“All theft,” Jemima whispered. “Every coin dishonest.”
Babbington ignored her. “It wasn’t the first time. I trusted the bastard because he’d come through all right and tight before. Three times we’ve profited this way in the past. This was the fourth time I’d shaken his hand on a quarter share, and the second time for Staines. But the first time Thripp turned crooked and reckoned on cheating us both.”
Still tugging at her hem, Jemima looked down, avoiding the glare of his flame bright eyes. “Papa explained to me. He didn’t mean to cheat anyone. He nearly died. If he had, you would have lost your money. You’d have accepted that.”
“I accept risk, mistress. Not being cheated.” He sat up again with a lurch, so suddenly intense that Jemima flinched. Babbington glared. “The natural world is a dangerous place, accidents happen and the seas are rough. Men drown. Thripp took that risk and so did I. But if I let any bastard cheat me, what do you reckon my own reputation would say about it, eh, girl? I should let the world call me fool and weakling? Use what little sense you’ve inherited from your Pa. I want my dues, and I’ll take them by easy chat, or by force. Whichever suits.”
“Chuck the little liar in the fire. Let her burn. She’ll soon squeal.”
Jemima looked up in desperation. “But I don’t know. I don’t know where and I don’t know what. Somewhere in Dover or nearby, where he sailed into port and came ashore in the night. I swear that’s the truth. I don’t know anymore.”
Babbington stared at her. Then abruptly he leaned forwards, and grabbed a handful of her hair, then wrenching her head backwards. “You know what I can do. You know the danger you face.”
“I do.” Her eyes watered and her stomach heaved. She felt half naked and utterly defenceless. Her hair, already tangled and knotted, now ripped against her scalp. When he released her, some strands were still between his fingers. She refused to cry. “I’m telling the truth. The men didn’t trust me. Papa thought I’d be safer not knowing until the last moment. Perhaps he guessed you’d try to find out from me if you saw me.”
“The bugger thought I’d never find out he was alive till it was too late,” Babbington sneered, “and nor would I, but for a strike of luck come from an unexpected source, since it was a local whore, friend of mine, who reckons she saw Thripp climb from a rowing boat no more than a sennight back. But the good Lord is on my side, for once, mistress. And you can’t fight against luck.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had any.” Jemima looked back into her lap. She refused to rub at the side of her head, although it was throbbing, and the headache she already suffered was immediately worse.
“Tis a sign from the heavens,” smiled Babbington. “Our Lord above has his favourites. And what He says ain’t to be questioned. Our blessed majesty, for instance. A nasty bugger he is, and no friend to be trusted. In Thripp’s place, our beloved king would be cheating me every step of the way. But he’d get away with it, not just for the power, but because God’s on his side. Anointed him, chose him, put his family on the throne when they had not one little finger’s worth of royal blood to count it fair. Tis God makes those choices, and only Him. So if I was hoping to get fair shares from the king, I’d be backing off and giving up, and praying to God to forgive me.” Babbington grinned. “But tis the other way around, mistress. I’m the one with the luck. I’m the one the Lord has favoured. And you ain’t got no chance at all. So if tis true and you don’t know the hiding place, then I don’t care too much. More luck will come. That I know. So I’ll be taking you hostage, like the other bugger who brought the good luck wrapped in his stupid blabbering tongue. I’ll send the message to the men as brought you here. Snug and tight at the inn, I reckon? Yes, well they’ll hear that I’m waiting for my money and their beloved captain’s daughter won’t be freed till I get my fair share.”
She did not understand half of his explanation. She mumbled, “Hostage? Another hostage? And what if my father’s men abandon me and don’t pay?”
