by G. P. Taylor
“Magnus has thought much this night and he cannot take in any more than his mind will allow. Isn’t that right, Magnus?” Griselda asked as she stoked the fire. She filled the grate with a bundle of logs, scooped a cup of apple blossoms and watched the sparks dance up the wide chimney.
“So when can we go to London and conquer the Citadel?” Jonah asked. “I am an outlaw and a fugitive, I have nothing to lose and my friend to gain.”
“It isn’t a game, Jonah. You are fighting more than men and there is more at stake than meets the eye,” Griselda said.
Jonah laughed. “We fight old Solomon and Lord Malpas,” he said merrily. “We sneak into the Citadel and find Tara and the boy, kidnap them and bring them to Strumbelo. . . . Surely you can shake the devil from Tara’s mind and put aright all that Solomon has twisted in her head?”
“If only it were that simple,” Griselda said as she walked from the fire and pushed the secret panel on the wall until it slammed shut. “She must want to be set free. You had sought to be rid of your fear. It had held you since childhood and now was your time. The dog that picked you from the cradle was a doorway to your soul that allowed the terror to grow. Now it is gone. I can promise nothing for the girl.”
“But you would try?” Jonah asked anxiously, unsure of how she knew of the beast that had picked him from his cot. “Whenever I feared the most,” he went on, “I would see the beast that came from me. In the night by the inn when Maggot was in the street and the dog attacked him, all I could see in my mind was that creature. It stared at me through red eyes, laughing, scolding me for being frightened.”
“I will not stop you going, Jonah. You needn’t fear it anymore. But be aware that Solomon and Lord Malpas want you, and you will face the militia and the disciples. Are you still prepared to go?”
“Of this I am certain,” Jonah said as he looked at Maggot and then to Malachi. “In my life, Tara stuck by me no matter how I treated her. In this hour I will stand for her whether she wants me or not.”
“Then the matter is resolved as I knew it would be. You haven’t disappointed me, Jonah, nor you, Magnus Malachi.” Griselda turned to Malachi. “My carriage will take you into the city. It is upon you and Jonah as to what you do then. Bring Tara here and watch for Lycaon, that old wolf has perhaps not said good-bye to you for good.” Enfolded in the brisk scent of apple blossom, she stopped and listened to the silence of the house. “One thing I know—the oracle is not dead. The boy, Tersias, is still alive. If he were dead, then the demon that speaks through him would have left the city. My companions tell me that its presence has been felt all these last days. Tread carefully, for it grows in strength and power and soon will be able to speak for itself and do away with the boy for good.”
“We shall go this very hour and make the night our mantle of disguise,” Malachi said as he stood and faced the door. “Whatever awaits, I know I go into the night with a new heart. I came here a drudge, a broken man wrapped in rags, and I awoke anew. For that I shall always be grateful to you.” Malachi bowed in front of Griselda. “But one thing . . . ,” he said nervously, wringing his hands together. “It has been on my mind all of the time I have been here and of your consideration I need to be assured.”
“Whatever you said about me before you came is of no concern for me,” Griselda said, reading his mind.
Malachi looked to Jonah as if he had been betrayed.
“I said nothing,” the boy replied.
“You talk in your sleep,” Griselda said. “Abel, who you met when you arrived, prepared your bath and heard your mumblings—but I forgive you, whatever words you spoke of me.”
“I didn’t know you and yet was so willing to destroy your repute to the boy,” Malachi said, his eyes still downcast.
“That is the way of the world. Every day we slaughter with our tongues as if our head is inhabited by the foulest of fiends. We can control our sword arm, but we cannot control the smallest muscle that inhabits our body. But for that, Magnus, you are forgiven.”
Malachi smiled, catching a glimpse of himself in the looking-glass that hung by the door. “Of one thing I am sure—I will not be recognised.”
“What weapons shall we take with us, Malachi?” Jonah asked excitedly as he began to follow.
