Stanza from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” by Oscar Wilde. Public Domain. Stanza from “Gold and Love for Dearie” by Eugene Field. Public Domain.
Edited by Chelsea Cambeis Proofread by Rebecca Fischer
ALONG CAME A SOLDIER
Copyright © 2020 Brenda Davies All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by BHC Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943019 ISBN: 978-1-64397-036-3 (Hardcover) ISBN: 978-1-64397-037-0 (Softcover) ISBN: 978-1-64397-038-7 (Ebook) For information, write: BHC Press 885 Penniman #5505 Plymouth, MI 48170
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1820 St Merryn, Cornwall
F
rom the open doorway of her father’s cottage, Charity Perrow could see the whole of the village square. A few old men slumped in rickety chairs outside whitewashed cottages. A group of women gossiped in a huddle by the water pump, one eye on their barefoot babies playing in the dirt. What were those married women chatting about? Husbands? Children? She had no idea. It wouldn’t last, this sleepy peacefulness. Not on a day like today with every gate post and door draped in branches of green sycamore trimmed with cowslips, bluebells, and forget-me-nots, their leaves rippling and fluttering like dancing maidens. A cool breeze skimmed her arms, making her shiver. She pulled the cottage door closed behind her and pressed her back up against it. She shivered again. Not from cold this time, but from the creeping sensation of being watched. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of red. It sank behind a clump of oak trees just inside the woods flanking this village. Strange, why would anyone try to hide wearing a colour even the dark woods couldn’t conceal? 9
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The steady, rhythmic beat of a drum drew her attention back to the square. A man marched past her cottage with a measured rat-tat-tat, leading a troop of young men and boys. They strode past with the village maypole slung along their shoulders, the smaller boys with it balanced on their heads. Charity’s brothers, Tom and Joe, were amongst them. She felt a familiar tug on the cord binding her heart to her family, especially since Joe joined in on the fun today. One of the young men winked at her in passing. She laughed at him. She’d grown up with these lads, knew them too well. The rest of the villagers followed—couples holding hands, shrieking children, young women arm in arm with colourful wreaths of flowers in their hair. She turned her head back toward the woods, at the speck of scarlet partially hidden. Who was watching? The gangly line of lads came to a stop dead centre in the square beside the maypole clamp, and they shouted instructions at each other. At their call, the drum rolled, and the maypole swayed and rose up toward the brooding sky, clanging and chiming like the old church tower because of the school bell lashed to its top, along with crisp-white bunting that fluttered in the breeze, reminding her of clean washing flapping on a line. She made her way to her front gate and stubbed her toe against something solid sitting on the garden path. Cursing, she bent and picked up a stone pot with a wilted, sorry-looking plant inside. Its brown leaves crumbled at her touch, but the plant still lived, the stem a dark green colour. ‘What are you?’ she whispered to it. But that was half the fun—not knowing until it burst back into leaf. Plants were like people; they needed love and care to thrive. If treated badly, they became twisted, stunted, even dead. Which of her neighbours had left this for her to tend? Scanning the row of cottages one by one, her eyes fell on the cobbler’s shop. William Vine slouched in the doorway, hands tucked away in his pockets. A wide-brimmed hat dotted with flowers covered most 10
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of his face. He tipped his head back, grinned, and nodded at her, then raised his shoulders in a shrug—an apology. Yes, William, good with leather, terrible with plants. Charity hugged the pot to her chest and nodded back at him, then placed it on the ground, opened the garden gate, and joined the noisy throng surrounding the maypole. But, she edged away from the crowd, toward the fleck of red in Greenoak Woods, where dark tree trunks reached for clouds smudged black as coal dust. It was surely going to rain, and as that thought entered her head, the rain fell like cold needles. Someone’s hand clasped her arm, and Charity turned to gaze at a weathered face with eyes half hidden inside wrinkled seams of skin. The old lady gave Charity a toothless, whiskery grin and said, ‘Come on, Nessa, jig with me.’ Charity gently tried to untangle their locked hands. The old lady always called her Nessa, her mother’s name. She obviously thought that’s who she was. Easily done, Charity looked just like her mother. Everyone said so. The old lady continued to dance to the beat of the drums, not letting Charity go. They whirled round and round together. Charity coughed up the smell of body odour clinging to the back of her throat and the panic rising in her chest. She was a sweet old dear, but Charity couldn’t look at her without a surge of dread. The old lady was a spinster, unmarried and alone, having devoted her life to caring for her parents. Charity silently begged God not to leave her with such a terrible fate and crossed herself with her free hand because it seemed the right thing to do. The spinster’s bloodshot eyes reminded her of the scarlet dot concealed in the woods. Still there. Still hiding. Still watching. Then, Grace Partridge, the parish bonesetter, arrived and released her from the old lady’s grip. Grace’s beefy arm wrapped around Charity’s shoulders, and she planted a fat kiss on Charity’s forehead before joining the spinster in her dance. Charity giggled at the bonesetter’s great bosoms as they bounced and jiggled in time with the drummer. 11
