by Kate Forsyth
‘He’s thirsty too,’ Emilia said.
‘He shouldn’t slobber so much,’ Tom said. ‘It’s such a waste of water.’
‘It helps keep him cool,’ Emilia said crossly. ‘You try being so hairy! You’d be hot too.’
‘I’m hot enough, thank you very much, without having to wear a fur coat,’ Tom replied. ‘Isn’t this the hottest August ever?’ He was a far different boy than the one they had encountered at the Kingston Fair, having shoved his long leather boots in his pack some miles back, so that he walked barefoot like Emilia and Luka. His once-white shirt was fraying where he had torn loose the lace; his long fair hair was wind-tousled, and he had lost the feather from his big hat.
‘How much further?’ Emilia wanted to know. ‘We’ve been walking for hours and hours and hours.’
‘Only three,’ the Duke of Ormonde said, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘It can’t be far now.’
‘It wouldn’t be nearly so far if Father Plummer didn’t keep making us go the long way round,’ Tom grumbled.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ the priest panted. His round face was tomato-red. He fanned one hand in front of his face, and whooshed out a great gust of air. ‘Can’t wait to wet my whistle at the Mermaid Inn!’
‘How are we to get in contact with these mysterious smuggler friends of yours once we get there?’ the duke wanted to know.
Father Plummer winked. ‘You just leave that up to me, my lord!’
Nat scowled, and cast the priest a suspicious look, and dragged his feet as if reluctant to leave the comparative safety of the countryside, which slumbered under the hot afternoon sun, the fields bare except for the great mounds of hay. Occasionally a dray lumbered past, pulled by large carthorses with shaggy forelocks hiding their eyes, and then the six travellers all scrambled behind the hedgerow.
It was late afternoon by the time they came to the little walled town of Rye. Built on a high hill between two broad rivers, the town seemed to float in the evening haze as if it were built on clouds. Beyond lay flat green fields and marshes, and to the south lay the sea, all burnished and bright, as if painted by someone dipping a brush into gold leaf. The rivers were gold too, and the sky the colour of ripening peaches; and the old red houses with their steep roofs and tall chimneys seemed to bask peacefully in the sunset warmth.
Passing under the old arched gateway, Emilia felt as though she was stepping back in time. The streets were narrow and cobbled, with little low houses leaning wearily against each other like old men napping on a bench. Emilia half expected to see ladies in tall hats with veils and knights in heavy armour, like she had seen in old church windows. Instead there was just the usual crowd of people in the plain rough clothes of country folk, some wearing the heavy black of Puritans, but most dressed in homespun brown, carrying strings of fish, or baskets of fruit, eggs and vegetables. The streets ran up and down the hill as if they followed ancient goat tracks, instead of being built for horses and carriages, and were made of such small, uneven cobblestones that it hurt Emilia to walk on them. She picked her way carefully, turning her feet to fit the longer bricks that lined the verge so that she was walking sideways like a crab. Tom put his boots back on.
‘Just up here,’ the priest said. ‘Here we go. This is Mermaid Street. We want the inn, just up the road. That’s the smugglers’ hideaway. We can get a bed there too, and a halfway decent meal.’
‘How do you know so much about smugglers, Father Plummer?’ Emilia asked.
He twinkled at her. ‘I grew up near here, remember. Why, I was a lad of only six the first time I saw the moon-cursers go by. I held a gate open for them and they tossed me a coin, my first ever money all my own. My father used to buy brandy from them, and my mother French silk. Everyone I knew did business with the smugglers, and there’s few houses hereabouts that don’t have secret tunnels or rooms in which to hide the contraband.’
‘Surely you do not approve of smuggling?’ Nat said in a very cold voice.
Father Plummer turned to him. ‘I’ve come in and out of England with the Owlers half-a-dozen times in recent years,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘They ask no questions, as long as you’re willing to pay, and they don’t mind what contraband they carry, as long as there’s gold to be had for it.’
‘I’m contraband, am I?’ the duke asked sweetly, and Father Plummer laughed.
