‘And why did you sail here, Captain? Let me have a stab at it, eh? You’re after the gold.’
Stryker felt as though he had been kicked squarely in the crotch. He swallowed hard. ‘I do not—’
‘You seek the personal fortune of Sir Alfred Cade,’ the dark man went on, his tone laced with relish. ‘Seek it for Cavalier coffers. Well you’re out o’ luck.’
‘Cavalier coffers?’ Stryker echoed the phrase, but before it had passed his lips, he understood. ‘It is you who are the rebel.’
The man shrugged. ‘If the Cropheads pay me more than the malignants, aye. And for this enterprise, certainly.’
‘A mercenary.’
‘Like you.’
‘And you seek the treasure, too.’
One of the bright eyes winked. ‘Now we understand one another. And you see why it is expedient for me to have the earnest Captain Balthazar think you a dastardly Roundhead.’
‘Who are you?’ Stryker asked.
The man bowed, eliciting a low chortle from his guards. ‘I am Sterne Fassett.’ He spoke the name as if expecting Stryker to give a gasp of recognition. Evidently disgruntled when he did not, he indicated the two sentries. ‘These stoic fellows answer to me. The big bugger is Locke Squires, the other Clay Cordell.’
Stryker stared at the three hard faces and the picture began to take form in his mind. They were neither garrison men nor conscripted locals, no more associated with the islands than he. ‘And Balthazar?’
Fassett’s cheek quivered briefly. ‘He answers to my employer.’
‘You do not command this business?’ Stryker asked, then he gave a slow, deliberate smile. ‘No. Of course not. You are a mere hireling. Who pays you?’ The man remained tight-lipped, refusing to take the bait. He decided to push against a different flank. ‘Why am I here? Why am I alive?’ He turned his back on his gaolers, walking to the little window to look out at the excavations. The grass that ran all the way between castle and shore bent away from the wind, except where those brown smudges broke up the terrain. The edges of the pits were smeared with loose soil, freshly deposited. He looked back at Sterne Fassett. ‘You do not know where the gold is, do you? That is what this is about. You know it is in the Scillies, but you do not know where.’ Something else occurred to him as a new tension seemed to tug at his captors’ faces. ‘That is why you are left here with me, Mister Fassett, is it not? Your employer has not come to me because he is not here. He searches even now.’
Stryker knew that he had spoken true, but with a deep breath and gritted teeth, the rebel mercenary gathered his composure, folding his arms across his chest like a barrier against his prisoner’s jibes. He nodded. ‘Very good, Captain, he seeks the gold. That is why I am here. I need to know where it is.’ With that, Fassett clicked his fingers and the guards moved. They came like a pair of statues given life by black magic, lurching forth with strong arms, faces utterly implacable. ‘And you, good sir, are going to tell me.’
Stryker picked the bigger of the two, raising his fists to defend himself, but he was far too weak to muster the speed he needed and the giant swatted him away with a derisive backhand. The second man hit him from behind and he fell, turned roughly on his back by hands that seemed like bear paws at his shoulders and ankles. They had him pinned, though he spat and cursed, and a swift fist to his guts smashed the wind out of him. Stryker would have screamed if he’d had the strength, for he was transported to a dark room in one of Gloucester’s back streets where a Parliamentarian soldier with a grudge had beaten him to near death. He saw that leering face now, while his eye was smothered by the palm of one of the guards, and recalled the sting of the blows with gut-wrenching horror. But no punches came, nor kicks or slaps. To his puzzled fear it was more hands that invaded, groping at his face, pulling hard against his jaw so that his mouth was prized open. Now he cried out and lurched up, bucking against the rough wooden tube that now nestled hard against his tongue. The fingers slipped from his eye, and he found himself staring up at those impassive expressions. The smaller man still pinned his legs, but the bigger one wriggled up to kneel across his chest, forcing his writhing torso down against the filthy rushes and jamming the tube further into Stryker’s mouth so that it pressed hard on the back of his tongue, making him gag. Stryker felt his resistance fade with every jerk and his assailant must have felt it too, for he eased back a touch, allowing him to release one of his hands, and he put it to his belt, producing a frighteningly thin poniard that he now lowered to hover just above his captive’s eye.
