The Bleeding Land (47 page)

‘By your leave, Your Highness, I would speak with Captain Boone.’

The Prince frowned, indicating his associates. ‘But we are busy, Sir Edmund,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we prepare to strike out for Windsor. There is a fox who must be dug out of his den. Colonel John Venn is one of the eleven that will never have my uncle’s pardon. But
we
shall have his head,’ he said with a grin, then nodded to a squat, richly dressed man wearing a small cloth skullcap. ‘That is, of course, if Mister Garland here can give the den a vigorous shake with his guns.’

The little artilleryman cocked an eyebrow and flicked his long hair, from whose dirt his expensive suit was protected by a heavily laced falling band. ‘I wouldn’t drag my guns forty miles if I did not have faith in them, Your Highness,’ he said, adjusting his embroidered baldrick. ‘I have more faith in my guns than I have in the Lord.’ The familiar-looking man with the hooked nose grinned at that.

‘You see, Sir Edmund,’ the portly officer said, ‘you won’t find Mister Humble around here.’

Again Mun ignored him. ‘Sir, I have reason to believe Captain Boone has in his possession something which is rightfully
mine
,’ he said, glaring at Boone who was glaring back.

The Prince’s brows arched as he regarded the two men. ‘Well then, Sir Edmund, be quick about it. And if I should ever misplace one of my own colours I shall expect you to see to its safe return,’ he said, waving a hand at Mun to get on with it.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Boone snarled.

‘Where is the letter, Captain?’ Mun asked.

‘What letter?’

‘You know very well the letter I refer to.’

Boone rolled his eyes. ‘You will have to remind me, Rivers, I am a busy man.’

‘Very well. Amongst the letters taken at Kineton village there was one addressed to my father. Sir Francis Rivers of His Majesty’s Lifeguard,’ he said, aware of the eyebrows around them hoisting at his father’s name.

‘Oh, yes,’ Boone said, frowning. ‘There
was
a letter. It must have fallen into rebel hands before it could be delivered to your father, God rest his soul.’ He twirled his moustaches around a ringed finger and gave Mun a flash of teeth. ‘Now then, where did I put it?’ Mun wanted nothing more than to punch those teeth through the back of his skull. ‘Ah, of course . . . I think I might have it here,’ Boone said, plunging a hand down the front of his buff-coat. ‘Corporal Bard did suggest I ought to give it to you some time ago, but . . . it must have slipped my mind.’ He pulled out the letter and handed it over to Mun. By now the Prince and the other men were engaged in conversation again. Mun turned his back on them all and began to read.

My dear and only love, I pray that this letter finds you and the boys well and in good spirits, your steadfastness ever bolstered by the certain knowledge that you perform honourable duty to your king and your God. And yet it is with a heavy heart and – I may say this to you alone, my love – not a little fear that I write this. For the rebels’ gun – a demi-cannon, Edward tells me – has breached the wall and we are fallen back to our
trenches
and gabions before the house. Let me assure you that I would no less do my duty than you would do yours and that we shall steel ourselves to the task. The upstarts will suffer for their unnatural infidelity. But, my dear, we cannot hold. I am blessed to have Bess here for she is as brave as Mun and Emmanuel and of great comfort. I will try to write again. If you can come home – if I could grasp even the slim hope that you were riding north even now, I would dare to believe we might prevail. My heart is with you, my love, and I know you believe it for my life is bound up with yours. Mary
.

Mun turned, glimpsing the ghost of a smile on Boone’s lips before he slammed his fist into the captain’s face, hurling him against the wall from where he dropped to his knees, clutching his chin.

‘What the devil!’ exclaimed the fat man.

‘Rivers!’ Prince Rupert yelled. ‘How dare you?’

‘Your Highness,’ Mun rasped, glowering at Boone, ‘that rabid cur kept this from me because he’s a spiteful, damned villain!’ Boy was barking and snarling at Mun, big teeth flashing in the night.

‘Give it to me!’ the Prince demanded, extending a hand. Two amongst the party had drawn their swords as though to protect the Prince from this lunatic, their eyes flicking nervously from Mun to Rupert. Hook Nose simply took a step backwards into the shadows, but another man, a tall grey-haired officer, watched calmly as Mun handed Rupert the letter. Then Mun raised his palms to show he meant no harm to the Prince, who, though angry, did not seem in the least afraid for his safety.

