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Once again, as though in agreement, his horse snorted. “Indeed,” Sir Edward said comradely. “Water for you and some of France’s best for me. Tomorrow…well, tomorrow will come and be what it will be. Tonight old steed, I shall take a pretty tavern wench on my knee and get the Lady Babs out of my head.” He sighed heavily. “You know, when this day started I thought myself a top sawyer, a devilish hero whisking off his true love. I was wrong. She was right. She could not h
ave been my true love, for she was always his…never mine.” He pulled himself erect and announced, “There is nothing for it! Tonight, I shall get very drunk! What say you?”
And on cue, his horse snorted.
The town of Rye came into view and with it Sir Edward recalled all the gossip that surrounded this ‘hilltop town’ overlooking the sea.
It did not actually boast any fabulous heights, though a good part of it overlooked the Marshes—Romney Marsh itself.
Romney, he thought with a grimace. There wasn’t a man alive that didn’t know what went on in Romney Marsh.
Overlooking the Harbor, the Customs House starkly reposed. It was well appointed and quite official in appearance. Sir Edward wondered as he glanced at its darkened interior and his horse clip-clopped by, how much smuggling still went on in Rye.
Smuggling, he knew had always been the town’s mainstay. He had always heard that a man was sure during hard times to turn to a bit of smuggling to see him through. Aye, he understood that philosophy for you couldn’t talk about right and wrong to a man who needed to feed his family.
Edward sighed. He was fairly certain that the business of smuggling was still quite robust and that English money made its way to France more often than not, war or no.
His horse brought him past a large engraved stone which depicted the information that the town dated back to medieval times. Sir Edward grinned as he told his steed, “Aye then, I’d wager the ‘gentlemen’ have been doing business here just as long. What say you?”
His horse blew out air, apparently totally in agreement.
Sir Edward was also aware of all the stories associated with Rye about its numerous ghosts. The village had more than its share of veiled tales of spirits and their like.
These tales had grown over the years and were held as undeniable facts, a friend had once told him. Well, well, that may be, but all he wanted was a room, a bottle and his dinner. If a ghost dared to bother him this evening, he would make the creature regret it.
The Mermaid Inn was home to both smugglers and ghosts, but it looked warm and inviting as he turned into its courtyard and handed the reins of his cob to a livery boy.
He dismounted as the lad held his horse and found the cobbled stones beneath his feet lumpy and annoying as he flipped a coin to the lad and headed for the inn’s large red door.
Tudor in style, with lead paned windows, he admitted to himself that it appeared most charming. Ghosts or no, he stepped through to the open galley.
That first galley was overflowing with men full of salt and vigor. They had come to lay their blunt on the table and enjoy their evening. He meant to do the same.
He saw a group of seamen at a large round table and knew at once that they were smugglers by trade. This inn was their sanctuary, where they were safe from the dragoons and the exciseman. None would accost them here and live.
The Innkeeper stepped forward and was pleased to serve as he wearily requested a room, a bottle and his dinner in a quiet corner.
He found himself readily obliged and within moments poured himself a glass of brandy and thought, indeed, it certainly was some of France’s finest!
With a tired sigh he sat back against his wooden chair and contemplated the ribald inhabitants with a sad smirk. In a few hours, the brandy would do its job and he would think of the Lady Babs no more.
* * *
Berkley Grange was situated some four miles west of Rye and it didn’t take Star long to put the distance behind her.
As she approached the town, she reined in her horse and gulped down a swallow. Faith! How could she do this?
Her heartbeat began to increase rapidly. Her brain became frazzled with conflicting thoughts and she had to ask herself, was she mad to believe she could actually get away with it?
Everything she had done since she decided to don her brother’s clothing—clothing he had worn many years ago while he was still growing, was absurd.
No one would take her for a lad—would they?
Of course, she had created the image of one. Her hair was short and she had put a smidgeon of dirt across both cheeks. She had stuffed wadding into the shoulders of the buckskin riding coat. She hoped both the hat and the riding cloak she now wore would do the rest to disguise her gender.
What she was doing was of course wrong—wrong in so many ways.
The entire escapade she was planning was laced with a behavior that the ladies’ circle would consider wicked beyond consideration.
