The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “Oho!” Fenny roared and the rest of his host followed his lead, guffawing at the squirrel’s impudence. “It is for me to decide whether you be enemy or no,” he gruffly told her, “and remember this, none may pass our borders without our leave.”

  A slow smile spread over Vesper’s face. “Are you the woodlanders we have heard rumour of?” he asked.

  The mouse regarded him strangely for a moment then nodded. “A small portion of their number are we,” he curtly replied, “and we have all taken solemn oaths to rid the forest of the Hobb cult.”

  He swept his outstretched paws to encompass the woods around them and said, “Our forces are the gleanings of each tiny hamlet and small village that the black tide of Hobbers has ruthlessly swept aside. A motley collection maybe, yet our quest is an honourable one and though we hail from different quarters we abide peaceably enough together.”

  Ysabelle abandoned her imperious tone and began entreating the captain to help them. “Please,” she said, “our quest also is a noble one and if we succeed then the Raith Sidhe will be only a memory again and the followers of that fiendish high priest will be vanquished for ever.” She would have said more but Fenny hushed her into silence and looked warily about them.

  “You know of the high priest?” he asked.

  “The one who dresses like a bloody-bones? Yes, I have seen him, he...”

  “This is not the place for such talk,” the mouse said quickly. “I have decided! The strangers are to come back with us!”

  “Back?” the other woodlanders cried. “What, after so brief an exchange?”

  “I have seen enough to be satisfied of this squirrel’s worth,” Fenny said sternly. “Bring her and the bat—the other three may remain here under a guard of four.”

  “No!” said Ysabelle. “Our friends must accompany us—we have been through too much to be separated now!”

  “I cannot agree to that,” Fenny told her. “I do not like the looks of your fellow travellers, and the location of our stronghold is a secret which we guard above many things. Very dearly would the Hobbers like to learn where it lies and that is a risk I am not prepared to take.”

  “Then I am going nowhere with you,” she said flatly.

  “All or none,” added Vesper.

  The mouse looked at them threateningly, then he glanced at his warriors and saw that they were watching him—waiting for him to decide. “All then!” he declared. “Now, let us waste no more time!”

  He gave a signal to the woodlanders and, raising their weapons, they flanked the five travellers on either side.

  Wedged between three mice and a rabbit, Wendel picked up his fallen puppet and took up the handles of his cart. Tysle was put on a short one-spring-wormer and Giraldus muttered to himself. Then they set off and the enchanting glade of daffodils was soon far behind.

  On through the forest they were marched, and Vesper noted with dismay that they had left the path and were going in the wrong direction for Greenreach.

  When he pointed this out to Ysabelle, the squirrel did not seem to mind—the detour was worth taking if it meant she could persuade these folk to assist her in her mission. Their strength would swell the forces of her own army and that was a prospect she could ill afford to miss.

  The route they were compelled to tread was a meandering zig-zag and Vesper guessed that this was to confound them if they ever tried to find their way back to this secret destination.

  Eventually the ground began to rise, and up a steep incline they all trudged—up to where a bare, grassy mound reared amid the encircling woods.

  The entire time they had been marching, none of the woodlanders—not even their captain—had uttered a word. Now Fenny, who was at the front, turned and called for them to halt.

  “Here is where the folk of the wood reside,” he said. “From this secret place, our troupes depart and raid the Hobbers, assaulting them when we may. Never have they discovered from whence their enemies come.”

  Ysabelle gazed about them and looked at the mouse questioningly. “But where do you live?” she asked.

  Fenny tapped his nose and led them around the side of the great green mound to where a patch of dandelions grew.

  “Open up!” the mouse called. “’Tis I, Fenny, returned!”

  The dandelions shook and their stems parted to reveal a recess in the hillside, which ended at a stout wooden door peppered with studs of iron.

  A small brown face peeped out from between the plants and the sentry quickly saluted the captain.

  “Pass inside,” he said, stealing a look at the unusual party the mouse had brought back with him.

