Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles (6 page)

Osmyn Hogg looked down at the captain, fixing him with a look that made Tubb turn away. ‘I am a hunter, sir, by God’s grace.’

Tubb swallowed hard, and stared out to sea. ‘And what is your quarry, sir?’ he asked, his voice unnaturally thick.

‘Demons,’ Hogg replied. ‘And the folk who would harbour them.’

And soon, Hogg thought as he watched Plymouth draw ever closer, he would be home. After all these years. And the Devil’s minions would suffer.

Launceston, Cornwall,
27
April
1643

Sir Edmund Mowbray led his fourth captain into a building some hundred paces along St Thomas Road. Like Mowbray’s billet, it was a timber-framed house, though this one was far larger, a great cavernous mansion of big windows, high-ceiling rooms and labyrinthine corridors.

After a minute or two pacing quickly along one of those passageways, the pair reached a thick wooden door guarded by two burly halberdiers. To Forrester’s surprise, they received no challenge, the fearsome weapons snapping apart with an impatient wave of Mowbray’s hand.

Mowbray grasped the iron hoop that served as the handle and jerked it upwards so that the door creaked ajar. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hat off, Lancelot.’

Forrester did as he was ordered and followed Mowbray inside.

‘Sir Edmund! It heartens the soul to see you well!’ The speaker was perched on the edge of a large chair at the far end of the rectangular chamber. He had evidently been leafing through a vast pile of papers, an aide assisting at his shoulder, but leaned back at the sight of the newcomers.

Forrester stared at the man in surprise, for his chirpy voice was rather at odds with his appearance. The man’s cropped hair and sombre clothes, plain in cut and colour, made him seem more Parliamentarian than Royalist.

‘And you, General,’ Mowbray was saying, before indicating Forrester with a snappy nod. ‘Please allow me to introduce to you Captain Lancelot Forrester.’

The man at the desk shifted his brown eyes to meet Forrester, and the captain suddenly found himself studying his boots. ‘Your—your servant, General Hopton.’

Sir Ralph Hopton, commander of the king’s forces in this south-western corner of England, grinned broadly. ‘The pleasure is mine, Captain, I assure you,’ he said in the rounded tones of Somerset. At the edge of the table sat a wooden trencher holding the remains of a meal of fine bread, cheese and meat pie, the smell making Forrester’s stomach growl. ‘It is good to finally put a countenance to the name.’

Forrester looked up, unable to hide his surprise. ‘Sir?’

‘The reputation of Sir Edmund’s regiment grows fast and formidable,’ Hopton elaborated, leaning back in the big chair and making a steeple of his fingers. ‘Many of his officers have received much praise. You among them.’

Forrester felt his cheeks colour. ‘Kind of you to say, sir. Too kind.’

‘Indeed, I was most impressed to hear of your service with the late Earl of Northampton’s force. God rest him.’

‘A bloody and terrible day, sir,’ Forrester said, thinking upon the battle that had raged on a ridge outside Stafford. ‘The Earl fought bravely,’ he added, trying in vain not to sound awkward, ‘and died a hero.’

Somewhere in the town, the church clock struck nine of the hour. Hopton drew breath to speak, but held it, allowing the toll to run its melancholy course, and Forrester found himself staring at the great man. Though seated, it was clear that Sir Ralph was probably of average height, with mousy hair and moustache and a beard that tipped his chin in a sharp point. He was plump, a fact which surprised Forrester, for the tale of Sir Ralph’s death-defying expedition to rescue Elizabeth of Bohemia – Prince Rupert’s mother – from Prague had become soldiering legend. But, he reminded himself, that had been more than twenty years ago, and the general would now be in his late forties.

‘May I introduce to you gentlemen,’ Hopton finally said when the peeling had ceased, ‘my commander in Cornwall, Sir Bevil Grenville.’

Hopton glanced over his shoulder at the man Forrester had taken to be the general’s aide. He was of a similar age to Sir Ralph, but more athletically built, with light-brown hair that seemed almost bronze. Those locks were curled and left long so that they cascaded beyond his shoulders and across the expensive white collar and silver-laced coat. If Hopton wanted to discuss reputations, then to Forrester’s mind, Sir Bevil Grenville was worth speaking of. For all his Cavalier airs, Grenville was a hard-bitten and respected campaigner. A veteran of the Bishops’ Wars, he had become known throughout England as a true leader of men, and fearless fighter.

