Brothers' Fury (Bleeding Land Trilogy 2) Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Rebel

  Cast out by his family, Tom Rivers returns to his regiment. His commander believes the young hothead’s contempt for authority has no place in his troop. But to a spymaster like Captain Crafte, Tom’s dark and fearless nature is itself a weapon to be turned upon the hated Cavaliers and used to strike at their very hearts.

  Renegade

  Raw with grief at the death of his father, Edmund Rivers rejects the peace talks between Parliament and the King. He chooses instead to lead a band of marauders across the moors, intent on exterminating rebel forces like the vermin they believe them to be. But Prince Rupert recognizes in Mun a fellow child of war and has other, no less daring plans for him.

  Huntress

  Her heart broken following the deaths of her beloved Emmanuel and her father, Bess Rivers takes the hardest decision of her life: to leave her son and Sheer House and to go in search of the one person who might help her re-unite her family. Risking her own life on the road, can Bess douse the flames of her brothers’ fury and see them reconciled?

  Brothers’ Fury continues Giles Kristian’s thrilling and acclaimed story of the Rivers family, whose lives are turned upside down by that most brutal and tragic of wars – the English Civil War. . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A Q&A WITH GILES KRISTIAN

  Also by Giles Kristian

  Copyright

  BROTHERS’

  FURY

  Giles Kristian

  Brothers’ Fury is for Lynne and Andrew, whose support for the cause means so much.

  ‘Thou wouldest think it strange if I should tell thee there was a time in England when brothers killed brothers, cousins cousins, and friends their friends. Nay, when they conceived it was no offence to commit murder.’

  A Royalist’s Notebook

  Sir John Oglander

  CHAPTER ONE

  14 January 1643, Lancashire

  GOD ALMIGHTY, IT was cold. A little after midday, yet the pallid sun clung to the horizon, throwing the riders’ shadows far ahead of them in spindly misshapen caricatures that seemed to gush across the ground like black water. The night’s frost still held the land in its frigid grip, whitening tussocks and heather, sheathing leafless branches and making a hoary-haired old man of the peat moor. It was a white, silent, frozen world, and it was empty.

  But for the passing of a small troop of horse.

  Mun – Sir Edmund Rivers when he was not out on patrol with his men – twisted in the saddle, blinking watery eyes against the biting air. Cocooned in cloaks and hunched into themselves as though protecting some feeble flame that yet flickered within their chests, the men of the column resembled corpses swathed for burial and lashed to saddles. But for a slight sway as their mounts trudged on, they barely seemed to move, all flesh trussed up leaving only the eyes visible, and even these were slitted defensively, so that Mun could not read their thoughts.

  Not that Mun needed to see their eyes to know their minds. He supposed they resented him for leading them across the empty, bitter-cold moorland when all sensible folk were inside by their hearths. Even the great armies of Parliament and King had, for the most part, settled in for the winter, Essex’s force at Windsor and Charles’s at Oxford, that city having become for all intents and purposes the seat of his court and the Royalist capital. And yet not all had sheathed their blades and let their match burn out, and Lancashire remained a battleground upon which Parliament was seeming to press the advantage.

  There were still powerful men waging the King’s war here in the north-west, Mun knew. Men such as Richard Lord Molyneux, the wealthy Thomas Tyldesley, and the most powerful of all, James Stanley the Earl of Derby. But the earl had been deprived of his best regiments for service with the King elsewhere and had been forced to abandon his siege of Parliament-held Manchester the previous October. Now his forces had consolidated around Preston and Wigan and had made their headquarters in Warrington, just twenty miles south of Shear House.

  Meanwhile the rebels were growing bold. They were recruiting.

  And Mun was hunting.

  ‘Winter either bites with its teeth or lashes with its tail, my da used to say,’ O’Brien, riding beside him, muffled into the cloak covering the lower part of his face, ‘but this whore-hearted bitch has had us with her claws too as she’s walked across our backs.’ The big Irishman pulled the cloak down and dragged a sleeve beneath his nose, breath pluming in the cutting air. ‘No bugger’s daft enough to be out in this.’

