'Maybe the day after tomorrow.' Eliza replied without looking up from her book.
After lunch, with her morning study done, Eliza went back to the weaving room to help her father. I found myself alone once more. Emerson had left me a list of books to read while he was away, and I reluctantly turned back to them. I had struggled with them all morning, but at last I settled into one of the smaller volumes entitled Alchemy: an introduction.
'In its most basic form, alchemy concerns the purification and perfection of materials,' I recited under my breath. 'In its highest form, it may be used to transform base metals into gold.' I sighed. 'I'll never remember this.'
For the rest of the afternoon, I occupied myself with my books, stopping occasionally to listen to the sounds of people and carriages passing by outside the window. The Gatehouse was as dark and silent as it had been on the previous day, and I wondered how the other members could stand it. The shuttered windows and closed off rooms seemed ominous and forbidding, yet everything about the Guild that seemed sinister and unsettling appeared not to trouble Eliza. She was like a ray of sunshine in the dark disquiet of the Gatehouse, and a welcome companion.
Afternoon was giving way to evening outside, and the light in the little library was diminishing fast. I blinked and looked around. It was too dark to read anymore. I gathered together my books and returned them to their places on the shelves. As I set the last book in its place- a book of weaving magic that Eliza had left out -it jerked from my hand and fell to the floor, open upon the first page. I stooped to retrieve it and stared, puzzled, at the faint characters of a message at the top of the page that looked to have been written by hand, though the script was faint and barely legible. It seemed almost to have emerged from the paper itself and was written in a strong, graceful script.
Glove and Garter, Holborn. Help me! G.P.
Chapter 11
I read the message back to myself a few times before shutting the book, puzzled. I didn't know what to think of it, but perhaps Eliza would. I hesitated for a moment, considering whether to go and find her there and then, when voices along the passageway outside stopped me.
One was definitely the Keeper's voice, but I didn't recognise the other. I crept closer to the door and listened. It appeared the Keeper and another man were continuing a conversation that had started at an earlier point.
‘Things are progressing well, I assure you,' said the Keeper.
‘Your assurances are beginning to sound hollow, Devere. You told me me nigh on three months ago that you had the means to overthrow my enemies and ensure a swift victory,' said the stranger.
'Cromwell, I have given you my word,' replied the Keeper. 'It will not be much longer.'
'And I have given you mine,' replied Cromwell. 'You know well enough what will become of you and your magic circle without my protection. Secrecy cannot sustain you forever, and think not that this war has quelled the desire of some men to see a witch hang. Unless you want the Guild to remain in the shadows forever then you must act fast and choose your allies carefully.'
I hardly dared breathe as their voices drew closer. Fear prickled down my spine as their footsteps reached the door, but to my immense relief they did not stop, and their voices gradually faded down the passageway. I exhaled heavily and sat back down at the table. As sheltered as my life in Osmington Mills had been from the politics of the civil war, even I had heard of Oliver Cromwell, the Member of Parliament and Lieutenant-General of the Army, 'a rogue amongst rogues,' as my father called him, but what was he doing in the Gatehouse?
'I have to find Eliza,' I thought.
I hesitated at the door and listened, but the passageway outside was silent. I slipped out and hurried across the hall to the weaving room. Eliza could be heard inside talking with her father. I knocked, and a moment later her father appeared at the door.
'Hello, Tom,' he smiled, stepping aside to allow me in. 'Have you come to see my sails? They are almost finished,'
He pulled back the temple of the loom and lifted off it a great mass of fabric. In the lamplight, it was a rich brown colour.
'Wait one moment,' he said, moving over to the window and prizing the shutters open with some effort. The last remnants of daylight streamed through the window and settled on the sails. I gasped as the brown cloth now gleamed like polished gold. Eliza grinned.
'It’s sea silk,' she said. 'It turns golden in the sunlight. Is it not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?'
I nodded, unable to tear my eyes from the shimmering haze of gold before me.
