Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (21 page)

Collings leaped forward, grasped a fistful of the girl’s filthy dress and hauled her up so that her face was no more than an inch from his. ‘Where is the gold?’

‘I do not know.’

He let go, thrusting her back on to the bench with enough force to punch the air from her. ‘Harlot!’ he hissed, the sound cutting through her desperate gasps. ‘Where is the gold?’

Her eyes were big and green, speckled with shards of auburn, and they glinted in the dim room. ‘Oxford,’ she said slowly.

Collings turned away, lest he throttle her there and then. She had taken him for an utter fool, but what could he do? Earlier in the summer he had decided upon a drastic course of action, one that would certainly have paid dividends had events turned in the way he had foreseen. A notorious witch-hunter named Osmyn Hogg had been assigned to use his various techniques – normally employed in the securing of confessions for witchcraft – in the interrogation of Miss Cade. Hogg had been close to breaking her when the great armies of the south-west had come to blows on a hill above Bude, and in the midst of that terrible defeat, Hogg had been cut down in cold blood. Collings had not been unduly concerned either by that twist of fate, or by the defeat itself, for he had taken his prisoner and fled the battlefield. But then the rumours had begun to circulate. Men whispered that Hogg had committed a murder of his own. Had shot dead a Royalist officer in cold blood. And that rumour did not sit well with the rank and file of the Parliamentarian army. In the weeks that followed, men had visited Collings. Representatives of his friends at the Commons, who had warned him that such associations would no longer be tolerated. That was not a significant problem, of course, for Osmyn Hogg was dead and rotting, except that the implication was clear; Collings could no longer conduct business outside of Parliament’s gaze. He would be watched, and that meant his dealings with the infuriating prisoner could not cross the boundaries of decency, however much he wanted them to. No torture could be employed, therefore. No walking or pricking, as Hogg would have done. No swimming the girl till she spluttered the location of her dead father’s gold through waterlogged gasps. None of that, for the craven mice at Westminster lacked the stomachs for such work, however expedient, and Collings was left cursing the girl and the spitting-feeble threats that he knew he could not act upon.

‘You will languish here for as long as it takes,’ he said, after letting the silence linger like a heavy cloud for a minute or two. ‘As long as it takes for you to tell me what I want to know.’ That, at least, was true. She was his prisoner, and he’d be damned before he handed her to his masters. He would be the one to find the treasure, and he alone. It was for that reason that he had purchased the handful of buildings at this corner of the defunct religious estate.

Cecily glanced at the wooden trencher that sat on the floor between them. It held a jug of weak beer and a small loaf of bread, neither of which had been touched. ‘I’ll starve first.’

Collings smirked. ‘So be it, Miss Cade. The enemy will not have the gold either.’ He stepped closer. ‘Indeed, you are the last of your line, are you not? Your brother, I fear, was killed at Kineton Fight, and your father shot before your very eyes. The location of Sir Alfred’s treasure will die with you. All that he worked for gone; vanished for eternity.’

‘You think he would have been happier knowing it was in Parliament’s greedy paws?’ She spat on the threshing between her feet. ‘You clearly did not know my father.’

Collings opened his mouth to speak, but an urgent knocking at the door stayed his words. ‘Come!’ he barked irritably, turning away from the prisoner.

A heavily bearded sergeant appeared, halberd in hand, beady eyes darting about the room. His gaze loitered on Cecily for just a moment longer than was appropriate, before returning to the major general. ‘Sir.’

‘Spit it out, man!’ Collings snarled.

The soldier snatched off his hat, straightened the white handkerchief tied at its crown, and offered an awkward bow, grimacing apologetically. ‘Trouble, sir. Down at the Parliament.’

Collings folded his arms, his irritation rising. ‘And what, pray, would that have to do with me?’

Lisette Gaillard and Christopher Quigg loosely tied the horses amongst the withered trees outside the old edifice of St Mary without Bishopsgate and advanced to the edge of the thicket. From there, behind the cover of the outermost brush, they had a good view of the priory’s side entrance, and, more importantly, its guards.