“Well, not wishing to sound harsh, lass,” Babbington replied, still grinning, “but if no one pays and no one cares to save your pretty white skin, mistress, first we enjoy your company a little, passing you around amongst the men, as it were, and I’ll be telling your friends how much we enjoyed it. If that don’t spur them to good deeds, then we send them a finger, maybe a couple of toes, bits and pieces you won’t miss too much, like some hair of course, and maybe your nose. I’ve no wish to spoil that pretty face, but I’m a little impatient to have this business finished. If your men are loyal to their captain, they’ll cough up before you lose any part too precious. And of course, in the meantime,” he sniggered, “we’ll be watching them from the shadows. Following them. Maybe we’ll find the treasure easy enough, kill the men, take the lot, and keep you too. A woman in camp is always welcome. Snivelling and sniffing spoils then swiving a touch, but you’d soon get used to us and settle down.”
“My father would – ,” she stopped, gulping for breath and trying desperately not to collapse into helpless tears, “you’re only trying to frighten me in case I know more than I’m telling. But I don’t. The men I travelled with don’t like me but I think they’ll pay up for my father’s sake. Send the message as you said, but I beg you to leave me alone. I’ve done nothing to hurt you. I’m only doing as my father told me. Get your money and let me go.”
“Depends,” Babbington said, lazy-eyed and leaning back to stretch comfortably on the ground again. “Depends how you behave yourself. How your men behave themselves. And how I feel. I might decide, if I get impatient, or I might not. Decisions, well, that’s what I like. Tis me that makes the going of it all, as I reckon you can guess. If I says – then everyone does it. But I don’t rush things lest I want to. So we’ll see in the morning.”
He had closed his eyes, and the men around began to shuffle and mutter, staring at her and glaring. Jemima sat very still, her hands squeezed into desperate fists, alert to sudden possible attack. But Babbington had spoken. The men watched her but made no move towards her. Finally one man stood, came over, and threw her a thin woollen blanket. “Sleep, lass,” he told her. “No one will touch you lest you tries to get away. Be thankful as to what our leader says, for we won’t disobey. But some will stay awake through the night and you’ll be watched. You tries to get away, then everything changes.”
She was neither chained nor roped, but surrounded by thirty men or more, and watched as the fire was built up and the flames sparked against the freeze above. The blanket covered her bare arms, the swell of her breasts and her half naked legs. Jemima wrapped it around herself and curled beside the warmth of the fire. She was shivering both from fear and from bitter cold and was quite sure that she could not sleep. But it was a first streak of dawn in her face that woke her.
Then she heard the noises. Creeping, snuffling. A hesitation, then a shuffle of crawling bodies. At first she thought it was a badger. Then she heard breathing and knew it was not. Blinking, hoping, Jemima peeped around. The fire had burned low but in the sizzle of dying embers, she saw the sudden wink of an eye, and she bit her lip, staying quiet. It appeared that none of the other men were awake. Too tired or too complacent, even those who had promised to stay awake and on guard were snoring beneath their blankets. Red Babbington seemed just a pink nose and a fluff of cinnabar fuzz over the thick wedge of woollen wrap. He was a grunt of satisfaction in his own sweet dreams. It appeared that only Jemima and the new arrivals were awake. She began to move.
Knee on frozen damp squelch, creeping forwards, toes in mud, hands flat to the icy ground. Between the sleeping men there was a pathway. She was almost free of the camp when the scream of fury urged her to stand and run.
Behind her every man lept awake and grabbed their swords, knives, axes and clubs. They swung logs, and stamped, kicking and rushing one onto the other. In the semi dark it was hard for any man to see who was friend and who assailant.
Jemima knew exactly what was happening, and she kept
running. Both the excitement and the surge of terror kept her warm, and around her thin shift she had tied the blanket, doubled, the knot tight beneath her arms and above her breasts. She didn’t need to look back. It was Samuel who had winked at her when she first woke. But there were more than three men she had seen. A hoard, either of friends or paid villagers had rushed the camp, and whether or not the numbers for and against were equal, she did not care.
