Andrew Burton near pissed his breeches when his unsheathed blade had brushed some of the bracken within which he was concealed. To his horror, the noise had carried to the Roundhead gunman, and that man’s reflexes were proven impressively sharp when Burton saw the pistol levelled almost precisely in line with his face.
So Burton had tossed the sword away, hoping that his pursuer would not see its path of flight, only hear when it came to rest. As soon as the man’s eyes darted sideways to assess that new sound, Burton had burst forth from the bracken like an avenging angel, clattering into the Parliamentarian with all his weight, all the force and fury he could muster, knocking the man to the floor and the breath from his lungs.
It was not easy to keep the stunned body beneath his own, not least because Burton could only bring one arm to bear, but he was bigger and more powerful than the man who had hitherto been his hunter, and he dug his knees between his enemy’s shoulder blades and clamped his effective hand on the back of the jerking skull.
Burton’s reactions were instinctive, thinking only of avoiding a pistol ball in the face, and he had certainly not planned to choke the Roundhead soldier to death. But as the thrashing became weaker, and the resistance gradually dissolved into a series of pathetic twitches, the lieutenant realized that was exactly what he had achieved.
Burton waited, unwilling to relent until he could be sure of the outcome. He pressed down on the back of the man’s head, driving the face into the soaking mud, grinding nose, eyes, chin ever downwards with his last ounce of strength. After what must have been several minutes, he sat back, hands shaking with shock and relief. It was over.
Lichfield, Staffordshire, 3 March 1643
‘They’ll join me any moment.’
The thick bristles of Major Henning Edberg’s moustache twitched upwards as his lip rose in an unpleasant smirk. ‘Your lackeys?’ He shook his head. ‘Not before I am done, Captain.’
Stryker’s hands were raised, palms open and vertical, his eye darting between the poised blade and its malevolent master. ‘You would murder me here? In the Close?’
‘Self-defence,’ Edberg said, evidently sensing the surprise in Stryker’s voice. ‘You came at me, but were bested by the superior swordsman.’
‘But why?’
‘It is my duty,’ Edberg replied casually.
Stryker almost laughed. ‘To arrest me, perhaps, but why is it your bloody duty to see me dead, Major? I do not believe the Prince ordered such a course.’
Edberg’s face was set hard, though Stryker saw a spark of amusement in the blue eyes. ‘The Prince,’ he spat on the floor between them. ‘Irrelevant.’
Stryker was taken aback. ‘Irrelevant? It was he ordered my imprisonment!’
‘And he wants you returned, for sure,’ Edberg replied, ‘but not dead.’
‘Then what—’ A thought came to Stryker then, and the question remained stillborn on his lips. ‘Crow.’
‘Colonel Crow,’ Edberg corrected, ‘gives me my orders, not that fucking Bohemian popinjay. And the colonel says you are a devil. He wants your hide for a new scabbard.’
So, Stryker thought, Crow had gone above Rupert’s head in this, dispatching Edberg on the pretence of recapturing the fugitives, but all the while expecting their deaths. ‘Forrester and Skellen will likely arrive together, Edberg. The two will be a tougher proposition than I alone.’
‘Colonel Crow gives not a cat’s arse for them, Stryker. Only you.’
‘I do not understand,’ Stryker began, but Edberg jerked the blade forwards suddenly, so that he could feel the cold steel just below his chin.
‘You will die and I will receive praise for disposing of a dangerous criminal. But before then …’ The tall Swede’s gaze moved away from Stryker, and the captain realized that he was staring at the infirmary door, some ten paces further along the corridor. Edberg looked back to his captive and winked, ‘I shall take a far more pleasurable reward.’
‘I am no man’s reward, you hog-stinking bloody Viking,’ Lisette Gaillard’s voice rang loud in the enclosed space.
The noise startled Stryker, for he could not see where the Frenchwoman stood, and the sound had not come from the direction of the infirmary. But Henning Edberg seemed even more surprised. The big dragoon’s eyes, like bright globes of glass in the gloom, were expanding in circumference, widening with shock and horror. Stryker watched as his frame seemed to stiffen and his jaw quivered as he gritted his teeth.
