Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

‘Just a routine affair, Mr Lyte. The man got his arm caught in the mill. I thought I might save it and just took the hand off first, but then I observed that the forearm would have to go sooner or later, so off it came. I have only charged for one cut, mind you; I don’t care to profit unduly from another’s misfortune, as you gentlemen will vouch. I’m quick with the saw though I say so myself and the man is alive. They have taken him to the slave quarters. He’ll have a sore head when he wakes up with all the rum he swallowed but he should survive. I don’t know what they’ll do with him, though. One-armed slaves aren’t worth much.’ Thomas dreaded to think what the brutes would do with the poor wretch.

Sprot went on cheerily, ‘Good day, Mr Lyte. You know where I am if you need me. Free men, indentured or slaves, and I’ll make you a good price. And between ourselves, I have just received a consignment of a most efficacious new medicine from London, should you have need of it. It comes highly recommended by the distinguished apothecary Nathaniel Foot, as a sovereign cure for various ills including headaches, vomiting, gout and fatigue. And I am able to offer it to my best customers at only a guinea a bottle. Be sure to look lively, though, my stock won’t last long.’ Sprot lowered his voice. ‘And, if I may, a word of warning. There are charlatans about. I have come across one who claims that a cup of the late king’s blood, taken with seawater, will cure the scrofula. And so it may, but the late king’s body must have held a deal of blood and been shipped here with great speed. The man has sold gallons of it.’

Sprot had just left when the Gibbes returned from the slave quarters. ‘Well, well. Look who it is, brother. Good day, Mr Lyte. Come to tell us the king has come back to life or for another turkey and shoat? I thought it was your turn.’

‘Good day, gentlemen,’ replied Lyte politely. ‘No, not looking for dinner today and my apologies for not giving you notice of my visit. There’s something I want to ask you both.’

‘How to make his slaves work harder, eh, Samuel? The whip, Lyte, the whip, and as often as you please. Or where to find the choicest women? No, no, he must know that by now. I have it. Where to find a good husband for his sister? That’ll be it. Well, look no further, sir. John Gibbes is your man.’

Thomas saw the disgust in Adam Lyte’s face and the effort it took him to ignore the remark. ‘No, gentlemen, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I wanted a word about Thomas here.’

‘Hill? What have you done, you puffed-up little prick? Something serious, I hope. It’s time you had a thrashing.’

‘No, no. He’s done nothing wrong, as far as I know,’ said Lyte quickly. ‘I just wanted to make you a business proposition.’

At this all four bloodshot Gibbes eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘About the windmill?’

‘No, something else.’

‘Best go down to the house then. Back to your hut, Hill, while we listen to what Mr Lyte has to say.’

Thomas waited until they had rounded the bend in the path down to the house, and then quietly followed them. Whatever Patrick had suggested, he wanted to know. He crept through the woods and round to his listening tree in time to see them sit down at the battered oak table on which the turkey and shoat had been served. ‘Right then, Lyte. What is it?’ Samuel asked impatiently. ‘We’ve wasted too much time already today.’

‘Mary and I would like to buy Hill from you. We’ll use him to keep our records and accounts.’

Again the Gibbes’s eyes narrowed. ‘And how much had you thought of paying?’ asked John Gibbes.

‘Thirty guineas we thought would be a fair price.’

It was a huge price. Two or three new men could be bought for that. The Gibbes hesitated, but not for long. ‘Thirty guineas? I don’t think we’d sell him for that, would we, brother? He’s a good cook as you know yourself, and well trained. Stronger than he looks, too. Works hard with a little persuasion. He’d not be easy to replace. Thirty guineas wouldn’t do it, sir, not by a distance.’

‘I could go to thirty-five.’

‘Nor thirty-five.’

‘Forty is my final offer.’

The brothers exchanged glances as if they suspected a trick. ‘We’ll discuss the matter and send word. Good day.’

Adam rose and left. Thomas, behind his tree, kept listening. So that was Patrick’s idea. A perfectly legal transaction. Simple. And forty guineas. Surely the brutes would be tempted.

The brutes were smug. ‘That’ll teach the devious scab not to come here and try lording it over us. Forty guineas? It’s a good price.’

‘Let’s go and find Hill and tell him the news.’

‘Ha. Excellent idea, brother. We’ll take a drink first.’

By the time they came thundering up the path Thomas was back in his hut. ‘Hill, come here,’ shouted Samuel. ‘Lyte has an offer for us. We thought you’d like to know what it is.’ I do know, thought Thomas. What I want to know is whether you’re going to accept it. ‘The pompous toad wants to buy you. Any idea why?’

‘None.’

‘Want to know how much he was willing to pay for you? Forty guineas, that’s how much.’ Thomas pretended to be astonished, which at the price he was. ‘We thought you’d be pleased to know how much he thinks you’re worth. We’re pleased too.’ John had a sly look about him. Thomas held his breath and waited. John jabbed a finger into Thomas’s chest. ‘But we’re not going to sell you. The Lytes can go and hang themselves. You’re not up to much but we’re not letting you go to be pampered by a pair of prissy king-lovers.’ The Gibbes laughed. ‘Now get back to the books. The magistrate would be only too pleased to order a public flogging if we asked for one. And don’t even think of running off. We’ll make sure you can’t run anywhere again if you do. Even Lyte won’t want a gelded cripple.’

On a bright spring morning the black coach emblazoned with the monogram TR drew up at the coaching inn outside Romsey. The brutal winter was at last over and the roads were passable again. As before, Rush left his coachman to take care of stabling for the horses and accommodation for himself and walked into the town. The market square, bustling and busy when he had last been there, was deserted. There were no drinkers outside the Romsey Arms and no children in the streets. It was as if the whole miserable place was still in mourning for the late king.

Business and the weather had detained Rush in London longer than he would have liked and he was impatient to see the woman again. Reports from his agent had been satisfactory enough but he wanted to check for himself that all was well. He strode up Love Lane to the bookshop.

There were no customers inside so Rush went straight in. Margaret Taylor was sitting behind her desk, writing in a ledger. From upstairs he could hear children’s voices. She looked up from her writing and stared at him. ‘I know where my brother is and I want proof that he is alive.’

Rush hid his surprise. ‘I am aware that you have disobeyed me and made certain enquiries.’ The lie came easily.

‘You are not the only one with contacts, Rush. I know that a ship named the Dolphin left Southampton for Barbados in March last year and I know that my brother was among the prisoners on board. I want proof that he arrived safely and is alive.’

‘And if you don’t get it?’

‘My daughters and I will disappear.’

‘You will be found.’

‘That is a chance we will take. I want to know that my brother is alive.’

Rush thought for a moment. ‘I can tell you that he arrived safely at his destination and that I have received no message to suggest that he is not perfectly well.’