Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles (20 page)

‘Vittles,’ Skellen said hopefully.

Stryker kept his eye trained on the building. ‘One never knows, Sergeant.’

‘And if it’s empty?’ Burton asked, his voice unusually glum.

Stryker looked at the lieutenant. ‘Supplies are dwindling, I accept that. But water is more vital, and the river runs right past us. We can last a few days.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that, Andrew,’ Stryker said seriously, ‘we eat the horses.’

‘Sir!’ a man called suddenly from further along the avenue.

‘What is it?’ Stryker shouted back, recognizing the voice as one of the company’s twins, though unable to tell which.

After a few seconds’ wait, Jack Trowbridge emerged from the grassy passageway. ‘It’s the enemy, sir,’ he said, chest heaving from the run. ‘They’re back.’

As ever, Colonel Wild’s cavalry troop were easily identified by their tall cormorant feathers. They filed along a track just over half a mile to the south-west of the tor, following the cornet and his fluttering black and white flag.

Stryker, having jogged back through the avenue to stand on the southern edge of the tor’s summit, peered down at the horses and their silver masters, wondering which of the lobster pots concealed the face of Colonel Gabriel Wild. The obvious guess was that Wild would be at the head of that glinting serpent, the rider in place beside the standard bearer, but from this distance he could not tell for certain. At least up here, on this new-found bastion, Stryker could feel some semblance of security. The Roundheads could circle the hill like a shoal of hungry sharks for all he cared, but they would be tempting death if they came within musket range.

‘Just having a look,’ Stryker said when Lieutenant Burton appeared next to him.

Burton adjusted his shoulder strap, as he tended to do when he was agitated. ‘They can’t attack us here, can they, sir?’

Stryker looked at his second-in-command. ‘They’ll try, Andrew. By God they’ll try. But we have the advantage now. They can no longer catch us unawares.’ He glanced at a lonely granite obelisk that stood tall and jagged a little way down the slope. ‘Keep an eye on them, Pikeman Clegg!’

A man, perched at the very top of the stone, raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘I will that, sir!’

Stryker turned back to Burton. ‘We’ll have to forget the barn for the time being. Have the men sleep on the upper slopes. I want them in amongst the stones near the crest.’ He pointed to the distant cavalry troop. ‘No easy pickings for those whoresons, understand?’

‘Sir.’ Burton glanced back at the interior, where the sprawling jumble of building-sized stones dominated the hill. ‘The wagon is to be kept in there?’

‘As I said, Lieutenant, we keep it in the big cave.’ It seemed strange giving a rickety old vehicle pride of place in their new fort, but too much blood had already nourished Dartmoor’s heather in its protection, and Stryker was damned if it would be lost to them now.

‘And what of the girl?’

Stryker caught the almost imperceptible twitch in Burton’s cheek as the young man spoke, and realized that he would naturally be interested in such a beauty. He nodded warily. ‘She stays on the crest too, with Broom and Bailey.’

Burton turned on his heel, leaving Stryker to stare after him. In all the turmoil of recent days he had not given enough consideration to the impact Cecily Cade would doubtless have on a large group of soldiers. And now they were all trapped together on a small hill.

Quietly, he swore.

Two Miles West of Merrivale, Dartmoor,
1
May
1643

The horseman’s arrival was greeted with a level of excitement that spoke more of the soldiers’ boredom than of his innate importance. The men, redcoats of Captain Lancelot Forrester’s Company of Foot in the main, had spent the better part of two days camped in the same field, making do with dried biscuit and gritty stream water, and the arrival of a newcomer was accompanied with great interest.

The outlying pickets let the lone rider approach their commanders, for he had given the field word of General Hopton. He galloped expertly along the bridleway tracing the corrugated stream, confident and stern atop his sleek-flanked, froth-mouthed bay; a creature that would have set most of the infantrymen back more than a year’s pay to purchase. The men, at liberty beside the water or under the broad trees, immediately rose to their feet, wondering what news he might be carrying.

Forrester and Payne had been puffing on tobacco and discussing the merits of Shakespeare’s
King Richard the Third
when they saw him, and abruptly tapped their clay pipe bowls clear, pacing quickly into the rider’s path.

