Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (37 page)

Kovac stared at a mark on the wall behind his colonel. ‘We killed one, sir. A sergeant from Rawdon’s.’

Norton set down the quill and leaned back, forming a steeple with his fingers at the tip of his red beard. ‘And yet you lost two men and three horses. You yourself are wounded. Remind me,’ he glanced pointedly at the Croat’s bandaged thigh, ‘shot with?’

Kovac felt his cheeks burn. ‘A pricker, sir.’

Norton slid his hands up his face to rub at the blotchy skin near his temples. ‘And your remaining trooper has a shattered wrist and will probably be of no use to me for the remainder of this war.’

‘I am sorry, Governor.’

‘I should hope so,’ Norton said, peering through his fingers as though they were stakes in a fence. ‘What happened?’

‘He is good,’ was all Kovac could think to say. He did not wish to regale his master with the story of his risible attempts to bring a fugitive to heel, or the way he had been tricked in to attacking so rashly, only to find himself sprawling in the mud of some nondescript forest. ‘Very good.’

‘Must I presume you speak of our dear Captain Forrester?’ Norton asked, folding his arms.

‘I do.’

‘Curious, for he looked a soft sort, did he not?’ Norton smiled, a gesture that did not touch his eyes. ‘A penchant for the playhouse and a passion for pie.’

‘He has a penchant for a fight, sir. A passion for trickery.’

‘Either way, he bested you, and humiliated me.’ Norton pushed himself from the chair and walked to the room’s big window. ‘You say he went back to Basing?’

Kovac shuffled his feet awkwardly to face the colonel. ‘That is what he claimed.’

‘I am an ambitious man, Wagner,’ said Norton, his tone almost too bright. Kovac knew he fought to conceal a bubbling anger. ‘I would subjugate this county for the Parliament, as you know. But have you considered what my reward will be if I were to succeed?’ He turned now, meeting Kovac’s gaze. ‘And what reward might befit the men who helped me realize my ambition? Forrester’s escape will be whispered among our prisoners and through the ranks of your own troop. Soon it will be out there, in the world, a tantalizing morsel of heroism and guile to be chewed and savoured by all. It will tarnish my reputation and limit my ambition. We must curtail such an outcome. Cut off the limb before the wound festers. Do you understand?’

‘I do, sir.’ Kovac answered. ‘I go to Basing Castle?’

Norton nodded slowly, taking his seat again. ‘You go to Basing Castle. You may rid us of our mutual enemy, while instigating the reduction of that vile hive of Papists.’

Kovac had half expected the order to come. He straightened, setting his jaw, pleased, despite his injury, to have the opportun­ity to put right the wrongs of recent days. ‘How many men do I get?’

‘Two hundred.’

‘Two hundred?’ Kovac repeated. ‘Not enough, sir. Scouts say they are putting up earthworks.’

‘Then find help,’ Norton replied coolly. ‘This is your dung heap, sir, and I expect you to wade through it. I will provide a letter of introduction, requesting assistance from our garrisons in the region, and you can prove your worth to me. Just get in,’ he leaned forwards suddenly, ‘
Major
Kovac.’

Petersfield, Hampshire, 20 October 1643

Stryker entered the workshop alone. He and Skellen had walked down from the hills together, striding on to High Street with the story that they were two itinerant labourers, their weapons left with the rest of the group on the verdant chalky slopes overlooking the town. They had discarded their coats too, much to the sergeant’s obvious chagrin, but his complaints against the cold fell on deaf ears, for the matching green would surely mark them out as soldiers. It was just past noon, and Skellen had gone into the White Hart, the sprawling inn at the eastern extremity of Petersfield’s main thoroughfare. He would take a cup of spiced wine and sit below the window at the front of the building, watching the road for troops while Stryker went to the modest complex of shops on the far side.

The workshop was well lit and tidy, though it carried the ripe stench of wood shavings, salad oil and raw sweat. There were tools of all kinds hanging from various placements along the walls, various wooden trinkets and vessels were arrayed on shelves, and, he noted with interest, a large number of powder boxes hung from bandoliers that were looped over hooks in the ceiling beams.

