The Rise Of An English Lawbreaker Collection

Chapter 8-1

Bess woke to the sound of a lone blackbird. She looked around her, momentarily unsure where she was, and then she remembered the events of the previous evening.

“John?”

Smith was not in the room. The shutters and the door were closed, and the room was empty, with the accounts journal sitting on the table. Bess got up and stepped to the window just as Smith entered.

“I thought you had left me,” Bess said.

“I had business to attend to.” Smith eyed her up and down. “You’d best get some clothes on. I hear Sir Francis is due to visit today, and you must look respectable.”

“What business?” Bess asked as she lifted the clothes she had worn the previous night, then replaced them on the chair.

“My business.” Smith opened the shutters and stood at the window, staring at the High Street as a gleaming carriage and riders moved purposefully towards the inn.

Bess joined him, still n***d. The top of her head reached up to Smith’s nose. “What are you looking at?”

“The squire and his minions,” Smith said, keeping the hatred from his voice.

“That’s Sir Frankie’s coach, right enough,” Bess agreed. “And James Quinn, the parish constable at its side, with Aldred Gurnal following.”

Smith noted the names for future reference. Gurnal was the man he had told about the goods that Blackwell ran to the cove, the Excisemen’s informant. “A fine collection of rogues and blackguards,” he said.

“Sir Frankie and his supporters,” Bess confirmed.

Behind the coach and its outriders, five dragoons rode tall with their accoutrements jingling and their horses plump and glossy. Two Riding Officers made up the company, looking around them at the village.

Bess remained at the window as the Riding Officers stared up at her. “You’d think they hadn’t seen a woman before.”

Smith pulled her roughly back. “Get dressed,” he ordered.

When the coach halted at the triangular village green, a servant leapt from the back and opened the door for Sir Francis to emerge. Tall, fit, and handsome, Sir Francis was thirty-five, ten years older than Smith, and stood outside his coach with the servant at his side. He put a large hand on the whipping post, which, together with the stocks, reminded the villagers that the king’s justice ran right to the south coast. Every villager knew that Sir Francis was not loath to follow the law to its utmost vigour.

“Search the village,” Sir Francis ordered. “I want every stranger and every known smuggler rounded up.”

Quinn and Gurnal bowed and hurried to the nearest house, with Quinn knocking at the door and Gurnal standing slightly back with a hand on the butt of the pistol at his belt. When the occupant opened the door, Quinn thrust his foot within and began a torrent of questions.

“Where were you yesterday evening? Who is in the house? What is your occupation?”

“They’ll knock at every door,” Bess said, as the dragoons stationed themselves at either end of the village to prevent anybody escaping.

“They will,” Smith agreed.

“They’ll come to the Dancing Horse,” Bess added.

“They will,” Smith agreed again.

“You had better hide.”

“I won’t do that,” Smith moved his injured arm. “You fixed my wound well. It’s scarcely even stiff.”

Bess checked the bandage. “You’re still bleeding.”

“It’ll heal.” Smith began to dress as Bess returned to the window. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Ruth looked nervous as she served them breakfast. “It’s only bread and cheese this morning, Mr Smith.”

“Bread and cheese suit me perfectly,” Smith said.

“Maybe you had better leave the inn, Mr Smith,” Ruth suggested, “and you, Bess. Sir Francis and his men are searching for strangers.”

“Bess is no stranger,” Smith pointed out.

“Bess is a stranger in the Dancing Horse.”

Bess glanced at Smith. “I’ve nowhere else to go since Captain Blackwell’s house burned down,” she said.

“That was a rum do,” Ruth nearly dropped a plate as she stepped back. “Poor Captain Blackwell, and him such a fine gentleman. And now there’s that rogue Dymar as well.”

Bess started and looked at Smith again. “Dymar?”

“Of course, you won’t have heard,” Ruth said. “Old Thomas Carman found Dymar dead early this morning. Stabbed in seven places, Old Tom said. That’s on top of that terrible fire yesterday night.”

“It was a shame for Captain Blackwell,” Smith agreed. “I suspect that Dymar deserved all he got, though.” He took a mouthful of his bread and cheese and chewed heartily. “Do you bake your own bread, Mrs Martin?”

Everybody except Smith looked around as the door opened and Sir Francis walked in, with Quinn and Gurnal at his back.

“The Dancing Horse,” Sir Francis said in his fruity accent. “The resort of all the idle blackguards in the country. It’s a very sink of atrocity, and here they all are.”

“Welcome, Sir Francis,” Ruth ignored the squire’s remarks. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing legal, I’ll be bound. One day I’ll close this place down. Kingsgate doesn’t need two inns. Who’s the stranger?” Sir Francis looked directly at Smith as Ruth curtsied. “I don’t know him. He’s not one of my tenants.”

Smith swallowed and bit hugely into his bread before he looked up. He held Sir Francis’s gaze and said nothing.

