The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2)

by Andrew Swanston

  ‘Good day, Thomas. I thought I’d have a quick bath before the market.’ Patrick emerged from the water, shook himself like a dog, and strode up the beach. He wore only a torn pair of old breeches which barely reached his knees. ‘Are you bathing today?’ he asked. Thomas did not reply. He was lost in thought, trying to remember who Patrick reminded him of. It must have been a figure in a painting or an illustration in a book but he could not place it. Patrick tried again. ‘Thomas, are you well?’

  ‘What? Oh, quite well, thank you. What did you say?’

  ‘I asked if you were going to bathe today.’

  ‘No, Patrick, I think not. It’s been a tiring day.’

  ‘Then let’s sit a while.’ When they had settled under the palm tree, Patrick said, ‘I have spoken to Adam Lyte about you and he has promised to give the matter thought. He would like to help but he is conscious of his position in the Assembly. He is not a man to rush into decisions.’

  ‘I shall keep hoping.’

  ‘Good. Never lose hope. And how are the lovely brutes? I hear that the turkey and shoat dinner was not a complete success.’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘They’re repulsive, Patrick. Repulsive, filthy, brutal and many other things. The dinner was excellent but the conversation less so.’

  ‘If you say so,’ laughed Patrick. ‘How did a country as civilized as England manage to turn out those two brutes?’

  ‘England civilized? With the king imprisoned, cousin killing cousin and innocent booksellers sent here on trumped-up charges and without trial? While England burns, I daresay there are parts of Africa more civilized.’

  ‘Perhaps there are. Perhaps there are places where all laws are just, no one breaks them, everyone is equal, healthy and prosperous and there are no arguments ever. Not here, though.’

  They were silent for a while, until Thomas asked suddenly, ‘Did you know that in England Parliament was so frightened of witchcraft that it appointed a man named Hopkins to search out witches? A man to find witches, for the love of God. Sixteen and a half centuries after the birth of Christ and we’re looking for witches. They find an old widow who lives on charity and can’t defend herself and do you know how they prove she’s a witch? If she makes a mistake reciting the Lord’s Prayer or if she has some kind of mark on her – the Devil’s Mark, they call it – or if she doesn’t drown when they tie her up and throw her in the river, she must be a witch. So they hang her or burn her. It defies belief.’

  ‘And if she does drown? Are they murderers?’

  ‘I think they are but the law says otherwise. It’s hardly the justice of a civilized society. Based on superstition and benefiting no one.’

  ‘And yet you want to return there.’

  ‘Only because my family are there. I’d want to go anywhere they were, however uncivilized.’

  ‘How old are your nieces now?’

  ‘Polly is ten and Lucy eight. I miss them beyond words and I think of them every day. It’s summer in England. They should be playing in the meadow, paddling in the stream, collecting flowers, but they could be anywhere. They have only a little money and Margaret might have been forced to leave the house and move away.’

  ‘You’ll see them again, my friend, civilized society or not. Never doubt it. Now, I’ve got another book for you and a pair of tallow candles. They’re not very big but you’ll get some light from them.’

  ‘Thank you, Patrick. What’s the book?’

  ‘It’s a book of poems by a Lady Mary Wroth. Do you know her?’

  ‘I do. I once suggested to a dear friend that she follow Lady Wroth’s example and write poetry.’ Thomas took the small leather-bound volume from Patrick and examined it. ‘Thank you, I’ll return it next week if I survive.’

  ‘You’ll survive, Thomas. You have a survivor’s look about you.’

  ‘How does a survivor look?’

  ‘He has something to go home to. Most haven’t. It shows in the eyes.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Thank you for Lady Wroth. She’ll make a change from Henry More.’

  ‘Thomas, your sacks look heavy. Can I help you up the hill with them?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The climb was easier as much for Patrick’s company as for his pony carrying Thomas’s sacks. ‘I envy your knowledge, Thomas,’ remarked Patrick as they walked.

  Thomas laughed. ‘I fear it is very slight.’