  Fenny returned the salute and led his warrior and the five travellers up to the door which he banged on with his fist.

  Immediately a small grilled window flew open and a bright, suspicious eye pressed against it.

  “Who be that?” the voice squeaked behind the door.

  “’Tis I, Fenny.”

  “What is the flower which blooms in the summer?” demanded the voice.

  “The Meadow Sage,” the mouse replied, using the appropriate password for the time of day.

  The eye vanished from the grille and the window snapped shut. There came the sound of many bolts being drawn and the now muffled voice grumbled at the rusted state of them.

  “’Tis an amazement that I do not tear out mine arms dragging this stubborn—oof! There, ’tis done.”

  The door swung open and the owner of both the voice and the eye bowed and waved them inside.

  Ysabelle and Vesper followed their guards and, once inside the mound, they lifted their heads and stared in disbelief.

  It was a staggering spectacle; they had expected the doorway to lead only into a roughly hewn passage and had never dreamt or suspected the truth.

  Beyond the entrance an enormous hall opened out, upheld by many strong beams and supporting pillars. Cut into the curving earthen walls, countless tunnels radiated in all directions, worming deeper into the great hill, and above each archway a small lantern or candle gently burned.

  Arrayed on one wall was a deadly collection of weapons; spears, swords, longbows, clubs, daggers, maces and pikes all gleamed in neat rows and several mousewives were busily making certain that everything in the armoury was accounted for on the long tally sticks which they carried.

  In the centre of the capacious hall, about thirty warriors of differing races were practising their skills on one another in tests of strength and agility. Amongst them, veterans of old campaigns observed and bawled their comments at appropriate intervals, at times grabbing the sword or knife from a bumbling youngster and demonstrating how it should be done.

  At the far end, behind all the commotion and activity, was a small forge and there a stout hedgehog hammered metal and tempered steel as a small vole heaved on a pair of bellows, keeping the fire glowing.

  Both Vesper and Ysabelle breathed in wonder at the skill and toil which had gone into creating this fortress beneath the ground and looked at Fenny speechlessly.

  “At all times are we ready to defend our stronghold,” said the mouse proudly, “for we can never lie easy, not while those pagans sweep through the world.”

  Just then Giraldus stepped over the threshold and the mole lifted his head, snuffling the dry, musty air with glee whilst straining to hear the echoes that rang from the tunnels.

  “Oh,” he murmured with undisguised admiration, “what a blissful place—never have I been in such a charming underground, such a delicious sense of space, and can I not detect a vast network of extensive and labyrinthine passageways below us? A most splendid accomplishment is this.”

  Tysle chortled to see his master so pleased and he looked back to where Wendel stood. The jester’s eyes were roving about the vaulted hall and shone with intense fascination. Unlike Giraldus, he was quite unable to find anything to say which would adequately express his wonder and stood gawping idiotically at the impressive scene before him.

  “Entrancing,”
muttered Giraldus. “So many ravishing air currents—oh yes, this is indeed a delving beyond any compare.” He turned to one of the guards and asked politely, “Badgers, was it? The original excavators I mean. I feel their vigorous, yet poetic approach to subterranean architecture. Of course, it has been much altered and improved on since.”

  He quested the air again and added critically, “Alas, one can never truly rid a place of fox scent but that merely adds to the history and grandeur of this unsurpassed monument to tunnelling endeavour. Do you know—I believe there is evidence of mole hereabouts also—dearly would I like to exchange my views with their better-acquainted knowledge.”

  “You’re not exchanging anything with anybody!” Fenny said sharply. “This is the way you’re bound.”

  Briskly, he led them across the great hall and the dummy fights and mock battles were halted as all eyes turned to the newcomers, and many woodlanders stepped fearfully aside as the leper went by.

  “A most rare opportunity for me to entertain,” Wendel told himself. “What a grand audience!”

