Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (20 page)

‘Their way?’

‘Independent,’ said Tainton. ‘Protestantism has many creeds and colours. Many shades, Mister Fassett. The true way is the Independent way. Where a life might be built upon the Word of God, and only on His Word, rather than on the chatter and lies of mankind; of hierarchies placed upon congregations to shackle and oppress God-fearing folk.’

‘If Presbyterianism is so bad,’ Fassett said, surprising Tainton with his understanding, ‘Then why have we signed up to that bleedin’ covenant?’

‘Because the Scots are Presbyterians, and we need their army. I told you before, we will throw off the yoke of the covenant as soon as our mutual enemy has been destroyed. The Scots can go back to their own country, and we will follow the true path in England. My master and his friends will see it done, have no fear.’

Fassett spat over the edge. ‘That fellow from St Margaret’s?’

‘Margaret’s, if you please,’ Tainton corrected, ‘I do not hold with saints.’ He thought back to the day when he and Fassett had watched members of Parliament accept the Solemn League and Covenant. ‘You speak of Sir Henry Vane. A Godly man, ’tis true, but not my worldly master. Vane is powerful, but he is no visionary. My master is on his way to the very highest echelon of our new order, the breath of the Holy Spirit at his back, lifting him like the seabirds above us. He has given me purpose. I have eschewed the trappings of my commission. No longer will I wear armour and ride for glory beneath an earthly banner. The only glory worth winning is that reflected by King Jesus.’

Gulls mewed madly, soaring and dipping and climbing, carried and buffeted on the wind. Black silhouettes of shags and cormorants interspersed their flock, tracing vast arcs against the pewter clouds. Sterne Fassett watched the birds with disinterest. ‘Did she really best you?’

Tainton had felt himself drift into something of a trance, but now the reverie was shattered. He swallowed hard, blinking away the glassy film that had descended over his eyes. The gulls and the sea and the land came sharply into focus. ‘Aye, she did. She is skilful with blade in hand.’

‘Bet she’s skilful with other things in hand.’

Tainton shot Fassett a withering look. ‘I was a good soldier. I have shed my pride, Mister Fassett, and can tell you with no hint of bluster or boastfulness that I was one of the best leaders of horse the Parliament had. In the saddle, with pistol, with sword, I did not believe I could be beaten.’ He gripped the damp rail. ‘And pride was my undoing. The French harlot was sent as a test.’

‘And you failed.’

‘Or perhaps I passed, Fassett. I would not have found salvation without her.’

‘And yet,’ Fassett said, not bothering to conceal the amusement in his tone, ‘you would still spill that girl’s guts on the floor.’

‘God will allow me to punish the wicked. There is always an allowance for war, if one strives to attain peace. Remember what the psalmist tells us.’ He glanced at the wind-driven sky for inspiration. ‘Let the high acts of God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand.’ He pushed away, stepping back from the edge, the gulls that ventured close to the deck in search of scraps veering away at the tune of his spurs. ‘Still, we have business on Tresco, you and I. When we return, we will put an end to the wretched woman.’

‘Balthazar’s wet as piss. He won’t like you killing the bitch.’

‘I’ll deal with Balthazar. She will die a secret, painful death.’

‘And Stryker?’

‘He will swing. I’ve told the garrison to construct gallows outside the castle.’

‘Should’ve snuffed ’em out already,’ Fassett muttered darkly.

‘And what if he lied? We may need them yet.’

‘You think he lied to you?’

Tainton shook his head. ‘No, but nor will I take the risk. We will find this promised prize before we bury our captives. Then, and only then, shall we head for home. My master will be pleased. There will be reward in it for you, Fassett, for I know you covet such worldly trappings.’

Fassett followed him along the deck. ‘I do, Mister Tainton, I do. And look forward to the next assignment, should your master see fit to keep me in his employ. May I ask—?’

Tainton stopped, and turned on his heels. ‘Speak.’

‘If your master,’ Fassett said, ‘ain’t Sir Henry Vane, then who is he?’

