‘Whoever he sends,’ Skellen added, ‘will be slow as a lame mule anyway. The roads are buggered.’
Stryker sucked his teeth. ‘What of Crow?’
Forrester pulled a face that showed little concern. ‘Safely out of the way. He’s in Oxford too.’
Stryker looked at his friend, his gaze serious. ‘Thank you, Forry.’
Suddenly embarrassed, Forrester scratched again at the dried pottage that had formed such a convincing disguise. ‘Thought you’d rather be free and hunted, than wing-clipped and caged.’
‘You know me well.’
‘Just a shame I couldn’t bring Vos and Bess back for you,’ Forrester went on.
‘Might have given the game away a bit,’ Skellen said.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Forrester, leaning forward to pat the neck of his own horse, Oberon. ‘So you’ll have to make do with those nags. They were all I could afford at such short notice.’
Stryker moved a hand to the hilt of his Spanish sword. ‘At least you found our weapons.’
Forrester nodded. ‘Simple enough. They were piled in the guardroom.’
The three men were bound for the Midlands, a part of the country emphatically for Parliament, so Stryker was reassured by the muskets at their backs, blades at their waists and a brace of carbines holstered at each saddle.
‘So how do we find Mam’oiselle Lisette?’ Skellen said after several minutes of silence. Stryker had told them of Rupert’s request, issued before the altercation with Saul and Caleb Potts, and they had immediately agreed to travel with him to Lichfield. After all, there was nowhere else for them to go.
Stryker thought back to Cirencester, and the conversation with Prince Rupert in the chandler’s blackened shell. ‘We ask Philip Stanhope.’
‘Who?’
‘The Earl of Chesterfield.’
Forrester looked across at his leader. ‘He holds Lichfield?’ Stryker nodded. ‘Rupert told me that Stanhope wrote to him claiming to have a young woman in his care. She held a letter of authority, bearing the general’s personal seal. His description of her matched Lisette.’ Stryker was aware concern must have strained every line of his face, but he did not care. ‘She is dire wounded. Unable to speak.’
Forrester frowned. ‘Why does the earl not convey her to Oxford?’
‘The locals are poor disposed to our cause. He claims he cannot spare the men for such an errand.’
‘So Rupert wished you to go to Lichfield,’ Forrester replied, ‘and, if this wounded girl proved to be our Norman firebrand, you were to bring her home?’
Stryker shook his head. ‘If the girl proved to be Lisette, I was ordered to discover what happened to the man she was protecting. That was my task.’
‘Though Longshanks would prefer it if she survived, I’d reckon,’ Skellen said flatly. ‘The only thing Rupert fears is his aunt, and she’d flog ’im all the way back to ’olland if Lisette died in his service.’
Stryker did not answer. He stared out at the rolling hills, stomach coiling in dread. At least, he thought, he was no longer encumbered with Rupert’s original mission. The man Lisette was escorting was an irrelevance. His only concern was the Frenchwoman’s fate.
When he looked back to the tree-flanked bridleway ahead, he noticed Forrester staring at him, and realized his anxiety must have been etched into his expression. He gritted his teeth angrily, chiding himself for the weakness. It annoyed him that he was so enamoured of a woman who entered his life for moments of fleeting joy, but would always walk out again, placing him second behind her duty to the Crown.
‘We’ll find her,’ Forrester said.
Stryker nodded mutely.
‘Match, sir!’ It was Skellen’s voice, sharp with alarm.
Stryker and Forrester turned back to see that Skellen was pointing to a place beyond them, some fifty paces diagonally ahead. They followed his outstretched finger, searching the grey dusk, their eyes straining to decipher one form from the next.
And there it was; a minute flicker of orange hovering in the twilight. The glowing tip of a match poised in an unseen firing mechanism.
‘Well spotted, Sergeant,’ Forrester murmured absently, attention transfixed on the pinprick of light.
And then, in a blast that, though compact and sharp, seemed to split open the night, the unknown gun was fired.
The shock of the noise startled Skellen’s mount, and she reared wildly, flinging the tall sergeant to the mud. Stryker briefly caught sight of him flailing against the sucking mire, but quickly turned his focus on the origin of the shot.
