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

by Arnold, Michael

  Paulet cast his gaze to the parchment in his hand as though it contained a warrant for his own death, then up at the captain and colonel in turn. His cheeks suddenly seemed hollow. ‘The King would have us tempt Parliament’s army? Bring them here to smash us so that Hopton can march free?’

  Lancelot Forrester felt a surge of sympathy for the Earl of Wiltshire and Fifth Marquess of Winchester. Another proud man whose very existence was threatened by this strange war that had no real enemy. All he could do was drain his cup and nod.

  Forrester followed Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon out into the heart of the Old House having accepted an offer to view the new fortifications by the military governor in the face of Paulet’s spluttering fury. At the centre of the enclosure, dominating the rest of the buildings, was the Great Hall. Through its large twin doors, servants scurried like so many rats, carrying bushels of corn and sacks of dried meat, the provisions of a garrison digging in for winter, while some wheeled dog carts full of surplus furniture, candlesticks and clothing. This was a house alive with preparations for war.

  ‘How many men do you have, sir?’ Forrester asked as they moved past a large stone fountain.

  Rawdon grimaced in half apology. ‘Hard to tell. More come here each day, seeking refuge from Parliament’s hounds.’ He paused to accept the bows of some of his soldiers. ‘My regiment is near three hundred strong, though the marquess has conveniently gathered a fair few under his own colours.’

  ‘He has,’ Forrester noted tentatively, ‘stolen your men?’

  Rawdon gave a short grunt that was more growl than laugh. ‘Absorbed, aye. It is a point of contention.’ He waved the issue away as if he were swatting an irritating fly. ‘Now where was I? Let me see. Lieutenant-Colonel Peake brought a hundred musketeers earlier in the summer. There might be another hundred able to bear arms, retainers and exiles, loyal to the marquess. And their families are here too. Some of the women and older children might—’ Rawdon tailed off, scrutinizing the middle-distance, and Forrester knew that the idea was more than the old man could bear. He was not one of the damned few who had blooded their blades on the Continent. There, in those walled citadels where siege warfare was cruel and quarter was neither asked nor given, any man, woman or child would wield a musket if they were strong enough to lift one. For to lose your fortress was to lose your life.

  Rawdon’s eyes regained focus and he stared hard at Forrester. ‘What did you make of him?’

  Forrester was surprised at the sudden question. He decided the truth would do no harm. ‘A man determined to hold his property, but fearful he will be undermined by his own side.’

  Rawdon moved on, picking up the pace, until they reached a section of the wall guarded by the stout square walls of a gatehouse. ‘His world is changing, and he does not know how to make it stop.’ He let a pair of sentries move swiftly apart and went through a low doorway. ‘In that, at least, I consider his lordship a kindred spirit.’

  ‘Oh?’

  They were in the gloom of the gatehouse as Rawdon glanced back. ‘I made my name as a merchant. A trifle dissimilar to our dear Marquess of Winchester, I’ll admit, but, like him, I was a man who knew himself. I was comfortable with my worth, with my wealth, with my place in the world, and sure in the knowledge that mine was a prosperous life.’ They reached more sentries and another door. ‘Now? I have reached my sixty-second year and I find myself playing soldiers, exiled from my beloved London, from my family, my homes and businesses, asked to advise the marquess on matters of which I am not expert.’ The door was opened for him and Rawdon went through, evidently noting Forrester’s consternation as he went. ‘Do not worry, Captain, I am not entirely devoid of experience.’

  But still, thought Forrester, you have not waded into the baleful gaze of a thousand primed muskets.

  ‘I have led men,’ Rawdon said, ‘and I was a member of the Society of the Artillery Garden back in London.’

  ‘Ordnance is your interest, sir?’

  ‘When I was an officer in the militia, I felt often that the plodders did not comprehend their orders, while the horse generally ignored theirs altogether. The artillery were more sensible.’

  ‘Ha!’ Forrester barked. ‘I could not venture comment upon such a statement, sir.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Rawdon said with a grin. ‘But there you have it. I know what I am about, and yet I am thrust into this position of authority, at a time when I should be resting at ease with my grandchildren. Another curmudgeon whose world spins uncontrollably!’ He moved out of the gatehouse, into a sudden blast of sunlight. ‘Still, if this is what is ordained, then this is what we must bear.’

