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

the air that had not been present before. The house was still there, walls and gatehouses and turrets looming over the landscape like a brick-built mountain range, but the very atmosphere was different. Basing was still principally a house, but when hostilities were declared, the marquess’s Catholic faith had made him as staunch a Royalist as the king himself, and Basing’s location, straddling the main route from London to the western counties, made it a pivotal stronghold. When Forrester and his comrades had last visited, there were already signs of intent, from the deepening of ditches that had formed the original motte and bailey, to frantic repairs made along the walls and the transform­ation of some of the older buildings into billets. But, in spite of this, it had still been a home. Now, Forrester reflected as armed men swarmed out from a spiked wicker screen that blocked the approach road, Basing House was nothing less than a fortress.
    ‘Captain Lancelot Forrester,’ he announced, reining Oberon to a halt as a dozen musketeers flocked like starlings around him. This level of vigilance was new, he thought, as was the barrier. The road, in truth little more than a bridleway, ran south until it reached the Lane, the main east–west thoroughfare through Basing Village. The vast Tudor edifice sprawled on the raised ground on the opposite side of the Lane, and even from this distance Forrester could see more armed men guarding that wider road. They were expecting trouble. ‘For the King.’
    The lead musketeer sidled over to take hold of Oberon’s bridle. In his spare hand he clutched a vicious-looking halberd, the pale morning light sliding along the flat of the huge blade. ‘I should hope so, sir. Regiment, if you please.’
    ‘Mowbray’s Foot, Sergeant,’ Forrester replied, guessing at the man’s rank by dint of the menacing weapon. ‘And I’ll thank you to get those grubby paws off my horse, lest I shove that halberd so far up your arse it’ll pick your nose.’
    With a grunt the sergeant released the bridle and indicated that the barrier should be cleared. ‘Business, sir?’
    ‘Here to see the marquess,’ Forrester said sharply. ‘I take it he is at home.’
    The sergeant nodded. ‘Would not leave, sir. Cannot. Roads ain’t safe. You have papers, sir?’
    ‘Aye, though you’ll not see them. Where is the officer of the watch?’
    The sergeant pointed to the junction a hundred paces beyond the barricade. ‘There, sir. You’ll find him there.’ He winced a touch. ‘Beg pardon, Captain, but we’ll need to escort you.’
    ‘Pleased to hear it,’ Forrester said. ‘The marquess will thank you for your vigilance, I’m sure.’
    He let his gaze drift away as hogsheads, storm-poles and sections of latticed wattle were dragged from the barricade, and stared up at the house. The towers and rooftops of the circular Old House, built on the foundations of the ancient Norman castle, rose in a forbidding display of power, while further to the east the square lines of the New House spoke of the splendour bestowed upon the Paulet dynasty in the time of the Tudors. But even from this distance he could see black smudges where loopholes had been cut in the beautiful brickwork, and the tiny figures of men paced along the high walls while gangs with shovels worked in the outermost ditches. Above everything soared the four crenellated towers of the Great Gatehouse, set like brick giants in the northern wall of the Old House. Sharpshooters carrying long fowling-pieces stood on each tower, ever watchful beneath the marquess’s fluttering flags.
    They made their way south towards The Lane and the house beyond. To the right the bridleway was hugged by bare marsh, but to the left a smooth brick wall climbed to eight or nine feet, enclosing a large complex of agricultural buildings. Forrester remembered the area as the Grange, the centre of food processing and storage for Basing House. From his saddle he could see