Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles (40 page)

He found a clerk he recognized at the end of the corridor and ordered the stooped old palliard to show him to the correct room. The man muttered something begrudging but shuffled off nevertheless. Collings made a mental note. The fellow and his kin would pay for his rudeness.

‘Here, sir,’ the clerk said as he stopped by one door in a row of half a dozen. ‘He has company.’

Collings gave a nasty smirk. ‘Company? Some thick-thighed slattern, eh?’

The clerk covered his lips with an ink-stained hand. ‘Of course not, sir.’

Collings laughed and pushed open the door, leaving the outraged servant in his wake. He strode across the echoing floorboards to stand before a paper-strewn table beneath the room’s only window. There he nodded casually to the two men seated behind, each with a stack of reports and lists and orders to examine. ‘Gentlemen.’

One of the men looked up. ‘One day you will regret your brash arrogance, Collings.’

‘Sir,’ Collings replied coolly. He doubted the warning very much. John Pym could admonish him all he liked, but the old man was dying, and everybody knew it.

‘Marriage between our cousins does not make us familiar.’ Pym was as soberly dressed as ever, the very reflection of a good Puritan. But even in the few weeks since last they had met, the nominal leader of Parliament had become gaunt and frail, the skin of his face appearing even more pale than usual against the dark bristles of his beard and whiskers. He slowly moved his head to indicate the man seated at his right hand. ‘You know Sir Henry Vane?’

Collings bowed. ‘Your servant, sir.’ He looked back at Pym. ‘I see the hurly-burly is quelled.’

Pym sat back, letting the creaking frame of the chair take what little weight he now had. ‘If you mean the peace riots, aye. They were dealt with.’

Ever the one for understatement, Collings thought. The orderly little man was not known as King Pym for nothing. He was a political genius, a calculated mover in a world of treachery and deceit, and the chief architect of the Stuart dynasty’s imminent downfall. Any challenge to the authority of the Parliament will have been swiftly and brutally crushed, whatever careful description Pym might attach to it. Collings smiled. ‘Glad to hear it. Can’t have an army of dirty sluts calling your word into question, can we, sir?’

‘Enough chatter,’ Vane rumbled at Pym’s side. ‘What news?’

Collings let his gaze drift away from Pym. Vane was another steeped in intrigue and politics, and weaned on the stabbing of backs. He was a powerful man, had once even served as the king’s secretary of state before choosing the Parliament’s side at the outbreak of war. Collings was not as familiar with Vane as he was with Pym, and he chose to tread a more respectful path. ‘I have her,’ he said triumphantly.

‘What, sir?’ Vane, in his early fifties, was still an imposing figure, with thick greying hair, a brush of a moustache and a burly frame. He folded his arms, digging big hands into the black folds of his slashed doublet, and peered up at Collings, jaw set belligerently. ‘Do you expect congratulations, Major General Collings? Some kind of reward, perhaps?’ He thrust out an accusatory finger. ‘When it was you who lost her?’

Collings returned Vane’s unpleasant stare. ‘ I lost her amid a riot caused by the lowly drabs of London. People who should have been under your control.’

‘Enough,’ Pym ordered. His voice was soft, cracking pitifully, but the antagonists fell silent all the same. The most powerful cog in the rebellion’s machine scrutinized Collings’ face. ‘She is properly secure this time?’

‘She is, sir, though I doubt I will get anything useful from her.’

‘Oh?’

Collings spread his delicate palms. ‘Refuses to speak.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what course I would take, sir.’

Pym shook his head. ‘No torture.’

‘But—’

Pym held up a hand to intercept. ‘We have danced this reel many a time, General Collings, and the answer is the same. You will not torture women.’

Women of gentle birth, at any rate, Collings thought bitterly. If the bitch had been a peasant, he would have been authorized to flay the skin off her spine without so much as a moment’s hesitation. ‘She will starve herself to death.’

Pym’s round eyes narrowed. ‘You will not torture her, sir. Bring her back to the capital. I would speak with her. Gentle persuasion may be the key that will turn this particular lock.’

