Rapscallion

CHAPTER 15

Hawkwood wrinkled his nose. Piss; there was no mistaking the pungent odour. It was there, souring the inside of his nostrils every time he inhaled. Holding his breath wasn't a viable option, so there was little he could do except try and ignore it, which was difficult for the smell was coming off the man seated beside him in waves. It was strange, Hawkwood thought; before he'd washed the stench of the hulks from him, he doubted the smell would even have registered. Now, it was all he could do not to clamp his hand over his face.

Sensing Hawkwood's aversion, the black-clad figure turned his head. "Ain't me. It's the bleedin' paint. An' if you think I smell bad, you're lucky it's me keepin' you company and not Billy back there." The figure jerked a thumb. "Now, 'e does bloody stink!"

Lasseur, who had given up his seat and shifted into the back of the cart with the coffins, grimaced.

Hawkwood's knowledge of alchemy bordered on the nonexistent. He had no idea what made the paint - if that was the catalyst - glow in the dark, and could have cared even less, though he had to admit the effect was quite dramatic, especially if you weren't expecting it. Presumably Asa Higgs had been anticipating some kind of ghostly manifestation, but even he'd nearly jumped out of his skin, much to the amusement of the spectral duo when they'd seen who was driving the cart.

The skull images had been painted in some kind of waxy substance on to close-fitting black cloth hoods, similar to those used by executioners. When framed by the folds of a cowl and lit by moonlight, the result was spectacular and, to the uninitiated, quite terrifying. It was certainly an effective way of persuading unwelcome visitors of an inquisitive disposition to keep their distance.

But from what?

The track continued its steady ascent. It was then that Hawkwood saw a light through a gap in the trees. There was some kind of man-made structure ahead, too, but its outline was indistinct. It was only as they rounded the final bend and the gradient flattened out that he realized what he'd been looking at.

The turreted gatehouse looked old, as did the high, grey-stone wall that flanked it. Set into the gatehouse was a Norman archway. Two men dressed in work-day clothes and armed with clubs and pistols guarded the entrance. The malodorous friar gave a nod and the pickets parted to let them through.

The gravedigger clicked his tongue and guided the horse forward. "Welcome to the Haunt."

"Haunt?" Lasseur echoed from behind.

"Monk's Haunt. Leastways, that's what we call it now. Used to be St Anselm's Priory; most of it fell into ruin, but there's a fair bit still standin'. You'll see for yourself. Place has seen a few owners since them days. One of the local squires moved in and built himself a house. It was run as a farm for a while after he died, and then Mr Morgan took it on. It was him who gave it the name, 'cause of all the stories 'bout how the place was haunted. That's how he stops nosey parkers from gettin' too close and learnin' 'is business; on nights when we're moving goods around, he gets the likes of Del here to play silly buggers and scare 'em away."

The mock friar grinned then. He had an unruly mop of curly hair, a thin weasel face, and teeth like a mule. It was on the tip of Hawkwood's tongue to suggest he probably didn't need the mask.

The friar threw the gravedigger an admonishing look. "It's no good sniggerin', Asa Higgs. It works and don't you deny it. I've seen people piss their breeches when we've leapt out on 'em. There's even been a few who've passed away with the fright of it."

"With the bleedin' smell, more like," Higgs muttered under his breath.

"I told you," Del's voice rose in indignant protest, "it ain't me, it's the bloody paint."

While Del and the gravedigger discussed the phosphorescent properties of piss and pigment, Hawkwood and Lasseur exchanged wary glances. Each knew the other was thinking back to their conversation with Jess Flynn and Tom Gadd.

A building came into view. It was hard to make out specific details in the darkness. Hawkwood assumed he was looking at the main house. The impression was of stout walls, gabled windows and high chimneys. He could see the silhouettes of other buildings behind it. Some looked to be whole, while others stood in obvious ruin; from their imposing size, he presumed they were part of the original priory. He thought about the gatehouse and the adjoining wall and how far it might extend. That in turn made him wonder how many other guards were roaming the woods, for while the place may well have started life as a retreat devoted to prayer and meditation, this was clearly no longer the case. From what he'd seen so far, the Haunt had all the hallmarks of an armed compound.

