Battlefield
Copyright 2016 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
Dark Season Books
First published: February 2016
This edition: August 2016
This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.
“Why would an entire English Civil War battle have been covered up? Why would both sides prefer to pretend that it had never happened?”
An archaeological dig outside the small town of Sharpeton turns up some surprising results when hundreds of skeletons are discovered. Convinced that she has discovered the site of a previously forgotten battle, Doctor Mary Baker sets out to learn the truth about a horrific event that took place more than three centuries earlier.
Meanwhile, a few miles away, a little girl makes a shocking discovery deep beneath the desolate war. Nykolas Freeman, one of the most notorious figures in English history, is about to rise from the grave once again. This time, however, his experience of the modern world is going to push him to the brink of madness, and a deadly prophecy warns that a great tragedy will soon strike the English countryside.
Battlefield is the second book in the Nykolas Freeman series, which began with The Priest Hole.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Epilogue
Battlefield
(Nykolas Freeman book 2)
Prologue
January 17th, 1644
At first light, thick fog hung in the air. Everything was a haze of white, save for the land itself. Muddy, uneven soil was still partially frozen from the cold night, with wisps and curls of fog drifting languidly past. The scene was silent, too, save for occasional coughs in the distance.
The two vast armies were unable to see one another as they waited for the fog to clear.
As morning wore on, voices began to call out from time to time. Royalists and Parliamentarians taunted one another, yet neither side was willing to make the first move and charge into the white unknown. For so long as the fog remained, the battle was forestalled and the ground was left unbloodied.
Only around midday did the fog lift enough for the two sides to start seeing one another. Faint, shadowy figures began to emerge from the white thrall, although still no-one made a move. As the fog lifted a little more, more figures came into view, on the flanks of two opposing hills and with a stretch of moorland spread between them. Thus emboldened, the Parliamentarians start flinging stronger and stronger insults in the direction of their enemy, hoping to goad them into attacking first. The Royalists, on the other hand, were wise to such tricks and stood their ground.
“Where's the coward Villiers?” a voice yelled from the Parliamentarian infantry. “Let him lead you into battle!”
“Villiers is here!” another voice shouted back. “His sword awaits your watery blood!”
Still the fog withdrew, lifting gradually and at its own pace, showing no regard for the two armies that itched to get their battle underway. Finally, however, by 2pm the front lines could see each other well enough, and the men of each side stared into the eyes of their opponents. All through the valley, thousands of chests tensed in anticipation, and the fog drew back further, revealing ever great masses waiting for battle to begin. Every man knew that most would be killed, but every man also believed in his heart that he would survive.
It was the Parliamentarians, under Thomas Ledgemore, who finally broke first.
Infantry charge was met with infantry charge, and there was time for only one volley of musket-fire to ring out before the two sides met on the battlefield. Swords swung at limbs and cries ran out, and blood began to flow into the mud. Now the fog began to intensify again, although it was too late for either side to withdraw now. Fresh waves came from either side, swarming the scene and quickly taking the places of their fallen comrades, crying out angry threats against their opponents. To the south, Royalists on horseback began to make their first charge, countered swiftly by musket-fire and then by Parliamentarian foot soldiers. The remainder of the two armies hung back, uncommitted, as the furious battle raged. When Captain John Villiers of the Royalist unit was mortally wounded by musket-fire, his body was quickly trampled into the mud as the soldiers continued their battle, and his solid gold standard fell to the ground. Boots quickly hurried past, pushing the gold out of sight beneath the blood-soaked soil.
The stench of death filled the air, and the fog grew thicker and thicker.
***
Crying out, Michael Appendon swung his sword at the man ahead, striking his armor but failing to deliver a convincing blow. Swinging around, he narrowly missed getting his waist sliced open, and then he tried once again to bring his enemy down. This time he aimed at the fellow's neck, hoping to cut through the gap beneath the man's helmet and chest-plate, but once again his sword simply glanced against the metal.
“By God,” the Royalist soldier sneered, raising his own sword high above his head, “you shall -”
Suddenly a volley of musket-fire struck the man square in the chest, blasting him back several feet until he slumped down against the muddy ground.
All around, men roared and screamed.
Cries of victory and death.
“For the king!” a voice shouted.
“He'll hang yet!” countered another.