  Forrester stepped out to where the colonel stood, realizing with a swimming sensation that they were standing on a narrow bridge over the deep ditch. At the far end of the bridge there was another gate, set into the red-bricked fastness of more formidable walls. ‘The New House?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Rawdon, nodding back the way they had come. ‘This is the Postern Gate. The only route directly between the houses. Pray God the enemy never know of its existence, for it is the old castle’s single weak point.’

  Forrester glanced down as they crossed the bridge, noting the fresh chalk beneath where the defensive work had recently been deepened. The slopes on either bank were splashed white where spoil had been tossed, steepening the gradient considerably. ‘The works here are admirable, sir.’

  Rawdon nodded. ‘Kind of you to say, Captain. It is not yet ready, but we make progress.’ The door to the New House jolted open on their approach, the pair seen by invisible soldiers through the loopholes in the wall. ‘However, I am keen to act upon the orders you bring.’

  ‘You are, sir?’

  Rawdon nodded as he led Forrester through the doorway. ‘Lassitude is a canker. It grows on the minds of soldiers, makes them slow and witless. We must keep them active, and for that, we must leave the safety of the castle. Do you not think so?’

  Forrester’s assessment of the gruff colonel received a boost, despite his misgivings. ‘I agree wholeheartedly, sir. But do you not already? For supplies and so forth?’

  ‘On occasion, aye.’ They were in the New House now. Forrester remembered it, and yet it was starkly different to the images his mind recalled. Unlike its circular counterpart, this was no fort-turned-house, but a purpose-built mansion. It had not evolved from austere, easily defensible beginnings, but had been constructed by the Paulets to display and project their wealth and status, and to provide a vast home for their descendants to live in comfort. And yet now, as 1643 rolled inexorably towards its wintry conclusion, the New House had become a castle. It remained the weaker of the two houses by Forrester’s reckoning, for it sat on lower ground and its outer walls were essentially buildings that had been joined to form a continuous face. Thus, there were windows and rooftops instead of loopholes and crenellations. And yet a deep ditch had been excavated all the way around its perimeter, as Forrester had witnessed on his approach with Major Lawrence, and the towers at each corner of the huge rectangle had been mounted with artillery. Inside, all around the large courtyard, the comings and goings of a major house continued apace, but, as in the Old House, the amount of weaponry and supplies was remarkable. Starkest of all was the sheer number of soldiers. Most wore coats of yellow, and Rawdon explained that they were his men, but there was an array of colours in this place that seemed to attract Royalists from every corner of the south-east. There had been a small garrison here when Forrester had last visited, but now the place fairly bristled. In one corner the song of swords rang out, sending icy fingers along the nape of Forrester’s neck as men practised their swordplay to the cheers and jeers of their compatriots. A pair of drummers rehearsed their calls, bringing precision to the rhythms that would give an army its orders on the field of battle, while a queue of musketeers stretched out from the doorway of one building that Forrester presumed was employed as the powder magazine.

  Rawdon showed Forrester to the south-western corner of
the courtyard, and led him into the wall tower that overlooked this part of the house. They climbed silently up the steps, emerging on to the roof. It had once been conical in shape, but the ceiling tiles had been stripped away to leave the bare skeleton of the timber frame, allowing the defenders a clear line of sight. Rawdon stared down at the earthworks that protected this side of the fortress. ‘In truth,’ the colonel said, now that they were out of earshot, ‘the marquess is reluctant to risk the men.’ He pulled a sour expression. ‘Reluctant to risk the house while the men are gone.’

  Forrester had to raise his voice above the whipping wind, gripping his hat lest it fly away. ‘But he will do as he is asked?’

  ‘He will do as he is ordered. But he’ll gripe, have no doubt, for he will see conspiracy where there is none.’

  ‘Forgive me, Colonel. You refer to yourself?’

  Rawdon sucked at his grey moustache. ‘Come now, Forrester, you did not notice the barbs he slings?’

