‘Colonel?’ the officer said. He was taller than Norton, with hair that was almost white and a beard that might have been the same colour, save the patches stained deep yellow by tobacco smoke. His face was badly pock-pitted, his nose huge, and his eyes pale and pitiless.
Norton plucked the glove from his right hand and unfastened the metal gauntlet from the other. ‘I have business inside,’ he said, picking at the red bristles of his beard. The inflamed skin beneath was burning again, and it took all his will to push it to the back of his mind. He indicated the arch with a curt nod. ‘Accompany me. You may have an interest.’
The big man brandished a set of impressively white teeth as they made for the entrance the gravedigger had said was the north door. Sure enough, a thick timber doorway, studded and decorated with swirling iron patterns, was set deep into the arch. ‘It will be a pleasure, sir.’
They were plunged into darkness as they pushed open the door, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, but as Norton led his companion into the building, making straight for the wide nave, he began to see why the abbey was so revered by the High Church. It was huge, built in the Norman style of large, imposing windows, soaring pillars and rounded arches. The nave itself was laid with vast flagstones, scattered with clean rushes, and flanked by wooden seats that were clearly not the rough-hewn, functional offerings one might find in a Puritan chapel. They turned left, stalked up the nave and through the choir to the chancel, where the gravedigger had suggested they might find someone. Sure enough, a cluster of black-robed men had gathered at the far end of the vast chamber, near the high altar.
‘My name is Colonel Norton,’ Norton called loudly, his voice echoing like cannon fire high up in the chancel’s curving trusses. He smartly brushed the dust from his buff-coat and the tawny scarf at his waist while he waited.
One of the robed bodies left the group and scuttled down to greet the two soldiers. He was small and crook-backed, moving almost sideways like a crab. ‘I am Father Samuel,’ he said, trying to smile, though his face was tight with apprehension. ‘And I have heard of you, sir, of course.’ He bowed obsequiously. ‘Parliament’s chief man in Hampshire.’
‘I do not know about that,’ Norton blustered, unwilling to display the rush of pride that threatened to colour his cheeks. ‘But, aye, I have laboured for the just cause of Westminster, it is true. Indeed, I have come direct from one such trial.’
The clergyman’s little head bobbed. ‘We heard there was battle at Newbury.’
‘A bloody day. Victory for the Earl of Essex, thank King Jesus.’ Norton picked pointedly at his scarf with thumb and forefinger. ‘We make for Southampton, but rest here, seeking a place for a brave confederate of ours, slain at Newbury Fight. One Captain St Barbe.’
Father Samuel nodded. ‘I know the family, sir.’ His face clouded suddenly. ‘I knew Francis St Barbe when he was a boy. May God save his immortal soul.’
Norton looked back along the sweeping nave. ‘We will bury him outside.’
Samuel nodded his agreement, though both knew it had not been a request. ‘In the meantime, Colonel Norton, please be at your ease in our beautiful home.’
‘Beautiful indeed,’ Norton said, peering at the altar, the opulent-looking chambers behind it, at the big organ in one corner, and the tapestries and the ornately carved pulpit. ‘But Romsey Abbey?’
‘You refer, of course, to its suppression,’ Samuel said.
Norton raised his red eyebrows. ‘Or the lack thereof.’
The priest’s face flushed. ‘It was suppressed, Colonel, I assure you. Along with every other Popish monument in the land.’
‘And yet your abbey survives,’ the colonel persisted, noting his tall companion’s grunt of amusement echoing at his back. ‘Do the nuns lurk still?’
Samuel’s hands had gone to his stomach, fingers worrying at the string of his robe. ‘No, sir. It was suppressed, right enough, but escaped complete dissolution, for it was bought by the local parishioners.’
‘Bought?’
‘Aye, sir. They paid £100 to make it their church. A pretty sum.’
Norton looked up at the curving beams that seemed to lurch out from the tops of the thick pillars. ‘A pretty parish church.’ He turned to his companion. ‘What say you, Wagner?’
The ice-blue eyes sparkled in the gloom. ‘Stinks of Rome.’
Father Samuel stepped back a pace, startled. ‘I assure you, sirs—’
‘Altars, seats, baubles, music,’ the trooper said, his broad Germanic accent becoming more pronounced with each word. ‘And what is this?’
