Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (24 page)

‘
If
the intelligence is correct.’

The king’s small brown eyes shot to a corner of the tent, where another man stood. He was an unassuming fellow, short in height, round across the midriff, with pinched features that made him appear rather mean. He wore a simple brown cloak, the hood arranged in folds around his shoulders so that a head of oiled black hair was exposed. ‘I do not know why I s-s-suffer your p-presence, Killigrew.’

Ezra Killigrew offered a slow bow. ‘Your nephew sent me, Your Majesty.’

‘In one last effort to sway my mind, no doubt.’

Killigrew smiled. ‘He would not deny it, Your Majesty, and neither would I.’

‘Prince R-R-Rupert,’ the king replied, ire suddenly rising, ‘sulks with his d-damned cavalry like a whipped ch-ch-child.’

‘He is upset, Your Majesty, aye,’ Killigrew said. ‘He advised an all-out assault, sir.’

‘And I refused him, as is my d-d-damned choice. That should have been an end t-to the matter.’

Killigrew winced. ‘Would that were so, Your Majesty. But the Prince fears for our lot.’

A slim, middle-aged man of pale complexion and glum countenance, who had been leafing silently through a pile of papers that littered a low table in the large tent’s far corner, straightened. ‘Ah yes, Killigrew, your own man went in, did he not?’

‘He did, my lord Falkland,’ Killigrew answered in an acid tone. ‘And he reported back that Gloucester would not surrender. Massie’s second message was a lie.’

Lucius Carey, Viscount Falkland, Charles’ severe secretary of state, gazed down his long nose at Killigrew. ‘You trust this fellow?’

‘As far as I would trust any man, sir, aye.’

Falkland offered a smile of no warmth. ‘And where is your man now?’

Killigrew shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘Alas, sir, he has not come out.’

‘
Ha
!’ the king cried, the noise sounding unnaturally loud beneath the low awning. ‘C-c-convenient, rather, is it not?’ He turned to the secretary of state. ‘Remind me what it said, Falkland. M-M-Massie’s message, that is.’

Falkland smoothed the ends of his thin moustache. ‘He told Legge’s man that if Your Majesty were to come to the city, in person, then he would not hold the walls against you.’

‘You s-see?’ Charles said triumphantly. ‘He will not hold it.’

‘Massie claimed,’ Falkland went on, ‘that he could not, in all conscience, fight against the person of the King.’

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ Ezra Killigrew ventured again, ‘but my master disagrees. Our man has seen the mood in the city. He tells us the rebels will hold. Ergo, the message to Legge was erroneous, designed to cause just such a rift as has now opened. My master—’

‘
Enough
!’ King Charles barked with ferocity so abrupt that it made Killigrew take a rearward step. ‘Enough of this t-talk. We will consider no assault. The streets will n-not run with blood. Not this time. Your master is a rogue, Mister Killigrew. Tell him I care not what your spy reports. If there is a s-s-spy at all. Tell him he will do as he is t-told. Tell him—’

It was the king’s turn to be interrupted, as a stern-looking sentry poked his head through the tent flap.

‘What?’ Charles snapped, his face red with bluster. ‘What is it, man?’

The sentry remembered his helmet, and hurriedly snatched it off, staring at the ground as though diamonds lay between his feet. ‘Majesty, the city delegation has arrived. They carry a reply.’

Lancelot Forrester, Reginald Jays and Thomas Hood were engaged in furious sword practice in an open piece of ground between the myriad tents of the Royalist camp. Hood, Stryker’s lieutenant, had de facto command of the absent captain’s company, but he lacked experience, and Colonel Mowbray had been only too happy to let him gain some valuable know-how by shadowing Forrester whenever possible. Thus, the second and fourth companies of Mowbray’s Foot were bivouacked together south of Gloucester, and so they witnessed the rebel delegation being escorted through the South Gate and into the teeming encampment.

‘Hold!’ Forrester called, as the young lieutenants circled one another with swords drawn.