‘Ho there, friend!’ Forrester called up to the newcomer. ‘What news?’

With a deft tug of his reins, the horseman brought his muscular bay to a juddering stop, and greeted them with a wave of his buff-gloved hand. ‘Captain Forrester?’

Forrester took off his hat. ‘’Tis I, sir.’

The rider gave a curt nod and dismounted. He wore civilian dress; tall, spurred boots, green breeches and russet coat, with a dishevelled falling band collar and grey hat. Every inch the costume of a gentleman’s outdoor servant, which, Forrester presumed, was exactly what he had been before the war had changed everything. ‘My name is Richardson, aide to Sir Ralph Hopton.’

‘Well met, sir,’ Forrester replied, sensing a huge shadow appearing at his side. ‘May I present to you Mister Anthony Payne.’

Richardson’s eyes drifted away from Forrester and rose, widening as they went, until they settled on Payne’s face. He removed his own hat in salute, revealing a head of close-cropped brown hair that gave a hint of copper in the sun’s rays. Forrester noticed the ribbon tied about the hat’s crown. It was an old piece of material, mud-spattered from the ride, but it was, undoubtedly, red. ‘Well met, Mister Payne,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘If I could venture—’

‘Four inches above seven feet, sir,’ Payne replied in his ocean-deep voice.

‘My apologies,’ Richardson muttered, embarrassed. ‘You must be frequently asked.’

‘Every so often, sir.’

‘And,’ Forrester cut in, suppressing an amused snort, ‘do you carry the King’s commission?’

Richardson looked at the captain, hazel eyes narrowing slightly, as though he were attempting to gain Forrester’s measure. ‘I do, sir. But my duties are invariably—’

‘Of a private nature?’ Forrester suggested when the pause had lingered too long.

Richardson’s thin lips lifted at the corners. ‘Aye, you might say as much.’

‘Then, sir,’ Forrester went on, ‘I can only assume you have come from General Hopton on some important matter?’

Richardson crammed his hat back on to his head and lifted a hand to smooth down his brown moustache. ‘You are in the right of it, Captain, yes indeed.’ His face hardened as his thoughts turned to business. ‘We are on the move.’

‘Move?’ Payne rumbled.

‘The army, Mister Payne. General Hopton has received intelligence of Lord Stamford’s plans.’

‘Stamford?’ Payne’s face creased into a scowl as he echoed the name. ‘What plans might that rogue be hatching now?’

‘We hear he musters as many men as possible at Torrington, sir. All available garrisons in Devon and Somerset have been stripped of horse, foot and supplies.’

‘He means to strike into Cornwall?’ Payne asked.

‘Aye, that is the fear. He is emboldened after Sourton.’

To Forrester, Payne’s eyes were already as big as plums, but somehow they seemed to enlarge further. Seeing that the giant had been struck dumb by the news, he prompted, ‘What is it, old man? You look as though you’ve lost a cannon and found a carbine.’

Payne’s gaze shifted from Richardson to Forrester. ‘Cornwall is my home, Captain.’

Richardson went on, more concerned with imparting his message than dealing with the feelings of those who were in receipt of it. ‘Needless to say that Sir Ralph makes plans to intercept the rebels forthwith. Make hazard of a battle, if needs be.’

‘But where will Stamford advance?’ asked Forrester.

Richardson screwed his mouth into a grimace. ‘That is our problem, sir. We do not know.’

‘Which is why the army moves out from Launceston.’

‘Indeed. Lord Mohun has been sent west to Liskeard, Slanning goes to Saltash, and John Trevanion is to remain at Launceston.’

Payne stepped up. ‘What of Sir Bevil Grenville, sir? Where does his regiment march?’

Richardson paused in thought, then snapped his fingers. ‘North. Up towards Stratton. But most importantly, Hopton advances upon Beaworthy.’

‘Beaworthy?’ echoed Forrester. ‘Never heard of it.’

Payne looked down at him. ‘A small place between Launceston and Okehampton.’

‘That’s it,’ Richardson said brightly. ‘Sir Ralph would block the road to Launceston, lest Stamford choose that route.’ He offered a hand for both men to shake. ‘And now I must be away.’

