Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (49 page)

‘Hatton!’ a man called out as Robbens reached the base of an ancient, bowing oak.

Robbens turned to see a musketeer in a brown coat and breeches sidle up with a gaping yawn. He shook the man’s gloved hand and stared out over the Little Mead and the city beyond. ‘A good day’s hunting, Gilliatt?’

Gilliatt, one of the mattrosses down from Worcester, shook his head and picked at a spot beneath his Montero cap. ‘Barely a scratch made.’ He had been chewing tobacco, for his teeth and gums looked as though he had been feasting on tar, and he sent a jet of brown liquid through the gap in his front teeth. ‘The balls are swallowed by their earthen banks. You? How’s that chest?’

Robbens gave a little cough for effect. ‘Not there yet. Another day or two.’

‘Then into the redoubts.’

‘Then into the redoubts,’ Robbens echoed.

Gilliatt deposited the masticated remains of his sotweed on to the root-webbed ground and pulled his coat tighter, though the cloud cover had made this night warmer than the rest. He whistled the same jaunty tune as he had on the other occasions the pair had met, and Robbens tried to keep the irritation from his face. The oak was where the Dutchman had come on both nights since his arrival, watching and waiting, and both times the gunnery assistant had wandered over. It was irksome to say the least, but he suffered the infernal man’s insipid chatter and mind-melting whistles for the good of the mission. It would all be over soon, he consoled himself.

Gilliatt sniffed the air. ‘Rain.’

Robbens glanced again at the clouds. ‘Indeed.’

‘Not good. They’ll fuck up our saps better ’an the crop’ead cannon.’

As if God had been eavesdropping on their conversation, a rustling sound began to climb above the gentle murmur of the breeze and the distant bellow of cattle now safely ensconced beyond Gloucester’s north wall. The noise grew quickly, building to a substantial rush, like sand being blown across a stone floor, and both men looked up to see the oak leaves shivering madly on their branches.

‘Told yer,’ Gilliatt said proudly, as the fat raindrops finally penetrated the canopy. He shifted his cap to make sure it covered his fleshy earlobes.

Nikolas Robbens had been issued with a skull-hugging Monmouth cap, knitted deliberately tight to fit beneath a helmet, and he pulled it down hard. His head felt the cold more keenly now that it no longer had its golden thatch, and he expected a dense bout of rain to be even less enjoyable. ‘It is heavy,’ he said, noting the puddles already forming out on Little Mead. ‘Never mind the saps, what of the mines? And the moat will fill.’

Gilliatt fished for some more tobacco in his snapsack and popped it past sore, red lips. ‘We’ll be here till second coming at this rate.’

They peered out through the downpour a while longer, slanted sheets of rain lashing all along the earthwork. This part of the defences sat between the two arms of the River Severn, and Robbens imagined the black torrent swelling against its banks on both sides, threatening to engulf the entire area. He was glad he had not waited till tonight to cross it. Some fool along the wicker screen to his right fired a hopeful shot at one of the sentries on the city rampart, but his powder was wet and the musket gave a feeble-sounding belch as the charge failed to properly ignite. Laughter rose up from the shadows around him.

Gilliatt was looking up at the dripping, swaying boughs. He shifted his feet from side to side, testing the firmness of the terrain, and gave a shuddering snort. ‘Sinkin’ here.’

‘Back to camp?’ Robbens said.

The mattross nodded. ‘Got these latchets off a dragooner at cards. Daft bugger. Anyway, they’re the best shoes I’ve owned, and I’ll be damned if I’m to ruin ’em for a bit o’ rain.’ He touched a hand to his temple and picked his way back towards the lanterns, which marked the encampment amid the squall. ‘Praps tomorrow night, Hatton!’ he called back.

‘I look forward to it!’ Nikolas Robbens called through the driving droplets, waving him off with a cheery hand. But there was no cheer in his heart, only pounding anxiety that made his jaw feel tight and his skin crawl. After waiting for two nights, the opportunity had finally presented itself. The storm had driven Gilliatt back to the pungent warmth of his company’s inn, and that was useful, but it had also served to force the pockets of musketeers back from the most advanced lines. All around him, with lanterns swinging in the blackness, the men of Wales and Worcester were withdrawing from the screens and trenches, evidently deciding that more shelter could be found further back. A couple of eagle-eyed bluecoats up on the wall fired down at their backs, but other than providing an example of how to keep one’s powder dry, they achieved nothing, and soon the front line was mercifully empty.

