Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  Slater gazed around the little structure, unfastening the ties of his buff-coat after the long, sweat-inducing ride. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now?’ Girns replied, turning the key in the iron lock. He turned to face the room, casting a look of pure acidity at Blaze. ‘Now this Romish blood-sucker will recant his ways.’

  ‘Recant?’ Slater said dubiously. ‘I thought we was going to slit his gizzard.’

  ‘We shall, Thomas, if he does not recant.’

  Girns drew his sword, the sudden metallic rasp causing the others to flinch, and strode along the short nave to the wooden cross that formed the chapel’s altar. Without word or warning, the tall major leant across the rail and swung the blade in a great arc, face tight with determination, arms moving with practised speed and power. The sword connected with the wood at the point where vertical and horizontal piece connected. It scythed diagonally through the cross as though it were pure water, cleaving the top away with such force that the blade did not stop until it met with the floor, sending a shower of sparks in all directions.

  Girns stared at the altar that was now just a sharpened stake thrusting out from the flagstones. ‘Graven images will be torn down, praise God,’ he rasped, his breathing suddenly laboured.

  ‘Jesu, Zacharie,’ Blaze whispered.

  ‘You mean to tell me all this ’as been to turn this bugger Puritan?’ Slater said, his voice a mix of incredulity and rising vexation.

  Girns turned slowly. ‘Be still, Tom,’ he ordered, sheathing the blade, ‘and take care of your vile language. Is there a higher purpose than to bring a man to God? Especially one so talented.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Major,’ Slater hissed, anger finally outweighing respect for the sallow-faced officer, ‘we ain’t goin’ for Luke’s reward, are we?’

  Girns rounded on his skinny subordinate, lurching forwards to clasp a bunch of Slater’s collar in a gloved fist. ‘That is the last time you curse or blaspheme in my presence, Thomas.’ He released his grip suddenly, sending Slater sprawling on the straw at his feet. ‘If Blaze recants and joins our righteous cause, he may live. If not, we will shoot him dead and claim Sir Samuel Luke’s generous incentive.’

  ‘I shall not—’ Blaze began, though the bluster was punctured from his voice as he beheld the threat in Girns’s face.

  ‘You will recognize the righteousness of our fight,’ Girns hissed with sudden fury, ‘and sovereignty of the Parliament, or, by God, it will be the worse for you!’

  Blaze’s blue eyes met the green of his captor, and, for several seconds, they simply stared. ‘What has happened to you, Zacharie?’ the former said eventually.

  ‘Do not think I will hesitate to—’

  ‘That is not what we agreed,’ another voice sounded from the corner of the room.

  All eyes turned to where Jesper Rontry stood.

  ‘Jes?’ Blaze said quietly. ‘It is not what who agreed?’

  Rontry looked up at his master then, eyes sorrowful. ‘I have been with you for years, sir. Ever at your side. Ever servile. Ever attentive. And what do you give me in return?’

  Blaze stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. ‘I—’

  ‘Nothing,’ Rontry went on remorselessly. ‘You gave me nothing. Not a word of kindness or affection.’

  Blaze could not keep his mouth from lolling open. His face flushed and it seemed for a moment as though he might faint. At length the big man steadied himself, but when he spoke his voice was barely audible. ‘You betrayed me?’

  ‘He did.’ Girns spoke for the servant. ‘You and Lazarus.’

  Blaze did not move. ‘Is this true?’

  Jesper Rontry scratched at his bald pate. He cleared his throat and adjusted his stance. And then he nodded.

  ‘Sweet Lord,’ Blaze murmured.

  ‘Rontry and I have been in communication for some time,’ Girns explained, triumph running like a vein of granite through his words. ‘His information has proven invaluable.’

  Blaze could not tear his gaze away from Rontry. ‘You warned him of our journey to Kenilworth?’

  Rontry remained silent, so Girns spoke for him again. ‘And Lazarus’s journey to Stafford.’

  ‘My God,’ Blaze whispered. ‘Such betrayal for—for the want of a kind word or two?’

  Rontry peered back at Blaze through tear-filled eyes. ‘A kind word? Still you do not understand. It was – it is – so much more than that.’

