Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) (30 page)

‘Oh, I’m certain he’ll find an opportune moment, Sergeant,’ Lancelot Forrester said.

‘Speaking of opportune moments,’ Eli Makepeace cut in suddenly. ‘Perhaps this is one.’ He waited for the men in the line to turn so he had their full attention. ‘My surrender was not due to cowardice.’ He stepped out of the line, fishing a small fragment of parchment from the side of his boot. As the guard moved to push him back into line, he waved it under the man’s nose theatrically. ‘Fetch the captain, would you?’

‘Not bloody likely,’ the cavalryman answered gruffly.

‘I shan’t offer this for you to read,’ Makepeace replied, ‘as I don’t suppose you have your letters. But I assure you Captain Tainton will wish to cast his eye over it straight away.’

As Stryker lay in the cart, he was thankful for the hardy constitution afforded him by God and by years of campaigning abroad, for the cold seemed to permeate his very bones now that his limbs were bound and inert.

He cast his eye around the mass of men and horses that made their way east toward the metropolis. He felt sorry for the next pilgrims to traverse this highway, for the large company was carving up the road beneath with so many shod hooves that nothing more than a ploughed field was being left in their wake.

This was Tainton’s full troop, probably numbering around fifty, Stryker reckoned. They were well armoured, with good, expensive, well-kept mounts that would put most cavalry units to shame. Their helmets and breastplates glinted in the dawn’s wan light, while their leader’s black armour left no doubt who was in command.

As he quietly observed his captors, assessing strengths and searching for weaknesses, Stryker noticed an additional group of riderless horses led by the reins at the rear of the column. At first he assumed they were the animals taken in the Shinfield skirmish, but a quick count told him that there were four beasts too many.

And then he saw a large stallion, its rich chestnut coat shimmering red in the sun, and he realized with joy that Vos and the others were there, apparently unharmed.

With such a large force now assembled, Tainton had decided to travel in the open. It was not likely that a Royalist faction of similar or greater strength was abroad in this region. Besides, anything smaller than a main road would have been virtually impassable in this weather.

‘Where do they take us, d’you think, sir?’

Ensign Burton was leaning against the opposite side of the cart. Propped to his right was Sergeant Skellen, while Captain Forrester sat next to Stryker. At the foot of the cart, furthest away from the pair of horses that drew it through the sucking mud, sat Sir Randolph Moxcroft. Tainton had not wished to transport him in the same vehicle as the prisoners, but the spy’s disability prevented him taking to the saddle. To ensure his safety, Tainton had placed one of his cavalrymen next to Moxcroft. The man held a carbine in each hand, loaded and ready to curb any hint of insurrection.

Stryker’s gaze met that of Burton. ‘London, like as not.’

After the surrender, Stryker and his men might have been executed on the spot, but Stryker had guessed correctly that Tainton would not choose that path. They had been disarmed and were under constant guard, but no further deaths were sought.

As Stryker silently contemplated the human toll, a voice broke across his thoughts. ‘London it is.’

Stryker twisted round to see that Roger Tainton had reined in beside the cart, keeping pace with the labouring vehicle. ‘Six
dead. Two more will doubtless follow by dawn. Zounds, man, you’ve cost me dear. Again.’

‘Glad to be of service, Captain.’

Up close, Stryker could see the sheer quality of Tainton’s armour. The black plate was spotless and gleamed so brightly that Stryker could see his own face staring back at him. ‘It’s Milanese,’ Tainton said, observing Stryker’s interest. ‘The best that sovereigns can buy.’

Stryker tore his gaze from the armour and stared up at Tainton’s face. ‘What do you want, Captain?’

‘I wished merely to tell you that it has been an honour and an education to face you, Captain Stryker,’ Tainton said seriously as he rode alongside, bobbing up and down beyond the wooden slats that formed the cart’s flank. ‘Though you’ve made me sweat a deal more than I’d have preferred.’

‘Next time I’ll make you die,’ Stryker said.

Tainton’s grin was radiant. ‘That’s the spirit, eh? I confess I was rather glad to have found you again, after you gave us such a hiding at that little Papist hole.’

Stryker thought of the village where his men had intervened in Tainton’s rout of the Royalist cavalry. ‘They’re not Papists. They’re just peasants. Common folk.’