  ‘He made mention of your reputation, sir, which, I confess, puzzled me a touch.’

  Rawdon paused, moving to the edge of the tower, through the rafters of which a small artillery piece stretched. It was a falconet, Forrester saw. Not ordnance that could hurt a stone wall, but, turned upon a massed group of infantrymen, perfectly capable of cleaving bloody holes in their ranks. It guarded the southern approaches, warning any attacking force that terror awaited them. Rawdon patted the cold barrel. ‘I was with the Parliament at the outset of this horror.’

  That surprised Forrester, and it was all he could do to keep his face impassive. ‘I see.’

  ‘After Kineton Fight, the King’s men made play for the capital.’

  ‘I was there. I fought at Brentford. But the rebels we faced that day were Brooke’s and Holles’s. Some of Hampden’s greencoats. You would not have been—’

  ‘I was Lieutenant-Colonel of the Red Regiment,’ Rawdon cut in.

  ‘The London Trained Bands?’ Forrester said. He did not recall their presence at Brentford, and was about to say as much when he remembered the conclusion of the king’s thrust upon the capital. It had all come to a head, and an end, on a large swathe of common ground near Chiswick, where the London militia, bolstered by the very people of the metropolis they were sworn to protect, marched out to block the road. It was a daring gambit in the face of the all-conquering Royalist army, and it might have resulted in the worst bloodbath England had ever known. ‘Then you were at Turnham Green.’

  Rawdon nodded. ‘I was. I stood in that vast barricade of flesh and bone, staring down the barrels of so many Royalist muskets. I thought the world must end there and then.’

  Forrester remembered staring back at the Parliamentarians, wondering whether he would be ordered to fire on so many of the king’s subjects. In the end, they had abandoned the advance, fearing the damage such violence would have done to their cause. ‘We had not the stomach for it.’

  ‘I am not certain we did either. Now we shall never know. And I will be ever grateful for that. I am a Londoner. The carnage that day would not have been worth even the Crown, though I’ll thank you not to repeat such treason.’

  ‘When did you—’

  ‘Turn my coat? Winter. I had hopes for peace but attempted to maintain friendships with both sides.’ He grimaced, perhaps reading the incredulity in Forrester’s eyes. ‘It may seem feeble to you, but I am an old man, Captain. Peace matters more than your opinion.’

  ‘But the peace talks foundered,’ Forrester prompted, unwilling to be drawn into an argument.

  ‘They did, and then Parliament implicated me in a plot to seize the Tower armoury.’

  ‘The Crispe plot?’ Forrester said. He almost laughed. For all the old man’s talk of desiring peace, he had been dabbling in espionage the entire time.

  ‘The same. I knew I was in danger if I remained astride our terrible fissure. I threw myself on the King’s mercy.’ He shrugged. ‘His Majesty forgave me, I raised my own regiment, and here we are.’

  ‘Here we are, indeed.’ Forrester went to the other side of the gun carriage and stared down at the ditch. Immediately below them it ceased to run straight, but angled out, forming a tri­angular bastion, spiked storm-poles lining the base like teeth. There was another curving feature to the west, thrust out to protect the southern approach to the Old House in the shape of a half-moon. Again, he was impressed by the ambition – not to mention the level of engineering prowess – that was on display. ‘But the marquess has not forgiven you.’

  ‘He does not truly trust me,’ Rawdon replied, his voice muffled by the wind. ‘But it is more than that, Captain. The Paulets are one of the foremost exponents of the old religion in this country.’

  Forrester could guess what was coming next. ‘And you are ardently for the new.’

  The colonel shot him a wan smile. ‘Basing has become a refuge for Catholics all across the land. A beacon, lighting their way to safety in a nation that has become fraught with danger. I do not begrudge them that, Captain, but they perceive the marquess as their hero.’

  ‘And their commander,’ said Forrester, beginning to understand.

  ‘Aye. He is lord here, but I am governor. How can I make plans for defence or attack if those under my command do not consider me their leader?’

