Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles (44 page)

That last word was inflected with an exaggerated Spanish accent, and Ventura instantly leaned forward, unable to resist biting back. Hogg quickly placed a firm hand on his assistant’s shoulder. The gesture seemed to stay whatever verbal assault Ventura had been brewing, for he simply stared across the tremulous flames, regarding Collings with simmering hostility. Eventually he muttered something in his native language.

To Hogg’s surprise, Collings grinned, small white teeth appearing sharklike in the hellish glow. ‘Spain will do what, señor?’ He chuckled as he had before, revelling in Ventura’s own astonished expression. ‘Shall I tell you? Spain will do absolutely nothing. Not to help you, leastwise.’

It was Collings’s turn to lean close, the bright colours of his coat shimmering against the firelight. ‘You are a convert to Puritanism, Ventura. An abomination in Spanish eyes. A heretic. I could burn you at Torrington market,
señor
, and Madrid would celebrate. The emperor’s fire-workers would illuminate the skies above the Manzanares, even as your ashes settled on Devon soil.’

Ventura remained stone still for a second, licked huge lips with his glistening slug tongue, then sat back. Collings’s thin mouth twitched and he turned to Hogg. ‘You, sir, were sent on to the moor on the proviso that you aided this brainless router,’ he jerked his fragile chin at the crestfallen Colonel Wild, ‘in his hapless attempts to liberate my wagon.’ The black eyes became slits. ‘You assured me, Mister Hogg.’

Hogg was not a man easily cowed, but he felt instantly uncomfortable under the general’s drilling attention. ‘I did my best, Major-General, believe me. They saw one of their own swing.’

‘And?’

Hogg thought back to the death of Otilwell Broom, Stryker’s unfortunate messenger. He remembered the torture to which Broom had been subjected, and the condemned man’s final thrashing, piss-drenched moments. ‘And nothing, sir. Stryker’s men remained loyal. It was—’

‘Was what?’ Collings prompted impatiently.

Hogg could only shrug. What more could he say? That, for the first time, he had found a man people feared more than the peril of being charged with witchcraft? More than the silent, swaying threat of a waiting noose? ‘Remarkable.’

The breeze turned briefly into a strong gust, lifting the smoke towards the stars and stirring the phalanx of beech and oak that rimmed the cemetery. Then all became still again. A chorus of guffaws ruptured the silence from another of the small fires: some bawdy jest had animated a group of Wild’s men. Hogg peered across at them. He noticed one stand, stretching out his back like a newly woken cat, pushing balled fists into the base of his spine. Hogg felt his own back aching in empathy. The frantic retreat in the face of Stryker’s unexpected reinforcements had taken a heavy toll on his body. His backside hurt too. It always hurt. The pistol ball was still there, still lodged deep in his rump, jabbing at him, searing his leg, reminding him of the man who had pulled the trigger.

‘What now, sir?’ Colonel Wild said, running a hand through his long hair, the grey stripe turned to quicksilver by the moon.

Major-General Collings looked at Wild with an expression of utter disdain. ‘Now that you have failed me, Colonel, we will march to Stratton. We have more men than Hopton could muster in another month, perhaps two, so our victory is not in question. We will find a defensible position,’ he went on, marking each event on his fingers, ‘wait for the malignant horde to come a-knocking, hold it firm until General Chudleigh’s father returns from Bodmin with the bulk of our horse, and crush Hopton betwixt our combined forces.’

Wild nodded as he imagined the events so confidently relayed by Collings. ‘Aye, sir. I will lead my troopers to glorious—’

Collings tutted lightly, fixing him with those dead eyes. ‘You will lead no one, sir. As I said, you have proved yourself unfit for command.’

Wild’s mouth lolled open. ‘Sir, you cannot—’

Collings wagged a finger in Wild’s face as though he was admonishing an errant schoolboy. ‘Oh, but I
can
, Gabriel. Your regiment will ride for Bodmin on the morrow. They will join with the rest of the horse and aid in the suppression of the enemy militia.’

Hogg glanced from Wild to Collings and back again, wondering if the new glint in the colonel’s eyes was the beginning of tears. Wild ground his teeth together, eventually asking in a tiny voice, ‘And me, sir?’

