EPILOGUE
Derby, 27 March 1643
The town was crowded.
The marketplace and all its tributaries were heaving, choked by the press of bodies come to leer at the morbid spectacle. Every door and window was crammed with the expectant faces of men, women and children, and rooftops were littered with more agile folk, perched there like so many rooks in a tree. Hawkers, pedlars, pickpockets and prostitutes moved about the throng, pie sellers dished out their still-warm wares, the tapsters did a roaring trade.
The roads themselves were only kept clear by ranks of grim-faced greycoats and the points of their glinting weapons. One man ventured beyond the invisible line defended by the soldiers. It was not clear whether he had meant the act or if he had been compelled by the sheer weight of bodies behind, but he was smashed to the ground by an iron sword-hilt. No one else crossed the line after that.
A huge cheer greeted the parade’s arrival.
At the front, alone and resplendent in his garments of grey wool, amber buff and silver lace, rode the hero of the town. The man sat straight-backed and proud-faced, moustachioed lip turned upwards in a half-smile, round eyes gleaming beneath a high-crowned hat that sat at a suitably rakish angle atop his flowing black curls. A new rush of noise greeted each regal wave of his gauntleted hand, and he affected short bows to those he deigned to acknowledge.
At the rider’s flanks walked servants clutching baskets of sugar plums. They handed the treats out to grateful children, the grime-faced urchins squealing with delight as cheeks bulged, their parents shouting words of loyalty to their benevolent leader.
A short phalanx of pikemen strode in the horseman’s wake, and, as they came into the midst of the folk of Derby, a chorus of boos and hisses and catcalls reverberated around the town’s walls and roofs. Fists shook, fingers wagged admonishingly. Preachers bellowed impromptu sermons.
The rising ire was not directed at the pikemen, but rather at the horse that followed them. It loped slowly, unbalanced by its unwieldy cargo, ears twitching in all directions as the angry, crushing sound grew with its every step.
‘Down with the King!’ a bystander bellowed.
‘Down with the Pope and his devilish horde!’ another responded.
A young man stepped out of the crowd, able for a moment to evade the cordon of soldiers, and hurled a clump of mud at the horse. It hit the man’s corpse, stripped naked and slung across the animal’s back, with a wet smack, eliciting another almighty cheer. The soldiers ushered the thrower back into the crowd. The parade’s leading horseman twisted round to peer through the forest of pikes at the bloodied – and now muddied – cadaver, the corners of his thin lips twitching.
At the rear of the baying mob, two hooded men stood together in a low doorway. They had been given a wide berth by the rest of the townsfolk, for their diseased faces cast barbs of fear into even the stoutest of hearts.
‘I told you,’ one of the men said in hushed tones. ‘Thick pottage, liberally daubed and left to dry, makes one look positively plague-addled.’
The second man kept his gaze on the parade. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Forry.’
Captain Lancelot Forrester glanced up at the red kites circling overhead. ‘They’re desperate to dive down and pick at the flesh, but too frightened by the noise to dare.’ He shuddered.
Captain Stryker followed his gaze. ‘I’m just glad Sir James sent us. He would not have coped well with this.’
The pair stared back at the street and the macabre parade that had drawn such a crowd. ‘Gell lords it up as though he won the day,’ Forrester said after a time.
‘He held the ridge,’ Stryker replied quietly. ‘How we didn’t break them, I’ll never know.’
‘As the rebel diurnals have such delight in reminding us,’ said Forrester ruefully. ‘But we held the town. And we captured all those guns of theirs.’
‘A stalemate, then.’
Forrester looked at his friend sharply. ‘The prize was not a ridge on a barren piece of scrubland, Stryker. It was Stafford. And Stafford belongs to the King. Ergo, we carried the field.’
‘It is a hollow victory when the rebels are able to show off our commander’s rotting corpse through the streets.’
Forrester hissed a vicious oath as more mud came from the crowd to splatter the stiff cadaver. ‘Sir John Gell,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The man’s a knight of the realm, for God’s sake. We are witnessing the very death of chivalry, Stryker.’
‘Has there ever been any in war?’
‘I suppose not. But this is beyond anything I expected to ever see in England.’
