Pistoleer: Pirates

by Smith, Skye

  "I have some good men to keep the arsenals safe, but where would I send them first?"

  "Hull and Portsmouth, obviously,” Daniel interrupted. "Those arsenals supply not just the army, but the navy."

  It was as if Daniel had not spoken for Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex pretended that the idea had come from Blake. He turned and asked Robert Rich, the Earl of Warwick, "Can you suggest some key arsenals Robert?"

  Warwick, who was half dozing beside the fire, sat forward and stared at Devereux as if he were going senile. "I agree with Danny. Hull and Portsmouth would be my first choice too."

  "Then I will write to John Hotham and to George Goring. May I prevail on your scribe to assist me?"

  "While you are at it, what about the Kingston Arsenal?" Warwick suggested. "Tom Onslow is the man for that. He leads Surrey's Trained Bands. Why hasn't your committee done something about this before now?"

  "All of their time is spent placating the commissioners from Edinburgh." Devereux replied. "The Scots want us to abolish all bishops in England, as they have done in Scotland. We have even executed some Papist priests hoping that would appease them. A stubborn lot, the Scots."

  "What was that?" Daniel coughed out some wine. "You executed some priests in hopes that you wouldn't need to abolish the lordly bishops. You executed holy men?"

  "What's wrong with that?" Devereux now actually admitting Daniel's existence by answering his question. "The city mob loved it. We've got to get all of London hating the Catholics if we expect them to rally to us when we take an army over to teach those Irish rebels a lesson."

  "The Irish aren't rebelling because they are Catholic. They are rebelling because they are being thrown off their communal lands. Their families are being starved into slavery." Daniel shook his head at such idiocy.

  "You are forgetting God's natural order,” Lord Devereux harrumphed irritably. "The Lords were commanded by God to be the shepherds of the people and to do so they must own the land. And as for communal land, that is an abomination inherited from North Sea pagans, and it is well past time that all common land be ceded to the Lords where it belongs." With that Devereux rose out of his seat to go and write his dispatches. Warwick followed him out of the room, likely to organize a scribe for him.

  Blake had leaped out of his seat to stand between Daniel and Devereux. While the pompous earl had been bleating on, he had watched his friend play with the hilt of his knife. Blake's intentions were good but unnecessary. Daniel did not stir out of his seat for had been patiently waiting for the pompous Devereux to leave the room so that he could speak with tonight's guest of honor, Colonel Monck.

  George Monck intrigued him. Like Alex Leslie he was a poor man who had risen through the military ranks on his own merit. "So what do you think of the earl's interpretation of God's will?" Daniel asked. Monck was the guest of honor because he had been chosen to lead an army of a thousand foot, and four hundred horse to relieve Dublin.

  "It is a view shared by most Lords but by few others, and not just in England. Umm, our host says that he invited you and Mr. Blake to dinner because you told him that we had been brothers-in-arms in Holland in '37? I do apologize, but I don't recall either of you."

  "It was at the siege of Breda," Blake replied, "and you don't recall us because you were too busy charging the breach. We were with the skirmishers who were using carbines to pick off any Spaniard who popped his head out to take aim at you."

  "Then you succeeded, for I still live. Breda, what a foul battle that was. Hopefully there will be nothing like it in Ireland."

  "It will be worse in Ireland,” Blake told him, "for it will not be army against army, but your army against random peasants and rebels. Your men will be expected to keep the peace by separating mobs of folk who hate each other's guts, and have done so for centuries."

  A man with muddy boots, a wet cloak, and pistols under his sash popped his head into the parlour and interrupted them by asking, "Is Lord Devereux in here?"

  "No, he's already gone into the dining room,” Blake told him. The man was gone again , and in a hurry. "I think I am going to join Devereux,” he told Daniel and Monck with a wink of an eye, and then leaped up to follow the stranger. The other two were hot on his trail, for the man had the look of bad news about him. They got inside the dining room just in time to here his report to the earl-general.

