by Rod Duncan
“A room and a bath,” he said.
Maria Rosa didn’t respond.
“And rooms for my men. Stabling for the horses. We’ll need fresh pack animals.”
Elias watched as the mistress calculated the risks. Her eyes kept returning to Elizabeth. “Will you be paying?” she asked.
Jago patted the purse hanging from his belt. “With gold,” he said. “And there’ll be compensation for the use of your oath-bound maid.”
Maria Rosa curtsied and then stepped into the yard. She called a name. The old man and Tinker came running around the corner of the inn to take the reins of the horses. They must have been waiting just out of sight. The boy could have been released by Jago’s gatherers. Or he’d escaped.
Jago stepped inside, followed by Logan and Elizabeth. Firehand ducked under the lintel and then turned, blocking the way. Elias made to push past, but the giant shoved him back, hard enough to send him sprawling. The door closed and Elias was alone.
He knew there would always be someone watching in New Whitby. But his feet took him along the road anyway. It was as if all his willpower had been used up on the journey. The track traced a broad curve over a low ridge and down until the shingles of Charity’s roof came into view, then its limewashed walls, its windows. A cart filled the roadway just outside. One man stood on the back of it, rolling heavy kegs to be taken by a second man in the street. Beer or wine, Elias thought. There was no telling, really. Not that it mattered. A voice in his head was shouting at him to turn back. But that would have looked worse. And he was close enough now to see that the man on the cart shared Charity’s blunt features. It was an easy puzzle to solve. He was her brother. That meant the one in the road must be her husband.
Elias had been thinking to turn off before reaching the house. A side alley ran through towards the beach. But now he wanted to see the husband properly, not half-hidden behind a wagon. So he carried on walking. At the last moment, as he drew level, he turned his head and looked.
He was a powerful man, the husband, shoulders rounded. He lifted a keg so easily that it might have been empty, but for the bunching of the muscles in his arms. His face showed no emotion. No humanity, Elias thought. But it was his hands that drew the eye. Each fist was like a hammer, the knuckles scarred from use. A fighter, then. The image of Charity’s crooked nose flashed into his mind. He felt sick.
“Looking for something?” the man growled.
Elias hadn’t been aware of stopping. But there he was, facing the men straight on, close enough to reach out and touch.
“Well?”
“Oats,” Elias said. His voice sounded dry. “Where can I buy oats in this town?”
The man on the back of the cart scratched his head. “How much do you need?”
“Never mind… I just thought…”
“Try Spooner’s place. The blue house over by West Jetty.” He pointed.
“Thanks.”
“You’re the one just in with the Patron.”
“I… yes.”
“You were here before. At the Salt Ray. The cards and dice man.”
It wasn’t a question but he found himself nodding anyway. The man on the cart jumped down and stepped towards him. His sleeves were rolled up despite the chill. Straw dust had caught in the hairs of his arms. There was no weapon at his belt. But he’d be carrying a knife somewhere.
“You talked to my sister,” he said.
“I… I don’t know.”
The two men glanced at each other.
“I have to go,” Elias said. “The Patron…”
He walked away, not knowing where he was going, not looking back, following around another curve until the track petered out at the edge of town. Then he carried on for a quarter of a mile, until there was a ridge of rocks between him and the men and Charity. If she was even there. He sat down, staring at nothing.
How easy it had been for her to say that ink was just ink. Unaligned, she had no loyalty, bore no mark, had no way to understand what he’d lost. He put his face in his hands and wished for the world to disappear and blackness to swallow him.
A trickle of customers arrived at the inn, through the early evening. Not so many as on a normal night. Everyone knew that Jago had chosen to board there. Those crossing the threshold would be spies working for one clan or another. Or they’d be freelancers, gathering news to sell to the highest bidder.
When Elias opened the saloon door, he found himself facing the wall of Firehand’s chest. Again. The usual fug of tobacco, wood smoke, warmth and ale wafted out to the step where he stood. An inviting splash of yellow lamplight. The giant reached, as if to shove him back. But this time, Elias dodged it, surprised to find a shred of dignity worth protecting.
Tinker was waiting for him when he slunk into the stable-yard.
“I’m to give you this,” the boy said, holding out a candle lantern. Whether it came from Elizabeth or the mistress, he couldn’t tell. “She said careful not to burn the place down.”
By such thin light, he found his way inside. Each pony or horse had been given its own stall, its own feed. Animals had ranks, he’d been told. The top beast will bite the ones below if it thinks they stand too tall. He wondered if they felt the humiliation: the pack horses that had to follow behind Jago’s stallion. Their breathing sounded gentle. Relaxed.
He climbed the ladder to the hayloft and found a jug of ale set on the boards and two potatoes with charred skins, still hot from the embers of a fire. He broke one open and inhaled the steam. He ate slowly at first, speeding as it cooled and as his body remembered its own hunger. Afterwards, he climbed back down with the bar of soap from his bag and stripped naked to wash in the yard, dousing himself in water from the trough, cold enough to set his teeth chattering.
But Charity might come to him again. He didn’t want the stink of ditches, sweat and campfire smoke to put her off. They’d have one more turn in the hay together. Then she’d be gone and that would be an end to it.
Back in the loft he sat waiting, filling his belly with ale. His eyes drifted closed. Three times he woke himself with a start. Until it was clear that he wouldn’t see her. Then he bedded down and fell into a dead sleep.
At some time in the night he dreamed that she’d come to him.
When the cold woke him, it was still dark. From the memory of the dream he reached out a hand expecting to touch her. But he was alone. There was little hay above. Not remembering if that was the way he’d left it, he dug himself in deeper. This time his dreams were uneasy.
In the first grey light he gave up trying to sleep. The remains of the ale put some strength back into his belly, though it was bitterly cold. No one else was about but the horses had woken, their ears twitching as he walked along the line. Pausing in front of the smallest of the pack animals, he stroked its flank. Jago’s stallion stamped in the next stall. The animal didn’t choose its master. It wasn’t its fault. Yet Elias made a point of giving feed and water to all the others first.
The old stable master arrived just after dawn. He scowled at Elias, who was working with a brush on the flank of one of the pack horses.
“What y’ doin’?”
“Earning my keep.”
“It’s the boy’s work.”
“If they’d let me inside, I’d scrub the hearth. But…”
The old man spat before hobbling away.
Next in was Tinker, sucking on a straw. He seemed content to watch. But on hearing a shout from outside, he dropped himself from the barrel he’d been sitting on, grabbed the brush from Elias’s hand and set to work.
By sunrise, a fine rain was falling. The cobblestones of the yard shone in the thin light. There being nowhere else to go, Elias sat on the barrel, and tried to get the boy to talk. But Tinker had few words for him.
“How did you come to work for Maria Rosa?”
“Just did.”
“Then tell me how you got away from Jago’s men.”
“Ran.”
It couldn’t have been so
simple.
“Where are your parents?”
A shrug.
“How long have you known Elizabeth?”
At this question the boy turned away and busied himself with some small detail on the side of the stall. His devotion to her was plain. His loyalty.
“Elizabeth’s a good woman,” Elias said. “And clever, I think. I’ve never met another like her.” The boy’s shoulders dropped a little, suggesting this new approach had put him more at ease. “I guess she’d stand out in any land. Though she hides it well. You’re right to look after her.”
The boy glanced back at him, a smile creasing that dirt-smeared face.
“Hold onto her,” Elias said. “That’s my advice.”
“Yeah,” said the boy, and seemed about to say more, but footsteps echoed from the walls of the yard outside and the moment had gone. The boy patted the horse’s neck and moved on to the next stall.
“Good morning.” It was Maria Rosa, her expression businesslike.
“Morning,” Elias said.
“Tinker,” she called. The boy poked his head up from behind the stall. “There’s hot oatmeal waiting for you in the kitchen. Go.”
The brush clattered to the ground and the boy ran out into the rain.
“Oatmeal for everyone?” Elias asked.
She shook her head.
“How are things in there?” He nodded towards the main building.
“How do you think, with that bastard making use of Elizabeth.” Her eyes narrowed.
“It’s not my fault,” he said.
“It is every bit your fault. You said there was a way for her to get to Labrador. You served her a false hope and she swallowed it.”
“She forced it out of me. With threats! Don’t you remember?” He moved his hands together in front of him, a gesture of helpless submission.
“Jago thinks he’s taking her to the Reckoning,” Maria Rosa said. “She could run, but she tells me she wants it. You have to talk to her.”
“I’ve tried. She won’t listen.”
“She says you’re going – to the Reckoning.”
He nodded.
“And she says you’re set on revenge. Is it true?”
“What does it matter?”
“Such plans mean ruin in the end. If she’s with you, you’ll drag her down.”
“What is she to you?” he asked.
Maria Rosa stepped along the line of stalls, stroking the nose of one of the horses. Others stretched out to sniff the air as she passed. Then she turned to face him again. “I’m in her debt,” she said. “But it’s more than that. She’s become dear to me. I never had a daughter. And she…”
“She wants to leave,” Elias said. “But you want to keep her. That’s the truth of it. You’re no better than me.”
“The path you’ve set her on will lead to ruin. That’s the truth!”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you’re afraid she’ll get what she wants and you’ll lose her forever. Have you told her how you feel?”
The mistress nodded, but he could see doubt in her eyes. “Not in such plain words,” she said.
“Then tell her straight. It’ll have more chance of changing her mind than anything I could say.”
“It’s not for herself she takes such risks. There are two others. She’ll do anything to help them. Even if it meant her own death.”
“The stable boy,” Elias said. “Tinker. Is he one of the two?”
She didn’t deny it.
“Where’s the other one?”
“Not here.”
“Elizabeth’s going to leave you,” Elias said. “One way or another.”
“Then I want you to protect her,” Maria Rosa said. “As far as you can. I’ll reward you for it.”
“You won’t even have me at the inn!”
“That’s Jago’s doing. Not mine.”
“Will you tell me something?” he asked.
Maria Rosa nodded.
“The woman who was talking to me in the saloon that night…”
“Charity?”
“Her. You said something about a husband. Then she ran off.”
“I do remember.”
“What did you mean by it?”
“She’s married. That’s all. Some people need reminding.”
“Do you know how she got her broken nose?”
Maria Rosa tilted her head, as if assessing him afresh. “Like I said. She’s married. Don’t you have enough trouble in your life?”
“I was just curious.”
Maria Rosa frowned, sceptical. “Jago told me they’re moving out tomorrow. And taking my Elizabeth. Be sure to keep a watch for her. I’ll not forgive you if she suffers.”
A kitchen girl brought him a plate of mutton and potatoes, a jug of ale and a fresh candle for the lantern. He asked for blankets, which Tinker brought afterwards. From sleeping in a cold hollow under a rainy sky, to the luxury of a hayloft. With blankets, no less. All in the space of two days. But none of it pleased him. The only comfort came from knowing that he was truly alone. The world could turn to ashes and he wouldn’t care.
In a few days the glycer-fortis would be used up. After that he would die. Or perhaps be given more. Either way, he would set the wheels moving. Jago would take his bomb to the Reckoning. He’d kill all the other Patrons and their sons and advisors. The men who’d destroyed his life would themselves be dead.
He dipped his cloak pin into the greasy medicine and smeared it on the underside of his tongue. A good measure. The heat of it filled his mouth. His chest relaxed. His heart rate slowed.
He was nothing. Jago was right. But he would have his revenge. The world would burn.
