Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

Stryker and Forrester exchanged a surprised glance, for neither had been as observant as the tall sergeant. But he was right, nevertheless. There did not seem to be a single clergyman in sight.

  ‘Told you it were more of a fortress, didn’t I?’ Skellen went on.

  ‘Aye, you did,’ Stryker said. He realized that Skellen’s assertion had been more accurate than any of them had imagined. In the absence of stout fortifications encircling the city, Baron Stanhope, the Earl of Chesterfield, had evidently decided to garrison the cathedral, relying on the impressive walls enclosing the Close for protection. ‘Not a bad decision,’ he said, accepting that, in similar circumstances, he would have done the same.

  ‘I suppose he’s kicked the churchmen out on their collective ear,’ Forrester added.

  Skellen gave a guttural grunt of amusement. ‘Not a bad decision either.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Lichfield, Staffordshire, 20 February 1643

  The Bishop’s Palace was a splendid group of buildings dominated by a handsome rectangular structure that a gangly musketeer confirmed to be the Great Hall.

  ‘More gargoyles,’ Forrester muttered as they followed the musketeer to where a pair of sentries flanked a formidable wooden doorway.

  The sound of a heavy iron bar shifting out of place carried to them from the far side, and then the door gradually creaked open to reveal the large chamber beyond. The musketeer showed Stryker, Forrester and Skellen into the high-ceilinged room and led them down its length, footfalls echoing like distant chatter in the high beams, to the far end, where a fire blazed, flames leaping erratically in response to the gusty draft.

  Men milled in the area immediately before the fire. A large group, more than a dozen, splintered into factions of two or three apiece, laughter bursting sporadically from some, while others seemed deep in whispered debate. A couple smoked long clay pipes, their writhing tobacco smoke playing up the walls, obscuring the many hanging tapestries that warmed the cold stone. Most cradled pewter goblets, stealing sips between gossip.

  ‘The earl has his own court, I see,’ Forrester said disparagingly. ‘I’d wager more intrigue abounds before that grate than anywhere else in the county.’

  ‘That him?’ Skellen said quietly as his eyes settled upon the only man seated before the red-bricked hearth. His corpulent frame was swathed in a heavy cloak fringed about the neck by a thick russet animal pelt. Shards of silver and blue poked through where the cloak’s string ties were loose at his chest, giving away the presence of a remarkably fine doublet.

  ‘I’d say so,’ Forrester replied, almost enviously, watching servants rush about the big man like bees at a hive. ‘You don’t get a belly like that without being lord of the manor.’

  Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, turned to face the newcomers as they drew close. He remained seated, but shifted his stout chair beneath him, wincing as he did so. One leg remained jutting out at his side, even as his huge bulk turned, and a pair of retainers darted forward to lift it – one cupping hands at the ankle, the other at the thigh – and manhandled the limb into position. Chesterfield scolded them as they rested it back on the compacted straw. When they backed away hastily, he turned his attention to Stryker.

  ‘What—have we—’ the earl laboured as pain racked him, ‘here?’

  Stryker stepped forward a pace, removed his hat, and cleared his throat. ‘Captain Stryker, my lord. Mowbray’s Foot.’

  Chesterfield eyed him for a second, and with a sudden lurch Stryker thought news of their escape from Cirencester must have reached Lichfield. But, to his heart-pounding relief, when the earl spoke it was not to order an arrest.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode, Captain,’ he said, spreading chubby palms. The gesture gave rise to a chorus of polite chortles from a now silent and watchful retinue.

  Uncomfortable under so many interested stares, Stryker steeled himself and offered a low bow. ‘I am grateful, my lord.’

  ‘My garrison here is small,’ Chesterfield went on, the words coming quickly now that the pain in his leg had abated, each one almost punching from his mouth. ‘I have, perhaps, three hundred. Gentlemen and their retainers in the main, yes? Not real soldiers, I’m sad to say. I’d welcome reinforcements.’

  ‘That is not—’

  ‘Oxford army, yes?’ Chesterfield interrupted, though his attention had turned to a small table, dragged to his side by a pair of servants. On its surface sat a wooden trencher, a lump of meat the size of a man’s head at its centre. Chesterfield began carving at it with a small knife.

  Stryker shook his head. ‘Not as such, sir.’

