Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (46 page)

Prince Rupert of the Rhine crossed the tiled floor, spurs ringing out each step, and waved Stryker’s bow dismissively away. He offered his hand for the captain to shake.

‘It is good to be back with the army, sir,’ Stryker said, feeling more comfortable now that the sentiment was beginning to feel like the truth. The short time he had spent with his regiment had served to give him some perspective, despite his affinity with Gloucester’s spirited citizens. ‘Took a while to find a way out.’

Rupert pushed a clump of tangled black curls behind his left ear and walked back to the chair he had evidently been warming before Stryker’s arrival. He was different, somehow. His clothes were as martial as ever – silver-threaded buff-coat and breeches, black riding boots and a broad scarf of red silk fastened at his back in an enormous knot – but he seemed jittery, less certain of himself than he had been after Bristol. ‘Events have played out as I feared,’ he said, as though he could see the questions dancing in Stryker’s grey eye.

‘Your Highness?’ Stryker eyed the little table near Rupert on which perched a decanter.

‘This interminable siege, Captain.’ Rupert folded his arms sulkily, apparently failing to register Stryker’s interest in the richly dark wine. Beside him a white rug suddenly moved and Boye, the prince’s poodle, stared up with brown eyes, twitching his glistening black nose for a moment, before returning to flinching slumber. ‘I planned to storm the city, did I not? I warned a siege would cause us difficulty.’

Stryker could not tell if he was being criticized. ‘I made the signal, General. On my honour, I made it.’

‘Oh, we know you did,’ another voice broke in.

Stryker’s head snapped round to see the diminutive form of a man he knew well. ‘I advised that Massie would not surrender, and I was in the right of it,’ he said flatly. Ezra Killigrew had not lost his air of easy superiority, and he crossed one foot over the other as he leaned back against the cold wall. His beady eyes studied Stryker with interest. ‘I saw the signal, noted it well, reported back to His Highness.’

‘Then why not storm?’ Stryker asked, looking at Rupert, who glowered at the hearth in the far wall, stewing in his own frustration.

‘Because,’ Killigrew answered for the irascible young Cavalier, ‘the Prince was overruled by malicious elements who would undermine him at court.’ He straightened and walked casually into the room. ‘His Majesty would not risk a costly escalade, and here, as they say, we are. A messy business, whichever way one looks at it. The rebel news-books make merry with our lack of progress, as you can imagine, I’m sure.’ He flashed his rodent-like teeth. ‘But I thank you for your service, Captain, as does His Highness.’

‘Yes,’ Rupert said, looking up as if waking from a dream. ‘Yes, I do. You’ve served me well again, Stryker, and I’ll not forget it.’

‘Incidentally,’ Killigrew asked, ‘did you not think to bring my man out of the city?’

Stryker felt heat burn his cheeks. ‘Mister Buck did not wish to risk his skin in the raiding party,’ he said, feeling certain the shrewd little aide would sense the awkwardness in his voice.

‘But you’ve seen him?’ Killigrew asked.

‘Oh yes, Mister Killigrew,’ Stryker replied as casually as he could manage. ‘I’ve seen him all right.’

Killigrew nodded. ‘Good. I look forward to his report when finally he makes his bid for freedom.’

‘Or when Gloucester falls,’ Stryker added, receiving a withering glance for his troubles.

‘Now, Captain, what is it you wished to see us about?’ Killigrew said. ‘While we appreciate the report, it was you who requested the audience, I believe.’

I asked to see the Prince, not you
, Stryker thought. ‘I have grave news to impart.’

Killigrew’s puffy eyes widened at that. ‘Oh?’

Stryker noticed Rupert had taken notice as well, and he made a point of addressing the king’s nephew. ‘There is a killer in our camp, Your Highness.’

‘Are we not all killers, Stryker?’ Rupert grumbled.

‘A murderer, then. An assassin. Sent here to kill His Majesty.’

‘How do you know this?’ Killigrew interjected.

‘I was told by one of the rebels.’

