Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (27 page)

Lisette did not think it worth dissembling. ‘Your coat. It was made for another man. A taller man.’

The fair-haired horseman brandished another smile of crooked, amber-mottled teeth. ‘So? I won it at dice.’

‘I think not.’

‘Bless me.’ The horseman glanced over his shoulder. ‘Well here’s a fiery piece, eh, lads? Funny tongue, too.’ He looked back at Lisette. ‘Froggy, is it? Long way from home. And you can call me Dan.’

‘Well, Dan,’ Lisette said, ‘it has been pleasant speaking with you, but we really must be leaving.’

‘Hold there,’ said Dan, holding up a staying hand. ‘You’re trespassing, and I’m saddened to say such a thing brings with it consequences. Certain taxes, if you will.’

The three remaining men all dismounted. As they approached, Lisette could see that each was as lean and wiry as the next. They led physical lives, probably sleeping rough and eating sparsely.

To her back, Goodwife Hulme spoke. ‘These are the men I told you about.’ She spat on the grass. ‘Cursed Roundheads.’

‘They are not Roundheads, Goody Hulme,’ Lisette replied.

‘But the king’s men—’

The king’s men would behave in no better a manner than their Parliamentarian counterparts, thought Lisette, but she elected not to pursue that truth. ‘They are common brigands. Thieves and murderers.’

The leader, Dan, wrinkled his long nose at that. ‘Now, now, lass. Mind that forked tongue, lest I rip it out your head.’ His blue eyes searched her again, from her boots to her golden hair. ‘Would be a shame, though. Bless me, it would.’ He closed the space between them with a quick step that caught Lisette offguard and had his fingers at her cheek before she could react. He left them there, ignoring her expression of revulsion, and wetted his lips as he stroked her skin. ‘Lovely. Just lovely.’

‘So’s this’un, Dan,’ another of the brigands said. He was taller, but perhaps a year or two younger, and had greasy brown hair that seemed to sprout in haphazard clumps about a lumpy scalp. He was looking at Cecily with the eyes of a famished man. ‘Bet her arse is firm as a new apple.’

Dan smiled. ‘We shall have to find out, Cal, bless me we shall.’

‘What do you want with us?’ Cecily blurted. Lisette shot her a caustic glare.

Dan spoke. ‘What do we want? Bless me if this ain’t all a bit of a surprise.’ He put his hands to his hips as he considered. ‘We come here to graze the mounts, find grub, and suchlike. The old bitch don’t need all them vittles, after all. But now we find some new friends, and, I must admit, our
wants
are somewhat altered.’

The taller man, Cal, advanced to take Cecily by the waist. She resisted and he slapped her hard. Tears filled her eyes and he grinned. ‘Let’s swive ’em, Dan. Please!’

Dan pursed his lips as though he weighed the merits of the request, but Lisette knew he was simply toying with them and she began to back away. He already had her face within his grip, and now he squeezed. ‘You shall enjoy it, by my word you shall.’ He looked across at the whimpering Cecily. ‘Relax your bones, lovely. Cal may be a lank sort, but his prick’s like a pike stave.’

‘
No
!’ Goodwife Hulme squealed somewhere behind. The men laughed. One of them strode over to her and knocked her to the ground.

‘Do your best, fillies,’ Dan hissed as his free hand plunged between the folds of Lisette’s cloak. She felt his fingers snake around her breast, dig into the soft flesh, and she pushed him hard in the chest, forcing him to take a step back. ‘And if we enjoy it,’ he said as he moved in again, ‘then we’ll have ourselves a nice little earner. Put you sluts up in the house there and bring in a little coin for your services.’

‘Get rich with these beauties, won’t we, Dan?’ the man who still stood over the elderly lady called happily.

Dan’s gaze drifted over Lisette’s shoulder. ‘Rich and fat, Benny. A nice little swiving ken.’ He glanced down at the old woman. ‘Not you, Goody, bless my soul, not you. But praps you might wash the sheets.’ He had Lisette’s cloak in his fist again, and he drew her in to him with a strength that shocked her. His face pressed against her ear, the hot air of his breath making her skin crawl. ‘They shall need washing, bless me, but they shall.’

‘I will not be your whore!’ Cecily Cade screamed, still struggling to keep her clothes fastened against Cal’s groping attentions.

