themselves,' he said mournfully.
'What's that?' Hawkwood asked.
'Me having to tell them I was marooned.'
Hawkwood shook his head and raised the bottle to his lips. 'There's a difference.'
'There is?'
'I heard marooned men were given a loaded pistol for when it got too bad to bear.'
'Damn,' Lasseur said. 'We should have asked.'
'We'll have to make do with this,' Hawkwood said, passing the bottle.
'Better make it last,' Lasseur said, eyeing the fish and the knives. 'It could be a long night.'
The farm was bounded by woods. There wasn't a great deal to it; a half-stone, half-brick farmhouse, a couple of outhouses, a barn, a henhouse, a sty, a wooden-fenced sheep enclosure similar to the one back on Sheppey and containing six sheep, and a small paddock, in which a pair of horses grazed contentedly. An apple orchard framed one side of the house. At the rear there was a well-tended garden containing vegetables and herbs. To the front lay a meadow of short grass, dotted with wild flowers, through which ran a small, gently flowing stream.
Approaching the farm, Hawkwood thought it one of the most tranquil places he'd ever seen. It was also one of the best concealed. The locals obviously knew the location, but anyone not of the district would only have happened upon the valley by chance. He presumed that was why it had been chosen. As a place to hide, it was ideal.
They had left the fishing platform shortly after dawn, carrying their baskets of mackerel, just as the first of the boats and the early rising townsfolk had begun to arrive. Many of the latter had been women, who weren't averse to calling out lewd suggestions to any male within hailing distance. Other than suffering the crude but good-natured banter, Hawkwood and Lasseur had negotiated the mile and a half tramp across the mud without incident.
The church had been a five-minute walk from the shingle beach. They had found the gravedigger, a small man with a nut- brown complexion, bow legs and three fingers and a thumb on his right hand, contemplating a newly filled clay pipe and a freshly dug example of his handiwork.
He had looked up, viewing Hawkwood and Lasseur's unshaven faces and mud-caked boots with a wry eye. 'You'll be the two Frenchies I'm expectin'.'
Lasseur nodded. Hawkwood didn't bother to contradict him. It seemed easier than having someone else tell him he was a long way from home.
'Speak English? All right, best come with me. Leave the fish.'
Leading them out of the graveyard to where a horse and cart were tethered, the gravedigger pointed to the back of the cart and the two cheap wooden coffins, partially covered with sacking.
'We'd normally be travellin' at night when there's less folk about, but I don't reckon it's wise to have the both of you hangin' round here all day. We'd best be on our way. You'll be comfortable enough and I ain't goin' to nail you in. We don't have far to go. I'll let you out soon as we're off the road.' He jerked his head. 'In you get.'
Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged disbelieving looks and Hawkwood wondered if Lasseur had understood all that the gravedigger had told them. Not that it mattered. Both of them had been too weary to argue. And the gravedigger had been proved right. It was a comfortable way to travel. Hawkwood had come close to dozing off a couple of times.
They were out of the coffins and sitting on the back of the cart, feet dangling over the tail board, when they emerged from the trees to find the farmhouse nestling in the dip before them.
The gravedigger clicked his tongue and coaxed the horse down the track. 'Welcome to the widow's.'
Lasseur frowned while Hawkwood stared at the house and the wispy tendrils of wood smoke drifting from the chimney. Whoever had lit the fire had used apple logs. The smell was unmistakable and strangely comforting and reminded Hawkwood of autumn rather than summer.
'It's what folks call her.' There was a slight pause. 'Among other things.'
'Other things?' Lasseur said.
'There's some folk round about think she's a witch.'
Lasseur looked at Hawkwood and said in French, 'He says it is the house of a witch.'
'Perhaps she'll make us disappear,' Hawkwood replied in the same language. 'And we'll wake up in France.'
He wondered how he'd explain that to James Read.
I've found out how they do it, sir. They smuggle them off the ships in body bags and then they deliver them to this old woman who has warts and a cat, and she turns them into blackbirds and they fly away home.
There was no cat, but there was a dog. It was lying by the open door of the barn. It raised itself as the cart drew near and looked over its shoulder. Then it padded forward hesitantly.
It was a big dog, with shaggy brown hair and eyes hidden behind a fringe. It wasn't young, Hawkwood saw. There was grey around its muzzle and it was walking like an old man suffering the first stages of arthritis. Giving a brief wag of its tail, it emitted a single bark and then lay down as if exhausted by its efforts.
The bark had been not so much a warning as a summons.
A woman walked out of the barn, a pail in her hands. Hawkwood's first thought was that she didn't look like any witch he might have imagined.
Hawkwood heard Lasseur catch his breath.
Thick black hair, drawn back and tied with a ribbon at the base of her neck, framed a pair of deep brown eyes and a strong face warmed by the sun. She was dressed in a long grey skirt, a white blouse open at the throat and a faded blue waistcoat. The clothes that covered her slender figure showed evidence of repair, with patches at knee and hem. The opening at the top of the blouse showed a V of freckled skin. A smudge of dirt marked her right jaw. A strand of hair hung down her left cheek and flirted with the corner of her mouth. She brushed it away and tucked it behind her ear. A bright sheen of perspiration lay along her top lip.
She watched the cart's approach.
The cart halted. The horse lowered its head to crop the grass.
'Morning, Jess.' The gravedigger touched his cap.
'Asa.'
The woman shielded her eyes from the sun and made no attempt to approach.
'You were expectin' us.' The gravedigger gestured to Hawkwood and Lasseur to get down from the cart.
The woman looked Hawkwood and Lasseur up and down and said nothing.
Hawkwood knew what both of them must have looked like: bedraggled and unshaven, breeches and boots mud-stained and still damp from their recent soaking.
'Madame,' Lasseur said, inclining his head.
She bestowed Lasseur with a frank look but did not acknowledge his gesture. Her gaze moved to Hawkwood, settled for a second and then moved on back to the gravedigger. Then she nodded.
'How long is it for?'
'They didn't say.'
A flash of irritation touched the woman's eyes and then died. She gave a resigned nod. 'Do they speak English?'
'We both do, madame.' Lasseur smiled. 'My name is Lasseur; Captain Paul Lasseur. This is my friend, Captain Matthew Hooper.'
The woman looked at him but did not return the smile. She stared at Hawkwood then turned to the gravedigger, who was giving Hawkwood a funny look. 'Tell Morgan I'm still holding those tubs. I'd prefer it if they were gone.'
'He knows. I'll be along to pick them up in a day or two.'
'Good.'
The gravedigger nodded. 'Right, then, they're all yours. I'll be off.'
'How's Megan?' the woman asked.
Higgs climbed back on the cart. 'She's doin' well. That magic potion you gave me 'as done wonders.'
The woman gave an exasperated sigh. 'It wasn't magic, Asa. Just an infusion of herbs. You could grow them in your own garden, if you'd a mind to.'
