Dark Before the Rising Sun (16 page)

In the corridor she paused, her eyes meeting Dante's for a long, silent moment. But that was all; for they'd already said their good-byes in their room.

Suddenly Rhea felt a tug on her cloak and, turning back, she stared down at a small dark head. “Conny!” she cried out in relief, and before he could step away, she had wrapped him in her arms. “I did not think I would have the chance to say good-bye.”

“Ye be leavin' then, truly?” he asked, looking up at her, his wide eyes swimming.

“Yes, Conny, I have to. This is my father,” Rhea said, indicating the tall man at her side, his shadow seeming to cast a darkness across the hall. “He has told me that my mother is very ill. She needs me, Conny. I must go to her today, but when Dante comes, in a few days, will you come with him? I want you to come to Camareigh and meet my family.”

“Ye really mean that, Lady Rhea?” Conny asked diffidently as he eyed the unfriendly face of the strange man. “He won't mind, then?” he asked, his gaze straying yet again to that scarred cheek.

“Father?”

Lucien felt he had lost all control of this remarkable situation. Now his daughter was inviting what was little better than a street urchin to Camareigh. But he could not deny her. “Certainly. We shall expect to see you there, ah, now what was the name?”

“Brady, Your Grace. Constantine Magnus Tyrone Brady. Conny to me mates,” the cabin boy stated audaciously.

Lucien's lips quivered even as he replied quite seriously. “I see. I shall certainly remember the next time.” And as he stared down into the little boy's proud, expectant face, he realized why Rhea had become so attached to the boy. He bore a certain resemblance to their Robin.

Lucien held out his hand to Rhea, helping her to her feet. With a last glance between Conny and Dante, Rhea turned away so they would not see her tears. She had almost reached the door when she suddenly thought of something and turned around.

“Oh, Kirby, Jamaica is under the bed,” she called out to him, for he had been hovering near the door, curious, but wishing not to intrude.

“Aye, m'lady, I'll see to him,” Kirby promised her, his voice sounding muffled.

“He is welcome at Camareigh. My mother loves cats,” Rhea reminded him. Then, with a last look at the three forlorn figures, the steward, the cabin boy, and the captain of the
Sea Dragon
standing together in the hallway of Hawke's Bell Inn, Rhea moved through the opened doorway and disappeared into the waiting carriage that would take her home to Camareigh.

When night

Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons

Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

—John Milton

In the darkness of a new moon rising there came two flashes of light, then three; the signal for the all clear. Riding at anchor just within the mouth of Bishop's Creek, the smuggling sloop, with her fore- and aft-rigged sails, responded with a lantern's flash, and soon the tubs of brandy hidden beneath the false bottom of the ship were being unloaded by tackle and sling into many smaller boats, which had been rowed out for the illicit rendezvous.

The shallow-hulled boats, their contraband cargo safely aboard, began the return journey to shore while the sloop got under way and, settling the land, disappeared into the darkness. The boats, fully laden, rode low in the water, but they still scudded easily across the shoals, scraping bottom only when they were beached against the pebble-strewn sands.

The porters and tubmen, some thirty to forty who had been selected for their brawn, made quick work of the unloading. With two four-gallon casks slung over their shoulders, one hanging down in front and the other behind, they began the silent, arduous climb up the steep path winding to the cliff above. The only sound was the rushing of a wild moorland stream toward the beach far below.

Reaching the summit, the procession tramped along a well-used path until the men reached Merwest Cross, where the only light for miles shone forth from Bishop's Grave Inn. There, at the crossroads, the group divided, one to head north toward the sleepy village of Merleigh, the other south, toward Westlea Abbot.

Sam Lascombe, proprietor of Bishop's Grave Inn, was watching from an upstairs window as the clock on the stair landing struck the hour, chiming once. Sam Lascombe couldn't spy any movement below, but he knew they were there, led by Jack Shelby and ably guarded by batmen armed with cudgels, knives, and firearms. He pitied the poor soul who happened across the smugglers' path on a moonless night such as this.

“They be comin', then?” a voice demanded none too softly.

Sam, who'd been craning his neck out of the window, reared up in surprise and banged the back of his head hard against the window frame. “Damn ye, woman!” he whispered, jerking himself back inside. “What are ye tryin' to do? Send me to an early grave? What d'ye mean sneakin' up on a man like that? Can't ye see I'm listenin' fer them?”

