Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (63 page)

‘He’s dead?’ Stryker replied.

She shook her head. ‘No, Stryker. He missed.’ She took a step closer, raising a hand to silence his intended words of relief. ‘It is Cecily. The bolt hit Cecily.’

CHAPTER 25

The East Gate, Gloucester, 4 September 1643

Lieutenant Colonel Edward Massie, governor of Gloucester and talisman of a rebel city, rubbed his bleary eyes and stared at his chief miner. ‘They’re below us?’

The miner, a volunteer from the city with a relatively good understanding of tunnelling from his time digging in the Forest of Dean, grimaced apologetically. ‘That’s it, sir. Our countermine has reached their position, of that I’m sure.’ He looked back at the gate. ‘’Tis just that, beggin’ your pardon, sir, we ain’t gone deep enough.’

Massie sighed wearily. He might have been angry at the start of the siege, but now, after so long hanging on to their liberty, the people of Gloucester did not need a tongue-lashing, even if he felt like delivering one. ‘How far above them are we?’

The miner thought for a moment. ‘Three yard. Maybe four.’

‘Dig holes from our tunnel to theirs. Bore down into the ceiling of their mine. We’ll pour water in and drown the lot of them.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Massie turned away. He was hardly surprised at this setback. For all their valour and determination in resisting the mighty Royalist army this past month, he still felt the enterprise had been a failure. After all, the enemy had virtually reached the East Gate, the baying horde outside had not budged an inch since they arrived, the garrison was now down to its last few barrels of powder, and there was no sign of the much vaunted relief expedition from London. It was just a matter of time before the walls fell, and what then? What reward did a courageous, defiant city gain if it fell at the last? Pure, bloody slaughter. He shuddered even though he felt warm in his buff leather.

‘How does it progress?’ Vincent Skaithlocke’s deep voice boomed like a saker as he lumbered up to inspect the mine.

‘We’ve reached them, ‘Massie answered, ‘but we’re not deep enough.’

‘Flood ’em out,’ the massively overweight mercenary suggested.

‘I have already ordered it.’

Skaithlocke nodded, threading his hands across his wobbling stomach. ‘Any news from the spies, sir?’

‘None. Were you expecting something?’

Skaithlocke shrugged nonchalantly, though his jaw seemed set more rigidly than usual as he spoke. ‘I heard a rumour that the King had been hurt.’

Massie was taken aback. ‘I pray not, Colonel! We do not fight this war against the person of His Majesty, after all. Merely against the way he governs his realm.’

Skaithlocke looked away. ‘Yes, Governor, of course.’

‘And I’ll thank you to curtail those rumours if you hear them again.’

‘Naturally, sir,’ Skaithlocke said, rubbing his face vigorously with his palm.

Massie noted the wildness in the huge man’s eyes, though he could not discern whether it was from fear at the impending Royalist attack or some other strain. ‘What is it, Vincent?’

‘Stryker, sir.’

‘Stryker?’ Massie echoed. ‘Men turn their coats often in such wars as these,’ he said, thinking privately about how closely he had come to enlisting with the king at the outbreak of the conflict. ‘It is not for us to grow embittered. God will judge him for his deeds, have no doubt.’

‘God will judge him, sir, aye,’ Skaithlocke said. ‘But I will send him for that judgement.’

‘Come now, Colonel,’ said Massie mildly, ‘his betrayal hurts you that deeply?’

Skaithlocke nodded slowly, jowls tremulous, eyes hard as oak. ‘It does, Governor. Indeed it does. I fear he has destroyed a particular ambition of mine.’

‘Oh?’

‘It matters not,’ Skaithlocke said with a shake of his massive head. ‘But one day.
One
day
, I will kill him with my bare hands.’

Near Compton Abdale, Gloucestershire, 4 September 1643

The dashing, daring, all-conquering Cavalier horsemen were failing.

