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

set to aid us, my lord. Rather, we are to aid him.’ He turned from Paulet’s shocked face to look at Forrester. ‘He would have us sally out, would he not?’
    ‘Indeed, sir,’ Forrester confirmed, ‘you are in the right of it. He asks that you take the war to the enemy. Keep him occupied.’
    ‘Occupied?’ Paulet blurted, fury putting fresh blood in his cheeks. ‘We are occupied enough here, by God!’
    Rawdon blew out his cheeks, his grey moustache quivering in the blast of air. ‘We sit and wait, my lord,’ he said, and Forrester was sure he could detect a hint of exasperation in the older man’s tone. ‘Daily, we build our defences, position our guns, sharpen our swords. Always waiting for the Roundheads to strike.’
    ‘What are you saying?’ Paulet cut in, suspicion clouding his face.
    ‘Baron Hopton,’ Rawdon answered, ‘will soon march towards us, and any marching general would rather not have an opposing army shadowing him, harrying his men, cutting his supply lines, plundering his baggage, poisoning wells, scouring the land of food.’ The colonel had counted those points on his fingers, and now he curled them into a fist. ‘Essex’s army, made bold by Gloucester and blooded at Newbury, is in London. If the Parliament hear of Hopton’s advance, they will doubtless send His Excellency to intercept, so we must keep Parliament’s eye fixed firmly elsewhere.’
    Paulet’s thin neck quivered as he swallowed. ‘Here.’
    Forrester slipped a hand into his coat, pulling free the folded square of parchment he had been given by Ezra Killigrew. ‘This letter tells all, my lord,’ he said, handing it to Paulet, ‘but Col­onel Rawdon has it precisely. You are not asked to abandon your position, simply to disrupt the enemy hereabouts.’
    Paulet cast his gaze to the parchment in his hand as though it contained a warrant for his own death, then up at the captain and colonel in turn. His cheeks suddenly seemed hollow. ‘The King would have us tempt Parliament’s army? Bring them here to smash us so that Hopton can march free?’
    Lancelot Forrester felt a surge of sympathy for the Earl of Wiltshire and Fifth Marquess of Winchester. Another proud man whose very existence was threatened by this strange war that had no real enemy. All he could do was drain his cup and nod.
     
    Forrester followed Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon out into the heart of the Old House having accepted an offer to view the new fortifications by the military governor in the face of Paulet’s spluttering fury. At the centre of the enclosure, dominating the rest of the buildings, was the Great Hall. Through its large twin doors, servants scurried like so many rats, carrying bushels of corn and sacks of dried meat, the provisions of a garrison digging in for winter, while some wheeled dog carts full of surplus furniture, candlesticks and clothing. This was a house alive with preparations for war.
    ‘How many men do you have, sir?’ Forrester asked as they moved past a large stone fountain.
    Rawdon grimaced in half apology. ‘Hard to tell. More come here each day, seeking refuge from Parliament’s hounds.’ He paused to accept the bows of some of his soldiers. ‘My regiment is near three hundred strong, though the marquess has conveniently gathered a fair few under his own colours.’
    ‘He has,’ Forrester noted tentatively, ‘stolen your men?’
    Rawdon gave a short grunt that was more growl than laugh. ‘Absorbed, aye. It is a point of contention.’ He waved the issue away as if he were swatting an irritating fly. ‘Now where was I? Let me see. Lieutenant-Colonel Peake brought a hundred musketeers earlier in the summer. There might be another hundred able to bear arms, retainers and exiles, loyal to the marquess. And their families are here too. Some of the women and older children might—’ Rawdon tailed off, scrutinizing the middle-distance, and Forrester knew that the idea was more than the old man could bear. He was