Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles (13 page)

‘Sir Alfred had an estate outside Tavistock,’ Broom went on, fastening his expensive doublet against the night air. ‘That was where we were headed.’ There had not been a great deal of discussion in the hours since Stryker’s men had found the coach, but Broom had, at least, explained that Sir Alfred Cade had been an extremely wealthy man. A member of the landed elite, with property in both Sussex and Cornwall. Fearing the rebellion’s burgeoning grip on the counties to the east, Sir Alfred, a declared Royalist, had decided to take his only daughter to the relative safety of his western dominions.

That daughter, Cecily Cade, had not uttered a word since joining the company, but now she gave a chuckle that was near heartbreaking in its melancholy. ‘But the war caught up with us anyway.’

Broom gave a snort. ‘We ran into those villains, I grant you, but they were simple highwaymen. Grubby brigands.’

Cecily Cade was perched on a big stone next to Broom, and she turned her face up to look at him. ‘Were they not looting us to feed their families, Otilwell?’ She stared back at the flames. ‘The armies pillage the land, take victuals where they find them, and leave the common folk to starve. Those men attacked us, yes, and I hate them for it, but is it not ultimately the fault of this war that drives men to such wickedness?’

‘You’re right, miss,’ Stryker spoke now, ‘but they did not need to fire upon you.’

Cecily glanced up. Her skin was as white as the lace at Broom’s fancy collar, and her hair as black as coal. He noticed that her eyes, bright but sad, seemed to flicker from the good side of his face to the ravaged part, alive with intrigue, and he felt the urge to cover the scarring with a hand. But then, dispelling his embarrassment, that same, drill-like gaze began to fill with moisture. She shrugged. ‘Now they’re all dead.’

Dead and long since left to rot, Stryker thought. They had left the road as soon as the fighting was over, for Stryker had no way of knowing which towns, if any, were garrisoned by Parliament men. The surprise arrival of the large force at Bovey Tracey had been warning enough, but after Marcus Bailey’s ominous words about the defeat at Sourton Down and the subsequent enemy push westward, he found it difficult to trust anything more than the understated farmers’ tracks, known only to Bailey, and Bailey’s local knowledge. Otilwell Broom had informed him that Sir Alfred Cade’s party had travelled through Moretonhampstead and Postbridge and, though the former was alive with Roundhead troops, the latter was so far empty. That, at least, was reassuring, but it did not mean the high moor would remain devoid of danger.

Thus, with dusk rapidly descending, they had dragged the coach and bodies into the woodland to the north of the road, and spent a full two hours digging six shallow graves. Six, because the third bandit had swooned the moment the dead pony had been dragged away from his crushed legs. He never regained consciousness. Otilwell Broom complained bitterly about the situation, for the mere thought of burying a man of Sir Alfred’s standing in an unmarked woodland pit was offensive to him in the extreme, but Stryker had insisted that he could not afford to carry a decaying corpse across Dartmoor. Cecily had seemed to understand, mutely nodding her assent, thus guaranteeing Broom’s grudging compliance.

Once the burials had been completed, and the coach hauled unceremoniously into a particularly dense thicket, they had pushed northwards for a time, plunging back into woodland, until Bailey located another of his lesser-known routes that swung away to the left. It was a track that seemed to become narrower with each pace, impenetrable forest swallowing them whole, its branches whipping and clawing at the ammunition wagon’s sides, darkening the already gloomy evening. Bailey informed them confidently that the track traced the path of the main thoroughfare, running south-west in parallel to the road but never glimpsed by its traffic. Stryker had questioned the wisdom of this, but, when urged to review his tattered map by the carter, he quickly understood that a march directly northward, in the direction of Launceston, would have taken them up on to the very highest part of the moor. Bleak, near impassable terrain, that was wind-seared and boggy.

‘We must go round, Captain,’ Bailey had explained, his natural nervousness beginning to diminish now that he knew Stryker posed him no threat. ‘There is a reason the road runs thither.’

‘To avoid the high moor,’ Stryker had replied.

Bailey’s response had been an enthusiastic nod. ‘We must come this way a few more miles, only turning north again when we pass Great Mis Tor at our right hand.’

