‘In that I am with you, Master Webb,’ Forrester agreed. ‘My particular interest lies in thespian realms.’
Webb’s brow rose. ‘A man of the playhouse? They would put an end to such frivolity too, sir, mark me well.’
‘They have done so already in the cities,’ Forrester said glumly, imagining his old stage at Candlewick Street, layered thick with cobwebs and dust, or torn up for kindling.
‘The modest towns such as ours will be next,’ the wood-turner returned gravely, sadness ghosting across his face. ‘Petersfield was a pleasant enough place in the old days.’
A half-memory of conversation struck Forrester, and he asked: ‘Did you ever know a man named Stryker?’
Webb considered the question for a second. ‘Aye, I believe I remember him vaguely. A wool merchant. Lived out to the east, just past the River Rother. Long dead, God rest his soul.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘You seem a little young to have known him, Captain.’
Forrester smiled. ‘A business acquaintance of my father.’
‘Shall I tell you the moment I decided to fight?’ said Webb. He nodded towards the door. ‘I took a stroll down High Street, thither, and Richard Axon, one of the reformers hereabouts, passed by. He is known to me, an acquaintance of many years. I wished him good-day.’
‘And?’
‘And he berated me, sir,’ Webb exclaimed, as though the incident shocked him still. ‘Bellowed and brayed like a damned mule. All thrusting finger and scarlet face, rebuking my words in the most boorish manner.’
‘Because you cannot wish a man well for his day,’ Forrester said, having encountered similar folk himself, ‘when the day’s fortunes spin on the word of God alone.’
Webb clicked his fingers. ‘You have it, sir!’ He laughed, the sound mirthless and bitter. ‘A man is no longer permitted to bid another good-day. What times are these? I will not sit idly by, sir. Not for a moment. But, alas, I am too old for the pike block. Yet it occurred to me that my position here, a man of some influence you understand, might work for the good of the King in other ways.’ He went to his lathe. Webb saw Forrester’s interest, and slid his hand across the block that was to be fashioned. ‘Look here, the timber that will be turned for our good fighting men. I have a requisition for a thousand powder boxes. Bound, when ready, for our forces now in Winchester.’
Forrester was certainly impressed. Wood-turning was a skilled craft, and Webb was clearly dedicating his rare knowledge to the cause of the Crown. ‘And what if Parliament troops come to Petersfield?’
‘They do, often. At which time I show them this.’ Webb stooped to a leather bag at his feet, from which he fished a folded parchment. ‘The same requisition, but for our dear Parliament.’
Forrester eyed it warily. ‘A forgery?’
‘A good forgery.’
‘And a big risk.’
‘A worthy risk,’ Webb chided. He put the paper away. ‘Besides, my position sees me afforded a deal of safety not offered to other men.’
Forrester could not argue against that point, for wood-turners were near priceless in a time such as this. He supposed Webb would be shown leniency even if he were caught. ‘Oak?’ he said, looking at the timber that would soon become a powder box for a bandolier. ‘It is plentiful hereabouts.’
‘Ha!’ Webb cackled, as though he had been treated to some great jest. ‘No, sir. Oak is too hard for such fine workmanship. Ash is better, but it maintains great strength all along its length, so we must keep it aside for our pikes and halberds.’ There was a pile of timber near one of the walls, which he indicated with a wave of his hand. ‘The wood I use for the boxes is a mix of beech and birch. Much easier to work, turned on this very lathe, and thrice laid in sallet oil until nicely sealed.’
‘Then I commend you on your business, Master Webb. Our armies are in your debt. But it is not simply your skill with wood that is your gift to good King Charles.’
The corner of Webb’s mouth twitched. ‘The road betwixt London and Portsmouth runs through our little town, Captain. We see many troops, many pilgrims, many lords and ladies, of divers allegiance.’ Now he let his voice fall to a more clandestine note. Evidently the apprentice was not privy to all Webb’s secrets. ‘It is a good place for a man to watch and listen. From here I may glean information.’ He winked. ‘Or pass it on.’
‘That is what the Marquess instructed. At Petersfield, find George Webb. He will see the warrant’s message spread far and wide.’
