James McGee - Rapscallion

Sheep were not fast walkers, especially up hills, and as a disguise and an aid to flight, their steady perambulations didn't exactly instil confidence. Though it was, Hawkwood conceded inwardly, a pleasant enough way to travel if you didn't have a care in the world or the possibility of armed militia snapping at your heels.

Even allowing for the fact that pursuit could be drawing ever nearer, the sheer joy of being anywhere other than on board the hulk was a wondrous feeling. No wooden walls, no men crammed on top of one another in stinking darkness. There was only the wide blue sky and grass beneath their feet. The smell of the marshes didn't seem so pervasive out here in the fields. And there was, of course, a birdsong accompaniment; not the raucous, incessant complaining of gulls, but the melodious twittering of song thrush, blackbird and hedge sparrow. Hawkwood had followed the drum through Spain, Portugal, South America and a host of foreign climes, but there was nothing he'd seen that could compare to the English countryside on a bright summer morning.

Even Lasseur looked entranced. Hawkwood had caught the privateer lifting his face to the sun on several occasions. For the Frenchman it was probably the next best thing to being on the deck of his ship.

They were moving steadily and were on the brow of a hill, about to descend into the valley, when Hawkwood saw Isaac stiffen. The guide was peering over Hawkwood's shoulder, down towards the west.

Hawkwood turned.

There were horsemen in the distance. At first glance they appeared to be heading towards them. Hawkwood's heart skipped several beats but, as he continued to watch, the riders suddenly veered away to the south.

"They'll be headin' for the Swale," Isaac said confidently. "Probably come from the Queenborough Road or Mile Town. They ain't no threat. They've likely enlisted the garrison's help, but it'll take them a while to get organized. They don't 'ave too many mounted troopers out here. Long as we take it nice an' easy and keep movin', we'll be fine. Better than runnin' around lookin' like chickens with our 'eads chopped off. And we don't 'ave that far to go. Be like strollin' to church for Sunday sermon."

They dined while they walked. The simple pleasure of biting into a hunk of bread they hadn't had to soak first in order to swallow was impossible to put into words. The cheese was full of flavour, the apples sharp and crisp. The cider, kept cool in the underground chamber and sipped straight from the jug, was as refreshing on the palate as water from a mountain spring.

They'd been going for more than two hours, resting the flock at intervals, when it occurred to Hawkwood that, with the exception of the mounted patrol glimpsed earlier, they hadn't spied another soul all morning. The same thing had struck Lasseur.

"That's why we came this way," Isaac said when Lasseur mentioned the fact to him. "Most folk live to the north, along the top road and the coast. Down south, towards Elmley and Harty, it's mostly fever and swamp land. Some folk say it's the last place God made. That's why they call Sheppey folk Swampies."

"Swamp-ies?" Lasseur had trouble with the pronunciation.

"What you might call a term of affection," Isaac said, adding wryly, "Same reason we call you lot Frogs."

Lasseur raised a cynical eyebrow. Hawkwood kept his face straight, albeit with some difficulty.

"Where are you taking us?" Lasseur asked.

"Well, it ain't all the way home, that's for certain. My part's played as far as Warden. After that you're someone else's problem."

A tingle moved up Hawkwood's spine. If further proof was required that there was an apparatus in place to assist escapers, it had just been provided.

"This place, Warden — how long will it take us to get there?" Lasseur asked.

"Two shakes of a lamb's tail," Isaac said, without breaking stride.

It took the rest of the day.

They bypassed East Church. There wasn't a great deal to the place; a small, sleepy hamlet straddling a crossroads, comprising a dozen or so cottages huddled around a squat, grey church with crenellated walls and a square tower. There were a few people about, but they were a good distance away and, other than responding in kind to Isaac's friendly wave, paid no mind to the sheep, dogs or counterfeit shepherds.

The village occupied one of the highest points on the island. The land rolled away in a series of gentle undulations revealing spectacular views in every direction, particularly to the south, all the way to the Swale and across to the mainland.

A short way past the village, Isaac pointed towards a gentle incline. "Warden's about a mile further, at the top of the 'ill, other side of them trees."

It was about then that Lasseur began to grow restless. The excitement in his eyes was palpable. Watching the privateer catch his first smell and sight of the sea through an unexpected fold in the hills reminded Hawkwood of a thirsty horse scenting water. He suspected that even if Lasseur had been deaf and blindfolded he'd still have found his way to the coast.

They approached the village from the south, the dogs driving the sheep up the slope in a tight wedge before them.

There wasn't a lot to Warden, from the little Hawkwood could see of it through the woods. It looked to be just another row of miserly cottages and a church, all clinging like limpets to a small coastal outcrop stuck on the arse end of the back of beyond.

Isaac hadn't lied when he'd told them it would be like strolling to church on a Sunday morning, because that was precisely what they were doing, give or take a day. The church was located at the seaward end of the village, less than a stone's toss from the cliff edge. They emerged from the spinney with the late afternoon sun shining across the stonework and the coo of wood pigeons in their ears, to find the graveyard barring their way. Isaac opened the gate and the dogs did the rest. As the flock spread out between the tombstones and began to graze, Isaac secured the latch behind them, tethered the dogs to one of the gate bars, and led the way through the stones towards a heavily studded side door. Passing the stones, Hawkwood saw they were severely weathered. Most of the names were indecipherable, worn smooth by the passage of weather and time. It was easy to imagine how desolate and inhospitable the place was likely to be in the depths of winter.

Isaac knelt by the door. Removing a brick from the wall of the church, he reached in and extracted a key from the cavity behind. He caught Hawkwood and Lasseur eyeing him. "Vicar's out." He replaced the stone, adding, "Vicar's always out when there's a run on."

They entered the vestry and Isaac locked the door behind them and led the way into the nave. The interior of the church was cool and dry and smelled of stone and wood, candle grease and dust. The late afternoon sunlight shone through the stained- glass windows, casting intricate rainbow patterns on to the walls and stone floor.

"You won't be needin' them any more." Isaac indicated the smocks and the hats. "Leave 'em on the pew, there; the crooks, too. Now, give me an 'and with this." Isaac walked to the side of the nave where a row of inscribed flagstones were set into the floor. They were old, Hawkwood saw, and very worn, the names faded with time and, like the tombstones outside, barely legible, though many of them bore what looked like the name Sawbridge. Some local high-born family, Hawkwood deduced, though the village didn't look substantial enough to support anyone with aristocratic blood.

Isaac bent down and levered his knife into a crack alongside one of the flagstones. The stone looked thick and solid, but prising it up was remarkably easy. Hawkwood saw that it was a lot thinner than the stones that bordered it. Like the trapdoor out on the marsh, it had been designed to deceive; either ground down or fashioned from a lighter stone and carved with the same inscription and artificially aged so that it blended in with its companions.