the dags, sir?’
Stryker lifted the pistol, turning it for Skellen to scrutinize. ‘Not failed me yet.’ The matched small-arms, carved with images of malevolent skulls, had been purchased using part of the reward they had earned at Newark. The relief of that stubbornly Cavalier town – locked down by a strong Roundhead army – had been a magnificent triumph for Prince Rupert, and a significant boon for morale, especially given the defeat suffered by the king’s army in the south only days later.
Skellen had purchased a new halberd with his share of the prize, and he absently twisted the ash shaft so that the blade – consisting of an axe, a spike and a hook – glittered for the prisoners to see. It was a weapon as ceremonial as it was practical, the object that marked a man out as sergeant, but in the hands of an experienced halberdier like Skellen, the bladed staff could cut a swathe through the enemy as sure as any well-aimed cannon ball. ‘That young lass, sir,’ he said after a short time.
‘Safe,’ Stryker answered abruptly. He had been acutely aware of wagging tongues as he had carried the battered girl from the home that had become a place of such slaughter. He had behaved appropriately, of course. Delivered her to the womenfolk who followed the army and were streaming into Bolton as its defenders streamed out. But that did not mean curious onlookers saw anything more than a victorious Royalist officer dragging away a legitimately won prize, and the thought made him uncomfortable.
‘Women’ll take care of her, sir,’ Skellen said. They had not discussed the incident with Kendrick in any depth, but he had coaxed the salient details out of his friend. ‘You’ve played your part.’ He sniffed awkwardly. ‘Which is just as well.’
‘Go on,’ Stryker said. He stood, thrusting the pistol into his belt. ‘Well?’
‘It’s Lieutenant Hood, sir.’
‘Spit it out, man.’
Skellen winced. ‘Simeon’s found him.’
The sound of flies was thick on the air as they entered the storehouse. It was a decrepit, single-storeyed structure of wormed beams and patchy daub that leaned alarmingly to one side. The space within was strewn with debris, barrels and shelves ransacked, tipped asunder, kicked and torn and taken. There were blood spatters on the walls, made visible by the light streaming through windows without shutters, and half a dozen bodies – some stirring, some clearly deceased – strewn amongst the wreckage.
‘Where is he?’ Stryker said, fanning his face with his hat to waft away the pungent stink.
From the shadows a small figure emerged. ‘Down there, sir.’
Stryker followed the pointing hand to where a prone body, curled into the foetal position, nestled under a table. ‘Dead or drunk?’
The figure, a man, moved into the room. He was tiny. Not a dwarf, per se, for his limbs were proportionate to his body, but his stature was that of a child, so that his head, at full height, did not reach beyond Stryker’s sternum. Yet one could never mistake him for anything but a man of forty years or more. His clothes and weapons were especially made to fit his form, but his bald head, weathered skin and crooked, half-rotten teeth spoke of his true maturity. His eyes were yellow – not merely a jaundiced hue, but a brightly blazing shade that gave him the stare of a hunting cat – and his hands were gnarled and calloused. ‘You know the answer to that, sir,’ he said. His voice, inflected by the accent of Scotland, was severely constricted, as if he suffered garrotting even as he spoke.
‘Thank you, Master Barkworth.’
Simeon Barkworth offered a short bow. With a sharp glance at Skellen, he followed the sergeant from the storehouse.
Stryker noticed a pail of grubby water and fetched it up. It slopped as he steadied it, rusty liquid leaking over the side and dripping on his boots. ‘A soldier who fails to return to colours when called, is clapped immediately in irons!’
The
Stryker lifted the pistol, turning it for Skellen to scrutinize. ‘Not failed me yet.’ The matched small-arms, carved with images of malevolent skulls, had been purchased using part of the reward they had earned at Newark. The relief of that stubbornly Cavalier town – locked down by a strong Roundhead army – had been a magnificent triumph for Prince Rupert, and a significant boon for morale, especially given the defeat suffered by the king’s army in the south only days later.
Skellen had purchased a new halberd with his share of the prize, and he absently twisted the ash shaft so that the blade – consisting of an axe, a spike and a hook – glittered for the prisoners to see. It was a weapon as ceremonial as it was practical, the object that marked a man out as sergeant, but in the hands of an experienced halberdier like Skellen, the bladed staff could cut a swathe through the enemy as sure as any well-aimed cannon ball. ‘That young lass, sir,’ he said after a short time.
‘Safe,’ Stryker answered abruptly. He had been acutely aware of wagging tongues as he had carried the battered girl from the home that had become a place of such slaughter. He had behaved appropriately, of course. Delivered her to the womenfolk who followed the army and were streaming into Bolton as its defenders streamed out. But that did not mean curious onlookers saw anything more than a victorious Royalist officer dragging away a legitimately won prize, and the thought made him uncomfortable.
‘Women’ll take care of her, sir,’ Skellen said. They had not discussed the incident with Kendrick in any depth, but he had coaxed the salient details out of his friend. ‘You’ve played your part.’ He sniffed awkwardly. ‘Which is just as well.’
‘Go on,’ Stryker said. He stood, thrusting the pistol into his belt. ‘Well?’
‘It’s Lieutenant Hood, sir.’
‘Spit it out, man.’
Skellen winced. ‘Simeon’s found him.’
The sound of flies was thick on the air as they entered the storehouse. It was a decrepit, single-storeyed structure of wormed beams and patchy daub that leaned alarmingly to one side. The space within was strewn with debris, barrels and shelves ransacked, tipped asunder, kicked and torn and taken. There were blood spatters on the walls, made visible by the light streaming through windows without shutters, and half a dozen bodies – some stirring, some clearly deceased – strewn amongst the wreckage.
‘Where is he?’ Stryker said, fanning his face with his hat to waft away the pungent stink.
From the shadows a small figure emerged. ‘Down there, sir.’
Stryker followed the pointing hand to where a prone body, curled into the foetal position, nestled under a table. ‘Dead or drunk?’
The figure, a man, moved into the room. He was tiny. Not a dwarf, per se, for his limbs were proportionate to his body, but his stature was that of a child, so that his head, at full height, did not reach beyond Stryker’s sternum. Yet one could never mistake him for anything but a man of forty years or more. His clothes and weapons were especially made to fit his form, but his bald head, weathered skin and crooked, half-rotten teeth spoke of his true maturity. His eyes were yellow – not merely a jaundiced hue, but a brightly blazing shade that gave him the stare of a hunting cat – and his hands were gnarled and calloused. ‘You know the answer to that, sir,’ he said. His voice, inflected by the accent of Scotland, was severely constricted, as if he suffered garrotting even as he spoke.
‘Thank you, Master Barkworth.’
Simeon Barkworth offered a short bow. With a sharp glance at Skellen, he followed the sergeant from the storehouse.
Stryker noticed a pail of grubby water and fetched it up. It slopped as he steadied it, rusty liquid leaking over the side and dripping on his boots. ‘A soldier who fails to return to colours when called, is clapped immediately in irons!’
The
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