Chapter Twenty-Nine

Kit

After a leisurely breakfast, Kit and Tregothnan hired themselves a couple of nags from the livery yard beside the inn and rode back together. A gentle breeze barely stirred the leaves of the stunted hawthorn trees, and the sea reflected back the blue of the sky with scarce a white cap to be seen. With the weather so benign, Kit felt no need to hurry, and they took the low coastal road, letting their horses dictate the pace.

After a bit, their way branched inland over the higher moorland toward Nanpean village, where it lay tucked in a coastal fold beside the chimney of the old copper mine it had once served.

Kit and Tregothnan, keeper of the nearest inn to Nanpean, were greeted with subdued grunts and nods by the few villagers about. None of them were so unwise as to fall upon two of their benefactors as though welcoming Robin Hood to their homes.

Kit tipped his beaver hat to them, and Tregothnan nodded to the few old men, sitting smoking pipes filled with contraband tobacco in the warm sunshine. Some of the village women had moved their spinning wheels outside, presumably to keep an eye on small children playing in the dirt, and their hands worked the thin thread in graceful industry.

One of the old men rose stiffly to his feet and hobbled over to the horsemen, stowing his pipe in his waistcoat pocket as he came.

Kit leaned down as though examining his horse's shoulder. "Tomorrow night, Nanpean Cove. A consignment of brandy, baccy, and tea." And the man walked on by, as though nothing untoward had gone on between them. Kit straightened up and kept riding. Tregothnan's horse hadn't even paused.

"I'll leave you here," Tregothnan said as they reached a fork in their rough road. "I'm away back to St Just." He licked a finger and held it up. "You're right about it being tomorrow. I can't see as they'll get across tonight in this slack wind." He pointed downhill over the nearby cliffs toward the flat calm of the sea, still with barely a white crest to be seen. "So, we'll aim for midnight tomorrow, as normal, at your place with the ponies."

Kit nodded. "I'm more than a little worried about the moon though. Tonight's will be a gibbous moon, waxing, and tomorrow's will be more so. Unless we get cloud cover…" He waved his hand up at the cloudless sky. "Unless we get cloud cover, the night'll be near as light as day."

Tregothnan nodded. "Aye, lad, you're right, and it'll make a right nice change to be able to see what we're doing."

Was that a furtive look in the man's eyes? But it was gone before Kit had time to think, and Tregothnan was saying something else. "I'll get on down to my inn and organize the ponies and men from by me, and we'll be with you tomorrow night at eleven, as normal."

Kit nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow then, Aleck."

They parted company, and Kit headed his hired nag downhill toward Nanpean farm's little valley below the village, taking the track through the wind-stunted woodland.

By midday, he was dismounted and lifting the loop of rope from around the gate post to let himself into the farmyard.

Jago stumped out of the farmhouse as Kit led his sorry horse to the trough, its hooves clattering on the flagstones. His uncle lifted a hand in greeting. "You're back sooner'n I thought to see you." He raised his voice. "Jowan! Get out here now and deal with Master Kit's horse. Looks like it could do with a good feed."

Jowan emerged from the barn, for once looking as though he hadn't just been roused from sleep. Wonders would never cease. With a curmudgeonly grunt, and not a word in enquiry as to how his daughter was doing, he snatched the horse's reins and led him away into one of the barns, muttering what were probably complaints and insults under his breath.

Jago chuckled. "He's been in a bad mood since you took Loveday off with you and he's had to cook his own dinners. I don't think he's been doin' any washing of himself nor his clothes by the smell o' him."

Kit smiled. "Lazy old good-for-nothing. I don't know why you keep him on. You'd get better work out of one of the unemployed miners, and they'd be grateful for a job."

Jago slung an arm around Kit's shoulders. "Loyalty, boy. I won't see the old man thrown out. He might be lazy but he's always been loyal, and we was boys together." He chuckled. "Come inside, now. Jenifry's just taken some fine oggies out o' the oven. The smell must have hurried your feet."

The aroma in the kitchen of the freshly baked pies set Kit's mouth watering. Breakfast in Penzance felt a long time ago. After receiving a welcoming embrace from Jenifry, he sat down at the table. She slid a hot oggie onto his plate, then she and Jago joined him.

Kit slid his knife into his pie to let the fragrant hot air out, as his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

"So," Jago said, doing the same to his pie. "What's brought you back so soon? Aleck Tregothnan an' I were only talkin' about you the other day. I telled him we'd not see you for another fortnight, at least. Not till next dark o' the moon." He winked at Jenifry. "Next time we got a consignment due."

