They were dragging the boats up on the shingle now. Out in the darkness she knew the Dolphin would be preparing to stand out to sea. The women were withdrawing silently to the cottages. She remembered Paul’s orders to get away from Barham, and she turned and marched with the procession until she came to the gate of the churchyard. She slipped inside and stood pressed against the rough stone pillars until the last of the carts had passed. Quiet fell on Barham then. Only a few sounds ‒ retreating footsteps on the shingle and the cobbles, doors closing, low voices fading into nothing.
By the time the single street rang again with the beat of the Dragoons horses, Barham-in-the-Marsh would present the appearance of a sleeping village.
To Jane the strange new quiet was suddenly sinister and she wanted to leave it behind. She hurried along the path to the great main door of the church, and past it around the corner to the crypt entrance.
‘Bess!’ she called softly. ‘Bess!’ There was answering movement in the darkness as the mare stirred. Bess meant for Jane familiarity and a means of escape; a warm sense of relief flooded her, and she quickened her pace almost to a run. It was already too late to stop when she remembered the steps leading to the crypt. Poised on the edge of them, she clawed the air frantically for a second before she started falling.
***
She woke to full consciousness with a gasp as the cold, evil-smelling water hit her face. For some time she had a sensation of nothing beyond darkness and the pain, and then she became aware of a warm hand cradled under her head. She could hear a voice ‒ a woman’s voice, but the words ran together in a blur.
She sighed, and turned her head to try to shut out the voice; she wanted to slip back into the ease of unconsciousness, where the pain didn’t trouble her.
‘Com’on now! ‒ com’on! You’ll ’ave t’ wake up quicklike because there ain’t no time …’
Jane, more awake now, remembered the voice. It belonged to the young woman who had worked beside her unloading the boats. She struggled to respond to the urgency in it now. She made an effort to sit up, and found the other woman’s strong arms supporting her back.
‘There ‒ that’s right, now. Y’ll be yerself in just a minute …’
The gloom lightened a little as Jane’s eyes grew accustomed to it. She was sitting on the stone flagging at the bottom of the steps leading to the crypt door. The woman knelt beside her. Jane put her hand to her forehead, gingerly, feeling the grazed skin and the blood slowly oozing through.
‘I dunno wat ’appened,’ she said, slipping back into the broad accent.
‘Y’ just forgot them steps were there,’ the woman said. ‘Gave y’ a nasty bump. Sorry I ’ad t’ wake y’ so suddenlike, but them Dragoons are ’ere.’
Jane startled. ‘Already?’
‘Y’ve been out t’ it a long time. I ’ad t’ get one o’ them vases orf a grave t’ throw the water over y’. Stinks, don’t it?’
‘The Dragoons …’ Jane repeated. ‘My God, we gotta get outta ’ere.’
‘Y’r dead right!’ the woman said laconically. ‘First thing y’ know they’ll be bustin’ in here lookin’ t’ see if we’ve put the cargo ’ere. If they find y’ yer a dead duck ‒ y’ bein’ a stranger. An’ dressed like that …’
Leaning on the other woman, Jane got slowly to her feet. A terrible weakening pain shot through her ankle when she put her weight on it, but she didn’t say anything about it because there was nothing either of them could do. They started up the steps, Jane supported by the young woman.
By the time she got to the top, Jane was breathing heavily. Beads of sweat stood out on her face and neck. But the light breeze blew coldly on her. She discovered that she had lost her head scarf, and her hair was soaking from the douche of stagnant water. It smelled vilely.
‘Ow did y’ find me?’ she managed to say between pinched lips.
‘That’s easy! I followed y’.’
‘Why?’
‘Why ‒ because I’m the curious type, and yer a stranger. An’ … an’ because I never ’eard of Paul Fletcher takin’ up with one o’ the local girls …’
‘I ain’t local!’ Jane said curtly. ‘An’ I ain’t ’is girl, neither … more’s the pity! T’morrow I’m crossin’ to Roscoff, and I ain’t never goin’ t’ see ’im again.’
‘Then wat are y’ doin’ ’ere?’
They had reached Bess’s side, Jane hobbling painfully. The mare began to nuzzle her enquiringly, and Jane could have sobbed with relief to feel Bess’s great, patient strength under her hands.