It was only when she fell over something large and noticeably quivering, that she stopped running. For a moment she expected a bush or a rock but the thing moaned, and Jemima stopped and stared. It was a man, tied like a hog for the spit, his mouth gagged and his hands behind him. She had no idea who this was, but another prisoner of men who had imprisoned her was someone she wanted to help. She untied the cloth from his mouth and was attempting to untie the rope from his arms when he began to speak. He coughed blood and managed to say, “Jemima Thripp?”
She blinked, stared, then hurried again, loosening the bindings, and mumbled, “Yes. Who are you, for mercy’s sake?”
“Richard’s friend. A lawyer. Thomas Dunn,” and as she released his wrists, he was able to twist around and start untying his ankles. He wanted to hug her and kiss her and tell her she had saved his life but instead he just grabbed her hand and within moments they were both up and running.
His legs, too long roped and immobile, were unsteady but he stumbled only a little as the blood screamed back through veins and muscles. Hearing the slashing, crashing chaos, Thomas yelled, “Who are they. Who is killing who?”
Now out of breath, Jemima croaked back, “Red Babbington the pirate. And my father’s men come to murder them and rescue me.”
“Merciful miracles,” whispered Thomas, and hauled Jemima with him into the first blaze of dawn across the forest path beyond. The sky blossomed like fire through the darkness. Golden flame and lilac pastels streaked out from a gleaming crimson sun. The remaining snow in its heaped banks between bare branched trees and thorn bushes, reflected the sky in a gentle blushing sheen.
Jemima sank down, crouching, her back to a birch trunk. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I must catch my breath. Then I’ll run again.”
Thomas gazed at her, ripped off his cloak, and spread it around her shoulders, tying the silken cord beneath her chin. “Poor child. You must be frozen.”
She was. The cape was thick mahogany broadcloth, fully lined in otter. Jemima felt a great ease rush through her, coaxing every part of her body into relaxation. Her feet were bare and her teeth still chattered, but the warmth was so much sweeter than the freeze had been and she whispered her thanks. “Now I can run.”
Nodding, Thomas bent down beside her. “You saved my life. I know who you are from Richard, and I know he admires you. Now I know why.” His breath was warm on her face, and she slumped further back against the tree. “So I owe you my life,” Thomas said. “But you say those other men came to save you. Yet you ran. You didn’t stay to be saved.”
“I just wanted to get away from everyone,” she sighed. “I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I hated everyone. I was frightened. What if the wrong side had won?”
“Alright,” Thomas said, nodding. “I shall try and get you back to Richard.”
With a gulp and two hands to her back, Jemima stood. Thomas helped her. They ran at first, then walked, hurrying through the trees as the forest grew closer. When they finally stopped, Jemima’s feet were bleeding. The snow, still thick in places under the shade of forest tangles, had numbed her feet and the rest of her felt throbbingly warm, but she was nauseas too and needed rest. The forest had gradually risen, and when they came out from the trees beneath a wide blue sky, they realised that beyond them the slope of the land fell away, and they could stare down at a different scene.
A clustered village wrapped around its grassy square, its market stalls, and its church. Folk were already busy, shopping and gossiping, children chasing a flock of geese which had escaped their owner, and housewives clutching their purses and their baskets. A fiddler, tapping his feet in the melting slush, was playing Christmas songs, and beside him an elderly woman was singing, her face just peeping from a cloak as copious and bright as the fading dawn. The geese squawked and hissed, drowning out the song. The fiddler glared but played on. One stall holder, beginning to turn his stone, called for knives to be sharpened, and blunt axes to be brought for honing. A dog ran around in circles, sudden excitement as it gulped down sausages stolen from the butchers set up in the square. The fiddler played faster and the woman at his side raised her voice.
Morning had come.
“We’ve not been followed,” Thomas said, still holding her hand tightly between frozen fingers. “So we go down, and ask for help. Your feet – your clothes – you need food and rest and warmth. It’s two days since I’ve eaten. Are you ready to face people? You will be stared at. Do you care?”
She did. “Of course I don’t,” she whispered, trying to reclaim her voice. “But I’ve no money for buying shoes or food. And I’m sure you have none either.”
