Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

‘I do hope so,’ replied Patrick. ‘Mr Carrington worships her and she’d be wasted on Master Perkins.’

‘Then we must hope that her brother sees sense.’

After a while, Patrick asked, ‘Have you ever thought of marrying, Thomas?’

‘Only once. I met a lady in Oxford. Tobias Rush had her raped and murdered.’

‘Why?’

‘She betrayed him to save me.’

‘She must have loved you.’

‘I think she did. And you, Patrick? Would you be permitted to marry?’

‘The law does not recognize marriage between slaves.’

‘But you could have children?’

‘Yes, with the Lytes’ consent, I could. Perhaps I will.’

When dinner was over, they talked of England, of Barbados, of sugar and of the tricks fate plays. ‘In one matter, at least, Patrick, you are fortunate,’ said Thomas, lighting a new candle. ‘You know what your place is. It is here with Adam and Mary. I am no longer sure where I belong. Royal cryptographer, uncle, prisoner, indentured servant, runaway, guest. I wonder which of them I am.’

‘Can you not be all of them and more besides? What about scholar, bookseller, mathematician, brother, friend? We all show different faces to different people, even I. The field slaves do not see me as you do or as Miss Lyte does.’

‘I suppose so. It would be tedious otherwise, although Monsieur de Montaigne, as usual, had something apposite to say on the matter.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Patrick with a smile. By now he had heard a good deal about Thomas’s favourite philosopher.

‘He said, “I do not care so much what I am to others as I care what I am to myself.”’

‘He wasn’t an indentured man, then?’

‘He was not, although he was something of a recluse.’

It was approaching midnight when the carriage carrying his lordship’s guests returned. Judging by their mood and the colour of Charles’s face, they had enjoyed themselves. Despite the hour Mary insisted on telling them about the food.

His lordship had admitted that, by the standards of London or Paris, dinner was a modest affair but as few of the guests had dined in either city they had all thought it sumptuous. Crêpes and pastries basted in honey had been followed by mullet in a sweet and sour onion sauce, chicken pies, stewed lamb and pork in a wine sauce with fried beans and carrot fritters. Sweet lemon cream with coconut biscuits had been served as dessert.

‘It is several courses fewer than one might serve at Parham,’ Willoughby had confided, ‘but I trust no one will be disappointed.’ He told them that he had taken the precaution of bringing his chef with him. ‘I employed him when we were in Holland with the king and have never regretted it.’

‘It was excellent,’ Mary said, adding hastily, ‘although of course no better than Patrick serves.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ agreed Adam. ‘And his lordship’s news was even more excellent. A Dutch ship has arrived. It reports that our new king, having sailed from France to Scotland, marched south and won an overwhelming victory over Cromwell and Fairfax near Worcester and by now will be in London. Cromwell is dead and the people have risen for the king. Is that not splendid news?’

‘Splendid indeed,’ agreed Charles, ‘and there is more. The Parliamentary fleet is no more than a rabble of refugees. The risk of invasion has gone.’

‘His lordship has ordered celebrations,’ said Mary, ‘so celebrations it will be.’

The news was not only splendid but astonishing. How the king could have led an army of Scots to a victory over Cromwell’s well-equipped, highly trained New Model Army, Thomas could not imagine. At Naseby the Model Army had crushed the Royalists, including Prince Rupert’s celebrated cavalry, so how had they now come to be defeated? ‘Is Lord Willoughby sure of this information?’ he asked.

Adam was a little put out. ‘His lordship would not have ordered celebrations if he were not sure, Thomas.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And,’ added Mary, ‘you will be going home to a country at peace and with a king back on the throne. If that is not a cause for celebrations, Thomas, what is? We must pray for the safe arrival of your ship. Now, gentlemen, it has been a long evening and with your permission I shall retire. Perhaps you would come and assist me, Patrick.’

‘Certainly, Miss Lyte. Good night, sirs.’

‘Mary’s relationship with Patrick is unusual, is it not?’ asked Thomas when they had left.

‘It is certainly unusual,’ replied Adam, ‘but my sister and I trust Patrick completely. He himself is unusual and not merely in his intelligence and sensitivity. He is extraordinarily loyal.’

On the last day of October Thomas’s ship had not arrived and his spirits were low. He wandered around the estate, watching cane being harvested and taken to the mill, listening to slaves singing while they worked and sniffing the sweetness in the air, but thinking all the while of home. The first frosts would have come, the trees — all but the ancient oaks of the New Forest whose leaves clung to their branches until December — would be bare and the countryside would be closing down for the winter. On this island he missed the seasons of England. No spring flowers, no long summer evenings, no autumn mists, no winter snow. Just a drier season and a wetter season. A man could easily tire of that.

As he walked slowly back to the house, Thomas saw Adam waving from the parlour. He quickened his pace.

‘It’s here, Thomas,’ called Adam. ‘The ship arrived this morning. It will take a week to unload its cargo, revictual and load the sugar, and then you’ll be off.’

Thomas could hardly believe it. Only seven more days. The Atlantic crossing, England and home. He would find Margaret and the girls and he would do whatever it took to ensure that Rush faced the justice he had avoided for so long. ‘Thank the Lord. I was losing hope.’

Adam clapped Thomas on the back. ‘Patrick will produce one of his feasts for us tonight. I am delighted for you, Thomas.’

It was a long week. Much as he would have liked to find something to occupy his mind and tire his body, Thomas dared not leave the estate for fear of meeting the brutes. With only hours before he boarded ship for England that would have been unbearable. So he passed the days walking and reading, helping Patrick in the kitchen and in the evenings enjoying the company of the Lytes and twice of Charles Carrington.

They plied him with questions about his shop and his nieces, offered generous advice on how to find Tobias Rush and what to do with him when he did and assured him repeatedly that his family would be well and overjoyed to see him home safely. Thomas tried his best to believe them. Charles, ever the man of action, recommended swift retribution for Rush and suggested a number of unpleasant ways of exacting it.

‘Whatever you do, do not trust the courts,’ he advised. ‘The man will bribe them as he bribed his gaoler in Oxford. You must deal with him yourself, Thomas. If I could come with you, I would. Would you care for instruction in the matter of swordplay?’ Thomas declined politely. Charles was insistent. ‘Then have you worked out a plan?’

Thomas had not worked out a plan and did not see how he could until he had some idea of where Rush was and how Margaret and the girls were. He would get home and proceed from there. A disappointed Charles wished him good fortune.

On the morning of Thomas’s departure, a cheerful party boarded the carriage arranged by Adam to take them to Oistins, from where the ship would set sail at noon. The carriage rattled down the hill and turned along the coast road. They passed through Holetown, crossed several narrow bridges built over the streams that ran down the gullies from the hills, and were soon nearing Bridgetown. There the road twisted and turned through outlying settlements, before dividing into two branches. They took the left branch which ran in a wide circle around the town and carried on to Oistins. The sky was cloudless and the sea glimmered in the sun. I shall remember my last day in prison as a beautiful one, thought Thomas. It was the first time he had been in Oistins since the announcement of the king’s death and it would be the last. He was going home.