The King's Bounty

by Sara Fraser

  Pleased at his compliment, she took off her hat and busied herself in fetching herbs from the herb-box in her cubicle and adding their savoury fragrance to the oatmeal.

  ‘You’ll need more than this gruel to fill your stomachs,’ she told the men. ‘I’ve some barley cakes I baked only yesterday, if you would like them.’

  ‘They would indeed be most welcome, and thank you,’ Jethro answered.

  ‘I’ve a firkin of fresh ale in the brew house as well,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll draw some to wash down your food.’

  She came close to Jethro and reached across him, her hands seeking the earthenware jug that hung from a peg on the wall above the young man’s head. The warm, clean scent of her body filled Jethro’s nostrils and he felt the pressure of her breasts against his shoulder as she leant over him. He stood and lifted the jug down for her. Momentarily their bodies touched at thighs, hips, and chest and the blood surged in his head. He ached to crush her to him and explore the firm roundness of her full breasts with his hands and lips.

  Despite Sarah’s recent sexual satiation with Henri Chanteur, she also felt her body responding disturbingly to Jethro’s nearness. She drew in her breath sharply and noted the trembling of her fingers as the young man’s strong brown hands closed about them as he gave her the jug. A pulse throbbed beneath the soft skin of her throat. She forced herself to turn away from him and left the room. Jethro watched her go and it was some moments before he could compose himself sufficiently to say casually, ‘She’s a pleasant-mannered wench.’

  His companion chuckled and slapped one hand on Jethro’s knee.

  ‘It warn’t her pleasant manners that had you alickin’ your lips, cully. It was her bilboes that you was alookin’ at the most.’

  Jethro grinned. ‘To be honest with you, Turpin, I couldn’t help but remark their sweet shape,’ he admitted.

  Turpin roared with laughter. ‘No, nor me neither, old as I be. She’d mek a rare tasty bedmate, that ’un.’

  Jethro sobered suddenly. ‘That’s as may be. But I can’t help thinking that she must be a hard one beneath her pretty skin. She must know about that Frenchman lying in that hovel. How long do we stay here, Turpin? It’s a dangerous quarter for us with the soldiers searching here.’

  ‘Till next market day,’ Wright told him. ‘That ’ull be Friday.’

  ‘What do we do about Jackie Smith and the Frenchie in the meantime?’ Jethro wanted to know. ‘And when shall we have the money to pay Jenkins? I don’t think him to be a patient man when he’s owed a debt.’

  Turpin pondered the questions for some time, then spat in the charcoal again and admitted, ‘I’m bloody stumped as to what to do about Smith and the Frog, cully; and I’m bloody uneasy in me mind about Jenkins.’

  ‘Why? You’ve money hidden away to pay him with, haven’t you?’ Jethro asked.

  ‘No, not money, matey . . . plate! Silver plate, a bloody great pile on it. But we needs a buyer. That’s why we ’as to stay here until Friday. The mountain Welsh comes up to the market then wi’ ponies and cattle to sell. They camps close to ’ere in a meadow called Welshman’s Leasow. It’s among them bloody savages I’ll find a buyer. They’se allus got rhino about ’um for stolen goods.’

  ‘Cannot you just sell it to Jenkins?’ Jethro questioned. ‘I’ll swear he’s got enough money to pay the price.’

  His friend shook his head emphatically. ‘God rot my balls, no!’ He almost shouted the words. ‘That bleedin’ madman can’t be trusted as far as you could throw him. Why d’you reckon he’s helpin’ us now?’

  ‘I thought he was an old friend of yours,’ Jethro stated.

  Turpin laughed bitterly. ‘Friend? Him? That loony’s a friend to no man, not even ’isself. Why, if he thought he could get a reward, he’d peach on hisself, so he would. I’ll tell you why he’s helpin’ us, shall I, it’s becos’ he’s hoping that he’ll be able to trick us into leading him to the silver, then he’ll do for the pair on us if he can, and cop for the lot.’

  ‘Where is it hidden? This silver plate?’ The young man’s curiosity was by now overpowering.

  ‘It’s right under these buggers’ noses,’ Turpin said gleefully, ‘it’s down in the graveyard theer. Buried in the old squire’s grave along wi’ him and his missus.’ He crowed his delight. ‘And so it should be, a part on it belonged to ’im in the first place.’

