Free Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold Page B

the fearful man slowly forced himself to look back at the soldiers. He was of middle age and slight frame. A man whose hard existence of toil and hunger had stripped any vestige of fat from his bones. His hair was fair, though thinning badly, but his teeth and skin were in good condition. His bottom lip trembled violently as he spoke. ‘The Roundheads, sir. They had not imagined th—they would run into you.’ He swallowed thickly. ‘Y—you or anyone else, that is.’ He dug his hands into the folds of his threadbare smock and stared at the grass between crossed legs. ‘Beg pardon, sirs, I did not mean to pry. Forgive me.’
    ‘Speak plain, sir carter,’ Stryker replied calmly. ‘You are in no danger.’
    The frightened man remained tight-lipped. Barkworth leant forward on the grass suddenly. ‘But you’ll be in rare bloody danger if you keep your mouth shut.’
    The threat seemed to unlock the wagon driver’s jaw, for he forced his gaze up to meet Stryker’s. ‘The rebels, sir. They did not think to meet any king’s men hereabouts.’
    ‘Why ever not?’ Ensign Chase said in surprise. ‘The moor may be Devon land, but it nestles beside the most loyal county in England.’
    ‘And since Launceston,’ Skellen added, ‘old Hopton’s grip tightens daily.’
    Stryker nodded agreement. ‘You may not have heard, master carter, but Chudleigh attacked us at Launceston on the 23 rd.’
    ‘And he scurried back over the blessed Tamar with two black eyes and his tail twix’t his legs!’ Skellen growled, eliciting a chorus of boisterous cheers. ‘The messenger spared nothing in his bloody account!’
    The carter shook his head sadly. ‘I fear your messenger was sent out a day too soon.’
    Stryker felt his guts begin to churn. ‘How so?’
    ‘You have not heard?’ the carter said, wincing as he spoke as though the revelation would somehow bring about his own demise. ‘There was—a battle. A big battle. Up at Sourton Down. Not two days since your victory at Launceston.’
    Stryker and Burton shared a glance.
    ‘Well?’ Barkworth snapped.
    The carter cleared his throat. ‘General Hopton – God protect him – was routed by Parliament’s forces. Driven back into Cornwall with mighty losses, I heard.’
    And in that moment Stryker understood. He understood why a large rebel unit had strolled so confidently into Bovey Tracey; why Colonel Wild had not expected to encounter Royalist troops; why the furious cavalryman had been so confident that Stryker would never reach the Royalist lines. Those lines, he now realized, were all the way back on the River Tamar.
    He cursed angrily.
    The carter winced, holding up his palms as though Stryker was pointing a musket at his chest. ‘I am sorry, sir. I pass on only what I hear.’
    ‘Fret not, master carter,’ Stryker said. ‘You are not accountable for this.’
    Sergeant Skellen scraped calloused fingers across his dark stubble. ‘Now we know why them horsemen were so bloody cocksure. Weren’t even checkin’ the road for us. Sounds like our boys took a thrashin’.’
    ‘Christ on His cross,’ Barkworth hissed.
    Ensign Chase sat up straight. ‘Does that mean we’re alone on Dartmoor, sir?’
    ‘Not alone,’ Burton replied morosely. ‘We’ll be overrun by Parliament men before we reach home.’
    ‘And therein lies our problem.’ Stryker glanced at the wagon and its valuable bounty. ‘If we’re to make haste, we must abandon our prize.’
    ‘And yet,’ Burton replied, ‘the army will be in dire need of it now.’
    Stryker inhaled slowly as he thought. His tawdry mission to watch a quiet rural road had transformed into something far more important. Eventually he exhaled slowly, meeting the gaze of each of his men. ‘We keep the wagon. Lieutenant Burton is in the right of it; General Hopton will want us – no, expect us – to deliver it to him, regardless of the danger.’
    He paused to allow comment, but none came. ‘Of course, we cannot simply