‘To talk,’ the cloaked figure said, his voice soft and rasping, carefully controlled. ‘We are friends.’
Ball patted his wet clothes. ‘Friends? Do friends drench a man from his slumber?’ He glanced quickly at the others. One of the smaller pair looked to be a mulatto. What was striking were the scars unnaturally highlighted against his skin, like hairs from a white cat scattered across a brown cloth. They told a story about their bearer that made Ball’s stomach lurch. ‘Who are you?’
The cloaked man held a hand to his hood as it flapped madly in the wind. ‘My name is Tainton. I am a commissioner for the King.’
‘King Pym?’
The hood moved from side to side. ‘King Charles Stuart. Be assured that we mean you no harm.’
Ball was not assured. ‘Then why am I here?’
‘We have come to collect Sir Alfred Cade’s gold.’
‘Never heard of him,’ Ball lied. He had been warned that men would soon converge upon Tresco. He had even been told that the men would be hard and determined, the kind who looked more like brigands than soldiers. The Frenchwoman had appeared one morning with a note from Queen Henrietta Maria herself, and knowledge of the Cades that few could possibly have possessed, and Ball had believed her story. He had told her where the gold was hidden, listened intently as she had prepared him for the arrival of a band of Cavaliers that would see the prize safely back to the king’s coffers. But something was not right.
‘Do not dissemble, Mister Ball,’ the cloaked man said. He handed the dishevelled islander a square of parchment. ‘I have been sent all this way to retrieve Cade’s fortune for the Crown, in order to prosecute the war to its fullest. It is what Sir Alfred would have wanted.’
Ball glanced at the parchment. He had guarded the secret for so long that it had become part of him, but the knowledge ached. It was a burden, for the Cades were a powerful dynasty in the years before the war, and the house was their bolt-hole, where they might secrete themselves if the capricious political tide ever changed. Ball almost laughed at the irony. The tide had not only changed, it had sucked Sir Alfred down with it, long before he could make use of this far-flung hiding place that had been two decades in the making. It was such a waste. Perhaps now was the time to finally shed the lies, to lift the burden. And yet, as Toby Ball stared from face to face, he felt the uneasiness build. And then he remembered. The Frenchwoman had said that the man in command of the mission had one grey eye. Ball tightened his resolve. ‘It is not mine to give.’
‘Then you do understand me?’
Ball gave back the commission. ‘Aye, sir, I do. But the gold is not here. It is hidden away. Known only to Sir Alfred’s daughter.’ She had been a joy to know, her laughter drifting over Carn Near like the song of the birds for which the house was named. ‘Where is Cecily? Why did they not send her with you?’
‘You have not heard, of course,’ the cloaked man replied. ‘Cecily Cade was killed. Murdered by a rebel at Gloucester.’
‘Oh, good Christ,’ Ball whispered. He felt sick to his stomach. ‘That poor girl. Jesu, help her.’
The wind was picking up, ravaging the hood so that its wearer was forced to pin it to his skull with both hands. ‘Where is the gold, Mister Ball?’
‘I cannot—’ Ball began, trailing off when he saw the blue eyes narrow to slits. A voice within screamed for him to speak plain, for the Cades were gone. And yet he knew that to give up his secret would be to betray the family he had served for so long. It was not simply that the man in the cloak was not the one-eyed soldier of whom he had been warned. There was something so deeply unsettling in the eyes that now fixed upon him, Toby Ball was frightened to the depths of his very soul. ‘That is to say,’ he stammered eventually, ‘it is not mine to give. I am merely warden here. A simple retainer for Sir Alfred, God rest his soul.’
The cloaked man stepped close. The skies behind were quickly turning black. ‘You are compelled, by order of King Charles, to relinquish the Cade fortune.’
‘Only four of you,’ Ball said suddenly.
The man shook his head. ‘What say you, sir?’
‘The King personally sends a delegation,’ Ball answered, clarity finally beginning to puncture his ale-fuddled wits. ‘If I were him, I’d send a goodly number of men for such a task.’ Indeed, the Frenchwoman had said as much.
The blue eyes seemed to twitch. ‘He has not the men to spare.’
‘He is winning the war, is he not?’ said Ball. There was something amiss here, he was certain. ‘It is the Parliament who have not the men, by my reckoning.’
The mulatto launched forth without warning, stooping to grasp a fistful of Ball’s collar, lifting him a fraction so that the hapless warden dangled like a hooked fish. ‘Just fuckin’ tell us, you old soak,’ he growled, flinging spittle over Ball’s face, ‘less’n you want me to yank every one o’ those teeth out your skull.’
‘Roundhead,’ Ball said, suddenly sure. He slid his gaze from the mulatto to the hooded man. ‘You’re Roundheads, damn your treasonous bones!’
Lightning cracked out over the sea. A furious gust buffeted them so that they had to brace themselves against its ire. The hood came free and Toby Ball wondered if he did not deal with men at all, but a band of demons. The man in the cloak had been burned clean of his features, as though his face had slid away like molten wax.
‘My name is Roger Tainton,’ the apparition said as more lightning rent the sky, ‘and I have come here for Sir Alfred Cade’s gold. Tell me where it is, Mister Ball, or, as King Jesus is my witness, you will never see another sunrise.’
Near Chilbolton, Hampshire, 13 October 1643
Forrester eased back the curtain of branches and squinted through the dense foliage. It might have been a bitterly cold autumn morning, but much of the forest’s canopy had not yet fallen, and it was as though the whole area had been smothered by a near impenetrable cloak of reds and browns. This was the reason why he and Dewhurst had opted to stay within the trees rather than risk the northbound road, but now, as he strained to identify from whence the soft whickering had come, part of him cursed the heavy-laden boughs. Behind him, in the small grove, Oberon snaffled something noisily from a bramble thicket. Forrester glanced back. Dewhurst shrugged, blowing gently on the tip of the match they kept lit at all times. Oberon chewed happily, and Forrester went back to keeping watch.
He steadied his breathing so that it was deliberately shallow, and settled down to wait. They had seen their pursuers on the horizon within an hour of their escape, and had resolved upon going to ground as soon as the terrain allowed. During that first evening, after doubling back twice and laying trail after trail of false clues, they had reached the woodland. A deep cleft in the forest floor had provided a little shelter, and, though food was scarce, they had managed to gather mushrooms and berries, and that, along with the rock-hard hunk of bread that had been at the bottom of their stolen snapsack, had kept the hunger to a dull gnaw for the night. As sunrise returned their sight, they had attempted to leave for Basing, but a rapid reconnaissance revealed the four troopers still patrolling the area, and Forrester had decided to find a new place in which to hide. Thus they had come to this grove, a bucolic chapel of wizened elms as old as the earth itself, and had dared wonder if it might be the kind of secret hideaway in which fugitives could lay low for days or even weeks. But now they heard what sounded like horses. They must wait and watch.
Everything seemed eerily silent as he scanned the edges of the low bridleway and the place where pilgrims would be forced to climb up to ground level. The birdsong was gone, the whipping wind muffled by heavy branches. He was conscious suddenly of how exhausted he felt, the pounding of his heart now present in his ears, blood rushing noisily as if to remind him of the need to rest.
There it was again; the soft, almost tuneful outbreath of a horse. Someone was coming, albeit slowly, along the bridleway. Forrester reached behind, flapping a hand at the sergeant who ran as softly as he could across the
leaf mulch of the forest floor. The grove was concealed enough to keep even the tall Dewhurst hidden, but still he hunched low, as if his head would be blown from his shoulders at any second. He handed Forrester the red-tipped match, lit his own against it, and handed over their only loaded musket. He slunk back immediately, match pinched carefully between thumb and forefinger as he set about making the other musket ready.
‘Is it them?’ Dewhurst asked as he levered the stopper from one of the powder boxes.
‘Wait,’ Forrester replied quietly. He fixed his own match in the serpentine, so that it loomed over the closed priming pan, and eased forward, bracing his chest against a particularly sturdy bough. He settled into position and levelled the long-arm, adjusting the wooden stock by fractions until it was comfortable against his shoulder, testing the trigger twice to ensure that the gently smoking embers would touch the pan when the time came.