  The rogue’s twinkling eyes and irrepressible high spirits overcame Jethro’s initial distaste at such a hiding-place and he too began to laugh.

  Their laughter would have been stilled had they seen Sarah Jenkins standing just outside the shed door with the full jug in her hand. She had been on the point of re-entering the room when Turpin Wright’s last words, uttered loud in his excitement, had carried clearly to her sharp ears.

  ‘Now I wonder what it is that’s buried in the old squire’s grave,’ she puzzled, and a tiny voice began to whisper in her mind, ‘perhaps it’s something that could save Henry from the hulks, and get me away from my father with sufficient means to live like a lady . . . live like a lady.’

  Chapter Seven

  Cling cling cling . . . cling cling cling . . . cling cling cling cling cling . . . clinggggg . . . As the last echoes of the handbell died the stentorian shouts of Thomas Marston, resplendent in his full regalia of black three-cornered hat and silver-laced green coat, carried through the cobbled streets and bounced off the jumbled walls and crooked roofs of the town.

  ‘Oyezzzzz, oyezzzzz, oyezzzz . . . by order of the high bailiff of this borough . . . Let it be known that a French prisoner-of-war, by name Marcel de Lengues, has broken his parole. A reward will be paid by the council of aldermen of this borough for his capture. He is of height, five and a half feet . . . of bulk, thin . . . of hair, black . . . of mustachios, black . . . of dress, a blue coat with red epaulets and facings, white breeches and riding boots, in the manner of the French heavy cavalry. Any citizen who sees this man must by the law of this realm raise the hue and cry . . . This proclamation is given in the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, King George the Third . . . upon this day of the tenth of November, eighteen hundred and twelve . . . God save the King!’

  Marston sucked in breath and jangled the bell, then began once more. ‘Oyezzzz, oyezzzzz, oyezzzz . . . by order of the high bailiff . . .’

  Doors and windows opened and people came running from shops and houses to gather about the crier. It was two days since Marston had arrested Henri Chanteur but that action had not saved him from the wrath of the high bailiff and council of aldermen. He had been summoned before a full meeting of the council and warned that any further instance of neglect of his duties would mean his dismissal both as town crier and as constable. The council had ordered him to raise the hue and cry for the Frenchman, but fortunately they had not yet found out that Turpin Wright and his unknown helper were reputed to be in the neighbourhood. His own fears of dismissal and a combination of bribes and threats from Captain Seymour had ensured that Marston did not inform the council himself about the fugitives.

  George Jenkins, returning from a two-day visit to Ludlow, heard the bell and stood to listen to the proclamation. Behind his whiskers his lips smiled happily. Waiting until the crier had finished his third and final call and was waddling down the street, Jenkins fell into step with him.

  ‘I bid you good afternoon, Marster Marston.’

  The fat man grunted a reply.

  ‘About that runaway Frog,’ Jenkins went on, determinedly pleasant. ‘What amount ’ud the reward be?’

  ‘Twenty-five guineas,’ the crier told him sullenly.

  ‘And what if the man was dead?’ Jenkins persisted.

  The crier grunted a halt, and his small eyes in the vast red fatness of his sweating face, squinted suspiciously at the tiny blacksmith.

  ‘Does you know summat about him, George Jenkins?’ he wheezed.

  The ranter held up both his delicately formed hands in mock horror.

  ‘My word, Marster Mar
ston! What ever possesses thee to think that I knows anythin’ about Frenchies?’

  ‘You ought to,’ the crier burst out. ‘That wench o’ yours was playing the trollop wi’ one of them in Ratcliffe’s barn not two days since. I’ve got the bugger locked up back there, waiting for the Transport Board to get him away to the hulks down south.’

  ‘What?’ George Jenkins snarled. ‘Be you trying to make sport o’ me?’

  He grabbed the other man’s podgy wrist in one of his small hands and squeezed until the constable cried out in pain. The fat man’s heart pounded in fright.

  ‘No, Master Jenkins, I’m speaking naught but the truth . . . Look, come wi’ me now, I’ll show you the Frenchie she was with.’

  He led the way back up the hill to the minute two-celled gaol which was situated beneath the clock tower of the town hall. Going to the side of the hall, Marston unlocked the heavy nail-studded door and went inside, closely followed by the ranter. The first cell was windowless, the only light coming from the open street door.

