The Cat's Eye Shell

by Kate Forsyth

  Rollo growled softly, and they quickly crouched behind a big pile of bales on the wharf. It was the watchman making his rounds again.

  ‘Down, boy,’ Emilia whispered, and obediently Rollo lay quietly till the watchman had gone.

  ‘What should we do now?’ Tom whispered.

  Luka shrugged. ‘Go back? It’s very odd. Where can Nat have gone?’

  An icy hand suddenly clutched at Emilia’s heart. ‘You don’t think he’s gone to inform the constables, do you?’

  ‘No!’ Tom cried. ‘Why, he’s the duke’s own servant!’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a servant has betrayed his master,’ Luka said. ‘Besides, remember how he left his scarf in the guardroom at Arundel? If I had not seen it …’

  ‘We were all in a rush,’ Tom said. ‘Anyone could have dropped something.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Luka said.

  ‘If you’re going to suspect anyone, I’d suspect Father Plummer,’ Tom said. ‘He’s not at all like a priest!’

  ‘No,’ Luka agreed, ‘but he wouldn’t want to act like a priest, would he, really? He’s obviously in disguise.’

  ‘But brandy in a hipflask,’ Tom said, shaking his head. ‘And gambling in an inn.’

  ‘And knowing all about smugglers,’ Emilia put in.

  They stared at each other, feeling uneasy.

  ‘There’s another thing about Nat,’ Emilia said, voicing something that had been troubling her vaguely all evening. ‘He says he doesn’t approve of gambling …’

  ‘Well, it is rather puritanical,’ Tom said, ‘but not all Royalists like drinking and playing cards, you know.’

  ‘Aye, of course,’ Emilia said. ‘It’s just … well, the first time I saw him, it was up at Epsom Downs, you know, that day I was riding in the race.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I saw him there, putting money on the race. He gave Sebastien’s father the heaviest purse! Yet he says he doesn’t approve of gambling.’

  Luka and Tom thought about this.

  ‘It does seem odd,’ Tom said, ‘but it probably doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he was putting on a bet for the duke.’

  ‘Or maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know his secret vice,’ Luka said with a grin.

  ‘Maybe,’ Emilia said. ‘It just makes me feel uneasy. Like we shouldn’t have left the duke.’

  Tom got up, looking worried. ‘Let’s go back. There’s nothing happening here.’

  They climbed the hill back up to the inn, and were relieved to find Nat had returned.

  ‘But where were you?’ Tom cried. ‘We looked all over the quay, and it was quiet as anything!’

  ‘I walked back the other way,’ Nat said. ‘I wanted to have a bit of a scout around, to make sure all was well.’

  What other way? Luka thought. It was a straight line from the inn to the quay. He would have had to go right round the whole town.

  ‘I wanted to stretch my legs,’ Nat said, as if reading his thoughts.

  Zizi gibbered in derision.

  ‘Good news though!’ the duke cried. ‘Nat has found me a ship, leaving for France on the dawn tide.’

  Tom cried out in relief. ‘Oh, thank heavens! I’m so glad. Are you sure it’s safe?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Nat said. ‘The ship’s captain was perfectly willing to take on some extra passengers – for a price.’

  ‘My purse is as thin as a beggar’s dog,’ the duke said ruefully. ‘I could have done with winning some coins tonight.’

  Nat frowned, and shut his lips together firmly, turning away to get out the duke’s nightshirt, which he hung by the fire to warm.

  ‘Best get off to bed, children,’ the duke said. ‘I know I’m unutterably weary, and this is my last chance to sleep in a real bed for a while.’

  Emilia glanced at Father Plummer, who was standing quietly by the fire, his round face worried.

  ‘Did you hear from the smugglers?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, but it’s early yet. Midnight is more their hour.’

  ‘I hope they don’t come scratching on my door,’ the duke said. ‘I plan on being fast asleep! Nat, will you wake me with plenty of time?’

  ‘Certainly, my lord.’

  ‘I’ll say my farewells to you now, then,’ the duke said, smiling at the children.

  ‘Please, my lord, may I not come with you?’ Tom cried.

