In the King's Name, page 7
Like me.
“Can I fetch ‘ee somethin’, zur?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll be going directly.”
The inn servant wore an apron that touched the floor and had a feather duster protruding from his pocket, like a tail. “Then sit over’ ere, and get yer blood movin’ again!”
It was a high-backed seat, almost opposite one of the fires. Young Matthew was right. And there was probably more than one “good blaze” going today. He was aware of voices coming from a larger room close by. Maybe they were waiting for a local coach, or had horses stabled here.
He realised that the man in the apron was hovering nearby and said, “Perhaps I will have a drink. Something warm …”
“Taken care of, zur. Here in a trice!”
Troubridge relaxed slowly; the heat was doing its work. He felt as if he had just ended a watch on deck. Young Matthew had thought of everything. It was brandy with a measure of hot water. He felt it sting his tongue and knew there was not much of the latter. He would have to reward him in some way, and yet not offend …
Someone said, “That was the Bolitho carriage just drove in. Homeward bound, too. Must have been up an’ about bloody early.”
“I hear Cap’n Bolitho is at sea again.” A different voice, but Troubridge was now fully alert.
“Just got wed, too. What does she do with ‘erself while ‘e’s away?”
There was a harsh laugh. “Well, you know what they say. While the cat’s away, the mice will play! I could tell you things about that lady.”
The speaker must have shaken his head. “No, but not for much longer. I’ll have her beggin’ for it!”
Two things happened at once. Troubridge was on his feet and across to the connecting doorway, his eyes blazing. “Shut your filthy mouth, you drunken bastard, or I’ll do it for you!” At the same instant a door from the kitchen opened unhurriedly and Young Matthew paused to put a covered basket on the floor by his feet.
“Ready when you are, zur.” But he was looking at the loudmouth. “Surprised to find you here, Mister Flinders. With all that work goin’ on at your estate?” He looked directly at Troubridge and stooped to pick up his hat, which had fallen when he had jumped to his feet. “Finish your drink first, zur.”
Troubridge stared at the other man. Flinders. It meant nothing. And quite suddenly he was icily calm, as if he were watching the flash of gunfire and waiting for the fall of shot. He picked up the glass and said, “I’ll share it!” and threw the contents in the other man’s face.
Then he unfastened his boatcloak and folded it over his arm, replaced his hat and tugged it down over his forehead. He could hear deep breathing, and somebody retching in another part of the inn. But still nobody uttered a word.
Outside the rain appeared to have stopped, so that the puddles in the innyard seemed to glitter like fragments of broken glass. They walked to the landau without looking back, and Troubridge said abruptly, “Thank you. I’m sorry about the drink.”
One of the horses shook its head and rattled its harness, recognition or impatience. Young Matthew patted its neck and ears as he passed and said, “Easy, Trooper, we’m goin’ home now!” Then he opened the door and looked at Troubridge with only the hint of a smile. “What drink was that, zur?”
The road seemed in better condition hereabouts, and the horses were soon trotting briskly and, Troubridge noted gratefully, avoiding the ruts. There were several people about, and they overtook two farm workers plodding in the same direction. Surely not the same two? When so much had happened, and might have happened?
They had arrived, the curved driveway and the imposing grey house exactly as he remembered them. Even the old weathervane with the silhouette of Father Time against the sky.
Young Matthew’s boots hit the ground as he jumped down from his box, and others were appearing to hold the horses and take the basket from The Spaniards, or merely out of curiosity. There was another vehicle on the driveway, coachman and groom standing beside it, obviously waiting to depart.
Troubridge breathed out slowly. For a moment … But the doors had opened and he saw Nancy, Lady Roxby, waiting to greet him, her arms outstretched as he took off his hat and bowed over her hand. She was smiling, perhaps a little emotional as he stooped to kiss the hand, and clasped him around the shoulders.
“Francis, my dear! Welcome back!” She offered her cheek, and added, “Command suits you!” He must have glanced at the other carriage, and she shrugged. “Unexpected visitor. Just leaving—at last!”
