Authors: Michael Arnold
Marston Moor
Also by Michael Arnold
Traitor’s Blood
Devil’s Charge
Hunter’s Rage
Assassin’s Reign
Warlord’s Gold
(Novellas)
The Prince’s Gambit
Stryker and the Angels of Death
About the author
Michael Arnold lives in Petersfield, Hampshire with his wife and
young son. After childhood holidays spent visiting castles and
battlefields, he developed a lifelong fascination with the Civil Wars
and is a member of Earl Rivers' Regiment of Foote in The Sealed Knot.
Traitor's Blood
is the first in
The Civil War Chronicles
series
featuring the unforgettable Captain Stryker and is followed by
Devil's
Charge
(a
Sunday Times
Historical Fiction Choice of the Year),
Hunter's Rage
,
Assassin's Reign
and
Warlord's Gold,
all of which
are published by Hodder & Stoughton. You can find out more about
Michael Arnold at
www.hodder.co.uk
or
www.michael-arnold.net
, or
follow him on Twitter at @MikeArnold01.
Marston Moor
Michael Arnold
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2015 Michael Arnold
The right of Michael Arnold to be identified as the
Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events,
establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a
sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all
incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination
and are not to be construed as real.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 9781848547667
Hardback ISBN 9781848547643
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
To my nephew, Ben
CONTENTS
Prologue
Near Tockwith, Yorkshire, 2 July 1644
The stalks, a pale green blanket pearled in raindrops that shimmered in the fleeting moonlight, grew thick.
Deep within the green shroud, the young man shifted an arm to stave off numbness, wincing as the bean pods rustled overhead. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, waiting for the cry of alarm that would signal his discovery. The plants were heavy with a summer’s bounty, a dense maze that concealed him well enough, but the season had been wet and the drooping stems were stunted, forcing the fugitive to lie completely flat.
The cold seeped into his marrow, and the soil tainted his lips. He let out the breath that had grown to flame in his lungs, and shuddered into the sodden mud. He was lying face down, clothes filthy, yet he prayed thanks all the same. He was still alive.
The pungent stench of roasting meat wafted through the crop. His mouth filled with saliva and his stomach cramped painfully. He knew the flesh sizzling out on the moor would likely be that of a thousand horses, but hunger overrode any qualm. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a hearty repast. All he saw in the blackness were faces. Lily-white corpses staring at him in mute condemnation. He saw his dog, his beloved companion, gone now, rotting out on the cursed plain. He saw his uncle, delicate features screwed into the sour anguish of betrayal, his eyes – dark and wide – questioning how such misfortune could come to pass.
A shout in the dark. He froze. Horsemen were gathering beyond the bean field, out where pyres blazed and wounded men still moaned. He could feel the stamping of their hooves through the earth, could hear the chatter of voices and the jangle of armour, tack and weaponry. He eased his chin up from the sticky soil, squinting into the stems, but he could see no further than a yard or two. He prayed harder than he had ever prayed before.
An order broke out from amongst the unseen troop, shrill and stark above the murmurs of a victorious army making camp. The hooves rumbled again. The young man braced himself. He felt sick. Then the vibration faded to nothing and he was left alone once more. He began to shuffle backwards, slithering on his belly like a serpent, pushing further and further into the embrace of the crop. There was nothing left for him here. Escape was all he could hope for. He had to survive, to find his friends and rebuild his army, for on a moor in Yorkshire the world had been flipped on its head and suddenly everything had changed.
Chapter 1
Berwick-upon-Tweed, 19 January 1644
The River Tweed marked the frontier between the two kingdoms. It gleamed in the weak dawn sun, a thick crust of ice transforming it from barrier to opportunity. The stone crossing remained, its arches looming large above the river, but it was no longer the only gateway to the south; a bitter winter had seen to that. The cavalry clattered over the bridge, three thousand lances – peculiar to this part of Britain – bobbing with the rhythm of hooves to turn the column into a never-ending Leviathan of wickedly glinting spines. Artillery and baggage trains would follow, bringing one hundred and twenty heavy pieces of ordnance to the invasion, too heavy and cumbersome to brave the ice. Meantime the rest, thousands upon thousands of pikemen and musketeers, all clad in suits of Hodden grey broadcloth and voluminous lengths of plaid, slipped and slid their way across it as they fought to keep step with the incessant drums. Each unit safely across re-formed behind their colours – flags that bore the cross of St Andrew, rather than St George – held aloft by ensigns to bob like the prows of warships in the last tendrils of mist. The officers barked orders, their sergeants transformed the barks to snarls and, one after another, they tramped over the frost-silvered grass and on to the wide road.
