Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (17 page)

CHAPTER 8

Petersfield, Hampshire, 10 October

‘Winter comes, sir. I pray the rivers do not freeze.’

The man in the workshop looked up from the stout oaken frame of his lathe. He was sweating profusely from the work, though the air sweeping in through the open double doors was chill, and he set down the sharp tool with which he had been hollowing out a piece of wood, snatching up a cloth in its stead. ‘And I pray the hearths are warm.’

‘Master Webb?’ asked Captain Lancelot Forrester, stepping under the wide lintel. The workshop was bright, so the craftsman could see the detail of his work.

The man mopped his brow with the cloth, smoothing back his shock of black and silver hair with a gnarled hand. ‘That is I, sir. George Webb. Wood-turner and’ – his cleanly shaven face, tanned and deeply lined, became suddenly furtive – ‘friend of the King.’

Forrester blew out his cheeks with relief, stepping further into the open-fronted building. The floor was thick with wood shavings, and he noticed a young lad busy sweeping in the shadows to the rear. ‘Then I have my fellow.’

‘You are from Basing Castle?’

Forrester gave a short bow. ‘Captain Forrester, at your service.’

George Webb extricated himself from the frame and extended a hand for Forrester to take. ‘Well met, Captain.’

‘A magnificent contraption, Master Webb.’

Webb glanced back at the machine, his face splitting in a broad grin of large, yellow teeth separated by wide gaps. ‘A great wheel-lathe. My pride and joy! The wood-turner’s livelihood.’

Forrester gazed about the workshop. It lay, as he had been told by Rawdon, on the northern outskirts of the modest market town, and he had had little difficulty in its finding. He noticed an array of finely crafted items as his eyes adjusted, but his interest was immediately taken by a bandolier that was hanging from a high beam. He made straight for it, running his hand down the looped belt, its full complement of powder boxes clattering together at his touch. A warrior’s wind-chime. ‘A fine collar o’ charges, sir,’ he said as he inspected the dozen boxes that would eventually each carry enough black powder for a single musket shot. There was a small pouch too, limp at the moment but destined to carry a goodly supply of bullets, while a flask for gun oil hung at its side. ‘By your hand?’

Webb nodded. ‘My wife cuts the leather and I fashion the boxes.’

‘Exquisite work,’ Forrester said, genuinely impressed. He was no expert in the highly prized art of wood-turning, but he knew a good powder box when he saw one.

Webb moved past the soldier, pushing closed the pair of large doors so that the light was suddenly cut out. He turned back to Forrester, his face tightening. ‘What do you have for me, Captain?’

Forrester stole a look at the young boy who still swept energetically at the back. ‘I may speak freely?’

‘Aye, he is trustworthy, I assure you,’ Webb said. ‘His father has paid a great deal for this position. He would not jeopardize it for idle gossip.’

‘But he is not kin?’ Forrester asked, unable to rest easy.

Webb shook his head. ‘Apprenticed to me for seven years. At the end of which, I intend to marry him to one of my three daughters.’ The corners of his brown eyes crinkled with mischief. ‘So he shall be kin in the fullness of time.’

Forrester still felt wary, as though his nerves were lengths of thread, their frayed ends tugged by this place that was at the very forefront of the war. A place where a man could never truly know who was friend and who was foe. But the task at hand was all that mattered, and he decided to press on. ‘I carry a warrant for the raising of money for the King’s cause. It is too dangerous to read out publicly, but the Marquess of Winchester prays like-minded men will see that its message is passed through the county.’

Webb rubbed his face with a calloused hand. ‘He would take the fight to the Roundheads.’

‘He would.’

‘The Puritans,’ Webb said, his voice rasping and sour. ‘They call us Popish. Can you countenance such a thing? I am simply for tradition, Captain.’

‘A supporter of Archbishop Laud, Master Webb?’ Forrester asked, still taken aback by the wood-turner’s sudden anger.

‘Like most humble folk,’ Webb said.

