Read Online Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Arnold
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swear I do not. A more loyal man could not be found in this troubled city, I swear it.’
Lisette looked at Quigg. ‘What manner of man have you enlisted, sir?’
Quigg’s eyes darted down to search her hands, perhaps checking for the knife he knew she carried, but before he could respond, Henry Greetham had moved to the table, keeping his eyes on the Frenchwoman. He carefully gathered some more of the news-sheets, tapped them on the table gently to bring them into some kind of order, and handed them to Lisette. She leafed through them silently.
Greetham drew a lingering breath. ‘My cover, madam. I am a printer. There are not many of us hereabouts, thus we are all known to the authorities. What would you have me do?’
Lisette looked up from the papers, each one printed with a new anti-Royalist report. ‘Do not print this filth.’
Greetham’s face creased plaintively. ‘But I must print something, do you not see?’ He glanced at the press. ‘She cost me every groat I had. She is not something a man buys only to leave dormant. There would be more Westminster eyebrows raised were I to leave her silent. So I work her. And what does the Parliament require of me?’ He reached out, tapping a long, stained finger on the news-sheets in Lisette’s grip. ‘This drivel.’
Lisette paused a moment, then made to speak, but the newsmonger cut across her hesitation.
‘But in amongst the chaff,’ he went on, ‘you may find the occasional sheaf of purest wheat.’ He crouched suddenly. Lisette stepped backwards, reaching for her concealed weapon, but he was digging his long fingers into the crack between two large stones in the floor. He lifted one of the stones with a grunt, flipping it over. In the exposed hole was a small cloth sack. He snatched it up and handed it to her.
Lisette pulled the throat of the sack open, taking out more sheets of paper, all similarly inscribed with elaborate borders and stark, black lettering. She scanned the first, noting how the language carried the same triumphal tone as the rest. But the message itself could not have been more different: ‘ Joyful news from Cornwall ,’ she muttered. ‘ Being the true copy of a letter sent from a captain in Sir Ralph Hopton’s army to his wife in London, dated May 17th, 1643 .’ She looked up. ‘A report from Stratton Fight.’
Henry Greetham stared directly into Lisette’s eyes. ‘From the Royalist side.’ He took the sheet from her and pushed it gently into the sack, then stooped to return it to its hiding place. ‘Those,’ he said, straightening, ‘are my true works, madam. They are distributed throughout the land by the King’s couriers. His agents, like yourself. If I am caught with them, my life would be forfeit. But I am a loyal servant of King Charles.’
Lisette looked from Greetham to his printing press and back again. She nodded. ‘Then we have work to do.’
Near Bristol, 3 August, 1643
Sir Edmund Mowbray had further business in Bristol, and turned back into its winding streets as soon as his impromptu gathering had been dismissed. The rest of the men began to wend their way towards their billets at Hartcliffe, and soon the pack, hampered as they were by supply carts, returning refugees and troops of various denominations, found itself splintering. Goodayle and Baxter, the most senior men, set a brisk pace up ahead, with captains Kuyt, Taylor, Fullwood and Bottomley some distance behind, chatting happily and evidently enjoying the open country.
‘I cannot believe,’ the regiment’s fourth captain, Lancelot Forrester, muttered in low tones, ‘you had the audacity to join this party, Sergeant.’
The man trotting at his side on a lean-limbed bay mare sniffed the air as though he were a hound. ‘Rain again soon, I reckons.’
Forrester rolled his eyes in exasperation. Stryker rode some twenty paces ahead, and he stared at his friend’s back. ‘It wasn’t for protection, was it? Why you came, I
Lisette looked at Quigg. ‘What manner of man have you enlisted, sir?’
Quigg’s eyes darted down to search her hands, perhaps checking for the knife he knew she carried, but before he could respond, Henry Greetham had moved to the table, keeping his eyes on the Frenchwoman. He carefully gathered some more of the news-sheets, tapped them on the table gently to bring them into some kind of order, and handed them to Lisette. She leafed through them silently.
Greetham drew a lingering breath. ‘My cover, madam. I am a printer. There are not many of us hereabouts, thus we are all known to the authorities. What would you have me do?’
Lisette looked up from the papers, each one printed with a new anti-Royalist report. ‘Do not print this filth.’
Greetham’s face creased plaintively. ‘But I must print something, do you not see?’ He glanced at the press. ‘She cost me every groat I had. She is not something a man buys only to leave dormant. There would be more Westminster eyebrows raised were I to leave her silent. So I work her. And what does the Parliament require of me?’ He reached out, tapping a long, stained finger on the news-sheets in Lisette’s grip. ‘This drivel.’
Lisette paused a moment, then made to speak, but the newsmonger cut across her hesitation.
‘But in amongst the chaff,’ he went on, ‘you may find the occasional sheaf of purest wheat.’ He crouched suddenly. Lisette stepped backwards, reaching for her concealed weapon, but he was digging his long fingers into the crack between two large stones in the floor. He lifted one of the stones with a grunt, flipping it over. In the exposed hole was a small cloth sack. He snatched it up and handed it to her.
Lisette pulled the throat of the sack open, taking out more sheets of paper, all similarly inscribed with elaborate borders and stark, black lettering. She scanned the first, noting how the language carried the same triumphal tone as the rest. But the message itself could not have been more different: ‘ Joyful news from Cornwall ,’ she muttered. ‘ Being the true copy of a letter sent from a captain in Sir Ralph Hopton’s army to his wife in London, dated May 17th, 1643 .’ She looked up. ‘A report from Stratton Fight.’
Henry Greetham stared directly into Lisette’s eyes. ‘From the Royalist side.’ He took the sheet from her and pushed it gently into the sack, then stooped to return it to its hiding place. ‘Those,’ he said, straightening, ‘are my true works, madam. They are distributed throughout the land by the King’s couriers. His agents, like yourself. If I am caught with them, my life would be forfeit. But I am a loyal servant of King Charles.’
Lisette looked from Greetham to his printing press and back again. She nodded. ‘Then we have work to do.’
Near Bristol, 3 August, 1643
Sir Edmund Mowbray had further business in Bristol, and turned back into its winding streets as soon as his impromptu gathering had been dismissed. The rest of the men began to wend their way towards their billets at Hartcliffe, and soon the pack, hampered as they were by supply carts, returning refugees and troops of various denominations, found itself splintering. Goodayle and Baxter, the most senior men, set a brisk pace up ahead, with captains Kuyt, Taylor, Fullwood and Bottomley some distance behind, chatting happily and evidently enjoying the open country.
‘I cannot believe,’ the regiment’s fourth captain, Lancelot Forrester, muttered in low tones, ‘you had the audacity to join this party, Sergeant.’
The man trotting at his side on a lean-limbed bay mare sniffed the air as though he were a hound. ‘Rain again soon, I reckons.’
Forrester rolled his eyes in exasperation. Stryker rode some twenty paces ahead, and he stared at his friend’s back. ‘It wasn’t for protection, was it? Why you came, I
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