‘Forget what I have just said,’ she said hurriedly under her breath as she picked up her basket. She attempted to feign an air of confidence. ‘I promise I will do my best to get you out of here, Silas.’ She looked around at the other inmates, who she could now see were no different to herself, but for their debts. She gave her brother what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Goodbye, Brother. I will visit you again soon.’
‘I will look forward to it,’ he said as she turned away and tried to walk calmly from the room.
Jenna crossed the cobbled courtyard towards the alleyway and freedom. All around her she could hear the sobs and cries of the inmates emanating out through the glassless windows and thick stone walls. The smell of unwashed bodies and damp slowly receded, but refused to go away completely. Outside the prison walls Jenna rested the back of her head against the damp wall and breathed in deeply. The taste of the stench remained in her throat and her brother’s face remained behind her lids, but at least the sun now touched her skin and she knew what she must do.
Silas’s face brightened as he watched his sister leave. During her brutal marriage she had wilted like a flower in a drought. The plucky Jenna of old had disappeared for a time, but the hangman’s rope had finally freed her from the man she had grown to fear. Her parting words showed him that the old Jenna had returned, with a strength and attitude that could be used to his advantage. With Jenna’s help, perhaps there was a chance that he could be freed from the hell he found himself in. Hole in the Wall was his prison, but Jenna was his means of escape.
Chapter Three
Jenna smelt the succulent aroma of the pig roast as it wafted towards her. It mocked her senses, making her empty stomach rumble in protest. Nearby, laughter broke out at a puppet show, while traders bartered over their wares in the market square. Jenna ignored it all as she had more important things on her mind. This was not the first time she had been to the Mop Fayre at Goverek, but it would be the first time she waited to be hired.
Held at the end of the harvest, a Mop Fayre provided a means for agricultural workers and domestic servants to be looked over by prospective employers. The initial period for hire was one week. This enabled workers to return the following week and be rehired if the placement turned out to be unsatisfactory. If all parties were happy with the arrangement, the period lengthened to a year.
Jenna held her mop in her right hand and looked down the line of men and women on either side of her. Each person held a tool to represent their trade and from her cursory glance, she could see that she had competition. Four other women held mops too, while the men held an assortment of trade implements – one pitchfork, two blacksmith irons and one scythe. Jenna looked ahead and held her mop more tightly. She had no home, money or food in her belly and her brother’s debts to pay. At her feet lay a bag containing all that she owned as she had finally left the home of her parents-in-law and did not plan to return. Everything depended on her giving the impression that she was healthy and willing to work hard. She had not eaten all day and spent almost all of her money to buy a ticket so she could take part in the hiring process. Jenna was desperate, but she was determined not to let it show on her face.
Although Jack was not a frequent visitor to the Tolbridge Inn, he sensed the tense atmosphere as soon as he entered it. Unlike many drinking houses, this one was unusually sparse of customers, and those that were present soberly stared into their ale and talked in whispers. Beads of perspiration glinted on the landlord’s forehead and he appeared preoccupied as Jack asked for a tankard of ale. As he poured the drink he nervously looked over his shoulder at his wife and grown daughter. They stood stiffly, side by side, in the narrow passageway leading to the cellar stairs. They appeared to be waiting for something and were as nervous as the landlord, with their arms interlinked to provide comfort to one another. Something was not right and Jack wanted to learn more.
After tossing a coin on the counter, he sat down at a table that allowed him a good view of the women. He saw an unspoken message pass between husband and wife and suspected what it might be. Shortly afterwards, the sound of heavy, booted footsteps on the cellar stairs confirmed Jack’s suspicions – the premises was being searched for smuggled goods.
Jack watched from the shadows as four preventative men emerged from the darkness of the cellars. To the relief of the women they had found nothing illicit, but Jack noticed the landlord sigh deeply as he wiped perspiration from his face with his sleeve. He shows the relief of a guilty man, thought Jack, as he nursed his ale.