  ‘I usually keeps the debtors and women in here,’ the Constable explained, and fumbled with his key at the lock of the second cell door. This was smaller, a low, grateless, furnitureless hole with two round barred windows facing down the High Street.

  When Marston pushed the door open, Henri Chanteur was leaning against one of the windows, staring out between the bars.

  ‘Hey Frenchie! There’s a gentleman here wishes to speak wi’ you.’

  Henri swung to face them. Two days of worry and two sleepless, shivering nights spent lying on the sanded floor with only a ragged blanket for a bed, had already begun to take their toll, and he was haggard and drawn.

  ‘Well M’sieur, how can I be of service?’ he asked politely. George Jenkins strutted up to him and growled harshly.

  ‘Does you know a woman by name of Sarah Jenkins?’

  ‘But of course.’ Chanteur felt sudden anxiety. ‘Why? Has anything happened to her?’

  The tiny ranter shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said grimly. ‘Tell me, what’s the wench to thee?’

  Chanteur hesitated, then told him. ‘I love her, and wish to marry her.’

  Jenkins’ red-rimmed eyes blinked furiously and grew murderous. Without another word, he turned and pushed past the constable and went out of the cell. Marston made haste to lock up and go after him. He found his man waiting in the street.

  ‘Well, George Jenkins?’ The constable’s voice demonstrated his smug sense of vindication. ‘Does you believe me now?’

  ‘Aye, that I does, Marster Marston,’ Jenkins replied, seeming deep in thought. ‘But I’ll tell you this,’ he continued, almost absently. ‘That Jezebel shall bitterly repent the day she played the harlot.’

  The constable looked at him doubtfully. ‘I must speak fair, George Jenkins. I’m not going to say that your wench was ever rogered by that Froggie in there,’ he said hastily, trying to mollify the man, in whose eyes he read an instinct to murder. With all his faults, Marston was not a vicious man, and had no wish to be the cause of Sarah Jenkins being ill-treated by her father. In fact he was already regretting the outburst of bad temper that had caused him to taunt the blacksmith with his daughter’s behaviour.

  ‘Thee still arn’t told me whether the twenty-five guineas is to be paid if the other Frenchie is found lying dead somewheer?’ the ranter surprisingly asked at a tangent.

  Marston seized the chance to change the subject.

  ‘I should recommend to the council that it should be, Master Jenkins.’ His tone was placatory. ‘Especially if the man who was to find the body, was such a one as yourself . . . I mean of good standing and repute in the town.’

  The blacksmith nodded curtly. ‘I bid thee good day.’ He swung on his heel and strutted away, leaving the other staring after him.

  ‘Goddam me! But you’m a nasty little bugger, Jenkins,’ Marston muttered. ‘I feel sorry for that poor wench of yours . . . I really does . . .’

  *

  ‘And I say that we break the door down.’ Jethro was vehement. ‘It’s two days since Jenkins left, and I’ll not stand by any longer while that Frenchman dies like a dog in there.’

  The argument had raged for hours between Turpin Wright and Jethro. The older man’s answer was equally vehement.

  ‘And I say that the door stays locked. You knows as well as I does that theer’s enough water and bread in theer to last for a week. I put it in meself.’

  ‘It’s not bread and water the man needs, it’s a doctor!’ Jethro shouted. He jumped to his feet and stormed out of the room and across to the forge.

  Turpin followed him. ‘Now wait, Jethro boy. Wait for another hour or so. If Hellfire arn’t back by then, I’ll help you break the door down meself. Theer! Is that fair enough for you?’

  Jethro ignored him. He picked up a sledgehammer from the anvil and went out of the forge. At the nail-studded door of the hovel, Turpin Wright grabbed the younger man by the shoulders and wrenched him around so that they stood face to face.

  ‘Doon’t you understand, you bloody fool?’ Wright shouted. ‘If he comes back and finds that door battered in, he’ll shop us to the traps in double quick time.’

  ‘That’s a chance I’ll take,’ Jethro told him angrily. ‘Better that, than be a murderer.’

  ‘It arn’t us who’ll have killed the Frog,’ Wright answered.

  ‘Indirectly we will have.’ Jethro pulled free of the restraining hands and lifted the hammer.

  ‘Doon’t do it, cully,’ the older man almost begged him. ‘You’ll have us both swinging from a gibbet.’

