Also by Michael Arnold
Traitor’s Blood
Devil’s Charge
Hunter’s Rage
Assassin’s Reign
Warlord’s Gold
Michael Arnold
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Michael Arnold 2014
The right of Michael Arnold to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Maps drawn by Rodney Paull
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
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imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical
figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 848 54762 9
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For Joshua
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
Historical note
PROLOGUE
St Margaret’s Church, Westminster, 25 September 1643
Sterne Fassett heard the echo of his own footsteps as he paced quickly along the nave. No one looked round, but he felt uncomfortable nonetheless. It had been many years since he had stepped inside such a place. Besides, he preferred to move in the shadows, and the notion that his every movement was being echoed by the beams above made his skin prickle with sweat. The first half-dozen pews were full of men. Black coats, white collars, sober and sombre, all staring at the big fellow pacing before the wooden pulpit, lantern jaw stiff with belligerence. It was very much akin to a Sunday service, except there were no women here, nor children. Indeed, there seemed to be no clergymen either. Even for a Puritan service this seemed strange, and the man addressing the well-upholstered congregation did not seem like any preacher he had ever encountered. His bellicose delivery might have been reminiscent of the ranting hot-gospellers, but his bearing was proud, his dark eyes were blazing, and his garments – though dour enough for a Puritan – were well cut and expensive. And in Westminster, this meant he could be only one type of beast.
‘Politicians,’ Fassett muttered as he reached the rear of the crowd, slipping behind one of the grand pillars to the right of the nave. ‘Bastards the lot.’
‘Have a care, sir,’ hissed the man he had come to meet. Tall and thin, his face was hidden deep inside the grey hood of a cloak that fell all the way to his ankles.
Fassett looked him up and down and smirked. ‘I know we are beside the abbey, but I thought the Benedictines had been run out of England.’
The cowled man kept his focus on the big fellow who yet gripped the assembly in thrall. ‘Sir Henry Vane,’ he said in a tone that carried the silk of privilege and education, a tone markedly at odds with Fassett’s own coarse drawl. They were both, he knew, from London, yet their lives could not have begun more differently. ‘Parliament’s leading light.’
Fassett followed his gaze. ‘Where is Pym?’
‘Ailing. His body fails by the hour. Vane is his voice, though Pym yet tugs the strings.’
Sterne Fassett’s jaw ached, and he opened his mouth to poke at the offending tooth. It wobbled at his touch, making him wince as a stab of pure agony lanced through his head. He caught an admonishing glance from one of the dour greybeards nearby and clasped his hands at the small of his back, exploring the excruciating molar with his tongue. It would have to come out, he thought with irritation. A good tooth, too. Free from decay, it had been the victim of a well-placed elbow in a tavern brawl that had ended in a welter of blood and three new widows. He let his tongue snake across the empty gum line at the front of his mouth. Christ, he thought, but he’d have none left at this rate. That, he supposed, was a necessary evil of the life he had chosen, but he by no means welcomed the steady corruption of his looks. He had been comely enough once, he reckoned. Dark-haired, bronze-skinned and quick to smile. Now the hair was retreating at his temples, the copper skin, the legacy of a blackamoor father, was blighted by scars, and the smile as empty of kindness as it was teeth. His wiry stubble was flecked with grey and his nose was blunt where the tip had been sliced clean off. And yet, he thought wryly as he let his gaze drift to the man at his side, there were those who had suffered more for their choices. He stifled a shudder.
‘You summoned me. We have work?’
The hood quivered. ‘I summoned you hours ago. Where have you been?’
‘Gathering the lads.’
‘You were successful?’
Fassett grunted. ‘You mean, did any die in the night?’
‘Your carousing clearly came with consequence.’
The cowled head turned, and Fassett saw a blue eye glint against lily-white skin. He lifted a hand to feel the lump on the edge of his jaw. ‘Our carousing, as you put it, saw blood spilt, but not our own, praise God.’
‘I doubt it is God you ought to praise, Mister Fassett. Your protection is down to another.’
Fassett smiled nastily. ‘You are a man of faith. If I am so damned, why would you employ me?’
‘To further His kingdom, Mister Fassett, one must, on occasion, treat with God’s enemies.’
A ripple of applause swept through the pews, drawing the pair back to Sir Henry Vane. The powerful Parliamentarian held a piece of parchment aloft, his face tight with triumph. ‘There you have it, gentlemen. The Solemn League and Covenant is accepted. All here at Margaret’s bear witness. Six points to which we, in the sight of Almighty God, do solemnly swear.’
More claps chattered amongst the assembled men like a morning chorus of sparrows. Fassett glanced at his master, speaking quietly, ‘Six points? I hear we’re selling our souls to the Scotch.’
