Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (11 page)

Prince Rupert, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavaria, Knight of the Garter, General of all His Majesty’s Forces of Horse and favourite nephew to King Charles, let his vast black stallion lope out to greet Stryker, who offered a low bow that the prince entirely ignored. ‘Each one a veritable piss-a-breech, Captain, by my very honour!’ Rupert snarled in the curiously accented voice that described his famously itinerant upbringing in the courts of Europe. He leant forward in his saddle, crossing his long arms to prop himself against the animal’s muscular neck.

Stryker felt the scab at his forehead start to itch as his skin began oozing sweat. Rupert’s mount was bigger than most, and the general was himself gigantic. His great shadow seemed to loom like some vast thunder cloud.

‘The Council, Your Highness?’ Stryker ventured.

Rupert peered down at Stryker as an eagle might eye a hare. Stryker was not a man to be easily intimidated, but this young soldier – only twenty-three years of age – was to be genuinely feared, and he quickly found himself staring at the prince’s brightly spurred boots. ‘Not His Majesty, Captain, but those who would pour craven words in his ears.’ The prince sat upright suddenly, plucking the glove from his right hand so that he might scratch at his lace collar. ‘Do you know where next we march, Stryker?’

Stryker replied that Colonel Mowbray had told him of the ambition to take Gloucester.

‘In which case, you will know that
gentler
,’ Rupert hissed as though the word itself tasted of acid, ‘means are to be employed upon the engagement of our next conquest.’ The black stallion took a sudden step forward. Stryker flinched. Rupert glowered like some mythical beast, half man, half horse. ‘I took Bristol in three days, Stryker. Gloucester is the lesser thorn of the two. It would be plucked from my uncle’s flesh in a matter of hours if he would only leave me to my own devices.’

‘And he will not, sir?’

Rupert fiddled with the silver lace that glittered at the fringes of his buff-coat. ‘It is judged Bristol was too bloody an enterprise. Can you warrant such a thing?’

Stryker certainly could, for the storming of the port city had been costly indeed, if not in the quantity of men killed, then the quality. But he knew such an argument would be lost on the general. Prince Rupert had fought at some of the bloodiest engagements of the wars on the Continent in his efforts to wrest his father’s Bohemian throne from the Holy Roman Emperor. Regimental commander at the age of fourteen, battle-hardened veteran before he could so much as shave, Rupert was not a man to waste time ruminating upon the butcher’s bill.

‘It is a travesty, sir,’ Stryker muttered, engendering a chorus of sycophantic murmurs from the gathered horsemen.

‘I am glad you see sense, Captain,’ Rupert replied, his slight Germanic accent becoming less pronounced with the apparent cooling of his ire. He arched his back, stretched like a gigantic cat. ‘There are those at court who would have us charge headlong at London.’ His dark brow rose as he noticed Stryker’s cheek twitch. ‘On the contrary, Captain, I am not a member of that faction. Not yet, leastwise. We should take the capital, of course, but we must subjugate the Severn Valley in the first instance. It does not take great wit to understand.’ He lurched forward suddenly, thumping his bare right fist into the gauntleted palm of his left. ‘Secure the region, tax the hides off the rebellious locals, advance into the Associated Counties, castrate the strutting knaves who infest those parts – Cromwell and the like. And then crush London once and for all.’

‘To secure the Severn Valley,’ Stryker said, ‘we must take Gloucester.’

Without warning, Rupert twisted his neck and shoulders to address the waiting horsemen. ‘Leave us.’

There was a moment’s hesitation, but the group let their mounts take them away along one of the waiting tracks. Only the prince, Stryker and Killigrew remained.

Rupert stared back down at Stryker. ‘We must, as you say, take Gloucester. But I am not permitted to storm the contemptible place, thanks to my uncle’s council of cowards. So which way must I turn?’

Stryker met the younger man’s piercing gaze. ‘Betrayal.’

The prince laughed, a rueful bark of a sound, at this. ‘You are a clever man, sir.’ He rubbed his proud chin with neatly manicured fingers. ‘I must convince His Majesty to take Gloucester, Stryker, lest my enemies at court steer him on a different course. But I may not propose the strategy with which I am most at ease.’ He shook his head mirthlessly, black curls quivering at his shoulders. ‘It appears I must turn spymaster.’ He paused to fish for something at the top of one of his boots, pulling a crumpled rag from beneath the leather. Lifting it to his face, he blew his nose noisily. ‘What do you know of Edward Massie?’ he asked eventually.

