The shape of the attack quickly became clear. From his vantage point, Forrester could see the column, perhaps a thousand strong, trundle to the heavy rhythm of their drums in two distinct groups. The first, half the total complement, formed a vanguard, and he guessed these men would be the forlorn hope. One of Rawdon’s corporals, on the rooftop beside Forrester, identified the largest colour – green, with wavy golden rays – as that of the Cripplegate Auxiliary Regiment, the inexperienced men and boys of Waller’s new army, the cannon-fodder who would be first into action, sacrificed to allow the second section, the veteran companies, to scale the walls in relative safety. The second group marched, but they were fifty paces behind. They would be the assault troops when the dirty business of crossing the earthworks and pushing ladders against the wall had been done by men Waller could afford to lose.
As on the north-eastern corner, a half-moon ditch and staked palisade protected the wall, with a second ditch – the ancient castle’s dry moat – immediately below the high brick facade. The Cripplegates came on, the crackle of musketry and ordnance vibrating down from the north, seemingly heralding their arrival.
‘Christ,’ Frederick Lawrence hissed at Forrester’s side. He wore his armour, as if he were ready to mount his horse at any moment, though of course this fight was not for Paulet’s harquebusiers. ‘Hear it?’
‘I hear it,’ Forrester responded brusquely.
Lawrence twisted back to look towards the opposite corner of the embattled estate, but he could see nothing beyond the New House rooftops and the thick swirling smoke that seemed to shroud everything. ‘Will they hold?’
Forrester ignored him and bellowed at the men on the walls to make ready. He looked at Lawrence. ‘Where is the gun-crew?’
‘Gun-crew?’
‘Major,’ Forrester snapped. He pointed to the tower to their right, thirty yards along the ring-work. It was lower than their own platform, still twice the height of the wall, and on its summit sat a small fieldpiece, its black barrel pointing skywards between its wheels. ‘That falconet. Where is its crew?’
Lawrence turned to descend the spiral steps behind them. A torrent of shrill shouts replaced him, coming up from the staircase, and it sounded to Forrester almost as if a flock of gulls were flying up from the ground below. He turned away from the advancing Londoners to see Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson appear on the rooftop, flanked and followed by almost a dozen women, the chief of whom, to Forrester’s astonishment, was the Marchioness of Winchester herself, Lady Honora Paulet.
The marchioness was petite, her frame seemingly brittle, but her green eyes blazed beneath a fringe of black and silver ringlets. ‘Not possible? I’ll thank you, Lieutenant-Colonel, not to tell me what is and what is not possible in my own home!’
Johnson’s attention to his beard became more hurried still. ‘I cannot permit you to remain on the wall, my lady.’
‘Tripe!’ she retorted, lodging her hands on the voluminous skirts at her hips. ‘My ladies and I will remain here, on this very spot, sir, and you will have to carry us down one by one.’
Johnson could see that he was beaten, and he shook his head wearily. ‘Please keep your heads down. His Lordship will have my skin for a scabbard should any harm befall you.’
The Marchioness of Winchester swept past him with an imperious wave, beckoning to her attendants. The women followed, lining the edge of the tower at either side of Forrester and the other men, who all bowed to Her Ladyship with barely concealed smirks. Forrester noted some of the women dragged large, lumpen cloth sacks, obviously heavy with whatever bounty was inside.
‘Forrester,’ Johnson said. He was still back at the hatch that led down to ground level. ‘You’ll join me.’
Forrester tore his gaze away from the formidable marchioness. ‘Sir?’
‘They’ll be at the half-moon in moments. I would drive them off.’
Forrester felt himself tense. Johnson, he recalled, had been the man who had challenged Clinson to personal combat in the fight for the Grange, and would have lost his life were it not for Stryker’s timely intervention. Not only was the man clearly reckless, but he had a reputation to restore, and the two ingredients made for a dangerous brew indeed. ‘Drive them, sir? A sortie?’
‘The same!’ Johnson barked, his voice excited now that he had abandoned his ill-advised quarrel with Honora Paulet. ‘My men are assembling below.’
‘Is that wise, sir?’