  Mun would have wagered that every trooper in the thirty-six-strong column was thinking the same, but only O’Brien had the nerve to say it.

  ‘We’re out in it,’ he said, watching rooks and jackdaws rise and dip across the heath, foraging amongst the frosted clumps of bilberry and heather, feeding if they could, making the most of the scant daylight hours.

  ‘Aye and what does that make us?’ O’Brien muttered to himself.

  ‘Would you rather be a lapdog or a wolf?’ Mun asked, the cold air hurting his teeth.

  ‘On a day like this I’d be a bloody cat,’ O’Brien said, ‘all curled up on some pretty wench’s lap by the fire.’

  Mun smiled grimly at that image, for O’Brien was a giant of a man, red-haired, red-bearded and in battle as savage as this long winter’s claws. Twice as dangerous too. But the Irishman was right about the cold and Mun had not known a harsher winter. He recalled something his own father had once said, that in winter every mile is two, and watching the scavenging birds he decided not to range too many miles more before turning for home. Perhaps an hour had passed since they had skirted the town of Longridge above the Ribble river, eight miles north-east of Preston, and now they were at the fringes of the Forest of Bowland and the fells were no place to be after dark, especially in weather like this. Mun knew the black moor could swallow their whole column, freezing man and beast as solid as the rocky outcrops and gritstone boulders that tore through the wild heath, and no one might ever find them.

  We’ll turn back at Deerleap crag, he thought, if we have caught no sight of the enemy by then. But the damned traitors were out there somewhere and he hungered to find them, would have that rather than all the warmth and comfort Shear House – his home and the Rivers family seat, Royalist bastion and now headquarters for his own operations – could offer.

  ‘Just a little further,’ he called over his shoulder, receiving no answer but for a loud snort from one of the horses that was eloquent testimony as to what they felt about being out on such a day.

  ‘As much as I enjoy giving the rebel turds a good hiding, this should be down to Derby, not us,’ O’Brien said, hawking and spitting a thick gobbet into the snow. ‘We can’t be more than nine, te
n miles from Preston. It’s those buggers should be out here freezing their balls off instead of sitting around scratching their arses.’

  ‘True enough,’ Mun said, ‘but the earl and the other commanders are more concerned about the lightness of their purses and the gaps in their ranks than they are about waging proper war. And while they fret, the rebels recruit. They reinforce. Get stronger. Our lads were given a good kicking on Hinfield Moor, booted out of Leigh, and then earned a bloody nose for their troubles when Sir Gilbert Houghton tried to retake Blackburn.’

  ‘Aye, well that was a wet fart of a thing,’ O’Brien said. ‘I heard Sir Gilbert gave up the siege so that his men could eat their Christmas pies at home by their own hearths.’

  Mun could not tell from his tone whether the Irishman thought that was deplorable or admirable. He suspected the latter. ‘Whatever the reason, they’re not fighting,’ he said. ‘And if they’re not fighting they’re not winning. But I promise you this, Clancy, the rebels are not safe. Not even in this Godforsaken weather. Not from us. Not from me.’ Gloved fingers instinctively caressed the curved butt of the twenty-six-inch-long firelock pistol holstered on the right of his saddle’s cantle. The weapon’s twin nestled snug in its leather sheath on the saddle’s other side against his left thigh. ‘We’re going to find them,’ Mun said, watery eyes ranging across the frosted land, ‘and we’re going to kill them.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose that would be agreeable. There’s nothing like a bit of a fight to stir some heat into the blood,’ O’Brien said. ‘And the boys will play the part, won’t you, lads?’ he called over his shoulder, his helmeted head wreathed in his own fogging breath. A few mumbled ayes rose from the column but most of the swaddled troopers kept their hot breath inside their chests, shoulders hunched, heads pulled in. The column comprised the best riders and most capable men from Shear House’s garrison and, though most were relatively inexperienced, they were fit, healthy and strong.

