12 March 1644
It was dusk, and North Muskham was ghostly quiet, save for the chatter of Hood and Skellen echoing from within the church.
Stryker was seated on a stone bench in the porch, staring out through the doors, slightly ajar, at the cinder path leading up through the neat little cemetery. Bertram went to perch beside him. ‘May I ask?’ he ventured, ‘how you came by your wound?’
Stryker felt his innards tighten. It was rare that folk asked him directly, and even rarer that he humoured them. ‘Flame and wickedness.’
Bertram paused, choosing his response carefully. ‘Was the wickedness your own?’
‘Another’s.’
‘I shall pray for him.’
‘Pray for his soul, Father, for he is long dead.’
‘And I will pray for you, Major,’ Bertram went on undeterred.
Stryker squinted into the gathering gloom as a small figure, the height of a child but thicker set, emerged at the end of the path. ‘All assistance is welcome. McCroskey will be difficult to locate.’
Bertram shook his head. ‘It is not for your mission that I pray, Major Stryker. But for your person. You have seen much evil, I suspect. Much suffering.’
Stryker glanced round at him. ‘Too much.’
‘But you are a good man.’
‘Good?’ Stryker considered that for a moment. He remembered some of the men he had killed, the towns he had burned, and the way, with each new terror, his faith in humanity – and in God – had ebbed to dust. ‘I know not.’
Bertram smiled. ‘Your men are loyal, Major. Fiercely so. It says much.’
‘Skellen likes to fight,’ Stryker said, embarrassed by the compliment. ‘He follows me, right enough, for he knows I will lead him to trouble. Hood is a reformado, like me. He has no command. I reached an understanding with Prince Rupert to keep him at my side.’ He shrugged. ‘He is useful in a fight, though he is fortified by wine much of the time.’
To Stryker’s surprise, the priest chuckled. ‘I cannot begrudge him that in these dark days! And Barkworth? What of your irascible Scot?’
Simeon Barkworth had crossed the graveyard now, and pushed through the doorway, panting hard. Stryker laughed. ‘He has no rank, no income and no business being here. He lingers like a bad stench.’
‘Without me you’d have perished a dozen times over, sir,’ Barkworth retorted.
Stryker laughed. ‘Well?’
‘The crop-heads have a fortified leaguer on the Fosse to the north-east of the town, sir. Amongst some old ruins.’
‘The Spittal,’ Father Bertram said. ‘An ancient hospice.’
Stryker looked from one to the other. ‘How strong?’
‘Strong,’ said Barkworth. ‘We can’nae hope to get to McCroskey if he’s there.’
‘He is there,’ said Stryker. ‘If he lives, he is too badly wounded to travel. Those dragooners took him to Meldrum.’
Lieutenant Hood and Sergeant Skellen had come through from the nave, and the latter added, ‘And our mounts, sir.’
Vos, Stryker’s sorrel stallion, had been tethered to a tree at the edge of the copse when the dragoons had forced them back upon the river. If the animal was not slain during the fight, he would certainly have been taken as a prize. ‘Where is the nearest Royalist garrison?’
Hood stared up at the rafters in thought. ‘Ashby-de-la-Zouch, sir.’
‘Aye,’ Stryker said, running through the geography in his mind’s eye. To the south-west, the nearest towns, Nottingham and Grantham, were both rebel strongholds, but a little further in that direction lay a fortress that had become infamous in the eyes of Parliament. ‘Sir Henry Hastings holds the castle.’
Father Bertram nodded. ‘Baron Loughborough now.’
‘You have heard tell of his operations?’
The priest said that he had. ‘He leads his flying column all across the region, harrying the rebels wherever he may.’
That did not surprise Stryker. When he had first encountered Hastings, every bit the dashing, reckless Cavalier so vilified in rebel news books, the man had been carving a swathe of destruction across enemy territory around Stafford. He had caused havoc with the Parliamentarian siege operation at Lichfield during a daring night raid, and had been one of the leaders of the Royalist cavalry that had so nearly routed Sir John Gell’s stoic greycoats on the ridge at Hopton Heath. If any man would be willing to assist in the recovery of McCroskey and dent the Parliamentarian cause it would be him. ‘We will go to Ashby.’
‘I will arrange a wagon from a friend in the village.’ Father Bertram offered. ‘A trustworthy friend.’
