Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  Skellen snorted. ‘Maggots. Better ’an any chirurgeon if you ask me.’

  ‘You’re a man after my own heart, Sergeant Skellen. Many a bad wound’s been healed up by a handful of these plump little lovelies.’

  Stryker peered at the jar. At first there seemed nothing of note within, it was simply half-filled with some off-white potion, but as his eye adjusted, it became clear that the potion was in fact a mass of fat, writhing maggots. The sight was hardly pleasant, for he had seen too many bloated corpses infested with the ravenous larvae over the years, but he recognized their usefulness. Maggots applied to a festering wound would devour only the rotting flesh, stripping away the bad and leaving the good intact and with an opportunity to heal.

  ‘My very best crop,’ Chambers went on proudly. ‘They’ve delivered me many a happy – or should I say living – customer. We can only pray that your fine-looking Frank, here, will be one.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Near Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, 23 February 1643

  The quill scratched quickly across the old vellum fragment, specks of ink spurting haphazardly in its wake. The writer paused, squinting at the candlelit page, reviewing what he had written so far. He glanced up, staring out into the stable’s dark interior, ready to snuff out the glowing stub of beeswax at the first hint of his companions’ waking. Nothing.

  He stared back down at the vellum. What was the next character in the sequence? With reluctance, he set down the quill and rifled in a pocket sown into the lining of his woollen breeches, feeling for the hard square of parchment within. He withdrew it as silently as possible and hurriedly unfolded the square.

  His eyes, small and pale, scanned the faded scrawl. He hated having to remove the parchment from its hiding place, for to have it on view was to invite the worst kind of trouble, but his memory for the intricacies of such complex cipher had never been good. He processed the ranks of letters, numbers and Roman numerals as fast as he could, holding the page of codes as close to the small flame as possible without singeing its edge, all the while keeping half an eye on the snoring bodies around him.

  Eventually, and with palpable relief, he found what he was searching for. The symbols representing the letters he needed. He took up the quill again, scratching out the word in the agreed code, so that only the man carrying the identical legend sheet would be able to decipher the message.

  Task complete, the man opened the snapsack that lay at his side and returned the quill and ink pot. His heart thudded heavily in his chest as he quickly folded the pieces of parchment into small, tightly packed squares and crammed them both into the secret pocket. With one last check of the room, he snuffed out the candle with tongue-moistened thumb and forefinger, careful not to allow any smoke to trail up into the rafters and stir the slumbering soldiers’ nostrils, and whispered a soundless prayer of thanks. There was still the small matter of finding a willing carrier to transport the message to its intended recipient, but men were beginning to starve in a country where grain stores were regularly stripped clean by marauding and hungry soldiers. It would not be difficult to find a willing fellow for a coin or two.

  And then he lay down silently, a single breath of unadulterated relief taking the tension from his body.

  Because it was done. And Jonathan Blaze would die.

  Lichfield, Staffordshire, 24–27 February 1643

  Dawn sent grey light into the infirmary to creep up the stone walls and stir Stryker from a fitful sleep. He had stayed at Lisette’s side during the night, Skellen and Forrester taking up spare palliasses nearby. Part of him had wanted to abandon her here as she had abandoned him so brutally before. But then he would remember the scar on his face, and the way she had cared for him in the wake of the explosion that had deprived him of his eye and nearly his life. Despite whatever conflicting emotions he might feel for this woman, he would tend to her as she had once done for him.

  He perched on the mattress beside Lisette. She shivered constantly. It was not violent, but a gentle tremor, a vibrating undercurrent that betrayed the fever’s grip, and though its presence announced a very real danger, it served also to calm him, for he knew then that she was – for now at least – alive.

  ‘Will she—?’ he asked as Gregory Chambers appeared to perform his daily duties.

  ‘Die?’ Chambers pursed his lips as he studied the patient. ‘Quite possibly, I’d say. She does not fair well with this fever, and our attempts at feeding her have not met with any degree of success. But, then again, I have been mistaken before. Do not lose hope, sir.’