  But the five travellers were marched into one of the smaller passageways and, as the hall was lost from sight, the sounds of training and combat sprang up once more. The tunnel was low and Giraldus had to stoop to walk down it. Many doorways lined the route, but when they came to a small chamber that was heavily barred, their progress was brought to a standstill.

  “Inside,” said Fenny. “Hurry now.”

  Vesper gazed in puzzlement at the cramped, straw-strewn room and looked curiously at the mouse captain whose face was set and stern.

  “Get in,” he repeated.

  Reluctantly they obeyed, first Wendel, pushing his cart before him, then Tysle, Giraldus and Vesper.

  Only Ysabelle hung back. She stared, bewildered at Fenny and asked, “I do not understand. Why are you consigning us here? Have I not made it clear just how important is my mission?”

  “Oh aye!” the mouse replied archly. “The daughter of Ninnia, was it not?”

  The squirrel nodded but the captain was tired of playing games and shoved her roughly inside.

  “What manner of simpleton do you reckon me?” he cried. “Cease this foolish pretence! Why would any of that noble house be abroad with so peculiar a retinue? Addled, you Hobbers are!” And with a heave of his paws he slammed the door shut and locked them inside.

  The prisoners were dumbfounded—they had been tricked into this place; the woodlanders had not believed a word they had said.

  Vesper gripped the bars and pushed his nose through them as far as he could. “Are you witless?” he yelled. “Release us at once!”

  “Pipe down!” Fenny shouted, hitting the bars with a stick. “The reason I did bring you all here was for one purpose and that alone.”

  “And what would that be?” rumbled Giraldus.

  “I shall wring from you all knowledge of that infernal brood and their plans,” came the answer. “But most of all, you will tell me of that accursed high priest!”

  Ysabelle shook her head. “We know nothing,” she insisted. “The fiend tried to kill Vesper and me and has laid a curse upon us both but we know naught else.”

  The mouse glared at her, his temper boiling, and he hit the bars a second time. “Then your time here shall be a long one,” he snarled. “For from this locked room none of you shall ever leave. In here shall you be imprisoned for the rest of your days!”

  “No!” Ysabelle shrieked. “You must let me go!”

  Fenny threw back his head and laughed. “Listen to her,” he told the guards, “listen to the Hobber squeak!”

  “You show her respect!” demanded Vesper hotly. “This lady is worth all you and your peasanty brigands combined!”

  The woodlanders sniggered and with a last look of contempt, their captain led them from the gaol.

  As their departing footsteps faded from earshot, Ysabelle looked desperately at Vesper and in the corner of the chamber, Wendel snivelled into his paws.

  “Trapped,” the stoat wept, “for the rest of our days...”

  11 - The Furze Cat

  Giraldus sat down morosely. “A lamentable predicament,” he observed.

  Tysle nestled beside him in the clean straw and tried to sound more cheerful. “Aw,” he said, “them won’t keep us here for long—not when they realise how downright daft they’ve been.”

  “Let us hope you are correct,” Ysabelle commented. “If only they would trust me, if they could but see how I might help them.”

  Vesper kicked the bars of their prison then leaned against them. “That Fenny won’t ever listen to reason,” he said, “his sort never do. I’ve seen the generals of my folk behave like him—too ready to suspect the worst and not willing to pause and actually look beyond their own noses. That is how enmity breeds and wars begin.”

  For nearly an hour, they remained locked within that small cell, too despondent to talk and with only the unhappy sniffs of Wendel to break the oppressive silence.

  Then Giraldus looked up. “Someone approaches,” he whispered and in a moment they all heard the sound of footsteps tramping down the tunnel towards them.

  “A dismal quiet is this,” said the voice of Captain Fenny as the mouse looked in at the bars. “Where are your protestations now—daughter of Ninnia?”

  Ysabelle regarded him with disdain. “I shall not waste any more words on you,” she said coldly. “Your mind is too closed to hear them. Show to me instead a higher authority to whom I might prove mine lineage.”