Southampton, Hampshire, 11 October 1643

The late afternoon was cold and dark. Flickering iron braziers lit the way for Captain Lancelot Forrester and his guards as they crossed the courtyard. The yard was a wide rectangle, hemmed on all sides by mouldering, tumbledown buildings that had once formed a large slaughterhouse. Now the units were prisons, their crumbling walls, rotting timbers and holed roofs barely strong enough to keep a mule inside, let alone scores of angry soldiers and dissidents. Their poor state necessitated the number of sentries, who swarmed the complex, grim threat etched on their faces, halberds, hangers and muskets brandished in plain sight as the starkest deterrent imaginable.

‘In there.’

Forrester, stripped of his sword, his snapsack and his spurs, drew to a halt before the dilapidated doorway of what looked to be an ancient storehouse. One of the large hinges had come away and the door hung slightly lopsided, and several chunks of whitewashed daub had come away from the outer wall, ragged patches of wattle left exposed like wounds to the elements. He wrinkled his nose, glancing back at the half-dozen musketeers. ‘Positively palatial. On what do we dine this evening? Roast lamb and some rich claret, perhaps?’

The guard who had spoken spat a stream of dark tobacco juice through the gap between his front teeth. ‘Turnip-tops, your lordship. Or you are at liberty to snare a rat.’ He checked that his long-arm’s pan cover was safely shut and handed it to a comrade, the glowing tip of his slow-burning match kept tight between middle and ringfinger. It danced at his side as he rifled with his free hand in the snapsack hanging from his shoulder, tracing fiery shapes that lingered in Forrester’s sight. He shook the keys. ‘Knew I had ’em somewhere.’

Even as the lead musketeer moved to the door, things shifted behind it. Forrester watched, disconcerted, as flashes of something solid ghosted past the holes, grey wraiths slithering silently behind the wattle trellises, indistinct glimpses of the unnatural. The particular key was selected, and, before it had turned, the five remaining muskets were trained upon the doorway.

The key turned in the lock and the musketeer dragged back its iron loop, the door juddering as it scraped the hardening mud. He had no time to think as they shoved him inside, barely keeping his footing as the door was slammed shut in his wake. The key turned.

Forrester saw the eyes first. They glinted in the dark like the gaze of so many cats, lit by orange light that penetrated the holes in the walls. It took time to adjust, and he blinked rapidly, for­cing himself to be patient amid the rising tide of panic. In seconds the eyes were framed by faces. They were lacklustre, devoid of detail, but he could discern the outlines of the men who stood at the far side of the makeshift prison. He reckoned there were twenty of them, perhaps twenty-five, and they shifted towards him in the gloom, a flock of ghouls drawn to new blood.

Forrester extended an arm, holding up a flattened palm. ‘Stay where you are!’

‘Who might you be?’ one of the ghouls murmured.

‘Captain Lancelot Forrester, Mowbray’s Foot,’ he replied with bluster he did not feel, ‘and I’ll batter the next man to take a step closer.’

‘Sir?’

Out of the murk came one of the prisoners. A skinny man with a long, severely hooked nose and eyes that were like pebbles of jet. ‘Dewhurst, sir. John Dewhurst. The Hawk, the lads call me.’

Forrester drew closer, feet sinking a fraction in ground carpeted with bird droppings. He saw that the man’s head bobbed as he spoke, a motion akin to pecking. ‘The Hawk,’ he repeated. He saw that the man wore a yellow coat, and his memory was all at once in a place called Holybourne. ‘Sergeant?’

‘That’s me, sir, aye,’ the man said. ‘Rawdon’s Foot. Good to see you again, Captain.’

East of Tresco, Isles of Scilly, 11 October 1643

The
Silver Swan
came into Old Grimsby harbour as dusk darkened the sea. Roger Tainton, former Roundhead cavalry officer, lately Parliamentarian agent, felt utterly invigorated as the crew of his hired pinnace set to work guiding the big ship into the calmer waters protected by the curve of the high cliffs. He stood at the rail, the spot from which he had barely moved during the rough journey, and scanned the shore, the creak of sail and constant roar of water familiar friends to him now. Old Grimsby, its thatches and stone hugging the high ground above three sweeping beaches of sand and shingle, looked much like Hugh Town, only smaller. A warren of humanity fighting the elements, cut off from civilization, and utterly reliant upon the sea. He wondered why on earth any sane person would choose to grind out an existence in a place such as this.