  ‘My mother speaks of an elder of her village who was never short of wise advice for anyone who cared to listen. He liked to explain the importance of knowledge. In the forest it was everything. What to eat and what to leave alone, how to tell where you were, what were the signs of danger. The means of survival. Opinions were dangerous unless they were based on knowledge.’

  ‘He sounds very like an ancient Greek philosopher named Socrates. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He was a strange man but he prized knowledge above all else. He said it came from rational thought and could be supported in argument. Mere opinion could not. Could your village elder have read his works, do you think?’

  ‘An interesting idea,’ laughed Patrick, ‘though unlikely.’

  When they reached the path to the brutes’ house Patrick asked if they should take the sacks in. ‘Better not,’ replied Thomas. ‘If the brutes see you they might kill both of us and eat your pony.’

  ‘Very well. Keep hoping, Thomas. I will speak to Mr Lyte again.’

  ‘Thank you. Go well, Patrick.’

  Thomas took the sacks straight to the kitchen. The chance meeting with Patrick had cheered him but he was weary and sat down to catch his breath. Before long, however, and unable still to remember the subject of the painting, he thought he would give the new privy a quick try before the brutes appeared.

  He was about to do so when they did. ‘Go and fill in the old privy before we shove you down it,’ snarled John Gibbes. Thomas picked up the shovel. And then he remembered. It was Odysseus, after yet another narrow escape. The illustration was in a children’s edition of Homer’s Odyssey. It used to make him laugh. Shipwrecked, starving, naked, far from home, yet managing against everything the capricious gods could throw at him to look happy and heroic. He’d better not tell Patrick; he might think the heat had boiled what was left of Thomas’s brain.

  Thomas carried on doing as he was bidden, cooking when required, keeping the ledgers neatly and accurately, taking the abuse, giving them no excuse for the whip. Not that they needed an excuse; the terrible thing might appear at any moment. And the evening he saw them coming up the path towards the hut, he thought that moment had come. A bottle in one hand and his whip in the other, Samuel looked murderous.

  John, close behind and also carrying a bottle, pushed past his brother, grabbed Thomas by his neck and hissed at him through black fangs. ‘We’re going out, Hill, and we don’t want to see you when we get back. If we do, you’ll taste this again. Stay here and keep out of our way. Is that clear?’

  Again, Thomas nodded. Gibbes reached out and smashed the bottle he was holding against the hut. He held it a few inches from Thomas’s eyes. ‘And you’ll get this if we so much as hear you fart.’

  Relieved at having escaped the whip or worse, Thomas watched them swagger back to the house. He had no idea what they were planning to do but being seen or heard when they returned would probably not be a good idea. He would stay in his hut and use his last stump of candle to read Lady Wroth until he fell asleep.

  When he woke, it was pitch dark. At first he thought the rain beating on the roof had woken him. The Atlantic winds often brought rain at night. He lay still, listening to the storm and hoping not too much of it would find its way inside the hut. When the storm passed, the air had cleared and the tiny frogs resumed their singing. They were always noisier after rain.

  He was on the edge of sleep again when he heard a scream. There was no mistaking it. It was a scream of terror and it had come from the house. It must have been a scream that h
ad penetrated the storm and first woken him. Reminding himself that the brutes would be less than pleased to see him, he lay on the narrow cot and tried not to listen.

  He wondered hopefully if they might be killing each other – delicious thought – but the scream had been that of a woman, high-pitched and agonized. No matter, he would ignore it. And then it came again. Louder this time, even more anguished and full of rage. But it was a different scream. There were two women.

  Taking care to be completely silent, Thomas pulled open his door and slipped, barefoot, out into the darkness. He was in very little danger of being heard as he approached the house. The brutes would be too drunk to notice anything. But in case one of them came outside, he stayed well away from the door and worked his way round to the other side where he knew there was a hole in the wall big enough to look through without fear of being seen.

