Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (47 page)

It was then that he saw her, cloaked in ermine, the hem of a silvery blue dress sweeping out around her ankles as she walked through the archway towards him, her long, golden hair falling in tendrils over her shoulders. She was beautiful and yet all he felt was disgust. It was as though invisible hands had crammed rancid meat into his guts so that bile bubbled up in acidic jets to singe his throat. He loathed Lisette Gaillard, and in that shocking, heart-stopping moment of incandescent hatred, the gold slipped from his mind like sand through a sieve.

Tainton bolted from behind the well, ignoring his aching hip as he passed the slope and the disinterested guards, and plunged into the short tunnel running through the foot of the Great Gatehouse. Lisette was caught unawares as he clattered into her. She struggled and thrashed as he clamped his hand across her mouth, spinning her round so that she faced away from him, her arm bent savagely up between her shoulder-blades. She tried to cry out but the scream was muffled by Tainton’s fingers, and he drove his knee into the back of hers, her leg instantly crumpling so that her body slumped back into his arms. He pulled hard so that she lost all balance, dragging her backwards, her heels scoring long ruts in the earth, and then they were in an empty alcove set half-way along the tunnel. On the far side was the fan-shaped outer yard, but the folk out there, milling at its edge, only had eyes for the fight down at the river and the rebel manoeuvres up on the hill.

‘So much company,’ Tainton rasped in her ear, ‘yet so alone.’ The chisel was in his waistband and he yanked it free, lifting it to her throat. Her whole body seemed to spasm. He clenched her tighter. ‘Should have done this back on Scilly,
mademoiselle
. Still, the Lord is faithful to his servants.’

Just then the ordnance up on the hillside erupted. Startled, Tainton loosened his grip for a moment, but it was enough, and Lisette brought her elbow up into his sternum. It was not a heavy blow, but her bony joint felt sharp as steel in the epicentre of his chest, and he released her with a yelp. She stepped away, but instead of fleeing she immediately turned, a knife in her white fist. It seemed too large and crude to be anything more than a kitchen utensil, but she blurted a stream of pledges in her native tongue and lurched at Tainton, slashing at his face like a woman possessed.

Roger Tainton screamed and lunged at Lisette Gaillard, not caring about her blade, but his screams were drowned by the crescendo of a second volley from Waller’s batteries. This time a shot hit home, smashing into the brickwork of one of the turrets immediately above them. Masonry, ornately carved chunks of alabaster and a score of tiles rained down to shatter on the outer courtyard. The Frenchwoman ducked instinctively, and Tainton saw his chance. He darted left through the inner arch and into the warren of buildings that was the Old House, not daring to glance back.

k

‘I am come from Sir William Waller himself, my lord.’

The trumpeter had been sent out from the Parliamentarian lines on the north bank of the River Loddon. The rebel general, after his short harassment of Basing’s defenders, had called a halt to both the infantry assault and the bombardment, demanding a parley with the garrison. Trumpeters were often used for parley, which meant those chosen for the role were necessarily cautious, cunning and observant. He had been led blindfolded through the earthworks and into the palace, boots crunching over the rubble the round-shot had caused to shower from the Great Gatehouse. Now, with dusk on the way, he stood just inside the Old House, surrounded by a party of angry Royalists.

‘Come, sir?’ Sir John Paulet, Marquess of Winchester, barked. He and Rawdon were at the very front of the crowd, dressed deliberately in their finery. ‘To say what?’

‘General Waller,’ the trumpeter went on, ‘sends me to demand the castle, for the use of King and Parliament. He offers fair quarter to all within these walls.’

Stryker stood close to Paulet. He heard mutterings from within the crowd at his back, whispers that spoke of Waller’s evident desire to broker peace, and he held his tongue for fear of shattering the frightened inhabitants’ resolve. Privately he suspected the cessation had more to do with dusk’s increasingly vice-like grip. The gathering gloom was stealing targets from the musketeers and the gunners, and soon the assault would be forced to a pause regardless of Waller’s intentions, good or otherwise.

‘Come!’ Paulet commanded, his haughty tone exaggerated. He led the rebel representative into the wide rectangular form of the Great Hall, the very heart of his grand house, now turned into a centre for storage. A gaggle of senior men followed leaving the massed population of Basing to gossip in their wake.