‘We have found nothing this time, but we will return,’ the leading officer warned the landlord as he walked past him. Some customers looked up to watch him leave, but instead he chose to address the room. ‘I am Captain Henley, Head of the Land Guard. My riding officers make up the preventative force that patrols the coastline in this region. I am determined to reduce the smuggling trade in the area. Does anyone here have any information that would help us?’
Someone got up and left the room, ignoring his request, whilst the few customers who had bothered to look up turned their faces away. The Captain frowned.
‘If you will not speak to me, speak to Tilbury here.’ One of his men stepped forward, but the customers who had chosen to remain kept their heads bowed. The captain snorted; he would get no help here. He signalled to Tilbury with a jerk of his head. ‘Gather the others and leave. We will find nothing here as I suspect they have been warned we were coming.’
As he was leaving he noticed Jack for the first time. He hesitated, but Jack looked through him as he lifted his tankard and took a long drink. The captain shook his head in frustration and led the rest of his men out into the daylight.
As soon as they were gone the atmosphere changed. Laughter broke out and whispers returned to normal conversation. More customers entered and the landlord, who had been mute before, welcomed them in as if nothing was amiss. His banter ensured his customers’ attention; his relief that the danger was gone was evident to all who had seen him before. Only Jack noticed his wife and daughter lift their skirts to reveal two kegs of brandy hidden beneath their petticoats.
The smuggling trade had grown over the years, helped by the government’s high taxes on imported goods such as tea, cloth, wine and spirits. Only the rich were able to afford such luxuries. However, the demand for such imports remained and the free traders stepped in to dodge the taxes and make a profit.
Jack believed there were few people in Cornwall who had not made use of, or profited from, illicit contraband. He did not begrudge them their luxuries or a means to earn money to feed their families. Britain had fought many expensive wars in recent years and the burden of debt was crippling. The long talons of poverty, and the suffering it brought, could be felt and seen everywhere in the county. If the free trade meant that a child had a full belly as a result of the money his father earned as a free trader, so be it, but unfortunately Jack knew from experience that smuggling had a darker underbelly. It fed on fear and controlled by torture, and while many enjoyed and profited from the trade, there were others whose involvement was brought about by coercion from violent gangs. Gangs like the one led by the Blake brothers, who he would like to see hanged at Deadman’s End.
Jack called for another drink. The landlord heard him. Smiling, he came over carrying a warm jug of ale.
‘They have gone away empty-handed today,’ Jack observed, attempting to engage him in conversation.
The landlord’s smile faded and refused to be drawn. Silently, both men watched the ale pouring into the tankard.
Jack tried again. ‘I hear smuggling is a profitable trade. I may have some money to invest. Who do I need to see?’
The landlord stopped pouring. ‘That will be another halfpenny,’ he said, ignoring his question. Jack took out some money, placed it on the table and pushed it towards him. The landlord reached forward for it, but Jack stopped him with his hand.
‘They found nothing here,’ whispered the landlord gravely, lookin
g nervously about him before adding, ‘and you will learn nothing from me.’
Jack released him and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you could help me. Forgive me, I was mistaken.’
The landlord narrowed his eyes and straightened. ‘You are not from these parts,’ he said.
‘I’m from Zennor way.’
‘An isolated place.’
‘Isolation has its advantages.’
‘So they say.’
Jack realised he needed to tread more softly to gain this man’s trust, for the landlord had much to lose.
He took a drink and nodded in appreciation of its flavour. ‘A few months ago I took over the tenancy of the Captain’s Cottage and have since rented a few fields nearby.’ The landlord said nothing, although Jack noticed that he did not leave. He saw this as a good sign. ‘I have a mind to start a smallholding and farm the land.’ Jack did not like to be untruthful, but he needed the community to feel they had nothing to fear from the stranger in their midst. Pretending to be a farmer was the best cover he could think of. At least he knew what he was talking about. ‘The land on the cliff is too exposed for farming, but some of the fields sweep down to the valley and are south facing. They have rich soil and would grow a crop or two. I think I will be able to make a living in time.’