‘I’m ’ere because I brought a message to ’im ‒ and ’e don’t like t’ see a pair of ’ands go idle.’
She put her uninjured foot in the stirrup and with a grim effort swung herself up, pushed and half lifted by her companion. Up there she felt safe ‒ almost independent of help. She looked down.
‘I been told the Marsh folk never asks questions ‒ it ain’t ’ealthy!’ Then she added, ‘But I’m grateful t’ y’ … would ’ave lain there waitin’ for the Dragoons t’ pick me up if y’ ’adn’t been nosy …’
‘Ain’t nothin’,’ the woman said briefly. ‘Glad t’ ’elp … an’ I didn’t mean t’ … Y’ wouldn’t tell Mr. Fletcher, would y’?’ she said in alarm.
‘Told y’ ain’t never goin’ t’ see Mr. Fletcher again,’ Jane said. ‘But I’m obliged t’ y’ … much obliged. Watsyer name?’
‘Rose!’
She put her hand down to the woman. ‘Thanks …’ Then abruptly she stiffened. ‘Wat’s that?’
‘It’s them ‒ the Dragoons! Y’ gotta go!’ At the farther end of the village they could hear the steady beat of horses hoofs, and rough irritable voices raised.
‘Wat about yerself?’ Jane said. ‘’Ow y’ goin’ t’ get ’ome?’
Rose broke in. ‘I’m all right, I’ll cut along the fields ’ere and get in the back door. Y’d best go the same way.’
‘Can’t!’ Jane said. ‘I only know the road from Lydd, an’ if they chase me into the fields and with all them dykes …’
‘Yer right!’ Rose agreed. ‘Well ‒ get goin’ then. Y’ll stay ahead o’ them if y’ get movin’ now!’
They were too close. She knew that as soon as she drew close to the village street. Down near the beach she could hear them, hammering on the cottage doors, shouting questions and orders to the villagers. The main body of the Dragoons were still down there, but only a few houses separated her from the head of the column. But there was equal danger in turning back and attempting to find her way through the maze of dykes where she could be cut off with ease. Better to trust to Bess’s speed. She knew if she were caught there was no kind of explanation that would cover her presence here in these water-soaked clothes.
She leaned low to the mare’s ear. ‘Bess! ‒ sweetheart, it’s up to you!’
Then she dug in her heels and Bess sprang forward. The sudden clatter of her iron-shod hoofs on the cobbles seemed in Jane’s ears like the thunder of a thousand tiles sliding off one of the cottage roofs. She turned Bess’s head towards Lydd, praying that by this time Paul would have cleared the carts off the main road, and that she would not be leading her pursuers directly to him.
The shout went up immediately.
‘Halt! Halt in the name of the King!’
She did not waste time turning back to look ‒ it was still too dark to see anything clearly, and while it made the road ahead full of unseen pot-holes for Bess, at least it covered her identity. Bess was too well known on the Marsh to allow her to be seen in broad daylight. Grimly, Jane remembered her own red hair streaming behind her like a banner that anyone could read.
She had overlooked the possibility that the Dragoons would send one man to the Lydd end of the village to stop anyone leaving it while they searched. She couldn’t see him, but he was there ‒ mounted, and directly in her path.
‘Halt! ‒ in the name of His Majesty!’
She rode straight on, and the dark shape of the other hor
se seemed to spring like an apparition out of the darkness. She tugged at Bess’s head sharply to avoid a collision. Startled, Bess reared, and Jane was nearly thrown. She was too frightened and occupied trying to keep her seat ‒ clinging wildly with her knees and thankful that she was astride ‒ to be able to do anything about the soldier. He was reaching out to take the bridle when she slammed her heels hard into Bess’s side. The mare started forward with a jerk, and carried her beyond the reach of the man’s hand.
She had gone a few yards when she heard the sharp whine of the bullet over her head.
She had reason then to be thankful for Robert Turnbull’s love of good horseflesh. Out on the open road Bess had her head. She responded to Jane’s touch with a burst of speed that made the wind sing past Jane’s ears, and left the sounds of the soldier’s pursuit behind. She bent low over Bess’s neck, not demanding any more of the mare, knowing that she now had as much as Bess could give. The mare had endurance and courage far beyond her own, and she needed no urging.