  "I am Thomas Onslow, and I lead parliament's Surry Trained Band,” the muddy man was saying before even removing his cloak, or greeting anyone in the room. "I have just ridden here from Kingston. Digby and Lunsford are trying to take control of the arsenal there. We outnumbered their squad by two to one and there was a stand-off, luckily a bloodless one, or so it was when I left to bring the news here. We have convinced the commander of the arsenal that he must have official orders before he surrenders it to either side, so in truth it is a three way stand off. I need an order from you, sir, the General of the Southern Army. An order to surrender the arsenal to the Surrey Band and I need it quickly, before Digby gets an equivalent order from the king's general."

  The words sent most of the room into a tizzy of inane conversation, for most of those at the table were politicians rather than men of action. John Hampden was the exception. He literally told everyone to shut the fuck up so that he could ask Onslow some questions. Meanwhile he sent one of the maids off to look for his personal clerk.

  "Was the squad under Digby's command or Lunsford's?" was Hampden's first question.

  "Digby was giving orders to Lunsford,” Onslow answered thoughtfully. "But Lunsford was in command of the men. I fear that taking Kingston arsenal will be just the beginning, and afterwards they will away to another arsenal. Portsmouth perhaps."

  "Portsmouth?" Warwick called out. "Losing Kingston arsenal would be a great loss, but losing Portsmouth arsenal would be a disaster."

  "So we must act,” Hampden said calmly, with his eyes now closed. He had one of the brightest minds in the kingdom, so everyone waited patiently for him to speak again. Eventually he said, "Digby and Lunsford are two different problems and need different solutions. Digby is a politician and the king's evil genius, whereas Lunsford commands the king's lifeguard. First we must separate them. Divide and conquer." He stopped talking because his clerk had arrived and had set a large file of papers down on the table in front of him. He thumbed through them, as if to refresh his memory.

  "Do you remember George Goring, the man that Strafford had sent to Portsmouth as part of the Army Plot. As part of that plot he was to welcome the French army ashore on behalf of the king. We left him in control of Portsmouth because he became our man absolutely once Strafford was beheaded. He chose wisely else he would be without a head by now. Lord Devereaux, you must send an urgent dispatch to Goring that he is not to surrender his arsenal to anyone other than the Earl of Warwick." This met with universal agreement since Warwick was their choice to be the next General of the Fleet, and Portsmouth was mostly a naval arsenal.

  "As for Lunsford,” he held up a parchment with a large royal seal on it, "I have here an old warrant issued by the king for his arrest for his brutal attack on his cousin Lord Thomas Pelham. It is ten years old, and will be immediately revoked by the king once it is brought to his attention. Lunsford is currently awaiting a knighthood, and the crimes of knights are always pardoned before the ceremony. Until then it is still a valid warrant and since it bears the king's seal it can be served by anyone in this kingdom and they can use violence to arrest him, if necessary."

  Onslow's smile was as wide as his face. "So with that warrant I can arrest Lunsford, or even kill him without fear of retribution from the king. All I need do is wave it at him, and he will flee from Kingston and ride back to Windsor to have the king dismiss the warrant. All right, that takes care of Lunsford, but what about Digby?"

  "You will carry not just this warrant, but an order from Lord Devereaux to the Kingston Arsenal to surrender it to you and your Surrey Band ... but you must not do that until after Lunsford has fl
ed. Without Lunsford, Digby may not have the courage to argue the order. So, all that remains is for the Committee of Security to vote on these measures. Do we have a quorum present?"

  "We do sir,” his clerk announced. "All in favour say Aye. The Aye's have it."

  While the various messages and orders were being written up and copied and sealed, Onslow was brought food and he dug into it with a hunger born of a long cold ride, and the expectation of a long cold ride ahead. Daniel sat on one side of the man and Blake on the other, and they ate with him. And why not? If they waited for all these self effacing politicians to eat, they would just be ignored and bored.

  "So Thomas,” Blake said to Onslow as he poured some wine for the ruddy looking man. "Will you need help to get to Kingston?"

  "Nay, three of my men eating the kitchen and they will see me back to Kingston with no problem."

  "So do you see the flaw in Hampden's plan?" Blake asked. Blake was like Hampden, a plotter, a planner, and a strategist.

