Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

‘Not now, Forry,’ Stryker said mildly. ‘We can discuss it later.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Forrester murmured unhappily. He and Skellen were striding at Stryker’s flanks. ‘I’m simply a tad concerned at the thought of gallivanting down to Oxford in search of our petardier when in all likelihood we’ll be arrested as outlaws before we so much as lay eyes upon him.’

  Stryker stopped abruptly and fixed his eye on Forrester’s concerned face. ‘I said, we’ll talk about this later,’ he snapped. Forrester nodded mutely, but it was disappointment that clouded his expression rather than fear, and Stryker immediately felt ashamed. ‘I—I am—’

  Forrester shook his head quickly and offered a weak smile. ‘No, sir. I should not question you.’

  ‘Christ, Forry, can a man not apologize?’ Stryker said in exasperation. ‘You are right. I have not thought it through at all. But I—she—’

  Forrester held up a hand. ‘Say no more, Stryker. We all have a common vice, do we not? It is what makes us men.’

  Stryker began to walk on again. It was pathetic, he knew. But that did not change the fact that Lisette wanted his help, and he would rather die than turn his back. Somehow he would find a way to save Jonathan Blaze.

  ‘I am tired of this discussion, sir,’ the Earl of Chesterfield squawked. ‘I do not believe Parliament will send anyone to Lichfield. It is too small a morsel. And I do not have enough men to defend the city if the enemy were to come. No, Captain, we will hold the Close for the protection of those loyal to the Crown, and let the rebels pass us by.’

  Stryker stood in the same spot where he had first met the earl and his court. Once again, Stanhope was slouched in his large chair, gout-crippled leg thrust out in front. The earl’s retinue were present once again, and Stryker wondered whether they ever left him alone. ‘The enemy will come, sir. Lichfield may be small, but it is strategically crucial. Please, my lord, I urge you to make provision for an assault.’

  Chesterfield rolled his eyes. ‘Then what the devil would you have me do?’

  ‘Make the roads stronger, my lord,’ Stryker replied. He was careful to keep his voice respectful but firm. ‘It is important Lichfield does not fall. You must make the routes into the city difficult to break.’

  ‘Preposterous!’ Chesterfield spat. ‘You have seen my force, yes? Know the number I have, yes? To man the perimeter would spread ’em too damned thin.’

  ‘I do not urge you to man the entire perimeter, my lord. A large attacking force would have to come through one of the major high roads. Of which there are four, are there not?’

  The earl was unconvinced. ‘How will that aid our cause, sir?’

  ‘Prince Rupert leads his flying army to the south of here, my lord. It is large and formidable. Parliament must gather its strength to face him or he will lay waste to their towns. They cannot spare anything more than a regiment or two to engage Lichfield.’

  Chesterfield tilted his head back and brayed. ‘My God, man, but a regiment or two would destroy our little garrison, were we to engage them. Have you lost your wits?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Stryker replied calmly. ‘I simply make the point that such a force, though too large to engage in the field, could be well bloodied by determined snipers, if they are funnelled through the old town gates.’

  ‘Those gates are long crumbled, Captain.’

  ‘Aye, my lord, but the roads are still narrow where they once stood.’ He cast his mind back to the day he, Forrester, Skellen and Menjam had entered the town, forced as they were to pass through the constricted part of highway that once bisected the medieval walls. ‘Any rebel army would be forced to squeeze through them. If we have so much as a score of muskets trained on those narrow points, we’ll make the enemy think twice. It might even turn them back altogether. If we stay here in the Close, they will swarm into the city unhindered. And then we shall have no chance of escape. No chance of victory. And, crucially, no supplies.’

  The Earl of Chesterfield stared at Stryker for several moments. He clicked fat fingers suddenly, and the two mastiffs – Toad and Copper – came bounding to his side. As he stroked their sleek heads he chewed the inside of his mouth in thought. Eventually he looked up and nodded. ‘Thermopylae.’

  Stryker frowned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘We will do as you suggest, Captain.’

  Stryker caught the eye of a tall, brown-haired man standing half a dozen paces behind the earl. It was Sir Richard Dyott, and his grin was fuelled with a mixture of triumph and relief. Stryker made to smile back, but his eye was drawn to another movement, one at Chesterfield’s feet. The dogs were suddenly sniffing the air, their ears pricked up sharply. Stryker watched the animals for a heartbeat, wondering what might have startled them. A second later, the great oaken door swung open and a burly sentry came running into the chamber. Each stride was a jangling cacophony of metal, and all eyes turned at the disturbance.

