Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (9 page)

‘Aha!’ Paulet exclaimed, setting down his goblet. ‘Come!’

The man who pushed past the ornately panelled wood was of average height and build, though his bearing was of one who knew his business. He wore a coat of black, slashed down the sleeves to contrast bright yellow silk beneath, and a wide hat, which he now snatched off to reveal long hair the colour of slate. A man of advanced years, his once handsome face was creased so deeply by time that it looked almost like a mask of leather, and his whiskers and eyebrows were overgrown and grey.

‘Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon,’ the Marquess of Winchester said. ‘May I introduce to you, Captain Lancelot Forrester?’

Rawdon limped into the room and offered his hand. ‘Well met, Captain. Mowbray’s Foot, yes?’

Forrester shook the gloved hand, noting its iron grip, and looked into the baby-blue eyes. ‘You have it, sir, aye. Third captain.’

Rawdon sucked his upper lip into his mouth so that he might gnaw the longer strands of his moustache. ‘Were you at Newbury Fight?’

‘I was, sir.’

‘How was it?’

Forrester blushed; he could never hope to describe such an experience. Just as he could not articulate the sheer terror of Edgehill or the silent march of Hopton’s powderless Cornishmen up that blood-slick slope at Stratton. Could a man convey the rattle of musket-balls through swaying forests of pike, or the rib-juddering pulse of belching ordnance? Could he truly describe the acrid stink of the smoke as it slewed in horizontal cloud banks to obscure whole brigades of Horse and Foot? He doubted he could make Rawdon understand the screams of a thousand wounded men, all calling for their mothers at once, or the ear-shredding noise of a giant musket volley, or the thunder of a cavalry charge that would turn a man’s bowels to water in a heartbeat. In the end he shrugged. ‘Hard.’

The bushy brows shot up. ‘Hard?’

‘Very hard.’

There followed a moment of silence as Forrester searched his boots. He was relieved to receive a thumping slap on the shoulder and looked up to find Rawdon grinning. ‘My apologies, Captain. It was not my intention to pry. Such things are difficult to dwell upon.’ He spread his hands. ‘I was a militiaman before all this. Played at soldiers for so long. Now that war befalls us, I feel envious of those who have seen real battle.’

It is nothing to envy, thought Forrester. ‘No matter, sir.’

Paulet clapped his hands suddenly. ‘Now, Captain Forrester, I must tell you that things have changed somewhat since last you visited.’ He moved to the ebony sideboard, taking up the final goblet and handing it to Rawdon. ‘The Colonel, here, is now my military governor, to advise in matters of blade and shot.’

‘And defence,’ Rawdon continued, ‘supplies, ordnance, and the like.’

Forrester thought back to the digging of ditches and repairing of walls. ‘Impressive, Colonel Rawdon.’

Rawdon dipped his head a touch. ‘I work hard for this great house.’

‘And for your reputation, eh, Marmaduke?’ Paulet added through a strangely tight mouth.

Rawdon pointedly ignored the marquess, smiling instead at Forrester. ‘Major Lawrence informs me that you have come direct from Oxford. I trust it is with news of an encouraging nature?’

‘It is, sir,’ Forrester replied, forcing Paulet’s acidic comment aside. ‘Plans are afoot to raise a new army under Lord Hopton.’

‘Oh?’ Paulet said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Our new baron is recovered from his wounds?’

‘Apparently so, my lord. He will lead this army out of the south-west, with the purpose of clearing Dorset, Wiltshire and Hampshire, ultimately advancing upon London from the south-east.’

Paulet’s gaunt face beamed. ‘And part of that force will be sent here?’

‘Alas, my lord.’

The excitement dissolved as quickly as it had come. ‘Alas?’

Forrester opened his mouth, but it was Colonel Rawdon who spoke. ‘Baron Hopton is not set to aid us, my lord. Rather, we are to aid him.’ He turned from Paulet’s shocked face to look at Forrester. ‘He would have us sally out, would he not?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ Forrester confirmed, ‘you are in the right of it. He asks that you take the war to the enemy. Keep him occupied.’

‘Occupied?’ Paulet blurted, fury putting fresh blood in his cheeks. ‘We are occupied enough here, by God!’

