“I’m certain of it. And Channing said that the king knew when the Scots crossed the Border, so information’s getting to him somehow. And there’s money coming from somewhere too. These damned pockets of rebellion across the country are being funded from somewhere… soldiers are being paid.”
“Paid soldiers fight with a damn sight more enthusiasm, and they don’t much care who the paymaster is or even what they’re fighting for,” Rufus observed. “While Parliament’s armies go unpaid and mutinous, the king’s supporters are fighting with full bellies and heavy pockets.”
Cato nodded. “Every time I think the end is in sight, it drifts away again.”
“We’ve a long way to go yet,” Rufus said wearily. “You’d think seven years of bloodshed would be enough, wouldn’t you?”
It was a rhetorical question.
Anthony surveyed the booty from the cave, piled high in Wind Dancer’s hold. “What do you think Ellen would like, Adam?”
“Lace.”
“If I give her lace, she’ll only use it to make me more nightshirts.”
“They ‘ave their uses. The lass looked right pretty in ’em,” Adam commented slyly.
“That’s as may be,” Anthony responded. “But to return to Ellen…”
“The silk’s too rich fer ‘er tastes. She’d like a nice bolt of kersey or some such. She’s not one for folderols… O’ course, she’s not agin‘ a drop o’ cognac or a nice flagon o‘ that there madeira.”
“Well, that’s easily supplied. And a couple of bottles of burgundy too. Maybe she’d like one of the cashmere shawls. Keep the drafts out in winter.”
“Aye, mebbe so. You goin‘ to visit now?”
“You’re coming too, I’m assuming.”
Adam looked pleased. “Wasn’t sure I was asked.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man! When would I visit Ellen without you?”
Adam merely shrugged, gathered up the gifts for Ellen, and followed Anthony out of Wind Dancer’s hold.
The dinghy with two sailors at the oars knocked gently against the side of the ship. Anthony jumped down into the boat, reaching up to take Adam’s burdens. Adam followed with rather less agility.
The oarsmen pulled strongly towards the mouth of the chine. Beyond its mouth they hoisted the sail and kept close in to shore until they turned in to a shallow cove, running the boat up on a tiny sandy beach. The cliffs rose steeply on three sides, almost overhanging the beach so that it would be invisible from the clifftop.
Anthony picked up the gifts and stepped onto the beach, reaching forward to give Adam his hand as the older man hauled himself over the side of the boat and stepped gingerly over the rivulets onto dry land.
“We’ll be back ‘ere tonight, master.” The sailors prepared to push the dinghy back into the water.
“Aye. But don’t look for us until well after nightfall.”
Adam huffed and puffed up the nearly invisible trail to the clifftop. They passed a watchman sitting, knees drawn up, gazing out to sea. Like his fellows stationed along the undercliff path, he carried a pipe that would give warning to Wind Dancer of any untoward visitors from land or sea.
“Morning, Ben.”
“Mornin‘, sir.” The watchman offered a half salute. “Mike’s at the top wi’ the ponies.”
Anthony nodded and continued the climb. They would ride across the island to Yarmouth and from there sail across the Solent, past Hurst Castle on its spit of sand, and up the Keyhaven River. Ellen’s cottage was in the tiny hamlet of Keyhaven, and it was there that Anthony had grown up, tumbling in and out of boats almost as soon as he could walk, absorbing the seaman’s craft whenever Ellen released him from the learning that she insisted a gentleman’s son, even an illegitimate gentleman’s son, should acquire.
Smuggling was an active trade along the Hampshire coast as well as on the Isle of Wight, and Anthony had taken to the business as naturally as a duck to water. Within a year he had made enough money to buy his own small craft, and soon after, the men who had plied the trade for themselves in small and inefficient ways had joined forces with him, accepting his leadership. The acquisition of Wind Dancer had followed quickly, and the pirate had taken to the high seas in search of richer game.
As far as his father’s family were concerned, he did not exist. His mother’s family had never known of his birth. Anthony Caxton went his own way and took care of his own. Those who earned his friendship counted themselves fortunate indeed. And by the same token, those who earned his enmity learned to regret it.
They reached the small harbor town of Yarmouth after an hour’s ride. The castle stood sentinel at the head of the River Yar facing Hurst Castle on the mainland spit, both fortified edifices guarding the entrance to the Solent. It was at the tip of Hurst spit where Anthony at the height of his smuggling operations had followed local custom and landed his contraband.
They left the ponies at the King Charles tavern and went down to the quay.
A grizzled fisherman was waiting for them in a small sailing dinghy moored at the quay. He jumped up as they approached. “Y’are in good time, sir.”
“I’d not keep you waiting, Jeb, if I can help.” Anthony smiled at the man who had first taught him to understand the tides and the dangers of the races for a sailor navigating the frequently treacherous waters of the Solent.
He stepped into the dinghy, shaking Jeb’s hand as the other climbed out onto the quay. Adam followed Anthony and took his place on the thwart. Jeb cast them off as Anthony hauled up the two sails, then took the tiller and turned the dinghy to catch the wind as she set sail for Hurst Castle and the Keyhaven River.
Chapter Eleven
Ellen Leyland was working in her vegetable garden. She straightened from the asparagus bed she was weeding and mopped her damp brow just as the two men strolled into view around the bend in the narrow lane.
“Why, Anthony… Adam… what a lovely surprise.” She hurried down the path to open the gate. “I wasn’t expecting you. Do you have news, Anthony?”
“You think I only visit you when I have news?” he chided, bending to kiss her sun-browned cheek. “Am I so undutiful?”
“Oh, get along with you,” she said, giving him a little slap. “Adam, my dear, how goes it with you?”
“Well, I thankee, Ellen.” Adam beamed at her. Once, many years ago, they had shared a bed, when Adam had shared with her the parenting of Edward Caxton’s son.
Ellen had no time for the distinctions of social class, and in youth and robust middle age had taken both friends and lovers where she found them. But her interest in the hurly-burly of lovemaking had died in recent years, as her passion for the king’s cause had absorbed all her energies, both emotional and intellectual.
“Come in,” she said now, hurrying ahead of them up the path. “I’ve just taken a batch of bannocks out of the oven. And there’s a fine chicken pie.”
“And cognac, madeira, and a good burgundy to go with it,” Anthony said, setting his leather flagons on the scrubbed pine table. He looked fondly around the small kitchen that had been the scene of so many of his childhood joys and troubles. As usual, it was spotless, the china plates arrayed on the Welsh dresser, the copper pots glowing on their hooks.
“I expect Adam will prefer ale. Fetch a jug from the back, will you, Anthony?”
Anthony took a jug from the dresser and went into the back scullery, where Ellen did her brewing.
Ellen busied herself putting food on the table. “Sit ye down, Adam.”
Adam pulled out the bench at the table and sat down with a little sigh of relief. It had been a long sail. The wind had been against them and they’d had to tack across the Solent.
“Here you are, old man.” Anthony grinned as he set the jug of ale in front of Adam. “You’re getting right creaky these days.”