‘Lower your sword, sir,’ Lisette’s confident voice ordered. ‘Unless you wish to be gut-shot here and now.’
Stryker looked on as the stunned Edberg reluctantly dropped the long blade, letting it clatter on to the stone floor at his feet. ‘Romish bitch.’
Like a ghostly apparition, Lisette emerged from behind Edberg. She was deathly pale, the white smock she wore only serving to increase the wraithlike appearance, but the dag in her hand was primed and steady. ‘I have been called worse,’ she said, moving round to stand beside the Englishman.
Edberg seemed to be weighing up his chances. His venom-filled gaze raked across Lisette and Stryker in turn, studying for weaknesses. Eventually his eyes met the gun’s black barrel. They rested there for a heartbeat, eventually ascertaining that it was steady as rock. ‘Shoot then, whore.’
Lisette raised the dag so that the shot would pulverize the dragoon’s face.
‘No,’ Stryker said, raising a hand to take hold of Lisette’s arm. ‘Not like this.’
Lisette shot him a withering glance. ‘Merde, Stryker, he would have run you through. Let me kill the bastard.’
Stryker shook his head. ‘Killing is what caused this mess in the first place.’ For a moment the Frenchwoman did not move as she decided whether or not to obey. ‘I insist,’ Stryker added, applying pressure to her forearm.
Edberg stooped to pick up his sword as the weapon was lowered. Wordlessly, but with an audible out-breath, he backed away quickly, slipping into the shadows of the palace complex.
Lisette glared angrily at Stryker, muttered something rancorous in her native tongue, and promptly collapsed into his arms.
The new dawn did not herald a lifting of the siege. The night’s action, it transpired, was a fleeting attack made by a local force of Cavaliers.
‘Blind Hastings,’ the earl’s man, Simeon Barkworth, explained as Stryker, Forrester and Skellen met him in the central tower. The little Scot’s face flushed suddenly and he looked out on to the streets and houses. ‘I—that is to say—’
‘That is to say,’ Forrester interrupted, shooting Stryker a playful wink, ‘that he resembles our good captain?’
Barkworth could not bear to meet any of their gazes. ‘I am sorry. A poor choice of words. It is simply what people call him.’
‘No matter,’ Stryker said, remembering his accidental betrayal of emotion at hearing John Dyott’s common name and promising himself to lock such feeling deep down this time. ‘Is he like me?’
‘Colonel Hastings lost an eye at the war’s outset, sir, yes. Wears a patch now.’
‘What of him?’ Skellen said impatiently.
‘He leads a troop of horse in the region,’ Barkworth said, ignoring Skellen’s curt tone. ‘Spends his time harrying Roundheads wherever he might find them. The skirmish last night was his work.’
‘But he did not win?’ Stryker asked.
Barkworth winced. ‘Hastings is not famed for standing firm, sir. He lives by his wits, hits the enemy hard and retires to fight another day. His purpose was to inflict casualties, not liberate the Close.’
‘Then we are no nearer an end,’ said Stryker, gazing out on Lichfield’s streets. He raked his gaze from right to left, starting at the Bishop’s Pool, crossing the marketplace and Sadler Street behind it, then to Dam Street. There was plenty of commotion, for the townsfolk were forced to continue their ordinary lives while the besiegers settled to their task, but there was also the busy comings and goings of soldiers. St Mary’s, the cathedral’s smaller
cousin, seemed a hive of activity, purple-coated soldiers moving in and out, issuing orders, performing musket and pike evolutions. But this morning it was not simply men in uniforms of purple and buff leather that scurried like ants. There were other men now, most clothed in coats of grey. Reinforcements, Barkworth explained, had come with Brooke’s replacement.
‘Sir John Gell,’ Barkworth said. ‘He was a great enemy of my earl and his father before him. It was the bastard Gell who chased us from Bretby Park.’
Stryker looked at the little man. ‘I’d wager you would not have abandoned the house,’ he said wryly.
