The King's Spy by Mark Turnbull

Author:Mark Turnbull [Turnbull, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2021-02-03T22:00:00+00:00

The King has been sighted in Lichfield. Suspect he aims to either relieve Chester – which our forces besiege – head for Wales, where he may repair his losses, or some even suggest strike north to Scotland. Whatever he decides upon, I shall continue to shadow him and not rest until I fulfil my orders and bring him to battle.

Your servant, Colonel-General Sednham Poyntz.

Maxwell paused. The potential of the King heading for Scotland came as quite a surprise. But knowledge of the monarch being shadowed by the commander of Parliament’s forces in the north was a real shock. No wonder Harper had dismissed Maxwell’s lie that the King was heading for Oxford. The door opened at the other end of the stables. Maxwell tucked the paper into his shoe and stood up, for he had no time to replace it in the saddlebag.

“You not finished brushing her yet?” Harper eyed him.

“Not quite.”

“Give it to me,” Harper strode towards Maxwell with his hand out and then took the brush. “I haven’t got all day. I need to get back to the army.”

As do I, Maxwell thought. “If you excuse me.”

Maxwell headed out of the stables and away from the house – and the soldiers. He could not be caught with this note, but equally didn’t want to destroy it. The question was where to put it. Then he saw Saint Wistan’s Church, which was very apt, considering his fervent prayer that Harper did not check those saddlebags.

***

The Almighty had listened. Harper had left Wistow unaware of his missing note. That evening, as Maxwell walked through the hall, he spotted John Lynch coming the other way and both men navigated the six-legged table that dominated the centre of the room. The silver candlesticks had been taken by the soldiers, leaving its surface bare. The wood panelling, too, was revealed in all of its amber glory, the tapestries having been stripped from them and burned for being too Popish in their imagery. As he walked up the stairs, Maxwell glanced at the King’s portrait in its gilt frame. Sir Richard Halford had intervened with the colonel and given him a small figurine of a horse that he had been admiring in exchange for the portrait being left alone. A hollow victory in this small corner of Leicestershire. Or perhaps it was merely that this painting had become an echo of the past that was fast slipping away and therefore no longer such a threat.

From the top of the stairs, Maxwell noted that John Lynch had remained in the hall, talking to one of the maids, but his observation was soon cut short when he heard Colonel Hopkins laugh. This was not an expression he’d associated with Hopkins, for it seemed jolly; a warm amusement. Maxwell knocked on the door, having been summoned, and hoped that such humour was a portent that the meeting would not cause him any undue concern or difficulty. He waited.

“Who is it?”

“Walker, sir.”

“Enter.”

Maxwell opened the door and stepped inside

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