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She left them to it, dodging children who ran squealing around the pole fast enough to make her dizzy. She crept toward the woods, her eyes fixed on the point of blazing colour. Easy to spot if you knew where to look. That red colour niggled at her as if she should remember something. Clicking her fingers in concentration it came to her. Of course! Many of the young women wore red cloaks. So that’s what it was—a young woman in a red cloak, probably from one of the many farms sprinkling this parish. A girl too shy to join in the fun but desperate to be discovered and invited by one of the villagers. Why else hide wearing such a striking colour? Charity wasn’t shy, but she knew what it felt like to want to be included. She’d try to coax her out. She paced forward until she hovered inside the tree line, surrounded by twisted, gnarled branches that reminded her of the old spinster’s hands. The air was heavy and quiet with the forest’s damp breath. She sucked in the woody scent of fresh rain, grass, and mould while watching the unmoving speck of colour. And then the red cloak stirred. Charity stood still, not breathing, and watched the red cloak rise and unfurl, no longer a crouching girl but someone standing tall amongst the dark trees. This was no timid girl but a man. A man in a soldier’s redcoat, concealed behind a blanket of shadows, spying. But on what? On whom? The soldier swivelled in Charity’s direction, and her beating heart choked her throat until she gasped for breath. ‘Stay,’ she told her shaking legs. This stranger was probably harmless, but her muscles tensed, ready to run. Her heartbeat ticked away the seconds as the soldier studied her, his own features shrouded by grey and jagged branches. Somewhere, at the edge of things, she heard children’s laughter, the beat of a drum. Fear curled icy fingers around her heart, and she fell back a step, then 12
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spun around and ran for the safety of the village. Looking back, she saw him melt into the woods. She didn’t normally run from strangers, and soldiers regularly came around looking for work since they had no war to fight with France. But a cold, creeping tingle ran down her spine. The same one she got whenever she stood too close to the edge of the steep cliff paths running around Treyarnon Bay. That feeling came from her fear of heights. What was she so afraid of now?
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H
enry hugged his redcoat to his body, looked down at the twitching rabbit, and smiled. Caught by one foot, it lay trembling in shock and confusion, barely alive. It wasn’t his trap, so it wasn’t his rabbit, but he needed it; his hollow stomach, growling and gnawing at him, wanted it. He twisted the rabbit’s neck until its eyes bulged and its bones cracked, then he placed one foot on the trap and ripped the body free, letting it bleed out as he carried it through the woods. He hadn’t been here in a long, long time, but he knew these woods. Being here brought back childhood memories so vivid, it was as if he’d never been away. As if nothing had ever happened. And he’d seen a ghost from his past, standing at the edge of the woods, staring straight at him. Her familiar face had sent a ripple of shock through his body. Her eyes had fixed on him as if she knew why he’d come back, as if she’d been expecting him. He took it as a sign he was supposed to be here. Dragging himself farther into the forest, one hand in front of him, he groped around gnarled trunks and stumbled over fallen logs. It was much darker this deep into the woods, and there would be no moon tonight to guide him, but he needed to stay hidden. He could not be discovered. Not yet. 14
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In a clearing, where the soft, boggy ground squelched under his boots, he stopped. This was where he’d make a fire, with no chance of it spreading out of control. He dropped the rabbit and bent to gather twigs and sticks. In the deep, dark gloom, he spied a shadow, slinking between the trees, and he shuddered. They had found him, even here. The beat of the drums he’d heard earlier had made his skin crawl because he knew the enemy was on the march. At least lighting a fire would be easy. As he gathered dry moss to use as kindling, his hand hovered over the fresh, green sphagnum moss. He’d used it before, to cover wounds. The thought of using it again made him gulp. Grabbing a handful of sphagnum moss, he put it to one side. Around him, the dark shapes grew in number. Even when he clamped his hands over his ears, he could still hear their whispered sighs and moans. The fire crackled to life, and he rubbed his cold hands over it, then stroked the fingers on his right hand. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. The smell of dust and smoke billowed around, swirling like mist, blending with another sickening smell—the smell of fear. His fear. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his jackknife, and flicked open the blade—no longer razor sharp, but it would do. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips, and, seizing the rabbit, he chopped off its head, then its feet, then its tail. The knotted ball of fear in his stomach rose to his throat. Not because of the rabbit—that meant nothing to him—but because it reminded him of what came next. He loosened its skin and ripped the rabbit apart until only the meaty flesh remained. Carefully slicing open its belly, he yanked the innards out. They inched nearer, their blurred faces looming in and out of focus, shadows of lost souls he once knew, come to claim him. But he’d never go back, and he knew what to do next. He’d always known. 15
