The Cornish Lady

by Nicola Pryce

  The heavy door remained jammed against its chain, Captain Fenshaw’s red sleeve just visible through the gap. ‘Very well, I’ll check in an hour.’ The door shut, the key turned, and Henry pulled on his coachman’s coat with the heavy capes, the familiar well-oiled hat pulled low to hide his face. ‘We won’t walk together. You go first – I’ll be right behind you. The ferry leaves from Fish Quay – do you know where that is?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. You’ll need money – the fare’s no more than a penny, though he’ll ask for two.’ He reached into his pocket, rattling some coins. ‘Take this. I’ll get into the same boat but we won’t talk.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Ships lined the quay, the lanterns hanging from their decks casting shadows in the rigging above me. Sheltered from the wind, the sea lay silent, glinting like black glass beneath the half-moon. Stars filled the night sky, the smell of distant woodsmoke; across the water, the notes of a lone fiddle echoed from the frigate moored along Greenbank.

  The taverns spewed out sailors too drunk to stand, a fight taking place on the quayside, and I walked quickly along the cobbles, searching the gaps between the hulls for signs of the ferry. The church clock struck eleven and I turned to see Henry only fifty yards behind me. A group of people were standing in the glow of an oil lamp, shadows flickering across their hats and faces, and through the half-light I saw a flight of steps and heard the splash of oars.

  I took my place in silence, nodding to the ferryman who held out his hand to help me into the heavy rowing boat. A few nods, a few smiles, but most of my fellow travellers looked exhausted, as if another day’s work had taken its toll. Henry slipped to my side, sitting next to me, sombre and silent like the rest of them, and I held up my penny without saying a word. Some of the women clutched heavy bundles, others held empty baskets; all of them looked drawn and tight-lipped. The men hunched forward, their foreheads resting in their hands as the ferryman slipped his rope, gliding us out into the black sea.

  Lights shone in the windows of the newly built terraces, the new streetlamps lighting the carriages waiting in lines outside the grander houses. Lamps were burning against the Fox warehouse, watchmen with chained dogs patrolling the quayside, and I pulled my hood further over my bonnet, staring up at the name of the adjacent ship – Guillemot, the lugger that would take me back to Truro.

  There must have been ten naval ships in port; huge ships of the line, their black hulls merging with the black water, their gold stripes catching the light from the lantern hanging from our prow. The lights of Flushing harbour were growing nearer, the slipway fast approaching, and I could see Henry stiffen. His collar was raised, his hat pulled low over his face, fine stubble shadowing his chin. He looked strained, nervous, yet it was excitement I was feeling, not fear. I had the whistle clasped in my fist, and I knew Henry had brought handcuffs. No doubt his pistol was concealed beneath the layers of his coachman’s capes.

  The Ferry Inn stood just yards from the slipway, light shining through the small lattice windows, and I knew to go straight through the door without looking round. Tobacco smoke stung my eyes, the heat like a furnace. I made my way past the boisterous men, searching for a table by the back door. A place was laid, a wine glass standing ready, and I sat down at the end of the bench, my baskets on the table in front of me. A number of men turned to stare and I searched their faces but it was too dark to see if anyone fitted the description.

  Henry stood against the taproom bar, nodding to the man beside him. The landlord was red-faced and bald-headed, drying a pewter tankard with a cloth, turning the tap on the barrel. The men who had stared at my arrival turned back to their ale and I settled against the hard wooden bench, trying to stop my heart from hammering. A woman in a tight bodice and large mobcap saw me and smiled. She made her way towards me, holding aloft a plate and jug of wine.

  ‘Pie an’ wine fer ye, my love,’ she said, wiping her brow with the cloth hanging from her apron. ‘’Tis that hot in here, but he likes it like that fer they drink more. Yer friend left a message – said he’d be along soon. Ye just sit tight an’ enjoy that rabbit.’ She smiled and turned and I stared down at the huge crust of pie with carrots and cabbage spilling from the plate.

  Henry must have ordered food. He made his way round the tables, sitting nearest the back door. His hat and coat made him merge with the crowd but even so, he looked out of place. He was sitting slumped forward, his arms on the table, his elbows wide, but there was no hiding his manners. No hiding the charm with which he thanked the landlord’s wife, the elegant way he unfolded his napkin, the shy nod to his fellow diners as he began his meal and I looked away. I glanced back. He seemed somehow vulnerable, a rather charming man doing the wrong job.

