The Jade Boy

by Cate Cain

  Finally the king himself arrived. Charles II was taller than anyone else in the room. He was a handsome man with bright, merry eyes and a rather prominent nose.

  Charles strode across the hall and slapped the duke on the back.

  “So this fine lady will be my dancing partner tonight? What a generous gesture, George!”

  The king beamed at the preening beauty standing at Bellingdon’s side. His voice was deep and low, but every word carried to the upper balcony.

  Jem glanced over at his mother. She too was straining to get a better view and he noticed with surprise that she was clinging to the rail so tightly that her knuckles showed white through the skin. For a fleeting moment he wondered if she was uncomfortable with heights too, but his thoughts were interrupted by an elaborate trumpet fanfare.

  He looked down again and watched as the king, Bellingdon and a small party of favoured courtiers moved off into the banquet chamber. The crowd of guests below immediately ebbed and swayed to follow them like the frothy wake of a boat.

  The duchess remained in the hall but Jem could see she was not alone. As a man in a dark cloak shot with iridescence like the wing case of an insect leaned in to whisper in her ear, she bowed her head and laughed coquettishly behind her fan. The man was wearing such an extravagant wig that it was impossible to see his face.

  The duchess nodded and the man raised his head slowly and began to scan the upper balconies. He was obviously searching for someone.

  Eventually he looked up to the level where Jem and Sarah stood.

  The duchess’s companion was Count Cazalon.

  The count’s black eyes locked on Jem’s and the man performed an elaborate bow, twirling his gloved hand in a theatrical display of politeness. Jem had the disturbing feeling that all along Cazalon had known he was there, watching.

  Cazalon said something else to the duchess and she looked up too. Catching sight of Jem and Sarah, she nodded again enthusiastically, patting Cazalon’s arm with her fan before pointing it in Jem’s direction.

  The man bowed deeply to her and then turned his attention back to Jem, staring intently at the boy, but looking amused.

  Suddenly Jem felt dizzy. He lost his grip on the rail and slumped forward. He wanted to be sick and felt the cold prickle of sweat beading his forehead. The world began to spin and whirl around him and a series of peculiar images rushed through his mind – the sun raced across a blood-red sky, stars wheeled around the heavens, the moon crashed into the sea, a great pointed building rose from nothing on a desert plain and a huge stone woman with the body of a lion turned slowly and terribly to stare at him with eyes that burned like coals.

  Jem was distantly aware of a roaring sound in his head and the tiled floor below seemed to roll like waves on the ocean before it rose up to meet him.

  As he fainted, he heard Ann’s words ringing in his mind.

  “You are right to fear Cazalon. He is a monster.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The duke’s great banquet was the talk of London. Everyone who mattered agreed that it had been the most magnificent event the city had seen since the coronation itself. Meanwhile, the duke’s servants, who did not matter, privately agreed that the feast had caused an enormous amount of extra work. They grumbled for days as everything was cleared away and order regained.

  Sarah had clucked and fussed about winter fever as she guided Jem back to his bed after he fainted on the balcony, but by mid-morning next day he had recovered enough to feel hungry.

  She tried to smuggle some cheese and meat up to the attic, but when Wormald caught her in the corridor carrying the small covered tray, he demanded that the boy be set back to work immediately. Sarah was furious, but had no choice other than to allow it.

  Within an hour Jem was hard at work on a series of never-ending chores. In fact, he had so much to do there was little time to think about what he’d seen.

  The arrival of the king had been exciting, but any pleasant memories of his birds’-eye view of the proceedings were eclipsed by the moment he had found himself scrutinised, once again, by Count Cazalon. Monster – that was what Ann had called her guardian. It was a thought that unsettled him so much that he tried to put it from his mind.

  The morning of the third day following the banquet found Jem still hard at work in the kitchen. His task was to polish the silver salvers and tureens so that they could be safely locked away again in the vaults. It was bitterly cold and the thin February light struggled to reach the gloomy corners of the echoing, stony room. Jem blew on his chilblained fingers, tightened the scrap of bandage that covered his still-bloody knuckles and rubbed even harder at the platter on his knees.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder and was surprised to see his mother standing there. Sarah rarely came down to the kitchens.