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Rabbit fat dripped from a skewer and spat into the fire, as a cold sweat ran down Henry’s back and soaked his armpits. A tremor ran up his spine, and his whole body jerked. He’d seen worse. Hell, he’d done worse, and he could do this now. He gathered his tools. He didn’t have much: a jackknife and a handkerchief stained with blood and phlegm, which he laid beside the fresh moss. The piece of string holding up his trousers came next, unravelling it he tied one end around the index finger of his right hand, below the knuckle. Using his teeth, he pulled the string tight—so tight the tip of his finger went numb—and fixed the knot. His hand shook when he picked up the jackknife and wrenched it open. The faceless creatures around him melted into the shadows, watching. Their uniforms were in tatters; there was no way to tell if they belonged to his regiment or one of the enemy’s. They stank of vomit and shit and melted flesh. But they couldn’t have him. Not yet. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms to brush away the insects crawling under his skin. Taking the knife, he gritted his teeth, but an uncontrollable whimper escaped, and his heart beat erratically against his chest. A scream ripped from his mouth as he sliced into his finger. He rammed a fist in it to shut off the sound, panting heavily. All around him surged a sea of crimson blood, of fallen bodies, of splintered bones. He hacked and sawed at his finger, listening to the screams of those who had fallen, and he felt their pain. Blood spurted from his finger, and he retched and gagged and puked. He smashed the knife down onto his knuckle, and the bone cracked. With one final scream that hurled his vomit into the fire, he stabbed again and again, until his finger hung limp and bloody, held on only by a flap of skin. Tears and sweat ran down the grooves in his face and he panted so much he couldn’t catch his breath. 16
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When Henry looked up, he saw a shadow coming closer, but he couldn’t make him out. Was he friend or foe? Henry would have to kill him in case he was the enemy. As he plunged his finger into the blazing fire to seal the wound, the stranger’s head exploded in a mass of flying blood and bone, and Henry fell backward into still and silent darkness.
% When Henry woke, it was morning. A shaft of sunlight played over his face, light and dark flitting across his eyelids. He shivered and pulled his coat around him, the fire now a heap of cold ash. A throb of pain shot up his right arm, making him clench his stomach. Only a bloody, mangled stump and charred skin remained of his finger. He’d failed to seal it properly, and blood had oozed from it in the night, the grass around his hand sticky and dark with gore. But it was done, and that was all that mattered. He gathered up the moss and pressed it against the wound, then tied his handkerchief around his hand. The finger he’d cut off was missing, taken by an animal like a thief in the night, but the rabbit was still there. Cold but cooked. He grabbed it and greedily devoured the flesh, licking the fat from his lips. He picked up his canteen and drained the last of his water. No matter, he knew where to get more, but it would have to wait until darkness. For now, he had another mission. Hesitating, he glanced around. He was alone, but they would be back. They always came back. At least now, he couldn’t join them. He raised his bloody hand. Without his index finger, he couldn’t hold or fire a musket. Henry laughed as if he’d just heard a good joke. Gently placing his butchered hand into his coat pocket, he set off toward the village of St Merryn. On the outskirts of the village, he hunkered down, pulling up the collar of his coat with his left hand. He settled in to wait—something he was used to. 17
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People he didn’t recognise walked across the square. He waited until he saw her. Sarah. He’d forgotten her last name, but he hadn’t forgotten her. She had been the youngest, barely twelve years old when he last saw her. So now she was—he used his fingers to count the years— twenty-seven. She looked the same only bigger, same fair hair and sharp nose. He patted his face with his good hand, felt the ridges, the grooves, the scars. He was not the same, not anymore. He had become a man broken by war, haunted by death. He also remembered her sobbing, covering her face with her hands, shaking her head in denial. At least she’d been sorry, but not sorry enough to stop it. She still had to be punished, but he’d treat her differently than the others. He would let her live. He got comfortable, his back propped against a sky-high oak, and stared. Sarah had gone, but now he knew where she lived, and he fixed his gaze on her cottage. Planning, plotting, hatching his next move.
