The Bleeding Land (31 page)

‘I would not wish for such a thing if I were you,’ Mun said, a shiver running through him as a fusillade of bloody, chaotic images exploded in his mind’s eye.

Emmanuel shrugged. ‘When Colonel Lunsford said he
wanted
to find Hooker before the rebels did, I volunteered to go recruiting.’

‘So Hooker
is
working for Lunsford? For the King?’ That thought was horrifying, considering what they had just planned with the mercenary.

Emmanuel grinned. ‘Not tomorrow night, he’s not,’ he said.

The wind had been building and by sunset next day it was whipping through the Royalist camp, causing tent canvas to snap loudly and unsettling the horses. The camp was spread across mostly open ground and the best the King’s men could do was lash down their tents, soothe their horses, and hunker down. It was too windy even for fires other than those set in pits dug out of the earth, and this was good, Mun knew, because it meant the camp was even darker than usual.

Grumbling of loose bowels, he had left Rowe and O’Brien drinking beer in their tent and, snatching up a hand axe from a wood block, had walked east through the camp to where one of the many powder magazines had been set up in open ground away from camp fires and soldiers with their tobacco pipes. It loomed as a great silhouette now against the inky horizon as he and Emmanuel crouched in a ditch beside a boundary hedge. They were near enough to thousands of men and horses to hear them settling down for the night, talking and laughing, and close enough to catch their stink now and then on the wind. But they were removed enough, Mun hoped, not to be noticed as they skulked in the dark like foxes by a hen coop. Two tents had been erected, one inside the other, to ensure the neatly stacked barrels inside, or rather the precious black powder within them, stayed dry. Two guards, musketeers with lit match between their fingers, walked in opposite circles around the magazine, the flax cords burning fast and angry in the gusts. Inside would be one, maybe two more men, though these would be armed only with blades to avoid any unwanted accidents with sparks igniting the cache.

Still, they will have blades, Mun thought, and blades can kill as well as matchlocks. A blade can keep coming.

The plan was simple. One that relied on men’s natural fears, on their base instincts to survive. But Mun had already seen enough of battle, of the confusion that descends when hooves pound the earth and flame licks black powder to know that even the simplest plan can go to hell in the time it takes to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. Besides which, some men, sometimes, could be stupidly brave. Or just plain stupid. And Mun could not still the nerves that writhed and twisted like serpents in his guts, making him nauseous. Emmanuel, on the other hand, seemed more excited than afraid. Eager, even. As though he thirsted for the danger. Which made Mun fear for the man’s safety even more. He offered up a silent prayer to God to keep Emmanuel from harm, but a sudden wash of doubt and guilt flooded him. Was he mad? Coercing Emmanuel, the man whom Bess would marry, into playing a leading role in this reckless act. As for himself, Mun was already a traitor. He had all but killed a man on his own side, his corporal no less, to save his brother’s life. And the rebel captain, a good man it seemed to Mun, had died too. But now he was making Emmanuel a traitor also.

Emmanuel put a hand on Mun’s shoulder. ‘I chose freely,’ he said as though he had read Mun’s thoughts. Mun could only nod. Then Emmanuel tipped the slipware cup he held so that Mun could look inside. The length of match curled within was smouldering, one end glowing menacingly. Mun nodded again. Hidden inside the cup the lit match would not give them away in the dark. In his other hand Emmanuel held a stick, around one end of which he’d wrapped a swath of pitch-soaked linen, its tarry scent whipped this way and that by the wind. Attached to his belt was a powder flask with a thin spout. The man was up to his neck in it now come what may.

‘Thank you,’ Mun said, those two words seeming short measure though he hoped his friend felt the weight in them.
Somewhere
out in the dark, amongst the wind’s howl, an owl screeched. Mun glanced around to make sure they were alone. There was almost no moon, just a nail-paring and even that obscured more often than not by clouds that raced across the sky as though fleeing from some celestial terror.