Stryker moved towards the temporary structure near the Postern Gate that served as his billet. Inside was Lisette, perched on the end of his palliasse. Skellen, Barkworth and Forrester were all there, standing in various places around the room, each wearing an expression etched with concern. Two of his greencoats, the Trowbridge twins, immediately moved in behind him, guarding the doorway with primed muskets. ‘What is it?’ he asked Lisette.

She kept her head bowed, looking up through her lashes. ‘I was attacked,
mon amour
.’

Stryker felt sick. ‘Attacked?’ He glanced at the others, but the men in the room stared down at their own feet, so he looked again at Lisette.

‘I am unharmed. Shaken, perhaps, but unharmed.’

Skellen cleared his throat. ‘I found her in the Gatehouse archway, sir. Was on my way down from speaking to you. Brought her here.’

Stryker swallowed, his throat suddenly itchy. ‘Who was it?’

Lisette straightened as if summoning courage enough to speak. ‘Roger Tainton.’

Stryker had been expecting to explode in a welter of rage and vengeance, but on hearing the name he could do nothing but gape. ‘You—’ he began, immediately tripping on his own tongue. ‘You have been through an ordeal, Lisette.’

Lisette stood suddenly. ‘Do not
ordeal
me, Stryker, you bloody fool,’ she hissed. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘Tainton?’ Stryker said incredulously.

‘Tainton, damn you!’ Lisette snarled, advancing on him. ‘It was he.’

‘Here? In Basing?’

‘How many times must I say it?’

Stryker rubbed his palms through his hair and over his tired eye. ‘Why now? If he followed us from the coast, why did he not act before?’

‘Act?’ Lisette laughed bitterly. ‘In what manner? Attacked us on the road? All eleven of us? If you know one thing about Roger Tainton, Stryker, it is that he is a patient man. He inveigled his way inside this place so that he could steal the gold from right under our noses.’

Stryker blew out his cheeks. ‘He’s been watching us. Biding his time. He wants the gold, you are right, but I’d wager he saw you alone and took a chance to make an end of you.’

Lisette nodded. ‘I dare say you are right,
mon amour
.’

Stryker looked to the pair of greencoats at the door. ‘Jack, Harry. Stay with Miss Lisette. Keep her safe.’

‘No, Stryker,’ Lisette cut in, though not unkindly. ‘It is the treasure you must look to.’

‘Guard the cellar, then,’ Stryker conceded, knowing Lisette well enough not to waste his breath on fruitless arguments. ‘Let us have our own men at the door.’ He watched the twins disappear into the courtyard and turned to Lisette. ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, keep yourself behind doors.’

Lisette Gaillard’s expression told him she would do nothing of the sort, and he opened his mouth to protest again when a cannon fired from up on Cowdrey’s Down. It was a lone shot, with no agonized scream or juddering impact to tell of anything but a whistling miss.

Stryker quickly stood, going with the others for the door and the outside world. Even as he cast his gaze about to locate someone who might provide an answer, Sir John Paulet stormed out of the Great Hall, almost kicking the door off its hinges, and rounded furiously on the trumpeter who had trailed out behind. ‘What is the meaning of this, man?’

‘I—’ the trumpeter seemed as baffled as all the others within Basing House, and his jaw worked wordlessly.

‘Then I shall tell you!’ Paulet fumed, his face almost as bright as his robes. He stared, bulging-eyed, up at the gentle hill, where a thin finger of smoke still lingered to betray its provenance. ‘It is treachery, pure and simple! Your master employs parley as a mask for his murderous duplicity!’ He spun on his heels, pointing a jagged forefinger first at a group of his personal guards, then at the trumpeter. ‘Arrest this man at once!’ While a quartet of bulky men hefting halberds pushed through the throng to take the Parliamentarian emissary in hand, the marquess summoned a drummer. ‘Take this message to our unwanted visitor. Tell Sir William that I understand very well his words “King and Parliament”. Understand the betrayals they mask. “King” is but one thing; “King and Parliament’’ quite another yet. Tell him that Basing is mine own house, held lawfully by my family, and kept against any man. More particularly, it is now commanded by His Majesty, for it is his garrison that dwells herein, and, as God is my witness, it shall remain thus.’