‘It is invaluable, sir! I have sent for support from the north wall, where the fight, by all accounts, goes well.’
Down below, a great cheer rose up as the forlorn hope reached the half-moon. The few Royalists left manning the earthwork scrambled away, fortunate that their enemies were more concerned with bringing up their cumbersome ladders than with flinging lead shot at their backs, and they dived into the dry moat, scrambling up under covering fire from the wall and squeezing through a small sally port that was quickly reblocked with wicker sheets, rubble and bits of old furniture. The Cripplegate Auxiliaries took up positions along the half-moon’s palisade. They would use it as a breastwork from which to launch their escalade. They moved the ladders up quickly to the front rank, all the while supported by musketry that rang out from the rank behind. An ensign in a wide blue scarf stood on the half-moon, in full view of the Royalist sharpshooters, and called his men on, swirling the huge green banner above his head. More colours joined. Reds and yellows, smaller ones with various devices to denote each company, flooded the earthwork, hurling insults and lead at the section of wall that sat between two squat towers, and preparing for the final assault.
k
The Westminster Liberty Regiment was the largest of Waller’s Trained Bands, and he had carved them up, placing most on the northern two divisions, spread evenly across the fighting front, while two companies had been ordered to the division at Basing Park. There, they had been ordered to the flanks of the green-coated auxiliaries, providing covering fire while the Cripplegate men moved their ladders to the fore.
It was with one of the Westminster companies, striding in the wake of a captain’s red and silver banner, that Major Wagner Kovac was now positioned. He did not know what hurt him more; the fact that he had been reduced to a plodding infantryman, the dangerous reality of being ordered to storm a castle, or his enforced membership of the woefully under-trained and audibly disgruntled Trained Bands. The only poultice to his slight was the possibility of getting inside the fortress. There was gold in Basing, and he wanted it. But, far more important, a man named Lancelot Forrester was in there somewhere, and Forrester had a debt to pay.
Kovac’s new red-coated unit came round to the eastern end of the captured sconce, making ready their muskets. Shots coughed from up on the wall. One man was torn back, bullets clattered off helmets and holes were ripped in the wind-flapped ensigns. The captain commanding the flanking unit ordered his front rank to fire, and a huge, rolling volley erupted all along their foremost line, sending the Royalists ducking low behind their brick shield. The men on the west flank fired too, just as the first men from Kovac’s company peeled away to reload at the rear, the second rank stepping up to fire. Kovac was in the fourth rank. He scolded himself for his own idiocy. For his runaway mouth he had paid with a place in what the Dutch called the verloren hoop, and there was no option but to kill or be killed. He drew both his pistols, pulling them to half-cock, and waited his turn.
Stryker was overseeing steady, rolling volley fire from Basing’s north-eastern corner as a party of musketeers edged out to retake the half-moon. There were casualties down amongst the storm-poles, and the Royalists dragged them back, plundering valuables, blades and ammunition before leaving them in a groaning line flush against the wall. They had time, for the threat had dissipated in a matter of seconds. The twin Roundhead divisions had retreated to the village and Grange, recovered their order and formed neat ranks once more, but although drums rumbled throughout the flag-marked units the attack seemed to have completely run aground.
Stryker rubbed soot from his stinging eye. ‘Not yet, sir, but they’re not comfortable out there.’
‘Ha!’ Rawdon brayed. ‘We’ve put the fear of God into ’em, my boys!’
The men on the rampart gave a parched huzzah as ladders were dropped over the side for pairs of musketeers to set about collecting the casualties. Dead and severely wounded would be left until the gates could be safely opened, but Rawdon wanted the enemy’s walking wounded taken inside for use at the bargaining table should parley be requested.
A runner reached the colonel as the first injured Roundheads were gathered up and cajoled at sword-point up the ladder. He doubled over, panting hard and bracing hands against his knees, only looking up when Stryker and Rawdon clambered down from the wall. ‘Compliments of Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, sir,’ he said breathlessly.
‘Well?’ Rawdon prompted impatiently.
‘The third division has taken the Old House half-moon, sir. The colonel would sally out, seeks reinforcements.’
Rawdon looked to Stryker. ‘Can we spare the men?’
