Someone barged past him – an old woman in a dark coat, carrying a bundle of papers. She wore a little cap with a black feather and a high collar that obscured her small head. She threw down the stack of papers and, drawing a knife, quickly severed the red ribbon that bound them, then ran off. The wind scattered the papers into the crowd. One flew directly towards Jake; he grabbed it and read the statement, inscribed in black ink:
YOUR SHIPS ARE DOOMED – YOUR CIVILIZATION TOO.
Jake looked again at the woman hurrying away, and saw a flash of red under her gown: red slippers. It was her, surely – the old woman in the portrait . . . Xi Xiang’s nanny, Madame Fang. She rounded the corner and disappeared.
Jake didn’t hesitate; adrenalin surging, he dashed up the road after her.
10 INTO THE BEAR PIT
JAKE TURNED THE corner onto the wide thoroughfare that led to London Bridge. The street was swarming with traders and merrymakers, all being funnelled through the gatehouse. He scanned the sea of heads and found the distinctive black feathered cap.
He pushed and barged, weaving in and out, receiving angry shouts from those who were queuing patiently. On the bridge itself, things had slowed almost to a standstill. There was less than twelve feet between the shops on either side, and the travellers could only shuffle forward half a step at a time.
Then a bell rang out, and everything came to a complete halt. The drawbridge was going up, and Jake saw that his prey had already reached the other side. Now he would surely lose her. He struggled through the crowd, then ducked down and scrambled between the cartwheels and the horses’ hooves.
The drawbridge was now halfway up: he leaped onto it, but immediately slipped back down again. The steward – a barrel of a man with a matted grey beard and blackened teeth – took him by the collar and threw him aside. Jake picked himself up, lunged forward, hooking his leg round the man’s knee, and sent him careering back into a cart loaded with crates of wild fowl.
Jake saw that the drawbridge was now almost fully raised. At the front of the queue waiting to cross, four clergymen in a black carriage stared at him in astonishment. They gasped in unison as he vaulted from the carriage wheel up onto the roof, and launched himself towards the rising drawbridge. He caught hold of it and swung round so that he hung over the churning river.
He realized that he was still too far from the other side – but a ship was now gliding towards the opening. As the mainmast sailed past, Jake took a leap of faith and managed to land on the crow’s nest, before jumping towards the far side of the drawbridge. He caught hold of the tip and pulled himself over, tumbling down the other side and back onto the bridge.
Once more he searched for the black-feathered cap. There she was, passing under the southern arch! Jake jumped onto a cart and, using the queue of vehicles like stepping stones, leaped from one to the other until he reached the far side. Once through the arch, he turned and looked up. The severed heads of traitors stared back, the black tar gleaming in the evening light.
The south bank was thronging with people, but there were fewer buildings, and Jake caught sight of his target crossing a wide square, her steps marked by flashes of red.
She headed directly towards the octagonal building that Jake already knew well: the Globe. As she reached the forecourt, she suddenly stopped and half turned. Jake shrank back into the shadows. Did she know that he was behind her? But then a steward opened a door for her and she entered the theatre.
Jake had visited the replica of the Globe with his parents; the original was shabbier and more crooked, with the plaster coming away from the timber frame. A peeling poster was pinned to the wall near the entrance, the curly writing barely legible:
The King’s Men Presente MACBETH Entrance: One Pennie
The door was slightly ajar and Jake went in, eyes alert in case the old woman had stopped to wait for him. She was nowhere to be seen, and the performance had started. The theatre was packed – three tiers of galleries heaving with spectators, along with four hundred groundlings, their astonished faces gazing up from the pit. Someone grabbed Jake by the shoulder and his heart stopped – but it was just the steward holding out his hand for the entry fee. Jake fumbled in his pocket, found a penny and handed it over, then stepped cautiously down into the pit.
On stage, a female character, lit from below, moved back and forth in some agitation. She was dressed in the Jacobean style – a black dress with a white ruff – with a swag of tartan over her shoulders. Behind her the painted backdrop showed a castle set in the highlands of Scotland.
