Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (55 page)

Waller lowered his glass, lifted his face a fraction to see out from beneath the tilted brim of his hat, and eyed the newcomer coolly. ‘Are your troopers ready, Major Kovac?’

‘They are, sir,’ Wagner Kovac said. His voice was calm enough, but inside he was in turmoil. It had all taken too long, he was sure. He had brought Waller, as promised, to Basing’s walls. Had manipulated the general into an attack, and had watched with smug satisfaction as the forlorn hope had reached all the way to the main gates. But they had failed, the rain had come, and all had been lost. Yet now they were back, returned for another bite of the juiciest apple in all England. It was miraculous, wonderful, and, to Kovac, terrifying, for this time they simply had to succeed. ‘My men will be with the rest of the horse, General.’

Waller nodded. ‘All is well, then. And I shall thank Governor Norton personally for your service here.’

‘Unnecessary, sir,’ Kovac intoned piously, ‘but appreciated.’

‘The artillery will soften the place a while, then the foot and dragooners will storm,’ Waller went on. ‘The horse are to follow up. Pick off any fugitives as they run.’

‘What of Hopton, sir?’ a man spoke to Waller’s left. He was saddled on a vast, muscular destrier, and was so encased in metal that he looked like a medieval knight.

Waller pursed his narrow lips, his moustache lifting in unison. ‘Scouts report of a concentration of men at Kingsclere.’

‘But that,’ the iron-clad officer responded in surprise, ‘is but eight or nine miles to the north and west of this place.’

‘Stone’s throw, Sir Arthur, aye,’ Waller agreed. ‘But it is not Hopton in person. Not his whole army. He is not yet ready to make his move. Thus, we must reduce the marquess before we are compelled to deal with the baron.’

Kovac cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. It was an impudent thing to interrupt a council of war, but he could not bite his tongue when so much was at stake. ‘What if we are delayed?’

‘Then we shall withdraw,’ Waller answered slowly, as if inviting his subordinate to challenge.

‘You cannot.’

Waller’s eyebrows climbed up to his fringe. ‘Cannot, Major? Again, you seem to possess no control over that mouth of yours, sir.’

Kovac felt the collective stares like hot needles. He looked away. ‘I apologize, General, but I am keen to reduce this Papist hovel.’

Waller picked at something in his teeth before turning back to watch his troops move below. ‘See that you remain courteous in my presence, sir, or you will find I am less forgiving in future.’

Kovac could not help himself. Talk of withdrawal was simply too much to bear. ‘Merely—’

Now Waller eased his mount round to face the Croat. ‘Oh?’

Kovac breathed deeply. ‘Merely, Sir William, I would urge you attack. Forget the bombardment, it wastes valuable time. We cannot retreat under any circumstance.’

Heselrige’s gauntleted hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘How dare you, sir!’

‘Hold, Sir Arthur,’ Waller said calmly. He addressed Heselrige, though the knowing smile he gave was aimed at Kovac. ‘The good major, here, is unconcerned with military tactics, Sir Arthur, for he believes a cache of gold lies under Paulet’s floorboards.’

Heselrige frowned. ‘Then why have we not been informed?’

‘That is my quandary,’ Waller said. ‘It cannot be so important if Whitehall has not informed me of its presence.’

‘They do not know it is here, Sir William,’ Kovac argued, though he knew he convinced no one.

Waller shook his head. One of the batteries further along the escarpment opened up, shaking the earth, and he was forced to hold his peace until the shots were away. ‘We shall pound their walls until two of the clock. That is the long and short of it, Major Kovac. Only then will we unleash the foot.’

Kovac had come to understand that calm delivery of an opinion went a long way with the sanguine Waller. But now he could see that his plans risked unravelling for the sake of rank idleness. He balled his hands into fists. ‘We must attack now, General.’

Heselrige went so crimson it looked as though his eyeballs would fill with blood. Waller set his jaw tightly. ‘You overstep, man.’

‘Now, General, I beg of you,’ Kovac persisted. If Hopton’s forces were truly gathering so close, every hour was crucial. ‘We already let slip the morn for the sake of sermonizing.’