‘Well met, sirs,’ Grenville said in a broad Cornish accent. ‘Your regiment played an active role at Sourton, if I recall correctly. You helped us protect the artillery train.’

Protect
, thought Forrester.
Active role
. Words could never describe that hell. The black night, the storm crashing around them, the showers of lead cutting men down, the swords and the hooves and the screams. It had been confusion. Blood-spattered anarchy.

‘It was, Sir Bevil,’ Mowbray replied.

Grenville dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then we are friends already.’

‘Sir Bevil is my most trusted and able man,’ Hopton said. ‘Was responsible for driving Parliament’s supporters across the Tamar at the war’s very birth.’

Grenville’s lips twitched. ‘Too kind, Sir Ralph, but a small matter in truth. I summoned the posse comitatus and had the devils expelled before they could make trouble.’

‘A small matter loyal men failed to achieve in almost every other county,’ Forrester said, genuinely impressed.

Grenville offered a small shrug, evidently embarrassed by the attention. ‘Cornwall is ferociously loyal, Captain. The number of rebels to be expelled was not great, truth be told.’

‘Since then, of course,’ Hopton continued, ‘Sir Bevil’s Cornish army has quickly garnered repute for reckless valour.’

Grenville’s jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth. ‘A recklessness that has cost us dear of late, I am ashamed to say.’

‘There will be time and opportunity to rectify events at Sourton Down, sir,’ Hopton replied.

‘I pray both come swiftly,’ said Grenville.

Hopton looked back at Mowbray and Forrester. ‘Where are my manners, eh? Sit gentlemen, please.’

The men drew up a pair of chairs that had been tucked under the general’s campaign table, and awaited his next words.

‘The Cornish lads are raw, Captain Forrester,’ Hopton said after a short time. ‘They fight hard enough, by God they do, but they’re striplings in the ways of war. Men experienced in soldiering are difficult to find.’ He paused then, letting the words linger.

Forrester caught the intimation well enough. ‘Men like me, sir?’

‘Precisely. I am sending one of my best men, courtesy of Sir Bevil—’

Grenville bowed. ‘Your servant, General—’

‘On a task of a—’ Hopton made a steeple of his fingers again, ‘delicate nature.’

‘And I?’ Forrester prompted.

The general leaned back. ‘Escort him, Forrester. See that he is protected should there be trouble.’

Forrester glanced at Grenville.

‘We have spoken of my men’s tendency to reckless bravery, Captain,’ the Cornish commander said. ‘They are utterly formidable upon the field of battle, but,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘perhaps not best suited to tasks requiring a more—subtle touch.’

‘Sir Edmund tells me your company is solid as any he has,’ Hopton took up the explanation, ‘and I understand you have personally undertaken many similar missions for Prince Rupert in the past.’

‘Right enough, sir.’

‘And he tells me you are rather easily bored.’

Forrester felt his cheeks become instantly hot. ‘I—that is to say—’

‘It is no bad thing to be a man of energy, Captain. And I expect to remain here for some weeks yet. We have need of respite after our recent—setback.’

‘I—I certainly relish a challenge, sir, ’tis true.’

‘Then you are indeed the right man. Your company will escort a smaller task force south to the rendezvous point. Put simply, your role will be to keep him alive so that he might carry out his duty.’

‘His?’

Hopton nodded. ‘Sir Bevil’s man. Perhaps you have heard of him?’ Hopton rattled an empty pewter goblet on the table top, and the door at the room’s far end edged open, the face of one of the sentries appearing from the other side. ‘Show Payne in, Corporal Andrews.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Andrews murmured, and promptly shrank back.

In less than a minute the door swung open again, this time to its full extent, allowing a man to step through. And Lancelot Forrester wondered if he was trapped in some strange dream.

