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

door.
    ‘Aha!’ Paulet exclaimed, setting down his goblet. ‘Come!’
    The man who pushed past the ornately panelled wood was of average height and build, though his bearing was of one who knew his business. He wore a coat of black, slashed down the sleeves to contrast bright yellow silk beneath, and a wide hat, which he now snatched off to reveal long hair the colour of slate. A man of advanced years, his once handsome face was creased so deeply by time that it looked almost like a mask of leather, and his whiskers and eyebrows were overgrown and grey.
    ‘Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon,’ the Marquess of Winchester said. ‘May I introduce to you, Captain Lancelot Forrester?’
    Rawdon limped into the room and offered his hand. ‘Well met, Captain. Mowbray’s Foot, yes?’
    Forrester shook the gloved hand, noting its iron grip, and looked into the baby-blue eyes. ‘You have it, sir, aye. Third captain.’
    Rawdon sucked his upper lip into his mouth so that he might gnaw the longer strands of his moustache. ‘Were you at Newbury Fight?’
    ‘I was, sir.’
    ‘How was it?’
    Forrester blushed; he could never hope to describe such an experience. Just as he could not articulate the sheer terror of Edgehill or the silent march of Hopton’s powderless Cornishmen up that blood-slick slope at Stratton. Could a man convey the rattle of musket-balls through swaying forests of pike, or the rib-juddering pulse of belching ordnance? Could he truly describe the acrid stink of the smoke as it slewed in horizontal cloud banks to obscure whole brigades of Horse and Foot? He doubted he could make Rawdon understand the screams of a thousand wounded men, all calling for their mothers at once, or the ear-shredding noise of a giant musket volley, or the thunder of a cavalry charge that would turn a man’s bowels to water in a heartbeat. In the end he shrugged. ‘Hard.’
    The bushy brows shot up. ‘Hard?’
    ‘Very hard.’
    There followed a moment of silence as Forrester searched his boots. He was relieved to receive a thumping slap on the shoulder and looked up to find Rawdon grinning. ‘My apologies, Captain. It was not my intention to pry. Such things are difficult to dwell upon.’ He spread his hands. ‘I was a militiaman before all this. Played at soldiers for so long. Now that war befalls us, I feel envious of those who have seen real battle.’
    It is nothing to envy, thought Forrester. ‘No matter, sir.’
    Paulet clapped his hands suddenly. ‘Now, Captain Forrester, I must tell you that things have changed somewhat since last you visited.’ He moved to the ebony sideboard, taking up the final goblet and handing it to Rawdon. ‘The Colonel, here, is now my military governor, to advise in matters of blade and shot.’
    ‘And defence,’ Rawdon continued, ‘supplies, ordnance, and the like.’
    Forrester thought back to the digging of ditches and repairing of walls. ‘Impressive, Colonel Rawdon.’
    Rawdon dipped his head a touch. ‘I work hard for this great house.’
    ‘And for your reputation, eh, Marmaduke?’ Paulet added through a strangely tight mouth.
    Rawdon pointedly ignored the marquess, smiling instead at Forrester. ‘Major Lawrence informs me that you have come direct from Oxford. I trust it is with news of an encouraging nature?’
    ‘It is, sir,’ Forrester replied, forcing Paulet’s acidic comment aside. ‘Plans are afoot to raise a new army under Lord Hopton.’
    ‘Oh?’ Paulet said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Our new baron is recovered from his wounds?’
    ‘Apparently so, my lord. He will lead this army out of the south-west, with the purpose of clearing Dorset, Wiltshire and Hampshire, ultimately advancing upon London from the south-east.’
    Paulet’s gaunt face beamed. ‘And part of that force will be sent here?’
    ‘Alas, my lord.’
    The excitement dissolved as quickly as it had come. ‘Alas?’
    Forrester opened his mouth, but it was Colonel Rawdon who spoke. ‘Baron Hopton is not