The next morning, he kept out of sight and hoped that the brutes had been so drunk that they remembered nothing. Around noon, however, he was working on the ledgers when he heard them lumbering up the path, arguing loudly about who did or did not tie the women up properly. Fingers firmly crossed, he went outside to meet them.
Samuel, even more brutal, revolting and evil-looking than ever, glared at him. His voice rasped in his throat. ‘Well, Hill. Did you do as you were told? Or did you go poking your snotty nose into our business?’
‘I slept well, thank you, sir, despite the rain. It’s extraordinary how much noise the frogs make after a storm, isn’t it? And they’re very small, you know.’
John’s mind was barely functioning, even by his own miserable standards. ‘Frogs? Storm? What the devil are you talking about, you little runt? Did you see or hear anything? That’s what I want to know. Intruders running off?’
‘Intruders? No, sir, no intruders. Nothing at all in fact. Just the frogs.’
‘Fuck the frogs, Hill, and fuck you. If I find you’re lying, you’ll wish you were dead.’ John shoved Thomas aside and went into the hut. ‘What the devil’s this?’ he bellowed, holding up the precious copy of Lady Wroth’s poems, which Thomas had carelessly left on the bed.
‘It’s a book of poetry.’
John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And where did you get it, Hill? Stole it, did you?’
‘No. It was lent to me by someone at the market. I shall return it when I next go.’
‘No you won’t. It’s going to the privy. It’ll be more use there. And get a bigger book next time. This one won’t last long.’ And off they lumbered. No more Lady Wroth, and he’d have to explain why to Patrick, who might not care to lend him any more books if they were to end their days wiping the brutes’ backsides.
Chapter 11
ON THE DAY that news of the king’s execution arrived in Barbados, there were nearly thirty rows of notches on the table and Thomas had added more adjectives to his list, including lewd, inhuman and grotesque. He had been in his island prison for the best part of a year. So far he had resisted the urge to run. Runaways lived their lives out in the forest. They did not get home. For that, he needed help.
He had not seen Patrick in the market for weeks and he had given up hope of Adam Lyte offering to help. Each time he looked at himself in the inkwell, he saw a hollower, rougher, more haggard face. His thin hair and straggly beard were streaked with grey and his eyes were red and sore. The manual work and meagre diet had removed every ounce of fat from his body so that his ribs stuck out. If Polly and Lucy could see him, he doubted they would recognize him.
He had woken, as always, at dawn, splashed his face with water from the well, pulled on his only shirt and prepared to brave another day in hell. To his surprise a messenger had arrived and was tethering his horse. The messenger strode up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, this time more loudly. Knowing better than to interfere, Thomas stood in the shadows and watched. Eventually, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed Samuel Gibbes.
‘Good morning, Mr Gibbes,’ said the messenger politely. ‘I come from Colonel Drax.’
‘And what does Drax want at this hour?’ grunted Samuel, rubbing his eyes.
‘A boat from Plymouth arrived yesterday evening, sir. It carried copies of an announcement made by Parliament. The king has been executed. Colonel Drax has called a meeting of landowners in the Mermaid Inn at midday today.’
‘What for? If the fairy’s dead, a meeting won’t bring him back.’
‘I know,’ said John, who had joined his brother at the door, ‘it’s a banquet. A banquet to drink to the fairy’s death. Excellent. Tell Drax we’ll be there and we’ll be thirsty.’ Duty done, the messenger left.
‘Best give Hill the news, eh, brother?’ asked John, with a foul leer. ‘It’d be cruel not to.’
‘Come on, then.’ And off they lumbered up the path. Thomas made a quick retreat through the woods to his hut and came out to meet them.
‘Hill, we’ve got news for you,’ shouted John as they approached. ‘We’re going out and you’re coming with us.’
‘Don’t you want to know where we’re going, Hill?’ demanded Samuel. Thomas held his tongue. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. We’re going to Oistins. There’s to be a meeting. Your precious king is dead.’ The Gibbes laughed. ‘We thought you’d like to be there.’
Thomas found himself oddly unmoved by the news. The regicide was an act of barbarism, to be sure, but in Oxford he had found the king an odd little man with his pointed beard, stammer and limp; not a man one could warm to. The king he might have been, but it was difficult to mourn for him and change brings opportunity. Clutching at straws, Thomas? he asked himself. Well, why not? There’s little else to clutch at.
The Mermaid Inn, which Thomas had passed when he was led away by Samuel Gibbes on the day he arrived, had just a single storey built of stone and timber, and stood beside a popular brothel. After six weeks at sea, Thomas had taken in very little. Led by the black brute, he had ridden past the brothel, past the Mermaid, past a row of mean hovels and could barely remember any of them.
Today, he noticed everything. The inn was overflowing with customers and some had spilled outside on to the road. A continuous supply of strong drink was being sloshed into jugs and mugs by the innkeeper and carried precariously by his serving girls, who flounced about promising themselves to anyone with a guinea to spend.
It’s an ill wind, thought Thomas, as they approached. The innkeeper was doing well. He tethered their ponies and followed the Gibbes to the inn. When they disappeared inside, he waited at the edge of the crowd and gazed at the harbour. Was the place where he had first set foot on the island the very setting for a daring dash to freedom? Dash to where? To the forest, where he would be hunted down and returned to the brutes for punishment? To a ship whose captain would like as not hand him straight back to the brutes? No, Thomas, no. There must be another way.
He noticed Charles Carrington and Adam Lyte and worked his way around the crowd in the hope of overhearing what they had to say. These two were as likely as any to talk sense at such a time. Neither of them noticed him among the drinkers.
‘What do you make of this dreadful news?’ asked Adam.
‘No more than you, I daresay. Perhaps we shall learn more from Drax.’
‘Let’s hope so. And that this isn’t the match that lights the powder. Hotheads and extremists will shout and scream and we shall sorely need wise heads in the Assembly.’
‘That we shall,’ agreed Charles, and, looking around, ‘Modyford and Middleton are here. Ah, here’s Drax.’
Colonel James Drax marched purposefully towards the inn. Over six feet tall, slim, dark of hair and eye, clean-shaven but for a small pointed beard and elegantly turned out in blue cloak and broad-brimmed hat, Drax was a man of notable presence. The crowd grew silent as he approached and made way for him to enter the inn. But he preferred to remain outside, declined the offer of drink and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. Most of those inside came out, including four disgruntled dice players, not at all happy at having their game interrupted; all talk ceased and every head turned towards him. Thomas stayed where he was and listened.
‘Gentlemen,’ began Drax, ‘I thank you all for coming. I know you would rather be about your business but the news from England is so grave that the members of the Assembly have asked me to call a meeting of our leading landowners to prevent rumour and falsehood growing and festering among us.’