Page 4 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

THREE

Plymouth, Devon

“Hurry up, ye lazy cow! The customers won’t serve themselves,” Uncle Swithin bellowed as he gave Mary a push toward a table of sailors who were calling raucously for a refill.

She grabbed the jug with both hands so as not to spill the precious ale.

Uncle Swithin would give her a hiding if she did, even though he was the one who caused her to stumble.

Mary approached the table cautiously, making sure to keep her distance as she held out the jug and topped up the men’s tankards.

The sailors had been drinking since early evening and were well soused and rowdy, their lewd comments making Mary’s cheeks flame with embarrassment.

A hand shot out and fastened onto her buttock, making her yelp in surprise.

She wished she could slap it away, but Uncle Swithin wouldn’t let her get away with offending the customers.

She’d have to deal with a lot worse than a hand on her arse if she were caught in the act of defending herself.

He didn’t care if they offended her; he almost hoped they would.

Having a fetching young woman serving the patrons was part of the appeal of the tavern, as her uncle told her time and again.

“No blowsy slatterns here. This is a fine establishment, not a brothel,” he’d announced to a new customer only last night. “Why, our Mary’s as pure as the Virgin. Aren’t you, my dove?” Uncle Swithin cooed in her direction, clearly pleased with his own wit.

Mary had cringed at his crude words and improper insinuations.

Did he really think men came to his tavern to see her?

They came to drink their troubles away and spend a few hours in a place where nothing was expected of them.

They could be as base as they wished, and even after her years of slaving away at her uncle’s establishment, some of them still managed to shock her.

Every morning found Mary on her knees, washing the floor some drunken sod had pissed on the previous evening because he was too drunk or too lazy to go out to the privy to do his business, but sometimes she had to wash away more than piss.

Not a week went by that someone wasn’t sick all over the tables and floor, forcing Mary to scrub up the dried vomit the following morning, the smell making her eyes water as she cringed with disgust.

Mary shook off the offending hand and retreated to the back of the tavern, where she slipped out and rushed toward the privy.

She didn’t really need to go, but going to relieve herself was the only way she could escape the tavern for a few minutes without being cursed at or worse, slapped by her uncle.

Mary slipped behind the privy and leaned against the rough wood of the tree that grew at the bottom of the yard.

She was exhausted. She’d been up since dawn, fetching water, baking bread, making porridge for breakfast, and then starting on the stew and pies that she would later serve to the customers.

It was close to midnight, but the men showed no signs of leaving, and she couldn’t begin to clear the tables or wipe up spilled ale until the tavern was empty.

Mary longed for her bed, but even sleep wasn’t restful these days.

She shared a bed with Uncle Swithin’s three daughters, all under the age of ten.

The girls did their bit to help during the day, or they’d get a beating from their father, but they didn’t sleep quietly, especially the youngest, Beth, who kicked like a donkey and often cried out for her mother in her sleep.

Uncle Swithin’s wife, Agnes, had died only two months ago and the children were still coming to terms with their loss.

Mary had never really cared for Agnes, who’d been calculating and mean, but her death had meant greater responsibility and more work for Mary.

Not only did she now have to look after the customers almost singlehandedly, but she had to take on the role of mother to the girls, who were still too young to fend for themselves.

Her uncle, her mother’s brother, had taken her in seven years ago, when she was thirteen, and although he’d made a promise to his dying sister to be kind to her only child, he worked Mary to the bone and beat her regularly, just in case she forgot to be grateful for his kindness and charity.

Mary bore the beatings, the insults, and the hard work, but what she couldn’t bear was the lack of hope.

She was twenty, a ripe age for marrying and having babies, but any man who so much as expressed an interest in her was driven off, told she’d been promised to another.

Mary wasn’t promised to anyone other than her uncle, who meant to use her as free labor until the day she died.

He’d never let her go, and he made sure no man would be fool enough to marry her.

She had nothing to her name, not even a change of clothes, much less a dowry.

