Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Read online

  ‘It is all I require. My reward is the glory of God’s coming kingdom. We will build it when the crown is knocked from Charles Stuart’s head. This treasure will see that great day come to pass.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘You are all part of a pivotal moment in the history of England. Is it not enough to revel in that?’

  Fassett gave his hard, cruel laugh. ‘No, Mister Tainton, it is not.’

  Tainton sighed. ‘You will receive what is due when the gold is safely in London.’

  Cordell set down his cup, gathering up the dice for his throw. ‘Would not we be better putting ashore at Plymouth, sir? It is the nearest safe port.’

  ‘And it is surrounded on the landward by the malignant horde. We would be trapped for weeks, even months, and the gold would be of no use.’ Tainton placed his beer on the table, absently moving his fingers to his temples, pressing them in circular motions into the flesh. ‘It must go to hands that will put it to work.’ And that meant taking it directly to London. It was a long and dangerous journey, and part of him most certainly craved the rebel haven of Plymouth, but, beyond its proximity, the town offered no benefit to men transporting treasure to Westminster.

  ‘Sir!’ a man’s voice barked from beyond the cabin door. Before anyone could respond, the man had pushed inside. He was young, fair-haired and skinny, with a face like a raptor and skin that had the burnished hue of a career sailor.

  Tainton hurriedly covered his ruined scalp with the hood and got to his feet, spurs applauding loudly in the confined space. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sail, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Frigates. Men-o’-war, sir. Four of ’em, to the larboard beam.’

  Tainton heard Fassett curse softly. He ground his teeth till it hurt. ‘Ours or theirs?’

  The lad’s face twisted in a way that was answer enough. ‘Cap’n says they’re out o’ Plymouth Sound.’

  The ships were hunting in a pack. They had sailed out from their prowling grounds at the edge of the harbour at Plymouth and immediately given chase, and that had told the Silver Swan’s captain all he needed to know. The Royalists were in the ascendancy in the waters of the south-west, and, though they had not the strength to blockade rebel Plymouth, they endeavoured to harry enemy shipping as much as was possible. They were pirates, as far as the Parliament was concerned, for the bulk of the English navy had taken up the cause of the rebellion at the outset of the conflict. But some vessels had remained loyal to the Crown, and those, branded outlaws by Westminster, based themselves in the ports and harbours of the West Country and Wales. These four were part of the Cavalier pirate fleet, the captain judged; big ships of the line, each carrying at least forty cannon.

  Roger Tainton was on the fore-deck with the Silver Swan’s increasingly twitchy master, a man named William Trouting. ‘Can we fight?’

  Trouting was an elderly, irascible man. He muttered breathlessly to himself as he peered back at the four distant lights, the lanterns swaying on the decks of the men-o’-war so that they looked like fallen stars. Dawn was beginning to break to the east, but they stared westward, where the shadows yet reigned. A grunt rumbled from his throat as he adjusted his perspective glass. ‘The leader’s a full-fledged first-rater, Mister Tainton.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning she’ll be boastin’ near three hundred souls and more than sixty big pieces.’

  ‘In short,’ Tainton said, ‘they will annihilate us, given the chance.’

  Trouting lowered his glass. ‘We have a complement of fourteen modest pieces. If we fight, they will turn us to kindling.’

  ‘And you’re certain they’re malignants?’

  The old man nodded, scratching at the salt-hardened bristles of his chin. ‘This far west, aye. They note our course, mark our merchantman colours, and call us fair prize.’

  ‘Do you possess Royalist colours to deceive?’

  ‘I do not, Mister Tainton. We could wait for ’em, let their lads board, and convince them we’re for the Crown. They’ll not fire till they’re certain we are not king’s shipping.’

  Tainton shook his head firmly. He could not allow the Royalist crews aboard for fear of them discovering the hoard stowed below deck. ‘Can we outrun them?’

  ‘To Poole, aye. It is the next friendly port.’

  ‘Poole?’ Tainton spluttered. ‘It is no better than Plymouth. The garrison is hidden there like beetles under a rock. It is no good to me.’

  ‘Southampton, then, if we are lucky.’

