On the other hand, I was drunk, too. Plus they had Julian who, going on looks alone, could handle himself.
But I had another idea. That lone rider I could see in the distance. If I could just hold off the Cobleighs till he arrived, the odds were likely to shift back in my favour. After all, if he was of good character, the lone rider was bound to stop and help me out.
‘Well, Tom Cobleigh,’ I said, ‘you got the advantage over me, that’s obvious for anyone to see, but, you know, I just wouldn’t be able to look my mother in the eye knowing I’d let you and your cronies abduct this pretty young thing.’
I glanced up the road, to where that lone rider was getting closer. Come on then, I thought. Don’t hang about.
‘So,’ I continued, ‘even if you end up leaving me in a bloody heap by the side of this here road, and carry that young lassie off anyway, I’m going to have to do all that I can to make it as difficult for you as possible. And perhaps see to it that you go on your way with a black eye and maybe a pair of throbbing bollocks for your troubles.’
Tom Cobleigh spat then peered at me through wizened, slitty eyes. ‘That’s it then, is it? Well, are you just going to stand there talking about it all day, or are you going to attend to your task? Because time waits for no man …’ He grinned an evil grin. ‘I’ve got things to see, people to do.’
‘Aye, that’s right, and the longer you leave it the more chance that poor lassie has of sobering up, eh?’
‘I don’t mind telling you, I’m getting tired of all this talk, Kenway.’ He turned to Julian. ‘How about we teach this little bastard a lesson? Oh, and one more thing before we start, Master Kenway, you ain’t fit to shine your mother’s shoes, you understand?’
That hit me hard, I don’t mind admitting. Having someone like Tom Cobleigh, who had all the morals of a frothing dog and about half the intelligence, able to reach into my soul as if my guilt was an open wound, then stick his thumb in that open wound and cause me even more pain, well, it certainly firmed up my resolve, if nothing else.
Julian pushed his chest forward and with a snarl advanced. Two steps away from me he raised his fists, dipped his right shoulder and swung, and I don’t know who Julian was used to fighting outside taverns, but somebody with less experience than me, that’s for sure, because I’d already taken note of the fact that he was right-handed, and he couldn’t have made his intentions more obvious if he’d tried.
The dirt rose in clouds around my feet as I dodged easily and brought my own right fist up sharply. He shouted in pain as I caught him under the jaw. And if it had just been him, the battle would have been won. But Tom Cobleigh was already upon me. From the corner of my eye I saw him but was too late to react and, next thing you know, I was dazed by knuckles that slammed into my temple.
I staggered slightly as I swung to meet the attack, and my fists were swinging much more wildly than I’d have liked. I was hoping to land a lucky blow, needing to put at least one of the men down to even up the numbers. But none of my punches made contact as Tom Cobleigh retreated, plus Julian had recovered from my first strike with alarming speed and now came at me again.
His right fist came up and connected with my chin, spinning me about so that I almost lost my balance. My hat flew off, my hair was in my eyes and I was in disarray. And guess who came in with his boots kicking? That worm, Seth Cobleigh, shouting encouragement to his father and Julian at the same time. And the little bastard was lucky. His boot caught me in the midriff and, already off balance, I lost my footing. And fell.
The worst thing you can do in a fight is fall. Once you fall it’s over. Through their legs I saw the lone rider up the highway, who was now my only chance at salvation, possibly my only hope of getting out of this alive. But what I saw made my heart sink. Not a man on a horse, a tradesman, who would dismount and come rushing to my aid. No, the lone rider was a woman. She was riding astride the horse, not side-saddle, but despite that you could see she was a lady. She wore a bonnet and a light-coloured summer dress, and the last thing I thought before the Cobleigh boots obscured my view and the kicks came raining in was that she was beautiful.
So what, though? Good looks weren’t going to save me now.
‘Hey,’ I heard. ‘You three men. Stop what you’re doing right now.’
They turned to look up at her and removed their hats, shuffling in line to hide the sight of me, who lay coughing on the ground.
‘What is going on here?’ she demanded to know. From the sound of her voice I could tell she was young and, while not highly born, definitely well-bred – too well-bred surely to be riding unaccompanied?
‘We were just teaching this young man here some manners,’ rasped Tom Cobleigh, out of breath. Exhausting business it was, kicking me half to death.
‘Well, it doesn’t take three of you to do that, does it?’ she replied. I could see her now, twice as beautiful as I’d first thought, as she glowered at the Cobleighs, who for their part looked thoroughly mortified.
She dismounted. ‘More to the point, what are you doing with this young lady here?’ She indicated the girl, who still sat dazed and drunk on the ground.
‘Oh, ma’am, begging your pardon, ma’am, but this is a young friend of ours who has had too much to drink.’
The lady darkened. ‘She is most certainly not your young friend, she is a maidservant, and if I don’t get her back home before my mother discovers she’s absconded then she will be an unemployed maidservant.’
She looked pointedly from one man to the next. ‘I know you men, and I think I understand exactly what has been going on here. Now you will leave this young man alone and be on your way before I am of a mind to take this further.’
With much bowing and scraping, the Cobleighs clambered aboard their cart and were soon gone. Meanwhile the woman dismounted and knelt down to speak to me. Her voice had changed. She was softly spoken now. I heard concern. ‘My name is Caroline Scott. My family lives on Hawkins Lane in Bristol; let me take you back there and tend to your wounds.’
‘I cannot, my lady,’ I said, sitting up and trying to manage a grin. ‘I have work to do.’
She stood, frowning. ‘I see. And did I assess the situation correctly?’
I picked up my hat and began to brush the dirt from it. It was even more battered now. ‘You did, my lady.’
‘Then I owe you my thanks and so will Rose when she sobers up. She’s a wilful girl, not always the easiest of staff, but, nevertheless, I don’t want to see her suffer for her impetuousness.’
She was an angel, I decided then, and as I helped them mount the horse, Caroline holding on to Rose, who lolled drunkenly over the neck of the horse, I had a sudden thought.
‘Can I see you again, my lady? To thank you properly when I look a little more presentable, perhaps?’
She gave me a regretful look. ‘I fear my father would not approve,’ she said, and with that shook the reins and left.
That night I sat beneath the thatch of our cottage, gazing out over the pastures that rolled away from the farm as the sun went down. Usually my thoughts would be of escaping my future.
That night I thought of Caroline. Caroline Scott of Hawkins Lane.
4
Two days later I woke up to the sound of screaming. In a rush I dragged my breeches on and hopped out of the room with my shirt unbuttoned, still pulling my boots on over bare feet. I knew that scream. It was my mother. Moments later her screams had died down to a sob, replaced by my father cursing. The soft cursing of a man who had been proved correct.
After my fight at the Auld Shillelagh I had returned to the tavern in order to do something about my cuts and bruises. To numb the pain, so to speak. And what better way of doing that than with a drink or two? Thus, when I’d eventually arrived home I’d been in a bit of a state. And when I say ‘state’, I mean ‘state’, as in a man who looked as though he’d been in the wars, which I had: bruises to my face, my neck, my clothes ragged and torn. But also ‘state’, as in a man wh
o had had far too much to drink.
Either one of these two things were likely to make Father angry, so we’d argued, and I’m ashamed to say I used some choice language in front of my mother. And of course Father was furious about that, and I felt the back of his hand for it. But what had really enraged him was that the brawl, as he called it (because he wouldn’t accept that I’d been protecting a lady’s honour, and that he would have done the same in my position) had all taken place during the working day. What he saw was them, exhausted from their labours, and me, getting drunk and into fights, sullying the good name of the Kenways, and in this particular case storing up even more trouble for the future.
‘The Cobleighs.’ He’d thrown up his hands in exasperation. ‘That lot of bad bloody eggs,’ he’d said. ‘It would have to be them, wouldn’t it? They won’t let it go, you know that, don’t you?’
Sure enough, I rushed out to the front yard that morning, and there was Father, in his workclothes, comforting Mother, who stood with her head buried in his chest, sobbing quietly, her back to what was on the ground.
My hand went to my mouth, seeing what had greeted them: two slaughtered sheep, their throats cut, laid side by side in the blood-darkened dust. They’d been placed there so we’d know they weren’t the victims of a fox or wild dog. So that we’d know the sheep had been killed for a reason.
A warning. Vengeance.
‘The Cobleighs,’ I spat, feeling rage bubble like fast-boiling water within me. With it came a sharp, stinging guilt. We all knew it was my actions that had caused this.
Father didn’t look at me. On his face was all the sadness and worry you’d expect. Like I say, he was a well-respected man, and he enjoyed the benefits of that respect; his relations even with his competitors were conducted with courtesy and respect. He didn’t like the Cobleighs, of course he didn’t – who did? – but he’d never had trouble before, either with them or anyone else. This was the first time. This was new to us.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Edward,’ he said. He couldn’t bear to look at me, I noticed; he just stood holding Mother with his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. ‘But you can think again.’
‘What am I thinking, Father?’
‘You’re thinking it’s you who has brought this upon us. You’re thinking about having it out with the Cobleighs.’
‘Well? What are you thinking? Just let them get away with it?’ I indicated the two bleeding corpses on the dirt. Livestock destroyed. Livelihood lost. ‘They have to pay.’
‘It can’t be done,’ he said simply.
‘What do you mean it can’t be done?’
‘Two days ago, I was approached to join an organization – a trade organization, it was called.’
When I looked at my father I wondered if I was seeing an older version of myself and, may God strike me down for thinking it, but I fervently hoped not. He’d been a handsome man once, but now his face was lined and drawn. The wide brim of his felt hat covered eyes that were always turned down and tired.
‘They wanted me to join,’ he continued, ‘but I said no. Like most of the tradesmen in the area the Cobleighs have said yes. They enjoy the protection of the trade organization, Edward. Why else do you think they would do something so ruthless? They’re protected.’
I closed my eyes. ‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘We continue as before, Edward, and hope that this is an end to it, that the Cobleighs will feel their honour has been restored.’ He turned his tired, old eyes on me for the first time. There was nothing in them, no anger or reproach. Only defeat. ‘Now, can I trust you to get this cleared up, while I see to your mother?’
‘Yes, Father,’ I said.
He and Mother made their way back into the cottage.
‘Father,’ I called as they reached the door, ‘why didn’t you join the trade organization?’
‘You’ll learn one day, if you ever grow up,’ he said without turning.
5
In the meantime my thoughts returned to Caroline. The first thing I did was find out who she was, and by asking around Hawkins Lane I learnt that her father, Emmett Scott, was a wealthy merchant dealing in tea, who would no doubt have been seen as new money by most of his customers, but nevertheless seemed to have inveigled himself into high society.
Now, a man less headstrong than myself, less cocksure, might well have chosen a different path to Caroline’s heart than the one I opted for. After all, her father was a supplier of fine teas to the well-to-do households in the West Country; he had money, enough to employ servants at a good-sized house on Hawkins Lane – no smallholder he, no getting up at five a.m. to feed the livestock for him. He was a man of means and influence. What I should have done – even knowing it would be futile – was try to make his acquaintance. And much of what subsequently happened – so much – could have been avoided if I had at least tried.
But I didn’t.
I was young, you see. And no wonder the likes of Tom Cobleigh hated me, I was so arrogant. Despite my social status I thought currying favour with a tea merchant was below me.
Now, one thing I know is that if you love women, which I do, I’m not ashamed to say, you find something of beauty in every woman, no matter whether or not they’re what you might call classically beautiful. But with Caroline it was my misfortune to fall in love with a woman whose outer beauty matched the inner, and of course her charms were likely to catch the attention of others. So the next thing I discovered about her was that she had caught the eye of Matthew Hague, son of Sir Aubrey Hague, Bristol’s biggest landowner, and an executive in the East India Company.
