by Wilbur Smith
‘Yes. It will all belong to Billy. The estate, the land, the house, the money.’
‘That not fair,’ Dorian expostulated. ‘Why can’t Tom and Guy not have some? They’re much nicer than Billy. It’s not fair.’
‘Perhaps it isn’t fair, but that’s the law of England.’
‘It isn’t fair,’ Dorian persisted. ‘Billy’s cruel and horrible.’
‘If you go through life expecting it to be fair, then you will have many sad disappointments, my boy,’ Hal said softly, and hugged his baby. I wish I could make it different for you, he thought.
‘When you’re dead, Billy won’t let us stay here at High Weald. He’ll send us away.’
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ Hal protested.
‘Yes, I can,’ Tom said, with conviction. ‘He told me so, and he meant it.’
‘You’ll make your own way, Tom. That’s why you have to be clever and tough. That’s why I’m hard on you sometimes, harder than I ever was on William. You must learn to fend for yourselves after I am gone.’ He paused. Could he explain this to them, when they were still so young? He had to try. He owed them that. ‘The law of primogeniture has served to make England great. If every time somebody died his land was split between his surviving children, then soon the whole country would be divided into tiny, useless parcels, unable to feed a single family, and we would become a nation of peasants and paupers.’
‘So what will we do?’ Tom asked. ‘Those of us who are driven out.’
‘The army, the navy and the Church are open to you. You might go out into the world as traders or colonists and come back from its far corners, from the ends of the oceans, with treasures and wealth even greater than William will inherit when I die.’
They thought about that in silence for a long while. ‘I’ll be a sailor, like you, Father. I’ll sail to the ends of the oceans, like you did,’ said Tom, at last.
‘And I will go with you, Tom,’ said Dorian.
Sitting in the front pew of the family chapel, Hal Courtney had every reason to feel pleased with himself and the world around him. He watched his eldest son waiting at the altar, while organ music filled the small building with joyous sound. William was strikingly handsome and dashing in the costume he had chosen for his wedding. For once he had eschewed his sombre black attire. His collar was of the finest Flemish lace, and his waistcoat of green velvet embroidered with golden stags. The pommel of his sword was encrusted with carnelians and lapis-lazuli. Most of the women in the congregation were watching him also, and the younger ones were giggling and discussing him in whispers.
‘I could ask nothing more of a son,’ Hal told himself. William had proved himself as an athlete and as a scholar. His tutor at Cambridge had praised his industry and capacity for learning, and he had wrestled, ridden and hawked his way to prominence. After his studies, when he had returned to High Weald, he had proved his worth yet again as an administrator and entrepreneur. Gradually Hal had given him more and more control over the running of the estate and the tin mines, until now he himself had almost withdrawn from overseeing the day-to-day running of the family estates. If there was anything that made Hal at all uneasy, it was that William was often too hard a bargainer, too ruthless in his treatment of the men who worked for him. More than once men had died at the tin face who might have been spared if a little more thought had been given to their safety, and a little more money spent on improvements to the shafts and the haulage. Yet the profits from the mines and the estate had almost doubled in the last three years. That was proof enough of his competence.
Now William was contracting this glittering marriage. Of course, Hal had pointed him in the direction of Lady Alice Grenville, but William had courted her and, in very short order, had had her so besotted with him that she had convinced her father of the suitability of the union, despite his initial reluctance. After all, William Courtney was a commoner.
Hal glanced at the Earl as he sat in the front pew across the aisle. John Grenville was older than him by ten years, a lean, man, plainly dressed as ill befitted one of the greatest landowners in England. His dark eyes were hooded in the unhealthy pallor of his face. He caught Hal’s eye and nodded, his expression neither friendly nor hostile, although harsh words had been exchanged when it had come to the matter of Alice’s dowry. In the end she brought with her the title to Gainesbury farms, over a thousand acres, in addition to the working tin mines of East and South Rushwold. The demand for tin seemed insatiable, these days, and Rushwold adjoined the Courtney mines that William was administering so efficiently. Run together, output would grow and lower the costs of hauling the precious ore to the surface. That was not all of Alice’s dowry. The final item which he had wheedled out of the Earl pleased Hal as much as the rest: the packet of English East India Company shares, twelve thousand of the common stock with full voting rights. Hal was already a major shareholder in and governor of the Company, but these new shares would increase his voting power and make him one of the most influential men on the board after the chairman, Nicholas Childs.