  ‘No,’ Tainton said indignantly, thumping a fist against the rail. ‘Luck has nought to do with it. I go to London, Captain, for that is the Lord’s command. My cargo is too precious to take across land, especially this far west.’

  Trouting gave a dry, grinding cackle. ‘They will catch us long before London, Mister Tainton.’

  ‘God will provide!’ Tainton pressed, beginning to shout amid his desperation. ‘Push as far east as you can! They will lose their nerve!’

  A grey cloud suddenly billowed on the gloomy horizon, blooming like the petals of an ugly rose to snuff out one of the ship’s lights. The captain swore harshly. Then the thunder-clap rumbled across the sea, up into the deck and through their ribcages. They did not see the iron ball until it hit the water some two hundred yards off the stern, the sea frothing white with sudden vehemence. Tainton began to pray, even as the trio of smaller warships coughed their fury towards the Silver Swan, the sea pocked with white marks where the balls splashed home. All the shots fell well short, but the danger was clear enough.

  ‘What are they about?’ Tainton yelped. ‘We might be for the King for all they know!’

  ‘Warning shots! The next’ll be proper if we do not run down our sail!’

  ‘Strike east, I say! The Parliament will reward you . . .’ Tainton could see the consternation on the old sea-dog’s face, and he grasped the man by his waxy collar. ‘I will reward you!’

  Trouting scraped urgently at his scaly chin again. ‘They will be snapping at our heels before we round the Isle o’ Wight!’

  ‘Then fire back!’

  ‘We will all die in the attempt!’

  ‘Worthy deaths, Captain!’

  William Trouting blew out his cheeks theatrically and shook off Tainton’s grip, striding away down the deck, screaming orders at his crew. They responded in turn, scuttling to various positions about the heaving vessel, manning guns and clambering up into the shrouds. Tainton found himself alone, left to remonstrate with the chill breeze and wonder at the baffling ways of divine providence.

  * * *

  The pinnace struggled stoically into the rising sun for the next three hours, circled by gulls and escorted by dolphins, and pursued by enemies. The first-rater was in the van, the spearhead of the hunting party, as they carved white-tipped lesions in the grey-blue waves. The morning developed into a day of stinging cold and whipping wind, and Tainton, remaining obstin­ately on deck, found that his face became numb and his eyes perpetually watered. His fingers were in excruciating pain where he gripped his hood so hard to his head, nails drawing blood where they burrowed into flesh. And all the while the Royalists’ ships kept coming, vengeful gusts filling their sails as they skidded over the depths.

  ‘They’re close,’ Sterne Fassett said as he joined Tainton and Cordell at the bow during the late morning. Squires was somewhere in the cavernous warren below decks, spewing the contents of his guts into a bucket.

  Tainton stared at the four dark shapes, so large at this proximity. He imagined the wings of demons lifting them over the water, the angels of his own vessel glancing over their shimmering shoulders at the enemy host. ‘We will fight them off, Jesus willing.’

  Fassett pulled a sour expression. ‘And if that does not work?’

  ‘They will give up.’

  ‘Give up?’ Fassett echoed indignantly.

  Tainton nodded. ‘The east is held by our forces.’

  ‘Your forces,’ Fassett corrected.


  ‘The malignants will not venture much further than Portsmouth,’ Tainton said, ‘for fear of running into rebel shipping. We must keep them at bay until they realize how far they have striven.’ There was at that instant a booming report from the chasing pack. A pall of smoke jetted out from one of the frigates. Fassett stepped back instinctively, though Tainton threw him a derisive glance. ‘They’ve not a chance of finding their mark.’

  The sea fizzed and seethed less than fifty yards out, a huge halo of water droplets growing above the surface where the ball had hit home. Tainton felt his jaw drop. Fassett hissed a filthy curse.

  The Silver Swan did not have many guns, but Trouting had had the sense to sacrifice his broadside complement by placing a single piece fore and aft, and his voice carried across the decks as he snarled for the bow chaser to be deployed. It coughed bitter smoke, its recoil juddering up through the ship’s timbers to vibrate at Tainton’s feet as its small iron shot flew westward to pick at the men-o’-war. It fell well short, but the men in the shrouds cheered all the same, and Tainton returned to his prayers as the gun-crew swabbed, reloaded and adjusted the cannon.