Wasting no time, Michael stumbled forward and drove his sword into a gap between the armor plates that secured the chest-plate of another Royalist soldier. He heard a grunt of pain from the man's lips, but this only emboldened him to twist the blade, then to pull it out and strike again, this time driving it straight through the eye of his enemy until he felt the tip hitting t
he inside of the back of the man's helmet. Pulling his bloodied sword clear, Michael stepped over his vanquished enemy and hurried onward, already searching for the next opponent. He counted two kills by his own hand so far, but he was thirsty for more. After just a few seconds, another Royalist came charging toward him, swinging a sword that missed Michael's face by inches as it came crashing down.
“Traitor!” the man hissed.
“I fight for the freedom of this country,” Michael shouted, adjusting the grip on his sword. “There are traitors on this battlefield, but they are not among my side.”
“You would kill the king!”
“Aye, I would that!”
Their swords clashed, but neither man was able to land a blow.
“Your blood will flow into the ground,” the Royalist sneered. “Mark my word on that!”
Raising his sword again, Michael saw that his new foe was already wounded from some earlier encounter, and that the man's left arm was hanging loose. Only a string of flesh kept the limb attached to the shoulder, so Michael threw his weight against the man, knocking him to the ground and battering his face with his hands. Having weakened his enemy further, he then slammed the handle of his sword against the man's face before slicing the blade through his neck. As soon as he saw blood erupting from the wound, he stumbled to his feet and staggered onward, filled with the knowledge that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands more Royalists still to be slain.
All around him, Englishmen were fighting Englishmen, pushing the brunt of civil war ever onward.
Spotting another Cavalier stumbling toward him through the fog, Michael raised his sword and prepared to bring it crashing down against the man's head, before hesitating as he suddenly realized all had fallen still. As if the world had frozen, Cavaliers and Roundheads alike had ceased to battle, and instead were looking toward one particular spot ahead. Glancing around, Michael saw that everyone seemed dazed, so he slipped through the crowd, desperate to see what vision had brought the entire battle to a sudden standstill. In all his time fighting, he had never before seen two opposing armies suddenly cease their combat in such a manner, yet bitter enemies now stood shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing a sense of abject horror.
In the distance, fresh cries rang out. Although he had fought in many battles already, Michael felt he had never heard the sound of men in quite so much pain.
As he continued to make his way forward, fog seemed to move back in with great speed, making it increasingly difficult for him to see what was up ahead. With each step, however, he began to make out the scene a little more clearly, until he realized there were several bodies huddled together on the ground, already leaking blood into the mud. Such a sight was far from unusual in the heart of battle, of course, but nearby soldiers from both armies were dropping to their knees, as if they had seen something so terrible that their hearts and souls were starting to crack.
“Run men!” a voice cried out nearby. “It's some form of witchcraft!”
Michael saw a shape in the fog up ahead, something unfamiliar. Running forward, he began to make out some kind of large metal casing, but a moment later he stopped when he saw scores of soldiers lumbering forward through the fog with their swords raised. He braced himself for an attack by the Royalists, before realizing that there were already Royalists all around him, and that they seemed just as terrified as the Parliamentarians. Watching the approaching army approaching through the fog, Michael began to notice that these soldiers seemed different somehow. The closer they came, the clearer their features became, and finally he realized that their skulls were visible through the rotten flesh that hung from their faces.
“May God have mercy on our souls,” muttered someone nearby.
“What are they?” another soldier asked, taking a cautious step back.
“What manner of witchcraft...” Next to him, a Royalist stood with a drained and pale face, as if he might be about to faint. “It looks like... It can't be true! It can't be!”
As a soldier up ahead was hacked to pieces by the undead army, the rest of the men – both Parliamentarians and Royalists – turned and ran together. Scrambling past one another, they cried out, some in pain and some in madness. All were desperate to get away, filled with the kind of pure horror that can tear a man's mind apart. Voices cried out, and even Michael himself found himself unable to stand his ground. Running with the rest, he raced across the moorland, as agonized screams rang out from the heart of the battlefield.
***
Several hours later, once darkness had fallen, the remains of the Parliamentarian unit made their way home along a barren road. Not one man dared speak; instead, each of them considered his own private torment, and the horrors he had witnessed. Their commander had told them that the Battle of Sharpeton must never be spoken of again, and all had agreed. The Royalists, they were all assured, had agreed the same.