‘We are family,’ Emmanuel said in a low voice that would not be carried off in the wind. ‘At least, we will be soon enough.’

‘Soon enough,’ Mun agreed, smiling. ‘Can we trust him?’ he added, letting the axe’s short haft fall through his hand until he gripped it by the neck. He had not brought his sword because it might rattle in the scabbard or trip him and he needed stealth more than steel. He had brought his two pistols, though, had loaded them and shoved them into his belt just in case.

‘We have no choice,’ Emmanuel said.

Mun knew that was the truth of it. ‘I saw men building gallows today. Bard said they’re for the prisoners. They’re going to hang them, Emmanuel. As an example.’

‘They’ll not hang Tom,’ Emmanuel replied with a half grin.

Mun had not told Emmanuel about the events of four nights past, and the admission that he had been the one who all but killed Corporal Scrope rose in his throat. But he swallowed it back down. Breaking his brother out of a Royalist gaol was one thing. Murdering the corporal of his own troop was quite another and he could not risk his friend abandoning him at this stage. He hated himself for exposing Emmanuel to this risk, but he needed him, too.

‘It’s time,’ Mun said, glancing around. It had been properly dark for an hour now and Hooker and his men would be in position. Waiting for his signal. ‘If something goes wrong,’ he began, locking eyes with his friend, ‘run. Understand? Do whatever it takes to get away.’

Emmanuel’s brows arched, though he said nothing, didn’t need to. Mun knew full well that the chances of them, two troopers from Prince Rupert’s Horse, getting to their mounts and breaking clear of the Royalist camp if something went
wrong
were slim. Even if they escaped, then what? Their and their families’ reputations would be ruined.

What would become of Bess?
his mind questioned.
What of her fatherless child?
‘Are you ready?’ he asked, pushing such thoughts away. Emmanuel nodded, checking the match in the slipware cup again, then setting it on the ground to free up his hands. Then he dug his fingers into the soil and scraped up clumps of damp earth and Mun did the same, smearing the muck across his own face and beard, the rich smell of wet soil filling his nose.

‘How do I look?’ Emmanuel asked, his teeth and eyes glowing against his pitch-black face.

‘Much improved,’ Mun replied through a strained smile, and almost said that at last he could see what Bess saw in him, but thought better of it. Better to leave Bess out of it for now.

Some creature, of a fair size by the sound of it, rustled in the hawthorn hedge, breaking twigs as it scurried away from them.

‘Let us hope those men don’t want to die today,’ Mun said, gesturing with the short axe towards the gunpowder store. And with that he crawled out of the ditch, keeping low like a predator, the wet ground soaking his breeches, his sleeves wicking water. He suddenly wanted to speak to his friend again, to run through the plan one last time, but the time for talking had passed and now God would see them either triumphant or destroyed.

He fell flat, his face down in the grass, and sensed Emmanuel do the same as one of the guards stopped on his round some thirty-five paces away. Mun did not even look up. He feared the whites of his eyes might betray him or else the musketeer might sense that he was being watched the way men sometimes could. He held his breath. The wind moaned above him and somewhere to the east beyond the powder magazine a dog was howling and Mun’s ears were straining to detect any movement from the guard that might suggest they had been seen.
Then
he heard the intermittent splatter of liquid and exhaled slowly because the musketeer had only stopped to relieve himself. The clatter of the wooden powder flasks hanging from the man’s bandolier told Mun he had pulled up his breeches and recommenced his round and so Mun dared lift his face from the grass. Emmanuel was already moving again.

Damn you, Tom
, a voice seethed somewhere in his mind.

It was achingly slow going, using their forearms to drag themselves forward inch by inch. Then there must have been a tear in the cloud because suddenly Mun could see a guard’s face as he came round the righthand end of the tent; could see that his breeches were grey and his tunic was blue, could count each of the twelve powder boxes hanging on its pair of strings from the bandolier across his left shoulder. Mun’s mind screamed a curse as he let go of the axe’s haft, his hands squirming down to the pistols tucked in his belt. Surely they would be seen. He braced for Hell to break loose, for the musketeer to yell and raise his matchlock and fire. But the guard kept walking and Mun whispered thanks to God, though he knew they were by no means in the clear yet.