You are the same arrogant, sneering man as always. I haven’t forgotten you, Francis Selby.

You are the same arrogant, sneering man as always. I haven’t forgotten you, Francis Selby.“Who are you?” the squire’s eyes narrowed as he examined Smith. “Answer me, fellow! What’s your name? And stand in the presence of your betters!”

Smith remained sitting, returned Sir Francis’s scrutiny, and took a draught of the tankard of small beer that sat in front of him.

Quinn and Gurnal took hold of Smith’s arms and hauled him to his feet. Smith tried not to flinch as he retained his grip of the tankard.

Sir Francis peered into Smith’s face. “What’s your name, fellow?”

“John Smith. What’s yours? And who are you to disturb a man at his breakfast?”

“I am Sir Francis Selby, the owner of this village and the land all around. What are you doing here?”

“Trying to eat my breakfast,” Smith said.

“Where do you come from?”

“I live here,” Smith shook off Quinn and Gurnal’s grasp.

“Sir,” Gurnal said quietly. “I know this man.” He lowered his voice further. “He is the fellow who informed us about the Spike Cove landing. I believe he works for the Preventative service.”

Sir Francis’s eyes narrowed. Inches taller than Smith, he studied him curiously. “Do I know you?”

You will, cully, by all that’s unholy, you will.

You will, cully, by all that’s unholy, you will.Smith sat down without replying and continued to eat while Bess held her breath and Ruth retreated to the security of her counter.

Sir Francis coloured. “You!” he pointed to Bess. “You are Captain Blackwell’s servant. Why are you here?”

Bess stood up and curtseyed. “Captain Blackwell is dead, sir. He died in the fire, and this gentleman,” she nodded towards Smith, “was kind enough to look after me and grant me Christian charity. I am Mr Smith’s servant now, sir, if it pleases you.” She curtseyed again and stood with her eyes demurely lowered.

“How fortuitous that Smith happened to be passing,” Sir Francis sneered.

“Yes, sir, indeed it was,” Bess agreed.

“What do you know about the fire?” Sir Francis asked.

“Why, nothing, sir, if it pleases you. I was in bed when it started, and it quite destroyed the house. Poor Captain Blackwell, sir. I was quite distraught when I realised he was gone, and Mr Smith comforted me and brought me to this inn, sir.”

“Did he, indeed?” Sir Francis gave Smith a stern look.

“And where were you, Smith, when the Customs’ Warehouse was raided?”

Smith looked puzzled. “I don’t know, sir. At what time was it raided?”

“Two in the morning, Smith,” Quinn said.

Smith shook his head. “Were there no soldiers on duty?”

“Yes,” Quinn told him. “The guards said that about a score of raiders overpowered them.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there,” Smith said. “They sound like desperate fellows. Landlady, did you see me in the Dancing Horse last night?”

“I saw you,” Ruth confirmed.

The squire grunted and left the inn without another word. Quinn and Gurnal followed, with Quinn deliberately brushing his shoulder against Bess as he passed.

When the customers in the taproom recovered from Sir Francis’s visit, Bess faced Smith. “Did you tell the squire about Spike Cove?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a devious man, John Smith.”

“The squire’s in a right taking,” Ruth returned from the sanctuary of her counter. “He’s commandeered Captain Blackwell’s ship, and he’s having it searched from stern to stem.”

“That must be fun for him,” Smith kept his face expressionless. “Whoever recovered the smuggled brandy will have placed it in a secure place.”

“It’s probably in a dozen hiding places the length and breadth of Kent,” Ruth said. “I only have half a dozen barrels.” She drew up a chair and sat beside them, hoping for information. “I hear the Collector reported the break-in at the King’s Warehouse to the king. He sent one of the Riding Officers directly to London with the news.”

“I’m sure Geordie will be interested,” Smith said. “It will quite disturb his breakfast to hear about smugglers when he’s trying to conduct a war.”

“The Excisemen are bound to increase their presence here,” Ruth said and left to serve another customer.

“Sir Francis is irritating,” Smith said. “I wanted that ship.”

“If you still intend to take over Captain Blackwell’s position, you’ll need a ship,” Bess agreed.

“A ship and a crew I can trust,” Smith said. He finished his breakfast and stood up. “We have things to discuss upstairs, Bess.”

Ruth watched as they mounted the stairs, shook her head, and cleared away the plates. What her guests got up to was not her concern, as long as they paid their bills. She looked up as the twice-weekly coach to London rattled to the Hounds Rest, with the guard blowing his long horn to clear the path, and then returned to her work.

Smith leaned back in his chair, watching Bess through hard, musing eyes. “Life appears to have thrown us together,” he said.

“It does,” Bess replied.

“Yet you held a pistol to me,” he said.

“I did,” Bess agreed, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Would you have shot me?”

“If I had to.”

Smith smiled. “How many people have you shot before now?”

“None,” Bess admitted.

Smith began to stuff tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “What do you think it feels like to shoot somebody?”