Forrester could not argue with that. The Puritan faction had become the most vocal in recent years, and the focus for their increasingly hostile ire was the remnant of the old Catholic faith that lingered still in parts of England. But he supposed the majority of ordinary people would have been content enough to follow the Anglican way espoused by William Laud. He offered a sympathetic smile. ‘But the Laudian Church, Master Webb, is too similar in its ways. The reformers cannot simply leave it be.’

‘Similar to the church in Rome?’ Webb said. ‘Of course it is, sir. Archbishop Laud wished to create compromise where there was discord. He carved each side into pieces, like a master woodworker. Took slices of the Puritan way and joined them with those of the Papacy, brought elements of each to his High Church at Canterbury. A grand compromise that might be accepted by both sides. An admirable thing for which to strive.’

A foolish thing, Forrester thought. The result of Laud’s machin­ations had not been a seamless sculpture, but a cobbled, disjointed monster. ‘In the end he pleased neither side. Only those, like yourself, who wished to keep to the middle ground. Papist eyes still look to Rome, while Puritan eyes look to revolution.’

Webb’s eyes narrowed. ‘And where do you look?’

‘To my colonel and my king.’

Webb sniffed derisively. ‘I pray your conscience will be at ease when finally this horror finds its end. For me, I fight for the old ways. Since the ranting preachers and their ilk began to plague our towns, decent folk have lived in fear. My goodwife is barracked as she walks down the street if one strand of hair breaks loose of the coif. They would make an end of our feast days, squeeze the pleasure out of life.’

‘In that I am with you, Master Webb,’ Forrester agreed. ‘My particular interest lies in thespian realms.’

Webb’s brow rose. ‘A man of the playhouse? They would put an end to such frivolity too, sir, mark me well.’

‘They have done so already in the cities,’ Forrester said glumly, imagining his old stage at Candlewick Street, layered thick with cobwebs and dust, or torn up for kindling.

‘The modest towns such as ours will be next,’ the wood-turner returned gravely, sadness ghosting across his face. ‘Petersfield was a pleasant enough place in the old days.’

A half-memory of conversation struck Forrester, and he asked: ‘Did you ever know a man named Stryker?’

Webb considered the question for a second. ‘Aye, I believe I remember him vaguely. A wool merchant. Lived out to the east, just past the River Rother. Long dead, God rest his soul.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘You seem a little young to have known him, Captain.’

Forrester smiled. ‘A business acquaintance of my father.’

‘Shall I tell you the moment I decided to fight?’ said Webb. He nodded towards the door. ‘I took a stroll down High Street, thither, and Richard Axon, one of the reformers hereabouts, passed by. He is known to me, an acquaintance of many years. I wished him good-day.’

‘And?’

‘And he berated me, sir,’ Webb exclaimed, as though the incident shocked him still. ‘Bellowed and brayed like a damned mule. All thrusting finger and scarlet face, rebuking my words in the most boorish manner.’

‘Because you cannot wish a man well for his day,’ Forrester said, having encountered similar folk himself, ‘when the day’s fortunes spin on the word of God alone.’

Webb clicked his fingers. ‘You have it, sir!’ He laughed, the sound mirthless and bitter. ‘A man is no longer permitted to bid another good-day. What times are these? I will not sit idly by, sir. Not for a moment. But, alas, I am too old for the pike block. Yet it occurred to me that my position here, a man of some influence you understand, might work for the good of the King in other ways.’ He went to his lathe. Webb saw Forrester’s interest, and slid his hand across the block that was to be fashioned. ‘Look here, the timber that will be turned for our good fighting men. I have a requisition for a thousand powder boxes. Bound, when ready, for our forces now in Winchester.’

Forrester was certainly impressed. Wood-turning was a skilled craft, and Webb was clearly dedicating his rare knowledge to the cause of the Crown. ‘And what if Parliament troops come to Petersfield?’

‘They do, often. At which time I show them this.’ Webb stooped to a leather bag at his feet, from which he fished a folded parchment. ‘The same requisition, but for our dear Parliament.’

Forrester eyed it warily. ‘A forgery?’

‘A good forgery.’

‘And a big risk.’

