Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (33 page)

Nineteen

Rumour soon spread through the ship that they had the pretender king aboard; James le Roy was not making it easier for the secret to be kept by his vociferous complaining while they had been weighing anchor. To the relief of everyone, however, the moment they had hauled out to sea the choppy conditions had soon sent him groaning and spewing to his bed. In Jesamiah’s opinion, he had his servants. Let them sort him out. The longer seasickness kept him below, the better.

The only difficulty was that Jesamiah found it hard to avoid Francesca. The first four and twenty hours were easy; he had a ship to get underway, and all his attention went in ensuring the new rigging and repairs were as they should be. A stay on the top mast snapped, its replacement took up to an hour or so of his attention, an hour he padded out deliberately. The first night’s dinner he absented himself from, and the following breakfast. Plus, it started raining, so he was quite safe on deck as Francesca was ensconced below in the dry. The second day proved to be a little trickier to manipulate, and midday forced a meeting. Jesamiah needed a chart from his cabin. He had sent Finch to get it, but the curmudgeonly old basket had shambled back saying he could not find it. Irritated, guessing Finch had not even looked, Jesamiah passed the helm to Isiah and went below, cursing as he tripped over the two servants curled up outside Master le Roy’s door, taking up the entire width of the narrow corridor. He nearly moved them on, then heard the feeble moaning from within the cabin and decided to leave them where they were. He hoped this would be a short voyage.

He ducked into his great cabin, removing his hat as he did so and tossed it, by habit, onto the table. Francesca was reclining on the locker seats that ran beneath the stern windows, her feet propped on one of Tiola’s red velvet cushions. She was reading a book, one of his own, he noticed, for there was a gap on the bookshelf.

“I did not take you for a literary man?” she said, looking up with a gleaming smile.

“Thought I was an illiterate jib did you?”

“Of course not!”

He grinned. “Liar.”

Francesca grinned back, flourishing the book, “I did not expect you to read such acclaimed prose.”

Jesamiah crossed the room and took the book from her; grimaced. “Not exactly sure that Ned Ward’s
London Spy
is suitable reading for a lady.”

She reached out to take the book back. “I thought the title appropriate, and some of the verses are quite entertaining.”

“That’s as maybe, but there’s quite a bit of the more squalid side of London life; graphic description and lewd anecdotes. I don’t want to be accused of corrupting you.”

“You won’t,” she laughed. “I like satire, it is amusing, especially the more specific vices that Ward relates.”

As he searched for the chart he needed, Jesamiah chuckled. “And you about to be a mother? Shame on you!”

‘Cesca fell silent at that, her hand going to her protruding belly. “Despite the bad memories,” she confided, “I want this child. It will be good for my son to have a brother or sister.”

“It would be good for him to have a father, too,” The words tumbled from Jesamiah before he could check them; realised he had been indelicate. Francesca’s husband had been tortured and murdered at the orders of the same Spanish bastard ‘Cesca had been forced to prostitute herself for.

Jesamiah turned to look at her, apologetic, saw her hands were trembling. He went to her, was not sure what to do. The maid was not present, he did not want to compromise himself or the lady. Then a tear trickled down her cheek and he threw sense to the wind. Bending down he held her close, his chin on the crown of her head, his hand rubbing her back as she quietly wept. The moment of weakness for Francesca passed as quickly as it had come. She dabbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. Jesamiah fetched a handkerchief from his coat pocket; gave it to her.

“You must think me feeble,” she sniffed, her eyes meeting his, “but this child is not del Gardo’s. There was another man who was kind to me.” She smiled, her entire face lighting into beauty, “I rather fell in love with him.”

Jesamiah brushed his thumb against her skin, was so tempted to kiss her, but did not. No good would come of following spur of the moment desire. Did he ask again? Did he really want to know if this child was his? Taking her hands, he gave them a slight squeeze. “Is it mine? You know I would do anything for you, ‘Cesca, but –”

She interrupted with an understanding smile, “But you have a wife and you have no wish to become further embroiled with the machinations of the Spanish, deposed kings or untrustworthy spies.”

She had still not answered his question. Jesamiah thought it best to change tack. He winked, “Got it on the first throw, darlin’.” He returned to rummage through his charts. “We might be in for a bit of a blow, the clouds are gathering to the north-west. I hope we can make it to Finistère and round Ushant before it sets in. I’m not too keen on navigating those islands in bad weather.”

“Oh dear, Monsieur le Roy will not be too pleased at even rougher seas.”

The chart he needed in his hand, Jesamiah tossed a puzzled look at the woman.

“What’s happening here, ‘Cesca? What exactly am I involved in?”

