Chewing his way through a piece of warm fruit loaf, John Rhys Owen Morgan glanced covertly at his mother's belly. He wondered when the new brother he'd been firmly promised — but didn't particularly want — meant to make his appearance. Not just yet, perhaps. While Lalage was sitting down, there was no sign of it at all. But when she stood up, the bump beneath her apron was obvious.
He knew she wanted another child. Yearned for one. Last year, she had given birth to a still–born daughter, and been so sad that he had wondered if she would ever smile again. His father had been absolutely heart–broken. John Rhys had actually wept, which was something boys and men just did not do.
But now both parents were their usual cheerful selves again. His mother's merry laughter rang through the farmhouse once more. So Owen supposed the news wasn't completely bad, after all.
Bethan came into the kitchen just in time to apprehend the thief, by now on his second or third sortie. But, instead of clouting him round the ear, the housekeeper smiled her indulgence. John Owen was her lamb, her darling, her best beloved. He could have stolen all the cakes in South Wales and she would have adored him still. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him a sample of one of his favourites. ‘Take one for your Mam, as well. Needs building up, she does.’
Lying back against the door jamb, Lalage let the sun kiss her face. ‘Have you seen your father today?’ she asked casually, as she accepted a hot pie.
‘No.’ His mouth full of melting pastry, Owen grinned at her. ‘He was up long before me. But William thinks he's gone over to Oxwich. Mr Atkins sent a message last night, you see.’
‘Ah.’ Lalage grimaced. ‘He's told you about all that, has he?’ she enquired.
‘Yes.’ The boy nodded. ‘Don't look so upset,’ he added. ‘There's no danger. When I'm older — ’
‘He'll take you with him. That's what I'm afraid of.’ Lalage stood up. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it's a beautiful day. We'll have a picnic, shall we? Down on the sands.’
* * * *
Lalage had fallen asleep against a dune. Inside her closed eyelids, the sun had created a warm, red glow, which was the essence of contentment itself.
Suddenly, however, she was aware of childish giggles. Then she heard a growl of grown–up laughter. She opened her eyes, steadied herself on one elbow, and looked up. ‘John Rhys!’ She smiled in welcome — but then reproach dulled the brightness in her eyes. ‘Oh, darling!’ she scolded. ‘Where have you been, all this time?’
‘Over at Oxwich.’ Yawning, John Rhys rubbed his jaw. ‘Been there the whole day, I have.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Haggling.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ John Rhys Morgan sat down. He took his son on his lap. ‘Don't know why I bother, though,’ he muttered. ‘Don't know for the life of me why I spend whole days and nights shut up in that filthy villain's den. When I could be running on the sands, or snuggled up in my nice warm bed with the two of you.’
‘What did the filthy villain want to see you about?’
‘Oh, my men have been grumbling. Again.’ John Rhys sighed. ‘They have cause, mind. Who does all the bloody work? The Welshmen. Who makes all the profit? Those fat English swine.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Oh, I just put him in the picture. Told him straight.’ John Rhys hugged his child. ‘Who takes the risks, I asked him. Who goes down to the beaches, fair weather or foul, who gets the stuff off the boats? Who's there waiting for the lights in the bay — or the Excise men, to ride up and take us red–handed?’
‘What did he say?
‘He agreed. Well, in the end he did.’ Tugging at a piece of marram grass, John Rhys frowned. ‘A third of all the profit. That's what we'll have from now on. A third of the cash will come directly to me. So, I've done my best. If my men still aren't satisfied, one of them can go and argue the toss with the greedy Saxon pig, for I've had my fill of it, I can tell you now.’
Parents and child walked home together, their backs to the setting sun. ‘We Morgans came out of the sea, you know,’ said John Rhys, conversationally. ‘We are the sons of mermaids. Did you know?’
‘No, I didn't.’ Lalage laughed. ‘So that's why Owen swims like a little silver fish.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Now John Rhys took his son in his arms. He hoisted him on to his shoulders. One hand held the child's ankle, while the other circled his wife's thickening waist. He led his little family back to the grey stone farmhouse.
* * * *
Jack Atkins sat in his study. He glowered down at the papers littering his elegant mahogany desk. ‘Bloody Welsh,’ he muttered, as he stirred his evening chocolate with a finely–chased silver spoon. ‘Greedy barbarians. Filthy, rapacious swine.