Kit took a bite of the potato and meat pie, a stalwart of the local miners. He swallowed the hot mouthful. "Chance has brought me back, and chance has put before us another consignment, coming tomorrow night." He took another hot bite and chewed.

"Halfway through the month?" Jago asked, bushy eyebrows rising. "How's that right wi' the moon the way it is right now, and how d'you even know this?"

"I met Tregothnan in Launceston. He said he'd had word another ship was coming over laden with French brandy. We traveled back together. I've not long left him. It could have been tonight, but by the look of the sea it won't be. By the smell in the air there's more wind coming. So, he and I think it'll be tomorrow night."

"Launceston you say? 'Tis odd he'd be that far from his inn," Jenifry put in as she cleared the table. "I've not knowed him go beyond the Tamar afore."

"Stop nitpicking, woman," Jago grunted. "Launceston's this side of the Tamar, anyways."

She gave a huff. "Only just." And stomped away to do the dishes, leaving Jago and Kit with a flagon of cider between them.

"Have you anything that needs doing this afternoon?" Kit asked. "After a week at Ormonde playing the idle viscount, I'd sooner do some proper work as sit here indoors and twiddle my thumbs while we wait for tomorrow night to come."

Jago banged his empty beaker down on the table. "Aye, I have that. A wall that's fallen down—pushed, more like, by them silly sheep climbing over it. We can walk down to the bottom meadow and get set on it, but not in them shiny new clothes o' yours."

Kit grinned. "I'll be off upstairs then and find something more suitable for a farm laborer to wear."

*

Morvoren

The carriage didn'tget away from Jamaica Inn as early as Morvoren would have liked. The soldiers, under the command of Captain Adderley, would have let them go at first light had they been able to leave, but they couldn't, because the wheel on the carriage wasn't yet ready and there was no possible replacement vehicle to be had.

They took cold meat and bread at half past eleven, but the fear wouldn't leave Morvoren that they'd seen nothing but the tip of the iceberg of the crackdown on the free traders. A nasty gnawing emptiness seized her entrails, making it hard to swallow down the food provided. Half an hour later, James arrived to let them know the carriage repair had been done. He was about to harness up the horses and they could prepare to leave. Never had Morvoren been gladder to see the back of a place.

The not-so-good horses, harnessed again to the carriage but having had a night of rest and some oats in the morning, set off with renewed vigor. Barely two hours passed before they arrived in Bodmin, unfortunately, just in time for another nasty shock.

At the crossroads outside St Lawrence's church, a hanging had been taking place. Too late, James called a warning down to Sam, who leaned out of one of the windows to see what was happening. "I'm so sorry," he said, returning his head inside the carriage. "Try to avert your gazes. There's been a hanging. Luckily, it's over and the crowd is dispersing, but there may be trouble."

Of course, Morvoren had known that people in this time period were hanged for even petty crimes, but she'd never expected to see this for herself. Her stomach turned over with fear at the thought that even if she managed to save Kit this time, a hanging might be awaiting him some time in the future if he kept on with his free trading.

She couldn't help but stare out of the window, and so did Ysella, her face a shade paler than it had been.

But which would have been worse—the sight of the men still alive, awaiting their fate, or the view she got of half a dozen shapeless sacks that had once been men but now had shed all their humanity? Around each man's neck hung a placard on which someone barely literate had scrawled the word SMUGLA in shaky capitals.

She couldn't drag her eyes away as they rattled past, and it took Ysella's hands on hers to tear her attention back from the sobering, barbaric sight. Horrified, Morvoren stared from Ysella's face to Sam's haggard one. "They're attacking smugglers throughout the county." Her voice came out more querulous than she would have liked. "What if we're too late?"

From the look on Sam's face, he'd clearly had the same thought, because all he did was frown as though he couldn't think of anything to say.

Ysella was made of sterner stuff. "We won't be too late to save Kit. You mark my words. You're here because fate has put you here to save him, so save him you will."

Morvoren shook her head. "Suppose there is no fate, and all of this is just chance? Suppose it's impossible to change the past?"

"I don't believe that," Ysella retorted. "And this isn't the past, it's the present. Whatever you say."

"But for me it is the past," Morvoren protested, absurdly angry with Ysella at refusing to believe she lived in the past. Really, she should have seen Ysella's point of view, as after all, this was her own present now, as well as Ysella's. So surely, they could change it?

"In my old world, it's a fact recorded in a museum display," Morvoren said, struggling to explain something she didn't understand herself. "If I truly can change the past, won't the display in the museum have to change? And countless other things? Won't Kit live to have children and grandchildren and by my time lots of descendants? Won't I have changed my whole world by this one tiny act? That's why I'm so afraid I won't be able to change anything—because it's not just him, it's two hundred years of history by my time."