Rupert stood suddenly, toppling his chair noisily. ‘The rebels? Those spavined villains! Those bastardly gullions!’ He rounded on Killigrew. ‘Did I not say it all along? Did I not warn my uncle never to treat with those foul-hearted black-blooded villainous traitors? Jesu, but I’ll slaughter the lot of them! The whole goddamned lot of them! To mutter discontent is enough to stomach, but to plot regicide—’

‘Sir,’ Stryker said, but saw he had not been heeded. ‘General, please!’

Rupert turned. ‘What? What is it, man? Spit it out!’

‘I heard it from
one
of the rebels within the city, sir, but it is not a plan devised by the Parliament. Nor by Massie. He is operating alone, this man.’

Rupert snorted. ‘
Pah
! One man? Poppycock. A mere rumour put about to scare us.’

Stryker looked at Killigrew. ‘Has anyone come into the camp in the last two days?’

Killigrew nodded while the prince paced like a caged lion. ‘One Hatton, swam the river to the north. Spluttered into the Welsh near Kingsholm. I’m amazed they didn’t chop him up there and then, truth be told.’

‘Hatton? That was his name?’

‘Aye. He is – he
was
– a gunner from the Town Regiment, but his feet, as they say, were growing ever cold, and now he has joined us.’

‘A gunner,’ Stryker said. ‘You’re certain?’

‘Of course I’m certain,’ Killigrew said irritably. ‘It was I who spoke first with him before he was shipped off to Llanthony. Christ, but he knew the place inside out. Told us the rebels grow short of victuals, and, more importantly, powder. Moreover, he has given a rather in-depth assessment of the defences, which should help no end.’

‘You spoke with him? Did he have golden hair?’

Killigrew shook his head. ‘No, Captain, he was bald. Bald as an egg.’

Hounslow Heath, near London, 22 August 1643

It was chaos. Large convoys of wagons overladen with musket-balls, blades, armour, victuals, tools, clothing and the officers’ baggage trundled on to the heath. Spinning-wheeled artillery pieces followed, dragged by loping oxen and whickering nags, their traces and chains rattling like hail on a slate roof. The rough turf quickly turned into a morass, the muck exacerbated by human piss and animal dung, which was ploughed to sticky ruts by the steps of thousands of soldiers and their chattering kin.

Whole families had walked from the metropolis in their hundreds like a biblical exodus, streaming along the Great West Road to flood the wide heath in a noisome throng, and they mixed with the recruits gathering in tight ranks behind bright banners and grim sergeants. Spirits were ebullient; women and children laughed and joked, sang songs, played games and echoed the regimental chants of ‘God and Parliament.’

The throng had come to see their husbands and sons march to war, but this time, so different from all those other sombre musters, the atmosphere was already one of triumph. The barks of officers rang out sharply over the trumpet calls and booming drums; it was a warlike orchestra that played for London’s citizens. And those people cheered the players in turn, clapping the snorting cavalry and waving happily to the rows and rows of pikemen and musketeers who filed past to form great bristling blocks on the coarse terrain.

Lisette Gaillard looked on with a mixture of scorn and awe. She knew in her heart that the core of this cacophonous mob was the disease-ridden Edgehill army, its withered ranks bolstered by the disgraced Bristol men who had wandered into the capital like a column of scarecrows after their ignominious defeat just a few weeks before. And yet, though these men were hardly modern-day Spartans, their bearing was undeniably proud and their clanging armour and precise drills gave rise to an air of invincibility that she could not ignore.

‘The news-books have them whipped up,’ Major General Erasmus Collings said, seeing the expression on Lisette’s face. ‘They’ve all heard the tales from Gloucester.’

That morning, Lisette and Cecily had been taken from their cell in an abandoned farmhouse and conveyed here under heavy guard. It had been a westward journey along the teeming London road, and she again recognized the area. She asked the wagon driver, who confirmed that they had been held in a village called Brentford End. The place meant nothing to Cecily, but for Lisette it brought back a flood of memories.

They had waited for the best part of an hour, watching in stunned silence as the heath filled with soldiers and citizens, until Collings arrived in a gilt carriage with several dour-looking staff officers. He had brought the women to a large cart, from where they had observed the muster in all its pomp.

Lisette looked across at Collings. ‘What tales?’