  ‘Tom, you know how much I need men to help. But you are so young, and I do not want to bring grief to your family …’

  ‘Please?’ Tom cried.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. Go home and look after your father, and wait for news. With the glad tidings I’ve had tonight, perhaps it will not be so long till we meet again!’

  Emilia could not help thinking how sad it was that the illness of one poor old man was greeted with such delight.

  ‘Luka, Emilia, I wish you all the best,’ the duke said then. ‘I hope you succeed in freeing your family. I’m sure all will be well for you. At least you are in the right place to find your kin, if they really are the smugglers Father Plummer knows.’

  ‘I’m sure they are,’ Luka said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, then, goodnight,’ the duke said. ‘Let us have one last toast to the king, with our friend Father Plummer’s excellent French brandy. To the king!’

  ‘Let him come home soon!’ Tom said, his voice breaking.

  Luka, swallowing a mouthful of liquid fire, hoped it was the brandy that brought a mist before his eyes and a choke to his throat. He would hate to think he had become a Royalist.

  They went to bed, so tired they could barely stumble to their rooms. The bed seemed to rock beneath Luka, as if he was on a great ship at sea and not on solid land. He closed his eyes and felt himself sink down into sleep like a deep, dark ocean swimming with strange fish.

  Beatrice stroked back Mimi’s curly black hair, softly singing a lullaby. The little girl shut her eyes, cuddling her rag doll to her cheek.

  The cell grew quiet as Beatrice sang, and even the incessant coughing of the sick man next door died down. Everyone listened in intense pleasure, for Beatrice’s voice was clear and warm and golden as sunshine, as sweet as the air in springtime. She sang on, dropping her voice towards the end, hoping Mimi was asleep at last. But when she had finished, the little girl opened her eyes sleepily and said, ‘More.’

  ‘All right,’ Beatrice said, though her voice was hoarse. She began to sing a beautiful old love song:

  ‘In the middle of the ocean,

  There shall grow a myrtle tree

  If ever I prove false, my love,

  To the boy that loves me.’

  Suddenly there came the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the iron door was flung open. Beatrice flinched as light poured in over them, and lifted her arm to shield her eyes.

  The pastor stood in the doorway, his shadow pointing like an accusing finger. His face was white and rigid with rage.

  ‘Singing!’ he hissed. ‘You profane our presence with singing? What must we do to teach you to keep a proper silence?’

  ‘I was only singing a lullaby,’ Beatrice stammered. ‘To put little Mimi to sleep.’

  He stood over her, staring down at her. She dropped her eyes and drew her shawl closer.

  ‘You must beware of the first approaches of sin,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This sin of vanity and frivolity brings down your soul from the doors of heaven and makes it wallow like swine in a beloved dunghill. I have come here today, I thought, to give succour to a dying soul, but now I see I was brought here to teach you the wages of sin. Get up!’

  After a moment, Beatrice got up, her legs trembling beneath her. She turned one frightened glance towards her grandmother, who laid her finger on her lips, urging her to be still and meek.

  ‘Come with me,’ the pastor ordered.

  Beatrice dared not protest. Gently she pushed away Mimi’s clinging hands, and followed the pastor out of the cell.

 
‘Bring her to the warden’s room,’ he snapped at the guard, who seized Beatrice painfully by the elbow and marched her down the hall, following the pastor’s black-robed form. It was quiet and dark in the hallway, the only light cast by a lantern on a table outside the cells, and another in the innkeeper’s room at the far end of the corridor.

  This was a large, comfortable room, with big easychairs padded with embroidered cushions, a roaring fire, a small table set with wine glasses and a decanter, a big desk littered with scrolls of paper, a pot stuffed full of quills, ink pots, blotting paper, books and ledgers, and a bowl filled with reeking pipes and lumps of half-burnt tobacco. The innkeeper looked up in surprise as the pastor glided in, his hands folded before him.

  ‘Dead already, is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Riley,’ Pastor Spurgeon answered coldly. ‘He is at peace with himself and his Lord, though, and I expect he will breathe his last in the early hours of the morning.’

  Riley sighed heavily. ‘We’ll have the whole lot down with the fever, no doubt, and none left for the assizes, if we’re not careful. Last thing I need is another enquiry into dying prisoners.’

