Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles

by Arnold, Michael

  ‘Then why would I tell you the location of the gold? What could possibly compel me?’

  That strange expression again, a twisted concoction of delight and malice. He turned the iron loop and pushed open the door. ‘I’m so glad you ask, Captain.’

  The woman on the other side of the door was short, blonde and angry. She was dressed like a man in shirt, breeches and riding boots, her long hair cascading in tousled golden strands across shoulders that were pinned between the spindly frame of Clay Cordell and the meaty stature of Locke Squires. She struggled with them, twisted and thrashed in their grip, spat and cursed and pledged their demise. Behind her, a glinting dirk in his fist, Sterne Fassett was positioned, his face strained, like a man struggling to tame a wild beast.

  To Stryker’s eye it was as though they had snared an angel, and his body, so depleted of strength, so raw at its core, was invigorated in that moment. He did not know whether to laugh or cry. In the event, the contrasting emotions each held the other in check, so that he stood, dumbfounded. He had dreamt of seeing her again, had been terrified that she was dead – lost at sea or murdered by Tainton – but he had been too afraid to mention her presence, lest she remain at large on this wave-lashed archipelago. Now that she was here, even captive as she was, a great, bubbling torrent of relief coursed through him. And Fassett’s expression, his stern poise, as though he dealt with a furious lioness, gave him cause for much pleasure. ‘I hope you have not given them trouble, Lisette.’

  Lisette Gaillard, favourite agent of Queen Henrietta Maria, let her glowering features shift into the hint of a smile. ‘I have been sweetness itself, mon amour.’

  The huge man, Squires, seemed to shy away even as she spoke, and Fassett lifted his blade to the space between Lisette’s shoulders. ‘A she-devil! A witching whore! Let us cut her up and be done with it.’

  Roger Tainton shook his head, the skin wrinkling and pulling with the motion. ‘All in good time, Mister Fassett.’

  They ushered Lisette into the room, pushing her hard so that she barrelled into Stryker. He caught her, though he nearly toppled, so weak was he, but he swept his arms about her, clinging to her as though she were the spar that had saved him after the Kestrel had gone to the raging abyss. She looked into his face and he wondered whether she might cry, such was the anguish that came into her eyes.

  ‘What have they done to you?’ she said, her accent more pronounced than usual as the strain took hold. Her hands were bound, but she raised them both, scraping his new beard with light fingertips. ‘I will kill them.’

  ‘What have they done to you?’ Stryker replied hotly, his mind reeling with horrific possibilities.

  ‘Be calm, sir,’ Tainton cut in. ‘I am a man of God. I do not torture women. We stumbled upon her, in truth. She came to greet us in port, would you believe?’

  ‘No,’ Stryker said, ‘I would not.’

  Tainton chuckled softly. ‘Can you imagine my surprise upon laying these poor eyes on her? Naturally we kept her in our company, though I confess she has been of no help.’

  ‘Should have flayed her alive,’ Sterne Fassett growled, turning his blade so that the light slid up the length of the wicked steel. ‘If her skin peels, she’ll squeal, that’s what I always say.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ Tainton said. ‘But, as I have told you before, she and I have crossed paths, and swords, before. She would never talk.’

  Fassett sniffed derisively. ‘You fought her?’

  Tainton’s blue eyes seemed to blaze as he stared at the diminu­tive Frenchwoman. ‘At Brentford.’

  ‘Where we smashed the Roundhead barricades,’ Stryker cut in to deflect Tainton’s building ire.

  The bald head did not flinch. ‘That is, I was present at Brentford Fight. For my part, I was engaged in a rather more personal duel. One that ended in—’ he traced a circle in the air before his face. ‘This.’

  Fassett indicated Stryker with the point of his dirk. ‘He did that to you?’

  ‘I did it, you pig-nosed bastard,’ Lisette blurted, stunning Fassett to silence. She shot Tainton a look of pure relish. ‘Gave him a bath in steaming pitch.’

  Roger Tainton clamped shut his eyes. ‘She is quite the firebrand,’ he muttered when finally his bare eyelids snapped open, ‘as you seem to have deduced for yourselves.’

  Fassett nodded. ‘Fights like this one,’ he said, meaning Stryker. ‘I did not know whether to swive her or slay her.’