'No ship can sink beneath these sails,' said Mr. Ellery proudly.
'It should be a mighty fine ship that they are hoisted over, sir,' I replied.
'It will just be the Mercaturian's old ship; nothing grand,’ he replied. ‘Emerson must learn to sail it now. Well, I must speak with the Keeper about fitting these sails tomorrow. Eliza, be sure to lock those shutters when you are done.'
I waited until Mr. Ellery's footsteps had faded down the passageway before pulling the book from under my jerkin.
'See this,' I said, opening it to the first page. 'I noticed it when I returned the books to their shelves in the library.'
Eliza took the book and read the message aloud. 'This looks like the Mercaturian's writing,' she said.
'Why would he have been asking for help? And what does G.P. mean?' I asked.
'Oh, that is easy enough: those were his initials- George Prye,' replied Eliza.
'George Prye? Was he any relation to Emerson?' I asked.
'Yes, they were brothers. Now, why would George have left a message in a book only Father or I would look at?' Eliza mused. 'He would have known that only we were likely to find it- unless that is what he intended! I wonder how long it has been there.'
'Who knows!' I said.
'The Glove and Garter; I think that is a tavern,' Eliza continued. 'I'm sure I have passed it in the coach when Father has taken me to the market.'
'What does a tavern have to do with the Mercaturian?' I asked. Far from getting answers, it seemed every question just threw up even more.
'I cannot tell,' replied Eliza, frowning. 'There is something very odd about this.'
'Aye, but there is more besides,' I said. 'While I was in the library, I overheard the Keeper talking to someone in the passageway outside. He called him 'Cromwell'. I think it was Oliver Cromwell.'
'What ever would he be doing here?' asked Eliza.
'I was going to ask you. They were speaking of protection for the Guild from witch trials. Cromwell seemed put out that Devere didn’t have something he was expecting. He pressed Devere on how much longer he would have to wait. He didn't say exactly what it was, but he referred to it as the means to overthrow my enemies and ensure a swift victory. Those were his very words.'
Eliza sat at the work table and stared at a knot in the wood. She was silent for a long while and perfectly still, almost as though in a trance. I watched her anxiously, unsure whether to rouse her or not until she looked up. Her face was knotted into a frown.
'Devere must have struck a deal with Cromwell, that much is plain. He must have promised in return something that Cromwell sorely wants or can use somehow.'
'What could it be?' I asked, utterly bewildered.
'I don't know, but we must find out. To think of Devere skulking around in secret with Oliver Cromwell makes me uneasy, and I've a horrible feeling this relates somehow to the Mercaturian's death. He and Devere never had an easy relationship. It was peculiar considering Emerson is so close with the Keeper, what with him being his apprentice…’
‘Emerson was Devere’s apprentice?’ I interrupted.
‘Yes, Devere was the Guild’s alchemist under the last Keeper, and he made Emerson his apprentice when he was not much older than you. But Emerson couldn’t bear to forsake George, his only surviving relative, and so George was apprenticed to the old Mercaturian.’
‘Why did George and Devere not get along?’ I asked, eager to l
earn all I could about my enigmatic new master.
'I don’t really know. Emerson is more like Devere in mood- stern and cold. He keeps things close while George was much more affable, but he disliked Devere. He never said so openly, but then Devere is not a man you would wish to cross.’
I shuddered and remembered the look he had given me at my initiation that morning.
'Eliza, where was Emerson travelling to when his ship was wrecked? And why are he and Devere so close about the box?'
'I know nothing of any box,' Eliza replied, puzzled. 'Emerson travelled to Muscovy in the far north of Europe with a London merchant to trade for the Guild in his brother's place. We were told the ship was wrecked and all the goods were lost. No one has said anything of a box being recovered.'
''Tis very peculiar,' I murmured. 'That was the reason I was brought here: I found the box after it was washed up.'
'Whatever it contains must be of great importance if it is as you say,' replied Eliza.