  Chesterfield craned his large head to see beyond Stryker. ‘What is the meaning of this!’

  The sentry bowed briefly. ‘I am sorry, my lord.’

  ‘Well? What is it, man? Spit it out!’

  ‘Horsemen, my lord. King’s men. They say they must be granted entrance as a matter of urgency.’

  Chesterfield’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘A rebel trick, perhaps. They have credentials, yes?’

  ‘They do, sir.’

  ‘What regiment?’

  ‘Yellowcoats, my lord. Colonel Crow’s dragoons.’

  Forrester and Skellen were at Stryker’s heels as they strode through the palace’s hefty outer doorway and into the wan light beyond. The palace was in the north-east corner of the Close, and between that grand group of buildings and the south-west gate sat the vast cathedral. They paced quickly into the open courtyard, so that the cathedral was on their right, and made their way to the as yet invisible gate.

  ‘What the bloody hell are we going to do?’ Forrester said rapidly.

  Stryker kept his gaze in front, always wary of a vengeful tide of blade-wielding dragoons rounding the cathedral’s corner. ‘I don’t know. We are captured, Forry.’

  ‘Zounds, those bloody Potts brothers have a case to answer,’ Forrester rasped bitterly.

  Stryker stopped in his tracks, fixing his friend with a hard stare. ‘That’s just it. They cannot answer. They’re dead.’

  Forrester was indignant. ‘And they deserved their fate!’

  ‘The fact remains I killed them. I was found guilty of the act, and I fled my punishment. I have no defence.’

  ‘And it was I set you free,’ Forrester said, his voice suddenly hollow.

  ‘Aye, and I thank you for that. I would not have found Lisette without you. But we are out of time.’

  The sound of hoofbeats on cobbles, like an avalanche of boulders down a hillside, reached them in roaring crescendo, and they turned their attention back in the direction of the southwest. The gate itself was still hidden from view behind the squat bulk of the cathedral, but they did not need to move another step. The first of the troop rounded the corner, cantering in a steady stream, blades sheathed but backs straight. The poise of men with purpose. At their head rode a young cornet, his colour of yellow and blue fluttering bright above him.

  ‘Is it?’ Forrester asked quickly.

  ‘Aye, they’re Crow’s men. It is his colour.’

  ‘Perchance it is coincidence,’ Forrester said, though it was clear the optimism did not sit naturally in his voice. ‘Crow’s troop may simply be sent here as reinforcements.’

  ‘Why send horsemen to garrison a fort?’ said Skellen.

  Forrester’s grimace was answer enough.

  ‘Besides,’ Stryker said, ‘it’s not his full troop. There might be twenty there. Twenty-five, no more. This is a force with a particular task.’

  Forrester began to step backwards. ‘I know what that goddamned task is.’

  Stryker turned, grasped a fistful of Forrester’s buff-coat and held him firm. ‘We will not run.’

 
A flash of panic streaked across Forrester’s reddening cheeks, and he resisted his friend’s grip. ‘I have no wish to be lynched, Stryker,’ he hissed desperately, and a hand fell instinctively to his sword-hilt. ‘Silent bravery will see you swing. We must fight our way out!’

  ‘And where would you have us go?’ Stryker replied levelly.

  ‘We’re trapped in this fucking place,’ Skellen said in his unflappable tone.

  Forrester’s resistance faltered, his shoulders sagging, defiance deflating like a set of broken bellows. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and moved to Stryker’s side in silent resignation.

  The yellowcoated dragoons swarmed towards them. A big man, blond moustaches visible behind the steel face bars of his helmet, was beside his cornet, bellowing orders at the men in his wake. When his gaze fell upon Stryker, he drew his sword, levelling the blade in the officer’s direction, its point guiding the dragoons to their target.

  ‘I know him,’ Stryker said quietly.

  The dragoons came on, parting left and right as they drew close, sweeping around the three men – three fugitives – in a wide, impenetrable circle of hooves and steel.