  Simeon Barkworth was with the doctor, and Stryker presumed the little man had been stationed at the door throughout the night, as he had every night since their arrival. It was no surprise, for the earl would have been foolish to leave three armed strangers at liberty within his domain.

  Barkworth nodded down at Lisette. ‘She’s tough as a carthorse, Captain.’

  The ragged patch of scar tissue occupying Stryker’s left eye socket crinkled slightly. ‘And twice as stubborn.’

  ‘I was right, then?’ Barkworth said, hoarse tones reverberating against the stone walls in jarring echo. ‘To bring her here?’

  ‘More than you know, Master Barkworth. More than you know.’

  Stryker stood, stretched his aching spine, and walked to a nearby chair, dragging it up against the palliasse. He was aware of Chambers speaking, chirping cheerfully about the best way to break a fever, but the words were dull, somehow distant. He sat down, bending forward, whispering to Lisette, stroking her sweat-darkened hair and clammy brow. He ran a thumb across the thin scar that scored her chin, marvelling at how translucent it now seemed, and felt his own body shudder in time with hers. There were times when he resented the stubborn Frenchwoman for placing her duty to the queen above her love for him, and frequently imagined that he would do himself a service by cutting her out of his life. And yet now, at this very instant, he would gladly have absorbed the fever to the detriment of his own body, if it would save her.

  A bulky ginger cat prowled nearby, weaving between table legs and under the straw pallets, senses hunt-sharp. Chambers moved to the mantelpiece and took down a small box. He made some clicking noises and the cat came slinking up to him, rubbing its fluffy flanks against the doctor’s chubby ankles.

  ‘I’m puzzled,’ Chambers said, as he grasped several chunks of what appeared to be dried meat from the box. ‘It’s not often you see such a fair Gaul.’

  ‘Her mother was German,’ Stryker explained, watching as Chambers tossed the meat to the flagstones. The cat let out an excited buzzing sound and pounced on the food.

  ‘Hence the golden locks and azure eyes.’

  ‘Indeed. What is that?’

  Chambers put the lid back on the box and returned it to the mantel. ‘Salted herring. Harold cannot get enough of the stuff.’ He shot Stryker a serious look. ‘Who is she, Captain?’

  ‘I cannot tell you more than this,’ Stryker replied, genuinely sorry to dissemble with the man who had kept Lisette alive this long. ‘She is a loyal servant of the Crown.’

  Chambers nodded, and turned to Barkworth. ‘Will you fetch us some victuals, Simeon?’

  The dwarf shook his head. ‘I’m not to leave, Doctor.’

  Chambers sighed theatrically. ‘The kitchens are but yards away, Simeon. It won’t take you five minutes.’ Barkworth did not move, and Chambers glowered. ‘God help you should you require my ministrations one day, for I fear they’ll be sore ineffective.’

  Barkworth gritted his teeth, but the threat was enough and he went quickly from the room.

  ‘Now that he’s gone,’ Chambers said, turning back to Stryker, an earnest expression clouding his usually happy countenance. ‘Are we to be attacked?’

  ‘I would not wager against it,’ Stryker said seriously. ‘Though your earl does not believe so.’

  ‘Oh, he does. But he must make like he has no care so that he cannot be accused of abandoning the city while he hides in the C
lose. He is simply stricken with fear.’

  ‘Stricken with more besides,’ Forrester added.

  Chambers’s face was rueful. ‘Gout, aye. A terrible affliction, and it has him gripped. Too much good living. You might wish to think on it too, sir.’

  Forrester’s jaw gaped in affront. ‘God bestowed a manly big-boned frame on the men of my family, sir. It would be a sin to deny it. And you are hardly in a position to cast aspersions.’

  Chambers ran his palms across his own midriff. ‘Ha! Perhaps you are right, Captain Forrester. I suffer the same excess of manliness! It is merely something of which the likes of you and I must be wary, lest we end up like the unfortunate baron.’ His voice dropped suddenly, its tone clandestine. ‘But that is not the greatest problem we face.’

  ‘Doctor?’ Stryker urged, equally as softly.

