Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  The afternoon was getting old when Stryker and Burton reached the first of the houses. It had been a torrid ride. A sweating, exhausting flight in the face of the huge force of unknown dragoons, but, amid hazard-fraught terrain and frequent rain showers, they had eventually shaken off their pursuers. It was not through any skill of their own, they both knew, but simply because the dragoons had lost interest. They had broken off the chase as night fell, leaving the fugitives to turn around under cover of darkness and resume their journey north.

  Now, having finally reached what they hoped was their destination, any feelings of success were tinged with the hint of failure. ‘They’re not here,’ Burton said as they let the horses amble out from the wooded road towards the buildings.

  ‘Skellen and Forrester will be fine, I’m sure,’ Stryker lied. ‘But we are here, so we shall continue.’

  It was a modest hamlet, a simple group of hovels clustered around the road. Certainly not the kind of place Stryker had expected to find Blaze. He had expected to end up staring at the walls of some great fort, forbidding and impregnable, the kind of place one would expect such a high-profile captive to be held.

  Stryker brought his horse to a standstill near a little dwelling of sagging roof and rotten timbers and jumped down on to the muddy road. Burton dismounted too, watching his leader approach the house and hammer a fist against the door. After a minute of standing in silence, Stryker turned to go. He was not surprised to find that people were unwilling to speak with him. England was rife with marauding, looting soldiers. Life had become dangerous and cheap, and common folk were not keen to open their homes to a stranger with a sword at his hip.

  It was something of a shock, then, that the door suddenly began to creak open. Stryker turned back to face the house, only to find the black-mouthed barrel of a musket pointing directly at his chest.

  ‘What you want?’ came a voice from within the building.

  Stryker squinted beyond the weapon, but could see nothing but blackness. The musket was all of five feet in length, and its muzzle only just pointed beyond the doorway, allowing its owner to stand a long way back inside the house.

  ‘This is Brocton?’ Stryker asked calmly, all the while acutely aware that he might be blown to pieces at any moment.

  ‘No, sir. Brocton’s to the north.’ The sleek metal shaft jerked to its owner’s left. ‘That way.’

  ‘How far?’ Stryker ventured.

  ‘Less’n a mile, sir. Now be gone!’

  Stryker shook his head, careful not to make any sudden movements. ‘I am searching for someone.’

  ‘Who?’ the voice sounded again.

  ‘A tall man. Broad-framed, with hair the colour of straw.’

  ‘Ain’t seen the like,’ the musket-wielder said, this time uttering enough words for Stryker to realize that the speaker was a woman. An elderly one, he judged by her coarse tone.

  ‘He rides with three, perhaps four, other men,’ Stryker said. ‘Soldiers.’

  ‘We see many soldiers, sir,’ the woman said.

  Stryker nodded. ‘Is that why you point guns at strangers?’

  ‘It is, sir. Playing soldier gives a man excuse to steal and rape as he pleases.’ She jerked the weapon at Stryker in warning. ‘And don’t you think I won’t use this. It is loaded and primed and in good order.’

  Stryker spread his arms wide. ‘I promise you, madam, my friend and I seek only this man. We mean you not a bit of harm.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to tell you,’ the gloom-ridden woman said, her voice becoming irritated. ‘Now get back on that horse o’ yours and ride away. Leave us in peace!’

  ‘As you wish, madam,’ Stryker said, backing away slowly.

  ‘King Charles and his Parliament have brought this country nothing but hardship!’ the woman shouted after him. ‘They fight their wars like children at play while we common folk starve!’

  ‘I am sorry, madam,’ Stryker called back as he swung himself back into the saddle.

  ‘Our food is stolen by their armies, and our sons lie dead in far-off fields!’ the woman went on angrily. ‘While the rest are left behind to contend with the demons unleashed by their foolishness!’

  Stryker kicked his horse, and the beast shifted forward. Behind him he heard Burton’s voice. ‘Demons, madam? What kind of demons?’

  ‘I do not know what kind, for I am no witch!’ the woman shouted. ‘But they are among us. I hear them wail in the night. The others think I’m mad, but I know what I hear!’

