Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

He got to his knees and pulled up her skirts. ‘Filthy whores get filthy treatment,’ he spat at her, unbuckling his belt, ‘and it’s time for yours. You’ll thank me later.’

The moment Gibbes stepped inside the house, Thomas had run round to the front door. When he found that Gibbes had shut it violently enough to jam it, he ran back and through the kitchen. Patrick lay in a pool of blood on the floor, his hands clasped over his throat. Gibbes, his back to Thomas, had pinned Mary to the floor and was struggling to get out of his breeches. Mary was not moving.

Thomas cast about for a weapon. He did not see the knife in the door but a silver candlestick stood on the dining table. He picked it up and smashed the heavy base down on Gibbes’s head, feeling the impact right up his arms. Gibbes fell to one side, stunned. Mary opened her eyes and tried to focus. Her cheek was livid and swollen and she was shaking. She held out a hand to Thomas. From the corner of his eye Thomas saw Gibbes beginning to stir. He would have to be quick. Gently disengaging from Mary, he reached down, pulled the pistol from the brute’s belt, aimed carefully at his eye and pulled the trigger.

There was an empty click. Damp powder. Red brute staggered dimly to his feet and made a lunge for Thomas, catching enough of his shoulder to knock him down. Before he could roll away, Thomas found himself trapped under the weight of the man, his throat being squeezed and his face no more than inches from a fetid, black-toothed hole of a mouth.

‘Hill, you little runt. I might have guessed. Run away, would you? Now you’ll get what John Gibbes should have given you years ago.’

Thomas felt the pressure on his throat increasing and the strength to fight draining away. His eyes closed and he was on the point of losing consciousness when the weight on his chest lifted, his windpipe opened and his lungs sucked in a gulp of air. Gasping painfully, he sat up. Gibbes lay beside him, felled for the second time by the heavy candlestick.

‘Be quick, Thomas. His knife. In the door,’ whispered Mary.

His mind clearing, Thomas was on his feet and pulling the knife from the wood. ‘You or I?’ he asked, holding up the knife.

‘Can you?’

‘I can.’ He stepped over to the unconscious Gibbes. Mary turned away. When she turned back, red brute was impaled by the knife. It had gone through his throat and into the floorboards.

Thomas knelt over Patrick, one hand under his head and desperately trying with the other to staunch the flow of blood from the awful wound. Patrick’s eyes were open but all colour had drained from his face. Mary grabbed a cloth from the table and held it over his throat. Blood still spurted out. Patrick smiled weakly and put his hands over Thomas’s. Then his eyes closed and his head slumped to one side. Thomas put two fingers to his neck. Patrick was dead.

For a long time, Mary and Thomas sat together in silence.

Eventually Mary asked quietly, ‘Thomas, who saved who this time, would you say?’

‘A little of each, perhaps? Would that we could have saved Patrick, too. This terrible thing should not have happened. I should have killed them years ago.’

‘And been hanged for it?’

‘Perhaps. Now you should rest. I will take care of Patrick.’

In no state to argue, her cheek now so swollen that her left eye had closed, Mary did as she was told.

Thomas left the house and ran to the slaves’ quarters. The commotion had been heard and the slaves were up and alert. He took two men back to the house. ‘There’s been trouble. Patrick has been murdered by an intruder. Take him to your quarters and we’ll bury him tomorrow. When you’ve done that, take this man’s body and burn it. There must be nothing left. Do it immediately.’

‘Miss Lyte? Is she hurt?’

‘She’s bruised but otherwise unharmed. I will take care of her. Now be quick.’ While the two men moved the bodies, Thomas picked up the bag and opened it. As the brute had said, it was full of gold sovereigns. He put it in a corner.

Thomas did not sleep. Neither his mind nor his body could rest and he could just hear the low sounds of mourning coming from the slave quarters. As soon as it was light, he went to Mary’s bedroom and found her awake. Her face was like a pumpkin. ‘Tell me it was a nightmare, Thomas,’ she said.

‘Alas, it was not. But it’s over. May I bring you anything?’

‘Water, please, and a looking glass. I’d better see the damage for myself.’

When he returned, Mary took a sip of water and held the glass up to her face. With a groan, she put it down again. ‘Is it done?’

‘It is. Gibbes’s body will not be seen again. Patrick will be buried this morning. Will you come?’

‘No, Thomas. I’ll visit him when I’m recovered and able to grieve as I should. He was an unusual man and a brave one. Do it well.’ Thomas turned to leave. ‘And Thomas, the bag. Is it full of gold?’

‘It is. Gold coins of various sorts.’

‘Where did it come from, do you think?’

‘I’m not certain, but I do have an idea about that. I will tell you when you are stronger.’

‘When you’ve buried Patrick, please send word to Charles. Without Patrick or Adam, we shall need his assistance.’

With the help of the two slaves who had disposed of Gibbes’s body, Thomas buried Patrick within the hour. There had been no funeral and there was nothing to mark the grave. Those would come later. He stood alone, thinking of the man who had thought nothing of being born a slave, had nursed Thomas back to health and had given his life for Mary. He found that he could not weep. It would take time.

When Adam arrived back from Bridgetown that afternoon, he had worked himself up into a rare fury. To have been summoned from an important meeting to discuss the crisis was not only most inconvenient but also, judging by what the messenger had told him, deeply alarming. Face the colour of a red pepper and shirt drenched in sweat, he leapt from his exhausted horse and stormed into the house. He found Mary sitting quietly with Charles and Thomas. Charles’s arm was in a sling.

‘What the devil’s been going on here?’ he demanded. ‘I leave my sister in the care of Thomas and Patrick and now I gather there’s been an intruder and Patrick’s dead. What have you to say for yourself, Thomas?’

‘Good afternoon, brother,’ said Mary. ‘My face is a little bruised, but I’m otherwise unharmed, thank you.’

‘I can see that and am much relieved for it, but why was an intruder allowed into the house? What happened? And what about Patrick? Is it true he’s dead?’

‘Calm yourself, my friend,’ said Charles, rising to greet him. ‘Alas, Patrick is dead. He died protecting Mary and so, nearly, did Thomas. No blame attaches to either. Now sit down and you shall hear the story.’

An hour later, the story had been told and Adam had calmed down. ‘John Gibbes. I would never have left you if I’d known that creature was on the loose,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me what they’ve done with his body. I don’t want to know, just as long as he’s dead.’

‘He’s quite dead,’ Thomas assured him, ‘and I much regret not having done what I did long ago. I find, to my surprise, that taking a life in such circumstances troubles me not at all. In fact, I’m pleased to have done it.’

‘Patrick has been buried and we will have a proper funeral for him when I feel stronger,’ said Mary. ‘I wish to grieve properly and I am not yet ready to do so.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Thomas.

Charles broke the silence. ‘Now, Adam, as you are here, tell us how matters stand in the south.’

‘There has been no further action since Alleyne’s landing. Willoughby still believes that Ayscue cannot hope to win while he is so clearly outnumbered and at the disadvantage of having been at sea for so long, but as long as his fleet is there we are blockaded and in some danger. However, there has been one development.’