  ‘I knew Lazarus would never recant his Popery,’ Girns intervened, ‘nor fight against his king, so I was forced to dispatch him before he damaged the rebellion. But you are different. You would betray your king and your faith to save your own skin.’ He gave a small grunt of laughter. ‘Ironic, is it not, that your innate cowardice might be the route to your salvation?’

  ‘You presume too much,’ Blaze replied.

  ‘I thought he was going to die,’ muttered Rontry, studying the ground again. ‘That was the agreement. Blaze’s death and a share of the money.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Girns replied, keeping his own eyes squarely on Blaze.

  ‘Why not?’ Slater spat the words. He had risen to his feet now and was advancing quickly.

  Girns spun around, drawing his sword again when he saw the fury on Slater’s face.

  ‘Why the fucking hell not, Major?’ Slater went on regardless. ‘We were to kill the bastard and get the money. Why spare him now?’

  Girns suddenly lunged.

  The steel plunged deep into the soft flesh of Slater’s stomach, and the young man pitched forward, hands clasped at his destroyed guts, blood pumping freely between his fingers.

  ‘I told you not to swear again, Slater.’ Girns drew a pistol with his free hand, levelling it at Blaze. ‘It is loaded. Do not think to do anything rash. To be gut-shot is a painful way to die.’

  ‘Why?’ The speaker was Thomas Slater. He was curled on the flagstones beside the vast pile of dirty hay, lying in his own blood as it pooled around him in an expanding lake of scarlet. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

  Girns opened his mouth to speak, but Slater let out a deep moan. His face was as grey as the dawn outside, and his lips drew back in a ghoulish mask as agony racked his reed-thin body. And then he was still.

  ‘You never told him?’ Blaze said, staring down in horror at the newly made cadaver.

  Girns looked up and shook his head.

  ‘Told him what?’ said Rontry from his shadowy corner.

  Blaze stared at his treacherous servant. ‘This is not about money, Jes. Nor revenge. It never was.’

  Near Appleby Magna, Derbyshire, 7 March 1643

  ‘The horses were kindly provided by Richard Gunn,’ Abel Black chirped from atop his grey mount.

  They were riding east, because Gell, Black reckoned, would assume they’d have headed either south to Oxford or north to Stafford. East, he said, would throw the rebels off the scent.

  ‘Richard Gunn the butcher?’ Forrester asked in surprise.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Stryker said, cantering at Black’s left side, so that he could keep him on his sighted flank. ‘He’s not a real butcher?’

  Black gave his high-pitched laugh. ‘Oh, he is a butcher, Captain, as God is my witness. But he also works for me.’

  ‘Is he really your cousin?’

  Black shook his head. ‘Alas, no. A good man, though. We keep up the facade because it suits my purposes.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘To move freely around the country, of course. I have such people all over England and Wales. And France too, for that matter.’

  ‘You are a spy?’ Lisette asked.

  Black looked across at the Frenchwoman. ‘Of sorts, my dear. I have served the Queen ever since she married our good King. My coat fastens over a number of duties. My nominal rank is Colonel, but I am sometime servant, sometime cook, sometime personal guard, soldier, sailor, messenger and, on occasion, spy.’

  ‘I do not know you,’ Lisette said incredulously.

>   ‘Nor I you,’ Black replied. ‘The Queen strives to build a more mature intelligence service than the amateurish fumblings directed by Luke and Hudson. She would return to the days of Walsingham. The first step on that road cannot be taken while all intelligencers are known to one another.’

  ‘Then how did you find us?’ Stryker asked abruptly. They had spent the hours before daybreak explaining their own business: Lisette’s ill-fated mission with Blaze and her near mortal wound; Stryker’s search for her and the subsequent siege, although Stryker had left out the killings at Cirencester, and also the fact that a vengeful dragoon had been sent to kill him. ‘Why were you even looking for us?’

  Black’s small, twitching eyes flickered to meet the face of each person in turn. ‘It was pure accident, I freely admit. I mentioned our previous encounter to the Queen.’

  ‘Wait!’ Lisette interrupted, her voice shrill with excitement. ‘Her Majesty is in England?’

  Black beamed. ‘That she is, mademoiselle. Landed in Yorkshire at the end of last month.’

