Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (37 page)

It fell silent, save for the jeers from the men up on the wall. They waved and whistled, slashed their blades in wide arcs that caught the sun, or shook their muskets like trophies above their heads. One man scampered along the rampart, arms out at his sides for balance as he danced a mocking jig.

In the trenches all was silent. Forrester stood. ‘Get him out to the pit, lads!’ He cast his gaze about at the nearest saps and their white-faced occupants. ‘And get back to work!’

No indeed. Gloucester was far from beaten.

Near the North Wall, Gloucester, 17 August 1643

By two in the afternoon the sun was at its searing height, pulsing down upon the patchwork walls and cannon-pocked rooftops, driving most folk indoors to seek shelter. The rattle of musketry continued from all corners of the city, regulars and volunteers alike taking desultory pot shots at the engineers and diggers down in the trenches or at the soldiers making abortive approaches at various points in the sprawling encirclement. From the fortified camp – the leaguer – at Llanthony Priory, at the Rignall Stile, up at the Alvin Gate or across the water meadows to the north, the king’s regiments came, but their efforts were singular, isolated affairs, each swatted away by defenders allocated to the most vulnerable points, immediately redistributed to quell the next attack when the last was at an end. The king’s force was a vast beast with many heads, but instead of attacking with all its jaws at once, the Royalist hydra sent each to snap and harry in turn. Massie’s bedraggled garrison cut off each head as it came.

As the gunfire crackled, a reed-thin man in a suit of black, with pale blue eyes and a thatch of blond hair poking chaotically from beneath a black hat, strode into one of the alleys not far from the earthen rampart to the north-west of the city. A distant burst of fire from a small artillery piece made him flinch and he cursed softly. Nikolas Robbens was a patient man, it came with his profession, but he had come to loathe Gloucester. Brought here for this most lucrative mission, he had been prepared to wait out the siege, which his employer claimed would swiftly end. Even when the situation had developed along a rather alarming tangent, he had made the most of the good supplies of food and ale, and the small but willing group of whores who frequented the taverns, but now things were becoming desperate. The rebels hereabouts were a stubborn bunch, it seemed, and the king’s army appeared only to grow in size beyond the walls. Robbens feared things would end bloodily, and he did not like it.

He stalked along the alleyway, glancing left and right at the doors on either side of the stuffy path, checking all were tight shut, and stopped only when he reached the very middle. Out of the darkest shadows came the man he had been expecting; a huge fellow whose meaty frame had once been impressively muscular but which had run mostly to fat with advancing years. They exchanged a nod, waiting silently in the shade of the bow-framed houses for the third man to arrive. That man came in less than a minute, scuttling from the far end of the narrow walkway, his profound limp and twisted spine making him grimace as he moved. He looked up at the biggest of the three. ‘All clear, Slager.’

The leader of the furtive trio nodded. ‘Good.’ He was tall as well as broad, with a vast slab of flesh hanging like a bulging sack over his belt, and he rested massive palms on it as he spoke. ‘I have called this meeting because I would show you something.’

‘You said I would get an opportunity, Slager,’ Robbens cut in. His face was clean-shaven and blemish free, but the anxiety was etched deep into the lines at the corners of his mouth. ‘A clear shot.’

Slager peered down at him over wiry auburn whiskers. ‘And you will, Nikolas. You will.’

‘When?’ Robbens pressed. His ice-blue eyes met Slager’s defiantly. ‘This city will fall any day now.’

‘Oh?’ Slager chuckled in deep tones. ‘Have you seen the mess they have made of their cursed siege?’

‘I have seen how little powder the garrison has left.’

‘And have the king’s men fared any better? Their small cannon do nothing to our walls, and the big ones have been silent these two days. They’ve run out of shot, I’d wager, so now they must sit and stare at us.’ Slager spat derisively. ‘The malignants are pathetic. Ten thousand flies on a bullock’s rump.’

Robbens lifted a hand to fiddle with the silken strands at his earlobe. ‘What if you’re wrong?’