Stryker shrugged. ‘He wanted his guns back.’
Forrester turned to look at him, the layer of pottage unable to conceal his outrage. ‘And it’s reasonable for him to parade Northampton’s carcass though the streets because Sir James refuses the ultimatum?’
‘No,’ Stryker said. ‘But understandable.’
‘Piffle. And the new lord was in no position to oblige anyway. Captured cannon belong to the King. He’d have had no right trading them for his father’s body, even if he’d had a mind to.’ Forrester’s head moved to the left, his eyes drilling into the silver-laced man riding at the column’s front. ‘I’m glad you chopped the bugger’s neck open.’
Stryker looked at Gell, whose neck, he presumed, must still be well bandaged under all his finery. ‘I thought I’d hurt him worse than that.’
‘Perhaps next time.’ A small patrol of musketeers stalked past suddenly, and the Royalist spies dipped their heads, staring at boots while hearts thundered. ‘What do we tell the earl?’ Forrester mumbled when the immediate danger had gone.
Stryker blew air through pursed lips. ‘The truth.’
Forrester’s stare was sharp. ‘I’ll leave that delicacy to you, old friend. I’m sorry, your lordship, but the bastardly moldwarp Gell paraded your late father’s corpse, naked and stinking, through the streets of Derby.’
Stryker winced. ‘He’ll find out soon enough, Forry. Better that it comes from trusted men than from Gell’s bloody pamphleteers.’
Forrester nodded glumly. ‘You’re right, of course.’
The pair watched the spectacle until it had progressed well beyond their position and the crowds were beginning to dissipate. ‘I’ve seen enough,’ Stryker said. ‘Let us find the earl.’
‘Where will he be?’ Forrester said as they stepped carefully through the squelching mud.
‘At the King’s new capital.’
Oxford, 30 March 1643
It was with a heavy heart that Stryker made his way up the wide staircase of the lavish Lion Tavern, for his report had engendered a flood of tears from the dashing Earl of Northampton. Sir James had doted on his father, and the brutal truth of Gell’s provocative action had cut the young man to the quick. Stryker had vowed to kill Gell. He hoped one day to make good on the promise.
Now, as night fell across the labyrinthine university city, Stryker returned to his billet. He reached the top of the staircase, turned to his left, and paced along the candlelit landing.
The first thing he saw when he opened the iron-studded door was a pair of long, dark riding boots lying side by side. He kicked off his own boots and padded across the bear-skin rug to the bed.
She was there, pale face peering at him from the gloom, pristine sheets pulled right up to her chin. He thought of what was beneath those covers and it set his heart frantic. ‘Madam.’
Lisette smiled sweetly. ‘I am pleased you could join me, sir. I thought the Prince might have thrown you back in gaol.’
‘I wondered,’ Stryker said truthfully, for the audience with the king’s nephew had been a nerve-fraying affair, ‘but Northampton was true to his word.’
A hand appeared from beneath the sheets to twist at a tress of golden hair. ‘You are a free man?’
Stryker nodded. ‘For the moment. Crow is in Cornwall. He will have something to say upon his return.’
‘Do you
blame him?’
‘No.’
She patted the bed. ‘Come.’
Stryker hesitated. ‘You will leave again?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Why do you even ask, Stryker? Now that I am fully recovered I must go to my queen. You know that.’
‘York?’
‘York. Until she marches south, of course.’ Her blue eyes glinted suddenly. ‘We will sweep the rebellion into the sea.’
‘God’s blood, Lisette,’ he said angrily, ‘will you not stay in Oxford just a little while—’
She stared at the ceiling beams. ‘Merde, Stryker, but you are an infuriating man!’
‘And you are the most maddening wench I ever bloody laid eyes upon!’
‘Eye,’ she corrected caustically.
Stryker approached, teeth gritted, fists balled.
They fell silent for a while, angry stares the only thing to pass between them. Eventually the corners of Lisette’s mouth twitched, and she pushed the sheets down to her bare waist. ‘Did you really come here to argue, mon amour?’
Stryker swallowed thickly, unbuckled his belts, letting sword, dagger and bandolier clatter to the floor, and knelt on the edge of the bed. She sat up, leaning forward, grasping his wrist with a slender hand and pulling him towards her.