Forrester followed the messenger as Richardson strode briskly back to his horse. ‘Wait, sir. That is not all your news, surely?’

‘Why ever not?’ said Richardson, turning. He leant against the saddle, gathering the looped reins in a hand. ‘I understand you men are charged with bringing your—’ he glanced skyward in search of the word, ‘
bounty
to Hopton. For his part, he will no longer be at Launceston. Does it not make plain sense that you should be alerted to this new destination?’

And that was the crux of the matter, thought Forrester. He did not know if it made sense. ‘I suppose,’ he muttered, unwilling to look the fool in front of Richardson.

In a flash, Richardson was back in his saddle, clicking softly in his mighty steed’s ear. Without the need for brusque commands or raking spurs, the horse slipped easily into a canter. ‘Then
adieu
, gentlemen!’ He lifted the grey hat briefly, planted it back on his skull, and was gone.

As the hoofbeats faded, they were replaced by Payne’s heavy steps, and Forrester turned sharply to face him. ‘An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told.’

Payne levelly met the captain’s gaze. ‘More from King Richard, sir. Though something tells me you did not wish to demonstrate your impressive knowledge of theatre.’

Forrester stepped closer so that they were out of earshot of the men. ‘That man was no ordinary messenger. He was an intelligencer.’

Payne pursed his lips. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Of course you bloody would!’ Forrester hissed. ‘Aside from his cocksure bloody demeanour, the bugger rode a horse fit for royalty. Royalty or intrigue.’ He waited for a response, persevering when none came. ‘So Hopton sends a spy simply to tell us that he’s no longer in Launceston.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘This man we’re to meet. He really is as important as you say, isn’t he?’

Payne nodded sombrely. ‘The general would have us take him direct to Beaworthy, if that is where he will soon be. He must speak with him with all haste.’

‘Who is he, for Christ’s sake?’

‘I am sorry, Captain Forrester. You know I cannot—’

‘And yet here we are,’ Forrester muttered, staring out across the field that had become their home for the last two days, ‘without the first clue where this fellow’s got to.’ He turned back to Payne. ‘Shall we have a peek to the east on the morrow? We’ve waited here long enough.’

Payne considered the question for a moment, before letting out a sigh that sounded like a gale through oak branches. ‘East.’

CHAPTER 8

The Tor, Dartmoor,
2
May
1643

The large square of red taffeta flapped in the breeze. It had a Cross of St George in one corner and two white diamonds in the field, telling all who cared to look that the tor was garrisoned by Captain Stryker’s Regiment of Foot.

Stryker, standing on the lip of the crest to greet the breaking dawn, gnawed a stale biscuit and stared up at his flag. Its colour was bleached and its edges frayed, here and there were patches where it had been so often repaired, and he noticed a couple of small holes that had doubtless been rent by recent pistol fire. He snorted with laughter.

‘What amuses you so?’

Stryker turned abruptly to see Cecily Cade. He swallowed his mouthful of the gritty biscuit, watching her as she approached. She still wore the pale yellow dress, and it was becoming increasingly dishevelled. But, for all that, Stryker found her utterly beguiling. ‘I was thinking how alike my ensign and I are.’

‘Mister Chase?’ She walked to his side, pushing a stray lock of black hair behind her ear. ‘Really? He is shorter and has a beard.’

He smiled. ‘Not that ensign, Miss Cade.’ He pointed up at the flag with his half-eaten biscuit. ‘
That
ensign. Weather-beaten and oft stitched back together.’

She returned the smile, though her cheeks reddened slightly.

‘No matter, Miss Cade.’

‘I told you,’ she chided, tapping his arm gently, ‘you must call me Cecily.’

Stryker looked back to a horizon rapidly flooding with orange light. In the near distance, where the tor’s steep flank ended, the terrain still gently sloped for the best part of a mile, interrupted only by the river. Further off, the undulating pattern of tors and ridges was undeniably spectacular, though it served only to compound his feeling of isolation. They really were alone out in this wilderness. Alone in the cause of King Charles, at least, for the dawn was steadily revealing glinting armour in the distance, the signal that Wild had placed pickets at regular intervals all around the tor. They were constantly watching, waiting for Stryker’s next move.