Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris

Author:Robert Harris [Harris, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IT TOOK NAYLER much longer to climb up from the ledge than it had to clamber down. He had to work his way crabwise across the cliff face in search of footholds, jamming his toecaps into narrow cracks and clutching at protruding roots, some of which came away in his hand. But his strength was all in his upper torso, in those wrestler’s arms and shoulders that compensated for his weakened leg, and eventually, dripping sweat, he reached the clifftop. After sitting a while to recover his breath, he untethered his horse and hauled himself into the saddle. The mare seemed to know her own way back, which was just as well, carrying him along the ridge and down the steep track to the forest floor. He barely registered Sperry’s farmhouse as he passed it, nor the ruined mill. His black dog loped beside him.

By the time he reached New Haven, the sun was sinking; the shadow of the meeting house stretched far across the green. After the disturbances of the morning, the settlement was quiet. A couple strolled by arm in arm, taking the evening air. He asked them for directions to the inn.

As he had anticipated, the men of his searching party were gathered downstairs drinking wine and ale.

‘Mr Nayler,’ cried Captain Kirke, raising his glass, ‘did you have much joy?’ He was smirking.

‘Never mind that. Have you conducted a search of the town?’ Those who knew Nayler of old would have taken notice of his dead-calm tone.

‘We still lack a warrant.’ The captain took another swig of wine.

‘Is that so?’

‘It is.’

‘You have drunk enough, I think.’

‘I shall drink as I wish.’

‘Not while I am paying you.’ Nayler stepped forwards and calmly knocked the glass from his hand. Kirke swore and started rising to his feet. Nayler swung his fist and punched him on the side of his head, very hard – hard enough to send him sprawling to the floorboards, where he groaned and tried to sit up and then fell back again.

Sucking his skinned knuckles, Nayler glanced around at the other men, daring them to intervene, and when no one met his gaze, he climbed the stairs to the dormitory and lay down on the first bed he saw. He turned his face to the wall, and there he remained as night fell, until he heard footsteps and Kellond’s voice. ‘Mr Nayler, sir?’ His tone was nervous, respectful. ‘Governor Leete has come to talk to you.’

‘Tell him to go away.’

‘He says he has news of the warrant.’

‘I have retired for the night.’

‘He is most persistent.’

Nayler groaned, rolled over and put his feet to the floor.

Downstairs, Kirke was slumped over a table, apparently asleep, his head resting on his folded arms. Nayler was confident he would have no further trouble from that quarter: even the Scotchmen were sitting well apart from him, as if he had the plague. Leete stood in the doorway.

‘Governor Leete,’ said Nayler. ‘You wish a word?’

‘In private, if you please.’

‘You sing a different song, sir.

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