Conquest

‘He will know how to deal with vermin like you, Renzi.’

An expatriate royalist, plotting with the regicides? Incredible, but it had to be true – unless it was a double-bluff of some extraordinary complexity that he couldn’t fathom.

‘I look forward to the meeting,’ he replied.

He sipped his rooibos and then ventured, ‘Thomas Kydd – may I ask what he is to you?’

‘Kydd? That’s no business of yours.’

‘I was simply curious.’

‘Well, since you ask it – not as useful as I’d thought. A simple matelot who kept his mouth tight shut on anything to do with his precious navy.’ Her face softened for a moment. ‘But as a man he was . . . diverting.’

‘Just that?’

‘Who are you to quiz me?’ she blazed, and stood up. ‘Enough of this talking – don’t think it will save you, Mr Secretary.’

She stalked off to her tent, the others following to theirs, leaving Renzi on his own at the fire.

It was quite impossible to think of flight. Prowling lions and other beasts would make short work of him, and even if he was still alive in the morning, on foot he would not last long in this oppressive wasteland.

Feeling chilled as the night took hold, he made his way to the horses and the pile of offloaded gear. They whinnied in surprise as he rummaged through, found some canvas covers and carried them back to the fire, spreading out a bed as best he could, a roped bag of clothing for a pillow.

At least now he had peace to think. How quickly his horizons had narrowed from the survival of Cape Colony to his own mortal existence. He turned his mind to the coming confrontation with the baron. It was a bluff that had saved his life; in reality, he had no idea what he could say that would turn the tables, for what kind of man would he be talking to? A royalist or a revolutionary? In any event, when he was seen to have nothing to reveal, he would be dealt with summarily.

His only chance would be to make a move before they arrived at the base. Unarmed, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the three men, and there was then the question of what to do with Therese. There was nothing for it but a course of action that, in his very being, he despised: he would find a heavy rock and silently crush her skull where she lay, trusting that, the deed done, her men would see it in their best interests to lead him to safety.

He waited for an hour or so, then stealthily eased back his covers, raised his head and looked around. It was a dark night but brilliant with stars, the light just sufficient to make out the primeval terrain, the inky shadows of the tents and trees. The firelight was a problem so he got up, stretched and went out into the darkness with the obvious intent of relieving himself.

Careful to keep the glow between him and the tents, he felt around until he found a weighty piece of rock, then began painstakingly to circle towards her tent. A sound startled him. Ready for some terrible beast preparing to spring, he then realised it was just a snore from the men’s tent.

He was coming close, but all it needed was for him to trip over a root or step on some nocturnal creature and he would be finished. The tent was hidden in blackness – he remembered there were ropes on all sides except the entrance, which would be laced up. That left the other end. He must work at raising the edge carefully and then, in the shadows, strike without seeing. To achieve a killing, silencing hammer blow on a woman.

Judging he’d nearly reached the end of the tent, he closed in, heart pounding. It loomed huge and he could hear no sound from within. All he had to do now was to get close, ease up the edge and do the deed quickly before the cold night air woke her. Crouching low, he moved forward – and froze, for the star-field had just been blotted out. For long minutes he kept motionless. Then he saw it was one of the men on guard and cursed himself; of course, they’d be taking it in spells through the night to watch for wild animals.

In a wash of disappointment he skulked back to his bed-place.

Days of soreness and tedium followed, as they progressed over endless miles of scrubby bare red plains between the ranges until at last they began to descend into the green-clad downlands. They reached a river and Renzi sensed tension after they had splashed the horses across and made the low scrub the other side. This must be the actual frontier and they were now within the Zuurveld before Xhosa territory – and therefore near the end of their journey. Picking up another, smaller, river, they followed its banks as it wound through ever-flattening terrain.

Where the scrub thickened to light woods, they stopped. ‘Tie him,’ Therese snapped. He was made to dismount and the thongs tightly reapplied. A rope led from them to one of the men on horseback and they set off, Renzi plodding on in the lead.

They wound down a track into a shallow valley, dark green shrubbery thick on each side. His eyes cast down as he trudged on, Renzi saw that underfoot the trail was turning from the usual red and ochre to a paler hue, with the addition of white sand. Somewhere ahead they were nearing the sea. The blessed, limitless, friendly sea. It caught him unawares, bringing a sudden lump to his throat. Out there – somewhere – was Kydd, still in the first flush of glory of his frigate command, going about his duty with no idea that his friend could have been brought to such a pass. It was as if—

In a shocking flash, dozens of dark shapes shot up into view each side. They resolved into tall warriors, each with an assegai and a shield, clad in nothing but a loin-cloth with decorative tufts around their ankles and a tall headdress. Their fierce eyes glittered as they brandished their weapons.

Therese and her men immediately threw their arms wide, palms open and upwards in a gesture of peace, and one of her men spoke in a short, strangely guttural clicking language. The assegais were withdrawn but the warriors did not fall back; this was now an escort and they took position on each side as the trek resumed.

Renzi felt their eyes as they loped along next to him, their arrogance of manhood and ferocity of purpose fearsome. These were quite different from the harmless Khoikhoi of Cape Town, and if they were enabled to sweep in on the settlements, they would stir up an appalling tide of war. Baird could then do no other than send every soldier he possessed to stem the flood.

The river was now a broad, barely moving calm expanse, curving among the flat scrub and an occasional tree. They passed a rise, along its top many more warriors watching their progress. From somewhere in the interior rose