The Silver Horse

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘You just keep your nose clean, my lord,’ Coldham said threateningly, ‘and know we’ve got our eyes on you.’

  Lord Berkely looked bored. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘We know you Roundheads suspect any man who doesn’t care to crop his hair of plotting to overthrow your Lord Protector. Well, I’m an old man and prefer the fashions of my youth to this ugly modern craze of wearing nothing but black, and practically shaving your head bald. As far as I know, you can’t yet arrest a man for long hair. Now, if you don’t mind, I must get back to my guests. Hudson, please show this man the way out.’

  At once his servant stepped forward, inclining his head briefly, and gestured out the door. Coldham stood glowering for a moment, then turned on his heel and marched out, followed by the soldiers.

  There was a long moment of silence, then Lord Berkely said, in a much altered voice, ‘It is no longer safe for the duke to be here, Matthew. We must get him away. As soon as those bloody blue-noses are gone, will you have my coach brought round? There’s a safe house in Salisbury I know of, we’ll get him there, and see if we can arrange safe passage for him back to France.’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ Matthew said. ‘You can count on me, my lord.’

  ‘I know, old friend,’ Lord Berkely said. His thin, blue-veined hands gripped the silver knob of his walking-stick tightly. ‘That it should come to this!’ he burst out. ‘The Duke of Ormonde, forced to travel in disguise like a common criminal, driven from one safe place to another, and hounded by . . . by the likes of that dreadful man Coldham! What has the world come to?’

  ‘Hush, my lord,’ Matthew said. ‘Don’t be getting yourself into a state. All will be well. We will get the duke away safely, don’t you fear.’

  ‘At least he can go back to the king and tell him there are still men loyal and true in England, ready to rise up and die for him!’ Lord Berkely’s voice quavered with emotion.

  Matthew looked troubled, but he nodded his head and said, ‘Aye, my lord, but don’t be saying such things where anyone can hear you. I don’t know what you were thinking, taking the duke up to the Downs. What if he had been captured?’

  ‘It was a risk we had to take,’ Lord Berkely said. ‘How else was he to meet and talk with those who feel the way we do? It would’ve been far more dangerous to invite them here; you know there are spies everywhere.’

  ‘Aye, I do, my lord, which is why we must be careful to keep a still tongue between our teeth. I’ll go and make sure that Roundhead rogue is got rid of, and you go and tell the duke what we plan.’

  Lord Berkely nodded and turned to go. On an afterthought, he turned back and said, ‘What of these gypsy children Coldham was after? They’ve not been here, have they?’

  Matthew frowned. ‘I cannot tell you, my lord. I have not seen them. But something in this stable stinks to high heaven, and it’s not good, clean horse manure, that I know. If Coldham was not such a fool, he would have known that for himself. And one of my lads is missing, and it’s not like young Dicky to take off without leave.’

  ‘You fear he may have been taken by the gypsies?’ Lord Berkely exclaimed.

  ‘I think it’s more likely he’s been helping them hide out,’ Matthew said. ‘I saw him hanging about with one of those gypsy lads from the horse-traders just last night, down at the King’s Head. It was he who told me about the race today.’

  ‘I see,’ Lord Berkely said. ‘So they may well have been here after all?’

  Matthew nodded. ‘Though they’re gone now, thank the Lord!’

  ‘What luck!’ Lord Berkely exclaimed. ‘Imagine if Coldham had found them here! He could’ve demanded a search of the whole place. Imagine if he had gone through my lord duke’s luggage! Or found my secret papers! I feel sick at the thought of it.’

  ‘I’d burn your papers, my lord,’ Matthew said bluntly. ‘You heard what that Coldham said, the place is being watched. Best not take any risks.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Lord Berkely said. ‘I’ll do it now.’ He took a few limping steps to the door, then turned back to say, musingly, ‘I wonder what these children have done, to have a thief-taker on their trail.’

  ‘Nothing good, I’d warrant, my lord,’ Matthew said. ‘Don’t you worry about them now, they’re long gone. Though I’ll have the hide of young Dicky when he turns up, I will, bringing such danger down upon us.’