'Aye, but what should we do?' I asked. 'Something is afoot, that much is plain.'
'We will go to the Glove and Garter tomorrow,' said Eliza. 'I will tell Father that we need more thread. He is fitting the sails tomorrow and will have no need of my help. I shall ask that you accompany me to the market. I shan't sleep well tonight. Something about this makes my blood run chill.'
Chapter 12
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I couldn't be sure I wasn't still asleep. It was as dark as it had been with my eyes shut. I groped my way to the hearth and poked at the dying embers before dressing myself and plunging my head into the bowl of icy water on the washstand. Eliza was already waiting for me in the passageway as I stepped out of the door.
'Come, 'tis a long walk to Holborn,' she said.
Outside, the morning was as fine as late September can bring. There was a chill in the air, but the sun filtered through the branches of the trees that lined the cobbled lane, still in full-leaf for the most part. A few crisp leaves skidded across the sun-dappled ground as I drank in the fresh air like one who is parched after a long journey. I wasn't sure I would ever get used to the lightless, airless confines of the Gatehouse.
'Do you know the way?' I asked Eliza as we turned off the lane onto the main road that the carriage had brought me down the day before yesterday.
'No, but I shall follow my nose- or the carriages,' replied Eliza. 'I know it is near the market; I recall passing it when Father took me there. I believe that is where these carriages are going.'
I gazed about as we walked through the bustling streets and squares of London. The river shimmered in the distance, screened now and then by the spire of a church, and up and down its length, boats glided like fallen leaves in a stream. The city was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I couldn't imagine how so many people could live in one place, and in houses so tightly packed together. I thought of home, of the tumbled down cottage overlooking the sea, and I realised that I missed it desperately.
'What do you think we shall find when we get there?' I asked to distract myself from my thoughts.
'I really don't know what to think,' replied Eliza. 'I doubt it is a hoax. George would never do something like that, which makes me wonder if he was in some sort of trouble before he died.'
'How did he die?' I asked.
'Consumption. 'Twas very sudden; he died in his sleep. We didn't even know he was ill. Emerson was away when it happened and came back at once, but he wasn't permitted to see the body because of the risk of contamination. Look here! This is the market. We can't be far away.'
Eliza led the way through the crowd that had gathered for market day. Stalls lined the street, and men, women and children, from the poorest to the very richest of London society, jostled with one another to make their way through. The chilly autumn air was alive with a carnival atmosphere.
We had little choice but to go where the crowd took us, but suddenly I felt a tug on my sleeve as I fought to avoid being swept away from Eliza.
'Follow me,' she called above the gaggle of voices all around us.
I ducked out of the crowd as Eliza dragged me down a quiet side street where a sign swinging above the door declared that the tavern to which it belonged was called The Glove and Garter. It was a shabby, hovel of a building, with a lopsided doorway and windows so filthy it was impossible to see through them. Outside stood a cart of empty barrels covered by a canvas sheet. Through the open door, I could see a few roguish-looking men propping up the bar through a heavy fog of smoke.
'What do we do now?' I whispered.
'I don't know. I hadn't thought on that,' replied Eliza. She stared anxiously at the unsavoury-looking interior of the inn. I looked from it to her face and back again.
'Wait here,' I said. 'I will go in and ask if anyone knows George Prye.'
'No! You can't do that!' cried Eliza, clutching my arm.
'Why not?' I asked.
'Because....well.... what if someone asks questions? He said he needed help. What if someone knows why and sees us asking questions and is vexed?'
I shrugged Eliza's hand off my arm. 'George is dead!' I replied, a little irate. 'If he needed help, it is too late, and unless he has painted a message on the walls for us, I doubt we are going to learn much by simply standing here. Wait here if you will, but I am going to ask.'
With that, I strode into the smog. Eliza dithered for a moment then hurried in behind me.
Inside, the small room that made up the bar was lit only by a small fire in the hearth. It took a few moments to adjust to the darkness, and the smoke stung my eyes.