  He peered through the hole. Inside, a naked woman lay on the floor on her stomach, her arms outstretched above her head and her hands tied at the wrists. Her back and buttocks were lashed and bleeding and she was motionless. Bent over the barrel was another woman. Her hands were also tied at the wrist and while John Gibbes held her down by the neck, his brother was thrusting at her from behind. With each thrust Samuel grunted and the woman screamed but her screams were becoming whimpers. Thomas could not see her face but he could see blood on the floor and he could see the evil in Gibbes’s eyes. He stepped back quickly. So this was why they wanted him out of the way. They had gone down to one of the Speightstown inns, offered these women enough money to lure them back to the house, tied them up, worked themselves up into a drunken frenzy and then viciously whipped and raped them.

  Thomas retreated quietly to the edge of the trees and tried to think clearly. There was no point in attempting to intervene. He had no weapon – he would have to risk going into the kitchen to reach the kitchen knives, and the brutes’ pistols, even if he could get to them, might be unloaded. Half-crazed with lust and drink, they would swat him aside like a fly. And it might go all the worse for the wretched women. The brutes might even kill them. And him. The sensible thing would be to creep back to his cell and pretend nothing had happened. In fact, that was the only thing to do. The women were tavern whores and would have to fend for themselves.

  But when at last the whimpering and grunting stopped, Thomas was still in the trees. And when he heard snoring, he crept forward and peered through the hole. There were four bodies on the floor. The two women lay face down, naked and bleeding, their hands still tied at the wrists, the ropes looped round the legs of one of the beds. They did not move and they made no sound. The brothers lay on their backs, naked from the waist down, mouths open, snoring loudly. Empty bottles were scattered about and John Gibbes still held the whip in his hand, as if he might be about to jump up and use it.

  Thomas sneaked round to the front of the house and stood silently at the open door. Neither of the women had moved. He waited a while to make sure the Gibbes were beyond hearing, then went quietly in.

  The first woman lay with her feet towards the door. She had passed out but was breathing. He knelt at her head and gently stroked her cheek. It was what his mother used to do to wake him when he was a child. When the woman opened her eyes he thought she was going to scream again, but the stroking had worked, she understood his signal to be quiet and lay still while he untied the rope around her wrists. Then, satisfied that she was calm, he woke the second woman in the same way. He collected their clothes from where they lay on the floor and motioned to them to follow him outside. One stumbled and nearly fell, the other held her and, still naked, they managed to get to the trees where Thomas had hidden earlier. He whispered to them to stay there and slipped off to fetch water from the well.

  He returned to find them recovering. Tough women these tavern whores, he thought. I suppose they have to be. They drank a little from the bucket and used the rest to wash the blood off each other’s backs. When they were dressed, they stood up and for the first time he could see their faces. With their auburn hair, green eyes and snub noses, they were very alike although one was a good deal older than the other. With a shock, he realized that they were mother and daughter.

  There was nothing more he could do for them. They would have to find their own way back to their tavern. When he pointed to the path, they nodded and the younger one touched his face and smiled. Then they turned and left. Neither had spoken but they were alive. Had the Gibbes woken in the morning to find them there, they might not have been. Tavern whores or not, they were human – certainly more human than the brutes – and they had been beaten and raped. Thank God he’d been able to help. At least now they had a chance.

  Thomas sat in his hut, able to think only of the woman lying bleeding on the floor while her daughter was being raped. Sometimes, to his horror, their faces turned into the faces of Polly and Lucy and twice he had to go outside to vomit. He knew the women would not even think of reporting the Gibbes to a magistrate. They were whores, and whores could expect nothing. In the morning, though, the brutes would find them gone and he would have to face their fury. There was no more sleep for Thomas that night.

  The next morning, he kept out of sight and hoped that the brutes had been so drunk that they remembered nothing. Around noon, however, he was working on the ledgers when he heard them lumbering up the path, arguing loudly about who did or did not tie the women up properly. Fingers firmly crossed, he went outside to meet them.

  Samuel, even more brutal, revolting and evil-looking than ever, glared at him. His voice rasped in his throat. ‘Well, Hill. Did you do as you were told? Or did you go poking your snotty nose into our business?’