  ‘Praise the Holy Mother,’ Lisette whispered, closing her eyes.

  ‘You mentioned our encounter?’ Stryker prompted impatiently.

  ‘Ah yes!’ Black replied, his attention returning from Lisette’s reverie. ‘I recounted the ambush on the Lechlade Road, and that you kind fellows rescued me.’

  ‘But that does not explain your presence here,’ Forrester said. ‘We were using false names.’

  ‘Of course you were. I knew it as soon as we met. So I listened close, hoping to discover your real names and intentions. Eventually I heard you say you were looking for someone named Lisette. It meant nothing to me, but, seeing as you uttered it furtively, suggesting that Lisette, alone, was not an alias, I thought to mention it to Her Majesty.’

  ‘And she knew it was me,’ Lisette said.

  Black shook his head. ‘Not for certain. But how many Lisettes are there in England? And the Queen knew you had been deployed in the Midlands by Prince Rupert, and had already read in his despatches that he had—mislaid you.’ He looked across at Stryker. ‘When I described your—features—it confirmed who you were, Captain, for you are known to the Queen. Your association with Mademoiselle Gaillard is also known, so, of course, it proved to the Queen that the Lisette you sought would be our Lisette. That knowledge alone, though fascinating, did not cause us any great concern, but then we heard Lichfield was under siege.’ He gave a modest flap of the hand. ‘The Queen wished Lisette kept safe, and I owed you my life. We both had an interest in effecting a rescue. So here I am.’

  ‘Why not send a regiment?’ Stryker asked dubiously. ‘The Queen had an army with her when last I heard.’

  ‘Tell me her convoy did not fall foul of the North Sea gales,’ said Forrester.

  Black shook his head vigorously. ‘No, not a bit of it. The entire convoy made the crossing successfully, thank God, though not without a few little trials. But the Queen would rendezvous with the Earl of Newcastle at York. They will march south together. Besides, you have spent your fair share of time in Lichfield. You know that one man with knowledge of the city’s geography has a better chance of getting across the wall than an entire army operating in ignorance. I left Bridlington immediately, hoping and praying I would reach the city before Lord Brooke broke through.’

  ‘Brooke’s dead,’ Stryker said.

  ‘I know. A fact that will suit his replacement.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Sir John Gell is a seeker of renown, Captain Stryker. Cold, brutal and desperate for glory, he will doubtless let it be known that the fall of Lichfield is down to him.’ Black looked ahead at the distant hills. The dawn sun was creeping above them, like an extra, shimmering, hillock, and he was forced to squint as he gauged the terrain. ‘And that will be useful for our flight, for such a determined cultivator of publicity will not wish it known that he let four Cavalier prisoners escape from right under his nose. He’ll pretend it never happened.’

  ‘Which means we can stop ridin’ into this sun?’ Skellen asked.

  ‘You have it, Sergeant,’ Black exclaimed. ‘I believe we have ridden this way long enough. It is time we parted.’

  ‘We?’ Stryker echoed the word.

  ‘Of course,’ Black said casually. ‘The Generalissima would recall Mademoiselle Gaillard forthwith.’ He twisted, saddle creaking, to meet Lisette’s quizzical gaze. ‘She thinks a great deal of you, and, after your evident tribulations suffered under Rupert’s command, she no longer trusts her nephew to—wield—you correctly.’

  ‘I—’ Lisette began in a voice full of desperation, ‘I cannot.’

  ‘And you, Captain,’ Black went on, ignoring the Frenchwoman’s stuttering reticence, ‘will wish to head south, I suspect. The Queen told me you are Mowbray’s, yes?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Stryker said, not wishing to mention the fact that a return to his regiment would probably see him back in prison; or worse.

  ‘Well, it would seem most prudent for you to go direct to Oxford. If Mowbray’s Foot aren’t there, then you will at least discover where they can be found. And you’ll be needing new weapons and kit, too. All of which can be found in the King’s blossoming new capital.’

  Stryker nodded his acquiescence, but Lisette was not so easily commanded. ‘I cannot,’ she was saying, louder this time. ‘I must make for Oxford also.’ She stared from Black to Stryker. ‘I must find Jonathan Blaze. Make amends.’