‘The roads are mired knee-deep,’ Simeon Barkworth replied quickly, looking at his commander.
‘We’ll travel on foot,’ Stryker said. He bowed slightly to Bertram. ‘But I thank you for your help. It will not be forgotten.’
Bertram eyed them dubiously. ‘It will take days.’
‘And weeks dragging a wagon on roads fit for wallowing sows,’ Stryker said. ‘With no such encumbrance, we can keep to the higher, drier ground, and stay clear of patrols to boot.’
Father Bertram spread his palms in acquiescence. ‘Then God guide you.’
Stryker stood abruptly. ‘We leave at nightfall.’ He looked at his three men in turn. ‘I want McCroskey, and I want our horses, and I’m willing to wager they are hidden in Meldrum’s leaguer. We find Lord Loughborough.’ Because to get into the Newark leaguer, Stryker knew, he would need an army.
Sir John, Lord Byron, did not enjoy Chester. He liked the ancient, walled city, built by the Romans and fortified in the name of King Charles, for its people were loyal, its streets well appointed, and its jettied buildings faced with fine carvings that reminded him of his family home at Newstead Abbey. But Byron was a fighter, a knight of the truest tradition. He had been at the very first battle at Kineton, was wounded for the cause at Burford, before distinguishing himself at Roundway Down and Newbury, the latter earning him the title Baron Byron of Rochdale. But the winter had seen his fortunes turn. He had been defeated at Nantwich in January, confounded and humiliated by Black Tom Fairfax, and had been forced to lick his wounds behind Chester’s defences, warrior-turned-administrator: the worst kind of punishment. Now, with a stack of correspondence to wade through, he set himself down in a big oaken chair and began to pack his pipe, the thrum of Chester’s beating heart wafting up from the street below.
He had just finished preparing the pipe when the door swung open. A tall man stooped below the lintel, entering Byron’s chambers without ceremony, ornate spurs jangling above the clap of heels on the floorboards. It was not often that Byron, Field-Marshal of the King’s forces in Cheshire, Lancashire and North Wales, would have allowed such an intrusion, let alone risen to his own feet as though a fire had been stoked beneath his rump. But this was no ordinary guest.
‘Highness,’ he said hurriedly.
Prince Rupert, the king’s nephew and talisman of the Royalist cause, was just twenty-four years old, two decades Byron’s junior, but that in no way diminished his authority. The conflict’s most feared cavalry commander was the third son of Frederick V, the Elector Palatine of the Rhine, and his wife Elizabeth Stuart, and Rupert had begun his soldiering career defending their doomed interests at the age of just fourteen. Now, a decade on, he was as experienced a fighter as any in England. A hard, decisive and brave leader, utterly feared by rebel forces who regularly attributed his success to Devilry. Rupert was an imposing figure, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall, with flowing, tousled hair that was black as coal, and almond-shaped eyes of glittering hazel. His skin was pale against a coat of rich blue and silver, while his lips were thin, pressed together determinedly, and his nose was long, sharp and hooked below a dark scowl, the effect putting Byron in mind of the hawks he kept back at Newstead. He stalked into the room, not bothering to remove a wide, feathered hat, and waved a scrap of paper in his gloved fist. ‘Send word to His Grace immediately. He is at Durham,
I hear. I want reinforcements.’
Byron set his pipe down on the chair he had vacated, privately cursing as flecks of expensive Chesapeake tobacco skittered from the bowl. ‘My lord Newcastle is dire knotted with the Covenanters, Highness. He will not march south while they ravage the north.’
The clefts in Rupert’s brow deepened. ‘Do you think me brainless, sir?’ he snapped. ‘Write to him. Request—’ He cut off his own words as a large, white dog padded through the doorway and settled at his feet. ‘No, beg his assistance. He cannot send an army, but I would ask for what he may spare. One man is better than nought.’
Byron thought it unlikely, for the Marquis of Newcastle was fully occupied with stemming the invasion from north of the border, but he would do as ordered. His star had waned since Nantwich, and it would not do to defy the prince. He nodded solemnly. ‘Highness.’
‘And no bloody pikes,’ Rupert muttered. ‘Too slow. Too cumbersome. We must move at speed or abandon our whole design.’
Byron felt awkward asking, but he pressed on regardless. ‘And… what is our design?’