‘I will not deny the men their chance to make peace with God, Major,’ Waller retorted acidly, ‘and I would warn you to keep a hold of your runaway tongue.’

But Kovac was too desperate to have his voice heeded. ‘Now we bombard when we ought to scale their cursed works.’ He pointed to the huge bodies of men that were slowly inching round the house to the steady rhythm of drums. ‘Send them at the castle now, sir. Break it down.’

There was silence for a time. Kovac and Waller regarded one another coldly, while Heselrige seemed to boil within his suit of heavy plate. The rest found themselves staring uncomfortably down at Basing House.

‘I am to lead the assault,’ Waller said eventually. ‘My regiment is down there, and I will be at their head when they march to battle.’ He pointed at Kovac. ‘You will be there too, Major.’

‘Sir?’

‘You are a good fighter, so I am led to believe, and you, it seems, have the hottest blood when it comes to talk of a storming.’ With a jerk of his chin he indicated the infantry divisions on the other side of the river. ‘Down there you will find the London Trained Bands. They are green as grass, inexperienced. They would welcome good officers. You will join them forthwith.’

That startled Kovac, and he found himself scrabbling for a reply. ‘Sir, I—’

Waller’s raised palm cut him off. ‘I care not the brigade to which you might attach yourself, but attach yourself you shall. They will be first into the breach, Major, first to wet their blades and first inside Lord Paulet’s opulent warren. It is what you have been yearning for, sir, so get down off that horse and get to work.’

k

The bombardment continued as the rebel divisions edged their way into position. Not all of Waller’s troops were involved, for, from their vantage point on the north wall, Stryker and his men could see well enough the pikemen waiting in rows on Cowdrey’s Down, turning the hillock into a vast, spiked beast. At the foot of the hill, on the far side of the river, were several troops of horse and dragoons, and these, with the carefully arrayed pikes, served to remind the defenders just what awaited them should a breach be made. But the men who would first exploit any cannon-ripped hole, or, indeed, tear down the rampart with their own hands should Waller give the order, were musketeers. Their banners danced and snapped in the wind, rising like colourful sails from the deep rows of soldiers who gradually took up places at what were evidently three designated points. The first and second divisions, as expected, had remained on the north and north-east, and would, it seemed, put their vigour into assaulting the New House and the main gate that they had previously, and impotently, reached. The last division curved all the way round to the high, flat land of Basing Park, and they looked to be preparing themselves to make an assay against the Old House. Colonel Rawdon, with Paulet relentlessly barking instructions, demands and questions in his ear, soon found himself a mount and went about the home turned castle at almost a gallop. Stryker wondered if the decision to command from the saddle was purely military in nature, or whether it was simply a relief to be away from the marquess’s haranguing voice. Either way, it was a fruitful choice, for Rawdon seemed to be everywhere at once, organizing the men on the earthworks, checking on fieldpieces and ensuring the walls were covered as well as could be.

Stryker and Lisette left the men near Garrison Gate and went down to the Old House to check on the gold.

‘Have you seen Tainton?’ she asked him as they picked their way through the rubble that still littered the archway through the Great Gatehouse.

‘Not a trace.’

He sensed her staring up at him as they walked, trying to catch his eye. ‘You’ve been searching?’

‘We have,’ Stryker lied. In truth he had barely had time to think, so embroiled had he become in the defence of the house. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Amesbury. Disguised as an apple seller.’

‘To Hopton?’

She nodded. ‘To Hopton.’

‘And?’

‘And now I stink of apples, while Hopton ponders.’

Stryker stopped. They were almost at the slope that led down to the abandoned vault they had claimed for the Cade fortune, but now he held her shoulders, hope surging through his veins. ‘Ponders?’

‘He comes hither,
mon amour
, but not until he can rendezvous with reinforcements.’

The word hit Stryker like a punch in the jaw. He felt dizzy, sick. ‘Reinforcements?’ he spluttered. ‘Jesu, Lisette, he must have enough men to frighten Waller off. To lift this damned siege.’

