Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (38 page)

He slid away from the newly made corpse and wiped the knife on the edge of the bed. It was a good weapon, he reflected. A long, thin length of double-edged steel, with a thick medial ridge for strength and a fluted, octagonal grip that was carved from oak. He had relieved a pilgrim of it following a short altercation on the road near the border between Sussex and Hampshire, exchanging his weary nag for the traveller’s fresh pony to boot. It had allowed him to press on through the wooded escarpments and grassy slopes of the Downs in the wake of his quarry, tracking their distinct wheel ruts in the soft earth but always staying a suitable distance behind. In the hours after his breathless flight from Pagham, he had thought to ride to Chichester in order to raise the alarm. But his mind had turned the consequences of such an act like a plough through soil, digging up images of a city mired in its own civic and regimental politics, of officers suspicious of a newcomer with a seemingly tall tale, and a governor who, even if he agreed to grant Tainton an audience, would not necessarily be disposed to assist. Tainton had, therefore, resolved to follow Stryker himself.

The pursuit from the Sussex coast had taken him up into the South Downs, climbing the ancient bridleways and weaving through blocks of dense woodland that had once been the haunt of wolves. He had traced the route of his enemies along the summit of a high ridge and down a steeply winding hill, finishing in a sleepy backwater named South Harting. There he had watched as Stryker visited a taphouse, and then the whole group took the north-westerly road back into the wild expanse, following its meandering journey past stream and valley and copse, until finally descending into this unassuming little place set deep in a depression in the hills. But it was here, in the fields skirting the town, that the trail had suddenly gone cold.

He eased himself off the bed. Mercifully, the husband yet slept, and he padded smartly round to the far side. He glanced out of the window through which he had climbed, hoping it would not rain, for his boots and their relentlessly noisy spurs had been left out there below the sill. He could see the buildings of High Street, their roofs silhouetted against a bright moon in a cloudless sky. It was another cold night, another step towards a bitter winter. He was glad at the thought that soon this ordeal would be over and he could return to London and her great and welcoming hearths.

Tainton rested the knife point just above the sleeping man’s right eye. He held it there, poised and still in a steady hand, watching the fellow’s chest rise and fall with each gentle snore. His free hand he slithered over the man’s mouth. The eyelids shot up, head jerking forth, but Tainton pressed firmly on the man’s face so that he could neither move nor scream. He saw the knife too, fear lighting up his gaze, and immediately he was still.

‘Have a care,’ Tainton warned, still pushing down upon the man’s lips. ‘I will remove my hand if you pledge to remain still and quiet.’

The man shifted his terrified stare from the blade to Tainton. He wiggled his brow in an evident attempt to acquiesce.

‘Good,’ Tainton said. He slid his hand away, though the knife remained. ‘Stay on your back, there’s an obedient fellow. Sit up quick and there’ll be metal in your brain before you can close your eye. Understood?’

The man nodded mutely.

‘You are George Webb, are you not? Wood-turner.’

Webb nodded, eyes on the knife.

‘And you are a Royalist spy,’ Tainton added. It was a guess, but why else would Stryker have paid the man a visit? ‘Come now, sir, I haven’t all night.’ Tainton had followed the captain and his languorous sergeant down from the hills, and witnessed Stryker sneak into the wood-turner’s premises. When he had returned to fetch Skellen from the tavern across the road, he carried no items one might find in such a place. No boxes or flasks or anything turned by an experienced hand. It was information Stryker sought, Tainton felt sure of it.

‘Who are you?’ Webb managed to blurt.

‘No concern of yours.’ Tainton put a hand to his cowl and push it back. He waited while the prone man absorbed the face that peered down upon him. The featureless skin, the hairless skull, the ice-blue gaze. ‘Now, you are a Royalist spy, sir. Do not waste your breath in the denial. Speak plain, answer my questions, and you will see salvation this night.’

Webb’s ashen face quivered as he nodded assent. ‘Ask, sir, please, and be gone, I beg you.’

‘I follow a man named Stryker. My horse threw a shoe, and when I had seen it repaired, he was gone.’ He turned the blade slowly, letting the moonlight skim along the medial ridge. ‘You saw him earlier this day. Where did he go?’