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I
n the gloom, Jethro Ennor held a candle, rubbed a calloused palm across his pale, bare chest, and checked his bruises, tracing their outlines with his grubby finger. They’d all faded to a dull yellow, faintly visible beneath his dark hair. Almost gone, and that meant trouble was overdue. He placed the candle on the floor and pulled his shirt over his head, clenching his teeth. Hell, he couldn’t do this anymore. They needed to get away, him and his brother, and just disappear. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pulled on his worn, black boots, then reached for the candle and raised it up high. The flickering yellow light revealed his bedroom, or ‘the pit’ as he called it. Walls stained a dull amber by soot and smoke, the whole place stank of stale sweat, and a thin layer of grime covered every surface. It was home, but the place missed the touch of a woman. Christ, it wouldn’t be difficult to leave this behind. But his brother, Sam, was only eighteen—still an apprentice. If they left before Sam was twenty-one then Sam could be arrested as a runaway and the Parish or his father could drag him back. Jethro didn’t want to wait three years, but for his brother, he would. He wasn’t leaving without him. He kicked the bed next to him, and Sam turned over to look at him. ‘Ready for some fun tonight?’ he asked. 19
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‘’Course,’ Sam replied. Jethro licked his fingers and snuffed out the candle. The acrid smoke filled his nostrils, making him cough and wave the haze away. In the semi-darkness, he shuffled around the cramped space, his head brushing the ceiling. While he waited for his brother at the door, he swept a hand over his hair to remove a cobweb. He sniffed, pulled his shirt collar to his nose, and sniffed again. It stank of smoke, leather, and sweat—the smell of the forge. He could never get the reek of heat or horses off him. Shrugging, he pushed down on the door handle and prised open the door. Sam shuffled behind him onto the landing. At the top of the narrow staircase, Jethro paused and put a finger to his lips. ‘Keep quiet. Whatever you do, don’t wake him, not tonight.’ His brother nodded. Inching down the stairs, he chewed at his bottom lip. The damn door to the kitchen was open—never a good sign. He froze at the dreaded clink of a bottle against glass, his mouth filling with a bitter tang. A chair creaked, and wood scraped against the stone floor. Jethro spun around and grabbed Sam. ‘Go back. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I say so.’ He gave his brother a push and turned to face the dark shadow filling the kitchen doorway. A slurred voice called out, ‘Where you think you’re going?’ Jethro said nothing. He never had anything to say to him. Sweat made his shirt stick to his back, and he itched to free it. He took a step nearer the door. A thick arm shot out, grabbed his shirt, and yanked. A button sailed through the air, but he never heard it land. He stumbled into the kitchen and fell against the back wall, beside the fireplace. He narrowed his eyes to peer through the smoky light and braced his legs, getting ready. He didn’t need this—not tonight, not ever. His father lurched toward him, and Jethro ducked. Still, his father’s fist caught the side of his head. Even drunk, his father was fast, 20
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and drink made him mean. Dazed, Jethro shook his head clear, his brain rattling inside his skull. Come on, Jethro, put your hands around his thick neck and squeeze until your knuckles pop. Or take a knife and plunge it deep into his rotten flesh and stab and stab until only a bloody corpse remains. Whatever. Just do it, and make it slow; make it painful. End this misery. But instead, that devil’s fingers curled around his throat, his stinking brandy breath in Jethro’s face. He clawed at the hands around his neck, taking shallow, wheezing breaths, his lungs desperate for air, until his limp hands dropped to his sides, and his world turned black. He kicked out, a reflexive action, but he hit a shin. His boot cracked against bone. His father grunted and released him. Jethro collapsed against the kitchen wall, holding his throat, and gasped to fill his lungs with air, waiting for his vision to return. A fist hit his chest so hard he swore his feet left the ground. He folded in half, creased in two like a piece of flimsy paper, and sank to his knees. Jethro took a shallow breath and wiped the beads of sweat from his top lip, then covered his head with his arms and shut his eyes. His muscles tensed as he waited for the next punch. Nothing happened. The room was silent save for his pounding pulse, his blood charging through his veins in panic. He had to get away from here, or he’d kill that bastard and surely hang for it. When he opened his eyes, only his brother stood in the doorway, holding up a lantern and peering at him through the dim light, his brow creased. Jethro retched and spat the taste of fear into the fire. Clinging on to the wall, he raised himself brick by brick and rubbed a hand across his ribs to check for broken bones. He staggered toward his brother and gripped the back of Sam’s neck. ‘I told you to wait.’ ‘He’s gone.’ ‘Don’t you say a word about this to anyone. Anyone, you hear me? You promise?’ 21
