Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  Barkworth’s face was taut, his yellow eyes wide, bright. He could not hold himself still, but shifted his weight from foot to foot, excitedly.

  ‘What news, man?’ Stryker snapped impatiently.

  The fiery Scot proffered him with a crooked-toothed grin. ‘She wakes, sir.’

  Stryker was already dashing down the first of the shallow steps as Barkworth’s constricted tones echoed behind him. ‘Your woman, Captain. She wakes!’

  Near Roughley, Staffordshire, 28 February 1643

  ‘Thither, m’lord.’

  The speaker, a terrified shepherd-boy, barely into his teens and struggling to keep control of his bowels, muttered through a mouth full of rotten gums. He was staring up at a soldier, as though the gigantic, yellow-coated visage was nothing short of a denizen of hell.

  Major Henning Edberg had dismounted, handing his sleekly dark horse’s reins to a frizzy-haired subordinate, and now loomed over the shepherd like some prehistoric obelisk.

  ‘That way, you say?’ Edberg held out a gloved fist, extending a finger to the north and east, where three colossal stone spires rose above the tree-lined horizon like black daggers in the dusk.

  The lad’s skull shivered suddenly in what Edberg took to be affirmation. ‘Aye. A one-eyed man and three fedaries. One tall ’un, one short ’un and one run to fat.’

  ‘To where?’ Edberg snapped irritably. ‘What town is this?’

  The shepherd followed the pointing hand. ‘Lichfield, m’lord.’

  ‘Lich-field,’ Edberg repeated slowly as he struggled to negotiate a language not his own. He considered himself competent with the English tongue, but some of the country’s infernal placenames remained stubbornly difficult to master. ‘Who holds it?’

  The shepherd offered an expression of wide eyes and slack jaw that spoke only of ignorance. Edberg glared at him, serving only to increase the boy’s trembling, and rounded on the dragoon that had taken hold of his mount. ‘Who holds Lichfield?’

  ‘King, sir,’ the dragoon answered hurriedly. ‘Last I heard.’

  Edberg turned back to the shepherd. ‘You hear different?’

  The boy shook his head mutely, eyes flicking from the big foreigner to the twenty or so yellow-coated soldiers that stared pitilessly down at him from malevolent-looking beasts.

  Edberg’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. ‘You seen soldiers march that way?’

  ‘No, m’lord, I swears!’ the shepherd-boy replied desperately, bleating like one of his flock. ‘Not since them what you described.’

  Edberg and his diminished troop had made dire progress across the empty fields of Staffordshire. Those fields would have been lush, verdant pastures in days gone by, but now, with no one to tend them, they had given all they could yield. The land, Edberg thought, was falling daily into the war-ravaged abyss that had swallowed the rest of northern Europe.

  The young man, awed into quivering supplication by the strange-sounding officer’s terse manner and fearsome physique, had quickly confirmed the presence of his quarry. In truth, the major had not expected to hear that Stryker travelled with a third companion, for the information given by Colonel Crow was that there were only two in his renegade band, but the presence of another in the group did not affect Edberg’s task.

  ‘No rebel armies have come to take this town from us,’ Edberg said to the trooper with the wiry hair.

  The trooper thought for a moment. ‘Not from this direction, leastwise,’ he conceded.

  Edberg jerked his chin imperiously towards the shepherd. ‘He would have heard if an army had been in the region. From any direction.’

  The subordinate nodded agreement. ‘Less he’s lying, sir.’

  Edberg’s ice-blue gaze bore down implacably upon the shepherd. ‘If you lie to me, boy, I will return.’

  ‘I speak true, m’lord, by me papa’s grave,’ the lad replied as quickly and as heartfelt as he might, stepping backwards involuntarily as he spoke.

  Major Henning Edberg turned away, stalking across the wet ground to clamber up into a saddle as black as the horse beneath it. He raked the beast’s flanks, spurring it into sudden, muscular energy, and it churned the mud excitedly, flinging clods of muck into the air, leaving the shepherd to duck away in their wake. Edberg heard his score of dragoons close behind and allowed himself a rare smile. For the rats were indeed in Lichfield. And soon his terriers would have them cornered.