Jake slunk back against a pillar and cast his eyes around each gallery, working his way upwards, in search of the black feather cap. Everyone was craning forward, and there was a rustle of excitement as another character entered from the shadows at the back – a thick-set man, as jumpy as his partner. He remained in the gloom as he spoke.
‘I have done the deed,’ he whispered. ‘Didst thou not hear a noise?’
‘I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry,’ the woman answered without looking at him. Jake realized that she was actually being played – very convincingly – by a man. ‘Did not you speak?’ she asked.
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘As I descended?’
‘Aye.’
Jake remembered something of the play, having read it once in class at school. After being told by three witches that he will rule Scotland, Macbeth plots with his wife to murder the king.
Macbeth finally stepped into the light, and a shiver went round the audience. His hands were covered in blood. In one, he clutched two daggers, thick with gore. The pair continued in low voices.
‘This is a sorry sight,’ Macbeth said with a shudder.
‘A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.’
‘Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more. Macbeth doth murder sleep,” the innocent sleep.’
In the crowd, some people started hissing, horrified by the unfolding drama.
‘Who was it that thus cried?’ Lady Macbeth said. ‘Why, worthy thane, you do unbend your noble strength, to think so brainsickly of things. Go get some water, and wash this filthy witness from your hand.’ Suddenly she noticed his hands. ‘Why did you bring these daggers from the place?’ she hissed. ‘They must lie there . . .!’
‘I’ll go no more . . .’
‘Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures.’ She seized the weapons and left the stage, her dress swishing and heels clicking, leaving her husband alone on stage.
As he watched her exit, Jake suddenly caught sight of his prey, ensconced in an individual stall at the end of the second tier. She was whispering in the ear of someone who was completely in shadow. This second person – a man, Jake thought – turned and left, leaving the old woman alone.
From backstage came a loud knocking, making everyone jump in their seats. ‘Whence is that knocking?’ Macbeth called, his bloody hands trembling.
When Jake looked back at the compartment, the old woman was staring straight at him, her face as pale as a ghost. It was certainly the figure from the portrait: Madame Fang. She turned and darted away.
Stop her, he told himself. He had to stop her. He made his way round the rear of the pit under the galleries. Carefully he drew his sword and headed for the far door. As he left the theatre, something hard hit him on the side of the neck. He gasped, and caught a glimpse of Madame Fang karate-chopping again, this time sending him reeling back as she kicked his sword out of his hand. Despite her years, she was as agile as a teenager.
Now she drew a dagger from her coat, and Jake just managed to duck as she slashed at him. The blade caught his arm and he felt a sharp pain. She lunged again, but he had already rolled over, and the dagger stuck deep into the wall. A shout went up behind them as some people approached, and Madame Fang froze for a moment, then pulled her knife out of the timber and scurried off.
Jake watched as she disappeared into a neighbouring building that looked just like the Globe
. He followed her inside, and immediately heard a roar of voices. The stench – of sweat, animals and beer – was overwhelming. He realized he was in an arena; the audience were stamping their feet, waiting for the games to begin. In the centre was a sandpit, surrounded by thick wooden walls, where a chained bear snarled as it strained on its leash. A stout man whose cheeks were ruddy from alcohol, the master of ceremonies, cupped his hand to his ear, daring the crowd to shout louder, working them into a frenzy, while behind him a pack of savage dogs barked in their cage, eager to attack.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw Fang rush towards him, dagger glinting. Rage fired up inside him; he went to draw his sword, but his scabbard was empty. Lightning fast, he grabbed the woman’s wrist, bashing it against the wall over and over until the dagger dropped to the floor. He made a lunge for it, but Fang twisted his arm behind his back, opened a door into the pit and pushed him inside. The bear lumbered over, teeth bared – until it was halted by its chain. Jake rolled clear as its giant paws thudded down into the sand. The master of ceremonies, unaware that someone had entered the arena behind him, pulled back the cage door, and two dogs charged in.
