Devil's Charge (2011)

by Arnold, Michael

  ‘So you killed Lazarus Blaze,’ Stryker said, stalling for time. ‘Using Luke’s reward as bait to attract a team with the skills to carry out the assassination. And then you went after Jonathan.’ A memory struck him then. The image of Lisette’s fever ravaged face, wracked with confusion over how her attempts to protect Lazarus Blaze had been thwarted. ‘But how did you know where either of them would be?’

  ‘With my help, Captain Stryker,’ the voice came from the porch behind Girns and, though Stryker could not see the speaker, he knew to whom the accent belonged.

  ‘You?’ another new voice echoed around the chapel now. It was shrill with incredulity and fury. ‘It was you betrayed us at Kenilworth?’

  Jesper Rontry stepped into the room and turned towards its far end to stare at Lieutenant Burton, who now sat, a hand nursing his wounded skull, against the altar rail. ‘Believe me, I took no pleasure in it. I had no quarrel with you, or your men.’

  ‘You are Puritan?’ Burton asked in surprise, still blinking rapidly as he fought to gain lucidity.

  Rontry shook his bald head. ‘No, Lieutenant. Merely heartbroken.’ He turned back and shut the door, turning the rusty key as he did so. When the lock echoed in clunking report, he threw the key to Girns and looked down at Blaze’s damaged form. ‘I needed you. Your affection. That was all I wanted.’ His eyes glistened. ‘But you treated me all the worse for it.’ He let out a deep, juddering sigh that made him tremble from head to toe. ‘I loved you, Master Blaze. More than I can begin to describe. But you spurned me as though I were some child, to be mocked and belittled.’ A solitary tear tumbled down Rontry’s cheek. ‘It hurt. Hurt so much I could no longer stand it. I came to a decision.’

  ‘That no one else should have him,’ Stryker said.

  Rontry gave the merest flicker of a nod.

  Burton snorted in bitter laughter. ‘Unrequited love. Sounds like one of Captain Forrester’s plays!’

  Rontry rounded on the younger man. ‘Do not mock me, boy!’ he snarled, before the rancour evaporated from his voice once more. ‘I had to put an end to the—the pain. He had to die.’

  ‘At this cost?’ Stryker spoke now.

  Rontry looked at the captain, chin trembling, eyes defiant. ‘At any cost.’

  Stryker was beginning to understand. ‘You made contact with Parliament. And Girns replied.’

  ‘I did not know who he was,’ Rontry replied. ‘Only that if I gave him Lazarus Blaze he would repay me with Jonathan.’

  ‘Jesu,’ Burton hissed. ‘You conniving bastard.’ He made to stand, ‘I’m going to scoop out your stones with a blunt spoon, so help me God.’

  Rontry drew a pistol from his waist and pointed it at Burton. ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind, Lieutenant.’

  Girns glanced at Rontry. ‘Tie them up.’

  Jesper Rontry produced a pair of thick ropes and handed his weapon to Girns. Striding quickly to the altar rail, he tore the leather strap roughly from Burton’s limp arm and bound both wrists together in front of his body. Satisfied with the job, he dragged the lieutenant along the short nave and thrust him down beside the other prisoners.

  When Rontry turned his attention to Stryker, the captain launched upwards at him, and the smaller man recoiled in fright, but the intended violence was curtailed abruptly when Girns’s pistol appeared inches from Stryker’s face. Rontry, humiliated by his fearful reaction, stepped forwards and hammered a fist into the Royalist’s stomach. Stryker doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and Rontry bent to tether his wrists.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened to him?’ Burton exclaimed on seeing the cadaver that was still curled nearby at the foot of the hay stack, an island of rotting flesh amid a lake of dark crimson.

  Girns handed the pistol back to his accomplice as soon as Rontry straightened up, and glanced at the cadaver. ‘Corporal Slater did not share my vision.’

  Burton shot Stryker a wide-eyed glance, his bravery punctured.

  ‘Do not worry, Andrew,’ Stryker whispered, still bent in a low crouch. ‘If they were going to kill us, they’d have done it already.’

