Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (39 page)

‘We pulverize the city with the design to force surrender,’ Killigrew said. ‘All the while filling the ditch for an assault if the cannons fail.’

‘Correct,’ the prince confirmed.

‘And why are we slopping through the saps, Highness?’

Now Rupert stopped. ‘Because we construct a new battery during the night, ready for the bombardment in the morning. I would see it sighted properly. And our men in these trenches need to see me. They need encouragement. I will not skulk at Prinknash Park when I should be showing the scrofulous rebels that I am not afraid of them.’

A stone hit Prince Rupert on the side of the head, denting his helmet and plopping into the mud between his boots. He reeled sideways, thrusting a hand out against the wall of the trench to steady himself, mud oozing between the fingers of his exquisite kid-skin gloves. He straightened quickly, face creased in boiling fury, and stared up at the walls. From the rampart came the unmistakable sound of laughter.

Near the Cross, Gloucester, 19 August 1643

The bombardment had only been underway for an hour when Stryker met Skaithlocke in the centre of the city, yet he felt as though his ears would bleed at any moment. The Royalist gunners had been unleashed for a morning of sport, and their evil iron had smashed at the walls and at the rooftops and at the minds of Gloucester’s people.

‘Where are these men, sir?’ he called above the din of cannon fire and falling masonry. The Royalists had evidently decided to mount their biggest artillery offensive yet, the small six, twelve and fifteen pounders rattling away to the east and south. They still apparently lacked ammunition for the demi-cannon, for that seemed the only reasonable explanation for the silence of the only guns capable of breaching the walls, but the sporadic fire shook Gloucester’s introverted world, nevertheless.

Vincent Skaithlocke strode out from under the lintel of a stooped old bakery. He pointed to a range of buildings located across the road. A pair of bluecoats waited outside. ‘Over there.’

Massie had dispersed the garrison into eighteen different posts, and one such unit, of 120 men, was permanently stationed at the very core of Gloucester to ensure, as Skaithlocke now wryly observed, that its rebel heart still beat.

‘He said he wished to learn the state of their morale,’ Stryker said, walking beside his former commanding officer.

‘Aye,’ Skaithlocke’s huge head bobbed, the thick rolls of flesh at the back of his neck squashing against one another like dough being kneaded. ‘It is important for a leader to know such things, is it not?’

Stryker flinched as a cannonball whistled overhead to pluck a chimney pot from its roof. A woman screamed near by, though the shot did nothing more than topple bricks, which would straightway be put to good use elsewhere. ‘I sense the mood is positive.’

‘And it is, generally speaking,’ Skaithlocke agreed. ‘But logic would say it cannot hold indefinitely. We are surviving for now, son, but how can a city last with no hope of relief ? Eventually it must run out of food or powder or lead or water. Some will pre-empt that inevitability and try to escape.’

‘How?’ Stryker asked, fighting to keep his tone neutral, though his mind was tumbling. Skellen had accused him of a reluctance to escape, and he had denied it, citing a lack of credible chances. He had been genuinely angry when his sergeant had questioned the stance, but perhaps Skellen had been right. Had he truly considered all the opportunities?

As if in answer, Skaithlocke looked back at him with a rueful chuckle. ‘Men always find a way out of their predicaments, Innocent. If they want it badly enough.’

The bluecoats stationed around the Cross were not the kind Massie needed to worry about. They filed out of their makeshift billets, weapons clean and ready for action, and gathered in tight files for inspection. Their leader, a fresh-faced captain in his early twenties, proudly put them through some cursory drills to prove the reliability and competence of his charges, and bowed when Skaithlocke commended his diligence.

The howl reached them long before they saw it, and all eyes jerked skyward, fingers cupped as shields against the sun. The company disintegrated as rapidly as it had come together, the front ranks backing away, the rear ranks shunting forwards, as the screeching wail grew inexorably louder. There were old men, too frail to volunteer for active service, walking by, as were women and children, and everyone twisted round, craning their heads to the clear sky. Stryker scrunched up his scarred face to ward off the blinding rays, as he searched for the harbinger of King Charles’ fury. And there it was; a black fleck against the blue. It grew with every second, like a tick gorging itself on blood, and still the noise increased.

