The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) by Andrew Swanston Page B

of Polly and Lucy and twice he had to go outside to vomit. He knew the women would not even think of reporting the Gibbes to a magistrate. They were whores, and whores could expect nothing. In the morning, though, the brutes would find them gone and he would have to face their fury. There was no more sleep for Thomas that night.
    The next morning, he kept out of sight and hoped that the brutes had been so drunk that they remembered nothing. Around noon, however, he was working on the ledgers when he heard them lumbering up the path, arguing loudly about who did or did not tie the women up properly. Fingers firmly crossed, he went outside to meet them.
    Samuel, even more brutal, revolting and evil-looking than ever, glared at him. His voice rasped in his throat. ‘Well, Hill. Did you do as you were told? Or did you go poking your snotty nose into our business?’
    ‘I slept well, thank you, sir, despite the rain. It’s extraordinary how much noise the frogs make after a storm, isn’t it? And they’re very small, you know.’
    John’s mind was barely functioning, even by his own miserable standards. ‘Frogs? Storm? What the devil are you talking about, you little runt? Did you see or hear anything? That’s what I want to know. Intruders running off?’
    ‘Intruders? No, sir, no intruders. Nothing at all in fact. Just the frogs.’
    ‘Fuck the frogs, Hill, and fuck you. If I find you’re lying, you’ll wish you were dead.’ John shoved Thomas aside and went into the hut. ‘What the devil’s this?’ he bellowed, holding up the precious copy of Lady Wroth’s poems, which Thomas had carelessly left on the bed.
    ‘It’s a book of poetry.’
    John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘And where did you get it, Hill? Stole it, did you?’
    ‘No. It was lent to me by someone at the market. I shall return it when I next go.’
    ‘No you won’t. It’s going to the privy. It’ll be more use there.And get a bigger book next time. This one won’t last long.’ And off they lumbered. No more Lady Wroth, and he’d have to explain why to Patrick, who might not care to lend him any more books if they were to end their days wiping the brutes’ backsides.

C HAPTER 11

    ON THE DAY that news of the king’s execution arrived in Barbados, there were nearly thirty rows of notches on the table and Thomas had added more adjectives to his list, including lewd, inhuman and grotesque. He had been in his island prison for the best part of a year. So far he had resisted the urge to run. Runaways lived their lives out in the forest. They did not get home. For that, he needed help.
    He had not seen Patrick in the market for weeks and he had given up hope of Adam Lyte offering to help. Each time he looked at himself in the inkwell, he saw a hollower, rougher, more haggard face. His thin hair and straggly beard were streaked with grey and his eyes were red and sore. The manual work and meagre diet had removed every ounce of fat from his body so that his ribs stuck out. If Polly and Lucy could see him, he doubted they would recognize him.
    He had woken, as always, at dawn, splashed his face with water from the well, pulled on his only shirt and prepared to braveanother day in hell. To his surprise a messenger had arrived and was tethering his horse. The messenger strode up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He knocked again, this time more loudly. Knowing better than to interfere, Thomas stood in the shadows and watched. Eventually, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed Samuel Gibbes.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Gibbes,’ said the messenger politely. ‘I come from Colonel Drax.’
    ‘And what does Drax want at this hour?’ grunted Samuel, rubbing his eyes.
    ‘A boat from Plymouth arrived yesterday evening, sir. It carried copies of an announcement made by Parliament. The king has been executed. Colonel Drax has called a meeting of landowners in the Mermaid Inn at midday today.’
    ‘What for? If the fairy’s dead, a meeting