Then she took his arm and together they walked into the spacious hallway. Some features he did not remember. Most of it was like yesterday.
And Nancy you could never forget. No longer young, she was Sir Richard Bolitho’s sister, but she had a beauty that never dimmed, and a wit to match it. She would deny both, but as Troubridge had seen for himself, heads always turned when she passed.
“Come and talk to me, Francis. The lady of the house will not be much longer.” She guided him into a large room that overlooked a garden and a line of leafless trees. It was well furnished, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a gilded harp, which stood with a stool beside it. He had heard about the harp and imagined it often.
When he turned, Nancy was seated on a couch, looking up at him.
“Sit down, Francis.” She gestured to a chair. “Get the chill out of your bones. I know too well what that road is like.”
He had not noticed how discreetly she had steered him toward the fire.
She was suddenly serious, even angry, one hand clenched into a small fist. “I heard you had words with our Mr. Flinders this morning.” She did not wait for confirmation. “This is Cornwall, remember? Bad news rides a fast horse!” She pushed some hair from her forehead; the gesture made her look even younger.
“I was told that he works on the estate, ma’am?”
“Did work! He was my steward.” She smiled thinly. “I gave him his marching orders this morning. I came here to tell Lowenna, but the carriage had already gone to collect you. Otherwise …” She glanced at the windows. “Well, the gentleman is leaving. About time, too!” There was a tartness in her voice that reminded him strangely of her nephew, Adam Bolitho.
Troubridge heard the wheels on the driveway and someone calling out to the coachman.
“I shall leave you both alone—you must have so much to talk about. I shall see you again presently, I hope, Francis?” She broke off as the door swung open.
It was Lowenna. She exclaimed, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting like this! Jenna told me you had arrived, and in all that foul weather, too! And look at me!”
Troubridge took her hand and kissed it. She was wearing a long informal gown tied about her waist with a ribbon sash. Oddly, her feet were bare.
“He simply wouldn’t go. So many questions!” She turned her eyes from Nancy to Troubridge. “How lovely to see you, Francis. How long will you be in Falmouth?” He felt he was the only one in the room. She smiled again and touched her lips with her finger. “Ssh! I know, you’re not supposed to tell any one!”
Nancy looked at Lowenna’s robe with what Troubridge thought was disapproval. “Did he …?”
Lowenna laughed. “No, he only wanted to see my shoulders, to make a sketch or something.” She walked to the open fire and shivered. “Come into the study, Francis. There’s a proper blaze there.”
Nervous, excited, shy; he did not know her well enough to tell. You don’t know her at all.
She said, “I hated keeping you waiting.” She walked across the entrance hall, her bare feet soundless on the cold floor, and opened the library door. “That was Samuel Proctor. Sir Samuel, as he is now.”
Troubridge looked curiously around the big panelled room, at dark portraits and paintings of ships, men-of-war in action. He said, “I’ve seen some of his work. Fine pictures.”
She turned and stood with her back to the fire, smiling. “You are full of surprises, Francis. He was a friend of my guardian’s … or claims he was!”
She bent down to pick up a piece of cloth before using it to cover another painting, which stood against the bookcase that lined one wall. He had already seen it: the perfect body, her long hair across one shoulder. And the harp.
She was saying, “He painted Lady Hamilton. Poor Emma. She never lived to see it.”
She looked up and into his eyes, her chin lifted. Like that moment in the church. Pride or defiance? “He wants me to sit for him.”
“Are you pleased?”
“Honoured.” She touched his arm. “I want to hear about you, Francis. Your new ship, everything.” And then she looked away, just as suddenly. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I was told about this morning.”
“Lady Roxby?”
She did not answer. “I had told Young Matthew to stop at The Spaniards to collect some cheese. They make their own, and I remembered how you enjoyed it when you were last here.” She faced him again, and he could see her breathing. “It was some filth about me, wasn’t it?” She reached out and touched his lips, that intoxicating gesture. “I know. Elizabeth saw it before I did. She said he was ‘always watching.’”