  Burton wheeled his horse round to face the door, which was still ajar. ‘Where? Where are these demons?’

  ‘Out in the woods, sir, where they might practise their vile rituals without interruption. Oh, you think me insane too, I am sure, but I am not. By God I am not! I’ve heard ’em. And I’ve seen lights flicker.’

  ‘Where, madam?’ Stryker pressed. He had stayed his own horse now, interest piqued by Burton’s questioning. ‘Out in the trees?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the woman said, as though he were mad himself. ‘They’re in the old Brocton chapel. It has been haunted and godless for a generation, everyone knows that. No right-minded soul would stray near. Where else would demons feel safe to tread?’

  CHAPTER 18

  Brocton, Staffordshire, 18 March 1643

  ‘It has been too long already,’ the wart-infested man said quietly.

  ‘On that we can agree,’ Jonathan Blaze murmured, gazing up in resignation at a face that appeared almost transparent in the candlelight. ‘Please, Zacharie, put an end to this.’

  Major Zacharie Girns gazed down at the broken form before him. Blaze was a mere shadow of the proud man he had once been. A lump of damaged flesh vaguely resembling one of the greatest fire-workers ever to have lived. ‘You could end this if it weren’t for your arrogance.’

  ‘Not arrogance, Zacharie,’ Blaze managed to gasp. ‘Faith.’

  ‘Faith?’ Girns bristled. ‘You were raised a Protestant. That is the true faith. Your true faith. If you turn back to it now you will continue this life, with the promise of eternal life later. If you let your conceit rule your head, you will die tonight, with the promise of hell’s flames to follow.’

  Blaze tried to laugh, but the motion became a racking cough that sent clots of dark blood up from his damaged chest, making him splutter uncontrollably. He let the cough run its course, spitting the sticky globules on to the stone before him, and, when calm descended, looked up at Girns. ‘You are right, Zacharie. I was raised Protestant. Not Puritan. We have both moved away from our roots.’

  Girns sighed heavily. ‘But I have moved with understanding.With scholarship. You have been working for the French and Spanish so long it has simply poisoned your mind.’ The tall, pale-faced major strode across the room to take up a small wooden stool. ‘It ends tonight, Jonathan, one way or the other.’

  Blaze forced a macabre smile through broken teeth. ‘Because I have no more fingers for you to take?’

  Girns shook his head. ‘Because Sir Samuel Luke expects me to return to London. He will want to hear news of your death.’

  ‘And you will want your reward.’

  ‘Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?’ Girns hissed, suddenly angry. ‘I was never interested in an earthly reward. Only a spiritual one. The one I would receive in heaven for bringing one of God’s children back to His flock. If you will not recant—if I am forced to kill you—then I shall take Luke’s coin and exchange it for men, horses and guns.’ He thumped one fisted hand into the open palm of the other. ‘I will use it righteously! But if I can avoid such a conclusion, then I shall.’

  ‘Luke would be displeased.’

  ‘He would not,’ Girns said firmly. ‘For with your conversion would surely come enlightenment. You would see the King’s cause for what it is. An unjust fight for a corrupt monarch, reeking with the stench of Popery. And once you saw that truth, you would offer your services to the Parliament.’

  ‘You failed, Zacharie,’ Blaze said in a low
voice. ‘I have stomached your torture, and will rise above Rontry’s betrayal. I might have betrayed my King, but I will never betray my Pope. I would rather follow Lazarus.’

  Girns stood, and Blaze saw the tall man’s green eyes glisten. ‘Then so be it. I have tried my best, by God I have tried. You may not believe this, Jonathan, but I will miss you.’

  Blaze snorted derisively. ‘As you miss Lazarus?’

  ‘I do miss him. As God is my witness, I miss him dearly.’

  Major Zacharie Girns wiped a gloved finger along the underside of his left eye, and Blaze realized that the pitiless zealot had shed a solitary tear.

  ‘You are growing weak, Zacharie.’

  ‘No, Jonathan,’ Girns replied in a voice wrought with sadness. ‘I will weep as I send you to hell. But I will not shy from the task.’