  ‘How many?’ Chesterfield said with difficulty as he eagerly crammed chunks of meat through greasy lips.

  Stryker was bemused. ‘My lord?’

  Chesterfield finally looked up from his repast, swallowing hard so that his mouth was almost empty. ‘Do you bring?’ He leaned forward suddenly, trails of glistening fat tracing their way from the corners of his thick-lipped mouth to drip slowly from a chin lacking any definition. ‘How many accompany you, sir, hmm? S’blood, man, tell, do! Toad! Copper!’

  At the sound of his call, a pair of fearsomely built mastiffs bounded to the earl’s side from somewhere near the hearth. One had a coat of reddish colour, the other brindle, and they began snaffling up scraps of meat as he tossed them to the floor.

  ‘I confess, my lord,’ Stryker replied, his voice flat, though he could not help but notice Forrester’s shoulders trembling faintly at the corner of his vision, ‘it is the three of us only.’

  The room fell to dead silence. Even the mastiffs seemed to look up. The earl’s hazel eyes, minuscule in such a large head, widened dramatically. ‘Three? Three you say?’

  Stryker thought it politic to drop his gaze. ‘Alas.’

  Chesterfield let out a small squeak of distress. ‘Then tell me how his majesty means me to prevail here. I strive to protect his honour in this county, yes? In this rebellious town, yes? How would he have me do it with so paltry a force? How, sir, how?’ There were rings on three of the fingers of his right hand, and he studied them now, twisting each one in turn, as though something profound could be divined from within their precious metals. ‘That vile creature Drafgate stirs trouble with his every breath. Whispers treason to the townsfolk any chance he gets. Still, we’re fortunate to defend these great walls, yes?’

  Stryker did not know how to respond. ‘My lord.’

  ‘The walls are not impregnable, my lord.’

  The new voice had cut across Chesterfield’s diatribe just as Stryker sensed it was gathering pace, and the earl’s face darkened in anger. The speaker was one of his entourage, but he did not turn to face the verbal intruder. He physically could not. But he seemed to know the man to berate regardless.

  ‘Damn it all, Sir Richard, but I’m tired of your insidious chatter, by God I am!’ Chesterfield barked, eyes still fixed upon Stryker. ‘The local populace are Puritanical traitors and I pray to Christ that you’ll learn that lesson before one of ’em sticks a dirk in your trusting back, yes? We must stay within the Close. Leave the streets to the enemy. They will never dig us out.’

  The men of Chesterfield’s retinue seemed to move suddenly, those at the forefront parting to allow one of their number through. A man emerged; tall, slim and soberly dressed, swathed as he was in black tunic and white shirt, the collar of which framing a thin face of stern countenance and wide, intelligent eyes. He paced confidently from the group to draw up at the earl’s left side.

  ‘As Steward of Lichfield, my lord, I am concerned only for the town and your person,’ he said, respectfully enough, though Stryker detected the merest hint of frustration in that level tone. ‘Heed me, my lord, I urge you.’ A thin-fingered hand rose to scratch at the neat beard that came to a sharp point at his narrow chin. It was dark brown, like the hair that fell in wavy strands to just below his ear lobes.

  The earl glared up at him. ‘You must learn caution, yes? Your recklessness has already cost
you a spell in Parliament’s dungeons once this winter.’

  The tall man, Sir Richard, furrowed thick eyebrows. ‘That was through no recklessness, my lord. After Kineton—’

  The name rang a mighty bell in Stryker’s mind. ‘You were at Kineton Fight, sir?’

  Sir Richard turned to him, looking somewhat bashful. ‘Aye. Well, I witnessed it, ’tis fair to say. I was sent to the King with a message from the city.’

  ‘Ha!’ Chesterfield scoffed. ‘A message denying him the city’s support, no less!’

  ‘But not denying him my support, my lord,’ Sir Richard added, eager to qualify the earl’s rant. He threw Stryker a look withered by disappointment. ‘The King ordered the city, at the war’s outset, to raise for him money, plate and fighting men. There was a meeting,’ he continued with a resigned shrug, ‘at which Parliament’s adherents carried the day. The order was denied.’

  ‘Denied!’ Chesterfield bellowed, as though the very notion could be met only with disbelief. ‘They disobeyed their sovereign, yes? Unfathomable! Truly, truly.’

