The tavern’s dim and smoky taproom was almost empty.An old man sat drinking porter by the smouldering remains of a fire in the hearth.The two other guests—they appeared to be travellers, from the haversacks at their feet—were eating at a table, engaged in low-voiced conversation.
Jed and Solomon were seated at another table with two pints of ale between them.
A door slammed against a wall, and Jed flinched, his heart leaping into action.But it was only the landlady, returning from the back room bearing a steaming pigeon pie on a platter.She set it down between Jed and Solomon.
Once she had turned away to speak to the other guests, Solomon said quietly, “We needn’t stay if you don’t want.We can take the pie with us.”
Jed had been reluctant to come here in the first place.He had been planning to avoid taverns, favoured targets of the press gangs.But he’d been cold and damp, and this was an out-of-the-way place, fairly far inland.
He shook his head.“Thank ‘ee, but I can’t spend the rest of my days forever looking over my shoulder.”
As he watched Solomon cut the pie and divide it between them, his thoughts were on the road ahead.He didn’t intend to take the coast road, as he would have done years ago in time of peace.Instead, they would go up over the moors, where human habitations were far and few between and the press gang never ventured.
“We’ll be in Cheddon by nightfall, if all go well,” he said out loud.“I’ve stayed at the inn there many a time.It’s thruppence a night.And then the next day ‘twill be uphill all the way, I’m afraid.”To his surprise, a smile twitched at the corner of Solomon’s lip.Jed was starting to like that little smile.“What?”
“Nothing,” Solomon said.“Only—I hear in your voice that you’re happy.”
“That I am.I spent my whole life roving them moors, till I was snatched away.Now I’m going home.Home to my family.”
He had had only one letter from his aunt and sister in all the years he’d been away, written in the polished hand of a local clergyman.He himself had written to them several times with the help of a messmate who had some book learning, but he didn’t know if the letters had ever reached them.
“Back to the village where I was born and reared,” he said aloud.“Back to my horse and cart.Back to my old life.”He didn’t know what might have changed in his absence, but for now he was just concentrating on getting home.He could almost smell the crisp, peaty air of the moorland.“Ever been over Exmoor before?”
Solomon shook his head.“But you are much attached to the country, I think.”
“I am that.I expect you’d be of like mind, were you to return to London Town after years away.”
“No doubt I would, though I’m not a Londoner by birth.”Solomon had finished eating and was slouching in his seat, one arm thrown over the back of the bench.“I’ve loved being in London.I wouldn’t have left if I weren’t obliged to.”
“Oh?”Jed said, his curiosity piqued.“Why’s that?”
Solomon looked as though he had said more than he meant to.“I didn’t mean—my circumstances changed, that’s all.”He pushed the pie dish across the table to Jed.One solitary carrot remained to be eaten.“Go on.I expect you en’t had much in the way of fresh vegetables these past few years.Not but what to call this one ‘fresh’ is to make myself a liar, I fear.”
Jed speared the—decidedly old and chewy—carrot with his knife, studying him thoughtfully.He opened his mouth to ask a question, but then stopped, distracted by the traveller at the other table, who was watching them and perhaps even listening.
He was a youngish man with luxuriant chestnut side-whiskers and a sharply whetted gaze that swept up and down over Jed.He sat alone at the table—his companion seemed to have gone away somewhere.When he caught Jed’s eye, he leaned over to speak to him.“I see by your hands that you are a seaman, friend.”
Reflexively, Jed closed his hands into fists.The fingertips were still stained black, despite the thorough scrubbing he’d given them.He searched his mind for some other trade that used tar.“No, I’m a roofer.”
“Ah, I see.I beg your pardon.My mistake.”He turned back to his drink.
Jed shifted restlessly in his chair.The dark, low-ceiling room had closed in oppressively around him, and the door felt dangerously far away.
“Shall we go?”Solomon suggested.
They stepped out into light so bright that Jed’s eyes screwed up.The rain had stopped, and sunlight dappled the distant slopes of the Quantocks.
A peaceful midday calm lay over the countryside as they set off, but less than five minutes later, the quiet was broken by shouts on the road behind them.Jed turned to see the whiskered young man from the taproom racing towards them, his face red and sweaty, desperation in his waving arms.
“The press are coming!”He caught up with them and came to a stop, doubled over to catch his breath.“The press gang… They came through the tavern soon after you left.Oh, Lord help me!They’re on the road behind me.”
Jed froze, the iron hand of fear closing tight around his chest.
“Help me!”the man gasped.“Where can I hide?I must hide and let them go past.”
Jed looked around wildly.On the road up ahead stood a cluster of tumbledown old outbuildings.Most of them were in a sorry state, roofs half off and doorways choked with brambles, but the nearest one was still intact.The man raced towards it and wrenched the door open.
“We can hide in here,” he shouted to Jed and Solomon.“Make haste, quick as you can!”