  Onslow stopped chewing. "If there is a flaw you must tell me, for it could cost lives. Things are tense in Kingston."

  Blake had been well brought up so he swallowed to empty his mouth before opening it to speak. "On seeing the king's warrant, Lunsford will certainly flee, and he will leave his men at the arsenal with Digby. This because a man like him will have made enemies in his own ranks and he will not trust them not to act on the warrant."

  "That is what Hampden is expecting to happen. The king is at Windsor Castle, and since Lunsford commands the king's horse guard, that will be where he is billeted. Are you telling me that Lunsford won't make for Windsor?"

  "Not if his mission was to first take the arsenal at Kingston, and then the one at Portsmouth,” Blake replied. "He is more likely to send a messenger to the king and then go to ground until he has the king's pardon to shield him. Once Charlie gives him that surety, perhaps by hurrying his knighthood, then he will continue his march on Portsmouth. As Hampden expects, Digby will take command of the horse-guard in Lunsford's place, but even if they don't succeed in taking Kingston, they will still press on to Portsmouth. The only way to stop them is to arrest Lunsford and keep him under lock and key."

  "Oh, no,” Onslow dropped his spoon. "I want to wave this warrant at Lunsford and have him flee. If my men rush forward to capture him, that will start a battle. I don't want a battle. That could end in killings. I don't know which would be worse ... the killing of some of my Band, or the killing of some of the king's personal guard. Either way I lose. No, I will not even attempt to arrest the man."

  "Where is he likely to go to ground?" Blake asked. There was a grunt across the table from him. There was one other man sneaking some early food ... Hampden's clerk. He had been listening, and now he wiped his greasy fingers on the table cloth and then opened the fat file of paper that was beside him on the table.

  "His family home is in Whyly in Sussex,” the clerk told them.

  "That is almost to Hastings,” Onslow said. "So from Kingston he would ride straight south."

  Blake pictured a map in his head. "Nay. That is too far from Windsor and the king and from the men he leaves in Kingston. He would want to hide somewhere near Kingston or somewhere near Windsor."

  The clerk continued to shuffle papers. The file on Lunsford had been put together last year when the reformers were trying to have the man removed from the command of the Tower garrison. At the time the man had been using the Tower garrison to carve up London's protest marches. "He has a young wife, though she does not travel with him. Her birth name is Neville and her family home is Billingbear House in Waltham St Lawrence in Berkshire."

  Onslow squinted his eyes as he thought. "That is just the other side of Windsor and a bit south. The other side of Bracknell Forest from Kingston."

  The two friends, Blake and Daniel, stared at each other and nodded to each other. "May we ride with you as far as Kingston?" Blake asked Onslow.

  "Why of course,” Onslow replied. "I will be leaving as soon as my orders are ready."

  "We'll meet you at the stable,” Daniel told him, "that should give us enough time to grab our things and say our goodbyes to the women of the house. Tell Hampden, and only Hampden, that we have gone to pay our respects to Mrs. Lunsford at Milton St Lawrence. He will understand."

  * * * * *

  The old woodcutter set down his axe and stared up at the two mounted gentlemen. He knew them to be rich sods by the quality of the horses they rode. "Aye, I know Billingbear. I know all of the houses 'round here. You gents are cold and tired, so it must be worth a few groat to be told the shortest way. There'll be a good breakfast still set on at Billingbear if you get there quickly enough." He nervously wondered at what price they would beat it out of him rather than pay him.

  "We know we are close but there have been many cartways that turn off Forest Road, and none of them have signs." Daniel puffed his navy blue cloak out so that the heat from the horse could rise under it and keep him warm. "I will give you a coin, but not just for pointing the direction. I have never met any of the Nevilles before. What can you tell me about them for, say, tu’pence."

  "That the widow Elizabeth has a right to the mansion while she still lives, and that her eldest son Richard can't wait for her to kick off so he can claim it. She pays him to stay away from her. It's a house of women, and they are right toffee nosed bitches."

  "So is Richard there now?"

