Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (16 page)

‘I am a simple regimental clerk, sir. Slanning’s, as was. The only orders I see are those for new tucks or extra musket-balls. Nothing more mighty than that, I assure you.’

‘Slanning’s . . .’ Massie repeated the word slowly. ‘A Cornish unit. But you are not Cornish, sir.’

‘My father was, sir,’ Buck replied. ‘From Truro, but we moved to Somerset when I was a child. I thought I would make him proud if I enlisted with Sir Nicholas.’

‘And?’

Stryker was impressed to see Buck’s look of utter consternation. ‘He died, sir. Heart gave out a week before Kineton Fight.’

‘I am sorry for your loss, Mister Buck, of course,’ Massie said, before turning to Stryker. ‘And how was it? That is to say, how was Bristol?’

‘A cauldron of horrors,’ Stryker replied solemnly. He saw intelligence in Massie’s eyes, and it made him uneasy. He wondered what thoughts whirled in the governor’s mind, and whether the young colonel had truly swallowed Buck’s story. ‘Too many souls lost. And for what?’

Massie’s face seemed to betray a ghost of amusement. ‘For King Charles, sir, surely?’

Stryker felt his heart begin to gather pace. ‘For a king corrupted by the poisoned words of his advisors. I would not enlist with a rebellion that seeks to depose a rightful sovereign. But, rather, one resolved to remove those who would lead him astray.’

Massie smiled warmly enough, though his eyes twinkled. ‘Well said, sir.’

‘God save me,’ Stryker went on, ‘but I fought at Bristol. Added to its misery. My scales, as it were, have since fallen away.’

Massie glanced over Stryker’s shoulder. ‘And Mister Skellen?’

Skellen did not flinch. ‘I follow my captain, sir.’

‘Just so,’ Massie replied. He glanced from Skellen to Buck, letting his gaze linger there, before finally letting his attention settle upon Stryker. ‘I shall not dissemble, Captain. I am short on manpower, on leaders, on men who can shoot a musket or wield a sword. Mister Buck, the City Corporation runs civilian life here, and they would, I feel certain, be delighted of any assistance you might give.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Buck said with a small bow.

‘Do the three of you pledge to fight for God and for Parliament, against the forces of King Charles?’ Massie asked grandly. He was rewarded with immediate murmurs of assent from Buck and Stryker.

‘I miss m’ halberd, sir,’ Skellen droned.

Massie’s wide eyes swivelled to peer up at him, the slight creases in his ghostly cheeks deepening as he smiled. ‘I’m sure one can be located for you, Sergeant.’

‘Grand, sir. I’m all yours, sir.’

Massie’s smile widened. ‘Then I welcome you to your home within our new walls. And may God preserve us.’

Stryker had half-expected to be ordered to the official garrison, where he would be given a rank and the blue coat of the Earl of Stamford’s Regiment of Foot, and detailed to a specific role within the anxious city. Indeed, representatives of the Common Council, the body responsible for organizing the manning of the defences, had apparently been sniffing around since word of Stryker’s arrival reached them, but Massie had expressed only disdain for their bureaucratic machinations.

‘You will be given a degree of liberty, Captain,’ he said, as the two men strolled south-eastwards along Westgate Street, Skellen limping awkwardly in their wake.

‘Thank you, Governor,’ Stryker replied, noting Massie’s use of his old rank.

‘I’ll not consign an experienced man such as yourself to goddamned guard duty because some grey-bearded clerk says so. Not right, sir, not right at all.’

Stryker was pleased the governor felt that way, but inwardly wondered whether James Buck was as content with his lot. The young spy had been taken in a different direction as the group filed from the apothecary’s rooms and into the morning light, led by Captain Backhouse and one of the musketeers to meet his new colleagues in Gloucester’s small but, according to the governor, energetic administrative community. Stryker and Skellen had shared a stolen glance as he disappeared around the first corner, each wondering whether Buck would have the gumption to execute whatever tasks he had been assigned by Ezra Killigrew.

‘I am grateful for your trust, sir,’ Stryker said truthfully.

