‘To be sure.’ Mr Grandison grinned. ‘Do but look behind you, and you'll see.’
Rayner did as he was bidden. To his astonishment, he saw that the column had doubled, or even trebled its length. From every village, from every tiny hamlet, every labourer's cottage and every beachcomber's den — from everywhere, in fact, that Mr Grandison had stopped to make enquiries — help and encouragement had been forthcoming. A little army of farmers, fishermen, cockle women from Penclawdd and cattle drovers from Penrice trailed after the soldiers. For all the men on Gower — Welsh and English, too – were united in one thing. In their hatred of the Atkins family.
They searched the caves, they searched the woods. Energetic, agile lads found ropes and scaled the mysterious Culver Hole — an ancient columbarium, so legend had it, but more probably a smugglers’ lair — built into the cliffs at Port Eynon, burrowing into its slimy recesses and malodorous depths. All the caverns, all the sheepcotes, all the secret, hidden dells — all those places, in fact, where men who had fallen foul of the Atkins family had met with unlucky accidents — were investigated thoroughly. But of the quarry these hunters sought, there was no trace.
It would soon be evening. The enthusiasm of the search party was flagging. Murmuring could be heard among the soldiers too, to the effect that taking part in a wild goose chase, with no Welsh heads broken nor any English villains handed over into military custody, was not their idea of a good day's work.
But then, as Mr Grandison was debating the wisdom of continuing this rummage round Gower, in search of a person who might now be anywhere in the whole of the British Isles, a villager pushed through the muttering throng and shook the magistrate's sleeve.
A Welshman, his English was halting, laboured and on the whole unintelligible to the average Saxon, so Mr Grandison heard him with growing disgust. Finally, having had enough of listening to gibberish, he elbowed the creature aside. He glared round the villagers. ‘Can anyone tell me what this fool is saying?’ he demanded. ‘Come along. There must be somebody here who understands both the King's good English, and your own barbarous tongue!’
There was indeed. A native speaker of Welsh, who had once been in good service in a Swansea copper–smelter's family and there learned to speak the Saxon language fluently, now conferred with the poor labourer. ‘He says,’ he reported, ‘are you truly searching for John Rhys Morgan's son?’
‘I don't know!’ Mr Grandison scowled. He turned to Rayner. ‘This fellow your sister says was taken away by Atkins and his men,’ he rapped. ‘Your cousin, is he not? What's he called?’
‘Owen Morgan. His father was John Rhys Morgan, of Llangennith. Or so I believe.’
Hearing those names, the old labourer's eyes brightened. He fell to muttering with his bilingual neighbour, other people joined in, and soon a regular pow– wow was going on.
The magistrate shook his head. Then, his patience finally exhausted, he coughed loudly enough to attract the people's attention. He pointed his whip at the labourer. ‘What's that fellow's name?’ he shouted, above the din.
‘William,’ replied the copper–smelter's man. ‘William Ifan Parry, of Llangynnydd. He and his ancestors have worked for the Morgan family since time immemorial, and he is the last of his line to — ’
‘Yes, that's all very well.’ Mr Grandison glowered. ‘But what does he have to say to me?’
A further indistinct conversation took place. Then, the copper–smelter's man turned back to the magistrate. ‘He says, to try the marsh,’ he declared.
‘The marsh?’ echoed Mr Grandison, sarcastically. ‘So – does he have a preference for any particular marsh, or must we investigate all five hundred tracts of swamp in this Godforsaken place?’
‘He means, the estuary of the River Loughor. The north shore.’
* * * *
Those on horseback spurred their tired beasts and arrived on the banks of the river just as the tide was beginning to flow. Gazing across the broad expanse of the estuary, they realised a search would be impossible tonight.
The moon would be up, it was true. But treacherous quicksands and quaking mires, into which a man on horseback might stumble and be swallowed up in ten minutes flat, made the business of combing the area a hazardous one.
They sought one man. But a whole army could have taken cover amidst the waving reeds, and the undulating banks of marram grasses which lay piled one upon the other in this place.
The tide was lapping the smooth, silver sands. The moon hung in the sky, the softer flame of its lantern kindled, ready to light the night. Flowing fast, the tide would soon cover all the flat marshland across which the searchers gazed.