Sam looked up from studying his hands. "Maybe you don't know it, but some descendant of Kit's has to do something important—discover something—like a cure for consumption. Build something, invent something. I don't know. But what I'm saying is, perhaps Kit isn't the important one here but one of his descendants is."

He had a good point there. If she saved Kit and somehow returned to her own time, would she find it vastly different because of something one of his heirs had done? Could she leave some advice for Kit's descendants? Warn them to avert the two World Wars? To get rid of Hitler as a baby? To prevent the invention of the nuclear bomb? Now she was getting into the realms of fantasy.

"If he's caught," she whispered. "Will they hang him?"

"He won't get caught," Ysella said, determination in her voice. "I won't let them catch him and neither will you. We'll be in time. I know we will."

At this crucial point, one of the horses lost a shoe.

Was fate against them? Was time itself striking back at Morvoren to prevent her changing history?

"I'll have to let them walk until we reach the next village," James called down. "If I don't, on this road he'll go lame and we might not get a replacement."

"Will the carriage run with just two horses?" Morvoren asked, the cold sweat of fear trickling down her back at yet another delay. "Could we unhitch the lame one and its partner?"

Sam shook his head. "Our own horses could, but not these nags. The carriage would be too heavy. It runs well with two of our horses at home at Ormonde but only over short and well-maintained distances. On these hills, two hired nags would be struggling within a short time. It makes sense to get the shoe done."

It turned out, after an hour of walking to the next village, that the horse needed four new shoes or the others were going to come off as well.

"What about the other three horses?" Morvoren asked, scowling at where they stood munching a few oats in their nosebags. Supposing Sam said they needed doing as well?

"Luckily, their shoes are good," Sam answered, patting the scrawny quarters of the lead horse. "More than can be said for their condition. Poor old things. They look to me as though they're only a step or two from the knacker's yard."

The village blacksmith was old and bent-backed, and not a fast worker. He took his time with the horse and seemed disinclined to hurry, even when Sam waved money in front of his face.

"If I rushes, these shoes won't last," he grumbled, as Ysella, Morvoren and Sam stood in an impatient row willing him to speed up. "An' you'll be havin' the problem all over agin in less than twenty mile. Can't rush a craftsman."

At last, the horse's pedicure was done and Sam paid the blacksmith his extortionate price for emergency work. James and John reharnessed the horse with his patient fellows, and they were off again.

Luckily, Sam possessed some foresight. When he remounted the carriage, he carried with him a basket laden with bread, cheese, and fruit, all obtained from the inn opposite the forge, as well as a large earthenware bottle of cider. Once out of the village, he brought it all out and they half-heartedly nibbled on the food and drank a little too much of the cider.

If only willpower were able to drive the horses to greater speed. James and John changed them for fresh ones at an inn called The Indian Queen, a name, he told them in a transparent effort to distract them from their worries, that originated from a visit to the inn by none other than Princess Pocahontas. Then they were off again, bumping over the uneven high road. Until, as late evening fell, they reached Hayle on the north coast. Where the tide was in… of course… and there was no bridge.

"I'm sorry," James called down. "We're just too late for the tide. There's no other way we can go. We'll have to wait until the tide goes out. The road crosses the estuary on the sands and it's not safe right now with the heavy flow."

Morvoren groaned in frustration, nausea welling in her stomach. Was everything against them?

As the next low tide was in the morning, they would have to wait for the water to drop before the road, if you could call it that, became safe to cross with the carriage.

"Could we not go south and find a bridge?" Morvoren asked Sam and James. "Surely there must be a bridge or even a ford upstream from here?"

Their shrugs were answer enough. Sam and Morvoren went to ask the landlord of the inn where they'd halted their carriage.

"You won't get that there smart carriage down they lanes," he said, his facial hair, which he had in abundance, vibrating as he spoke. "Too narrer and too bumpy. Yer'd do it on hossback, but yer haven't got no hosses to ride."

Morvoren eyed their newest set of replacements out of a grimy window. James and John were unhitching them from the carriage. She'd thought the ones they'd ridden up to Jamaica Inn had been bad, but these were a whole lot sorrier. She doubted very much if anyone had ever sat astride any of them. Plus, they didn't have saddles and Carlyon Court and Nanpean lay a long way off.

"We'll just have to stay here overnight," Sam said. "At least until the early hours. I'm sure everything will work out. We can't be more than a day behind Kit even with all the problems we've had." He gave Morvoren and Ysella a cheering smile. "And we don't even know whether he hasn't had any delays himself. We could have passed him on the road already, for all we know."

Morvoren smiled and pretended to agree with him, but her instinct was warning her that Kit was already far ahead and galloping headlong into danger.