Neither heard the order, and they surged inwards, meeting almost toe to toe, blades clashing loudly between their heads. They held the pose for a moment, lips peeled back in their efforts, breaths laboured.

‘
Hold
!’ Forrester snapped, louder this time.

The two men parted with a metallic slice, lowering their weapons. They wiped the sweat from their eyes with gleaming forearms as they strode through the roiling dust cloud – kicked up by their own frenetic movement – to where Forrester sat on an empty barrel.

‘You wish to show us how it is done, sir?’ Hood asked through panting breaths. He shook his head, a shower of droplets flinging in all directions, and strode with fatigue to the pile of clothes that he had left during the session.

‘Alas, Lieutenant. I’d have loved to have shown you both what a real swordsman can do, but we have other matters to which we must attend.’

‘He means he’s eaten too much bacon again,’ Jays muttered under his breath.

Forrester raised his eyebrows. ‘You presume a great deal, Mister Jays. I could trounce the both of you blindfolded.’ His mouth twitched slightly at the corners. ‘Though I am rather full, truth be told.’ He stood as the officers pulled on their shirts. ‘But, as I have said, we have better ways by which to pass our time. Follow me.’

The delegation comprised two men. One, Forrester would later discover, was city alderman Tobias Jordan, a bookseller by trade, who would represent Gloucester’s civilian government. The other was an altogether more grizzled man, of impressive height, tousled grey hair and a face weathered to the bone. His name was Major Marmaduke Pudsey, and he would stand for the city’s military element.

The pair strode into the Royalist camp behind a phalanx of pikemen. They were not blindfolded, for the king had decreed that they should see exactly what nature of foe they faced. He would have them take the impression of overwhelming odds back to their rebellious friends, in case that message had not already permeated Gloucester’s walls.

Forrester led Hood and Jays through the crowd of officers and men who now gathered around about the garrison messengers. He was pleasantly surprised to note no air of hostility in the camp. More, he supposed, a feeling of curiosity. Just what kind of men would stand up to an army of this size?

The assembly waited in silence for a small party of soldiers and officers to make their way from the largest tent in the temporary canvas town between Gaudy Green and Tredworth Field. They were well dressed in the finest silks and satins, each sporting fashionable whiskers and wide hats adorned with the most flamboyant feathers imaginable.

‘It is the King,’ Reginald Jays hissed at Forrester’s shoulder.

Forrester flapped a hand at him irritably. ‘Of course it is.’ For at the centre of the party that heralded its own arrival with the jangle of blade and spur, King Charles himself walked.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes descended upon their sovereign. He was probably one of the smallest people in the entire encampment, but the white lace and golden thread that snaked about his garments was regal indeed. His back- and breastplates were blackened and studded with gilt rivets, and his long, black cavalry boots gave him at least some extra height. If the sheer size of this army was meant to intimidate, Forrester mused, then so too was its commander-in-chief.

The courtly group reached the open space where the garrison men were waiting. They halted, leaving the king to advance a further two paces. He did not deign to greet the delegates, but instead cleared his throat daintily, smoothed down the hem of his dazzling emerald and gold coat, and straightened his broad blue scarf. He looked directly at the bookseller, a tiny flicker at the corner of one eye betraying his pleasure at the fellow’s failure to hold his gaze. ‘Speak.’

The tall soldier, Pudsey, handed his compatriot a scroll fastened with black ribbon. As Jordan took it, his bottom lip shook so hard that he was forced to bite down on it. Laughter rippled through the expectant throng.

‘Now, sir,’ Forrester whispered loudly enough for his two protégés to heed, ‘we will hear you surrender, or I will never eat a Lombard slice as long as I live.’

Tobias Jordan was not an imposing man. He was short and bald, had a grey pallor to his face, a beard that seemed a tad unkempt, and teeth that were visibly crooked. But as Forrester looked on, he saw the man straighten just a fraction, roll and square his shoulders, and whisper a silent prayer.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Forrester muttered, as his heart began to sink.