If Michael Atkins and his men had indeed taken refuge there, they had a very hard choice before them. They could give themselves up to the soldiers, or to the sea.
Jane was almost in tears now. Fatigue and disappointment had weakened her earlier resolve, and she was so bone–weary that as she had jogged along at her brother's side, her eyes had closed of their own accord.
Hopelessly, helplessly, she stared into the setting sun. But then, she saw it. A shadow on the sands. She blinked, then blinked again. Surely it was a trick of the fading light? She turned to Rayner. ‘Do you see anything?’ she demanded.
‘What had you in mind?’ Bored, cold and hungry, Rayner wanted a hot bath, a good supper, and a soft bed for the night. ‘I see reeds,’ he muttered, crossly, ‘I see water, mud, sand — ’
‘Look over to your left.’ Jane stood up in her stirrups. ‘There!’ she cried wildly, turning this way and that. ‘Mr Grandison, Captain Denham! Look there!’
‘The lady is right!’ A fisherman on a donkey, his night vision far better than likely, peered into the twilight. ‘There, masters! On the sands!’
‘Yes!’ An Englishman from Reynoldston, mounted on a fleet–footed little pony, spurred his mount forward. The rest of the party followed him.
* * * *
Owen lay on his back, staked out like a starfish. The tide was lapping his ankles. Teasing him, it ran up to his knees, then retreated. Then lapped again, this time encroaching further. Further still.
Sliding from her pony, Jane ran across the shining sands. Falling on her knees, she examined her cousin anxiously, all the while bracing herself for what she might see.
Fear and terror had fuelled her imagination all day long. So, scanning his face, she was prepared for gouged–out eyes, a tongue ripped from its moorings, a nose hacked off, temples stove in...
But, to her unspeakable relief, there seemed to be no damage. No permanent damage, anyway. Apart from some red and purple bruises on his forehead and cheeks, and two magnificent black eyes, Owen's face looked exactly the same as when she had last seen it.
‘Owen?’ As the men cut the ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, Jane spoke to him. Encouraged him, too. ‘Owen, my dear? Don't despair. You are saved!’
But Owen was barely conscious. If he heard Jane's voice, he could make no reply. If he knew she knelt beside him, if he was aware of the Englishman from Reynoldston hacking through the ropes and helping him to his feet, he could neither acknowledge this nor mutter any thanks.
Those people who had had to go on foot were gradually gathering on the river bank. William Parry elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘John Rhys Owen.’ The tears stood in his eyes. ‘John Rhys Owen Morgan, your father all over again!’
Turning to the people, he shook his fist in the air. ‘They killed his father!’ he cried. Now, his anger made him fluent, even in the language he despised. ‘They did away with his poor mother, and to this day no man knows how! Today, they tried to murder him!
‘For years, they've robbed us. Insulted us. Used us, cheated us, both Welshmen and English alike! I say it's time we made them suffer! I say the hour of reckoning has come!’
A murmuring arose from the crowd. Like angry bees, they buzzed and muttered, in both Welsh and English.
Then, they swarmed.
That night, the
house on the headland, together with everything in it, was destroyed. There was no looting, for anything of value was systematically defiled, then broken into as many pieces as could be. For the people meant to take a terrible revenge on the family which had held them in thrall for so long.
But finally, their orgy of breaking, smashing and wrecking over, they all left the house. Burning brands were brought across the cobbles, tossed through broken windows, and soon flames licked out of each and every casement, making the night sky bright.
‘Leave them to it.’ The magistrate heard the news of the blaze with indifference. ‘We'll say it was an accident, if anyone enquires.’
Recovered enough to sit slumped on a saddle, Owen rode between his cousins. Anxious to know what had happened to him, they realised he was hardly equal to conversation, but still they plied him with questions. Eventually, he roused himself sufficiently to make a few halting replies.
‘They were going to put my eyes out,’ he muttered, as he rubbed them, as if to make sure they were still there. ‘But then Henry suggested it might be more interesting for me, if I could actually see the water lapping all around. If I could gaze up despairing, and know I would soon die. So they contented themselves with beating me, then tying me down.’
