the geography of Hampshire. ‘We are here.’ He jabbed a brittle-looking finger at the word
Petersfield
, scrawled in an almost illegible hand. Moving the finger down and to the left, he rested it at an unmarked point near the map’s centre. ‘And here is Old Winchester Hill. Perhaps ten miles to the south and west of here.’
Benjamin straightened up. ‘But it is not a fort as you imagine, Lisette. It has ramparts, of course, but they are dug into the chalk hillside. The legacy of an ancient city.’ He met Lisette’s gaze levelly. ‘You will travel there?’
‘Of course.’
‘The road is treacherous, my child. Especially during this blizzard. Wait until dawn, I urge you.’
Lisette considered his plea. ‘Aye, I will. If I may rest here.’
‘You need not ask.’
Father Benjamin rolled the parchment into a scroll once more and fastened it with a string tie. He held it out to Lisette. ‘You will need this. The hill is up in the high downland. Not easy to find for someone unused to the area.’
Lisette stared back. ‘That is why you are coming with me, Father.’
Stryker’s eyes flickered open. He lay motionless for a moment, listening intently to the thunder that was shaking the new dawn.
It had rained during the night, and the men had been more than grateful for the room they now shared. Little more than a shed, leaning precariously against the gable-end of Archer’s house, it was cramped and dirty, but a godsend compared with a night under the winter stars. Stryker turned to his side and saw that William Skellen was also awake, staring at the ceiling’s damp timbers.
‘Hear that, sir?’ Skellen said. ‘Strange. Sky was clear when I went out for a piss an hour ago.’
Stryker listened, more keenly this time. ‘Shit.’ He sat bolt upright, startling the others awake as he did so. For outside the world was shaking again – but this time with the rumble of hooves.
Burton was nearest the rickety door, and despite having just awoken from deep sleep, he was alert enough to scramble out into the grey light. He scanned the horizon with squinting eyes while the others got to their feet. ‘Cavalry!’ he called. ‘They’re on the hill to the north. Coming down at a rate.’
‘Are they ours, sir?’ barked Skellen.
‘Can’t tell, Sergeant. But I doubt it. Don’t recognize the colour.’
‘How many?’ said Forrester, a sheen already adorning his red face.
‘A score at least.’
As Burton spoke, another man raced from the house’s main entrance to join them. It was Archer. ‘I am sorry!’ he cried, lungs gasping with his exertion, and with fear. ‘Please believe me, Captain.’
‘A trustworthy man?’ Stryker spat as he and his companions hurriedly collected up their weapons. ‘He was supposed to warn us, goddamn it!’
Archer was in a cold sweat, clearly fearing Stryker’s wrath as much as the approaching cavalry. ‘I beg forgiveness, sir. Marcus
is
trustworthy, upon my honour. He must have fallen asleep.’
Stryker fought to gain control of his temper. He had given the young farm-hand a shilling – more than a day’s pay for one of his pikemen – and expected to be woken as soon as soldiers were spotted.
‘I am mortified, sir, truly,’ Archer was saying.
Stryker did not have time to discuss the situation. He shouldered Archer aside, making for the rear of the lean-to where the horses were tethered.
‘
Jesu!
’ he exclaimed, as he reached Vos, remembering in a flash of annoyance that the beast was not saddled.
Forrester turned to him. ‘They’ll be here before we tack up.’
Stryker nodded and glanced at the others. ‘We have no choice. Put the horses in there,’ he ordered, indicating the lean-to.
‘There’s no room,’ Forrester argued. ‘They’ll kick each other to pieces!’
Stryker rounded on him, ‘You have a better idea?’
Forrester did not.
Stryker led Vos to the shed’s door, patting the stallion’s neck as the muscular beast obediently
Petersfield
, scrawled in an almost illegible hand. Moving the finger down and to the left, he rested it at an unmarked point near the map’s centre. ‘And here is Old Winchester Hill. Perhaps ten miles to the south and west of here.’
Benjamin straightened up. ‘But it is not a fort as you imagine, Lisette. It has ramparts, of course, but they are dug into the chalk hillside. The legacy of an ancient city.’ He met Lisette’s gaze levelly. ‘You will travel there?’
‘Of course.’
‘The road is treacherous, my child. Especially during this blizzard. Wait until dawn, I urge you.’
Lisette considered his plea. ‘Aye, I will. If I may rest here.’
‘You need not ask.’
Father Benjamin rolled the parchment into a scroll once more and fastened it with a string tie. He held it out to Lisette. ‘You will need this. The hill is up in the high downland. Not easy to find for someone unused to the area.’
Lisette stared back. ‘That is why you are coming with me, Father.’
Stryker’s eyes flickered open. He lay motionless for a moment, listening intently to the thunder that was shaking the new dawn.
It had rained during the night, and the men had been more than grateful for the room they now shared. Little more than a shed, leaning precariously against the gable-end of Archer’s house, it was cramped and dirty, but a godsend compared with a night under the winter stars. Stryker turned to his side and saw that William Skellen was also awake, staring at the ceiling’s damp timbers.
‘Hear that, sir?’ Skellen said. ‘Strange. Sky was clear when I went out for a piss an hour ago.’
Stryker listened, more keenly this time. ‘Shit.’ He sat bolt upright, startling the others awake as he did so. For outside the world was shaking again – but this time with the rumble of hooves.
Burton was nearest the rickety door, and despite having just awoken from deep sleep, he was alert enough to scramble out into the grey light. He scanned the horizon with squinting eyes while the others got to their feet. ‘Cavalry!’ he called. ‘They’re on the hill to the north. Coming down at a rate.’
‘Are they ours, sir?’ barked Skellen.
‘Can’t tell, Sergeant. But I doubt it. Don’t recognize the colour.’
‘How many?’ said Forrester, a sheen already adorning his red face.
‘A score at least.’
As Burton spoke, another man raced from the house’s main entrance to join them. It was Archer. ‘I am sorry!’ he cried, lungs gasping with his exertion, and with fear. ‘Please believe me, Captain.’
‘A trustworthy man?’ Stryker spat as he and his companions hurriedly collected up their weapons. ‘He was supposed to warn us, goddamn it!’
Archer was in a cold sweat, clearly fearing Stryker’s wrath as much as the approaching cavalry. ‘I beg forgiveness, sir. Marcus
is
trustworthy, upon my honour. He must have fallen asleep.’
Stryker fought to gain control of his temper. He had given the young farm-hand a shilling – more than a day’s pay for one of his pikemen – and expected to be woken as soon as soldiers were spotted.
‘I am mortified, sir, truly,’ Archer was saying.
Stryker did not have time to discuss the situation. He shouldered Archer aside, making for the rear of the lean-to where the horses were tethered.
‘
Jesu!
’ he exclaimed, as he reached Vos, remembering in a flash of annoyance that the beast was not saddled.
Forrester turned to him. ‘They’ll be here before we tack up.’
Stryker nodded and glanced at the others. ‘We have no choice. Put the horses in there,’ he ordered, indicating the lean-to.
‘There’s no room,’ Forrester argued. ‘They’ll kick each other to pieces!’
Stryker rounded on him, ‘You have a better idea?’
Forrester did not.
Stryker led Vos to the shed’s door, patting the stallion’s neck as the muscular beast obediently
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