  Any other circumstances – any other time or place – and I would have enjoyed his company. I would have enjoyed dining with him, enjoyed discussing his choice of poetry, asked him what he had done in America, how his mother was…which of my plays he had liked the most. I pushed my plate away untouched. He was my brother’s gaoler, yet no man drew me so completely. It was as if I became alive in his presence. The touch of his hand on my cheek making my heart beat faster.

  Sweat trickled down my back, the tight wig making my hair itch. I wanted to take off my cloak but no woman would sit in a tavern in a prudish grey gown with stiff white collar and cuffs and I pulled the cloak tighter. Henry had finished his meal and was stretching back against the hard bench, cradling his jar of ale in both hands. He was staring straight ahead as if too tired to talk, yet the moment the man took my baskets, he would clasp him in handcuffs.

  The tavern slowly emptied, only a number of men left scattered among the tables. Thin curls of smoke coiled from the guttering candles, the room growing darker. Two men had fallen asleep on their folded arms, two others staring moodily into their empty pint pots. Martha Selwyn had said the man could keep her waiting for hours; it must only have been an hour, yet it seemed so much longer. I glanced at Henry and caught my breath. He was staring at me so intently, the ferocity in his eyes making my heart jolt. I had never been looked at like that before. It felt like pain. Like my body was on fire.

  ‘Had all ye want, my love?’ The landlady was frowning at my full plate.

  ‘Yes, thank you. It was lovely but I’ve very little appetite. Do you…that is…did he say when he was coming?’

  ‘Don’t ye worry, my love – he’ll be here.’ She smiled, picking up my plate. ‘Course ye’re not hungry. Ye just sit tight – he’ll come.’

  Behind the bar, the large oak clock struck twelve and two more men shuffled to their feet. Henry’s ale remained untouched, the sudden drumming of his fingers making my stomach tighten. I caught his glance and ice chilled my heart. He looked furious. He walked abruptly to the landlady who was wiping tables by the window. She shook her head at his question but he reached into his pocket and put a coin on the table. She drew him to the window and at her words he turned, frowning back at me through the dim light.

  ‘It’s a hoax,’ he snapped, grabbing the baskets. ‘The landlady’s never seen you before…no woman ever sits here. A man came in earlier and paid for your meal – he said you were eloping and told her to feed you well. We’ve been tricked.’

  ‘Why bring us all the way here?’

  He was clearly shaken. ‘Why make us wait? Why such an elaborate hoax?’

  A crowd was gathering outside the door – the sound of shouting. The landlady looked up, peering through the window. ‘Jesu, will ye look at that!’

  Henry grabbed my hand and we ran to the door. High on the promontory a fire was blazing, huge orange flames lighting the night sky. Loud booms blasted across the harbour, bright streaks of light shooting above the castle. Church bells began tolling and Henry’s grip tightened. ‘Quick – the ferry’s leaving.’

  The smell of cordite grew stronger. The ferry scraped along the quayside and we leapt from the side, joining the crowd rushing up to the castle. Ahead of us, torch
es bobbed along the path, a long snake of people carrying buckets up the hill. Some were sailors but most were townsfolk, their coats thrown over their nightclothes, their boots hastily tied.

  I had to stop, gripping the stitch in my side. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s all right – catch your breath.’

  Shouts passed down the hill: ‘’Tis the munitions gone up – the whole bloody lot.’

  ‘Not an invasion – they’ve blown the munitions.’

  My bonnet was slipping and I pulled it off, catching the fury in Henry’s eyes. There was no need for words. They had set this up. Whoever they were, we had fallen headlong into their trap.

  The gatehouse bridge was blocked with people crushing forward and Henry shouted, ‘Make way – officer coming through. Make way – officer-in-charge coming through.’ A soldier I had not seen before was directing men to form a chain. Sweat dripped from his face, black smears streaking across his cheeks. ‘We’ve used up the water tanks – there’s only the moat left.’

  ‘How much has gone up?’