  Forrester saw now that things were not as straightforward as he had first thought. Matters of military expertise, religious difference and deep-set mistrust were compounded by rivalry over who really commanded Basing House. He wondered how the great fortress was to remain strong if the unity of its leaders could not, but decided to keep his own council. ‘Will the rebels attack Basing?’

  ‘Eventually, they must,’ said Rawdon. ‘The south-east has a great many Royalists, but they keep mouths and doors firmly shut. The active men in these shires are those for Parliament. Militarily at least, Westminster’s arm reaches all the way to the coast. And yet still there stand enclaves for our cause. Winchester, Donnington Castle, Basing House.’ He looked across at Forrester, plucking off his hat and ruffling his hair. ‘For the rebel lion to truly take this region, he must first pluck those thorns from his paw.’

  ‘You will prove a deep-set thorn, sir,’ Forrester said truthfully. He might have concerns over Basing’s divisive leadership, but Rawdon was intelligent, and his preparations for the house were genuinely robust.

  ‘Aye, that we will,’ Rawdon said. He met Forrester’s eyes. ‘And we pray Baron Hopton will punch through to relieve us before any real blood is spilt.’

  Forrester kept his gaze level. ‘He marches soon.’

  ‘Then perhaps all will be well,’ Rawdon said, looking away to the distant hills. ‘And in the meantime, I shall arrange for our own forays to become more penetrating. Let us keep the rebel busy, so that he does not notice his enemy approach.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel Rawdon. I shall take pleasure in delivering your reply to Oxford.’

  Rawdon turned to face him, his tone almost apologetic. ‘Unless you might stay a while.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘You are engaged in something pressing at our new capital?’

  A voice in the back of Forrester’s mind screamed at him to claim that he needed to return to Oxford immediately upon pain of death. And yet part of him could not help but be enticed by the offer. Rawdon seemed a good man, and the prospect of languishing in camp for only God knew how long made him yearn to stay out in the field. Not least because Stryker had managed to slip Oxford’s shackles, and the fact irked him more than he cared confess. He shook his head. ‘What did you have in mind, sir?’

  ‘My men are green, Captain,’ Rawdon said. ‘Raised only in April, they have sallied out for supplies, and, to their credit, were active in repulsing Norton’s attack in July. But these raids you ask for will take skill and courage. My men possess the latter in abundance.’

  ‘You would have me fight for you, sir?’ Forrester asked.

  Marmaduke Rawdon sucked his moustache again, and gave a firm nod.
‘With me, Forrester, aye. Lead one of the sally parties. Show them how a proper warrior goes about his business.’ He extended his hand for Forrester to shake. ‘What say you?’

  CHAPTER 5

  St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 5 October 1643

  The sea was part of Scilly. It surrounded, shaped and harassed the myriad rocky outcrops that formed this far-flung English outpost. Yet it was more than this. It pervaded everything: the smell on the wind; the salt in the air; the sound all around as the Atlantic sucked and broke in frothing whirlpools at the foot of every cliff. Stryker heard it now, forcing open his eyes, and imagined the great waves as they crashed home in their perpetual battle with the land. A stabbing pang of longing jolted through him. To see those waves, to feel that frenzied wind on his face. It would be very heaven, he was certain.

  The dark-skinned man had not visited the prisoners again, leaving them for more long hours to wonder at their fate and the bizarre accusation that had been levelled at them. And then soldiers had come. They were garrison men, Stryker guessed, shipped over from Cornwall at the outset of the war, and here they had stayed, waited, watched the tumultuous seas and prayed the rebels would never come. Now they believed they had arrived in the form of a one-eyed officer, a Scottish dwarf and a motley assortment of hard-looking rogues. No wonder they would not speak with him. The soldiers had hauled Stryker up by his armpits and dragged him along a dank passageway through the heart of Star Castle, dumping him unceremoniously in another cell, one with manacles hanging by chains from the stone wall, and with only rats for company. There was a window, and, tiny though it was, the pathetic chink of light that streamed through was more welcome to Stryker than a feather bed. He could now tell dawn from dusk, at the very least.

  That had been almost two days ago, he reckoned, and nothing had been forthcoming since. Food, water, a fresh piss-pot, all brought by sullen guards who seemed to shy away from him as though he were a fierce dog.