‘Poor Owen.’ Jane looked at him. ‘I think — I am afraid your nose might be broken,’ she said.
‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘It's very sore.’
Owen and Jane met one anothers’ eyes. The flesh around hers was almost as discoloured by fatigue as his was by ill–treatment. But each thought he or she had never seen a lovelier face. Each knew the other thought so, too.
* * * *
Jane wanted to take Owen to the nearest inn, where he could rest and have a surgeon examine his injuries. Her brother, however, flatly forbade it. He was not going to leave Owen and his sister alone at any inn. Ill and exhausted though Owen Morgan undoubtedly was, there was no knowing what the fellow might get up to unsupervised, and Rayner was taking no more chances that night.
But Mr Grandison stepped in now, and invited — or rather, ordered — all three cousins to go back to Swansea with him, to his own house, where all their various needs could readily be met.
Rayner and Jane made their depositions that same evening. Owen, however, was put straight to bed. As for his tormentor — although more soldiers were drafted in, and the whole of Gower searched with the most meticulous care, they found no sign of Michael Atkins, or of his men.
Chapter 24
A week went by. Rayner and Jane recovered completely from their individual ordeals. Their cousin, however, still lay abed. As Mr Grandison sagaciously remarked, his road back to health and strength would be a long and weary one.
‘He'll get there in the end, however,’ added the magistrate cheerfully, giving Jane a very arch look. ‘After all, he receives only the best of medicines. The most gentle care. A glance from Miss Darrow's bright eyes, moreover, a smile from her own cherry lips, must work their own miracles. Indeed, what more wholesome tonics could a man desire?’
‘You seem destined to enchant all the old men,’ muttered Rayner sourly, as Jane blushed at these compliments, and smiled in spite of herself.
Mr Grandison grinned back. But then, heaving himself to his gouty feet, he excused himself and stumped ponderously out of the breakfast room into the hall. Soon, he could be heard bellowing for his coat and gloves, and calling his valet all the names under the sun.
Jane met her brother's eyes. ‘You still don't believe me, do you?’ she asked.
‘I suspect that your recollections of those forty eight hours will always be somewhat confused.’ Rayner shrugged. ‘It's not to be wondered at. Indeed, my own are hazy in the extreme.’
‘But mine are as clear as day. Rayner, you must give me credit for some powers of recall! Some degree of understanding. Everything I've told you is absolutely true.’
‘So you continue to insist.’
‘You don't want to believe me. Do you?’
‘Anything I want is of no consequence. No consequence at all.’ Rayner added more sugar to his chocolate. Reflectively, he began to sip.
Wrapped in a warm, quilted robe, that dull Tuesday morning Jane had been sitting at the breakfast table for an hour or more, drinking dish after dish of sweetly fragrant best Ceylon, and warming her hands round the cup. For, these days, she was cold all the time. So cold that she doubted if even the hot sun of the tropics could have warmed her blood again.
Here in South Wales, the fine summer weather had been succeeded by cooler nights and days. Chilly winds blew in from the Atlantic, and rain poured down out of a grey, leaden sky. ‘They meant to kill us both,’ she murmured. ‘They would have murdered him, then come back for me.’
‘Indeed?’ Determined not to be convinced, Rayner sniffed his disdain. ‘He was ever one for the dramatic gesture,’ he muttered. ‘The flamboyant declaration. The boastful aside.
‘In any case, Atkins can hardly have meant to injure you. For God's sake! The man was in love with you! He would never have harmed his future bride.’
‘On the contrary. He would have tormented me cruelly, and delighted in the act.’ Shuddering, Jane pulled her robe close about her body. ‘As for Owen — he did what he did not out of bravado, but because he loves me. He would have endured the most brutal tortures man could devise, and borne them bravely too, had he known I was safe.’
‘I never heard such nonsense.’ Disgusted, Rayner shook his head. ‘Jane, you are not yourself these days. In fact, I sometimes fear you have run a little mad.’
‘I think not.’ But, all the same, Jane changed the subject. ‘Is there any word of that creature?’ she enquired, evenly.
