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

by Arnold, Michael

  Gulls mewed madly, soaring and dipping and climbing, carried and buffeted on the wind. Black silhouettes of shags and cormorants interspersed their flock, tracing vast arcs against the pewter clouds. Sterne Fassett watched the birds with disinterest. ‘Did she really best you?’

  Tainton had felt himself drift into something of a trance, but now the reverie was shattered. He swallowed hard, blinking away the glassy film that had descended over his eyes. The gulls and the sea and the land came sharply into focus. ‘Aye, she did. She is skilful with blade in hand.’

  ‘Bet she’s skilful with other things in hand.’

  Tainton shot Fassett a withering look. ‘I was a good soldier. I have shed my pride, Mister Fassett, and can tell you with no hint of bluster or boastfulness that I was one of the best leaders of horse the Parliament had. In the saddle, with pistol, with sword, I did not believe I could be beaten.’ He gripped the damp rail. ‘And pride was my undoing. The French harlot was sent as a test.’

  ‘And you failed.’

  ‘Or perhaps I passed, Fassett. I would not have found salvation without her.’

  ‘And yet,’ Fassett said, not bothering to conceal the amusement in his tone, ‘you would still spill that girl’s guts on the floor.’

  ‘God will allow me to punish the wicked. There is always an allowance for war, if one strives to attain peace. Remember what the psalmist tells us.’ He glanced at the wind-driven sky for inspiration. ‘Let the high acts of God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand.’ He pushed away, stepping back from the edge, the gulls that ventured close to the deck in search of scraps veering away at the tune of his spurs. ‘Still, we have business on Tresco, you and I. When we return, we will put an end to the wretched woman.’

  ‘Balthazar’s wet as piss. He won’t like you killing the bitch.’

  ‘I’ll deal with Balthazar. She will die a secret, painful death.’

  ‘And Stryker?’

  ‘He will swing. I’ve told the garrison to construct gallows outside the castle.’

  ‘Should’ve snuffed ’em out already,’ Fassett muttered darkly.

  ‘And what if he lied? We may need them yet.’

  ‘You think he lied to you?’

  Tainton shook his head. ‘No, but nor will I take the risk. We will find this promised prize before we bury our captives. Then, and only then, shall we head for home. My master will be pleased. There will be reward in it for you, Fassett, for I know you covet such worldly trappings.’

  Fassett followed him along the deck. ‘I do, Mister Tainton, I do. And look forward to the next assignment, should your master see fit to keep me in his employ. May I ask—?’

  Tainton stopped, and turned on his heels. ‘Speak.’

  ‘If your master,’ Fassett said, ‘ain’t Sir Henry Vane, then who is he?’

  Southampton, Hampshire, 11 October 1643

  The late afternoon was cold and dark. Flickering iron braziers lit the way for Captain Lancelot Forrester and his guards as they crossed the courtyard. The yard was a wide rectangle, hemmed on all sides by mouldering, tumbledown buildings that had once formed a large slaughterhouse. Now the units were prisons, their crumbling walls, rotting timbers and holed roofs barely strong enough to keep a mule inside, let alone scores of angry soldiers and dissidents. Their poor state necessitated the number of sentries, who swarmed the complex, grim threat etched on their faces, halberds, hangers and muskets brandished in plain sight as the starkest deterrent imaginable.

  ‘In there.’

  Forrester, stripped of his sword, his snapsack and his spurs, drew to a halt before the dilapidated doorway of what looked to be an ancient storehouse. One of the large hinges had come away and the door hung slightly lopsided, and several chunks of whitewashed daub had come away from the outer wall, ragged patches of wattle left exposed like wounds to the elements. He wrinkled his nose, glancing back at the half-dozen musketeers. ‘Positively palatial. On what do we dine this evening? Roast lamb and some rich claret, perhaps?’

  The guard who had spoken spat a stream of dark tobacco juice through the gap between his front teeth. ‘Turnip-tops, your lordship. Or you are at liberty to snare a rat.’ He checked that his long-arm’s pan cover was safely shut and handed it to a comrade, the glowing tip of his slow-burning match kept tight between middle and ringfinger. It danced at his side as he rifled with his free hand in the snapsack hanging from his shoulder, tracing fiery shapes that lingered in Forrester’s sight. He shook the keys. ‘Knew I had ’em somewhere.’