Webb swallowed thickly. ‘N—north, sir.’

‘North?’ Tainton echoed. He frowned at the idea, feeling the antagonism of the taut skin around his forehead and temples. North took him towards a cluster of Parliamentarian towns. ‘To what end? What destination?’

‘Basing House, sir.’

Tainton gazed into the wood-turner’s bulging eyes. ‘Basing?’ It took a moment for him to register the implication. Once behind the Marquess of Winchester’s walls, he would be difficult to dig out. But they would not leave the gold there for the marquess and his family to plunder. They would look to move out for Oxford as soon as the way was safe. Tainton could not stop Stryker reaching Basing, but he could certainly arrange matters for when the one-eyed thief dared to leave its protective embrace. ‘Where is the nearest Parliamentarian garrison?’

‘To Basing?’ Webb asked. ‘Farnham Castle, sir.’

Tainton nodded, finally contented after the brief loss of his quarry. ‘Then it is to Farnham with me, Master Webb. And you have my thanks.’ He stood. ‘Now I will set you upon the path of salvation, as promised. In that, you may join your goodwife.’

George Webb looked sideways then, staring at the woman by at his side. Even in the darkness he could see the blood staining her throat and breast, running into the sheets and seeping into the compacted feathers beneath them. A look of sheer horror crawled over his face, his neck convulsed as though he would vomit, and he drew breath to scream. Tainton stabbed him twice in the chest, forcing the dagger up between the ribs so that the air immediately hissed from the wound. Webb’s jaw worked frantically, but no sound came. Tainton yanked at the blade, which required substantial effort and a knee in the turner’s midriff. Eventually it slid free. He left the man to flounder in his own blood beside the corpse of his woman, and climbed out through the window, all the while thanking God. The trail was cold no longer.

CHAPTER 18

Farnham Castle, Surrey, 22 October 1643

Colonel Samuel Jones, a thin, elegant and pinch-faced man in his late thirties, stood in the courtyard of Farnham Castle. He was watching his greencoats as they ran through manoeuvres taken from the manuals of pike and shot. Sergeants and corporals bawled oath-laden orders as the tight squads pivoted around them, pikes were charged and shouldered by turns, and muskets snapped crisply from one position to the next. He was proud of them, for they were a good, solid, loyal body of men. But more importantly, he was proud of their home. The castle was set high on a wooded hill overlooking the clustered houses far below, and it was a supremely defensible place, but Jones also delighted in the ease with which he could keep his fighting men from the corrupting influence of their followers. Society’s dregs. The hunched, foul-mouthed crones who attached themselves to the soldiers, turning regiments into itinerant towns. There would be children too, the sly, filthy little urchins whelped on their unholy unions. An army in the field was a melting pot of disease and sin as far as Jones was concerned. The thought made him shudder.

He waved to a young officer – a strapping, golden-haired youth who was overseeing the drill – privately noting the shapely curve of the lad’s calves. When the officer moved out of sight, he glanced sideways at the fearsome creature who had come to his beloved garrison. ‘I cannot spare the men, Mister Tainton.’

The man at his right flank wore a heavy cloak, the hood permanently drawn up to conceal his head. ‘What do you mean,’ the man grunted, blue eyes gleaming from within the sepulchral depths, ‘you cannot spare the men?’

Jones produced a handkerchief from his sleeve with a flourish and wiped the running tip of his red nose. The afternoon was cold, and he stamped his feet. ‘I mean precisely what I say, sir.’

‘Your corporal tells me you have four companies of foot within these walls.’

Jones twisted to his other side, where a meek-looking fellow in the regiment’s distinctive green coat peered back at him through thick-lensed spectacles. ‘My corporal has no business discussing garrison strength with a stranger.’

‘No stranger, Colonel Jones. I am an agent sent direct from Whitehall, on the business of Pym and of God.’