Dan looked across at her. ‘A lot of rich old curmudgeons hereabouts, miss, bless me but there are. All with deep pockets and hard pizzles. War makes ’em rut like boars in spring!’

Cecily bit Cal’s hand, and the tall man released her so that she stumbled back. She straightened defiantly as he set himself for another sortie. ‘Then they will lose their pizzles as fast as they might wield them.’

All four of the men laughed. ‘
Ha
!’ Dan exclaimed. ‘Glib-tongued thing ain’t she, lads? Good family, by the sounds of you. We could fetch a pretty price for your royal cunny. A proper gentlemen’s curtezan, lads. Try her out for size, Cal, and don’t hold back!’ He turned back to Lisette, eyes shrunken to slits in his lust-driven resolve. ‘Now come here, froggy. I’ve a burning in my stones. Bless me, but I have.’

Lisette let him come, and she did not resist as he took her shoulders in both hands and lent in to press his cold, glistening lips against hers. He stank of beer, sweat and leather. Tasted of salt and the hint of blood. She let him push up against her, felt the hardness at his groin as he ground his crotch into hers. He closed his eyes and groaned. It was a deep, guttural sound that only changed when she stabbed him.

Dan screamed as he pulled away. He stared down at his breeches. Lisette’s eyes followed his. Next to the bulge at his groin there was a new appendage. The hilt of her dirk jutted, bobbing freely in a macabre parody of his still swollen member. A vast red stain bloomed at the place where it vanished into the cloth of his breeches. He was bleeding profusely, and his hands fumbled there, desperately trying to stem the crimson tide but not willing to pull the blade free.

Cal had abandoned Cecily now. He ran over to his friend, staring in dumb horror at the dangling weapon. Lisette did not wait for him to move. She stooped to draw her second knife, the smaller blade concealed at her boot. He turned to her, jaw still lolling open, and she prayed to God that He might give her the power to overcome this new enemy. But in that moment the enemy was gone, clubbed to the ground from behind, and Cecily Cade was looming over him, a hefty chunk of flint cradled within both palms.

The last two bandits reached for their swords, but Lisette held up the wicked little knife.

‘Come,’ she challenged. ‘You will not have us alive, bastards.’

It was Dan who changed things, for the blood had not abated, and now he slumped on to his knees. He groaned again, but this time it was not out of pleasure but the last wisps of air leaving powerless lungs. His heart had given out, and he fell forwards, face thudding into the churned turf without raising a hand to slow his descent.

The other two glanced from Dan to Cal and then at each other. Lisette recognized the expression – a sour concoction of incredulity mixed with indecision and fear – for she had fed off similar moments so many times before, and she strode towards the brigands, unwilling to let the momentum slip. And then she was advancing upon their backs, for they had turned tail, running like confused sheep in the face of a raging mastiff. In less than a minute they were in the saddle, galloping back into the forest. It was over.

CHAPTER 11

Gloucester, 12 August 1643

Stryker woke in a room that was dazzling with daylight. Somewhere outside a baby was crying and, further off, a dog yapped madly until a woman’s shrill scold cut it off with a yelp. His throat was dry and his face throbbed, and for an awful second he feared he was back in the cell with Port and his confederates. A while later, however, he recalled seeing Skellen flatten his torturers with the butt-end of a musket followed by the surreal visage of the man who had first recruited him into the life of a soldier.

‘Can you sit?’

Startled by the voice, Stryker turned his head gingerly to see Vincent Skaithlocke seated in a high-backed chair in the corner of the room. ‘I think so.’

‘Nasty beating,’ Skaithlocke said as Stryker heaved himself first on to his elbows, and then upright.

The movement smarted through every inch of his flesh, but he managed it. ‘I’ll live.’

Skaithlocke leaned back and cracked his knuckles. ‘Aye, you will.’

‘Port?’

‘Gaol, by order of Colonel Massie.’

‘Where is this?’

‘The apothecary on Westgate Street. I believe you know it?’

Stryker nodded. They were back where their mission to Gloucester had started. He noticed Skellen entering the room. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

Skellen shook his head. ‘Not me, sir. Colonel Skaithlocke’s the one, sir. Sprung me from the room next to yours.’