  Another man stepped forward. ‘The store’s gone – there’s no savin’ it.’ He was stripped to the waist, his chest glistening. He began coughing violently, hardly able to speak. ‘The straw must’ve caught and set the munitions off behind…Bloody idiots not stacking it properly – they had it under canvas… with the powder right behind.’ He coughed again. ‘For Christ sake – keep everyone the other side.’

  Henry shouted to a man behind him, ‘Keep everyone the other side of the bridge – there could be more explosions.’ He pointed to a tall, burly man. ‘You – don’t let anyone across the bridge – direct everyone to the right away from the buildings. There’s water in the moat to the right.’ He pointed to another man. ‘You – stop anyone entering the gates – we’ve enough men now, we just need water. Form the chain to the right.’ He turned back. ‘Can anything be saved?’

  The man with the smeared cheeks shook his head. ‘The barrack’s gone – ’twas old an’ rotten…went up like tinder.’

  ‘Have all the munitions blown?’

  ‘What was in the barrels – the rest’s safe underground. Who stacks straw next to gunpowder? Idiots, the bloody lot!’

  Through the arch, we could see flames licking the charred remnants of the brick building, the tarpaulins and straw burned to cinders. ‘Where’s Captain Fenshaw?’

  ‘No sign of him. No sign of any of them – there’s only half the men here that should be…to the right, sir – no women. Best get the women home. No bloody sign of him.’

  Henry turned and I caught the panic in his eyes. ‘Where’s Private Mallory?’

  I felt sick with fear, running through the side door of the gatehouse, almost too scared to look. A single candle burned on the desk, Private Mallory slumped awkwardly in his chair. His lips looked blue in the half-light. ‘Henry – he’s having a seizure – help me get him to the floor.’ Henry put his hands beneath his arms and we lifted him down. ‘He’s blue – he’s not breathing – put him on his side.’

  He was a dead weight as we rolled him over, and we stood willing him to breathe. He took a sudden gulp of air and the duskiness left his face. He breathed again, a heavy snore.

  ‘Stay with him, Angelica – I’ll get someone to go for Luke.’

  I cradled Private Mallory’s head in my hands, trying to rouse him. ‘Wake up, Mr Mallory. Wake up.’ I lifted the lid of one of his eyes and my heart froze: a fixed black pupil stared vacantly back at me.

  Henry stood at the door. ‘We’re in luck – Luke’s already here. I’ve sent him a message to come as soon as he can.’ He stopped. A wine goblet lay upturned on the floor, the empty bottle lying on the desk, and his mouth hardened. He rushed to the adjacent door and pushed it open. ‘Angelica – there are more in here.’

  Three guards lay slumped across the table, their empty wine glasses lying where they had fallen, and I ran to help him as he lifted them to the ground. ‘They’re breathing – but only just.’ We worked fast; none of them was rousable, each staring back at us with fixed black pupils. ‘The wine must have been bad…I gave them bad wine.’

  Henry’s eyes froze mine. ‘The wine wasn’t bad – it was drugged. Who else had it?’

  I could hardly breathe. ‘The prison guards – all of them.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Smoke caught my eyes as we raced across the field. The inner gate was deserted, an ominous silence confirming our fear. The portcullis was open, the door gaping wide. A man lay slumped on the ground and I ran towards him, recognizing his white hair at once.

  ‘Private Evans, wake up.’

  He lay awkwardly, a dark patch glistening on the ground beside him, and I screamed in terror.

  Blood was seeping through his uniform, his glazed eyes staring up at me, and I fell to my knees, cradling him in my arms. His head lolled backwards and I laid him softly to the ground. Henry crouched beside me.

  ‘A knife in his back – the coward’s way to kill.’ His voice caught. ‘What have I done? Dear God, what have I done?’

  Tears streamed down my cheeks, my chest so tight, I could hardly breathe. Private Evans’ astonished eyes were staring at me, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. He looked so fragile, his white hair soft against my shaking hands. Taking out my handkerchief, I closed his eyes, laying it across his face, terror now taking the place of fear. I would have to walk down those steps. Walk into my brother’s cell. Henry’s hand was firm on my shoulder. ‘Stay here. I’ll go below. You stay here – I’ll come back…’

  ‘No – I need to come.’ There was blood on my hands, blood on my cloak. ‘I must go to Edgar…’ The words caught in my throat and I ran, spiralling down the steps, dizzy with fear. The heavily barred door lay open, two guards slumped beside it. Henry ran his hands over their jackets. ‘No wounds – they’re breathing but only just.’ In the dim light, their lips looked purple, their breathing rasping.