Stryker shrugged. ‘New governor of Gloucester, sir. Appointed in Stamford’s place. Young, but with experience in the Low Countries.’

‘Like us, eh?’

‘Sir,’ Stryker acknowledged, though at thirty-two years, he hardly considered himself to be young.

‘And it is rumoured,’ Rupert added, ‘a man with more than sympathy for our blessed sovereign’s cause.’

Stryker considered the prince’s words. ‘He will surrender?’

Rupert took the glove from his lap and absently pulled the exquisite garment of kid hide back over his hand. ‘We do not know for certain, but that is the hope. And that is where you might do us a great service.’

‘Oh?’ Stryker replied cautiously, feeling his blood begin to chill.

Rupert spread his palms wide. ‘A request only, Stryker. I would not order you on such a task so soon after your heroics on the Christmas Steps. And besides, we are aware of your recent . . . loss. But,’ he added quickly upon sensing Stryker’s discomfort, ‘we require further intelligence. A . . .
view
, if you will, on Massie.’

‘Forgive me, sir, but it sounds like you have a view already.’

Rupert offered a wry smile. ‘We have many views, and that is our problem. One man suspects the slippery knave will turn his coat, another is adamant he will not. The King does not know which voice to heed, and all the while time ebbs by. I would take Gloucester, Stryker, but it must be done quickly. Essex’s army is to the east. They are laid low by some plague, unable to respond to our threat. But that will not last forever. So I would offer my uncle a new opinion, in the hope of expediency. An experienced opinion. An impartial one.’

‘You would have me parley with Massie?’ asked Stryker warily. ‘But he will tell me whatever he feels I need to know, sir.’

‘Not parley, Captain,’ the prince said, twisting a fraction to gaze at the scores of smoke funnels that traced their way above the nearest trees, marking Bristol’s distant hearths. ‘That order has already been given, and will be carried out by a suitable ambassador in a day or two. I would not waste your talents on such an errand. No, sir, this calls for something less conspicuous.’

So, Stryker thought, he was to sneak in to the rebel stronghold. Not something to be taken lightly, but he had always preferred action to sitting around in fever-ravaged camps awaiting an army’s next lumbering move. Especially as this particular army contained Artemas Crow.

He could not prevent an image of the colonel of dragoons resolving in his mind like some taunting demon. The snow-coloured hair, spike-like hackles, cheeks flushed crimson with that simmering rage, and eyes that seemed to blaze with raw, unquenchable hate. There was a debt of two sons lost in the ruins of Cirencester to be paid that could only be wiped clean by the demise of a tall infantry officer with one grey eye. Perhaps, he thought, it was right to take the opportunity to leave the army now. But he already had one mission on his mind. ‘What of London?’

Prince Rupert of the Rhine had been gnawing at the inside of his mouth, but at the mention of the capital his face suddenly became a rigid mask. ‘It is not high on the Council’s agenda at this moment, Captain.’

‘But Miss Cade—’ Stryker blurted.

‘Miss Cade?’ Rupert replied sharply. ‘Or Mademoiselle Gaillard? She is leading this task, is she not?’

Stryker shrugged in response. It was a shrewd thrust. The rescue of Cecily Cade had become something of a personal mission since it was from his company that she had been kidnapped. But he had to acknowledge that much of his guilt over remaining in the West Country was borne of the knowledge that Lisette was waiting for him in the capital.

‘Miss Cade,’ the General of Horse went on, his voice calm but stern, ‘purported to know where her father’s wealth was hidden, and we should very much like her to share that information. But she has not been liberated. The cursed rebels have her well veiled, and Mademoiselle Gaillard’s attempts to track her down have come to nothing. Zounds, man, but we have not received so much as a whisper from her in near a month.’

