The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  The ship rounded Maughold Head and then turned inland following the rugged coast to the harbour at the north end of Laxey Bay. Brent was grateful that it was wide and shallow because he had only been a sailor for three months and his knowledge of navigation was elementary.

  They tied up at the jetty at Laxey and, leaving the master in his berth, Brent made for the narrow main street of the town which lay in the shadow of Snaefell, the highest mountain in the Isle of Man.

  Brent had been glad to take to the sea and get away from the watchful eye of Sarah Rigg with whom he lodged in Cockermouth. He had proved an adept apprentice and pupil and had soon justified Ambrose’s confidence that the man was no idler but possessed of a good brain as well as a hardy body.

  Indeed, a curious and unexpected friendship had grown between Brent and his employer, who proved not only fair and hardworking but curiously honest in his rough-necked kind of way. Brent had discovered how much in awe of his wife Ambrose really was; how he resented his humble ancestry, his lack of manners and how he looked to Sarah to turn him into a gentleman.

  It was too late to turn Ambrose Rigg into a gentleman, Brent knew that. As he listened to his outpourings over the port when Sarah had gone to bed, he tried to persuade him that the things Ambrose considered important were not – that using a napkin and developing fine airs were of far less consequence than charity, kindness and honesty and the sort of diligence and business acumen that Ambrose so successfully displayed.

  Brent envied him these things and he told him so and, as Ambrose listened to this young lad, his eyes were opened and he developed a sense of self-respect for his own innate attributes that were God-given and not acquired.

  Consequently Sarah Rigg, seeing how affected her husband was by his association with Brent, how less respectful towards herself, was eager to have him out of the house and gladly concurred when it was suggested that Brent should leave clerking in the warehouse and take to the sea.

  Brent went to sea at a very bad time – mid-February, a month of storms and gales; but he found his sea legs quickly and also a sense of survival. He learned rudimentary navigation and the storing of ballast, and how to stow the sails with the maximum of speed when the storm winds blew up.

  He had survived a battering three month’s apprenticeship. Now it was May and the seas were calmer. The trees and hedgerows were abud with new life in the lanes of Cumberland and the Isle of Man, and he felt a lightening of the heart as he climbed up the steep main street of Laxey. His object was to see to the new cargo for Whitehaven of lead and copper ore, products of the mines at Dhoon north of Lazey, the purpose of this trip. At other times he put into the creeks nearer Maughold and Bradda Head to take off zinc and galena. In return he brought timber and wool and food, for the Isle of Man was very dependent on the mainland of England from which it had been ruled since 1300, the Dukes of Athol having recently taken over from the Stanleys who had been Lords of Man for three hundred years.

  It was a fine clear day, a breeze blew in from the sea and Brent came to the house of John Collister, a ship’s merchant and chandler with whom he had had commerce before and who was one of Ambrose’s agents on the island.

  John Collister, a bluff handsome man of fifty and an ex-sailor who had acquired a wooden leg in the wars against France, was waiting for Brent, sitting at a table piled with bills and ledgers. He got up as Brent came in and called for his daughter Harriet to fetch some ale.

  Harriet, wearing her best bonnet and apron was pleased to answer her father’s summons: she always had a glad eye for Brent Delamain whenever he came to Laxey – but he only gave her the most casual of glances, polite but nothing more. Not that Brent was unaware of Harriet’s charms or her obvious intention of bestowing them on him, freely, for the asking. She made it quite clear by the way she flounced in and out or lingered by the door gazing slyly up at him. Once she had even followed him on some pretext or the other; but all to no avail. Since he had wrenched himself from Mary Allonby, Brent was a different man. He was determined to make a fresh image for himself from that of a philanderer and idler: to work hard and preserve his virtue in order to be worthy of Mary.

  For a man of Brent’s disposition the work was no hardship, but the maintenance of chastity was, especially with Ambrose forever suggesting a visit to the local bawdy house and making it clear that he frequented the place often himself.

  ‘Art a puritan lad?’ Ambrose would chide suggesting he had expected better. But it was the only complaint he had against Brent, so he decided to keep a wise counsel, say no more and continue to visit the bawdy house by himself.

