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

shut.
     
    Basing House, Hampshire, 3 October 1643
     
    ‘Glass. So simple a thing, yet so precious when made by talented hands.’ Sir John Paulet, Lord St John, Earl of Wiltshire and Fifth Marquess of Winchester, was standing at the window of one of the upper rooms in the Great Gatehouse, the most prominent of Basing’s sprawling structures. He traced the outline of the diamond-shaped pane, stained crimson to colour the light, and sighed heavily. ‘Now these high pieces are all that is left of my forebears’ exquisite home. Most have gone, shattered by the passage of time or removed for the good of our sharpshooters.’
    ‘A terrible shame, my lord,’ Lancelot Forrester replied awkwardly, feeling as if his presence as a soldier made him somehow culpable.
    ‘This whole place,’ Paulet went on wistfully, ‘once glimmered with such windows. When Queen Bess visited for the last time, my father had every pane removed, washed, repaired and replaced.’ He gave a short burst of laughter. ‘Such grandiosity. It is what the Paulets are known for, Captain. And our loyalty to the Crown, of course. Now look where it has brought us.’
    Forrester had been summoned to this audience after a comfortable night in what must have once been a sumptuous bedchamber. He had climbed the spiral staircase into the upper level of the Great Gatehouse wondering just what kind of toll the conflict had taken upon this most ardent supporter of King Charles. But now, he saw a determination that had not been present the first time they had met. Paulet was thinner than before, his dark eyes sunken and saddled with shadowy bags, but there was steel in the gaze.
    ‘You hold this great seat in full defiance of the Parliament, my lord,’ Forrester said. ‘Your loyalty will be rewarded in time, I am certain.’
    Paulet gave a wintry smile. ‘Much has come to pass since last our paths crossed, Captain, would you not say?’
    ‘Aye, my lord, it has. Too much.’
    ‘Over by Christ-tide, the news-sheets gleefully pronounced,’ Paulet said, staring down into the busy courtyard below. ‘The rebellion dead and buried. Look at us now. A year slipped by and nothing buried but English corpses, slain at English hands.’ He looked up to meet Forrester’s gaze, and immediately coloured. ‘Forgive me, Captain. You have seen enough of the war, I’d wager.’
    Forrester went close to the glass, unable to meet Paulet’s eye. Down below, the people looked tiny, scuttling about their lives as though no war had come to this place at all. He knew it to be artifice, of course, but the aloof perspective cheered him nonetheless. ‘More than a man should see, my lord.’
    ‘In that, thank the Holy Mother, we have been spared, I am relieved to say. There was an attack in July, led by that dog Norton. Villainy in human form.’ Paulet moved to a large chest near the big hearth at the side of the room. It was made of ebony, and was polished to such a gleam that it might have been made of blackened glass. Paulet opened one of the doors to reveal a decanter and three silver goblets. He filled one and took a sip. ‘Norton has a particular antipathy towards me, by matter of faith.’
    Forrester was not surprised. The marquess’s unashamed Catholicism inspired much derision from the Puritan-driven Parliament. ‘I thank God the attack failed, my lord.’
    Paulet nodded. ‘Since then we have whiled away the months in preparation. We are a stone’s throw from Farnham, Westminster’s bridgehead hereabouts. It is a matter of time. The rebels will come, and there will be blood.’ He set his goblet down and filled another. ‘But enough of that for the moment, eh? Come, Captain Forrester. Share some claret with me. It will prove to your liking.’
    As Forrester lifted the vessel to his lips, he closed his eyes. The wine seared his throat in a manner that was more welcome than he could possibly have described. He was about to say as much when there was a knock at the