  He saw Beatrice shrinking in the hard grasp of the guard, and said, ‘What’s this? One of the women prisoners causing a disturbance, hey?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Pastor Spurgeon replied. ‘I trust you will allow me to discipline her as I see fit.’

  The innkeeper shifted in his chair, but said ingratiatingly, ‘For sure, for sure.’

  ‘I was only singing a little lullaby,’ Beatrice said desperately. ‘Indeed, I was doing no harm.’

  The pastor regarded her with cold eyes. ‘Did your father never teach you to keep a still tongue in your head?’

  ‘Well, if it were just a little lullaby,’ Riley said. ‘No harm done.’

  The pastor fixed his burning eyes upon the innkeeper, who shrank back. ‘Do not let this woman’s beauty and false innocence trick you,’ he warned. ‘Women have a thousand ways to entice you, and ten thousand ways to deceive you. So I warn you, Mr Riley.’

  ‘Yes, yes, just so,’ he replied, not looking at Beatrice.

  Pastor Spurgeon held out his hand. ‘Give me the key to your cupboard.’

  Riley jostled his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys which he gave to the pastor who unlocked the cupboard and flung back the door. Beatrice at once shrank back, her legs almost giving way beneath her, for inside were hung a wide range of whips and flails, studded iron gauntlets, manacles and chains, thumbscrews and other iron contraptions whose use she could only guess at. The pastor selected one and brought it to her. The guard had to hold her steady, for she was weeping and pleading with him, incoherent with fear.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ Pastor Spurgeon ordered.

  Beatrice at once clamped her mouth tightly shut.

  He frowned, and ordered the guard to force her mouth open. This he did. Helplessly, Beatrice tried to squirm away as the pastor fitted a heavy iron bridle over her head, with a long iron bar that he forced into her mouth, clamping down her tongue. In seconds it was locked into place.

  ‘I’ve never heard of the scold’s bridle being used for singing,’ Riley said dubiously.

  The pastor ignored him. ‘You will thank me for this, I promise you,’ he said to Beatrice. ‘Vanity is the vilest of all sins, and using one’s tongue to entice and enchant is the most abhorrent of things to our Lord Christ. Our tongue should be used only to pray to him and praise him.’

  Beatrice could not have spoken even if she had wanted to. The iron bar gagged her cruelly. She stared at him in utter bemusement, unable to understand why anyone could do such a thing to her, or indeed to any woman.

  ‘Leave her in it for the night,’ the pastor told the guard, ‘but let her eat and drink in the morning, and again in the evening. Otherwise she must wear it at all times.’

  The guard looked at the innkeeper, who flapped his hand and said, ‘Of course. Do as he says.’

  Beatrice made her way unsteadily back to her cell, unbalanced by the heavy weight of the iron contraption locked about her head, her tongue throbbing with pain. The guard opened the door for her and ushered her in, and Beatrice’s eyes met her grandmother’s. Maggie’s eyes opened wide in horror, but she said nothing until the door had been locked again. Then she crawled towards Beatrice, tears running down her face.

  ‘Oh, my darling, my darling girl, what have they done to you?’

  Long Past

  Midnight

  RYE, EAST SUSSEX, ENGLAND

  24th August 1658

  Rollo growled, deep in his throat.

  Emilia swam up out of a fathomless darkness, trailing the tatter of a terrible dream. She lay in the bed, her heart pounding, and tried to remember where she was. Memory was slow to come, and all the time Rollo growled like a miniature thunderstorm, warning of danger.

  Emilia sat up, and swung her feet out. Rollo was sitting by the bed, staring at the door. She got up and tiptoed over to the door, listening intently. After a moment, she opened the door and put her head out.

  She could hear the low murmur of voices.

  It felt very late. Long past midnight. With Rollo nudging her, Emilia went out into the hallway and listened at the door next to hers. She could hear the voices more clearly, but not enough to distinguish many words. ‘No more,’ she heard, and ‘cost’. ‘Soon’ or maybe it was ‘moon’. ‘Regret’, and ‘blood’, or maybe ‘mud’, and, quite clearly, ‘he should die’.

  Emilia’s heart was hammering so hard it hurt her rib cage. She put her hand on Rollo’s head to steady herself, and he whined and licked her. Luka, she thought, and went in search of her cousin.