‘Perhaps not,’ Barkworth conceded. ‘But it was not my order to give.’ He gazed down at the drilling Parliamentarians. ‘Gell is a real bastard. A bully of a man. A vicious piece of lamb’s puke with the morals of a gong scourer and the pretensions of a gentry cove. He is more Cavalier than the men you’ll find with the King in Oxford. If you see him, straight-backed and proud on his horse, and covered in gilt plate and silver lace …’
‘Shoot the bugger?’ Skellen said.
Barkworth nodded. ‘Shoot the bugger.’
‘Christ,’ Stryker said, staring out on the town but thinking of Lisette. Of how she had risked her own health to save him from Edberg.
‘Thank God you gave her that bloody pistol, eh?’ Forrester said, as if reading Stryker’s thoughts.
Stryker nodded. ‘After Brooke’s death, Edberg accosted me in the courtyard. There was something in his manner – something more dangerous than before. It made me think to give her a pistol.’
‘Just as well,’ Skellen said. His voice dropped suddenly so that Barkworth could not hear. ‘But we’re still stuck in this bloody place.’
The night’s exertions had taken a heavy toll on Lisette and now, with Chambers as attentive as ever, she was back asleep in the infirmary. This time, though, there was a pair of sentries at the door, ordered there by Barkworth.
‘I am sorry I could not do more,’ said the Scot. ‘Just as the earl requires the three of you at his disposal, he requires Edberg and his yellowcoats. He will ignore what transpires between you for the good of the garrison.’ Barkworth fell silent for perhaps a minute, before finally looking up at Stryker. ‘Sir,’ he said, his voice more sheepish than usual, ‘I have not had chance to thank you.’
Stryker looked away from the city to meet Barkworth’s sallow eyes, and thought of his vicious thrashing as he had dragged the enraged Scot away from the fight on Dam Street. ‘I saved you from your own stupidity.’
‘Aye,’ Barkworth murmured, cheeks red as he stared at the ground between them. ‘Thank you, anyway. And it was a pleasure fighting beside real soldiers again.’ He looked at Skellen. ‘Even this long streak o’ piss.’
Skellen snorted. ‘You ain’t half bad neither,’ he said turning his attention to the north-east, ‘for a stumpy lump o’ Scotch cow dung.’
Barkworth grinned and made to return the compliment, but immediately saw that Skellen was interested in something in the distance. ‘What is it?’
Skellen did not look round. ‘Movement.’ He pointed to a little church that rose from the fields beyond a vast body of water known as Stowe Pool. ‘A lot of movement. Out there.’
All eyes followed the sergeant’s lead. Brooke’s lads had garrisoned the church, but now their usual drilling was being augmented by teams of men carrying ladders to a point beside the church where they were depositing them in one large pile.
‘They’re preparing a storming party,’ Forrester voiced what all the others were thinking.
‘But they’ve already gone for us once, even hid behind women and chil’en, and got their arses tanned,’ Skellen replied.
‘They’re not going to scale the south wall,’ Stryker said quietly.
‘Aye, sir, you’re in the right of it,’ Barkworth agreed in his croaking tone. ‘It is as we feared. They’ve discovered the nature of our north wall. We must go tell the earl at once. Sir?’
Stryker was still staring down at Stowe church. Between that smaller building and the great cathedral there ran a single lane. After several seconds he turned to Barkworth. ‘That road,’ he said, indicating the lane and Stowe church beyond with an outstretched finger, ‘is barely visible beneath the trees.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Barkworth confirmed. ‘Gaia Lane is no more than an ancient track. It is sunk between high banks and overhung by thick branches.’
‘Then let us visit your earl. I believe we have our plan.’
Stryker ordered Sergeant Skellen to stay in the lofty vantage point, tasked with keeping an eye on the happenings at Stowe church, while the rest went to engage the earl.
Barkworth, the nimblest of the three, scurried down the steep spiral stairs like a rat down a drain, and was already explaining what they had seen to Stanhope by the time Stryker and Forrester had emerged from the cathedral.
To Stryker’s relief, Chesterfield’s jowls were wobbling in a vigorous nod. He went to approach the earl to finalise the plan, but was brought to a sudden halt by a great cry of alarm from the defenders at the walls.
‘Jesu, what now?’ Stryker hissed, as he climbed the ladders once again.