Collings was resplendent in a suit of purple, the tawny scarf of the Earl of Essex tied diagonally across his chest. He took off his purple-plumed hat and used it to fan his face. ‘Your beloved king has failed. His grand army sits where it has sat for days, festering outside the walls of Gloucester. They have barely made a dent in the walls, and the garrison jeer them at every turn.’

‘You lie,’ Lisette said sourly.

‘Why?’ Collings replied in amusement as a powder wagon rolled by with an escort of firelocks. ‘Why would I bother?’

Cecily Cade leant against the side of the cart, staring out into the sea of humanity that milled on this vast muster ground. ‘Men have tried this trick before, sir,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the remarkable scene. ‘Chudleigh brought me to Stratton Hill to watch his supposed triumph, and look where that got him.’

‘Chudleigh is a headstrong fool. I am not.’ Collings replaced his hat, pointing a bony finger out at the gathering. ‘You can see as well as I, ladies. Do they look as though they fear for their lives? This is a triumphal gathering. The King has entrusted his forces to that drunken Scot, Ruthven, and now they are in grave trouble, I assure you, confounded and humbled by our young hero, Governor Massie. This,’ he swept his hand out front to indicate the massing companies, ‘is to be his reward. Essex marches to Gloucester’s relief.’

Cecily turned to him. ‘So you did bring us here to gloat.’

Collings smiled, his black eyes shining like a jackdaw’s. ‘I would merely encourage you to see sense. Essex’s force no longer languishes in feverish stupor. It rises from its ills, all the stronger, and will punish the King for his failures. Indeed, while you have enjoyed our hospitality these past days, I have been hard at work. I have arranged for the London Trained Bands to march with the men you see here.’ He shrugged. ‘I wanted my pretty pair of doves to witness the genesis of our triumph.’

While Cecily wrinkled her nose in disgust, Lisette’s mind whirled with the news. ‘The militia go to Gloucester?’ she said doubtfully. ‘I do not believe you.’

Collings broke into a cold chuckle. ‘Believe what you like, Miss Gaillard. I care not a jot. The Trained Bands, for what it’s worth, muster on the morrow, and will join the relief force. It will be a fearsome sight. Imagine it, ladies. Essex will arrive in Gloucester in a matter of days with an army the malignants will never be expecting. Indeed, it is an army that we did not even possess when first the King began his pathetic siege. It will be a coup on a grand scale. We will chase away the Oxford Army and its allies, spring the brave garrison from its cage, and trumpet our success throughout the land.’ His eyes were bright and hard, and Lisette believed him, despite herself. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for.
This
,’ he slammed a fist into his palm, ‘is the turning of the tide.’

The drums left their irregular beat, moving into a more precise rhythm, and like a bristling monster shaking itself to laborious life, the newly created army began to shift, troopers steering their mounts into long columns, infantry units wheeling about in their jangling blocks.

Erasmus Collings looked on, his white face rigid with suppressed excitement. ‘Things have gone badly for the rebellion,’ he said suddenly. ‘Chudleigh’s humiliation at Stratton, Waller on Roundway Down, Fiennes at Bristol.’ He shook his head slowly at the thought of it. ‘Even the Fairfaxes took a battering in the north.’

‘Then what is the meaning of this?’ Lisette asked, thrusting out an arm to wave scornfully at the lumbering army.

Collings tore his black-pebble gaze from the churning heath to stare down at her. ‘Gloucester has held out against all probability, Miss Gaillard. Amid all our setbacks and tribulations, one lonely garrison has managed to resist the combined might of Prince Robber, the vermin Welsh, old Forth, Astley and the rest. It has become a talisman for the whole rebellion. An example for Essex and Fairfax and Waller and Cromwell to follow. Rebel hopes hang upon Edward Massie and his men. If they can keep the king’s men from their walls, it will be a clear sign that God is truly on our side.’

Lisette laughed. ‘You don’t believe that, General.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Collings admitted. ‘But I believe in the power of public opinion. Of the rabid, ranting mob. If Parliament can successfully relieve the city, then the support of the mob will be with us. And that is worth a hundred Prince Ruperts, I can assure you. Just take a look for yourself. See the smiles and hear the cheers. The people believe in Essex’s new venture, for they know that we are all doomed if he fails. They cannot believe in anything else.’