Trevennor’s Will, page 9
‘Well, bless my soul. The mists ’ave thrown me up a fairy princess all fur meself,’ the man sniggered. ‘Thee didn’t oughta be up ’ere all by yerself, my lovely. ’Tis a good thing fur ’ee I jus’ ’appened t’be comin’ along at this very moment. Most opportune, I should say.’ His voice was as thick as his neck.
Isabel could not move but did find her voice. ‘Nick! Nick!’ The man grasped her shoulder and yanked her in against his huge belly, laughing like the booming of storm waves entering a deep cavern. She tried to beat him off with her fists and kept up her screaming. ‘Nick! Help me!’
‘Now, there’s no need fur all that, princess. You be nice and obliging to me and I’ll be more ’n’ the same to thee!’ He brought his face down to Isabel’s and she thought she would faint at the stinking breath from his black mouth and rotten teeth.
‘Let her go, Pengelly!’
The man was startled by the sudden harsh command. His grip on Isabel loosened. She wriggled free and ran round him straight into Nick’s arms. He clamped her protectively to him and she did not miss the look of hatred he shot at the man who had terrified her.
‘Well, well, well and well again,’ Pengelly sneered. He stared at Nick then looked Isabel up and down. ‘Don’t tell me, Nancarrow, you’ve finally taken up with a reg’lur woman! Thought you was too much of a fly bastard fur that. Mind you, I can see why you ’ave with this one. She’s a cut above the whores you usually lay with, even that rich man’s piece you beds down with at Crantock. This one is yer woman I take it, or can any man make ’ee a bid fur ’er?’
‘She’s mine all right, Pengelly, and if you ever touch her again I swear I’ll kill you!’
Pengelly roared with laughter which made his belly and massive shoulders shake. ‘You ain’t fit t’spit on me, Nancarrow. Be the other way round, more like it.’
Although he was shouting at Nick he kept up his scrutiny of Isabel. It terrified her and she clung to Nick, her hands pushed inside his jacket and clutching the back of his shirt.
‘My name is Gyver Pengelly, princess,’ Pengelly said menacingly. ‘I daresay you’ll be seeing me again.’ He rocked with mocking laughter, then turned and bounded away down the steep hill they had just climbed, shouting over his shoulder, ‘One day I’ll wrestle ’ee fur ’er, Nancarrow!’
‘I’ve never been so afraid in all my life,’ Isabel said shakily. ‘Something about that man was so… so savage.’ She pressed her face to Nick’s chest. She could hear his heart leap in anger while her own thumped with fear. He did not let her go and she did not want him to. He rested his chin lightly on her head and rubbed his hands over her back to calm her quaking.
‘You have good reason to be scared where he’s concerned,’ he said as though he’d eaten something bitterly sour. ‘He’s a big man with a little brain who struts and fumes about the North Cliffs. He’s nothing but scum, a savage, like you said. I saw him at the scene of the coach accident and I’m almost certain he was responsible for the pile of rocks being on the road. From now on, keep very close to me.’
They walked on, with Nick checking often that Isabel was close behind him. She could see enough of the track to realize they were moving over some very rugged coastline and then her ears picked up a strange symphony of noises: clanking, whirrs, hisses and booms, and after a while human voices. As she tried to determine what it all meant, Nick took her arm and led her away inland. The noises died away and the mist thinned. They were now walking through a rough field.
What were those noises back there?’ Isabel asked. ‘I heard similar sounds before, much further back, but then I thought it was the roar of the sea and wind.’
‘’Twas a copper workings. The Wheal Prospect-Rose. The one back-along was the Porthcadiak Mine,’ Nick explained. ‘I’m keeping you out of the way, don’t want you seen unless it’s inevitable. St Agnes Beacon is over to our right, all six hundred odd feet of it, but you can’t see it in this mist.’
