Chapter Thirty-One

Morvoren

Morvoren and Ysella remained mounted while Sam pushed open one side of the wrought iron gates and led his exhausted horse up the gravel drive. They passed the pond and came to a halt in front of the studded, silvery-grey, oak front door. As Morvoren and Ysella slithered to the ground, Sam rapped smartly on the door then pulled the bell rope hanging beside it for good measure.

They stood awkwardly in the evening twilight, Morvoren shifting from one foot to the other, hoping Kit would be here as Sam and Ysella expected. Somehow, she couldn't be sure they were correct. She'd only ever seen him at Nanpean, where he seemed to have a room and a supply of clothing. Was it his habit to stay here at Carlyon Court, as he had when he'd brought Sam? Or was he more likely to bunk down at Nanpean with his uncle for his solo visits to Cornwall? Which seemed more likely? If only she knew him better.

Sam was just reaching out to ring the bell again when the door creaked open and a wrinkled old face wearing a lace cap peeped out. "Yes?" a quavery voice snapped.

Sam stood up a little straighter. "Let us inside, if you please. We are here to see Lord Ormonde." He gestured at Ysella. "His sister, Miss Carlyon, has come to visit him."

Rheumy old eyes surveyed Ysella who, with the wooly hat on, made a convincing if girlish boy. "Thass norra lady," the owner of the lace cap mumbled. "Thassa lad."

Ysella pulled off her hat letting her dark curls fall about her face. "I am most certainly a lady," she said with some asperity. "And this is my brother's house, so you will let us in straightaway or he'll hear about it." She gave the door a shove and it swung open revealing their interrogator to be a little old woman in a drab, homespun dress and an apron that might have been meant to be white.

"Where is my brother?" Ysella asked as she marched into a wide, flagstone hallway, gloomy and unlit as yet. "I need to see him now."

Sam and Morvoren abandoned their horses to their own devices and followed her inside.

"Ain't here," the old lady said, sucking toothless gums.

"Then kindly tell us where he is," Sam said. "It's imperative that we see him immediately."

"Dunno," the old lady mumbled. "Don't know why yer think I sh'd know. He ain't here, and I ain't his keeper."

Not a people person.

"Please," Morvoren said, grasping her hand. It felt like a bundle of old twigs wrapped in dry skin. "It's vital we find him. A matter of life and death. His life. We need you to help us."

She was so small and bent, she had to tilt her head back to look up, a difficult task as her back was bowed in a dowager's hump. But her corrugated face softened a little. "I do b'lieve," she said, her faded eyes fixed on Morvoren's. "I do b'lieve that when he come down here, he stays at Nanpean. He don't trouble us none here, 'cept when he have someone with him." She fixed her eyes on Sam, who perhaps she recognized. "House ain't bin opened up proper in quite a while. Not since Master Kit brung you down last." She nodded her head. "That'll be it. He'll be down Nanpean with his uncle. Thass where he'll be. Like he usually is."

Morvoren glared at Sam and Ysella, but managed not to say, "I told you so."

"How do we get there?" Sam asked, taking out his pocket watch. "It's just gone half past nine and it's nearly dark. How are we to get there from here?"

Morvoren swung round on Ysella. "Do you know the way?"

She shook her head, her face stricken. "Not at all. I've only ever been down here twice, and it was a long time ago. I barely remember anything. I've no idea even in which direction we should be going."

Morvoren turned back to the old lady. "Do you love your master?"

Her face split into a wide, gummy smile. "That I do." She smacked her lips. "Young master, he be one o' the best." She seemed about to say something else, but instead folded her lips over her bare gums and her arms across her scrawny chest.

Dared Morvoren risk it? This old woman might know nothing about the nighttime activities locally, about Kit's nighttime activities, but on the other hand, she looked as though she had something she wasn't prepared to share. "It's all right," Morvoren said, taking the plunge. "We know all about the smuggling."