Samuel followed Wagner’s gaze to the square patch of ceiling that was painted in rich greens and reds. ‘Jacobean, sir. Painted in the reign of the last king.’
Wagner screwed up his mouth. Norton laughed. The men in black robes, like a flock of jackdaws, dispersed suddenly in all directions, and he turned to his right, making for one of the small chambers behind the altar. ‘Places to store your gold?’
‘Simple chapels,’ Father Samuel said, his voice higher than before, pleading. ‘We have four back there. The one yonder is the St Anne Chapel.’
Norton continued to walk, though he heard his subordinate’s footsteps as the white-haired officer closed upon the clergyman.
‘No earthly whore is saint in the Lord’s eyes, you foul Pope’s turd.’
Norton looked back. ‘What is this thing?’
Father Samuel skirted the white-haired officer like a frightened hare before a fox, and moved swiftly to Norton’s side at the entrance to the chapel. He followed the colonel’s gaze to look upon the carving that stood upon the small altar. ‘It depicts Christ upon the cross, flanked by Mary and John. Two angels perch upon the arms of the cross, waiting to escort Jesus to heaven. It is one of our oldest possessions, sir. From the time before the Conquest.’
‘Hear that, Captain Kovac?’ Norton called back. ‘From the time of Alfred, who, with God’s divine assistance, did smite your heathen kinsmen.’
Wagner Kovac shrugged. ‘He fought Danes. I am half Carniolan, half Croatian.’
Norton looked back down at Father Samuel. ‘I do not like this place. It is rank with the mildew of the Papacy.’
‘Colonel Norton, I—’
But Richard Norton was not listening. He waved the priest away with a derisive flap of the hand, and went to his grinning subordinate. ‘Pull up the seats to begin with, and destroy the organ.’
Samuel was at his back immediately, wringing his hands. ‘Please, sir—’
Norton spun round suddenly. ‘Still that tongue, man, or it’ll be the worse for you.’ He felt heat at his cheeks. Knew the raw skin would be as red as a ripe strawberry. ‘Observe, sir. We call Wagner Kovac our master gardener, so adept is he at tugging up the weeds of the old religion.’
With that, Captain Wagner Kovac went to work. The priest began to weep.
‘Find the plate next,’ the colonel ordered, ‘books, any baubles you may discover. We’ll take them for the cause.’ He stood back and folded his arms as the sound of splintering wood echoed from pillar to beam to chancel to nave to choir. Soon he would turn upon all the strongholds of the enemy, and, with God’s help, crush them once and for all.
Near Basing, Hampshire, 2 October 1643
Basing House was not the same place as that which Lancelot Forrester had visited the previous year. Even as Oberon clattered across the stone bridge over the River Loddon, that broad glistening band that barred the estate’s northern flank, he sensed a tension in the air that had not been present before. The house was still there, walls and gatehouses and turrets looming over the landscape like a brick-built mountain range, but the very atmosphere was different. Basing was still principally a house, but when hostilities were declared, the marquess’s Catholic faith had made him as staunch a Royalist as the king himself, and Basing’s location, straddling the main route from London to the western counties, made it a pivotal stronghold. When Forrester and his comrades had l
ast visited, there were already signs of intent, from the deepening of ditches that had formed the original motte and bailey, to frantic repairs made along the walls and the transformation of some of the older buildings into billets. But, in spite of this, it had still been a home. Now, Forrester reflected as armed men swarmed out from a spiked wicker screen that blocked the approach road, Basing House was nothing less than a fortress.
‘Captain Lancelot Forrester,’ he announced, reining Oberon to a halt as a dozen musketeers flocked like starlings around him. This level of vigilance was new, he thought, as was the barrier. The road, in truth little more than a bridleway, ran south until it reached the Lane, the main east–west thoroughfare through Basing Village. The vast Tudor edifice sprawled on the raised ground on the opposite side of the Lane, and even from this distance Forrester could see more armed men guarding that wider road. They were expecting trouble. ‘For the King.’
The lead musketeer sidled over to take hold of Oberon’s bridle. In his spare hand he clutched a vicious-looking halberd, the pale morning light sliding along the flat of the huge blade. ‘I should hope so, sir. Regiment, if you please.’
