Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (13 page)

They reached the limit of the trees. Beyond was the churchyard. It was a small patch of land surrounding the chapel, marked by pale stones punctuating long grass. Forrester peered between the branches masking their approach, searching the dark near-distance. There they were; pastel smudges dotted here and there, irregular shapes strewn on the grass between the angles and lines of the tombstones. He felt his palms slicken, and wiped them instinctively on the dark wool of his coat. He turned back to his sergeant, a man with a nose so narrow and hooked that he put Forrester in mind of a gigantic bird, and nodded mutely. The sergeant spun on his heels and whispered orders down the waiting line.

Out of the darkness came dozens of bright orange lights. The risk of an errant spark alerting the enemy had been too great for Forrester to entertain, especially given the inexperience of his new charges, and he had ordered that only two of his musketeers carry lighted matches on the march out of Basing. Now that they were safely here, the glowing tips were brought to life and passed back along the line. He had thirty raiders, drawn mostly from Rawdon’s yellowcoats, and it was a matter of moments before all thirty men had the means to ignite the charges already set inside their weapons.

Forrester pushed out through the branches. Colonel Rawdon’s spies had reported that the half-company billeted at Holybourne’s church were only setting pickets to the south of the village, presumably expecting trouble to come from the established highway. Forrester thanked God, for he saw that the information had been correct, and only silence greeted his advance. At his back he could hear the rustling of branches as his men inched on to the long grass, skirting the first crooked stones, edging ever closer to their sleeping prize. He glanced over his shoulder, waving frantically for them to fan out in a wide arc.

A shout went up. He knew instantly that it had not come from one of his men. He drew his sword, the ringing of steel sounding unnaturally loud in the blackness. More shouts came from among the stones. The shapes were shifting, melding blotches of grey like so many wraiths. The enemy was awake. Forrester drew breath into his lungs. His mouth was saltpetre-dry.

‘
Fire
!’

Flame roared out from the thirty muskets, sparking pans turned to tongues of fire in the jet darkness. A dense volley of shots rippled along the yellow-coated line to spawn a vast, roiling cloud of white smoke that billowed immediately at their front, scudding out and up, obscuring the cemetery as though a thick fog had descended. But they heard the screams. Shrill and blood-freezing, splitting the darkness as though the very gates of hell had been flung open in this quiet little village.

‘
Forward
!’ Forrester bellowed. ‘On! On! On!’ The momentum was with his men, and he would not let it slip. He advanced through the powder smoke, revelling in the familiar stink of rotten eggs, feeling exhilaration bring strength to his limbs and sharpness to his senses. The enemy would be reeling, he knew, stumbling backwards, bleary-eyed and stunned, still hoping against hope that this was all some horrific nightmare. He swung his sword in a high arc. ‘Reverse your muskets, damn your hides! Give ’em a battering, by God!’

The sergeant was with him, his own sword naked and gleaming, and then Forrester saw the rest as they stepped through the smoke. They snarled and crowed, teeth bared like wild dogs scenting the kill, muskets turned about to present wooden stocks that would club a man like the heaviest cudgel imaginable.

The enemy were close. Half a dozen bodies threw twisted shapes on the ground to Forrester’s front, but most had survived that first volley, and they were beginning to gather their bearings and regroup near the doorway of the church. Some frantically scrabbled at muskets, but it was difficult to load the weapons in the dark, and near impossible with a howling band of killers closing in, and most turned the long-arms about to meet the threat, while others tossed them away in favour of steel. There were probably forty, Forrester reckoned. Enough to bloody his party’s noses if allowed to gain some semblance of order, and he pressed in quickly, breaking into a run and yearning to hear the steps of his men at his back.

He hit the first man hard. The fellow was taller, wielding a wicked-looking partisan that glinted in the moonlight, and Forrester realized that he must be one of the officers. He ducked under a wild swing, kicking the man between the legs, and brought the heavy pommel of his sword down at the exposed temple. The officer crumpled with a grunt, not even managing to put his arms out to break his fall. Another man darted from the pack near the doorway, brandishing a reversed musket that he jabbed out at Forrester’s head. The move was slow, easily read, and Forrester side-stepped calmly, thrusting the point of his blade at his opponent’s throat. He did not stay to see what damage had been caused, jerking back the steel and moving on while the man slumped, gargling, to his knees.