‘But sssh, now!’ the priest said softly. ‘Spies and customs men everywhere, and soldiers too. This port will be watched like all the others. I doubt they will have expected you to get so far so fast, though, my lord, and so let’s hope they’re not looking for you here. Keep that monkey hidden, though, Luka, just in case.’
Luka nodded. He had Zizi tucked up snug in his jacket, and she was fast asleep.
‘Do not call me “my lord” here,’ the duke said softly. ‘I am plain Mr Butler, remember.’
‘And I am plain Mr Plummer,’ said Father Plummer.
‘And I’m never anything but plain Nat,’ said Nat, looking so dour the children did not dare giggle.
At the high end of Mermaid Street was the inn, an ancient building with white plaster walls reinforced with old ship timbers, and a uneven thatched roof that jutted out over the street. Its windows were small, and fitted with diamond-paned glass so thick and old it could not be seen through, though it allowed the warm golden light from the lanterns inside to shine out into the dusk. A picture of a mermaid hung above the door.
They pushed open the door and went inside. A narrow, dark passage led to the back of the inn, where they found a long, low room with heavy beams, and a fireplace at one end, already burning high with flames that danced oddly blue. A heavy oak bar ran most of the length of the room, and a man in an apron was there, polishing glasses.
He nodded at them. ‘You look thirsty. What can I get you?’
‘Some ale would go down well, I must admit,’ the duke said, ‘but I’m also interested in hiring some rooms for the night. Have you any free?’
The innkeeper nodded. ‘Once upon a time, you’d have been lucky indeed to get a room for the night without a booking, but now the river’s silted up and Parliament’s brought in a tax on beer, we’ve rooms to spare. I’ll show you up later and you can take your pick.’
He had a soft, rolling voice, and a wry way of speaking that reminded Luka so much of his father that he felt tears prickle his eyes. He blinked them away and looked around him. They were not the only people in the room. A few old fishermen nursed mugs of ale along the bar, and two men sat near the fire, their greatcoats tossed over the backs of their chairs, small glasses of golden wine before them. Nearby sat a group of other men, farmers by the look of their boots.
From the corner of his eye, Luka saw the priest slide his hand into his pocket and bring out the owl feather he had picked up at Arundel Castle. He twirled it in his fingers nonchalantly, then dropped it on the top of the bar, saying cheerfully, ‘Can I suggest the beer? They make the best for miles around. And the dinner’s pretty good too. I had a nice haunch of roast mutton last time I was here.’
‘Beer and roast mutton sound exceedingly good,’ the duke said.
The innkeeper nodded and poured some foaming amber liquid into big silver tankards, sweeping up the coins the duke paid him into one big hand. Luka picked up his mug and gulped down a grateful mouthful, as the priest led them to an inglenook by the fire, chattering genially all the way. Luka glanced back at the bar, but the innkeeper was busy serving some other fishermen who had come in on a blast of cool, salty air. The owl feather was gone.
The beer was stronger than he was used to, and it went straight to his head. He saw Emilia blink as she drank, and put down her cup rather unsteadily.
‘That’s no small beer,’ she said.
The priest laughed. ‘No. Not at all. Round here they think watering down the beer encourages the plague. You won’t get a Rye fisherman to drink Adam’s Ale, and maybe they’re right. The water’s not so pure, I think.’
Luka drank another great mouthful. He felt his weariness and anxiety melt away, though the room began to seem oddly long and distorted, and wavered before his eyes.
The priest was in an expansive mood. ‘You know, the monks used to make beer, using the foam off the top of apple cider, and then it was the woman’s job, like making butter and jam. Since they’ve started fermenting hops, though, it’s now men’s business. I wonder why? Maybe because there’s money in it? Anyway, did you know Good Queen Bess was very partial to her beer? I’ve heard she and her ladies used to drink more than a pint for breakfast, and the queen used to send couriers ahead of her wherever she travelled, to taste the beer and make sure it was drinkable. If the couriers thought it was not up to scratch, she would order barrels sent down from London to her.’
‘Nice job,’ the duke said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Official beer-taster to the queen. I might apply to my dear Charles for a similar position.’
