply pleased you saw sense to let me in here.’ He upturned the jug, watching a solitary bead drop from its grooved spout.

  Dove watched the last vestige of wine fall to the floor at his feet, and frowned. ‘We’ve drunk the place dry, Barnaby.’

  ‘Alas, Corporal, it would seem so,’ the tapster replied, standing hastily.

  Dove stared up at him through blurry vision. ‘Where’ya goin’, B—Barnaby?’

  The tapster jerked his head towards the small door at the rear of the guardroom. ‘In there.’

  For a moment Dove failed to comprehend. He looked from Barnaby to the door and back again, trying to fathom the puss-faced tapster’s meaning through the fog of strong drink. ‘You what?’

  Barnaby lifted the jug above his head, swiping it downwards in a rapid arc that connected with Dove’s temple.

  And all went black.

  CHAPTER 4

  Cheltenham Road, Gloucestershire, 9 February 1643

  ‘Life, as the poet Cowley tells us, is an incurable disease,’ Captain Lancelot Forrester said brightly as he and his two companions made their way north. It was late evening, the sky was cloudy and dark, and the ground was covered in snow. ‘But fortunately spiced pottage is not!’

  The fugitives had galloped out of Cirencester in the predawn darkness, immediately finding progress difficult in the inclement weather, and now, after almost an entire day tramping through terrain that seemed more like treacle, they began to feel safe enough to let their voices break the countryside’s silence.

  ‘Pottage?’ Stryker echoed incredulously. ‘That’s what you used?’

  ‘A little trick I picked up when p
laying the part of a plague sufferer for the Candlewick Street theatre troupe.’ He lifted a hand to scratch at the crusty residue left on his cheeks and brow. ‘Smear the stuff on, let it dry a tad, and you have a ready-made affliction of the skin.’

  Stryker laughed. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Forry.’

  Forrester beamed with pride. ‘Those thirsty musketeers didn’t look beyond the face and the wine, as I predicted. Barnaby Last, my newest creation, was as real to them as the wicked men they were supposed to be guarding. As soon as they were nicely in their cups, I took the keys and here we are.’

  Stryker thought back to Burton’s parting words as the prisoners were marched away. ‘He knew you were planning to help us escape, didn’t he?’

  ‘You think he’d have willingly left the town otherwise? That boy’s more reckless than I.’

  ‘How did you get away from Gloucester, sir?’ Skellen asked.

  ‘I wasn’t in Gloucester,’ Forrester replied matter-of-factly.

  Stryker stared at him. ‘Rupert failed?’

  Forrester nodded, his mouth a tight line. ‘We called on the town to surrender. It duly declined.’

  ‘And it is a far more difficult prospect than Cirencester,’ Stryker said.

  ‘We didn’t have the numbers or resources to storm the place, so to Oxford we went.’

  ‘Thank Christ he didn’t decide to stop in Cirencester,’ Skellen muttered.

  Forrester looked at the sergeant. ‘He was summoned back to the King’s capital, whether he liked it or not. Besides, I think he is reticent to have to deal with you. Word from his staff is that your imprisonment gave him no pleasure. Your executions would give him even less.’

  Stryker instinctively kicked his bay horse’s sides, asking more speed of the labouring beast, though the effect was minimal. ‘But he’ll send men to recapture us as soon as he hears.’

  Forrester and Skellen caught up with him easily. ‘Men will come, of course, Stryker,’ Forrester said, ‘but not immediately. Rupert will be up to his neck in politics now that he’s been ensnared at Oxford.’