  “You are to leave this now, and go to the duchess,” she said. “Be quick about it, Jem. She is waiting in her parlour.”

  The duchess sat at a desk in front of the tall window overlooking the gardens. Today, the formal walkways and flower beds were invisible beneath a layer of snow.

  “Ah Jem, good,” she said as he entered the room. He noticed that her pale cheeks were flecked with bright spots of colour.

  “I need you to deliver this note to… a friend.”

  She handed him a sealed square of paper and looked him directly in the eye before continuing, “This is a very private business matter, you understand, Jem? No one, not even your mother, is to know where you are going or what you are doing for me.”

  Her voice seemed tight and a little strained.

  Jem took the note and bowed. He had a twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach and was horribly aware that somehow, he knew exactly where this errand would take him.

  The duchess continued, “I want you to deliver this to the house of Count Cazalon in Southwark. I realise that you don’t know the way, so we…” she paused, “that is to say I, have arranged for Cazalon’s pet moor to meet you at the steps to London Bridge at noon. He will guide you to the house and then the count will want you to carry a most important package back to me.”

  “But, ma’am, I… my duties—” Jem began, trying desperately to think of a way to avoid this errand.

  “Are cancelled for today,” said the duchess firmly, adding, “I have already sent word to Wormald that I need you.”

  Jem groaned inwardly. What would the steward make of that? Whatever the duchess had told Wormald, it would certainly merit another beating. He bowed and backed towards the door.

  “Wait. Come here, Jem,” the duchess called out. “Here is your toll for the bridge.”

  She took a small leather pouch from the folds of her dress and counted three coins into the palm of his hand.

  “The rest of the money in here is to be given to the count himself and no one else.” She gave him the heavy pouch.

  “Look sharp now. Off you go… And remember, Jem. No one is to know about this.”

  Muffled against the bitter cold in a thick woollen scarf and two layers of mittens, Jem left Ludlow House through the yard gate behind the kitchens. He took the passage normally used by the delivery men so that no one would notice him go.

  He was confused and angry. And there was something else that troubled him too – the duchess had seemed oddly furtive. What could she possibly be up to that she couldn’t even tell his mother about it? Jem didn’t like to admit it but he was also scared. He would choose a joint beating from Wormald and Pig Face over a visit to Count Cazalon.

  The city was crusted with soot-blackened snow and ice. Even in the darkest narrow streets, where the upper storeys of timbered houses jutted out so far over the road that they almost touched, grimy flakes had still managed find a way through chinks of sky to settle on the ground.

  Jem thrust his hands into his pockets and walked quickly, his head buried deep in the folds of his scarf. Despite the chill, the city streets were filled with noise and bustle. Carts and carriages rocked past on the frozen ruts, ragged st
reet vendors called out their wares and knots of red-faced merchants warmed their hands at braziers set up on every corner.

  Jem thought about buying himself a ha’penny bag of roast chestnuts just so that he could hold something hot. In fact, he was just about to pay a smut-faced boy tending a street griddle when he realised that he didn’t know the toll.

  Even if he could get across London Bridge, the thought of not having enough money to get back again – and safely away from Cazalon – chilled his blood more than the biting February wind.

  At the bottom of Foster Lane he turned left into Cheapside, the vast black bulk of St Paul’s now looming at his back. Slipping and sliding at every step, he pushed his way through the crowds. As he passed a group of rowdy soldiers outside a tavern he remembered Ann’s words again. If what she had said was true, his father could be right here in the city and he’d never know it.

  He stopped for a moment and stared. Sensing the boy’s interest one of the men turned and grinned.

  “Fancy yerself a soldier, do yer, longshanks?” The man took a step back and made a play of assessing him. “Well, you’ve got the height and build for it, lad – and that looks like a good sword arm there.”

