“Who are you?” Big Tom from Hastings looked surprised when Smith dismounted from his horse outside the Royal Arms in the village of Snargate. Tom fondled the ears of his packhorse, grinned disarmingly, and hefted a keg of brandy.
“I am John Smith of Kingsgate. As from today, we will be supplying these premises with their spirits.” Smith indicated the loaded wagon at his back, with Skinner on the driving seat and the two burly batsmen sitting at the tail. Dressed in men’s clothing, Bess rode behind the wagon, with a blunderbuss sitting handily beside her saddle. She smiled at Big Tom and tapped the butt of her blunderbuss.
“Who are you?” Smith asked.
“Tom Goodsell,” Tom said, “but people just call me Big Tom because of my size.” Tom spread his arms.
“Well, Big Tom,” Smith said. “I want