To his horror and surprise the Parliamentarians were advancing on the south gate once again. And once again they were cowering behind a mob of wailing women and children.
‘Have they not learned a single bloody thing?’ Forrester exclaimed. He was standing at Stryker’s side, mouth agape.
Stryker turned inwards, watching a group of musketeers make their way into the cathedral. They were doubtless en route to the central tower to play the role of snipers, just as he and the others had done during that first assault. He hoped those men could shoot well enough.
‘My lord, please!’ The voice belonged to Simeon Barkworth. The Scot was standing below the platform next to the Earl of Chesterfield, both peering through knots in the planks of the wooden gate as the action unfolded.
‘I will not risk civilian lives, Simeon!’ Chesterfield was saying.
Barkworth turned to his earl, arms gesticulating manically. ‘But it is not as before, sir. They’re moving quicker. Look, sir, there are no chains.’
Stryker peered back over the parapet and realized that the little man was right. This was not the painfully slow progress that had marked the previous day’s failed assault. The captives were unchained and moved at a rapid pace over the causeway, prodded onwards by the blades of snarling rebels. The enemy had clearly learned that to linger was to be shot.
‘They mean to burn the drawbridge, my lord!’ Barkworth was saying now, his voice urgent, beseeching.
It was then that Stryker saw the fiery iron pots carried by some of the rebels, flames licking hungrily over the tops of the dark vessels, and realized that they were brim full of blazing tar. ‘Jesu,’ he said, turning back to the nearest ladder and clambering down as fast as he could manage.
‘Let me out there, my lord!’ Barkworth was saying when Stryker reached him and the earl.
‘Are you mad, sir?’ Chesterfield exclaimed. ‘I’ll not drop the damned drawbridge!’
The attackers were at the gates now. One or two had been picked off by the snipers in the tower, but enough – perhaps thirty or forty – had made it to the great gate and its sturdy drawbridge. They were so close that the men above them could not lean far enough over the battlements to shoot down at them with any efficacy. The captives now cowered either side of the drawbridge, backs flush against the stone wall, weeping and screaming and praying, while the Roundheads stooped at the drawbridge’s base, setting their tar pots beside the timbers.
‘It is only a matter of time before the planks ignite!’ Stryker said, stepping between the earl and his personal guard. ‘If you do not drop it, my lord, the rebels will burn it to ashes, and then they will be through for certain. Let us attempt to preserve the Close, sir, at the very least.’
Stryker did not know whether it was a sudden understanding of the situation that stirred the ear
l to action, or whether it was the aggressiveness of his tone, but Chesterfield unexpectedly turned to the men manning the drawbridge. ‘Drop the bridge! Drop the bridge!’ He turned to Stryker. ‘Lay into them, Captain, yes?’ His fat hand grasped Stryker’s sleeve in an impressively strong grip. ‘If you fail in this, I will hold you personally responsible, sir.’
Stryker glanced at the hand, then up at Chesterfield’s dark eyes. ‘If I fail in this, I’ll be dead, my lord.’
He turned away. There were, he estimated, perhaps threescore of the earl’s men immediately at his disposal, the rest still crowded on the walls, firing down impotently at the invaders vertically below. He sucked air into his lungs and, as a great creak hailed the lowering of the drawbridge, bellowed into the cold air. ‘To me! To me! Out, out, out!’
The drawbridge smashed down on to the causeway, accompanied by the rapidly stunted cries of rebel soldiers caught beneath its terrible weight.
Stryker was first out, followed closely by Simeon Barkworth. He knew Forrester would be there amid the dozens that came in their wake, but could not see him.
It all happened so quickly that only a few of the defenders had stopped to load their muskets, so it was with swords drawn that Stryker’s improvised band of marauders met the first of the Parliament men.
Stryker almost ran on to a waiting blade, such was the speed at which he bounded towards the causeway. A stocky sergeant had levelled the tuck at his throat, and in his eagerness Stryker only just managed to duck below it. But duck he did, and his own weapon was stabbing at the man’s guts. The sergeant’s buff-coat was evidently of good quality, for the steel failed to penetrate, but the sheer weight of the blow forced him to double over and Stryker kicked him in the face.
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