  ‘Loosen their collars.’ Their tongues were swollen, blocking their breathing. ‘Get them on their sides – they’re going to choke.’ It seemed to help, their terrible rasping turning to deep breaths. Two empty goblets lay on the ground next to them.

  ‘I should have thought – why didn’t I think?’

  More laboured breathing filled the corridor and we ran to the inner gate, knowing what we would find. The gate stood wide open, two more guards slumped awkwardly against the wall. ‘Get them flat.’

  We turned them quickly, freeing their collars, my eyes searching the corridor. The door to George’s room was shut but Henry’s door was wide open, the eerie silence making my heart pound. Henry walked ahead of me, holding up a lantern, the shadows flickering across the damp walls. At once we saw the empty cells. ‘Both gone…Where’s Captain Fenshaw?’

  A terrible groan echoed through the stillness; a hoarse intake of breath, the sound of clattering, and we ran through the open door to the Tudor kitchen with its pointed arches. Three guards were slumped over the table, their arms dangling by their sides, the hunched figure of Captain Fenshaw staring vacantly back at us. He was dazed, trying to raise himself, spittle oozing from his mouth, thick vomit coating his jacket.

  ‘Here, let us help you.’ Henry reached forward as Captain Fenshaw fell heavily to the floor. ‘Captain Fenshaw, wake up.’ He shook him vigorously, ‘Wake up…’

  Deep snores resonated round the room and Henry felt in Captain Fenshaw’s jacket, bringing out a long chain with no keys attached. The central hatch was open, the slatted wooden steps leading down to empty hammocks. My fear was turning to panic. ‘Where’s Edgar? Why isn’t he here?’

  Henry stripped off his coat, his white shirt catching the candlelight. He picked up the fallen goblet, smelling the contents. ‘Prisoners are never given alcohol.’

  ‘Then why’s he gone?’ Fear made me feel faint, the blood rushing from my head. ‘Why free him? They could have just left him.’

  ‘They’ve taken the guards’ muskets, Ange
lica – they probably forced him to go with them.’ He looked up, the kindness in his eyes making my tears flow.

  ‘He’s not part of this – Henry, you must believe that.’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe. One certain death, and who knows if the others will live. Private Evans must have been awake – that’s why they killed him.’

  My heart ripped inside me, the pain almost unbearable; the dear, sweet man contentedly sipping his whiskey, watching the sun go down. ‘He didn’t have any wine – he said whiskey was better for his joints.’

  ‘We’ll find them, Angelica. We’ll find the prisoners. We’ll find the man who killed Private Evans.’ He held up the empty chain. ‘But why take Captain Fenshaw’s keys – the gates were wide open and the fire distraction enough to prevent them from being seen?’

  ‘Would they risk that if they could use a tunnel? Half of them are dark-skinned – they don’t speak English. They’d stand out as different.’ My heart hammered. I knew what he was about to say.

  ‘Someone inside the castle must be behind this. Hardly anyone knows about the tunnel. There are only two keys: Captain Fenshaw’s and mine. Martha must have been looking for the entrance the day I arrested her.’

  I felt sick with fear. ‘Henry – what if Edgar saw who it was? What if they took him because…because…they couldn’t leave him…?’ I covered my face with my hands.

  He came to my side and for a moment I thought he would put his arm round my shoulder. He seemed to hesitate, his voice soft. ‘If they were going to kill him, they’d have done it here – stabbed him like Private Evans. Either he’s one of them or they’re using him in some way.’

  ‘He’s not one of them, Henry. Edgar’s innocent – we have to find him.’

  ‘We’ll find them – but they’ve got muskets and they won’t hesitate to use them.’ He rushed to his desk, grabbing a piece of paper, dipping his pen in the ink. ‘I’ll enlist Major Basset’s help – and I need a naval commander.’