‘I'm afraid there is not. I spoke to Mr Grandison's clerk only this morning. He fears nothing new will emerge for some time yet.
‘I see.’
‘But don't worry.’ Grimly, Rayner smiled. ‘They will be taken. Mr Grandison will not rest until that day dawns, for he considers it a matter of honour that they should be captured, loaded with chains, then put on trial here. In Swansea itself.’
‘Good.’ Involuntarily, Jane shivered. ‘I shall not rest easily in my bed until they have all been hanged. Preferably from the highest gallows in the land.’
‘Do you intend to see it done?’
‘I do.’ Jane's blue eyes grew flinty. ‘Now I comprehend the full extent of that man's wickedness, it is my favourite ambition to see him expire. In that, I imagine I shall be but one element of a great, angry multitude.’
Jane motioned to the maid, to refill her cup. ‘Rayner,’ she continued, ‘yesterday, I had a thought. I wonder what became of my poor Blanchette?’
‘Ah, yes. Blanchette.’ Rayner grinned. ‘I thought you might fret for her, so I made enquiries. After the fire, it seems she was found wandering and crying, in the grounds of the house. A local villager has taken her in. So — do you want her back?’
‘I don't know. She's good and innocent herself, of course. But if I take her back, she will constantly remind me of that time.’ Jane glanced up. ‘Yes, Sophie? Did you wish to say something?’
‘I do, ma'am,’ replied the maid. ‘I beg your pardon for being so forward — but did you know Mrs Grandison's pug has lately died? Mistress was beside herself for weeks. But I think that now — ’
‘She might wish to consider making another friend?’ Jane smiled. ‘Then I shall ask Mrs Grandison if she would like to meet Blanchette. Thank you, Sophie. You may go about your business now. Rayner, I meant to mention this earlier. I have written to Isabel.’
‘Why ever did you do that?’
‘To assure her we are all safe and well, of course.’
‘Why should she care?’
‘I also took the liberty of asking her to come down here. You see, when she heard you were married, Mrs Grandison was most insistent that I invite your wife to stay. She declares Mr Grandison will certainly not object to a fourth — or even a fifth, little guest! If Isabel s
hould wish to bring the child, I mean.’
‘It's of no moment whether he objects or not,’ retorted Rayner, flatly. ‘Isabel will not come to see me.’
* * * *
Jane and Rayner were sitting in the parlour taking their mid–morning coffee when, a week later, Isabel arrived. Looking very well and dressed in the height of fashion, she carried an equally modish Honor in her arms.
‘Good morning, Jane,’ she began, nervously. She glanced towards her husband. ‘Rayner?’
But Rayner merely looked away.
‘Good morning, Isabel.’ Smiling, Jane rose to her feet. Realising her sister–in–law was horribly embarrassed, she took her hand, then relieved her of her daughter, who had been squirming to get down. ‘Come, Honor,’ she went on. ‘If we look in the jar here, I think we may find some sugar candy, just for you.’
While Jane busied herself amusing Honor, Isabel was left to observe her husband, who sat sullen and uncommunicative over his coffee, no doubt wishing her away. Having nothing else to do, she glanced round the room.
‘He's upstairs,’ muttered Rayner, sourly. ‘He can't walk very well. His ankles were damaged, you see.’
‘Broken?’
‘No. But the sprains are severe. The ligaments are all torn.’
‘What other injuries does he have?’
‘Three ribs are cracked, his nose is broken, and his neck is twisted quite awry.’ Rayner's own face twisted now. ‘But his manhood is intact,’ he went on. ‘His bruises will fade. In time, all his wounds will heal themselves.’
‘I'm glad to hear it.’
‘I'm sure you are.’ Rayner grimaced. ‘Ladies are always glad to hear good tidings of Mr Morgan. He was ever the favourite of the fairer sex, and so he remains to this day. The females in this house flock about him constantly.’
‘Oh, Rayner!’ In spite of herself, Isabel wanted to laugh. ‘I do believe you're jealous!’
‘Not at all.’ Dismissively, Rayner shrugged. ‘My sister wrote to you, did she not?’
‘Yes, she did.’
The Ash Grove Page 29
