When she had served everyone, Catherine came and sat beside Thomas. ‘Are you familiar with the Ranters, Thomas?’ she asked between mouthfuls.
‘I have heard of you but know little of your ways.’
‘Would you care to know more?’
‘If you would care to tell me.’
‘Ranters reject the teaching of the Church. We believe that God exists in every living creature and that man is thus free of sin and of his own laws.’
‘Should a man not be punished for robbery or murder?’
‘He will be punished by God.’
‘Do you not believe in any form of government?’
‘We believe in the freedom of the spirit.’
‘I see,’ said Thomas, although he did not. Ranters sounded very like anarchists, albeit peaceful ones. ‘And why are you here?’
Catherine bit off a chunk of bread and chewed it thoroughly before answering. ‘There are some in England who fear our ways. When they passed laws against what they call blasphemy and adultery, it was to give them an excuse to prosecute us. Some of us chose to come here to practise our beliefs.’
‘Are you free to practise them here?’
‘For most of the time, we are. There are always a few who seek to interfere. We turn them away.’
‘I notice that Simeon Strange is one of you.’
Catherine giggled. ‘Simeon spoke vehemently against us until God persuaded him to join us. Even now, his faith is fragile and from time to time he turns against us once more. We tolerate this because we believe that he will see the truth once and for all when God wishes him to.’
‘Does his congregation not object to his being with you?’
‘I doubt if Simeon has told them.’
Catherine had finished her dinner and turned to sit facing Thomas. ‘And you, Thomas, how did you come to be on this island?’
While Thomas told Catherine the story of his arrest and indenture to the Gibbes, she sat in silence and listened. Not once did she interrupt with a comment or a question. ‘What a wonderful listener you are,’ he said when he had finished the story. ‘Listening is a great skill and much undervalued.’
‘We are taught to listen,’ she replied. ‘Our leaders insist upon it. They teach the art of deep listening.’
‘What is deep listening?’
‘It is listening beyond the words. Listening to the tone and the manner of the one speaking. That way, we learn the truth.’
‘Do they insist upon the removal of your clothing?’
‘That is a matter of choice. In this warm climate we choose to hide nothing from each other.’
While Thomas and Catherine had been talking, the other Ranters had gone to their shelters. None of them went alone. When they were the only couple left by the fire, Catherine rose and kicked earth on to it to kill the flames.
‘Come now, Thomas,’ she said, ‘it is time to rest.’ Thomas followed her back to their shelter and lay down on the palm fronds. Catherine lay on her side facing him and put her arm around him. As she gently stroked his neck, he realized how much he craved the comfort of another body. It had been a long time. Catherine sensed it and did not hurry, nor did she mention the scar on his cheek. She was slow and skilful and when it was over, she whispered, ‘Sleep peacefully, Thomas. Wake me if you need me again.’
The Ranters had chosen their camp site well. The insects and the singing frogs must have preferred lower, wetter places and Thomas slept untroubled by either of them. Some time in the night he woke and felt for Catherine. She moved closer but did not wake. Before he fell asleep again he thought, as he always did in the night, of Polly and Lucy. He thought of England without a king. And he thought of Tobias Rush.
When dawn broke Thomas stirred again. Catherine had gone and for a moment he did not know where he was. He scrambled out of the shelter and stretched his arms. His ankle was much improved but he still felt drowsy. If it were not for his family, he could easily stay here with his new friends. The Ranters had much to recommend them.
Gradually the Ranters emerged from their shelters and began preparing breakfast. Simeon Strange was one of the last to appear, his arm around Catherine’s waist. She smiled at Thomas and asked if he had slept well. ‘Like a baby, thank you, Catherine,’ he replied. ‘I am grateful for your kindness but I must soon be on my way. It might be dangerous for you if I were found here.’
‘Where will you go?’ asked Strange.
‘I was trying to find the estate of Adam Lyte when I lost my way.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Strange. ‘I could take you there if you wish.’
‘Thank you. But we must be careful. The men to whom I am indentured will be looking for me.’