For a moment Stryker stared at Lisette. The woman as delicate as porcelain and as hard as diamond. The woman he loved but could never keep. The woman whose very presence invigorated and infuriated him in equal measure. The old anger burned at his insides.
But when he felt her tongue on his, he forgot everything. Because she was alive. He had evaded a prince’s justice and a colonel’s wrath, survived a brutal siege and lived through a bloody battle. All, at the end, for her. For Lisette. It was enough.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Once again, I find myself indebted to a great many people. Firstly, I am tremendously grateful to my editor Kate Parkin, for steering me through this process. Her incisive criticism, encouragement and patience have made this second instalment a thoroughly enjoyable and rewarding experience. My sincere gratitude to everyone at John Murray and Hodder for making Devil’s Charge a reality. Particular thanks to my copy-editor Hilary Hammond, and to Caro Westmore, Susan Spratt, James Spackman, Ben Gutcher and Lyndsey Ng for all their hard work. Thanks too to my agent Rupert Heath, who has remained committed to the Stryker Chronicles since long before Traitor’s Blood saw the light of day.
A huge thank you to Malcolm Watkins of Heritage Matters, for revisiting Stryker’s world to cast an expert eye over the manuscript, and to John Paddock of Cotswold District Council, for helping me iron out the detail of Cirencester’s dramatic fall. Also to Richard Foreman, whose important introductions are very much appreciated, and not forgetting Jeff Wheeler for his continuing support.
Special thanks, as ever, to my parents. From general words of encouragement, to proofreading, web design and even bookmark production (!), their efforts during this continuing adventure have been as vital and priceless as ever. And of course, much love and gratitude to Becca and Josh, for everything.
HISTORICAL NOTE
By the winter of 1642/3, the English Civil War had fractured into a series of regional conflicts. Though this pivotal year would eventually see major battles fought all across the country, one of the first engagements was fought at the Parliamentarian town of Cirencester.
The storming of Cirencester unfolded much as I have described in the book. Though relatively small, this town was strategically important – especially so for King Charles. The Royalist faction was strong in Wales and the south-west, so it was necessary to unite those two regions by securing the fortified towns in between – one of which was Cirencester. The town had already declared for Parliament by early 1643, and Prince Rupert’s first attempts at taking the settlement (with the offer of free pardons for all) had been stoutly rebuffed. No doubt irritated by the response, Rupert returned in February at the head of a 7,000 strong force, only to find the majority of the defenders had marched to nearby Sudeley Castle. Cirencester was ripe for the taking, and the young general wasted no time. On 2 February he launched a major offensive from the west, risking a frontal assault against the town’s better fortified positions in the hope that it would provide the shortest route to the town centre and avoid a difficult river crossing in the process.
The most solid defences to be overcome were the walls around Barton Farm, but, as noted in Devil’s Charge, these were blown up in advance of the main assault. It is generally accepted that a well-aimed grenade might have done enough damage, but I have taken the liberty of giving the honour to my fictitious fire-worker, Jonathan Blaze, and his petard of black powder. Rupert’s cavalry did indeed face fierce resistance from the locals, and had to cut their way through chained harrows blocking the streets, but in the end his superior numbers overwhelmed the Parliamentarians. The fight lasted two hours, costing the lives of more than three hundred defenders, and the town was subjected to a brutal three-day sacking. Rupert’s forces took as many as 1,100 prisoners who, as the book suggests, were promptly roped together and marched barefoot to Oxford, where they were pardoned in return for their submission to the king.
At around the time Prince Rupert was taking Cirencester his aunt, Queen Henrietta Maria, was preparing to return to England. On 2 February the northern Royalists were strengthened by the arrival of weapons, munitions and troops sent ahead of the queen from the Continent. Having initially been thwarted by storms in the North Sea, the queen’s personal convoy finally landed at Bridlington on the 22nd, escorted by the Dutch Admiral Tromp. The following day a squadron of Parliamentarian warships commanded by Vice-Admiral William Batten bombarded Bridlington, endangering the queen’s life (as mentioned in the book, a cannon ball hit the house in which she was staying, and the queen famously took shelter in a ditch) and menacing her supply convoy, until a threat by Admiral Tromp forced Batten to withdraw. The queen, styling herself ‘Her She-Majesty Generalissima’, rested for a few days and was then conducted to York, where she arrived on 5 March. Colonel Abel Black is a fictitious character, but I imagine there were plenty of men (and women) like him in the formidable queen’s service.