‘
Mortar
!’ someone shouted, and the call immediately echoed throughout the streets.

Stryker took up the call, walking backwards, never taking his eye from the incoming projectile. Mortar shells were worse than cannonballs in a siege. The latter were primarily used for breaching walls, perhaps blowing a few holes in the houses beyond for good measure, but once they had reached their target, the terror was over. But a mortar was a wicked thing, designed to cause maximum carnage and horror. Its sole purpose was to lob explosive shells from a high trajectory into the midst of beleaguered garrisons in order to set buildings ablaze and shred morale. Stryker had faced the wide guns, like squat black toads, many times, most recently at Lichfield. There, he had set teams to discover the shells before they exploded and dowse the maniacal fuse with water. But even as this newest shell dropped into the city, he knew he would be too late. It would fall too far away, and nothing could be done. He bellowed for folk to take cover, for the musketeers to retreat to their stone-built quarters, but it all happened so quickly.

The mortar struck the street some fifty paces away. It bounced, but most of its force had been cushioned by the mud, and it rolled a few feet. The nearest people scattered, diving for shelter anywhere they might. For a second it seemed as though the shell would lay dormant, its fuse damaged by the impact, but then an almighty explosion ripped through the centre of the city. A vast gout of black smoke roiled up, spreading down every road and alley in the vicinity, and molten hot metal fragments cartwheeled in all directions.

A moment’s silence followed, save the hissing of the boiling roadway. Heads poked gingerly over walls and round door frames, between window shutters and through interlaced fingers. Stryker had not found safety and was curled in a ball near the Cross. Skaithlocke was with him, and both men unfurled their limbs with cautious slowness and stood. Before Skaithlocke could finish his prayer of thanks, a terrible scream sang out. This time it was not fear that gave the woman her voice, but pain, and heads turned to the mouth of one of the alleyways.

Stryker ran to the source of the noise. A large woman in a threadbare shawl lay on her back. One of her scarlet-coated hands was clawing at her chest, and it was clear that she had been hit by a metal shard. It had spun from the shell, part of the thick casing, and carved a large hole above her sternum. Already her shawl and the garments beneath were blooming with the rose-petal redness of fresh blood. It pumped freely, unstoppably, and, though Stryker made a show of tearing her shawl to strips and pushing them against the wound, he knew that she would bleed out in, quite literally, a matter of heartbeats. A young girl knelt over her, squeezing the injured woman’s hand in both of her own and rocking back and forth like a Tom o’ Bedlam.

The woman gasped suddenly, opened her eyes wide, then visibly relaxed. The air seeped from her body in a gentle hiss, and her mouth lolled open. Stryker knelt with the girl.

‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly, and reached out to ease the lifeless eyes shut.

Skaithlocke was with them now, and he placed big hands on his fleshy hips. ‘See to this, men!’ he boomed at the emerging bluecoats. ‘Get her out of here!’

It struck Stryker as a callous response, but Skaithlocke was a professional and should not be expected to behave in a weakly compassionate way. He got the job done, as he always had, and already the soldiers, dazed though they were, had come running to do his bidding.

Stryker stood, staring down at the torn flesh that glistened at the poor woman’s chest. ‘Jesu.’

Skaithlocke turned away with a shrug. ‘
C’est la vie
, as your Lisette would say.’

Stryker felt his jaw drop. ‘Colonel?’

‘Losses are a fact of war, son.’

‘Fact of war?’ Stryker repeated, baffled by the big man’s nonchalance. ‘A civilian had her lungs ripped open by a lump of mortar shell, sir.’

Skaithlocke stopped, his brow rising as he looked back. ‘Civilian? There are no real civilians, Innocent. No real innocents,’ he added with an impish smirk.

Stryker grasped his friend’s elbow, tugging him back. ‘You are a man of the rebellion, Colonel. Not just for the money, but for your conscience, too. You said so yourself.’

Skaithlocke shook him off easily. His bright eyes were darker somehow, his mouth set in a thin line. ‘Let us simply say that the fortunes of this cursed little town are not high on my agenda.’