  ‘Neither, for the moment,’ Tainton replied. ‘And have a care with your language.’ He looked to Stryker. ‘Had you not wondered what became of your dear Gallic lady?’

  ‘What do you want with her?’ Stryker said.

  ‘You know what I want, Stryker. She is in Scilly because you are in Scilly. She was waiting for you.’

  Lisette stepped out from Stryker’s embrace and spat at Tainton’s feet. ‘I was not.’

  Tainton hit her hard across the cheek. ‘Yes, my dear, you were. That is why you sought us out. You thought my ship carried Mister Stryker, not Mister Tainton. And you would not have come ahead of the main force without knowing where the treasure was hidden. It makes not a jot of sense. But I know you will not talk.’ He flashed his incongruously white teeth at Stryker. ‘I shall see you die. Both of you. I despise you, Stryker. Everything you stand for. And your whore?’ He ran the tips of his fingers over his face. ‘I have waited a long time for my revenge. Every moment since they hauled me from that cauldron, spluttering and wailing, praying for death as my skin melted from my bones.’ He moved to where Lisette stood, his shadow slipping over her. ‘Every moment, Mademoiselle Gaillard, my thought has been bent towards you. Towards the day when I could look you in the eye and tell you what the Book of Revelation told me.’

  Lisette pulled a sour expression. ‘And what did it tell you, you prattling bloody ranter?’

  ‘It whispered to me at first. Quietly, in the darkest, most silent hours of the night.’ Tainton closed his eyes as he intoned the scripture. ‘“He hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand.”’ The eyes snapped open as a serene smile tugged at the corners of the purple lips. ‘But as the words went round and round and round in my mind, they gathered strength until they were shouting at me. Screaming about my skull. Deafening me with their truth. He hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand.’

  Stryker reached out to Tainton. ‘You are a Godly man, sir. Does Jesus not tell us to turn the other cheek?’

  ‘I have no cheek to turn, Captain Stryker,’ Tainton rasped angrily. ‘Because of your whore! But He hath avenged my blood, shed at her hand,’ he said, jabbing a finger at the Frenchwoman. ‘I knew the Lord would deliver you to me, Mademoiselle Gaillard. He is truly a faithful God.’

  She spat again. ‘Kill me, then, pizzle-rotten heretic.’

  ‘Lisette—’ Stryker warned, but he was cut off by the hulking form of Locke Squires, who stepped into his path and swatted him down with the flat of his pawlike hand.

  Roger Tainton grasped Lisette by the shoulders. She twisted and writhed to no avail, and he hooked a leg behind hers, sweeping back at her ankles so that she toppled in a heap. Then he was above her. Outside, the wind howled like a hungry pack of wolves. It looked as though she might kick out at him, but his henchmen were quickly at his sides, and she lay back, staring up at them in wild-eyed fury.

  ‘A great storm brews on the king’s horizon,’ Tainton said. ‘It builds and rolls and sweeps down from the north.’

  ‘Vous êtes malade!’ Lisette hissed.

  Tainton shook his head. ‘The Scots are coming.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ Stryker said, slowly regaining his feet.

  ‘Believe what you will, Captain, for it matters nothing. The Scots have agreed to enter the war for the Parliament. Their army is large, and it is experienced; it will sweep through the nor
th like wild flame.’

  Something in the cool blue of Tainton’s gaze made Stryker pause. ‘Why would they—?’ he began, but immediately tailed off. ‘Money. The Parliament is paying for the privilege. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Tainton. ‘Westminster has made a great many concessions of a religious ilk, but they will not adhere to those once the war is done.’

  ‘Stryker?’ Lisette said, utterly confused.

  He looked down at her. ‘They’ve promised the world, and in return the Scots will march into England. We will be trapped between Parliament’s armies and their new allies. In the long term they will wriggle free of whatever promises they’ve made. But the Scots will not march without money. And that is why Mister Tainton is here.’

  ‘Where,’ Tainton asked, ‘is the gold?’

  Stryker tasted the metallic tang of blood at the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it with his sleeve. ‘I did not tell your creature, and I will not tell you.’

  Tainton let out a theatrical sigh. ‘I swore to kill you both. And I will. But first, Stryker, you may have my parting gift.’ His hands went to the fastenings at his breeches. ‘I am going to plough your French whore, Stryker. One never knows, she will likely enjoy it.’ He glanced at Sterne Fassett’s grinning face. ‘But she will not enjoy Mister Fassett’s charms, for he is . . . rather rough with his lovers.’