  ‘Men learn quickly in war, my lady,’ Major Radcliffe had assured Mun’s mother when she had voiced concern at Mun leading them out into winter’s savage maw to track and kill rebels. ‘Sir Edmund is proof of that.’

  ‘We have all been changed by this war, Major,’ Lady Mary had said, and Mun had avoided her eyes then, not wanting to see the sorrow in them.

  ‘They may be miserable as bloody Puritans in a brothel, but they’ll sing loud enough when the shooting starts,’ O’Brien assured Mun now, snuffling back down into his cloak.

  ‘Like avenging angels,’ Mun muttered, remembering the day he and Captain Smith – now Sir John Smith – had brazenly ridden back onto the killing field at Edgehill and wrested the King’s colours from a well-armed knot of Roundhead soldiers. A Catholic and not shy to admit it, Smith had announced to a group of dragoons that he and Mun were two of St Michael the Archangel’s soldiers come with swords of fire to smite God’s enemies.

  And smite Mun would, for the rebels had destroyed his family. His father was dead, slain at Edgehill, as was Mun’s good friend, his sister Bess’s betrothed Emmanuel. Then the traitors had besieged Shear House and killed many of its defenders before Mun could break the siege, the scars carved into the house by their demi-cannon serving as a constant reminder of that desperate episode. Added to all this the feckless enemy had recruited his brother Tom, meaning that Tom and he were now foes, and this had ripped the heart out of their once proud family. It was a wound that would not, could not heal. And for all this the rebels would pay in blood. Which was why Mun had not returned to his regiment despite having given his word to Prince Rupert that he would join him as soon as he and the mercenary Osmyn Hooker had raised the siege of Shear House.

  Be sure to return to us with news of the rebels’ movements in the north-west. Had those not been the Prince’s words? So rather than sit idle in Oxford with the King’s army, watching the enemy grow stronger and letting the edge of his sword dull, Mun would hunt. He would kill. Surely a child of war like the Prince would understand his reasons for remaining in Lancashire, would rather Mun remained a thorn in his enemy’s side than became a swaggering wineskin like most of the gentlemen Cavaliers in Oxford.

  ‘You don’t have much faith in the peace negotiations I take it,’ O’Brien said, one bushy red eyebrow hoisted. Tack and armour jangled and clinked and horses snorted; those sounds and the occasional raucous koww of a crow the only interruptions to the silence of the frozen fells.

  ‘There’s more chance of you taking holy orders and ending up the Bishop of bloody Bath than there is of His Majesty going along with Parliament’s demands,’ Mun replied.

  O’Brien cocked his head thoughtfully, as though the scenario Mun had suggested was not entirely inconceivable. ‘The concessions they demand of him are unrealistic,’ Mun went on. ‘Just think it through.’ He doubted the Irishman would. ‘The King will not relinquish his sovereign control of the militia. Honour prevents him handing over those whom Parliament would scourge. His religion will not let him put an end to bishops, and only a fool would disband a growing army that shows signs of being useful.’

  Mun clapped his hands together and pumped his fists, trying to get some warmth into them. ‘No, the negotiations will come to nothing, mark my words, and if I know the Prince he’ll be stalking around Oxford like a caged animal.’

  Mun thought about the Prince and his seemingly boundless energy for war. ‘Actually, I’d wager he is ignoring the sham of peace entirely. He’ll be up to the same as us,’ he said, patting the pistol’s butt, ‘trying to further our political advantages by means of steel and shot, for he knows better than anyone that our failure to take London has cost us dear.’

  O’Brien sniffed loudly. ‘Well let’s hope the royal fellow doesn’t decide to use his steel and shot on us for not rejoining the regiment.’