The newcomer was the single tallest man Forrester had ever laid eyes upon. He had known many men of great stature in his time, had fought with and against several huge Scandinavian mercenaries on the Continent. Even some of the pikemen at Edgehill had appeared like rabid bears on that blood-soaked fair-meadow, and Malachi Bain, one of the villains responsible for Stryker’s terrible injuries, had been a rare monstrosity. Yet this man, this colossus, would have simply dwarfed the lot of them. He felt his jaw drop open, and could do nothing to close it.

‘Payne,’ General Hopton was saying. ‘Come in, come in. Forgive me, sir, I regret I do not have a chair that would be—suitable—for you. But come closer.’

Payne had stooped to pass under the lintel, but even now, well inside the room, he was compelled to bend his vast frame simply to remain clear of the ceiling’s stout beams. ‘My lords,’ he said respectfully enough, though in a voice that reminded Forrester of a distant roll of thunder.

‘Captain,’ Hopton said, and Forrester had to force himself to tear his attention away from the giant to meet his commander-in-chief’s expectant gaze.

‘A—aye, sir.’

‘This, Captain, is Anthony Payne. Sir Bevil’s—’ he glanced at Grenville.

‘My manservant,’ Grenville replied. ‘My bodyguard, my drill-master and my best fighter.’

Forrester nodded mutely and looked back up into Payne’s face. It was a face, he realized with surprise, that was not grizzled and fierce, like most of the huge fighting men he had encountered, but open, affable even. Payne’s eyes, chestnut in colour and almond-shaped, appeared pleasant enough and twinkled with intelligence. He nodded his huge head of straight brown hair in Forrester’s direction.

Forrester removed his hat. ‘W—well met, sir, well met indeed.’ He swallowed thickly as he noted Payne’s arms and legs, thick as culverin barrels. ‘My God, man, but you defy all nature.’ It was only after the words had past his lips that Forrester realized what he had said. ‘Er—that is to say, I er—’ he spluttered, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks, and half expecting the giant to crush him with a single fist.

But Anthony Payne grinned. ‘No harm, sir, I assure you. It is the natural response, to which I am well accustomed.’

‘My humblest apologies,’ Forrester finally managed to blurt, Payne’s kindly words doing little to assuage his embarrassment. ‘I meant no offence by it, sir, really. My awe compelled the choice of ill-judged words, that is all.’

‘Understood, sir,’ Payne replied happily, proffering Forrester another white-toothed smile.

‘I am merely impressed,’ Forrester went on. ‘I had heard tell of your—stature—many times, but one dismisses such tales as mere gossip.’

‘It is no gossip, Captain.’

‘No! Indeed, no. Might I ask—’

‘My height?’ Payne interjected.

Forrester nodded sheepishly. ‘You are asked this a great deal, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Indeed,’ Payne nodded. ‘I am four inches above seven feet, sir.’

Forrester looked Payne up and down again, marvelling at the man before him. The vast boots, the red coat that might have provided enough material for a man’s tent, and the sword that appeared like a twig at his tree-trunk waist. ‘My word, sir, but you are surely a modern-day Goliath.’

‘Fortunately we fight Roundheads, not Israelites,’ Payne observed wryly.

‘Ha! Quite so, Mister Payne, quite so. And I thank the good Lord for it!’

‘As I have said,’ Hopton spoke now, ‘Payne, here, is Sir Bevil’s man. Like you, Captain, he fought valiantly at Sourton, and I am like to keep him alive.’

Forrester wondered what on earth could kill this man-mountain, but kept the thought to himself. He met his general’s gaze, sucking his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘May I know the nature of Mister Payne’s mission, sir?’

‘You may not, Captain,’ General Hopton responded firmly. ‘He has his purpose in this, just as you have yours. See that he reaches the rendezvous without hindrance, and see that he returns in good order. You are the ranking officer, Captain,’ the general went on, ‘and your men will look to your command, but Mister Payne must be allowed full freedom to execute his task.’

Forrester nodded acquiescence, his thoughts in a whirl. ‘How many men will we take, sir?’

‘Two-score should do it.’

‘And I would bring a half-dozen of my most trusted lads,’ Anthony Payne rumbled.

‘As you see fit, Mister Payne,’ General Sir Ralph Hopton agreed, before rising suddenly, offering his hand for Forrester and Payne to shake in turn. ‘God be with you, gentlemen.’