Yes, he had every reason to feel smug. Then what was this strange feeling that niggled, like grit in the eye, at his contentment? Sometimes, when he rode along the cliffs and gazed out over the cold grey sea, he remembered the warm azure waters of the Ocean of the Indies. Often now when he flew a hawk and watched its rapid wing-beats against the sky, he remembered the taller, bluer sky of Africa. On some evenings he took down his charts from his library shelves and pored over them for hours, reading the notations he had made upon them two decades before, and dreaming of Africa’s blue hills, its white beaches and mighty rivers.
Once, very recently, he had woken from a dream in sweat and confusion. It had all been so vivid, the reliving of those tragic events. She had been with him again, the lovely golden girl who had been his first true love. Once again she had been in his arms, dying. ‘Sukeena, my love, I will die with you.’ He had felt his heart break again as he said those words.
‘No.’ Her sweet voice began to fade. ‘No, you will go on. I have travelled with you as far as I am permitted. But for you the fates have reserved a special destiny. You will live on. You will have many strong sons whose descendants will flourish in this land of Africa, and make it their own.’ Hal covered his eyes and bowed his head as if in prayer – in case someone in the congregation saw the glint of a tear in his eye. After a while he opened his eyes and looked down at the sons she had foreseen all those years ago.
Tom was the closest to him in spirit and flesh, big-boned and strong for his age, with the eye and hand of a warrior. He was restless, easily bored by routine or any task that called for long, meticulous concentration. He was no scholar, but neither did he lack in brain or cunning. In looks, he was pleasant but not handsome, for his mouth and nose were too large, but he had a strong, determined face and heavy jaw. He was impulsive and sometimes rash, almost fearless, often too bold for his own good. The bruises on his face were faded now to yellow and ugly purple, but it was typical of Tom to rush in against someone so much older and of twice his strength, without a thought for the consequences.
Hal had learned the truth of the confrontation in the woods below the chapel: William had told him of Mary, the scullerymaid, and she had made to him an almost incoherent confession, sobbing bitterly the while. ‘I’m a good girl, sir, God’s truth I am. I didn’t steal nothing like he said I did. It was just a bit of fun, nothing bad. Then Master William he came into the chapel and he said bad things to me, and he beat me.’ Weeping copiously she had pulled up her skirts to show the great flaming weals across her thighs.
Hal had said hastily, ‘Cover yourself, girl.’ He could guess just how innocent she was. He had noticed her before, although he usually took scant interest in the two dozen or so females who worked in the main house, for she had a saucy eye and a voluptuous turn of buttock and bosom that was difficult to overlook.
‘Master Tom tried to stop him, else he would have killed me, Master William wo
uld. He’s a good boy, is Master Tom. He didn’t do nothing—’ So Tom had cut his teeth on this bit of sweet meat, Hal thought. It would do the lad no harm. She had probably given him a good grounding in the old game, and when William had caught them at it, Tom had rushed to her defence. The sentiment was praiseworthy, but the action was foolhardy: the object of his knight errantry hardly worthy of such fierce loyalty. Hal had sent the girl back to the kitchens and had a quiet word with his steward. Within two days he had arranged other employment for her as a serving-wench at the Royal Oak in Plymouth, and she had disappeared quietly from High Weald. Hal didn’t want her knocking at his door in nine months’ time to present them with a bundle.
