Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (45 page)

Budge’s round face coloured. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I am right to be wary, am I not?’ He rose, padding over the dusty floor to the Croatian. ‘They would kill me if they discovered my duplicity.’

Kovac shrugged. ‘You work for the rebellion, Budge, not the malignants. It is no terrible thing to arrange the destruction of an enemy citadel.’

‘But it is indeed terrible to deceive a general of Parliament, sir.’

Kovac smiled. ‘Is it done, Lieutenant?’ He took the heavy purse of double crowns from the snapsack across his shoulder, holding it up for the scout to see.

Budge glanced around again before nodding. ‘It is done.’

‘You reported?’

‘I did,’ Budge cut in with a teeth-gritted rasp, ‘what I said I would do. There was a brigade of horse riding south.’

‘Truly?’ Kovac asked, thrown by the concept that Waller had not been treated entirely to lies.

Budge rolled his eyes. ‘I could hardly concoct a threat from nowhere, Major. My entire troop bore witness, do not forget.’

Kovac let the insult wash over him this time. There were more important matters now to consider. A scrawny young stripling, sent from Tainton, had slithered over Basing’s earthworks the previous night and come to find Kovac’s unit. His message spoke of a particular place within the fortress; a place containing riches, to which Kovac must bring his entire troop as soon as the stronghold was breached. The pieces were moving into place, just as Tainton had foretold. He narrowed his gaze all the same, so that Budge could see his annoyance. ‘What, then, was reported?’

‘The brigade was bound, I believe, for Andover to meet with Hopton, that is the truth of it. But I have informed Sir William that they sweep east, intending to come about his rear and crush him between their hooves and Hopton’s muskets. That is why we have come north. Waller will now abandon Winchester, lest he be caught too far from Farnham.’

‘All is well, then,’ Kovac said. ‘He is timid, as we thought. Fears another defeat.’

Budge held out a palm that trembled slightly. ‘Now give me the money.’

Kovac tossed the purse to Budge and gave him a low bow. ‘Good work, Lieutenant.’ He backed towards the doorway. ‘Perfect, in fact.’

Basing House, Hampshire, 5 November 1643

Stryker and Forrester entered the room to the sound of raised voices. The chamber was one of opulence, the dark wood of its floor and walls polished to a high sheen, the ceilings painted with elaborate frescoes of biblical scenes, winged cherubs and impossibly beautiful women draped in flowing, daringly immodest robes. They paced quickly, accompanied by the clatter of their own boots, until they reached the far end of the room.

‘And where is Hopton in this?’ Sir John Paulet, Lord St John, Earl of Wiltshire and Fifth Marquess of Winchester demanded in a voice that seemed frayed at its edges. ‘Tell me, Colonel Rawdon, for I am confounded beyond my wits!’

Marmaduke Rawdon was one of a trio of soldiers in the marquess’s presence, and he glanced at his two colleagues before answering. ‘I know not, my lord. Last we heard he was at And­over.’ He caught sight of Stryker and Forrester and offered a tiny nod. ‘Good of you to join us, gentlemen.’

‘Damn it all, Rawdon!’ Paulet exploded. ‘This is my land, my home, and my chamber! I shall welcome them, and none other!’

Forrester shot Stryker a meaningful glance. Stryker edged closer to the group. ‘And we have responded to your summons, my lord.’

‘You have my thanks, Stryker,’ Paulet said, bringing his temper under control. ‘My apologies for the outburst. You understand matters have taken a dire turn.’

It was only two hours since the rider had come, roaring out of the grey dusk to bring news not of an army moving steadily west on an inexorable collision course with Winchester, but one that had veered to the right at Alresford and gone, initially inexplicably, north. But, of course, it had been all too explicable when the reality had struck the minds and hearts of Basing’s tense population. Sir William Waller was not, after all, marching on Winchester. He was headed for Basing House.

The news had spread like flames in a dry forest, coursing unchecked from senior officers, down through the ranks and into the quarters of grooms and bakers and gong-scourers, inciting panic and leaving chaos in its wake. While Rawdon’s yellow-coated regulars spent the early evening bringing order to the estate, Lord Paulet had convened a council of war.

‘And what does the craven charlatan do in Andover, save cower?’ Paulet asked Rawdon. ‘You told me only this very morning, Colonel, that he would rendezvous with other detachments and strike west. So where is he?’ He rounded on Forrester. ‘I was told to harry the rebels hereabouts, was I not? Ordered by that snake, Killigrew.’