  Lichfield, Staffordshire, 28 February 1643

  Lisette Gaillard was already sitting up when Stryker entered the infirmary. She must have read the racking mixture of concern and relief on his face, for she cast him a withering glance as she sipped at the contents of a pewter goblet.

  Stryker wanted to run the length of the large room, but his men were at his heels, and Chambers was standing over her palliasse, so he forced himself to maintain a steady, calm pace, the rhythm of which was entirely at odds with the beating of his heart.

  ‘Madam,’ he said quietly when he was at her side. He took off his hat, instinctively tidying the black tendrils of hair that fell beside his cheeks.

  ‘Captain,’ she replied equally as softly.

  They stared at one another for what seemed like an age.

  Chambers cleared his throat with unnecessary volume. ‘Well now, I must see to the hearth. Urge her to rest,’ he added under his breath as he strode past Stryker.

  Stryker nodded absently and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the packed straw shift and sink with his weight. She was magnificent in the night-darkened room, her hair shimmering in the flame light, wan skin almost translucent. But Stryker knew that such delicate beauty, however alluring, was also the outward manifestation of an exhausted, damaged body. Lisette was far from recovered. He placed a hand tenderly on her good shoulder. ‘You must lie back, Lisette. The doctor—’

  A spark flashed across Lisette’s sapphire eyes and she shrugged him off. ‘I’ll sit, merci. The doctor can try to convince me otherwise if he wishes his eye blackened.’

  Stryker’s narrow face split in a wide smile. Lisette had returned to him.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lichfield, Staffordshire, 1 March 1643

  ‘The man I escorted was named Blaze. Now he’s dead.’

  It was mid morning, and, after a night of deep sleep, Lisette had finally woken, squeezing Stryker’s hand as he dozed in a chair beside her. After enjoying several impressive gulps of small beer and a large chunk of gritty bread, she had seemed well enough to talk, and Stryker decided that it was time to find some answers.

  ‘Blaze?’ William Skellen said. Stryker had asked him and Forrester to join them, feeling the pair deserved an explanation as much as he. ‘The petardier?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Stryker, his mind working to fathom the significance. He looked at Lisette. ‘We have just encountered Master Blaze. He is not dead, I assure you, but in Oxford.’

  ‘Lucky him,’ Skellen said dourly.

  ‘Lazarus,’ Lisette replied, ignoring the sergeant. ‘My charge’s name was Lazarus Blaze.’ She frowned suddenly as an idea entered her mind. ‘But he was in correspondence with his brother. Always scribbling letters to him. A man named Jonathan.’

  ‘Aye, that was him,’ Stryker agreed.

  ‘Jonathan Blaze.’ ‘Jonathan may well thrive, mon amour, but I can assure you Lazarus is entirely dead. I saw him fall. Watched his blood spray the trees.’

  So that answered Rupert’s question, Stryker thought. He leaned close, reading the pain in her expression. ‘What happened, Lisette?’

  ‘I was escorting him from Devizes to Stafford,’ Lisette began. ‘Blaze was a fire-worker and an engineer; a good one.’

  ‘Like his brother,’ Skellen grunted.

  Lisette’s brow rose with interest. ‘A family business, then.’ She turned back to Stryker. ‘Prince Rupert employs me while my queen awaits a change in the weather.’

  Stryker blew a chest full of air out through his nose.

  Lisette tilted her head to on
e side, studying him with interest. ‘Do not be jealous, mon amour,’ she said coquettishly.

  ‘And I imagine the rebel blockades don’t aid her cause a great deal,’ Forrester offered quickly, uncomfortable amidst the lovers’ spat.

  Lisette’s upper lip rose in unconcealed disgust. ‘Blockades,’ she sneered. ‘She will punch her way through their pathetic efforts. The Generalissima will set sail as soon as this cursed country’s gales abate.’

  ‘Generalissima?’ Stryker asked sourly, rediscovering his irritation at the shadowy world Lisette inhabited. A world ruled by that arch schemer, Queen Henrietta Maria. ‘That’s how she styles herself now?’

  Lisette fixed him with a caustic stare. ‘She has built an army, Stryker. With it she will cut a swathe through Parliament’s cobbled militias. But for now she offers me, so that at least she may help her husband’s cause.’