  The woodcutter gave him a look like he was the town fool, "Didn't I just tell yee that the widow pays him to stay away. He's off with Baron Domer raising an army for the king."

  "So there are no men at the house other than those in service?"

  "Well sometimes young Kathy's husband drops by to hump her a bit. Vicious sod he is, but he is away traveling with the king."

  "Who is he?"

  "Lunsford,” the woodcutter said and then spat. "Got hisself quite a reputation, our Colonel Lunsford does. The London pamphlets claim that he eats children."

  "And which cartway takes us to Billingbear?" Robert asked through chattering teeth. They hadn't been chattering until the old man mentioned a hot breakfast. Now that was all he could think of. These fine horses that they had borrowed from Warwick's stable were handsome and would be as fast as the wind on a grassy meadow. Unfortunately on the iced over country roads of Berkshire they were meek footed and had refused anything faster than a trot. Thirty miles was a long way at a trot.

  They had left Onslow's company at Kingston and he had promised not to threaten Lunsford with the king's warrant until first light. The delay had given them a five hour head start but that had been whittled away by not having sure footed ponies, and by getting completely lost and turned around in the blackness of Bracknell Forest. Even so, they should still have a two hour lead on Lunsford, if indeed Lunsford did decide to hide at his wife's home until the king granted his surety.

  The woodcutter pointed back the way they had come. "Ride yee a half mile to the next mile marker. Just beyond it there is a cartway running north. That is the way that carts take to Billingbear." He stuck his hand out for a coin. Some of his calluses were as big as a child's hand. He caught the copper that that was flipped to him. "Not fifty paces from here there is a game path. Follow it through this wood and when you reach a clearing it joins a bridle path which will take you directly to Billingbear."

  Once they were into the clearing, Daniel told Robert, "So a house full of women. Then let me do the talking. You just smile and nod."

  "But I am the tactician..." Robert began to complain, for when riding as Dutch pistoleers, Daniel had always been the gun slinger to Robert's plan.

  "And you know nothing about women,” Daniel told him. "If you promise not to say anything, I will talk them into giving us breakfast."

  Robert swallowed his witty rebuttal at the thought of a country breakfast in a fire-warmed morning room of a fine house, and instead said, "Done."

  Billingbear house was a grand Tudor style country mansion probably bu
ilt using the wealth that the Tudor aristocracy had stolen from the Catholic monasteries that Henry the Cock had purged from the kingdom. They counted a dozen huge windows and a dozen chimney stacks on the main house, and there were others on the two newer and smaller wings. Only half of the chimneys were smoking even on this frigid day, so many of the rooms would have been closed for the winter to save on fire wood.

  The house was surrounded by a five foot high stone wall, but that was no problem as the gate was wide open. This cold morning there was no one keeping the gate other than a man leading a cart towards it. They didn't even turn when the carter called out "Are ya lost?" Other than the carter there didn't seem to be anyone outside around the house, and why would there be on this bitter cold day when the low clouds were promising more snow.

  They dismounted in front of the main door, and took a minute to transfer their dragons from their horse leathers to their belts. While Robert tied up the horses, Daniel stepped up to the main door and knocked. He was careful to keep the collar of his cloak closed around his mouth and the brim of the matching hat pulled down over his eyes. A girl's face peered out at him from a frosted window beside the door, but then she disappeared. He knocked again. This time a small flap in the door opened and eyes, a woman's eyes, stared out at him. "Thomas,” said a woman's voice, a fearful woman's voice, "why have you come?"

  In a gruff voice carefully muffled by the cloak's collar he grumbled. "Please let us in. We are tired and cold and hungry." There was the sound of bolts being pulled, and then the door swung inwards, and he and Robert stepped through. Inside the front hall they could still see their breath. So much for their dreams of a nice warm house. Oh well, at least they were out of the wind.

  They stomped the dry snow from their boots, which was painful ... their toes were almost frozen. No matter how much of the horses warmth was captured by your riding cloak, none of it ever warmed your feet. The woman closed the door and threw the bolt immediately, and as she turned towards them she spoke again. "You are a week early Thomas. Mother will not welcome this intrusion on our agreement."