Page 13 of Exile's Return

‘It is,’ Daniel replied. Lucas was just one of the many false names he had used in the last five years. It now almost seemed strange to use his own name.

‘You a seafaring cove?’ Matt inquired.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Yer not all pasty and pale like the rest of us.’

Daniel considered his new young friend. ‘If you are at all pasty and pale it is almost impossible to see under the dirt,’ he said. ‘You need a bath, Matt.’

The boy shuddered. ‘Terrible bad for yer health, Cap’n.’

He stopped and gestured down a street that looked like any other street in this maze of a city. Halfway along an old inn sign creaked above the narrow, cobbled way. It had once been a galleon in full sail, but age and the fetid air had mellowed it to the point where it looked like a rowboat in a storm.

‘Down there. I’ll wait for you ‘ere,’ the boy said.

‘This Nan Marsh has got the better of you, hasn’t she?’

The boy squatted down and pretended an interest in a pile of refuse.

Daniel left him and, pulling his cloak around him, entered the establishment. It seemed respectable enough, the floor swept and mopped and the tables wiped. At this hour only a handful of patrons occupied the benches.

A thin woman with a hard face looked up from scrubbing a tabletop.

‘What can I do for ye?’ she enquired.

‘An ale,’ Daniel replied.

The woman straightened, wiping her hands on her apron as she studied him. She frowned and shook her head.

‘Something the matter?’ Daniel enquired, self-consciously touching the scar on his face. She did not seem the sort of woman to be discomposed by a mark on a man’s face.

‘Nah, just for a moment, I thought you was someone else.’ She gestured at an empty table near the fire. ‘Make yerself comfortable, I’ll be right back.’

Daniel settled himself into the well-worn chair and looked into the freshly lit fire, watching as the green wood spat and caught, sending bright sparks and wreaths of smoke up the chimney.

‘Here’s yer ale.’

A man set the pot down in front of him and Daniel looked up. This time the spark of recognition was mutual. The man narrowed his one good eye, the other obscured by a silken patch.

‘I know you,’ the man said.

Daniel didn’t know whether to curse or praise his luck. He should have realised that if this inn had been a habitual haunt of Kit’s, there would probably be a reason.

‘Eveleigh Priory, 1648?’ he ventured.

The man sat down on the bench across from Daniel with a thump and swore. ‘God’s death. It can’t be Dan’l…nah…he’s dead…’

Daniel studied the man, trying to recall the name of Kit’s burly sergeant.

‘Marsh, isn’t it? You served with my brother.’

The man nodded. ‘Aye, I did. Fought beside him for many a year.’ He shook his head in continued disbelief. ‘Well, well, Dan’l Lovell, as I live and breathe. You were a lad when I last saw you.’

The woman sauntered over. ‘Jem, there’s no time for sittin’ here. There’s wood to be cut.’

The man looked up and gestured to the woman. ‘This is me sister, Nan.’

‘And who’s this?’ Nan demanded, a scowl darkening her face.