As far as his father’s family were concerned, he did not exist. His mother’s family had never known of his birth. Anthony Caxton went his own way and took care of his own. Those who earned his friendship counted themselves fortunate indeed. And by the same token, those who earned his enmity learned to regret it.
They reached the small harbor town of Yarmouth after an hour’s ride. The castle stood sentinel at the head of the River Yar facing Hurst Castle on the mainland spit, both fortified edifices guarding the entrance to the Solent. It was at the tip of Hurst spit where Anthony at the height of his smuggling operations had followed local custom and landed his contraband.
They left the ponies at the King Charles tavern and went down to the quay.
A grizzled fisherman was waiting for them in a small sailing dinghy moored at the quay. He jumped up as they approached. “Y’are in good time, sir.”
“I’d not keep you waiting, Jeb, if I can help.” Anthony smiled at the man who had first taught him to understand the tides and the dangers of the races for a sailor navigating the frequently treacherous waters of the Solent.
He stepped into the dinghy, shaking Jeb’s hand as the other climbed out onto the quay. Adam followed Anthony and took his place on the thwart. Jeb cast them off as Anthony hauled up the two sails, then took the tiller and turned the dinghy to catch the wind as she set sail for Hurst Castle and the Keyhaven River.
Chapter Eleven
Ellen Leyland was working in her vegetable garden. She straightened from the asparagus bed she was weeding and mopped her damp brow just as the two men strolled into view around the bend in the narrow lane.
“Why, Anthony… Adam… what a lovely surprise.” She hurried down the path to open the gate. “I wasn’t expecting you. Do you have news, Anthony?”
“You think I only visit you when I have news?” he chided, bending to kiss her sun-browned cheek. “Am I so undutiful?”
“Oh, get along with you,” she said, giving him a little slap. “Adam, my dear, how goes it with you?”
“Well, I thankee, Ellen.” Adam beamed at her. Once, many years ago, they had shared a bed, when Adam had shared with her the parenting of Edward Caxton’s son.
Ellen had no time for the distinctions of social class, and in youth and robust middle age had taken both friends and lovers where she found them. But her interest in the hurly-burly of lovemaking had died in recent years, as her passion for the king’s cause had absorbed all her energies, both emotional and intellectual.
“Come in,” she said now, hurrying ahead of them up the path. “I’ve just taken a batch of bannocks out of the oven. And there’s a fine chicken pie.”
“And cognac, madeira, and a good burgundy to go with it,” Anthony said, setting his leather flagons on the scrubbed pine table. He looked fondly around the small kitchen that had been the scene of so many of his childhood joys and troubles. As usual, it was spotless, the china plates arrayed on the Welsh dresser, the copper pots glowing on their hooks.
“I expect Adam will prefer ale. Fetch a jug from the back, will you, Anthony?”
Anthony took a jug from the dresser and went into the back scullery, where Ellen did her brewing.
Ellen busied herself putting food on the table. “Sit ye down, Adam.”
Adam pulled out the bench at the table and sat down with a little sigh of relief. It had been a long sail. The wind had been against them and they’d had to tack across the Solent.
“Here you are, old man.” Anthony grinned as he set the jug of ale in front of Adam. “You’re getting right creaky these days.”
“Now, you watch your tongue, young Anthony,” Ellen scolded. “And open that burgundy.”
Anthony laughed and did as he was told. They ate and drank with the companionable ease of people who had sat at table together over many years. On board Wind Dancer, Adam would not have considered it appropriate to eat with the master, but in this kitchen there were no social distinctions.
Ellen waited until they’d finished before broaching the subject uppermost in her mind. “So, Anthony, have you seen the king?”
“Aye, last even.” He rested his forearms on the now cleared table, tapping his fingers lightly on the surface. “I managed to slip him the nitric acid so that he can cut through the window bars.”
Ellen nodded. The second time the king had tried to escape, no one had thought to check whether he could squeeze through the bars on his window. The bungled attempt had been a mortifying failure. On his third attempt, he had been given nitric acid to cut the bars, but so many people were part of the plan that all its details had inevitably come to the ears of Colonel Hammond.
This fourth attempt was being organized by a master. Anthony left nothing to chance. At Ellen’s behest he had been serving the king’s cause since the beginning of the war. He did what he did for Ellen and not for the king, for whom he had little regard. But Ellen’s loyalty to King Charles was all consuming, so for the last six years most of Anthony’s profits had gone to funding the Royalist armies, and now all the formidable skills he had acquired in planning his piracy and smuggling ventures were devoted to organizing the king’s escape to France.
“How did His Majesty seem?” Ellen asked anxiously. “Is he very dispirited?”
“Less than one might imagine.” Anthony took a sip of wine. “He’s still negotiating with the Scots through Livesay.” He shrugged. “And he still seems to think those negotiations are concealed from Parliament.”
“But you don’t think that’s so?”
“No. Forgive me, Ellen, but the king is deluded in this as in so many other areas.”
Ellen’s mouth tightened. “If you don’t wish to do this, Anthony, I’ll not blame you.”
He smiled then, absently moving his cup around the table. “Yes, you would. My feelings are irrelevant, Ellen. I do this for you. I have no particular interest in the outcome of this war, except that the sooner it’s over, the sooner a man will be able to resume the life that suits him.”
Ellen got up and went out to the scullery, returning in a few minutes with a bowl of stewed gooseberries and a jug of thick yellow cream. “I picked these this morning.”
Anthony accepted that his indifferent attitude troubled Ellen and that she had no desire to continue the conversation. He helped himself to fruit and cream. “Before we go back, I’ll nail the loose door on the goat shed. The next strong wind will tear it right off.”
“Thank you.” Ellen pushed the bowl across to Adam, who had taken little part in the discussion. He was accustomed to being an observer rather than a participant in such matters.
Anthony finished his gooseberries and with a word of excuse took himself outside. Soon the sounds of the hammer reached the kitchen.
“He’s so like his father in so many ways,” Ellen said. “I don’t understand how he can be so different in this one particular. Edward was full of passion and ideals, misplaced many of them, but he believed in so much. Anthony doesn’t seem to believe strongly in anything… Oh, nobody could be more loyal or a better friend,” she added, seeing Adam’s frown. “But in terms of conviction… he doesn’t seem to have any.”
“Reckon ‘e saw what conviction did fer ’is father,” Adam said. “And ‘twas conviction that led the Caxtons to cast off both Sir Edward an’ his son. A mere innocent babe, their own flesh and blood, cast out to die fer all they cared. A cruel thing is conviction if’n ye looks at it in a certain light.”
Ellen sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But sometimes when I look at him I see Edward so clearly it hurts. The same rakehell charm.” She sighed again.