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Authors: Michael Arnold
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chagrin. Now Stryker had no colonel to tie him down. He was the prince’s creature; his personal attack-dog, intelligencer and assassin.
Stryker looked directly into the blue eyes of Rupert’s close friend. ‘It treats me well, Sir Richard.’
‘You’ll have your own regiment next. Lieutenant-colonel follows major, as night follows day, and then full colonel.’ He broke into a rueful chuckle. ‘Particularly when one considers the rate at which our senior officers seem presently to expire.’ Crane wrinkled his slightly crooked nose as he regarded the dishevelled form of Thomas Hood. ‘You look abysmal, son.’
‘It was a sleepless night, sir,’ Hood muttered.
‘That it was,’ Sir Richard barked happily, twisting back to observe the troopers that still clattered into the area in his wake. A large pearl earring winked from behind his golden tresses. ‘My brave boys have been a-hunting. The moors are infested with Roundheads. Still, we have cleared the way, have no doubt.’
Stryker had no doubt at all, because Colonel Sir Richard Crane was a killer. One of the king’s true veterans, Crane was the younger son of minor nobility, destined for a life denied inherited wealth. Like so many of his kind, he had seen only two avenues left open: a career in the clergy, or a career at war. Having chosen the latter, Crane had seen service with the Protestant armies on the Continent, returning when the Royal standard had been hoisted at Nottingham almost two years before. Since then his post as the commanding officer of a troop of horse had taken him across the country. Like Stryker, he had witnessed the opening salvos of England’s tribulation at Kineton Field, and had been embroiled in the storming of both Cirencester and Bristol. But Stryker knew he had done so much more. Crane would have been at Chalgrove and Bristol, Newbury and Market Drayton and Chinnor and countless other fights. He was a man forged in the furnace of this civil war, because Crane’s was no ordinary command.
Stryker stared up at the horsemen that packed the road. They were mud-spattered, their mounts’ fetlocks wet and ingrained with grime, but their bearing, to a man, betrayed nothing of the hard riding to which they had been subjected. They wore scarves of ruby red at their waists, and every trooper’s hair flowed long, framing lean, hard faces and restless eyes. These, Stryker knew, were the elite: Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard, a troop of a hundred and fifty riders, gentlemen all, forming the razor edge to his Regiment of Horse. Sir Richard Crane had the honour of their command, and he revelled in it.
‘Sergeant Skellen!’ Crane bellowed, touching a finger to his temple in acknowledgement. ‘You survived, I see.’
‘’Course, Colonel, sir.’ Skellen, who had been waiting outside the door with Barkworth, sidled forth and bowed low.
Crane beamed. ‘If the world were to burn tomorrow, I do declare this man would come through the conflagration with nought but a singe.’ He looked back to address his watchful horsemen. ‘These men are to be afforded all respect, you rogues. They may appear to be a party of vagabonds, but they serve upon good Prince Robert’s business, and they enjoy his protection.’ He met Stryker’s gaze again. ‘I’ve not seen you since Newark, Major. What a day that was! His Highness would not have outfoxed Meldrum without you. Verily sings your praises!’
Stryker felt heat pulse at his cheeks and he stared hard at the ground. ‘Kind of you to say, sir.’ It was true that he had played his part in that unlikely victory, but the praise embarrassed him nonetheless. ‘I did my duty.’
‘You’d have been well employed at Cheriton, I suspect,’ Crane went on, his tone turning sour. ‘What a dungheap of a campaign that turned out to be.’
‘I was at Cheriton.’
Crane’s pale brow climbed to crinkle his high forehead. ‘As bad as they say?’
Stryker thought of that race southwards through a newly
Stryker looked directly into the blue eyes of Rupert’s close friend. ‘It treats me well, Sir Richard.’
‘You’ll have your own regiment next. Lieutenant-colonel follows major, as night follows day, and then full colonel.’ He broke into a rueful chuckle. ‘Particularly when one considers the rate at which our senior officers seem presently to expire.’ Crane wrinkled his slightly crooked nose as he regarded the dishevelled form of Thomas Hood. ‘You look abysmal, son.’
‘It was a sleepless night, sir,’ Hood muttered.
‘That it was,’ Sir Richard barked happily, twisting back to observe the troopers that still clattered into the area in his wake. A large pearl earring winked from behind his golden tresses. ‘My brave boys have been a-hunting. The moors are infested with Roundheads. Still, we have cleared the way, have no doubt.’
Stryker had no doubt at all, because Colonel Sir Richard Crane was a killer. One of the king’s true veterans, Crane was the younger son of minor nobility, destined for a life denied inherited wealth. Like so many of his kind, he had seen only two avenues left open: a career in the clergy, or a career at war. Having chosen the latter, Crane had seen service with the Protestant armies on the Continent, returning when the Royal standard had been hoisted at Nottingham almost two years before. Since then his post as the commanding officer of a troop of horse had taken him across the country. Like Stryker, he had witnessed the opening salvos of England’s tribulation at Kineton Field, and had been embroiled in the storming of both Cirencester and Bristol. But Stryker knew he had done so much more. Crane would have been at Chalgrove and Bristol, Newbury and Market Drayton and Chinnor and countless other fights. He was a man forged in the furnace of this civil war, because Crane’s was no ordinary command.
Stryker stared up at the horsemen that packed the road. They were mud-spattered, their mounts’ fetlocks wet and ingrained with grime, but their bearing, to a man, betrayed nothing of the hard riding to which they had been subjected. They wore scarves of ruby red at their waists, and every trooper’s hair flowed long, framing lean, hard faces and restless eyes. These, Stryker knew, were the elite: Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard, a troop of a hundred and fifty riders, gentlemen all, forming the razor edge to his Regiment of Horse. Sir Richard Crane had the honour of their command, and he revelled in it.
‘Sergeant Skellen!’ Crane bellowed, touching a finger to his temple in acknowledgement. ‘You survived, I see.’
‘’Course, Colonel, sir.’ Skellen, who had been waiting outside the door with Barkworth, sidled forth and bowed low.
Crane beamed. ‘If the world were to burn tomorrow, I do declare this man would come through the conflagration with nought but a singe.’ He looked back to address his watchful horsemen. ‘These men are to be afforded all respect, you rogues. They may appear to be a party of vagabonds, but they serve upon good Prince Robert’s business, and they enjoy his protection.’ He met Stryker’s gaze again. ‘I’ve not seen you since Newark, Major. What a day that was! His Highness would not have outfoxed Meldrum without you. Verily sings your praises!’
Stryker felt heat pulse at his cheeks and he stared hard at the ground. ‘Kind of you to say, sir.’ It was true that he had played his part in that unlikely victory, but the praise embarrassed him nonetheless. ‘I did my duty.’
‘You’d have been well employed at Cheriton, I suspect,’ Crane went on, his tone turning sour. ‘What a dungheap of a campaign that turned out to be.’
‘I was at Cheriton.’
Crane’s pale brow climbed to crinkle his high forehead. ‘As bad as they say?’
Stryker thought of that race southwards through a newly
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