You’ll be dead before she breathes a word, Collings thought. ‘Very well,’ he grunted, deciding it best not to tell the stuffy old God-botherers about the second woman in his charge. The French spy could spread her legs for Wallis and his men, and have her neck stretched for the privilege.

‘Besides,’ Pym went on, ‘your talents are required elsewhere.’

Collings shifted his feet and linked his hands behind his back. ‘Elsewhere?’

‘You’ve heard of Gloucester?’

Collings smiled. ‘A city in the West Country, sir.’

Pym sighed in exasperation. ‘A razor wit as ever, Major General. Have you heard the news?’

‘Plenty,’ Collings nodded, ‘though what is true is at best debatable. They say the governor, little more than a stripling, holds out against the best the King has to offer. I heard one rumour that he fuelled his fighters with strong drink, another that his entire garrison is comprised only of women and children.’ He recalled the Royalist news-book he had read that very day. ‘
Mercurius
Aulicus
claims his stubbornness has cost the city hundreds of souls, while our own sheets proclaim his fighters have killed more than two thousand malignants in what has, it is suggested, become rather a dog’s breakfast for our stammering sovereign and his lackeys.’

Sir Henry Vane slammed his broad palm on the table top. ‘Have a care, sir!’

Pym placed a placating hand on the bigger man’s elbow, but addressed Collings. ‘King Charles is misguided and misinformed, General. But he is still king.’

Collings bowed obediently. Goddamned hypocrites. ‘Then what is the truth of it, sir?’

‘The siege continues,’ Pym said calmly. ‘Young Massie has achieved what Fiennes could not, and the city gates are firmly shut.’ The corner of his blue-lipped mouth trembled. ‘And your rather crass analogy is not far from the truth. If not a dog’s meal, then perhaps Gloucester is best described as a thorn in the enemy’s flesh. They would dearly like to pluck it out.’

‘And you would dearly like to stop them.’ As ever, it had come down to political machination. The siege had been underway for days, predicted in some quarters for weeks, and yet the Commons had not lifted a finger to help. But now the winds of opinion had changed.

‘The people want it,’ Pym said, confirming Collings’ suspicion. ‘They feel a compassion for their fellow rebels at Gloucester. It would serve morale no end to see the city survive. The assumption has been that Gloucester will fall quickly. She has poor defences and a small garrison. But the most recent news is encouraging.’

And the Parliament needs a distraction from the seemingly unending chorus of bad news, Collings thought. A quick win to give the people a hero and shut the peace protesters up for good. He frowned at a new consideration. ‘But His Excellency’s army ails, does it not?’

‘My Lord Essex,’ Vane responded as Pym burst into a fitful bout of racking coughs, ‘cannot rely on his main force, you are right. Not to mount a credible challenge to the Oxford Army.’

‘So?’

‘So,’ Pym managed to splutter, ‘we must build him an army.’

‘Out of what, sir?’ Collings responded in surprise. ‘Thin air?’

Pym had regained control now, and he sat back, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a small handkerchief. He rolled his eyes. ‘Come now, Major General, you think more of me than that, I hope. The City of London will provide the funds for our enterprise. Fresh horses for a cavalry contingent are being found even now, and we have authorized conscription of four thousand recruits to the infantry.’

Collings scoffed derisively. ‘Pressed men are worthless.’

‘And that,’ Pym said, tucking the fabric into the sleeve of his coat, ‘is why the earl will march with the Trained Bands.’

‘Surely not,’ Collings replied in sceptically. The Bands had been raised for the defence of London, not for traipsing across enemy country to engage a large, experienced field army. ‘They’ll never agree to it.’

Sir Henry Vane leant forwards on his elbows, peering at Collings through watery eyes. ‘This is a sensitive issue, Major General Collings, so you will not breathe a word of this conversation beyond these four walls on pain of death.’

Collings assented with a tilt of his bald head, though he glanced at Pym.

John Pym made a steeple of his fingers as he spoke. ‘I am negotiating with the Militia Committee even now, General. Public opinion compels me to do so, and that same opinion will compel the Committee to see things from my perspective.’