‘Well, Captain,’ the Prince said when he had finished reading and was refolding the letter, ‘if you’d kept such a thing from me I would have spilled your guts.’ Boone was climbing to his feet, still holding his jaw, blinking as though he could not see properly. Other officers walking the grounds had stopped to watch.

‘He must hang for that, Your Highness,’ Boone slurred, the words deformed, then spat a wad of blood onto the ground. ‘I demand it.’

‘Hang a man whom the King has just knighted?’ the Prince asked, handing the letter to Garland, who began to read. ‘Don’t be absurd.’ He gestured to Mun. ‘Sir Edmund’s house and family are besieged. From the sounds of it they’re giving a good account of themselves. Or were,’ he added, glancing at Mun.

‘Your Highness, let me take some men north to break the siege,’ Mun said. ‘We shall rout them, send a message to the rebels in that part of the country that the King’s reach is long.’

‘Hold your tongue, Rivers!’ Boone said.

The Prince shook his head. ‘It’s out of the question.’ He frowned. ‘This letter is weeks old. The chances are Shear House has already fallen.’

‘If the rebels have a demi-cannon pointing at it,’ Garland put in, ‘then you can be assured it has, lad,’ he said in an artilleryman’s matter-of-fact way.

‘A small troop won’t be missed,’ Mun said, ignoring the gunner. His family’s peril eclipsed any regard for etiquette. ‘I’ll smash the rebels and ride straight for Windsor to join you there.’ He took a step towards the Prince and saw Boone flinch. ‘My mother and sister cannot be expected to do the King’s fighting for him. Bess is with child!’ His right arm trembled with the urge to haul his sword into the night and run Captain Boone through. ‘I will not stay here while they are alone. I will not abandon them. Neither would my father had he known.’

‘Let him go, Rupert,’ the tall man who had not yet spoken said. He was Scottish and had at his waist an Irish hilt like Mun’s only more elaborate. ‘What man would no kick the Devil’s bollocks to protect his mither? Let Sir Edmund loose on the rebel bastards. It’ll do us more good than bad.’

Rupert seemed to consider this for a moment, then he nodded. ‘You can go,’ he said.

‘This is absurd!’ Captain Boone exclaimed, but was silenced by the Prince’s hand.

‘But I can spare no soldiers. Go to your family before the captain here persuades me to string you up with that whoreson Blake. Be sure to return to us with news of the rebels’ movements in the north.’ He flicked a gloved hand nonchalantly. ‘Now leave us.’

Mun nodded, shot Boone a withering glare, then turned and strode into the freezing night, his blood simmering in his veins. But by the time he was back amongst the tents, makeshift shelters and fires strewn across Christ Church Meadow that made up the camp of Prince Rupert’s Horse, his anger was tainted by something else. Fear. What had become of his mother and Bess? How had they even managed to mount a defence? Had not his father written to his mother, telling her that she must not resist the rebels?

‘You should have given them the damned house, Mother,’ he gnarred into the night.

And then there was Boone. Had the captain had any intention of giving him that letter? Probably eventually. The bastard would have picked his moment. Knowing how Mun would react, Boone would have orchestrated the affair so that he could deliver immediate retribution under the warrant of his rank. Mun knew he owed Bard, for if not for the veteran he would yet know nothing of his family’s plight. I owe Boone too, he thought, feeling the hot serpent of violence writhing in his limbs, and that debt would be settled with blood.

But how had the letter fallen into rebel hands in the first place? He guessed it had been the groom Coppe who had brought his mother’s letter south, as he had done previously. Mun knew the man well enough to be sure that he would have protected that letter and his duty with his life. Which meant that Coppe was likely dead. And all Mun could do now was throw his saddle over brave Hector’s back and ride north.

He would have liked to explain to his friends why he was
leaving
, for he would not put it past Captain Boone to tell them he had deserted. But there was no sign of O’Brien, Downes or Rowe either at their tent on the flame-lit bank of the River Cherwell or nearby and he had no time to go looking for them in Oxford’s thronging alehouses or between whores’ legs. So he packed two knapsacks with spare clothes and blankets, his leather bottle full of ale, extra musket balls and powder, his tinder box containing his fire-lighting kit, a wooden bowl and spoon, and eight shillings and eightpence – a paltry sum, he reflected, for a knight who had just inherited the family estates – then collected Hector from the picket.