Massie looked at him, one corner of his mouth twitching in a sly expression. ‘I have little choice, sir. I need every fighter I can muster, and if your reputation is only half true, then you will be worth ten men if the enemy comes. Besides,’ he said, attention returning to the street, where men and women seemed to move from his path like the Red Sea before Moses, ‘you will be closely watched, Captain. Any wrong move—’

‘Understood, sir.’

The day was becoming stifling, and Stryker took off his cloak, slinging the battle-worn garment across his shoulder. For the first time since they had been accosted by Backhouse’s patrol, he felt some semblance of calm about the affair, for they were being afforded a level of respect and freedom he had not foreseen. Moreover, Massie had ordered their weapons be returned immediately, and the pendulous weight of the sword at his waist was a comfort indeed.

A portly woman hefting a stout hogshead waddled past them, and Massie stepped aside to let her through. She garbled her thanks, sweat pouring from her brow to cascade in large rivulets across bright red cheeks. ‘They all play their part, however simple it may be,’ Massie said as he watched her drop the barrel into place beside a score of others. A party of men emerged from an alley between two houses. They were naked from the waist up, sinewy torsos gleaming in the heat, and acknowledged the young governor with waves and nods before each stooped to heave a hogshead on to his shoulder. Massie returned the greeting with a silent wave of his own, and pointed so that Stryker would notice the growing rampart that rose at the alley’s far end.

‘You believe the king’s men will come, sir?’ Stryker ventured.

Massie pursed his lips in a gesture that made it seem as though he weighed his next words carefully. ‘A fellow came to me yesterday under a flag of truce.’

Stryker’s pulse seemed to skip a beat. He focussed on the distant rampart that crawled with gangs of labourers, like maggots over a dead bird. Some carried shovels, others dragged sharpened stakes up to the crest, but most bore baskets of earth on their backs to pile on the outer face of the artificial glacis. ‘From the King?’

‘From his council, certainly.’ Massie blew out his cheeks. ‘Offered me generous terms to open our gates. I rebuffed the villain, naturally.’

‘Then they will come.’

Massie nodded, his soft eyes suddenly brightening with diamond hardness. ‘They will. And we will fight the scoundrels off until our last man – or woman – is dead. His Majesty will witness our resolve with his own eyes. I have made certain of it.’

‘God save us,’ Stryker said, wondering what that last comment had meant. He looked further along the road to where a pair of small children pushed a barrow-load of turfs between them. The vehicle lurched from side to side, and the boys yapped at one another angrily as they wrestled with their unwieldy bounty. ‘Whole families work at the walls?’

Massie shrugged. ‘The palisade must be constructed by hand. The ditch in front is more than ten paces wide, and if you were to stand at its base and I perched on your shoulders, I would not see above it. That takes more manpower than I have at my disposal as military leader, so the Council must engage the common folk, too.’

Stryker looked at the streets and houses around him. It was a strange scene, for, though the area was crowded, Gloucester’s citizens were not employed on what he imagined to be their daily business. As he was beginning to understand, normal life seemed to have been suspended in the wake of the threat of an impending attack. Every man, woman and child was engaged in the defence of their property. In defence of their very lives.

Massie halted outside a top-heavy building that leaned to one side, its upper floors piled precariously on a wood-framed jetty that looked as though it could never bear such weight. ‘This is where I must take my leave.’

Stryker stared up at the building. ‘A tavern, sir?’

‘Just so,’ Massie said with a grin. ‘The Crown Inn. Sadly, though, she is to be transformed from alehouse to command centre, much to the tapster’s chagrin.’ He gave one of the musketeers a flicker of a glance. ‘Corporal Dodd will escort you from here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.’

The bluecoat gave a silent nod, Massie offered his hand for Stryker to shake, touched a finger to his temple to acknowledge Skellen, and vanished within the tavern’s gloomy interior.

‘We’re in,’ Skellen muttered as soon as they were moving again. The bluecoat tailed them conspicuously, but mercifully out of earshot. ‘Now what?’