The sound of footsteps below made him open his eyes. He knew them even before hearing the familiar creak of the ladder flexing under her weight. He felt the blankets lift as she slipped in next to him. His reaction to the sound of her breathing and the scent of her skin caught him by surprise. In that moment, he needed her and the knowing of it terrified him.
Then her full lips were on his and she was climbing onto him. His face wasn’t bruised any more. Or at least, it wasn’t tender. Her kisses were firm but didn’t hurt. He felt himself sinking deeper into the hay.
“Charity,” he whispered.
She put her mouth to his ear. “Say my name again.” Her next kiss was more passionate but he needed to understand.
“What happened to you?”
“Happened?”
“Your nose was broken.”
He felt her pull back, as if to look at him, though it was perfectly dark. “A fight,” she said. “Long ago.”
He remembered the scarring on her husband’s fists. “Will you be in trouble? For this, I mean.”
“What more trouble can there be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then put it away.”
“But I want to understand.”
He felt her hand on his chest, searching lower over his stomach. “Your body understands,” she said.
“I saw your brother. And your husband. I shouldn’t have gone to your house. I’m sorry. But he asked who I was. I had to tell him.”
She placed a kiss on his brow, on each of his eyes.
“And now you’re here,” he said, his voice shaking. “He’ll know. Everyone knows everything in this place. And…”
“No, they don’t!” Her words were emphatic. “It wasn’t him that broke my nose. Now say my name again.”
So he did, whispering it close to her ear: “Charity.”
Chapter 26
Fog: the world reduced to white and grey. Slick cobbles. Condensation running on the small panes of glass in the houses of New Whitby. Had it been London, everyone would have huddled indoors around smoky fireplaces. But this was Newfoundland. Where there was fog there could also be smugglers.
It wasn’t the prospect of a public execution that brought peasants out onto the beach. There were rewards for anyone who sighted a smuggling boat. The prop
erty of the smugglers would be divided. By custom and precedent, first sight was generally held to be worth one-twentieth of the total. Though naturally, there was no binding law. A sum great enough to lift a peasant out of poverty. The fog was a kind of lottery, free to play, but for the bone chill and the slow, inevitable dampness. But Elizabeth had other reasons to venture out.
Though sounds were muffled, she could hear the clanking of boats at anchor in the bay. That gave her a direction, guiding her through the stumbling white, over the rocks at the headland point. The sucking and scouring of the shingle told her the beach was close.
A fog had cloaked her unwonted arrival on Newfoundland. Even then, she would have been discovered but for the remoteness of the cove. Only afterwards had Maria Rosa explained how lucky she’d been. Since then, and once she had grown to understand the parameters of her problem, each new fog had called her out to watch and listen.
She’d found a kind of safety at the Salt Ray Inn. But if she remained, the day would eventually come when she was discovered. Of the two who’d come with her, she was least concerned about Tinker. The boy fitted in. He could adapt. It was Julia she worried about. Her looks would attract attention. Her accent might give her away. Or someone could simply ask the place of her birth. Elizabeth had long ago given up trying to teach her friend to lie. Julia’s straightforward and direct nature made it impossible. Even to think of speaking an untruth lit her face up red. Hiding in the hills had kept her safe so far. But that could not last.
Maria Rosa couldn’t take them across the waters to Labrador or Nova Scotia. Nor would Elizabeth have asked her to chance it. But smugglers did sometimes make the crossing. If only she could find one, she might demand passage in return for silence.
From out in the bay came the regular beat of a steam engine. That would be a gunboat, she thought. Each time she’d seen the fog lift, the water had been dotted with fast launches, positioned ready to race after any boat making a break for it. On other stretches of coast, the spoils went mainly to the local Patron. Thus the unaligned coast around New Whitby yielded the richest bounty.
Like all lotteries, it was played more for hope than reward. The odds were too low to be meaningful. Better to come home frozen and yet to have dreams than to stay by a sluggish fire as a dead soul.