  Brent and Mary had made up for the force of the separation by an exchange of letters. He had written, on reflection, to explain his behaviour to her and asked her to show the letter to her brothers as a sign of his good intentions. After a short interval Mary had replied indicating her acceptance of the situation and her happiness at the sacrifice Brent was prepared to make to woo her.

  From then on they corresponded chastely every week, but they never met. Brent had imposed on himself this condition: their next meeting would be to wed.

  He well knew the meaning of Harriet Collister’s glances as she brought in ale and oat cakes. He smiled at her in his detached friendly fashion, willing enough to exchange the time of day with her, but John seemed anxious for her departure and waved her away. His face was serious as he poured out the ale from the jug into a tankard of thick pewter and pushed it over to Brent.

  ‘Good voyage?’

  ‘A devil for the time of year. We were very light and bobbed about like a cork.’

  ‘And Dinward?’

  ‘Drunk.’

  John nodded. Dinward was the master and seldom sober, good sea or bad.

  ‘Ambrose should get rid of him. He is a menace and a threat.’

  ‘He is a good sailor when sober, and I am learning fast.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  John got up and, with his tankard in his hand, hobbled over to the window looking through the thick panes which gave on to the harbour. He turned and glanced at Brent as though to say something and then turned away again. Brent knew the signs of restlessness.

  ‘You have aught to say to me John and cannot?’

  John turned round, quaffing his ale from his tankard so that a line of fine white froth remained on his upper lip.

  ‘I know not where to begin.’

  ‘John, if it is your daughter, I am promised ...’

  John gave a hearty laugh and wiped his lip on the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘Oh, you observe how she hankers after you. No, I told her she had no hope there, a nobleman ...’

  ‘’Tis not that! I am promised to my cousin. Harriet is a fine lass.’

  ‘Aye, aye and she’ll get wed soon enough; but it is not of Harriet I speak. Brent ...’ John sat down heavily and put his large hand squarely on his good knee. ‘I wonder which way you are?’

  ‘Which way ...’ Brent looked at John in bewilderment. ‘Because if I speak out of turn I am undone.’

  Collister stared at Brent as though willing him to understand what he was saying, and then Brent did understand. It came to him suddenly and clearly.

  ‘Which way ... politically?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ Collister sat back with a sigh of relief; now he had no need to fear compromising himself.

  ‘You are only asking me for one reason, John. There is much unrest abroad, much talk-of revolt. You are asking me if I am for the Stuarts?’

  ‘Aye.’ John gazed at him, mouth half open, eyes glinting.

  ‘Of course I am for the Stuarts; you know our family.’

  ‘I know they are divided, that much I heard. That one of your brothers is a popish priest and the other a Whig baronet. It was through the priest that news came of you ...’

  ‘From Tom? You have heard from Tom?’ Brent jumped up, his face glowing. ‘I have tried so hard to contact Tom since I came to Whitehaven; but he has gone aground.’

  ‘N
ot gone aground. He is with the Prince, but the Prince is now surrounded by many men. Most wish him well, but some harm. He has to be careful. It is hard to tell who the traitors are – disaffected Irish soldiers, men of all descriptions and every nationality you can think of surround him. Not all honest men. But now ...’ John leaned forward his eyes gleaming, ‘the Prince has made up his mind to sail.’

  ‘For England?’

  ‘For Scotland. The recent defeat at Fontenoy by Marshal Saxe of the combined British and Hanoverian force under the command of the Duke of Cumberland has determined the Prince that the time is ripe. He is preparing to sail this very instant.’

  ‘But surely it is folly?’

  ‘Aye, folly and a grand one at that. All Scotland will flock to such a brave Prince and then all England, too. You will see, in a few months the Stuarts will be again on the throne.’

  ‘Then how do you know, what part do you ... will the Prince land here?’

  ‘Nay, in the north of Scotland where all is prepared. But men close to Murray of Broughton, one of the Prince’s right hand men, have been in touch with contacts of mine in Scotland and Cumberland. We are to get as many provisions for the Prince as we can from France and Ireland and America, muskets and cannon and gunshot and swords – and smuggle them into England.’