‘You are not a rebel?’ Stryker blurted in disbelief. ‘After all, you—’

‘Oh, I am for the Parliament, son,’ Skaithlocke interrupted. ‘More than you know.’

‘More than I know? You’re making no sense, sir.’

Skaithlocke stared down at him for a lingering moment, rubbing a grubby hand across his auburn beard. ‘Perhaps it is time.’

Stryker shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Time? Time for what?’

Skaithlocke rolled back his shoulders, bringing himself to his full, daunting height, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘No. You are not ready. Not yet.’ He walked away, long strides carrying him quickly across the debris-strewn ground.

Stryker followed for a futile ten paces. ‘Sir?’ he shouted in the bulky mercenary’s wake. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘No, son, you do not,’ Skaithlocke boomed in response. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘But you will. In time, you will know all, I promise.’

The city centre, Gloucester, 19 August 1643

Nikolas Robbens loved his hair. It was thick, lustrous and as beautiful as spun gold. The ladies, he reflected, always loved it too. He ran a hand through it, luxuriating in its thick strength.

‘Must I really go?’ the girl grumbled at the closed door.

Robbens shook himself from his reverie. ‘Yes, my love, I have work to do.’

‘What work?’

She was a red-headed firebrand, this one, who had sat on his lap in the tavern and not moved, even when he had made to stand. Robbens had thought it churlish to toss her to the rushes, so he had thrust his hands beneath her rump and carried her up to his chamber. Such was her lithe energy that it had been a vigorous night’s work. The downside, he now reflected, was that she was not as easy to shed as the others.

He rolled his eyes. ‘What is it about the women of this bloody town? They ask questions with every breath they draw.’

The redhead glowered. ‘Women? There haven’t been others have there, Nikolas?’

Robbens brandished a broad, white-toothed smile. ‘Of course not, Tilda, my radiant buttercup.’

Tilda folded her arms. ‘Then why?’

The Dutchman was barefoot, and he moved silently to the doorway. He slid both hands through the curtain of her copper fringe and cupped her cheeks. ‘An expression is all,’ he said, tilting her face up to meet his. ‘Just a manner of speaking from my homeland.’ He leaned in, and she did not resist, so he let his lips close with hers. He lingered there for long enough to know that her ire had ebbed, before parting wetly. ‘Now be gone.’

Tilda pouted. ‘And you’ll come find me later?’

‘After dark, Tilda,’ he promised, ‘you have my oath.’

Robbens watched her leave, drinking in the sway of her hips as she padded along the landing and disappeared down the spiral staircase. Shutting the door, he stalked back to the palliasse and sat down to pull on his boots. Pausing briefly to wiggle his toes, he stood up, ran a hand through his hair again, and went to the windowsill where he kept his looking glass. He took it up in one hand, drawing a small, fine blade from his waistband with the other. He walked back across the echoing floorboards to a deep basin of water, and stooped so that his head was entirely submerged. The coldness sent shockwaves through his body and he juddered involuntarily. Straightening, he tossed back his head, showering his voluminous shirt and the waxed floorboards in a hundred droplets, and lifted the glass. There it was as ever. His proud, handsome face, framed in gold. He sighed heavily, cursed quietly as he raised the knife, and began to shave his head.

CHAPTER 16

The Palace of Westminster, London, 20 August 1643

Erasmus Collings kept a brisk pace along the gloomy corridor. It was six in the evening, still light outside, though one would never know it in Westminster’s coney warren of candlelit passages and wood-panelled chambers. He hated it here, where there were the low whispers in every corner and where every hallway pattered with clerks scurrying about their worthless lives like so many rats; where abounded the mumblings of assiduous greybeards who now ran things in this new, monarch-less society. Collings was not one of those dour bastards; he was no Puritanical hypocrite hiding behind prayer as he slaughtered his way to power. In truth, he was a product of the old ways, of a nation led by kings and a valued elite. But trade had made him truly wealthy, and it was trade that suffered from the current king’s overreaching policies. Charles, therefore, would have to be removed.