The Stolen Princess

by Anne Gracie

  “Horse thieves?”

  “Yes, horse thieves. Very dangerous men, horse thieves. Hordes of them roam the countryside, looking for valuable horses. They’re not interested in boys,” he added hastily, “only horses. So if you see any sinister-looking men coming this way, you must call down to me at once. As loudly as you can. Is that clear, Nicky?”

  The boy clicked his heels in a military manner. “Yes, sir! I will guard the horse.”

  “Good lad!” Gabe recommenced his descent, slipping and sliding in places where the rocks gave way to mud. It really was quite dangerous.

  “Whatcher doin’?”

  Nicky was so startled he nearly fell over the cliff. He’d been leaning out, watching. He raised a fist as he turned, but instead of a horde of sinister men, there was just one ragged boy a little older than himself, with a sharp face and bold, dark eyes. He was pulling a rickety two-wheeled handcart.

  “Who are you?” He clutched Trojan’s reins defensively.

  The boy scowled. His face was remarkably dirty. Nicky doubted his hair had been brushed in weeks. His feet were bare, his trousers were tattered but he showed not a shred of shame. “I asked you first! And what’re you doin’ with Trojan?”

  His tone stung Nicky, prompting him into responding to a boy of a class he knew was beneath him. “I’m guarding him,” he answered in the crushing manner that Papa had taught him.

  “From what?”

  “From horse thieves.”

  “Horse thieves?” declared the boy scornfully. “As if anyone around here would be daft enough to nick Mr. Gabe’s Trojan!”

  “Nick?” Nicky didn’t understand.

  “Nick—doncha know what that means? Pinch, swipe, nab, steal—”

  “Oh.” Nicky thought for a moment. “So you don’t think there’s any horse thieves around here?”

  The boy spat. “Nah. Never heard of any and I’ve lived here all me life. And even if there was one, he wouldn’t get far. Everyone in these parts knows Mr. Gabe and Trojan.”

  Thoughtfully Nicky let go of the reins. It was as he had thought at first: Mr. Renfrew had just wanted him out of the way. He, like Papa, thought Nicky was useless.

  “So, what were you lookin’ at?” the grubby boy demanded, still faintly hostile.

  Nicky pointed. “That slipper, that blue thing down there.”

  The boy squinted down, then nodded. “A slipper, is it? That’s all right then, you can have it. I was worried you was after me eggs and stuff.”

  “Eggs and stuff?”

  The boy jerked his chin at the cliffs. “I get eggs from the nests there. Good eatin’, those eggs.”

  “Oh.” Eggs from wild seabirds? An English delicacy, no doubt, Nicky thought.

  The boy looked down the cliff and wrinkled his nose. “What do you want with one slipper?”

  “That is my business,” Nicky said. He did not think it proper to reveal his mother’s slipperless state to this strange and dirty boy.

  “So you’re goin’ to fetch it, then?” The boy’s tone was mildly skeptical.

  “I might.”

  “Not in them boots ya won’t.”

  Nicky looked down at his boots. “Why not?”

  The boy spat again. “’Cause you’ll fall to your death, that’s why not. Them fancy leather soles will slip on the rocks and mud. You won’t be able to get a good grip at all.”

  “Oh.”

  “So take ’em off.”

  “You mean go down there with no shoes?”

  “That’s how I do it. You get a better grip with your toes. Never fallen yet. Ain’t you never climbed a cliff before?”

  “Never,” Nicky admitted. He’d never walked outside in bare feet, either, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

  “Well take it from me—I know all about it,” said the boy. “Some folks call me Monkey on account of how good I can climb, but me real name’s Jim.”

  “How do you do, Jim. I am called Nicky.” He gave a slight bow.

  “Coo, posh, aren’t ya?” said Jim with a grin. He extended a filthy hand with black-rimmed nails, and Nicky gingerly shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Nicky. Well, go on, get them boots off.”

  Nicky sat down to pull off his boots. Jim watched curiously. “Gimpy leg, eh?”

  Nicky didn’t respond, but the shame crept back.

  “Me da had a gimpy leg, too, sort of. Shark bit half his leg off. Didn’t stop Da, but. Got himself a peg leg, didn’t he?” Jim said cheerfully. “Well, you get on with fetching your slipper. I gotta get on. I made a real find this morning.” He disappeared behind a scraggly bush and reappeared lugging a battered and muddy portmanteau.