Collings sighed. ‘Stryker has made you – and, therefore,
me
– look unforgivably foolish, and for that you have lost your command.’ He let his gaze fall to the smouldering logs, his voice becoming distant. ‘But there will soon be battle.’

Hogg leaned in a touch. ‘You are certain, sir?’

Collings did not look at him. ‘Without doubt. The barbaric Cornish will not stand blithely by as we burn Truro and stroll to Land’s End.’ His head lifted then, but the eyes fixed on Wild. ‘And when there is a fight, Colonel, you become undeniably useful. I, on the other hand, despise such base pursuits. My war is of a more,’ he tapped lightly at his temple, ‘cerebral nature. You are to be my personal aide, Colonel Wild. My guard.’

‘Is there nothing I can say?’ the colonel said, voice pitched higher than usual. He spread his big palms. ‘Do?’

‘Pray Stryker is with Hopton,’ Collings replied bluntly. ‘When the king’s men are broken, I will release you as I would release a hound. And you will hunt him down. I am greatly displeased with you, Colonel, but things may go better should that bastard perish on the field.’ His attention turned abruptly to the men across from him. ‘You will remain with the army, Master Hogg.’

Hogg was aware of his mouth falling open, but felt unable to prevent it. ‘But, sir—’

‘Enough!’ The major-general cut him off with a wave of his hand and a look of pure iron. ‘You have failed me too, Witch-finder. I pay you well for your dubious service, and I expect a return on my investment. Instead you run before Stryker like a scolded infant.’ He rose to his feet, stooping briefly to rearrange the bucket-shaped leather folds at the tops of his boots. ‘You will remain with the army, Master Hogg, for we shall require your powers of coercion when the enemy is defeated.
Kernow
,’ he said the word as if his mouth had filled with poison, ‘will be in dire need of subjugation.’

Collings turned and stalked into the night, leaving the three forlorn men to stare at the flames in silence. Osmyn Hogg’s heart battered against his ribcage. Battle. He had seen it before. Indeed, he had witnessed indescribable massacres in the Low Countries, but there, as first a priest and later a witch-hunter, he had not been unfortunate enough to become embroiled in the blood and death. Now, all for the hatred of a single man, he was utterly entangled within the web of this brutal war. He shut his eyes and began to pray softly.

‘We will kill him,’ a deep, hard voice broke across his entreaty.

Hogg’s eyes sprung open. ‘Colonel?’

‘Stryker. This is all Stryker.’ Wild placed another plug of dark sotweed on his tongue and began to chew. ‘He is a fighter, Master Hogg.’

‘Your point?’

Wild sent a jet of brown liquid between his front teeth to bubble on a brightly glowing log. ‘He will be with Hopton. And Hopton will come to us.’ He jabbed a finger against his own sternum. ‘And I will be watching. Watching and waiting. You and your goddamned diego—’

‘’Ey!’ Ventura lurched forward, making to stand, but froze when he saw the promise of violence in Wild’s eyes and the glint of honed steel in his fist.

Wild looked back at Hogg. ‘You and your goddamned diego,’ he repeated with the merest hint of amusement, ‘wish Stryker dead too. So you will stay with me. And we three will search the faces of the men we fight and kill and capture, until we see a man with one grey eye. And then,’ he turned the knife in his hand, the firelight dancing along its keen length, ‘we will dig out that eye and cut off his stones and tear out his tongue.’

‘And stretch his neck,’ José Ventura added.

Osmyn Hogg’s heart still kept a rapid pace. But this time it was not through trepidation but excitement. His old wound ached, but, strangely, he did not mind.

CHAPTER 18

Launceston, Cornwall,
12
May
1643

The young officer reined in beside the two mounted men as they watched the town come alive with scurrying soldiers. He bent briefly, patting the snorting brindle with his good hand before straightening to adjust the leather strap that held his withered right arm in a permanent angled suspension. Jerking his head sharply from side to side so that his neck gave a couple of satisfying cracks, the officer blinked sore eyes and gave a short bow. ‘Sir.’

Both of the waiting men returned the newcomer’s gesture, though only one spoke. ‘Mister Burton. You are rested, I trust?’