  Girns evidently heard the hushed words, for he suddenly grinned, and this time his green eyes were full of mirth. ‘On the contrary, Captain,’ he said, his tone suddenly enthused. ‘You are sinners. Malignant supporters of a corrupt, Pope-loving king. No better than witches.’ The major’s spare hand went to the folds of his cloak, eventually coming away with a small leather pouch. He lifted it to his mouth, tugging at the tie-string with his teeth, and, once its mouth gaped open, upended it so that a cloud of black powder billowed out across the great pile of hay that was stacked high against the wall.

  The room fell silent as all eyes watched Girns discard the empty pouch and stride across to his brother’s crouched form, kicking him hard in the face. Blaze recoiled violently, crashing into the wall behind, and Girns suddenly stooped, snatching up the little stump of tallow, its flame flickering manically at the jerking movement.

  ‘And what must we do with witches?’ Girns rasped, his voice thick with menace. He closed his eyes, tilting back his head. ‘Lord, take these souls. May their sins be cleansed in your purging flames.’

  And he tossed the candle into the powder-dusted hay.

  CHAPTER 19

  St Mary’s Church, Stafford, 19 March 1643

  Spencer Compton, Second Earl of Northampton, felt the satisfying ache climb up his thighs as he knelt on the church’s flagstones. He had placed a small cushion between his knees and the cold floor, but that provided scant protection from the unforgiving stone, and he revelled in the dull pain, for it made him feel alive.

  Northampton was in the front row of the ranks of pews, as befitted his status. He gazed back at the congregation quickly, nodding to the many offering deferential bows when they caught his eye, before turning back to face the priest who stood below the high altar. It was a fabulous scene. A house built for God, filled with God’s faithful servants, bathed in God’s morning light as it beamed through the many broad windows and narrow lancets. It was a morning for meaningful, heart-felt prayer.

  The Earl of Northampton closed his eyes and prayed hard. He prayed for God’s blessings to fill every man under his command. They would soon face grave dangers if Parliament, as Lisette Gaillard had warned him, were truly intent on taking Stafford. And why would they not be, he reflected silently? It was the last major obstacle to rebel dominance in the region.

  The earl felt movement at his left, and he opened an eye a fraction to see that his beloved son, James – Sir James, he remembered with swelling pride – had come to kneel beside him.

  For a while Sir James, dressed in a sombre, if exquisitely cut, suit of black cloth and white lace, whispered silent entreaties towards St Mary’s high altar with the rest of the congregation, but, after four or five minutes, the earl felt his son lean suddenly close.

  ‘Nothing, Father,’ the young man hissed through tight lips, as the priest’s droning voice wafted through the pews and up into the high beams. ‘Our squadrons around the town have not spied a soul worthy of concern.’

  The earl did not look at his son. ‘Then another day will pass without threat,’ he whispered. ‘It is getting late. Soon it will be noon. If they were coming today, we would have heard by now.’

  Northampton’s eyes snapped suddenly open at the sound of a commotion at the church’s main entrance. A dozen different voices clamoured for supremacy, and, still kneeling, he twisted to see the source of the tumult, but could discern nothing beyond the bodies seated in the rows behind.

  Sir James rose, face tight with anger at the disruption. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he bellowed, causing more heads to turn in the direction of the nave and the entrance beyond.

  The pew behind Northampton was occupied by his most senior subordinates, Sir Henry Hastings, Sir Thomas Byron and their retinues. The two commanders were also standing, the latter manhandling one of his aides out of the way so that he might go to see what was
happening.

  Well aware of Byron’s hot temper, Northampton quickly stood. ‘Hold, Sir Thomas!’ he ordered at the knight’s back. ‘Hold, I say!’

  Byron turned. ‘It is beggars or Puritans, my lord,’ he said sourly. ‘Some malcontented faction determined to ruin our service. I’ll not stand for it!’

  ‘You will hold until I say!’ Northampton snapped acidly. ‘You are too quick with your blade, Sir Thomas. And while that is an undoubted quality on the field of battle, it is the kind of trait that’ll see you excommunicated if it comes to the fore during devotions.’

  The priest had long abandoned hope of continuing his sermon, and stood idle beside the altar, watching the service descend into chaos as the newest and most famous member of his congregation pushed his way out of the pew. Bodies shifted rapidly out of the earl’s way so that he was able to step unhindered into the aisle, and he paced along the nave, Sir James, Byron and Hastings at his heels.

