“Not much.” Emmaus shrugged. “He’s shown special interest in the widow staying with the vicar. Beyond that, he appears to be content to be included with the bacchanal celebrations. Do you think you can pry answers in the village?”
“No. Any direct question asked in these parts isn’t likely to be answered. And the person probing would be lucky to leave with teeth intact.” He chewed on his lip as he thought. “When I was a boy, smugglers ruled this village. My father gave his blessing...and his permission to use the tunnels that led from the sea to Ithwick Castle’s ruins. Even His Grace—scion to the leadership of the House of Lords—was opposed to paying one hundred and twelve percent tax on his tea. But the smuggling ended when the tea tax was repealed.”
“What makes you think the smuggling stopped?”
“Dwindled, is perhaps more accurate. The duke closed the tunnels by setting off explosions within the entries. You’ve got to be pretty determined to climb up those cliffs, especially when there are easier ports of entry in Kent. And the profits can’t be nearly be as high.”
“Might I remind you we are at war? Demand for French brandy hasn’t exactly disappeared.”
Chev lifted his brows.Of course.
“Dwindled, is definitely more apt,” Emmaus continued. “And, don’t you think I cannot see what you are speculating, Captain. I’m not a part of any smuggling operation. Those insular villagers wouldn’t allow me within their ranks if I wished to join them. Just to be clear—I do not.”
“Because you respect tax laws?”
Emmaus grinned. “Because I don’t respect their navigation skills.”
Chev snorted.
“In all seriousness,” Emmaus continued, “you can’t possibly learn very much by simply sauntering through the village.”
“I’m not going to ask questions—I’m going to observe the militia, and whatever stragglers happen to be left.”
Emmaus nodded. “You won’t like what you see. I imagine they’re paid well to be at the wrong place at the right time.”
“I haven’t liked anything I’ve seen so far—Pensteague excepted. I’m not expecting that to change. If there’s time, I’d like to see if I can find what’s left of those tunnels.”
“I can’t help you there,” Emmaus replied. “This is the first I’m hearing about them.”
They resumed walking in silence, and then the fishermen’s cottages came into view, squat and tidy and tucked up into the crags as if they, too, had been formed by the sea. The houses were empty, of course. The men were out on the water. As for the women, today was washing day—they were all by the stream.
Apart from the militia, only the loafers, the old, and the lame remained.
As they stopped at the fountain in the village’s center, a herd of goats appeared around the bend.
The goatherd’s eyes narrowed on Emmaus. “I say! Didn’t I tell you you weren’t welcome here?”
“You did.” Emmaus did not move.
“Then what are you doing here?” the goatherd asked.
“The fountain,” Emmaus replied, “exists for the benefit of all, travelers and residents both old and new.”
“This man,” Chev added, “has as much right as any to be here. More, in truth. He fought to defend our shores.”
“Pah!” the boy scoffed. “And who are you—beggar-man? We don’t welcome the likes of you here, no matter what welcome that crazed harpy at Pensteague hands out. Mr. Anthony’s going to empty her madhouse of cripples one day. He says we must leave the weak behind.”
Chev’s rage—always at a slow burn—flared. In his mind, he grabbed the boy by the throat and squeezed until he spoke no more.
No.He inhaled deep. No matter what the lessons of war, death could not“win”over death.
“Silenced you, didn’t I?” The boy jeered.
Perhaps just push him down...
Chev glanced to Emmaus. Emmaus’s returned glance did little to hide his accusation—this is what happens when you shirk the duties of leadership.
Chev gathered remnants of remembered calm. He met Emmaus’s gaze, gauntlet accepted. If he didn’t want his family in danger, he must work to find the danger’s source.