Rupert blew a blast of air through his long nose. ‘The relief of Newark,’ he barked. He waved the paper again. ‘Newcastle faces the Scotch, Hopton faces Waller. As President of Wales, I find myself the only general able to offer the confounded town succour.’
Byron knew of the letter from the king, crumpled now in Rupert’s clenched fingers, and of the order it contained. The prominent scar carving a deep, puckered gully through Byron’s left cheek, the legacy of a halberd blow at Burford, started to itch, as if Rupert’s stare burned the skin. ‘You have not yet held your new commission a month, Highness. Our troops are not prepared.’
‘Then keep them here, my lord,’ Rupert snapped. ‘I shall gather my own force.’
Byron could hear his own pulse in his skull. ‘Am I not to ride with you, Highness?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘My uncle gave you Chester to command, and Chester is where you shall remain.’
‘But my brother holds Newark,’ Byron protested.
‘Then you will pray I am able to drag Sir Richard’s stones out of the flames, sir.’
‘May I not be granted leave to assist him, Highness?’
Rupert snorted. ‘You fool no one, Sir John. You desire a fight. Nothing more.’
‘Highness, that is untrue . . .’ The lie died on Byron’s lips as the tall prince waved a dismissive hand.
‘A commendable sentiment, if futile. You are required in Chester, and that is my final word. Send out to the garrisons ’twixt here and Newark. Warn them of my plans. I will move swiftly, build an army as I march. Fall upon that ghastly Meldrew before he is aware of my intention.’
Byron smiled weakly. ‘Meldrum, Highness.’
Rupert’s upper lip twisted. ‘A builder of lighthouses, did you know that?’
‘Aye, sir. Saw one of his works down in Kent once. North Foreland, I think it was. Now an accomplished soldier by all accounts.’
‘And yet another Scotsman come down to strip the land bare. By God, they are like a horde of voracious slugs.’ Rupert thrust the letter into his belt and clicked his tongue at the dog, who leapt to its paws and shook the dust from its shaggy coat. ‘Providence brings Tillier and Broughton back from Ireland. I have their hardy lads, at least.’
‘Aye, sir, that is truly a gift,’ Lord Byron replied. The truce brokered with the Catholic rebels in Ireland meant that two battle-hardened regiments of foot, under colonels Henry Tillier and Robert Broughton, had been spared for the conflict in England. They were based at Shrewsbury, and they, along with his personal regiments, granite-hewn veterans to a man, would provide the kernel of whatever force the energetic prince could whip into being.
Rupert went to the door, dipping his head to clear the wood-wormed timber. ‘I go to Shrewsbury forthwith.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Byron. ‘Muster as many men here as you can. And horses. I have not the time to dither.’
Sir John, Lord Byron, bowed again, and followed Prince Rupert from the room, entirely forgetting his pipe.
14 March 1644
Lornell McCroskey winced as the new dressing was finally tied off. The chirurgeon’s apprentice took plenty of care, fearful of McCroskey’s growled warning when first his grubby fingers had peeled away the old, crusty bindings, but the procedure had hurt all the same. Inch by inch, the bandages had unwound, every layer stuck fast upon the one beneath, dark and congealed. But, mercifully, the searing pain that lanced up and down his back, tracing a lightning line from right shoulder to left hip, had not been accompanied by the dread stench of putrefaction. It was clean, and it would heal, and Lornell McCroskey knew that his was a blessed life.
He pushed himself off the edge of the low table, ruing, not for the first time, the lack of beds in the makeshift infirmary. It was the price he had paid for rescue by dragoons attached to a besieging army. Still, at least the chirurgeon’s quarters, a collection of crack-walled chambers in the bowels of the Spittal, were better than the rain-lashed tents occupied by the rest of Meldrum’s units. The only real privation was the company of prisoners taken during Meldrum’s advance. Those Nottinghamshire Royalists for whom the war had ended with steel or lead had been tended here, and were lined in beds on either side.
‘I told you, did I not?’ Andrew Miggs, the silver-haired chirurgeon crooned as he came into the room. He was wiping his hands on a heavily soiled apron, new crimson streaks daubed by each finger. ‘Cobwebs, Master McCrosley.’
‘McCroskey.’
‘Quite,’ Miggs corrected himself without sounding remotely apologetic for the lapse. ‘Forget your elaborate poultices, pack the wound thick with cobwebs and be content as it heals.’