‘We must all swear to preserve the Church of Scotland, and to reform the religion of England and Ireland.’ The hooded man croaked a bitter laugh. ‘The Kirk has us over a barrel.’
‘Bent, legs splayed, arse thrust at the clouds,’ Fassett added. ‘And the Divines agree?’
‘The Assembly of Divines was constituted to advise Parliament on religious reforms, and perhaps this is one reform too far for many. But they know they have
little choice. Our daring enterprise teeters on the brink of catastrophe.’
‘But Gloucester—’ Fassett began. Everyone had heard of the city’s stubborn stand against the Cavalier horde.
‘Gloucester was a juicy apple into which the pamphleteers sink their greedy teeth. Tales of courage and sacrifice are their meat and drink, and they have fed off Massie’s unlikely heroism like sows at a trough. But Gloucester did not alter the war. It was a worthless town before the siege and is a worthless town now the soldiers have left. One heavy defeat. One daring attack by Rupert or Maurice or Newcastle and this great rebellion will be but a memory. The Parliament will agree to almost anything if it’ll bring the Scots into the fray.’
‘Like a game of chess,’ Fassett said. He saw the hairless brow crease in surprise. ‘I know such things,’ he muttered.
The hood quivered as its wearer nodded. ‘I forget you have a modicum of education. To use your analogy, the pieces are at stalemate.’
‘King Pym would make an audacious move.’
The hood turned fully, the impossibly pale face within the sepulchral depths staring out like a creature from Fassett’s childhood nightmares. ‘King Pym would change the rules.’
Fassett screwed up his scarred face. ‘This League will take such an effect? It’ll change the game?’
‘The Solemn League and Covenant is an agreement between the English and the Scots, to further the cause of Presbyterianism and religious reform.’ He lifted an arm, a brittle hand appearing from the voluminous sleeve, and counted each point on the end of a spindly finger. ‘A guarantee by both parties to preserve Parliament and the person of the King. The suppression of religious and political trouble-makers, the preservation of the union of the kingdoms of England, Scotland and Ireland. And a pledge of mutual support and commitment to the League.’ He turned back to stare at Vane, who was now engaged in private conversation with several of his peers. ‘That last being the reason we’re here, Mister Fassett. The Scots will give us their army, and together we will crush the malignants ’twixt our twin fists.’
‘Still a big risk for them,’ Fassett said, unconvinced. ‘What if they get beat? Lose their army for the sake of an English brabble?’
‘We will pay for it. The Parliament undertakes to fund the entire cost of this Scots expedition.’
‘Jesu, how much?’
‘Mind your tongue.’
‘How much?’ Fassett persisted.
Now the taller man turned back to him. He pulled back the hood just a touch, enough for Fassett to see the taut skin, pulled so tight it might have been the surface of a drum. The man had no hair on his face. No stubble, no eyebrows or lashes. His lips were purple, thin as a reeds, and just as tight as the rest of his features, so that it seemed as though it must be impossible for the man to smile or frown. But those eyes. They were so blue against such a pallid setting, like sapphires on a linen pillow. They seemed to bore into Fassett’s very mind as the narrow lips moved. ‘One hundred thousand pounds.’
Sterne Fassett whistled softly, drawing a few vexed glares from the nearest men who were now beginning to file out of the church. ‘How will—?’
‘Loans.’
Fassett laughed openly this time. ‘Voluntary?’
The pale face dipped. ‘To begin with. When that achieves nothing, they will take them by force, have no doubt. Either way, they’ll find the money. They have to if they’re to win the war. And there are always other avenues down which they may stroll.’
‘Oh?’
‘Have you not wondered why we are here, Mister Fassett? Why I have requested your dubious skills once more?’
Sterne Fassett had assumed a man – perhaps an important man – would need to be found dead in some filthy gutter or floating in the Thames. But the glint in the blue eyes told him there was more.
Just then a black-suited dignitary carrying a tall, buckled hat in the crook of his arm left Sir Henry Vane’s side and marched a little way down the nave. When he was parallel to their pillar, he turned on his heels and lifted a hand in summons. ‘Mister Tainton?’ he called. ‘Roger Tainton?’
The hooded man pushed the cowl back to his shoulders. Most of the assembly had dispersed by now, but those left behind could not suppress gasps that seemed unnaturally loud in the cavernous interior. Fassett did not blame them, for his master was truly something to behold. The abnormally taut skin did not stop at his face, but covered his entire skull. No hair sprouted from his pate, and his ears were shrivelled buds, curled in on themselves like leaves left out in a searing sun.
Tainton bowed slowly, as though the movement was achieved with some effort. ‘Sir.’
The man indicated the head of the nave where Vane stood. ‘Will you come this way?’