  Outside the chapel, at the door to the little outbuilding Girns had chosen as their billet, a small, virtually bald man was attaching sacks of food across the horses’ faces. Jesper Rontry had been ordered to ride out to a nearby farm and find victuals for the men and animals, and, finally, he had found someone willing to do business. Now that he had returned, he could hear muffled conversation from inside the chapel. He shuddered. Not because he knew Girns and his victim were embarking on their nightly routine of threat and oath and torture, but because he was already becoming accustomed to the horror of it all.

  It had occurred to Rontry that he could have ridden away at any point in this nightmare. Jumped into the saddle and fled for the hills. But each time his mind wavered he decided to stay. And he hated himself for that decision, for he knew it was made with a heart of greed, and of fear, and of vengeance. Luke’s gold, Girns’s threats and Blaze’s demise. Each worthy of disgust. Each as compelling as the others.

  A horse whinnied then. At first he ignored the sound, assuming it was one of the three he tended, but when it carried to his ears a second time, he realized that the plaintive beast was some distance away. Out in the trees beyond the tumble-down cemetery.

  Rontry turned, staring out into the darkness. He could see nothing beyond the long untended tombstones, pale beneath the moon, jutting at awkward angles from the wet grass. Beyond the stones there was nothing. Just deep, impenetrable blackness where the dense forest began. It was from out there that the whinny had come. With a skittering heart, he left his duties and ran towards the chapel.

  Stryker and Burton strode carefully between the trees, keeping their steps high and deliberate so that they would not fall foul of the treacherous roots and branches criss-crossing the narrow track.

  Stryker saw the small orange glow first. He placed a hand on Burton’s shoulder, and, having gained the younger man’s attention, he pointed at the distant spot of light with his drawn sword. Burton gave a nod to confirm that he had seen the target, and the pair moved off.

  Above them, a chill breeze gathered strength, causing the high branches above to sway, their leaves rustling gently. To Stryker’s ear they whispered mockery. For his foolishness in Cirencester that had condemned them as outlaws, for his eagerness to please Lisette Gaillard, and for the temerity to approach this adder’s nest without firearms. But he was here, he told himself, and time might be fast diminishing for Jonathan Blaze. He and Burton would strike now, while surprise was on their side and while there might just be time to save the fire-worker.

  They crept on, passing broad trunks with lichen skins that shone silver in the moonlight, approaching the open ground of the cemetery encircling the little chapel. This was it, Stryker’s instincts chattered in his mind. This was the place the assassins were secreted.

  In moments they were at the tree line. Stryker halted, pressing his body against a thick tree, made thicker still by the bulbous tumours of bark that sprouted in manic clusters at its middle. He peered out furtively, checking for movement. The chapel was rectangular in shape, and the wall they faced was one of the two longer sides, but it had no door. There was only a narrow window, a lancet, set high in the building, through which the guttering candlelight shone. He scanned the little graveyard and its ancient markers of wood and stone. Silence. Stillness.

  They broke cover, scuttling in and out of the low, regular-shaped swells of skeleton-moulded ground, always looking forwards, aiming for the chapel and whatever lay within. It seemed to take an age to cross the cemetery, but, with gushing relief, Stryker covered the last few paces without hindrance, stopping only when he was flush against the church’s wall. Below the lancet, the cold stone at his back was a welcome sensation. Lieutenant Burton was with him, sword drawn, flattened against the wall a little way to Stryker’s right, and Stryker felt instantly thankful to fight alongside a man who would think to remain on his sighted side at all times.

  After half a dozen steadying breaths, Stryker indicated that he would move to the left, while Burton should go right. Keeping backs flush against the wall, they shuffled silently in opposite directions, snaking the length of the building’s side until they each reached a corner where the longer wall met its respective gable ends.

  Stryker stared back along the wall to where Burton’s shadowy form stood. The lieutenant raised his blade once in parting salute, the metal glinting above his head, and then he vanished round the corner. Stryker followed his protégé’s example and edged out, running his eye quickly along the gable end. There was no entrance here either, so he pressed on, cringing each time his boots scraped a pebble or snapped a twig.

  The next corner brought what he was looking for. A pair of stone steps, their middles smoothed and sunken by centuries of use, led down to a small wooden doorway. The area was darker than the rest of the chapel’s exterior, for its lower setting and roofed porch shrouded it from the moonlight, and it took a moment from Stryker to see that the door was ajar.