Stryker nodded. ‘For now, sir. A score, or so.’
Rawdon nodded, pushing thick fingers through the matted grey of his hair. ‘See to it, Mister Stryker. Take them down to the Old House. You’ll need a dozen of mine to make up the numbers. Pick whomever you will.’
k
Roger Tainton unlocked the door carefully. He could hear the two guards muttering outside, their voices were only just audible above the din of battle that seemed now to come from all fronts. The skeleton key clicked as it turned, and then a deep clunk echoed about the chamber as the lock was released. He froze, jaw clenched, hearing his pulse rush in his ears. But no shouts of alarm rose shrill above the gunfire. He was only wearing one boot, the other was in his hand, and he let go of the key, taking the long, thin, double-edged dagger he had stolen near Petersfield from his waistband.
He could have rushed out, played upon the element of surprise, but the flinging doors might force them to retreat out of range, and it seemed better to go to work away from prying eyes. So he simply rapped his knuckles on the door and stepped back into the darkness.
The double doors opened almost immediately.
‘Who’s here?’ a voice called from below the lintel.
‘Just your imagination,’ another man replied, his accent and tone remarkably similar to the first. Tainton remembered that the men were twins.
‘Who unlocked the bloody door, then?’
Tainton tightened his grip on the dagger’s octagonal handle. ‘Help,’ he whimpered.
The light at the doorway framed the two guards, making them seem gigantic. They walked gingerly into the room. ‘Hello? Who’s here? Show yourself.’
Tainton could only see one match-tip aglow, which meant they were not both able to give fire, and he thanked God for it as he leapt from the gloom. He went for the silhouette with the lit match, stabbing up at the musketeer’s throat as he lunged, jamming the blade as hard as he could manage into flesh and muscle and sinew. He released the oak handle without another look, and brought his other arm up in a diagonal sweep before the second, stunned sentry. The man rocked backwards, and might have avoided the boot heel itself, but Tainton’s bright, jagged spurs sliced through the middle of his face. His weapon clattered on the solid floor, hands sliding up to his face, and Tainton kicked him on to his haunches. Then he dropped the boot, picked up the discarded musket, and smashed down at the blood-blinded soldier with its solid wooden stock, bludgeoning through protective hands and wrists until he felt the softer crunch of nose and cheeks and eyes. It was over in seconds. The doors were wide open, daylight flooding the darkness, and Tainton ran to ground level, blinking in the unaccustomed brightness. There was no one.
He took a knee, hissed a prayer, and went back to close the doors. By now he had hoped to have seen Parliamentarian troops pouring over the rampart like a plague of rats. The note had been specific, his location clear. Kovac was to bring horses and soldiers to Tainton and together they would take the hoard out of the fortress in the chaos of the inevitable sack. He went back to the top of the slope, turning a circle on the spot, blood-drenched palm shielding his eyes. Nothing yet, though there seemed to be a fearsome exchange of fire down between the two towers on the south side. Perhaps the breach would be made there. It was irksome, but not problematic. He would simply have to await the inevitable victory.
Lisette was on one of the rear turrets of the Great Gatehouse and from here, with the lookouts and sharpshooters, she had jeered the advance of the divisions against Garrison Gate, and cheered their defeat. From this distance, with the smoke shroud thick and constantly scudding, it was difficult to make out individuals amongst the teeming soldiers on the rampart, but occasionally she was half-certain that she glimpsed Stryker amongst the men near the gate.
Perhaps half an hour had elapsed since the first assault, and the fight still spluttered on that northern front, but the twin rebel divisions had failed with their petard, and they were ensconced in the village and in the Grange. The real conflict now seemed to have shifted to the south, and from her lofty platform Lisette had watched the third enemy division trundle up to Rawdon’s carefully excavated earthworks. The whole area had vanished in gun smoke as the battle began to rage. It was time to move, she decided.
Lisette saw Roger Tainton on her way to the top of the stairs. As she went to take the first step, she glanced out on to the courtyard below. Some of the sharpshooters had also decided to leave the tower, and in deep shock she moved out of their way, clinging to the bricks. It was him. If he had not attacked her, she might never have noticed him amongst the hundreds of inhabitants, but their brief duel six days before was as fresh in her mind as the battle she had just witnessed. His bald head, his strangely lopsided gait; even from up high she was convinced. She steadied her breathing, and turned for the stairs.