Now, with night’s cloak fully drawn, Stryker had decided to make camp in the shelter of the ancient Wistman’s Wood. The name, Bailey had said, was derived from
wise man
, perhaps a throwback to the pagan druids of old, and Stryker found himself wondering whether there had been anything wise in his decision to capture Colonel Wild’s ammunition wagon. He looked to his right, instinctively checking the vehicle and its bounty were safe beyond the nearest trees. There it was, a large black mass against the flame-illuminated green of moss and lichen, and he chided himself for the display of uncharacteristic edginess. After all, the wood seemed so silent that they must surely be the only humans in its eerie interior. But, he told himself, the wagon’s muskets and grenades, its lead balls and its black powder, were so vital to the Royalist war effort that it was natural to feel concerned for its safety.

‘Tell me, Mister Broom,’ Lieutenant Burton was speaking, and Stryker turned his thoughts away from the wagon to look at him, ‘was it not a treacherous route to take?’

Broom brushed a speck of something from one of the fashionable slashes in his doublet. ‘How so, sir?’

‘To come through the moor,’ Burton replied.

‘The shortest route between any two points is a straight line,’ Broom said patronisingly.

‘I understand, sir,’ Burton said with what Stryker thought was admirable patience. ‘But would it not have been a safer bet to take the coast road? Or even the northern route, via Okehampton? You are not soldiers, so Parliament men would likely have let you through peaceably enough.’

‘We did not know there would be bandits on the moor road, young man,’ Broom retorted sharply, and placed a comforting hand on Cecily’s shoulder when she began to sob quietly.

‘I am sorry,’ was all a shamefaced Burton could say.

Stryker looked on with interest. Burton was evidently mortified to have upset the girl, but it had been a reasonable enough question. The road through Dartmoor was wild and unprotected. A veritable heaven for footpads and the like. It did seem strange that Sir Alfred, apparently so keen to protect his daughter, had chosen such a course.

‘No matter,’ Broom muttered when Cecily had wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her yellow dress. A shadow suddenly fell across his handsome face. ‘The truth is, McCubbin and I were employed as Sir Alfred’s protectors. He felt safe with us. Safe enough to take the shortest route to Tavistock.’ He swallowed thickly. ‘A mistake.’

‘Well, now you travel with us,’ Burton said gently. ‘We’ll see you home.’

‘We’ll see you to Launceston,’ Stryker corrected firmly.

Broom shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘You will not provide safe passage to Tavistock, sir?’

Stryker met the challenging gaze and held it. ‘I go to Launceston, sir. I give you safe passage there, upon my honour, but others will convey you to Sir Alfred’s estates.’

Broom considered the statement for a moment. ‘Forgive me, Captain, but is Tavistock not on the way?’

‘Not on
my
way,’ Stryker said firmly. ‘We’ll be out of the wood tomorrow, on to the open moor.’

‘Cross country,’ Sergeant Skellen murmured. ‘Dangerous.’

Stryker looked at him and nodded. ‘Aye, dangerous enough. But the track rises through hills, so we shan’t be visible to anyone on the road.’

‘Hills?’ echoed Skellen glumly. ‘It’s hard enough draggin’ that bleedin’ wagon on the flat.’ He glanced at Cecily. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, miss.’

Cecily offered a sad smile to show she took no offence at the leather-faced sergeant’s profanity.

‘We’ll alternate the horses so that they remain fresh,’ Stryker said. In addition to Bailey’s old animals and Wild’s chargers, he now had the two beasts ridden by Sir Alfred Cade’s killers, and the pair that had pulled his coach.

‘And, if necessary, we’ll push. Whatever happens, we must stay on the track, keep away from the roads until we reach one of the tors Bailey told us about.’

The meat was ready now, and he leaned over to the makeshift spit of knotted twigs, slicing some of the sizzling flesh free with his long dirk. ‘Then we’ll join a bridleway running north.’

‘Bypassing Tavistock altogether,’ Lieutenant Burton added.

Stryker nodded as he fished a wooden bowl from his snapsack and dropped the meat on to its scarred surface. He took several more pieces and handed the bowl to Cecily. ‘Here. You must eat something, miss.’

Cecily’s smile was wan but sincere as she took the bowl. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘But we cannot be more than five or six miles from Tavistock now, Stryker,’ Broom cut in indignantly. ‘Surely you can allow us to press for the town from here?’