‘Mowbray’s Foot, Sergeant,’ Forrester replied, guessing at the man’s rank by dint of the menacing weapon. ‘And I’ll thank you to get those grubby paws off my horse, lest I shove that halberd so far up your arse it’ll pick your nose.’
With a grunt the sergeant released the bridle and indicated that the barrier should be cleared. ‘Business, sir?’
‘Here to see the marquess,’ Forrester said sharply. ‘I take it he is at home.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Would not leave, sir. Cannot. Roads ain’t safe. You have papers, sir?’
‘Aye, though you’ll not see them. Where is the officer of the watch?’
The sergeant pointed to the junction a hundred paces beyond the barricade. ‘There, sir. You’ll find him there.’ He winced a touch. ‘Beg pardon, Captain, but we’ll need to escort you.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ Forrester said. ‘The marquess will thank you for your vigilance, I’m sure.’
He let his gaze drift away as hogsheads, storm-poles and sections of latticed wattle were dragged from the barricade, and stared up at the house. The towers and rooftops of the circular Old House, built on the foundations of the ancient Norman castle, rose in a forbidding display of power, while further to the east the square lines of the New House spoke of the splendour bestowed upon the Paulet dynasty in the time of the Tudors. But even from this distance he could see black smudges where loopholes had been cut in the beautiful brickwork, and the tiny figures of men paced along the high walls while gangs with shovels worked in the outermost ditches. Above everything soared the four crenellated towers of the Great Gatehouse, set like brick giants in the northern wall of the Old House. Sharpshooters carrying long fowling-pieces stood on each tower, ever watchful beneath the marquess’s fluttering flags.
They made their way south towards The Lane and the house beyond. To the right the bridleway was hugged by bare marsh, but to the left a smooth brick wall climbed to eight or nine feet, enclosing a large complex of agricultural buildings. Forrester remembered the area as the Grange, the centre of food processing and storage for Basing House. From his saddle he could see over the perimeter, and he noted that much of the daily life of a major estate continued: cartloads of supplies still trundled in and out of the large barns, and small herds of sheep and cattle were driven between pens by farmhands and their yapping dogs. But even here things were subtly different. The men seemed more sullen and watchful, while the gate at the far end was guarded by grim sentries. At the epicentre was the Great Barn, a massive rectangular structure built in brick and where the majority of supplies would be kept.
‘There,’ the sergeant levelled his halberd, gesturing towards the junction with The Lane.
A group of horsemen were milling at the junction, all mounted on fine-looking beasts, all clad in back- and breast-plates, each replete with a sword, a carbine, two pistols and a red ribbon on his sleeve. They were harquebusiers, light cavalry, and just as he saw them a couple broke away from the party, kicking their mounts on to the bridleway.
Lancelot Forrester screwed up his eyes as they approached to see their faces more clearly, and then he laughed. ‘By Moses’ long walk!’
‘Sir?’ the sergeant said in gruff alarm. ‘Something vexes?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ Forrester said. He lifted his hat, sweeping down in an arc as he bowed behind Oberon’s neck. ‘Major! Major Lawrence!’
One of the two cavalrymen spurred ahead. ‘Captain Forrester? I am right, am I not?’
Forrester laughed again, turning to the sergeant. ‘Thank’ee, my surly fedary, but I shall fare quite well from here. Frederick Lawrence is an old friend of mine!’
‘How long has it been, Captain?’
‘Better part of a year, Major,’ Forrester replied as the pair let their mounts walk casually along The Lane. They headed east, hemmed on the right by Basing’s high curtain wall, and on the left the walls encircling the Grange. ‘You are still of that rank, one presumes, sir?’
Major Frederick Lawrence grinned, his eyelids flickering in the frenetic way Forrester remembered. ‘Alas, I am yet to make colonel. Though so many good officers drop dead these days, it would not surprise me.’
Forrester nodded. ‘Were you at Newbury Fight?’
‘I was not,’ Lawrence mumbled, embarrassed. ‘His lordship would not countenance my leaving here.’
Forrester was not surprised. When last he had been at Basing, the Marquess of Winchester was just beginning to transform his family estate into the fortress it had become. Lawrence, the commander of his modest force of cavalry, had been vigorous in his defence of the house and courageous in his activities.