The gravedigger drove them into a gravelled stable yard, bringing the cart to a halt outside a set of large wooden doors. The doors were open. Light from within the building spilled out. The smell of compacted straw and animal dung hung in the air.

Del climbed down from the cart, nearly tripping over the hem of his habit in the process. "The boss wanted me to bring you to 'im. We'll try in 'ere first. One of the mares is in foal. He's expectin' 'er to deliver tonight. Best wait here, Asa." He beckoned to Hawkwood and Lasseur. "You two, come with me."

Del led the way into the stables. Two men were standing by the opening to the stall furthest from the entrance doors. At the sound of footsteps, they looked round. One was hunched, with thinning hair and short bandy legs. He wore a dark waistcoat and a worn leather apron and was holding a lantern. His companion was taller and leaner; his swept-back hair was silvery grey. So, too, was his beard, which was short and neatly trimmed. With his blue eyes and lined features, he could have passed for a distinguished lawyer or a benevolent uncle, had it not been for his shortened left arm, which ended in a leather cup just below his elbow.

Del's gaze shifted to the grey-bearded man. "Mr Pepper." His tone was immediately deferential.

"Del," Pepper said. There was no warmth in the response.

Not so benevolent, after all, Hawkwood thought, and wondered who Pepper was and whether the severed limb indicated that he'd served in the wars.

"Asa brought them," Del said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

A spark of interest showed in Pepper's blue eyes. He looked Hawkwood and Lasseur over. "And the tubs?"

"They're outside on the cart," Del responded nervously.

"Good, go and help Asa unload. You can store them in the usual place."

Del nodded. He still looked, Hawkwood thought, a little cowed. Studying Pepper, it wasn't hard to see why. The man exuded menace, even though he'd barely moved a muscle. With a look of relief and a sideways nod towards Hawkwood and Lasseur, Del departed, robes flapping.

"Where's that damned lantern, Thaddeus?"

The question came from behind Pepper's back.

The mare was standing, legs straddled, in the centre of the stall, flanks glistening with sweat. The distended belly told its own story. A stocky, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped black hair and a dark beard, shirt rolled back to his elbows, was gently stroking the mare's neck. He made no acknowledgement of Hawkwood or Lasseur's presence.

The man with Pepper stepped back into the stall and held the lantern high. The mare looked around. Her soft brown eyes, caught by the candle flame, gleamed brightly. She shifted restlessly, pawing the straw.

"She's close," the dark-haired man said. He stepped away quickly. "Let's give her some room."

Suddenly, as if on cue, the mare braced herself and whickered softly as a stream of fluid gushed from her rear opening and flowed down her hind legs, dampening the bed of straw beneath. Abdominal muscles quivering and with her waters still breaking, the mare sank heavily to her knees and rolled on to her side. The rush of fluid seemed endless. Eventually, after what must have been the release of several gallons, the flood ceased and the mare recovered her breath. Her belly continued to undulate.

"The foal's turning," the bearded man said.

The mare laid her head on the straw, as if gathering strength. Then she raised her head and whinnied softly. Her hindquarters roiled and a small bulge of white mucus ballooned from beneath her tail. As the men watched, the balloon increased in size, becoming elongated in the process. Within the expanding membrane a pair of dark, stick-like objects could be seen. Hawkwood realized he was looking at a pair of forelegs. The mare quietened, belly heaving. She pushed again. A triangular shape appeared, resting on top of the legs. It was the foal's head. The veined birth sac continued to stretch until, without warning, it ruptured and a small hoof poked into view. The mare paused and then gave another heavy push. Nothing happened. She tried again. There was still no movement.

"Come on, girl," the dark-bearded man said coaxingly.

The mare strained again. The foal's head and feet remained resolutely in place. The dark-bearded man cursed under his breath.

"Looks like she's stuck, Mr Morgan," the man holding the lantern said. "Should we give her a hand?"

Morgan stared down at the horse. His lips moved soundlessly. Hawkwood wondered if he was praying.