‘Down!’ he hissed at Forrester, and the portly officer slid from his saddle with surprising agility, moving behind the horse’s bulk for protection.
Stryker stared into the descending darkness, searching for a telltale plume of smoke or the ghostly outline of men hidden in the shadows. ‘Where the bloody hell are they?’
‘Flash was small, smothered,’ Forrester said from somewhere to his right. ‘They’re beyond the bend.’
Stryker saw that Forrester’s explanation was correct. The bridleway did not run north in a straight line, but curved to the left, and dense woodland prevented sight of the road on the bend’s far side. The shot was certainly close, for its report had been impressively loud in the gloom, but the flash of gunpowder had been muted, as though their line of sight was blocked, and they could see no smoke roiling into the flanking trees.
‘He’s not shooting at us,’ Stryker said.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sirs,’ a voice snarled from behind Stryker, ‘but would one o’ yer gentlemen mind gettin’ me out of this fuckin’ slop?’
A second shot split the night air.
Stryker and Forrester struggled to where Skellen was writhing, legs and arms thrashing skywards like a giant upturned beetle, the sticky ground sucking at his clothes.
‘They’re not after us,’ Stryker said as he hauled Skellen up by one of his long arms.
‘I can’t see the buggers, though,’ Forrester said, taking the other arm. ‘Too many trees ’tween here and the road beyond the bend.’
‘Then can we get ourselves over there, sir?’ Skellen growled. ‘Someone needs to pay for this clobber.’
St Neots, Cambridgeshire, 9 February 1643
The young soldier hammered on the solid door with a gloved fist.
A metal slat, set in the centre of the door, slid violently open. ‘Yes?’ the speaker snapped, eyes darting left and right as he peered through the hole.
‘Lieutenant Trim to see the major,’ the soldier replied. He fixed calm eyes upon the hostile sentry, knowing the hidden man was assessing him from head to toe, deciding whether he posed any great danger. The thick brown cloak he wore over his buff-coat and breastplate went some way to providing an image of strength, while the carbine and cavalry sword hanging at his waist showed him to be a warrior. But Trim knew he did not cut an imposing figure, for he was slender in the shoulders and his face, framed by thick black curls, was pasty. His beard, even at the age of twenty-four, was still little more than fluff.
The door creaked open.
‘Use’ be ’ome to an old Papist,’ the sentry said conversationally, as he showed the newcomer into the building. Trim was glad to be out of the chilling night air. The sentry led the way along a narrow, oak-panelled corridor, dimly lit by stinking tallow candles every few yards. ‘But the mob drove ’em out this Yule past. Well rid, I says.’
The corridor ended at a low door, and the sentry knocked, listened for a response from within, and then pushed it gently open.
The room’s interior was sparse, save three stools arranged before a roaring hearth. Two of the stools were occupied, and, as Trim stepped into the room, the sentry shutting the door firmly in his wake, the nearest man nodded to the vacant seat.
‘Welcome, Lieutenant. Please sit.’
Trim had imagined Major Zacharie Girns differently. Vastly tall and bearded, like Goliath, with a face full of scars and eyes that burned red. A Parl
iamentarian killing machine. The man himself was tall, certainly, and clad in expensive garments of black that made the pallid skin of his face appear somewhat alarming, but he was not the descendant of the biblical nephilim the Royalists would have folk believe. The skin was patchy and irregular, probably marked by a dose of the pox, and sat on his bony features as though someone had spread an uneven layer of soft cheese across his face. Lank tendrils of black hair gleamed greasily at his cheeks in the dim firelight, while clusters of warts protruded from his nose and chin.
Lieutenant Trim sat on the vacant stool, prising the stiff buff-gloves from his fingers. He was mightily pleased to be feeling the warmth of the fire, but Girns unsettled him. His eyes were not ruby-red as the stories would have it, but emerald green, and held a glint of ruthlessness in their depths.
‘God has brought you to me,’ Major Girns said unexpectedly.
Trim bowed his head awkwardly. ‘My captain says you have need of me, sir.’
Girns’s eyes remained fixed on Trim. ‘I have an itch I need to scratch. His name is Blaze.’