  He was sharing a room with Tom, on the opposite side of the corridor. His door was unlocked, and Emilia was able to run across to the bed, and shake him awake, without any difficulties.

  ‘Whaaaat?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Luka,’ she whispered. ‘Voices. Next door. I’m afraid.’

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What?’ he said again.

  ‘Voices. From the priest’s room. I’m afraid…’

  ‘Is he plotting something?’ Tom’s low voice came from the other bed.

  ‘I think so. He said “blood” and “he should die”.’

  ‘Did he mean my lord duke?’ Tom sounded wide awake, and full of vengeful fury.

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t hear much. But I’m worried …’

  Tom was up in a trice, pulling on his boots and groping for his dagger. In a moment, Luka stumbled out of bed too, scrubbing at his head, and lurching about looking for his breeches. Zizi screeched and leapt onto his head, dragging at his hair so that he yelped.

  ‘Sssh!’ Emilia hissed. ‘It’s late!’

  They crept down the hall together and listened at the priest’s door. They could hear little, and Luka was all for going back to bed, but Tom turned the door handle and flung open the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  The priest was sitting up in bed dressed in a voluminous nightgown, his sparse hair sticking up from his head. On the end of his bed sat the small, dark man Emilia had run into earlier. Without his big hat, he was revealed as being about forty, with short black curly hair, a blue chin, a big nose, beetling eyebrows, and narrow, suspicious black eyes. One boot was crossed over his knee, and he held his big hat in one hand. In the other he held a white owl feather.

  ‘Sssh!’ the priest said irritably. ‘What are you doing up at this hour? Come in, come in, if you must. Shut the door. Milosh, these are the children I was telling you about.’

  ‘Milosh!’ Luka cried. ‘That’s a Rom name.’

  ‘Is that so?’ the small, dark man said. ‘And how would you be knowing that?’

  ‘We’re Rom too,’ Luka said. ‘At least, I am and Emilia. Tom’s not. He’s just a boy.’

  Tom shot him a look, but said nothing.

  ‘You have our owl feather,’ Emilia said. ‘Are you a smuggler?’

&
nbsp; ‘Who, me? How can you say such a thing? I’m a businessman.’ Milosh smiled slowly, showing his dreadful teeth. ‘A businessman who just happens to prefer the night hours.’

  ‘The hours when most good children are asleep,’ Father Plummer said acidly.

  ‘You woke me,’ Emilia said. ‘You scared me. I heard you say something about “blood”, and someone dying.’

  Father Plummer and Milosh exchanged quick glances. ‘You have sharp ears,’ the smuggler said.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ Tom demanded. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘We were just talking,’ Father Plummer said. ‘I showed the owl feather, Milosh heard about it and came to see what I wanted. He could not come earlier; those friendly gentlemen we were chatting to earlier were excise men. Besides, Milosh prefers to test how strong a man’s heart is, and turn up on the end of his bed when he’s asleep!’

  ‘Yours is ticking along well, old friend,’ Milosh said, and grinned again.

  ‘I heard you say someone must die,’ Emilia said, fondling Rollo’s ears. The big dog was sitting with his head on her knee, and she drew comfort from his warmth and closeness.

  Again the exchange of glances.

  ‘I fear treachery,’ Father Plummer said. ‘Things don’t smell right to me. I would like the duke to abandon this idea of a French ship and sneak out of the country on one of Milosh’s boats. No one knows this coast like Milosh.’

  ‘No one,’ the smuggler agreed complacently, twirling the white feather.

  ‘But he won’t. The duke is not used to intrigue. Look at his hair! Emilia spotted he was a fake at first glance and she’s only thirteen years old.’

  ‘But smart,’ Emilia said, in a fair copy of Milosh’s smug voice. He opened his eyes at her, and showed a glimpse of black teeth.

  ‘Aye, very smart,’ the priest agreed. ‘Smart enough to know something smells fishy?’

  Emilia hesitated. ‘Maybe …’

  ‘How about a priest that drinks French brandy and plays cards for money?’ Tom jeered. ‘How fishy is that?’

  The priest hid a smile, casting his eyes down modestly. ‘No man is perfect.’