There was an open area in front of the cottages, not as pretty as a village green. Rather it was an ugly patch of beaten grass and weeds, scattered with the debris of village life: a handcart tilted on its side, two discarded wheels, the remains of several broken barrels, a discarded fishnet, a rough table from which arose a pungent odour of fish, perhaps where the women gutted and filleted those sold ready prepared in the local towns. A stream ran across this area, no doubt providing water for the village, which was crossed by a sort of bridge, consisting of no more than two planks laid loosely across from bank to bank.
The house with the light was the last one in the village, facing this bridge, so we would have to cross the stream in full view of its windows. I sent up a quick prayer that no one would be looking out, nodded to Andrew, and we darted across.
Because the planks were loose, they tilted and slapped down again as we jumped off. Not much of a noise, but it seemed huge in that silent village. We ran on, across more rough turf to the edge of the beach. Andrew put out a hand to stop me.
‘Shingle,’ he whispered. ‘That’ll make a b’yer lady racket if we walk on it.’
He was right. I remembered how loud our footsteps had sounded in the morning, when there was no need to be quiet.
‘You’re right. Can we count the boats from here?’
Now we were grateful for the moon. I remembered that there had been six boats like all the other small boats we had seen, then the larger one drawn up on the shingle at the far end. We edged along the margin of the beach, taking care to stay on the turf. Four, five, six – the smaller boats were all here, leaning over and draped with their fishing nets.
‘The big one was further along.’ I barely breathed the words, but he nodded.
We sidled crab-like, following the top of the shingle, till we reached the spot where the stream spread out and emptied itself into the sea. The large boat was not here.
‘Now what?’ he said.
I thought for a moment. It was all too open down here beside the beach. The returning fishermen would see us at once if we waited here. We would need to make sure that they were indeed bringing in men and not smuggled wine. If we rushed back to Rye now with a false alarm, we would make fools for ourselves.
‘We’d better go back to the village, where there’s some cover and wait there.’
‘Look, the stream is shallower here, where it spreads out,’ he said. ‘We could wade across, then follow it along on the other side and get behind that end house.’
I nodded. ‘Good.’
The stream fanned out into a miniature estuary and was no more than ankle deep in the middle here at the mouth. As we climbed up the bank on the other side, however, we encountered a patch of shingle, hidden by the overhang, and the noise of our feet nearly made my heart stop. Andrew, who was ahead, reached down for my arm and pulled me up on to the bank, which was turfed.
‘Must be deeper in winter,’ he said. ‘That shingle would be under the water.’
I gave him a sickly grin. The noise had terrified me. What did we think we were doing? This was madness. What if we were caught?
Andrew led the way now. The stream ran close to a thicket of undergrowth here, interspersed with sea holly, and only a narrow strip dividing the two. I hoped we would be able to push our way through and not have to retrace our steps to the beach. After about twenty yards, the stream twisted away to the right, back towards the centre of the village, leaving us enough room to make our way ahead side by side. Just as the walking became easier, I heard something. I grabbed Andrew’s sleeve and laid my finger on my lips.
It was the sound of oars.
He had heard it too. I caught the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. Perhaps he saw this as no more than an adventure, away from the older soldiers. He might have no idea how dangerous men bent on killing the Queen might be. There was no time for explanations now. We crept forward, toward the end house with its lit window. We had nearly reached it when there came the loud grinding of the boat’s keel on the shingle beach, then men’s voices, not shouting, but not trying to be quiet either. Presumably everyone in the village knew what was going on, even if they did close their shutters and go to bed.
Pressed against the dark side of the house, Andrew and I watched as four men heaved the boat up the shallow slope of the beach. Two other men stood to one side. Since they must have paid well for their passage, it was no business of theirs to join in the hard physical labour of landing the boat.
An anchor was run out and stamped into the shingle, and another rope tied to a dead stump just above the line of the shingle. Of course, the tide must come in at some times of day and could lift the boats away, but in my ignorance I did not know whether it was low tide or high at the moment.
Now the men were walking over the plank bridge and toward the house where we were hidden. Someone inside opened the door and the yellow of a candle-lantern flowed out, lighting up for a moment the two men who had been standing to one side. I did not recognise either of them. I had half supposed one of them might be Poley, as he seemed to turn up everywhere, like my evil shadow, but these men were quite unknown.
I jerked my head towards the back of the house and mouthed in Andrew’s ear, ‘Back to Rye, as fast as possible.’
He nodded and ran off swiftly in the direction of the thorn thicket. I ran after him.
It was dark behind the house, overshadowed by a stand of taller trees, willows, and as I ran, thinking of speed and not watching my feet, I collided with something heavy and metal, stumbled and fell, striking my head. Darkness rushed over me.
Chapter Twelve
I must have blacked out only briefly, but the next thing I knew I was being heaved along by my shoulders, there was shouting and lights were springing up in the other cottages. Andrew had his hands under my armpits and was dragging me towards the horses.
‘I can walk,’ I gasped.
With that he let me go and we both ran, careless of any noise, desperate to reach the horses before the men reached us. Andrew gave me a leg up, then sprang on to his own horse. We were away up the lane before my feet were in the stirrups. My sight was blurred and my head throbbed, but Hector followed Andrew’s horse without hesitating.
Behind us men were running, but we were away.
Never had I been more thankful for Hector’s speed. When I had ridden away from Hartwell Hall during the night, I was not sure whether or not I would be followed. Now, due to my own carelessness, the men in the fishing village knew that they had been seen. We had noticed no horses, but there must surely be one or two in the village. There had been outbuildings behind the cottages, some of them probably barns.
I cursed myself for having ruined everything at the last minute. My instinct had been right. I had guessed which was the boat that would smuggle the men in. We had stayed out of sight until they had landed and I had caught a quick but clear view of their faces. If we had just managed to ride away without being noticed, everything would have worked out so well that even Phelippes would have been pleased with me.
I crouched low over Hector’s neck and urged him on, passing Andrew and flying on towards Rye. He gave a delighted whoop and spurred after me. Clearly for him it was just an adventure, spiced with the thought of pursuit. Yet the whole purpose had been stealth. I tried to think, but my thoughts were swept away by the speed and the pounding of my heart. Despite myself, despite my aching head, I began to enjoy the race through the night. The moonlight, the silver-black gleam of the sea over to our right, the sharp clean smell of wet rocks and seaweed, all gave the ride the quality of a dream, of some adventure from a knightly romance. Almost I forgot the unpleasant reality behind the dream. Almost.