‘The bastards are not leaving, monsieur.’

Quigg sucked his teeth. ‘It was always a risk.’

Lisette stared at him angrily. ‘And now we have no more dice to throw.’

The doorway behind which Cecily Cade was supposed to be kept was flanked by two of the blackcoats. Each man clutched a musket, though neither had a lit match, and their eyes raked the land in front.

‘Shall we check the other entrances?’ Quigg asked.

Lisette shook her head. ‘How could we reach her once inside? It would take forever to get through that damned labyrinth.’ She slammed her eyes shut, whispering a silent prayer. Collings had not taken the bait.

A commotion erupted away to the west, at a place near the far corner of the compound where a large doorway was set into the flat stone blocks. They had not kept vigil on that particular door, for it was one of the hospital’s chief entrances and consequently the most heavily guarded. Sure enough, the usual half-dozen musketeers were there now, except that this time they had been joined by a trio of their black-coated comrades and the big, bearded commander.

‘That is half their total number,’ Lisette said, hope beginning to rise within her. Perhaps they were indeed relaxing the rest of the pickets. But even as she and Quigg watched the group, the men began to gesticulate to one another wildly, chattering in a strangely animated fashion. The spies looked on, too far away to eavesdrop. Just then, a new figure emerged from the building.

‘Christ,’ Quigg muttered, ‘it’s him.’

The man was of middling height but whip-thin frame. He wore a suit of light blue, adorned with flourishes of lace and silver thread that sparkled as he moved. He wore no armour, save the delicate rapier hanging at his waist, and carried a wide-brimmed, black-feathered hat in his hand. It was that last detail that had captured Quigg’s attention, for the man’s exposed head was nearly as white as his falling band collar. It was completely hairless, shining brightly in the afternoon sun like a marble globe set atop a blue column.

‘Collings,’ Lisette said. She frowned. ‘He is agitated.’

They watched Collings berate his small party of grim subordinates. He might have been slight of stature, a child’s body compared with the brawny blackcoats, but they gathered around him nonetheless, nodding and bowing like errant schoolboys as his skinny arms pointed and waved. Fox-Beard seemed to be receiving the most vehement tongue-lashing, and his hairy chin worked frenetically as he babbled a defence.

‘Giving a fair account of himself,’ Quigg said.

‘
Oui
,’ Lisette replied, equally surprised. ‘A brave man.’

It was then that the burly commander turned on his heel, pointing away to the west where, beside the crumbling pillars of the hospital’s ancient gateway, another man waited atop a horse. He was too far away for Lisette to make out his features, but he was dressed like a soldier, the beast beneath him swinging its head from side to side as it snorted and whinnied.

‘A messenger?’ suggested Lisette.

Quigg’s amphibian eyes swivelled down to her. ‘Or an extra guard.’

She looked at him. ‘Cavalry to guard a building?’ She shook her head, turning back to the horseman. ‘Look at his mount. It has been ridden hard.’ Quigg made to speak, but she placed a firm hand on his arm. ‘Look.’

Collings had pushed through his gaggle of sentries and, with the blackcoats trailing in his wake, stalked across the open ground towards the old gates. The rider kicked his horse gently so that it trotted to meet him, and the rider dismounted as they came close. From a distance, Lisette and Quigg could see that Collings seemed to be reluctant about something, shaking his bald head and lambasting the horseman for whatever it was that he had come to impart, but evidently the newcomer was standing his ground, for the major general cut off the meeting with a curt nod and spun sway, striding back to the building.

And Lisette Gaillard’s heart soared, for the musketeers had not followed him this time. Indeed, they were turning away, forming a crude line in the horseman’s wake, Fox-Beard shouldering his halberd in the lead. As Lisette and Quigg looked on, the pair of blackcoats at the nearest doorway responded to an enraged bellow from Collings and left their posts, clattering noisily along the paved walkway in the direction of the main entrance.

‘God is truly on our side,’ Quigg breathed into Lisette’s ear. ‘Let us get this done, and we’ll share a jug o’ claret by sundown.’