The mare's hind legs thrust weakly against the straw as she tried again to expel the foal. She gave a small snuffle of distress and laid her head down.

Morgan stepped into the stall. "Hold the light up."

As the lantern was raised, Morgan squatted down and positioned himself behind the mare's hindquarters. Moving the tail out of the way, he took hold of the foal's forelegs, just above the fetlock joints. "All right, girl, let's give it another try." Bracing himself, he pulled gently on the foal's legs.

As if sensing that assistance was at hand, the mare, head still lowered, pushed again. Morgan increased his grip and angled the foal's legs towards the mare's hocks. The mare strained once more. Morgan's arm muscles tightened.

Suddenly, the mare's flanks rippled. Morgan continued his steady pull. A pair of narrow shoulders eased into view. The mare heaved again and Morgan let go. Seconds later, the foal lay in a glistening wet heap.

Tenderly, Morgan cleared the membrane away from the foal's mouth and nostrils. The foal's head lifted and Morgan grunted with satisfaction. Taking care not to sever the umbilical cord, Morgan eased the foal around to where the mare could see it. He stood up and, by the time he'd moved out of the way, the foal had rolled upright. The mare got to her knees and then to her feet and nuzzled her newborn, licking away the rest of the birth sac.

Morgan wiped his hands with some dry straw and looked round. "Captains Hooper and Lasseur, I presume? Welcome, gentlemen; good to meet you. I'm Ezekiel Morgan."

Hawkwood guessed that Morgan and Pepper were of similar age. From Pepper's grey hair and the light dusting down the laughter lines either side of Morgan's jaw, he doubted either of them would see fifty again, though they did not have the deportment of old men. When they stood side by side, the difference in height was even more apparent. Morgan's head was level with Pepper's shoulders. In the lantern light, Morgan's eyes - dark, deep set, intelligent and watchful - were the brightest.

Morgan tossed the used straw aside. "My apologies for not giving your arrival my full attention. As you see, I'd a rather pressing matter to attend to." Morgan held out his hand. His grip was firm and still slightly damp. Hawkwood could feel the calluses. "You've met my associate, Cephus Pepper?" Morgan indicated the grey-haired man.

Pepper did not extend his hand but instead held Hawkwood's gaze for several seconds before giving a curt nod.

Morgan cocked his head. "You've had quite a journey. The Warden incident gave us some concern. We weren't expecting an affray."

"Neither were we," Hawkwood said. "How many men did you lose?"

"None, fortunately; though we had three wounded."

"We saw Isaac go down," Lasseur said.

Morgan nodded. "He was lucky. The ball took him in the shoulder, but there's no permanent damage."

"And the attackers?" Hawkwood said. "Were they after us or the contraband?"

Morgan threw Hawkwood a wry look. "It's all right, Captain. You can rest easy. It was the goods they were after, not you. Someone tipped them the nod. My people are making enquiries. When we find out who it was, they'll be dealt with." Morgan cocked his head on one side. "Gideon said it was a close-run thing. You only just made it into the boat."

Hawkwood shrugged. "Better to be damp than dead. What about the Revenue? Did they lose anyone? There was a lot of shooting. There looked to be some dragoons with them."

Morgan frowned. "Three Revenue men wounded and one dragoon dead. There was a horse killed, too, which was a bloody shame." He glanced over to the stall. "Good mounts are hard to come by."

So are good dragoons, Hawkwood thought. "You had reinforcements on the cliff."

"We always have reinforcements. It pays to be cautious, Jessie Flynn looked after you all right?"

Hawkwood nodded. "No complaints there. We could have done without the ambush on the way here, though. It nearly gave your man Higgs a heart attack."

A flicker of alarm moved across the bearded face and then understanding dawned. "Ah, you mean our phantom friars. I'll admit they're a mite crude, but they do the trick. Gave you a bit of a fright, did they?"

"Only the smell of them."

"That'll be our Del. Fragrant, ain't he?"

"Not the paint, then," Hawkwood said.

The corner of Morgan's mouth lifted. "No. The paint's made with putrefied horse piss. It's what makes it glow. But it doesn't hold the smell. That was all Del. It's why we like to keep him out in the fresh air, away from the house."