‘As for that Morgan fellow! He marries some raddled English whore, so he thinks he can treat me as an equal. Very well — he has what passes for an education in these parts. He's cock of the walk on North Gower. But that doesn't give him the right to dictate — ’
‘You know, we'd get on much better without him.’ Jack Atkins's son Michael, a large, florid, fair–haired man of thirty or so, with something of the Fleming in his blond good looks, stood up. He walked over to the window. He gazed towards the setting sun. ‘Father?’
‘What?’
‘It's high time we gave Mr Morgan up.’
‘Is it?’ Jack Atkins dribbled his spoon through some spilled chocolate. ‘Well — I don't know about that.’
‘Think about it.’ Michael Atkins grimaced. ‘Do so now.’
As the richest, most influential Englishman on Gower, Jack Atkins was a power in the land. A magistrate, and a philanthropist who endowed the local hospice for orphans and the labouring poor, he dined with and visited persons of quality from as far afield as Pembroke, Cardiff and Swansea. He shot and hunted with the local clergyman. He kept company with the other country gentry settled on Gower.
For many years now, he had made a very comfortable living from his rents, his financial investments — and from his other interest. He enjoyed life to the full, and was not disposed to finish his days at a rope's end.
Now, as he thought about John Rhys Morgan, he scowled. ‘We can't give him up,’ he muttered. ‘Not yet, anyway. He knows enough to hang both you and me.’
‘Does he, though?’ Michael Atkins shrugged. ‘He could tell a fine tale, I don't doubt that at all. But would he be believed?’
‘He knows names. Places. Times. He's been involved in this for years. He's — ’
‘He's a stupid, ignorant oaf.’ Picking up a pencil, Michael Atkins tapped it against his chin. ‘He's greedy. He's vicious. But these days, he's presumptuous and arrogant, too. Why, he was almost threatening you this morning. All the stuff about the risks his men take — that was so much nonsense. But the desire for a bigger share in the loot is real. Next, it will be blackmail.’
‘He wouldn't dare.’
‘You think not?’ Michael Atkins stabbed his pencil through several sheets of paper, scoring the fine veneer of the desk. ‘Give him up. That's what I say. Hand him and his rabble over, before he puts the Excise on to you.’
‘There's very little chance of that. I — ’
‘I know you've squared your friends at the Customs House. I know a dozen or more of them do very nicely out of turning a blind eye. But there are others — ’
‘Who can't be bribed. You think I don't know that?’ Jack Atkins scowled, considering. ‘Do you really believe Morgan might try to blackmail me?’
‘If the idea ever enters his thick Welsh skull, I'm sure he'll get round to it some day.’
‘So what shall we do? Let the Excise take him?’
‘Good God, no. We needn't be as crude as that.’
‘So what had you in mind?’
‘I know a fellow in the Swansea militia. A captain.’ Michael Atkins grinned. ‘He's a decent enough chap, but he's immoderately fond of gambling. The poor devil finds it hard to pay his debts of honour. He owes me a favour
or two.’
‘I see.’
‘I could make it worth his while for him and his company to visit Mr Morgan. To take Mr Morgan for a walk. You know what a rough lot soldiers are. Perhaps Mr Morgan will have an accident. Who knows — he might even be dead before they can bring him to trial.’
‘Ah.’ The older man was still not sure. John Rhys Morgan had been a loyal lieutenant. Jack Atkins had trusted him absolutely. But, as Michael now pointed out, he was getting above himself. He was a landowner. A Welsh landowner, who made no secret at all of his dislike of the English overlords on Gower. He might turn dangerous indeed.
‘This captain of militia,’ Jack Atkins began. ‘You think if his men were to arrest our friend, they would do their job properly? Ensure that by the time he reached Swansea, he'd be in no fit state to talk about me?’
‘Or even talk at all.’ Michael Atkins grinned again. ‘Good. We agree. That takes care of that.’
* * * *
The soldiers came early in the morning. Hammering on the door with rifle butts, they raised the whole household. While his men splintered the solid Welsh oak, the officer in charge stood back. This was going to be a disagreeable business indeed. He wished he was back in barracks, still in his bed.