  Nicky had no trouble recognizing it. “That’s our portmanteau!”

  “It’s mine. I saw it first. Rules of salvage.” Jim said and heaved it onto the handcart.

  “But it belongs to me.”

  Jim snorted rudely. “My arse it does! I found it on the beach this morning, and I hauled it all the way up here, so it’s mine!”

  “But it contains all the possessions Mama and I have!”

  “Good try, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Finders keepers. You get the slipper, I get this.” He pulled out a piece of string to tie the portmanteau to the cart.

  Nicky ran forward and tried to pull the portmanteau off him. “No! It’s not yours. You can’t have it!”

  Jim shoved Nicky backward hard and stood over him with clenched fists. “Try and stop me.”

  “Very well.” Nicky scrambled to his feet and put up his fists, ready to fight the bigger boy. He’d had lessons in the art of pugilism. He moved closer and jabbed at the boy. In return, Jim swung a punch, then followed it with a hard kick to Nicky’s bad leg. With a cry of pain, Nicky went sprawling in the mud.

  As he struggled to stand again, his fingers encountered a stone, and remembered Mr. Renfrew’s advice to his mother. Seizing the stone, he ran at the boy, yelling at the top of his voice, and hit him hard on the nose.

  There was a horrid sound, the boy’s dirty face blossomed with blood and he fell to the ground. Nicky stared in horror, and dropped the stone. He had not meant to hurt the boy, just stop him from stealing the portmanteau.

  “What the devil is going on!” Mr. Renfrew exclaimed from behind. “Who is that?

  Nicky’s lip trembled. “His name is Jim, and I think I have killed him!”

  Four

  Callie woke slowly, coming to consciousness as if gradually floating to the surface of a very deep lake. She awoke feeling safe…cared for.

  Stupid. Dreaming foolish dreams again. Painful dreams. Dreams that made her ache inside. Dreams for girls, not a woman like Callie. She had done with such things. She knew better now.

  She had the love of her son. That should be enough for anyone. And Tibby loved her, too, she knew. A son and a friend; more than many people had, she told herself.

  She reached out to check Nicky as she did countless times in the night. These days she always slept with him in touching distance. She did not dare to let him sleep alone.

  Her fingers only found sheets, cold and empty.

  Nicky! Her eyes flew open and she sat up. Scarcely stopping to fling a rug around her shoulders for modesty’s sake, she ran down the stairs in bare feet.

  “Where’s my son?” Callie burst into the kitchen. “What have you done with him?”

  “Your boy?” Mrs. Barrow looked up from the pot she was stirring. “He’ll be off in the stables or sommat, I expect.” She smiled at Callie. “No need to ask you how you slept. Like death warmed through, you were last night and here you are, blooming and—”

  “Where have they taken him?” Callie demanded.

  “Who?” Mrs. Barrow frowned. “Nobody’s taken your boy anywhere, don’t you fret. He’ll turn up when his stomach reminds him. Boys always do.”

  Callie searched the woman’s broad, ruddy face for lies, but could see nothing but placid honesty. “Nicky isn’t the sort of boy to run off.”

  “
Well, I’ve been working down here since just after sunup.” Mrs. Barrow nodded at a bowl of apples on the sideboard. “Someone took some apples. And the outside door was unbolted when I came down. He’ll be in the stables. That’s where boys usually go.”

  Callie shook her head. “Nicky never goes near the stables. He doesn’t like horses. Someone must have taken him.”

  “Who? There’s nobody here except us. The dog would have barked if there were strangers about.”

  “The dog!” Callie exclaimed. “Yes, the dog was with him last night. Where’s the dog?”

  Mrs. Barrow seized a folded pad of cloth and with much banging and clattering pulled two loaves of fresh-baked bread from the oven. “Outside, where dogs ought to be. Mr. Gabe will bring her in, but I don’t like dogs in my kitchen!”

  With a deft flick of her wrist she turned the loaves onto a wire rack. Steam rose from the toasty crusts and the room filled with the delicious fragrance. “There, that should fetch him in. Never knowed man or boy able to resist the smell of fresh-baked bread!”