Girns’s companion stirred then, and spoke for the first time. ‘Blaze? Same as the fatty?’
Girns glanced at the speaker. He was dressed in the same black garments but was far younger than the major, probably not yet eighteen years old. His frame was slight and his face unblemished, but he had a bulbous, syphilitic nose and rotten teeth.
‘Astute as ever, Tom. They were brothers.’ Girns turned back to Trim. ‘We have already dispatched Lazarus, the younger sibling, to his maker. May he receive his just celestial reward.’
The black-toothed youngster grinned maliciously. ‘Or look at it this way. One less cock to strut up Charlie’s shit-heap.’
Girns raised a hand. ‘Profanity, Tom.’
‘Forgive me, Major,’ the lad said easily.
‘This urchin is Corporal Thomas Slater,’ Girns told Trim. ‘Reports direct to me for this task.’ He looked at the corporal. ‘This, Mister Slater, is Lieutenant Josiah Trim.’ Girns paused while Trim and Slater exchanged a nod, before addressing the older of the pair. ‘In the action against Lazarus Blaze, I lost one of my men. I require a replacement. Captain Cromwell tells me you are devout, honest, and professional. He also says you are his best tracker.’
Trim found his voice with difficulty. ‘The captain pays me a great compliment.’
Girns’s green gaze darkened. ‘Pride is a terrible sin, Lieutenant.’
Trim swallowed hard. ‘Beg pardon, sir. I am yours to command.’
Girns paused motionless for a second, then twisted his thin mouth as though tasting acid. ‘Devout Papists. The Blazes are highly skilled in the use of black powder. Explosives, artillery, anything you might name. Served across the breadth of the Continent, learning their trade from men like La Riviere and La Roche. Before long they eclipsed their tutors. They had no equal, not even in France or Spain. When war was declared here, they spied a chance to fight for Popery upon the shores of their birth. To spread its poison. It is our duty, my duty, to rid this land of their foul presence.’
Slater hawked up a globule of mucus and spat it into the hearth. ‘And Luke’s offered a big reward for them!’
‘Quite,’ Girns confirmed. ‘The Scoutmaster General wants them dead. We will see him happy, and God’s will done.’
‘We heard Lazarus was in Charlie’s pay down in Wiltshire,’ Slater said.
Girns nodded slowly. ‘Micky was my previous tracker. A good one,’ he added pointedly. ‘News reached us that Lazarus Blaze was bound for Stafford, and we ran him down, intercepted him, and dispatched him. We have since heard that his older brother Jonathan, who is perhaps even more talented, enlisted with the king’s whore at Paris.’
Trim chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘Henrietta? She has not returned?’ The queen’s mission on the Continent was public knowledge. If she were allowed to return to England, she would bring armaments, money and men with her.
‘Not yet, Praise God. The good Lord sends gales to turn her away.’ Girns’s lids fell until his eyes were almost closed. His lips moved silently. ‘But Jonathan is here. In England,’ he said, abruptly ending his whispered entreaty and taking a lingering look into the flames. When he looked up suddenly, his eyes carried a frightening intensity from which Trim found he could not turn away. ‘Blaze can train gunners and their assistants – so-called mattrosses – to be a hundredfold the superior of our own. His aim is steadfast. We are told that with the right cannon, Blaze could destroy an army before the first charge, or reduce a city to rubble.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Trim ventured, ‘but is he so great a threat? We have the Weald, sir. The great furnaces. And we hold the ports. They cannot import guns any more readily than they can make them.’
Girns scratched at one of the large warts that jutted from the end of his chin. ‘Believe me, Lieutenant, the Cavaliers have enough work even now for Blaze. Not the sakers and falcons you have already faced. But culverins, demi-cannon and cannon. They’re behind the walls of castles for the winter, guarded by large garrisons. But come spring they’ll be dragged out to wreak havoc. I shudder to imagine the damage a man of Blaze’s skill could inflict with such beasts. The enemy will muster with the coming of spring. If Jonathan Blaze marches with them – with their great cannon – his very name will probably persuade our supporters to surrender before there is even a fight. I see your incredulity,’ Girns said sharply. ‘But trust me when I say that when Blaze comes before a town, its walls are liable not to stand for long.’