  Flaming torches and fat beeswax candles lit the Great Hall as dusk lengthened the shadows all around them. The Earl of Chesterfield’s court seemed to be more crowded than ever, and Stryker, standing once again before the earl’s creaking seat, supposed it was a reaction to the news of his impending arrest.

  ‘He is a fugitive, my lord. A criminal.’ The speaker was the large, fair-whiskered man who had ridden at the head of the dragoons. ‘I am come to arrest him.’ He was a man of powerful frame and confident manner, despite the fact that his followers had been forbidden from entering the Great Hall. The earl had not wished a score of armed strangers in his midst, so they were left to tend their horses out in the Close, while their leader was allowed to explain himself.

  Chesterfield puffed out his cheeks in astonishment, a gesture he had made a dozen times since the yellowcoats’ arrival. ‘So you say, Major.’ He looked at Stryker. ‘This is true?’

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  ‘As are his two men,’ the accuser went on. ‘Stryker killed two of my comrades back in Cirencester. One an officer.’

  Stryker turned on the dragoon. ‘In self-defence.’

  The big man ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the earl. ‘There was a fracas, my lord, but this man overstepped the mark. He and his sergeant were charged with two counts of murder.’

  ‘Jesu, Edberg, what is wrong with you?’ Stryker hissed.

  The big Swede finally met Stryker’s gaze, sucking his moustaches nonchalantly. ‘Colonel Crow pays my shillings. I follow his orders.’ He looked at the earl again. ‘Captain Stryker and Sergeant Skellen were found guilty, my lord.’

  Chesterfield’s eyes widened. ‘Guilty? By whom?’

  ‘Prince Rupert of the Rhine, my lord. General of Horse. But they escaped prison,’ he turned to point at Forrester, standing with Skellen some half-dozen paces behind Stryker, ‘with the aid of this man.’

  Chesterfield stared at each man in turn. As his eyes flicked from one face to the next, his fleshy cheeks visibly reddened, anger beginning to well up like a fountain. ‘You—you come here, yes?’ he eventually said to Stryker, fury barely controlled. ‘To my garrison, yes? And you are outside the law? Common criminals. Murderers!’

  ‘I am sent to Lichfield on behalf of my commander, Colonel Artemas Crow,’ Edberg continued in the lingering silence that followed the earl’s enraged outburst, ‘to bring the fugitives to justice. I work on highest authority. The Prince himself.’

  ‘This is absurd!’ All eyes went to where Forrester was standing, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Captain Stryker acted in honourable self-defence in the face of two base fellows intent upon stealing his horse in the chaos after the town’s fall. Colonel Crow’s anger, and his thirst for retribution, far outweighs the initial crime. He has some personal vendetta against the Captain, I swear it!’

  With sudden ferocity, Edberg rounded on him. ‘Speak more and I’ll cut out your fat tongue!’

  Forrester was not cowed. ‘Make your most valiant attempt, sir, do. We’ll see who is left able to chatter.’

  The major’s stare seemed to bore through Forrester, but the captain held his nerve and his gaze. Eventually Edberg turned back to address the earl. ‘The General of Horse ordered me to bring these men back – or see them dead – my lord. That is what I must do.’

  ‘Be my guest, bull-witted dullard,’ Forrester sniped again.

  Edberg visibly bristled. He took a step towards Forrester.

  ‘Enough!’ Chesterfield blurted, exasperated and furious in equal measure. He gave a rapid nod to his guards, the only armed men allowed in the room, and two of them paced forwards threateningly. ‘Another word from either of you and you shall both lose your tongues!’

  More silence followed. When Chesterfield had taken several deep breaths, he spoke again, calmer this time. He clicked his fingers at the dragoon. ‘Edberg, approach and show me your papers.’

  Edberg did as he was ordered. ‘It is mere formality, my lord. You will see they are complete.’

  Chesterfield ran beady eyes over the paper. ‘So it would appear.’ He looked up, meeting Edberg’s expectant stare. ‘But a formality it is not, Major. Far from it. You see, your quarry here possesses a similar parchment, beseeching I lend assistance to its bearer without delay or hindrance.’

  Edberg was unmoved. ‘A forgery, my lord.’

  Sir Richard Dyott had come to the earl’s side. ‘Then it was a good forgery,’ he said smoothly, ‘for it carried Prince Rupert’s personal seal.’