  Stryker paused for the time it took his heart to beat ten times, but Burton did not appear at the other end of the building. Perhaps, Stryker wondered, the lieutenant had found a second doorway and was, even now, making his way inside.

  With that thought ringing like church bells in his mind, Stryker made his move. He descended the steps in a single stride, and reached out, pressing the stout little door with the tip of his sword. It began to move slowly and, mercifully, in silence.

  He stepped forward, blade poised out in front, wits battlefield-keen. And then he sensed it, a shadow looming behind and above him. He began to move, cursing himself for a fool, because he knew his reaction was far too late. Next moment a blinding pain exploded at the back of his skull, the dark night flashing in pristine whiteness for a split second. He saw the world spin, felt his knees crumple, then all was black.

  Near Ingestre, Staffordshire, 19 March 1643

  ‘God’s belt, that was a close-run thing,’ Captain Lancelot Forrester said on a heaving outbreath. He and Sergeant William Skellen had reined in amongst a dense copse on a ridge that overlooked the west bank of the River Trent. They had tethered their mounts to the wizened boughs, leaving the ties loose in case a swift exit was necessary, and had paced to the southern tree line. Now that light was bathing the land again, they would be able to spy the progress of their dogged pursuers, especially since the terrain sloped gently away from them, providing a clear view south. Amid the patchwork of copse, heathland and field they could see the vast red-brick edifice of Ingestre Hall to the south-west, and the little hamlet of Ingestre to the south-east. But, mercifully, not a horse or man was to be seen.

  ‘Must’ve buggered off in the night, sir,’ replied Skellen.

  Forrester nodded. ‘Wasn’t about to make that assumption though, Sergeant. Stryker would have my innards for breakfast if I led those bloody dragooners to Brocton.’ He held a hand at his brow to shield his eyes as he scanned the horizon. ‘Hadn’t wanted to ride as far north as here, I must admit, but at least we shook ’em off.’

  ‘What now, sir?’

  Forrester turned and began striding back into the trees. ‘Back in the saddle, William. We’ll head down to Brocton and
see if we can’t find our esteemed leader.’

  Skellen followed. ‘Right you are, sir.’

  It was only when they were mounted and ready to kick south, that Skellen spoke again. ‘What do you make o’ that, sir?’

  Forrester looked across at the sinewy man, and saw that the sergeant was peering northwards, his gaze fixed upon a point he evidently spied beyond the copse. The captain tried to follow the direction, and had to adjust his position in the saddle to get a clear view through to the land north of this thick cluster of trees.

  He saw movement. It was a long way off, past the ridge and the waterway beyond. Far down at the village on the Trent’s eastern bank. ‘There’s a lot of ’em,’ Forrester said.

  Skellen chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘There’s bloody hundreds, sir.’

  Forrester turned to him. ‘Shall we take a peek?’

  No answer was necessary, and the pair spurred their horses forwards until they were at the far side of the copse. They were at the very edge of the ridge now, facing north, and had a clear view all the way down to the foot of the valley where the Trent ran deep and fast. On the other side of the river was a small village, and, sure enough, the place was teeming with life.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Skellen whispered as he took in the scene. ‘There’s horse, foot and cannon.’ He whistled softly. ‘Fuck me.’

  Forrester stared mutely at the units filing westwards through the village towards the River Trent. He saw that Skellen was right. There were several hundred cavalrymen in the vanguard, followed by tight formations of infantry that might have numbered as many as a thousand. ‘It’s an army,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Least we know who owns ’em this time,’ Skellen said in his monotonous drone. ‘Grey bastards for the most part.’

  Forrester stared hard at the sergeant. ‘Sir John Gell.’ He turned back to the army with renewed interest, running his gaze from the rear of the column, still out to the east of the buildings, all the way to the leading cavalry troopers. Those foremost horsemen had already appeared beyond the village’s western fringe, and Forrester let his eyes follow the road ahead of them until they settled upon a substantial stone bridge that carried the highway over the river. ‘My God,’ he said quietly.