“I ought not tell you,” she answered with a slight shrug, “but you are not going to be able to inform anyone beyond this ship, and by the time we reach land…” She gathered her thoughts and said, “An invasion of England and Scotland is planned in support of James III. There are to be two landings, one in England along the south coast, the other in Scotland. Our spies and aides have been spreading the word for those who do not want Hanover on the throne to join the Rising. Devon will be providing a hosting of many men, for most of the West Country is opposed to the Whig government. We have also spread false word that King James is to accompany the fleet. It is to sail from Cádiz to Coruña where there are more guns and troops waiting under the command of Ormonde. In truth, the King will already be in England, marching with those loyal to him from Devon, Cornwall and Somerset. Once he is ashore we expect many, many more to join the cause.”

“And the Devon troops are commanded by?” Jesamiah asked, raising one eyebrow to emphasise his question.

“Sir Ailie Doone. Many of the men willing to fight are encamped with him on Exmoor. Such is the fear of the Doones’ past reputation that not even Whig supporters will snoop around their valley. Those who have done so have been found with their throats ripped open and their blood drained from them.” She raised her hands. “The rumour that the Doones have a savage black beast that roams the moors at night preying upon the unsuspecting has been used to full advantage.”

It occurred to Jesamiah as he spread the chart open on his dining table, anchoring the scrolling corners with various weights of decanter, salt cellar and a book, that perhaps this ‘black beast’ was the man he had freed from Barnstaple gaol. There had been a strangeness about him, and had someone not said something about him being most useful at night? Dismissing the thought as fanciful, he eyed Francesca, “And this apparent list of names? A ruse Calderón said.”

Swinging her legs from the window seat, she sat on the edge, pulling her shawl closer and masking the shiver of apprehension and cold that ran through her. “There is no list. I, using my secret alias of Chesham, thought it a good idea to invent one in order to flush out our traitor. Every plan, every operation in North Devon this past year has been relayed to the authorities. We need to know who it is in order to protect the King.”

“Any suspicions?” The question was casual as Jesamiah studied the chart.

‘Cesca snorted contempt. “Oh several, all of whom we assumed were reliable, trustworthy men. John Benson, Cleve and Nicholas Hartley, Carter Trevithick.” She went on to name more people of whom Jesamiah had not heard. Twenty in all. Sir Ailie Doone and his son were not among them. Nor was Henry Jennings.

“What of Jennings?” Jesamiah said. “He can’t be your traitor, he’s been at Nassau for a while now, but do you trust him? I had a niggled feeling that he was not telling me the whole truth when he was aboard here.”

“Henry?” ‘Cesca shook her head, “Henry is a devout Catholic who has provided a good portion of his support to the Stuart cause, admittedly in the hope of gaining a fortune and a title at the end of it all. No, Henry has proved his loyalty many times over. He sailed with my father-in-law and your father. In recent years he has associated with Antonio Calderón, smuggling mostly, but assisting where necessary with various, political matters.”

Jesamiah raised his eyebrows, he had not known any of that. “With Calderón? Even though Jennings has no qualms about plundering loot direct from the Spanish?”

“Robbing Peter to pay Paul?” ‘Cesca laughed. “I said he was a Catholic, I did not say he loved Spain.”

Jesamiah had found what he needed to know on the chart, re-rolled it and slid it into the box beneath the desk. “So, Jennings is a trusted spy, as is Francis Chesham, although no one knows
his
true identity?”

“
Si
. Those few who knew that information are now dead.” Her intense green-eyed gaze met Jesamiah’s. “And now only one man is privy to it. He is a fine man, but I would kill him if I believed he would not keep that knowledge to himself.”

“Even if he was the father of that child you carry?”

“If he was, even then.”

Francesca moved close to him; cupped her hand around his whiskered cheek. “Make love to me, Jesamiah.” She slid her hand behind his head, curling her fingers into his hair, encouraging his mouth down to meet with hers. Her body pressed against his, her other hand went to the buttons of his breeches.

He did not resist at first, enjoying the sensation of her intimate touch, but he pulled away abruptly and held her at arm’s length. “I’ve vowed to make love only to the mother of my children, and since you insist on telling me that this bulge in your belly is not mine… My fidelity must remain with another woman.”

‘Cesca sighed and said, “Then that other woman is most fortunate. I envy her.”

Jesamiah was tempted to close the gap between them, take her to the bed, strip her naked and do all sorts of pleasurable things to her, but he respected her too much to treat her as he would a whore. Instead, he remarked, almost casually, “My money should be on Nicholas Hartley as your traitor, but since he was attacked in his own home, I don’t see how it can be him. His father maybe? He has severe money problems.”

The look in her eyes stated clearly that she would have no objection to those pleasurable things, but it was not to be. Jesamiah’s loyalty rested elsewhere, as, deep within him, it always had. She set a brave smile to her lips. “There is evidence to presume it is Sir Cleve, yes. He is dependent on the drink, and as you say, is heavily in debt. It is likely that before long he will find himself in a debtor’s prison. We have reason to believe that he is selling information about the Jacobite Rising in order to retain his freedom.”

“Treachery is a sorry business,” Jesamiah admitted as he put on his hat and walked towards the door. “But I can understand the need for a man to do what he can to keep his freedom. Does he know we bring the Jacobite King to England?”