Another settlement upon which the Great Rebellion would leave an indelible mark was the small cathedral city of Lichfield. The city had neither walls nor castle, so the Royalist commander, Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, chose to garrison the walled Cathedral Close.
Though Stryker himself is a figment of my imagination, many of the characters involved in Lichfield’s dramatic first siege were real. Lord Brooke and his purplecoats did indeed bombard the main gate with a demi-culverin, and, unlikely as it seems, Brooke really did die in the manner described in Devil’s Charge. John Dyott, deaf and dumb from birth, is said to have shot the Parliamentarian general through the left eye when Brooke ventured too close to his siege works. That event, of course, precipitated the arrival of Sir John Gell, who took command of the besieging forces and eventually captured Cathedral Close. Like Brooke, Gell found the defenders a tough nut to crack (the ambush and rout of his men at Gaia Lane is a real event), and eventually he employed a huge mortar to dissolve the Royalists’ morale. The incendiaries, as described in the book, did not wreak the havoc the Parliamentarians had hoped for, but with dwindling supplies and no obvious sign of any relief force, the Earl of Chesterfield was forced to surrender. The earl, his son Ferdinando, and some of the highest-ranking officers were conveyed to London and imprisoned in the Tower, but, to Gell’s credit, he did allow the majority of Lichfield’s defeated garrison to walk away with their lives. His reputation, however, would be forever tarnished by the events following the Battle of Hopton Heath.
Lichfield would be subjected to two more sieges before the war’s end, one of which would feature the first-ever explosive mine detonation in an English siege. It was a torrid and dramatic time for Lichfield and its poor citizens, but I must refrain from detailing its fortunes here, for it is likely Stryker will return t
here before too long. In the meantime, those who would like to know more about the fascinating history of the city during the Civil War period need look no further than Howard Clayton’s fantastic book, Loyal and Ancient City: Lichfield in the Civil Wars (1987).
During the action at Lichfield, the king had sent orders to the Earl of Northampton, Spencer Compton, to lead a relief force out of Banbury Castle to support the besieged Royalist garrison. Unfortunately for Stanhope and his beleaguered supporters, Northampton arrived too late to intercept Gell. He had, however, received intelligence as to the next target on the Parliamentarian agenda. Sir William Brereton, Commander of the Parliamentary forces in Cheshire, had sent correspondence from Nantwich to Gell at Lichfield, requesting him to combine forces at Hopton Heath for an assault on Stafford. By taking Stafford, Parliament could create a vital territorial chain across the Midlands. The Earl of Northampton, having caught wind of Brereton and Gell’s plans, reached Stafford with a force of 1,200 men (1,100 of whom were cavalry and dragoons) on or around 16 March 1643. He set about clearing the area of rebel garrisons, and fell back on Stafford to await the arrival of the Parliamentarian force. He did not know exactly where Brereton and Gell would rendezvous, but he was certain battle was imminent.
Hopton Heath is around three miles north of Stafford on the south bank of the River Trent, on terrain of open rough pasture between the villages of Salt to the north and Hopton to the south. To the east of the heath was a walled deer park and on the western side lay arable farmland with ditches and hedgerows separating the heath from the cultivated hay fields. At the narrowest point of the heath a ridge ran between the enclosures to the east and west. Gell arrived on the morning of 19 March, and immediately took up position on the high ground, realizing it would be an excellent position from which to face the experienced Royalist cavalry.
Word had by now been sent to Northampton, who was at a church service in St Mary’s, Stafford. The earl set about mustering his force from scattered billets around Stafford and arrived on the heath at around 3 p.m., though not before Brereton had linked up with Gell on the ridge. In Brereton’s haste, however, he had left his infantry miles behind, so he was given command of the horse, numbering around 1,000, while Gell took the foot, consisting of some 1,200.
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