Stryker gritted his teeth. He was tired of the argument. Lisette was the queen’s most trusted operative, and she had been sent to discover Cecily Cade’s whereabouts so the Royalists could send a rescue party. But that clandestine search had, by all accounts, proved fruitless, and Stryker had found himself helplessly tethered to Mowbray’s regiment as the weeks trundled on. Things might have been different, he suspected, if the mission’s chief architects – Sir Bevil Grenville and Sir Ralph Hopton – had thrived with the king’s fortunes, and without their patronage the impetus had waned. Stryker inwardly wondered whether the remaining voices at King’s Council even truly believed Sir Alfred Cade’s treasure existed, but he resisted the temptation to say as much.

‘Mowbray was right to keep you with the army,’ Rupert was saying, ‘for you are too important for us to lose. You will not be wasted chasing wild geese in London when you should be here making yourself useful.’

Stryker balled his hands into tight fists. ‘Tiptoeing into Gloucester will be useful, General?’

Rupert’s big horse lurched forwards again. ‘Have a care, Captain Stryker,’ the prince said levelly, though his taut tone put Stryker in mind of the treacherous currents he had encountered playing in the Solent as a child. Sheer ferocity concealed beneath a millpond surface. ‘Have a care. You have served me many times, sir, and I am all too aware of your recent tribulations. For that I will ignore your tone on this occasion. But do not presume to speak above your station.’

Stryker dipped his head. ‘Highness.’

‘And who said anything about tiptoeing?’

The prince’s sudden brightening threw Stryker off balance for a moment, and it took him several seconds to answer. ‘With—with Bristol fallen,’ he said carefully, ‘the folk of Gloucester will be nervous. It will be difficult to break through their defences undetected.’

Rupert of the Rhine grinned broadly. He had a dazzling set of white teeth, and his ees sparkled with effortless confidence. ‘And that, my dear Captain, is why you shall abscond.’

Stryker stared into the prince’s brown eyes in surprise. ‘Desert, sir?’

‘
Ha
!’ Rupert barked, clanging his gauntlet against the pommel of his ornate sword. ‘Ingenious, is it not? Have the rebellious bastards welcome you to their bosom.’ With that, he offered a sharp nod and tugged on the stallion’s reins, compelling the animal to turn as though it were no more than a child’s pony. He kicked it to a gentle canter, meaning to rejoin his now far-off entourage, but glanced briefly back over his shoulder. ‘To discover if Massie will turn his coat, my dear captain, you must turn your own!’

CHAPTER 5

Gloucestershire, 5 August 1643

The sun cracked across the horizon as the three riders moved steadily eastwards. They did not speak a great deal, for they shared a creeping suspicion that this enterprise might well make an end of them. Men turned their coats often in this conflict where a true foe – or friend – was difficult to distil from the various competing interests that scrambled to fill the void left by a sovereign gone from London. But still the business of abandoning one cause to join another was fraught with risk, and not something to be taken lightly. For his part, Stryker’s caution had been matched in equal measure by a sense of relief. He had considered, albeit fleetingly, a rejection of the mighty prince’s decree. The waning interest in the mission to rescue Cecily Cade had been a bitter blow, and part of him had wanted to spit on Rupert’s expensive boots and simply walk away, but such a reaction would have been tantamount to suicide. He had also had time to reflect, particularly upon the exchange with Artemas Crow and his baying dragoons. The yellow-coated colonel was a powerful man with impressive connections, his troopers well trained and dangerous, and the raging man’s words still rang in Stryker’s ears. Crow meant him harm, and, by turns, meant his company harm.

Consequently, the darkening hours after he had stridden from the glade had seen him busy with preparation. The genesis of the plan might have been Prince Rupert’s, but the young general was not a man for detail, and it was Ezra Killigrew’s quiet efficiency that marked the hastily made arrangements. He had been given leave to speak to Mowbray so that, should the mission end in failure, his reputation within the ranks would not be tarnished, but beyond that he was not to tell a soul, save the men who would share the short journey. Stryker, Killigrew had dryly observed, would not be the kind of man to desert alone, given the level of loyalty he seemed to inspire in others. The acerbic little aide had remarked that the captain’s entire company would probably have followed him to the gates of hell, let alone the crumbling walls of Gloucester, if he asked it of them, but such a thing was obviously not desirable. Thus, it had been decided that Stryker would be accompanied by two confederates; one of his own choosing, and a second assigned by Killigrew.