Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (23 page)

Stryker had nodded mutely.

‘You have no Christian name?’

‘None.’

If anything, Port’s grin had widened at that. ‘No matter. We have time to properly acquaint ourselves. This here is my friend Nelly’s house. A private house, you understand? No prying eyes here, Captain, not anyone. You are mine now, Stryker. No one knows you’re here. No one is looking for you. You might as well be dead already. And soon, o’ course, you’ll wish you were.’

They had gone in the early evening, just as the colour had drained from the sky, and Stryker had been dumped like a sack of offal in the centre of the room. There he had remained, racked by waves of pain but thankful to still draw breath. He had dreamed of Lisette again; the smell of her, the taste. When he woke, fitfully and dry-mouthed, he had wondered what tale the army would tell of his disappearance, and how his fellow officers had taken the news. He thought too of Cecily Cade. He did not like the girl, for she had played him for a fool, but she had been his responsibility – his to find. Yet now he was in no better a position than she. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He shut his eye tightly, forcing the pain deep into his body, and felt himself slide towards another fitful sleep. He wondered whether this time he would wake.

Outside Gloucester, 10 August 1643

The main army of King Charles reached Gloucester in a blaze of new light as morning reached its zenith, their ensigns fluttering serenely above bristling phalanxes of pike, deep squads of musketeers and snorting, thunderous troops of cavalry. Many of the regiments had arrived the previous day, some during the night, but now almost the whole force was here, descended upon the rebel enclave in a vast dust cloud heralded by the hammering of drums and the shrill, haughty calls of trumpets.

Captain Lancelot Forrester marched at the head of his company of foot, his personal colour of deep red, with four white diamonds in the field, looming at his back. Reginald Jays was with him and, as they rounded the last copse that obscured their view of the defiant town, the young lieutenant let out a soft whistle.

Forrester smiled. ‘Not often a man witnesses such a gathering.’

Jays’s sharply tapered jaw had flopped open as their field of vision cleared, revealing a great stretch of scrubland that teemed with life. There were tents clustered about the charred remains of fires, men drilling in squads harassed by bawling sergeants and corporals, and vast trains of baggage and artillery, which were still being ushered, cajoled and threatened into their respective positions. It was an army on the march, a bigger army than Jays had ever laid his inexperienced gaze upon, and now it had come to rest before the walls of one of the nation’s most ancient cities. Those defences ran across the fringe of Gloucester, forming a protective ring about the bunched houses and the cathedral beyond. But even that structure seemed worthless in the face of such a vast horde. It was as though the entire population of England had gathered in this place.

‘I’d guess we’ve near twenty thousand, give or take,’ Forrester continued. ‘Six or seven thousand of which we have here and on Tredworth Field. But there are many more out at Barton to the east, Vavasour has four thousand on t’other side of the Severn, and the Prince has a host at Prinknash Park.’

‘Hard to fathom we are a part of that,’ Jays said as his boots scraped up a miniature dust cloud that rose to merge with all the others.

‘An integral part, Lieutenant!’ Forrester barked with mock formality. He made a mental note of the flags down on the fields before them, realizing quickly that there were more than he could count in an entire day. ‘If we are meant to frighten the young governor into submission, then this should do the trick.’

‘If it doesn’t?’

Forrester laughed. ‘Then you’re in trouble, Mister Jays, for I shall be forced to send you over the rampart on a ladder!’

‘They say the walls are strongest here, sir,’ Jays said tentatively.

‘If you are asking why the bulk of our mighty force approaches from the south-east, where the walls are strongest . . .’

‘Strongest?’ Jays repeated the word incredulously. ‘It is the only place they have real walls at all, sir!’