Still, Michael Appendon couldn't help glancing over his shoulder every few steps, to make sure they weren't being followed. He half expected to see the nightmarish creatures lumbering through the night, dragging their rotten bodies and their rusty weapons with them. Freezing rain was falling, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about the horrific sights that had appeared in the fog. He'd seen some of his dearest friends cut down by creatures he couldn't even begin to decide. When he glanced at his surviving comrades, he saw the same shock in their eyes. All that was left was for him to mutter a few words to God, praying that whatever had happened during the battle, it would never be seen again.
In the distance, high up on a hill, a lone woman watched as the soldiers walked away from Sharpeton.
Chapter One
Today
Becca winced as she heard another bump from downstairs. Sitting on the corner of her bed, with her back against the wall, she listened to the sound of her father stumbling about in the front room below. His footsteps sounded uneven, as if he couldn't quite control himself. In the darkness of her bedroom, the little girl's eyes were wide with fear. The storm outside didn't bother her at all, but she was terrified of her father's drunken rage.
A moment later there was another bump from below, and this time the sound of breaking glass, followed swiftly by her father's muffled voice cursing and complaining.
Outside, wind swirled the rain around, sending it crashing against the window.
Swallowing hard, Becca listened to the sound of her father banging about as he headed into the kitchen, no doubt to get the dustpan and brush. Some variation of this situation occurred almost nightly, and she knew what to expect. Sure enough, a moment later she heard her father opening the closet in the corner of the kitchen, then she heard him pulling the broom out, and then some more curses. A moment later she heard the sound of broken glass being swept across the floor, then a bump.
Then nothing.
Silence followed, and for several minutes the house remained completely quiet. The sound of the storm was almost soothing now. As tempted as she felt to relax, however, Becca knew that her father had most likely just passed out for a few minutes. Glancing over at the Winnie the Pooh clock next to her bed, she saw that it was almost 1am, which meant that with luck her father might well be done for the night. A moment later, her gaze settled on the framed photo of her mother and sister. She only dared take the photo out of the drawer after bedtime, when it was less likely to be spotted and confiscated.
Outside, rain still lashed the window and a strong gale could be heard blowing across the moor. A moment later, there was a rumble of thunder. She liked thunder. Thunder meant that sometimes she couldn't hear her father at all.
“Becca!” she heard him calling out suddenly. “Becca, get down here!”
She flinched and then waited, hoping that he'd simply pass out again, like most nights.
“Becca!”
Still she waited. Two cries was a bad sign, but if he called a third time, that would mean she'd definitely have to -
“Becca!”
Realizing t
hat she had no choice, the little girl clambered off the bed and made her way cautiously across the darkened bedroom. Just eleven years old, she'd learned long ago that her father's drunken rages couldn't be ignored, not once they passed a certain point of no return. If she stayed upstairs, he'd only come storming up in an even worse mood. There had been nights like that in the past, nights when she'd tried to stay in her room, and she'd always ended up being dragged out and forced to go downstairs, down into the front room where her father's whiskey bottles littered the floor. And the angrier he got, the more his hands began to wander, especially if he'd been mixing spirits. Better to keep him calm as much as possible.
Cautiously, she opened her bedroom door and looked out at the brightly-lit landing.
“Becca!” her father's slurred voice called out from downstairs. “Get down here, you little... Becca!”
Chapter Two
“This,” the elderly man muttered darkly, as he climbed out of the cramped taxi and adjusted his glasses, “had better not be a waste of my bloody time!”
“Doctor Clarke!” a voice called out, as a dark figure hurried through the rain. Silhouetted against the arc lights in the distance, she quickly reached him and held her umbrella out for them to share. Already, her feet were starting to sink into the boggy ground. “My name is -”
“Mary Baker,” he replied, squinting a little as he peered across the rain-lashed moor. The lights in the distance were blinding, illuminating the rain-lashed dig site. “I know who you are, young lady, and I know what you do. You're another meddlesome upstart who thinks she's smarter than everyone else. What I don't know, Miss Baker -”
“Doctor Baker.”
“Doctor Baker...” He sighed. “What I don't know, is why you've called me out to the middle of nowhere on a Saturday night at...” He checked his watch, and then he sighed again. “Christ, it's gone midnight. I'm getting too old for this sort of rubbish.”