  But Callie wasn’t reassured. “Where is Mr. Renfrew?”

  “Gone out for ’is mornin’ ride, Barrow reckons. Trojan and his saddle are gone.”

  “Aha! So he must have—”

  “Master Gabe rides out every morning, rain or shine, he does. And sometimes at night. Helps chase away his demons, Barrow reckons. Not a good sleeper anymore, the young master. The war, you see. Hard on young men, it is. After nigh on eight years of war and living in tents in furrin parts, it’s not easy for a man to settle down to a peaceable English life, Barrow reckons. Our Harry is the same. Restless. Always off and doing.”

  But Callie wasn’t listening. Through the windows that looked away to the sea, she could see a rider coming fast toward the house, a rider on a big, black horse. A dirty bundle was bunched in front of the rider. A limp, child-sized bundle with dirty bare feet.

  “Nicky!” She ran to the door and flung it open. Mrs. Barrow followed, and Barrow ran from nearby outbuildings.

  “Here, Barrow, you take him in! It might be a broken nose—”

  “Broken nose!” Callie was horrified. She couldn’t see Nicky’s face for the blood-soaked white handkerchief covering it.

  “—or not, but there’s rather a lot of blood.” Mr. Renfrew handed the bundle down to Barrow, then dismounted.

  “Nicky! Nicky!” Callie tried to reach her child but Mr. Renfrew grabbed her by the arm.

  “Nicky’s perfectly all right,” he told her.

  “How can you say that? There’s blood everywhere!” Callie struggled. “Let me go! I must go to him!”

  “That boy is not Nicky!”

  Callie froze, staring at him wide-eyed.

  He said in a firm voice, “Nicky is perfectly all right.”

  She looked wildly around. “Then where is he?”

  “He’s back at the cliffs, minding your portmanteau.”

  “Minding my portmanteau?” she echoed stupidly.

  “Yes, I had to leave him there with it.” He brushed mud from his shirt and only succeeded in smearing it more. “Otherwise the portmanteau could have been stolen. It’s damp and looks rather the worse for wear after its fall down the cliff, and it’s rather muddy. But otherwise intact.”

  She stared at him, unable to believe her ears. “You mean you left my child out in the middle of nowhere, on his own, to guard a portmanteau?”

  “That’s right.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I don’t think it’s in danger, but I didn’t like to leave it.”

  “You don’t think the portmanteau is in danger,” she repeated faintly.

  “No.” Using the cast-iron boot scraper at the back door, he started to scrape the mud from his boots.

  “But my son is alone.”

  He frowned. “Yes, but he’s a sensible boy. He’ll stay well away from the edge, I’m sure.”

  “Away from the edge? Of the cliffs? Where we were last night?”

  “Yes, I took him for a ride there this morning. Don’t you think you’re being a bit overprotective?”

  “Overprotective?” She looked at him and suddenly felt strangely calm. She scanned the nearby ground.

  He watched her, puzzled. “What are you looking for? Dropped something?”

  She gave him a limpid look. “I need a large stone.”

  “A large stone?”

  “Yes, you said it would be better to hold a large stone in my fist the next time I punched someone.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I see. You’re upset. You’re worried about the boy, but there’s no need, I assure—”

  Callie looked at him. She was not sure what kind of expression she had on her face, but it seemed to have a satisfactory effect. He backed away.

  “I’ll just nip back and fetch him, shall I?” Gabriel emitted a shrill whistle and his horse returned at a trot, his reins trailing. “Back in a trice,” he said as he mounted with a lithe movement and galloped back the way he had come.

  Callie watched until he disappeared from sight, then hastily ran upstairs to dress. She kept looking out of the window, fear and fury warring within her. Nicky was out there alone on a cliff top. Anything could happen.

  “Ow, yer hurting me!” a young voice complained as Callie reentered the kitchen. Mrs. Barrow was struggling with the child, stripping him of his clothing while Barrow trudged back and forth with pails of water.

  “I’ll hurt you worse if you keep wrigglin’ like that, me lad!” Mrs. Barrow snapped. “Look at the state of you! You’re a disgrace!”

  “He’s not badly hurt, then?” she asked Mrs. Barrow.