‘Very well,’ Forrester replied with a sigh. ‘If you are asking why we focus upon the only place they have walls, and not some makeshift pile of earth, then the answer is in the terrain.’ He broke his stride, stamping his tall boots on the cracked mud of the track worn bare by so many thousand feet. ‘The ground here is hard and high. If—
if
—it comes to a siege, we will remain dry, and our ordnance will do well from this position. The land to the north of the city is foul, marshy territory. Not country from where to fire cannon, lest you wish the bloody things to sink into a stinking abyss. Oh, we’ll probe from all angles, do not doubt it, but here is where our big guns will wreak the most havoc. And once they’ve made a nice big hole,’ he added wolfishly, ‘we shall fall upon the wayward citizens like a host of avenging seraphim.’

Greyfriars, Gloucester, 10 August 1643

Lieutenant Colonel Edward Massie stared at his reflection in the small looking-glass. His face was pale and sorrowful, his large eyes ringed in shadow, lips set tight in a thin line. The strain of the last few days had taken their toll, and that irked him, for was a leader not supposed to be strong and bold, touched by bluff fearlessness rather than worry? He maintained the stare, forcing himself to pout a little so that the tension was not so obvious in his expression, and then, with a deep, lingering breath, he set the mirror down on the oak table, the bone handle rattling against his untouched trencher of food.

He stepped out into the street and nodded to the squad of bluecoats who were to escort him to the cathedral. They set off immediately. The white faces of Gloucester’s terrified people were everywhere: a sea of staring eyes, all boring into Massie’s skull. He ignored them, looking straight ahead as he strode through, battling to keep the fear from his own face as he went to receive the king’s heralds. They had cantered into the city twenty minutes earlier, he had been told, all proud and haughty, chins thrust out, noses pointing at the clouds. They would read a proclamation, it was said. Announce the monarch’s terms for all to hear. For King Charles himself had come to Gloucester.

Massie caught his breath as the thought struck him. All the politicking and the preparation; all those hours refurbishing fortifications and constructing new ones; all those sleepless nights. It had now come down to this one moment. Outside was the Royalist army: vast, confident and well supplied. Massie had known they would come eventually, and had done everything in his power to make Gloucester ready for this day. He thought of the loud rebuttal he had given Gerard’s messengers just four days earlier, and how he had smuggled out a secret message of his own, couched in the friendliest language he could come up with. That second message had expressed his loyalty to his sovereign. It had hinted that he might yet surrender the town if Charles Stuart himself were to ask it of him. Well the king had called his bluff, and now Massie’s wager would be tested. He had hoped to confuse the enemy, cause infighting at the King’s Council and convince the Royalists that Gloucester would be an easy nut to crack. He would never know if the strategy had worked, he supposed, but at the very least it seemed to have given them a little extra time before the malignants finally descended. In that time, Massie had mustered nearly fifteen hundred men. He had obtained fifteen cannon and forty barrels of black powder. He had ordered the Vineyard, at Over to the north-west, stripped of its lead in order to make musket-balls, and had captured and bought as many weapons as possible. And now it was time to lay down Gloucester’s challenge. If duplicity had afforded a small amount of breathing space in which to make the city ready, then all to the good. But now it was time to show the malignants his true hand.

‘God bless you, sir!’ someone shouted from the crowd, the sentiment echoed by a handful of others, and Massie waved a pale hand in acknowledgement. The road was busy, but no one seemed to be moving. They all stood stock still, watching.

He saw the square summit of the cathedral above the houses and his pulse quickened along with his step. Twenty paces ahead a group of men waited as had been arranged, and he hailed them in as cheerful a manner as he could.

‘Ready, Governor?’ a voice, deep and stentorian, rang out in response.

Massie recognized the tone instantly and searched the party as he drew close. Some of the most senior military men were there. He saw young Captain Lieutenant Harcus, nervous with excitement, as ever, and beside him the steady face of Captain Backhouse. But the distinctive voice belonged to neither man, and it was only when an imposing form pushed out from the group that Massie’s dour face split in a wide grin. ‘Vincent. By God, it
is
you.’

The man was tall and round. He had once been muscular, Massie had been led to believe, but that brawn had run to fat almost as soon as the man had reached his fortieth year. Now he was nearing fifty, and his auburn hair had begun to turn silver and retreat at the temples, his blue eyes cracked at the corners with the lines of age. The big man placed meaty hands on a stomach that hung low over his breeches like a vast fatty apron. ‘I sent word, sir.’

