Free In the King's Name by Alexander Kent Page B

man there.
    The carriage was a landau, new and beautifully sprung. Troubridge had seen some of them in London, and his admiral and Lady Bethune had used one while in residence there. The landau had twin hoods which folded right back and allowed the occupant to see and be seen, if the weather was kind enough. The hoods were made of greasy harness-leather, which had a strong smell when wet. Like now.
    Once again he tried to grapple with his thoughts, but events were now out of his hands. There had also been a curt letter from the two Admiralty officials: their arrival would be a day later than expected. Sunday at noon. Equally curtly, it had stressed:
No ceremonial
. He had expected Turpin to be pleased about that, but if anything he had taken it as an insult. “Be different if we were a ship of the line, with a guard of honour, I suppose!”
    Troubridge thought of it when he was leaving the ship: the trill of calls, Turpin doffing his hat and the boat alongside, oars tossed, ready to carry him ashore. Would he ever become used to it? Take it for granted as his right? He had heard Adam Bolitho say that if you did, you were ready for the beach. Or burial.
    Once he had looked back at the brig, rolling easily in the offshore wind. Small, but able to give a good account of herself if challenged. She carried sixteen big thirty-two pounders, eight of them carronades. He had studied her figurehead, oblivious to the stroke oarsman watching him. The carver had produced a fine example of a merlin falcon, wings spread beneath the bowsprit, beak open, and ready to pounce, like a young eagle.
    Troubridge could understand, and share, Turpin’s reaction to the message.
    He saw two farm workers grin and wave mockingly as the landau splashed past them. The same two had overtaken them earlier when the deeply rutted track had slowed the horses to a walking pace.
    There were a few cottages now, and he noticed that most of the frost had been melted by the rain. Two cows by a gate, breath smoking, and someone tying up dead branches, squinting at the vehicle clattering past. Then, around the side of a low hill, the sea, like water against a dam. Never far away, and in the blood of the people who lived here.
    The landau stopped and he heard Young Matthew speaking to his horses, calming them as a heavy farm wagon splashed by, wheels almost touching theirs; greetings were exchanged, but even here he had noticed that Young Matthew kept a musket close to hand. He had said matter-of-factly, “This is called Hanger Lane, zur. Didn’t get that name for nothin’.”
    Troubridge was unarmed. This was Cornwall.
    He saw an inn lying back from the road. The Spaniards. Someone had mentioned it to him. It had been Thomas Herrick, Sir Richard Bolitho’s oldest friend; he was now rear-admiral, retired. He had shared the carriage too, en route to the wedding. Herrick had stayed at the inn and had spoken well of it. Just as well: it was the only accommodation around.
    They were turning now, and Young Matthew leaned over from his box and peered through the window. “I have to stop and pick up somethin’, zur.” His eyes crinkled. “Bit too early when I came by this mornin’!”
    Two figures had already hurried from somewhere, and Young Matthew waved to them. He was no stranger here, apparently.
    He jumped down and stamped his boots on the cobbles. “Horses can do with a drink, too.” He opened the door and waited as Troubridge stepped down, wincing as the feeling returned to his legs and buttocks. “They roads do make a lot of folk seasick, zur.”
    Troubridge noticed his arm was near enough to assist if required, and was reminded of his discreet understanding when the one-armed Herrick had arrived at the church. And the exchange of glances between the aging rear-admiral and the coachman. Appreciation, maybe more than that.
    â€œI think you should step inside, zur. They always has a good blaze