He found the well-worn cliff path again, which pleased Isabel as it was easier to tramp along. They reached the high cliff overlooking Porthtowan without further incident and again he helped her down the tricky climb to firm ground. She looked back up and the top of the cliff was lost in the mist. It was just as steep and much higher than the drops they had conquered before, and she thought again that under normal circumstances she would have refused to do it. Nick nudged her and she obediently walked beside him at a fast pace through the village. They avoided the simple cottages and homesteads and passed over the sandy beach where the ebbing tide had left a long line of stones. There was yet another climb, although not so high, to take them on to St Agnes.
The wind was blowing harder here and clearing the mist, revealing snatches of St Agnes Beacon, the wild physique of the rocks and a raging high sea. With better visibility, Nick no longer checked his long athletic strides, and Isabel battled on after him, wishing she could stop and rest awhile.
Nick kept them mainly to the paths which for the most part were flat, but saved time by keeping in a straight line rather than following the path if it ran round a headland. Since the encounter with Gyver Pengelly, neither he nor Isabel spoke a word. The improved visibility did not last long as the weather took a turn for the worse. The sky grew darker and the sea became wilder. A blast of wind hit Isabel’s back and sent her scuttling forward. Nick caught her deftly and steadied her. The wind howled so loudly he had to shout to be heard.
‘A storm’s blowing up. We’ll carry on to St Agnes Head, go on a bit further and slip through Trevaunance Cove then go on beyond it to a little coombe I know where we can find shelter. There’s an old cottage there. No one lives there now because the locals believe it’s haunted.’
‘Can’t we shelter in St Agnes?’ Isabel shouted back.
‘No, ’tis over half a mile inland, ’tis market day today and the people are so friendly we’d have to answer a lot of questions. Besides, ’tis where Gyver Pengelly lives and I don’t want to bump into him again – yet.’
They scrambled down into and up from another small cove and made their way around St Agnes Head. None of its usual abundant birdlife was to be seen. Trevaunance Cove, too, was deserted and soulless. Then it was up a stony slope onto the bare cliffs again. It was three hundred feet high in parts and Nick moved them inland as far as was possible to get away from the punishing winds whose awesome strength buffeted them about and hurled grit in their eyes.
Nick held Isabel firmly round the waist to keep her close and aid her stumbling passage. She grumbled to herself that it was bad enough being forced to make this journey without these adverse weather conditions adding to her discomfiture. But when Nick stopped a moment to put the canvas bag over his other shoulder, she could not help but marvel at the natural beauty of the colours of the cliff face that veered out in front of them. There were rich buffs and browns and, in places, the purple-blue of high-quality tin ore. She could see distant mine buildings and was drawn to the dark brooding silhouettes of the engine houses. They no longer seemed ugly or boring to her as they had been in the past, or foreboding as in the mist, but important and majestic somehow.
Nick hugged her waist again and they fought their way on until at last they descended one more steep hill where scant vegetation grew alongside a bubbling wide stream that wended its way over a rocky bed to give itself to its master, the sea. Nick carried Isabel over some stepping stones, putting her down to follow the stream’s course inland. The rise on the other side of the valley shielded the two lonely figures and then Nick announced they were in Trevellas Porth.
Isabel longed to reach the cottage he’d promised would be there and didn’t care how many ghosts haunted it. She wanted only to get out of the terrible wind, the biting cold. As they neared a low, thick-walled building, icy stinging rain suddenly lashed down on them. Nick grabbed her hand and raced with her towards the sanctuary of its dark door.
Chapter 7
Gyver Pengelly burst his way into the Basset’s Cove Inn in a foul temper. The rain glistened on his beard like dew on a spider’s web. He glared around the taproom with his screwed-up bloodshot eyes. They alighted on and leered at the landlord who tersely nodded to him, then on a nervous young serving maid and five male drinkers who were loafing there. The inn had been grandly decorated, proud and hopeful, when built fifty years ago. Since then it had deteriorated into a draughty drab-roomed place with dirty windows, moth-eaten curtains, drink-stained tables and a mud-encrusted floor. A few candles were lit against the gathering darkness caused by the stormy weather.