‘Gladly, sir.’ With that, Tainton left the pillar, striding between two of the pews and out on to the wider path behind the suited man. He wore bright spurs on his boots, and their rhythmic jangle echoed loudly as he moved. He paused only to look back at Fassett. ‘See to your men. I want them ready to travel immediately.’
‘Where do we go?’ Sterne Fassett called in his wake.
‘That is what I am about to discover,’ Tainton replied. ‘But we are on a hunt, Mister Fassett.’
‘A hunt? For what?’
Tainton’s arm whipped out and he flicked something metallic towards Fassett. As it spun, it winked in the light that streamed in from the high windows. He plucked it from the air with one hand, abruptly snuffing it out, and looked down as he uncurled his fingers. It was a coin.
‘For things that glitter, Mister Fassett,’ Roger Tainton called as he walked away. ‘Things that glitter.’
CHAPTER 1
Atlantic Ocean, 30 September 1643
The ocean broiled. It was deep night and the sky was blanketed in angry clouds that glowered when lightning forked in their midst.
Rain lashed the Kestrel, pulsing on the wind in diagonal sheets to whip viciously through her rigging and soak her deck. She was a lone island in the wild abyss, struggling, riding one impossibly huge swell after another, dipping and bucking like a raw colt, prow poised before sky and sea in turn.
The Kestrel was a fluyt, built by the Dutch and bought by the English, a curved beast of Baltic pine and sail, beautifully crafted and manned by some of the best seamen to navigate England’s treacherous coastline. But now she was battered and bruised, tossed by the elements, her trio of square-rigged masts like winter trees, all shrouds bound tight against the howling wind. She was a trading vessel by design, fashioned with a wide hull that swept inwards up to a narrow deck. A ship to carry much cargo and few crew. But this night, aside from the score of grizzled seamen, the fluyt carried a compliment of thirty-six for this most special voyage, though the storm had chased most below decks to wallow in self-pity and vomit. The slop buckets, filled by those too unwell to move, had long since tipped, dashing slurry over the timbers as they rolled back and forth in a stinking parody of the water outside.
A stab of lightning turned the sky white as the lone figure struggled up the ladder and on to the deck. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak, one hand clutched at his breast to hold the greasy layers fast against the wind, the other gripping the voluminous hood tight about his skull, his head tilted down to let the rain drip from its edge. He took a broad stance as he reached the deck, lest the gale lift him clean off his feet, and leaned into the gusts, dipping his shoulder as he pressed forwards. Up ahead he saw the smudges of folk huddled at the bow and he went to join them. He was a soldier, and he felt his scabbard bounce against his thigh as though it taunted him. His weapons and skill were of no use to him here.
He passed two weathered seamen clinging to ropes as the rain lashed down. They were strong men, broad at the shoulder and well used to the cruel fury of the ocean, and yet their faces betrayed something disquieting. He paused, grabbed a loop of rope to keep himself steady, and stared at them. They were frightened and the knowledge made his guts twist. The soldier reached the s
teersman who wrestled manfully with a whipstaff that he could not hope to control. The tiller to which it was attached would be bucking with the waves, bending only to the will of the water beneath. The man squinted into his face, then looked hurriedly away; the soldier was accustomed to the reaction. His was a face of harsh lines and sharp edges, scored and scoured and beaten like the cliffs the Kestrel had left behind. It was long and narrow, beaten dark by the sun and given a feral aspect by the one grey eye that gleamed in the side of the face that might still be called handsome. The left side had gone. All that remained of eye and brow and cheek was a tattered mess of scar tissue, a tangle of pink and white, the legacy of some ancient horror. His nose was canted slightly to one side, swollen and crimson, recently broken, the mark of a man whose life was defined by violence. His hood was pulled up tight to shield him from the storm, but some of his long hair had broken free of the cowl, flapping about his temples like a headdress of raven feathers. He gathered the soaking strands with gloved fingers and brushed them back behind his ears.
‘Where is the captain?’ he called above the howl of the night.
The steersman nodded towards the ship’s prow and the soldier moved carefully on. Somewhere nearby a single lantern clanged against its brace. Out beyond the floating fortress’s pine breastwork he could see splashes of frothy white where the swirling torrent was kicked up and shredded by insidious rocks. He was not a religious man, but he prayed all the same.
The soldier found the ship’s captain at the foremost point of the curved vessel, where plank and mast and rigging gave way to simple, sheer, endless darkness. Like his one-eyed passenger, he was swathed in a heavy oiled cloak with only his wrinkled face exposed to the elements.
‘The Irishers call them banshees,’ the ship’s master shouted up at his passenger as he clung to a lanyard. He nodded out to sea. ‘That unholy chorus.’
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 1