The knock on Lisette’s door just after midnight made her almost leap out of bed with fright. She sat bolt upright, wondering if she had dreamt it, but then it rattled a second time, soft but persistent. She hoped it was not Stryker, for, though her fury had mellowed in the days since leaving Scilly, she had no intention of letting him warm her sheets. It was cold out, bitterly so, and she was already wearing a full-length robe for warmth. She tugged it tighter about her midriff and padded across the pelt-strewn floorboards. There were sentries in the corridors of the Great Gatehouse, and she doubted whether Tainton would be brazen enough to try another attack so soon and in so public a place, but she snatched up a knife from the dresser all the same, edging open the door tentatively.

The woman who came into the room was probably in her thirties, with dark hair that was dappled with grey. She was thin and wiry, but blessed with the steady gaze of one entirely confident in their own self-worth. Lisette doubled in a low bow as the voluminous lavender nightgown swept past her, the scent of rose water just detectable in her wake.

Lady Honora Paulet, mistress of Basing House, possessed a shrewish face of permanently pursed, thin lips and a sharp nose. Her eyes were dark in colour, but their gleam was bright with intelligence, and they peered with interest from above high, delicate cheekbones. ‘Mademoiselle Gaillard.’

‘My lady.’

The marchioness regarded Lisette coolly, but something in the twitch at the corners of her eyes spoke of a woman intrigued. ‘They say you have the ear of Queen Henrietta Maria herself.’

‘They are right, my lady.’

The narrow, mousy brows rose a touch, pushing into the creases at her forehead. ‘An intelligencer, no less.’

‘When called upon, my lady,
oui
.’

Honora Paulet produced a folded triangle of vellum and gave it to Lisette. ‘Then you may consider yourself called upon.’

CHAPTER 23

Basing House, Hampshire, 7 November 1643

It was just before dawn and Stryker was in the Grange with Colonel Rawdon. They were in the northernmost section, beyond the long, narrow fish ponds. There was danger here, for they skirted the line of the outer wall that formed the very first obstacle for any attacker once they had reached this side of the river, and every so often the report of a musket would crack from the encroaching rebels in warning. They were safe enough for the time being, for the wall was as high as eight feet in places; nevertheless, the shots reminded them that the enemy was frighteningly close. Some of Waller’s detachments had stolen across to this side of the waterway during the night, and the Royalists had woken to barriers almost within pistol shot of their walls, the rebel intent clear as crystal.

‘I have placed teams all along this wall here,’ Marmaduke Rawdon was saying, his bushy brows twitching with each gruff word. ‘They knock loopholes, see?’

Stryker peered between the shoulders of a group of musketeers who were busily working with hammers at the lower part of the wall. They were making holes wide enough for a musket to be inserted, but were careful not to smash too much of the mortar because a larger hole would create a weakening breach or be too enticing a target for the men behind the enemy breastworks. Already some of the holes were beginning to be used, and pot-shots cracked out sporadically along the line. ‘Like arrow slits of old,’ he commented.

Rawdon nodded. ‘They’ll be at us soon. We must make their work warm.’

Stryker looked back at the Barn. ‘You will need to cut pos­itions there too, sir. This wall is too low to hold for long. If we are to make a stand at the Grange, it must be in there.’

Rawdon said that he had already ordered such a course, and they went back to their tour of the defences, all the while heckled by disembodied voices from the far side of the wall. Stryker looked to the east, watching for light on the horizon, wondering what horrors the new day would bring. The night had been brutal and sleepless. Waller had, at least, apologized for the rogue cannon shot during parley. Two hours after the drummer had been dispatched with Paulet’s angry response, he had been sent back from the rebel lines with a message from Sir William excusing the rudeness of his gunners, and explaining that the shot had been loosed by accident. Furthermore, and to highlight his contrition, he had offered free passage to all the women and children, including Marchioness Honora and her brood. The offer had been robustly rejected by Paulet’s stern wife, a decision outwardly applauded inside the beleaguered stronghold, though Stryker wondered how the ordinary folk felt. Either way, the die was cast, and the guns had shouted once more. Waller had six heavy pieces on the hill to the north-west, and each one belched its fury six times during the night. Stryker was no stranger to a besieging army’s use of artillery, but even he had found the thirty-six thunder claps a difficult thing to bear. In the end, he found himself simply pacing the yards and alleyways of Basing House, listening to the occasional shower of rubble or earth as one of the balls hit a mark, and staring into the darkness as if Tainton’s pale, ruined face would lurch forth from the shadows at any second.