‘We’re going home, boy,’ he said, patting Hector’s withers, inhaling the stallion’s scent and taking comfort in it. Hector nickered as though he understood, and perhaps he did, Mun thought as he came round to the horse’s head and slipped the bridle on. ‘There’s a good boy, Hector. We’ll soon see Bess, hey. You’d like that, boy, wouldn’t you? And she might have had the baby by now.’ Hector snorted, his nostrils fogging the air between them, and Mun put his forehead against his muzzle, holding on to the familiarity like a shipwrecked man clinging to a floating timber. Home was almost one hundred and seventy miles away. If they set a good pace they could be there in four days. But God alone knew what he would find there.

‘Rivers.’ He turned, his hand falling to his sword grip, as a tall man stepped out of the flame-played shadows.

‘Hooker,’ Mun said, somehow not surprised to see the mercenary. ‘What do you want?’ Hooker’s pet giant Corporal Bartholomew loomed like a rock behind him.

‘It seems we are to be brothers of the blade once more, Rivers.’ The mercenary grinned. ‘Or should I call you Sir Edmund?’

‘Call me Mun. And spare me the riddles, man. What do you want? Our business is concluded.’

‘The Prince sent me. It seems you need my help. Again. And so here I am.’ He swept off his broad hat and gave an elaborate bow. ‘At your service.’

‘Prince Rupert sent you to help me?’

‘His Highness said my men and I are to help you break the siege of Shear House. If we arrive in time. If not . . .’ he shrugged, ‘we ride to Windsor.’ He ran a hand through his curled hair. ‘Will your brother be joining us?’ The smile was all in his eyes.

Mun flew at him, grabbing fistfuls of the cloak at Hooker’s neck, but then he was hauled off and held in a vice that would have crushed his ribs had he not been wearing his back- and breastplate.

‘Put Sir Edmund down, Corporal,’ Hooker said, brushing himself down with a sweep of a gloved hand, ‘he is simply happy to see us.’ As soon as the giant’s arms relaxed Mun scrambled free and stumbled into space, the stink of the corporal’s hedge of a beard filling his nose.

‘You don’t talk about him!’ Mun said. ‘Ever!’

Hooker raised his hands. ‘That’s your affair,’ he admitted. ‘But my affair is breaking the siege of Shear House. For which, by the way, the Prince assures me you will pay handsomely.’ This was said half as a question.

‘Why would the Prince send you to help me?’ Mun asked.

‘Who can fathom the mind of that German devil?’ Hooker said. ‘But perhaps he sees the fire of the cause in you. Or maybe he simply wants me out of the way for a while. Some of the other officers in His Majesty the King’s grand army hold a dim view of our prince and the company he keeps.’ He smiled. ‘Either way, I think we can safely assume he has no idea of our last . . . enterprise. Or else you would be . . .’ he moved a hand languidly back and forth through the air, ‘swinging.’

‘And you beside me,’ Mun said. ‘Do not forget that.’

Hooker shook his head. ‘I have a talent for smelling trouble on the air and would be gone at the first sniff.’ He raised a brow. ‘I suspect Parliament would have their uses for me. You, I fear, would not find it so easy to join the other side. Officially, anyway,’ he added with a curl of his lip, then wafted the issue away. ‘No matter, though, for we have work to do.’

‘And the Prince does not need you at Windsor?’ Mun said.

‘Breaking a siege is one thing, but my talents would be wasted in prosecuting one. Besides which, they will never crack that shell, for all the stock that little prick Garland puts in his cannon. No, Sir Edmund, I don’t do well watching stone walls. It wearies me. Eats up a soldier’s soul. You know my talents, which is why you are already rifling your memory for those boards in Shear House under which your father stashed his
mishap
silver. You need me.’

Mun did not like Hooker. Knew that was written on his face, too. But the arrogant whoreson was right. Mun did need him. The mercenary was a proper soldier, a professional, as were his men. And Mun needed soldiers if he was going to save his family and his home.

‘I’ll pay you your worth when it’s done, Hooker,’ he said, mounting Hector and pulling him around.

‘I know you will,’ Hooker said, gesturing for Bartholomew to bring up their mounts.

And with that they set off into the night to meet with the rest of Hooker’s troop. To break a siege.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE