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

by Arnold, Michael

  ‘Will we win this war?’ Captain William Balthazar’s gentle voice reached him above the crackle of the hearth.

  Gibbons closed his eyes, revelling in the heat of the flames on his face, imagining the film of sea salt being scorched away from his skin. ‘Losing faith, Captain?’

  Balthazar was standing further back, staring out of a large window at the dim dusk. They were in the governor’s suite of rooms on the upper level of the castle’s central house. ‘It is difficult to gauge matters from so distant a range. You visit all the ports, you see the manner of things with your own eyes.’

  Gibbons drained his cup, set it on a little table at his side and bent to pet his dogs. The animals were curled about his chair, snoring loudly. ‘I suppose you are rather isolated out here.’ He smiled as the mastiff, Sir Francis, rolled over to allow Gibbons access to his belly. ‘Yes, we’ll win. We have to win. God is on our side.’

  ‘You believe that?’ Balthazar said distantly. He set his own goblet on a sideboard that was set along the wall adjacent to the window.

  ‘I believe enough people believe it.’

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  Gibbons straightened, twisting in his seat to look over at the man left in charge of the Isles of Scilly. He liked Balthazar. The bespectacled officer was soft as a new-born pup, but he was also a kindly fellow, and such men were few in days of war. ‘As do I. Things are not easy. The Parliament has the navy, they have most of the ports. They have London’s wealth and the forges of the Weald.’

  Balthazar turned and removed his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. ‘But our armies are in the ascendancy.’

  ‘They are,’ the privateer conceded, sensing his earnest host was engaged in an exercise to overcome his own secret doubts. ‘But some brave fool named Massie held Gloucester against the King himself.’

  ‘Gloucester is of no great import.’

  ‘But it was so unlikely a thing that it did unfathomable good to the rebels’ spirits,’ Gibbons said. ‘It was victory there that made Essex’s success at Newbury possible.’

  ‘He did not win,’ Balthazar said, his tone querulous.

  ‘He did not lose,’ said Gibbons bluntly. He rose from his seat, making the hounds twitch and grumble, and strode to the sideboard. Set on its ornate walnut and mother-of-pearl surface was a thin-necked wine decanter, the kind he had often seen used in French ports. He took it up and replenished his goblet. ‘And that has served as a spur. The bastards in the north have begun to turn things about, our supporters under Newcastle are on the back foot. And now there is talk of an alliance with the Scots.’

  ‘A Royal alliance?’ William Balthazar bleated hopefully. When Gibbons ignored him, moving instead to stare out of the window, his face flushed. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  Gibbons gave a rueful smile. ‘It was rumour only when I heard. Let us hope it has come to nothing.’ He took a lingering draught of the crimson wine. ‘You are fortunate to be out of it.’

  Balthazar looked at him, his gaze angry. ‘We are hardly out of it,’ he blustered. ‘Why, only two weeks ago a Roundhead assault party was foiled in its attempt to take our fair islands.’

  ‘Curious,’ Gibbons said, leaning into the pane of glass so that he might counteract the glare from the flames to peer out at the windswept eve. ‘Why would they bother with the Scillies? With the utmost respect, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Balthazar echoed irritably. It was his turn at condescension. ‘We are a strategic gem, Captain Gibbons, you must know that. Consider how important we have been to the King’s ships.’

  ‘I do not question that, sir, but the rebellion in the south-west is in its death-throes.’ Gibbons stared at the empty courtyard below. Sentries would be up on the walls, huddled in the corners of each of the star’s eight points, counting the hours until their turn on duty was at an end. Beyond the sturdy stone, a little way down the grassy slope on which the castle perched, a gallows stood like a lone giant against the wind. It was dark and tall, forbidding against the grey of the ocean horizon. The noose moved with the wind, never still, pointing the direction of each gust as though invisible bodies already swung from its thick loop. ‘But one must ask oneself: why would they spare men in the taking of Star Castle when they ought to be pouring everything into wresting back Devon and Cornwall? Not to mention Bristol. I mean no disrespect when I say that these islands are small beer by comparison.’

  ‘I cannot answer the question of Westminster strategy, Captain Gibbons.’ Balthazar left the window and went to refresh his own cup, leaving his spectacles on the sideboard in its stead. ‘All I know is that a fluyt by the name of Kestrel was lost off our waters, and it was found to be carrying Parliament men, bound for St Mary’s.’

  ‘Found to be carrying them?’ Gibbons asked. ‘How, if it was lost? You took prisoners?’

  The captain of Star Castle nodded. He was a meek man, but a hint of steel came into his tone as he spoke. ‘We did, aye. They languish in our dungeons even now, awaiting transport back to England, save their leader. A murderous cabal of ruffians if ever there was one. I dread to think what horrors might have been inflicted upon our good folk had they been able to land.’

  ‘They sound positively hell-spawned, Captain Balthazar. I congratulate you on their capture.’

  Balthazar dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘They were led by a rogue who looked like the devil himself. All scars and malice.’

  Gibbons remembered the gallows. ‘The chates are for him?’

  Balthazar glanced out of the window and nodded. ‘Never a better fate was prescribed.’ He placed a hand across his left cheek and eye socket. ‘The knave has but one evil eye and half his face is missing, like so. It is a vile thing to behold, ’pon my honour, it is.’

  Titus Gibbons stared at Balthazar, who still held a hand against his face. ‘One eye? Tell me, Captain, what is his name?’

  CHAPTER 12

  St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 13 October 1643

  ‘I’m just sayin’ you can’nae fail to be impressed,’ the croaking Scots accent echoed in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t you ever shut that trap o’ yours?’ a man with a voice hewn by the rough taverns of Gosport retorted harshly.

  Captain Innocent Stryker listened to his men snipe in the gloom, punctuated only by the damp-sounding coughs of the other prisoners and the harrying wind. Only Barkworth and Skellen, he reflected, could pick a fight in a windowless cell when there was practically nothing to talk about. The thought made him smile, something for which he was grateful. He was sitting on the cold floor to one side of the cramped chamber, knees drawn up to his chest, while the rest of the captives were strewn about like so many rag-dolls, some huddled for warmth in the centre, others seeking solace in the darkest corners. No one had come to them in the days since he had given Tainton the location of the treasure, save the stony-faced garrison men.

  ‘You’re tellin’ me you weren’t impressed?’ Barkworth went on unabated. ‘She bested a bloody harquebusier captain . . . in full armour, mind . . . and tipped him into a vat o’ tar! It’s astonishing!’

  Skellen sighed. ‘Don’t know how many times I have to tell you this bleedin’ story, really I don’t.’

  ‘There’s nowt else to do, you steamin’ yard o’ dog piss,’ Barkworth snapped irritably.

  ‘Mind your—’

  ‘He was bested by his armour,’ a woman’s voice interrupted Skellen’s doubtless stinging retort.

  Skellen peered through the darkness at her. ‘Miss Lisette?’ She had kept almost completely silent since returning with Stryker to the cell.

  ‘The armour,’ she said again. She was sitting against the wall on the far side from Stryker. ‘It was blackened, I remember. Beautiful work. But it weighed him down, made him slow. I had no armour.’

  ‘Why was he tryin’ to kill you, lass?’ Barkworth asked.

  ‘Because I was trying to kill him,’ she said simply. ‘He stole something precious from me. I wanted it back
.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I got it back.’

  Barkworth chuckled his appreciation. ‘And you did’nae know he’d survived his swim?’

  ‘I was wounded at Brentford Fight,’ Stryker said by way of explanation, inwardly hoping the memory would stir something within Lisette. ‘She stayed with me, nursed me.’

  ‘This water tastes like horse shit,’ Lisette said, paying him no attention as she lowered a wooden pail from her mouth. ‘It will probably poison us.’

  ‘Be thankful they’ve brought it at all,’ Stryker answered. After his ordeal with the seawater, the dubious liquid Balthazar’s men had provided was like a glacial lake. His guts still griped when he ate anything, and his limbs were only regaining their strength at a snail’s pace.

  Lisette set the pail down hard, the sound clattering about the chamber. ‘Do not tell me when to be thankful.’

  ‘Just open the damned door, you thick-skulled dolt!’

  The man’s voice, spoken from the far side of the door, punctured the sullen atmosphere like a culverin blast. Stryker, Lisette and the sixteen others looked up, eyes straining to pierce the murky air. ‘I said open it!’ the man bellowed again. ‘Now, you slovenly half-wit, or must I take the back of my hand to you?’

  In a blaze of light, the door flew back on its hinges. Three soldiers burst in, holding flaming torches that cast long shadows throughout the cell, and between them strode the captain of Star Castle, William Balthazar. He glanced quickly about the room, then twisted back to address the man following in his wake. ‘I—I do not understand the—’

  ‘Christ, man, have I not explained myself enough?’ the second fellow snarled again. ‘You said his name was Stryker, yes?’

  Balthazar nodded quickly. ‘I did, I did.’

  The angry man pushed past his confused host and planted his hands of his hips as he scanned the room. Finally he set his gaze upon the man he so furiously sought. ‘Bless my soul. It is you.’

  Stryker struggled to his feet. Despite the numbness in his limbs and the pains that still lanced mercilessly at his guts, he managed to smile. ‘Good-morrow, Titus . . .’

  Tresco, Isles of Scilly, 13 October 1643

  Roger Tainton was becoming increasingly frustrated. The obtuse Toby Ball had suffered the beating with a serenity that had antagonized the former cavalryman to a point of high vexation, and that was not the way in which he had envisaged this meeting playing out. They were in a substantial chamber near the front of Whinchat Place. As soon as he stepped inside, Tainton knew that Ball had not lied. At least not about the house. This was a place constructed for a wealthy family, but inhabited by a lone, simple man. A man who kept watch over Whinchat Place, waiting for the day on which his master would return.

  ‘Sir Alfred is not coming back,’ Tainton said. ‘You know it to be true.’

  ‘I do,’ Toby Ball mumbled. He was slumped in a high-backed chair at the centre of the room, wrists tied behind, swollen face lolling. Though the last vestiges of daylight clung on outside, the gathering storm had darkened the late afternoon, and Tainton had ordered the chamber lit using a trio of fat beeswax candles they found in a cupboard. Now they were set upon a shallow shelf behind Ball, held by sturdy brass candlesticks that Clay Cordell had discovered in an upstairs room, their glow flickering and ominous.

  ‘His daughter and heir,’ Tainton went on, his shadow snaking over the walls as he paced, ‘is gone as well.’

  Ball managed to lift his head. The eyes were puffed to black slits, the nostrils dark with congealed blood. ‘So you claim.’

  ‘There are no Cades left upon God’s earth,’ Tainton continued undaunted. ‘No man, woman or child to give your life purpose.’

  ‘Purpose?’ Ball echoed. He spat a gobbet of saliva on to the boards between his feet. It was thick and crimson.

  Tainton nodded. ‘Your purpose, Mister Ball, is to guard Cade’s wealth.’

  ‘My job was to guard his house.’

  ‘And his money,’ Tainton said, ‘which is here.’ He turned away, staring about the hall’s high ceilings as if golden baubles would hang in the beams. ‘Secreted within these walls.’

  Ball managed a coarse, stuttering cackle. ‘You’re mad, sir.’

  Tainton glanced at Locke Squires. The giant had been waiting patiently in the wings, but moved without a blink to line himself up with the hapless warden. He twisted his shoulders a touch, winding them like a muscle-bound spring, and unleashed a punch that sent Ball’s head snapping back. The chair rocked on its rear legs, teetering for a brief moment with the front pair in the air, before crashing back down again, the scrape of wood on wood echoing unnaturally loudly in the room. Toby Ball’s mangled face was concealed as his head hung limp, bobbing slightly with the juddering of the rest of his body, a thick trickle of blood trailing from his chin to stain his lap.

  ‘Too hard!’ Tainton snarled. There was a large rectangular tapestry hanging on the wall behind, and he could see that it was spattered in bloody droplets. The work depicted the moment Jesus miraculously turned water into wine, but now his face, and those of the awed onlookers, was violated by a trail of scarlet dots. Tainton did not approve of such frivolous furnishings, nor did he condone the imbibing of strong drink, but the damage irked him all the same. ‘Fetch the water, Squires, and be quick about it! I am tired of your stupidity, you lumbering oaf!’

  Locke Squires went to the corner of the room, stooping to collect a bucket of water and proceeding to dash it across Toby Ball’s head. The warden woke immediately, screaming as if the pain had been hiding like a beast poised for the moment to pounce. Now it leapt at him, took hold, made him rock back and cry out in terrible, shrill anguish.

  Behind them, a door swung abruptly open. Sterne Fassett strode in, the choleric-looking Clay Cordell in his wake.

  ‘Well?’ Tainton demanded.

  Fassett spread his palms. ‘Not so much as a groat.’

  ‘You’ve looked thoroughly?’ Tainton asked, cool dread seeping into his chest.

  Fassett nodded. ‘We’ve searched every nook and cranny. The cellars, the rafters, the outbuildings, the kitchens, even the fucking cheese cratch. Place is empty as a nun’s cunny. It ain’t here.’

  ‘It is here,’ Tainton insisted.

  Ball spat a vile stream of blood and water as he looked up. A small noise rumbled from his throat. ‘It is not.’

  ‘Enough with your lies, Ball,’ Tainton seethed. ‘You know where the gold is hidden. You must know.’

  ‘Sir Alfred placed me here to watch his house.’

  ‘Because his fortune is within!’

  Toby Ball let his head loll. ‘No.’

  The denial was enough for Tainton, whose mind raced with increasing desperation. ‘Mister Squires, if you please.’

  Locke Squires dropped his bucket and went to the fettered warden. Without breaking stride, he hit him with a thunderous upper-cut that knocked both man and chair on to the blood-slickened floor. Beyond a quick, sickening crunch, Ball did not make a sound.

  Tainton glared at Squires. ‘What did I tell you, you dundering simpleton? Slap him, shake him, hurt the man, but keep him with us! Set him right this instant! Mister Fassett? You may take a turn.’

  Before the words had completed their passage across Tainton’s lips, Fassett was grinning. ‘Wake him up, Locke,’ he said, produ­cing his nasty little blade. ‘We’ll see how he likes his fingers with no nails.’

  Locke Squires lumbered over to the stricken Ball and stooped to haul the chair upright. He leaned close, touching thick fingers to the back of Ball’s dangling head before turning back to mumble something unintelligible to Fassett. The mulatto’s dark face seemed to take on a veil of grey as he discerned the giant’s stifled mutterings, and in turn he indicated that Clay Cordell should take a look.

  Cordell pushed his fingers into the same spot his comrade had inspected. When he looked back, he held them up. They were bloody all the way to the knuckles. ‘He’s gone, Ste
rne,’ he said in a thin, reedy voice.

  ‘Gone?’

  Cordell held up the gore-drenched hand. ‘Dead, Sterne. He’s snuffed it. Smashed a bastard-great cavern in his bonce.’

  Fassett looked to Tainton, and Roger Tainton stared at the body of Toby Ball in disbelief. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached and drew his own knife, a curved length of serrated steel that appeared to glow blue in the feeble light. Outside, the storm raged, howling its violent song like Lucifer’s own choir. Tainton went to the newly made corpse, taking a thicket of Ball’s matted hair in his fist, and wrenched the limp head upright. He drove the knife upwards into one of the warden’s nostrils, twisting so that its jagged edge cut the thin flap of flesh easily enough, stopping only when it met with the bone of the bridge. He jerked it savagely free. Toby Ball was unflinching. There was nothing.

  Tainton thrust his thumb between the swollen lids of Ball’s grotesquely puffy eyes, prizing the swollen flesh apart. The eye beyond was dull, sightless, canted off to the side so that only some of the iris could be seen. He really was dead, and with that understanding came a sudden, white-hot pulse of rage that caught Tainton by surprise. He brayed like a gelded bullock, heard his own scream echo about the polished panels of Whinchat Place, but could do nothing to stem it. He might have killed Locke Squires in that moment. He wanted to spin about and plunge the knife deep into the heavy-handed ox’s guts, but knew he might yet need him. So Tainton stabbed Toby Ball instead. He shoved the knife into the eye that was still pinned open by his thumb. The steel slipped in without resistance, blood gouting either side, squirting Tainton’s cloak and boots. He pulled it free and stabbed again, this time to the other eye, and then at the throat and stomach, again and again, venting his rage the only way he knew how, blood oozing out, streaking his hands and clothes, and in his rage he revelled in it. When there was nowhere left to destroy, Ball’s torso a ragged mass of torn flesh and shredded cloth, he let loose another wretched scream and spun away, pushing past Fassett as though he was not even there. Roger Tainton had failed. Right at this very last fence his horse had faltered, the golden deer had given him the slip, foiled his hunt, crushed his reputation, and, infinitely more importantly, diminished his faith.