“It was stolen from me when I was taken.”
“Then we’re beggars. But village people can be kind.”
“They may run for the mayor and throw us in gaol.”
“You expect one form of imprisonment after another?” Jemima laughed. “The village is too small for a mayor or even a gaol, I’d guess. So we’re safe.” When she started to feel the pain in her ragged feet, she knew she was getting better. The numb freeze was melting. “People are usually kind. It’s kindness we need now, most of all.”
They climbed slowly, approaching the village from the forest shadows. With the Christmas season waning but Epiphany approaching, there were more important things to do than stare at strangers. But as Thomas and Jemima entered the open square, the music stopped, the woman ceased singing although her mouth remained open, and the shoppers slowed, turning to gaze. Even the geese slowed, confused by the sudden silence.
Almost crying, Jemima hugged her man’s cape around her, the blanket beneath emerging in unravelling incongruity, and her bare feet bleeding through the clinging mud. Although cold without his cape and his hair uncombed, Thomas appeared the more respectable. Someone asked him, “Are you mad, young man, bringing this female here in such a state?”
Another woman pushed past, taking Jemima’s arm. “Poor child. I’ve an idea there’s been mischief here. Don’t tell me that brute Red Babbington is around again? We know his habits. Have you escaped from the Beast of Kent?”
Jemima collapsed into the woman’s stout arms and sobbed. Thomas, standing helpless, mumbled, “We have indeed, mistress. Both of us taken hostage and would have been killed, but for good luck taking the place of bad. And it’s this poor girl who saved my life.”
A stout man nodded vigorously, voice raised. “Packs of men, he leads, armed brutes, all of them. Moves up and down along the coast, raiding villages, looking for poor lost souls to take and sell to the pirates, who sells the miserable wretches on to the Moors. And keeps to the coast, he does, waiting for storms that will wreck ships ready to plunder. He’s a monster, and the law has been after him for years.”
“But the local constable has too few men to call on, and Red Babbington has plenty. There’s no stopping him. After all, this is Little Fogham, not grand London. We’ve neither folk enough nor riches to hire them.”
The villagers were crowding around now, and offering food, ale and their own homes as shelter. The dog, now unwatched, was able to steal more sausages, and the geese headed for the forest. “Come along with me, little lass,” one woman said, putting an arm around Jemima’s shoulders. “I’ve a capon on the fire already roasting, a tub of new brewed ale, clean water from the stream, and two young daughters to help you fill a bath and get warm again. Their clothes might fit you, and I’ll do a deal with clothes for cleaning, and water to be fetched from the stream.”
“I’ll take on the buckets and do the cleaning,” Thomas i
nterrupted. “You look after Mistress Jemima, and thank you. She’s near fainting and needs food, then sleep.” He turned to Jemima. “I’ll swear to look after you,” he said softly, “and we can be safe here for a day or more. Then I shall set off to find Richard.” He did not add that finding Richard still alive could be the greater problem.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Baron Staines wore peacock blue damask, sable trimmed, over thick black velvet, and knew his magnificence enhanced the beauty of his eyes. Almost as tall as the king himself, he had long expected a call to the higher echelons. But since the call had never come, he sat neither on the Privy Council nor in government, and his purse was more often empty than bulging. There were other ways of gaining both wealth and prominence of course, most of which he had explored. But personal advancement had remained a struggle until he decided to abandon any attempt at impressing his majesty, and sought instead to risk his handsome charms with the queen and her silken cluster of more than fifty maids of honour.
It was Mistress Jane Seymour who first informed him of murder discovered not so far distant. “Naked bodies, my lord. Shrivelled by time, so sad and so wicked. They say it was the hideous creature who slaughtered his mistresses. He owned the house where the crime was discovered.”
It became a popular tale of mystery and horror at court. The melodrama increased in the telling.
“Edward Thripp. I think that is the name.”
The Deception of Consequences Page 23