‘Then I will guarantee your protection, as I have this last month. If Massie loses his nerve, I will ensure we three are exchanged with the rest of the high-rankers.’ Slager planted a hand on Robbens’ shoulder. It felt like an anvil had been dropped on him. ‘Trust me, Nikolas. Have I not ensured your safety before? Did I not kill Jonas Crick with my own hands when he threatened to betray us?’

The man with the crooked back and awkward gait shuffled forward. ‘That you did, Slager. Taught the bugger a—’

‘Hush, Nobbs,’ Slager hissed, rounding on the much smaller man with a face like thunder. ‘Keep quiet, damn you, or you’ll find yourself in the moat.’

Nobbs clamped shut his lips with a shivering nod.

‘When will I get the shot, Slager?’ Robbens asked under his breath. ‘When? First you said Massie would surrender and I’d get my chance when they negotiated terms. Then you claimed he would not surrender, but it did not matter, because the King would parley in person.’ He squinted up and down the alley, dropping his voice further. ‘Now we are trapped here like rats in a fucking barrel.’

Slager glowered. ‘What concern is it of yours, Nikolas? The successful conclusion of this mission will see your death.’

‘And my death will secure my brothers’ future.’

Slager stepped closer to the Dutchman so that Robbens could smell the tang of small beer on his breath. ‘Listen to me. You are mine. I am paying you a fortune to do a job and I expect you to do it without question. Understand?’

‘Then let me do it,’ Robbens implored. ‘That is all I ask.’

As if for answer, Slager pushed past him, forcing him against the wall of the nearest house with his lumbering bulk. Robbens and Nobbs followed in his wake, half in curiosity, half in frustration. They went north, out of the alleyway and into the open ground between the homes and the hastily piled defences. There were musketeers on the slope, some lying back in the warm sun, ostensibly loading their muskets, though most were tamping pipes and basking in the beating rays. A more diligent few were nestled against the wicker blinds protruding from the palisade, aiming their weapons across at an enemy who offered but sporadic fire in return.

‘They will not parley,’ Slager said as he acknowledged a couple of the bluecoats. He began to scale the gently sloping earthwork. It was not as steep as the works to the south that buttressed the high stone wall, and Robbens followed him easily. ‘The King is embarrassed by his failure here, so he cannot be seen to show weakness, while Massie is simply too stubborn to surrender.’ He reached the summit, staring down at the low-lying land that fringed this part of Gloucester. ‘But you can still get close.’

‘What you talkin’ about, Slager?’ Nobbs panted. It had been a difficult ascent for him, and he stretched out his upper torso with a chorus of sickening crunches. ‘The whole point o’ this plan was cos we couldn’t get close enough. That’s why we’ve been traipsin’ across the country waiting for the bugger to come to us.’

Slager inspected the flat terrain. Immediately outside the wall was the eastward limb of the River Severn, splitting the city from the waterlogged meadow of Little Mead. That meadow appeared like a gigantic chessboard, large swathes appearing almost black where the courageous women had cut away the turf, all within range of Vavasour’s men. Some patches remained green, though they were shorn to stubble by the city’s cattle, which grazed on the site. Immediately north of Little Mead were the rambling enemy lines, stretching off towards Kingsholm in the east and Over to the west. It was a wonder that the beasts had not been killed or rustled by the surrounding Royalists.

Slager peered over the protective blind to follow the course of the river, as it glimmered against the outer glacis. ‘That was necessary before.’

Nobbs screwed up his narrow face. ‘Before what?’

‘Before we became trusted members of this garrison.’ Slager’s voice was as sure as ever, but his eyes seemed lost in the progress of the Severn, mesmerized by the glimmering surface and the gurgled whisper. ‘It is not wide here,’ he said. ‘Nor so fast-flowing.’

‘He’s lost it,’ Nobbs muttered.

Slager looked up abruptly. ‘Shut your mouth, Nobbs, or I’ll shut it for you.’ He turned back to stare down into the city. ‘I know every inch of this place. Cannon placements, fighting numbers, powder reserves.’

Robbens frowned. ‘So?’

‘So I will tell it all to you.’

‘And what will I do with it?’ the assassin asked, nonplussed.