That was a bold assertion, but Collings supposed the attitude of the mob was not something to be ignored, even by the most obstinate of the capital’s thick-skulled militia leaders. ‘How many regiments do you look to gain?’

‘Six,’ said Pym.

Collings whistled. ‘Best part of eight thousand men.’

‘And fifteen hundred cavalry.’

‘They’re not good, sir,’ Collings warned. ‘Not real soldiers.’

Pym nodded, conceding the observation. ‘But they’ll give Essex a fighting chance. If we can lift the siege, then our people will be heartened a hundredfold. The groundswell of support for the struggle will be truly wondrous.’ He glanced at the beams above their heads. ‘God willing, it might even turn the tide of this war.’

‘Well,’ Collings mused, ‘this is all very interesting, I’m sure. And I wish you luck with it, gentlemen. But where do I come in?’

Pym drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his wide nostrils. ‘You have influence within the Militia Committee, do you not?’

‘It has been said.’

Vane slapped the table again. ‘Do not play coy with us, General, lest you wish to spend the night in the Tower.’

Collings fixed the politician with an acid stare, but suspected it would not be wise to call the bullish oaf ’s bluff. ‘I have the ear of one or two of their number, sir, aye.’

Pym sat back, a look of genuine relief washing across his features. ‘Good, good. Bend those ears for me, General Collings.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Collings ventured, sniffing an opportunity.

‘Then the Tower awaits,’ Vane threatened.

Pym restrained his colleague again, patting his sleeve. ‘Make them do as I ask,’ he said to Collings, ‘and perhaps we will revisit the question of Cecily Cade.’

Erasmus Collings grinned. ‘I will visit them tonight, sir.’

Friar’s Orchard, Gloucester, 20 August 1643

‘Put your backs into it, lads!’ Sergeant William Skellen bawled at the men who scraped the mud, bare torsos calked in grime.

One of the shovel-wielding musketeers under his watchful eye straightened, rubbing the small of his back. ‘Couldn’t lend a hand, could you, Sergeant?’

‘I’m busy overseeing your good endeavours, Barrow,’ Skellen drawled in reply.

‘But it’s past nine of the clock,’ Barrow complained. ‘It’s practically dark.’

‘Better get the candles lit then, m’ good man.’

‘You’d treat blackamoor slaves better.’

Skellen cocked his head to the side. ‘Fancy diggin’ the latrines, Barrow?’ The other men laughed.

‘Not likely, Mister Skellen.’ He turned back to his work.

‘Thought not, Barrow. Thought not.’

Friar’s Orchard was a wedge of open ground behind the intersection of the south and east walls. It was across the breadth of this ragged terrain that Massie had ordered the newest obstacle constructed, for this would be the first place through which any Royalist assault troops would swarm.

The barrage had ended six hours after it first shook the city’s foundations, and, in truth, it had barely dented Gloucester’s walls, or its resolve. But an attack had been made during the night, a sizeable force bridging the moat with ladders, and though they had been spotted quickly enough, driven away by fire from the rampart, it had served as a timely reminder that an effort to scale the wall did not necessarily depend upon the presence of a breach.

The breastwork now supervised by Skellen was nearly as high as a man’s head and rose above a ditch first begun during the previous night, as soon as the Royalist bombardment had ended. The digging crews had changed every hour since, Massie insisting on keeping the men fresh and alert, and had pressed on during the course of the afternoon. Now, as the summer sun finally conceded the day above a cooling breeze, this new line of defence was beginning to look as though it might actually prove useful.

Skellen hefted his borrowed halberd with easy strength, gripping the end in one hand as though the heavy weapon weighed no more than a brittle twig. One of the men made a ribald jest, upon which the grunting workers brayed like mules, and he found himself laughing along with them. He glanced across the orchard to where his commanding officer leant casually against the wheel of a cart, a flaming torch glowing behind him in a makeshift embrasure that had been set in a crumbling wall. Stryker was puffing on a short pipe, and he lifted it in acknowledgement. Skellen nodded back, pleased with the way the new breastwork was progressing, and proud of the men who laboured to scour it out of the earth when the very real danger of a renewed bombardment still hung heavily over them.