  Now the light dawned. Brent stood up and refilled his tankard. ‘And you want me to help?’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Can I not’ Brent shouted. ‘John Collister, I was born to live for this day. You have made a man of me. I was sworn to serve the King and the Prince, but I had an injury that has affected my leg. But for it I would have gone to France with my brother, been by his side and that of Prince Charles this very instance. But I could not go and Tom, perforce, left without me. He left no message and nowhere to find him. Then Ambrose offered me work and he is well known for his Hanoverian sympathies, though sometimes I wonder. ..’

  ‘Oh, he is Hanoverian all right,’ John said grimly. ‘Make no mistake about it. That is why he must never know of what is afoot, that we are using his ships to smuggle arms into England.’

  ‘Then how shall we do it?’

  ‘Easily. You know Fleswick Bay close by St Bees?’

  Brent nodded.

  ‘We will have a boat waiting to rendezvous with you; a small craft capable of travelling over shallow water. You will get the Captain drunk, put out the anchor and it will all be done. Then you proceed to Whitehaven with your ore.’

  ‘A smuggler!’ Brent exclaimed excitedly. ‘An arms smuggler.’

  ‘And a price on your head if you are caught.’

  ‘My family have already died for the Stuarts.’

  ‘I know. I heard. But I had to be sure.’

  ‘Oh, John, you can be sure of me.’ Brent went over to the older man and clasped his shoulder. Then they solemnly shook hands and downed the rest of their ale. ‘Now tell me how it is to happen.’

  ‘I have the goods here in my barn,’ John said leaning towards Brent and lowering his voice. ‘We will load the ore this afternoon and the arms tonight. Then you set out with the morning tide.’

  ‘But Dinward. He will be sober by then.’

  ‘He will be sober to see the ore loaded on board. Then the hatches will be closed and he will be taken to the town by one of my men.’

  ‘And sloshed with ale.’

  ‘Precisely, while we load the ship with arms. By first light if he is sober he will not know what he carries in his ship. You should approach Fleswick at nightfall tomorrow. That will be the difficult time; so you must ply Dinward with enough drink to ensure a good slumber and tie him up in his cabin. Our men will rendezvous at midnight.’

  ‘But if Dinward wakes? He has a good head.’

  John looked at him, his face grim. ‘Then you must kill him.’

  Brent stared for a long while at the old mariner. It was the first time that the prospect of death as a part of the forthcoming battle had become a reality. He had talked about it often enough with gallantry and without any real understanding. He had made it romantic in connection with Mary Allonby. But now it might mean a blade through the back in the small hours of the morning and the dumping of a weighted body out at sea. Now it was reality.

  ‘Could you kill, Brent?’

  Brent considered before answering.

  ‘In cold blood I cannot think of it; but we are engaged in war ... I have considered it often enough. I could do it.’

  ‘Good. Dinward would be not such a bad thing to start on. He is a good-for-nothing rogue and I believe he has no family so you would not be leaving a widow and orphans.’

  ‘Let us hope it does not come to that,’ Brent said. ‘But what of the crew?’

  ‘They are stupid men, also fond of drink. Quiggan the mate is fond of money and him we can bribe. He will help you.’

  ‘Good then give me the details – who I am to meet and how.’

  Later that night Brent stood on the deck smoking a pipe. The great crags rose up towards Snaefell which looked as though it was snow-capped in the white light of the moon. It had been a bad night for loading dangerous goods; too bright and too mild, too many people strolling on the quayside. But now it was done and Brent leaned over the side of the ship gazing into the clear water, hoping for a calm run on his first mission as a servant, albeit a humble one, of the true King.

  And indeed at first all went well. Dinward was brought aboard drunk and slept all night; but at dawn he was wide awake, alert and on deck. The trouble with Dinward was that he got drunk easily but he recovered very quickly. Brent could see that a problem would occur in twelve hours time as they anchored off Fleswick Bay.

