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

empty gums. ‘I told him to fuck off.’
    ‘You? The commander of the castle defers to you?’
    The man nodded smugly, patting his breast. ‘I have a note from the highest authority, giving me permission to act here as I will.’ He winked. ‘Besides, I believe our dear Billy Balthazar is a tad nervous of me.’
    ‘I am not surprised,’ Stryker said. ‘The Scillies are peaceful in the main. The garrison unused to men such as you.’
    ‘Oh?’
    Stryker nodded. This man might have been a merchant or shop-keep, had the tell-tale flash of yellow buff-hide not poked out from beneath the coat’s woollen hem. Moreover, the white scars engraved across his chin and cheeks spoke of a man who had survived many a scrap. ‘You are ravilliacs. Hired fighters. Throat-slitters. I know your kind.’
    Even the giant and his choleric companion seemed to chuckle at that. Their leader pointed at Stryker. ‘You are our kind, sir!’
    ‘What have you done with my men?’ Stryker asked, ignoring the intimation.
    ‘They are well, Captain, have no fear.’
    ‘It is you who should be fearful, sir, not I,’ Stryker returned. ‘For I take unkindly to any who would do my company harm.’
    The dark-skinned man and his confederates brayed at this, their laughter rolling like thunder in the small chamber. ‘Then truly we must quake, lads, for it is harm we intend.’ He winked again, though now the mirth was gone. ‘Oh yes, sir, it is harm we intend. But you first, Captain.’ He looked back at the two men at the door. They stepped forwards. ‘You first.’
     
    Near Southampton, Hampshire, 5 October 1643
     
    Colonel Richard Norton adjusted the high tops of his boots. They were unfolded to their full extent, the leather peeled back to protect his thighs, but still they chafed, the skin of his legs as raw and livid as the rest of him. It was only when the itch had been well and truly obliterated that he turned to look back at the bedraggled group who stumbled and slipped on foot. What a sight they made, the half-dozen beleaguered, mud-spattered wretches. He relished it. ‘They look like lepers, do they not? We should give them a bell.’
    Captain Kovac was at his flank. He was bare-headed for this ride, and he tidied his long, white hair with a gloved hand, his pock-pitted face contorting in an expression of disdain. ‘We should have stretched their scrawny necks.’
    ‘Prattling Royalist priests,’ Norton said with an admonishing look. ‘Loud-mouthed malignants who should have kept their opinions to themselves.’ He glanced again at the prisoners. They had been discovered fishing in the river almost a mile west of Romsey Abbey. His scouts claimed they were overheard declaring their support for the king and condemning Parliament. Norton had decided a forced march to Southampton might be an apt cure for their ills. ‘It is punishment enough to make them trudge through this cold mud, I think. A lesson will be learnt.’
    Kovac’s pale eyes glittered. ‘In my country we’d have dunked them in the very river they fished.’
    ‘In your country,’ said Norton, ‘it is good reformers such as yourself who are the persecuted faction, is it not? Therefore it is you who would take a dip in the river.’
    Kovac shrugged. ‘I survived. Killed plenty Papists with these two hands.’
    ‘I’m certain you did, Captain. But then you fled.’
    If Kovac noticed the barb, he chose to ignore it. ‘Skinned one once. Strangled his son and ploughed his wife.’
    ‘Very Christian of you, Wagner.’
    The captain smoothed the tobacco-stained strands of his beard. ‘My father hailed from the south-east of the empire.’
    Norton nodded. ‘Carniola, as you never tire of saying.’
    ‘He was a reformer,’ Kovac went on unabashed. ‘My mother was a Croat. Papist.’ He paused to suck something from a tooth, spitting it back towards the miserable priests who shied quickly away. ‘For their love, they were garrotted and burned. I was ten.’
    ‘How