  Even as the lead musketeer moved to the door, things shifted behind it. Forrester watched, disconcerted, as flashes of something solid ghosted past the holes, grey wraiths slithering silently behind the wattle trellises, indistinct glimpses of the unnatural. The particular key was selected, and, before it had turned, the five remaining muskets were trained upon the doorway.

  The key turned in the lock and the musketeer dragged back its iron loop, the door juddering as it scraped the hardening mud. He had no time to think as they shoved him inside, barely keeping his footing as the door was slammed shut in his wake. The key turned.

  Forrester saw the eyes first. They glinted in the dark like the gaze of so many cats, lit by orange light that penetrated the holes in the walls. It took time to adjust, and he blinked rapidly, for­cing himself to be patient amid the rising tide of panic. In seconds the eyes were framed by faces. They were lacklustre, devoid of detail, but he could discern the outlines of the men who stood at the far side of the makeshift prison. He reckoned there were twenty of them, perhaps twenty-five, and they shifted towards him in the gloom, a flock of ghouls drawn to new blood.

  Forrester extended an arm, holding up a flattened palm. ‘Stay where you are!’

  ‘Who might you be?’ one of the ghouls murmured.

  ‘Captain Lancelot Forrester, Mowbray’s Foot,’ he replied with bluster he did not feel, ‘and I’ll batter the next man to take a step closer.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Out of the murk came one of the prisoners. A skinny man with a long, severely hooked nose and eyes that were like pebbles of jet. ‘Dewhurst, sir. John Dewhurst. The Hawk, the lads call me.’

  Forrester drew closer, feet sinking a fraction in ground carpeted with bird droppings. He saw that the man’s head bobbed as he spoke, a motion akin to pecking. ‘The Hawk,’ he repeated. He saw that the man wore a yellow coat, and his memory was all at once in a place called Holybourne. ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘That’s me, sir, aye,’ the man said. ‘Rawdon’s Foot. Good to see you again, Captain.’

  East of Tresco, Isles of Scilly, 11 October 1643

  The Silver Swan came into Old Grimsby harbour as dusk darkened the sea. Roger Tainton, former Roundhead cavalry officer, lately Parliamentarian agent, felt utterly invigorated as the crew of his hired pinnace set to work guiding the big ship into the calmer waters protected by the curve of the high cliffs. He stood at the rail, the spot from which he had barely moved during the rough journey, and scanned the shore, the creak of sail and constant roar of water familiar friends to him now. Old Grimsby, its thatches and stone hugging the high ground above three sweeping beaches of sand and shingle, looked much like Hugh Town, only smaller. A warren of humanity fighting the elements, cut off from civilization, and utterly reliant upon the sea. He wondered why on earth any sane person would choose to grind out an existence in a place such as this.

  ‘It is fit only for goats,’ he said when Sterne Fassett came to stand with him.

  ‘Like the rest of these bloody islands.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to get back to London.’ Fassett was rubbing at his jaw again, probing and prodding the lump that had faded from livid red to a collage of browns and yellows along the curve of the bone, and he winced a little when he spoke. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Ask for properties owned by the late Sir Alfred Cade. Beginning with Old Grimsby.’ Tainton’s eyes were never the same after Brentford, and he was fo
rced to squint to make out the individual buildings. ‘If they do not know, then we move to the west coast.’

  ‘New Grimsby,’ Fassett said scornfully. ‘Imaginative lot, aren’t they?’

  Tainton ignored him. ‘Then there are houses elsewhere. Lonely homesteads. My guess is it will be one of those, but we must start here and move on.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  Tainton pulled a face to show he did not much care. ‘Tresco is two miles long, from north to south, and perhaps a mile wide at its broadest point. We should cover it swiftly enough.’

  ‘Stryker said Cade’s house was overlooking the sea.’

  ‘Everywhere,’ Tainton growled, ‘overlooks the sea, you dullard.’

  Fassett’s scarred face seemed to tense, his lips pressing into a rigid line, but he thought better of whatever retort had first sprung to mind. ‘He said Cade had a retainer there, looking after the place.’