‘And I,’ Jones retorted icily, ‘am commander of Farnham Castle, sir. I may discuss matters with you, but my minions may not.’ He rounded on the corporal. ‘Get out of my sight, Ingram, before I have the skin flogged from your spine.’ He wiped his nose again as he waited for the ashen-faced subordinate to skulk away, then looked at the man who had introduced himself as Roger Tainton. ‘Now, as I have said, I cannot spare any men for this escapade.’

‘Escapade?’ Tainton spluttered indignantly. ‘There is a large consignment of gold and silver within Basing House, Col­onel. It is not a few trinkets, sir, but a hoard. It is my commission to secure said hoard for the Parliament, and I require your assistance.’

Jones shook his head. ‘I cannot do it, Mister Tainton. Not, and with the utmost respect, for mere rumours spread by men I do not even know.’

Tainton seemed to bridle at that. ‘My masters will—’

‘Your masters,’ Jones broke across him harshly, ‘may do as they wish, for
my
master has ordered me to gather my full strength.’ He wagged a long finger in Tainton’s face. ‘Not diminish it.’ The very idea was absurd as far as he was concerned. ‘A lone rider, sir, gallops into my castle and orders me . . . a full col­onel . . . to simply hand him my force so that he might traipse down to an enemy stronghold and dash them against its walls. I find it astonishing that you would even ask, Mister Tainton.’

‘Not dash, Colonel, not dash! It is not Basing House I seek to attack, but a small party hidden within. That quarry will not tarry, sir. They will move out from Basing any day, I have no doubt. I simply require enough men to accost them when they take to the road.’

Jones shook his head. ‘You are not heeding my words, sir. No soldier leaves this garrison.’

‘Why, Colonel Jones?’ Tainton persisted. ‘What is the reason for this bullock-headed obstinacy?’ He lowered his voice. ‘The reward will be more than you can imagine.’

‘I—’ Jones began, but his stinging retort withered before it could form. Instead his attention turned to the main gates, around fifty paces to his right, where the grinding of metal heralded their opening. He glanced back at his unwanted guest, thankful for the interruption. ‘Good-day, Mister Tainton.’

Roger Tainton saw his grand plans melt like winter’s last snow as he stared at Jones’s lean back. The colonel strode quickly across the courtyard, green-coated musketeers and pikemen capped in rounded morion helmets dipping their heads in acknowledgement as he swept by. Tainton had crossed the hills to Farnham with renewed hope after the wood-turner’s timely flurry of information. He knew he would probably not catch Stryker’s group before they reached Basing, for he had given them a head start of several hours, but, even if he had hunted them down on the winding country tracks, he had no idea how he would wrest the gold from their avaricious claws. But then God had ignited a spark in his mind, as Tainton had prayed He would. Webb had mentioned Farnham, and Farnham, Tainton knew, had a castle that was garrisoned by a highly respected unit. He had been convinced that Jones would be ambitious enough to see the potential in the venture, imagine the lofty commissions the successful capture of the Cade gold would secure, but the man’s obstinacy had ruined everything. Now Tainton watched the arrogant colonel strut up to the castle gates and pictured daggers flying back across the cobbles to bury themselves deep between his shoulder-blades. Because the plans had gone catastrophically awry, and the gold was forever lost.

Tainton drew the cloak tighter about his torso, feeling the cold air more keenly than before. At the gate a force of cavalry streamed under the stone arch, filling the yard with their wheeling mounts and pushing the disgruntled greencoats to the sides. Their leader, riding beside a cornet of blue, black and white, was bulky of frame and looked to be of some significant stature. He scanned the cobbles until he noticed Jones, then kicked towards the castle commander, circling him once in a display of remarkable haughtiness. He removed his helmet as soon as the horse had come to a halt, revealing eyes that were pale and hard, cheeks pitted deeply and a chin furred with thick white hair. He called down to the colonel, presumably making his introductions, though it was difficult to hear from this distance.

Tainton quickly skirted the edge of the open space, making for the place where the two officers spoke. The soldiers had instinctively formed two halves of the same circle around their superiors, troopers behind their man, greencoats behind Col­onel Jones. The air was tense but calm enough.

‘I have papers from Colonel Richard Norton,’ the white-bearded horseman was saying in a deeply guttural accent. ‘Governor of Southampton.’