The first thing he saw was the horse’s muzzle. It was white, dappled with grey touches, and Forrester instantly tensed. The rest of the beast came into view, rising from the ancient track in a flurry of hooves and snorts, and on its back was a soldier. He wore the helmet of regular cavalry, comprised of sheets of steel riveted at the back in a protective tail and a visor with three thin vertical bars enclosing the face. He was coated in buff leather, one hand gloved, the other gauntleted, and a long sword hung at his side. Two more riders came next, both atop large black horses but dressed in exactly the same way. ‘Yes, it is them,’ he whispered.
Dewhurst swore. ‘You’re certain? Per chance they are Royalists?’
A fourth horseman emerged on to the higher ground. He straddled a muscular bay that had white fetlocks matted and mud-spattered from hard riding. He too wore a helmet, but Forrester could see the thick white beard that cascaded from his face and the tawny scarf tied about his waist. ‘They are not Royalists. It is that bloody Croatian fellow.’
‘Kovac.’
‘The same.’
‘He’ll kill us, Captain,’ Dewhurst hissed. ‘He’s a villain, that one.’
Forrester nodded, flicking back the pan cover so that match would meet naked powder if the trigger was pulled. For a moment he considered keeping silent, letting the cavalrymen pass by, but they had tailed him in the manner of consummate professionals and he knew that any respite in this chase would be fleeting. They were not going to shed their pursuers without a fight. He drew breath into his lungs. ‘Turn about, gentlemen, or you’ll be breaking your fast on lead!’
The Parliamentarians looked towards him, squinting into the tangled foliage. One of them drew his sword, but Kovac spoke quickly and the blade was immediately returned. There was evidently to be no crazed charge. The big Croat kicked his bay, urging it closer by ten yards or so. ‘There are four of us, Captain Forrester!’
‘He knows it is us, then,’ Dewhurst muttered at Forrester’s back as he hurriedly loaded his musket.
‘The four horsemen!’ Forrester shouted. ‘How very apocalyptic, Captain!’
Kovac laughed. ‘It will be your Armageddon if you do not show yourselves this instant!’
‘You are four, and I have four pieces!’ Forrester responded defiantly. ‘One ball for each of you!’
Kovac laughed again. ‘You have two! Do not waste your breath with bluffs, Forrester, it demeans us both!’
Forrester was grudgingly impressed that Kovac had checked how many weapons had been taken during the pair’s escape. He eyed the mercenary along the length of the black barrel, fixing his sights upon Kovac’s chest. He knew the range was too great for any kind of accuracy, but the horsemen were bunched, making the likelihood of hitting one of them much more realistic. ‘But that means two of you will die this day! Is it truly a wager you are willing to make?’
Kovac snapped rapid orders and the three troopers surged out, two to his left, the other to his right. Forrester cursed viciously. ‘Where’s that musket?’ he hissed at Dewhurst.
The Hawk scrambled to his side. In his talon-like fingers he clutched the weapon, and he settled down beside Forrester, training the barrel on one of the cantering targets. ‘Ready, sir.’
‘Check your coals, Sergeant.’
Dewhurst pulled the trigger. The match fell slightly long, overreaching the pan by a fraction that might render the musket impotent. He immediately coloured, smothering his embarrassment by busying himself with the match’s readjustment. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Wisely and slow, Sergeant,’ Forrester said. ‘So says the Bard. They stumble that run fast.’ There was no profit to be made in berating the man. Dewhurst, Forrester reckoned, was entitled to be nervous.
The horsemen had fanned out, dividing a single, static target into four that were fast-moving and obscured by trees. Kovac went left, whooping at his snorting bay so that great clods of soil flew up in its wake. The beast whinnied in its exhilaration, weaving at speed through the trees at right angles with the grove. He was daring Forrester to discharge his guns, waste the two paltry shots he had. And yet Forrester knew there was nothing else to be done. He had no sword, nothing with which to stand and fight, and the cavalrymen would be on them in moments.
‘What now?’ Dewhurst hissed.
‘Pick one and pull the trigger,’ Forrester returned. ‘And try not to miss, there’s a good chap.’ He moved the musket sideways, keeping the muzzle fixed upon Kovac. ‘The leader’s mine. If that card falls, the rest of the pack just might collapse as well.’