  ‘Blaze is not your responsibility,’ Colonel Black said firmly. ‘The Generalissima requires your presence at York, so York is where you shall go.’

  She looked again at Stryker, her blue eyes wide, pleading. Stryker tugged at his horse’s reins and the animal dropped back so that it was in step with Lisette’s. ‘You cannot argue. It is the Queen’s order,’ he said, then leaned across suddenly to whisper, ‘but you heard the colonel. I am to go to Oxford.’

  Lisette stared at him for a heartbeat, the flash of understanding registering in her eyes. ‘But you are hunted men, Stryker,’ she said, equally as quietly. ‘Oxford is the lion’s den.’

  ‘Edberg thinks we are dead, or will be by dawn. We can’t go strolling into Oxford, admittedly, but nor will they be actively looking for us.’

  Lisette leaned over, kissing him hard, her tongue lambent and exhilarating against his. When she straightened up, she whispered, ‘Merci, mon amour.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Brocton, Staffordshire, 9 March 1643

  It was night, and the chapel was dark and cold and dank. Jonathan Blaze watched the beetle with a level of focus he might previously have thought impossible. He followed its progress over the tiny grains of dust and ragged strands of mouldering hay, studied its rapid legs, felt every miniature hill and valley it was forced to negotiate. He watched the scuttling creature with this intensity, because it took him away from the disused chapel, far away from the smell of mildew and soil, piss and blood.

  But every so often he had no choice but to immerse himself in the terrible, agonizing present. Every time he went to urinate and the bruises at his stomach and ribs made it feel as though he passed shards of jagged glass. Every time he licked dry lips and the sear of broken teeth jarred at his mind and soul. And every time he went to grasp something with hands that were now nothing but raw, fingerless stumps. Zacharie Girns, a man he had never thought to see again, had brought him to a place built for heaven, and shown him hell itself.

  He glanced across at the inert lump of flesh that had once been Thomas Slater. The cadaver lay where it had fallen, the stink of blood and putrefying flesh hanging ripe in the locked building. Soon, Blaze knew, there would be a second body. The thought had terrified him at first, but now, after two days of torment, he longed for the release death would bring.

  Blaze prayed silently, though he felt there were no more ways he could verbalize the plea. God was simply not listening. He wept.

  Oxford, 11 March 1643

  The clerk was hunched over his cluttered desk in t
he New Inn Hall office. He rubbed his hands together to force some cold into the long, blue-knuckled fingers, and picked up his quill. He squinted at the square of vellum laid out before him, scratching the quill in deliberate motions, careful not to waste both ink and material with a sloppy mistake.

  A knock at the door startled him. ‘Jesu!’ he hissed, dabbing his already blackened sleeve on the vellum, battling in vain to blot the black specks that had shot out across it as his hand jerked in alarm.

  The door swung open and the unwanted visitor strode into the room.

  ‘Yes?’ the clerk snapped irritably, not deigning to look up.

  ‘My apologies, sir, but this is the office of Uriah Redpith, is it not?’

  The clerk sniffed back mucus from his long red nose. ‘What do you want?’

  The stranger took the non-committal response as confirmation and took a step closer to the desk. ‘To my shame, Master Redpith, I am utterly lost.’

  Uriah Redpith set down his quill and leant against the high back of his chair. ‘And?’

  The stranger gave a slight shrug. ‘And people say you know the new capital like the very lines of your palm, sir.’

  Redpith sighed heavily. He was annoyed at the intrusion, and wished for nothing more than to be left to forge on with his mounting pile of regimental accounts, but Oxford, he knew from experience, was a sprawling maze to the uninitiated. The labyrinthine roads and alleyways winding in and out of myriad large university buildings – all now commandeered for the war effort – could be a difficult place to navigate.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘John Twine,’ the stranger said. ‘I’ve come from Worcester to serve His Majesty’s cause.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Redpith said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Which regiment?’

  Twine lifted chubby hands. ‘No, sir. I am not the fighting type, God forgive me.’

  Redpith studied the man more closely. He was of average height, but large of frame. A man too used to good living, and most certainly, in Redpith’s opinion, not the fighting type. He looked back down at his desk, attempting to find a new piece of vellum on which to repeat the spoiled work. ‘A clerk, then?’