‘Petrarch!’ I shouted ‘Athene!’
And there they were. No delusion this, no dying vision, but my own two dear friends close by, striving towards me, their narrow handsome heads raised high from the water, neighing a greeting and an appeal.
With renewed strength I struck out to meet them. It seemed as though the wind’s strength was ebbing a little and the waters no longer beat so desperately against the side of that terrible cliff which was still visible but a handful of yards away. I was between my horses now, one arm draped over either’s neck and as the water’s surge carried us inexorably back towards the cliff I strained my eyes to find some break in its massy sweep wherein we might land. It seemed flawless, but reunited thus with my family, I could not believe fate had ordained my death that night. And I was no whit surprised when in these comparatively calmer waters a swirling side current caught us and took us spinning round the base of the cliff till the solid face began to break and corrugate into a series of inlets and coombs. Into one of these we finally paddled, half frozen and wholly exhausted, while above the storm as though tired of its game went scudding off to play havoc in some other quarter leaving the same cold untroubled sky that had watched my departure from Bristol.
To lie there and breathe the cold air and feel the frost begin to flower on my sodden skin seemed all the joy a man could ask. But my horses knew better and the wise beasts forced themselves awkwardly upright, their metalled hoofs clanging and slipping against slimy rock. So up I rose too, knowing they were right and that this sharp air could do just as well what the ocean had failed at.
It was a long struggle uphill, but we helped each other, and finally we found ourselves on a track which promised society to me, and Petrarch and Athene must have come across the scent of their own kind too, for they whinnied and walked forward the faster.
The boor who opened his cottage door to my knocking stood amazed as I pushed past him and led my two horses into his warm room. His wife shrieked and the four or five brats huddled beneath their squalid blankets and began to cry. But he knew better than to deny his superiors and instead threw a pile of dry logs on the embers of his fire and set his wife to heating some nauseating gruel.
‘Is this Devon?’ I asked through my chattering teeth.
‘Nay, sire. This be Lundy island,’ replied the oaf.
Lundy. I had heard of Lundy, but could not remember what. Surely it was still held for the King? But I must be careful.
‘Who rules here, fellow?’ I demanded dragging the blankets off the brats and draping one over Petrarch, the other over Athene.
‘The King, master,’ answered the fool.
Well, that answered my question more directly than I had meant. I settled down to getting dry and warm and making sure I had not got frostbite. I stripped myself naked and used some strips of sacking to towel myself down. God’s sputum, but the water seemed to have got right beneath my skin and I doubted if I should ever be dry again. Yet the life was coming back to my fingers and toes and never have I been so pleased to feel pain. At the end of half an hour I began to think I might survive and when I found myself remarking that the woman of the house, though a smudge-faced slut, yet had large and well-formed breasts, I knew I was set to recover.
But her husband it seemed was not as stupid as he looked. He must have taken an opportunity to send one of his brood off for help, for as I tended to my steaming horses, the door burst open and a party of sturdy yeomen rushed in with swords in their hands. The sight of me standing there stark naked between two horses made them halt in amazement. Behind them in the doorway stood another figure, by his clothes and bearing a gentleman. Seeing that all was secure, he now stepped inside, a dignified ruddy-faced man of half a century or so, with a twinkling eye and a hawk-nose.
‘Good morrow, sir,’ he said courteously. ‘In the King’s name, welcome to Lundy. May I be permitted to know your business?’
I threw back my head and laughed. If this was the best Lauder’s Queen of Spades could do, then I would sit at piquet with the devil.
‘In faith, Mr Bushell,’ I said, ‘if you hope for more gold from me, you may plainly see I have none concealed about me. Nay, I am come here to judge how carefully you have managed my previous investment!’
1646–7
Lundy
I never knew a man I admired so much as Thomas Bushell, for he went a-plundering with his tongue just as I went aplundering with my sword, yet he gained every man’s respect – as well as a hundred times more money than I. There was a kind of innocence about him which derived from his true belief in the feasibility of all his schemes. At one time he had a plan to tap Snowdon, a great hill in the Welsh wilderness which, when the local populace discovered it was like to flood the countryside, they resisted with force. ‘Yet it would have made me rich. Aye, rich,’ he assured me, puzzled that so good an argument for his plan should ever have met with opposition.
Politically he was no fool either. Regarded as one of the most loyal of His Majesty’s supporters, he proved his loyalty by refortifying the semi-ruined castle of Lundy and occupying it in comfort, safe from the vicissitudes of the mainland war, for there was but one landing place on the island’s cliff-secured coast and though a few boat loads of determined men might have overrun the weak defences, yet would the loss of life have been disproportionate to the winning of this small block of grass and stone.