‘He flatters me, Captain, but aye, that is something I can see done. Where next for you?’
‘Rowlands Castle.’
Webb winced. ‘Wait another day, sir. The Roundheads are abroad.’
‘Are they not always?’
‘They patrol, of course, and they skirmish with our side every other day. But I hear tell of a large troop of horse coming up from Southampton. They are not to be trifled with, so reports suggest. Perhaps you will accept my hospitality this night? I will have further news by sun-up, and you will know which road to take.’
St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 10 October 1643
There had been little discussion in the hours following the return of Stryker and Lisette to the main holding cell. The place reeked worse than Stryker remembered it, for days had slipped by, and the unwashed bodies of his sixteen fellow captives were becoming pungent in the extreme. Now there were eighteen with the Frenchwoman, who sat hard into the walls at one of the corners, broiling with animosity and frustration. Stryker had been tight-lipped, evading questions from Barkworth and Skellen as to his interrogation, and ultimately they had left him to his own counsel. He curled into a foetal position against one of the slick walls, too ashamed to even look at them. He had betrayed these good men, betrayed the men lost to the seas, and betrayed the memory of Cecily Cade. This journey upon which they had so willingly embarked had turned sour, and that was to be regretted, but the moment he had blurted a single word to Roger Tainton, he had rendered their efforts and sacrifices worthless. Tresco. That was all it took.
Thus the bedraggled group had spent the following hours huddled in twos and threes around the single wax taper afforded them by a more kindly member of Balthazar’s garrison. Hard, mould-furred bread had been brought at a point that they supposed must have been dawn – though they saw no sign of Tainton, Fassett or the others – along with some gritty water and a new piss-pot.
It was only then that Stryker stirred, for the sound of the slopping water had been like a siren’s call to his thirst-tortured mind. He crawled on all fours to the pail, snatching it up and pouring it straight down his parched throat. The sensation was divine and he heard himself groan as though in a lover’s embrace, caring nothing for what the others must have thought. When the water bubbled up over his lips, cascading in a torrent over his tattered shirt, he set the pail down for the next man and rocked back on his haunches. The water was brackish, dirty and flecked with pieces of what looked to be seaweed, but it gave him his first real surge of strength since before the shipwreck. His eye seemed to clear along with his head, and he breathed deeply, arching his back to a chorus of deep, satisfying cracks. When he looked out into the dingy chamber he saw the men were smiling at him tentatively. Then he saw Lisette, her eyes blazing despite the darkness. He clambered unsteadily to his feet and went to her, stretching out a hand.
‘Lisette, I—’
If she had possessed a blade at that moment, there was no doubt Stryker would be several fingers short. ‘Do not touch me, coward!’ She spat the last word. ‘Do not bloody look at me.’
‘It—it was for you, Lisette,’ Stryker protested weakly, hating the words even as they left him.
She stared up at him, her smile malicious. ‘For me? I plead for you not to tell those bastards, and you tell. You fucking tell. If I had my dagger, Stryker, I would pin you to the floor by your stones, God help me! I had it. Had the gold. Found where it was, and still I did not tell them.’
‘Jesu . . .’ Stryker retreated a step, search
ing for something, anything, to say. ‘They were going to rape you.’
Lisette slapped a palm across her lips in an exaggerated gasp. ‘Mother of God, no! And what of it? You think it would be the first time I’ve spread my legs to protect your stammering bloody king? Tainton hates me. He was going to kill me. So he rapes me first. What will I care when I’m dead?’
‘I would care.’
‘Exactement!’ Lisette hissed. ‘You would care. The great Stryker does not like his woman touched by other men. It does not matter if the whole bloody world depends upon it!’
Stryker wanted her to see what he saw, to feel the dread that he had felt. But in the end he knew that the facts spoke for themselves. She was right. ‘I was prepared to tell them about the gold for you,’ he said softly. ‘To protect you.’
She spat at his feet. ‘Then you are a bloody foolish bastard, Stryker. A bloody foolish, jealous bastard. You do not own me! All you had to do was keep your damned mouth shut! But you could not do it because you could not see other men have their way with me. It is pathetic, Stryker. And now they will have the gold. All our work. Cecily’s death. All for nothing.’ She sat back against the wall. ‘You could not keep your silence before. Well keep it now and leave me be.’