Stryker knew he was beaten. He fell limp, letting his own arms drop, nails scrabbling at the reeds as his throat seared in private flame, the harsh sides of the tube grinding against the soft flesh of his lips and throat.
He stared wildly about the room, searching for Fassett. When he saw him, a feeling of cold dread pulsed up and down his body. The man stepped casually across to where he lay, and Stryker saw that he was cradling a large jug.
‘Where is the treasure, Captain Stryker?’ Fassett asked, as if he addressed a half-wit.
Stryker could not shake his head, but he grunted his defiance and gave his shoulders a cursory shake that did nothing to move the weight of the man kneeling above.
Fassett sighed deeply, and stooped over his captive. He poised the jug near the tube that Stryker now understood was to be used as a funnel, letting it remain there in unspoken threat. Stryker simply stared back at him, unwilling to show the fear that crashed against him like the tide beyond. Fassett shrugged, tipped the jug forwards, and Stryker saw the liquid cascade down the funnel. It splashed his face where it clipped the wooden rim, and then it was in his mouth. He felt his tongue buck against it instinctively, though it did no good, pinned as it was by the wooden implement, and the liquid filled his mouth and swelled out over his lips, causing him to gag and splutter as it threatened his windpipe. All he could do was swallow. He tasted salt, intense and burning as he gulped it down.
‘That’s right, Captain,’ Fassett said as he eased back the jug, reclining on his haunches at Stryker’s side. ‘It is our most abundant resource.’
Suddenly the funnel was gone, the weight was lifted, and Stryker sat upright. He vomited, hard and long, gasping for air and scouring his gums with his tongue. ‘Seawater!’
Fassett nodded. ‘Simple enough. I’d be content enough to cut your stones off, but it will not do to be seen torturing. This stuff won’t kill you in small doses, but, by God, it’ll make your guts raw.’ He looked at the stone-faced giant. ‘Not least after Locke, here, took a nice long piss in it.’
Stryker bolted forwards on all fours, retching again, a long trail of vomit-flecked bile dangling from chin to ground. ‘I’ll drown you in it. Drown you in the sea, you bastard.’
Fassett seemed amused. ‘Good. Courage is always admirable, however futile.’ He lifted the jug, frowning as he wiped spots of water from it with his sleeve. ‘Not some clever poison, I grant you, but we shan’t run out. Now tell me. Where is the fucking gold?’
‘No,’ was all Stryker managed to say.
‘No?’ Fassett mimicked. ‘That is no kind of answer, Captain.’ He tutted softly. ‘Naughty boy.’ He nodded at Squires and Cordell. Stryker tried to struggle, but they clamped him with iron hands and flipped him on to his back so that his head bounced hard on the stone floor.
Stryker found his voice and bellowed like a caged beast, the sound echoing about the gloomy cell, but the funnel was there again, hovering, looming, and it was jammed down, clattering his teeth and probing his throat. He gagged, the giant slapped him hard, and then the salty water was rushing into him again, a thick stream of bubbling, brackish torment. He thought he would drown, then he knew he would vomit, and all the while Sterne Fassett leered above him, grinning, muttering, pouring.
They released him. He rolled away, smacking lips together like a landed carp and desperate to find an escape. The guards laughed. Fassett handed his jug to the choleric-looking Cordell and advanced on Stryker
, cocking his head inquisitively in the way a child might study the contents of a rock pool. ‘This can continue for as long as you like. Though eventually, of course, you will die.’
‘I—’ Stryker gasped.
Fassett bent lower, turning his ear to the feeble voice. ‘What say you?’
‘I will kill you.’
Sterne Fassett laughed. It was a cruel sound, too loud in this confined space, and Stryker shuddered involuntarily. ‘Pity.’
‘Bastard,’ was all Stryker managed to blurt.
Fassett had his lackeys haul the prisoner upright, the seat of his breeches becoming wet as he sat in the pool of seawater and bile. ‘Let us try again,’ he said when Stryker had been allowed a few moments to gain control of his breathing. ‘You were sent here to recover the personal fortune of Sir Alfred Cade. Where, exactly, is it?’