  There were more people in the way as they reached the font, for those parishioners in the rearmost pews had quickly risen to see what the argument was about.

  ‘Out of the way!’ Sir Thomas Byron roared, and it seemed like the parting of the Red Sea, as men and women shuffled obediently left and right and a clear path to the doorway miraculously appeared.

  Beneath the high Norman archway stood nine or ten of Northampton’s guards. Their swords were naked, waving threateningly in the direction of whomever it was that caused such a commotion. That man was out of sight at first, though the earl could hear his voice well enough as he shouted a stream of oaths at the soldiers before him.

  The earl forced his way through the tightly packed crowd of guards and onlookers. ‘’What is the meaning of this?’ he snapped, taking in the stranger’s unkempt, sweat-matted hair and bestubbled face, features that were incongruous alongside fine riding boots, buff-coat and scabbard. It seemed as though this man were half soldier and half vagabond.

  ‘Lord Northampton, sir?’ the troublemaker said.

  Sir Thomas Byron was at Northampton’s side in an instant, blade drawn and ready to cleave the stranger in two. ‘It is Sunday, sir, a fact that makes your actions reprehensible enough, but you would scream obscenities at the church while His Grace prays? My God, I should run you through this instant, you common churl!’

  ‘Wait, Sir Thomas,’ Northampton said, raising a hand to stay Byron’s imminent strike. ‘Listen to his voice. This is no common churl.’ He met the newcomer’s blue eyes levelly. ‘Are you?’

  The man, still held outside the church at sword’s length, shook his head. ‘My name is Captain Lancelot Forrester, my lord, a loyal officer of King Charles. And a veteran of the Continental wars, like yourself.’

  Northampton’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you to say?’

  ‘I have come to warn you, my lord!’ the near frantic man rasped urgently through heaving lungs. ‘There is an army not five miles from here. Gell’s greycoats.’

  Northampton’s eyes widened to great spheres, while the crowd at his back, packed under the arch, straining to hear the exchange, broke into excited chatter.

  ‘I watched them cross the Trent at Weston, my lord. The road leads here.’

  ‘Lies, my lord!’ Byron sneered suddenly. ‘Our scouts would have seen the buggers, be certain of it.’

  ‘They cannot watch every blade of grass, Sir Thomas,’ Northampton replied absently as his mind processed the information. He stared at the messenger. ‘How many did you see?’

  ‘Near five hundred horse, my lord, and double that number of foot.’

  Northampton scratched the black ringlets at his temple. ‘Cannon?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. I counted seven or eight drakes, and at least one bigger piece.’

  ‘Byron is right, Father.’ The voice of the earl’s son came from somewhere in the crowd. ‘We do not know this man. It might be a rebel trick to lure us out of the town.’

  ‘I play no tricks, sir,’ the man named Forrester said, his tone desperate and strained, ‘please believe me.’

  A woman’s voice abruptly cut across the debate. ‘He speaks the truth, my lord.’

  All eyes looked beyond the dishevelled man. Behind him stood a petite woman of lithe figure and cascading tresses of golden hair. She was dressed in a tight-fitting black coat, with breeches to match, and thigh-high cavalry boots of brown leather. A pair of belts crossed her chest from which a pistol hung at her right hip and a sword from her left.

  The stranger turned to her, his mouth falling open in disbelief. ‘Lisette.’

  Lisette winked at him and looked over his shoulder at the earl. ‘No more loyal man draws breath, my lord. If he says Gell is coming, then Gell is coming.’

  The muscles of Northampton’s jaw rippled. ‘And we already know Brereton is marching from Nantwich, thanks to Mademoiselle Gaillard.’

  ‘Didn’t see any other force, my lord,’ Forrester said.

  ‘Then perhaps we have time to engage Gell while he is without support.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Sir Henry Hastings had pushed his way through the throng to stand just behind the earl. ‘Sally out this instant, my lord, and deal with Gell’s army first. Once he is cut to shreds we may turn upon Brereton if he truly comes.’

  ‘But the garrison is scattered in a score of billets within and without the town,’ Sir James Lord Compton, Northampton’s son, said earnestly. ‘It will take hours to muster a force large enough to engage Gell.’

