The Hawk pecked the air as he caught the musket, pointing the barrel towards the courtyard’s southern arch. ‘The horses are stabled through there!’
A bell tolled, deep and repetitive. Forrester looked back towards the officer’s billet. ‘They’ve raised the alarm. The whole garrison will be out here in no time.’
‘What about the others?’ Dewhurst asked, casting his gaze about the chaos as fellow prisoners ransacked the buildings, smashed open doors to free their friends, or scattered in search of escape.
Forrester was already running. ‘Each to his own. We got ’em out, the rest is up to them.’
Dewhurst followed. They passed under the archway and made straight for the stable doors, found them unlocked, and hauled them open. A man in soldier’s clothes stood within, rubbing bleary eyes having evidently been disturbed by the ringing of the bell. He stared in stunned surprise, then darted to his right where, from a hook on a low beam, his scabbard dangled. Forrester was on him before he could draw the hanger, sweeping the butt end of the musket in a low arc that scythed through the man’s shins. A crack echoed about the building, and the man was on the floor, scrabbling at the filthy hay as he pawed at his legs.
‘There,’ Dewhurst said.
Seven or eight horses were tethered in pens at the far end of the rectangular building. Forrester saw his own mount, fixed to a rail by reins and a cheap-looking head collar. ‘Oberon! Good Lord, I’m glad you’re here! Come, Sergeant, choose a horse and let’s be gone from this damnable place.’ Dewhurst hesitated. ‘What, man? What is it?’
‘I cannot ride, sir.’
‘Then it is with us you must throw in your lot,’ Forrester ordered. He handed his musket and snapsack to Dewhurst, put the bandolier around his shoulders, and untied Oberon’s reins from the side-rail of the pen. He jumped up, clinging to the black gelding for dear life as he swung a leg across. There was no time to saddle the beast, and he had to clench his thighs tight to avoid sliding straight off. He took the muskets, laying them across his lap, and held out a hand. ‘Get your arse up here, Sergeant. They’ll be at our heels any moment.’
Dewhurst did as he was told, scrambling indelicately up on to Oberon’s muscular back. He took the muskets from Forrester, jammed them across his legs, keeping the stocks tight in the crook of an arm, and gripped the captain’s waist like a drowning man. Forrester kicked hard, bellowing encouragement into Oberon’s pricked ear, and the beast wheeled about, breaking into a canter before he was even out in the open. A blast of cold air hit them as they left the stable, and they could see men running through the archway now, blades and pistols, muskets and halberds brandished as the sun began to lighten the dawn.
Forrester gave the soldiers a wave, wrenched at the gelding’s reins, and they were away.
St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 12 October 1643
The man stepping on to the wharf had a face that fitted well with the Scillies. Like the storm-beaten cliffs, it was hard and craggy, the nose crooked, a scar bisecting the narrow, cleanly shaven chin along its width. It was a face weathered almost to a sheen by seas and gales, scorched to the colour of honey by the sun and framed by long, thick hair that was a battleground of dark brown and silver. It was a face that belonged to a man used to hard living, a man accustomed to violence. The kind of man Captain William Balthazar dreaded welcoming to Hugh Town.
‘The storms have waned, thank God,’ Balthazar said, forcing the trepidation from his voice. He was standing on the end of the timber platform that extended like a huge tongue licking the shallows, hands clasped firmly behind his back. The wind was strong, forcing him to lean into it for stability, the sea glistening below the morning’s fresh sunlight.
The tall, wiry newcomer snatched off his wide, feathered hat and bowed low, like a royal courtier, the cliff-edge face splitting in a smile that was at once predatory and handsome. ‘Gave us a battering out at Lundy, I can tell you.’ Before the captain of Star Castle could respond, the man clicked his tongue. From down beyond the jetty’s edge there came a lingering howl and a short, sharp bark and a pair of dogs appeared. One was a scrawny mongrel, with a shaggy coat of black and white and one milky eye, while the other was a brindle mastiff, a hulking figure of slobber and muscle. They pressed about their master’s legs and he replaced his hat so that he might use both hands to ruffle the fur of each in turn. ‘Good boys.’