She shuddered.
He said quietly, “I would have killed him.”
She gazed at him, her expression exactly as it had been captured in the painting. She repeated slowly, “Lovely to see you, Francis …” and drew in her breath as he put his arms around her. “Don’t. I’m not made of stone!”
But she could feel his hands on her back, her spine, and knew the gown had slipped from her left shoulder; she tensed as he kissed it.
Like a fantasy or a fever. Not the heat from the fire, but their own.
She heard herself say, “Stop,” and then in the next breath, “Kiss me.” She was pressed against him, their mouths making words impossible, their tongues sealing their embrace. He was kissing her shoulder again, and she had felt his hand against her skin. Her breast.
They stood quite still, their bodies a solitary shadow against the books. Somewhere a bell was ringing, and there was a sound of hooves. She buried her face against his shoulder. A single horse. But she could not move.
Now a man’s voice she did not recognise, and a woman’s: young Jenna.
She stood back and covered her bare shoulder. Her gown was dishevelled, and the ribbon sash unfastened.
He said, “Let me …”
But she could not look at him. She opened the door and saw Jenna standing with a man in uniform, his boots and spurs caked with mud.
“Who is it, Jenna?” How could she sound so calm?
The girl bobbed her head. “Courier—for the commander, ma’am.”
Troubridge walked past her, seeing the courier’s eyes flick over his uniform before he handed him a sealed envelope. He did not know the handwriting: the seal was enough.
He said quietly, “I must return to the ship.” He did not even say my ship.
Nancy was here now, glancing from one to the other. She had seen Lowenna’s gown; he hoped she could not imagine the rest.
Troubridge said, “A change of plan. My passengers are arriving a day earlier after all!”
Nancy said easily to the courier, “Something hot to drink before you go?”
“Why, thankee, m’ lady!” He clumped away.
Lowenna said, “I’ll tell Young Matthew. If I sent you with any one else, he’d never forgive me.”
It was over. And she thought she could hear Harry Flinders laughing.
5 FLAGSHIP
CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO climbed from the companion and paused to prepare his eyes for the glare. The morning watch was only an hour old but the sun, reflected from the sea, was almost blinding after the chartroom. But for the angle, it could have been noon.
A glance aloft to the masthead pendant, no longer limp or curling above the canvas but streaming its full length, pointing the way ahead. The topsails, too, were responding again, not full or straining like other times, but answering well to wind and rudder. Will it last?
For four days the wind had been their enemy. Veering and backing, or falling away altogether, a mockery rather than a challenge. Hardly a watch passed without all hands being called as Onward changed tack. Even during the night, when even an experienced sailor is never at his best.
Adam stared along the length of the ship and felt the wind, slight as it was, pressing the shirt against his back. Like the air, his skin was already warm and clammy. As Jago had remarked over his razor, “Best to keep dressed down while you can, Cap’n.”
Most of the men working on or above deck were stripped to the waist, some badly burned by sun and wind, and despite the early hour there were several of them loitering on the gangways, peering ahead, or pointing at the vast span of land that reached out on either bow as far as the eye could see. At first only a long unwavering shadow, unmoving, beyond reach, but now, after two days of doubt and uncertainty, it was reality. Measureless. Not merely land, but a continent.
Adam glanced at the sails again, and thought he saw one of the topmen pointing at something, grinning or swearing, he could not tell. But he felt it. Shared it. At moments like this, we are one company.
He knew that Vincent was standing with his arms folded, observing the men around the wheel and compass box. It was his watch, although he and his captain had met a few times when every one had been mustered for another alteration of course. Like strangers in the night. This was different. As first lieutenant, Vincent would be on his feet and dealing with everything from mooring the ship to any ceremonial required.