Just as the lock was about to give, the door opened. Dressed and neatly shaven, John Rhys Morgan stood on the threshold. He was seized at once. Presented to the captain, he was asked to confirm his identity. Then the officer told his sergeant to put the Welshman in chains.
‘You must think I'm a very dangerous fellow,’ observed John Rhys. He held out both his hands. Unresisting, he let the soldiers put the rusty manacles on his wrists. ‘Tell me. Does it always take a dozen dirty great redcoats to arrest one little Welshman?’
‘Shut your insolent mouth.’ Observing his prisoner's wife and child — or so he assumed them to be — standing sullen in the doorway, the captain scowled.
John Rhys turned to his wife. ‘I'll be back,’ he promised. ‘Look after Owen. See he comes to no harm.’
‘What did he say?’ asked the captain. For John Rhys had spoken in Welsh.
‘Don't know, sir.’ The sergeant spat. ‘He was probably telling the woman to alert his friends, down in the village. We had best get moving, I think.’
‘Very well. Form up.’
‘Sir.’
Well aware that if he had resisted arrest or now tried to escape, Lalage and Owen would suffer, John Rhys co– operated fully. At the command to march, he marched.
Posted to a company spending the summer season in the back of beyond, the redcoats had seen no action for a very long time. Veterans of service in the Scottish Highlands, however, they'd had lots of experience in dealing with recalcitrant Scots. As far as they were aware, the Welshman was much the same sort of pig–headed, ignorant animal as the Caledonian. He could be jollied along in the same sort of fashion.
They led John Rhys away. In no particular hurry to get back to Swansea, they took the scenic paths, wandering down pleasant country lanes and stopping for frequent rests. Calling at various farmhouses and cottages en route, they commandeered refreshment. Thus, they became steadily inebriated. At each place they stopped to drink, they also displayed their prisoner, to silent, surly villagers. The men stared impassively, the women scowled, but the children wept in fear.
Whenever a large enough crowd could be assembled, the soldiers put on a show. While the people watched, they gave John Rhys a series of exemplary cuffs and blows. These, they felt, would serve as a warning to any other dirty Welsh peasant who might feel inclined to defy the King's majesty, and the Excise men.
By evening, John Rhys Morgan had blood on his face, stripes across his back, and murder in his heart. He'd see Jack Atkins hanged! If the Welshman were to suffer for his crimes, he'd make quite sure the Englishman did, too. He made out his case, and planned his defence.
* * * *
Lalage was beside herself. ‘What shall we do?’ she cried, for the twentieth, the thirtieth time. ‘Oh, Bethan! Speak to me! What on earth shall we do?’
‘Nothing, girl.’ Since John Rhys's arrest, Bethan had been unusually silent. Now, she sighed. Her eyes were full of unshed tears. ‘There's nothing we can do for him now.’
Chapter 28
His face white and ghostly in the early dawn, William Parry came thumping on the splintered farmhouse door. Staring up at the tightly closed shutters, he willed Lalage to appear. ‘Mrs Morgan!’ he cried, growing desperate now. ‘Mrs Morgan, please! You must come to my house, straight away.’
Wide awake until long after midnight, for the past hour Lalage had been dozing. Now, at the sound of William Parry's voice, she roused herself. She opened the casement, and looked out. ‘What is it, William?’ she demanded, her speech indistinct and slurred by weariness. ‘Is the beast– house ablaze?’
‘No!’ William Parry was almost weeping. ‘Come to my house!’ he cried. ‘Come quickly, on your own — ’
‘Is it John Rhys?’ Hope leaping like a flame in her aching heart, Lalage looked down at him. ‘William?’
‘Come on, Mrs Morgan. Get yourself down here. There's no time to lose.’ With that, William disappeared into the shadows of the lane.
After checking on Owen — who was, mercifully, still fast asleep — Lalage threw on her clothes. Silently, she left the farmhouse. Two minutes later, she was in William Parry's warm kitchen.
‘Round the back,’ muttered the cowman. ‘In the old byre there.’ Taking his mistress by the elbow, he led her out of the cottage, across the yard and into the derelict cattle shed now used for general storage. He ushered her into a clean, straw–lined stall.
Lalage now expected the worst. Crossing the cobbled yard, she had noticed the thin, dark trail of blood. Her spirits sinking fast, she entered the byre.
