Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  ‘Have you ever seen the Prince Palatine? They say he is a warlock,’ Menjam said when they were safely on the north bank, his voice hissing with conspiratorial excitement.

  ‘We have seen him,’ Stryker said guardedly.

  ‘You have seen the dog? It is said to be his familiar. Does it truly ride to battle with him?’

  ‘You would insult my general?’ Stryker said, leaning forward slightly to ensure the ground was not too rutted for the skittering hooves.

  ‘Of course not!’ Menjam spluttered from behind Forrester. ‘I merely relay what I hear!’

  Stryker stared back at him, his expression granite-hewn. ‘You relay what you hear now, and I’ll hunt you down and flay you alive. Understand?’

  Menjam grinned broadly. ‘Captain Grant! I may have no allegiance to your army, but I would never betray the men who saved my life! Never sir!’

  ‘It doesn’t ride, Master Menjam,’ Forrester said. ‘Boye, Prince Rupert’s dog. It doesn’t ride into battle.’

  ‘It glides,’ Skellen offered flatly.

  Menjam turned to stare at the tall man, evidently trying to read the truth in Skellen’s blank face. ‘You mock me, Sergeant Wilks,’ he said incredulously.

  Skellen’s face was unreadable.

  ‘Perhaps a little,’ Stryker replied.

  ‘I’m afraid the flea-bitten animal does nothing more exciting than pant and scratch,’ Forrester put in.

  ‘And shit,’ added Skellen.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Stryker.

  ‘But it joins the great charge with its master, yes?’ Menjam asked.

  ‘Aye, but you’re mistook, Master Menjam, I can see,’ Forrester replied. ‘It does not jump at rebels, tearing throats like some four-pawed monster.’

  ‘No,’ Skellen sneered, ‘it yaps like a scolded pup!’

  Menjam tilted back his small head and burst forth in shrill laughter. ‘The Roundheads make such drama of it. One cannot pass town or village without resting eyes upon a pamphlet decrying the Prince’s sorcery.’

  ‘Lies, Master Menjam,’ said Stryker. ‘Boye is no demon puckrel, and Prince Rupert no warlock or witch. He is a soldier, a good one. Skilled in musketry and swordplay, on foot or in the saddle.’

  ‘Aye. A fearsome brawler,’ Skellen agreed.

  Forrester nodded. ‘His enemies fear the very ground on which he treads, so they weave tall tales to drum up enmity towards him.’

  ‘And those enemies’ voices are many,’ Stryker said. ‘He has as many detractors at Oxford as at Parliament. The rebels fear him, while the King’s courtiers envy him.’

  In the adjacent field a pair of dogs delighted in harrying sheep. Their master whistled shrill commands, though Stryker never saw him. The shepherd, he supposed, had grown accustomed to staying out of sight when riders came near. ‘We discuss the lot of great men,’ Menjam said, following Stryker’s gaze, ‘when it is the meanest folk who suffer in this.’

  They saw the three slender spires of the great cathedral while they were still two hours away. Those spires climbed ostentatiously into the sky, pointing the way to heaven and calling pilgrims to the small marshland city.

  Stryker spurred his horse into a gallop for the final miles, following a slow-running stream as it meandered into the gentle valley that enfolded Lichfield.

  ‘Christ,’ Skellen said, as they reached the outskirts of the settlement. ‘Is it a church or a fortress?’

  Stryker followed the sergeant’s impressed gaze to see that the Gothic church was enclosed within a circuit of vast walls rising, grey and daunting, above the clustered houses of the city.

  Forrester whistled softly as he took in the towers and turrets that punctuated the walls. ‘The legacy of some jittery bishop, I’d imagine. Perhaps he swindled a king, and holed himself up here.’

  ‘Whatever its origin,’ Menjam said, staring at the cathedral’s great bulk, ‘the Close – that’s the part within those thick walls – is the single defendable place in the city.’

  Stryker twisted to address the diminutive man with whom he shared his saddle. ‘How does a seller of corn understand town defences?’

  Menjam sighed heavily. ‘You are a born sceptic, sir, my word you are. I have visited Lichfield countless times, for I have kin here. The city lies within a ditch and rampart, but they are ancient works. Sturdy barriers in their time, Captain Grant, I am certain, but easily swatted aside by today’s armies. Even I may recognize the Close as the only place of reasonable fortification. It does not take a general to fathom. In any case,’ he continued archly, ‘I had a perfectly reasonable point to make.’

