In the King`s Name

strong scholarly hand which he guessed belonged to Dan Yovell, the Bolitho steward, whom he had met several times, had been brought out to Merlin; the boatman had departed without waiting for any response. A carriage will be sent. And despite the weather and the roads, it was waiting for him on time.

Another face he remembered: Young Matthew, the coachman, who had driven them to the church that day. “Young” Matthew because his father, also Matthew, had been coachman at the estate before him. His father had died long since, but the nickname remained, although he was probably the oldest man there.

The carriage was a landau, new and beautifully sprung. Troubridge had seen some of them in London, and his admiral and Lady Bethune had used one while in residence there. The landau had twin hoods which folded right back and allowed the occupant to see and be seen, if the weather was kind enough. The hoods were made of greasy harness-leather, which had a strong smell when wet. Like now.

Once again he tried to grapple with his thoughts, but events were now out of his hands. There had also been a curt letter from the two Admiralty officials: their arrival would be a day later than expected. Sunday at noon. Equally curtly, it had stressed: No ceremonial. He had expected Turpin to be pleased about that, but if anything he had taken it as an insult. “Be different if we were a ship of the line, with a guard of honour, I suppose!”

Troubridge thought of it when he was leaving the ship: the trill of calls, Turpin doffing his hat and the boat alongside, oars tossed, ready to carry him ashore. Would he ever become used to it? Take it for granted as his right? He had heard Adam Bolitho say that if you did, you were ready for the beach. Or burial.

Once he had looked back at the brig, rolling easily in the offshore wind. Small, but able to give a good account of herself if challenged. She carried sixteen big thirty-two pounders, eight of them carronades. He had studied her figurehead, oblivious to the stroke oarsman watching him. The carver had produced a fine example of a merlin falcon, wings spread beneath the bowsprit, beak open, and ready to pounce, like a young eagle.

Troubridge could understand, and share, Turpin’s reaction to the message.

He saw two farm workers grin and wave mockingly as the landau splashed past them. The same two had overtaken them earlier when the deeply rutted track had slowed the horses to a walking pace.

There were a few cottages now, and he noticed that most of the frost had been melted by the rain. Two cows by a gate, breath smoking, and someone tying up dead branches, squinting at the vehicle clattering past. Then, around the side of a low hill, the sea, like water against a dam. Never far away, and in the blood of the people who lived here.

The landau stopped and he heard Young Matthew speaking to his horses, calming them as a heavy farm wagon splashed by, wheels almost touching theirs; greetings were exchanged, but even here he had noticed that Young Matthew kept a musket close to hand. He had said matter-of-factly, “This is called Hanger Lane, zur. Didn’t get that name for nothin’.”

Troubridge was unarmed. This was Cornwall.

He saw an inn lying back from the road. The Spaniards. Someone had mentioned it to him. It had been Thomas Herrick, Sir Richard Bolitho’s oldest friend; he was now rear-admiral, retired. He had shared the carriage too, en route to the wedding. Herrick had stayed at the inn and had spoken well of it. Just as well: it was the only accommodation around.

They were turning now, and Young Matthew leaned over from his box and peered through the window. “I have to stop and pick up somethin’, zur.” His eyes crinkled. “Bit too early when I came by this mornin’!”

Two figures had already hurried from somewhere, and Young Matthew waved to them. He was no stranger here, apparently.

He jumped down and stamped his boots on the cobbles. “Horses can do with a drink, too.” He opened the door and waited as Troubridge stepped down, wincing as the feeling returned to his legs and buttocks. “They roads do make a lot of folk seasick, zur.”

Troubridge noticed his arm was near enough to assist if required, and was reminded of his discreet understanding when the one-armed Herrick had arrived at the church. And the exchange of glances between the aging rear-admiral and the coachman. Appreciation, maybe more than that.

“I think you should step inside, zur. They always has a good blaze goin’ on days like this.” He looked at the sky and some rain spilled from his hat. “Wind do have changed. Us’ve seen the worst of it.”

He stumped beside Troubridge to the door and called to someone else. “Won’t be long, zur. I hope.”

Troubridge paused inside the dark entrance to get his bearings. The inn was old and had been added to and altered over the years. Perhaps Bolithos had paused here over the centuries on their way to join a ship, or return to one.

Like me.

“Can I fetch ‘ee somethin’, zur?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll be going directly.”

The inn servant wore an apron that touched the floor and had a feather duster protruding from his pocket, like a tail. “Then sit over’ ere, and get yer blood movin’ again!”

It was a high-backed seat, almost opposite one of the fires. Young Matthew was right. And there was probably more than one “good blaze” going today. He was aware of voices coming from a larger room close by. Maybe they were waiting for a local coach, or had horses stabled here.

He realised that the man in the apron was hovering nearby and said, “Perhaps I will have a drink. Something warm …”

“Taken care of, zur. Here in a trice!”

Troubridge relaxed slowly; the heat was doing its work. He felt as if he had just ended a watch on deck. Young Matthew had thought of everything. It was brandy with a measure of hot water. He felt it sting his tongue and knew there was not much of the latter. He would have to reward him in some way, and yet not offend …

Someone said, “That was the Bolitho carriage just drove in. Homeward bound, too. Must have been up an’ about bloody early.”

“I hear Cap’n Bolitho is at sea again.” A different voice, but Troubridge was now fully alert.

“Just got wed, too. What does she do with ‘erself while ‘e’s away?”

There was a harsh laugh. “Well, you know what they say. While the cat’s away, the mice will play! I could tell you things about that lady.”

The speaker must have shaken his head. “No, but not for much longer. I’ll have her beggin’ for it!”

Two things happened at once. Troubridge was on his feet and across to the connecting doorway, his eyes blazing. “Shut your filthy mouth, you drunken bastard, or I’ll do it for you!” At the same instant a door from the kitchen opened unhurriedly and Young Matthew paused to put a covered basket on the floor by his feet.

“Ready when you are, zur.” But he was looking at the loudmouth. “Surprised to find you here, Mister Flinders. With all that work goin’ on at your estate?” He looked directly at Troubridge and stooped to pick up his hat, which had fallen when he had jumped to his feet. “Finish your drink first, zur.”

Troubridge stared at the other man. Flinders. It meant nothing. And quite suddenly he was icily calm, as if he were watching the flash of gunfire and waiting for the fall of shot. He picked up the glass and said, “I’ll share it!” and threw the contents in the other man’s face.

Then he unfastened his boatcloak and folded it over his arm, replaced his hat and tugged it down over his forehead. He could hear deep breathing, and somebody retching in another part of the inn. But still nobody uttered a word.

Outside the rain appeared to have stopped, so that the puddles in the innyard seemed to glitter like fragments of broken glass. They walked to the landau without looking back, and Troubridge said abruptly, “Thank you. I’m sorry about the drink.”

One of the horses shook its head and rattled its harness, recognition or impatience. Young Matthew patted its neck and ears as he passed and said, “Easy, Trooper, we’m goin’ home now!” Then he opened the door and looked at Troubridge with only the hint of a smile. “What drink was that, zur?”

The road seemed in better condition hereabouts, and the horses were soon trotting briskly and, Troubridge noted gratefully, avoiding the ruts. There were several people about, and they overtook two farm workers plodding in the same direction. Surely not the same two? When so much had happened, and might have happened?