At the outskirts of Lydd she checked Bess’s pace to listen. There was no sound of anyone on the road behind her. At a more sober pace she rode through Lydd, and turned on the Appledore road towards Blake’s Reach. She felt very much alone, and lonely. The light grew rapidly.
By the time Blake’s Reach came into sight it was full dawn. It had been a journey of acute discomfort ‒ the weight of her wet clothes, and the chafing where they rubbed against the saddle, the stiffness she was beginning to feel from riding astride. Apart from that her head ached violently where she had hit it in her fall, and her ankle was swelling inside her boot. She eased herself in the saddle to try to take the weight off her ankle, but it was necessary to keep Bess to a fair pace because the danger of her situation increased with the growing light. She gave a long sigh of relief and weariness as she crossed the dyke and began to climb the hill to Blake’s Reach.
The gates stood open as always. The house looked gentle in the dawn ‒ and welcoming. She looked at it with satisfaction, remembering the rich cargo and what it would do for Blake’s Reach. It was hers ‒ and safe.
Nothing seemed to be stirring, and nothing seemed amiss. She began to wonder if Patrick had stayed awake, and if he would come to meet her. Her ankle now pained her badly enough to make her want help to dismount.
But no one came, and she couldn’t risk calling out. So with infinite effort she pulled herself out of the saddle, and slid to the ground, almost crying out as her weight came on her ankle. She saw that Bess had water and oats before leaving her, and then braced herself for the walk across the yard to the kitchen.
But the door opened before she reached it. And it wasn’t Patrick or Kate who stood there. Jane saw a tall, lean man, whose black hair was pulled roughly back with a ribbon, and whose dark eyes in his sallow, handsome face, regarded her with calm intentness. He wore an old, faded jacket, and his stockings were badly torn. His complexion had the pallor of prison upon it.
There was no mistaking his air of belonging here at Blake’s Reach.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
‘Charlie! You’ve come back!’
V
Afterwards she was to remember, through the shock and the fear, how he cut her boot away from her swollen ankle with gentle, almost tender hands. He spoke hardly at all, except to murmur swift instructions to Kate and Patrick to bring him water and clean cloths to tear into strips. They obeyed him in silence, too much in awe of his presence and his authority to offer suggestions or comments.
After her ankle was bound up, he took fresh water and started to bathe the dirt and blood from her face. He put his hand under her chin, and turned her face towards the candle as he worked.
‘Smuggling?’ he said, looking down at her.
She nodded.
‘How did this happen?’ He indicated her ankle and the cut forehead.
‘The Dragoons were coming. I fell down the church steps …’
‘Everyone safe? Is the cargo safe?’
She nodded again.
‘Good!’
He waited, silent, in the settle by the fire, while she drank the toddy that Patrick had prepared. It was impossible any longer for her to fight the weariness which swept over her; even the shock of Charles’s return was numbed. She couldn’t hold her confused thoughts in place ‒ thoughts of Charles, and of Paul and the cargo, and of what the future would be now that the heir had come back to Blake’s Reach. Her hands grasping the pewter mug began to tremble.
Charles was on his feet instantly, and took the mug from her. Then his tall frame bent over her, and she felt herself being lifted bodily. The room swam dizzily before her eyes. Patrick sprang to open the door, and go before them with a candle.
‘Anne’s chamber?’ she heard Charles say.
And she was conscious of him waiting beyond the drawn bed-curtain while Kate struggled to get off her clothes. She waved Kate away when the old woman brought her bedgown.
‘Can’t! … not now!’
She closed her eyes and sank gratefully into the softness of the down mattress. Someone had drawn the curtains and the room was hushed, but still she could hear, as if far off, the sounds of the summer morning ‒ the birds and the harsh cries of the sheep. She breathed in the peace and safety of it, the knowledge that she was home.
Then the memory of Charles intruded. She opened her eyes heavily. He had pulled back the bed-curtains, and was standing quite close, looking down at her; even in the dimness she could see his dark straight brows knotted in a reflective frown.
