Page 69 of The Cornish Mermaid

Was that a furtive look in the man’s eyes? But it was gone before Kit had time to think, and Tregothnan was saying something else. “I’ll get on down to my inn and organize the ponies and men from by me, and we’ll be with you tomorrow night at eleven, as normal.”

Kit nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Aleck.”

They parted company, and Kit headed his hired nag downhill toward Nanpean farm’s little valley below the village, taking the track through the wind-stunted woodland.

By midday, he was dismounted and lifting the loop of rope from around the gate post to let himself into the farmyard.

Jago stumped out of the farmhouse as Kit led his sorry horse to the trough, its hooves clattering on the flagstones. His uncle lifted a hand in greeting. “You’re back sooner’n I thought to see you.” He raised his voice. “Jowan! Get out here now and deal with Master Kit’s horse. Looks like it could do with a good feed.”

Jowan emerged from the barn, for once looking as though he hadn’t just been roused from sleep. Wonders would never cease. With a curmudgeonly grunt, and not a word in enquiry as to how his daughter was doing, he snatched the horse’s reins and led him away into one of the barns, muttering what were probably complaints and insults under his breath.

Jago chuckled. “He’s been in a bad mood since you took Loveday off with you and he’s had to cook his own dinners. I don’t think he’s been doin’ any washing of himself nor his clothes by the smell o’ him.”

Kit smiled. “Lazy old good-for-nothing. I don’t know why you keep him on. You’d get better work out of one of the unemployed miners, and they’d be grateful for a job.”

Jago slung an arm around Kit’s shoulders. “Loyalty, boy. I won’t see the old man thrown out. He might be lazy but he’s always been loyal, and we was boys together.” He chuckled. “Come inside, now. Jenifry’s just taken some fine oggies out o’ the oven. The smell must have hurried your feet.”

The aroma in the kitchen of the freshly baked pies set Kit’s mouth watering. Breakfast in Penzance felt a long time ago. After receiving a welcoming embrace from Jenifry, he sat down at the table. She slid a hot oggie onto his plate, then she and Jago joined him.

Kit slid his knife into his pie to let the fragrant hot air out, as his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“So,” Jago said, doing the same to his pie. “What’s brought you back so soon? Aleck Tregothnan an’ I were only talkin’ about you the other day. I telled him we’d not see you for another fortnight, at least. Not till next dark o’ the moon.” He winked at Jenifry. “Next time we got a consignment due.”

Kit took a bite of the potato and meat pie, a stalwart of the local miners. He swallowed the hot mouthful. “Chance has brought me back, and chance has put before us another consignment, coming tomorrow night.” He took another hot bite and chewed.

“Halfway through the month?” Jago asked, bushy eyebrows rising. “How’s that right wi’ the moon the way it is right now, and how d’you even know this?”

“I met Tregothnan in Launceston. He said he’d had word another ship was coming over laden with French brandy. We traveled back together. I’ve not long left him. It could have been tonight, but by the look of the sea it won’t be. By the smell in the air there’s more wind coming. So, he and I think it’ll be tomorrow night.”

“Launceston you say? ’Tis odd he’d be that far from his inn,” Jenifry put in as she cleared the table. “I’ve not knowed him go beyond the Tamar afore.”

“Stop nitpicking, woman,” Jago grunted. “Launceston’s this side of the Tamar, anyways.”

She gave a huff. “Only just.” And stomped away to do the dishes, leaving Jago and Kit with a flagon of cider between them.

“Have you anything that needs doing this afternoon?” Kit asked. “After a week at Ormonde playing the idle viscount, I’d sooner do some proper work as sit here indoors and twiddle my thumbs while we wait for tomorrow night to come.”

Jago banged his empty beaker down on the table. “Aye, I have that. A wall that’s fallen down—pushed, more like, by them silly sheep climbing over it. We can walk down to the bottom meadow and get set on it, but not in them shiny new clothes o’ yours.”

Kit grinned. “I’ll be off upstairs then and find something more suitable for a farm laborer to wear.”

*

Morvoren

The carriage didn’t get away from Jamaica Inn as early as Morvoren would have liked. The soldiers, under the command of Captain Adderley, would have let them go at first light had they been able to leave, but they couldn’t, because the wheel on the carriage wasn’t yet ready and there was no possible replacement vehicle to be had.

They took cold meat and bread at half past eleven, but the fear wouldn’t leave Morvoren that they’d seen nothing but the tip of the iceberg of the crackdown on the free traders. A nasty gnawing emptiness seized her entrails, making it hard to swallow down the food provided. Half an hour later, James arrived to let them know the carriage repair had been done. He was about to harness up the horses and they could prepare to leave. Never had Morvoren been gladder to see the back of a place.

The not-so-good horses, harnessed again to the carriage but having had a night of rest and some oats in the morning, set off with renewed vigor. Barely two hours passed before they arrived in Bodmin, unfortunately, just in time for another nasty shock.

At the crossroads outside St Lawrence’s church, a hanging had been taking place. Too late, James called a warning down to Sam, who leaned out of one of the windows to see what was happening. “I’m so sorry,” he said, returning his head inside the carriage. “Try to avert your gazes. There’s been a hanging. Luckily, it’s over and the crowd is dispersing, but there may be trouble.”

Of course, Morvoren had known that people in this time period were hanged for even petty crimes, but she’d never expected to see this for herself. Her stomach turned over with fear at the thought that even if she managed to save Kit this time, a hanging might be awaiting him some time in the future if he kept on with his free trading.

She couldn’t help but stare out of the window, and so did Ysella, her face a shade paler than it had been.

But which would have been worse—the sight of the men still alive, awaiting their fate, or the view she got of half a dozen shapeless sacks that had once been men but now had shed all their humanity? Around each man’s neck hung a placard on which someone barely literate had scrawled the word SMUGLA in shaky capitals.