Son of Heaven by David Wingrove Read Free Book Online Page A

striding round the corner to the left: Tom Hubbard and Jack Adams, a beefy, bearded man in his mid-thirties who lived on the far side of their village.
    Driving the sleds were Eddie Buckland, a local man from Corfe; Dougie Wilson, a slender, taciturn fellow from Kimmeridge; and Frank Goodman, from Langton Matravers, down Swanage way.
    As the two parties merged, there were shouts of greeting, while in nearby houses, doors and windows were flung open, as people got up to watch the men get ready to depart.
    As Tom came closer, he glanced across at Jake and nodded, the faintest smile on his lips.
    ‘You’re looking rough, old friend.’
    ‘I’m getting old. I can’t drink the way I used to.’
    Tom’s smile broadened. ‘Ne’er you mind. You’ll soon walk it off.’
    And that was it. If Jake had thought there’d be any more to it then he’d been wrong. As Tom turned away, his movements as natural as ever, Jake breathed a sigh of relief. Tom was no
actor, and if he’d noticed nothing strange about Mary’s behaviour, then there was probably nothing to notice.
    Maybe he’s left her in bed, sleeping it off.
    Only if it were he setting off for a four-day trip, he’d have made sure he’d woken her. As he always did with Annie.
    People were emerging from their houses now, bringing a last few items to take to market and trade. Afterthoughts. Things they had no need for. Old Josh was one of them, and, spying Jake, he came
across.
    ‘Jake, boy… you know what I’m looking for. If there’s anything, get it for me, and bugger the cost. But use your judgement, eh? It’s gotta be playable.’
    He placed a leather pouch of coins in Jake’s hand.
    ‘Christ, Josh… must be half your savings here!’
    Josh leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘That’s it, boy. Every last crown of it. But I reckons thar’ll be some’at this time, what with all the strangers on the road. But
you know what I’m lookin’ for. No crap, mind. You come back with a Kylie album and I’ll be sorely pissed off wi’ you.’
    Jake laughed. ‘You can trust me, Josh. If there’s anything, I’ll make sure it’s yours, all right?’
    ‘Thar’s a good boy, Jake Reed. Good as a son to me.’
    ‘It was fine music last night, Joshua. Some of the very best.’
    The old man nodded and grinned. ‘Thar’s naught like the old songs, eh, lad?’
    Jake slipped the coin pouch into his inner pocket, then, the last few pieces stashed, climbed up beside Ted Gifford on the first wagon. There was quite a crowd by now – fifty or more,
gathered about them – and as Tom led the party down the slope towards the barrier, so the villagers followed, their chatter filling the morning air.
    Ahead of them, the two watchmen – Dick Sims and John Gurney – heaved at the gate, straining to move the massive barrier, once a part of a level crossing, back against the wall. Then
they stood aside, joining the others in waving and cheering the party through.
    As they went round the curve of the castle mound and out of sight, Jake reached behind him and took his rifle from where he’d stowed it temporarily, then loaded a fresh clip into the
magazine.
    They were moving slowly, at walking pace, the two ponies straining, heads nodding, as they pulled the fully-laden weight of the wagon.
    Jake always liked this part of the journey, down Challow Hill, following the old railway line – the tracks long since removed – and across Middlebere Heath towards the ancient Saxon
town of Wareham. There was something eternal about the place, something untouched, that stirred his soul. There were one or two farmhouses here and there, scattered to either side of the track, but
you barely noticed them, they were so much a part of the landscape.
    Jake leaned out, turning to look back at the rest of the party. Directly behind them, its two ponies keeping pace for pace with theirs, was the second wagon, with Dick Gifford at the reins.
Beside him on the long bench seat was Eddie