  “Tut, tut,” Fenny scolded. “Still the play-actor, aren’t we? Well, my patience will not be everlasting, you will give me the intelligence I requested, whoever you pretend to be.” He brought his grim face close to the bars and added with a hiss, “As for someone higher than myself—there is no one. The folk of the wood have no use for tyrants or princes.”

  “Yet they have a captain,” put in Vesper.

  Fenny eyed him crossly. “That they have,” he answered, “and more beside, but only to keep the Hobbers out and purge the forest of them. Once that is achieved then I shall return to my old life and have no more dealings with sword and spear.”

  At this Giraldus was spurred to disagree and gravely muttered, “You can take the plough from the paw but never can you remove the sword—so it is written. A warrior and leader shalt thou always be—and if there is a peaceful future beyond this dark time then you will have no part in it.”

  The mouse scowled at him. “Very well,” he spat, “if you persist in concealing your true intentions and denying your dealings with the black brotherhood, then no food shall be sent unto you until I decree otherwise.”

  He whirled around and was about to storm back along the passage when a small vole came rushing up to him—breathless and panting.

  “Captain,” the gasping creature wheezed, “I must speak with you.”

  “What is so urgent?” Fenny asked, his paw straying to the hilt of his sword.

  The vole was quick to reassure him. “Oh,” he cried, “there is no alarm, nothing of that kind. No, ’tis from the lower depths I have come.”

  The effect this statement had upon the mouse was remarkable. At once his eyes widened and his tail thrashed wildly. “The lower depths,” he breathed, stealing a glance at the prisoners and pulling the vole out of their hearing, “then you must wait until we are removed from this unholy crew before you begin to relate your message.”

  Taking a great gulp of air, the vole violently shook his head. “I cannot!” he said. “For the message I am entrusted with concerns them.”

  Fenny glared at him. “How so?” he demanded.

  The small creature trembled before his angry voice, but he remembered the urgency of his errand and closed his eyes to recall the precise wording of the message. “Of those you have recently captured and now hold prisoners,” he began, “know now that two of their number must be sent down at once.”

  “Sent down?” Fenny muttered and now his voice was filled with doubt and,
it seemed to Giraldus, plainly tinged with fear. “Why?” the mouse asked.

  The vole replied in a whisper. “The Ancient orders it,” he said.

  Fenny drew a sharp breath and his fingers played anxiously about the neck of his cloak. “The Ancient?” he echoed in a reverent murmur. “Is this true?”

  One look at the vole told him that it was.

  “Then which of the prisoners are to be sent?” he asked nervously. “Which pair does he wish?”

  The vole peeped in through the bars. “The Moonrider and the squirrel maiden,” he said.

  Fenny nodded swiftly and brought out a key to unlock the door. “I shall send a company of guards with you,” he said, “in case the prisoners attempt an escape.”

  “Oh no,” the vole replied, “did I not make it plain, Captain? You are to accompany them—the Ancient wishes to see you also.”

  The mouse dropped the key on the floor in surprise and, with a prim bow, the vole raced back down the passageway. Fenny watched his small figure vanish round a corner, then fumbled with the lock and ushered Vesper and Ysabelle from the chamber.

  “Tysle!” Giraldus cried. “What is happening? Where are our friends being taken?”

  “Oh dear!” whimpered Wendel wretchedly. “So this is how it shall be. Two by two are we led to our doom. My poor Mistress, will I never see your face again?”

  “What do you want of us?” Vesper asked as the door was locked behind them. “Where are we being taken? Who is this Ancient you speak of?”

  Fenny turned a drained and awe-stricken face to the young bat. “Him by whose leave we are permitted to abide here,” he said, and seemed about to say more when he decided against it and led them up the tunnel. “You shall see soon enough,” was all he would tell them.

  Once again, Vesper and Ysabelle entered the great hall, but now the training had stopped and an elderly weasel was standing before a seated group of very young woodlanders and instructing them in their lessons.