‘A worthy risk,’ Webb chided. He put the paper away. ‘Besides, my position sees me afforded a deal of safety not offered to other men.’

Forrester could not argue against that point, for wood-turners were near priceless in a time such as this. He supposed Webb would be shown leniency even if he were caught. ‘Oak?’ he said, looking at the timber that would soon become a powder box for a bandolier. ‘It is plentiful hereabouts.’

‘
Ha
!’ Webb cackled, as though he had been treated to some great jest. ‘No, sir. Oak is too hard for such fine workmanship. Ash is better, but it maintains great strength all along its length, so we must keep it aside for our pikes and halberds.’ There was a pile of timber near one of the walls, which he indicated with a wave of his hand. ‘The wood I use for the boxes is a mix of beech and birch. Much easier to work, turned on this very lathe, and thrice laid in sallet oil until nicely sealed.’

‘Then I commend you on your business, Master Webb. Our armies are in your debt. But it is not simply your skill with wood that is your gift to good King Charles.’

The corner of Webb’s mouth twitched. ‘The road betwixt London and Portsmouth runs through our little town, Captain. We see many troops, many pilgrims, many lords and ladies, of divers allegiance.’ Now he let his voice fall to a more clandestine note. Evidently the apprentice was not privy to all Webb’s secrets. ‘It is a good place for a man to watch and listen. From here I may glean information.’ He winked. ‘Or pass it on.’

‘That is what the Marquess instructed. At Petersfield, find George Webb. He will see the warrant’s message spread far and wide.’

‘He flatters me, Captain, but aye, that is something I can see done. Where next for you?’

‘Rowlands Castle.’

Webb winced. ‘Wait another day, sir. The Roundheads are abroad.’

‘Are they not always?’

‘They patrol, of course, and they skirmish with our side every other day. But I hear tell of a large troop of horse coming up from Southampton. They are not to be trifled with, so reports suggest. Perhaps you will accept my hospitality this night? I will have further news by sun-up, and you will know which road to take.’

St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 10 October 1643

There had been little discussion in the hours following the return of Stryker and Lisette to the main holding cell. The place reeked worse than Stryker remembered it, for days had slipped by, and the unwashed bodies of his sixteen fellow captives were becoming pungent in the extreme. Now there were eighteen with the Frenchwoman, who sat hard into the walls at one of the corners, broiling with animosity and frustration. Stryker had been tight-lipped, evading questions from Barkworth and Skellen as to his interrogation, and ultimately they had left him to his own counsel. He curled into a foetal position against one of the slick walls, too ashamed to even look at them. He had betrayed these good men, betrayed the men lost to the seas, and betrayed the memory of Cecily Cade. This journey upon which they had so willingly embarked had turned sour, and that was to be regretted, but the moment he had blurted a single word to Roger Tainton, he had rendered their efforts and sacrifices worthless. Tresco. That was all it took.

Thus the bedraggled group had spent the following hours huddled in twos and threes around the single wax taper afforded them by a more kindly member of Balthazar’s garrison. Hard, mould-furred bread had been brought at a point that they supposed must have been dawn – though they saw no sign of Tainton, Fassett or the others – along with some gritty water and a new piss-pot.

It was only then that Stryker stirred, for the sound of the slopping water had been like a siren’s call to his thirst-tortured mind. He crawled on all fours to the pail, snatching it up and pouring it straight down his parched throat. The sensation was divine and he heard himself groan as though in a lover’s embrace, caring nothing for what the others must have thought. When the water bubbled up over his lips, cascading in a torrent over his tattered shirt, he set the pail down for the next man and rocked back on his haunches. The water was brackish, dirty and flecked with pieces of what looked to be seaweed, but it gave him his first real surge of strength since before the shipwreck. His eye seemed to clear along with his head, and he breathed deeply, arching his back to a chorus of deep, satisfying cracks. When he looked out into the dingy chamber he saw the men were smiling at him tentatively. Then he saw Lisette, her eyes blazing despite the darkness. He clambered unsteadily to his feet and went to her, stretching out a hand.