‘A modern-day Joshua,’ Trim said.
Girns’s face was a set mask of gravity. ‘No town will wish to be known as the next Jericho. Instead, they will open their gates to the king, looking to safeguard their property before their souls.’ He stood, his spine cracking as he stretched.
‘We fear Blaze.’
The speaker had been Thomas Slater, and Girns rounded savagely on him. ‘No, Tom, we do not fear him, for we know Christ’s will is at our backs! To fear the Papists is to sin against God!’ Girns grabbed a glass from the nearby mantelpiece, and crushed it in his gloved hand. Shards showered to the floor like glimmering grains of sand.
Slater looked away, unable to hold the major’s gaze. Girns breathed deeply for a few moments before continuing, more calmly this time. ‘But Blaze must be removed.’ He fixed Trim with that sparkling stare. ‘My expertise lies in rooting out Popery in all its forms, and ridding it from God’s earth. Slater, here, is a crack shot, and you are a renowned tracker. The three of us will join to exterminate the Lord’s enemy.’
‘And to share the reward,’ Slater said with relish.
Girns sat down again, appearing not to have heard the corporal.
‘Where is he now, sir?’ Trim asked.
‘We await news.’
Josiah Trim was waiting too. He had been enlisted by Girns, Captain Cromwell’s friend and, it seemed, God’s own assassin, to perform a great service to the rebellion. And yet they did not appear to possess any knowledge as to their quarry’s whereabouts.
Girns closed his eyes. ‘The Lord will provide, Lieutenant. You must have faith. Now, join us in prayer.’
Trim looked stoical. ‘Thank you, sir. I’d enjoy that.’
Cheltenham Road, Gloucestershire, 9 February 1643
When Stryker, Forrester and Skellen rounded the dark bend, mud sucking at their ankles, they were greeted by a scene of utter chaos.
Four men, each armed with a brown-barrelled caliver, stood about a small wagon. The wagon was tipped on its side, upper wheels still spinning, contents disgorged haphazardly across the road. A scrawny palfrey lay at the road’s edge, legs splayed at bizarre angles, great red stains blooming like rose petals at its head and chest where a brace of bullets had been to work. Sacks of grain had been stabbed open, spilling a myriad of kernels on to the mud, while bags containing clothing, food and other effects had been similarly ransacked.
Several paces from the vehicle was, Stryker presumed,
the wagon’s driver. His features were hard to make out in the murky evening, but certainly he was no comrade of the four armed men. He was curled tight on the ground, like a foetus, his small voice unintelligible from thirty paces away.
The picture was clear. An ambush.
Stryker darted forwards, confident the thieves were focussed upon their prey. He held his sword in his right hand, one of the carbines in his left, pleased his own weapon’s flintlock mechanism would not act as a beacon announcing his arrival.
At ten paces, the detail of the ambush became clearer. The driver, still prostrate, held a hand to a wound on his temple, blood leaking through shaking fingers. Two of the four armed men were busy rifling through the baggage, while the second pair were standing over the man, one at his head and the other at his feet. The latter was speaking, growling some ultimatum at the prone form cowering before him, a caliver trained on the driver’s body.
And then Stryker was behind him. The robber began to turn, but Stryker dug his blade in between the man’s shoulder blades. As one, the other three startled thieves raised their own weapons, but two clicks nearby alerted them to the presence of Forrester and Skellen as their carbines were shifted from half- to full-cock.
No one moved.
‘Shoot and he dies,’ Stryker ordered, prodding a little harder with his sword.
‘Don’t like your odds.’ The man pinned at the end of Stryker’s blade was doing his best to sound unafraid.
‘Your mates at the cart have fired already,’ Stryker replied. ‘We have the advantage by my reckoning.’
Wincing at the searing pain in the flesh of his back, the captive tossed his firearm into the mud, its match immediately fizzling out. The pair at the baggage followed suit, letting their spent weapons fall away and slap wetly into the ground.
But the man standing above the driver’s head was not so easily cowed. He had raised his caliver so that the narrow muzzle was trained on the space just above his comrade’s shoulder, the space now occupied by Stryker’s face.
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