Read Online Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold - Free Book Online

Forrester agreed. ‘Portsmouth and Southampton to the south. Farnham close by. All for the Parliament.’
    ‘We are not so far from London itself,’ Lawrence added.
    ‘But you may be assured of the King’s intent, sir. His forces work their way towards you. Liberty will soon be yours.’
    Lawrence smiled sadly. ‘We had rather hoped Newbury would achieve that particular goal.’
    ‘It was not to be,’ Forrester said. The failure of the army at Gloucester and Newbury was none of his doing, and yet, seeing the forlorn hope etched across Lawrence’s thin face, he felt guilty. ‘But we smashed Fiennes at Bristol,’ he offered, ‘Stamford at Stratton and Waller at Roundway. Essex was fortunate at Newbury, but he has not the wit to outfox us again. That is why I am here. I must speak with Lord Paulet, Major Lawrence. Hopton comes hither.’
    ‘Hopton?’ Lawrence said, his tone incredulous. ‘I heard he had his face burned off at Lansdown.’
    ‘Not far from the truth, sir, but he lives, believe me. He thrives.’ Forrester looked up at the tall, crooked form of Major Lawrence. ‘Besides, a singed face does not a dead man make.’
    The tension ebbed from Lawrence’s expression for a brief moment. ‘And how is our fearsome friend? Alive yet, I trust.’
    ‘Captain Stryker is well, sir, so far as I know. Away on Crown business.’
    ‘Say no more, Captain,’ Lawrence said with what might have been a wink, though his tick made it hard to tell. ‘Hopton comes, then? With an army?’
    ‘He does,’ Forrester confirmed. They had reached a large gateway, set into Basing’s outer wall and adorned with carvings and crests. Paulet’s flag flew from the pinnacle. ‘Newly raised, freshly armed and poised to invade Dorset. It will be Hampshire after that. The marquess’s forces – your forces – must take the fight to the enemy. Keep him busy. Shake the hornet’s nest, so to speak.’
    ‘They are not my forces, Captain. Not any longer. Colonel Rawdon is military governor now. But he and the marquess have heard such overtures before, old friend. They will be reluctant to so much as prod the hornet’s nest with a stick.’
    ‘I must deliver my message, nevertheless. Perhaps you might add your voice to mine?’
    Lawrence nodded. ‘Gladly.’ He signalled the pair of sentries. ‘Here we are, Captain Forrester. Garrison Gate. Welcome to Loyalty House.’

CHAPTER 4
     
    St Mary’s, Isles of Scilly, 3 October 1643
     
    The face peered suspiciously through the slat set into the door. All that could be seen were the eyes, and they were like black slits, darting left and right, searching the little chamber’s stone walls for signs of danger. Evidently deciding all was safe, the face retreated into the shadows, and the metal shutter slid closed with a ringing slice and heavy clunk. A voice, muffled behind the door’s thick timbers, called out. It was the voice of a man, and another man immediately responded, his footsteps becoming louder as they shuffled along the flagstones. The men inside the windowless room stared up at the doorway through the gloom, flinching involuntarily as the jangle of keys echoed on the far side. A series of clicks and the sliding of bolts followed, heralding the squeal of large, aged hinges.
    A gaoler stepped into the room. His face was ruined by livid ulcers that glistened at their white-crested summits, and in the glow of the flame held behind by the second gaoler, he seemed to leer like Lucifer himself, mocking his dishevelled, blinking charges as he filled the doorway with his bulk.
    ‘New pot, lads,’ the gaoler said. He held up his hand from which an empty bucket dangled by a fraying rope. ‘Give us the old one, if you please.’
    The chamber was full. Seventeen men were crammed within its slippery walls, some of them terribly weak, all shivering from their collective ordeal as they huddled together in the centre in search of warmth. One of them rose and scrambled to a far corner