The priest shot a warning glance at the duke, though he chatted on genially with no change in his voice. ‘Shakespeare’s father was an ale-taster, did you know? They used to pour some of the ale upon their bench and sit on it, and by the time they had drunk a pint or two, they would know if too much sugar was in the ale because their leather breeches would stick to it!’
That made everyone laugh so much, Luka almost forgot the warning look that had preceded it. By now they were all feeling very merry, and then the innkeeper brought them a fine meal of roast mutton and potatoes, with a scoop of green baby peas and a fresh jug of beer. They ate and drank and laughed, stretching their weary, dust-caked feet out to the fire.
‘My lord, I do not like this,’ Nat hissed to the duke, looking more austere than ever. ‘We should be finding a ship for you, not sitting and listening to a drunk fool’s tales. Let me go and see if I can find a ship to France for you, my lord. Every minute we sit and drink and gossip is another minute the soldiers grow closer to you.’
‘Oddsblood, Nat, let me eat my dinner and rest awhile,’ the duke said irritably. ‘Plummer has things well in hand. Did he not guide us safely here?’
Nat looked sour. ‘You may say so, sir, but all I can say is we’ve had the soldiers on our heels every step of the way.’
‘Not today, thank God,’ the duke said, leaning back in his chair and gulping another mouthful of beer.
Once the innkeeper had cleared away the dirty plates, the two men sitting nearby leant over and said genially, ‘Fancy a game of cards?’
Luka, Emilia and Tom exchanged excited glances, wondering if these were some of the smugglers, making contact. They did not look much like smugglers, though Luka had to admit he really had no idea what smugglers would look like. These two men were both clean-shaven, with light brown hair cropped below their ears in the fashion of the day, and tall boots that came above their knee. They wore long dark coats with lots of buttons and large cuffs turned back at the wrist, and both had swords which they had unbuckled to sit down, and which now leant against their greatcoats. They looked more like respectable tradesmen or landowners than smugglers. Certainly they did not look much like gypsies.
‘You know I do not care much for cards,’ Nat said to the duke, only just managing to remember not to call him by his title. He got to his feet abruptly. ‘I’m sure Mr Plummer here will be glad to play, though. I will go out and see about that business of ours.’
The duke nodded his head. ‘Good. Thanks, Nat. Don’t be late back.’
‘No, sir,’ he said, and went quickly out into the street. Father Plummer watched him go with a quizzical look, but then turned back to the card game with every sign of enthusiasm. Luka thought to himself that he was indeed most unlike what he had expected a priest to be.
The children did not play, of course, but they watched the four men and listened to their conversation with great interest. At first it was mainly about the weather, and the game, and the cards they were dealt, but after a while it turned to politics, as it always did.
‘So what news of London?’ the duke asked, apparently idly, as one of the strangers dealt out another hand.
‘I heard the Lord Protector has been very sick,’ replied the shorter of the two men, named Harrison. ‘They’ve been praying for him in the city.’
The duke dropped his hand of cards. ‘Saying prayers for him!’ he repeated incredulously. ‘You don’t mean they think he’s going to die!’
‘Old Noll will never die,’ Father Plummer said cheerfully. ‘Play your hand, man!’
But the duke could not. Blood had rushed to his face, and his hands were shaking. He put them under the table so the two strangers would not see. ‘The Lord Protector?’ he said. ‘Dying?’
Harrison shrugged. ‘I heard it from a carter yesterday. He’s been sick as a dog ever since his daughter died, so sick he could not even make her funeral. They say he is utterly prostrate with grief.’
‘He’s been sick before, though, and recovered,’ the other man, Deloney, said.
‘He’s tough as they come,’ Father Plummer said. ‘More beer?’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ the duke demanded.
‘Some kind of ague,’ Deloney said.
‘No, that’s what he had before,’ Harrison said. ‘I’ve heard he’s racked with pain in his back and bowels, pain so intense he screams with it.’
Luka remembered the little poppet of Cromwell in the hands of the witch of the New Forest, pierced with a long hatpin, and how, gloating, she had twisted it deeper into the cloth body. He shuddered, and looked at Emilia, who was very pale.