Prince Rupert had taken what remained of the king’s cavalry and galloped into the hills to the east, joining Lord Wilmot’s force in order to confront the advancing Parliamentarian army. But they had been outfought by the swirling rebel cavalry who had first kept Wilmot at bay to cross the River Cherwell, and then they had been confronted by a horde of infantry regiments the like of which had not been seen since Kineton Fight. Rupert had been vexed by the sheer size of the Roundhead army, harried by Essex’s mounted fighters, and outmanoeuvred by the earl himself.

The prince slid down from his tired mount and took a scroll from his saddle bag. He unfurled it on a large stone that marked the crossroads where the main body of his beleaguered horsemen now mustered, planting a gloved finger at a specific point. ‘Naunton. That’s where they are.’

Wilmot was with him, and the lieutenant general dismounted too, craning over the young general’s shoulder to see the inky scrawl. ‘Christ, but we haven’t delayed them at all.’

Rupert blasphemed too. It was all so starkly, painfully clear. The simple fact was that, for all their aggression, their speedy attacks, launching up from sunken roads and through forested hillsides, they had not been able to stem the tide. Essex’s massive relief force had pushed through the open country from Oddington to Naunton like a hammer, smashing their Royalist harassers at every pass, every bridge, every slope, thrusting them ever westwards like so many grains of dust in a storm. For all Rupert’s efforts, he had been unable to curtail the inexorable march.

‘Do they move from Naunton?’ Rupert asked.

Wilmot shook his head. ‘Scouts say they’re ensconced for the night.’

‘Then we’ll make camp here,’ the prince said. ‘Attack again on the morrow.’

Lord Wilmot straightened and went back to his waiting mount. Prince Rupert of the Rhine rolled his map into a tight scroll, and returned it to his saddle bag. He cursed softly as he watched the men walk their animals to the surrounding fields. Because he knew he had been beaten. The Roundheads were going to reach Gloucester.

Llanthony Priory, Gloucester, 4 September 1643

‘It is tainted.’

Stryker, Lisette and Forrester stood in a dark corner of the infirmary. It was a moribund building, part of an ancient cloister that now stank of mildew, with a roof half collapsed and a floor caked in bird droppings. The trio had been there all night, and now, as midday loomed, they were finally able to speak to the chirurgeon in charge of Cecily Cade’s care.

‘Tainted?’ Lisette asked. ‘How?’

The doctor was a man who had the broad shoulders of one who had once been muscular and the belly of a man long run to fat. His face was round and ruddy, his brown hair thin and receding, and his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot. He rubbed stained hands on a filthy rag. ‘Rubbed with something. Some kind of poison. I know not what, but the effect will be the same. It will fester and she will die.’

When Stryker had run to intercept Nikolas Robbens, he had released his grip on Cecily Cade’s wrist, and she had run to the king. She had, Lisette later told him, moved in front of the monarch, desperate to say her piece, and the crossbow bolt, knocked off course by Stryker, had hit her thigh. It had penetrated the woollen breeches, the wickedly sharpened bodkin digging deep into her flesh, and severed a major vessel that the chirurgeons had failed to fully plug. She had lost a great deal of blood, the tide blooming around her prone form as she gasped at the scudding rain clouds in the priory’s forecourt, and, though she had been taken to the casualty station immediately, tended by the king’s best physicians, the wound had continued to seep through the night.

The doctor rubbed his tired eyes, leaving them smeared pink with the blood from his fingers. ‘She is wakeful now. Speak to her while you can.’

The three moved to Cecily’s bedside. She was deathly pale, her eyelids flickering and her lips trembling. A sheet covered her up to the neck, so they could not see the wound, but they knew it was bad.

‘Cecily,’ Lisette whispered.

The large eyes peeled open. They were as richly green as ever, flecked with the intricate patterns of brown that had once made them so alluring. Now the spark was gone, the glimmer faded. ‘I am hurt, Lisette.’

‘You will live yet,’ the Frenchwoman said, laying a hand on Cecily’s angular shoulder.

Cecily offered a weak smile. ‘No. Apt, is it not? I always said I would die for my father’s secret, and now—’

‘Rest, Cecily,’ Lisette intervened.

‘Now you may carry the burden.’

Lisette shook her head forcefully. ‘I do not care for the treasure.’