  ‘Me?’ Fassett planted a palm on his chest to protest his innocence. ‘I’m tender as a virgin.’ He licked his lips slowly. ‘She’ll want more, I shouldn’t wonder. Can’t say the same for the others, mind. Squires and Cordell won’t leave much of her to execute, truth told.’

  Lisette slid backwards sharply, pushing with her heels. ‘Do not tell him, Stryker!’ The hulking form of Locke Squires took two paces to reach her, and he took a shin in either hand and dragged her back. ‘God damn it, Stryker, do not tell him!’

  ‘Where is the gold?’ Tainton said calmly.

  ‘You said you would not torture women!’ Stryker snarled, his skin crawling, heart pounding in his ears.

  ‘And I won’t. This is not torture, but copulation. Besides, it is not her who must tell me what I wish to know. She will never talk, I know that. You, on the other hand—?’

  Stryker launched himself at Tainton, stopping short as Fassett’s dirk appeared before his face. He gritted his teeth, knowing that there was nothing he could do. He looked down at Lisette. Locke Squires was kneeling over her now, pawing clumsily at her shirt as she spat malice. ‘I—’ Stryker began.

  ‘I’ll kill you myself!’ he heard Lisette shriek. ‘I swear it, Stryker, I’ll—’

  ‘Tresco,’ Stryker said. Now he could not look at Lisette, not because of Squires’s drooling ministrations, but because he knew she would never forgive him.

  ‘Truly?’ Tainton answered, his tone slightly higher than before, as if he had not expected to break his opponent.

  Stryker nodded sullenly. ‘It is on Tresco. There is a house owned by the Cades.’

  ‘You lie.’

  Stryker thrust his finger at the Roundhead agent. ‘I speak true, damn your serpent skin! That is all I know. A house on Tresco, overlooking the sea. Sir Alfred kept a retainer there.’

  ‘Where precisely?’

  ‘I do not know!’

  ‘Desist, Mister Squires,’ Tainton snapped. He turned to Fassett as he fastened his breeches. ‘Well?’

  Fassett still held the knife poised in Stryker’s face, and he did not look round as he spoke. ‘We ain’t looked on Tresco.’ He shrugged. ‘Might yet be there.’

  Tainton licked those purple lips. He nodded at Fassett. ‘To Tresco with us.’

  ‘Weather’s too bad,’ Fassett said.

  Tainton went to one of the large windows and stared out at the raging sea. Eventually he turned back. ‘Then as soon as the wind dies.’ The corners of his mouth peeled back in something like a smile. ‘Thank you, Captain Stryker. That was not so difficult, was it? Praise be to King Jesus for lifting the scales from your eye. But remember one thing: as sure as there is a heaven and a hell, the punishment will be severe if you are lying to me. Her virtue, such as it is, will be the least of it.’ He went to the door, pausing only to address Fassett. ‘Put them back in the nest with the other rats.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Petersfield, Hampshire, 10 October

  ‘Winter comes, sir. I pray the rivers do not freeze.’

  The man in the workshop looked up from the stout oaken frame of his lathe. He was sweating profusely from the work, though the air sweeping in through the open double doors was chill, and he set down the sharp tool with which he had been hollowing out a piece of wood, snatching up a cloth in its stead. ‘And I pray the hearths are warm.’

  ‘Master Webb?’ asked Captain Lancelot Forrester, stepping under the wide lintel. The workshop was bright, so the craftsman could see the detail of his work.

  The man mopped his brow with the cloth, smoothing back his shock of black and silver hair with a gnarled hand. ‘That is I, sir. George Webb. Wood-turner and’ – his cleanly shaven face, tanned and deeply lined, became suddenly furtive – ‘friend of the King.’

  Forrester blew out his cheeks with relief, stepping further into the open-fronted building. The floor was thick with wood shavings, and he noticed a young lad busy sweeping in the shadows to the rear. ‘Then I have my fellow.’

  ‘You are from Basing Castle?’

  Forrester gave a short bow. ‘Captain Forrester, at your service.’

  George Webb extricated himself from the frame and extended a hand for Forrester to take. ‘Well met, Captain.’