But John Rhys was not dead. He was either unconscious or fast asleep. Evidently, he was sleeping. For, as his wife fell to her knees beside him, he groaned.
‘Good God.’ Looking at him, Lalage gagged. Even in the grey half–light, she could see his face was the colour and texture of raw liver. That his forehead was cut, and his chest a horrible mess of gashes, lacerations and grazes, on which half–dried blood stickily congealed. ‘William?’ she hissed. ‘Why did you bring him in here?’
‘Eh?’ William did not answer her. He merely shrugged.
‘Well?’ Glancing up, Lalage met his gaze. Now, she understood. But she saw no need to be kind. ‘I see,’ she muttered. ‘Betty didn't want her nice clean floor messed up.’
‘It wasn't that, Mrs Morgan!’ Embarrassed, the cowman bit his lip. ‘But if he were found in my house — well, there's Betty to consider. Our little girl, too.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Lalage turned back to John Rhys. She saw fresh injuries now, in addition to the marks of irons on his wrists and ankles, the bruising on his face, and the gashes on his chest. He coughed. Now, bright red pulmonary blood began to seep from a wound on his left side.
Aware of someone crouching beside him, the farmer stirred. He opened his eyes. Seeing his wife, he sighed with relief. ‘Lali?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me. You and Owen — are you well?’
‘Perfectly well,’ Lalage replied. But then she began to cry. ‘Oh, darling,’ she wailed, ‘why didn't you hide? You could have got yourself to Swansea. Or even Cardiff. Why did you come back here?’
‘To warn you, of course.’ John Rhys groped for her hand. ‘They're coming for you, Lali. For you and the boy.’
‘But why?’ Lalage stared. ‘What are we supposed to have done?’
‘Oh, God! As if you need to have done anything!’ John Rhys shook her. ‘Listen. I'll explain.’
‘Well?’
‘When they took me yesterday, I thought I'd never get a chance to escape. But late last night, they left me outside a tavern. They all went in to get a skinful — ’
‘They left you unguarded?’
‘Yes. Shackled, but on my own. I suppose they thought they had used me so roughly
, I wouldn't be able to move.’ John Rhys scowled. ‘But the chains were rusty. The manacles were old. I got myself over to a rock, and smashed the leg irons against it. They came apart, easy as anything.’
‘Oh, darling — ’
‘It was Jack Atkins!’ John Rhys glared. ‘Do you hear me, girl? Jack Atkins. He betrayed me.’
‘Did he?’ Lalage frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Certain of it.’ Coughing up a great mouthful of blood and phlegm, John Rhys attempted to sit up. He failed. When Lalage tried to support him, he pushed her away, and fell back against a bale of straw. ‘Their officer was talking to the sergeant,’ he muttered. ‘Our friend Jack. That's what he said. Our friend Jack ought to be well pleased with this day's work.’
‘I see.’ Lalage smoothed the hair back from his bruised and bloodied forehead. ‘That cut on your chest is deep,’ she said. ‘How — ’
‘They heard the manacles being smashed. They all dashed out of the tavern. One of them lunged at me as I ran, and got me there.’ Coughing again, John Rhys brought up more blood. ‘But I still ran, Lali! God, I ran. I'd heard them talking, see. They'd forgotten I understood their horrible, brutish language. So I knew their plans.’
‘Which were?’
‘To take me to prison, in Swansea. But a couple of them were to come back here, to Llangynnydd.’
‘Why?’
‘To find all the gold I'm supposed to have hidden. Jack Atkins told them I was a rich man. So they were going to make you give the money up.’ The effort of talking exhausting him, John Rhys groaned. ‘If she won't talk, says one, we'll persuade her. How do you mean to do that, asks another. Roast the brat, says the first.’
Now John Rhys was gasping for breath. But he was determined to speak. ‘My God, Lali,’ he whispered, ‘what a dance I led them. All night, through woods and valleys. Along beaches, into quicksands. Stupid drunken English swine. They couldn't catch me. But they'll be here soon. I was afraid they'd be here already.’
He was obviously dying. As he talked, as he drew each breath and exhaled, more bright scarlet blood bubbled through the encrustation which had already dyed his shirt crimson. The straw on which he lay was spongy with gore.
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