The landlord’s face softened. ‘An empty house soon decays over the winter,’ said the landlord. ‘It needs a living soul to warm its belly with a fire. You sound like you know about farming?’
‘I do. My father was a farmer.’
The landlord smiled. ‘Then perhaps you are not such a stranger after all. Cornwall is littered with farmers and fishermen. Have a trade in either and you will be accepted wherever you settle.’
‘But I will need to earn the odd penny from elsewhere until it is up and running.’ Jack noticed the smile slip away from the landlord’s face once again. He must be more patient, he told himself, and not press further. He smiled. ‘There is a strong community in these parts,’ he said, changing the subject yet again. ‘I saw the hanging a week or so back. Quite a crowd left their homes to watch.’
‘The poacher?’
‘Yes, did you know him?’
The landlord nodded. ‘He drank in here some days. Henry Kestle was his name.’
‘A boy hung from his legs to quicken his death.’
The landlord frowned. ‘A boy? He had no son.’
‘Perhaps someone paid him.’
‘He was not well liked. There are many who are glad to see him gone.’
‘Did he have family?’ Jack asked, surprised to find himself fishing for information that had nothing to do with smuggling or the Blake brothers.
‘He had a wife called Jenna. She is a pretty, quiet little thing, with long brown hair. She may have paid someone.’
Jack nodded, satisfied.
‘Yes, she may well have paid someone,’ he said, not wishing to give away her deception.
Their conversation was interrupted by a heated argument at a table nearby and the landlord was forced to leave Jack and attempt to calm the frayed tempers. Jack, leaving the rest of his ale untouched, sat back to watch the farce that was developing between a disgruntled man, his wife and her unsuspecting lover.
The woman’s temper would not be easily calmed. She stood squarely between the two men arguing and told the landlord to shut up before he had a chance to speak. Her stance was mutinous, her black, greasy hair lay flat to her head and her ample bosom heaved against the grimy neckline of her dress. She is a catch indeed, thought Jack with a smile, as he watched the men fight over her.
‘Spendin’ my money, then sneakin’ off to see ’im!’ shouted her husband as he pointed at the thin man on the other side of his wife. ‘I can’t stand the sight of ya – both of ya!’
Her lover was taller and older than his rival, but did not carry the lines of worry as heavily. The men’s eyes locked over the woman’s head, as they clenched their fists in an act of bravado.
‘Nor I, you old fool,’ shouted back his wife. ‘I can’t stick another ten years of your moanin’ and snorin’.’
Her husband’s face reddened with rage as he made to grab her, but was held back by those who had gathered to watch. Angrily, he shook them off, but was soaked in ale, thanks to his wife.
A roar escaped him as he lunged for her again. People scattered as he fell upon her with open arms, but she was ready for him. Clutching one another in a crude wrestling hold, they fell onto a table, before ungainly rolling off the other side and landing with a grunt on the unforgiving slate floor. Eager hands dragged them apart and held them fast, as husband and wife aimed wild kicks at each other. The lover stood between them to try and ease the tension, but it only fuelled the husband’s anger more. While he writhed and swore, his wife broke free of the drinkers who held her and, taking advantage of his captivity, tried to hit him with her flailing fist. Inadvertently she hit her lover and a new shouting match began. Before long all three were trading insults as a cheering crowd looked on.
The landlord had had enough.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Stop or I will throw you all out! I’ll have no more fighting!’ Surprisingly, like naughty children muted by their guilt, the three culprits stopped. The landlord pushed his way through the crowd and looked at the husband.
‘You come here every evening moaning about your wife and wishing you never married her.’ He turned to the woman. ‘And you are always telling my wife how much you hate him. This cannot go on.’