  Northampton placed a hand on Sir James’s shoulder. ‘So be it. We have no choice in this, James. I give you two hours. Gather as many men as you can, and we will ride out together. The rebels will have to march over my corpse before I let them have this town.’ He looked at Colonel-General Hastings. ‘Sir Henry, you know this area better than any. If you marched a thousand men along the road from Weston, intending to join with another army before you reached Stafford’s walls, where might you choose to rendezvous?’

  ‘There’s a wide swathe of heath a few miles north and east of here, my lord,’ Hastings said as he ran a finger under the frayed edge of his eye patch. ‘Near the village of Hopton.’

  Northampton nodded. ‘I think we have our target, gentlemen.’ He glanced at Forrester. ‘I am indebted to you, Captain. I would repay you with the respite you clearly need, but I am afraid I must prevail upon you again.’

  ‘Furnish me with some new kit, my lord, and I’m yours to command.’

  ‘All to the good.’ Northampton glanced at Byron. ‘Send scouts to Hopton Heath, Sir Thomas. Let us discover what Gell is about.’

  Brocton, Staffordshire, 19 March 1643

  The candle flame became a raging inferno in a matter of seconds. It caught hold of the gunpowder Girns had poured across the hay in a bright, fizzing flash and, as the easy fuel burnt away, began to devour the organic matter beneath. Flames licked across the hay in an orange arc, surging rapidly along and up the stack, leaving charred remains in their wake, and smoke billowed freely into the high roof beams, darkening the room, choking the air from it with every passing moment.

  Stryker was still bent low. Girns and Rontry had ignored him, assuming he was simply attempting to stay below the smoke, but he was frantically running his pinioned hands along his booted right calf. The knife he usually kept there was long gone, taken at Lichfield by Gell’s men, but he had recalled something else, another object that had been all but forgotten, one that could be indescribably vital to his survival.

  ‘Christ, Girns,’ Rontry was saying as the hay crackled against the wall, ‘why could we not shoot them? This is not what we agreed!’

  Girns glared at him through the acrid cloud. ‘Heretics burn!’ he snarled. ‘And I grow tired of your belly-aching, Rontry. I have no more use of you.’

  The shot cracked sharply, louder and more distinct than the snapping of burning hay, and at first Stryker thought Burton or Blaze had been targeted, but, peering through the rapidly engulfing smoke, he was able to make out the lieutenant and the fire-worker
, both flattened against the flagstones to evade asphyxiation. He looked towards the doorway and saw the body of Jesper Rontry slumped against the stout timbers. He faced inwards, eyes staring in lifeless surprise, an almost perfect circle of scarlet glistening at his forehead, betraying the place where the ball had entered.

  ‘Abomination,’ Stryker heard Girns say from somewhere near the door.

  Stryker crawled on knees and elbows, his wrists still tied tightly together, to where his fellow captives lay. He felt for Burton through the smoke. ‘This way!’

  Burton looked up and began to slither across the stone floor. ‘We can’t escape!’

  ‘But we can get as far away from that goddamned fire as we can!’ Stryker shouted back, before being overcome by a barrage of dry, stinging coughs. He could smell the stink of roasting meat, as though someone were cooking a pig on a spit, and realized with sudden revulsion that the flames must have reached the body of Corporal Slater.

  They crawled along the nave, between the dark pews, in the direction of the altar, before Burton turned back to face the carnage. ‘Where’s Blaze?’

  Stryker followed Burton’s gaze, his eye stinging as though it were assailed by a thousand hornets, but of the wounded fireworker there was no sign. ‘Jesu,’ he hissed, realizing that, in his determination to save his comrade, he had neglected Blaze.

  Then a scream that could curdle a mountain stream rose from the cloud. It was high-pitched, desperate, but injected with fury rather than pain, and, as Stryker and Burton twisted back to stare at the smoke, the face of Jonathan Blaze suddenly appeared. He screamed again, and, as a gust of wind came through one of the little lancets to shift the smoke, Stryker spotted Girns. The major was fumbling with the key in an attempt to unlock the low door, and did not bother to face his brother until Blaze was already at a full sprint.