“Take nothing but the Mastema,” Griselda said. “You will need nothing more but the dagger. Keep your wits and seek the impossible. Lord Malpas will grow more desperate for the knife. A time is coming when he must have it. I am not sure as to what will be the best for him. I have offered the cure to him many times, but the true cost of his redemption is too great for him to bear. He is a proud man and his pride blinds him from what is gracious and good.” There was sadness in her voice, yet she spoke firmly about her former husband.
The door opened and Abel stood there dressed in a coachman’s jacket that stretched to the floor. He carried a long horsewhip and a cutlass in his hands. He nodded to Malachi for him to follow as a sharp wind blew through the opening, fanning the log flames and scattering the burning apple blossoms across the room in tiny yellow sparks.
“Quickly, you can be in London by midnight,” Griselda said. “There is no moon and the city will be quiet. I hear there is a circus in St. James’s Field—it will keep Malpas amused and his thoughts away from you.”
Griselda ushered them to the door as Abel opened the carriage and helped Malachi to his seat. Jonah jumped upon the leading wheel and slithered through the open window, sliding across the leather seat and falling into the footwell with a pleasured grunt.
Malachi lifted him to the bench as Abel slammed the door and jumped to the driving plate. He cracked the whip above the horses’ heads as they broke into a trot towards the gates. Jonah looked back towards the house, the redbrick chimneys rising from the roof towards the night. It was then he noticed that Strumbelo shone with an iridescent glow.
Abel said nothing as he sat above them wrapped in his thick blanket, his whip and cutlass across his knees. Ahead they heard the gates creaking open, again pulled by unseen hands that worked the lock and allowed the carriage to leave unhindered. As they trotted by, Jonah saw the gates close again and the lock snap shut, weaving itself together as if charmed.
In the brightness and hope of Strumbelo, all had seemed possible to Jonah. Bravery came easily when amongst friends. But here in the trembling darkness of the carriage, Jonah’s thoughts found their old pattern. He was alone, unable to see more of Malachi than a dark, ghostly outline. The horses dragged him to face an old foe, one he had secretly never hoped to see again. Good intentions had seized him whilst in Griselda’s presence; now in her absence he allowed himself to dread what was to come.
“Malachi,” he said feebly, and the magician sensed the weakness of his words. “Will we succeed?”
“We escaped from Malpas and fought with Campion. We have been beaten, imprisoned, cheated, and now we sit in one of London’s finest carriages and wear clothes our bodies think are the vestments of a dream—is that not success?”
“But we are going back, and we haven’t even got a plan. We can’t turn up at Solomon’s door and ask for her to be set free.”
“Every castle has its weakest point and even the Citadel can be breached.” Malachi stopped speaking and listened to the steady trundling of the wheels over the broken road. The constant pounding of the horses’ hooves reminded him of the clock at Strumbelo that even in the most distant room of the house could somehow be heard, far away, marking out the time like a heartbeat. “Do you want to see Tara again?” he asked as he reached out a hand in the blackness to steady himself as the carriage rocked from side to side.
“One part of my heart cries out for her, the other cares not for what she has become and tells me to leave her to her fate with Solomon. Yet I know that if it were I trapped in that place dressed in purple and with a cockroach painted on my head, she would be beating down the doors by herself to set me free.”
“Then we shall do the same for her. Too much of my life is left behin
d in that place. Tersias calls to me, his fate unknown, but my heart was gladdened by the words of Griselda. Perhaps he is still alive and all that Tara said was a lie. Perhaps . . .” Malachi thought for a moment as the carriage turned into the King’s Road and passed a row of tiny houses that lined the street with lit windows and pulled curtains.
The coach rattled on into the countryside, carrying them towards the Knight’s Bridge and Hyde Park. It slowed in its speed as it left the good going of the country roads and entered the cobbled mud of the London streets. Tallow lamps lit Piccadilly, where a snapped rope dangled tantalisingly from Mister Hatchard’s book-shop, the remnant of a failed circus trick.
Abel pulled the horses to a tight rein as he walked them through Leicester Fields and along the dirt track past St. Martin’s Church. The smell of Covent Garden filled the air, and the towering Citadel rose up above them from the grime-filled streets.