Robbens knew that this was his chance. He had come to this spot north-east of the rebel West Gate on that first night, hoping to retrieve the sack that he had dumped in the bushes flanking Little Mead. But he had been confounded, for the place he had chosen had been impossible to access without being seen by the musketeers dug into the fields. The second night had been the same frustrating waste of time, and he had genuinely begun to despair. The Royalist pickets had stridden out to accost him as soon as he had spluttered his way up on to the bank of the Severn, as it curved eastwards to form a natural moat for the north wall, and he had been forced to act quickly to avoid being found with the sodden bag. He had known then that it would be a devil of a task to find it without causing suspicion.

Now, though, the glittering eyes that had lined Vavasour’s extensive breastworks were gone. There was no one to question the motives of a supposed gunner who wished to take a stroll across Little Mead for no apparent reason.

Robbens left the safety of the oak, and the rain felt instantly harder. He uncurled a balled hand, noting the pain where his nails had cleaved into the flesh of his palm, and lifted it to shield his eyes from the vengeful water. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Seeing no interested heads above the Royalist works, he decided to press on, and plunged into the squally blackness of the squelching meadow. The grass was already rutted and torn by the city’s grazing herd, but now great swathes of it shone like shattered glass in the feeble moonlight as puddles distended into rippling pools, water collecting in the places where the city women had torn away the turf for their walls.

He ran a few paces, slowed to look back, ran again, all the while cringing as cold water crept up through his standard-issue shoes. They were cheaply made, straight-lasted so that they could be worn on either foot, and far too big, and the saturated material slapped wetly against his sodden hose. Soon he was at the cluster of vicious gorse bushes he remembered, a crescent-moon-shaped scar on the green pasture, and he dived behind the first of them, gritting his teeth and praying no shots rang out to greet him.

Nothing. He was twenty paces from the river as it swept along the face of the north earthwork, but no sentries seemed to be walking the rampart. They were there, of course, for he knew the garrison well enough to be certain of their vigilance, but he guessed they must be sheltering further back on the fire-step, waxy coats drawn high and tight to provide a canopy for heads, priming pans and bandoliers. No one on the wall would be looking directly down at the river, for they would have seen the Welshmen fall back, and would not be fearing an assault from down on the Little Mead in the midst of this filthy tempest. All to the good, Robbens thought, as he slumped on to hands and knees, hissing a murderous oath as his thin fingers sank in turf that now had a consistency akin to the dung that littered the meadow.

He scrabbled in the darkness, cursing as his fingers snagged on the wicked needles of the gorse, and feeling numbness seep through his limbs. A call came from above, and his heart froze as he winced up at the looming city, but no inquisitive faces or hostile muskets greeted his stare. He looked back at the ground, blinking away the rain that had pelted his eyes, and groped the space before him. His fingers touched upon something in the murk. There it was.
There it was.
He grabbed at the sack, revelling in the coarse material as he drew it to his breast. He sat back on his haunches, forgetting the rain at once, and pulled open the string-tightened throat. He thrust his hand inside without delay, delving frantically like a starving man rummaging through a bread basket, and immediately his probing fingers hit upon their prize.

Relaxing a little, he opened the sack properly now that he was satisfied that the bow was there. He peered into the black innards, but could see nothing discernible, so he let his hand snake gently around the steel stock, the curved limbs, the trigger and the taut string itself. She was all there, waiting for him in one exquisite piece. He slung the sack across his back, looking left and right, back up at the piled earth that served as Gloucester’s north wall, then behind at the foremost Royalist lines. Still no one braved the storm, so he thanked God and made his move. Back to Kingsholm. Back to King Charles’ sprawling army. He was ready to change the world.