Rein in your fear, he commanded himself silently. They know there are thirteen thousand loyal men around them. They are complacent. They will not see us.

They will not see us.

He froze again, relieved to sense that Emmanuel had too. They could go no closer without being seen. He felt the cold sweat on his back, his heart pounding against his breastbone. Now, no more than twenty paces away, it was time to wait. Every few minutes there came a point when one guard had passed their position so his back was to them and the other was still on the tent’s far side, yet to round the corner. Mun’s muscles bunched. With ghost movements, slight contractions of sinew and tendon, he told each of his limbs what was expected of it.

Then it happened. He was up. Running in a half crouch, the
wind
gushing past his ears. Then down. The smell of damp canvas and lanolin filling his world. And Emmanuel was on his back beside him. Mun lifted the hem just enough and Emmanuel slithered beneath it and was gone. Then the hem lifted again and Mun sensed that the guard was only feet away but he did not look up, just crawled under and there was no explosive percussion from a matchlock. They crouched in the narrow dark space between the two tents, their eyes adjusting to the deeper gloom and Mun’s lungs burning as he fought to keep his breathing quiet and measured. Slowly, he lifted the flap of the inner tent and peered in, eyes searching. Barrels. Lots of barrels, filling the tent with the sweet scent of oak. Slow, slower than he had ever done anything in his life Mun crept towards the nearest of them, then eased himself up until he could peer over it, and there, near the tent’s entrance, sitting on a stool, his back to Mun and a shortened halberd lying across his knees, was the last guard. Beyond the rippling canvas the wind howled and Mun had the notion that God was on his side because that storm was drowning out the sound of Emmanuel crawling, powder flask in hand, backwards from the barrels, pouring a zigzag trail of gunpowder as he went.

Mun saw in the inky dark a hand extend towards him and so he gave Emmanuel the short axe. Then he drew both pistols. He cocked one and spun the other over so that he gripped it by the barrel, then edged closer to the guard, willing the man not to turn.

The man turned.

‘One word and I’ll shoot,’ Mun rasped.

The guard leapt up, bringing his halberd scything through the darkness so that Mun felt the air as it passed a finger’s length from his face. He launched himself forward and clubbed the man across his face with the pistol’s butt and the guard fell backwards against the canvas.

The sound of splintering wood filled the tent as Emmanuel hacked into a barrel like a man possessed.

‘Bloody fool!’ Mun hissed at the guard, relieved to see that he was still moving, flailing, trying to stand.

‘Help! Guards!’ the man yelled.

‘Hurry!’ Mun growled into the dark behind him.

‘Guards!’

Then the entrance flap was yanked aside and two silhouettes loomed against the dark grey of the night beyond, lit match between their fingers.

‘Rebels!’ one of them yelled, as the tent bloomed with light and filled with the blustery roar of flame because Emmanuel had touched the burning match to his torch.

‘Get out!’ he screamed. ‘Get out now!’ and all three guards turned and ran because fire was the Devil and black powder was his servant.

‘Do it!’ Mun snarled, so Emmanuel touched the torch to the end of his gunpowder trail and it flared into furious, hellish life and raced, and Mun and Emmanuel scrambled beneath the first tent and the second and then they were back in the open, running for their lives.

The first explosion lit the sky but the second filled the world like God’s wrath. Then there were more but Mun and Emmanuel did not stop. They ran north to the brook and threw themselves down, scooping up water and sloughing the mud from their faces even as the camp burst into life and men yelled and horses screamed. And somewhere to the north-west, if Osmyn Hooker could be trusted, and if God was on Mun’s side, the rebels were breaking out.

CHAPTER NINETEEN