'Can I 'elp you?' asked an old man gruffly. He was sitting on a stool in a corner, holding a scrawny cat with a notch in its left ear. It looked almost as ancient as he did.
Eliza and I glanced at each other, then I spoke.
'We wondered whether the landlord or any of his honourable patrons knew of a man by the name of George Prye.'
'I'm the landlord, and I ain't never 'eard of 'im, nor 'ave any o' these,' replied the old man, waving a hand towards the bar where the other men were drinking and ignoring the young strangers who had stumbled unexpectedly into their watering hole.
My heart sank. It seemed we had hit a brick wall. I had half expected someone to say they knew George Prye, or to see something that might give us a clue as to why he had needed help.
'Thank you, sir,' I said as we shuffled back out of the door into the fresh air. We blinked and squinted. The daylight seemed overly-bright after the darkness of the inn.
'What now?' asked Eliza.
I frowned. 'I suppose we should go back to the Gatehouse and think of another plan,' I replied at last. 'There's nothing here but an inn and a few drunkards. I don't know what George could possibly have wanted us to find here.'
Eliza sighed. 'I suppose you are right.'
Reluctantly, we made our way back to the main street to join the throng of market-goers. The weather had taken a sudden turn, and great spots of rain now splashed in the gutters and pounded the canvas awnings of the stalls and shop fronts, but it seemed to have little effect on the shoppers' and browsers' mood. They haggled just as furiously with the traders and squabbled with one another with as much vigour as before.
'Wait!' I cried suddenly, pulling Eliza back, who was a few steps ahead. 'I want to go and look at that sign again.'
'What sign?' asked Eliza.
'The one above the inn door,' I called over my shoulder as I made my way back to the inn.
'Wait for me,' Eliza called after me.
We jostled back through the crowd until we stood on the corner of the street where the Glove and Garter stood. I gazed up at the sign swinging above the door. Beneath the name, a hand had been painted, sheathed in a white glove, and with the sleeve gathered by a garter. The hand was pointing to the left, down a narrow alleyway.
'Look at the hand,' I said. 'See how it points? Let’s see where it leads.'
Eliza followed as I crossed the street. At the co
rner of the alleyway we stopped. It was flanked by the backs of two rows of houses and led only to a decrepit old house which formed a dead-end. Its roof was falling away in places, and rags hung in the windows in place of drapes.
'Who do you suppose lives there?' asked Eliza.
'I don't know, but we should knock and ask if they know George. It may be nothing, but I would rather be sure.'
With that, I took a step forward towards the house, but at the same moment Eliza pulled me back and shrank into the cover of a doorway.
'Devere!' she whispered, pointing up the street.
I peered around the edge of the doorway. There indeed was Devere, his hat pulled down low on his head, striding up the street towards us. He walked briskly as though in a great hurry. My heart thudded as I glanced helplessly at Eliza.
'He's coming this way,' she whispered.
Chapter 13
'What do we do?' I hissed frantically.
The gap between us and Devere was closing fast. He had only to pass the alley and he would walk right past us. My head whirled as I thought desperately of what we might say to excuse ourselves, but as he reached the corner of the alley, he stopped and glanced about.
'What is he doing?' Eliza whispered.
I hardly dared breathe. The next few moments felt like an eternity before Devere turned into the alley and strode up to the house at the end. He hadn't passed us and, for the moment at least, he remained unaware of our presence.
My trepidation was immediately replaced by curiosity as we crept forward, peering around the edge of the corner house and down the alley. Devere stood before the front door of the old house and banged loudly upon it with his fist. Several moments passed before an immensely old and haggard woman, bent almost double over a walking stick, appeared at the door. Devere brushed past her, and the door was shut once more.
'Who do you suppose that is?' I gasped, shrinking back into the cover of the doorway.
'I have never seen her before. She is certainly nothing to do with the Guild,' replied Eliza.
A Skin of a Dragon (The Guild of Gatekeepers Book 1) Page 5
