Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles
Read Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles Online
Authors: Michael Arnold
Also by Michael Arnold
Traitor’s Blood
Devil’s Charge
Hunter’s Rage
Michael Arnold
JOHN MURRAY
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Michael Arnold 2012
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.
Maps drawn by Rosie Collins
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.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical
figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84854-413-0
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For my grandparents, Mick and Doreen
Contents
PROLOGUE
Near Podelwitz, Saxony,
21
September
1631
The soldier had hidden himself well, the thick undergrowth at the road’s edge providing ample camouflage for a patchy coat of russet and dark green. It was a dry day, the first since the battle, and he was thankful that his backside would not get wet as he sat on his haunches, waiting impatiently for the cart to arrive.
He checked his twin pistols one last time, ensuring flint, powder and ball were all in place. He was not fond of the weapon, preferring the robust reliability of a musket rather than that of the small-arm, but this brace, stolen from a Swedish cavalryman’s saddle holsters, would suffice for today’s task. He hefted the pistols in gloved hands, hoping the weapons would lend a fearsome edge to his appearance. The soldier had wanted to burst from the tangled bushes with the ferocity of a demon, all howls and savagery, but he suspected, at just twenty years of age and with a slim frame and long, straight, sable hair, he would appear more feral vagabond than terrifying monstrosity. He had been told that his pale eyes, lupine in their grey depths, gave him a certain roguish quality, but he was beginning to wonder whether that would be enough to cow the men on the cart.
Feeling a tickling sensation cross his knee, he looked down to see a fat bumble-bee crawling across one of the stains that speckled the wool of his breeches. His clothes had collected as many dark, crusty splatter marks as they had lice since he’d enlisted with the company, but this one was different. It still carried that telltale rusty tinge that spoke of its macabre origin. It was a fresh stain and was all that was left of that flashing, screaming, panic-fuelled moment when a man’s life had ended. The soldier shuddered involuntarily. His latest kills had been only days before, on a blood-soaked field at the crossroads between three villages whose names he could not even pronounce. The Swedish army, of which the soldier’s company of English mercenaries had been a part, had finally triumphed over their enemies in the Catholic League, but at a cost that made him shiver.
Feeling sick at reliving that day of death, he flicked the bumble-bee on to the overgrown grass and forced his mind back to the one thing that made life in this war-torn, hate-filled, plague-rotten part of Europe more bearable.
Beth Lipscombe. He smiled at the thought of her. That fiery hair, the lily skin, the heart-searing gaze, the honey voice.
He tilted his head suddenly. There was a sound of something different and not entirely natural above the gentle thrum of the countryside. He waited, breath held, eyes clamped shut.
There it was again: the creaking of wheels.
The soldier took up the pistols in each hand and thrust himself upwards into a squatting position, careful to remain concealed behind the wild chaos of mouldering bracken and tall grass. The sound of wheels was growing ever louder now, joined in discord by the low murmur of voices and the groaning of wood. Using the muzzle of one of the pistols, the soldier eased the undergrowth apart so that he could catch sight of the road. At first he saw only mud, hoof-churned and undulating like a freshly ploughed field. He let his gaze snake to the right, tracing the road until it reached a gentle bend. And there, drawn by a couple of bored-looking ponies, was the cart. His quarry.
The undergrowth grasped and clawed at the soldier’s tall boots as he burst forth from his place of concealment. His knees protested sharply, for he had been concealed there the entire half-hour since sunrise, but the exhilaration of the moment quickly chased the pains away. He turned right as his first boot touched the road, pacing purposefully towards the cart. The driver, he saw, had already spotted him and was desperately hauling back the thin ropes that served as reins. He raised both arms, levelling the twin pistols at the frightened-looking man, and was rewarded to see the lumbering vehicle judder to a slanted stop in one of the road’s deep ruts, one of the rear wheels left to spin in mid-air.
The soldier did not stop. He picked up his pace, eager to be up at the cart before its startled occupants had time to respond. He saw four fellows leap awkwardly from the rear, making the cart rock like a skiff in a gale, and immediately trained one of his firearms on them, keeping the other firmly fixed on the driver. The men were all of similar age, though very different in appearance. Two of them, burly of shoulder, rough of face and dressed in everyday shirt and breeches, were clearly locals. Farmers or millers, the soldier presumed. Labourers of some kind.
The other two faces the soldier recognized instantly. Clothed in more expensive attire than their companions – pristine shirts, black cloaks and high-crowned hats – they had softer features and slimmer frames. Both clutched Bibles. The soldier had never met either of them, but had studied them from afar, and knew them to be clergymen of some kind. He hawked up a dense gobbet of phlegm and spat on the road.
‘
Was soll das bedeuten
?’ one of the priests called out.
The soldier was within ten paces of his captives now, and he brandished what he hoped would be a suitably wolfish grin. ‘Don’t
sprechen
the tongue, Herr Canker-Blossom.’
The priest, a man perhaps ten years the soldier’s senior, pulled a sour expression, wrinkling his hooked, beaklike nose. ‘I asked, what is the meaning of this?’
The soldier frowned, as annoyed at the man’s evident lack of fear as he was surprised to hear the accent. ‘English?’
‘Aye, sir,’ the priest called back, ‘and a saddened one to learn that he may be robbed by his own countryman.’
The soldier shook his head vigorously, sending the dark locks cascading about his shoulders. ‘No robbery here, sir. Merely rescue.’
‘Rescue?’ the black-cloaked man repeated incredulously, but then his small eyes, brown and intelligent, narrowed, and he looked up at the cart. ‘And the Lord sheds light.’
The soldier stepped a pace closer, stabbing the air at his front with the pistols. ‘Release her, sir, or so help me I’ll stick lead in your face.’
The locals, judging by their plate-eyed expressions, probably did not comprehend a word of the exchange, and began stumbling backwards at the renewed threat. The driver stayed in his seat, careful not to move an inch lest he draw the young brigand’s attention.
To the soldier’s surprise, the English priest stared directly down the mouth of the pistol barrel and shook his head slowly. ‘We take this witch to the hanging tree, where she will know God’s judgement.’
The soldier gritted his teeth. ‘Have a care for your words, fellow.’
‘The witch must hang!’ the priest bellowed suddenly, his expression darkening with explosive anger. ‘Hang, I say!’
A new face appeared then, popping up from within the cart. Narrow and white, with high, delicate cheekbones and glittering hazel eyes, all framed by a shock of flame-red hair that flowed like a sun-dappled waterfall. ‘Hang me, you dry old bastard, but then you’ll never get your privy member polished.’ She grinned; an expression of wickedness and defiance, of pearly teeth and crimson lips.