The men of Marmaduke Rawdon’s Regiment of Foot surged on, leaping the black patches of long-cooled fires, swarming about their leader for this night’s killing, screaming banshee cries at the moon. Forrester could just make out his own party, thankful for the yellow coats that gave them a wan glow in the night. His blood rushed, his senses razor-keen. He told himself he hated battle. It was moments like this that made him realize such sentiments were false, however well meant. Another man lurched out from the shadows by the church wall, emerging in Forrester’s face as if from nowhere, and it was all he could do to parry the sword that flickered at his throat. He hit the man, noticing his coat of light green as he drove his free fist squarely at the exposed chin, but it was just a glance, merely forcing his opponent to take a step back. But that step met with the body of a prone Parliamentarian, blood still jetting from a tear in the side of his neck, and Forrester’s challenger lost his footing. Forrester seized his chance without consideration, leaping at the floundering rebel before he could find his balance, barrelling into his unarmoured chest. The pair fell, careening over the bleeding body and landing in a tangle of limbs on the rough ground.

Neither man kept hold of his sword, and it became a battle of hands, each clawing at the throat of the other, scrambling for purchase, searching for soft flesh, desperate to lock tight and squeeze. Forrester was on top. He was the heavier of the two, and he used his whole weight to pin the Roundhead, grinding him into the grass and crushing the wind from him. The man’s mouth flapped open, gasping for air, and Forrester was assailed by a blast of fetid breath. He slammed his forehead down, butting the greencoat squarely on the bridge of his nose. He was rewarded by a splintering crunch. The man slumped back and Forrester rolled away, scrambling quickly to his feet. When he gathered his senses, he saw the greencoat rise to his knees, but then his own sergeant was there, the hooked nose prominent in the gloom, stepping smartly across the wheezing greencoat and bringing his halberd up in a crashing blow that scraped across the exposed chest. The coat flapped open, slashed from naval to sternum, and the emerald wool was suddenly dark, the shadow growing with every beat of the rebel’s failing heart. He fell back, eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky.

Forrester nodded his thanks to the sergeant, stooped to retrieve his blade, and looked to the next opponent. But none came from the dark.

‘It is over, lads!’ he called. ‘They’ll not be back this night! You’ve done well!’ He paused for a desultory cheer to ripple through the ranks. ‘Now let us be rid of the bodies, and we’ll get some rest.’ He looked at the sergeant. ‘Set pickets. Make sure I am not proved a fool, eh?’

The sergeant nodded. ‘Very good, sir.’

Lancelot Forrester watched the young men of Rawdon’s regiment. They chattered excitedly as they stripped and searched the corpses for valuables. They had proved themselves, and he did not begrudge them their joy. In the morning they would realize the peril to which they had been exposed, but for now, awash with exhilaration and relief, they deserved happiness. He sheathed his sword and went to light a fire.

They stirred just as dawn cracked across the horizon. No one had slept, too excited were they by their overwhelming victory, but Forrester had insisted they rest about the fires. The long march home would come with first light, and he was unwilling to risk lingering in the area.

‘How many, Dewhurst?’ Forrester asked as the sergeant walked over to him from the direction of the rebel bodies.

John Dewhurst, known as the Hawk by his yellow-coated charges, drove the butt end of his halberd into the dew-softened turf and leaned against it. ‘Baker’s dozen, sir.’

Forrester glanced towards the flint wall of the church, where the thirteen naked bodies had been arranged in a line. ‘All theirs?’

Dewhurst’s head nodded in short, staccato movements. ‘Aye, sir. Ours are all accounted for. Few scratches, but nowt that’ll snuff a man out, unless it turns bad.’

‘Good,’ Forrester said, turning away so that he was not caught smiling at the Hawk’s pecking. He scanned the makeshift encampment; the wisps from dowsed fires dancing with tobacco smoke, the rasp of steel being sharpened, the chatter of men as they broke their fast with rock-hard bread and skins of weak ale. He looked back at Dewhurst. ‘You have my thanks, Sergeant.’