  ‘The Earl of Chesterfield is a coward. He wishes to hide in the Close and remain as inconspicuous as possible. I fear if we are attacked he will give up both town and cathedral for the sake of his own worthless hide.’

  ‘Do not let that puny firebrand hear you, Doctor,’ Skellen said, glancing at the doorway. ‘You’ll be swingin’ from the battlements by nightfall.’

  Chambers smiled, taking up a vacant stool. ‘I must be careful of some ears, Sergeant, you are right. But not Barkworth’s. He is loyal to the death, and would defend his master like Stanhope’s bloody mastiffs, but he is sensible.’

  ‘Then why ask him to leave?’ Stryker said.

  ‘Just because he has sense, it does not mean he would enjoy hearing my opinion. I would rather avoid the argument.’

  ‘Then he does not agree?’ Forrester asked.

  Chambers blew out his cheeks. ‘Deep down he knows I am right. How could he not? He has eyes in his head, and he is an experienced campaigner. But Stanhope is his master, and that is what matters most to him.’

  ‘Bloody zealot,’ said Skellen.

  Chambers shook his head. ‘If you offend his sense of loyalty he’ll rail at you, for certain, but he is no zealot. Far from it.’

  ‘Could’ve fooled me,’ Skellen grumbled.

  Chambers’s eyes narrowed in amusement as he stood to clamp his spectacles on to his face. The ginger cat, having finished gulping down its herring, sprang with silent agility on to the newly vacant stool, curling down upon its surface to enjoy the warmth left behind by Chambers’s considerable backside.

  The man with the belly canker moaned in the background, his lamentations echoing softly off the stone walls.

  ‘How long does he have?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Captain.’ Chambers stood in thought for a moment, chewing the inside of his mouth. Eventually he reached back to grasp the stool, tipping the drowsy cat from it as he did so. He dragged it nearer to Stryker and sat again, leaning in. ‘I confess, I struggle to believe Lichfield will be assaulted. We are small compared with some of the other towns in the region. And Cathedral Close is strong. Will the rebels really be inclined to attack us here? There must surely be more significant – and less formidable – targets to pick.’

  Stryker fixed him with a hard stare. If the man wanted to know the truth of the situation, then he would speak plain. ‘Let me spell it out for you, Doctor Chambers. At present, your rebel holds London, most of the lands to the south-east of the capital, the eastern counties and Derbyshire.’

  Chambers rolled his eyes. ‘Please, Captain, I do not require schooling like some slow-witted child. They have their heartlands, we have ours. The King holds the west country, Wales and much of the north down as far as Nottinghamshire.’

  Stryker dipped his head. ‘As you so rightly state, the north heralds our cause, and the Welsh are more loyal to King Charles than any of their English cousins. What a force they would make were they to combine their strength. But they cannot, for they find themselves divided. Separated by a narrow tract of land. A corridor that splits the King’s territories in two. An area where no side yet reigns supreme.’

  ‘The Midlands,’ Chambers said.

  ‘You have it, sir.’

  ‘Or that part of it,’ Forrester added as he came to stand at the physician’s shoulder, ‘west of Derby and Nottingham counties. It is the Holy Grail for our worthy sovereign, Doctor Chambers. And if it is his Holy Grail, then it must surely be Parliament’s.’

  ‘And perched at its centre lies this very city, Doctor,’ Stryker picked up the point again. ‘Lichfield may not be the grandest place in all England, but it guards the high road from Leeds to Bristol. The main communication route between Charles’s strongest provinces. Mark this well, Doctor Chambers. I fear your little town will not remain anonymous for long.’

  Skellen grunted. The men turned to him.

  ‘And you’ll be a fuckin’ busy man then, Doc.’

  Stryker did not leave Lisette’s bedside. He sat with her, watching the trembling shoulders and twitching eyelids, hour after hour, mood as grey as the day. When night drew in, blackening the infirmary to a dank sepulchre, he burned candles so that he might yet study Lisette’s ashen features, hoping against hope that they would betray signs of renewed life.

