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

over the perimeter, and he noted that much of the daily life of a major estate continued: cartloads of supplies still trundled in and out of the large barns, and small herds of sheep and cattle were driven between pens by farmhands and their yapping dogs. But even here things were subtly different. The men seemed more sullen and watchful, while the gate at the far end was guarded by grim sentries. At the epicentre was the Great Barn, a massive rectangular structure built in brick and where the majority of supplies would be kept.
    ‘There,’ the sergeant levelled his halberd, gesturing towards the junction with The Lane.
    A group of horsemen were milling at the junction, all mounted on fine-looking beasts, all clad in back- and breast-plates, each replete with a sword, a carbine, two pistols and a red ribbon on his sleeve. They were harquebusiers, light cavalry, and just as he saw them a couple broke away from the party, kicking their mounts on to the bridleway.
    Lancelot Forrester screwed up his eyes as they approached to see their faces more clearly, and then he laughed. ‘By Moses’ long walk!’
    ‘Sir?’ the sergeant said in gruff alarm. ‘Something vexes?’
    ‘Not a bit of it,’ Forrester said. He lifted his hat, sweeping down in an arc as he bowed behind Oberon’s neck. ‘Major! Major Lawrence!’
    One of the two cavalrymen spurred ahead. ‘Captain Forrester? I am right, am I not?’
    Forrester laughed again, turning to the sergeant. ‘Thank’ee, my surly fedary, but I shall fare quite well from here. Frederick Lawrence is an old friend of mine!’
     
    ‘How long has it been, Captain?’
    ‘Better part of a year, Major,’ Forrester replied as the pair let their mounts walk casually along The Lane. They headed east, hemmed on the right by Basing’s high curtain wall, and on the left the walls encircling the Grange. ‘You are still of that rank, one presumes, sir?’
    Major Frederick Lawrence grinned, his eyelids flickering in the frenetic way Forrester remembered. ‘Alas, I am yet to make colonel. Though so many good officers drop dead these days, it would not surprise me.’
    Forrester nodded. ‘Were you at Newbury Fight?’
    ‘I was not,’ Lawrence mumbled, embarrassed. ‘His lordship would not countenance my leaving here.’
    Forrester was not surprised. When last he had been at Basing, the Marquess of Winchester was just beginning to transform his family estate into the fortress it had become. Lawrence, the commander of his modest force of cavalry, had been vigorous in his defence of the house and courageous in his activities.
    ‘It was a hard fight,’ Forrester replied. ‘Too many good men fell.’
    ‘There have been a great many bloodlettings since last you visited the castle.’
    Forrester raised his brow. ‘That is what you call it now?’
    Lawrence half smiled and slowed his horse. ‘The men call it castle, aye.’ He looked up at the twin houses. The ancient mansion, defined by the circular ditch and bailey, was connected by a bridge to the vast structures of the New House. As a single entity they formed one of the most sprawling complexes in England. ‘It is hard to think of it in any other capacity now.’
    Forrester looked at the cavalryman. He was extremely tall, but stooped by shoulders so severely crooked that he was forced to have armour specially made for his bent frame. His eyes were intelligent, his hair worn long, his chin narrow and clean-shaven. And yet he had aged. There were new lines around his wide, thin mouth and flecks of silver in hair that had been black. ‘You have been hard at work this last year.’
    Lawrence urged his mount on as a group of soldiers filed past, their leader bowing deeply to him. ‘We have positioned new ordnance, deepened the ditches, barred the roads.’ He shrugged, eyes convulsing. ‘We must assume we will be attacked any day, any night, such is our rather precarious location.’
    ‘You are certainly surrounded by enemies,’