‘Up your arse.’
Fassett ignored him. ‘Where is the Cade treasure, Captain?’
Stryker stared up at him. ‘You were sent here too,’ he rasped, throat ablaze. ‘Who by?’
‘That is no concern of yours.’
‘And if they knew it was in the Scillies, why did they not know exactly where?’
With a jerk of Fassett’s chin, Squires and Cordell descended upon Stryker and the funnel was there again, clattering teeth, scraping gums, pinioning his tongue. The jug loomed in judgement for a second, tilted rapidly, and a thick stream of water gushed over the rim and into Stryker’s gullet. It burned again, he gagged and choked, and growled and twisted, and they jumped back to avoid the splashing fountain that pulsed hot and fast from the depths of his wracked body. Stryker went on to hands and knees, coughing and spluttering and staring at the rushes as he dribbled the last of the liquid between his flattened palms. He tried to stand, but found no strength in his limbs, so he keeled on to his side, utterly beaten.
‘Now then, sir,’ Sterne Fassett said. ‘You take your time. Have a think. Ponder your future, such as it is. I’ll be back in time. See what’s what.’
Stryker closed his eye. He heard the door creak open and slam shut. He spat a lump of something acrid from his mouth. A soft keening echoed around the dank walls. After a while, he realized it came from him.
CHAPTER 6
Near Holybourne, Hampshire, 7 October 1643
It was not yet dawn, but already the misty shroud draped over the thick forest gave the darkness an ethereal glow. The sky was cloudless and black and glittered with a million pricks of starlight, while droplets of dew, clinging on the jagged tops of beech and ash that punctured the mist, winked back at the bright moon like a countless hoard of jewels. Below the canopy, on a narrow bridleway that was soft and made treacherous by invisible roots, a long line of men trudged in the gloom. They were armed with muskets, swords and daggers. Bandoliers hung across their chests, wooden flasks dangling heavy with black powder, for they knew that this day would begin with blood. The soldiers were silent, save the muffled oath grunted when a man tripped, clattering into the body in front. All were watchful as foxes in a field full of hounds, scrutinizing the darkness for that tell-tale glint of blade or helm that would give away a concealed foe. This was dangerous, hotly disputed territory. Every lane, bridleway and crossroads was splashed with blood from one skirmish or another. And the further south they travelled, the further they were from the safety of Basing.
Captain Lancelot Forrester was out in front. He stared up at the stars, whispered a silent prayer, and let his gaze drop to the treetops to gauge whether a breeze shifted the mist. Nothing. All was still. He ignored the pounding in his chest and listened to the crunch of his boots over the twig-strewn bridleway. The first he saw of the village was the spire of the ancient church. It rose above the trees that cloaked the northern fringe of the settlement, serving as a marker for this night’s enterprise. They were a hundred paces off now, and the bridleway began to taper sharply so that the thick branches of the trees crowded on both sides, starving the moonlight. The earth here retained some of the night’s damp, and Forrester was forced to slow the pace lest they slip in the cloying mud.
They reached the limit of the trees. Beyond was the churchyard. It was a small patch of land surrounding the chapel, marked by pale stones punctuating long grass. Forrester peered between the branches masking their approach, searching the dark near-distance. There they were; pastel smudges dotted here and there, irregular shapes strewn on the grass between the angles and lines of the tombstones. He felt his palms slicken, and wiped them instinctively on the dark wool of his coat. He turned back to his sergeant, a man with a nose so narrow and hooked that he put Forrester in mind of a gigantic bird, and nodded mutely. The sergeant spun on his heels and whispered orders down the waiting line.
Out of the darkness came dozens of bright orange lights. The risk of an errant spark alerting the enemy had been too great for Forrester to entertain, especially given the inexperience of his new charges, and he had ordered that only two of his musketeers carry lighted matches on the march out of Basing. Now that they were safely here, the glowing tips were brought to life and passed back along the line. He had thirty raiders, drawn mostly from Rawdon’s yellowcoats, and it was a matter of moments before all thirty men had the means to ignite the charges already set inside their weapons.