Massie nodded. ‘And I received it, Vincent, but I hardly dared believe.’ He turned to Backhouse and the others. ‘Vincent Skaithlocke, gentlemen. A comrade from the wars on the Continent, and a better man never existed.’

Skaithlocke beamed, glancing back at the cathedral. ‘Well, sir?
Are
you ready?’

‘As ever I shall be,’ Massie said seriously enough, though the smile quickly reappeared. ‘I am glad to see you, old friend.’

‘I heard you needed men, sir.’

‘Just so, Vincent. Just so.’

Skaithlocke moved out of Massie’s path as the governor resumed his stride, though his booming voice continued at Massie’s heel. ‘This is your time, sir. I have travelled the length and breadth of England these last few weeks, and the diurnals bleat incessantly of Prince Robber and his vile exploits.’

Massie looked back. ‘He is an impressive soldier.’

‘He is nothing but a popinjay,’ Skaithlocke spat. ‘It is time this country had a new hero.’

‘Just so,’ Massie replied, fighting back the pride from his voice, grateful for the big man’s arrival. He thought of Stryker. The enlistment of the famous one-eyed mercenary had been a real coup, and his desertion after such a short time had been hard to stomach. He had not trumpeted the disappearance beyond a trusted few, for such a revelation would destroy the carefully nurtured city morale as sure as any besieging army, but the disappointment was nevertheless keen. At least now he had another hardy professional at his side.

They reached the cathedral. The courtyard beyond was brimming with people from all walks of life. Massie saw many of the soberly dressed town aldermen, muttering like washerwomen, no doubt still venting their collective spleen at his governorship. At least three of Gloucester’s innkeepers were there, joined by millers, butchers, chandlers and shopkeepers. Men and women whispered while children stared wide-eyed at the two men who stood at the very centre of the courtyard. They were under armed guard, lest they be lynched by the jostling mob, though their faces were calm enough, their bearing confident.

Massie strode up to the king’s heralds without delay. ‘What have you to say, sirs?’

The first man, in his early thirties, with a clean-shaven face that was narrow and hard-hewn, offered a deep bow, sweeping his wide, red-ribboned hat from his head. The rest of his suit was of a similar rich red, adorned with flashes of golden thread and a long, fine sword. ‘I bear a message from King Charles, sir.’

‘Then let us hear it, sir.’

The man in red shot his companion an impatient glance and he delved within his coat and brought out a tight scroll. The senior herald took it, broke the wax seal and deftly unravelled the vellum sheet. He cleared his throat noisily, pulled back his shoulders, drew in a huge breath, and looked down.

Tredworth Field, Gloucester, 10 August 1643

The heralds returned to their master soon after they had finished reading out the proclamation. It had been worded in conciliatory terms, though carefully barbed with the threat of what would happen if the order to surrender was refused. And yet now, nearly two hours after their return, His Majesty was still waiting.

‘It w-w-won’t do. Won’t d-d-do at all.’ He had not wished to spend the sweltering afternoon outside the upstart town like some young buck waiting by his lover’s window for a sign that she might see him. But Massie and Gloucester’s puritanical aldermen had evidently decided to play games with his patience, and his mood was souring rapidly. Charles had been staring up at the walls around the south section for the last twenty minutes, imagining the smirks of the tiny guards up on the rampart, but the heat had finally won the battle and sent him in search of shelter. Flanked by a pair of granite-faced musketeers, he stalked into the tent of the Earl of Forth and Brentford, the commander of his forces at Gloucester. ‘They m-m-mock me, Patrick!’

The elderly earl, Patrick Ruthven, had been resting in a stout chair that now creaked madly as he sprung forward. ‘Your Majesty,’ he blurted, blinking the drowsiness away. He rubbed calloused hands into the droopy red lids of his watery eyes. ‘Have patience, Your Majesty. If our intelligence is correct, he will be preparing to down arms this very moment.’