“No. Only the Doones know. The others believe we are bringing weapons.”

Twenty

The energy of her Craft had drained from Tiola. With each vision from her scrying into the past she had felt it sap from her. It was as if she were a river at low tide, the path of its course was there, a slender trickle of water across the sand, but it flowed sluggish and shallow. She had not had any more visions for several days now, and rather hoped they were ended. They were disconcerting and discomforting, and with each one she found it harder to recover her senses and centred balance. She was finding it difficult to concentrate, to remember things and to follow conversations; to access the right words that she needed. Had she been in her fifty years she would have thought she were going through the natural change of a woman’s body, but that was well ahead of her yet. Her friends, Pamela and Rue, and Pegget and Carter her brother, assumed her lethargy was a residue of her illness. She was encouraged to eat nourishing food, to rest, to walk in the fresh air when the weather permitted. They could see that she was not well, and cared for her health by showing concern and attention, but their kindness was stifling her. She felt caged and restless.

Eagerly she had accepted Pamela’s suggestion to take the boat across the Taw and walk to Crow Point. The sun had been shining since early morning, a warm, pleasant day for mid-March, with a blue, cloud-dotted sky and a light wind. The ruins of an old chapel were set on the headland near Crow Rock, and Pamela had wanted to share their secret with her.

“St Anne’s was a special place for sailors,” she explained as they stood beside all that was left, a small pile of rubble, the sea breeze toying with their hair and cloaks. “The chapel had a white tower which stood out against the darker headland; to steer straight across the Bar, with the bowsprit pointing direct at it, was a safe guide for those inbound. Cromwell’s Parliamentarians destroyed it because they said it was a place of Popery.” Somewhat reflective, Pamela bent down and picked up a small piece of broken stone. “It is a shame because Jennet told me this was also a place for the women to come to pray for their womb to quicken, or for a safe birth.” She looked up at Tiola. “Jennet came here often to pray for her unborn babies. She had the twins, my mother and Aunt Bethan, but could not give birth again. I do not know why, she never said, but some tragic thing had happened which stopped her from conceiving.”

“Many came here,” Tiola said, sensing the tingling echoes of the past that were stirring and whispering to her. “Through all the years, from the far distant past, this place has been sacred to birth and life.” Sadly, she added, “And death. The current is such that the drowned would be carried by the tide to this shore.”

Pamela looked at her curiously, wondering how she knew these things, but was distracted by a shout from Rue coming up through the dunes, carrying a basket of food. “I am almost four and thirty years old,” she said wistfully. “Will I make Rue a good wife? Can I give him children?” Her eyes held a pleading look. “Would it help if I prayed to St Anne, even though the Catholic Faith is not my belief?”

Tiola laid her hand on Pamela’s arm. “The Mother of all Mothers has no care for what faith a daughter of Hers should follow. If you are to have a child you will have one, whether or not you come here to pray. But if the presence of peace, and the essence of a mother’s love that remains here should bring you inner quietness then come.” She smiled; giggled girlishly, “Though I suggest you discuss with Rue a wedding date before a birth date. Perhaps the folk hereabouts would prefer you to do these things in the accepted order?”

“Rue wishes to wait for Captain Acorne to return home before we marry – as do I.” Pamela blushed; fiddled with the tasselled braiding that edged her shawl. “I was hoping to ask him if he would be so good as to give me away?”

Tiola clapped her hands, delighted, and kissed Pamela’s cheek. “Jesamiah will be honoured to do so, my dear! I know it!”

Kissing Tiola in return, Pamela waved to Rue and ran to meet him. Tiola watched her hurry along the foot-worn track through the marram grass and sand dunes, smiled warmly as the two lovers met and embraced, so pleased that such dear people should find happiness together. She sighed, turned her attention to the sea and the restless froth of the Bar. This outward bravery about Jesamiah coming home was a sham; in her bones she held the fear that he would not be returning. The feeling that she would never see him again was so very strong. His hand had been hurt, she knew, because her own hand had throbbed for several days, and since morning she had heard the wind and felt the rain, the plunge of the ship and the anger of the sea. He was in trouble –
Sea Witch
was in trouble – but there was nothing she could do to help. This failing of her inner strength and energy had cut her off from him. Beyond these few most distant almost intangible connections, all communication between them had ceased. It left her feeling empty and alone, and afraid. Did Jesamiah think she was deliberately ignoring him? Why could she not summon the energy to hear him? All she heard whenever she strained every nerve to focus on his presence, when she was alone and quiet, was the sound of the sea and the creaking of his ship. Was Tethys the reason behind this silence, leaving her, like all women who saw their husbands and sons sail away to sea, with nothing but hope and the need to wait for a safe return?

A gull screeched above her and she watched him beat his wings then swoop downwards towards where the tide lay almost idle at low ebb. The air shimmered and the past was racing towards her.