The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (33 page)

‘That will give us time to think of something.’

Patrick was soon back. ‘He is most insistent, Miss Lyte, and not entirely sober. He says that if he is not admitted, he will admit himself. He carries a pistol.’

‘In that case I shall get rid of him myself. Come with me, Patrick, please. Keep out of sight, Thomas.’

‘Mary …’

‘Go, Thomas.’ Reluctantly, Thomas disappeared into the kitchen. He slipped quietly out of the kitchen door and around the side of the house, to a small window from where he could see and hear without being seen or heard.

When Mary opened the door, Gibbes was standing outside, even more revolting than she remembered him. Matted red beard, carbuncles and warts, bleary eyes, filthy clothes and reeking of something foul. So foul that Mary took a step backwards.

‘Mr Gibbes, I am Mary Lyte.’ For all her courage, Thomas heard a slight tremble in her voice. ‘You are not welcome here.’

Gibbes shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. He clutched in both hands a small sack tied with a length of rope. It looked heavy. ‘My brother is dead, killed at Six Mens Bay. That is why I have come.’

‘I do not see how that concerns me.’

‘I am a rich man.’ He held up the evil-smelling bag. ‘This bag is full of gold. I have come to give it to you.’

Expecting a demand for Thomas to be handed over, Mary was taken by surprise. ‘That is absurd, Mr Gibbes. Why would I wish to take your gold?’

He ignored the question. ‘There is one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘You will be my wife.’

Mary stared at him in astonishment. Before she could say anything, Gibbes went on, ‘You are of marriageable age, I am the owner of a good estate and a wealthy man. Now my brother is dead, I wish to take a wife. Why would you refuse me?’ Thomas knew that there were at least a hundred reasons, none of which Mary cared to offer him.

‘Kindly leave my estate at once. If you come here again, I shall instruct my servants to shoot you.’ Now she was shouting.

‘Your servants are away,’ said Gibbes slyly.

‘This unwelcome meeting is over. Go, Mr Gibbes. Now.’

She made to close the door. But for all the rum inside him, Gibbes moved quickly. Before Mary or Patrick could stop him, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, slamming it behind him. Putting himself in front of Mary, Patrick shot a fist into Gibbes’s face. Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose, Gibbes dropped the bag, pulled a knife from inside his shirt, grabbed Patrick’s hair and with a single backhand slash opened his throat.

As Patrick fell, blood spurting from the wound, Mary screamed. Stepping over him, Gibbes jammed the knife into the doorpost and reached for her throat. Again she screamed. He got his hands around her neck and thrust his face into hers. ‘Now you’re going to learn what happens to a woman who defies John Gibbes. If you won’t be my wife, you won’t be the first whore who’s learned her lesson.’

Mary wriggled and struggled and beat at his shoulders with her fists. Blind with rage and lust, Gibbes barely flinched. He forced her on to her back and straddled her. She was pinned under his weight, but her arms were free. Desperately, she thrust both hands into his groin, twisted and squeezed. Gibbes shrieked, but kept one hand around her throat and punched her hard in the face. Again she twisted and squeezed and again he hit her, this time with enough force to knock her senseless.

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.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A message has been intercepted. The messenger came ashore alone; he was seen by sentries and shot. He died before he could be questioned.’

‘What did the message say?’

‘We don’t know. It’s a cipher. Willoughby’s man hasn’t been able to break it.’

‘What sort of cipher is it?’ asked Thomas.

‘God knows. It looked like nonsense to me.’

‘Would Lord Willoughby like me to take a look at it, do you think?’

‘You, Thomas?’ Adam threw up his hands. ‘My God, of course. I’d quite forgotten. You broke the cipher at Oxford. You must indeed look at it. We’ll return to Bridgetown tomorrow.’

LORD WILLOUGHBY OF
Parham prided himself on never being less than immaculately attired, even in the heat of Barbados. His custom was to take breakfast before performing his ablutions and dressing meticulously. If the Assembly were sitting or if he had other official business, he would invariably select a satin jacket over a white ruffled shirt, silk breeches – blue or burgundy – and white silk stockings. He disliked long boots, preferring one of the dozen pairs of black leather shoes with silver or gold buckles made for him by the village cobbler in Parham. His lordship did not care to be rushed when preparing himself for the day ahead and was seldom ready before ten o’clock.

Since the blockading fleet had arrived, he had dressed formally every day. It was a point of principle. When his elderly secretary bustled in with the news that Adam Lyte had returned and was asking to see him, he was still casting a critical eye over himself in a long mirror. ‘Well,’ he said, carefully adjusting his
cuffs, ‘it must be something urgent to bring Adam back so soon. Ask him to come straight in.’

When the secretary returned with Adam, Willoughby was quite composed and ready to greet him. ‘Adam, good morning. To what do I owe the pleasure at this time of the day?’

‘Your lordship, I have with me Thomas Hill who is presently a guest at our estate,’ replied Adam breathlessly. ‘He’s a cryptographer who was at Oxford with the king. He broke an enemy cipher which revealed a plot to capture the queen.’