  The biggest Royalist ship tacked about as the Silver Swan’s lone bow chaser barked again. It seemed unaware of the meagre threat, like a Shire horse menaced by a fly, and presented its full broadside, the guns belching their fury. A plume of smoke spewed out, smothering the ship. The huge blast reached Tainton’s ears, heralding the whistling iron spheres and all their viciousness. He found himself ducking, shrinking into the damp rail as if it might protect him from the frigate’s wrath. At this range even the most wide-mouthed of the pieces would have scant effect on the Silver Swan’s structure, but the whining shots would cleave savage rents in her sails and bloody swathes across her decks, so he prayed aloud, beseeching God to smite these behemoths before it was too late.

  Miraculously the broadside missed Tainton’s plucky pinnace, but it had been too close to call. William Trouting was still screaming orders somewhere back along the deck, the men in the highest rigging were bellowing information down from their heady posts, and the gun-crews flitted about their precious weapons like wasps at a sugar plum. Tainton realized that they were preparing to offer more than a single shot to their implacable foes, and, just as he said as much to Fassett and Cordell, the Silver Swan luffed about, lurching on a frothing peak. They gripped the rail, bracing themselves for the noise. Finally she opened fire with the guns along her port side, the six pieces roaring like angry lions towards the approaching frigates.

  Nothing seemed to happen, for their small cannon could do little against the monstrous frigates, but their defiance seemed to serve as a poultice for their fears, and the crew cheered again, turning the Silver Swan back to the eastward course and safety.

  Now another of the Royalists fired. Just one cannon belched its fury from a porthole in the stern, but the noise of the large piece seemed deafening. The ball tore mercilessly across the waves and Tainton felt himself shy involuntarily away, but the Silver Swan dipped violently into the hind part of a swell and the shot went high, ripping through the shrouds, splitting a rigging line with an almighty crack that sounded like a giant’s whip. One man fell from up high, his scream cut abruptly short as he hit the deck with a dull thud. Trouting was braying more orders, the Silver Swan reared and pulled away, an opportune gust thumping into her sails and kicking her on, salty spray showering the decks.

  The gulls and the dolphins had all vanished now. The air was strangely warm and the sky hazed yellow with a smoke that smelled bitter and sulphurous. The chase went on.

  Basing House, Hampshire, 15 October 1643

  Lancelot Forrester felt like singing as the exquisitely sweet gooseberry fool made its way to his stomach. He had reached the seat of Sir John Paulet, the Marquess of Winchester, during the night and been immediately conveyed to the infirmary, where he was given water, some fresh bread and oysters, even some heady beer from the stores stacked to the rafters of the Great Barn. He had slept for several hours, waking with bleary eyes and a sense of unreality in the cold morn. Now the next repast was served, a thick and herb-flecked pease pottage followed by the sugary gooseberry concoction, and he found himself contemplating whether this was all some dream. Perhaps Kovac had actually won their duel, and this was heaven.

  Between courses, one of Colonel Rawdon’s officers had debriefed him, running through the events of the past few days and ascertaining how far and wide the marquess’s warrant had been spread before its capture, but he had quickly been left to recuperate, the chirurgeon clucking like a hen as he made sure Forrester had no significant injuries.

  Forrester scraped the bowl clean and set it down on the wood panelling of the floor. He was perched on the end of a firm palliasse, the compacted straw positively luxurious compared with recent privations.

  ‘And you are hale and hearty, sir, truly?’ the chirurgeon asked as he came to stand before his patient.

  Forrester looked up at him. ‘Aye, sir, I am.’ He pushed up on to his feet. ‘And ready to take my leave of this place.’

  The chirurgeon tutted gently. ‘Rest, Captain Forrester. A few days to recover your strength, eh? Have you so great a need to be back with the Oxford Army?’

  It was a point well made. In the main, a soldier’s life was one of waiting. An existence that revolved around marching, making camp, digging in, and wasting time. That, in truth, was precisely what the king’s army were doing at Oxford. Waiting.

  ‘A few more days shan’t hurt, I dare say,’ Forrester acquiesced. ‘Food is what I shall require, sir! Give me good, solid meals, and my muscles will be like iron, I promise you. I hear you have fresh fish here.’