"You make paint from horse piss?" Lasseur said.

Another wry smile formed between the bearded lips. "Not personally. I employ people for that. Don't ask me how they do it. Some kind of fancy chymical process." Morgan fell silent and then said, "I understand the two of you caused quite a rumpus before you left."

Lasseur's head came up.

He knows about Seth Tyler was the thought that speared its way into Hawkwood's brain. Lasseur, he knew, would be thinking the same thing, though the privateer's face betrayed no outward emotion.

How had the man found out? Had Tyler told him?

And then he heard Morgan say, "Lucky we got you out before they transferred you," and realized that Morgan was referring to the events aboard Rapacious.

Hawkwood let out a slow, inaudible breath. As he did so he wondered how Morgan knew what had occurred on the hulk. The man obviously had a good intelligence system in place.

"You shouldn't believe all you hear," Lasseur said, his expression neutral.

Morgan's head lifted. "Oh, I don't, Captain, but you really mustn't underestimate yourself." He looked at Hawkwood. "I've a mind to offer you the same advice, Captain Hooper, but, if you'll forgive the impertinence, modesty's not a trait I'd associate with you Americans, judging by the ones I've come across."

"Met many of us, have you?" Hawkwood asked.

"There've been a few. And I have to say I've always found them refreshingly honest in the promotion of their own abilities. Not sure if it's self-confidence or sheer bloody arrogance, but it's a damned powerful quality either way. Won you your revolution and forged a damned country. Can't argue with that."

"We just don't like anyone else telling us what to do," Hawkwood said.

Morgan's dark eyes flashed. "Ha! Did you hear that, Cephus? We'll make a free trader out of him yet!"

Pepper said nothing. It was becoming clear that Morgan's lieutenant was a man of few words.

"How's our new arrival doing, Thaddeus?" Morgan addressed his groom, who was still watching over the mare and her foal, seemingly oblivious to the exchange going on behind his back.

"Very nicely, Mr Morgan. Afterbirth's on its way."

"Good. Keep your eye on her." Morgan turned back.

"Why are we here?" Hawkwood asked.

The question seemed to catch Morgan off guard. Pepper's eyes narrowed.

Morgan showed his teeth again. "By God, there's no beating about the bush with you, Captain Hooper, is there? No matter, I like a straight talker. You're here because I've a proposition for you."

Lasseur frowned. "What sort of proposition?"

"If all goes well, a damned profitable one."

"What about our passage to France?" Hawkwood asked.

"Don't worry, you'll both be delivered safe and sound as promised, only with a little extra something to remember us by."

"And what might that be?"

Morgan looked as if he was still mildly amused by Hawkwood's directness. "All in good time, Captain." He drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted the dial. "It's too late to go into details now. I still have work to do here and I'm sure you've both had a long day. Why don't I let you get some rest and we can talk again in the morning? I'll explain everything then; saves me having to do it twice. How does that sit with you?"

Do we have a choice in the matter? Hawkwood thought and wondered what Morgan had meant by the comment about doing it twice.

Before either of them had a chance to reply, Morgan gave a satisfied nod. "Then it's settled. Cephus'll show you to your cell. It's all right, Captain," Morgan added, chuckling at Lasseur's expression of alarm. "Just my little jest. You're quite safe. You'll find no gaolers here." Morgan turned away and then paused, as if he'd just remembered something. "I'd advise you, however, while you're at liberty to move around, it'd be best if you didn't stray too far. As you saw earlier, I do have men patrolling the outer walls and, having gone to all the trouble of getting you this far, it'd be a damned shame if you wandered off and one of my lads put a ball through your brain because he thought you were trespassing."

Morgan smiled at Lasseur's expression, though his eyes remained dark. "Stranger things have happened, Captain. Trust me."

They emerged from the stables to find the cart had gone. Hawkwood assumed it meant Asa Higgs and Del were away unloading the liquor tubs; either that or the gravedigger was already making his return to the coast while Del was back frolicking in the woods with his equally odorous pal, Billy.

