Henry had barely recovered when the clacking of the semaphores had driven him on; the arm of the fortieth Pope John was long, his sources of information numerous and varied, his will indomitable. Henry’s orders were clear; to take the confounded fortress that had caused so much trouble, reduce its arms, raise John’s standards on its walls, and hold it for his liege lord till further notice. As for the West Country filly who’d started all the bother, well… Henry grimaced, and stiffened in the saddle. Maybe her backbone stood in need of airing, or she could find herself being dragged to Londinium behind a baggage waggon; such matters were minor. Minor at least to his own personal discomfort.
The semaphores were working again now to either side of the road, their black arms cracking and flailing. Henry glared at the nearest of the towers, standing gaunt on the crest of a sweep of down. Among the complex of messages it carried would almost certainly be news of his progress; for days now the information would have been flashing down ahead of him into the West. Another spasm of pain doubled him, and his temper snapped; he turned his head briefly and a Captain of Horse rode alongside, spurs jingling. Henry pointed at the tower of his choice. ‘Captain,’ he said. ‘Detach a dozen men. Go to that… Demand of who you find there the message it bears.’
The soldier hesitated. The order was seemingly without point; none knew better
than Henry that the Guildsmen would not divulge their affairs. ‘And if they refuse,
M’Lord?’
Henry swore.’ Then silence it…’
The officer still stared, until Rye and Deal turned to glare; then he saluted and wheeled his horse. For centuries the Guild of Signallers had enjoyed privileges not even the Popes dared question; now it seemed their immunity was ended, blown away by a diminutive nobleman with a bellyache. Orders were shouted, dust rose in a cloud; a group of men turned from the line of march and broke into a gallop across the grass, pennants flying. As they rode the soldiers loosened their falchions in the scabbard, saw to the priming of their muskets. With luck they would come on the Signallers unarmed, if not there would be a short and bloody skirmish. Either way, the end was not in doubt. Henry, twisting in the saddle, saw the arms of the tower drop to its side like the arms of a man suddenly tired. He grinned without humour. The respite would be temporary at best; if he knew the Guild, runners would quickly be despatched from the next station in line. After that all men would know of his act. The signal network was a delicate animal; touch one limb and all its parts reacted, sometimes within hours. With good visibility along the Pennine stations his work could be known to the Hebrides by nightfall. And to the Vatican by dawn… He hunched himself, caressing his suffering stomach. Another turn of the head, a snapping of the fingers and Father Angelo jogged up beside him, sweating a little and as usual more than anxious to please.
‘Well, sirrah,’ said Henry tartly. ‘How much longer on this confounded route march of ours?’
The priest bent his head over the map, trying to steady it against the movements of the horse. Churchmen always made lousy riders; and worse map readers, in Henry’s opinion. The Father’s failing sight had already led the party into a bog and forced half a dozen detours. ‘About twenty miles, M’Lord,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But that is by the road. If we left our present way a mile above Wimborne town -’
‘Spare me your shortcuts,’ said Henry brutally. ‘I wish to arrive by Christmastide. Send a couple of your people on ahead and arrange our accommodation some’ - he squinted at the sun - ‘some five miles up the road. And try this time to discover beds not too thick with lice, and just a little softer than the racks of my Serjeant-at-arms.’ Father Angelo gave a bumbling parody of a military salute and jogged back down the line. Henry was on the road again early next morning, in a thicker rage than ever.
Overnight he had been given proof of the changed temper of the West. As he stood shaving at the open window of his room a crossbow quarrel had passed beneath his elbow, demolishing a set of Venetian case-bottles before burying itself in the far wall. Henry, infuriated by the attack on his person but even more by the loss of so much fine and irreplaceable glass, had ordered an immediate search for the marksman. His soldiers had unearthed a handful of malcontents, all of whom had resisted arrest in a more or less desultory way; they were towed behind the baggage carts till the column came in sight of its objective. Then they were released; they staggered off bemused, snorting blood out on the grass, and none of them made more than a hundred yards before lying down to sleep it off. Henry’s ways with rebels had always been noted for their directness. He rode forward. In front of him the heath stretched out for miles, tawny red, splashed here and there with the fierce parrot-green of bogs. Across the horizon ran a curving line of hills; between them the place he had come to chastise thrust up like an ancient fang. Henry spat thoughtfully. The castle was strong, far too strong to be taken by assault; he could see that already. But then, it would never stand. Not against the blue. Behind him the soldiers bunched together; the oriflamme fluttered from its golden staff, tossing in the wind like the fire it represented. Off on the horizon the ubiquitous telegraph waved and gestured against the sky. Henry watched a moment longer then snapped his ringers. ‘Captain,’ he said. ‘Two men to ride ahead to the castle. Let them take orders under my seal to the woman of the place. Have her ready her ordnance to be delivered up to us; and tell her to regard herself and all inside the walls as prisoners of Pope John. What guns do they have anyway, now we’ve come so far to fetch them? Refresh my memory.’
The Captain gabbled, repeating a list learned by rote. ‘Two sakers throwing three pound ball, powder and wads for them. Some handguns, snaphaunces; not much more than fowling pieces, M’Lord. The great gun Growler, from the King’s arsenal; the culverin Prince of Peace, transferred on His Majesty’s instructions from the garrison of Isca.’ Henry sniffed and rubbed the tip of his nose with the back of his glove. ‘Well, I shall shortly be a prince of peace myself; and I dare say I shall do my share of growling too before the day is through. Have the pieces brought to the main gate, along with what shot and powder they have. Clear a waggon for the arms, and levy mules or horses for the great guns. See to it, Captain.’
The officer saluted and turned back, bellowing for his aides; Henry raised his arm and swept it down in the signal for general advance. At his shout Father Angelo crabbed forward, nearly parting company with his mount in the process. ‘Quarters in the village, Father,’ said Rye and Deal wearily. ‘At the worst we could have a lengthy stay. And secure me this time hot water and a flushing toilet, or I’ll send you back to Rome in charge of a crap cart. And you won’t be riding it either my friend, I promise you that; you’ll be running between the bloody shafts…’