Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold Page A
Authors: Michael Arnold
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very delightful.’
‘The war in Europe is crueller than you English can imagine, sir. No man forgives. No man forgets.’
Norton shuddered. He was searching for something to say when he noticed the horizon was clawed by a hundred dark talons, rising skywards from as many hearths. ‘Here we are, then. Our billet for the time being.’
They entered Southampton through the East Gate. Norton felt like Alexander as he trotted into the sprawling port city at the head of three hundred veterans, the scars of Newbury Fight still worn on their iron-hard arms and leathery faces. His cornet of horse carried his colour aloft proudly and Norton felt a swell of content as he eyed the fluttering taffeta square of blue and black, with its white sword pointing towards the sun, a pair of laurel branches at the hilt. Around the sword was the inscription Omnis victoria a domino. ‘On, my boys!’ he exhorted.
The city was bustling: shop fronts open, wares arrayed on counters and tables for the folk to browse, the bellows of the shopkeepers ringing out in competition with one another. Hawkers and peddlers hovered about the groups of finely dressed ladies and their attendants, a ranting preacher battled to have his voice heard above the din, and somewhere further off the distant bells of a church wafted on the breeze. Norton’s troop moved slowly along the road. It did not, Norton believed, befit his status to be dictated to by common folk, and the traffic simply had to move out of the way if they did not wish to be trampled. Sure enough, the townsmen shifted to either side, many waving and bowing, others cheering. This was a Parliamentarian stronghold, after all, one of Hampshire’s most powerful cities, second only to Portsmouth. Both were under rebel control, but the latter had required conquest before it would bow to Westminster. Not so Southampton, and Norton was proud to accept the welcome from her like-minded citizens.
‘Be at your ease!’ Norton called to his men as he coaxed his mount past a pair of dogs squabbling over a discarded scrap of offal. ‘Rest up, water the horses, gather supplies. Southampton will be your new home.’ As the troopers disbursed, he looked at Kovac. ‘The taverns should bear up under our weight. Inform me if they do not.’
‘The taverns will be fine, sir,’ Kovac said, his eyes drifting beyond his colonel’s shoulder. ‘But the ’fficials?’
Norton was nonplussed. ‘Fish-oils?’
‘Aldermen?’ Kovac said with a shrug. ‘Elders?’
‘ O -fficials!’ Norton exclaimed.
‘That is what I said.’ Kovac tugged his beard and grinned. ‘I’ll leave this one to you, sir.’
Norton followed the Croat’s amused gaze, turning his mount hard round to see a party of grim-looking men advancing upon him. There were eight or nine of them, most dressed in the fine clothes of gentlemen, though a couple were clearly soldiers. ‘Give me strength, Lord,’ Norton whispered, for he sensed trouble. He slipped quickly from the saddle, removing his helmet as they approached, and forced a smile. ‘Sirs!’
‘Colonel Norton!’ called the man who was evidently the group’s spearhead.
‘Ah, Peter Murford,’ Norton said, extending his hand. ‘Good to see you, Sergeant-Major. Fare you well?’
Murford, swathed in a fine suit of dark brown with a crisp white collar and tall black hat, was a short man with fleshy jowls and fair hair that was lank and greasy, falling across his eyes so that he was forced to push it aside. ‘ Governor Murford since my men and I secured the town for the Parliament. You are here to bolster our defences?’
‘Here to take our ease,’ Norton said pointedly. ‘But we are at your disposal where there is threat.’
‘There is ever threat hereabouts, sir. The malignants busy themselves like bees at the hive. Their thought is bent on our destruction.’ Murford looked up and down the road furtively, as though a hidden assassin might come from the shadows at any
‘The war in Europe is crueller than you English can imagine, sir. No man forgives. No man forgets.’
Norton shuddered. He was searching for something to say when he noticed the horizon was clawed by a hundred dark talons, rising skywards from as many hearths. ‘Here we are, then. Our billet for the time being.’
They entered Southampton through the East Gate. Norton felt like Alexander as he trotted into the sprawling port city at the head of three hundred veterans, the scars of Newbury Fight still worn on their iron-hard arms and leathery faces. His cornet of horse carried his colour aloft proudly and Norton felt a swell of content as he eyed the fluttering taffeta square of blue and black, with its white sword pointing towards the sun, a pair of laurel branches at the hilt. Around the sword was the inscription Omnis victoria a domino. ‘On, my boys!’ he exhorted.
The city was bustling: shop fronts open, wares arrayed on counters and tables for the folk to browse, the bellows of the shopkeepers ringing out in competition with one another. Hawkers and peddlers hovered about the groups of finely dressed ladies and their attendants, a ranting preacher battled to have his voice heard above the din, and somewhere further off the distant bells of a church wafted on the breeze. Norton’s troop moved slowly along the road. It did not, Norton believed, befit his status to be dictated to by common folk, and the traffic simply had to move out of the way if they did not wish to be trampled. Sure enough, the townsmen shifted to either side, many waving and bowing, others cheering. This was a Parliamentarian stronghold, after all, one of Hampshire’s most powerful cities, second only to Portsmouth. Both were under rebel control, but the latter had required conquest before it would bow to Westminster. Not so Southampton, and Norton was proud to accept the welcome from her like-minded citizens.
‘Be at your ease!’ Norton called to his men as he coaxed his mount past a pair of dogs squabbling over a discarded scrap of offal. ‘Rest up, water the horses, gather supplies. Southampton will be your new home.’ As the troopers disbursed, he looked at Kovac. ‘The taverns should bear up under our weight. Inform me if they do not.’
‘The taverns will be fine, sir,’ Kovac said, his eyes drifting beyond his colonel’s shoulder. ‘But the ’fficials?’
Norton was nonplussed. ‘Fish-oils?’
‘Aldermen?’ Kovac said with a shrug. ‘Elders?’
‘ O -fficials!’ Norton exclaimed.
‘That is what I said.’ Kovac tugged his beard and grinned. ‘I’ll leave this one to you, sir.’
Norton followed the Croat’s amused gaze, turning his mount hard round to see a party of grim-looking men advancing upon him. There were eight or nine of them, most dressed in the fine clothes of gentlemen, though a couple were clearly soldiers. ‘Give me strength, Lord,’ Norton whispered, for he sensed trouble. He slipped quickly from the saddle, removing his helmet as they approached, and forced a smile. ‘Sirs!’
‘Colonel Norton!’ called the man who was evidently the group’s spearhead.
‘Ah, Peter Murford,’ Norton said, extending his hand. ‘Good to see you, Sergeant-Major. Fare you well?’
Murford, swathed in a fine suit of dark brown with a crisp white collar and tall black hat, was a short man with fleshy jowls and fair hair that was lank and greasy, falling across his eyes so that he was forced to push it aside. ‘ Governor Murford since my men and I secured the town for the Parliament. You are here to bolster our defences?’
‘Here to take our ease,’ Norton said pointedly. ‘But we are at your disposal where there is threat.’
‘There is ever threat hereabouts, sir. The malignants busy themselves like bees at the hive. Their thought is bent on our destruction.’ Murford looked up and down the road furtively, as though a hidden assassin might come from the shadows at any
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