What man would want a woman who brought nothing to the marriage?

Everyone was poor, so why settle for being even poorer?

Mary had been told she was pretty, but a woman who had nothing to offer was fit for nothing more than a roll in the hay, not a place in the marriage bed.

She rejected all advances, especially since most of them came from drunken sailors and sweat-soaked dock laborers who tried to take liberties with her every time she came too near them.

Having spent her five minutes of freedom behind the stinking privy, Mary headed back toward the tavern, hoping the men would finally leave and let her get on with the cleaning.

She froze when she saw two men heading in her direction.

They were drunk, but not drunk enough to pass on the opportunity to harass a defenseless female.

She shrank into the shadows in the hope they’d pass by without noticing her.

She knew these men. She’d seen them at the tavern before.

The older one was Captain Robeson of the Lady Grace , and the younger one was the quartermaster, Master Harrington.

The men stopped just outside the door and looked up at the inky vastness of the nighttime sky.

“We’ll be sailing on the next tide, Master Harrington,” Captain Robeson said. “The cargo is loaded, the ship is provisioned, and the women are ready. We can’t afford to delay any longer. Reverend Gorman wasn’t able to inspire any more women of good character to join our venture. ”

“But we have room for three more,” Master Harrington protested. “Shame to waste it.”

“Indeed, it is, but even if there are women who are interested, it’s not an easy decision, leaving everything you know behind.

That kind of commitment takes some thinking.

It would help if they were orphans, who have no family ties to hold them back.

But if they are harlots or petty thieves, we’re duty bound to turn them away. ”

Master Harrington chuckled. “That we are, Captain.”

“Let’s continue this conversation later. I need a piss,” Captain Robeson said, his hand going to the laces of his breeches.

Captain Robeson strode toward the privy while Master Harrington stood staring up at the cloudless sky. Mary slipped into the back entrance of the tavern, glad he hadn’t noticed her. Master Harrington didn’t appear to be drunk, but she had no wish to take her chances.

Several hours later, Mary lay down next to Beth, making sure she didn’t put any pressure on the throbbing bruise on her left cheek.

Uncle Swithin had hit her hard when she tripped in her fatigue and spilled a cup of ale, and she was sure she’d still be paying for her clumsiness tomorrow.

Mary wanted nothing more than to lose herself in sleep, but the conversation she’d overheard earlier echoed in her mind.

At first, she’d had no idea what the two men were talking about, but then recalled a sermon preached at church a few weeks ago.

The sermon itself had been unremarkable, but Reverend Gorman had made a surprising announcement at the end.

It seemed the Virginia Company of London was seeking young, unmarried women of good character to venture to the New World as wives for the colonists.

Those who were willing wouldn’t have to pay for their passage or worry about finding themselves unwanted upon arriving in Virginia.

There were hundreds of men and only a handful of women.

Any woman, no matter how homely or coarse in her manner, would be in demand as long as she was willing to work hard and procreate regularly to help populate the colony.

Reverend Gorman had made it sound as if it were a patriotic duty to rescue those men from their loneliness, but Mary knew better.

Everything in life revolved around profit, and the Virginia Company wouldn’t be paying for a sea voyage for dozens of women if there were no gain in it for them.

Mary jerked away from Beth as an elbow struck her in the chest. What she wouldn’t give for her own bed, no matter how hard and narrow. It was a luxury she could never hope to have, unless she was still there after the girls married and left her alone with Uncle Swithin.

Mary stared at the whitewashed ceiling and considered the question of profit.

She didn’t care a jot about the Virginia Company, but there was gain for the women, if they survived the voyage and were paired up with decent, Godfearing men.

The bachelors of Virginia were men of property, according to the reverend.

They farmed their own land and had the potential to expand their holdings if they were valuable to the company.

There is land aplenty in the New World, and danger as well , Mary mused.

She’d heard tales of savages who went around half-naked and were no better than the wild beasts they hunted with their spears and arrows.