  One of the seamen trundled past, doffing his wax-encrusted cap to the men. Tainton waited until he was out of earshot. ‘We must find him.’ He fell silent for a short time as both men noticed the stone blockhouse that perched upon the high cliff to their left, the southern point of the harbour. Like the rest of Scilly’s fortifications, it was plain and functional, but it was afforded a clear view of the approaches to the harbour, and its batteries would be easily trained upon any vessel making an aggressive play for Old Grimsby. ‘The Lord has provided,’ he said, ignoring Fassett’s contemptuous expression, ‘for we know the gold is on Tresco. We are not spread so thin in our enquiries as before.’

  ‘Only so many places left to look on St Mary’s,’ Fassett said.

  Tainton set his jaw, finally feeling as though the mission was moving forwards. ‘Let us sniff out this treasure once and for all,’ he said, feeling the breath of the Holy Spirit invigorate his broken body. Because now – wondrously, miraculously – he even knew where to look.

  Fassett blinked hard as he looked away from the high battery, perhaps imagining the same scene of destruction in his mind’s eye. ‘Then back to Star Castle?’

  ‘Aye. It is still too treacherous to risk the open sea. Consider the fate of Stryker’s ship.’ Out in the harbour a small, single-masted boat was fighting against the waves, thrown high and low and side to side on the angry swells as its crew of four wrestled to keep control. Tainton waved, realizing that the boat was intended to collect him and his three men, for the harbour was much too shallow and confined for the Silver Swan to negotiate. ‘Besides,’ he said, still waving, ‘we must see the one-eyed blackguard and his doxy pay for their crimes against God. Balthazar can do what he likes with the rest of them, but Stryker and the woman are mine.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Southampton, Hampshire, 12 October 1643

  It was an hour before dawn. Only two fires were left in the courtyard of the gaol, their flames bathing the old slaughterhouse in a diluted, tremulous light. This was the quiet time between the regular night-watch and those allocated to patrol the new day; when tired sentries began to think of their beds, red eyes becoming heavy after a night of wandering the silent complex, secure in the knowledge that their cowed charges would all be snoring soundly into their filthy rags.

  Five musketeers converged around one of the braziers. One hung back, watchful despite his yawns, while the rest set down their muskets and bandoliers a half-dozen paces from the flaming iron cage. The leather collars held a dozen stoppered boxes apiece, each containing enough powder for one musket shot. Bandoliers and open fires were a potentially lethal combination, and none of the men wished to have their face blown off while they warmed their bones.

  One of the sentries stamped his feet as he pushed his palms as close to the flames as he could bear. The mud crunched like dry twigs beneath his shoes. ‘Soon be winter . . .’

  Another man was packing a blackened clay pipe. He brought it close to his face to gently blow specks of tobacco from the rim. ‘Drink the smoke,’ he muttered. ‘Keeps you warm.’

  ‘I told you,’ the first man replied testily, his breath leaving a wispy trail of vapour, ‘it makes me cough like I got the consumption.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Just get these other fires lit, eh? The next watch’ll whine like speared hogs if we leave ’em cold.’

  ‘Guards!’ a voice called in sudden, shrill panic. ‘Guards!’

  The musketeers at the fire looked at each other. The man with the pipe sighed heavily. ‘Jesu, I’m in no mood for this. See what he wants, Gregor.’

  The sentry who still had his musket nodded. ‘Yes, Corporal.’ He was a youngster, in his mid teens, with a pimply, sallow complexion. He nodded sullenly, adjusting his Montero so that the flaps covered his ears, and walked gingerly towards the building whence the cry had come. He stayed well away from the rickety door, levelling his musket. ‘What is it?’

  A wracking cough rang out from within, followed by a lingering groan. ‘Plague!’

  ‘Wh—what?’ Gregor stammered, edging back a step. He blew on his match, keeping it fresh and hot. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Plague, sir!’ the voice repeated its warning. ‘King Death! Help us, I beg you!’ A face appeared from the darkness within the makeshift gaol, pressing up against a palm-sized patch of exposed wattle in the wall beside the doorway.

  Gregor’s mouth fell slack. ‘Pl—plague?’

  The men at the fire had all heard the exchange. The corporal pulled a sour face, spitting into the flickering flames and thrusting his pipe into his belt. He marched angrily over to the tumbledown shed. ‘Tell ’em to keep it down.’