  Stryker blew out his cheeks. ‘Do enlighten us, Master Menjam.’

  ‘The Earl of Chesterfield holds Lichfield for the King,’ Menjam explained, ‘but only because he may hide within the Close.’

  Forrester chewed his upper lip as he considered the statement. ‘You warn us to have a care in the town?’

  Menjam nodded sternly. ‘Right enough, sir, right enough. There are those well disposed to Charles and his court, naturally, but the larger part shift for the Parliament. Chesterfield might have control with his guns and walls, but do not rely on sympathy from the common folk. As you know, I have no particular truck with your cause, but I would not see the three of you harmed.’

  Lichfield was a well-appointed little city of pretty thatches and paved streets. The entire settlement was, as Menjam had said, surrounded by a deep ditch, though roads had been cut through it in recent years, rendering it ineffective as a means of defence.

  There were sentries at the places where those roads crossed into the city and, after a brief discussion with one of the Earl of Chesterfield’s bored-looking guards, they were waved through with little ceremony.

  They passed on to St John Street and headed north. ‘My cousin Richard is a butcher,’ Abel Menjam, still propped behind Forrester on Oberon’s massive back, declared happily as they turned right on to Bore Street. He pointed past Forrester’s shoulder, indicating a small church up ahead. ‘St Mary’s. A pleasant house of God, if a tad dwarfed by its looming sibling. Cousin Richard’s shop lies beyond it, beside the market cross.’

  ‘We’ll see you safe to him,’ Stryker said, doing his best to ignore the frightened glances garnered by his scar. He supposed he would never be entirely used to the feeling of being reviled at first sight by naturally superstitious folk. ‘But we cannot stay further. I have urgent business that must be attended to.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Menjam replied.

  The market cross was a stone structure of thick pillars and vaulted roof, topped by finely carved figures of the Apostles and a crucifix at each end. ‘The market bell sits within,’ Menjam said, pointing to a small turret rising from the market cross’s roof.

  ‘And there’s always room for a nice set o’ harmans,’ Skellen said ruefully, his gaze fixed on the wooden stocks that sat, squat and forbidding, between two of the stout pillars.

  ‘Indeed, William!’ Menjam chirped happily. Stryker had not wished to be accosted by Parliamentarian sympathisers before he could get safely inside the Close, so Christian names had been adopted. ‘And up here, just on the left, is Richard’s house and livelihood!’

  ‘Cousin Abel! By all that is holy, it’s good to lay eyes upon you!’

  The speaker came bustling from the side of the street. He was a short, fat man with thick beard and bald head. A long, scarlet-encrusted apron swathed his huge belly, finishing at his ankles, and he rubbed red hands across the filthy material.

  Abel Menjam practically leapt from the saddle and ran to embrace his cousin. ‘Richard! How fair you? And Lizzy? She keeps well?’

  Richard beamed, exposing small, sharp teeth. ‘She is well, Abel, praise God, as am I. Little Ben thrives, bless his boots!’

  ‘Well thank the gracious Lord, cousin, thank Him indeed!’ Abel exclaimed, pulling away from his excited kin and gesturing at the three mounted men. ‘These are my travelling companions. William, Lancelot
and Innocent. They saved my very life upon the road. I praise Jesus for them hourly!’

  Stryker and his men dismounted and offered hands for the stout butcher to shake.

  ‘My cousin’s saviours! I thank you then, sirs, by God I do!’ He turned to Stryker, failing to conceal the look of concern that ghosted across his features when he laid eyes upon Stryker’s mutilated face. ‘Innocent?’ The butcher raised an eyebrow with interest, evidently deciding it was safer to discuss the fearsome-looking man’s name than his face. ‘A Banbury-man then?’

  Stryker cringed at the name. ‘No Puritan, sir. A mother’s choice.’

  ‘Mothers!’ the butcher yapped happily. ‘Well met, sirs. I am Richard Gunn. Come.’ He nodded towards a building on the corner of the marketplace. ‘Lizzy is not home, so I cannot provide you with victuals of any quality. But the house opposite is a fair establishment. Will you all join me for a jar of ale?’