A taciturn Pepper, lantern in hand, led the way across the yard and around a series of corners, emerging eventually into a cloistered quadrangle. The cloisters were clearly very old, a remnant of the original priory. Beneath the arches, the flagstones, worn smooth over the centuries, reflected the moonlight like the dark surface of a pond. It wasn't hard to imagine black-robed friars stalking the shaded walkway, wrapped in silent contemplation and wearing away the stones with each pious footstep.

Pepper did not dawdle but took them through a stone archway in the corner of the building. Entering a dark corridor, they arrived at a low wooden door. When Pepper pushed the door open and stood back, Morgan's little joke was explained.

The cell, for that had undoubtedly been the room's former role, was plainly furnished with just enough room for two narrow cots, a chair and a small table on which stood a candle-holder containing a stub of wax and tapers. Opposite the door, high in the stone wall, a tiny window, barely worthy of the name, admitted a thin shaft of moonlight. The only thing missing was a crucifix on the wall.

Pepper used one of the tapers to transfer a flame from the lantern to the candle stub. "Dormitory's full, so you're in here. You'll be comfortable enough. Mind what you were told. Stay close to the house. It's for your own safety. There's a washroom and privy down the passage."

Without waiting for a response, Pepper backed out and closed the door behind him. Hawkwood and Lasseur stood in silence. The thickness of the door prevented them from hearing whether Pepper had retraced his path or if he was still outside with his ear pressed against the wood.

Hawkwood tried the handle. Although there had been no sound of a key turning he'd half expected the door to be locked, but it opened without opposition. The passage outside was dark, empty and silent.

"So," Lasseur said, testing the cot and wincing at the lack of spring in the thin palliasse. "The adventure continues. What do you think of our Monsieur Morgan?"

"I think anyone who surrounds himself with a cordon of armed men deserves to be taken seriously."

Lasseur smiled. Candlelight played across his aristocratic face. "And Pepper?"

"Pepper's dangerous," Hawkwood said, without hesitation.

Lasseur considered that for a moment. "This proposition Morgan talked about; what do you think he meant?"

"It won't be something for nothing," Hawkwood said. "It never is."

Lasseur looked around the room. "So, we sleep on it."

Hawkwood stretched out on the second cot and laced his hands behind his head.

"For now," he said.

Dawn.

Hawkwood pushed aside his blanket, sat up and pulled on his boots. He looked over at Lasseur's cot. The Frenchman

gave no sign that he was awake. His face was turned to the wall.

Picking up his coat, Hawkwood let himself out of the cell and made his way to the privy, where he took a piss before sluicing his face with cold water in one of the large stone washroom sinks. His fingertips brushed stubble. He ran a hand along his jaw and wondered idly about growing a beard. Then he pictured the look on Maddie Teague's face when he turned up at her door sporting whiskers. Not such a good idea after all, he decided.

He shrugged on the jacket. Time to take a walk.

Retracing his path to the cloisters, Hawkwood left the shelter of the arches, cut away from the main buildings and headed towards open ground. Jacket collar turned up, hands in pockets, he walked in plain sight. Mindful of the maxim that it was unwise to send a terrier down a rat hole without there being at least one viable way out, Hawkwood knew his first task was to gauge the layout of the Haunt and the efficiency of its outer defences.

Hawkwood had no watch. He guessed it was a couple of hours past sunrise. The morning had all the makings of another fine day. A watery sun had burned away most of the early haze. Misty vapours still hung low above the dew-soaked grass. Wood pigeons fluttered and cooed in the nearby woods while, beyond the trees, from meadows further down the hill, the sound of lowing cattle rose plaintively in the still air. In such a peaceful setting, it wasn't hard to see why a religious order had found the site so appealing. The elevation and isolation would certainly have given the holy fathers the illusion they were closer to God.

Hawkwood doubted the current landowner harboured the same spiritual sentiment. Ezekiel Morgan's appreciation of the location would be governed purely by logistics. It would have taken a blind man not to see the strategic advantage of occupying a position with such commanding views over the surrounding countryside. Even allowing for the encroaching woodland, the chances of a substantial force scaling the Haunt unseen were, Hawkwood judged, exceedingly remote.