  ‘I slept well, thank you, sir, despite the rain. It’s extraordinary how much noise the frogs make after a storm, isn’t it? And they’re very small, you know.’

  John’s mind was barely functioning, even by his own miserable standards. ‘Frogs? Storm? What the devil are you talking about, you little runt? Did you see or hear anything? That’s what I want to know. Intruders running off?’

  ‘Intruders? No, sir, no intruders. Nothing at all in fact. Just the frogs.’

  ‘Fuck the frogs, Hill, and fuck you. If I find you’re lying, you’ll wish you were dead.’ John shoved Thomas aside and went into the hut. ‘What the devil’s this?’ he bellowed, holding up the precious copy of Lady Wroth’s poems, which Thomas had carelessly left on the bed.

  ‘It’s a book of poetry.’

  John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And where did you get it, Hill? Stole it, did you?’

  ‘No. It was lent to me by someone at the market. I shall return it when I next go.’

  ‘No you won’t. It’s going to the privy. It’ll be more use there. And get a bigger book next time. This one won’t last long.’ And off they lumbered. No more Lady Wroth, and he’d have to explain why to Patrick, who might not care to lend him any more books if they were to end their days wiping the brutes’ backsides.

  CHAPTER 11

  ON THE DAY that news of the king’s execution arrived in Barbados, there were nearly thirty rows of notches on the table and Thomas had added more adjectives to his list, including lewd, inhuman and grotesque. He had been in his island prison for the best part of a year. So far he had resisted the urge to run. Runaways lived their lives out in the forest. They did not get home. For that, he needed help.

  He had not seen Patrick in the market for weeks and he had given up hope of Adam Lyte offering to help. Each time he looked at himself in the inkwell, he saw a hollower, rougher, more haggard face. His thin hair and straggly beard were streaked with grey and his eyes were red and sore. The manual work and meagre diet had removed every ounce of fat from his body so that his ribs stuck out. If Polly and Lucy could see him, he doubted they would recognize him.

  He had woken, as always, at dawn, splashed his face with water from the well, pulled on his only shirt and prepared to brave another day in hell. To his surprise a messenger had arrived and was tethering
his horse. The messenger strode up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, this time more loudly. Knowing better than to interfere, Thomas stood in the shadows and watched. Eventually, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed Samuel Gibbes.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Gibbes,’ said the messenger politely. ‘I come from Colonel Drax.’

  ‘And what does Drax want at this hour?’ grunted Samuel, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘A boat from Plymouth arrived yesterday evening, sir. It carried copies of an announcement made by Parliament. The king has been executed. Colonel Drax has called a meeting of landowners in the Mermaid Inn at midday today.’

  ‘What for? If the fairy’s dead, a meeting won’t bring him back.’

  ‘I know,’ said John, who had joined his brother at the door, ‘it’s a banquet. A banquet to drink to the fairy’s death. Excellent. Tell Drax we’ll be there and we’ll be thirsty.’ Duty done, the messenger left.

  ‘Best give Hill the news, eh, brother?’ asked John, with a foul leer. ‘It’d be cruel not to.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ And off they lumbered up the path. Thomas made a quick retreat through the woods to his hut and came out to meet them.

  ‘Hill, we’ve got news for you,’ shouted John as they approached. ‘We’re going out and you’re coming with us.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know where we’re going, Hill?’ demanded Samuel. Thomas held his tongue. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. We’re going to Oistins. There’s to be a meeting. Your precious king is dead.’ The Gibbes laughed. ‘We thought you’d like to be there.’

  Thomas found himself oddly unmoved by the news. The regicide was an act of barbarism, to be sure, but in Oxford he had found the king an odd little man with his pointed beard, stammer and limp; not a man one could warm to. The king he might have been, but it was difficult to mourn for him and change brings opportunity. Clutching at straws, Thomas? he asked himself. Well, why not? There’s little else to clutch at.