‘
We the inhabitants, magistrates, officers and soldiers within this garrison of Gloucester
,’ Jordan shouted, his voice suddenly as clear as the bells of St Paul’s, ‘
unto His Majesty’s gracious message return this humble answer
.’ He paused, squinted at the parchment, breathed deeply again. ‘
That we do keep this city, according to our oaths and allegiance, to and for the use of His Majesty and his royal posterity, and do accordingly conceive ourselves wholly bound to obey the commands of His Majesty
.’

‘There,’ Jays chirped happily into his captain’s ear. ‘They give up.’

‘
Signified
,’ Toby Jordan continued, louder still, a vein of defiance steeling his tone now, ‘
by both houses of Parliament, and are resolved by God’s help to keep this city accordingly
.’

Forrester simply looked down at the youngster, his face sad. ‘No, Lieutenant. They do not.’

The East Gate, Gloucester, 10 August 1643

Edward Massie leaned against the edge of the wall, the cool stone welcome against his elbows. His men were down there in the lion’s den, brave souls both, where they would be reading the rebellious reply to all who might listen. And even from up high, Massie could see the banner of King Charles, and he knew that the sovereign would be absorbing the words, gritting his teeth and pondering his next move. Because Gloucester was going to fight.

‘The dye is cast,’ Thomas Pury, one of Gloucester’s more powerful aldermen, intoned darkly. Pury was standing beside the governor on the wooden platform that had been placed against the wall. He too gazed down at the sprawling Royalist nest, and he rubbed a hand against the bristles of his rectangular chin. ‘They will give us no quarter.’

Massie looked at him. ‘Then we must not let them in.’

‘And we will not,’ another man spoke now. It was Vincent Skaithlocke, a man so obese that the timber walkway groaned ominously as he shifted his weight. Most of the men in Massie’s entourage eyed him warily, fearing the entire scaffold would collapse beneath them at any moment.

Massie offered him a wan smile. ‘I am grateful you have joined me in this, old friend.’

Skaithlocke inclined his head. ‘A pleasure to serve with you again, Colonel, though you were not colonel when last we met.’

‘Nor Governor,’ Massie said. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways, right enough. And I am convinced he sent you to me.’

‘Oh?’ Skaithlocke boomed.

‘It is nothing,’ Massie said dismissively. ‘Simply that I lose one experienced man to desertion, and straightway gain another.’

‘One of your better men deserted? Would I know the scoundrel, sir?’

‘No, Vincent. A Captain, formerly with the enemy, and now, it seems, returned to them.’ He shrugged sadly. ‘Man named Stryker.’

Skaithlocke’s broad face scrunched into a deep frown. ‘Stryker?’

Pury cleared his throat suddenly, though his eyes remained fixed on the busy encampment below the walls. ‘They return, Colonel.’

Massie looked to the heathland. The delegation was already trudging back towards the city. ‘One last gesture, gentlemen, if you please.’

He felt Pury’s stern gaze bore into his temple as the alderman turned. ‘Governor?’

Massie pursed his slender lips. He was no Puritan zealot like Pury, nor an ideological rebel like Harcus or Backhouse. He was a professional soldier, and for him to excel in life, he needed promotion – and fame. Gloucester, he had decided, would be the making of him. And for that to happen, he needed not only to hold out against the king, but also to create such stories that the people whispered them in every alehouse and marketplace from here to Scotland. His deception of Colonel Legge had been the first step on that journey, and now, he hoped, Toby Jordan and Sergeant Major Pudsey would conjure a myth of their own. He pointed his thin finger at the returning delegation. ‘Watch.’

Down below, Jordan and Pudsey had cleared the enemy lines. They were perhaps thirty or forty yards away from the nearest Royalists, and, as they had agreed with their young leader, it was here that they turned back to face the king and his forces. With an ostentatious wave, and the shout of
God and Parliament
, the pair clapped on their hats.

Up on the rampart a great cry of huzzah went up, coursing along Gloucester’s battlements in a rippling wave crested by whistles and jeers. For the hats the two men wore were tied with bright orange ribbons.