He sighed softly. It was not long now before he would have to find other employment for Tom too. He could not stay here much longer. He was almost a man. Aboli had recently started Tom’s lessons with the sword – Hal had delayed this until the boy had the strength in his arms: he had seen youngsters who had been spoiled by a too early start with the blade. He shuddered abruptly as he thought of Tom in another fit of rage calling out his elder brother: William was a swordsman of note. He had severely wounded a fellow student at Cambridge with a thrust through the lower chest. It had been an affair of honour but it had taken all Hal’s influence and a purse of gold guineas to keep it quiet. Duelling was legal, but frowned upon; had the man died, even Hal might not have been able to shield his son from the consequences. The thought of two of his sons taking up their feud with blades did not bear thinking about, yet it might become more than a possibility if he did not separate them soon. He would have to find Tom a berth in one of the ships of John Company, the affectionate sobriquet for the English East India Company. Tom sensed his father’s gaze upon him and turned to give him such a frank, guileless grin that Hal had to look away.
Guy sat beside his twin. Guy was another problem, Hal mused, but of a different sort from Tom. Although twins ran strongly in the Courtney line, and each generation usually threw up at least one set, Tom and Guy were not identical. To the contrary. They were different in almost every way that Hal could divine.
Guy was by far the better-looking of the two, with delicate, rather feminine features, and a graceful body that yet lacked the physical power and force of Tom’s. In nature he was cautious to the point of timidity, yet he was bright and intelligent, with the ability to apply himself to even the most repetitive tasks with all his attention.
Hal did not have the gentry’s usual disdain for merchants and moneylenders, and had no qualms in encouraging one of his sons to make a career in that direction. He recognized that Guy might be best suited to such a life. It was hard to imagine him as a warrior or a sailor. Hal frowned. There were numerous openings in John Company for clerks and secretaries, safe, secure jobs that could lead to swift advancement, especially for a bright, industrious young man whose father was a governor of the Company. He would speak to Childs next week when they met.
Hal intended to leave for London early the following morning, directly after he had seen William wed safely to Lady Alice, and the transfer of her dowry into the Courtney estate. The horses were standing ready and Big Daniel and Aboli could have them harnessed to the coach and on the way within an hour of Hal calling for them. Even at their best speed, though, it would take at least five days to get up to London and the quarterly meeting of the Company board was due to be held on the first day of next month.
I will have to take the boys with me, he thought suddenly, and it was a measure of his concern that he made that decision. It would be tempting providence to leave them at High Weald with William as master of the estate, and himself not there to mediate and protect. Even Dorian had best come, he decided.
He looked down fondly at his youngest son, perched beside him on the pew, and received in return a sunny, adoring smile. Dorian wriggled a little closer to him on the hard oak bench. Hal felt strangely moved by the contact of that small body. He placed a casual hand on the boy’s shoulder. It’s too early to tell how this one will turn out, he thought, but it seems that he might have all the good points of the others and fewer of their weaknesses. But it is still far too soon to tell.
At that moment he was distracted by the organ music as it burst dramatically into the bridal march. Then there was a rustle and hum as the congregation turned in their seats and strained for a first glimpse of the bride.
Although the sun was not yet clear of the treetops, and only a few stray rays were catching the high gables and towers of the big house, the entire household turned out to see them away to London, from William with his new bride at his side, Ben Green the estate steward, Evan the house-steward, right down to the lowest kitchen maid and groom.
In order of seniority they were marshalled down the main staircase that led up to the front doors, and the lowliest servants were gathered in orderly ranks on the front lawn. Big Daniel and Aboli were on the coachman’s box, and the horses were snorting steam from their nostrils in the morning chill.
Hal embraced William briefly, while Alice, pink and glowing with happiness and love, clung adoringly to her new husband’s arm. On their father’s instructions the boys lined up unsmiling behind him to shake their elder brother’s hand and then, whooping with excitement, raced each other down to the waiting carriage.
‘Can I ride up with Aboli and Big Daniel?’ Tom pleaded, and his father nodded indulgently.
‘Me, too?’ Dorian danced beside him.
‘You ride in the coach with me and Mr Walsh.’ Mr Walsh was their tutor, and Dorian faced four days of captivity with him and his books, Latin, French and arithmetic.
‘Please, Father, why can’t I?’ Dorian demanded, then immediately answered himself. ‘I know, because I’m the youngest!’