‘But you know its worth,’ Cecily persisted, some of the old defiance injected into her tone. ‘It must be recovered, or what was this for?’

Lisette looked up at Stryker. He nodded. After all the bloodshed, he would be damned if the Cade family secret went to the grave with its last member.

‘Captain,’ Cecily said, her voice growing hoarse with every grating syllable. ‘I hear King Charles intends to reward you for your service.’

Stryker stared at the walls in shame. ‘Please, Cecily, I—’

‘It is good, Captain. Very good. You deserve it.’ She coughed, spluttering helplessly as though she were drowning. When eventually she had wrested control of her chest, she spoke again. ‘I would apologize to you.’

Stryker shook his head, but she closed her eyes in exasperation. ‘I would apologize for my behaviour on the tor. I felt I needed to escape. I did not trust that you would keep me safe.’

He almost laughed at that, embarrassed. ‘And you were right.’

She smiled weakly. ‘You are a good man.’ A frail arm slithered out from beneath the sheet and she took hold of Stryker’s hand. ‘I want you to know that I did not play you as false as you might suppose. Lisette is fortunate to have you.’

‘He is fortunate to have me,’ Lisette retorted.

‘That he is,’ Cecily agreed. She paused to breathe, the sound laboured and rasping. When she had caught her breath, she looked at each of the trio in turn. ‘There is a house. The gold is beneath it. In the cellars.’

Stryker leaned in, keeping his voice low. ‘Where?’

‘Silly.’

Stryker frowned, looking up at Forrester. ‘She is delirious.’

Lisette slapped him hard in the midriff. ‘No, you fool.
Scilly
.’ She looked down at her stricken friend. ‘I’m right, am I not? You mentioned childhood visits to the Isles of Scilly, Cecily. I remember.’

Cecily nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. ‘Tresco, one of the islands. Father has a retainer there. Watches the house still, I believe. Find him.’ She closed her eyes again, but this time the motion was slower, like molten wax rolling down the side of a fat candle. She took a lingering gulp of air, letting the outbreath carry her words. ‘Find him.’ She did not breathe in again.

They stayed with her for the rest of the day; sat around the blood-soaked palliasse as physicians and their assistants bustled in and out, tended to the increasing number of sick, dressed wounds and plucked flattened lead bullets from various mangled limbs. The night drew in, the tallow candles guttered and spat, the sounds of soldiers going about camp life drifted in from the buildings and alleyways of the priory and the raised leaguer beyond.

‘How did you know?’ Forrester said in the gathering gloom.

Stryker looked up at him. ‘Know?’

‘About that assassin. How did you know that was him? The bow was concealed.’

‘Skaithlocke told me he wore an ear-string. I’d forgotten until I saw it hanging there.’

‘Still, a balestrino,’ Forrester said. ‘Clever bastard.’

‘I have used one,’ said Lisette.

‘Of course you have,’ Forrester replied with a roll of his eyes. ‘I’d expect nothing less, Mademoiselle Gaillard, though please do not regale us with the details. I’m sure I do not wish to know.’

‘I am going,’ she said suddenly, causing both men to look at her. ‘To Tresco. I don’t care what you say, Stryker, I am bloody going and that’s the end of it.’

‘I was not going to say a word,’ Stryker said truthfully. ‘Except that I will join you.’

‘As will I,’ Forrester added.

Lisette nodded. ‘Then it is settled. For Cecily.’

They finally left the infirmary just short of midnight. It was cold and pitch-dark, though the archway leading to Severn Street was lit by the orange flames of pitch-daubed torches set into the dilapidated stonework. The two officers escorted Lisette through the gateway’s warm light, glancing to the left to look up at Gloucester’s wall, and made their way on to the muddy road.

‘Well there’s a sight to break a man’s beating heart asunder,’ a familiar, cackling voice rang out from up ahead.

The threesome stopped dead in their tracks and stared up at the lone horseman. He was short and stocky, and wore a yellow coat. His helmet was fastened to a strap against his saddle, allowing his shock of spiked hair the freedom to shine as white as snow in the glow of the torches. His wide, red face glowered down at them, tiny eyes twinkling above the huge, bulbous nose.