  ‘I should have done it two days since,’ Jethro retorted. ‘I pray to God that I’ve not left it too late as it is.’

  He lifted the hammer and sent the great iron head smashing against the barred door. The sound of the blow brought Sarah Jenkins hurrying from the brewhouse. With wide eyes she gasped, ‘What’s happening? What are you doing.’

  ‘Me mate’s gone bleedin’ soft in the head, that’s what’s happening,’ Turpin told her disconsolately.

  Jethro ignored them both and with another smash burst the hovel door opened. He threw the hammer down and ducked under the low-lintelled doorway.

  Jackie Smith huddled trembling in the corner, his hands about his head. ‘Doon’t kill me,’ he whimpered over and over. ‘Doon’t kill me.’

  Jethro ignored him and went to the still form of the Frenchman. The thin body was cold and rigid.

  ‘You poor bastard,’ Jethro muttered aloud to the dead face staring sightlessly upwards. ‘And I helped to kill you, Goddam me for a coward!’

  A faint scream came from the doorway. Sarah Jenkins stood there, horrified shock in her eyes and her hands at her mouth.

  ‘Don’t make such a show of your grief,’ Jethro told her harshly. ‘You would have done better to make that murdering dog you call father, fetch a doctor to this man.’

  She shook her head. ‘I knew naught of this, I swear I didn’t, Master Stanton . . . On my dear mother’s grave, I swear it.’

  Jethro went to the girl and for some moments studied her face. With a shock he realized that she was telling the truth.

  ‘Then I have wronged you, Mistress Sarah,’ he said quietly. ‘And I am sorry for it.’

  ‘Is that why you have been so cold and distant towards me?’ she asked. ‘Because you thought that I knew of this man being here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh no, Master Stanton.’ The tremble in her voice caused by the shock lessened, and the tone grew firm and even. ‘I knew that that man there,’ she pointed at Jackie Smith, ‘was being held prisoner here, but I knew nothing of this poor creature. I suspected that my father had something, or someone hidden here even before you came. But when I saw the three of you in the forge that night, I assumed that it had been one of you in here all along.’

  ‘Why did you not tax your father with your suspicions?’ Jethro wanted to know.

  She smiled bitterly. ‘George Jenkins i
s not a man who takes kindly to questions, least of all from a woman . . . in truth, Master Stanton, I meant to have it out with him when I first heard someone in this room, but when the opportunity came, I was afraid to,’ she finished simply.

  ‘And you had good cause to be afraid, you harlot of Gomorrah!’ George Jenkins had come into the yard unseen by either of the men or the girl. His small bloodshot eyes were rabid as he inspected the smashed door and then entered the hovel to confront Jethro.

  ‘By whose permission did thee enter here?’ His huge voice boomed in violent anger from his tiny frame.

  Jethro pointed to the dead Frenchman. ‘Look there, Jenkins! You murdered that poor devil as surely as if you had stabbed him in the heart,’ he accused.

  The ranter made no reply, his breath hissed between his teeth and he went out into the yard.

  ‘Turpin, bring me that sledge that’s out there, will you,’ Jethro called.

  ‘What dost thee intend to do wi’ that?’ George Jenkins demanded furiously.

  ‘I intend to release Smith,’ Jethro answered, bending over the chained convict and feeling for the staples that held the fetters to the wall. He heard the ranter say threateningly:

  ‘Doon’t thee put hand to that sledge, Turpin Wright. Or it’ll goo hard wi’ thee.’

  Turpin’s reply was contemptuous . . . ‘Bollocks!’

  There came a dull, meaty thud and Sarah screamed aloud, ‘No father! No!’

  Jethro hurled himself out of the hovel and into the yard. Turpin Wright was lying face downwards in the mud, and even as Jethro burst into the open he saw the ranter’s iron-shod boot drive savagely into the prostrate man’s genitals. Jenkins saw Jethro and in the same instant he stooped to snatch up the sledgehammer from Turpin’s open hands.

  ‘I’ll kill you, you bastard!’ he bellowed and came forward in a rush whirling the sledgehammer at Jethro’s head.

  The younger man jumped to avoid the blow and tripped, sprawling in the filth.

  Sarah’s eyes went wide with horror, and a terrible fear for Jethro flooded her senses. ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No! No! No!’