  His words faded away as he followed the lord out of the stable and into the empty yard. Emilia, still clinging to the crossbeam, dropped one hand so she could rub the golden crown hanging from the chain about her wrist. It seemed Luka and Sebastien had had a lucky escape indeed. She wondered how they had got away, in broad daylight, without anyone seeing, when Sebastien was wearing nothing but a blanket and they had with them a dog, a monkey and a bear. That was not luck, that was pure magic!

  The Broken Church

  Luka did not think it was either luck or magic that had seen them escape. He thought it was all due to his own quick thinking.

  Dicky had been the one who had seen his master being interrogated by the Roundhead soldiers at the racetrack and then escorted home to The Durdans. He had run back cross-country, arriving out of breath and incoherent only a few minutes before Coldham and his party. Once Dicky had managed to stammer out what was happening, Luka had leapt to his feet and thrown all their belongings back into their bag. Sweetheart had been asleep and he had had to tug very hard on her chain before she had at last, grumbling, got to her feet and consented to follow him.

  ‘They’ll see us if we go out the side gate,’ Luka said, his brain whirring like mad. ‘What other way out is there?’

  Dicky shrugged. ‘Apart from the front gate? There’s the gate onto the kitchen yard, I guess, where the tradesmen bring in their carts, and the rubbish gets taken out to the pit . . .’

  ‘The rubbish? Who takes it? How?’

  ‘It gets loaded up on the cart,’ Dicky said, uncomprehendingly. ‘Then, when Old Martha – the cook – can’t stand the smell any more, one of the pot-boys takes it up to the chalk pit, up the road a way. They dump it there, everyone does.’

  ‘Is there any rubbish to be taken out now?’ Luka demanded.

  ‘Bound to be,’ Dicky answered. ‘No one likes taking it out, it stinks to high heaven. Sometimes the rag-and-bone man will come and take it all, but he doesn’t come that often, only –’

  ‘That’s how we’ll get away,’ Luka interrupted. ‘We’ll hide in the cart, and you’ll drive it out the gate. No one will know we’re there!’

  ‘Me? Drive the rubbish cart?’ Dicky exclaimed, wrinkling his freckled nose.

  ‘Me? Hide in a rubbish cart?’ Sebastien echoed.

  ‘Aye! It’s perfect. How else are we going to hide Sweetheart? She’s so big, she’s impossible to conceal. And if anyone sees her, they’re going to talk, aren’t they?’

  ‘But we’ll stink,’ Sebastien said.

  ‘Better than being caught,’ Luka said.

  ‘Well, this Coldham fellow doesn’t want me,’ Sebastien said. ‘I don’t see why I need to hide in a rubbish cart.’

  ‘You think he won’t arrest you too?’ Luka said. ‘He arrested my little sister, and she’s only nine. Besides, do you really want him to find you when you’ve got nothing on but a smelly old blanket?’

  That had been the clinching argument. Half hobbled by his blanket, Sebastien had got up, prepared to do as Luka ordered. After demanding Dicky tell him where else they could possibly hide, the gypsy boy quickly arranged two stalks of straw in a secret message to Emilia, then sent the stableboy to lock the side gate so that no soldiers could take them by surprise.

  Then the three boys hurried through a maze of yards and old outhouses until they reached the back of the house, where the kitchen garden was laid out in neat squares and rows, humming with bees and smelling sweetly of sun-warmed thyme and rosemary. Sebastien, clutching his blanket around him, crouched behind a glasshouse with Sweetheart, who was being decidedly cranky, while the other two scouted on
ahead, Zizi riding on Luka’s shoulder as usual, and Rollo running at his heels. They found the rubbish cart, parked behind an old shed and filled with a collection of filthy rags, broken china, worn-out shoes, stinking soup bones, ashes and other bits of rubbish. It was not as bad as Luka had expected, since the dogs and the chickens got most of the leftover food, and the vegetable peelings and tea leaves were thrown in the compost nearby. He and Dicky managed to heave most of the stuff off, before the groom went hurrying to get the little fat pony that normally pulled the cart, and Luka whistled for Sebastien and the bear.

  Sebastien did not come, though, and since Luka could hear the distant shouts of the soldiers as they began to search the grounds, he felt very anxious. He went running back, hoping desperately that Sebastien had not been captured, only to find Sweetheart raiding the beehives amidst a cloud of furious bees, while Sebastien tugged angrily at her chain. There was an angry red swelling on one cheek, and another on his ear.

