Free Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) by Michael Arnold Page A

before they found Kesley’s body. The hue and cry would come before long. Soldiers and common folk alike would be searching thecountryside for her, but she would be further away than they could imagine. She was beyond their reach, moving ever southwards with spirits soaring as pounding hooves beat out their rhythm. She thanked the Lord for her good fortune. She would succeed. She had no choice.

    Stryker sat in the small tent as a choir of blackbirds heralded the breaking dawn outside. Carefully he inspected the nicks and chips that plagued the cutting edge of his sword, thumbing each one in turn, ruefully considering the battering Edgehill had given this perfect blade.
    ‘Good God, man, I’ve never even furnished a woman with so much attention! Well, there was that Frenchy. What was her name, Stryker? Botheration! What was it? Françoise perhaps?’
    Stryker looked up from his ministrations to see a beaming round red face through an opening in the tent flap. ‘Claudette. As you know damned well, Forry. You were in love that time.’
    The grin flattened out slightly. ‘Ah, yes, Claudette. Porcelain skin, raven locks, and the most inviting pair of—’
    ‘Forry,’ Stryker interrupted. ‘I’m sorry to tear you from such pleasant thoughts, but we have urgent business. You received my message?’
    ‘Of course. And here I am.’ In a blinding stream of morning light, Captain Lancelot Forrester, formerly of the London Trained Bands, lately aide-de-camp to General Gerrard, thrust back the awning and ducked into the cramped interior. He was a rotund fellow in his middle thirties, with thinning sandy hair and a ruddy complexion.
    ‘I am forever in your debt, Forry.’ Stryker said, consigning his sword back to its scabbard and thrusting booted legs out in front of him, the small stool on which he perched creaking its discontent.
    Forrester was short and could stand upright in the tent. Herubbed his back exaggeratedly, wincing as he did so. ‘Ah, my poor spine. Hasn’t given me this sort of trouble since I trod the boards at the Bear Tavern in Southwick. Remember, Stryker? The course of true love never did run smooth!’
    ‘I remember it,’ said Stryker, bracing himself. He was relieved that for once Forrester spared him a Shakespeare recital.
    ‘Anyway, the battle gave my back a royal battering, and no mistake.’
    Stryker’s eyebrows rose. ‘The battle? Did a lot of fighting, did you?’
    ‘Oh come now, Stryker, my role was crucial. Crucial!’
    ‘Your role as Gerrard’s lapdog?’
    Forrester’s brow clouded. ‘We aides perform a valuable service, as you bloody well know. You plodders wouldn’t stand a chance if we weren’t relaying orders. Jesu, Stryker—’
    ‘A joke, Forry.’ Stryker raised placating hands as he grinned mischievously. ‘Just a joke. Here,’ he said, indicating another wooden stool, ‘have a seat.’
    Forrester needed no further encouragement and dropped down on to the stool with an exaggerated sigh. ‘So what’s the rub?’ he said brightly, once he had settled himself into a comfortable slouch.
    ‘I have been ordered south, to Hampshire, in order to arrest a spy. You’re coming with me.’
    Forrester’s eyes widened as he leant forward. ‘I am?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Forrester frowned. ‘Why?’
    ‘I asked for you.’
    ‘You
asked
for me?’ Forrester looked like an incredulous cherub. ‘Damn it all, Stryker, but I have my duties with Gerrard now. You cannot simply thrust a sword in my hand and assume I’ll follow you out of some misguided loyalty.’
    Stryker smiled slightly. ‘You used to.’
    ‘Before I grew up, yes. I’m too old for charging over hill and dale on a mission. Moreover, Gerrard won’t allow it. AndMowbray would have a thing or two to say about one of his captains up and leaving the field army.’
    Stryker shook his head. ‘This is Prince Rupert’s mission. A mission sanctioned, I might add, by Ruthven. Mowbray had no choice in the matter.’ He caught