Forrester could only nod. ‘Aye, sir, you were.’

‘Distract them, you said,’ he went on, wide-eyed and relentless, ‘so that Lord Hopton might advance into Hampshire.’ He turned to the others, playing to the crowd with spread palms, the jewels twinkling at his fingers. ‘And I did as I was asked, would you not say, Colonel Peake? Colonel Johnson?’

Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Peake, an Oxford engraver and print-seller who had shown himself an adept leader of men during his time at Basing, nodded his balding head quickly. ‘Aye, my lord, of course.’

‘And our good baron duly invaded the county, did he not?’ Paulet continued, his ankle-length robe of crimson swirling as he swept his arms about. ‘So why, when Sir William Waller marches to engage him, does he skulk back to the border, leaving the man they call
Conqueror
clear sight of my walls?’ He waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. ‘For my efforts,’ Paulet pressed, quieter now, ‘efforts intended to aid Hopton’s advance, I am repaid with a direct threat from Waller himself. This is not how it is supposed to be, gentlemen.’

Rawdon cleared his throat. ‘I can only agree, my lord. The design was to take Parliament’s eye from the true threat, not draw its full fury to our walls.’

‘Our walls?’ Paulet echoed, almost spitting the words back in Rawdon’s face. ‘These are
my
walls, Colonel Rawdon, and I’ll thank you not to forget it. I did not ask for a curmudgeonly Protestant to interfere in matters here, as you would do well to recall.’

Rawdon’s cheeks flushed. ‘I recall it clearly, my lord.’

Paulet’s simmering gaze fell on Stryker. ‘What is happening, Captain? You are the most experienced soldier among us. Tell me exactly what game Waller plays.’

‘I suspect there is no game afoot, my lord,’ Stryker said, feeling cornered. ‘Lord Hopton was sent to invade the south-east and Sir William Waller has been dispatched to stop him. Hopton has been waylaid at Andover, and Waller has decided to blood his troops in an attack upon Basing House. I know not the reason for either decision, my lord, but that is the nub of it.’

Sir John Paulet’s shoulders seemed to slump. He gnawed his lower lip. ‘Thus, we must face this new army alone.’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Stryker agreed solemnly. ‘I fear we must.’

Stryker asked Forrester to go to the men as soon as they were dismissed. His greencoats had come so far these weeks since Gloucester and Newbury. Marched and fought, sailed and survived. They had buried friends and taken beatings, lost a fortune and won it back. Now all that the remnants of Captain Stryker’s Company of Foot wished to do was return to their regiment with the prize so dearly bought. ‘They are restless, Forry,’ he said in the corridor outside Paulet’s capacious chambers. ‘Stand them to arms. Put them up on the walls. Let them watch for the enemy.’

‘I will,’ Forrester agreed, making for the spiral staircase that would take him to ground level. ‘And you?’

Stryker followed him, descending in his wake as far as the floor below. ‘I would tarry here a while.’

Forrester raised his brow in amusement. ‘Is that what you call it?’

Stryker laughed. ‘Hardly. I hope only for her to open the damned door.’

‘Then your hope is not a forlorn one, old man,’ Forrester said, nodding towards the door at Stryker’s back. As Stryker turned, he grinned and continued down to the courtyard.

‘
Canard
,’ Lisette Gaillard said, a pale wedge of her face visible from beyond the door.

‘Duck, is it not?’

‘Duck,
oui
,’ she answered, beckoning him inside. ‘I have duck.’

‘Does it not wish to be near the river?’

‘A poor jest,’ she muttered witheringly, closing the door behind him. ‘It is roasted. A gift from his lordship.’

Stryker went further into the room, stepping on to the first of several large pelts that brought warmth to the hard timbers of the floor. It looked comfortable, with expensive furniture and a large, four-poster bed. There was a huge window facing out to the north, and he went to look down, though he could see little in the darkness. There were a couple of braziers flickering near the Great Barn, but they seemed blurry and obscured, and he realized mist was drifting off the Loddon. ‘Paulet must like you.’

Lisette wore a long, flowing gown of silver and blue. It seemed an age since he had seen her dress in anything remotely femin­ine, and he stood admiring her until she made an irritable sound at the back of her throat. ‘I am Catholic.’