The skiff from which the newcomer and his hounds had climbed rocked wildly as its two-man crew shoved off with dripping oars, grunting against the capricious currents as they headed back out to deeper water. Balthazar let his eyes flicker to the anchorage at St Mary’s Pool. He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles so that he could better see the warship that had arrived just two hours earlier. ‘But your ship looks to be hale and hearty, Captain Gibbons.’
Titus Gibbons was master of the Stag, an English-built sloop of light ordnance and sleek lines, designed for speed and ambush. She was smaller than the frigates with which she frequently tussled, but much faster, and her crew, veterans of the never-ending fight against the Barbary pirates, invariably outclassed anything they came up against. But Gibbons, Balthazar thought bitterly, was, after all, not a great deal more than a pirate himself. It was common knowledge that the captain of the Stag, a native of Penzance, had been a smuggler in his time, only keeping his neck from the noose by his invaluable effectiveness against the feared corsairs who cruised out of North Africa to plague Europe’s Christian coasts, stealing their gold and enslaving their women and children. Now, of course, his attentions had turned to the Parliamentarian navy. As an experienced privateer and proud Cornishman, Gibbons had been licensed by the king to roam the seas, harassing Roundhead shipping, plundering their merchantmen and snapping at the heels of their ponderous, if formidable, men-o’-war.
Gibbons opened his mouth in a wide yawn, smiling in satisfaction as his strong jaw cracked loudly. ‘We would replenish supplies, if we may, and take the opportunity to repair a mast and a gun.’
Balthazar frowned. ‘You had trouble?’
Gibbons pulled down the hem of his green and silver doublet as if to flatten out any creases. ‘Rebel frigate off Port Isaac. Bastardly gullion slung a brace o’ chain-shot ’cross our deck.’
Balthazar looked again at the lazily bobbing sloop. ‘Toll?’
‘Three dead men, a cracked murderer and a damaged mast,’ Gibbons replied. ‘The bodies have long since been committed to the depths, but the repairs are not so swiftly dealt with.’
‘The mast you may see to, Captain,’ Balthazar said. ‘But the murderer,’ he added, thinking of the gunwale-mounted swivelling hand-cannon used to rake a ship’s decks, ‘may not be so straightforward. We have but one forge in Hugh Town, and its time and resource is stretched to breaking already.’
Gibbons shrugged. ‘So be it.’ He stooped to pat the mastiff’s wide pate, eliciting a barely perceptible whine for his trouble. ‘This bluff cove is Sir Francis.’
Balthazar bobbed his knees in something like a curtsy, immediately regretting the gesture. ‘I’m sure he is an obedient companion.’
Titus Gibbons laughed loudly, the sound vibrating in Balthazar’s ribcage. ‘That he is, Captain Balthazar! And well put! This other fearsome beast,’ he said, stroking the bristles of the smaller mongrel, ‘is Sir Walter. He is not an obedient companion, I do not mind telling you, but I would never be without him.’
Balthazar forced another smile. ‘You are welcome as ever, Captain Gibbons, naturally,’ he lied cheerfully. For all his affected style and grace, Gibbons was an uncivilized wretch as far as William Balthazar was concerned. Much, he reflected, like Roger Tainton and his motley gaggle of bullies. But as Scilly’s senior officer and de facto governor, Balthazar was hamstrung by the war. He must make every concession to these ruthless men, for they fought under the colours of King Charles, and that made them his allies, whether he liked it or not. He realized he was fiddling furiously with the pearl earring at his left lobe, and he snapped his arm do
wn, stuffing it behind his back.
Titus Gibbons beamed, at once charming and terrifying. ‘Always a pleasure, Captain Balthazar. My crew will stay aboard the Stag for the most part, so there’ll be no trouble in town.’
‘I would appreciate that.’
‘But I’ll be grateful if you might allow them ashore in small numbers. They have been at sea a long time. They require a moment of . . . comfort . . . if you understand my meaning.’
Balthazar knew exactly what the privateer meant, and the notion repulsed him. ‘In twos and threes.’
‘Twos and threes?’ Gibbons echoed. ‘One per man will do well enough, sir! Well, perhaps a brace for me, eh?’ he added with a wink.
‘The men,’ Balthazar snapped, irritation beginning to puncture his calm exterior, ‘are permitted into Hugh Town in their twos and threes.’