Forrester pushed out through the branches. Colonel Rawdon’s spies had reported that the half-company billeted at Holybourne’s church were only setting pickets to the south of the village, presumably expecting trouble to come from the established highway. Forrester thanked God, for he saw that the information had been correct, and only silence greeted his advance. At his back he could hear the rustling of branches as his men inched on to the long grass, skirting the first crooked stones, edging ever closer to their sleeping prize. He glanced over his shoulder, waving frantically for them to fan out in a wide arc.
A shout went up. He knew instantly that it had not come from one of his men. He drew his sword, the ringing of steel sounding unnaturally loud in the blackness. More shouts came from among the stones. The shapes were shifting, melding blotches of grey like so many wraiths. The enemy was awake. Forrester drew breath into his lungs. His mouth was saltpetre-dry.
‘Fire!’
Flame roared out from the thirty muskets, sparking pans turned to tongues of fire in the jet darkness. A dense volley of shots rippled along the yellow-coated line to spawn a vast, roiling cloud of white smoke that billowed immediately at their front, scudding out and up, obscuring the cemetery as though a thick fog had descended. But they heard the screams. Shrill and blood-freezing, splitting the darkness as though the very gates of hell had been flung open in this quiet little village.
‘Forward!’ Forrester bellowed. ‘On! On! On!’ The momentum was with his men, and he would not let it slip. He advanced through the powder smoke, revelling in the familiar stink of rotten eggs, feeling exhilaration bring strength to his limbs and sharpness to his senses. The enemy would be reeling, he knew, stumbling backwards, bleary-eyed and stunned, still hoping against hope that this was all some horrific nightmare. He swung his sword in a high arc. ‘Reverse your muskets, damn your hides! Give ’em a battering, by God!’
The sergeant was with him, his own sword naked and gleaming, and then Forrester saw the rest as they stepped through the smoke. They snarled and crowed, teeth bared like wild dogs scenting the kill, muskets turned about to present wooden stocks that would club a man like the heaviest cudgel imaginable.
The enemy were close. Half a dozen bodies threw twisted shapes on the ground to Forrester’s front, but most had survived that first volley, and they were beginning to gather their bearings and regroup near the doorway of the church. Some frantically scrabbled at muskets, but it was difficult to load the weapons in the dark, and near impossible with a howling band of killers closing in, and most turned the long-arms about to meet the threat, while others tossed them away in favour of steel. There were probably forty, Forrester reckoned. Enough to bloody his party’s noses if allowed to
gain some semblance of order, and he pressed in quickly, breaking into a run and yearning to hear the steps of his men at his back.
He hit the first man hard. The fellow was taller, wielding a wicked-looking partisan that glinted in the moonlight, and Forrester realized that he must be one of the officers. He ducked under a wild swing, kicking the man between the legs, and brought the heavy pommel of his sword down at the exposed temple. The officer crumpled with a grunt, not even managing to put his arms out to break his fall. Another man darted from the pack near the doorway, brandishing a reversed musket that he jabbed out at Forrester’s head. The move was slow, easily read, and Forrester side-stepped calmly, thrusting the point of his blade at his opponent’s throat. He did not stay to see what damage had been caused, jerking back the steel and moving on while the man slumped, gargling, to his knees.
The men of Marmaduke Rawdon’s Regiment of Foot surged on, leaping the black patches of long-cooled fires, swarming about their leader for this night’s killing, screaming banshee cries at the moon. Forrester could just make out his own party, thankful for the yellow coats that gave them a wan glow in the night. His blood rushed, his senses razor-keen. He told himself he hated battle. It was moments like this that made him realize such sentiments were false, however well meant. Another man lurched out from the shadows by the church wall, emerging in Forrester’s face as if from nowhere, and it was all he could do to parry the sword that flickered at his throat. He hit the man, noticing his coat of light green as he drove his free fist squarely at the exposed chin, but it was just a glance, merely forcing his opponent to take a step back. But that step met with the body of a prone Parliamentarian, blood still jetting from a tear in the side of his neck, and Forrester’s challenger lost his footing. Forrester seized his chance without consideration, leaping at the floundering rebel before he could find his balance, barrelling into his unarmoured chest. The pair fell, careening over the bleeding body and landing in a tangle of limbs on the rough ground.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 9