‘So you came,’ she said drowsily. ‘You came after all, Charles. Well, I should have known that some day you’d come. I have no luck. I always lose ‒ like Anne.’
‘Anne was a good loser, Jane.’
She turned abruptly on her side, away from him, wanting to sink into sleep, and feeling only the sheer physical pleasure of stretching her naked limbs, freed from wet, chafing clothes, in the great bed. The weight of her hair dragged on the pillow. Suddenly she was aware of a question she had struggled with, and which had now formulated in her mind. She turned back to him, opening her eyes and half propping herself up on her elbow.
‘But you were in prison,’ she said. ‘How did you get out? Did they set you free?’
He shook his head. ‘Some of the money Turnbull’s been sending over found its place. I came out of La Force in a coffin, and the dead man is buried in the courtyard. I got to Dunkirk, and a lugger ‒ a smuggler’s lugger, Jane ‒ took me to Rye. They were Rye townsmen, and they trusted my pledge of Robert Turnbull’s name to pay them for the passage. He gave them the money ‒ and gave me a meal and a horse to bring me here.’
She dropped back on the pillow.
‘And so you knew about me? … you knew I was here …?’
‘Robert Turnbull described you well ‒ with great feeling ‒ but he omitted some aspects.’
‘Or he doesn’t know them,’ she said drowsily. ‘Perhaps even Robert didn’t guess it all. But what does that matter? … he’ll know soon enough. We’ll talk later, Charlie … later.’
‘Yes ‒ later.’
She fell asleep under his gaze. Standing motionless, he watched her for some time, watched her features relax as her sleep grew deeper, and her movements less wild. Almost involuntarily the name came to his lips as he bent to pull the blankets higher on her shoulders.
‘Anne …!’
Then he drew the bed-curtains tightly, and left her to sleep.
PART THREE
One
It was a fair day, with light, inconspicuous clouds moving across the Marsh sky, and the warmth of the sun came pleasantly through Paul’s coat as he rode. But he had no thoughts to spare for the leafy greenness of the countryside, or the brilliant colours of the wild fowl in the dykes that beat to cover at his approach. Since yesterday, Charles Blake had occupied the centre of his thoughts.
He had dressed with unusual care for the meeting ahead of him, and at the same time despised h
imself for doing so. He had no patience with the niceties of fine dressing, and no aptitude for them, but he wore his best shirt, and he had tied his hair back with some care. Even with all this, he felt that, beside Charles Blake, he cut no very elegant figure.
Yesterday, Charles had dismounted at his door, and had taken a glass of brandy in his sitting-room. With dismay Paul tried to contain, he had heard the story of Charles’s return to Blake’s Reach the night before, and of Jane’s arrival in the dawn with a wrenched ankle, and the bruises and dishevelment of the night still upon her. Paul felt his face grow hot with shame as he realized that, while he had got his cargo safely to the hide, Jane had been left behind, and had nearly been taken. For Paul it was bad enough that she should have been in danger, but the knowledge had an added sting that Charles Blake should know how completely he had failed to protect her.
Irritably he had gone to pour himself more brandy, conscious of the other man’s dark eyes upon him in quiet appraisal. Charles still wore the thin faded coat in which he had arrived, and coarse stockings borrowed from Patrick, but he looked, and was, a man of great authority. Paul didn’t like the French, and was reluctant to praise them; but this point he had to concede to Charles.
Charles had come with something to say, and Paul gave his full attention as the other talked. Jane, he heard, had wakened about noon, and Charles had sipped a glass of wine in her bed-chamber with her as she had hungrily eaten the food Kate had brought up. Paul recognized that there had been no point in Jane trying to hold back any of the truth from Charles, when he had already seen so much; Charles had been brought up on the Marsh, and he was no fool. She had to trust him, whether she liked it or not ‒ and trust the fact that nine out of ten bystanders were sympathetic to the smuggler rather than the King’s import duties. So she had told him about Paul, and about the Dolphin, and in the course of telling him that, much more was revealed. Charles had heard, grudgingly at first, and then with more ease, how she had borrowed money from Turnbull, and why; he learned what she had struggled to do at Blake’s Reach since she had come there.
Blake's Reach Page 29