‘Popish sons of whores, Captain,’ Tainton said, his tone suddenly sharp. ‘I languished low after our first encounter, I am not afraid to admit. Been seeking to reacquaint my men with you ever since. Thought I’d lost you at one point, but fortunately a man of your . . . description . . . does not remain unnoticed for long.’ He laughed. ‘And to cap what has turned into a very fine night’s work, we have the good Sir Randolph in our possession, thanks to Captain Makepeace. The man has a genius for deception.’

The parchment Makepeace had handed over to Captain Tainton had contained nothing but a blob of dried red wax and a simple piece of text. But that text had been an order from Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, beseeching any God-fearing
Parliamentarian to offer help and assistance to the parchment’s bearer. The wax contained an imprint of the earl’s personal seal. Tainton spent half an hour listening to Makepeace’s story, shook him and Bain by the hand, and returned their horses.

Stryker had listened too. He had heard, with anger and astonishment, the story of Makepeace’s journey to Langrish. His stomach had churned as Makepeace explained the ‘despatches’ bound for the fictional Gideon Harding. And he was convulsed with fury when Moxcroft had verified the whole sordid tale in a tone that dripped with relish.

‘We’ll see if he’s clever enough to avoid my sword running through him,’ Stryker said to Tainton in barely a whisper. ‘And when I’ve dealt with him, then I’m coming after you.’

Tainton laughed again. He tilted back his head and brayed to the stars. ‘I admire your courage, sir. It is truly inspiring!’

Stryker might have laughed at his own ridiculous bravado, had the situation not been so dire. He was the cuckold to Makepeace’s treachery.

Tainton cocked his head to where Makepeace and Bain rode alongside his own men. ‘Makepeace and his sergeant are good Parliamentarians, sir. Honest, pious men who have listened to their conscience, as you all should. Captain Makepeace took a great risk in abandoning the king’s flawed cause, and an even greater one in rescuing Sir Randolph. I only thank the Lord I had the magnanimity to offer quarter, and that you showed the good sense to accept. My men might have skewered him!’

‘Nothing wrong with that. Skewering would improve ’im,’ Skellen growled to himself.

Tainton grinned. ‘Well, fortunately he was able to convince you of his loyalty to the crown. Clever fellow.’

‘And now?’ asked Stryker.

Tainton shrugged matter-of-factly. ‘Now you’re to be taken to Westminster. Moxcroft will transfer his knowledge to Parliament, while you and your men will be questioned. You’ll inevitably swing, I’m sure, but not at my order, though
the good Captain Makepeace is keen for me to pursue such a course.’

‘I’m sure he is.’

‘Perhaps a stay in the capital will clear your mind. Enlighten you.’

‘You think I’ll turn my coat?’

Tainton seemed to study his captive as he thought. ‘Perhaps not. But you’ll share information, I’m sure. Troop movements, regimental strengths and the like.’

‘You’re mistook, Captain.’

‘No, sir. You are.’ The cavalryman’s eyes were grave. ‘Every man talks, given the right persuasion. Not sure what your poison will be . . . blunt, sharp, hot, cold . . . but whichever it is, you will talk in the end.’

‘And my men?’

‘Your men shall be interrogated along with you. And I’m certain the execution of a man of your renown will be a tonic for public morale.’ Tainton kicked, and his powerful mount surged forward. As he plunged along the road ahead, he called back, ‘May I know your name, sir?’

‘You have it.’

‘No, Captain Stryker. Your
Christian
name!’

‘No. It’s just Stryker to you.’

‘Makepeace warned me you’d say that!’ Tainton called. His laughter lingered as he evaporated into the mass of men and horses.

‘
P
ray God the winter will be mild,’ Lisette Gaillard said quietly.

The man she addressed was a short, morbidly fat fellow with sagging, wine-red eyelids and yellowish skin. He had been perched at the river’s edge, cleaning the muck from his boots with a small blade, but hauled himself to his feet upon hearing her words.

The man waddled away down the bank, Lisette in pursuit. They strode past long and short vessels, those with high sides and those that seemed so shallow that they would not survive more than a brisk breeze. At length, the fat man stopped at the prow of a stout barge and turned to grin at Lisette. ‘Come aboard.’

The
Cormorant
was a flat-bottomed transport barge that carried goods the length of the Thames, from the arable lands of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire to the towns of Surrey and Middlesex and to the North Sea beyond.