Lisette returned his smile. ‘We’ll share it with Master Greetham.’

‘Amen to that.’

With that they were on their feet and running. Lisette took the lead, holding her breath as she bolted across the long grass fringing the walkway. Out in the open, the sense of exposure was excruciating, her pulse roaring loudly in her skull so that she felt sure others might hear it. She reached the paved ground in seconds, glancing back to see Quigg blundering behind, and slammed into the smooth stone of the wall. It was strangely warm at her shoulder blades, baked as it was in the August sun. She waited for Quigg. ‘Do it.’

Christopher Quigg may have been inept as an intelligencer, clumsy, slow-moving and so ugly that he was unlikely to blend in, but he was as strong as an ox. Lisette watched him approach the door without breaking his stride, suck a great wave of air through his twisted nose, and smash his boot into the wooden timbers. The noise was horrendous, echoing between wall and woodland, but the blow had been struck hard and precise, and the mouldering slats gave way immediately.

Lisette pushed past Quigg as the door swung inwards on rust-clogged hinges, stepping over the splintered debris, her boots unnaturally loud in the gloomy interior. If the exterior proclaimed the church’s magnificence, then the interior had been built with frugality in mind. It was plain and pale, just a corridor built in stone, with none of the intricate carvings of the outer walls. There were three doors to choose from, and Lisette opened the first, which was immediately at her left hand. The chamber was completely empty.

‘Nothing,’ Quigg’s voice echoed through the corridor. He had gone beyond her, testing the next door. He closed it with a shake of the head. ‘One more to try.’

Lisette darted to the last room, rounding Quigg and pressing her shoulder to the door. It was locked. She looked at her companion. ‘You think you can break it?’

In answer, he kicked the door hard. This one, unharmed by harsh winters and scorching summers, held firm, and he recoiled with a yelp and grimace, clutching his kneecap to his chest. They were at the furthest point of the corridor now, where the passage met another conduit running from left to right across its path, and at the place where they formed a junction there were three statues. All had been broken in some way, arms smashed by Tudor church-breakers or faces mutilated by Puritan iconoclasts, but only one had been fully decapitated. The head still lay at the statue’s feet.

‘Here,’ Lisette said, trying to lift the carved stone, ‘help me.’

Quigg hobbled over and lifted the heavy stone in one movement. He hefted it in both hands, loped to the door with a series of guttural grunts, and swung it at the timbers. Wood and stone crashed, dust billowed in a little, furious cloud, and Quigg jerked back. He righted himself, scowled at the stubborn door, and swung again. This time there was a high-pitched crack and the door shuddered. Quigg’s face gleamed with sweat, the cratered skin contorted with the effort. Cursing under his breath, he lifted the stone for a third time and swung it in a low arc with all the strength he could muster. The door exploded inwards, the metallic remains of its lock in ragged ruins, and he dropped the head between his feet, the wide eyes staring up at him in mute affront.

Outside, there were shouts of alarm. They were faint, presumably from the guards down at the main entrance, but Quigg nodded, moved aside, and Lisette hurried into the chamber.

What she saw was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, with a narrow face, hair the colour of Henry Greetham’s ink, and skin as pale as ivory. Her eyes might once have been beautiful. But now they seemed cast in shadow and strangely distant.

She gazed up at Lisette from the bench on which she perched. ‘Who are you?’

‘Cecily Cade?’ Lisette asked brusquely.

The girl nodded.

Quigg was beside Lisette. ‘We’re here to rescue you, miss.’

‘Come, girl,’ Lisette ordered, holding out her hand, ‘we do not have long.’

But she was wrong. They had no time at all. Because in the doorway stood a man wearing a black coat and a hat tied with the white band that denoted his fealty to Erasmus Collings. His clean-shaven face was alight with triumph, and in his hands he held a long musket, the muzzle pointed into the room. Her eyes snaked along the barrel to the serpentine, noting the match-cord dangling ominously from its jaws. The tip glowed hot.

Christopher Quigg reacted quickest. ‘One shot.’