  Menjam announced that they would gladly, and he followed his cousin across the street. Stryker was reluctant, but the expressions on Skellen and Forrester’s faces spoke volumes. He nodded permission and his old friends coaxed their mounts across the road, the happiest he had seen them in days.

  ‘Come, Innocent!’ Forrester called back to him.

  Stryker’s gritted teeth elicited a snort of amusement from Skellen.

  ‘They have lads here who’ll tend to your horses. Might be prudent to leave your weapons too,’ Gunn said as they reached the alehouse door, shooting a wry glance at the muskets and swords. Stryker opened his mouth to explain, but the butcher interrupted swiftly, ‘Say no more, Friend Innocent. A man who gives back Cousin Abel’s life need never explain himself to the likes of me.’

  ‘Call me Grant, sir, please,’ Stryker hissed, acutely aware that he was beginning to sound desperate. Aware, too, of the low chortles coming from Forrester’s direction.

  Suddenly, the door of the inn was thrust open and a trio of armed men burst out on to the street. One led the way, while the others carried a large wine barrel between them. They ignored Stryker and his companions, instead marching quickly up the street towards the cathedral.

  The George and Dragon tavern was warm and comfortable, its ceilings low and its fire blazing. Well-worn tables were dotted around the place, while a pair of ancient swords crossed above the wide hearth, flanked by half a dozen pottkilps from which various cooking pots hung. A couple of locals sat in one corner sucking at their clay pipe stems, but neither paid the group much attention.

  Stryker, having tethered his horse in the small yard at the rear of the building, crossed to the taps with his four companions in tow. ‘Five pots, sir,’ he said, fishing some coins from his doublet.

  A sullen man at the casks folded thick forearms. ‘Lay ’em down, sir, or there’ll be none for you.’

  Stryker did as he was told, though his instinct was to reach out and smash the tavern keeper’s face into one of his precious barrels.

  The tapster’s expression mellowed. ‘Thank you, sir. The old bastard in the Close spouts the same drivel daily, mark me. There’ll be not a smidge o’ credit here, an’ that’s the final truth.’

  ‘The old bastard?’ said Stryker.

  ‘Baron Stanhope!’ the tapster exclaimed.

  ‘The Earl of Chesterfield?’ Forrester asked.

  ‘The very same cozener!’ the tapster nodded eagerly, scratching at the thick stubble of his jaw with filthy fingers. ‘His men must have passed you on their way out.’

  ‘They were Chesterfield’s soldiers?’

  ‘Aye,’ the tapster responded morosely. ‘They’d bleed me till I were bone dry and stick thin. Bloody Cavaliers.’

  ‘They do not pay you?’ Stryker said.

  ‘Pay?’ The tavern keeper tilted his head back in an open-mouthed parody of laugher. ‘You jest, surely, sir. They pay in threat and promise, but never coin. The townsmen are all amort, and it ain’t right. Sooner the King’s thieving brabblers take ’emselves away from here the better for us all.’

  ‘But the King still holds this town, Master Tapster,’ Forrester said. ‘Do you not fear your words will be taken for treason?’

  The stubble-faced man shrugged and began filling five pewter jugs with ale from one of his casks. ‘By which fool, sir? A man might repeat my words to Charlie’s men in the Close, but the God-fearin’ folk o’ Lichfield’ll have him swingin’ from a rope before he can recant his Popish ways. You ain’t one o’ their swaggerin’ sort, is ya?’

  Forrester proffered his most charming smile. ‘No, Master Tapster. We most certainly are not.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ the tapster said as he slid the brimming pots across his work surface. ‘No halfcon here, sirs. Full measures only, and be sure an’ tell your friends.’

  The group took their drinks and gathered around one of the tables.

  ‘How can Chesterfield send men into the town,’ Stryker asked in a low voice, ‘when the folk here hate him so?’

  Richard Gunn leaned in close. ‘We are not all for the Parliament, sir. But people here have long memories.’

  Menjam interjected, ‘You have heard of Edward Wightman?’

  Stryker nodded. ‘Yes.’ He looked at Gunn.

  ‘Aye,’ Gunn confirmed. ‘Burned at the stake, in this very town, for speaking out against the King and his Popery.’

  ‘Charlie weren’t even in charge then,’ Skellen said.

