Dark Before the Rising Sun

by Laurie McBain

Alastair swallowed nervously. But Dante said nothing. He just stared at the sign a moment longer, then walked down the steps into the tavern. Alastair followed his captain into the shadowy hall beyond. A small staircase filled the space at the end of the narrow hall and led to the second floor and whatever rooms the tavern had for overnight guests. Following the sound of voices, Dante turned to the right. The coffee room was filled with men sitting and standing as they drank ale and talked of the weather.

  Seemingly oblivious to the men and to the awkward silence which had fallen over the garrulous group, Dante walked across the room, coming to a halt at the counter. An aproned man stood behind the counter beside a large keg, from which he filled a tankard.

  “Afternoon to ye and welcome to the Pale Lady,” the man greeted them. “What’s your pleasure?” he asked while eyeing the two well-dressed gentlemen curiously. He didn’t know them, but he suspected they’d have plenty of coin. “Ye be strangers to Merleigh?”

  “No, not really,” Dante replied, ordering two ales.

  “Oh? Well, ye might have noticed then that the tavern be under new management. Used to be called the Royal Oak and Ivy, but when I bought the place—I’m from Barnstaple—I changed the name. Changed the serving girls too. Skin and bones, the others were. Can’t be workin’ the roses out of their cheeks, eh?” he confided with a chuckle as one of his buxom young maids threaded her way through the crowded room, much to the appreciation of the patrons. They stopped her to place more orders, and the cunning innkeeper grinned.

  “’Tis from local legend, the name,” the innkeeper continued conversationally while he filled their tankards and then handed them across to the tall, gray-eyed gentleman and his friend, who was looking on the peaked side. “Seems as if this highborn lady, from a great family she was, even named the town after them, they did, well,” he continued, glancing around just in case anyone was eavesdropping, “she jumped off the cliff over by the castle ruins. Merdraco, ’tis called. Well, they say she was so brokenhearted over her blackguard son, and him a marquis, that she took her own life. But what’s got everyone scared senseless is that her ghost has been seen wanderin’ along that cliff, cryin’ and moanin’ fer her son. Figure namin’ my tavern after her was a wise business move. No one will be forgettin’ the name, that’s fer sure,” he said with a widening grin of satisfaction. But it didn’t seem the gentleman found his story amusing, and it was only then that he became aware of the silence in his usually noisy coffee room.

  Glancing beyond the two figures, he frowned thoughtfully, wondering what was amiss. It seemed all his regular customers were staring at the two strangers, and at the tall, gray-eyed one in particular.

  The innkeeper cleared his throat nervously. Something was wrong. “Ah, don’t believe I caught the name,” he said. “Like to greet my guests proper like, I do,” he added, his uneasiness growing when the gray-eyed gent smiled slightly before turning around to face the curious patrons of The Pale Lady of the Ruins.

  Taking a sip of his ale, Dante eyed the men who had been watching him so intently. “Some of you may know who I am. If not, then allow me to introduce myself. I am Dante Leighton, Lord Jacqobi. I have returned to Merdraco. But in my absence, the house and estate have fallen into disrepair.”

  That was putting it mildly, thought Alastair as he took a hefty swig of ale.

  “I will hire anyone interested in working. There’s good, honest money to be made,” Dante told the group of silent men.

  “Reckon I’m one of them who remembers ye, Lord Jacqobi. Only then ye wasn’t one to be payin’ your debts,” a weathered-looking man commented from a table directly in front of where Dante was standing. “Dunno as how I have any reason to be believin’ otherwise today, although I’ll be admittin’ ye’ve got courage in comin’ back here. Figure there might be some folk hereabouts who haven’t forgotten ye, or what ye was accused of doin’. Ye didn’t leave many friends around these parts, milord.”

  Alastair wiped the back of his hand across his lips and decided to keep a close eye on the surly man who had questioned the captain’s honor.

  But Dante surprised Alastair. He merely nodded acquiescence to the impertinent fellow’s remarks. Then his hand disappeared into his coat pocket and, a second later, a small leather bag landed dead center on the man’s table. “Open it,” Dante said, sounding like he had when barking an order to the helmsman aboard the Sea Dragon. The man picked up the bag, albeit gingerly. Untying the cord, he poured the contents of the bag onto the table, the sound signaling only one thing—money.