  Chambers advised – however carefully chosen his words might have been – that Lisette would probably die. He warned that she had been in the fever’s stranglehold too long, that even the hardiest constitution must eventually wilt, that the wound would begin to fester once more and the pain would increase, and that she would slip away. Stryker ignored him, suppressed his own feelings of gut-wrenching helplessness, trickled cold beads of water across and beyond her thin, purple lips and changed her sheets. At times she would seem to improve, as though lucidity was returning, but the sudden animation simply preceded the fever-stoked ravings that made her seem fit for Bedlam. Stryker did not understand most of what she said, for the words were muttered, fast-paced French, and he contented himself with wiping the sweat from her brow.

  The short winter days passed slowly, achingly, as though time itself dragged. A dawn of rich pink greeted Stryker as he woke on the third morning. When he had splashed freezing water on to his bestubbled face, he observed the now familiar routine of dabbing the cooling liquid across Lisette’s burning cheeks, then went to stand at the nearest window.

  The walls of Cathedral Close rose high and forbidding beyond, but he could hear the sounds of life emanate from Lichfield’s busy streets, and he thought of how vulnerable the townsfolk must feel with no defences of their own.

  High above the walls a black smudge glided with effortless grace. Stryker watched it bank left and right on the breeze, its ample body and broad wings silhouetted against the pinkness of the clouds behind.

  ‘Our buzzard,’ Simeon Barkworth’s constricted voice carried to him from somewhere nearby. ‘It circles the town every so often.’

  Stryker turned to look at him. ‘I thought it was a kite.’

  ‘A kite’s wings are splayed at the ends, like so,’ Barkworth said, placing the jug he had been holding on the ground, and stretching out his gnarled fingers to mimic the way the bird’s feathers fanned out at the tips of its great wings. ‘Your buzzard’s a bulkier beast, and its wings curve upwards when it soars.’

  Stryker peered back at the sky. He saw that the bird’s wings were indeed bowed up in the shape of a U.

  ‘I spent a lot of time watching them on campaign,’ Barkworth offered in explanation. ‘Little else to do between fights.’

  Stryker smiled to himself. ‘That is soldiering, Master Barkworth. A man could die by the blade in one instant, and through boredom the next.’

  ‘You ever see the highlanders?’

  Stryker met Barkworth’s gaze levelly. ‘I did, sir. Frightened me to me very guts.’

  Barkworth could not stifle his grin, yellow eyes bright with pride. ‘We were the most fearsome brigade ever to fight those Pope’s-turds. They were hard days.’ He stooped to collect the jug and offered it to Stryker. ‘Ale?’

  Stryker took it gratefully. ‘Thank yo
u.’

  Barkworth took the vessel back and took his own swig. ‘Where did you fight?’ he said when he had wiped thin lips with the grey wool of his coat sleeve.

  ‘Everywhere. Captain Forrester and I were with Skaithlocke’s company.’

  Barkworth dipped his head. ‘A good body o’ men.’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘Was that where you were wounded?’ Barkworth ventured tentatively.

  Stryker’s instant reaction was to tell the diminutive man to keep his damned impertinent tongue inside his mouth, for he did not enjoy discussing the subject, but something about the grizzled highlander’s demeanour garnered respect. ‘Aye,’ he conceded.

  ‘Cannon? I saw many a man wounded or killed when his own ordnance blew up.’

  If only that were so, Stryker thought. ‘It was the result of a disagreement,’ he said, ‘with a fellow officer.’ He saw Barkworth’s face contort in surprise, and added, ‘He paid dear for it.’

  ‘I am heartened to hear it,’ Barkworth said seriously.

  ‘And what of your—injury? You said it was a noose. You were hanged?’

  The Scot absently lifted a hand to his neck and rubbed the ruined skin. ‘After the defeat at Nördlingen I was separated from my company. Lost amongst the human shambles.’ He took a long draught of the ale, as if to steady himself against the unwanted memory. ‘Didn’t know where the bloody hell I was. I wandered for a while, thinking I’d surely run into a Spanish or Italian patrol before long and they’d string me up.’