  ‘But they got the pestis, Corp,’ Gregor bleated querulously.

  ‘Nonsense! You ever seen someone wi’ plague before, dunder-chops?’ The corporal waited for his young protégé to shake his head. ‘Then who’s to say what sickness he’s got? Stupid bugger swived the wrong filthy slattern, like as not.’ He thumped on the door with a fist, causing it to shudder noisily. ‘Show yourself, man, damn your hide!’

  The face that had so shaken Gregor now appeared again in the gap between door and frame. The corporal leaned in squinting, but he could not get a good enough view, and he quickly unhooked the iron ring at his belt. Finding the right key, he unlocked the door, waiting for Gregor to flip open the priming pan of his musket before he opened it.

  What they saw made them step backwards involuntarily. The man within looked as though he was a half-rotten corpse. He was stooped and sobbing, dry, juddering coughs rolling through him like never-ending thunder. But that was the least of his problems. The skin of his face was utterly ruined. A swollen, undulating mass of sores and bulges had spread over his cheeks and neck. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were lumpy and flaking, the corners of his mouth pitted and moist. The disease had not simply afflicted the wretched fellow, it had utterly, ruthlessly consumed him.

  The sentries still revelling in the brazier’s heat were beginning to twitch now, unwilling to relinquish their comforts, but unable to ignore what was happening at the dilapidated cell block. One of them called: ‘What is it, Corp?’

  ‘I know not,’ the corporal responded, though his eyes remained locked on the prisoner.

  ‘He has been coughing blood through the night!’ a man shouted from the gloom. He appeared behind the afflicted fellow to address the soldiers. He was tall, with a large nose, and his head nodded exaggeratedly with each syllable he uttered. ‘Splutters his guts and shits his britches all at once. Look at him!’

  ‘Jesu,’ the corporal whispered. He stepped back. ‘Out here, you corny-faced bastard. Out where I can see you properly.’

  ‘Out?’ the boy, Gregor, yelped. His musket trembled in his grip. ‘Jesu, Corp, what if he gives it us?’

  ‘On second thoughts, stay there,’ the corporal growled. ‘Stay there, I say!’ He turned to the men, who had finally edged away from the heat. They seemed transfixed in the face of this horror. He clapped his hands vigorously. ‘Fetch the captain, lads, and b
e swift about it. Fetch the fackin’ captain!’

  The three guards disappeared between two of the crumbling buildings. The corporal watched them go, but before he had turned back, Gregor fired his musket.

  * * *

  Lancelot Forrester’s face felt like it was coated in dried wax for all the movement the caked bird shit would allow, and he was glad to feel clumps of the stinking excreta break off as he launched himself at the musketeer. Gregor was not watching properly. His musket was loaded and primed, pan exposed to the glowing coal, but its owner was more interested in watching his corporal than watching his mark. So Forrester, face smothered in a poisonous poultice of mud and sand, splinters and saliva, bird droppings and mucus, took his opportunity. Gregor saw him coming, pulled the trigger, but it took time for serpent to snap, match to fall, charge to ignite, and when the bullet had flown, Gregor’s muzzle was pointed at the cloudless sky.

  The young soldier hit the ground hard, wind punched from his body as Forrester’s heavier frame smashed into his chest. He cried out, but no sound would come, and Forrester, wreathed in the white smoke still pouring from the musket, jammed his fist into Gregor’s face, obliterating his nose in a shower of blood.

  The corporal drew his sword, but he had no musket, for he and his exhausted colleagues had dumped their weapons to approach the fire. He held the blade out, beckoning Forrester to him, but the rest of the prisoners were streaming out of the tumbledown shed like rats from a flaming granary, whooping and bellowing and pledging revenge, and the corporal knew he was beaten. He retreated immediately, tripping on his comrades’ muskets in his flight, desperate to be out of the courtyard before he was overwhelmed.

  ‘Go!’ Forrester screamed, yanking savagely on the length of match coiled about the hapless Gregor’s forearm. He threw it about his neck, pausing to scratch at his face so that some of the vile paste came away in sweet relief, and snatched up two muskets, a snapsack and a bandolier. Tossing one of the weapons to Sergeant Dewhurst, he called: ‘I go to Basing. Are you with me?’