‘Where will you go?’ asked Strange.
‘I was trying to find the estate of Adam Lyte when I lost my way.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Strange. ‘I could take you there if you wish.’
‘Thank you. But we must be careful. The men to whom I am indentured will be looking for me.’
Strange nodded. ‘We will keep to the forest paths.’
They left after they had eaten. For the journey, Strange dressed himself in the clothes of a planter. At first they took a path further up the hill until they were deep within a forest of bearded fig trees, palms and thick undergrowth. After a mile or so, they joined another path to their right which ran down again. ‘It’s a long way round,’ said Strange, ‘but safer than using the coast road. Very few people come up here.’
When they stopped for a brief rest, Thomas plucked up the courage to ask his guide how he came to consort with the Ranters. But the little reverend was not to be drawn and replied only that they were all sinners in the eyes of God. Thomas left it that and they did not speak again until they reached the Lytes’ estate. There Strange pointed out a wide path through the trees on their right. ‘This is the way,’ he said. ‘I will leave you here, Thomas. May God bless you.’ Thomas thanked the little man and watched him carry on down the hill until he was out of sight. Strange indeed, by name and by nature. One day a parson, the next a Ranter. His God really did move in mysterious ways.
Thomas walked slowly up the path to the Lytes’ house. He was nervous. What would he find there? Would he be welcomed or rejected? He took a deep breath. Only one way to find out, Thomas, so you had better get on with it.
The Lytes’ house could hardly have been more different from the Gibbes’s hovel. It stood in the centre of a large clearing, immaculately swept and cleared of scrub. A shaded seating area with a simple thatched roof some ten feet deep ran the length of the house. A table and chairs had been set there. The house was built of the pale, pitted stone found on the island, the roof was tiled and the windows shuttered. It was a substantial plantation house, designed for comfort and practicality.
Thomas approached the house. He was a few steps away when the door was flung open and a grinning Patrick appeared. ‘There you are, Thomas,’ he declared. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘Have you?’
‘Indeed I have. The Gibbes have been after your blood, and when they could not find you they tore the Serpent to pieces, broke a chair over the landlord’s head and hurled bottles at anyone who tried to stop them. It took six men to overpower them and take them to the magistrate. They’re in a cell there. I guessed you would come here.’
‘I did not know where else to go.’
‘The magistrate perhaps, to throw yourself on his mercy?’
Thomas hung his head. ‘Must I?’
‘You must not. Come inside and tell me what happened.’
An hour later, Patrick had heard the story. He knew about Tobias Rush, about Thomas finally losing control, about the storm and the gully, and about the Ranters. Only Simeon Strange went unmentioned. When he had finished, Patrick showed him where to wash, gave him a salve for his scar, found him some clean clothes, and went to prepare food for them both.
The Lytes’ house had been simply designed around a large square living room, from which doors led to four bedrooms and at the back to a kitchen and parlour. The walls of the living room were decorated with paintings of local scenes, the furniture was good, plain English oak and there were rugs on the floor. Best of all, there was a bookshelf with about twenty books on it. When he emerged bathed and shaven, Thomas made straight for it, picked up the first volume that came to hand and read the title. ‘Well now, who would have thought it? The Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer. Have you read them, Patrick?’
‘I have not. English chivalry and courtly love are not to my taste. I’m just a black slave.’
‘Black and a slave you may be. Just you are not. In any sense. And they’re about more than chivalry. Now that I think of it, the brutes could be descended from Chaucer’s miller. He was almost as revolting as them.’
They sat outside to eat. ‘The Lytes are in Holetown to see a merchant,’ Patrick told Thomas. ‘I expect them back very soon.’
‘What shall I do, Patrick?’
‘You will sit here until they arrive and then you will go and inspect the estate while I speak to them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. What is there to lose?’
They heard the Lytes riding up the path to the house. ‘Off you go, Thomas,’ ordered Patrick. ‘Twenty minutes should be enough.’
The Lytes’ estate was as orderly as their house. Thomas walked past a neat row of timber cottages which must have housed their slaves and indentured men, around their boiling house and mill and beside a cane field where the cane was being cut. He saw no sign of whips and heard no screams of pain. He did see men labouring in the heat of the afternoon, he knew the boiling house would be as hot as any other and he inhaled the sweet smells of raw sugar and molasses. As a prisoner of the Gibbes, he had seen only dirt and squalor. Here, for the first time, he saw beauty, order and colour, trees and flowers, shades of blue and green and, everywhere, lush growth. Barbados was a beautiful island. He realized that he had not appreciated this before because his mind had not allowed him to. Only now could he see clearly. When he returned, Adam and Mary Lyte were waiting for him.
Adam rose and held out his hand. ‘Thomas Hill, welcome. When he returned from Speightstown yesterday, Patrick was a little concerned about you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Thomas, taking his hand, ‘and I am relieved to be here. Has Patrick told you what happened?’
‘He has. You’re a brave man, Thomas. I for one would not care to throw myself at either Gibbes.’
‘Unfortunately, I also threw myself into a gully.’
‘So I hear.’ Adam turned to his sister. ‘This is my sister Mary, whom you have not, I think, met.’
Thomas bowed and took her hand. As Patrick had said, Mary Lyte was a beautiful young woman. Coal-black hair, blue eyes, skin lightly touched by the Caribbean sun and with more than a hint of sensuality to her mouth. Her smile would have lit up any room in London or Paris. ‘Thomas, I have so looked forward to meeting you. Adam has told me all about you and the evil man who had you sent here. What was his name?’
‘Rush, madam, Tobias Rush. And evil he certainly is.’
‘Rush, yes. And your sister and her daughters are forced to do as he wishes.’
‘Yes. I can hardly bear to think of it.’
‘Indeed. Now, let us sit here and talk.’ She spread her arms to indicate where they were sitting. ‘This we call our parlour. We prefer to eat and sit here as long as it is not raining. Feel free to use it as you wish. Patrick is preparing something special. My brother will tell you the news from England while he gets it ready.’
‘What do you know of events there, Thomas?’ asked Adam.
‘Since the death of the king, very little. I should be glad of news.’
‘At first, it seems, the execution of the king shocked the country into a state of paralysis – quite the opposite of what has happened here. Even those who had fought against him could hardly believe it. Despite having been publicly executed, he was given a state funeral and Cromwell himself visited his body in the chapel at St James’s. The country was confused and it still is. And no wonder. How is a man to know who is governing him without a king, with half the members of Parliament excluded from the house or choosing to stay away and with the one man who, more than any other, might restore a form of order away in Ireland?’