Stryker shook his head. ‘I’ll not risk our lives for it, sir.’

‘You’ll not risk your damned wagon, sir,’ Broom muttered bitterly.

That was true, Stryker thought, and he offered a small shrug. ‘It is vital to the King’s cause. It would be remiss of me to risk it by marching into a town that, like as not, is swarming with rebels.’

Simeon Barkworth scratched at the ruined skin swathing his neck. ‘So we head north tomorrow, sir. Where will we find this track?’

Stryker looked at Barkworth. The Scots Brigade veteran appeared almost demonic across the flames, his sharp teeth, yellow eyes and noose-burned scar all highlighted by the flickering orange light. ‘A place called Merrivale.’

‘Merrivale?’ It was Cecily who’d spoken, and all eyes descended upon her.

‘You know it?’ Stryker asked carefully.

At once she shook her head, though Stryker did not miss the flicker of a glance she stole with Broom. ‘Not really. But I have been to our Tavistock estate many times and know the name.’

The girl looked down abruptly, and Stryker wondered if the name had meant more to her than she claimed.

‘And then what, Captain?’ Otilwell Broom broke the silence, his tone more conciliatory this time. ‘Where does this bridleway take us, if not to Tavistock?’

‘Lydford, I’m told,’ Stryker replied. ‘And from there we’ll make a break for Cornwall.’

‘Easy,’ Skellen muttered.

Widecombe-in-the-Moor, Dartmoor,
29
April
1643

The line of mounted men thundered along the main road through the village, thick gobbets of mud flinging up in their wake. They were a proud troop, all jutting chins and straight backs, but they knew that such a bearing was their unalienable right. For they were harquebusiers, cavalrymen of the deadliest kind, and they owned this land. Ruled it with their terrifying horses, their glinting plate and their keen swords. Daring a challenge. Willing it.

The troop rode four abreast, so that any other traffic would be forced to retreat to the gutters for fear of being crushed. They cantered behind a small black flag affixed to a pole and held aloft by a young cornet. On their heads the cavalrymen wore steel helmets with lobster-tail neck-guards and hinged peaks, from which hung a trio of vertical bars to protect the face. And atop each of those helmets, perched there like the bird from which it had been plucked, was a feather. A curved affair as long as a man’s forearm and black as midnight. It was the sign of their commander, their leader, and a symbol of terror for those who gazed upon it.

Colonel Gabriel Wild cantered at the very head of his troop. They might have been just one hundred strong this day – and God rot Major-General Erasmus Collings for it – but he revelled in the power at his back all the same, at the force of arms his single word could bring. His regiment of horse was good, and he knew it. Equipped at great expense from his own deep pockets, the men had been trained by the best veterans money could buy. They were a fearless, ruthless fighting force. And that would not only secure victory upon victory for Parliament, but would allow Wild’s reputation to blossom, as he so prayed it would.

The simple fact was that Parliament needed decent cavalry. They already had most of the navy, the ports, the forges of the Sussex Weald and rapidly improving brigades of foot, but the Royalists were blessed with the best mounted fighters in the realm. It was those men, Wild reckoned, those flying, charging, scything, brutal men that would decide the war. Prince Rupert’s saddled peacocks, as skilful as they were reckless, and as deadly as they were dissolute, had so far not met their equal in the field, and it was in that inequality that Colonel Gabriel Wild saw his opportunity. He had heard tell of other cavalry commanders attempting to turn their ragtag formations into something serious. Something that might, at last, pose a real threat to the Rome-loving popinjays who galloped across bloody fields with utter impunity. But those men – up-and-coming young bucks like Ireton and Cromwell – were far away to the east, not embroiled in the dirty fight that had consumed this far-flung corner of England. Here, the war was bitter and merciless, the ideal proving ground for an ambitious man. Once Wild had blooded his black-plumed killers on the obstinate Cornish, he would have the best fighting force in the land, honed in fire and blood, and ready to face the finest the king had to offer. Parliament needed a warrior, thought Wild, a modern-day Alexander who would cut a cruel swathe from Truro to York. He could be that man, was certain of it, just as soon as the current matter was resolved.