The wood-turner was oblivious. He was standing in the middle of a large oaken frame, bent over a mandrel that spun frenetically, a sharp tool poised in hand. Behind him a huge wheel, bigger than a full-grown man, was being turned by a dark-haired youth who bobbed up and down with the crank handle. There was a leather strap running in a figure-of-eight between the large wheel and the turner’s machine, and its slow revolution spun the mandrel at an astonishing speed. The focus of the wood-turner was such that, when Stryker cleared his throat, he wondered if the man would expire of fright.

‘My apologies, Master Webb,’ Stryker said as the wood-turner extricated himself from the frame with a stream of obscenities. ‘I wondered if I might speak with you.’

‘You are speaking already, it seems,’ the wood-turner snapped. He dismissed the smirking apprentice with an irritable wave. ‘What is it you want, sir, for I am dire busy?’

Stryker waited until the boy was gone. ‘You are George Webb, are you not? Master wood-turner?’

‘Are there any other master turners in this town?’ But as the man searched his visitor’s face the rigidity of defiance began to visibly thaw. He swallowed thickly and billowed a heavy sigh. ‘Aye, I am he.’

Stryker nodded. ‘I need your help, sir. Your advice.’

Webb wiped the sweat from his hands against his breeches. ‘You are turning wood, sir? I would hope not, for such a thing is illegal, as you must know.’

‘Not that kind of advice,’ Stryker said. ‘I wish to know,’ he glanced around the workshop quickly, making sure they were alone, ‘of soldierly dispositions hereabouts.’

Webb swept a hand through black and silver hair. He was suddenly nervous. ‘Why would I know such things?’

Stryker dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Because you are an agent for the King, sir.’

‘Preposterous,’ Webb blustered, turning away.

‘Hold,’ Stryker ordered, reaching out to grasp the turner’s elbow. He forcibly compelled the spy to come back to face him. ‘You are for the King, Master Webb, as am I. And I require your assistance.’

‘I do not know who you are—’ Webb stammered.

‘My name is Stryker.’

The wood-turner frowned suddenly. ‘The wool merchant? Too young.’ He chuckled mirthlessly. ‘And too alive.’

‘I am his son.’

Webb’s cheeks coloured. ‘My apologies. But your heritage does not make you Cavalier, any more than it makes you Roundhead.’

‘I have visited Thomas Rowe, the tapster at Harting,’ Stryker ventured. ‘He is an old friend of mine, and, as you know, one who shifts for the Crown. One of your brother spies. He sent me here. Told me you could help.’ He was rewarded by a flicker of recognition in Webb’s eyes. ‘I see that turns your wheels a touch.’

Webb seemed to be considering matters for a moment, but his face suddenly tightened and he shook himself free. ‘I have work to do, and—’

‘I grow tired of this, Master Webb,’ Stryker hissed, angry now. ‘If you speak plain with me, I will be on my way. If you do not, I’ll be forced to treat you more harshly.’ He saw Webb’s Adam’s apple bob as the man swallowed thickly. ‘Now mark me well. I possess something important . . . vital . . . to our mutual cause. I travel over these hills with it, and require guidance by one who knows the lie of the land. Thomas Rowe tells me you are such a one.’

Webb gnawed the inside of his mouth, but eventually he nodded. ‘Rowe is in the right of it.’

‘First, tell me of this town.’

‘Petersfield? Are you not from hereabouts?’

Stryker let his mind drift to his childhood home out on the rich pastures to the east of the town. The house was substantial and warm, built of flint and thatch beside the junction of the River Rother and its tributary, Tilmore Brook. Sheep grazed all day and he played in the river and in the trees and up on the chalky hills; he had never wanted it to end. But it had ended. ‘Not for many years, Master Webb.’

Webb considered his words for a moment. ‘It is a town divided. We had two members of the Parliament, and each sided with a different cause. That alone should tell you how frayed our old friendships have become.’ He rubbed his eyes as if the thought exhausted him. ‘Many in the marketplace will denounce a man for so much as a bawdy jest, such is their zeal, while others, like me, would have things put back to the way they were before the Puritan faction found their voice. Even our priest, a Godly man by the name of Benjamin Laney, has been driven out for his Laudian sympathies.’

Stryker nodded. Lisette would be sorry at the news. ‘Rowe told me as much. That is why I am here. It was Laney I had hoped to find.’

