Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

‘He’s dead,’ she replied with the ghost of a smile. ‘The body has been taken. No one claimed him so he’ll be buried with the others. The grave’s being dug now.’

John Gibbes turned and went back inside the inn.

Six hours later, when the sun was setting, he was still sitting in the corner. He had said nothing, eaten nothing and barely moved except to lift a bottle to his mouth. The landlord thought he must have drunk twelve pints of claret and showed no surprise when he eventually passed out on the floor.

Helped by two strong customers, the landlord dragged him outside with the wounded, and there he lay until morning.

The inventory of casualties taken, Thomas and Adam left for home. Sitting in the parlour, Adam described the battle to Mary, neglecting to mention Charles’s wound until the end.

Mary was horrified. ‘Wounded? Charles is wounded? Why didn’t you tell me this before? Is it serious? Where is he wounded?’

‘Calm down, sister. It’s not serious. A clean wound in the arm. Nothing much. It’ll mend quickly and his steward will take good care of him. You could visit him if you wish.’

‘Thank God for that. Good of you to tell me, Adam. Anything else you’d like to reveal?’

‘There is one thing. Samuel Gibbes was shot. By both sides. He ran out of the rocks waving his arms about like a lunatic. We didn’t know what on earth he was up to. Nor did the soldiers. He’ll be dead by now.’

‘Now that is good news,’ said Mary. ‘Any sign of the other one?’

‘I didn’t see him. Might be dead too, I suppose.’

‘I do hope so. It would save us all trouble.’

‘One left is more than enough, Mary,’ said Thomas, ‘but probably not as much as half of two. They fed off each other. John Gibbes on his own is much less of a danger.’

‘Indeed. And now I’m going to visit Charles.’

‘Take Thomas with you.’

‘If you wish. Would you care to accompany me, Thomas? I prefer not to leave the estate alone.’

At the Carrington house, Mary asked Thomas to wait outside while she went in. She thought she might be with the patient for an hour. She did not bother to announce herself in any way and simply walked straight in. As there was no sign of Charles’s steward, Thomas led their horses to a tethering post and sat down under a flambeau tree to wait.

Compared to Newbury, the skirmish at Six Mens Bay had been a minor affair but it was the most serious clash yet. Things were getting worse. There had now been two bloody battles and the list of dead and injured could only get longer. Ayscue said he wanted to take control of the island peacefully and Willoughby wanted to keep it peacefully. One claimed the commission of Parliament, the other of the king. Neither wanted to fight but both had to do their duty. It was hard to see a compromise.

After a little over an hour, Mary emerged from the house. She looked elated. ‘How did you find him, Mary?’ Thomas asked.

‘He’ll be as good as new in no time. And what have you been thinking about?’

‘After long and thorough consideration, madam, I have concluded that I am against war, cruelty and intolerance, and am for peace, good health and good food.’

‘What about love?’ There was a twinkle in her eye.

‘Essential. As often as possible.’

‘My thoughts exactly. Although I should be grateful for your discretion.’

‘Of course. On condition that you marry him.’

‘I intend to, Perkins or no Perkins.’

The following evening, when Adam had taken his platoon to join Willoughby in the south, Thomas dined with Mary and Patrick. Mary preferred not to eat alone, so when her brother was away Patrick joined her. For an hour afterwards they sat and talked. Mary spoke of her love of Barbados and her fear of being sent back to England, Thomas of his love of Romsey and his fear of never getting back to England. Actually doing something more than sit about feeling sorry for himself had lifted his spirits.

Patrick listened and said little. Fond as he was of both these people, he knew only what he had been told of England and he confessed that he could not picture it clearly in his mind. They were interrupted by an urgent knocking on the door.

Mary looked up sharply. ‘Patrick, please answer it. More news, I expect.’

But the news Patrick brought was not news any of them expected. ‘A man is at the door, Miss Lyte. He gives his name as John Gibbes. He asks to see you.’

Thomas was on his feet immediately. ‘Hell’s hounds. Surely not.’

‘Calm yourself, Thomas. Patrick, please tell Mr Gibbes that it is late and I am not inclined to receive visitors at this hour. He may return in the morning.’

‘Yes, Miss Lyte.’

‘That will give us time to think of something.’

Patrick was soon back. ‘He is most insistent, Miss Lyte, and not entirely sober. He says that if he is not admitted, he will admit himself. He carries a pistol.’

‘In that case I shall get rid of him myself. Come with me, Patrick, please. Keep out of sight, Thomas.’

‘Mary …’

‘Go, Thomas.’ Reluctantly, Thomas disappeared into the kitchen. He slipped quietly out of the kitchen door and around the side of the house, to a small window from where he could see and hear without being seen or heard.

When Mary opened the door, Gibbes was standing outside, even more revolting than she remembered him. Matted red beard, carbuncles and warts, bleary eyes, filthy clothes and reeking of something foul. So foul that Mary took a step backwards.

‘Mr Gibbes, I am Mary Lyte.’ For all her courage, Thomas heard a slight tremble in her voice. ‘You are not welcome here.’

Gibbes shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. He clutched in both hands a small sack tied with a length of rope. It looked heavy. ‘My brother is dead, killed at Six Mens Bay. That is why I have come.’

‘I do not see how that concerns me.’

‘I am a rich man.’ He held up the evil-smelling bag. ‘This bag is full of gold. I have come to give it to you.’

Expecting a demand for Thomas to be handed over, Mary was taken by surprise. ‘That is absurd, Mr Gibbes. Why would I wish to take your gold?’

He ignored the question. ‘There is one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘You will be my wife.’

Mary stared at him in astonishment. Before she could say anything, Gibbes went on, ‘You are of marriageable age, I am the owner of a good estate and a wealthy man. Now my brother is dead, I wish to take a wife. Why would you refuse me?’ Thomas knew that there were at least a hundred reasons, none of which Mary cared to offer him.

‘Kindly leave my estate at once. If you come here again, I shall instruct my servants to shoot you.’ Now she was shouting.

‘Your servants are away,’ said Gibbes slyly.

‘This unwelcome meeting is over. Go, Mr Gibbes. Now.’

She made to close the door. But for all the rum inside him, Gibbes moved quickly. Before Mary or Patrick could stop him, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, slamming it behind him. Putting himself in front of Mary, Patrick shot a fist into Gibbes’s face. Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose, Gibbes dropped the bag, pulled a knife from inside his shirt, grabbed Patrick’s hair and with a single backhand slash opened his throat.

As Patrick fell, blood spurting from the wound, Mary screamed. Stepping over him, Gibbes jammed the knife into the doorpost and reached for her throat. Again she screamed. He got his hands around her neck and thrust his face into hers. ‘Now you’re going to learn what happens to a woman who defies John Gibbes. If you won’t be my wife, you won’t be the first whore who’s learned her lesson.’

Mary wriggled and struggled and beat at his shoulders with her fists. Blind with rage and lust, Gibbes barely flinched. He forced her on to her back and straddled her. She was pinned under his weight, but her arms were free. Desperately, she thrust both hands into his groin, twisted and squeezed. Gibbes shrieked, but kept one hand around her throat and punched her hard in the face. Again she twisted and squeezed and again he hit her, this time with enough force to knock her senseless.