The husband shook off his captors. ‘’Tis true. We ’ate each other and no one is ’appy.’ He pointed to the other man. ‘You can ’ave ’er!’
There was a short silence while tempers simmered and cut lips and noses were dabbed.
‘But I wan’ it done proper,’ the husband insisted, having no reason to trust either of them. ‘I don’t want ’er comin’ back to me and tryin’ to lay ’er ’ands on my money. It’s been a livin’ ’ell puttin’ up with ’er. ’E’s right, it cannot go on and I want the marriage ended.’
‘It’s what I want too, you big lout,’ said his wife angrily, linking her arm with her lover’s.
‘Sell her to him,’ a voice suggested from the back of the crowd who had gathered around them. The husband considered the proposal then nodded.
‘All right, but I want witnesses. I want proof that the deed ’as been done.’
Keen that another fight would not break out, the landlord made a suggestion. ‘There is a Mop Fayre in town. You could buy a vendor’s ticket that will provide proof of sale. It’s being held at the market square so there will be plenty of witnesses. The Mop Fayre will provide you with all the evidence you will need.’
The husband, satisfied with the suggestion, took off his belt and tied it to his wife’s wrist. ‘Come with me,’ he said, leading her out of the inn. ‘You are about to be sold to ya lover – God ’elp ’im.’
The trio left, followed by several customers who had a mind to watch. Jack had heard of wives being sold to end an unhappy marriage, but he had never witnessed it. He thought for a moment as to his next course of action as the inn began to empty around him. He had gained little information from the innkeeper regarding the smuggling trade in the area, although he was more forthcoming about the poacher’s widow.
Frustratingly, the woman had continued to tease his mind since the hanging and he found himself often wondering what her story was. At least now he knew she was the wife of the poacher and that the battered tricorn hat, which was too big for her head, hid long brown hair underneath. The colour, he imagined, would be dark and go well with her almond shaped eyes. The name, Jenna, matched her well. It was a shame it was such a pretty name and rolled off the tongue so gently, as it was just one more thing that would make it difficult to forget her.
He pushed his ale away from him. He rarely drank more than a tankard, as too much drink loosened a man’s tongue. In his line of work he had to remain vigilant, and women, or too much drink, could land a man in t
rouble. It did not matter that it might taste as good as the ale at Tolbridge Inn or look as good as a woman called Jenna Kestle, both were best avoided in great quantities.
Jack decided that there was nothing to keep him at the inn and, looking for a diversion from his thoughts, he followed the trio and the other customers out into the sunshine. The Mop Fayre was not the usual place to obtain a wife, he thought, but it seemed today that it was and he wanted to be there to see it.
Jenna had stood in line for almost an hour. One at a time she bent her knees to soothe her aching muscles. Standing still was not natural for her, and her legs were starting to rebel at the forced confinement. She had begun the day hopeful, but with each passing minute her hope was dwindling. There were only two hours of light left and the crowd was already beginning to disperse. She was almost hired twice, but one recognised her as a Cartwright and the other took a disliking to her.
‘You will cause trouble with your doe-like eyes,’ said the woman through narrow lips, as she looked down her nose at Jenna. Ignoring Jenna’s pleas that she would not, the woman passed her by in order to hire the next person. Jenna’s desperation and stubborn streak impelled her to stay and her hopes rose again when a large woman with a florid complexion climbed the makeshift stage and waddled towards her on arthritic legs.
Jenna’s attention was so taken by the potential employer that at first she did not see the two men, one of whom was leading a woman by the wrist, come into the square. The noise from the crowd behind them, as they encouraged others to follow too, was a large enough spectacle to finally take both the women’s attention and the hiring process was momentarily interrupted.
‘I ’ave ’ere in my ’and a ticket to sell,’ shouted one of the men. ‘In my other, I ’ave a wife. Who wants to bid for ’er?’
A bid was dutifully offered by the second man and a cheer went up. A jovial atmosphere had descended in the square at the entertainment on view.
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