Strange nodded. ‘We will keep to the forest paths.’
They left after they had eaten. For the journey, Strange dressed himself in the clothes of a planter. At first they took a path further up the hill until they were deep within a forest of bearded fig trees, palms and thick undergrowth. After a mile or so, they joined another path to their right which ran down again. ‘It’s a long way round,’ said Strange, ‘but safer than using the coast road. Very few people come up here.’
When they stopped for a brief rest, Thomas plucked up the courage to ask his guide how he came to consort with the Ranters. But the little reverend was not to be drawn and replied only that they were all sinners in the eyes of God. Thomas left it that and they did not speak again until they reached the Lytes’ estate. There Strange pointed out a wide path through the trees on their right. ‘This is the way,’ he said. ‘I will leave you here, Thomas. May God bless you.’ Thomas thanked the little man and watched him carry on down the hill until he was out of sight. Strange indeed, by name and by nature. One day a parson, the next a Ranter. His God really did move in mysterious ways.
Thomas walked slowly up the path to the Lytes’ house. He was nervous. What would he find there? Would he be welcomed or rejected? He took a deep breath. Only one way to find out, Thomas, so you had better get on with it.
The Lytes’ house could hardly have been more different from the Gibbes’s hovel. It stood in the centre of a large clearing, immaculately swept and cleared of scrub. A shaded seating area with a simple thatched roof some ten feet deep ran the length of the house. A table and chairs had been set there. The house was built of the pale, pitted stone found on the island, the roof was tiled and the windows shuttered. It was a substantial plantation house, designed for comfort and practicality.
Thomas approached the house. He was a few steps away when the door was flung open and a grinning Patrick appeared. ‘There you are, Thomas,’ he declared. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘Have you?’
‘Indeed I have. The Gibbes have been after your blood, and when they could not find you they tore the Serpent to pieces, broke a chair over the landlord’s head and hurled bottles at anyone who tried to stop them. It took six men to overpower them and take them to the magistrate. They’re in a cell there. I guessed you would come here.’
‘I did not know where else to go.’
‘The magistrate perhaps, to throw yourself on his mercy?’
Thomas hung his head. ‘Must I?’
‘You must not. Come inside and tell me what happened.’
An hour later, Patrick had heard the story. He knew about Tobias Rush, about Thomas finally losing control, about the storm and the gully, and about the Ranters. Only Simeon Strange went unmentioned. When he had finished, Patrick showed him where to wash, gave him a salve for his scar, found him some clean clothes, and went to prepare food for them both.
The Lytes’ house had been simply designed around a large square living room, from which doors led to four bedrooms and at the back to a kitchen and parlour. The walls of the living room were decorated with paintings of local scenes, the furniture was good, plain English oak and there were rugs on the floor. Best of all, there was a bookshelf with about twenty books on it. When he emerged bathed and shaven, Thomas m
ade straight for it, picked up the first volume that came to hand and read the title. ‘Well now, who would have thought it? The Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer. Have you read them, Patrick?’
‘I have not. English chivalry and courtly love are not to my taste. I’m just a black slave.’
‘Black and a slave you may be. Just you are not. In any sense. And they’re about more than chivalry. Now that I think of it, the brutes could be descended from Chaucer’s miller. He was almost as revolting as them.’
They sat outside to eat. ‘The Lytes are in Holetown to see a merchant,’ Patrick told Thomas. ‘I expect them back very soon.’
‘What shall I do, Patrick?’
‘You will sit here until they arrive and then you will go and inspect the estate while I speak to them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. What is there to lose?’
They heard the Lytes riding up the path to the house. ‘Off you go, Thomas,’ ordered Patrick. ‘Twenty minutes should be enough.’
