Rapscallion (27 page)

"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.

Isaac descended
first and told them to wait. There was a sound of flint striking steel and a
second or two later the glow of a lantern bloomed in the darkness below.
"Down you come," Isaac called.

He waited until
they had joined him, then handed Hawkwood the lantern before reaching up and
replacing the stone over the hole.

Beneath the
church, Hawkwood was struck with a sudden vision of another crypt a world away
from the Kent marshes. The bone vault under St Mary's, where he'd hunted the
killer, Titus Hyde. A shiver ran through him, unseen by the other two.

The tunnel was
just wide enough for two men to walk abreast, but it was easier in single file.
Isaac took the lead with the light. Lasseur and then Hawkwood followed behind.
The air was damp and smelled heavily of clay.

Where
the hell is he taking us?
Hawkwood
wondered.

They had
travelled about a hundred paces before the floor of the tunnel began to slope
upwards, ending abruptly in front of a crude black wooden door. Isaac lifted
the latch. Opening the door, he raised the lantern. They were in a smaller
tunnel,
its sides almost perfectly round. Hawkwood frowned.
He tapped the walls. They were wooden and sounded curiously hollow. A loud
click came from a few feet ahead of him as another latch was lifted and the
entire end of the tunnel, like a ship's porthole, swung open before them.

The first
objects Hawkwood saw when he clambered through the opening were the liquor
tubs. The walls were lined with them: all sizes, from half-ankers to hogsheads.
He heard Lasseur click his tongue in what sounded like admiration and turned,
just in time to see Isaac closing the tunnel entrance behind them. Lasseur's
reaction was fully justified. The end of the tunnel was formed from a huge
cask, one of several stacked on their sides. Hawkwood could only guess at the
volume of spirits each one might have contained - several hundred gallons at
least. Each cask head had a wooden spigot driven into it. Curious,

Hawkwood turned
the tap in the cask from which they'd just emerged and watched as a trickle of
dark liquid splashed on to the floor. He cupped his hand beneath the tap and
raised it to his lips. It was wine. He turned and saw Isaac regarding him with
a sly grin.
"Pays to have an escape route in case the
Revenue decides to drop in."

"What is
this place?" Hawkwood asked.

"Cellar
room of the Smack."
Isaac indicated the casks. "Local inn; figured it was
best bringin' you this way rather than parade you down the 'igh street. Like I
said before, folks hereabouts don't 'ave much liking for the authorities, but you
can't be too careful."

Sounds came from
above: a dull thud as though someone was moving furniture, and muffled voices.

"Wait
'ere," Isaac instructed. He placed the lantern on the top of a nearby tub
and headed for the cellar door. Before he left the room, he turned. "An'
don't
bleedin' touch anythin'." The door closed behind
him.

Lasseur stared
around him. "Well, at least we won't die of thirst." He indicated the
muslin sack that Hawkwood was still carrying. "I could eat a horse. Is
there anything left?"

Hawkwood tossed
Lasseur an apple and shook the earthenware jug. He was rewarded with a faint
sloshing sound. He held out the jug to Lasseur, who wrinkled his nose and
walked over to the false cask. He turned the tap, cupped his palm, and took a
swallow. His face contorted. He turned the tap off hastily and threw Hawkwood a
look of disgust. "How can they drink this piss?"

"They
probably don't," Hawkwood said. "I doubt they'd put the good stuff in
there. It's only in case the authorities decide to search the place."

Lasseur took in
the other barrels. Hawkwood could tell he was debating whether or not to try
their contents.

There were
footsteps outside. The door opened and Isaac entered with another man. The
newcomer was stoutly built with a florid face, impressive side whiskers and
small, piercing eyes. He was wiping his hands on a dirty apron.

"This is
Abraham," Isaac said. "He owns the place."

Lasseur bowed.
"Honoured.
I'm Captain -"

"Don't need
names," the whiskered man cut in. "You ain't stoppin'."

"You're
leavin' tonight," Isaac said. "There's a run on."

"Run?"
Lasseur said. "Where are we running?"

Isaac and the
landlord
exchanged glances. The
landlord
shrugged.

"It means a
delivery," Isaac said.
"Contraband; brandy and
tobacco.
Same boat as brings the stuff in will be takin' you out. It'll
be after dark, so we've got a couple of hours to kill. Might as well make
yourselves
comfortable." He eyed the muslin sack and
the cider jug. "I'll bring you some food."

"Bandages,
too," Hawkwood said.

The
landlord
swung round. He stared at Hawkwood, his eyes hard.

"He's a
Yankee," Isaac said.

"He's a
long way -"

"Everybody
tells him that," Isaac said.

The
landlord
took in Hawkwood's scarred face, matted hair and
the blood on the front of his shirt. He turned to Isaac. "Thought you said
you had no trouble."

"We
didn't," Isaac said. "He was bleedin' already."

The
landlord's
gaze moved towards the bruises on Lasseur's face
and his brow furrowed. "Either of you need a doctor?"

Hawkwood shook
his head.
"Just the bandages."

What might have
been relief showed in the
landlord's
eyes. He nodded
brusquely. "I'll see what I can do."

The victuals and
bandages were delivered a short time later. The food consisted of two bowls of
mutton stew, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of ale. The stew was very tasty,
with solid chunks of meat and thick gravy. Even Lasseur was impressed, though
after the prison fare Hawkwood knew both of them would probably have eaten toad
pie and pronounced it exquisite. But then, if a Sheppey cook couldn't provide a
decent mutton stew,
who
could?

Isaac had also
provided a kettle of hot water from the inn's
kitchen, a bowl and a towel.
Hawkwood and Lasseur cleansed the rest of the blood from their faces.

"How are
you feeling?" Lasseur asked.

"Better
than I've a right to," Hawkwood said. He was aware of a faint throbbing
behind his eyes and was glad he was in the relative dark of the inn's cellar
rather than in the open with the sun beating down. The hats provided by Isaac
might have given the two of them an oafish look, but they had been a godsend.

Lasseur watched
as Hawkwood unwound the used dressing from his side. He hesitated and then
said, "In the hold, before you broke the Mameluke's neck . . . when you
turned away; you knew he was going to attack, didn't you?"

Hawkwood didn't
reply immediately. He examined his wounds by lantern light. Contrary to his
concern, the cut across his side had not reopened. Surgeon Girard's sutures
remained intact. He wound the fresh bandage around his belly. "I thought
it likely."

Lasseur frowned.
"That sounds as though you were inviting him to attack you."

Hawkwood
shrugged. "You think if I'd been on my knees, my arm broken, he wouldn't
have finished the job quickly? He wouldn't have thought twice."

"You're not
telling me you were giving him a chance?"

Hawkwood shook
his head. "That's one thing he never had."

Lasseur's eyes
narrowed and then widened again as he gasped, "My God, that was your
intention! You lured him into the attack! You killed him for the effect it
would have. You were toying with him."