XXIII
THE QUOTIDIAN OF DRURY LANE
Far away, the clock of St. George’s Church struck midnight as the carriage ground slowly to a halt at the corner of Drury Lane. Abel jumped from the driving plate and opened the carriage door whilst keeping his cutlass at the ready. He nodded to Malachi, who slid across the leather bench and slipped quietly from the carriage to the road. Jonah sat in the seat corner, his head in his hands, as if shielding himself from what he would have to do.
The coachman looked at Malachi and then to the boy. Then he quickly reached in, took Jonah violently by the scruff of his neck, pulled him from his place and dumped him in a heap on the ground. He slammed the door to the carriage, mounted the footplate and doffed his cap as he lifted the horsewhip and cracked it above the beast’s heads. The carriage started to roll forward with a slow clatter as it pulled away from Malachi and Jonah, who now stood marooned and stranded as if upon a foreign shore.
Together they looked on as the carriage ebbed its way into the night. “Not the best way of getting from a carriage,” a voice said suddenly, coming out of the shadows. “Couldn’t afford to pay the fare, could you?”
It was a rich, warm voice, full of heart and cheer. The man stepped forward. He was as tall as Malachi, much younger and dressed in the finest blue coat and breeches. He smiled at Malachi, looking him up and down, admiring his dress.
“A master and servant abandoned in Drury Lane, falling into the lap of Thomas Danton, the quotidian of this glorious stretch of the King’s turf,” the man said as he held out his hand to Malachi, hoping that this gesture of friendship would be received warmly.
Malachi obliged, gently shaking Thomas Danton’s hand.
“If you can’t afford to pay for your carriage, then you can’t afford to buy me a drink,” Danton said as he held his grip on Malachi, and began to draw him down the street as Jonah followed on like an attentive hound. “I shall treat you to some chocolate—you look like a chocolate man to me—and the boy of course. We cannot have our servants left to starve in the streets whilst their masters dine sumptuously. I know an inn nearby that imports the finest chocolate from the north.”
“It’s kind of you to offer us such a treat, but we have been well fed,” Malachi said as he tried to get away from the man, whose grip had suddenly tightened upon his hand. “I have visited with friends in the country and now we go back to my business in Cheapside. So we will take your leave.”
“My leave? You will take my leave and refuse the hospitality of Thomas Danton? Do you not know that the most privileged of men desire my company? I am sought after by people from around the world for what I do.”
“Then you will have to do it alone,” Malachi said, snatching his hand from the man and plunging it firmly into his pocket so it could not be grabbed again. “My friend and I have much business to attend to and drinking is not one of them.”
“I beg you both earnestly to reconsider, since I will be offended easily. It is just midnight and the pot will be warmed and the nectar oozing, a delight that can be sniffed fragrantly throughout the district.” The man paused for breath, making much of taking the air as he lifted his nose towards the sky.
Jonah looked at Malachi, who without speaking showed his concern as he furrowed his brow and screwed up his face.
“Follow,” whispered Jonah as he pushed Malachi to walk on. “We need to think, and an hour in the coffeehouse will give us that time.”
“Wait!” Malachi shouted to the man, who by now had strolled ahead of them, eyes closed, following his nose and unaware that they dragged behind. “We will come with you and sample some of that fine chocolate.”
Danton stopped and turned around, unaware that they were so far behind and that he had strolled alone gibbering to himself. “Ah . . . then if we are to dine together, our introductions must be complete and formal as anyone with good manners deserves. Thomas Danton, impresario and owner of many of the finest theatres in London.”
“Magnus Malachi and Jonah Ketch, horse dealers and stable owners of repute,” Malachi said as he gave a genteel bow and a wave of the handkerchief he had found in his pocket. Danton again took Malachi by the hand and led him through the streets, drawing ever closer to the tower of the Citadel.
Several yards ahead of them, the door to the coffeehouse lay open, and the aromatic smell of fine coffee and of thick, dark chocolate filled the air. A warm, gentle light illuminated the dry cobbles that had been meticulously swept and polished with linseed. The sound of heated conversation spilled from the house.