The Lytes’ estate was as orderly as their house. Thomas walked past a neat row of timber cottages which must have housed their slaves and indentured men, around their boiling house and mill and beside a cane field where the cane was being cut. He saw no sign of whips and heard no screams of pain. He did see men labouring in the heat of the afternoon, he knew the boiling house would be as hot as any other and he inhaled the sweet smells of raw sugar and molasses. As a prisoner of the Gibbes, he had seen only dirt and squalor. Here, for the first time, he saw beauty, order and colour, trees and flowers, shades of blue and green and, everywhere, lush growth. Barbados was a beautiful island. He realized that he had not appreciated this before because his mind had not allowed him to. Only now could he see clearly. When he returned, Adam and Mary Lyte were waiting for him.
Adam rose and held out his hand. ‘Thomas Hill, welcome. When he returned from Speightstown yesterday, Patrick was a little concerned about you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Thomas, taking his hand, ‘and I am relieved to be here. Has Patrick told you what happened?’
‘He has. You’re a brave man, Thomas. I for one would not care to throw myself at either Gibbes.’
‘Unfortunately, I also threw myself into a gully.’
‘So I hear.’ Adam turned to his sister. ‘This is my sister Mary, whom you have not, I think, met.’
Thomas bowed and took her hand. As Patrick had said, Mary Lyte was a beautiful young woman. Coal-black hair, blue eyes, skin lightly touched by the Caribbean sun and with more than a hint of sensuality to her mouth. Her smile would have lit up any room in London or Paris. ‘Thomas, I have so looked forward to meeting you. Adam has told me all about you and the evil man who had you sent here. What was his name?’
‘Rush, madam, Tobias Rush. And evil he certainly is.’
‘Rush, yes. And your sister and her daughters are forced to do as he wishes.’
‘Yes. I can hardly bear to think of it.’
‘Indeed. Now, let us sit here and talk.’ She spread her arms to indicate where they were sitting. ‘This we call our parlour. We prefer to eat and sit here as long as it is not raining. Feel free to use it as you wish. Patrick is preparing something special. My brother will tell you the news from England while he gets it ready.’
‘What do you know of events there, Thomas?’ asked Adam.
‘Since the death of the king, very little. I should be glad of news.’
‘At first, it seems, the execution of the king shocked the country into a state of paralysis – quite the opposite of what has happened here. Even those who had fought against him could hardly believe it. Despite having been publicly executed, he was given a state funeral and Cromwell himself visited his body in the chapel at St James’s. The country was confused and it still is. And no wonder. How is a man to know who is governing him without a king, with half the members of Parliament excluded from the house or choosing to stay away and with the one man who, more than any other, might restore a form of order away in Ireland?’
‘Cromwell is in Ireland?’
‘He is. And still drinking Irish blood, by all accounts. God knows what else will befall that sad country.’
The memory of Newbury, where thousands had died for no purpose at all, came back to Thomas. Cannon, musket fire, the screams of the wounded, smoke, bodies, blood, death. The stuff of war. And six years later, still going on in Ireland. ‘What will happen next, do you think?’
‘I can only guess. When Cromwell returns from killing Irishmen, he’ll find someone else to fight. The Scots, perhaps. He’s only happy with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other.’
‘And England?’
‘Who knows? Anarchy, revolution, war? I thank God that Mary and I left when we did.’
‘As do I,’ agreed Mary. ‘Barbados is our home now. I for one do not wish to return.’
At this, Adam raised his eyebrows and Thomas sensed tension between brother and sister. He remembered Patrick mentioning a suitor in England. Best to change the subject.
‘And what now for Barbados, sir?’
‘Since Colonel Walrond became governor we are no longer neutral and we have been holding our breath. He is an uncompromising man, fiercely loyal to the crown. Already some landowners who have refused to swear an oath of loyalty to the king have been banished to England or to another island. That is causing serious problems.’
‘Have their estates been sequestered?’
‘They have and, worse, their slaves and indentured servants have taken the opportunity to escape into the hills. We fear they will start attacking plantations. Militias are being formed and they too are making trouble. Some do not care who they fight. And there’s the threat of reprisals. If James Drax and Reynold Alleyne are forced to go, you may be sure they will return and at the head of an army.’
