“We know nothin‘ about ’im,” the goodman blustered. “We jest takes ‘is money an’ he comes an‘ goes as ’e pleases.”
“Which is not very often,” Giles observed, leaning his shoulders against the wall, hands driven deep into the pockets of his britches. “So, when he’s not ‘ere, where is he?”
“How should us know?” Prue wiped her hands on her apron. “As my man says, we’re glad o‘ the money. We don’t pry.”
“Well, mebbe you could think a little,” Giles suggested, raising a beckoning finger towards his men at the door. They moved forward, the shadow of their presence falling across the door, blocking out the last vestiges of evening light.
“I’m sure there’s summat you know that I’d find ‘elpful,” Giles continued, his voice cajoling. “His friends? Visitors when he’s ’ere? Where ‘e goes when he’s not ’ere?”
Prue shook her head. “We told ye, Sergeant. We don’t know nothin‘.”
Giles sighed heavily. He said regretfully, “Well, you see, I don’t believe you, goodwife. I think you know a lot about this ‘ere Mr. Caxton. An’ it’s my business to find out what. So we’ll go somewhere a bit quiet, like, an‘ ’ave another little chat.”
He pointed to his men and they surged into the little cottage. “Ye can’t take us away!” Goodman Yarrow protested, panic in his voice. “We’re good law-abidin‘ folk.” His face twisted in fear as the men laid hold of him.
“My man ‘as the right of it,” Prue declared, her voice much steadier than her husband’s. “Ye’ve a warrant or some such?”
“The governor’s writ, goodwife,” Giles said. “If ye’ve done nothin‘, ye’ve nothin’ to fear.”
Prue snorted with disbelief, but unlike her husband, she made no further protest as she was bundled out of the cottage.
“You want us to lock up, goodman?” Giles inquired solicitously. “Or shall we leave it open in case yer lodger comes ‘ome?”
“Turn the key,” Prue said with something of a snarl. “It’s on the hook be’ind the door.”
Giles obliged and then followed the procession down Holyrood Street to the quay. They would take the goodman and his wife by boat to Yarmouth Castle, where they could be questioned in privacy.
He was aware of the eyes following them, of the hastily closed doors as they passed, and he was satisfied that his little raid had had the right effect. The removal of citizens from their homes was a sound intimidation tactic. A few more such raids would weaken the loyalty these folk had to Mr. Edward Caxton, if he was indeed the man they were looking for.
The Yarrows would provide him with the answer to that. The goodman would break first, Giles reckoned. It was strange how women, the so-called weaker sex, should be so much harder to intimidate. But it was a fact he’d noticed before.
Maybe the pains of childbirth hardened them, he thought, watching as his prisoners were hustled into the boat at the quay. He watched the boat heading up the Medina River, then turned for his horse. He would return to Carisbrooke with the news of his success and then meet his prisoners when they were disembarked at Yarmouth.
Mike was waiting on the beach of the small cove as Anthony turned the dinghy into the shore. “Looks like it’s goin‘ to turn foul later,” Mike observed as he bent to pull the small boat onto the sand.
Anthony stepped onto the wet sand, carrying his stockings and his elegant tooled-leather boots. He sniffed the wind. “I came to that conclusion myself. A good night for a wreck, I would have said.”
Mike heard the musing tone and waited for more. When the master spoke in that voice, it meant he was about to divulge a carefully considered plan.
“I’ve been thinking it’s time we had a hand in things, Mike. We’ll stage a little surprise for anyone who might be considering some dirty work later on.”
“Off the point?”
“Aye. A group from Wind Dancer are already set to reach the beach by midnight. Can you round up a few good men to set up on the clifftop?”
Mike grinned. “Easy,” he said. “Pa’ll be one o‘ the first, and three of me brothers. We’ll watch for ’em lighting the beacon. We’ll give ‘em a right thumpin’.”
“Exactly so.” Anthony sat down on a rock away from the water’s edge, brushed the sand off the soles of his feet, and pulled on his stockings and boots. “I’ll not stay long at the castle tonight. Just long enough to pass the message to the king that we move tomorrow. I just hope to God he doesn’t give anything away. He’s not the best conspirator.”
Anthony grimaced. The king found it difficult to dissemble. Mainly because he considered it beneath his dignity. If he knew his departure from prison was imminent, there was a chance that something in his manner would alert the ever watchful governor. It had happened that way before. But it was an inherent risk. If Anthony was to keep his promise to Ellen, he had to take it.
“I’ll join you on the beach when I’m finished at the castle.”
Mike touched his forelock and loped off up the steep path. Anthony followed at a steady pace. He could smell the coming storm. It would be the first since the night of the last wreck. Would it bring out Channing and his men? It would be the perfect opportunity to snatch Godfrey Channing and kill two birds with one stone. Stop the wrecking, or at least until some other evil brain took over, and get the lordling well away from Olivia before he could do any further damage. That would leave Anthony with only one small problem to take care of before he took the king. This mysterious and vile Brian Morse.
Anthony was most interested in meeting the man who had abused the child Olivia. Channing could help him there too.
He entered the great hall at Carisbrooke, his step casual, his smile of greeting easy and friendly. The king was playing cards at the fireside, but there was no sign of Granville, Rothbury, or Hammond. With his usual pleasantly vacuous expression, Anthony greeted Mistress Hammond and bestowed his devastating smile on the ladies around her. They fluttered their fans and smiled upon him, and Mistress Hammond chided him with her gap-toothed smile for being a shocking flirt to throw her ladies into such disarray.
He was saved from a response by an equerry bidding him join His Majesty at cards. Anthony smiled, bowed to the ladies, kissed a few hands, and strolled indolently across the hall to obey the king’s summons.
“I’m an indifferent whist player, Sire,” Anthony demurred with his annoying little titter as he bowed to his sovereign. “I’m sure my fellow players will grow impatient.”
“Oh, never mind that. I daresay Lord Daubney will be happy to partner you. You couldn’t be worse than his present partner.”
“I had not the cards, Sire,” the gentleman in question murmured unhappily as he rose from his seat at the table and gave his place to Edward Caxton.
Anthony sat down. His eyes were alert beneath lazily drooping lids. He held his cards in one hand, but as always his other rested on the jeweled hilt of his sword. He was in the midst of the enemy. If anything went wrong, he would have no chance to fight his way out of the hall, let alone out of the castle, but he would have a damned good try.
“Has Your Majesty walked the battlements this evening?” he inquired casually, laying down his cards for his partner’s play.
“No, I find the night humors irritate my lungs,” the king responded, casting a heavy-lidded look across the table.
Anthony didn’t meet the look. The king, alerted by the mention of the battlements, knew now that Caxton had a message for him. He would find a way to receive it.
Five minutes later the king stretched to pick up the hand he had just won, and the edge of his wide velvet sleeve caught his wine goblet. It fell to the table, the ruby contents splattering over the cards.
Anthony had his handkerchief in his hand and bent to catch the spill before it ran over into the king’s lap.
“My thanks, Caxton. You move quickly,” the king said, letting his hand fall into his lap as he thrust his chair back from the table. “I fear I’m more than usually clumsy this evening.”