Danton stepped forward, letting go of Malachi and placing one hand in his pocket, the other in the air as he made his entrance into the room. Suddenly there was silence, and taking this as a warning of unwelcomeness, both Malachi and Jonah edged around the door and peeked inside.
To their complete surprise, the whole room had got to its feet, every man there standing in complete silence as Thomas Danton nodded to each one in turn. As he walked to a table in the darkest corner of the coffeehouse, the whole crowd burst into a spontaneous applause, as if they had been witness to some great event.
“Mister Danton,” a tall, neatly dressed man said as he opened his arms in welcome. “Your table is ready and your nightcap prepared.”
“I have guests, Mister Mitchell. Two strangers that I have rescued from the night air.”
Mitchell looked about him. “Guests, Mister Danton? I see no one.”
Danton looked about the room and saw Malachi peering in from the street, his fingers clutching the side of the door. “Bring them to me,” Danton said to Mister Mitchell as he warmed his hands on the large cup of steaming chocolate that had been placed at his table. “They are to have what they want and not to pay for a thing. In fact, Mitchell, let everyone in the house celebrate with us.”
There was more loud and rapturous applause as the gathering jumped up wildly and stood at their places, toasting their benefactor. Jonah and Malachi picked their way quietly through Danton’s grateful audience and took their seats as the applause finally abated.
“Now, my friends,” Danton said, smiling warmly. “Of what shall we converse on this dark and troublesome night?”
“We are your guests, surely we should listen to you and enjoy all that you have to say.” Malachi spoke quickly before Jonah could say a word.
Jonah wasn’t listening, he was in another world. His eyes darted and flashed around the coffee shop and looked upon the painted faces and fine clothes that surrounded him. He knew many of these faces, whose caricatures were much doted over in the London Chronicle. Actors, playwrights and adventurers occupied every seat. Mitchell scurried from table to table, sharing in the conversation and offering them all a well-cut piece of hilarity.
“So,” Danton said as he tapped the boy on his shoulder to gain his attention. “What shall we discuss?”
Jonah looked to Malachi, unsure of what to say.
“Have you come far?” the man asked, hoping to glean a word from the boy’s tight lips.
“Far?” answered Jonah as he took the china cup and slurped the tre
acly black chocolate into his mouth and across his chin.
“As far as Strumbelo?” the man asked, this time in a whisper loud enough to be shared only with those gathered around the table.
Jonah spat the drink back in to the cup and stared anxiously at Malachi, whose gaze had suddenly found the most interesting piece of cobweb floating across the ceiling. He had lost the ability to speak.
“Griselda is such a fine host and Abel a man of few words,” the man went on.
Jonah tapped furiously on Malachi’s arm, hoping to bring his mind back to earth and a voice back to his head. “He knows, Malachi,” Jonah said through gritted teeth.
“Of course I know. Do you think I often lurk in doorways waiting to pick up the first vagrants dropped from a carriage? I was waiting for you. It was arranged.” Danton laughed to himself as he took a napkin and carefully wiped the chocolate from the edges of his mouth.
“How can we be sure? You could work for Solomon or Malpas and be tricking us for what we desire,” Malachi said, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Then I would have not brought you to an inn within a cat’s hair of the Citadel and have had arranged a door to be left open this very night.” Danton looked at Malachi, suddenly grabbing hold of his ear and giving it a sharp twist. “I expect to be looked at. I am not a man without influence.”
Jonah giggled as Malachi squealed in pain, and Danton laughed out loud as the heads of those at nearby tables turned to share in the amusement.
“I am a companion of the woman whose house you shared,” Danton said. “There are many of us in the city living out our ordinary, mundane and commonplace lives, waiting for the time when we can be of service to the greater cause . . . and it would seem that you two serve a cause which is the greatest of them all. Whatever you have done or are about to do is of vast importance, for ordinarily I would not be asked to share in such a task or put myself in danger.” Danton laughed unnecessarily at the end of the sentence, as if to continue the revelry of those around him and disguise the nature of their conversation.