I was well entertained and after a few days Thomas and I became very familiar. I told him most of my sad story which he heard with sympathy, only interrupting sometimes to reminisce of his own periods in gaol from which he had ever contrived to scape with much greater ease and less bloodshed than I. When I came to my financial losses at the hands of that treacherous bastard, Croft, he became grave, wished that he had the wherewithal to repay what I had invested with him, but confessed (as though it were a trifle) to owing a total of fifty or sixty thousand pounds. Yet even knowing this, when he came to talk of new projects for following the Welsh silver lode out beneath the sea, I would have supplied him with my last coin, had any remained to me!
It is to satisfy Sir Thomas, and to do I know not what for myself, that I have taken to setting down these accounts of my life. It was a laborious task to start with, but now, these many weeks later, I find it comes as easy as riding a well-schooled horse.
Sir Thomas is highly skilled in the theatrical arts of sound and light, and many an evening we have sat with a bottle of French wine between us (most of which I drank for he was extremely temperate) and watched some ingenious entertainment of his devising, with thunder-claps and lightnings, rainbows and water-spouts, and strange musics of all kinds.
It is a magical time and all the more precious to me for my awareness of the bitter fighting and the bitterer memories which lie behind me on the mainland. My only cause for concern has been Athene’s health. Petrarch made a complete recovery from his ordeal after the shipwreck but Athene is plagued still with a cough and a lameness in her left fore-hoof which has been deeply gashed at some time, probably as she dragged herself ashore. Still, we have much to be thankful for.
I was called to the cliff-head one morning soon after my arrival by a group of the peasants who farmed on the island and, following their pointing fingers I saw far below lodged between two rocks which only appeared at low tide a human body. It was Hugh Trengold I was certain, though at this distance and after the work of fish and water little enough remained to make identification certain. These bucolic fools were bent on clambering down the cliff-face to retrieve the corpse. I assured them that they would find nothing of value. He wore no rings and most of his clothing had been dragged off by the sea. It was not worth the risk of a life. Then the boobies told me that it was to give him a Christian burial that they were willing to hazard themselves! This in my eyes put them beneath contempt so I said no more. However, noticing that my first host on the island was among those venturing himself, I made haste to his hovel where without preamble save to kick the brats and hens out.
I tumbled his wife on the hearth. Do not misunderstand me, I had no fear of the fellow but why make even a peasant your enemy when there is no need? The wife took it all in silence with no false modesty or foolish resistance and when I heard later that her stupid man had slipped on the cliff-face and broken his ankle, I visited them again and left a silver coin I had won off one of Sir Thomas’s retainers at dice. Why I did this, I know not. Perhaps I am developing a sense of responsibility.
Sir Thomas and I have found much in common besides our time in gaol. Though I know nothing of mining save that done by pioneers in a long siege and he knows nothing of warfare save how best to use explosives, yet at many points have our interests touched and from theory we have moved to practice, blowing large holes in the island rocks. I think I could bring down a castle wall with great ease now. Christmas Day we celebrated with a great feast and one of Sir Thomas’s entertainments, at the height of which effigies of Cromwell and Fairfax were blown to pieces. This smacked rather much of paganism to me, but delighted the peasants.
There has been little news from the mainland during this long winter, but now the spring is here again, word begins to come of new disasters for the King. A Parliamentary ship approached our harbour the other day, a small vessel yet with cannon enough to do us harm. Fortunately Sir Thomas had devised a pair of floating petards which were kept in a house by the shore for dryness till a ship was sighted, then drifted on lines across the mouth of the little bay so that they bobbed in the water like the buoys used by fishermen to mark their lobster-traps. The petard priming was ignited by a pair of snaphanses connected to the shore by long cords. I had devised these myself, knowing full well the double dangers of all our modern firing devices, that they go off too early or not at all I
So the ship approached. Some of our men were for a parley, but I dissuaded them, pointing out that, once ashore, these trained fighters would make light work of the defenders. The ship was now nosing between the petards and to my dismay I saw that the bow wave was floating the buoys away from the hull. The knave operating the cords on the left hand petard must have seen this too, for now he pulled and with a great roar the bomb exploded. But alas, it was already too far to do any harm save send up a great spout of water to soak those on deck.
The helmsman however must have taken the explosion for a cannon-ball for suddenly he swung his wheel hard over to take them off the line along which he guessed our gun was firing, and in doing so brought the prow of the ship right against the other petard.
I pulled on the first cord and nothing happened; swearing foully, I pulled on the second. A short gap. The buoy seemed to have been forced right beneath the keel of the ship and I feared the powder must now be flooded.
Then it blew up.
I did not think a ship could sink so quickly. The deck was already awash before our rowing boats had reached it and all that remained was to slit the throats of those whose heavy arms had not already carried them to the bottom. Soon the water was reddish-brown like the lees of a bottle of claret and my peasants were looking at each other with the delight and horror and amazement of those who have just discovered the experience of killing.