He looked back over his shoulder. Daylight revealed the extent of Ezekiel Morgan's domain. Jess Flynn's smallholding could probably have fitted into the Haunt several times over. If the size of the estate was anything to go by, the profits from running contraband were manifestly greater than anything Hawkwood could have envisaged. Small wonder the man put so much effort into protecting his privacy.

In addition to the house and the stable block, Hawkwood could see a number of outhouses and a large barn. There were several paddocks, with a handful of horses in each. The remains of the original priory buildings were easily identifiable by their age and architecture. The walls were all that were left of the chapel, the roof having long since collapsed, leaving the nave exposed to the elements. The tall windows, which would once have been monuments to the art of stained glass, looked like sightless eye sockets in a line of grey skulls. Dark-fleeced sheep grazed among the stones.

Hawkwood took a deep breath. The air was fresh and scented with grass and pollen and a world away from the pervading stench of London's crowded streets. The smell of the hulk seemed a distant memory.

The nine-foot perimeter wall looked, at first sight, to be intact, but as he continued walking, Hawkwood noticed shading in the stonework where repairs had been undertaken. Further on, he saw where parts of the wall had fallen down. Set in the breaches were lengths of palisade. The palisades didn't look that strong. It was clear they were intended purely as a holding measure, for at the base of each were assorted tools, buckets, a large pile of loose stones, and sacks of sand and lime; the main ingredients for making mortar.

Stretches of the wall disappeared behind trees, but Hawkwood was confident they would be undamaged or, if they had fallen into disrepair, stop-gapped and awaiting full restoration. He'd seen enough to be certain that Morgan, like a good general, would make sure his perimeter was protected above all else. Hawkwood was reminded of the fortified villages he'd seen in Spain, another place where churches dominated the high ground.

The appearance of other early risers came as no great surprise. The presence of livestock had guaranteed some kind of on-site work force. A couple of figures were making their way between one of the barns and the stable block. It hadn't been hard to spot Morgan's pickets either, as they patrolled the outer edges of the grounds. They were some distance away, but close enough for him to see the cudgels in their hands and the pistols in their belts. They'd issued no challenge. Hawkwood assumed it was because he was in plain sight and therefore had not been perceived as a threat. Lifting a hand in feigned recognition, he proceeded on his circuit without interruption. The lack of interest in his presence suggested the pickets weren't as conscientious as their employer supposed, which in turn meant that the Haunt wasn't quite as watertight as Morgan thought it was. It was possible that the men had grown lax after a night's patrol, but Hawkwood filed the information away for future reference.

Ahead of him, the walls of an ancient outbuilding rose out of the sheep-cropped grass. Empty doorways gaped like open jaws. Weeds sprouted around the bases of the moss-covered stones. He was about to pass by the ruin when a dark, four- legged shape appeared through one of the gaps in the wall. When it saw Hawkwood it stopped dead.

Hawkwood froze.

The dog was huge, with a brindle coat. Powerful shoulders supported a head that was at least three feet off the ground. When the second dog, which was just as large, padded round the corner of the wall to his right, Hawkwood's stomach turned over. This one had a fawn pelt and a black face and muzzle.

The brindle-coated dog growled. It was possibly one of the most chilling sounds Hawkwood had ever heard. It came from deep within the animal's throat and it felt as if the air was vibrating.

The dogs took a pace forward. Their paws made no noise on the still damp grass.

Behind them, two more shapes materialized into view. One tall and grey-bearded, the other short and bull-necked and carrying a stout blackthorn walking stick.

"Captain Hooper!" Ezekiel Morgan called cheerily. "Good morning to you. You're out and about early. I trust the accommodation is to your satisfaction?"

Hawkwood realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. He made a point not to look at the dogs, which wasn't easy, given the way they were eyeing him and the size of their teeth.

"New billet, strange bed. It takes a while to settle. Thought I'd get some fresh air. You know how it is."

He hadn't had to lie. His sleep had been intermittent for the reasons he had given. Lasseur's heavy breathing hadn't helped much either.