‘It is fit only for goats,’ he said when Sterne Fassett came to stand with him.

‘Like the rest of these bloody islands.’

‘Aye.’

‘I’ll be glad to get back to London.’ Fassett was rubbing at his jaw again, probing and prodding the lump that had faded from livid red to a collage of browns and yellows along the curve of the bone, and he winced a little when he spoke. ‘Where do we start?’

‘Ask for properties owned by the late Sir Alfred Cade. Beginning with Old Grimsby.’ Tainton’s eyes were never the same after Brentford, and he was forced to squint to make out the individual buildings. ‘If they do not know, then we move to the west coast.’

‘New Grimsby,’ Fassett said scornfully. ‘Imaginative lot, aren’t they?’

Tainton ignored him. ‘Then there are houses elsewhere. Lonely homesteads. My guess is it will be one of those, but we must start here and move on.’

‘How long will that take?’

Tainton pulled a face to show he did not much care. ‘Tresco is two miles long, from north to south, and perhaps a mile wide at its broadest point. We should cover it swiftly enough.’

‘Stryker said Cade’s house was overlooking the sea.’

‘Everywhere,’ Tainton growled, ‘overlooks the sea, you dullard.’

Fassett’s scarred face seemed to tense, his lips pressing into a rigid line, but he thought better of whatever retort had first sprung to mind. ‘He said Cade had a retainer there, looking after the place.’

One of the seamen trundled past, doffing his wax-encrusted cap to the men. Tainton waited until he was out of earshot. ‘We must find him.’ He fell silent for a short time as both men noticed the stone blockhouse that perched upon the high cliff to their left, the southern point of the harbour. Like the rest of Scilly’s fortifications, it was plain and functional, but it was afforded a clear view of the approaches to the harbour, and its batteries would be easily trained upon any vessel making an aggressive play for Old Grimsby. ‘The Lord has provided,’ he said, ignoring Fassett’s contemptuous expression, ‘for we know the gold is on Tresco. We are not spread so thin in our enquiries as before.’

‘Only so many places left to look on St Mary’s,’ Fassett said.

Tainton set his jaw, finally feeling as though the mission was moving forwards. ‘Let us sniff out this treasure once and for all,’ he said, feeling the breath of the Holy Spirit invigorate his broken body. Because now – wondrously, miraculously – he even knew where to look.

Fassett blinked hard as he looked away from the high battery, perhaps imagining the same scene of destruction in his mind’s eye. ‘Then back to Star Castle?’

‘Aye. It is still too treacherous to risk the open sea. Consider the fate of Stryker’s ship.’ Out in the harbour a small, single-masted boat was fighting against the waves, thrown high and low and side to side on the angry swells as its crew of four wrestled to keep control. Tainton waved, realizing that the boat was intended to collect him and his three men, for the harbour was much too shallow and confined for the
Silver Swan
to negotiate. ‘Besides,’ he said, still waving, ‘we must see the one-eyed blackguard and his doxy pay for their crimes against God. Balthazar can do what he likes with the rest of them, but Stryker and the woman are mine.’

CHAPTER 10

Southampton, Hampshire, 12 October 1643

It was an hour before dawn. Only two fires were left in the courtyard of the gaol, their flames bathing the old slaughterhouse in a diluted, tremulous light. This was the quiet time between the regular night-watch and those allocated to patrol the new day; when tired sentries began to think of their beds, red eyes becoming heavy after a night of wandering the silent complex, secure in the knowledge that their cowed charges would all be snoring soundly into their filthy rags.

Five musketeers converged around one of the braziers. One hung back, watchful despite his yawns, while the rest set down their muskets and bandoliers a half-dozen paces from the flaming iron cage. The leather collars held a dozen stoppered boxes apiece, each containing enough powder for one musket shot. Bandoliers and open fires were a potentially lethal combination, and none of the men wished to have their face blown off while they warmed their bones.