Stryker stared at Skaithlocke in surprise. ‘How did you—?’

‘I am advisor to Governor Massie,’ Skaithlocke replied, his voice sounding strangely loud in the confined space. ‘He mentioned you had been in Gloucester, but that you had deserted. I know you, do not forget. Seemed strange that you would run just when things were getting interesting.’ He grinned, and twitched his big shoulders. ‘I asked around. Spoke to the man who supposedly saw you leap the wall.’

‘Dodd.’

‘The same. Turns out he’d been given a fistful of tin to concoct a nice little tale. That didn’t mean you hadn’t deserted, of course, but there were rumours.’

Stryker frowned. It made his damaged eye socket sting furiously. ‘Rumours?’

‘Just that a musketeer named Port had some miserable cove locked up. He’d bragged about it to his new blue-coated mates. The story followed that it was an old flame’s new swiving chum. Port didn’t like it. He knocks around with a musketeer from Stamford’s. Harold Nelly, a Gloucester man, has a house in the town, so I knocked on his door. His sister answered, tried to slam it shut in my face, but I—’ he paused, and his broad face creased in a wince. ‘I heard your voice.’

Stryker felt himself colour with embarrassment. His tongue automatically investigated the gaping maw in his gum where once a large molar had been. ‘I can never repay you.’

Skaithlocke dipped his head. ‘It is good to see you again.’

Stryker looked at Skellen. ‘Will, this man enlisted me when I was barely older than Lieutenant Jays.’

‘Caught him picking my pocket,’ Skaithlocke grumbled, though his eyes sparkled with the memory, ‘the little bastard. Gave him a choice. Join my lads or face the magistrate.’

Skellen grimaced. ‘Snout-fair choice.’

Skaithlocke tilted back his head and brayed to the ceiling. ‘That it was, Sergeant! That it was!’

Stryker gazed at Skaithlocke, assailed by the memories. He had carried the big man’s colour through mud and snow, hardship and horror. They had campaigned across Europe from one incalculable bloodbath to the next, yet those years had been some of the happiest he had known. He smiled through his throbbing gum. ‘I chose wisely.’

‘Aye, you did,’ Skaithlocke agreed. ‘And learned quick as a fox. Commanded one of my best companies by thirty-two.’

‘Thirty-one, sir,’ Stryker corrected. ‘At Breitenfeld.’

‘Well bless me, so you did.’ A huge, lingering sigh eased from Skaithlocke’s barrel chest. ‘How long has it been, Stryker?’

‘Nine years, sir. I went to serve the Prince in thirty-four. You’ve been in the Low Countries all that time?’

‘You mean to ask why I did not race back here when war was declared,’ Skaithlocke said with a wry smile. ‘Aye, well, I might have done, but I was employed by the Dutch. The money was very good.’ He spread meaty palms. ‘But everything reaches an end, old friend, and my time in the Low Countries was no different. Here I am.’

Stryker canted his head as he searched Skaithlocke’s pale eyes. ‘With the Parliament.’

‘Like you.’

Stryker nodded. ‘Like me.’

‘Although I hear your choice was only recently made.’

‘The King does not pay well,’ said Stryker.

That made Skaithlocke grin. ‘Spoken like a true soldier of fortune!
Ha
! Well, do not think you will find riches in Gloucester.’ He leaned forward earnestly, pointing a fat finger at Stryker’s chest. ‘But you’ve made a good choice yet again. The rebellion is in the right of it.’

That threw Stryker and he frowned. ‘Spoken like an idealist, sir.’

‘Perhaps my mercenary days are behind me.’ Skaithlocke leaned back, crossed one foot over the other and folded his arms. ‘I believe the monarch has ruined my homeland, and it is time for change.’ There was a period of silence as the old comrades regarded one another. ‘How fares Lancelot?’ Skaithlocke exclaimed in an obvious move to break the awkwardness. ‘Still treading the boards? And the beguiling Miss Gaillard?’

‘They are well,’ Stryker said simply, thinking it best to skirt that subject altogether.

Skaithlocke moved a hand to his left eye, making small circular motions in the air. ‘I heard Eli Makepeace was dead.’

Stryker lifted his own hand to the messy scar where once an eye had been. ‘That he is. Malachi Bain, too.’