Her mouth curved down at the corners to suggest that his questioning was foolish. ‘He does not wish to. Not to the detriment of his shiny new army. So he awaits reinforcements from Reading. Only then will he save Basing.’

Stryker released her, stepping back and rubbing a dirty hand over his eye. ‘If they take too long there will be nothing to save.’

‘I do not think Hopton loses sleep on that matter. He has fear in his eyes.’

‘He had no such fear at Stratton Fight.’

‘Injuries alter a man.’

Stryker had already drawn breath to launch another bitter diatribe, but her shrewd thrust pushed the words back down his throat. How could he argue with one of the few living people to have witnessed Stryker’s own horror, to have held his hand as the chirurgeons pieced together what was left of his eye socket, to have nursed him and cradled him and changed his dressings and whispered that everything would be just fine. The attack that had taken his eye had left an ineradicable mark on Stryker. It had changed him, and, for a time at least, he too had been ruled by fear. He stared at his boots, unable to hold Lisette’s hard blue gaze. ‘Did you tell him of the gold?’

She nodded. ‘When finally his fawning bloody advisors gave us peace, and that is why he has promised to lift the siege, but he will not risk defeat, not even for the treasure.’

‘Then we truly are alone.’

She nodded. ‘For some days, I think. That is why we must help Rawdon, Stryker. Basing must hold if we are to take the gold to Oxford.’

Stryker almost laughed at the notion that they alone might change the course of the impending tribulation. But she was right, he saw. There was no option but to fight, so it was impera­tive that they fought well. ‘When did you return?’

‘I slipped in just after dawn.’ She clearly read his irritation, for she allowed herself a tiny smile. ‘You begrudge me passing Hopton’s reply to Lord Winchester?’ she chided. Then she crossed herself. ‘And it is Sunday. I have been at my devotions.’

He could hardly argue with that, so he led her to the slope instead. ‘I am glad you are well, Lisette.’

She shrugged and nodded down towards the wide doors set into the Gatehouse foundations. ‘The gold?’

‘Safe.’ He lifted his hat to acknowledge the sentinels that stood with primed muskets at the foot of the slope. ‘The twins stand guard.’

‘
Bon
,’ she said simply, waving at Jack and Harry Trowbridge. ‘I should like to go in. Take a look at what it is we have struggled so hard to protect.’

Stryker was about to agree when shouts came from the looming towers above them. The Great Gatehouse had been abandoned as a residence after Waller’s first attack, but lookouts maintained their vigil from the turrets, the views unassailable in all directions. Their voices were strained, urgent, and Stryker immediately left Lisette where she stood. Because, finally, Waller’s infantry divisions were on the move.

Near St Mary Bourne, Hampshire, 12 November 1643

General Sir Ralph Hopton could hear the gunfire. It sounded like very distant thunder, ebbing and flowing on the wind, distorted by hill and vale. He sat on a low stool within his campaign tent drinking smoke from a pipe decorated with holly-leaf motifs. A clerk with blackened fingertips and rheumy eyes was hunched over an adjacent table waiting for the next dictation. But Hopton could not think of anything but the bombardment that raged just a few miles to the east. He hated himself for not intervening.

The tent flap rustled as a sentry hauled it back, and Hopton looked round to see the youthful face of a man he knew well. ‘Lord Percy.’

Henry Percy was dressed in a suit entirely cut from thick buff hide, the breeches trimmed with white lace and mud-spattered from a hard ride. His helmet, in the crook of his arm, was of the Dutch style, with a single, sliding nasal bar, and around his waist a lavish red scarf was fastened with an enormous knot at the small of his back. Percy’s face was narrow and sharp, his chin cleanly shaven and his eyes turned down slightly at the corners in a manner that made him seem always to be amused. ‘How now, my lord?’

Hopton stood to offer the usual pleasantries. ‘I thank you for answering my summons.’

‘Dispatched by His Majesty’s word, General.’ Percy shook himself rapidly, as if he were a dog, to shake the tangles from his curled black hair. ‘My horsemen are ready and willing. We will teach that villain Waller a few lessons.’ He cocked his head to the sound of the cannon fire. ‘And are we to follow our ears?’