Two of the horsemen came directly at them, screaming, teeth bared, drawing their swords as they stood in their stirrups.
‘Hold,’ Forrester warned. ‘Let them come close.’ But even as the words left his mouth, he realized Kovac had not turned his mount in to face them. He kept going, galloping to the fugitives’ right, and Forrester understood that the Croat meant to outflank them. The fourth Roundhead would be following suit, he guessed, heading about their left side to attack the rear. There was no time. Even if they got their shots off, what good would it do? He pushed back off the low bough, breaking the trance between muzzle and target. ‘Forget it, Sergeant!’
Dewhurst twisted back to stare in horror. ‘Sir?’
‘Now, man!’ he barked, pausing only to grasp the bandolier, slinging it over his neck in one motion. ‘Back to Oberon before we’re surrounded!’
Dewhurst did as he was told, scrambling out from the tangle of branches to run after Forrester. The captain reached the jet gelding and handed Dewhurst his musket. He clambered up on to the horse’s bare back, reaching down to take the long-arm again, and wheeled the mount about. ‘We make our stand here, then ride like the devil. Ready?’
The sergeant’s beaklike face pecked the air. ‘Ready, sir.’
The first two cavalrymen crashed through the brush. One from the direction of the initial charge, the other from the rear. They were each twenty paces away, and Dewhurst raised his musket and fired, immediately vanishing in a cloud of his own powder smoke. Oberon juddered, hooves thudding as he tried to bolt, but Forrester held him still, hauling at the reins with every ounce of strength and hoping the rough-stitched halter would bare the strain. He saw that the second horseman was Kovac. The air was smoke-misted and grey, but he took aim nonetheless. Kovac snarled, sword high and glittering, and Forrester fired. The smoke billowed about his head so that he could see nothing. He did not wait for the remaining two attackers, instead slamming the musket across his lap and grasping Dewhurst’s outstretched arm. He hauled the sergeant up just as the next rider burst into the grove, and raked Oberon’s flanks with his boots, cursing his gaolers for confiscating his spurs. Oberon lurched forwards, rearing slightly so that his two passengers were forced to cling to his mane and to each other.
Another shot rang out, cracking across the grove in the sharp report of a pistol. The other riders would be upon them, Forrester knew, but he did not look back. Oberon reached a gallop, thrashing across the leaves with a raging whinny that rose above the shouts of the men. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a
glimpse of Wagner Kovac through the smoke, the implacable hunter had been punched clean from his saddle and lay flat on the forest floor. Forrester crowed to the trees, for they had escaped, and as they pushed through the ring of elms and out into the open wood, he could feel Oberon picking up speed, as if angels had lent the redoubtable gelding their wings.
‘Ha!’ Forrester cried. ‘They won’t follow now their damned leader’s down! No, sir, they will not! To Basing with us, Sergeant Dewhurst!’
He twisted back when his companion did not reply. It was only then that he understood why Oberon could gallop at such pace. Dewhurst was gone.
St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 13 October 1643
Titus Gibbons hated the rebellion. His Cornish roots and penchant for rich living lent him a natural antipathy for the new kind of Englishman who would turn the country on its head. But it was more than that. A deeper feeling, one that stirred his very heart’s blood. Those men who seemed intent on shattering the long-held traditions and principles upon which his own character was moulded did not understand the world beyond Land’s End or Dover, Carlisle or Berwick. They knew nothing of the savages found in the New World, or the pizzle-slicing Turks plaguing the Mediterranean. They had never seen whole cities of blackamoors, nor the slant-eyed multitudes that came from the most easterly reaches of civilization. But Titus Gibbons had seen them all, traded with them in European, African and Asian ports. And they had taught him one thing; England, for all its divers faults, was to be cherished.
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he said as he sipped wine from his goblet and leaned closer to the fire, ‘any man meaning to change my country must go through me first.’ He supped again, listening to the roar of the storm outside. The tempest had renewed its anger in the last few hours, and he was pleased to have docked after weeks at sea. The Stag was at anchor out in St Mary’s Pool, but it was safe enough in the shelter of the harbour. Even so, he took another sip in private salute to those of his crew left aboard her stomach-churning decks.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 18