  Chesterfield nodded slowly. ‘It did, Sir Richard. That it did.’ He looked at Edberg, who was beginning to tug at the matted ends of his moustache. ‘Sir Richard is a lawyer by profession, Major. I trust him entirely in such matters.’

  Edberg looked sideways at Stryker. ‘You would have him remain at large, my lord?’ His voice sounded tense for the first time.

  Silence followed. The courtiers were alert with anticipation, Stryker held his breath, and the Earl of Chesterfield seemed to study the eaves as if searching for inspiration. It seemed like hours before the latter spoke. ‘No, Major Edberg. I would not. Captain Stryker and his men will return to the infirmary, and there they will remain under guard until I have sent word to Prince Rupert. I will let him resolve this.’

  Kenilworth, Warwickshire, 1 March 1643

  Major Zacharie Girns, in his room on the upper floor of the Two Virgins tavern, knelt beside the window and prayed. He had been awake since dawn, watching and waiting for his prey to come to him, always confident that the information would prove accurate. But now, as the afternoon began to drag into evening, the first cracks of doubt were beginning to open in his hitherto granite-hewn self-assurance. So he had decided to pray until God rectified matters, as Girns knew He would.

  Girns heard them before he saw them. The jangle of bridles, the clomp of hooves, the chatter of men who did not suspect a threat this chilly morning. Girns clambered to his feet, though he stayed low against the windowsill to remain unseen, and peered right, studying the darkening High Street. There, perhaps a hundred paces along the sodden road, was the group he had been expecting.

  A rapid knock at his door precipitated the arrival of Trim and Slater. ‘Sir!’ one blurted excitedly as they bounded into the room like excited hounds before a hunt.

  Girns did not turn. ‘I know.’ He watched the slow-moving procession for a few moments, counting them as they resolved from the gloom, ensuring none had gone ahead to scout the route. ‘All present and as anticipated.’ Finally he faced his men. ‘Fetch your weapons. Let us get to work.’

  Lieutenant Andrew Burton rode at the small column’s head. Bruce, his chestnut gelding, loped steadily, and he whispered soothing words of encouragement into the beast’s pricked ear, adding a mutter of thanks to God for guiding his father’s hand in the horse’s purchase.
Bruce’s easy strength and sturdy character had proven a true blessing since Burton had lost most of the strength in his right arm. A more skittish animal would have been impossible to control with just one hand on the reins.

  ‘We are here?’ Jonathan Blaze, master fire-worker and, as far as Burton was concerned, expert irritant, yelped from somewhere to the rear.

  Burton twisted back to catch his eye. ‘Indeed, sir. Kenilworth it is.’ He looked along the High Street to read the small wooden sign that was placed at the roadside. ‘The Two Virgins,’ he said, raising his voice for all to hear. ‘I would water the horses a while before we push on to the castle.’

  Blaze spurred his mount from the back of the party to draw up beside Burton. ‘Christ, but I’m exhausted! I wouldn’t mind a drop of ale either.’

  ‘The respite is for the horses, Master Blaze,’ Burton said patiently. ‘But you’re perfectly entitled to sup while we wait.’

  ‘Good news, then,’ Blaze said. He glanced back at Rontry, who had not followed his master from the rearward position. ‘Must I not keep up my strength, Jes, eh? If I’m to win this war for His Majesty.’

  Jesper Rontry offered a weak smile. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Quite right!’ Blaze bellowed in ebullience. ‘Quite right!’ He looked at Burton wolfishly. ‘And you will join me for a drink, Lieutenant?’

  Burton shook his head. ‘Drink has done me great harm of late.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Will you return to your place, sir?’ It was phrased as a question, for Burton knew better than to offend Blaze’s inflated sense of self-importance, but he kept his tone deliberately firm.

  Blaze’s open face contorted. ‘I seem to spend my life humouring you, Lieutenant. It is becoming tiresome, to say the very least.’

  ‘You know it is for your safety,’ Burton said, repeating the explanation for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Blaze retorted with a wearied wave of the hand, as though he were swotting away a horsefly.

  ‘You and Mister Rontry must stay behind the six of us,’ Burton went on unperturbed, indicating the five armed horsemen at his flanks, ‘and in front of the rearguard.’ That rearguard was made up of two of Burton’s best charges. They were positioned to guard against any attack from behind the group.