CHAPTER 28
‘Glad you could join us!’ Johnson exclaimed brightly. ‘They hold the sconce at present, thus I expect an escalade imminently.’
‘They have ladders?’ Stryker asked, having galloped south ahead of his group on the unfortunate Lieutenant Hunter’s white gelding.
‘They do.’
Stryker nodded. ‘Then let us give them pause for thought.’
‘My sentiments exactly, Captain!’
Stryker’s party appeared in moments, their faces drenched in sweat despite the chill of the day. Seven wore the green coats donated by a contrite William Balthazar, while the rest bore Rawdon’s yellow. They were quickly ushered into line, all loading muskets except for William Skellen, who had abandoned his long-arm in favour of his beloved halberd. Johnson ordered the sally port open, and the piled debris was quickly hauled back, exposing a breach in the wall that was big enough for a single man to squeeze through if he ducked low. The men shuffled forwards muttering prayers and encouragement to each other.
Stryker moved to Johnson’s side and peered out through the hole. What he saw snatched the breath from his lungs and the moisture from his mouth. ‘Jesu, Colonel, there are hundreds of them.’
Johnson nodded. ‘We have a surprise or two, Captain, do not fret.’
Fret, Stryker thought ruefully, was an astonishing understatement. Out on the half-moon, edging forwards now that their ladders had been shuffled to the front, were dozens of men preparing to charge at the Old House. On both of their flanks, musketeers following red ensigns were already firing a steady stream of bullets up at the rampart, forcing Royalist heads to keep low, and to their rear was another wedge of musketeers, who, Stryker supposed, were being kept back for the time when the forlorn hope had broken the back of the defences. Stryker pulled the dagger from his boot and drew his sword. His bowels had turned to water and his jaw felt iron-tight. He knew it was madness, and
yet nothing would make him turn back.
‘They’re coming!’ a familiar voice bellowed from above.
Stryker looked up to see the red-cheeked face of Lancelot Forrester peering over the edge of one of the two guardhouses punctuating the run of the wall. Forrester nodded briskly to him, but addressed Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson. ‘The Cripplegates are advancing!’
Johnson went back to the sally port, squinted through the small gap, then stood back so that he could see Forrester’s disembodied head. ‘Let them reach the ditch, then give the order!’
A great cry went up from outside. It began as a low grumble before rolling and building to a visceral howl of rage as the men of the Cripplegate Auxiliaries bounded out from the half-moon, ladders carried at the front, and raced over the few yards of land that divided the outer-work from the ancient moat. That moat, which lay immediately beneath the Old House wall, was now a dry ditch that had been staked and deepened at Rawdon’s instruction, but it did nothing to stop the swarm making it to the other side. The men on the rampart shot at the enslaught, winging a couple of men and killing one outright, but there were just too many to stem the tide, and the ladders clattered and scraped on the bricks as they were hurled up against the walls. The ensign with the blue sash was in amongst them, and he stabbed his huge colour in the foot of the ditch, planting it in the freshly turned soil, and the men surging around it cheered as they went to begin their climb.
A little way along the foot of the wall the sally port remained open, and, between the shoulders of men firing out into the ditch, Stryker witnessed the crushing charge. The noise was deafening, the terror within Johnson’s poised raiding party palpable, and every fibre of his being begged him to challenge the rash lieutenant-colonel’s orders. Forrester’s voice rang out again, the smooth, educated accent frayed by urgency, but Stryker could not discern the words. It was only when he heard screams of a different kind that he understood what had happened. Up on the guardhouse, he now realized, were women. Lots of women. And their shrill cries spoke of rage and vengeance. He looked up but could see nothing, so he pushed nearer to the port, only to discern glimpses of rubble falling like massive hailstones amongst the green-coated attackers. There were tiles falling like huge snowflakes, bricks spinning down on to the heads of the Parliamentarians, and stones too – large and small – clattering off helmets and into the faces of those trying to scale the ladders.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 43