‘It was a hard fight,’ Forrester replied. ‘Too many good men fell.’
‘There have been a great many bloodlettings since last you visited the castle.’
Forrester raised his brow. ‘That is what you call it now?’
Lawrence half smiled and slowed his horse. ‘The men call it castle, aye.’ He looked up at the twin houses. The ancient mansion, defined by the circular ditch and bailey, was connected by a bridge to the vast structures of the New House. As a single entity they formed one of the most sprawling complexes in England. ‘It is hard to think of it in any other capacity now.’
Forrester looked at the cavalryman. He was extremely tall, but stooped by shoulders so severely crooked that he was forced to have armour specially made for his bent frame. His eyes were intelligent, his hair worn long, his chin narrow and clean-shaven. And yet he had aged. There were new lines around his wide, thin mouth and flecks of silver in hair that had been black. ‘You have been hard at work this last year.’
Lawrence urged his mount on as a group of soldiers filed past, their leader bowing deeply to him. ‘We have positioned new ordnance, deepened the ditches, barred the roads.’ He shrugged, eyes convulsing. ‘We must assume we will be attacked any day, any night, such is our rather precarious location.’
‘You are certainly surrounded by enemies,’ Forrester agreed. ‘Portsmouth and Southampton to the south. Farnham close by. All for the Parliament.’
‘We are not so far from London itself,’ Lawrence added.
‘But you may be assured of the King’s intent, sir. His forces work their way towards you. Liberty will soon be yours.’
Lawrence smiled sadly. ‘We had rather hoped Newbury would achieve that particular goal.’
‘It was not to be,’ Forrester said. The failure of the army at Gloucester and Newbury was none of his doing, and yet, seeing the forlorn hope etched across Lawrence’s thin face, he felt guilty. ‘But we smashed Fiennes at Bristol,’ he offered, ‘Stamford at Stratton and Waller at Roundway. Essex was fortunate at Newbury, but he has not the wit to outfox us again. That is why I am here. I must speak with Lord Paulet, Major Lawrence. Hopton comes hither.’
‘Hopton?’ Lawren
ce said, his tone incredulous. ‘I heard he had his face burned off at Lansdown.’
‘Not far from the truth, sir, but he lives, believe me. He thrives.’ Forrester looked up at the tall, crooked form of Major Lawrence. ‘Besides, a singed face does not a dead man make.’
The tension ebbed from Lawrence’s expression for a brief moment. ‘And how is our fearsome friend? Alive yet, I trust.’
‘Captain Stryker is well, sir, so far as I know. Away on Crown business.’
‘Say no more, Captain,’ Lawrence said with what might have been a wink, though his tick made it hard to tell. ‘Hopton comes, then? With an army?’
‘He does,’ Forrester confirmed. They had reached a large gateway, set into Basing’s outer wall and adorned with carvings and crests. Paulet’s flag flew from the pinnacle. ‘Newly raised, freshly armed and poised to invade Dorset. It will be Hampshire after that. The marquess’s forces – your forces – must take the fight to the enemy. Keep him busy. Shake the hornet’s nest, so to speak.’
‘They are not my forces, Captain. Not any longer. Colonel Rawdon is military governor now. But he and the marquess have heard such overtures before, old friend. They will be reluctant to so much as prod the hornet’s nest with a stick.’
‘I must deliver my message, nevertheless. Perhaps you might add your voice to mine?’
Lawrence nodded. ‘Gladly.’ He signalled the pair of sentries. ‘Here we are, Captain Forrester. Garrison Gate. Welcome to Loyalty House.’
CHAPTER 4
St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 3 October 1643
The face peered suspiciously through the slat set into the door. All that could be seen were the eyes, and they were like black slits, darting left and right, searching the little chamber’s stone walls for signs of danger. Evidently deciding all was safe, the face retreated into the shadows, and the metal shutter slid closed with a ringing slice and heavy clunk. A voice, muffled behind the door’s thick timbers, called out. It was the voice of a man, and another man immediately responded, his footsteps becoming louder as they shuffled along the flagstones. The men inside the windowless room stared up at the doorway through the gloom, flinching involuntarily as the jangle of keys echoed on the far side. A series of clicks and the sliding of bolts followed, heralding the squeal of large, aged hinges.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 5
