Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold
Authors: Michael Arnold
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Colonel, I assure you. Along with every other Popish monument in the land.’
‘And yet your abbey survives,’ the colonel persisted, noting his tall companion’s grunt of amusement echoing at his back. ‘Do the nuns lurk still?’
Samuel’s hands had gone to his stomach, fingers worrying at the string of his robe. ‘No, sir. It was suppressed, right enough, but escaped complete dissolution, for it was bought by the local parishioners.’
‘Bought?’
‘Aye, sir. They paid £100 to make it their church. A pretty sum.’
Norton looked up at the curving beams that seemed to lurch out from the tops of the thick pillars. ‘A pretty parish church.’ He turned to his companion. ‘What say you, Wagner?’
The ice-blue eyes sparkled in the gloom. ‘Stinks of Rome.’
Father Samuel stepped back a pace, startled. ‘I assure you, sirs—’
‘Altars, seats, baubles, music,’ the trooper said, his broad Germanic accent becoming more pronounced with each word. ‘And what is this?’
Samuel followed Wagner’s gaze to the square patch of ceiling that was painted in rich greens and reds. ‘Jacobean, sir. Painted in the reign of the last king.’
Wagner screwed up his mouth. Norton laughed. The men in black robes, like a flock of jackdaws, dispersed suddenly in all directions, and he turned to his right, making for one of the small chambers behind the altar. ‘Places to store your gold?’
‘Simple chapels,’ Father Samuel said, his voice higher than before, pleading. ‘We have four back there. The one yonder is the St Anne Chapel.’
Norton continued to walk, though he heard his subordinate’s footsteps as the white-haired officer closed upon the clergyman.
‘No earthly whore is saint in the Lord’s eyes, you foul Pope’s turd.’
Norton looked back. ‘What is this thing?’
Father Samuel skirted the white-haired officer like a frightened hare before a fox, and moved swiftly to Norton’s side at the entrance to the chapel. He followed the colonel’s gaze to look upon the carving that stood upon the small altar. ‘It depicts Christ upon the cross, flanked by Mary and John. Two angels perch upon the arms of the cross, waiting to escort Jesus to heaven. It is one of our oldest possessions, sir. From the time before the Conquest.’
‘Hear that, Captain Kovac?’ Norton called back. ‘From the time of Alfred, who, with God’s divine assistance, did smite your heathen kinsmen.’
Wagner Kovac shrugged. ‘He fought Danes. I am half Carniolan, half Croatian.’
Norton looked back down at Father Samuel. ‘I do not like this place. It is rank with the mildew of the Papacy.’
‘Colonel Norton, I—’
But Richard Norton was not listening. He waved the priest away with a derisive flap of the hand, and went to his grinning subordinate. ‘Pull up the seats to begin with, and destroy the organ.’
Samuel was at his back immediately, wringing his hands. ‘Please, sir—’
Norton spun round suddenly. ‘Still that tongue, man, or it’ll be the worse for you.’ He felt heat at his cheeks. Knew the raw skin would be as red as a ripe strawberry. ‘Observe, sir. We call Wagner Kovac our master gardener, so adept is he at tugging up the weeds of the old religion.’
With that, Captain Wagner Kovac went to work. The priest began to weep.
‘Find the plate next,’ the colonel ordered, ‘books, any baubles you may discover. We’ll take them for the cause.’ He stood back and folded his arms as the sound of splintering wood echoed from pillar to beam to chancel to nave to choir. Soon he would turn upon all the strongholds of the enemy, and, with God’s help, crush them once and for all.
Near Basing, Hampshire, 2 October 1643
Basing House was not the same place as that which Lancelot Forrester had visited the previous year. Even as Oberon clattered across the stone bridge over the River Loddon, that broad glistening band that barred the estate’s northern flank, he sensed a tension in
‘And yet your abbey survives,’ the colonel persisted, noting his tall companion’s grunt of amusement echoing at his back. ‘Do the nuns lurk still?’
Samuel’s hands had gone to his stomach, fingers worrying at the string of his robe. ‘No, sir. It was suppressed, right enough, but escaped complete dissolution, for it was bought by the local parishioners.’
‘Bought?’
‘Aye, sir. They paid £100 to make it their church. A pretty sum.’
Norton looked up at the curving beams that seemed to lurch out from the tops of the thick pillars. ‘A pretty parish church.’ He turned to his companion. ‘What say you, Wagner?’
The ice-blue eyes sparkled in the gloom. ‘Stinks of Rome.’
Father Samuel stepped back a pace, startled. ‘I assure you, sirs—’
‘Altars, seats, baubles, music,’ the trooper said, his broad Germanic accent becoming more pronounced with each word. ‘And what is this?’
Samuel followed Wagner’s gaze to the square patch of ceiling that was painted in rich greens and reds. ‘Jacobean, sir. Painted in the reign of the last king.’
Wagner screwed up his mouth. Norton laughed. The men in black robes, like a flock of jackdaws, dispersed suddenly in all directions, and he turned to his right, making for one of the small chambers behind the altar. ‘Places to store your gold?’
‘Simple chapels,’ Father Samuel said, his voice higher than before, pleading. ‘We have four back there. The one yonder is the St Anne Chapel.’
Norton continued to walk, though he heard his subordinate’s footsteps as the white-haired officer closed upon the clergyman.
‘No earthly whore is saint in the Lord’s eyes, you foul Pope’s turd.’
Norton looked back. ‘What is this thing?’
Father Samuel skirted the white-haired officer like a frightened hare before a fox, and moved swiftly to Norton’s side at the entrance to the chapel. He followed the colonel’s gaze to look upon the carving that stood upon the small altar. ‘It depicts Christ upon the cross, flanked by Mary and John. Two angels perch upon the arms of the cross, waiting to escort Jesus to heaven. It is one of our oldest possessions, sir. From the time before the Conquest.’
‘Hear that, Captain Kovac?’ Norton called back. ‘From the time of Alfred, who, with God’s divine assistance, did smite your heathen kinsmen.’
Wagner Kovac shrugged. ‘He fought Danes. I am half Carniolan, half Croatian.’
Norton looked back down at Father Samuel. ‘I do not like this place. It is rank with the mildew of the Papacy.’
‘Colonel Norton, I—’
But Richard Norton was not listening. He waved the priest away with a derisive flap of the hand, and went to his grinning subordinate. ‘Pull up the seats to begin with, and destroy the organ.’
Samuel was at his back immediately, wringing his hands. ‘Please, sir—’
Norton spun round suddenly. ‘Still that tongue, man, or it’ll be the worse for you.’ He felt heat at his cheeks. Knew the raw skin would be as red as a ripe strawberry. ‘Observe, sir. We call Wagner Kovac our master gardener, so adept is he at tugging up the weeds of the old religion.’
With that, Captain Wagner Kovac went to work. The priest began to weep.
‘Find the plate next,’ the colonel ordered, ‘books, any baubles you may discover. We’ll take them for the cause.’ He stood back and folded his arms as the sound of splintering wood echoed from pillar to beam to chancel to nave to choir. Soon he would turn upon all the strongholds of the enemy, and, with God’s help, crush them once and for all.
Near Basing, Hampshire, 2 October 1643
Basing House was not the same place as that which Lancelot Forrester had visited the previous year. Even as Oberon clattered across the stone bridge over the River Loddon, that broad glistening band that barred the estate’s northern flank, he sensed a tension in
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