“If a man wasn't up to no good, then he wouldn't be worryin' about his wife comin' up behind him,” the woman replied with simple logic as she peered past him into the darkness outside. “Don't see nor hear nothin',” she said, not bothering to lower her voice.

Sam rolled his eyes heavenward. “That be the point, Dora. Ye ain't supposed to see or hear anythin' on a moonless night. And I figure I've got enough to be worryin' about these days just tryin' to stay alive, to be worryin' any about whether something is right or wrong,” Sam grumbled, for it was late and he was tired, and there would be a lot of work to do. Dawn was still a long way off.

“Reckon they'll be takin' our horses again?” the woman asked.

Sam glanced over and tried to see his wife's face in the shadows. Was she making sport of him? “Aye, it's either that or have the Bishop burned down around our heads. Don't need to be remindin' ye, do I, about what happened to the Webbers when ol' Daniel got tired of lettin' them run his horses into the ground and refused to let them use them t'other evenin'?”

There was silence, for both remembered only too vividly the sight of the Webber farmhouse smoldering in ashes the following morning. Mary Webber was widowed, as well as homeless, when her husband was found at the bottom of a cliff. His neck had been broken, but before he had been thrown to his death he was brutally whipped.

And as the silence between them lengthened, they both heard the faint tramping of feet growing closer, louder. Suddenly it stopped. There was quiet. They waited, knowing that soon they would hear the muffled thud of horses' hooves and the creaking of harnesses as the smugglers resumed their midnight march through the darkness.

When there was only silence again, Sam would go out to his empty stables and find perhaps twenty casks of fine French brandy, which were to stay hidden until they were collected sometime later. Of course, several of the casks were for Sam's private use and, untaxed, meant a handsome profit when the brandy was served to his customers.

Dora Lascombe sat down wearily. “When's it all goin' to end, Sam?” she asked for the thousandth time, though she knew there was no answer.

Sam sighed, but not out of irritation. It was just that he was weary too as he sank down beside her on the edge of the bed they had slept in together for the past thirty years.

“Wasn't like this in the beginnin',” she said.

“I know,” he said tiredly, rubbing his forehead.

“Ted says it all changed when Jack Shelby took over.”

“Aye, your brother's right about that. Jack Shelby brought in them outsiders. Mostly deserters and criminals. All scum if ye ask me. Heard a couple of them was wanted for murder up Bristol way.”

“Well, reckon we all be wanted for murder now,” Dora reminded him.

“Aye. I didn't like what happened down there t'other night in Dragon's Cove. In the old days we might have cracked a preventive officer's head, or tied him up good and tight to keep him out of trouble, but never cold-blooded murder. It ain't the same,” Sam said.

“Murderin' them innocent men like that, even if they were the King's men,” Dora said, voicing his worst thoughts. “'Twas bad enough, that, but to be killin' one of our
own
. Burnin' down a man's home and leavin' his wife a widow, his children fatherless and bound to starve. 'Tis a sin, Sam, and ashamed I am to be associated with the likes o' them.”

Sam Lascombe slapped his thigh in frustrated anger. “D'ye think I'm likin' it any better? That Jack Shelby and them cutthroats of his have terrified the whole countryside. Nobody dares say nay to them, especially now they've murdered them King's men. I'm 'fraid there's no stoppin' them now. What do they care for the poor, defenseless villagers and country folk? Come in here, they do, drink and eat their fill and don't pay for nothin'. Take whatever they wants from everybody. Heard it said they raped Mary Webber and her eldest daughter the night they burned them out of their home and killed Tom.”

“Oh, dear Lord, I hadn't heard that.” Dora gasped, thanking her lucky stars she was a grandmother as she thought of that rabble sitting downstairs in the taproom after a successful running of the goods.

“Call themselves the Sons of Belial,” Sam snorted derisively. “More likely sons of bitc—”

“Hush, Sam! Don't be speakin' that way,” Dora cautioned him, for one never knew anymore who might be listening when they shouldn't be. A wrong word could get a person killed.

“I just hope Ted isn't speakin' so bluntly, or loudly,” she added, worrying about her brother and his family over in Merleigh. “He's not one to be mincin' words when he's riled up about somethin'.”