Pengelly shook himself and sent drops of water flying from his greasy hair and long waistcoat, his only protection against the weather. He didn’t seem to feel the cold and never wore a coat. He roared his order for a brimming tankard of best ale and leaving a puddle at his feet stalked through the pungent smell of burning tallow candles and the fug of the other customers’ pipes. He snatched up the tobacco pouch of one of the drinkers, glared a threat at him against making a protest before arriving at the counter for his ale. The serving maid gasped and choked and ran out into the back room. Pengelly spat after her then gave a thunderous roar of laughter. The landlord didn’t raise an eyebrow. Pengelly and the girl went through this ritual every time he entered the inn. The landlord just hoped Pengelly would never catch her alone.
Pengelly settled his bleary eyes on his host. ‘Is it ready or no!’ he bellowed, referring to his drink.
The landlord may have allowed his establishment to slip in standards but he was proud of the dozen new pewter tankards he had acquired recently and at Pengelly’s entry had hastily hidden them under the counter. He served Pengelly’s ale in an old battered tankard. It was two inches taller than the others but he charged the same amount of pennies as for the smaller measure. It usually worked to keep the brute who terrorized the North Cliffs in good humour with him. Not that he was particularly worried about his personal safety; as one of Pengelly’s best contraband customers he was not normally the target of the other’s cruelty.
Pengelly lifted his ale and quaffed half the contents in one gulp, which left a wave of froth on his beard. He wiped it away with a dirty hand. ‘The weather’s gettin’ worse, so tonight,’ he winked a heavy-lidded eye as he threw down the money for his drink, ‘went be on. Be in a couple of days when all’s settled down again.’
‘I’ll be glad of it.’ The landlord leaned over the counter and whispered, ‘Me cellar’s getting low. But a boat would have to be mazed t’brave these seas. Have the next drink on me, Mr Pengelly.’
Pengelly liked to be spoken to in respectful terms. He nodded and took up his second tankard of ale and pushed his bulk through the tables in the taproom, spilling the ale of those drinking at them. No one dared to complain. He was looking for entertainment. He peered down the five dusty steps into the next room which was separated from the taproom by a high banister and quickly found what he was looking for. Settled at a table in front of a crackling fire were two travellers, a man and a woman of middle age eating a meal of goose and plum pudding. Pengelly leaned his cumbersome weight on the shaky banister. The landlord suddenly remembered he had something important to do elsewhere and disappeared after the serving maid.
‘Af’noon to ’ee. Welcome to Portreath,’ Pengelly shouted at the newcomers, his booming voice sending chills down the backs of the other drinkers. ‘Bet ’ee are glad t’be out of the perishin’ cold, eh?’ He rubbed his free hand over his beard then tapped out a loud pitter-patter on his tankard with black fingernails.
‘Good day to thee, brother, and on my wife’s behalf may I thank you for your welcome,’ the man said, standing up and smiling pleasantly.
Gyver Pengelly pawed his massive chest uncertainly. He had been about to toss the travellers from their warmth and meal, but as his eye fell on the food, his stomach grumbled in hunger and he decided to eat it off the table. If he cast folk away from a table he invariably overthrew it and its contents ended up on the floor. He looked at the woman to see if she had a pretty face and was not disappointed. She inclined her bonneted head demurely but looked unsure of him. Then her husband did something she was to regret bitterly.
‘Please do come down and share our fare, sir,’ he said, holding out a hand in invitation.
After gulping a noisy throatful of dark bitter ale, Pengelly bounded down the steps. He stood beside the man at the head of the table and glowered over him and his wife. They both wore dark, simply cut clothes, the woman showing no neck or bosom, without decoration or jewellery. Pengelly summed them up with a creaking grimace on his huge face.
‘Methodies, are ’ee?’ he roared.
‘That is correct, brother,’ the man replied, smiling widely. ‘Both saved these last twenty years, praise the Lord.’
‘Then good fur you!’ Pengelly said, slapping him soundly on his narrow shoulder which brought him down on his chair. ‘And I don’t mind if I do, share yer meal, that is. ’Tis some good of ’ee to offer an’ much ’preciated on a day like t’day, when a man’s innards could sore do with fillin’.’