Rawdon blew out his cheeks, his grey moustache quivering in the blast of air. ‘We sit and wait, my lord,’ he said, and Forrester was sure he could detect a hint of exasperation in the older man’s tone. ‘Daily, we build our defences, position our guns, sharpen our swords. Always waiting for the Roundheads to strike.’

‘What are you saying?’ Paulet cut in, suspicion clouding his face.

‘Baron Hopton,’ Rawdon answered, ‘will soon march towards us, and any marching general would rather not have an opposing army shadowing him, harrying his men, cutting his supply lines, plundering his baggage, poisoning wells, scouring the land of food.’ The colonel had counted those points on his fingers, and now he curled them into a fist. ‘Essex’s army, made bold by Gloucester and blooded at Newbury, is in London. If the Parliament hear of Hopton’s advance, they will doubtless send His Excellency to intercept, so we must keep Parliament’s eye fixed firmly elsewhere.’

Paulet’s thin neck quivered as he swallowed. ‘Here.’

Forrester slipped a hand into his coat, pulling free the folded square of parchment he had been given by Ezra Killigrew. ‘This letter tells all, my lord,’ he said, handing it to Paulet, ‘but Col­onel Rawdon has it precisely. You are not asked to abandon your position, simply to disrupt the enemy hereabouts.’

Paulet cast his gaze to the parchment in his hand as though it contained a warrant for his own death, then up at the captain and colonel in turn. His cheeks suddenly seemed hollow. ‘The King would have us tempt Parliament’s army? Bring them here to smash us so that Hopton can march free?’

Lancelot Forrester felt a surge of sympathy for the Earl of Wiltshire and Fifth Marquess of Winchester. Another proud man whose very existence was threatened by this strange war that had no real enemy. All he could do was drain his cup and nod.

Forrester followed Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon out into the heart of the Old House having accepted an offer to view the new fortifications by the military governor in the face of Paulet’s spluttering fury. At the centre of the enclosure, dominating the rest of the buildings, was the Great Hall. Through its large twin doors, servants scurried like so many rats, carrying bushels of corn and sacks of dried meat, the provisions of a garrison digging in for winter, while some wheeled dog carts full of surplus furniture, candlesticks and clothing. This was a house alive with preparations for war.

‘How many men do you have, sir?’ Forrester asked as they moved past a large stone fountain.

Rawdon grimaced in half apology. ‘Hard to tell. More come here each day, seeking refuge from Parliament’s hounds.’ He paused to accept the bows of some of his soldiers. ‘My regiment is near three hundred strong, though the marquess has conveniently gathered a fair few under his own colours.’

‘He has,’ Forrester noted tentatively, ‘stolen your men?’

Rawdon gave a short grunt that was more growl than laugh. ‘Absorbed, aye. It is a point of contention.’ He waved the issue away as if he were swatting an irritating fly. ‘Now where was I? Let me see. Lieutenant-Colonel Peake brought a hundred musketeers earlier in the summer. There might be another hundred able to bear arms, retainers and exiles, loyal to the marquess. And their families are here too. Some of the women and older children might—’ Rawdon tailed off, scrutinizing the middle-distance, and Forrester knew that the idea was more than the old man could bear. He was not one of the damned few who had blooded their blades on the Continent. There, in those walled citadels where siege warfare was cruel and quarter was neither asked nor given, any man, woman or child would wield a musket if they were strong enough to lift one. For to lose your fortress was to lose your life.

Rawdon’s eyes regained focus and he stared hard at Forrester. ‘What did you make of him?’

Forrester was surprised at the sudden question. He decided the truth would do no harm. ‘A man determined to hold his property, but fearful he will be undermined by his own side.’

Rawdon moved on, picking up the pace, until they reached a section of the wall guarded by the stout square walls of a gatehouse. ‘His world is changing, and he does not know how to make it stop.’ He let a pair of sentries move swiftly apart and went through a low doorway. ‘In that, at least, I consider his lordship a kindred spirit.’

‘Oh?’