Webb shook his head. ‘Long gone, I regret to say.’

‘But what of soldiers, Master Webb? Are there rebels operating in the town?’

‘No, sir, not for several days, but they pass through.’ He spread his palms to show that he had no real answers. ‘You are safe enough for the moment, but I would not tarry if I were you.’

‘But where do I go? I would make for Oxford, but the roads through the Thames Valley are too dangerous. I must reach the nearest garrison of strength, so as to collect an escort for the remainder of my journey, and my guess thus far has been Winchester, but I seek your guidance on the matter.’ Stryker stepped closer. ‘Tell me, sir, is it Winchester, or should I look elsewhere? Alresford? Or further afield. Reading, perhaps?’

‘Basing.’

That caught Stryker by surprise. ‘Basing House?’

‘The King’s forces took Reading at the beginning of the month,’ Webb said, ‘but I hear Waller is at Windsor with the beginnings of a new army.’

‘Too close for comfort,’ Stryker said, imagining a vast enemy horde mustering so near to the Royalist garrison.

‘That is what I would suggest. We hold Winchester and Alresford, but the latter garrison is too small and will offer you no help, while Winchester is under constant threat from Southampton. Colonel Norton has been elevated to governor there, and he has busied himself in the spreading of his influence. Go to Basing; send a messenger to Oxford. If what you carry is so vital, they will dispatch men to escort you back.’

Stryker considered the advice. It seemed reasonable enough, but he was unwilling to abandon his original plan so readily. ‘Winchester is but twenty miles from here. It is really so fraught with risk?’

Webb shrugged. ‘Try it. Get yourself a fast mount and chance your arm. But I would wager a great deal that you would not cover the distance without running into Norton’s troops.’

Stryker blew out his cheeks. If Webb considered it a dangerous proposition for a lone rider, then a heavily laden wagon escorted by eleven people on foot would find the journey impossible.

‘Why,’ Webb went on, ‘his men were here just ten days ago.’

‘Norton’s?’ Stryker asked. ‘They strike this far from Southampton?’

‘Aye. His force is predominantly cavalry. Such men move swiftly, but I’m sure I do not need to tell you that. Besides, they were in search of a particular man.’

‘A spy, no doubt.’

Webb nodded. ‘An officer out of Basing. He carried a warrant calling for the raising of the county for the Cavaliers. Norton got wind of it.’ Webb’s creased brow furrowed deeply. ‘I am wretched to confess that he was taken here, in my very own shop.’

‘How did they discover him?’

Webb looked at his shoes, evidently crest-fallen. ‘I know not.’

Stryker thought about the implication of the spy’s capture. ‘If the marquess is rabble-rousing, then he makes his house a target. Parliament will wish to bring him to heel as a matter of honour.’

‘Either way,’ Webb said, sensing Stryker’s reticence in trusting his advice, ‘I would yet recommend you make for it in the first instance. You may pick up men. And it is quite the haven.’

Stryker offered his hand for Webb to shake and made for the door. ‘I was there a year ago, Master Webb,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘And I can tell you it is more palace than fortress.’

‘The marquess’s man Forrester told me they have spent a good deal of time and money on new defences,’ Webb replied, moving back to his lathe.

Stryker already had his hand on the iron handle, but he let it fall. ‘Hold, Master Webb.’ He turned to regard the wood turner. ‘Repeat that name if you would.’

‘The marquess’s man?’ George Webb asked, frowning. ‘Why, Forrester was his name. Lancelot Forrester.’

Roger Tainton pulled the knife free. Even in the darkness he could see blood welling like spilt ink over the flesh, coursing over the curves of the neck in black rivulets to bloom on the sheets. The woman lay on her back in the feather bed, her sightless eyes wide, straining in her final panicked moments, glaring at the beams. Tainton’s blade had severed her windpipe even as she slept, so that her wakefulness had been brief and violent. Her eyes had snapped open as he pushed the wickedly keen steel through skin and tissue, she had bucked and writhed as he felt the tip crunch against her neck bones, and her lips had worked silently as he held it fast, pinned deep, waiting for the life to seep from her body. It had taken longer than he had expected, and he had prayed the husband would wallow in his slumber.