The fat man went back to the blind and studied the river once more, his eyes transfixed as though he counted the very pebbles on its silted bed. ‘You, Nikolas? You will go and tell good King Charles.’

CHAPTER 15

West of London, 18 August 1643

The cell was dank and dark, lit only by the chinks of light breaking through below the sturdy door. Its walls were made of stone, which, mercifully, kept it cool despite the raging sun outside, and in places tentacles of slime spread from ceiling to floor.

Lisette Gaillard woke in a panic, failing to remember where she was, but soon the stagnant air kicked her senses like an angry cob and she swore softly. She was sitting on the brick floor, legs crossed and shoulders pressed against the wall. She scraped her cheek gingerly with the tips of her fingers. It throbbed at the contact and she winced.

‘Still painful?’

Lisette peered through the gloom to where her fellow captive sat. ‘
Oui
.’

‘You dream of your
amour
?’ Cecily Cade asked.

That was a shrewd thrust. Lisette was rendered mute for a moment. ‘I—’

‘You spoke in your sleep.’

Lisette was glad it was too dark for Cecily to see her blush. ‘What did I say?’

‘I know not. You spoke French. The hint lay in the tone, more than the words.’

Lisette thought of the dream. The swirling images of a man dressed in black, with a wide hat that concealed a once handsome face, long since ravaged by the world’s wickedness. Stryker. She leaned forwards, hugging knees to her chest. ‘You would think me a fool.
I
think me a fool. All this time, I had hope of him coming for us. For me.’ She forced herself to laugh, though a deep ache pulsed at her ribs. ‘Foolish nonsense. And what of your man?’

‘I told you, Lisette,’ Cecily said dismissively. ‘His was a tryst that never took place. A near dalliance that I let fizzle out like wet powder, all for my hubris. We are both fools, you and I.’ Minutes slipped past before Cecily spoke again. ‘He’ll come for us, won’t he?’

‘Collings? Eventually, though he might make us sweat in here for a while.’

‘I wonder where we are.’

Lisette remembered what they had been told when first they had been unceremoniously incarcerated in this modest stone building. ‘To the west of the capital, the bastard Wallis said.’ She peered at the door and the ceiling in turn. ‘Though I feel I have been here before. Strange.’ She thought of the blow that had felled her in her moment of escape. Of the bearded fiend looming over her, knocking her into a silent abyss. ‘I would like to flay the skin off his bones.’

‘He might have killed you, Lisette,’ Cecily chided gently. ‘You are lucky he did not.’

Lisette snorted derisively. ‘Lucky? To be saved so that the bloody rebels can stretch my neck is not what I consider lucky.’ She touched the bruise again. It smarted but would heal well enough. The Royalist troop, so close to saving them, had, according to Cecily, trotted straight past the secreted blackcoats, completely unaware of Collings’ personal militiamen. The chance had drifted by as Lisette lay sprawled in the leaves. She looked up, making out Cecily’s undefined silhouette. ‘Does the gold really exist?’

‘Yes,’ said Cecily.

‘How much is there?’

‘Hard to say. It is plate, mostly. Difficult to value.’

Lisette imagined a gleaming horde of wide plates and intricate salvers, of golden decanters and bejewelled ornaments. A welcome contrast in this murky hole. ‘But a lot?’

Cecily’s silhouette bobbed. ‘A lot.’

What could such riches secure for the Royalist war effort, Lisette wondered? She had once seen a vast ordnance piece in Paris. It was said that such a beast weighed eight thousand pounds and could fling a 64-pound shot nearly a mile. It was a castle-killer. ‘Enough to buy a Cannon Royal?’

Cecily sniffed to show that she did not much care for the type or value of large siege cannon. ‘Enough to buy as many of those as the King would like, I’m sure.’

For the first time, the real possibility of such wealth manifested itself in Lisette’s mind’s eye. It could change the course of the war. ‘No wonder Collings wants it.’ She leaned forwards eagerly. ‘Where is it, Cecily? Where is the treasure?’

‘My father died to protect it, Lisette,’ Cecily said firmly, ‘and I will do the same if necessary. The King will hear me speak of it, and none other.’