Morgan stretched out his arms and inhaled a lungful of air. "A morning constitutional? Splendid idea! Who could blame you on a day like this? Makes a man glad to be alive. Captain Lasseur's not with you?"

Hawkwood wondered if the man standing at Morgan's shoulder was glad to be alive. It was difficult to tell. Cephus Pepper's face was a model of taciturnity.

"Still in his pit. How's the new arrival?"

Morgan lowered his arms and tapped the stick against the side of his boot. "The foal? He's in fine fettle. The mare's a good mother. They'll do very nicely, I think."

Morgan was making no attempt to call the dogs to heel. Hawkwood knew the man was confirming who was in charge: Morgan's house, Morgan's rules.

"Fine-looking animals," Hawkwood said, conscious that it was probably wise to remain still and not make any sudden moves.

"Thor and Odin," Morgan said. "Thor's the brindle." He regarded the dogs with affection. "It was the Phoenicians who brought mastiffs to Europe. Did you know that?"

At the mention of their names, the dogs' ears pricked up. They switched their gaze to Morgan, as if awaiting instructions. It was the first time they'd taken their eyes off Hawkwood.

"Can't say I've given it a lot of thought," Hawkwood said.

"They were here before Julius Caesar," Morgan went on, unconcerned by Hawkwood's less than ecstatic response. "The Romans took them home and trained them to fight in the arenas. They used to match them against bears. Used them in battle, too. They say there was a mastiff on the first ship to make landfall in the New World. Interesting it was the Phoenicians, though, don't you think? They were traders too, like me. Could be I've inherited some of their blood along the way. That'd be something, eh?"

Hawkwood looked at the dogs. The mastiffs gazed back at him, unflinching, eyes bright, tongues hanging from their impressive jaws.

Morgan smiled. "Would you care to walk with us, Captain? Cephus and I often take a stroll around the grounds at this time. It gives us a chance to exercise the dogs and put the world to rights."

Hawkwood nodded and wondered briefly if Morgan had extended the invitation to prevent him wandering around on his own.

Morgan snapped his fingers and, with a wave of his arm, sent the dogs running effortlessly ahead, noses pressed to the ground. Hawkwood fell into step alongside him. Pepper walked several paces ahead, as if on point.

"We were told you control all the Trade along the coast," Hawkwood said. He thought he saw the back of Pepper's head twitch.

Morgan did not alter his stride but kept walking, hands behind him, holding the stick horizontally across the base of his spine. "Were you now?"

"Is it true?"

Morgan smiled. "Take a look around, Captain. What do you think?"

"I think that I'm in the wrong business."

Morgan maintained his smile. "Then I'd say you've just answered your own question. It's all a matter of supply and demand. If the bloody government wasn't so determined to tax us all to within an inch of our lives, do you think we'd be having this conversation? "Governments use taxes to pay for their wars," Hawkwood said. "It's the only way they can raise the money. Doesn't make any difference if you're English, French or American, you have to pay to make your country safe. It's why taxes were invented in the first place."

Morgan shook his head. "It's not the principle I object to, it's the percentage and the fact they only tax the pleasures, never the pain. Damn it, they even tax playing cards! Can you believe that? That's almost as stupid as the tax on bloody windows! A man works hard in the fields all day; it strikes me he's a right to enjoy a pipe, a hand of whist and a swig of brandy without having to pay the bloody exchequer over the odds for the privilege. The way I see it, if I can make his life a bit more bearable, then that's no crime. And if it means I can shove two fingers up to the government at the same time, that's all right, too."

Morgan kicked aside a stone. "Don't get me wrong, Captain. I'm not running a charity here. You said earlier that you thought you were in the wrong business. Well, that's exactly what this is - a business. I saw an opportunity to invest and I seized it. I've been in it a long time now, and the returns have been excel lent - like most of my other enterprises, I'm happy to say."

"You must have substantial outlays," Hawkwood said.

Without breaking stride, Morgan shrugged. "Wages, transport and distribution, warehousing; no different to any other business. I've got a few more palms to grease, that's all."

More than a few, Hawkwood thought. He turned and found Morgan was giving him a quizzical look.