‘Most people in here are Catholic, Lisette. I think he is pleased to have a beautiful woman in his company, not least one with the ear of the Queen.’

Lisette went to a polished table of walnut wood and began carving strips off a trussed duck sitting on a plate. The juice pulsed in russet rivulets where the steel had punctured the flesh. ‘Will you eat?’ She looked back at him, suddenly concerned. ‘How do you fare now,
mon amour
?’

Stryker’s guts still griped with every morsel that crossed his lips, but he cared nothing for his ills in that moment. ‘It has been too long since you have addressed me so.’

Lisette laid down the knife. ‘You should not have told Tainton, Stryker.’

‘I disagree.’

Her gaze sharpened, pupils tightening to pin-pricks. ‘I am still angry, Englishman. Cecily died for that bloody secret.’

Stryker steeled himself for an argument, though he could already sense that the searing fury she had harboured on Scilly had abated. Now it seemed more like grief, and he knew the feeling well. ‘Cecily died, aye. You will always mourn her, however you may rage. Nothing will close that hole, Lisette, believe me.’

She shook her head. ‘You should not have told that bastard.’

‘I had no choice. You are too dear to me.’

She planted her hands on her hips in exasperation. ‘I am your weakness, Stryker. It is not good for a warrior to have such a thing.’

Stryker moved closer. ‘On the contrary, I believe it is what makes a man fight harder than other men. He has something –
someone
– he would protect with his life.’

She shook her head angrily. ‘But I am not someone,
mon amour
. I am a warrior, too. I cannot be sheltered and shielded and coddled. I am not your bloody goodwife, tending to children and waiting by the hearth for your return.’

He laughed at the image. ‘And I would never ask it of you.’

‘Which is why I am such a danger, don’t you see?’ She went to him, gripping his arms tight as though she might shake him. ‘My presence turns you foolish. Compels you to make stupid choices that, if I were any other woman, you would never be forced to make. You cannot be the soldier you were meant to be when I am near.’

‘Do not speak so, Lisette,’ Stryker replied, touching his fingertips to her mouth. He wanted to kiss her, but feared her forgiveness would not extend that far. ‘We have the gold. We took it back! I regret what happened, but I will never regret my reasons.’

Lisette stepped away, her face strained by a sadness that stole his breath. She returned to the table and the steaming meat. ‘What now?’ she asked. ‘The escort should have arrived. I hear Waller is near.’

‘He is.’

‘Will he attack?’

‘I believe he will.’

Now she looked back. ‘So our escort is too late.’

Stryker nodded. ‘We are here for good or ill.’

CHAPTER 22

Basing House, Hampshire, 6 November 1643

Stryker woke when he felt the tremors. At first he had assumed it to be part of some vague dream. Often he slept fitfully, assailed by old battles and vengeful enemies, and he guessed the vibrations crawling along his legs and spine were recollections of some explosion or escalade in which he had once taken part. Except that they persisted. He lay still, hearing only his pulse, and let the almost imperceptible sensation reverberate through his limbs, all the while blinking at the billet’s low ceiling to ensure he was truly awake. After a minute or so, he sat bolt upright. Across from him, also sitting up in their beds, were Forrester and Skellen. Both men turned to him, eyes wide. ‘I feel it,’ he said.

After the news reached Basing of Waller’s change of plan, they had almost expected to see a vast horde appear immediately over the horizon. The lookouts had not left their posts, the gun-crews had doubled their drills, and the scouts prepared to ride out in larger numbers to scour the hills and roads for a rebel vanguard. But the fog had descended. It had lain thick through the night, blanketing the land in clouds so bilious and white that it seemed God Himself had wanted to shield his eyes from the wickedness that had befallen England. Basing’s defenders had clambered on the walls, straining their eyes through perspective glasses to snatch a look at the roads and the park and the river, but the fog had confounded them and prevented their scouts from negotiating the treacherous countryside. And so, much to their vexation, the Marquess of Winchester and his five hundred or so fighting men had been forced to wait and watch, wonder and fear. Stryker had returned to quarters desperate for rest. A large part of him had wished to stay with Lisette, to feel the warmth of her against him, but she had not invited his touch, and shame had kept him from broaching the subject. In the end, he had had to console himself with the knowledge that hatred no longer festered between them. It would have to suffice for the time being.