  The chirurgeon nodded. ‘We have carp in the ponds. But do not eat it, Captain, I implore you. There is a drain running thither directly from the stables. The fish feed on the horse dung.’

  ‘In my experience, that ensures big, juicy fish!’

  ‘In my experience that ensures big, juicy worms making their homes within the bellies of those who eat said fish.’

  Forrester felt his jaw drop. ‘Good lord.’ He pressed a palm to his midriff protectively. ‘Then I shall stick to the gooseberry fool, sir.’

  The chirurgeon’s mouth twitched at the corners. ‘I had wondered how a man used to campaigning managed to maintain such a healthy physique!’

  ‘It is a cross I must bear, my friend. Now pass me the bowl.’

  Just then the door to the infirmary swung open. Stooping below the lintel was a very tall man who was so severely hunched that his entire frame curved like an archer’s bow. His clean-shaven face, dominated by a hugely oversized nose, twitched incessantly. ‘Taking your ease, sir!’ he declared happily.

  Forrester grinned. ‘Major Lawrence. Well met, sir.’

  ‘We thought you long lost, Captain,’ Frederick Lawrence said as he strode into the room. ‘Feeding the worms, as it were.’

  Forrester grimaced. ‘Do not speak to me of worms, sir, please.’

  The cavalry officer looked a tad confused. ‘As you like, Lancelot.’ He waved towards the door. ‘Care to take the air? I would show you how busy we have been.’

  The garrison of Basing House, under Rawdon’s military governorship and with Paulet’s money, had indeed been busy in the week Forrester had been gone. He and Lawrence strolled to the western periphery of the fortress, where new earthworks had sprung up and existing ones extended. The ditches had been deepened, the walls buttressed with earth and the ramparts carved into the land like raw wounds. Forrester clambered to the summit of one such rampart and looked along its length. There were new fieldpieces set upon bastions of piled soil. Sakers or minion drakes, by the look of them. Light, compared with big siege cannon, not worth pointing at a wall, but devastating against massed ranks of flesh. They were protected by bunched cannon-baskets that, though made simply of wicker, were packed to the brim with spoil from the palisade, making them dense and almost impervious to small-arms fire. This part of the
defences fairly bristled with ordnance and staked ramparts, and Forrester could not help but be impressed.

  Lawrence leaned on a cannon-basket and looked out upon the wild terrain. ‘I hear the conditions in Norton’s prison are not good.’

  ‘I’ve experienced worse, I can assure you,’ Forrester said. ‘My only regret is losing the warrant.’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘The rebels will make merry with it, I fear.’

  ‘Aye.’ It was just a piece of parchment, and yet the warrant would, he knew, be used to condemn the marquess in the eyes of Parliament. They already considered him an enemy, for his religion marked him as a Royalist without the raising of arms, but now it could be proved that he posed a real threat to the rebellion in the south, he would doubtless become an active target.

  ‘Still,’ Lawrence said, his eyes narrowing in a look of ruefulness, ‘that is what the powers in Oxford wanted.’

  ‘They did not wish to lose Basing, Major.’

  Lawrence shrugged his crooked shoulders as he absently watched two labourers hauling a dog-cart laden with earth clods along the base of one of the outer ditches. ‘Shake the hornet’s nest, you said.’

  ‘I assure you, sir,’ Forrester protested, ‘that shake is what I intended. I never wished to pull the whole damnable nest from the tree.’

  ‘All the same, your purpose in coming here was to capture Westminster’s attention, and that is what you have achieved.’

  Forrester felt heat come into his cheeks. ‘You do not think I lost the warrant intentionally, Major?’

  Lawrence shook his head. ‘Never, Captain. Simply that we will not be required to sacrifice any more men by sallying out needlessly. Parliament will soon know that the marquess is raising the county against them. We, in turn, should look to our defences.’ He slapped Forrester’s shoulder. ‘And we must rejoice, for you have returned to us. God is to be thanked for that.’

  ‘God and Sergeant Dewhurst.’

  Lawrence’s temple twitched violently as he nodded. ‘May he rest in peace.’