  But problems occurred before that. The promise of good weather did not hold and it was a rough voyage. Instead of drinking, Dinward stayed on deck eagle-eyed, directing the passage of the boat through the high waves that pounded from the west.

  After a stormy voyage the seas still pounded against the ship but, before dark, the welcome coast of Cumberland came into sight, first as a thin line on the horizon. Then, as the boat got nearer, Brent could see in the distance the mountains of Lakeland topped by great Scafell rising from the flat coastal stretch. He thought of Mary so near and yet so far, whom he could not see. She would be getting the supper now or reading a book by candlelight, or gazing into the twilight as night began to fall upon beautiful Lake Derwentwater.

  The nearer they got to the coast the calmer grew the seas and Brent went down to the galley to eat, a scratch meal at sea consisting of chunks of bread and salted beef and pots of warm ale. The five crew members, who included the mate Quiggan and the master Dinward, sat around already well into their food. Brent was glad to see that Dinward was also well into the whisky, of which he kept a private store. Dinward looked on suspiciously as Brent sat beside him, steadying himself against the rolling sea.

  ‘Ye’re a lot on deck this voyage.’

  ‘’Tis to keep away the sickness,’ Brent said. ‘’Tis too stale for me down here.’

  ‘“Too stale for me”,’ Dinward mimicked Brent’s voice. ‘Oh dearie me.’ The crew tittered.

  There was no love lost between Brent and Dinward. Dinward objected to the fact that Brent was somehow in the place of his master, Ambrose Rigg. He felt he was being spied upon. He resented his breeding and what he thought of as his fancy manners. Brent was no swearing seafaring man but, because he was the captain and in charge, Dinward did all he could to make it hard for Brent, to make him do the basic unpleasant tasks at sea and teach him as little as possible.

  But Brent wasn’t slighted. Although he didn’t like Dinward he knew what was behind his treatment of him, the reason for the dislike. He did as he was told and said little. Now as Dinward went on taunting him Brent doggedly ate his food and drank his ale, grimacing because it was sour.

  Quiggan the mate munched solidly not looking at Brent. He had been easily bought having little liking for Dinward. He, too, knew about the cargo, only he thought it was s
ilk and tobacco. It was his job to get Dinward drunk. It was also up to him to suggest the ship should halt before Whitehaven.

  ‘Best anchor over night, Dinward. Stop the rolling. Too rough to approach Whitehaven.’

  Dinward gazed at him calmly but drained his whisky straight from the bottle, one rheumy eye on his mate.

  ‘Aye. Drop anchor by St Bees. We can have a good night’s sleep.’

  Brent’s heart leapt. Dinward was playing into his hands! But he made no movement or comment apart from glancing at Quiggan who had started to sing. The fact that they were going to anchor made the company relax and everyone, except Brent, got down to drinking in earnest.

  Brent was on watch and after he had eaten went up on deck again. It was a cloudy night, no stars and no moon. He looked towards the shore but could see nothing. After a while Quiggan joined him.

  ‘That was well done,’ Brent said. ‘Fleswick is just past St Bees Head.’

  ‘I don’t like it somehow,’ Quiggan said, and Brent could see him scowling in the light of the lantern that hung from the mast.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That he suggested St Bees. Don’t it seem weird to you?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Fleswick nearby is known for smuggling. Why should Dinward suggest it?’

  A cold finger of fear momentarily touched Brent’s heart, and he looked in the gloom towards Quiggan.

  ‘You think he knows?’

  ‘I just think it odd, is all. He’s well into his second bottle of the hard stuff, but I still don’t like it,’ Quiggan said, stamping his feet in the cold air. ‘I don’t like any of it. Best abandon it if you ask me. It was done in too much of a hurry.’

  ‘But we can’t! We’ll have the customs on to us in Whitehaven. They know well what is afoot in France. They’ll open the hatches and that will be that.’

  ‘Overboard then?’

  ‘All those guns and gunpowder?’ Brent whispered hoarsely. ‘Are you mad? They are badly needed, and the money for such is not easy to find. We’ll have to chance it. Go below and see they all get drunk. We can manage ourselves.’