"What were you expecting, Captain? This is the nineteenth century; or had you forgotten? If you thought the Trade was made up of a couple of fishermen and a rowboat, you can think again. Those days are long gone. Oh, I'll not deny that still goes on, but it's not where the big money comes from. Buy in bulk and make sure you've got a good accountant - that's where the profit lies."

"You mean like the other night at. . ." Hawkwood feigned memory loss ". . . where was it?"

"Warden." Morgan called out to Pepper: "How many tubs was that, Cephus?"

"Twenty-five," Pepper said, without looking back. "Plus six bales of tobacco."

Morgan nodded. "Twenty-five tubs. That's not bulk, Captain Hooper. That's small change. I've had runs where we needed eighty ponies to transport the goods. A week ago I had two hundred and fifty men on a job; fifty to carry the goods ashore, the rest to guard the flanks."

"You're not telling me you've got that many men here?" Hawkwood nodded towards the house and outbuildings and the cloisters, where he and Lasseur had spent the night.

Morgan shook his head. "I hire in. If there's one thing I'm not short of, it's manpower. And I pay well. A labouring man'll earn a shilling a day, if he's lucky. I pay tub carriers four times that for one night's work. I pay my scouts ten times that amount. They know I'll look after them. I've a surgeon on call in case of mishap and, if the worst happens, I make sure their families are taken care of. I've got a firm of lawyers who'll arrange bail if they're picked up and brought before a magistrate. No one serves gaol time working for me, Captain. You can take that as gospel."

"Accountants, surgeons and lawyers?" Hawkwood said. "I'm impressed."

"So you should be." Morgan stopped walking, leant on his stick, and gazed towards the house and the priory ruins, as if admiring their worth for the first time.

"Well, you can't argue with the evidence, I'll grant you that," Hawkwood said, following Morgan's stare. "It's a fine place."

Morgan turned and gave a mock bow. "Why, thank you, Captain. Though, I'm afraid I can't claim all the credit. Most of the hard work was done for me. I did think about having all the ruins pulled down and clearing the rest of the land, but the local vicar objected. Said I'd be consigned to everlasting damnation if I removed a single stone. Mind you, he was in his cups at the time, courtesy of a keg of my best brandy, so he might not have meant it."

"But you decided not to risk it, just in case?" Hawkwood said.

"It'd be a foolish man who tried to second guess the Almighty, Captain Hooper."

"Not to mention the clergy," Hawkwood said.

"Indeed. Especially Reverend Starkweather. His Sunday sermons are particularly well attended." Morgan paused and then grinned. "Not that he should complain, considering I am at least carrying on the St Anselm tradition."

"How's that?"

"I'm still taking in pilgrims."

"Pilgrims?"

"They used to shelter here on their way to Canterbury, until King Henry had the monks all thrown out. Now we provide sanctuary for the likes of you. Curious how things come to pass, isn't it?"

"There've been other prisoners brought here?"

Morgan smiled. "Only those that have shown promise."

"Were they offered a proposition as well?"

Hawkwood sensed Pepper, who had halted up ahead, stiffen. Morgan's smile did not falter, though his laughter lines may have shortened a little. Hawkwood saw that the dogs had paused too. The brindle ran across to the grass to sniff energetically at its companion's rear end.

"How did you know about the fight on the ship?" Hawkwood asked.

"I have my sources."

"The guards?"

"They're useful for looking the other way or passing messages, but any number of people are involved in maintaining the ships, and I can afford to employ a wide net - ashore and on the water. Money talks."

At that moment a hand bell rang somewhere in the cloisters.

The dogs' heads swivelled.

Matins? Hawkwood thought wildly. Don't tell me Morgan holds prayers as well.

"Ah," Morgan said cheerfully, resting the walking stick across his right shoulder. "Time we were heading back." He gave a whistle that sent the dogs running towards him, then started walking towards the house. "We'll leave you to rouse Captain Lasseur. You can tell him breakfast will be provided in the refectory. It'll be our first chance to introduce you to the others."

"Others?" Hawkwood said.

Morgan smiled. "Your fellow pilgrims."