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‘You always say that. I always promise.’ Jethro stared into his brother’s eyes for a long minute and drank him in, his gentleness. Just like their mother. His brother reached out a hand, but Jethro shrugged it off. ‘Come on, Sam,’ he rasped, ‘we’ve got business tonight. Let’s be off.’ He took the lantern from his brother and left the cottage by the open front door. On his way past the forge—now dark and cold—he swiped an axe beside the log pile and swung it up and over his shoulder by its long handle. As he marched toward Greenoak Woods, he turned his head to make sure Sam followed. At the edge of the woods, he dropped the axe on its head between his legs and leant against the handle, arms bent. He looked out at the village of Penrose and waited. He wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of this dismal place either, it held only painful memories—his mother leaving, his father’s drinking and beatings. In the darkness, pinpricks of light bounced their way toward him. He held his lantern up to see the faces of the young men before him, flickering in and out of existence. There were what, a dozen of them? Scrawny and underfed, hands calloused, faces aged beyond their years, shoulders bowed with the weight of hard labour. But all of them were at his command; their fear of him ensured it. He thumped the axe on the ground. ‘Tonight, we will win. We do not stop until we have it and its back where it belongs, in Penrose village.’ ‘Yes, Jethro,’ they said in unison. ‘How many sacks do we have?’ He counted. ‘Six, good, but remember: as quiet as thieves through the woods. Not a sound. Let’s take them by surprise.’ In the flickering lantern light, a glint of metal caught his eye. He frowned. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing a finger at the young man standing next to his brother. ‘What’s that hanging from your belt?’ ‘Just something my Da give me.’ ‘Let me see.’ 22
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‘’Tis nothing much.’ Jethro let his axe clatter to the ground and cracked his knuckles. ‘I said, let me see.’ The young man backed away, out of reach. Jethro leapt forward, grabbing him by the shirt. He pulled the boy closer, so they were nose to nose. ‘Give. It. To. Me.’ ‘But my Da!’ ‘Do I have to take it by force?’ His brother nudged his shoulder. ‘Let him keep it, Jethro. His Da give it him.’ ‘Stay out of this, Sam. Now, where were we?’ The young man shook his head. Jethro mimicked him and laughed, then punched him in the stomach, leaving the young man doubled over and gasping for breath. He snatched at his belt and wrenched the knife free. ‘It belongs to me now. Anyone have a problem with that?’ Silence. He slid the knife out of its sheath and turned it over in the dim light. He shouldn’t keep it. Not because it belonged to someone else, but because it was long and thin. He ran the blade gently across his thumb, drawing a trickle of bright red blood. And sharp. And because he might be tempted to use it. Give it back, Jethro, this is not a good idea. He strapped it to his own belt instead and turned to retrieve his axe, but first, he headbutted his brother—not hard, just enough to make him stagger backward, enough to send a message. No one messed with him, including Sam. ‘Right, you lot, follow me.’ Jethro crept through Greenoak Woods, using the soft yellow glow from his lantern to guide him. He picked his way over monstrous roots spread over the ground and sucked in the cool, damp air, easing his throat made sore by his father’s hands, letting his breath trickle from his pursed lips. His feet sank into soft soil, but behind 23
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him, twigs cracked under careless boots. What didn’t they understand about being quiet? At the edge of the woods, he waited for the others to catch up, raising his lantern and peering up at the arthritic boughs above him. He couldn’t see the night sky beyond the shield of branches. The trees loomed like watchful guardians. Ahead of him, past the last line of trees, he could make out the outline of rooftops and chimneys. Dark windows flanked a village square. St Merryn—enemy territory. And at the centre of the square, there it stood—the reason they were there. It reached for the starry sky, bare except for a strip of white bunting at its peak. A brisk breeze lifted the bunting, and it waved at him, taunting him, daring him to claim his trophy. A shoulder jostled his back, and he pitched forward. When he righted himself, he whirled around, mouthing, ‘Quiet!’ Sam shrugged. ‘It’s only the village maypole, Jethro. This is supposed to be fun.’ Jethro said nothing. He passed his lantern to Sam and bounced his axe up and down in his hands, testing the weight. He turned back to face the village, pushed back his shoulders, and stared. Only the maypole? Oh no, tonight the pole was his father. Thinking of him made it easy to gather all the fury and rage lodged in his chest, stowed in his guts, and running in his veins. It swelled until his muscles quivered and his blood turned sour. He would win tonight because this anger that he bottled up until it choked him, couldn’t be stopped once released. Yelling like a madman, he charged from the cover of the trees and attacked the maypole with a fury that had nothing to do with St Merryn and everything to do with his father. He struck the pole again and again with his axe, making it sway and judder to the beat of each whack. It chimed like a bell. Like a ship in distress, it called for help. 24