  The soldier winked and turned back to his comrades. Jem felt his frozen cheeks flush with unaccustomed pleasure. No one had said anything like that before. If his father really was alive perhaps he’d be proud of him? Perhaps he’d teach him how to ride, how to handle a sword – all the things Jem secretly longed to do.

  As he crunched on his way, Jem was so lost in thought that he was suddenly surprised to find himself on the banks of the Thames. He’d passed through the maze of stinking alleyways that led down to the river without even noticing where he was.

  Jem pushed through the crowds towards the entrance to London Bridge, where a mass of laden carts and people jostled to cross over to the south side of the river. The air here was thick with smoke from all the fires in the crooked houses and shops that straddled the bridge.

  It was already past noon. The city bells had rung out the hour not long ago.

  “I’m down here.”

  A familiar voice sounded in Jem’s head. He turned to scan the surging crowd around him.

  “Not there – I’m down here. Look to your left. I’m on the river.”

  Jem jostled his way over to the edge of the Thames and saw Tolly standing on the ice just below.

  The dark-skinned boy grinned and waved. Today he was wearing a thick chequered cloak and he was alone. Cleo was nowhere to be seen. Jem felt a pang of disappointment.

  “Monkeys don’t like snow!” Tolly’s voice rang out in Jem’s head. It sounded slightly scornful. “Don’t waste your pennies when you can walk on water. It’s perfectly safe. The Thames has been frozen for weeks now. Look…’

  Tolly stamped hard on the ice then gestured behind him. Hundreds of people were actually standing on the now-solid river. More than that, the ice was covered with stalls, tents, huts and even small fires.

  Jem scrambled across a low stone parapet and down the slippery slope to join his friend.

  “How much have you got there?” asked Tolly.

  Jem was about to answer out loud but decided to follow Tolly’s lead and be silent. He grinned and simply opened the palm of his gloved hand to reveal the coins given to him by the duchess.

  “Excellent,” came the reply. “There’s something over here I want to see. Come on.”

  Tolly led the way as they skittered across the ice to a ring of people gathered midway across the river. The crowd were standing behind a rope barrier and staring into the depths.

  A giant of a man wearing a long fur coat was calling out to passers-by. His single golden earring, a hoop the size of a sovereign, jiggled against the folds of his fat neck as he boomed out, “She is the very miracle of our age! See the mermaid of the Thames, trapped beneath the waters with no hope of release! Not even her scaly sisters can reach her now.”

  Fascinated, the boys moved closer.

  “If you two ain’t got a penny to see my mermaid, you can clear off now,” said the man, blocking their view.

  Tolly gave Jem a nudge and, reluctantly, Jem offered the man a shiny coin.

  The man grabbed it eagerly, gave a toothless smile and crunched aside on the ice, allowing them to join the crowd.

  The river ice at the centre of the ring had been polished and cleared of snow. It was so smooth and round that it looked like a vast mirror. About twenty people were kneeling or standing around the edge and peering intently into the water.

  “I can see ’er tail,” said one woman, while another crossed herself and said loudly that such a sight wasn’t ‘fit for God-fearin’ folk’ before bending down for a better look.

  At first Jem couldn’t make anything out in the still greyness. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the murky view, he saw her.

  About three feet below the surface a young woman appeared to be suspended in the water. Her arms were outstretched above the billowing brown folds of her skirts and apron. Jem realised that what he originally took to be strands of weed was hair streaming out from her head.

  A basket was attached to her shoulder and around it Jem now saw a variety of floating objects, including a mirror, ivory hair combs and skeins of unravelling ribbon. Everything was motionless, trapped in the ice.

  The woman’s face was turned upwards and her blank eyes were open. Her mouth appeared to be caught in a black ‘o’ of perpetual surprise.

  Jem shuddered. This was no mermaid, it was a frozen pedlar woman fallen through the ice.

  At his side, Tolly was absolutely still. He appeared to be spellbound. His eyes were locked on the dead woman’s face.