“Reckon he's got the right idea, though,” Sam agreed. “Don't see why we can't form our own smugglin' gang hereabouts. Nothin' wrong with good, old-fashioned smugglin',” he continued almost wistfully. “Only way for a man to make a decent livin' nowadays, what with taxes bein' what they are. How can I expect to keep the Bishop open when I can't break even on a bottle of brandy I serve my customers, or on a cup of tea, or a mug of coffee? How can ye make your puddin's and jams when sugar costs an arm and a leg? Can't even dress ye as I would wish to, for even a yard of the cheapest woolen would bankrupt me, and unless I sneak a bit of cambric from one of the cargoes, I can't even afford to buy ye a decent petticoat for church.”

“That's kind of ye, Sam, but my woolens keep me warmer,” Dora said, not wanting him to worry about the sorry state of her underclothes.

“I tell ye, Dora, next they'll be wantin' to tax manure. I don't know what a man is s'posed to do in order to survive,” he said, wondering how he was going to pay for hay to feed his horses.

“Ted said he could probably get half of the gang, mostly those from hereabouts, to join with him,” Dora spoke softly, glancing over her shoulder worriedly even though there were only the two of them in the room.

“Aye, reckon most would like to join with him and get back to plain and simple smugglin' again. Don't know who picked Jack Shelby as our leader, anyways. Nobody asked me. He always seems to have plenty of spending money, though, and always knows where the dragoons are goin' to be. Don't s'pose anybody has any fondness for Shelby, that's for sure. Ted knows I'll stand beside him.”

“When's he goin' to talk to Shelby?”

“Tomorrow I think, and 'tisn't somethin' I'd be lookin' forward to doin'. Your brother's got more courage than I do.”

“Ye sound worried 'bout it,” Dora said nervously.

“Aye, I am. That Shelby has gotten meaner with every passin' year. Won't sit easy with him havin' Ted crossin' him like this.”

“Or t'other gent.”

“What d'ye mean?”

“Ted was sayin' that he thinks Shelby ain't smart enough to be the brains behind this smugglin' business. Says he has just about figured out who it really is,” Dora said.

“Who?”

“Wouldn't tell me. Says he knows when to keep his mouth shut and when not to.”

“Well, I just hope he doesn't bait Shelby about not bein' smart enough. The man's got a streak of meanness that doesn't improve none when he gets mad.”

“He always was the sullen one, weren't he? But it has gotten worse recently. Never been the same, he hasn't, since they found his daughter murdered out there on the moors. Been half crazed ever since. The man ought've been locked up long ago.”

“Reckon so, Dora, only who's to do it now? Nobody in his right mind would say a word against Shelby. Never be heard of again, they wouldn't. Even roughed up the vicar over at Westlea Abbot for darin' to criticize them. 'Course, the old gent must have been in his cups at the time, or he'd never have said what he did standin' there at the pulpit, especially with the vestry full of tea and brandy,” Sam said with a chuckle, then grew serious. “Of course, I s'pose we can be thankful for one thing.”

“Eh?”

“That Merdraco still stands empty. Most likely the young master be on the bottom o' the sea with that ship o' his. Wasn't surprised to hear he'd turned privateer. Always was a wild one, him. And if he ain't on the bottom, then he's probably been hanged from the gallows. At least we don't have to be worryin' about that. Even the dragon's spawn wouldn't have the nerve to show his face around here anymore. Don't know what Shelby might do if that was to happen. Go mad, most likely.”

“Always thought 'twas a pity about the young master,” Dora said now, although at the time she had believed the worst about him, just like the rest of the villagers. “Always thought him such a handsome young gentleman. Oh, he was wild enough, but 'twas just bein' young. Always thought that Lettie Shelby was no good, though. Knew she'd be comin' to grief one day. Wicked creature, she was, and probably got what she deserved. The way her father carries on about her, ye'd have thought she was a saint or somethin'.”

“Well,” Sam said, muffling a tired yawn, “'tis in the past now, and not likely to cause us any trouble. Got enough worries without thinkin' about the trouble there would be if his lordship returned to Merdraco. Lord help us, Dora, if that was to happen.”

“Aye, 'twould be bad that. But I'll not be losin' any sleep over that,” Dora allowed, privately wishing Jack Shelby ten feet under where he couldn't cause any more grief.

Two days later, Ted Samples disappeared while on his way home from having dinner with his sister, Dora Lascombe, and her husband, Sam, at Bishop's Grave Inn. Ted Samples was never seen or heard from again.