  ‘Sweetheart!’ Luka roared, seizing the chain.

  Sulkily the bear came away, her paws and muzzle sticky with honey, while bees zoomed after them, buzzing furiously. Sebastien dragged his blanket up over his head, trying to protect his face, only to be stung on the backside. It was all he could do not to howl in pain.

  While Dicky scrambled to harness the pony, Luka pulled a reluctant Sweetheart up onto the cart, Sebastien trying to push her up from below. Then, holding their breaths, the two boys pressed in beside her while Dicky hurriedly piled the rubbish all around them. Zizi utterly refused to be covered by garbage, and so Dicky put her at his feet and dropped his jacket over her. She kept lifting up the corner of the jacket and peeping out, exclaiming in her liquid monkey language, and Dicky kept having to push her back under again. No one challenged him as he opened the gates and drove the cart out, Rollo bounding along behind. In fact, everything around the kitchen and outhouses was unusually quiet, though they could all hear shouts from the stables.

  ‘They knew exactly where to look,’ Luka whispered to Sebastien. ‘Someone must’ve told them where we were.’

  ‘They must’ve caught Emilia,’ Sebastien whispered back.

  Luka’s heart sank, but he said, ‘Emilia would never have told them where we are. No, it’s someone else. Some traitor. I bet it was Tom Whitehorse. He saw me last night. He must’ve followed us back to The Durdans.’

  ‘Who?’ Sebastien sounded a bit sick. The smell was overpowering and the cart was jolting about horribly on the rough road.

  ‘This boy I know from back home. His father’s the local squire, and he thinks he’s pretty special. He gives himself all kinds of airs and graces. He’s got these long fair curls, and wears this big hat with a feather in it like a Frenchy.’

  ‘Oh, him. I saw him in the inn last night.’

  ‘Did you? Well, that proves it. It must be him. No one else knew where we were.’

  Sebastien made a gurgling noise in his throat that could have been a sound of affirmation or nausea. Luka, who was beginning to feel a bit queasy himself, fell silent, brooding over Tom Whitehorse’s infamy, and worrying over Emilia. He hoped she had not been caught, and that she would find the patrin he had made behind the door, and understand it.

  After ten minutes of banging and bouncing that made the two boys feel quite ill, the cart at last pulled to a halt. Dicky hauled away the rubbish, letting in a flood of blessed fresh air. The two boys crawled out, Rollo bounding around them and barking in his excitement.

  They were in a graveyard, the cart pulled behind the shelter of an ancient yew tree. Next to them was the little church with the narrow spire they had seen the previous night. The gravestones were half covered in grass and weeds, and Luka could see many of the church’s windows were empty of glass. Dicky led them inside at a run, looking about him anxiously.

  Inside, all was cold and dark and dank. Long pews stretched from side to side, thick with dust and cobwebs, and there was a dead bird lying amidst a litter of old leaves on the altar. Here and there stood statues with smashed-in faces, holding out broken arms to the shadows.

  ‘They kicked the vicar out,’ Dicky explained shortly. ‘Too High Church. Tried to stop them smashing up the stained glass and breaking all the statues. If he’d just kept quiet and tidied up a bit, they’d probably have let him be, but he preached against them and so they threw him out. The whole place has gone to rack and ruin since.’

  Luka looked around him sadly. Although he did not care much for church, he and his family usually went for form’s sake, to keep the old squire happy. Although Luka usually got very restless through the sermon, he had always liked seeing the sunlight striking down through the coloured glass, and hearing all the old stories, and singing the songs. This old, ruined church was eerie, but, he had to admit, an excellent hiding place.

  ‘Good on you, Dicky,’ he said. ‘May your clothes rip and wear out, but may you live on in good health and fulfilment!’

  ‘Thanks . . . I think,’ Dicky replied.

  Sebastien slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s an old gypsy blessing, you idiot. It’s always joy and sorrow with the gypsies, you know that!’

  Dicky had found some old clothes in the rubbish, which he gave to Sebastien to put on, as it was cold in the church. Then the stableboy ran off, eager to get back to the manor house before anyone noticed he was missing.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Sebastien said, as he hurriedly dressed.