  “Every man who comes to work for me will be paid daily for the work he does. There will be no promise of money. There will be money. But do not be lulled into thinking that this will be easy money, for I shall expect any man who works for me to carry his fair share. I worked hard for this money, and so I shall expect you to work hard for yours. Anyone who does not, will no longer work for me,” Dante warned them. The man who remembered the dissolute young lord who had squandered away his fortune couldn’t believe that this was the same Marquis of Jacqobi.

  This was a man who seemed accustomed to speaking his mind without fear or hesitancy, William Brownwell thought as he eyed the tall, muscular man with the bronzed face. He liked to think he judged another man accurately by the look in his eye. As he met Dante’s pale-eyed stare, he saw something he liked. The eyes didn’t slide away. They continued to meet his squarely, and William Brownwell read a sense of purpose in Dante Leighton.

  “Should anyone doubt my word that I can pay you well for your services, then you have my permission to talk with my bankers. A large sum of money has been deposited in the bank here in Merleigh, as well as the banks in Westlea Abbot and in Bristol and in London, where my solicitor would be pleased to respond to your inquiries.”

  “I can assure you, gentlemen,” Alastair heard himself saying, “that Dante Leighton is indeed a man of his word. I was the supercargo aboard the Sea Dragon, a privateer that engaged the enemy on countless occasions, and never turned tail and ran because her captain, Dante Leighton, would never admit defeat. And I can promise you that he had the respect and admiration of all his crew. You may rest assured that if the captain makes a promise, he keeps it,” Alastair concluded, the light of battle in his eyes. He was embarrassed at being outspoken, but the time sometimes came when a man had to say what he felt.

  “Could be as rich as the King himself, and I still wouldn’t dirty me hands workin’ fer the likes o’ him!” an angry voice called from the back of the room, successfully gaining the attention of the same men who had looked impressed after Alastair’s outburst.

  “Jack Shelby’s me friend, and that’s somethin’ the rest o’ ye ought not to be fergettin’,” the man warned them. An ugly glint in his eye, he pushed his way forward through the group and came to stand in front of Dante. “Reckon Jack Shelby is one to be rememberin’ who’s his friend and who ain’t. Reckon I might even be able to remind him,” the lout said, looking around the room as if memorizing the individual faces.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about Jack Shelby,” Dante spoke quietly, unimpressed.

  “Oh, and how’s that, milord?” the man wanted to know as he eyed Dante up and down contemptuously before spitting at his booted feet.

  “Jack Shelby’s days are numbered. You can take that message to him,” Dante told the red-faced man, whose anger seemed about to get the best of him. Then, before the man knew what had happened, the indolent-looking Marquis of Jacqobi reached out and grabbed both his arms. Pulling them behind the fellow’s back, he locked them together at the wrists with one of his own hands. Then his lordship’s other hand locked around the back of the malcontent’s neck, and the man was escorted to the door. The other men were delighted, for they knew the bully all too well and enjoyed seeing him brought down a peg.

  Out the door and up the steps he was hustled, and the man promised himself as he was propelled into the s
treet that he’d not forget the laughing voices. He fell to his knees, his hat sailing onto the cobblestones next to him.

  “Ye’ll be sorry, m’lord,” he vowed, picking himself up and glaring at the open doorway. “And I’ll not be fergettin’ your faces, either! Ye’ll be sorry. Ye just wait and see. Just wait until I’m tellin’ Jack Shelby of this. Ye’ll see!” he hollered as he hurried down the street, glancing back over his shoulder time and again. The sound of laughter fueled his rage.

  Dante turned back to face the men standing there watching him, a different expression in their eyes. They were really seeing him for the first time, and not the rakish young lord he once had been.

  “You may also pass the word that I am looking for tenants to farm the lands adjacent to Merdraco. The rents will be low, and as your landlord, I shall see that the farmhouses are in good condition. Anyone who works Leighton lands will find it a good living, and you and your families will be under my protection,” the master of Merdraco told them.