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Rigged to sound a warning. He didn’t care; he couldn’t stop. He continued slicing through his father’s neck. The clanging bell deafened him, but he still caught the sounds of doors slamming, angry shouts. He glanced up to see villagers rushing toward him through the darkness, nightgowns flapping around knees, pulling on boots as they ran. The lights from their lanterns bobbed with each step. Easy targets. He concentrated on his axe and laughed when the angry shouts turned to shrieks as his boys reached into their sacks, withdrew stones and bricks, and hurled them at the lights. The pole needed to fall toward the woods, so he changed position, turning his back to the village. Bloody hell! A barrage of return fire battered him. His back stung from the bite of sharp stones. Blood trickled down his skin. A brick smashed into the pole right above his hands, and his heart leapt in response. He drew his arms back and struck the pole with all his strength, his tendons raised like rope, his muscles taut. The pole fell with a crack. Only a pole after all—not a man, not his tormentor. His gang of lads picked it up and ran toward the forest. He watched as the men of St Merryn chased after them while sweat dripped from his brow and the last of his anger escaped his pores, leaving him empty. ‘Jethro! Help me! Get him off me!’ His brother knelt on the ground, one hand protecting his head, while someone towered over him, beating him with a wooden cane. Jethro sucked his fury back into his lungs until something primitive and dark took hold. Then he ran, head down, not stopping until he smashed into ribs, colliding with solid bone. The man standing over his brother toppled backward, retching and gasping. Jethro left him where he lay and knelt beside his brother. Sam’s eyes were closed, and his face was grey. Jethro shook him to make sure he still lived. ‘Ow! Don’t! I can’t move. My shoulder, it feels bad. I feel sick.’ ‘We have to go. Now,’ Jethro urged. ‘Give me a minute. The pain’s too bad just now.’ 25
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Jethro rose, stomped over to the man with the cane, and kicked him in the ribs. ‘What the fuck have you done to him? What’s your name?’ Getting no reply he kicked him again, harder. ‘I said, what’s your name?’ ‘Matthew. Matthew Jeffers,’ he gasped in pain. ‘Well, Jeffers, you’re a dead man.’ ‘He got what he deserved.’ ‘And so will you.’ Matthew pulled himself to his feet, using his cane for support, and Jethro sized him up—taller and broader but also older. No problem, except he still carried that damn cane. Jethro sank his right hand into his trouser pocket, felt around for the few coins he always carried, and eased them between his fingers; then he curled his hand into a fist. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, Jeffers.’ He lunged, using his left arm to shield his body from the cane, and took a blow to his wrist that ached all the way to the bone. He swung a right hook and caught Matthew on his forehead. The coins ripped into skin; droplets of blood misted the air. As he wound up another punch, someone came running in their direction, screaming out his name. ‘Jethro fucking Ennor!’ Ah, he was expecting him. ‘Thomas fucking Perrow!’ ‘You’re not welcome in this village, Ennor. No one by that name is ever welcome here. Leave now, or my fist will make you.’ ‘Make me? You can try.’ Jethro bounced on his feet like he’d seen his father do so many times, closing the gap between him and Thomas. This time he feigned a right and threw a long left hook. He caught Thomas hard above his right eye, making him stumble backward. The men of St Merryn never knew how to fight, why did they try taking him on? Before Thomas could recover, Jethro swished his new knife at him to keep him at bay, scooped up his brother and headed for the woods, calling out, ‘You’re a dead man, Jeffers. Don’t you forget it.’ 26
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Brenda Davies can trace her Cornish heritage back to the 17th century and this, together with many happy childhood holidays spent in Cornwall, inspired her to write her historical suspense novel set in Cornwall. Now retired and living in Bristol, England, she loves whiskey, chocolate, going to the theatre and losing herself in a good book, but most of all she loves to indulge her passion of history and all things Cornish by delving into the past and bringing it alive for the reader to experience.