  ‘You’re free to leave. Bugger off back to Ireland if you want. I won’t make you stay,’ Mun said, looking straight ahead, feeling a stab of irritation. Or rather disappointment to think the Irishman might want to leave. Yet he knew it was unfair to expect O’Brien to risk punishment for Mun’s own dereliction.

  ‘I’ll freeze my arse off a while longer if it’s all the same to you.’ O’Brien looked off across the frost-hardened heath. ‘You need me to look after you. Besides, little Francis would miss me something terrible if I buggered off now.’

  Mun felt the cold air bite into the cracks in his lips as he smiled, for who would believe that, aside from their friendship, a baby was truthfully the main reason why O’Brien had not turned his mare south and ridden to Oxford. Mun knew the big man had grown fond of little Francis, Bess and Emmanuel’s baby who had been born to the demi-cannon’s roar during the siege of Shear House. The dear fatherless boy’s first taste of life had been bitter with the acrid smoke of muskets, his little ears full of the screams of the stricken and dying, but he had brought a tenderness out of O’Brien that Mun guessed few had ever witnessed. Though how an infant did not wail with terror at the sight of the red-haired giant was a constant surprise to Mun.

  ‘It’s all the same to me but Prudence will be happy to hear of it,’ Mun said, watching from the corner of his eye for O’Brien’s reaction. Which was a great shiver and beard-splitting grimace. The cook did not boast looks that Anthony van Dyck would have got his brushes wet for, but she clearly thought the Irishman did and her ears and cheeks would flush red whenever she saw him.

  ‘The way she leers at me …’ O’Brien growled, ‘as though she’d put me in one of her pies and wolf me down with a wash of ale.’

  Mun laughed, his breath blending with Hector’s, fogging around his face. Then the stallion neighed, the bit in his mouth jangling against his teeth, and Mun knew Hector well enough to follow the beast’s gaze into what little breeze prevailed against them from the east.

  And that was when he saw it. A faint stain on a ridge of ground thirty paces off his right shoulder, where the frost had been knocked off the heather.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ he said, clicking hi
s tongue and pressing his right knee against Hector’s warm flank, ‘let’s take a look, shall we?’

  O’Brien flicked his reins and made to follow. ‘Good idea. It won’t be so damned cold if we get off the high ground,’ he called, thinking that Mun would lead them over the swell and down into one of the many deep river valleys that cut through the moorland. But Mun did not answer, because he did not know yet what he was looking at.

  ‘Could be deer,’ O’Brien said, drawing alongside, looking down at the disturbed clump of heather. ‘Or a sheep that has wandered off.’ Behind them the rest of the column had halted in a cloud of their own fog, some of the men slapping their upper arms for warmth, others sitting their mounts as though they had already frozen to death. ‘Mary mother of God!’ he said then, seeing what held Mun’s eye: a column of infantry down in the valley, trudging towards a copse of skeletal oak, ash and alder. There were several horsemen too, one of whom had evidently scouted up the valley’s steep side and left his tracks in the frost: tracks which now led all the way back to the column. ‘Do you think he saw us?’

  ‘I’d wager a half crown on it,’ Mun said, twisting and gesturing for his troopers to join them. ‘That’s why they’re heading for the trees.’

  ‘So we know the buggers aren’t ours then,’ O’Brien said, ‘else they wouldn’t be scarpering like mice back to their little hole.’

  ‘You’re assuming that scout knew who we were,’ Mun said, sweeping out an arm towards the men and horses that were bunching around them. ‘We’re not the Prince’s Horse now.’

  O’Brien frowned, casting an eye over the Shear House men who had become Sir Edmund Rivers’s cavalry troop. ‘Aye, you’d think us a horde of starving cut-throats,’ he said. None of the men disagreed, their liquid eyes fixed on the column of foot below.

  ‘Not cut-throats. Not with these horses,’ Mun said, ‘yet the sight of us was enough to curdle that scout’s blood and put his whole company to flight. All, what, forty of them?’