From what I gathered, young Matthew was our age, and as self-important and jumped-up as they come, thinking himself much more than he was. He liked to wear the air of a shrewd businessman, like his father, though it was clear he possessed none of his father’s aptitude in that area. What’s more he liked to think himself something of a philosopher and often dictated his thoughts to a draughtsman who accompanied him wherever he went – pen and ink at the ready to write down, whatever the circumstances, Hague’s thoughts, such as, ‘A joke is a stone tossed into water, laughter the ripples it makes.’
Perhaps his utterings were deeply profound. All I know is that I wouldn’t have paid him much mind – indeed, I would have joined in with the general derision and laughter that seemed to accompany mention of his name – if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d showed an interest in Caroline. Perhaps even that wouldn’t have worried me so much, but for two other factors. That Caroline’s father, Emmett Scott, had apparently betrothed Caroline to the Hague boy, and also the fact that the Hague boy, possibly on account of his condescending manner, his tendency to make vital mistakes in even the most simple business dealings and his ability to wind people up, had a minder, a man named Wilson, who was an uncultured brute of a man, but very big, with one slightly closed-up eye, who was said to be tough.
‘Life is not a battle, for battles are there to be won or lost. Life is to be experienced,’ Matthew Hague had been heard to dictate to his skinny draughtsman.
Well, of course, for Matthew Hague there was precious little battling going on. Firstly, because he was the son of Sir Aubrey Hague, and, secondly, he had a dirty great minder following him everywhere.
So, anyway, I made it my business to find out where Caroline would be one sunny afternoon. How? Well, that was a case of calling in a favour, you could say. You remember Rose, the maidservant I’d helped save from a fate worse than death? Well, I reminded her of that fact one day when I followed her from Hawkins Lane to the market, and then as she made her way through the stalls, deftly avoiding the shouts of the stallholders with a basket in the crook of her arm, made my introductions.
She didn’t recognize me, of course.
‘I’m sure I have no idea who you are, sir,’ she said with little startled eyes darting in all directions, as though her employers might come a-leaping from the aisles between the stalls.
&n
bsp; ‘Well, I know exactly who you are, Rose,’ I said. ‘And it was me who took a beating on your behalf outside the Auld Shillelagh last week. Drunk as you were, you remember the presence of a good Samaritan, I hope?’
She nodded reluctantly. And, yes, perhaps it’s not the most gentlemanly thing to do, to use a young lady’s unfortunate circumstances in such a mercenary fashion to … well, I wouldn’t go as far as to say blackmail, but as leverage, but there we have it. I was smitten, and given that my penmanship skills were none too clever, had decided that a face-to-face encounter with Caroline was the best way to begin the process of winning her heart.
Charm the birds out the trees, see? Well, it worked on traders, and on the occasional young lady I encountered in the taverns. Why not on someone of high-born stock?
From Rose I learnt that Caroline enjoyed taking the air at the Bristol docks on a Tuesday afternoon. But, she said, with a quick look left to right, I should be wary of Mr Hague. Him and his manservant, Wilson. Mr Hague was most keen on Caroline, so Rose said, and was very protective of her.
So it was that the following morning I made sure I took a trip into town, moved my goods as quickly as possible, and then made my way down to the harbour. There the air was thick with the scent of sea salt and manure and boiling pitch, and rang to the cries of seagulls, as well as the endless shouts of those who made the docks their place of work: crews calling to one another as they loaded and unloaded ships whose masts rocked slightly in the gentle breeze.
I could see why Caroline might like it here. All life was on the harbour. From the men with baskets of freshly picked apples or pheasants hanging on twine round their necks, to the tradesmen who merely deposited baskets on the quayside and hollered at visiting deckhands, and the women with fabric, persuading jack tars they were getting a bargain. There were children who had flowers or tinder to sell, or who ran through the legs of sailors and dodged the traders, almost as anonymous as the dogs that slunk around the harbour walls and snuffled at the piles of rubbish and rotting food swept there from the day before.
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