The fat man introduced himself as the
Cormorant
’s skipper, Horace Crumb. He apologized for the clandestine arrangement. ‘I’m for the king, see?’ Crumb said. ‘But there’s plenty here about, ’specially as you sail further east, what’ll see your neck wrung for expressin’ such.’ He tapped his yellowing nose with a grubby finger. ‘So we keeps things quiet.’

He started making busy with the ropes. ‘Mind you, war’s got its silver lining, same as everything,’ he huffed. ‘Industry,
that’s the key. The rebels are busy forging weapons and building armies. For that they need ’orses. Troops to carry, wagons to draw, messages to pass. You needs ’orses for all that, and more. And that’s where I come in.’

Lisette had pushed her unflappable mare hard during the night, and as dawn cracked the dark sky she had arrived at Richmond. The wharf had been where Father Benjamin said it would be, and she had easily identified Crumb from the priest’s detailed description.

‘So you gather hay in the shires and sail it into London?’ Lisette asked.

‘Indeed. Or we shall in the summer months. We’ll load up with hay and ship it in. At a good price, of course.’

‘And until the hay season?’

‘Wool, m’ dear. There’s always a need for wool on the Continent. Always.’

So Lisette Gaillard crawled between the great bales of wool and curled up. She would wait patiently for the barge to wend its way past Kew and Westminster, Lambeth and Greenwich, and she would pray. After reassurances that his men, five in all, valued their jobs too highly to betray him, Crumb had told her that the Dutch trading ship was anchored out towards Tilbury, so she prayed that their passage would be swift and that the ship would not have sailed by the time they reached it.

At first it seemed as though her prayers would be answered. They made reasonable progress northwards from Richmond, passing the great curve in the river that signalled their arrival near Hounslow. Crumb’s men leapt from the barge’s flanks with practised ease, landing with agile feet on the bank to moor the
Cormorant
so that she might take on more goods. From her hiding place, Lisette could hear the men calling to friends on the shore or other moored vessels.

As Crumb shuffled past, Lisette grabbed him by a fat ankle. ‘You didn’t say we would be stopping,’ she hissed.

Crumb looked down. ‘Patience,
mamzell
. We shall be away soon. But I must collect an extra shipment. Manure.’

She stared up at him. ‘Manure?’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Dung! There’s gold in dung. We shall load a few sacks and be on our way.’

After an hour or so at rest, the barge drifted away from the bank and began to build up pace once more. She was completely full now, her flat hull packed tight with cargo, and Lisette’s private thoughts were interrupted by the smell of dung and the merry singing of the
Cormorant
’s plump skipper. He had a strong and surprisingly melodic voice, and she began to let her mind wander with the infectious tune. Despite being curled amongst piles of dirty wool and stinking manure, Lisette felt her spirits begin to lift.

‘Hold there!’ A voice, sharp with authority, cut through the air, shattering the jaunty song.

Lisette could not see the approaching vessel, but she heard Crumb protesting that he was due to connect with a Dutch trader toward the coast, and that any delay would be fatal to his business.

It was to no avail. ‘Corporal Grimes!’ An authoritative voice barked the order. ‘Take a dozen lads and board her immediately!’

Lieutenant Ross was in command of a small passenger ferry that had been commandeered by Parliament for the express purpose of searching London-bound vessels. He and his men had been empowered to stop, board and, if necessary, seize any suspicious river traffic. It was a nebulous remit, but then Ross’s superiors did not know exactly what dangers might come via the Thames. The people of London were only too aware of the proximity of a large Royalist army, and they feared the possibility of ferryloads of musketeers sailing down the great river and into Westminster while Essex and his army marched west. They foresaw gunboats loaded with ordnance mooring at Southwark
and pulverizing the rebel heartland, or troop upon troop of sabre-wielding Cavaliers unloading at one of the numerous wharfs and galloping through the city’s streets, plundering and burning all in their path.

‘We must all play our part in the defence of this great town,’ Crumb said, but there was a tremor in his voice.

‘Quite so,’ Ross replied. ‘And Parliament is leading the way. They raise more regiments daily.’

‘Well, God bless Mister Pym!’

Ross nodded. ‘London will be a veritable fortress, man. It’ll be a hell of a thing to break us, should that time come.’