Vincent turned now as someone gave a quiet cheer, but seemed to visibly relax as men moved aside to let another find a place at the nettings. It was the young assistant cook, Lord, with one of the surgeon’s crew hovering at his side. The bandages gleamed in the hot sunlight, and Adam could sense his surprise, even confusion, as the way was cleared for him. There were grins and jokes, too. Lord looked steadily at the land, unable to respond. Perhaps the emotion was too much. It was his first day on deck since the stabbing.
It gave Vincent time to cross the quarterdeck and touch his hat to Adam. “Holding steady, sir. West nor’ west. We’ll anchor in the forenoon if this holds.” He glanced at the thin plume of greasy smoke from the galley funnel. “Good thing we piped all hands an hour early!”
Adam smiled. “They’ve done well.” He saw some of the first to be called appearing on deck, yawning and looking curiously at the land as they began to stack their rolled hammocks in the nettings, a bosun’s mate making sure that there were no errors to spoil the array. He added quietly, “And so have you, Mark.”
Vincent walked to the compass box and back, and said only, “D’ you know the admiral at Freetown, sir?”
Adam saw a fish leap in the ship’s shadow, not a shark this time. He was still thinking of the stricken schooner Moonstone. Maybe Vincent was, too.
“Rear-Admiral Langley? Only by name, I’m afraid. There have been several changes since I was last here, to all accounts.”
Vincent nodded slowly. “They’ll all be hungry for news. Wanting to know what’s happening at home.”
Adam looked toward the spreading panorama of green and felt the sun on his neck, like a hot breath. And this was early. News from home.
The admiral might be watching Onward right now through his telescope, if he allowed himself to appear so eager. He thought of the sealed orders. With all despatch… And after their delivery, what next? Take on supplies and fresh water, and then back to Plymouth?
He saw the cook’s assistant looking at the galley funnel, and the surgeon’s mate shaking his head. Not yet. You didn’t have to hear them speak. He looked again: most of the hammocks had been lashed and stowed, and one of the last men to stand away from the nettings was throwing his head back and giving a huge yawn. He froze as he realised that he was eye to eye with his captain.
Adam raised a casual hand and smiled, and saw the seaman abruptly bob his head before hurrying away.
The calls shrilled: “Hands to breakfast and clean!”
Adam shaded his eyes and said, “You go below too, Mark. We’ll all be busy enough soon.”
He saw Vincent rub his chin and then nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll not take a moment. If you’re sure.”
Adam heard the companion close, and walked to the quarterdeck rail, gazing toward the shore. Even without a telescope he could see some small local vessels, far away, like dried leaves floating against the unmoving backdrop. One day, Vincent would understand that at a moment like this a captain needed to be alone. With his ship.
The two midshipmen stood side by side on the forecastle as the land, now alive with detail, continued to reach out and embrace the ship. Despite the sounds of spars and rigging, which most sailors took for granted as part of their daily lives, the silence was unnerving, and a moment before, someone had gasped with alarm as the first strokes of eight bells had sounded from the nearby belfrey.
David Napier nudged his friend’s arm with his elbow and felt him respond.
Lieutenant Squire stood stolidly with his hands clasped behind him, big feet apart, watching the guardboat which had pulled out to greet Onward on her final approach and had taken station directly ahead. The wind had held after all, but the pace seemed painfully slow under the lee of the land.
The gunner had already been on deck, but no salute was required. He had grinned. “They’re not out of their sacks yet!” Even his voice had seemed louder than usual.
Midshipman Huxley murmured, “There’s the flagship, Dave.”
His Britannic Majesty’s ship Medusa was a smart third-rate, a two-decker of seventy-four guns. She did not compare with the massive ships of the line, but here she seemed to dominate the anchorage. Most of the other vessels were much smaller: cutters, two brigantines, and one schooner.
Napier heard Huxley mutter, “She’s like—”
He did not finish. Neither of them needed reminding, especially Napier. The memory of Moonstone still took him unawares, in the night watches or when some casual remark brought some part of it back to life. Like now.