They were in the gloom of the gatehouse as Rawdon glanced back. ‘I made my name as a merchant. A trifle dissimilar to our dear Marquess of Winchester, I’ll admit, but, like him, I was a man who knew himself. I was comfortable with my worth, with my wealth, with my place in the world, and sure in the knowledge that mine was a prosperous life.’ They reached more sentries and another door. ‘Now? I have reached my sixty-second year and I find myself playing soldiers, exiled from my beloved London, from my family, my homes and businesses, asked to advise the marquess on matters of which I am not expert.’ The door was opened for him and Rawdon went through, evidently noting Forrester’s consternation as he went. ‘Do not worry, Captain, I am not entirely devoid of experience.’

But still, thought Forrester, you have not waded into the baleful gaze of a thousand primed muskets.

‘I have led men,’ Rawdon said, ‘and I was a member of the Society of the Artillery Garden back in London.’

‘Ordnance is your interest, sir?’

‘When I was an officer in the militia, I felt often that the plodders did not comprehend their orders, while the horse generally ignored theirs altogether. The artillery were more sensible.’

‘Ha!’ Forrester barked. ‘I could not venture comment upon such a statement, sir.’

‘Naturally,’ Rawdon said with a grin. ‘But there you have it. I know what I am about, and yet I am thrust into this position of authority, at a time when I should be resting at ease with my grandchildren. Another curmudgeon whose world spins uncontrollably!’ He moved out of the gatehouse, into a sudden blast of sunlight. ‘Still, if this is what is ordained, then this is what we must bear.’

Forrester stepped out to where the colonel stood, realizing with a swimming sensation that they were standing on a narrow bridge over the deep ditch. At the far end of the bridge there was another gate, set into the red-bricked fastness of more formidable walls. ‘The New House?’

‘Aye,’ said Rawdon, nodding back the way they had come. ‘This is the Postern Gate. The only route directly between the houses. Pray God the enemy never know of its existence, for it is the old castle’s single weak point.’

Forrester glanced down as they crossed the bridge, noting the fresh chalk beneath where the defensive work had recently been deepened. The slopes on either bank were splashed white where spoil had been tossed, steepening the gradient considerably. ‘The works here are admirable, sir.’

Rawdon nodded. ‘Kind of you to say, Captain. It is not yet ready, but we make progress.’ The door to the New House jolted open on their approach, the pair seen by invisible soldiers through the loopholes in the wall. ‘However, I am keen to act upon the orders you bring.’

‘You are, sir?’

Rawdon nodded as he led Forrester through the doorway. ‘Lassitude is a canker. It grows on the minds of soldiers, makes them slow and witless. We must keep them active, and for that, we must leave the safety of the castle. Do you not think so?’

Forrester’s assessment of the gruff colonel received a boost, despite his misgivings. ‘I agree wholeheartedly, sir. But do you not already? For supplies and so forth?’

‘On occasion, aye.’ They were in the New House now. Forrester remembered it, and yet it was starkly different to the images his mind recalled. Unlike its circular counterpart, this was no fort-turned-house, but a purpose-built mansion. It had not evolved from austere, easily defensible beginnings, but had been constructed by the Paulets to display and project their wealth and status, and to provide a vast home for their descendants to live in comfort. And yet now, as 1643 rolled inexorably towards its wintry conclusion, the New House had become a castle. It remained the weaker of the two houses by Forrester’s reckoning, for it sat on lower ground and its outer walls were essentially buildings that had been joined to form a continuous face. Thus, there were windows and rooftops instead of loopholes and crenellations. And yet a deep ditch had been excavated all the way around its perimeter, as Forrester had witnessed on his approach with Major Lawrence, and the towers at each corner of the huge rectangle had been mounted with artillery. Inside, all around the large courtyard, the comings and goings of a major house continued apace, but, as in the Old House, the amount of weaponry and supplies was remarkable. Starkest of all was the sheer number of soldiers. Most wore coats of yellow, and Rawdon explained that they were his men, but there was an array of colours in this place that seemed to attract Royalists from every corner of the south-east. There had been a small garrison here when Forrester had last visited, but now the place fairly bristled. In one corner the song of swords rang out, sending icy fingers along the nape of Forrester’s neck as men practised their swordplay to the cheers and jeers of their compatriots. A pair of drummers rehearsed their calls, bringing precision to the rhythms that would give an army its orders on the field of battle, while a queue of musketeers stretched out from the doorway of one building that Forrester presumed was employed as the powder magazine.