‘Sir?’

‘Chopping that man,’ Forrester said.

Dewhurst wiped the red tip of his nose with a grubby sleeve. ‘You were doing well enough, sir. Know how to fight, an’ no mistake.’ He ventured a wry smile. ‘But squashing the bugger’s a new one on me, beggin’ your pardon, sir.’

‘I’ll thank you to mind your manners, Sergeant,’ Forrester replied sharply, before breaking into an amused snort as he patted the taut coat stretched over his midriff. ‘Though I confess it is not often that my size plays to my advantage.’ He watched the men as they made ready to march. ‘Fought like lions, Sergeant, did they not? Colonel Rawdon will be pleased.’

Dewhurst pecked the air. ‘Proud of ’em, sir. Still, experienced officers are hard to come by for new regiments. They learnt a few things.’

Forrester acknowledged the compliment with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Then we are each content with our night’s work.’

‘Long walk home then, sir?’ said Dewhurst as he jerked the halberd from the soil, using it like a shepherd’s crook as he walked away.

‘As soon as we might,’ Forrester returned. ‘The better part of valour is discretion.’ He sighed when Dewhurst turned to cast him a blank expression. ‘
Henry the Fourth, Part I
.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Let us be on the move.’

Southampton, Hampshire, 7 October 1643

The shouts were deafening. Norton had been summoned from his quarters in the tavern near the West Gate by a messenger saying only that Southampton’s disgruntled aldermen wished to meet with him. He had at once ridden out, but somehow the ordinary folk had got wind of the meeting and in moments a crowd had gathered. And they were baying for blood, clamouring to reach him as he dismounted at the steps of the Bar Gate. Near fifty of his troopers had escorted him, and they moved their mounts into a half-moon around the foot of the steps, hedging him as he met the party of dour city elders, who trundled down from the grand building. One of the aldermen held out a hand for Norton to shake and said something, but the din was overwhelming. Norton pulled an expression of apology and turned to face the crowd. ‘Hold, good people, please! Be at your peace!’

Captain Kovac was one of the protective horsemen, and he brought his bay round a fraction so that he could see Norton. ‘They will not shut their mouths, sir.’

‘I can see that, Wagner.’

Kovac sniffed the chill air into his bulbous nose. ‘You want me fix?’

Norton nodded. ‘Aye.’

Kovac drew a pistol from his saddle holster, primed and cocked it, and fired into the air. The pack collectively gasped and juddered back, people at the very rear stumbling under the sheer weight of retreating bodies. A small pall of white smoke slewed out over their heads. All fell silent.

Norton strode to a place just to the rear of his bristling cordon. ‘Now let me speak to your elders in a civilized manner,’ he called. He turned to the alderman who had extended his hand. ‘You summoned me here. What manner of grievance do you harbour that it must be laid at the feet of a soldier? You have a governor. What place is this where he is not given leave to govern?’

The alderman had seen at least seventy winters, Norton guessed, for his beardless face was wrinkled and lined. ‘It is just such governance that brings them hither, Colonel,’ he replied in a frail voice. ‘They rail against Murford’s hard ways.’

Norton shrugged. ‘These are hard times.’

‘And this is a Parliamentarian city,’ the alderman retorted, thin wisps of vapour curling from his mouth as he spoke. ‘It has been so from the start. Murford rules in the manner of an occupying enemy.’

‘He is a tyrant!’ a woman’s voice shrieked from the crowd. Immediately a chorus of similar cries went up, echoing against the houses and shops of the street, causing a hundred birds to flee into the grey clouds at once.

‘Aye!’ the alderman agreed, his aged voice becoming stronger now that he had the overt assent of the mob. ‘It is a tyrant I have sent my sons and grandsons to overthrow. We shall not have one here while they are gone.’

The mob cheered and jeered, and it surged, pulsing from back to front so that the foremost of its number collided with the chests of the horses. Those beasts whinnied and reared, a couple kicked, and the pulse waned, folding back on itself like a wave hitting rocks.