his position as her protector usurped, and Bess had given up another prayer, an utterance steeped in frustration, that they might find Tomsoon, before such gloomy company made of their venture some sort of purgation.
And yet Alexander Dane’s stony-faced silence irked her, too, for how could the man have no questions? How could anyone show such scant interest in her purpose or in the charge commanded of him?
They overnighted in a hostelry in Winsford, the men sharing a room adjoining Bess’s, and set off next morning at dawn along the River Weaver’s eastern bank, the rising April sun on their left cheeks making white blooms of each breath. Bess had spent the first mile wondering if Dane would exhibit a more affable temperament now that he should have at least recovered from his indulgences of two nights before. But by the third mile it was quite clear to her that the man was simply a boor and even that acceptance was a knife in her heart, because it made her think of Emmanuel, good, joyful Emmanuel, and how lucky she had been to love him and be loved by him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘ I STILL DON ’ T see why we couldn’t have ridden the first forty-five miles and walked the last ten,’ Weasel griped, sharply tugging the halter of the ass he was leading, as though it were the animal’s fault that they were footsore and comfortless. ‘Might as well have bloody enlisted with the musketeers.’
‘I’d give you a week before you forgot about the match between your fingers, stuck your hand in the black powder and blew yourself to Kingdom Come,’ Trencher said, sweeping his cap from his head and mopping his slick brow with it.
‘I don’t know what you’re moaning about, you little runt,’ Dobson said to Weasel. ‘Try pushing this damn thing half a mile and then let’s see what you’ve got to say about it.’
Tom suspected it was time someone else took a turn pushing the handcart but said nothing, enjoying seeing the big man’s pride take him further with it than he ought to have gone. It was dusk and they had been on the road since dawn, so that Tom knew they would have to lie up for the night before long.
‘When we get to that oak tree yonder, I’ll take the cart,’ Guillaume Scarron said, his English thick with French, ‘and after me Tristan will take it.’
‘He’s all right for another mile yet, Scarron,’ Tom said, liftinghis chin towards Dobson who muttered something foul under his breath.
‘Well, this bloody beast stinks like a dead dog left out in the rain,’ Weasel said, ‘and I’ve been downwind of it ever since Stokenchurch.’ Each man had a knapsack slung across his back in which he carried spare clothing, money, flint, steel and charcloth, a wooden bowl and spoon, a leather bottle and some other essentials for the journey, but the ass was saddled with more knapsacks containing food, blankets and dry tinder. The animal also carried five skins full of small beer, two large mattocks and a pickaxe.
‘I doubt the beast likes your stink any more than you like his,’ Penn put in, ‘yet you don’t hear him complaining.’
Just then the ass flared its nostrils, opened its mouth and brayed, startling a pair of pigeons that clapped into the darkening sky and raising laughter from the small band of stonemasons on the road to Oxford. Except, only three of the men were real masons: Guillaume Scarron the master stonemason, and his two companions – one a squat, square-headed carver of marble named de Gombaud, and the other Scarron’s apprentice, a dark-haired, fine-featured young man named Tristan. All three were Frenchmen and like many of their profession they spent their lives travelling across England from one great house-building project to the next. But the war had put paid to many such building ambitions and now the three men, originally from the village of Brimont five miles to the north of Reims, found themselves in the employ of one Captain Crafte of Parliament’s army and earning
And yet Alexander Dane’s stony-faced silence irked her, too, for how could the man have no questions? How could anyone show such scant interest in her purpose or in the charge commanded of him?
They overnighted in a hostelry in Winsford, the men sharing a room adjoining Bess’s, and set off next morning at dawn along the River Weaver’s eastern bank, the rising April sun on their left cheeks making white blooms of each breath. Bess had spent the first mile wondering if Dane would exhibit a more affable temperament now that he should have at least recovered from his indulgences of two nights before. But by the third mile it was quite clear to her that the man was simply a boor and even that acceptance was a knife in her heart, because it made her think of Emmanuel, good, joyful Emmanuel, and how lucky she had been to love him and be loved by him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘ I STILL DON ’ T see why we couldn’t have ridden the first forty-five miles and walked the last ten,’ Weasel griped, sharply tugging the halter of the ass he was leading, as though it were the animal’s fault that they were footsore and comfortless. ‘Might as well have bloody enlisted with the musketeers.’
‘I’d give you a week before you forgot about the match between your fingers, stuck your hand in the black powder and blew yourself to Kingdom Come,’ Trencher said, sweeping his cap from his head and mopping his slick brow with it.
‘I don’t know what you’re moaning about, you little runt,’ Dobson said to Weasel. ‘Try pushing this damn thing half a mile and then let’s see what you’ve got to say about it.’
Tom suspected it was time someone else took a turn pushing the handcart but said nothing, enjoying seeing the big man’s pride take him further with it than he ought to have gone. It was dusk and they had been on the road since dawn, so that Tom knew they would have to lie up for the night before long.
‘When we get to that oak tree yonder, I’ll take the cart,’ Guillaume Scarron said, his English thick with French, ‘and after me Tristan will take it.’
‘He’s all right for another mile yet, Scarron,’ Tom said, liftinghis chin towards Dobson who muttered something foul under his breath.
‘Well, this bloody beast stinks like a dead dog left out in the rain,’ Weasel said, ‘and I’ve been downwind of it ever since Stokenchurch.’ Each man had a knapsack slung across his back in which he carried spare clothing, money, flint, steel and charcloth, a wooden bowl and spoon, a leather bottle and some other essentials for the journey, but the ass was saddled with more knapsacks containing food, blankets and dry tinder. The animal also carried five skins full of small beer, two large mattocks and a pickaxe.
‘I doubt the beast likes your stink any more than you like his,’ Penn put in, ‘yet you don’t hear him complaining.’
Just then the ass flared its nostrils, opened its mouth and brayed, startling a pair of pigeons that clapped into the darkening sky and raising laughter from the small band of stonemasons on the road to Oxford. Except, only three of the men were real masons: Guillaume Scarron the master stonemason, and his two companions – one a squat, square-headed carver of marble named de Gombaud, and the other Scarron’s apprentice, a dark-haired, fine-featured young man named Tristan. All three were Frenchmen and like many of their profession they spent their lives travelling across England from one great house-building project to the next. But the war had put paid to many such building ambitions and now the three men, originally from the village of Brimont five miles to the north of Reims, found themselves in the employ of one Captain Crafte of Parliament’s army and earning
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