‘Come on, Dorry.’ Guy took his hand and pulled him into the coach. ‘I’ll help you with your lessons.’
The hardships and injustices of youth were immediately forgotten as Aboli cracked his whip, the carriage jerked and set off, with the gravel crunching under the iron-shod wheels. Guy and Dorian leaned from the window to wave and shout farewell to their favourites among the household staff until they turned at the crossroads and High Weald was hidden from their view.
On the box, Tom sat ecstatically between two of his favourite men. Big Daniel was a great hulk with a mane of silver hair bristling out from under his cocked hat. He possessed not a single tooth in his head so when he chewed his weathered face folded like the leather bellows of a blacksmith’s forge. It was well known that, even at his age, he was the strongest man in Devonshire. Tom had seen him lift a recalcitrant horse in the air and dump it on its back with all four legs in the air and hold it there effortlessly while the blacksmith shod it. He had been boatswain for Francis Courtney, and when Tom’s grandfather had been killed by the Dutch, Big Daniel had served the son, had sailed the southern oceans with Hal Courtney, had fought with him against pagan and Dutchman, against pirate and renegade and a dozen other enemies. He had played nurse to William and the twins, had carried them on his back and dandled them with huge, gentle hands. He could tell the most enchanting stories that any small boy could dream of, build models of tall ships, so beautifully realistic in every detail that it seemed they might at any moment sail over the horizon to some stirring adventure, bearing Tom away with them on the quarterdeck. He had the most intriguing repertoire of oaths and sayings that Tom rehearsed only in the company of Dorian and Guy, for to recite them in the presence of William or his father, or any other grown-up, would have led to instant retribution. Tom loved Big Daniel dearly.
Outside his own immediate family there was only one other person he loved more. Aboli sat on Tom’s other side, holding the reins in his huge black hands.
‘You hold the blunderbuss.’ Knowing what pleasure it would give him, Aboli handed the hideous weapon to Tom. Although its barrel was shorter than Tom’s arm, it could hurl a devastating double handful of gooseshot from the gaping bell-shaped muzzle. ‘If a highwayman tries to stop us, you give
him a bellyful, Klebe.’ Tom was almost overwhelmed by the honour, and sat up straight between them, silently praying for the chance to use the heavy weapon he cradled in his lap.
Aboli had used his pet name: ‘Klebe’ meant Hawk in the language of the forests of Africa. It was a nickname Tom delighted in. Aboli had taught him the language of the forest, ‘because,’ he had explained, ‘that is where your destiny will take you. It has been prophesied by a wise and beautiful woman long ago. Africa awaits you. I, Aboli, must prepare you for that day when you step on her soil for the first time.’
Aboli was a prince of his own tribe. The patterns of ritual scars that covered his black face in raised whorls and ridges were proof of his royal blood. He was an expert with any weapon he laid his hands on, from an African fighting stick to the finest Toledo rapier. Now that his twins were of the correct age, Hal Courtney had entrusted to Aboli the task of teaching them swordsmanship. Aboli had trained Hal at the same age, and William too. He had moulded each of them into expert swordsmen. Tom had taken to the blade with the same natural ability as his father and his half-brother but it grieved Aboli that Guy did not show the same eagerness or aptitude.
‘How old do you think Aboli is?’ Dorian had once asked.
Tom had replied, with all the wisdom of his superior age, ‘He is even older than Father. He must be a hundred years at least!’
Aboli had not a hair on his cannonball head, not a single thread of grey to betray his true age, and though wrinkle and scar were so intertwined on his features as to be inextricable, his body was lean and muscular, his skin smooth and glossy as polished obsidian. Nobody, not even Aboli himself, knew how old he was. The stories he told were even more fascinating than Big Daniel’s best. He told of giants and pygmies, of forests filled with marvellous animals, great apes who could rip a man apart as though he were a grasshopper, of creatures with necks so long they could eat the leaves off the tops of the tallest trees, of deserts where diamonds the size of apples glittered in the sun like water, and mountains made of solid gold.