  Suddenly, Tolly sprang up and bolted from the horrible scene. He slipped and slid as he did so, pushing into the other people around the ice window. Two of them fell over.

  The crowd shouted angrily after him and one of the women rounded on Jem. “You should keep your savage on a lead,” she spat. “Animals like that should be locked in a cage.”

  Jem backed away from the furious crowd and then he too broke into a run. Ahead of him he caught glimpses of the red and black squares on Tolly’s cloak as the boy fled to the furthest bank of the river.

  When he finally caught up, Jem was breathless. Tolly was leaning against the base of one of the arches of the bridge, his breathing fast and shallow. Jem saw that he was trembling. He tapped the dark boy’s shoulder and was shocked to see tears streaking down his face.

  “I heard her,” Tolly choked the words out loud. “She spoke to me.”

  Furiously smudging away the tears with the backs of his hands, Tolly straightened up and inhaled deeply.

  “She didn’t know,” he continued as if to himself. “Why didn’t she know?”

  Jem felt embarrassed. He shuffled his feet and patted his friend’s shoulder again. “What that woman said about putting you on a lead was rude and ignorant. But you shouldn’t pay attention to people like that, Tolly – London is full of them. People call me gypsy boy – and worse – all the time.”

  Tolly looked at Jem oddly. “No, you don’t understand, not—” But then he stopped himself, shook his head and pointed at the sickly yellow sun.

  “I have been foolish,” he said. “And now we are late and my master will be angry. Come.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jem had never been south of the Thames before. As the boys trudged along he felt a hundred pairs of eyes boring into him from behind rag-covered windows. Tolly’s voice told him to look down at the road, walk quickly and ignore everything.

  “Where exactly are we going, Tolly?” thought Jem.

  The silent reply came immediately. “To Malfurneaux Place, Count Cazalon’s London residence.”

  After a few seconds the voice came again. “Be on your guard, Jem. I cannot read my master, but I know he means you no good.”

  Tolly led the way down a dark, shabby street and stopped at a wide-arched gate set into a crumbling wall.
He pushed at a hinged board in the wooden doors of the gateway and stepped through. Jem followed.

  He found himself in a long snow-covered courtyard. Unlike the gardens at Ludlow House, no trees or flowers grew here. Instead, he saw rows of mournful hooded statues interspersed with huge snow-crusted blocks of marble that reminded him of the old tombs that lined the nave of St Paul’s. Just occasionally the stone ranks were punctuated by the shattered remains of a broken pillar that pushed up through the snow like a petrified tree.

  Tolly’s voice sounded in his head.

  “This used to be an old abbey, Jem. The master chooses to live where the past and the present exist as one. Come.”

  He led the way up a central path. As they crunched past one of the statues the shroud of snow covering the figure’s cloaked head and shoulders fell away to reveal a grinning skull set deep in stony folds.

  Jem shuddered and forced himself to look away.

  He realised that the courtyard was completely silent. Apart from the crump of their footsteps, not a sound came from beyond the walls and despite the open sky no birds sang here.

  At the far end of the courtyard, the boys passed through a jagged ruined archway and into a smaller yard. Tolly turned to the right, but Jem’s feet were rooted to the spot.

  The vast blackened bulk of Malfurneaux Place reared up at the far side of the yard.

  Ancient, dark and twisted, the tottering levels of the house seemed to reach out over the courtyard blocking any possibility of light from the bleak sky above.

  Jem forced his feet to move again, and as he approached the house, he saw that the great black skeleton of timbers binding it together was heavily carved. Women with slanting eyes and wings rode serpents that had grotesque heads emerging from their mouths. A hunting scene streamed across a huge beam, showing a horned man leading the chase, surrounded by slavering wolves and astride a horse with an impossible number of legs. And, Jem realized, peering closer, there were hundreds of carved human figures huddled in the knots and crevices of the wood, as if they were trying to escape from the horrible creatures around them.