  “The nose isn’t broken, just bloody. I don’t think there’s any other injury, but who can tell with such a filthy little beggar? What’s your name lad?”

  “Jim—ow!” The child, for Callie saw he was not much older than Nicky, tried to fend her off, but Mrs. Barrow was more than a match for him.

  “Pour in the hot water, now, Barrow,” she instructed over her shoulder. “It won’t be as hot as I’d like, but it won’t be cold, neither—keep still, you young devil!”

  “Stop that! It ain’t decent!” the child tried to snatch back the shirt she’d ruthlessly stripped from his skinny frame.

  “The amount o’ dirt on you is what’s not decent, young Jimmy, me lad! I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got potatoes growing in his pockets, ma’am!”

  “I have not!” The boy looked at Callie. “I haven’t, lady, truly I haven’t! Make her let me go, please.”

  Callie gave him a helpless look. She was worried about her own son. This child’s fate did not concern her; he was in good hands with Mrs. Barrow. This child was perfectly safe.

  She glanced out of the window, knowing there hadn’t been enough time for him to return, but unable to quell the anxiety in her breast.

  Mrs. Barrow continued, undaunted, “There’s enough dirt on you to grow a dozen potatoes. You’re havin’ a bath, whether you like it or not.” She yanked his ragged trousers off.

  “Oyyy!” the boy yowled and desperately tried to cover his miniscule private parts. “I’m not getting in no bath! I’m not!”

  “It’s that or boil you in the copper with the sheets!” responded Mrs. Barrow fiercely.

  “Boil me in the copper!” Jim’s wide, shocked eyes stood out against the black grime of his face.

  “With the sheets, that’s right.” Over the boy’s head, Mrs. Barrow winked at Callie. “A good boiling in lye would kill all that nasty vermin you’ve got living on you! Fleas and nits and who knows what else? I’d do it, too, only Barrow said a bath would be kinder. But if you’re going to argue…”

  Amidst howls of protest Jim was dumped into the tin bath and scrubbed from head to toe, with no allowances for modesty. Each time he opened his mouth to protest, soap got in.

  Callie was caught between the domestic comedy-drama unfolding before her and anxiety about her son. Nicky was scared of horses; why would he agree to go for a ride?

&nbs
p; What if they had been followed? What if Count Anton’s men found Nicky by the cliff top, alone and unprotected? Without witnesses.

  Behind her, the water in the tin bathtub turned black.

  Callie battled with a vision of a small broken body lying among jagged rocks and shuddered. He would be all right, he would. She prayed silently.

  “Step onto the mat.”

  All resistance scrubbed out of him, Jim stood, like a drowned but extremely clean rat, his hair in wet spikes, as he was briskly dried and wrapped in a large towel.

  “Now sit! And eat that—and don’t argue!” Mrs. Barrow handed him a plate covered by a huge slab of pork pie. The pie disappeared in seconds.

  Callie glanced out of the window for the twentieth time. Still no sign of a tall man and a small boy on a black horse. Anxiety gnawed at her.

  Mrs. Barrow fetched a pair of scissors. “I’m going to cut your hair,” she told Jim. “It’s too knotted to comb out and besides, it’s the only way for us to check for any cuts on your head.”

  He shrank back against the seat. “There ain’t none! I’m all right, honest!”

  “Isn’t any, not ain’t none,” she corrected him. “And sit still or I’ll end up chopping off your ears as well.”

  Jim sat very, very still. Hair fell in matted clumps around him.

  “That’s better, you look almost human now.” Mrs. Barrow stood back and regarded him severely. “Now, let’s have a look at this nose.” Jim’s hands came up protectively and she pushed them away. “Don’t be silly. Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

  Barrow winked at Callie. “Aye, why would you fear Mrs. Barrow, lad?” he said in a deep rumble. “She’s only scrubbed every inch of your body raw, threatened to boil you in lye and cut off your ears. Nothing to be worried about, there.”

  “Oh pshaw! The lad knows full well I wouldn’t hurt him.”

  The boy gave her a wide-eyed look of amazement.

  “Oh, don’t give me that look—you knew! Now, sit still while I tend to that nose or I won’t give you any fresh bread and jam. With clotted cream.”

  Jim worked out that threat and sat like a lamb while she cleaned and examined his nose. Barrow winked at Callie again.