The duke stood up. ‘I’m sorry, sirs, you must forgive me. I find I’m feeling unwell. I must retire to my room. Thank you for the game, I’m sorry to give it up so early.’
He walked away quickly, and Father Plummer made a profuse apology and followed him, jerking his head at the children to come too. They got up and scurried after him, looking at each other in surprise. Surely the duke could not be so upset at the news Cromwell was ill?
As soon as they were in the privacy of their rooms, though, they saw the duke was not upset, but filled with joy and jubilation. ‘I must get back to my king!’ he cried. ‘We must make preparations! If Cromwell is ill, if Cromwell is dying … what better time for us to come back to England? Father Plummer, I must sail tonight! Will you come with me? Where is Nat? Oddsblood, but I hope he has found a ship for me!’
He danced a few steps of a jig, then tried to compose himself. ‘I must find Nat,’ he said. ‘Where could he be?’
‘I’ll go and find him, my lord!’ Tom cried. ‘Oh, please, let me!’
‘We’ll go too,’ Luka said. ‘We need to take Rollo out anyway.’
‘Very well,’ the duke said. ‘Have a care, though. Rye is not the place for children to be wandering about at night. Miss Emilia had best stay here.’
‘As if!’ Emilia cried as soon as she was outside the door. ‘I’m not staying here all by myself. I’ll be quite safe with you two.’
‘And Rollo,’ Luka added.
Rollo barked loudly, as if he quite agreed.
Down to the Strand
The three children ran down the steps, the big shaggy dog loping at their heels.
In the hallway they collided with a small, dark man with a hat pulled down low over his eyes. He was wearing a long black coat and tall black boots.
Emilia, who had been in the lead, cannoned into him first. He had been standing so still, looking through the glass pane in the door that led into the public bar, that she had not even seen him.
‘Oh, sorry!’ she cried, and put up her hand to support herself. The sleeve of his coat was damp.
‘Where are you off to in such a hurry, missy?’ he asked, staring down at her with black eyes that glinted in the light from the lantern on the table.
‘Just taking our dog out for a walk,’ she said.
‘It’s dark out. Shouldn’t go out after dark, missy.’
‘We won’t be long,’ Luka said, and pushed past him, Tom on
his heels. Emilia followed them, but turned at the door to glance back at the stranger. When he had turned his head to watch them troop past, she had seen, she thought, a strangely glowing earring hanging from his ear. It had been no more than a glimpse, but it made her curious.
The man smiled at her, showing a mouth of rotten teeth. ‘Not much of a moon tonight, remember, missy,’ he said in a low voice. It sounded like a warning.
She nodded, and went out into the night. A lantern hung by the front door, but beyond the narrow street was filled with darkness. The boys had already turned and were running down the lane, and she ran after them. A strange sort of exultation filled them all. They leapt and bounded, careless of the uneven cobblestones. Cromwell is sick, maybe dying, Emilia thought. Did the witch of the New Forest do that? Is it magic?
‘Which way?’ Luka cried.
‘Down to the Strand,’ Tom called back. ‘Father Plummer showed us where the ships are, this afternoon, remember? Straight down this hill.’
They reached the bottom of the hill and slowed, panting. Zizi had struggled halfway out of Luka’s coat and was looking about her curiously. Luka lifted her so she sat on his shoulder, and gave her an affectionate pat. ‘Stay close, monkey girl,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want you getting lost.’
The great bulk of the Strand Gate loomed before them, half in ruins. They slipped through, looking about them. Down on the quay all was quiet. A watchman made his rounds with a lantern on a hook. The ships bobbed up and down on their moorings. There was no sign of Nat.
The children did not want to be caught by the watchman, so they crouched in the shadows until he had turned the corner. They then slipped out and prowled up and down the quay, looking at all the boats. Some were dark and quiet. Others had lights in their windows and the sound of voices coming from the cabins. They could not hear Nat’s gruff tones. They hesitated, wondering what to do, then walked the length of the quay again. Some of the voices were speaking in a foreign language. They did not recognise it.
