The Castle (24)

Cadwaller disappeared beneath the harbour water. One moment he was flailing, the next he was gone. The Adventurer’s crew called out, threw ropes and a casting net which was lying discarded on the wharf. Grappling hooks were used to sweep across the water in the hope that he would surface and take hold. But it was as if something had dragged him under or snagged him in the brine. The mood of the crew turned to anguish; the deep lying currents in these parts, said a local man shaking his head, were strong and lightening quick. Cadwaller’s shipmates scurried to and fro, expecting him to rise up somewhere – anywhere - at any moment, a hopeful expectation that didn’t occur.

A captain of Fortescue’s troop appeared, eager to discover the reason for the hold up. The captain’s bemused soldiers, trying to make sense of what had happened, pushed Irish Tom forward, holding him in check. He was the culprit, they said. His fists had sent the man under. The captain listened to other anxious accounts of what had taken place. Yes, said Arent’s men, Cadwaller had riled them all with his merry making but Irish Tom didn’t strike hard enough to send him spinning off the wharf. Irish Tom said nothing, stood steely-eyed, as if expecting a charge of affray or, worse, murder. But the heavy rain played its part in the proceedings; so too did the angry shouts coming from the frigate docked alongside, the crew eager to cast off and take Arent’s men to France.

Suspicious about the altercation and unwilling to spend time worrying about a drunkard who had lost his footing, the captain of troop lined up the Adventurer’s crew and made a head count. He wasn’t surprised to discover that another prisoner apart from Cadwaller was missing. He stared at Arent’s men, demanded to know the identity of the absent sailor but was met with shrugs and uncertain looks. All they wanted, they said, was to set sail for home. Fearing that he had been hoodwinked, the commanding officer ordered a small boat to drag the harbour; the other troops he instructed to make an immediate sweep of the market square.

The soldiers went roughly among the stalls, demanding answers from sellers who were sheltering from the downpour as well as the drunkards and sodden children herding hogs. They asked the guards who stood outside the town gaol, the old men loitering by the tavern; they passed the woman Ann Netherton who was sermonising and conducting prayers for the safe return of the mute boy touched by the moon, her small congregation kneeling before her in the hammering rain as she invited the Lord to show mercy and return the boy to his rightful place. It was clear that Fortescue’s soldiers were wasting their time; they turned their attention to the cobbled alleyways that jutted onto the waterfront. Ann watched them from her vantage point in front of the alehouse. When they had disappeared, she whispered to one of the figures before her, a man draped in her thick black cloak. ‘Come’ she said. ‘We must hurry away before the soldiers return.’

Arent raised himself and fell in beside her, keeping the hooded cloak she had given him pulled tight over his head. ‘Where to ?’ he asked. ‘Somewhere safe’ she said. ‘Walk quickly to the top of the hill and pray that no Roundheads travel this way.’

Arent did his best but struggled with the steep gradient as they walked from the town, his breath short, his chest tightening with every step. Ann was brisk and confident in her movement, taking long strides as the rising hill took its toll on her companion, her skirt billowing, her loose hair heavy in the rain.

‘We must look a strange couple, good wife’ Arent gasped.

‘Save the precious breath God gave you’ was her reply. ‘And I am no man’s “good wife.”’

Arent fell silent and concentrated on the task in hand.

At the brow of the hill the captain of the Adventurer stopped. Ann berated him. ‘This is not the time – a short distance and we will be away from the town.’

‘Forgive me’ said Arent. ‘A minute is all I crave. Go on ahead. I will follow, I promise.’

Ann strode forward in the direction of the narrow pathway that cut through a line of drooping trees, disappearing into a dark tunnel that reminded Arent of a fairy tale he once read to his children. Although the trackway they followed was another steep climb, it was not as the great hill they had negotiated from the town. Ann’s rapid pace slackened now. The track was muddy; her thin boots sank into it, the hem of her long skirt absorbing the worst. By the time Arent saw they were following the line of a stream his breath settled, became more even. ‘Thank you, mistress’ he said ‘for shielding me. If I had been caught, I would have been returned to the town gaol.’

Ann kept her eyes firmly fixed on the muddied trackway. ‘There is much injustice in the world, that much I know. You do not look like a delinquent or a dissembler ready for the town gaol. What’s more you took pity on me when I was verbally attacked by Fortescue’s soldiers. I believe there is good in your heart and that is why I shielded you.’

Her stern efficiency intrigued him. He could see a dwelling ahead nestling on the far edge of a forest but she continued to follow the stream. Then, once the trackway curved, he saw a second dwelling, made of brick, with curls of smoke rising from its chimney.

‘A man will be well hidden in a place such as this’ Arent said ‘a place for woodsmen and trappers, if I’m not mistaken, whose natural demeanour and inclination is be separated from humankind.’

Ann turned, looked him square in the eyes. ‘Because we are poor and seek solace in nature does not mean we are without pride, sir.’

‘I did not intend to sound as if I were ungracious, dear lady…’

Ann cut in. ‘Wait here’ she said as they neared. ‘My sister’s temperament is delicate and she must be forewarned.’

The rain had eased now; the grey thunderous clouds had given way to a clear blue sky. Arent looked out across the rolling grasslands, at the mystery and darkness of the forest, at the line of the stream cutting into the landscape. He found that if he walked towards the edge of the incline that skirted the water and craned his neck he could see the harbour mouth and the expanse of sea beyond. Was that a stout sailing ship, he wondered, drifting elegantly towards the channel where the Adventurer had sat at anchor in the hours before their ill-fated mission ? Arent now realised it was the frigate taking his crew to France. He gave a sigh and a wry smile, safe in the knowledge that Cadwaller would see them all home.