Lieutenant Andrew Burton studied the speaker, who seemed so small atop the skittish black charger. Sir Ralph Hopton, commander of King Charles’s army in the south-west, was soberly dressed, indicating a man who, though loyal to his sovereign, held beliefs nearer to the Puritan persuasion than most in the King’s Army. His face was serious, an effect exacerbated by deep lines. Burton knew him to be in his mid forties, but the stresses of the rout at Sourton Down made him appear a deal older. ‘Aye, sir, well enough.’

Burton glanced across at the road where a thick forest of pike staves was steadily growing as men mustered in a cloud of dust, hurriedly finding their companies and files. There were perhaps four hundred already drawn up, with scores more approaching from the various lanes that criss-crossed the town like the threads of a vast cobweb. Sergeants and corporals stood along the road’s edges, berating, cursing, and manhandling their charges into some semblance of order, the hawkish gaze of their officers an ever-present incentive. ‘I see plans move on apace,’ Burton said, genuinely impressed by the speed with which Hopton had mustered an army hitherto so widely spread around Launceston and beyond.

Hopton pecked a staccato nod. ‘They do, they do. And necessarily so. I was just telling Colonel Trevanion of the dread word we have received.’

‘Dread indeed, sir,’ Burton replied, ‘and I pray the news was not too late in the telling.’

The general gestured the intimated apology away. ‘It is told, and that is what matters.’

‘What I do not understand, sir,’ Burton ventured, ‘is why Stamford would choose Stratton. Is it not Sir Bevil Grenville’s territory?’

‘The area at large, aye,’ Hopton answered, ‘but not the town.’

‘Stratton itself is one of the few rebel garrison positions along the frontier,’ the man Hopton had named as Colonel Trevanion said abruptly. He craned forward to draw a wizened little apple from his saddlebag and bit into it, a pale bead of juice quickly tracing its way down his clean-shaven chin. He watched the various units take shape on the road as he chewed.

‘It is also,’ he continued when he had swallowed, ‘an excellent crossing point for the Tamar. The river cuts a broad gash through the rest of the county. It is more easily defended by our lads. At Stratton, Stamford can simply walk round it.’ He took another bite of the apple, before switching his attention to Hopton. ‘We must engage him before he strolls into Cornwall.’

Hopton’s face became grim. ‘There will be much blood.’

Trevanion stretched his back as he picked his words. He was tall, with long brown hair and hazel eyes that twinkled with intelligence. ‘I know you would favour some kind of blockade, General. Keep them stuck fast at Stratton, force them to venture south again where we might use the Tamar to our advantage.’

Hopton’s fleshy head shook. ‘I accept such a thing would fail, but a direct engagement carries grave risk. I understand Stamford’s strength to be comfortably superior to my own.’

Trevanion tossed the apple core over his shoulder. ‘Hit the bugger quickly, sir. Hit him hard. Push him on to the coast.’

Hopton turned back to the massing troops. ‘It will be a rare fight. We are grievous outnumbered.’

Trevanion grinned at that. ‘But you have the Cornish, sir.’

A trace of a smile twitched at Hopton’s own lips. ‘Aye, John, I have the Cornish.’

‘Besides,’ Trevanion said briskly, ‘how, might I ask, do we know they attack? Is it certain? We have had no news for days.’

Hopton’s wide brow shot up. ‘Apologies, Colonel, I am remiss.’ He indicated Burton. ‘I present to you Lieutenant Andrew Burton. The source of my new-found knowledge.’

Trevanion leant across, saddle creaking beneath his shifting rump, and stretched out a gloved hand. ‘Well met, Lieutenant. I am Colonel John Trevanion.’

Burton shook the colonel’s hand. He judged Trevanion to be no more than thirty, though his voice was strong and his bearing confident. ‘I know who you are, sir, of course.’ He glanced at the burgeoning ranks of pikemen and musketeers. ‘These are yours, are they not?’

‘The whole raggedy lot,’ Trevanion said happily. ‘Seven hundred at last count, and I’m proud of each. And with whom do you serve, Mister Burton?’

‘I’m with Mowbray’s regiment, sir.’

Trevanion’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Mowbray? Ain’t he out watching the Okehampton road?’

Burton nodded. ‘Aye, sir, he is. That is to say, lately my company have been on,’ he paused for a heartbeat, ‘
detached
duties. I am come direct from Captain Stryker at Beaworthy.’