  ‘And what were you supposed to do?’

  ‘The Prince is anxious to keep hold of the Midland towns,’ she explained. ‘Derbyshire supports the rebellion. Birmingham is a den of traitors, too. It is only a matter of time before they move against our strongholds in the region.’

  ‘Stafford.’

  She nodded. ‘An expert fire-worker could make the place impregnable.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were ambushed, Stryker! Is that not obvious?’ Her shoulders slumped slightly, the fire leaving as soon as it had come, though Stryker guessed it was born more from exhaustion than regret for her outburst. ‘I am sorry, mon amour.’

  Lisette’s eyes became glassy, searching the distance to retrieve fever-warped memories. The room fell silent for what seemed to be an eternity. Eventually she looked up. ‘We’d been tracked for some days by a group of horsemen. Three of the bastards. I had been able to ensure safe passage for much of the journey, using little-known routes and arranging decoys.’ She looked at Stryker, her face a mask of regret. ‘I thought we would make it, Stryker, I really did.’

  ‘Go on,’ Stryker prompted.

  ‘We were making for Lichfield.’

  Stryker frowned. ‘The Close? The earl does not know you.’

  She spluttered the beginnings of a venomous chuckle, though it turned quickly into a racking cough. ‘No. The Prince would never trust Chesterfield. The man is incompetent.’

  Stryker leaned closer. ‘Voice down, woman,’ he hissed, ‘you are in his domain!’

  She pulled a face that told him she was unconcerned. ‘Rupert has a man in the town. One of our horses had stumbled during the day. It was becoming lame. We could not afford to stop at an inn, for fear our three shadows would reappear. I decided it would be better to pay the Prince’s agent a visit. He would see us safely on our way with supplies and a fresh horse.’

  ‘But you did not reach Lichfield,’ Forrester said. ‘Not with Blaze, anyway.’

  ‘They appeared before dawn; it was a rainy day in January,’ replied Lisette. ‘It was dark. I couldn’t see them in the tree line. They used firelocks of some kind, so I did not spy them till it was too late.’

  ‘Professionals, then?’ Forrester asked. The matchlock musket was a more robust weapon than its flintlock cousin, better suited to the rigours and trials of campaigning, and most regiments favoured it. But firelocks had their uses. Often they were employed by men guarding powder magazines, when the lack of a naked flame proved far safer, but in many cases they were the preferred tool for covert operations. Those that might be jeopardized by a telltale glow in the dark. ‘Assassins?’

  Lisette gazed into the distance. ‘They killed our driver, and the coach crashed into the forest. I was thrown across the cabin. It was chaos. Cracking wood and flying splinters.’ She lifted a hand to her bandaged shoulder. ‘Received this for my troubles.’ Her eyes were suddenly bright again, and her richly accented words thick with relish. ‘But I shot one of their men, Stryker. Right in the face.’

  Stryker ignored Forrester’s small shudder. ‘And then?’

  ‘We ran into the trees, but one of them was a good shot. Hit Master Blaze. I escaped.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘I ran and I ran. At dawn’s light I saw spires.’

  ‘The cathedral.’

  ‘Oui,’ Lisette said, her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I was bleeding so much. I thought I would die.’

  Stryker thought for a moment. ‘Did they not give chase?’

  ‘They were not interested in me, Stryker. Their task was complete when Lazarus Blaze fell.’ She saw his doubt and went on. ‘They were not common highwaymen, mon amour. They had followed us too long, through the foulest of weather. Brigands after cheap plunder would have abandoned the chase long before that black night. And to track us along such a winding route took rare skill. So did the killing shot, for that matter. No, they were intent on dispatching Blaze, and he alone. What I do not understand is how they found us in the first place. How they knew we’d set out from Devizes.’

  ‘An informant,’ Stryker said bluntly.

  Lisette looked at him, eyes shimmering. ‘I want to kill that bastard.’

  ‘The informant or the killer?’

  ‘Both.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Where did you say Lazarus’s brother is?’

  ‘He will be at Oxford by now, if the roads are passable.’

  ‘Then my enemy will be in his wake. I must go there. I must find him.’ She lurched forward, making to stand, but swooned at the sudden movement and crashed back on to the palliasse.

