Rapscallion (37 page)

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?"