  ‘I was sent to give King Charles the city’s response,’ Sir Richard said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. ‘With that message I took all the gold I – and my fellow loyal subjects – could muster, so that the King might see that not all Lichfield was of a treasonous mind.’

  ‘And you raised your own troop o’ horse, do not forget,’ Chesterfield added.

  Sir Richard nodded. ‘While giving our miserable message to the King, his forces engaged the enemy at Kineton. I was too old to fight myself. But my troop were with Prince Rupert’s regiment.’

  ‘You stayed to watch?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘My son Anthony commands them,’ Sir Richard replied.

  Stryker nodded. It was explanation enough. ‘My lord Chesterfield mentioned imprisonment.’

  ‘Captured on my way home from the battle, Captain. I was taken by rebel horsemen at Southam and held at the Marshalsey in Coventry. They released me this new year.’

  ‘And now he is back,’ Chesterfield interjected. ‘This flea in my ear,’ he said, addressing Stryker, ‘is Sir Richard Dyott. He has harangued me these last weeks. Urges me to unnecessary action. To throw caution to the wind, and risk losing what few men I have at my command. A man of Lichfield, mark, yet he does not trust these walls to protect us.’

  ‘Walls can only stave off cannon balls for so long, my lord,’ Dyott said. ‘I have seen what modern ordnance can do. You must fight, my lord. Send for reinforcements from local garrisons, send to Oxford, even, but grow your forces. Make this town formidable, my lord. We have but three hundred men here. It will not be enough when the enemy comes.’

  Chesterfield shook his head, sweaty jowls wobbling vigorously. ‘No, no, no. It is folly. It is all folly. And what makes you certain they will come at all, Sir Richard, hmmm?’

  ‘Lord Brooke moves from Warwick Castle.’

  Chesterfield smiled witheringly as though he addressed a child. ‘And he will choose to sink those Satan-sharpened teeth into a juicier apple than little Lichfield. No, sir, Brooke will pass us by. We must stay within the protection of the Close. Hold the city for the King’s cause. Protect these loyal men for service when it is truly needed. It is our only choice. Our sacred duty.’

  Dyott’s voice became more urgent now, as, Stryker guessed, he covered ground well trodden since his return from prison. ‘But we do not hold the town from in here, my lord. Many of the common folk are set against us. If a rebel force marches into Lichfield, it will be welcomed. And we will be caught here, trapped and impotent in Cathedral Close. We will live, but the town will fall. Where is the sense in that?’

  That was enough for Chesterfield. He leaned forward slowly, gaze hard. ‘You question my judgement, Dyott?’

  Dyott raised his long-fingered hands in supplication. ‘No, my lord, of course not. But I—’

  Stryker cleared his throat noisily.

  The Earl of Chesterfield’s sheen-glimmering brow rose at the intrusion. ‘You have something to say, sir? Speak it.’

  Stryker did have something to say. He wanted to throttle the Earl of Chesterfield. To storm forward and scream into his round face, shake him by those vast shoulders and make him see that Dyott was right. They could not simply sit idle, for such inertia would spell the end of a Royalist presence in Lichfield. It was sheer madness to wait in the hope that inconspicuousness would keep them safe. If anything, it would present the earl’s meagre force as an easy target for ambitious enemies. But he was not here for the king’s cause, and had no wish to cross swords with the man who held the key to his flight north from Cirencester. He would have to swallow his annoyance.

  ‘My lord, we are not here on king’s business.’

  Chesterfield’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Oh?’

  Stryker thrust a hand into his cloak, drawing out the letter. ‘Rather, Prince Rupert’s.’ The earl gestured he should approach, and Stryker did so, handing the parchment out for Chesterfield to grasp.

  An age seemed to pass as all eyes watched Chesterfield examine the royal seal, before his stubby fingers went to work unravelling the scroll. He examined the few lines of black ink briefly, and glanced up. ‘To give every assistance, eh?’

  Stryker did not wish to waste time. ‘Beg pardon for my directness, my lord, but might you have a woman here?’

  The retinue chuckled at Chesterfield’s back. ‘We have many, sir. This is a garrison. Our families are with us.’

  ‘My lord,’ Stryker said, attempting to remain respectful, but struggling to keep the urgency from his voice. ‘It is a particular woman I seek.’ He held a hand out at shoulder-height. ‘She is perhaps this tall, with golden hair. And she is French. The Prince told me you had written to him, alerting him of her presence.’