‘If you insist,’ McCroskey replied ungraciously. He struggled to insert his arms into the shirt sleeves, restricted by the pain and the tightly wrapped dressing that enveloped his upper torso. ‘I prefer to place my faith in God, sir.’
‘Quite.’ Miggs frowned. ‘How does it feel?’
‘It is all well, Master Miggs.’ McCroskey made for the iron-bound chest where his coat and hat were stored. ‘I thank you and bid you farewell.’
‘Less hasty, sir, I beg of you.’ Miggs cocked his head to the side as he assessed his patient. ‘You are not yet well enough to gallivant across country, if that is your design.’
‘I must make for London,’ McCroskey said through gritted teeth. ‘There can be no more delay.’
He would suffer severe censure as it was. Never mind his wounds, or the weeks spent in the hills attempting to evade an implacable one-eyed Cavalier and his motley band, the Committee for Both Kingdoms had a war to prosecute. The group, consisting of fourteen members of the House of Commons, seven from the Lords and four representatives from Scotland, had been empowered to direct the coordinated rebel strategy in the wake of the alliance with the Scots Covenanters. It was answerable to Parliament, of course, but possessed authority to act independently in military matters, and that meant that reliable information was crucial.
‘No, sir,’ Miggs was protesting, ‘this is madness.’
McCroskey heaved on his coat awkwardly, wincing. ‘Where will I find the quartermaster? I have need of weapons.’
‘You are not leaving, my friend.’ Miggs clapped his hands. The door opened behind him and a pair of heavyset halberdiers sidled in, the shouts and laughter of the leaguer wafting in at their backs. ‘You will wait until you are truly recovered. That is my final word.’
15 March 1644
Sir Richard Byron, Governor of Newark, peered through the window of the large house. He was on the upper floor, from here able to take in the busy thoroughfare of Stodman Street as it joined the corner of the cobbled Market Square. ‘Life continues, Armitage.’
The man seated in the room’s far corner, legs stretched out in front, was staring at the walls, admiring the murals daubed onto the whitewashed nogging between dark timbers. ‘It is Wednesday, sir.’
Byron tur
ned back from the vista. ‘Your point?’
‘Market day.’ Armitage stood, stepping up to the wall, and traced a finger along the edge of a bunch of richly crimson grapes. ‘There is no market.’
Byron sighed. ‘Well of course there is no market, Armitage, we are under siege.’ He went back to his study of the streets. ‘And yet folk are abroad.’ His gaze fell on a man pulling a heavily laden dog cart, the wheels spinning alternately as each side was hoisted into the air by the cobbles. ‘That fellow sells leeks, by the looks of him. Another has cow’s milk.’
‘Sheep, sir,’ Armitage corrected. ‘How might he reach his heifers?’
Byron pulled a sour expression. ‘Sheep’s milk, then.’ He watched as a man touting dried fish approached a coiffed lady who shook her head and moved on. ‘The town continues. Life persists, no matter what privations the Roundheads would subject us to.’ At that, the diamond-shaped panes of glass rattled as one of the siege guns roared from the rebel batteries. Byron stepped back from the window. The governor’s house was a grand building of jettied, timber frame and with an expensively pantiled roof. It was also conveniently positioned well away from the walls, protected by other buildings from the ministrations of Sir John Meldrum’s incessant guns, but that did not mean he felt safe. ‘I go to the castle,’ he said, snatching up his hat from the windowsill. ‘Join me?’
Armitage’s narrow mouth turned down at the corners, but he followed Byron all the same. ‘Perhaps we should attack,’ he suggested, voice echoing as they descended the creaking staircase.
‘We have not the numbers.’ Byron swept up his long, fair hair, gathering it at the nape of his neck before planting his hat firmly on his head. ‘Though I hate being caged like a wing-clipped jay. You know I was at Kineton Fight?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Armitage’s manner suggested he had heard the story a thousand times.
‘I would see battle again,’ Byron went on as they stepped into the street. The faces greeting them, smiling as they bowed, showed signs of strain. ‘Sir Henry Hastings comes hither!’ he shouted, gratified by the sporadic cheers that came in reply. ‘With Lord Loughborough we shall soon see salvation!’
The Prince's Gambit: Major Stryker and the the Relief of Newark Page 3