  ‘Me too!’ Luka said, crossing his arms over his stomach as he wandered about the church. There were shards of glass near the walls, crimson and blue and amber, and he stepped hurriedly away, not wanting to cut his bare feet. All around the walls were empty apertures, and he wondered what had once stood there, and whether they had been stolen or taken away for safekeeping. It was impossible to tell.

  It could not have been a very rich church at any time, he decided, being only small and built of rough local stone. Part of the roof had fallen in over the chancel, so light struck in, highlighting the brass plaques and what looked like old sepulchres.

  Zizi had been confined in a smelly stable all day and was eager to explore too. She leapt all round the nave, clambering over the pews, and up onto the altar, then scurried all round the chancel. She climbed up into the belltower and set the old bells to donging, till Luka called her down urgently. Frightened by the sound she had unwittingly roused, Zizi came leaping down to sit on his shoulder, clinging to his ear, her tail wrapped so tight about his throat she half choked him. Luka soothed and petted her, and loosened her tail, but she did not leave his shoulder again. Rollo was happy to flop on the floor, tired after his run through the countryside, while Sweetheart sat quietly, licking her claws of every last bit of honey. Sebastien was feeling very sore and sorry for himself, unable to sit down, and his face swollen and purple. He cleaned off one of the pews and lay on his stomach, gloomily drawing in the dust with a bit of old stick.

  ‘How long do you reckon we need to wait?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Till it’s dark, probably.’

  ‘Till it’s dark! But I’m cold. And starving. And my dad will be so angry.’

  ‘He’d be angrier if you were in gaol,’ Luka answered.

  Slowly the light coming in through the fallen-in roof turned to orange, and then faded to violet.

  Once Luka said, ‘I hope Emilia is all right.’

  Another time Sebastien said, ‘My father’s going to kill me.’

  Otherwise there was little conversation. As the church began to sink into darkness, they grew quieter than ever. The only sounds were the wind riffling the dead leaves, and a scratching noise deep in the decayed stones that set both their nerves on edge. Then came a high-pitched squeaking from up in the belltower, and a rustling of leathery wings, as suddenly a thousand bats took to the air, swooping through the church and making the boys yell and Rollo bark loudly.

  At last all the bats had flown out of the broken windows into the night, and the boys subsided, their hearts hammering.
They glanced at each other, ashamed of their panic.

  ‘Lucky I’m not a constable,’ came a voice out of the darkness. ‘I could hear you two yell a mile away.’

  ‘Emilia!’ Luka cried and jumped to his feet.

  His cousin walked up the church aisle, her mare stepping close behind, ghostly grey in the dusk. Luka ran to greet her, hugging her close, and Rollo wriggled and whined and leapt up to lick her face.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re all right,’ Luka said. ‘We thought you’d been nabbed.’

  ‘I thought you’d been nabbed,’ she replied, patting Rollo affectionately.

  ‘So you found the cross? I was afraid it’d blow away, or you wouldn’t see it.’

  ‘I saw it, but I didn’t know where the church was. Lucky it has such a tall spire.’

  ‘What happened at the races?’ Sebastien demanded.

  ‘Alida won,’ Emilia replied wearily, ‘and your dad pocketed plenty of gold, but then Coldham turned up with soldiers and we had to get away.’

  ‘He knew just where to go to find us,’ Luka said.

  ‘Aye. Someone must’ve told him where you were hiding out.’

  ‘Tom Whitehorse!’ Luka exclaimed angrily.

  ‘Tom? But . . . how could he have known where you were?’ Emilia asked, startled.

  ‘He was at the inn last night. He saw me as he was creeping out. He must’ve followed me and Sebastien when we went to the stable.’

  ‘But why would he . . .’ Emilia’s voice faltered as she suddenly remembered how Tom had disappeared after he had seen her, and how Coldham and the soldiers had appeared soon after.

  She told Luka, who cried, ‘See? It must’ve been him!’

  ‘But why would he tell? He’s known us for years.’

  ‘Who knows why? Maybe to get Coldham off his back. ’Cause it was after Coldham appeared at the inn that he climbed out the window, I remember now.’