  Chesterfield drummed his ringed fingers on the small table’s surface as he thought. ‘A Frenchy you say. Don’t think we’ve seen such a creature in Lichfield since the Conqueror’s days. Hardly something I’d forget, yes?’

  And that was it. The words he had both feared and expected since leaving Cirencester. Prince Rupert had been wrong. The victim of some cruel game.

  He turned to Forrester and Skellen in turn, realising for the first time the terrible price they would both pay for following him on this damned fool’s errand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Skellen shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Bugger all else to do, sir.’

  ‘Besides,’ Forrester whispered, ‘I’ll simply tell the provosts you kidnapped me.’

  Just as Stryker prepared to take his leave, a hollow chasm opening in the pit of his stomach, a figure emerged from the crowd. He was small, his head scarcely rising above the dogs that now skittered sheepishly out of his way, and Stryker watched, bemused, as the fellow approached Chesterfield, whispering hurriedly in the earl’s ear.

  ‘He takes council from children?’ Skellen spoke quietly at Stryker’s flank.

  ‘Look closer, Will,’ Stryker replied in equally hushed tones. ‘It is no child.’

  Skellen did look closer, eyes widening as he studied the earl’s diminutive courtier. He took in the grey woollen uniform of a soldier, the shaven pate, and the abnormally large hands, gnarled with age and use. He saw the mottled, pulpy skin of an old scar that swathed the fellow’s entire neck from ear to ear, stark in its pink hue and lack of stubble, and the blades – a tuck and two daggers – at his waist. This was no child. Skellen blew out his cheeks. ‘Jesu. It’s a bloody dwarf.’

  The collective intake of breath from the men of Chesterfield’s retinue told Skellen he had spoken a little too loudly. Stryker elbowed him sharply.

  The small man, who, to Stryker’s eye, might have been anywhere between the ages of twenty-five and fifty – looked up from Chesterfield’s ear and stepped forward, a hand playing at the hilt of one of his daggers.

  ‘Dwarf is it?’ he hissed in an accent not native to Staffordshire, fixing Skellen with the flintiest of stares. His voice was faint, rasping, though it carr
ied not a hint of trepidation. ‘You think me some mythical creature, Sir Crannion?’

  Skellen remained silent, clearly unsure how to react to being likened to a huge spider by a man whose head barely reached beyond the sergeant’s own waistline.

  ‘Well, this mythical creature’ll spill your fuckin’ guts over those big boots,’ the little man challenged, not at all daunted by Skellen’s vast size advantage, ‘if you’d care to call me dwarf again.’ His eyes held a rich amber hue, bright against the grey of his woollen coat and breeches, surrounding pupils of deepest black, giving him a feral, almost feline appearance. They burned with unbridled intensity, but not a trace of fear. The scarring below his chin seemed to glow scarlet with his rising ire, appearing all the more livid against the white of his falling band collar.

  Stryker stepped forward. ‘Calm yourself, sir,’ he said, trying his best to ignore Forrester, whose shoulders were trembling again. ‘My sergeant meant no offence, I can assure you. He lets his tongue run away on occasion. A mistake.’

  The small man did not relent. ‘Many have made a similar mistake, sir, and I’ve taught ’em not to make it twice.’

  Judging by the nervous silence of the men gathered behind Chesterfield, Stryker did not doubt it. He made to speak, but the earl’s voice cut across him.

  ‘Enough of this! Relent, Simeon! I said relent, you cloth-eared dolt!’

  The dwarf, Simeon, seemed to regain control of himself at the sound of Chesterfield’s voice.

  ‘Ignore him, Captain,’ the earl said, ‘his temper’s short as his body. But a good man, mark. A loyal man, yes?’

  ‘If you say so, my lord,’ Stryker said, as Simeon resumed position at the earl’s ear.

  ‘You’re right, Simeon,’ Chesterfield was saying as the little man whispered hurriedly again. ‘Bless my soul if I’d forgotten entirely with all our recent tribulations. Yes, yes, yes, we do. A beauty if I’m not sore mistook.’ He looked up suddenly, surprising Stryker with a broad smile. ‘We have one. A girl. Bad way, though, Captain, yes?’