  ‘Wait, Lisette,’ Stryker pleaded, as the Frenchwoman’s stream of oaths began to subside. ‘You are not yet strong enough to travel. And how can you be sure of this assassin’s intent?’

  She sighed heavily, as though forced to explain the situation to a dullard. ‘Because he was after Lazarus Blaze. Not me, not our driver. Lazarus alone. Think on it, mon amour. He targeted Blaze for his skill. His knowledge. The rebels wished to prevent the application of that knowledge.’

  ‘They succeeded,’ Skellen grunted.

  ‘In part, Sergeant,’ she replied. ‘But Jonathan Blaze wields that same expertise. He poses the same threat. If Parliament set out to eliminate Lazarus before he could join the Stafford garrison …’

  Forrester continued the thought, ‘Then they’ll harbour similar ambitions for Jonathan before he can bolster some other fortress.’

  ‘Oui,’ Lisette said, certainty lending steel to her voice. ‘Why kill one and leave the other?’

  ‘Of course, our assassin friend may not be in receipt of information regarding the elder brother,’ Forrester said brightly.

  ‘You feel certain of that?’ Lisette replied.

  Forrester’s sweaty jowls shook. ‘No.’

  ‘So I ride to Oxford before this Jonathan takes his leave.’

  Stryker placed a hand on her good shoulder, keeping her still with ease. ‘You cannot, Lisette. You are too weak. I’d wager you do not yet have the strength to control a horse. How might you take on this team of killers?’

  She threw him a glance of exasperation. ‘I am the Queen’s best agent, Stryker.’

  ‘Aye,’ he conceded, ‘but you are not yourself. Not yet. And these men you face are clearly no common brawlers.’

  As soon as the words left his mouth, Stryker regretted them. His single eye met Lisette’s blue gaze, and he knew she had knocked with her feisty talk and he had opened the door.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘You will go.’

  ‘Lisette, I—’

  ‘This assassin must be stopped,’ she interrupted, not allowing Stryker time to gather his thoughts. ‘If the Roundheads are willing to put their best men to the task of seeing Lazarus Blaze dead, then it makes sense that Jonathan is destined for a similar fate. And if that is so, then we must surely put our best men to the task of keeping him alive.’

  Stryker put a calloused hand to her pale cheek. ‘I came here to find you, Lisette. You are here. You are alive. That is enough.’ He wondered, then, if he should detail the exact nature of his current circumstances, but thought
better of it. She was weak enough as it was, without the added worry for Stryker’s new-found fugitive status.

  Lisette inspected her fingernails for a while. When she looked up at him, her eyes did not carry their usual fire, but were distant and glazed with sadness. ‘Lazarus Blaze was in my care, under my protection, when he died,’ she said softly. ‘I am alive now, and I thank the Holy Mother for it, but I will die of shame if Jonathan Blaze is murdered too. Please, mon amour, I am begging you. You must go. You must find him. Protect him.’

  ‘He was a conceited bastard,’ Stryker offered in a last, futile retort.

  Lisette punched his chest playfully. ‘You are a child sometimes.’

  She began to fall forwards, and at first Stryker thought she was collapsing into unconsciousness, but, when he caught her in his arms, she tilted back her head to kiss him.

  ‘Will you not do this?’ she said when their lips finally parted, keeping her mouth close so that he could feel the warm breath on his face. ‘For me?’

  Stryker gritted his teeth hard. He was angry with himself. Angry because, for all his prowess in battle, for all the accolades he had won with lead and steel, and for all the danger he had faced without so much as a second thought, he knew that, in the face of Lisette Gaillard, he was as weak as an August breeze.

  ‘I’m not certain you’ve thought this through, Stryker,’ Captain Lancelot Forrester said as they paced quickly along one of the dingy corridors that bisected the Bishop’s Palace. ‘With all due respect, sir,’ he added quickly.

  They were on their way to petition Philip Stanhope, the Earl of Chesterfield and commander of the king’s Lichfield garrison. With Lisette clearly on the road to recovery, Stryker had decided that it was time to honour the promise he had made to Sir Richard Dyott. With a large force on the march from Warwickshire, it was only a matter of time before their attention turned to Lichfield. Time to prepare the town’s defences was rapidly dwindling.