The old lady's clawed hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "Hush now, don't you shout about it then. Don't know who might be a-listenin'." She glanced around the shadowy hall as though quislings might be lurking in every corner, eavesdropping on their secrets.

So she did know. What a relief. "There's a traitor amongst the smugglers," Morvoren gabbled. "We found out about it, and we're here to warn them. It's tonight they'll be betrayed. We have to find Kit—Lord Ormonde—and warn him."

The old lady fastened on the one word that must have been most important to her. "A traitor?" Her clawed hand gripped harder. "A traitor 'mongst our men?"

Sam nodded. "We journeyed down via Bodmin moor. There was a raid on Jamaica Inn the night we were there, and in Bodmin they'd just hanged some smugglers in the square. We saw their bodies. It's going on across the whole county. We have to prevent it from happening here. Tonight."

Seemingly taking it in her stride that three strangers should turn up on her doorstep, two of them women dressed as boys, and start talking about smuggling, the old woman tightened her grip on Morvoren's wrist. "You come this way along-a me. Quick now."

Keeping her hold on Morvoren's wrist, she pulled her across the hallway and through a small door almost hidden beneath the rising staircase to the first floor. They were in the shabby servants' area of Carlyon Court.

After the silent and gloomy front hall with its shuttered windows, this part hummed with life. The aroma of food carried from the kitchen as she dragged Morvoren into it, Sam and Ysella right behind. Four people: two older men, a woman of about forty and a young boy in his early teens, were seated around a table built for twenty, dirty plates in front of them, and beakers of cider, or might that be contraband brandy, in their hands.

They set their beakers down as the old woman dragged Morvoren in, and the two men scrambled to their feet. In shirt sleeves and rough breeches, none of them looked like the sort of servants Kit had at Ormonde.

"What's this?" the elder of the two, a white-haired, portly man, asked, his tone gruff and even a little aggressive. "What you after?"

He was addressing Sam, but Morvoren answered. It was, after all, on her say-so that they were down here searching for Kit. "We need a guide to take us to Nanpean. Right away, even though it's nearly dark. It's a matter of life and death."

The man's face furrowed in a heavy frown. "An' who be you to go demandin' that we stir ourselves of an evenin' to do that?" he asked, the implication being that they were very rude to expect decent servants to bestir themselves out of working hours. Whatever their working hours might be in an empty house.

Ysella stepped forward. "I am Ysella Carlyon and I have the authority of my brother, your employer, to command you to do as I ask. If we don't get to Nanpean very shortly, Kit will die, and a lot of other good Cornishmen with him." She paused. "It's no use you all pretending you don't know about the smuggling, because we know you're lying. We know all about it." She waved a hand at Sam and Morvoren. "And we've ridden over two hundred miles from Ormonde to save Kit. He and the others are going to die tonight if you don't help us."

The woman, who must have been the cook, bestirred herself. "Master Kit and his men's in danger, ye say?"

Morvoren nodded, taking off her hat so they could see she was a girl like Ysella. "There's a traitor amongst the smugglers, only Kit doesn't know it. The revenue men and soldiers know there's to be a consignment tonight. We have to warn Kit and his men and stop them getting caught. We have to hurry."

"A traitor?" The white-haired man banged his beaker down on the table. "D'you have the name of the traitor?"

Morvoren shook her head. "I'm sorry. All I know is that they've been betrayed and the revenue men will be lying in wait for them with armed soldiers."

The second man, younger and less corpulent, glowered across the table. "I'll away over to Nanpean village to warn the wives." He paused. "Though one o' them'll know already, because I'll be bound the traitor won't be on the beach tonight. He'll be hidin' back home with some excuse for why he couldn't be there."

Morvoren glanced back at Sam, who hurriedly took out his watch and nodded to her. She turned her hat in her hands. "We've already wasted twenty minutes here. We have to get to Nanpean Farm to warn Jago and Kit, but we don't know the way."