One went straight for the bear, but the other bounded towards Jake, sharp teeth snapping. It caught his shoulder, making him cry out with pain. Then, suddenly, a figure jumped down into the arena and struck the dog with the hilt of a sword. It padded on for a second and then dropped like a stone.
‘Jake, it’s me,’ the person announced, holding out a hand.
A young man was standing over him; Jake recognized the face immediately – the rose-bud lips and almond eyes . . . but surely he was hallucinating . . .
‘It’s me, Yoyo.’
She pulled Jake to his feet and, as the second hound came rushing towards them, they vaulted over the wall. Jake gazed at Yoyo in confusion. She was dressed as a boy, in doublet and breeches, with a felt cap pulled down to her eyes.
‘Where did you—’ Jake started to say.
‘I’ll explain later,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘We have to—’ He was out of breath, his mind a jumble.
‘I know,’ Yoyo replied, understanding perfectly. ‘Madame Fang. She’s gone back towards the bridge. We need to be quick.’
‘You know her?’ Jake asked as they pushed their way out of the building.
‘My mother did. Madame Fang once tried to remove her legs at the knee – charming old woman.’
Despite everything, Jake was smiling. He was so thrilled to see Yoyo, he had forgotten about everything else. ‘I like your outfit.’
‘It’s in keeping with the spirit of the age, no? If men can play women, why not the other way round? Look!’ she said, pointing ahead.
The gatehouse at the southern end of the bridge was lit by torches and they could see Fang climbing it – her red slippers quickly finding their way up the tiny flight of stairs towards the grisly collection of severed heads at the top.
‘Where’s she going?’ Jake puffed.
‘She’s not going anywhere . . .’ Yoyo withdrew her dagger and sent it sailing into the air – a brilliant flash of steel in the night. To Jake’s amazement, the old woman turned and caught the spinning dagger in her hand, before sending it flying back. Yoyo ducked quickly and charged up the steps onto the platform. The old woman was waiting for her, a black metal dagger in her hand. She sliced at her opponent, but Yoyo grabbed a stake and struck Fang with a severed head. Again and again she lunged with the gruesome weapon, until the flesh fell off and the dead eyes went flying, finally landing the decisive blow. Fang’s dagger went spinning over the side.
Now the two of them fought with their bare hands, a blur of limbs jabbing, kicking and punching. Jake, trying not to breathe in the smell of rotting flesh, made it to the top just as Fang sent Yoyo tumbling backwards. The old woman spat at her, then turned and launched herself off the parapet, arms outstretched as she dived down into the Thames.
Unable to believe his eyes, Jake limped over and saw her surface upstream. Then he spotted a long metal tube emerging from under the dark water: could it be . . . a submarine?! As Madame Fang swam towards it, a hatch opened and someone helped her aboard. The vessel glided swiftly away up the Thames, bashing into ferries and overturning rowing boats.
There were shouts and screams from the banks below and all along the bridge. People had seen the submarine and word spread: some came charging over to witness the extraordinary sight, while others ran for cover or fell to their knees in prayer. Horses bolted and carts overturned.
The craft gradually sank, crocodile-like, into the water; when it finally vanished a chorus of shrieks went up, as if the world were coming to an end.
11 CHARLIE ALONE
AT POINT ZERO, it was well past midnight. The castle was asleep, but Charlie Chieverley wasn’t tired. He was tucked up in bed, trying to read a book about Alexander the Great’s campaign in India. Even though it was a subject that usually fascinated him, he just couldn’t concentrate: sadness sat like a stone in his stomach. He missed his friends terribly.
He pictured them in Jacobean London, Nathan fussing over his clothes as the others joked at his expense. What secrets are they uncovering? he wondered. Are they any closer to finding Philip? His thoughts changed tack again. Are they all going hungry without me to cook for them? No doubt they’re tucking into some dreadful hog roast. The Jacobeans are the worst: meat-mad.
Charlie sighed, threw back the covers and hauled himself out of bed. He reached for his crutches and hobbled towards the door. Mr Drake opened one eye. ‘I’m going down to the kitchen,’ Charlie told him, ‘to knock up a flan or something – that’ll take my mind off things.’