  “Didn’t think them lands belonged to Merdraco anymore. Thought they were Sir Miles Sandbourne’s.”

  Dante smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “The lands that once belonged to Merdraco belong to my estate again. Sir Miles Sandbourne no longer owns one foot of Leighton land.”

  William Brownwell held out the bag of coins that Dante had tossed on the table. “Here’s your money back,” he said. Alastair thought the man was rejecting Dante’s offer, but then he added, “At least until I’ve done a day’s work and earned my share of it. Then it’ll be mine.”

  Dante took the leather bag. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at Merdraco, then,” Dante said.

  “Aye, ye can that. Reckon a lot of folk will be pleased to hear that ye be their new landlord. Sir Miles wasn’t very popular. Raised the rents every year, he did. Reckon that Houston Kirby returned to Merdraco with ye?” Brownwell asked casually. “Used to be a friend of mine until he disappeared about the same time ye did, m’lord. Always figured he might have caught up with ye somewhere.”

  “Aye, that he did, and he’s come home now, as I have,” Dante responded, his cold, pale eyes showing the first warmth Brownwell had seen in them.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, but does Jack Shelby know ye’ve returned?” he asked. He wanted to know what lay in front of him, since it seemed he was walking onto a battlefield.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, we met face-to-face the other evening at the Bishop. He left rather abruptly, but he knows what to expect,” Dante told the man, figuring he had a right to know what to expect if he was going to work at Merdraco.

  “Ye been stayin’ at the Bishop?” asked a man who probably knew more than he should, for he knew the smugglers were fond of drinking ale there.

  “Yes, Sam and Dora Lascombe have been most hospitable,” Dante replied.

  “Aye, reckon so,” Brownwell agreed. “Sam’s no fool. Reckon I’ll have to be stoppin’ by there one of these days. Pay our respects to Dora, will ye? Lot of us thought it a real shame what happened to her brother. Aye, reckon there be a lot of us who think it’s about time for a change,” Brownwell suggested with a meaningful glance around at his friends.

  Dante eyed the men speculatively, then nodded. “I do believe there will be some changes now. It has been a pleasure, gentlemen,” he said, and, with a slight smile, he tossed the bag of coins to the startled innkeeper, who wasn’t so startled that he missed catching it in his big palm. “See that the gentlemen here have all the ale and food they wish.”

  “Ye be most generous, m’lord,” Brownwell commented as he noted the men who were looking kindly at their benefactor.

  “Not really,” Dante said with a grin. “They will be cursing me soon enough when I have them sweating for every shilling they earn. But perhaps they won’t really hate me when they remember that I can be most generous and that I deal fairly with any man who deals fairly with me.”

  “Aye, m’lord, reckon ye’ve learned a lot about life in your travels,” Brownwell said slowly. “And I reckon we might deal quite nicely together, now that ye’ve returned to Merdraco.”

  “Aye, that we shall,” Dante agreed, and with a slight inclination of his head, he walked away from what remained of the group standing outside of The Pale Lady of the Ruins, the others already having disappeared inside for their fill of ale.

  “Reckon things are goin’ to be changin’ around here fast enough now that yon master has returned to stir up trouble,” William Brownwell muttered as he watched Dante Leighton striding down High Street as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  * * *

  “Kirby, I do not see whortleberries listed here,” Rhea was saying to the little steward, who was selecting several baskets full of the dark blue berries.

  “That’s because Hallie ain’t from Devonshire, m’lady. They’re berries picked from the moors, and a sweeter tart covered in clotted cream ye’ve yet to find anywhere in the realm,” Kirby declared.

  “And what of this cider, Kirby? Hallie will never be able to use so much. Perhaps we should only order about half this amount,” she suggested kindly.

  “Ah, m’lady, if ye knew how long ’tis been since I had a good swallow of mulled cider,” Kirby said with such a pitiful look on his face that Rhea almost felt sorry for him. “Of course, next year I’ll have made my own. Packs quite a wallop, if I do say so myself, m’lady. We used to have the makin’s for it at Merdraco, but I’ll most likely have to get my own wheel and trough. And of course we can’t use the straw from the stables at Merdraco. ’Twould have us all six feet under by nightfall.”

