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

before parting with their money and, despite the early hour, the inn was overflowing with drinkers. It was crowded and noisy. As at Oistins, though, the smells were different. In Romsey, the smells of the market were those of fresh food and cooking fat. Here they were more of sweat, drains and rotting vegetables. And the heat was fierce. Thomas felt his head burning and tried to stay in the shade. Everyone else wore a hat.
    Still led by the rope, Thomas followed the Gibbes around the stalls, while they filled two sacks with meat, poultry and bread, but showed no interest in the fish, fruit or vegetables. None of the other planters spoke to the Gibbes, nor did they actually pay for anything. At each stall, having taken what they wanted, one of them muttered ‘end of the month’, and they moved on. There was no argument. As they made their way around the square, Thomas was aware of being inspected. Another wretch at the mercy of the Gibbes was what the traders would be thinking and, if so, they were right.
    Having heaved the heavy sacks on to the backs of the ponies and secured them carefully, Thomas wondered what was coming next. He should have known. Leaving him tied to a stunted treewith orders to stay put and watch the ponies or feel the whip, the Gibbes marched into the inn.
    Thomas sat on a low wall in the meagre shade of the tree, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and wondered if there was a well in the village. He was about to ask when a voice behind him said, ‘Good day, sir. I saw you with the Gibbes brothers and wondered if you would care for a drink?’ Thomas turned in surprise. A slim young man of no more than twenty was holding out a leather flask. ‘It’s coconut water. Good for the stomach.’ It was an unusual voice with a slight lilt to it – both educated and musical.
    Thomas took the flask and swallowed a mouthful of coconut water. It was cool and sweet and he took a second gulp. ‘Thank you,’ he said, handing back the flask.
    ‘My name is Patrick,’ said the young man with a grin that showed off his gleaming teeth. ‘I’m employed by Mr Lyte and his sister Mary. Their estate borders on the Gibbes’s, so we’re neighbours.’
    Thomas stood and offered his hand. ‘I am Thomas Hill, indentured to the brutes, I mean the Gibbes.’
    Patrick chuckled. ‘How long have you been with the brutes, Thomas?’
    ‘This is my second day.’
    ‘It didn’t take you long to discover what they’re like.’
    ‘Are your owners any better?’
    Another huge smile. ‘I’m a lucky man. I was born here to a white father and a black mother. I have lived on the Lytes’ estate all my life. When they came here the Lytes bought the plantation with all its slaves. I was one of them. They are good people, as different from the Gibbes as you could imagine.’
    ‘So you’re a slave.’
    ‘I am because my skin is black or at least it is not white, but I’m treated as a trusted servant. I count myself fortunate. How long is your indenture?’
    ‘Seven years. It’s beyond imagining.’
    ‘Then don’t imagine, Thomas. Take each day as it comes. The time will pass. Why were you indentured?’
    Patrick listened while Thomas told the story of his arrest and deportation and of being forced to leave his sister and nieces to fend for themselves. ‘And you really have no idea who arranged it?’ he asked when Thomas had finished.
    ‘I have tried and tried to work out who might have done this to me. It must have been someone who bears me a grudge, but who? I can think of no one.’
    The Gibbes emerged from the inn, each with a bottle in his hand. John untied the rope from the tree and bellowed at Thomas to get moving. ‘There’s work to be done, Hill. Leave that blackamoor to his thieving and hurry up.’
    Thomas shrugged. ‘Goodbye, Patrick. Thank you for the coconut water.’
    ‘Goodbye, Thomas. Go well.’
    The walk back up the hill was a good deal harder than the walk down and by the time they