He stared at me, then laughed. “You don’t trust easily,” he said.
“I don’t,” I said.
“Well, now. There’s a man,” he said, and led off into the driving rain, our
cloaks billowing about us, the track slippery beneath.
We came to the earthworks, low green mounds and trees covering several acres.
With Pim and Tom I went to the top of the wall, just our heads rising above it.
Pim pointed a way that led down lanes among trees, a way that would keep us free
of people unless there was a chance meeting on the road.
“It would help,” he said, “if I knew exactly where you were going.”
It was then I took a risk. This man could help me with his knowledge of the
people and the area, knowledge I did not possess. “I am for the New World,” I
said. “I love England, but my destiny lies yonder … over the seas. Come with
me, Pim.”
“I have thought of it,” he agreed. “It is a temptation when all else is gone. I
have only strength and ingenuity, and neither trade nor land.”
“It is a far land,” I said, “and a dangerous one.”
“I’d venture it,” he said, “though a simpler land would be more to my wishing.”
He pointed. “A track lies yonder. The road is traveled by few, and will take us
well on our way.”
He looked at me. “Is it Bristol, then?”
“A likely place,” I agreed, “with ships for any land, but mostly for ships to
the west.”
We mounted once more. It was a weary time, for neither Tom nor I had slept but
the least bit, and our eyelids drooped. Pim Burke led the way, pausing from time
to time as he approached a turn in the lane to look before him.
It was scarcely light when we came up to the door of an inn, in Odiham, a
fine-looking timbered building scarcely fifty years old, and Tom led our horses
around to the stable while Pim Burke opened the door and led the way inside.
A stout, red-faced man was kindling a fire. He turned to look. “Ah? Is it you
again? You are a rascal, Pim. Will the Queen’s men never take you?”
“I hope not,” Pim said cheerfully, “although Newgate might be better than some
places my head has lain this past fortnight. Can you have something put on for
us, Henry? My friends and I have a hunger two days old … or so it feels.”
“Sit yon.” Henry pointed toward a table in a corner near another door. ”
‘Friends’ did you say? Are there more?”
“One more. He stables the horses now.”
“We will pay,” I said.
“Ah? Did you hear that, Pim? Did you listen well? Such words are music to an
innkeeper’s ears. You would think we held open house here, the way you come by
to eat whenever you’re near.”
“It may be the last time, Henry. I am for Raleigh’s land, across the sea.”
Henry turned and looked. “Well. I shall be sorry to see the last of you, Pim,
but you’re a good man, too good to be strung up at Tyburn, and that’s where
you’ll end if you stay on here.”
Henry went to the kitchen and emerged with a large meat pie which he served with
a quick stroke of his cleaver. “It is cold,” he said, “but good. There’s some
lentils, too, and a bit of pudding. You have the look of travel behind you, and
you’d best eat whilst you can.”
He put his hands on his hips. “I’d be about it quick, too, if I were you, for
there’s two or three of the locals who come in, and they’re curious.”
He turned away. “I’ve ale or beer, but if you want it there’s milk and
buttermilk. We be country folk here, and there’s milk in plenty.”
“Milk,” I said, “by all means. There’s always beer.”
He looked at Pim. “Get your man in here. I’d like you to be off before the
locals come.”
When Pim disappeared through the door to the stable, the innkeeper walked back
and planted his big fists on the table, one of them still clutching the cleaver.
“He’s a good man, Pim,” he told me. “I’ve known him twenty year. Strong … a
fierce fighter at the fairs and such like, always in trouble but nothing bad.
There’s not an evil bone in him. He’s my wife’s brother, and I love him like he
was my own, but I fear for him. Is it you he’d be going with to America?”
“Likely,” I said. “I’ve a ship coming.”
He looked at me again, for after a few rough nights of travel in rain and wind I
looked like no man who would have a ship.
“As you see,” I said quietly, “all has not gone well. Pim is not the only one
with troubles, but the ship awaits and I’ve been over the sea before.”
“You’re not from about here. Your voice has a twang to it.”
“I’d say the same of yours.”
He did not speak his doubt but I could see it plain enough. It mattered little.
He was not anxious to know, nor I to tell.
We ate then, and we ate well. When scarcely an hour had passed, we were gone.
We rode on, avoiding traveled roads, avoiding inns. At last we rode into a
lovely village in a hollow of the downs, a place called Rockboume.
There we took rooms for the night. We brushed and cleaned our clothes.
Pim sat on the floor near the window, watching me. “Something worries you,
Barnabas.”
“Aye.”
“Do you know a place called Durdle Door?”
“Aye.”
“At daylight then.”
We had come far, but not fast, for we had skirted around villages and towns
instead of riding through.
Where would our ship be? Had it been seized by Her Majesty? That well might be.
I walked to the window and looked down onto the cobbled street.
“Tom?” I said.
Something in my tone drew him, and he stepped near, looking onto the street
where I looked.
A man in cloak and boots stood across the street. A stocky man, well set-up. And
as I looked down, he looked up, and we saw each other plain. He lifted a hand to
me, and started across the cobbled street toward the door.
I had seen him before!
5
It needed no guessing to know this was indeed the man. The air of assurance, the
stride in his walk—all carried an air of purpose.
“What will we do?” Tom asked.
“If he wishes to talk, then talk I will.”
“Be careful,” Tom advised.
“We shall want a small boat,” I said to Pim, “a boat with a sail and with some
speed.”
Pim looked up at me, his feet against the wall. “To go where?”
“To sea, perhaps,” I said. “If we must, we will buy it. If you find what we
need, return here, but keep a sharp eye out, for there may be trouble brewing.”
I went downstairs.
The man waited in the common room with two flagons of ale, one left standing on
the table for me. My flagon, if I sat where it was, left my back to the door.
Taking up the flagon I moved it to where I could sit and see the door.
He smiled, with genuine appreciation. “Good! I like a cautious man.” He leaned
forward. “Now Barnabas Sackett, let us talk.”
“Talk, then. I shall enjoy the ale, the quiet of this room, and the view of the
river yonder.”
“You are in a delicate position, Barnabas.”
He proceeded to present the Queen’s case against me. I listened patiently,
hearing him out. I was wondering what he wanted. When he had finished, I told
him of the leather bag, and the contents therein.
The man smiled. “And the other coins?”
“What others?”
He smiled, but he was not amused. “Do not take me for a fool! I took you for a
shrewd young man, but yours is the story of a fool.”
“Nevertheless, a true one.”
“No more of this!” He slapped a hand upon the table. “You have found the
treasure. The Queen wants it. England owns it.” He paused. “Others want it, too.
If you are caught, the Queen will have it from you, have no doubt of that. You
will get Newgate or Tyburn for your trouble.”
“And—?”
“There are others. Such a treasure could give a man wealth, and such wealth is
power. If you deal with those others, you could get something … enough to make
you rich. Also, you could be given a chance in some other country.”
“Who are you?” I asked suddenly.
He passed only a moment, then looked up at me, for his eyes had been on the
backs of his hands. “I am Robert Malmayne.”
I knew the name.