‘Good to see you back, sir,’ William Skellen said as Stryker went to slump against the wall he had made his own. ‘And I see Miss Lisette’s in fine fettle.’
Stryker glared caustically. ‘Have a care, Skellen.’
Skellen swallowed hard. ‘I will, sir.’ He went to sit nearer his captain. ‘I will.’
Barkworth’s yellow gaze glowed like a pair of lighted match-cords in the murk. ‘You’re no in fine fettle, sir.’
Skellen pulled an admonishing expression, but Stryker held up a hand. ‘They poured seawater down my throat every few hours.’
‘Bugger me backwards . . .’ The diminutive Scot’s voice was little more than a croak at the best of times, but here, despite the silence of the rest of the men, seemed barely audible at all.
‘After a while it felt like my innards were coming out with the vomit.’
‘They wanted you to tell ’em where the gold was?’ Barkworth said.
‘Aye.’
‘And now they know.’
‘They always knew it was in the Scillies,’ Stryker said. ‘But not which island it was on.’
‘How did they know?’ Skellen spoke now.
Stryker spread his palms to show that he was as puzzled as they. ‘Remember Collings? The major-general who sought the gold? He is in disgrace for his failure, as far as I can ascertain. These new vipers work in his stead.’
Barkworth cleared his throat gingerly, glancing back at Lisette. ‘Take it you told ’em, sir, beggin’ your pardon.’
Stryker wanted to follow his gaze, but fought the instinct. ‘Aye, I told them.’
‘Shite,’ the Scot muttered.
‘Indeed.’ He looked at Skellen. ‘It’s more than that.’
The sergeant frowned, his bald head creasing above deep-set eyes. ‘Sir?’
‘Our gaoler is Roger Tainton.’
‘Tainton?’ Skellen echoed, cocking his head to the side like a hound listening for its quarry. Then his mouth lolled. ‘Captain Tainton?’
Stryker nodded. ‘As was.’
‘The stripling with the blackened armour?’ When Stryker nodded again, Skellen looked at Barkworth. ‘Gilt rivets and everything. Very nice.’
‘Very rich, I’ll wager,’ Barkworth replied.
‘Pappy funded the regiment,’ said Skellen. ‘Tainton was good, though. Proper horseman. We saw his lads smash one of our troops to bits.’ His head swivelled back to his captain. ‘But he—he drowned.’
‘It appears he was saved,’ Stryker said. ‘But he was badly burned. You would not recognize him now.’
‘I bet he remembers Miss Lisette.’ The sergeant turned to stare at the sullen Frenchwoman. ‘That’s what happened, sir, ain’t it? He recalled his meeting with her.’
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ Barkworth interrupted upon seeing Stryker’s face, ‘but you’ll nae find privacy in here.’
Stryker sat back. How could they help but eavesdrop? ‘That is what happened, aye. Tainton threatened to—’
He tailed off, but Skellen simply set his jaw. ‘Understood, sir.’
‘And I told him the treasure was on the island of Tresco,’ Stryker went on.
‘Every man has his weak spot, sir,’ said Skellen. ‘His Archimedes elbow, as Cap’n Forrester would say.’
Barkworth thumped the tall man’s shoulder. ‘His Achilles heel, you willow-armed bloody bufflehead.’
Skellen shot him a grin that was black-gummed and amber-mottled. ‘If you say so, Tom Thumb.’
‘That is all beside the point,’ Stryker said. ‘She will die either way. Tainton wants his revenge.’ The pains gripped his guts again and he pressed a balled fist into his midriff. ‘All I have done is stop her rape.’
Skellen shrugged. ‘Well, I do not blame you, sir.’
Stryker let his shoulder-blades hit the cold stone behind. He wished Lisette saw it that way.
Petersfield, Hampshire, 10 October 1643
Forrester shared a cup of passable claret with George Webb before turning in for the night to a room at the rear of Webb’s workshop.