One prisoner we took to learn the news and he told us most boldly that the King’s cause was lost, Ralph Hopton had surrendered Falmouth to Fairfax and his soldiers had joined their conquerors, while but a week later the last of the King’s forces large enough to be called an army had been broken at Stow-on-the-Wold. I think the fool was bold in his speech in the hope that certainty of the King’s defeat might make us fearful to destroy him, but of course my brave peasants quickly realized that none save he knew of our part in the destruction of the ship and without more ado he was thrown over a cliff. The ship lying clearly visible in a few fathoms was then plundered by divers and afterwards dragged by a fleet of rowing boats into deeper water both for concealment and to prevent it becoming a hazard to navigation. I might make something of these fellows if I had the training of them.
The King has been taken by the Scots and Oxford has fallen. This is the news our fishermen have brought back after talking to their fellows from the mainland. It is a year since Naseby, Digby’s battle to end all. I thought of Annette and of old Lauder. Had they both remained in Oxford till the end? There was none other I spared much thought for. Rupert and his brother Maurice are to leave the country. Did their mother still live? I wondered. And did she ever think of Fantom?
I grow tired of life on this island. The summer was well enough and the bad news seemed distant enough. But now the thought of another winter is a pain to me. Thomas smiles and says all will be well but, though I almost believe him when he is present, after he has left I know he speaks foolishly. I think the old rogue is now in debt to every native of Lundy too! In truth, there’s scarce a family here that is not in debt to me or I to them, depending on how you regard my service to the womenfolk. The men are less friendly than before and I have taken care to let them see my prowess with sword and pistol to deter any rashness.
Essex is dead, God rest the man. He was a bore but he plucked me from the noose a couple of times. So: Essex dead, Rupert banished. Who shall protect me now? Yesterday I was caught with one of the local women and her stupid husband forgot his place and raised his hands against me in violence. I had to kill him and two others who came to the fellow’s aid. Has this levelling philosophy reached even here?
Christmas has been a quiet cold time, far from our lively celebrations of a year ago. Supplies and spirits are equally low. Thomas is resolved to return to the mainland once the New Year brings in fair weather. Perhaps I shall go with him and rely on his golden tongue for my protection. Perhaps I shall go back to Germany and see if those stupid wars still hold employment for a man of my talents. I am now nearly fifty. God help me, I grow weak at the thought of a hard campaign.
Thomas has gone. He plans to sail up the Welsh coast and land near Chester where he believes his connection with the King will cause him least danger. I should have accompanied him but that Athene is too ill to travel. She has been in poor health since we were washed ashore on this cursed place. Besides, Thomas had scarcely money enough to pay for his own passage. He will land I fear with scarce a groat in his pocket. But the man carries his own light with him and has promised to send me news and gold as soon as ever he may! So here I sit, lord of the island, short of victuals and shorter of comfort. I scarcely dare venture out, the peasants regard me so threateningly. They have learnt to kill and men do not soon forget that lesson.
News both good and bad. Athene has died. I should be used to this by now but each loss touches my humanity. Later the same day I have been something relieved by the arrival of a small ship whose captain has brought a letter from Thomas and a purse of gold. What gullible ears has he been pouring his honeyed words into! The letter tells me of Cromwell and the King but I have no more interest in their stupid politics. More interestingly, he also says that those who remember me believe I was indeed hanged at Oxford. Somebody certainly was. Could it have been poor Lauder? Well, he had had a long life. Of Annette nothing is known. Perhaps she lives still on her brother-in-law’s charity in some awful Welsh fastness. Or perhaps she has gone back to her native land. Perhaps the beautiful boy himself is not dead but jingles his way still across Europe in pursuit of Fantom.
But these are idle fantasies, unfit for a soldier.
The Captain tells me he sails on the evening tide. My passage is paid for. I have told him I will come.
Last night I dreamt of a green garden seen through a courtyard, with nectarines and roses and a fountain of crystal-water playing.
The peasants have guessed at my departure. I have heard them gathering on the road from the castle gate. Doubtless they are clutching their weapons won from the wrecked ship. They will not readily let me pass unscathed.
Petrarch is waiting too. He neighed joyfully as I saddled him up. He is keen to be on the move again. I thought of his mother, sweet Laura; of nimble Osman, noble Orfeo; of awkward, eager,
loving Luke; of gentle Athene. What friends I have had.
Someone has discharged a musket-shot at the castle wall. Why do they hate me so? It is nearly evening. Time I must go. They fire again, growing bolder, calling on me to come out.
Fools! Do they not know I am a hard-man?
About the Author
Reginald Charles Hill FRSL was an English crime writer and the winner of the 1995 Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1978 by the Estate of Reginald Hill
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5969-5
This 2019 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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REGINALD HILL
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