speak to Mr Lyte again.’
‘Thank you. Go well, Patrick.’
Thomas took the sacks straight to the kitchen. The chance meeting with Patrick had cheered him but he was weary and sat down to catch his breath. Before long, however, and unable still to remember the subject of the painting, he thought he would give the new privy a quick try before the brutes appeared.
He was about to do so when they did. ‘Go and fill in the old privy before we shove you down it,’ snarled John Gibbes. Thomas picked up the shovel. And then he remembered. It was Odysseus, after yet another narrow escape. The illustration was in a children’s edition of Homer’s
Odyssey
. It used to make him laugh. Shipwrecked, starving, naked, far from home, yet managing against everything the capricious gods could throw at him to look happy and heroic. He’d better not tell Patrick; he might think the heat had boiled what was left of Thomas’s brain.
Thomas carried on doing as he was bidden, cooking when required, keeping the ledgers neatly and accurately, taking the abuse, giving them no excuse for the whip. Not that they needed an excuse; the terrible thing might appear at any moment. And the evening he saw them coming up the path towards the hut, he thought that moment had come. A bottle in one hand and his whip in the other, Samuel looked murderous.
John, close behind and also carrying a bottle, pushed past his brother, grabbed Thomas by his neck and hissed at him through black fangs. ‘We’re going out, Hill, and we don’t want to see you when we get back. If we do, you’ll taste this again. Stay here and keep out of our way. Is that clear?’
Again, Thomas nodded. Gibbes reached out and smashed the bottle he was holding against the hut. He held it a few inches from Thomas’s eyes. ‘And you’ll get this if we so much as hear you fart.’
Relieved at having escaped the whip or worse, Thomas watched them swagger back to the house. He had no idea what they were planning to do but being seen or heard when they returned would probably not be a good idea. He would stay in his hut and use his last stump of candle to read Lady Wroth until he fell asleep.
When he woke, it was pitch dark. At first he thought the rain beating on the roof had woken him. The Atlantic winds often brought rain at night. He lay still, listening to the storm and hoping not too much of it would find its way inside the hut. When the storm passed, the air had cleared and the tiny frogs resumed their singing. They were always noisier after rain.
He was on the edge of sleep again when he heard a scream. There was no mistaking it. It was a scream of terror and it had come from the house. It must have been a scream that had penetrated the storm and first woken him. Reminding himself that the brutes would be less than pleased to see him, he lay on the narrow cot and tried not to listen.
He wondered hopefully if they might be killing each other – delicious thought – but the scream had been that of a woman, high-pitched and agonized. No matter, he would ignore it. And then it came again. Louder this time, even more anguishedand full of rage. But it was a different scream. There were two women.
Taking care to be completely silent, Thomas pulled open his door and slipped, barefoot, out into the darkness. He was in very little danger of being heard as he approached the house. The brutes would be too drunk to notice anything. But in case one of them came outside, he stayed well away from the door and worked his way round to the other side where he knew there was a hole in the wall big enough to look through without fear of being seen.
He peered through the hole. Inside, a naked woman lay on the floor on her stomach, her arms outstretched above her head and her hands tied at the wrists. Her back and buttocks were lashed and bleeding and she was motionless. Bent over the barrel was another woman. Her hands were also tied at the wrist and while John Gibbes held her down by the
‘Thank you. Go well, Patrick.’
Thomas took the sacks straight to the kitchen. The chance meeting with Patrick had cheered him but he was weary and sat down to catch his breath. Before long, however, and unable still to remember the subject of the painting, he thought he would give the new privy a quick try before the brutes appeared.
He was about to do so when they did. ‘Go and fill in the old privy before we shove you down it,’ snarled John Gibbes. Thomas picked up the shovel. And then he remembered. It was Odysseus, after yet another narrow escape. The illustration was in a children’s edition of Homer’s
Odyssey
. It used to make him laugh. Shipwrecked, starving, naked, far from home, yet managing against everything the capricious gods could throw at him to look happy and heroic. He’d better not tell Patrick; he might think the heat had boiled what was left of Thomas’s brain.
Thomas carried on doing as he was bidden, cooking when required, keeping the ledgers neatly and accurately, taking the abuse, giving them no excuse for the whip. Not that they needed an excuse; the terrible thing might appear at any moment. And the evening he saw them coming up the path towards the hut, he thought that moment had come. A bottle in one hand and his whip in the other, Samuel looked murderous.
John, close behind and also carrying a bottle, pushed past his brother, grabbed Thomas by his neck and hissed at him through black fangs. ‘We’re going out, Hill, and we don’t want to see you when we get back. If we do, you’ll taste this again. Stay here and keep out of our way. Is that clear?’
Again, Thomas nodded. Gibbes reached out and smashed the bottle he was holding against the hut. He held it a few inches from Thomas’s eyes. ‘And you’ll get this if we so much as hear you fart.’
Relieved at having escaped the whip or worse, Thomas watched them swagger back to the house. He had no idea what they were planning to do but being seen or heard when they returned would probably not be a good idea. He would stay in his hut and use his last stump of candle to read Lady Wroth until he fell asleep.
When he woke, it was pitch dark. At first he thought the rain beating on the roof had woken him. The Atlantic winds often brought rain at night. He lay still, listening to the storm and hoping not too much of it would find its way inside the hut. When the storm passed, the air had cleared and the tiny frogs resumed their singing. They were always noisier after rain.
He was on the edge of sleep again when he heard a scream. There was no mistaking it. It was a scream of terror and it had come from the house. It must have been a scream that had penetrated the storm and first woken him. Reminding himself that the brutes would be less than pleased to see him, he lay on the narrow cot and tried not to listen.
He wondered hopefully if they might be killing each other – delicious thought – but the scream had been that of a woman, high-pitched and agonized. No matter, he would ignore it. And then it came again. Louder this time, even more anguishedand full of rage. But it was a different scream. There were two women.
Taking care to be completely silent, Thomas pulled open his door and slipped, barefoot, out into the darkness. He was in very little danger of being heard as he approached the house. The brutes would be too drunk to notice anything. But in case one of them came outside, he stayed well away from the door and worked his way round to the other side where he knew there was a hole in the wall big enough to look through without fear of being seen.
He peered through the hole. Inside, a naked woman lay on the floor on her stomach, her arms outstretched above her head and her hands tied at the wrists. Her back and buttocks were lashed and bleeding and she was motionless. Bent over the barrel was another woman. Her hands were also tied at the wrist and while John Gibbes held her down by the
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