disappeared into the gloom. The others followed suit, though it was indeed a tight squeeze.
‘What now, sir?’ Burton asked anxiously. ‘We’re trapped.’
‘Have faith, Andrew,’ Stryker replied, and turned to Thomas Archer. ‘Time for you to make amends, Mister Archer.’
CHAPTER 6
T he troop cantered into the centre of the village; they were led by an officer mounted on a large bay. The men wore thick yellow hide coats extending over the thigh, and pristine back and breast armour that shimmered like pearls in the dawn; each wore a steel helmet with three vertical face protectors attached to a hinged peak. Heavy single-edged swords swung at their sides, slapping against leather boots.
Beside the leading officer rode the cornet. He bore the blue and white standard high on its pole, yet it hung limp in the still air. Stryker, watching from one of the upper windows of Archer’s home, did not recognize the symbols that marked the flag’s owner, but he knew who they fought for well enough. ‘Bollocks,’ he whispered.
‘Whose bollocks?’ a familiar voice hissed beside him.
Stryker’s hand instinctively went to his belt, grasping the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. ‘Jesu, Forry,’ he said. ‘I could have filleted you.’
Forrester displayed a mischievous grin. ‘That’s why I came to your right, old man. Didn’t want to blind-side you, if you’ll excuse the phrase. So, what are we facing?’
Stryker shook his head in exasperation, turning his attention back to the unwelcome cavalry. ‘I don’t know exactly, but they’re not ours.’
‘Do we take them?’ Burton’s voice came from somewhere to the rear. Stryker twisted round to see that Skellen had joined them as well. The order for them to stay in the back-rooms of the house had fallen on deaf ears.
‘Take them?’ Stryker stared. ‘You’ll make a fine officer, Andrew, but only if you learn when to display caution. They’re harquebusiers. They’re well trained. They ride well. They’re superbly equipped. They’re confident. No, we don’t take them. We’d each get a shot off, and the remaining sixteen of them would ride us down like rabbits.’
‘That’s if they let us out,’ Skellen added. ‘They’d probably fire the house to save ’emselves the trouble.’
‘Still,’ Forrester said chirpily, offering a hand for Burton to shake. ‘Admire your bravado, Ensign. Said like a young Captain Stryker.’
The cavalry halted on the village green. The tired steeds were clearly in need of rest and they walked listlessly about, foraging for the remnants of grass, their bloodied flanks heaving in unison.
The harquebusier captain remained in his saddle and surveyed the immediate area warily.
Thomas Archer, the tall village elder, appeared from his doorway, and the soldiers bristled in their saddles. Some reached to unsheathe lethal weapons that rested against the horses’ muscular flanks. Archer raised submissive palms, as he had upon greeting Stryker. He called to the cavalrymen, though Stryker could not hear his words.
The troop held their ground until the man was within ten paces of the nearest horse. The captain’s mount, responding to a gentle shake of its reins, lurched forward from the centre of the group. The fearsome stallion, bay hide glistening with sweat, halted a mere sword’s length from the villager.
Stryker looked on, studying his adversary. ‘Don’t let me down again, damn you,’ he whispered through clenched teeth.
The horse commander was young and his expensive attire betrayed an upbringing of privilege. He had dispensed with the buff-coat worn by his subordinates, preferring the comfort of a black woollen coat adorned with ornate gold trim. He wore body armour that had been enamelled black and studded with dozens of gilt rivets, crowned by a gleaming black helmet that he now removed to reveal a head of short blond hair. He had grown a beard and moustache, though the straggly facial hair only served to
‘What now, sir?’ Burton asked anxiously. ‘We’re trapped.’
‘Have faith, Andrew,’ Stryker replied, and turned to Thomas Archer. ‘Time for you to make amends, Mister Archer.’
CHAPTER 6
T he troop cantered into the centre of the village; they were led by an officer mounted on a large bay. The men wore thick yellow hide coats extending over the thigh, and pristine back and breast armour that shimmered like pearls in the dawn; each wore a steel helmet with three vertical face protectors attached to a hinged peak. Heavy single-edged swords swung at their sides, slapping against leather boots.
Beside the leading officer rode the cornet. He bore the blue and white standard high on its pole, yet it hung limp in the still air. Stryker, watching from one of the upper windows of Archer’s home, did not recognize the symbols that marked the flag’s owner, but he knew who they fought for well enough. ‘Bollocks,’ he whispered.
‘Whose bollocks?’ a familiar voice hissed beside him.
Stryker’s hand instinctively went to his belt, grasping the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. ‘Jesu, Forry,’ he said. ‘I could have filleted you.’
Forrester displayed a mischievous grin. ‘That’s why I came to your right, old man. Didn’t want to blind-side you, if you’ll excuse the phrase. So, what are we facing?’
Stryker shook his head in exasperation, turning his attention back to the unwelcome cavalry. ‘I don’t know exactly, but they’re not ours.’
‘Do we take them?’ Burton’s voice came from somewhere to the rear. Stryker twisted round to see that Skellen had joined them as well. The order for them to stay in the back-rooms of the house had fallen on deaf ears.
‘Take them?’ Stryker stared. ‘You’ll make a fine officer, Andrew, but only if you learn when to display caution. They’re harquebusiers. They’re well trained. They ride well. They’re superbly equipped. They’re confident. No, we don’t take them. We’d each get a shot off, and the remaining sixteen of them would ride us down like rabbits.’
‘That’s if they let us out,’ Skellen added. ‘They’d probably fire the house to save ’emselves the trouble.’
‘Still,’ Forrester said chirpily, offering a hand for Burton to shake. ‘Admire your bravado, Ensign. Said like a young Captain Stryker.’
The cavalry halted on the village green. The tired steeds were clearly in need of rest and they walked listlessly about, foraging for the remnants of grass, their bloodied flanks heaving in unison.
The harquebusier captain remained in his saddle and surveyed the immediate area warily.
Thomas Archer, the tall village elder, appeared from his doorway, and the soldiers bristled in their saddles. Some reached to unsheathe lethal weapons that rested against the horses’ muscular flanks. Archer raised submissive palms, as he had upon greeting Stryker. He called to the cavalrymen, though Stryker could not hear his words.
The troop held their ground until the man was within ten paces of the nearest horse. The captain’s mount, responding to a gentle shake of its reins, lurched forward from the centre of the group. The fearsome stallion, bay hide glistening with sweat, halted a mere sword’s length from the villager.
Stryker looked on, studying his adversary. ‘Don’t let me down again, damn you,’ he whispered through clenched teeth.
The horse commander was young and his expensive attire betrayed an upbringing of privilege. He had dispensed with the buff-coat worn by his subordinates, preferring the comfort of a black woollen coat adorned with ornate gold trim. He wore body armour that had been enamelled black and studded with dozens of gilt rivets, crowned by a gleaming black helmet that he now removed to reveal a head of short blond hair. He had grown a beard and moustache, though the straggly facial hair only served to
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