‘Understood,’ Gibbons said, holding up placating hands. ‘Clear as the chime at dog-watch.’
Balthazar tugged at the sharp end of his waxed beard. ‘You’ll stay at the castle?’
‘An honour, Captain. Have you heard from Godolphin or Bassett?’
Balthazar moved aside to show the privateer along the walkway. ‘Not in weeks. They fight on the mainland with Hopton, as far as I’m aware.’
Gibbons walked at Balthazar’s side, the dogs winding in and out of their legs, padding softly on the damp timbers. ‘They made him a baron, did you hear?’
‘I did not. News takes its time to reach us here, truth to tell.’
‘He is Lord Hopton of Stratton now.’
Balthazar glanced up at the tall sailor. ‘He is recovered, then? We heard tell he was wounded in battle.’
‘So they say. Burned badly, but mended in the main.’
‘And what of the sea?’ Balthazar asked. ‘The Parliament ships harry you?’
Gibbons nodded. ‘They rule the waves, except in the south-west. We may put in at Bristol and the Welsh ports, and here, of course. East of Plymouth becomes a tad more challenging, I’ll confess.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘In truth, we are outshipped, outgunned and outmanned. Those vessels remaining loyal to the Crown may only inconvenience the enemy. The war must be won on land.’
‘Pray God our forces prevail, for all our sakes.’
‘Indeed,’ Gibbons said. He looked over at the castle, adjusting his hat to shield his gaze from the rising sun. ‘Ah, my old friend. The ugliest star I ever saw, and yet the most welcome to mine eyes.’
‘The hearths are ablaze, Captain Gibbons. Come and take your ease.’
Southampton, Hampshire, 12 October 1643
The breath of the guards wreathed their shouldered muskets as though the pieces had been recently discharged. The ground was solid and uneven underfoot, mud churned by boots and frozen by a bitter night. The new sun had brought with it a touch of warmth to thaw feet and hands, melt the veil of frost that whitened the iron hinges and bolts of the cell doors, but still the surface of the well was glazed and the roof tiles glistened. The courtyard’s braziers raged red and orange, belching out heat for the guards to enjoy, yet none dared draw close to the iron cages. None had the nerve to snatch comfort in this grey dawn, for shame required penance.
Richard Norton, Parliamentarian colonel of horse and newly made Governor of Southampton, felt the skin at his cheeks and neck burn and knew it was as much borne of fury as of the cold air. ‘Speak, man, and be quick about it.’
‘F—forgive me, Governor—’ the sentry intoned through a roiling vapour cloud.
‘I do not want apologies, Corporal,’ Norton snapped, ‘I want answers!’
‘Sir, may I—’ another man began tentatively.
Norton rounded on him. ‘No, Captain Miller, you may not. You may command this pigsty of a prison, but you were not present when our piglets were let loose, were you?’
The captain, a fastidious little man with immaculate uniform and permanently pursed mouth, shook his head, his gloved hands worrying at the brim of his hat. ‘I was not, sir.’
Norton shifted his attention back to the sentry. ‘Well?’
The musketeer who had commanded the pre-dawn watch stared apple-eyed around the abandoned slaughter-yard as though the answer might come to him from one of the decrepit sheds that had been crammed full of enemy prisoners. When his gaze fell upon the only one of the low, rectangular buildings that was open, he took a deep, lingering breath. ‘They fooled us.’
The empty unit was behind Norton, and he turned to stare at it. ‘That much is obvious.’ He looked back at the corporal. ‘How did this humiliation transpire, pray?’
‘They—that is to say—we—’
‘Spit it out, man, or you will find yourself the next guest of this establishment.’
As ever, Wagner Kovac was at Norton’s side. ‘You want me make him talk?’
‘His face was covered in muck, sir,’ the corporal blurted, transfixed on the huge man with the bushy beard, ice-blue eyes and strange accent.
‘Muck?’
The corporal nodded vigorously, deciding speed of confession would stave off the governor’s Teutonic henchman. ‘Bird—doings. And whatever else they could mix with it.’
‘And he put this on his face?’
‘Aye, sir. Smeared all over. Like a diseased man. A leper, like, or some terrible pox. They cried plague.’