He limped down the back stairs and along the passage that led to the kitchens. As he approached the open door, he heard a banging of pans, and stopped. ‘Who on earth can be cooking at this time of night?’ he wondered, peering inside.
On the far side of the room stood Oceane Noire, her face covered in flour, hair all over the place, clothes awry, mumbling to herself.
Charlie, intrigued – and just a little frightened – hobbled into the room, coughing to make his presence known.
Oceane was so engrossed, she didn’t notice at first.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Noire,’ Charlie said in a clear voice, and she froze.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she sneered. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu veux?’
‘I can’t sleep,’ Charlie replied, ‘so I have come to make a flan.’
‘Ce n’est pas possible! You can’t,’ she snapped. ‘Can’t you see I’m working here?’
‘I’m sure there’s room for two,’ Charlie replied breezily, not to be deterred. As he crossed the room, he noticed her slip something – it looked like a small brown bottle – into a cupboard.
As Charlie selected ingredients for his flan and started to crack eggs into a bowl, he peered across to see what Oceane was doing. She had made a cake – a lumpy mess that she was now covering with gloopy chocolate icing.
‘You’re a woman after my own heart, mademoiselle,’ Charlie said jovially, ‘making a gateau for yourself in the middle of the night. Is it chocolate?’
‘It’s bitter chocolate,’ she replied enigmatically, ‘and it’s not for me! Do you think I would keep my figure if I ate cakes all day long?’
Oceane was indeed as skinny as a rake; she had become even more so since Jupitus and Rose had announced their engagement.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Charlie. ‘So who is the lucky recipient?’
Oceane’s eyes glazed over. She poured the last of a bottle of red wine into her glass and took a slug. ‘How’s that little bird of yours?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘He’s much better, thank you. He’ll be flying again by next week.’
‘C’est bien,’ she replied softly. ‘Our pets are the only things we can truly rely on, aren’t they?’
Charlie nodded solemnly. The lioness had tried to kill him, but he still felt sorry for her owner. He didn�
�t like to think of any animal as bad, but Josephine had been an unusual case: even though she had grown up on the Mount, she simply didn’t like humans, or any other animal. Perhaps it was something to do with having been kept in a circus when she was very young. He returned to the subject of the cake. ‘So who is it for?’ he persisted, nodding towards the brown mess.
Oceane’s expression turned to acid again. ‘It’s for them. The lovebirds. That man and his British carpetbag.’ She drained her glass and slid the cake onto a silver salver, then took a sharp knife, dropped it into her pocket, blade up, grabbed the cake and made for the door.
Charlie suddenly felt a flutter of panic. ‘You’re not going to give it to them now, are you?’
Oceane swung round and fixed him with a murderous glare. ‘What is it to do with you?’
He gulped, looked down at the knife sticking out of her jacket. ‘W-w-well, I – I imagine they’ll be asleep by now.’
She gave him a twisted smile. ‘Well, if they want to have their cake and eat it, they’ll just have to wake up.’ She turned and strode to the door.
‘And besides,’ Charlie went on, ‘Rose and Mr Cole aren’t even on speaking terms any more. I should leave them be.’
‘Keep out of my business!’ Oceane shrieked, and stormed away, slamming the door behind her. Charlie heard her clomp up the stairs.
He felt sick. He hobbled over to the cupboard and took out the brown jar she had just hidden. It was half full of powder, and Charlie recognized the label immediately – rat poison! He grabbed his crutches and limped after her.
‘Miss Noire! Miss Noire!’ he called. ‘Whatever you’re about to do, I beg you to think again.’ But Oceane had disappeared. He started hopping up the stairs as fast as he could.
Five flights up, panting and wheezing, he finally made his way to the corridor where Rose and Jupitus both had their suites. Their doors were open and they were both standing outside, Rose half asleep in a kaftan, Jupitus in dressing gown and slippers, with a look of thunder on his face.
History Keepers: Nightship to China Page 10