The woman's wide-eyed stare went from the two men to the still seated boy. She bit her lip in evident indecision, then dropped her hand to the boy's shoulder. "Father can't go, not on his legs, but my boy Jem do know the way to Nanpean like the back o' his hand, so to speak. He can show you the quickest way to get there all right, even in the dark. Can't you, Jem? Take them along the cliff path. 'Tis the quickest way."

Jem, a sandy-haired, slight boy, nodded vigorously, the light in his eyes betraying his excitement at what he must see as the coming adventure. Perhaps he already pictured himself as the savior of the day.

His mother tightened her grip on his shoulder. "A moment. You fine folks must remember my son's jest a boy. Don't you go lettin' him get in the way of any o' them musket balls." She looked down at him. "And Jem. Once you got Miss Carlyon and her friends to Nanpean, you come straight back here to me. No heroics. You're too young to join the gentlemen."

She had a faint hope of that, from the look on Jem's eager face.

"I'll make sure he goes back," Morvoren said, giving him a stern glare. "I promise I'll do my best to keep him out of danger."

Jem ducked his head and, shaking off his mother's hand, got to his feet, all long skinny limbs and big feet, like a newborn colt.

"Best put those hats back on," the old woman muttered. "So's you lads don't go out there lookin' too much like a pair o' girls." At least she wasn't disapproving of their disguises.

Ysella and Morvoren jammed their hats back on, and Jem, shoulders squared and with a proud step, led them out of the kitchen door into the back yard of the house. He seemed to be entering into the spirit of the evening extremely well. "This way," he hissed. "We has to keep quiet. Don't speak a word lessen I ses yer can."

They followed him out into the darkness.

*

Kit

In the farmhouseat Nanpean, Kit pulled on one of Jago's tatty coats and his old tricorn hat, ready for the off. From outside the open door, in the moonlit darkness, came the muffled sounds of the men bringing their string of sturdy pack ponies into the yard: mutters and whispers from the men, the grate of hobnailed boots, and the shuffle of small unshod hooves on the flagstones.

Only a single oil lamp burned in the middle of the table as Kit loaded his pistols, mindful of Jago's motto to never go unprepared to a possible affray. Never assume the best, always expect the worst. Wise words, even though Kit had never yet needed to use a pistol. He glanced at the stairs as Jenifry clattered down them. She'd been in the box room setting up the only other lamp in its window. A signal to let the little French cutter know it was safe to bring the contraband goods ashore in its yawls.

Her face was flushed and her eyes alight with the excitement they all felt on the night a consignment was coming ashore.

"All done," she said.

Jago came stomping through the front door from the yard, bringing with him the cool night air and a whiff of pony. "Damn it," he said, the lamplight casting his features into frightening shadow. "Clemo's just come with a message from Aleck Tregothnan to say as he can't be with us tonight. He's down with a bad stomach and can't leave his bed nor his privy."

Kit raised his eyebrows. "Really? When I saw him yesterday, he seemed in good health." Why did a little nagging feeling of doubt bother him about this?

He had no time to dwell on Tregothnan's absence though. Jowan Curnow, who'd followed Jago in, shrugged. "Been eatin' wot he serves in his inn, I'll warrant. Last oggie I et over there were all gristle." He shook his head. "Since you took my Loveday away up England, I's had to find wot food I can, if'n I doan want ter cook fer meself."

Kit slapped him on the back, his worries about Tregothnan vanishing. "Time you learned how to bake an oggie for yourself. You're no true Cornishman if you can't."

Jowan spat on the flagstones. "Women's work, that be."

Jago laughed. "How d'you think other men on their own manage, then, you lazy old bugger?"

Jowan lifted a shoulder and huffed, turning toward the bottle of brandy sitting on the table beside the lamp. "I'll have me a glass o' somethin' fine an' strong as I've et no dinner ternight." Not bothering with a glass or beaker, he upended the bottle and took a long swig. He'd be swaying his way down to the beach if he wasn't careful.

Kit took the bottle back before Jowan drained it. He was a good worker if prevented from becoming pie-eyed, but that was becoming increasingly difficult, especially with the absence of Loveday's soothing influence. "That's enough, Jowan. We need you sober on the beach. We don't have enough ponies to be carrying you back up as well as the brandy barrels."

