Free The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) by Andrew Swanston Page A

conversation,’ he said, ‘andneither of them can read, so we have neither books nor news sheets.’
    ‘That at least I can help with,’ replied Patrick, reaching into his sack. ‘I carry a book to read on the beach. You have it.’ He pulled out a slim book and handed it to Thomas.
    ‘Henry More’s
Philosophical Poems
. Thank you, Patrick. He’ll keep me company until you have spoken to Mr Lyte.’
    So intent had he been upon extracting information about the island that he had asked Patrick nothing about himself. Angry with himself for his ill manners, Thomas apologized and promised to repair the omission next time they met.
    Patrick laughed. ‘It’s of no account, Thomas. I’m pleased to have been able to help. We all know what the Gibbes are like. I hope the dinner goes well. Or at least the cooking. I will tell Mr Lyte to expect a banquet.’
    ‘Thank you, Patrick. I will try not to disappoint him or Mr Carrington.’
    Could it possibly get any worse? Despite Patrick’s offer to speak to Adam Lyte, after three hours in the sweltering kitchen turning the spits on which the turkey and the piglet had been roasting since midday, Thomas was ready to lie down and wait for the end. Sweat poured off his forehead, his head and arms ached abominably and his mouth and throat were on fire.
    When at last both creatures were cooked he wrapped his hands in wet cloths, heaved the first spit from its supports, slid off the turkey and lifted it on to one of two huge platters produced from under the brutes’ beds and polished that morning with sand and grease. The brutes kept everything of value under their beds. Thomas had seen saddles, plate and good leather boots draggedout when needed. For all he knew, there were caskets of gold coins under there.
    The turkey was followed by the piglet. The fowl went quietly but the pig hissed and spat in protest, its skin bubbling and blistering in its own fat. A dollop of fat landed on his bare arm, making him yelp and drop the wretched thing on to the earth floor. He rescued it hastily, hoping the yelp had not been heard, and managed to wipe off at least some of the dirt. But in spite of his efforts at cleaning and sweeping, the floor would be hiding all manner of unpleasantness. The plantation dogs wandered in and out, millipedes and cockroaches lurked in dark corners, ants devoured scraps and crumbs and his masters were not above spitting on it. When he had the chance to eat he would give the pig a miss and content himself with a little turkey.
    Ye gods, he thought, this place is hot enough without having to spend the afternoon beside an open fire, being attacked by boiling fat. With another oath he picked up the first platter and carried it through to the four diners.
    ‘Come on, Hill, put it here and be quick about it. Our bellies are empty and we need feeding,’ bellowed Samuel Gibbes at the head of the table, sweeping away empty bottles to clear a space for the food. He belched loudly. ‘And bring more wine. We’ll need it in this heat.’ The four diners had already drunk five bottles that afternoon although neither of the guests had taken much. Compared to the Gibbes, Charles Carrington and Adam Lyte were practically abstainers. Thomas wondered how they could bear to dine with the Gibbes, even for the common good. Adam Lyte, a little overweight, fair-haired and red-faced, was, as Patrick had said, a decent man and a proud member of the Assembly. The athletic-looking Carrington, clean-shaven, long black hair tiedneatly back, dark-eyed and skin weathered by the Caribbean sun, was more of a free spirit.
    ‘Devilish fine law in my opinion,’ said Samuel, as he hacked at the turkey with a heavy knife. ‘We only have to say “Cavalier and Roundhead” and it’s turkey and pork for all.’ Laughing at this excellent joke, he shovelled chunks of leg and breast on to four wooden trenchers.
    ‘Indeed, Samuel,’ replied Lyte, ‘although we in the Assembly did not reckon on