Barton, Gloucester, 24 August 1643

Stryker staggered out of the Cob and Saddle near midnight, the rain slashing the roads and fields so heavily that he wondered if they shouldn’t abandon the siegeworks and build an ark. He was alone, for Mowbray’s units were not scheduled to work in the saps the following day, and most of his fellow carousers had decided to wait out the storm in the warmth of the tavern. But Stryker had had enough for one night, his befuddled head swimming with thoughts of Skaithlocke and his scheme.

He walked sideways across the courtyard, lurching away from the taphouse’s screeching sign as his shoulder clipped the sturdy upright. He swore, stumbling haphazardly over to the open-fronted stable where Vos was waiting beneath a leaky awning. He grasped the wooden rail to steady himself, and the big stallion shook its head, snorting impatiently. ‘There there,’ he whispered, patting the animal’s copper neck, a puff of dust rolling out at the impact. ‘Missed you, boy.’

When he had untied the reins, he clambered gracelessly into the saddle and coaxed the patient beast into the night. They clopped across the smooth stones of the yard and on to a cinder path turned to bog by the rain. Stryker looked up at the trees, which seemed to sing amid the downpour. Their branches swayed and shook, the motion making his guts turn, and he vomited the ale-stinking contents of his stomach on to the black cinders. He swore again as he noticed the spatters on his boots and stirrup. Then he froze as he heard the distinct whicker of another horse.

There were three riders on the path, walking small mounts in single file. They were at least thirty paces away, and the rain, the low-hanging canopy, and his alcoholic stupor made it near impossible to discern their faces, but the way they kicked hard when they saw him made him ignore the churning of his innards. He tore at Vos’s reins, wrenching the stallion round in a tight circle, and kicked hard, aiming to return to the taphouse and his friends within, but already he could hear the thunder of the hooves at his back.

He pulled left, guiding the horse out through a gap in the fencing and on to the main road, safe in the knowledge that Vos could comfortably outrun the poor palfreys of his hunters. But Vos slipped, his hoof flailing as the slick roadway shredded beneath his iron shoes, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment Stryker feared they would collapse in a crashing, mud-caked heap. His steed somehow regained its balance, pulling itself upright and spurring onwards with a shrill whinny, but the chasing pack was on them now, and Stryker steered Vos back to face the pursuers, taking the straps with his left hand and drawing his sword with his right.

Immediately, one of the riders came at him. The man, a thick-set brute with black hair and beard, bushy eyebrows and a deep scar across his right cheek, jabbed at his face with a straight hanger. Stryker parried it easily enough, for it was an obvious move, but he felt terribly vulnerable, having imbibed so much strong drink. His face felt warm, his empty eye socket throbbed, and everything seemed slow. He blinked hard when the attacker had ridden past to wheel back, screwing shut his eye as if he could purge the alcohol from his body, but when he opened it again nothing had changed.

The second of the trio came on. An older man with grey hair and beard, face half-shadowed beneath a wide felt hat, he seemed more thoughtful in his approach, skirting Stryker for a split second as if feinting to the captain’s left. With a deft flick of the reins, he brought his white palfrey lunging in, raising and striking his silver blade in a blurry arc that sliced the air before Stryker’s face. Stryker blocked it, letting his own sword slide the length of his opponent’s to clang against the hilt. The force was enough for the cutting edge to bounce off the protective guard, clipping the grey-haired rider’s forearm. It was not a severe blow, but the rider’s buff-coat was sleeveless, and Stryker felt his sword cut through wool and flesh. The attacker hissed in pain, ripping himself and his mount away, his face contorted demonically in the feeble light. Stryker exploded in a guttural roar for the confident trio seemed suddenly unsure. His head was still addled, his guts griping madly, but something in the cool of the rain and the heat of the fight had honed his senses like a whetstone against steel.

Yet he knew he could not win this fight, and already the three were circling like sharks. If they came at him together, he would be cut to ribbons in seconds. So Stryker charged. He dropped the reins, crouched low, hooked his left arm about Vos’s granite-hard neck, and raked his spurs viciously along the stallion’s flanks. Vos reared angrily, as Stryker knew he would, but he did not throw his master. Instead, he powered forwards like a shot from a cannon royal. Stryker still had his sword, and he thrust it out in front like a lance, hoping the steel would make the men shy away, but it was all down to Vos now.