Pengelly rounded the end of the table and plonked himself down close to the woman on her bench, forcing her to move well away from him. She looked most uncomfortable, an anxious frown pleating her forehead. Her husband smiled at her encouragingly although he, too, could smell Pengelly’s sickening odours.
‘Damme, if this isn’t jus’ the thing.’ Pengelly pulled the goose carcass in front of him. It was still liberally covered with flesh and picking it up in both hands he bit out a chunk of breast.
‘I am Andrew Fairweather and this is my wife, Amorel. We have recently attended a love feast at Camborne,’ the man said, pleased that he could not offer his hand again with his guest grasping the goose.
Pengelly glared at them both. ‘Yer both fair of face but when ’ee came this way thee should ’ave brought fair weather with ’ee like yer name.’
Andrew and Amorel Fairweather gave polite laughs.
‘Can I buy thee folks a drink?’ Gyver asked, chomping noisily, grease dripping off his beard. This was a question aimed at causing trouble.
Amorel Fairweather stammered their thanks and declined Pengelly’s offer. She was looking flustered and begged her husband in a silent look not to say anything that would aggrieve this bad-mannered man. There was something wholly dreadful about him and she wished her husband was not given to gestures of spontaneous hospitality.
‘What?’ Pengelly roared, waving the carcass about in one massive hand. ‘You refusin’ my ’and of friendship!’
‘No, no, no,’ Mr Fairweather interjected hastily. ‘Good sir, we meant no offence. What my wife meant was that we do not partake of hard liquor. We would be most grateful for a dish of tea if the landlord could be prevailed upon to supply us with one.’
‘Tea!’ Pengelly said derisively. ‘’Pon my soul.’
‘And without sugar served, if you please. We do not encourage the practice and ill-treatment of slaves.’ Andrew Fairweather was oblivious to the storm building up inside the inn. Amorel’s heart sank rapidly. ‘Mr Wesley—’
‘Who cares ’bout they or cares ’bout ’e?’ Pengelly snarled, thumping a greasy fist down on the table. He might tolerate this couple’s company – for a while. He would not tolerate sermon talk from them.
‘The Lord does,’ Fairweather replied, ignoring his wife’s urgent warning looks and the fear building up in her pale eyes. He smiled confidently at her. He was sorry she had turned a curious shade of puce, but her discomfiture would have to be endured for the moment. He had made an opening to talk about the Gospel and it was his duty to perform the glorious work allotted to him.
‘We are all equal in God’s eyes, old and young, male and female, noble man and servant, and there should be no need to enslave a man, woman or child, of any colour or creed. The slave of the Bible was a different thing altogether to the way it is done in this day and age. Do you, by any chance, know the pardoning grace of the Lord, know and love the Lord Jesus, brother?’
‘Never mind ’bout ’e neither! Don’t want to ’ear none of that prattle! An’ don’t call me brother! The only brother I ’ad ’ad ’is guts ripped out by a Frenchie in a fight over a ’alf anker of brandy bein’ smuggled in. Is that why you invited me feat with ’ee? To fill me ’ead with yer bloody salvation talk, eh? Shut up an’ order me another drink!’ Pengelly slammed his tankard down on the table and Amorel blinked and started with fear. Andrew Fairweather looked anxiously about for the landlord but he was still absent.
Pengelly devoured the remains of the goose and wiped his hands on the wide thighs of his breeches. He belched, and seeing his hosts had lost their appetites, grabbed the whole plum pudding which quickly went the same way as the goose. He belched several times more, leaning over Amorel to do the last one, then laughed uproariously.
All was tense in the inn. The other drinkers had drifted away and only one new customer ventured in.
The landlord crept back and served the newcomer. Fairweather called unobtrusively for service and debated whether to try again to save the soul of the other man at the table — he was obviously in Satan’s iron grip. His wife looked as if she could not bear another moment there. She was too frightened to tell him that Pengelly had his hand on her leg and was rubbing it up and down.