Unfastening his baldric, he collapsed fully clothed on the dense pallet, happy to rest his body despite the tumbling of his mind. He had taken a map from his saddlebag and now unfurled the scroll above his face, plotting his route south to the village of Rowlands Castle, where he would meet his final contact. He could not travel on the major thoroughfares, but there were plenty of alternative tracks that, albeit more circuitous, would have to suffice. Where were those Parliamentarians Webb had mentioned? The roads were full of soldiers, footpads and highwaymen, and he was well accustomed to dealing with such dangers, but Webb’s reputation was not something to be dismissed. If he made mention of a particular force at large, then that was a force to be reckoned with.
Forrester set down the map. He needed to get back to Basing and then north to Oxford. He felt sorry for the folk of Petersfield, but it was no place to linger. For once he would be pleased to rejoin the wintering regiment.
It was the smell he noticed first. He sat bolt upright, scrambling for his sword without consideration, because the odour was a mix of things he knew well: tobacco smoke, sweat, leather and horse flesh. Soldiers.
There was no time to collect his belongings, and he was thankful he had kept the Marquess of Winchester’s warrant stitched firmly into the lining of his coat. He could still get himself out of this, so long as the soldiers had approached the rear of the premises first. If he was lucky, they had not reached the front. He eased the latch and moved into the workshop. He could make out the shapes of tools hanging from nails on the walls all around, straps of leather dangling from the beams and the huge black shadows of the lathe and its great wheel. He went quickly to the entrance that fronted on to the street, surprised that the doors were not barred. Something moved to his left, catching his eye. He froze, turned slowly, blade levelled and ready. Beyond the long spokes of the great wheel a figure lurked. Forrester took a step back as it slid out from its hiding place.
Forrester let a huge breath gush from him. ‘Jesu, boy,’ he said to the apprentice, ‘I almost ran you through.’
Webb’s apprentice was, now that Forrester saw him up close, probably about fourteen years of age, with a bowl-shaped thatch of black hair and a pinched, shrewish face. ‘S—sorry, sir.’
Forrester moved past, making for the double doors. ‘Wake your master, lad. He has visitors, I fear.’
‘Nay, sir.’
Forrester spun round. ‘What?’ He need not have asked the question, for his answer was etched all over the apprentice’s furtive expression. It was why the bar had been removed from the door. ‘You treacherous little bastard!’
The double doors swung violently inwards at that moment, starlight beyond
obscured by soldiers. They came quickly, filling the workshop. Four flaming torches were in the room, carried in gauntleted fists, and Forrester was forced to shield his eyes. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he blustered.
‘Mouth shut, sow-swiver,’ one of the men commanded, ‘or it’ll be the worse for you.’ There were nearly twenty soldiers packed into the workshop now, all with a blade or pistol brandished, the metal glinting in the glow of the flames like the winking eyes of some hellish beast. The man who had spoken stepped forth. He held a pistol, twitching it towards Forrester’s poised weapon. ‘Drop your hanger, fellow, or I’ll blast this dag right in your belly.’
Forrester dropped his sword. They were cavalrymen, by the look of their clothing and weapons. The leader jerked his chin at Forrester and two men stalked out from the crowd to grasp him roughly by his arms.
‘I say!’ Forrester yelped, twisting away. ‘Get your damned grubby claws off me!’
‘Proper gent, this one,’ the commanding trooper declared to a chorus of laughter. ‘Out we go, your lordship.’
They dragged Forrester out into the night. More cavalrymen were streaming back from the rear of the building. A hundred yards down the road, near the timber-framed edifice of a large tavern, waited the rest of the troop. They watched his approach with grim interest, some clapping sarcastically, others spitting streams of brown tobacco juice in his direction.
Forrester quickly scanned the group. There were perhaps threescore men, all similarly dressed in the ubiquitous buff hide and metal of a well-equipped troop of horse. It was not a large troop, but he guessed this was the sum of the unit, for the cornet was present, clutching his pole from which, hanging limp but unfurled, was the colour. It was a square of black and blue material. Forrester did not recognize it as overtly Parliamentarian, and a jolt of hope punched through him. Perhaps this was not the feared rebel unit Webb had warned against, but a Royalist patrol, passing through the town by chance.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 13