  ‘No, William,’ Gunn agreed, ‘but old wounds run deep. The people blamed King James and his clergy for what they saw as a terrible wrong. Charles inherited many of those same clergymen. They mistrust him.’

  ‘And old James weren’t Popish either,’ Skellen persisted. ‘Nor’s Charlie.’

  ‘Catholic or High Church, it is all the same to those who yearn for more purity in worship and doctrine. A large number in Lichfield are of that persuasion, William. And they watched a good man burn for that same kind of faith all those years back.’ The butcher leaned back in his chair, placing chubby hands on his vast belly. ‘Many townsfolk remember it well, and that memory disposes them to Parliament above the King. Lichfield is a troubled place, sir, have no doubt.’

  Stryker led the way along Sadler Street and on to Bridge Street. Having drained their cups, the group parted company in affable fashion with much hand-shaking and pleasantries exchanged.

  Lichfield’s cathedral filled the skyline to the north of the city. Separating that Gothic colossus from the busy streets over which it loomed were two large bodies of water: the Bishop’s Pool and Minster Pool.

  ‘In days long past,’ Abel Menjam had said as he bade his friends farewell, ‘it took a ferry to cross them. But some worthy bishop built up the road so it may be traversed safely by foot.’

  Sure enough, at the end of Bridge Street the three men trotted across a raised stone causeway, staring down at their tremulous reflections amid the water’s ripples. At the north side of the pools they found themselves at the Close’s south-west gate. That gate was a squat affair of grey stone, with portcullis and drawbridge, and guarded by a pair of surly sentries wielding stout pole-arms.

  ‘Hold!’ the older of the guards – a sergeant, to judge by his halberd – said lazily as the group approached. He cast searching eyes across the newcomers, noting their weapons and bearing. ‘What business ’ave you?’

  Stryker dismounted quickly, offering a curt bow. ‘My name is Stryker. Captain. Sir Edmund Mowbray’s Regiment of Foot. For God and King Charles,’ he added, in case the guards had not heard of Mowbray’s regiment.

  At once, he sensed the twin gazes of Skellen and Forrester bore into his back as they wondered why he had given his real name. He fished inside a small pocket woven into the lining of his doublet. ‘Here is my letter of authority.’

  The sergeant stepped forward, taking Stryker’s folded square of parchment. He squinted at it for a while, turning it over to stare at the embossed seal set into a blob of cracking red wax.

  ‘It orders every loyal subject to assist my wo
rk in any possible way,’ Stryker said impatiently.

  The sergeant glowered. ‘I have me letters, sir.’

  ‘My compliments,’ Forrester put in.

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as though he were mustering a retort, but he evidently thought better of it. ‘Better let you in, sir,’ he said, handing back the parchment.

  ‘Better had,’ Stryker said.

  The sentries parted, the younger man waving them through the gate, while the older accompanied them for a few paces. ‘You’ll find my lord Chesterfield in the palace, thither,’ he pointed a black-nailed finger towards the north-east corner of the cathedral’s wall-ringed complex.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Stryker said, handing the man a small coin for his trouble.

  The sergeant nodded his thanks, calling to some men at his command. A handful came, taking the head collars of Oberon and the two mounts purchased for the escape, and leading the animals off to nearby stabling.

  ‘Couldn’t read a word,’ Forrester said, highly amused.

  ‘He recognizes a royal seal when he sees one,’ replied Stryker.

  ‘I take it our esteemed General of Horse gave you that letter when he told you of Lisette’s plight?’

  ‘But forgot to ask for it back.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ Forrester went on, ‘it explicitly states your name.’

  Stryker nodded. ‘So we will take our chances here; hope word has not spread this far; and get Lisette out of Lichfield before it does.’

  The cathedral sat in the centre of the Close, at once both imposing and beautiful, and Stryker, Forrester and Skellen skirted the magnificent building with more than a little awe. Intricate stone carvings of saints and gargoyles covered the edifice, the legacy of masons of almost boundless skill, while the scores of lifelike statues, set high on the West Front, were a rare sight to behold.

  ‘Nice pile,’ Skellen said as they reached the palace.

  ‘Your eloquence leaves me astounded once again, William,’ Forrester said with a smirk.

  ‘Do me best,’ replied Skellen. ‘Strange sort o’ church what don’t ’ave Bible boys though.’