‘Then you should have put an extra lock on the door, Corporal, not opened it.’
‘I realize that now, sir. I thought to take a look, is all. See if they was lying.’
Norton gritted his teeth. ‘Well you certainly found out.’ He scanned the courtyard. ‘We have a score of escaped malignants.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the corporal said sheepishly. ‘I am sorry, sir.’ He straightened suddenly, setting his jaw and casting his eyes towards the gathered musketeers who looked on in contrite silence. ‘I’ll find ’em, ’pon my word. Me and the lads, we’ll—’
‘No, Corporal,’ Norton cut him off with a dismissive wave. ‘You’ve done enough, I think.’ Footsteps crunched behind. He twisted to see a party of men advance from the direction of the brick house that served as the captain’s quarters.
‘Norton!’ the man at the forefront of the group called. ‘Norton! Why was I not summoned?’
Norton smiled wolfishly. ‘Sergeant-Major Murford. How nice it is to see you this crisp morn. Though I must insist that you employ my correct title when addressing me.’
Murford halted a few paces from Norton. ‘Governor,’ he rasped through gritted teeth. ‘Why was I not summoned? These are my men.’
‘Not a claim I would be quick to make, if I were you,’ Norton replied. ‘You were not summoned because you were not required. But be assured, Sergeant-Major, that, in time, I shall see these pathetic minions of yours fill a pike block on some God-forsaken field. They might learn their trade properly, or die in the trying. For now, they may keep the remainder of our charges secure. My men will see our fugitives rounded up. Captain Kovac?’
The Croat stepped forwards, deliberately moving between old governor and new. ‘Governor Norton, sir.’
‘We have twenty missing Cavaliers. Take your troop and hunt them down.’
Kovac dipped his head solemnly. ‘A pleasure, sir.’
‘It will not be too taxing, for they are all on foot.’
‘Sir, I—’ the corporal blurted, his bottom lip trembling now.
All eyes went to him. ‘What is it?’ Norton asked, sensing trouble.
The corporal’s head looked as if it might shrink into his shoulders as he spoke. ‘They’re not all on foot.’
Windsor, Berkshire, 12 October 1643
Sir William Waller was high up on the great castle’s eastern rampart, body tensed against the icy wind. His elbows were planted firmly on the crenellated stone, perspective glass pressed against one eye, the other eye clamped shut. He trained the instrument on the convoy that had trundled into town. It seemed to have no end, stretching back along the road that coiled about the high walls, wagon after
wagon piled with provisions, eventually vanishing as the muddy thoroughfare curved through Windsor’s gates and out into the countryside. The long train slithered like a great serpent into the dense woodland that smothered the land between here and Staines. It had rained during the night, enough to make the ground – churned by shoe and hoof and wheel – into a sticky morass that clung to feet and sucked at each vehicle. The going, therefore, was infuriatingly poor, drivers forced to leap out of their wagons to beat and berate their lowing oxen. Every few yards there was another blockage, another cart tipped to the side, two wheels sliding in the grime, their opposites hoisted impotently in the air.
Waller moved the glass from one vehicle to the next. Between the struggling wagons and their plaintive beasts of burden were the soldiers. They were arrayed in marching order, fixed in dense units so that it was difficult for them to negotiate the trees that hugged close to the road’s flanks. They were stuck, therefore, behind and between the vehicles that carried the provisions destined for their bellies and the ammunition bound for their muskets. Officers raged, sergeants bawled and the men stood in their files, sung songs, chattered and complained. Some pissed at the roadside, their urine mixing with the dung of the animals to make the mud all the more viscous and vile. The officers had long since abandoned their efforts to prevent them from adding to the mess, for too much time had passed to order a man to cross his legs.
‘If the Cavaliers were to attack now,’ Waller muttered, ‘all would be lost, by God. They could smash and loot our carts with impunity.’
‘You have a whole army here, General,’ an aide, one of three men standing just to Waller’s rear, responded smartly.
Waller trained the glass on the town. Its thatches spread out from the foot of the royal fortress like mushrooms at the base of an ancient elm. ‘Really?’
The aide moved to the rampart and looked down. ‘Perhaps we should send some dragooners out to hurry them along.’
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 16