Jowan gave him a filthy look and stumped back out into the yard.

Kit followed, trying unsuccessfully to push away the vision of Morvoren his thoughts of Loveday had conjured. Had he done the right thing in leaving her? No, he had to think about tonight. He mustn't dwell on her face, her laugh, her eyes, her… He dragged himself back to reality with some difficulty.

A dozen men stood waiting in the yard in the all too well-lit darkness, a moon that was well on its way to being full shining down on them out of a frighteningly clear night sky. Not a good night for landing contraband, but at least Nanpean Cove was well out of the way and difficult to access. He could be fairly sure no one knew of their activities—no one that shouldn't, anyway.

Jago emerged from the house, Jenifry by his side, and all heads turned in his direction. He cleared his throat and stepped onto the mounting block. The block Morvoren had tried to use before Kit had given her a leg up onto Prinny such a long time ago now. His hand on her strangely clad foot… No. He had to stop this.

"Now, I'm afraid tonight you've only got me," Jago said, keeping his voice low. "Aleck's not able to come with us, thanks to his own cookin', so I'm told."

A ripple of quiet laughter rustled through the listening men. They all knew the food at the Ship Inn, as it was where most of them drank of a night. They were a motley crowd, at least one from each family in Nanpean village and the cottages up the valley, some from as far afield as Penzance thanks to family ties.

They shared one thing—they were all out to improve the lot of their poor families, even Jago, whose small farm wouldn't make a profit were it not for his smuggling activities.

On an impulse, Kit glanced over his shoulder and upward, at the curtains of his own bedroom window, still open tonight, and dark. Of course, no small pale face appeared there this time, to be briefly glimpsed, but recognized, nevertheless.

He smiled to himself. He'd had to go up and check on her that first night, not knowing what he'd do if he found her up and about. But she'd been lying in bed like one dead. Too still for real sleep. He'd stood in silence, watching her where she lay with her blonde hair spread on the pillows—his pillows—before deciding that perhaps he might just be able to trust her not to say anything. And deciding, as well, not to mention to Jago that he'd seen her watching.

His heart ached for the sight of her face up there, sending him out to help his villagers. But no, she was a lady of good breeding, and there was no way he could involve her in his smuggling. He couldn't be two things at once—an illegal smuggler on the one hand and a married man, possibly a family man, on the other. It was too much to expect of a gently bred young lady. He'd just have to forget about her.

Jago was still talking, telling the men what they had to do, cautioning them rather unnecessarily to silence, suggesting they blacked their faces with the soot Jenifry was passing around in the ash pan from the kitchen range.

Kit took some soot and smeared it across his face and hands—both areas that would show up on a moonlit night like this one, if they weren't careful. Ned Treloar was smearing soot onto the white blaze his pony had, and one or two other men were decorating their ponies' white socks. Best to choose ponies with no white markings at all, really, but they had to make do with what they had.

At last, they were ready. Tom Cardy, a lad of only nineteen who was the breadwinner for his widowed mother and her seven other children, came running from the end of the house where he'd been watching for a light at sea. "I seen it," he called, his whisper hissing around the farmyard over the silent heads of his colleagues and the ponies. "Out to the east an' headin' our way. One light burnin'. On her foredeck, I doan doubt."

Jago gave the nod, and Ned Treloar and his disguised pony took the lead out of the gate and onto the narrow path to the beach. The other ponies followed in a long, shuffling line, their muffled hooves nearly silent in the quiet darkness. Directly overhead now, the moon shone down mercilessly onto the column of men and ponies, illuminating them, it seemed to Kit, nigh on as brightly as if it were full daylight.

In silence, they wended their way down the twisting track, Kit with one hand on the nearest pony's back for support lest he tripped on stones he couldn't see. The brambles on either side loomed dark and somehow protective, and the sound of the surf drew ever closer.