  ‘A magnificent contraption, Master Webb.’

  Webb glanced back at the machine, his face splitting in a broad grin of large, yellow teeth separated by wide gaps. ‘A great wheel-lathe. My pride and joy! The wood-turner’s livelihood.’

  Forrester gazed about the workshop. It lay, as he had been told by Rawdon, on the northern outskirts of the modest market town, and he had had little difficulty in its finding. He noticed an array of finely crafted items as his eyes adjusted, but his interest was immediately taken by a bandolier that was hanging from a high beam. He made straight for it, running his hand down the looped belt, its full complement of powder boxes clattering together at his touch. A warrior’s wind-chime. ‘A fine collar o’ charges, sir,’ he said as he inspected the dozen boxes that would eventually each carry enough black powder for a single musket shot. There was a small pouch too, limp at the moment but destined to carry a goodly supply of bullets, while a flask for gun oil hung at its side. ‘By your hand?’

  Webb nodded. ‘My wife cuts the leather and I fashion the boxes.’

  ‘Exquisite work,’ Forrester said, genuinely impressed. He was no expert in the highly prized art of wood-turning, but he knew a good powder box when he saw one.

  Webb moved past the soldier, pushing closed the pair of large doors so that the light was suddenly cut out. He turned back to Forrester, his face tightening. ‘What do you have for me, Captain?’

  Forrester stole a look at the young boy who still swept energetically at the back. ‘I may speak freely?’

  ‘Aye, he is trustworthy, I assure you,’ Webb said. ‘His father has paid a great deal for this position. He would not jeopardize it for idle gossip.’

  ‘But he is not kin?’ Forrester asked, unable to rest easy.

  Webb shook his head. ‘Apprenticed to me for seven years. At the end of which, I intend to marry him to one of my three daughters.’ The corners of his brown eyes crinkled with mischief. ‘So he shall be kin in the fullness of time.’

  Forrester still felt wary, as though his nerves were lengths of thread, their frayed ends tugged by this place that was at the very forefront of the war. A place where a man could never truly know who was friend and who was foe. But the task at hand was all that mattered, and he decided to press on. ‘I carry a warrant for the raising of money for the King’s cause. It is too dangerous to read out publ
icly, but the Marquess of Winchester prays like-minded men will see that its message is passed through the county.’

  Webb rubbed his face with a calloused hand. ‘He would take the fight to the Roundheads.’

  ‘He would.’

  ‘The Puritans,’ Webb said, his voice rasping and sour. ‘They call us Popish. Can you countenance such a thing? I am simply for tradition, Captain.’

  ‘A supporter of Archbishop Laud, Master Webb?’ Forrester asked, still taken aback by the wood-turner’s sudden anger.

  ‘Like most humble folk,’ Webb said.

  Forrester could not argue with that. The Puritan faction had become the most vocal in recent years, and the focus for their increasingly hostile ire was the remnant of the old Catholic faith that lingered still in parts of England. But he supposed the majority of ordinary people would have been content enough to follow the Anglican way espoused by William Laud. He offered a sympathetic smile. ‘But the Laudian Church, Master Webb, is too similar in its ways. The reformers cannot simply leave it be.’

  ‘Similar to the church in Rome?’ Webb said. ‘Of course it is, sir. Archbishop Laud wished to create compromise where there was discord. He carved each side into pieces, like a master woodworker. Took slices of the Puritan way and joined them with those of the Papacy, brought elements of each to his High Church at Canterbury. A grand compromise that might be accepted by both sides. An admirable thing for which to strive.’

  A foolish thing, Forrester thought. The result of Laud’s machin­ations had not been a seamless sculpture, but a cobbled, disjointed monster. ‘In the end he pleased neither side. Only those, like yourself, who wished to keep to the middle ground. Papist eyes still look to Rome, while Puritan eyes look to revolution.’

  Webb’s eyes narrowed. ‘And where do you look?’

  ‘To my colonel and my king.’

  Webb sniffed derisively. ‘I pray your conscience will be at ease when finally this horror finds its end. For me, I fight for the old ways. Since the ranting preachers and their ilk began to plague our towns, decent folk have lived in fear. My goodwife is barracked as she walks down the street if one strand of hair breaks loose of the coif. They would make an end of our feast days, squeeze the pleasure out of life.’