‘So there it is, Thomas,’ said Mary. ‘Slave and master, king and Parliament, wild militiamen. The peace we have so carefully preserved may be about to shatter into bloody pieces.’
‘Which brings us back to you, Thomas,’ said Adam. ‘The question is – what is to be done with you? Naturally, my sister and I would like to help a man who has been so unjustly and harshly treated but we must also be aware of the law. The fact is that we are sheltering you illegally and in my position that is a serious matter.’
‘My brother is a member of the Assembly,’ said Mary proudly.
‘Indeed I am, and expecting to be appointed soon to the governor’s council. I’m sure you will understand the delicacy of the situation.’ Thomas understood. Adam Lyte’s position came first.
‘I can hardly offer to buy you again because it would mean telling the Gibbes that I know where you are. Nor can we return you to them and tell them that you have been our guest.’
‘The longer I am here,’ said Thomas, ‘the more difficult your position. I must go back to the Gibbes and concoct some story about being lost in the forest.’
‘You must do no such thing,’ said Mary. ‘You will stay here until you have fully recovered your strength and my brother has decided what to do for the best.’
‘I am grateful, madam.’
Adam cleared his throat. ‘I must be discreet, Thomas. Your presence here must remain a secret until arrangements can be made. It might take some time. And there is one condition, Thomas. I would like you to attend to our books of account. I have been too busy in the Assembly and they are in a sorry state. Patrick says that you are the very man for the job.’
‘I would be only too pleased to assist, sir.’
‘Excellent. Only when you feel up to it, of course. Until then, Patrick will take care of you.’
Before Thomas could respond, Patrick appeared from the kitchen, leading a line of boys bearing dinner. On the table they put a huge bowl of fish soup, a heap of freshly baked bread, a lamb pie, a roasted capon with pickled cucumbers and sweet potatoes and an assortment of other fruits and vegetables which Thomas did not recognize. Patric
k stood back and let them admire his work.
‘Are we expecting an army?’ asked Mary sweetly.
‘I trust not, madam,’ replied Patrick, beaming, ‘although I did wonder if Mr Carrington might be joining you.’
‘He often does,’ said Adam. ‘He seems to know when there’s food on the table. I can’t imagine how.’ Thomas thought he detected a blush rising to Mary’s cheeks.
Two hours later, his stomach full and his mind somewhat befuddled by more wine than was good for him, Thomas was shown by Patrick to a bedroom. What do you make of that, Monsieur Montaigne? he whispered, before falling asleep. Within the space of three days, naked in a boiling house, whipped, lost in the forest, rescued by naked Ranters and entertained to a splendid dinner. The fates have recanted. If Adam Lyte can just put his scruples aside and find me a passage to England, the nightmare will be over and Tobias Rush will face justice.
Patrick insisted on showing Thomas the estate and describing its workings. One morning while they watched a party of men cutting cane with bills, Patrick told him that they were cutting the ratoon.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Ratoon cane, Thomas. The second crop which sprouts after the first. Have you learned nothing about sugar?’
‘I have tried not to. That reminds me, do you know why the water in the wells is so pure?’
‘Yes. It’s filtered through the coral stone of which the island is made.’
‘The same coral stone of which houses are built and into which the rain cuts gullies to trap unsuspecting travellers, I suppose.’
‘The same. Most travellers take care to avoid them. Only the most foolish fall into one.’
Unlike the Gibbes’s mill, the Lytes’ was powered by cattle roped to a huge wheel which drove the rollers into which the cane was being fed. ‘It never stops during the cutting season,’ said Patrick. ‘Cut the cane, squeeze out the juice, boil it, cure it and sell it. Very little waste and an endless process bringing great wealth to the planters and merchants.’
The Lytes’ boiling house had been designed to be as safe as possible. It was also larger than the brutes’. Instead of one furnace, there were three with a row of copper kettles over each of them. It was hot, very hot, but openings on all four sides did allow whatever breeze there was to circulate.
The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) Page 14