They turned down a wide thoroughfare lined with shops, narrowly avoiding a group of shoeless urchins haring out from a side alley as though an invisible culverin pounded at their heels. They were laughing and shoving and prodding one another, very much like any gang of boys one might have seen in any of England’s towns, but, as they shoaled instinctively to skirt the menacing pair of soldiers, Stryker noticed their bare feet were as mud-caked as their hands and forearms.

‘Look at them,’ he said to Skellen. ‘They’ve been on the defences.’

‘Cheeky beggars.’

‘No, Will.
Working
on the defences. The whole city really is involved.’ He picked at the scab on his forehead without thinking. ‘We were told Massie may have a mind to surrender.’

‘And?’

‘And I think he did.’ He paused, tilting back his head to meet Skellen’s hooded eyes. ‘Until yesterday, or during the night, or when he saw the sun rise this morning.’

‘You don’t think he will now?’

‘No.’ Stryker noticed the bluecoat had slowed his stride, but not halted, and was drawing too close for comfort. ‘The parley with Gerard,’ he said in a low voice as they resumed their progress, ‘was a cover for the real message. The one designed to cow Massie into submission. But he seems to have hardened his resolve.’

‘And the folk are right up for a brabble.’

‘Aren’t they just?’ Stryker squinted along the length of the road, trying to see even one person not apparently busy with the industry of rebellion. He found none. Even those whose arms were not piled with material for the rampart seemed focussed and deliberate in the way they scuttled about Gloucester’s warren-like core, and he supposed they would be conveying orders on behalf of the military leaders, or passing messages between the political elite. Every person had a role to play. And then there was the man at the top. ‘Jesu, I look into his eyes and I see determination, not fear. I look at the common folk and they’re digging the blasted ditch. Even the striplings are set to work. If the King comes before the walls expecting the city to capitulate, he’ll get a nasty surprise.’

Skellen sniffed. ‘What do we care, sir? If he comes, he’ll come with plenty o’ lads. They’ll trample through these bloody ant-hills in no time.’

‘If Rupert takes command, yes. But he feared His Majesty would not countenance another escalade after Bristol.’

‘Make the signal, sir,’ Skellen said, casting a quick glance back at the glum-faced musketeer and offering a friendly nod. ‘Gloucester ain’t likely to surrender, so Longshanks’ll need to smash a hole in its pretty new walls.’

‘Or,’ Stryker replied, thinking back to his discussion with the prince, ‘the King will avoid this place altogether and strike instead at London. I fear Rupert will not welcome our news.’

‘Might as well tell him before they finish their defences,’ Skellen said, ‘in case he can convince his uncle to give him the reins.’

‘Aye.’ Stryker looked up at the sun, realizing the day had raced away while he had been exploring the city. ‘Killigrew said mid-morning. He won’t be watching for the signal now. We will have to do it on the morrow.’

Skellen’s leathery faced cracked in a rotten-toothed grin. ‘Just so, Captain. Just so.’

CHAPTER 7

Gloucester, 8 August 1643

By mid morning it was already sweltering, and the two men sweated profusely as they strode along the busy street. And busy it most certainly was, for news of the enemy had reached Gloucester and been retold by its most senior men, right down to the gossips and newsmongers, goodwives and children. The king’s men were on their way, it was said, in tones ranging from high excitement to tremulous panic. The all-conquering Royalists were sweeping up the Severn Valley and would be at the city’s walls in less than two days. And after all the talk, all the preparation, the fresh earthen ramparts, ditches and bastions, it was really happening. War was coming to Gloucester.

But ahead of that fearsome army would come its outriders. Its vanguard of cavalrymen and scouts, atop oat-fed destriers that could outrun any but the very best animals, and they would encircle the rebel stronghold, plumb its protective rivers, assess its strengths and weaknesses, prod its turnpikes, harry its pickets and plot its downfall. With those men would be the king’s intelligencers, all hurriedly feeding information back to the oncoming army, taking notes, sketching maps. One man amongst them would be watching a stretch of the south-eastern wall where it loomed over a broad swathe of heathland known as Gaudy Green, and it was here that the two men now went to make contact.