  “What’s wrong with the straw at Merdraco?” Francis asked, eyeing the little steward as if he’d lost his mind.

  “It has to be clean straw, Lord Chardinall,” Kirby replied, looking at the young lord and wondering where he’d been all his life. “Ye see, I take the apples—selected by me for their juiciness—and ground them up with a big stone wheel in this specially made, round stone trough. Then I place the pulp between layers of clean straw, m’lord, and press it in the cider press. The juice runs out into the kieve, a flat tub. I’ll leave it there for about four or five days. That’s where it starts to get that kick. I skim off anything that’s drifted up to the top, and then get myself some nice oak casks and fill them up with the brew and let them sit. Won’t touch them for a good while, of course.”

  “Of course,” Francis agreed.

  “Aye. Next year I’ll let ye have one of the first sips of the first cider I’ve brewed in years. It oughta be somethin’, m’lord,” he confided with a chuckle. “Can hardly wait for the wassailin’. Ye be sure and be here at Merdraco for the eve of Twelfth Night.”

  Francis managed a smile. “I’d be honored,” he said, privately vowing he’d not be anywhere nearby come January.

  “Well, let’s see,” Rhea said as she glanced down at the long list of items she had ordered sent to the lodge. “Eggs, chickens, hams, cheese, veal, haddock, potatoes, celery, carrots, peas…” she said, her eyes scanning the list. Looking up, she caught sight of Dante and Alastair making their way down the street. She waved, but they didn’t see her, for at that moment a small boy ran up to them and yanked on Dante’s sleeve. He stopped and glanced down, and as Rhea watched she saw the boy hand him a piece of folded paper. Dante glanced at it quickly before tossing a coin to the lad. When next Rhea looked at Dante’s hand, the note had disappeared, and he and Alastair were continuing toward the marketplace.

  Rhea waved again, and this time he saw her. His tall figure wove through the crowded square toward her.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he said, noting the crates of vegetables and fruits being loaded into a nearby cart. “Did you have any trouble?” he asked, remembering the surreptitious glances cast their way as they rode into Merleigh.

  “You should know by now, Dante, that Rhea could charm a smile from the devil hims
elf,” Francis remarked jokingly, then thought perhaps his sister had done so just then, for a slight smile curved Dante’s mouth.

  “We had no difficulties. How did it fare with you?” Rhea asked nervously, for she had dreaded his first encounter with the villagers who had been so quick to turn their backs on him years before.

  “It went far better than I thought it would,” Dante admitted, his smile widening. “So you had better buy even more cider, Kirby,” he told the little steward, who actually looked guilty.

  “Don’t look so surprised. That’s all you’ve been talking about since we set foot back in Devonshire. Your cider had better be as good as I remember,” Dante warned him. “Where are Robin and Conny? We should be heading back to Merdraco.” He glanced around for a glimpse of two small figures and was rewarded by the sight of Conny and Robin. They were running as fast as their short legs could carry them, trying to outrun several village boys who were tossing rotten fruit at them.

  Rhea shook her head as she saw Robin duck behind a rotund woman, waiting his chance to take aim at one of the village boys. The tomato he had been holding so gingerly found its mark, but Robin didn’t wait to make certain, and was already hotfooting it after Conny, who had thrown his potato with unerring aim and retreated toward the safety of those familiar figures in the distance. He knew the captain wouldn’t let this village riffraff accost him and Robin.

  Rhea stood beside Dante, laughing with him as they watched Kirby and Alastair try to stop the horseplay. She caught sight of a scarlet figure hurrying up High Street, scarlet feathers waving with every step, and Rhea wondered if the note Dante had received had been from Bess Seacombe. Rhea couldn’t help but find it unsettling that Dante had said nothing about it. For the first time since they had wed, she wondered what he was hiding.

  Twenty-seven

  To many a watchful night.

  —Shakespeare

  “I must say you were rather unfriendly the other day,” Dante commented, his quiet tones sounding like thunder in the still of the night.