The Cat’s Eye Shell (10 page)

This was a large, comfortable room, with big easychairs padded with embroidered cushions, a roaring fire, a small table set with wine glasses and a decanter, a big desk littered with scrolls of paper, a pot stuffed full of quills, ink pots, blotting paper, books and ledgers, and a bowl filled with reeking pipes and lumps of half-burnt tobacco. The innkeeper looked up in surprise as the pastor glided in, his hands folded before him.

‘Dead already, is he?' he asked.

‘Not yet, Mr Riley,' Pastor Spurgeon answered coldly. ‘He is at peace with himself and his Lord, though, and I expect he will breathe his last in the early hours of the morning.'

Riley sighed heavily. ‘We'll have the whole lot down with the fever, no doubt, and none left for the assizes, if we're not careful. Last thing I need is another enquiry into dying prisoners.'

He saw Beatrice shrinking in the hard grasp of the guard, and said, ‘What's this? One of the women prisoners causing a disturbance, hey?'

‘Indeed,' Pastor Spurgeon replied. ‘I trust you will allow me to discipline her as I see fit.'

The innkeeper shifted in his chair, but said ingratiatingly, ‘For sure, for sure.'

‘I was only singing a little lullaby,' Beatrice said desperately. ‘Indeed, I was doing no harm.'

The pastor regarded her with cold eyes. ‘Did your father never teach you to keep a still tongue in your head?'

‘Well, if it were just a little lullaby,' Riley said. ‘No harm done.'

The pastor fixed his burning eyes upon the innkeeper, who shrank back. ‘Do not let this woman's beauty and false innocence trick you,' he warned. ‘Women have a thousand ways to entice you, and ten thousand ways to deceive you. So I warn you, Mr Riley.'

‘Yes, yes, just so,' he replied, not looking at Beatrice.

Pastor Spurgeon held out his hand. ‘Give me the key to your cupboard.'

Riley jostled his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys which he gave to the pastor who unlocked the cupboard and flung back the door. Beatrice at once shrank back, her legs almost giving way beneath her, for inside were hung a wide range of whips and flails, studded iron gauntlets, manacles and chains, thumbscrews and other iron contraptions whose use she could only guess at. The pastor selected one and brought it to her. The guard had to hold her steady, for she was weeping and pleading with him, incoherent with fear.

‘Open your mouth,' Pastor Spurgeon ordered.

Beatrice at once clamped her mouth tightly shut.

He frowned, and ordered the guard to force
her mouth open. This he did. Helplessly, Beatrice tried to squirm away as the pastor fitted a heavy iron bridle over her head, with a long iron bar that he forced into her mouth, clamping down her tongue. In seconds it was locked into place.

‘I've never heard of the scold's bridle being used for
singing
,' Riley said dubiously.

The pastor ignored him. ‘You will thank me for this, I promise you,' he said to Beatrice. ‘Vanity is the vilest of all sins, and using one's tongue to entice and enchant is the most abhorrent of things to our Lord Christ. Our tongue should be used only to pray to him and praise him.'

Beatrice could not have spoken even if she had wanted to. The iron bar gagged her cruelly. She stared at him in utter bemusement, unable to understand why anyone could do such a thing to her, or indeed to any woman.

‘Leave her in it for the night,' the pastor told the guard, ‘but let her eat and drink in the
morning, and again in the evening. Otherwise she must wear it at all times.'

The guard looked at the innkeeper, who flapped his hand and said, ‘Of course. Do as he says.'

Beatrice made her way unsteadily back to her cell, unbalanced by the heavy weight of the iron contraption locked about her head, her tongue throbbing with pain. The guard opened the door for her and ushered her in, and Beatrice's eyes met her grandmother's. Maggie's eyes opened wide in horror, but she said nothing until the door had been locked again. Then she crawled towards Beatrice, tears running down her face.

‘Oh, my darling, my darling girl, what have they done to you?'

R
YE,
E
AST
S
USSEX
, E
NGLAND
24th August 1658

R
ollo growled, deep in his throat.

Emilia swam up out of a fathomless darkness, trailing the tatter of a terrible dream. She lay in the bed, her heart pounding, and tried to remember where she was. Memory was slow to come, and all the time Rollo growled like a miniature thunderstorm, warning of danger.

Emilia sat up, and swung her feet out. Rollo was sitting by the bed, staring at the door. She got up and tiptoed over to the door, listening intently. After a moment, she opened the door and put her head out.

She could hear the low murmur of voices.

It felt very late. Long past midnight. With Rollo nudging her, Emilia went out into the hallway and listened at the door next to hers. She could hear the voices more clearly, but not enough to distinguish many words. ‘No more,' she heard, and ‘cost'. ‘Soon' or maybe it was ‘moon'. ‘Regret', and ‘blood', or maybe ‘mud', and, quite clearly, ‘he should die'.

Emilia's heart was hammering so hard it hurt her rib cage. She put her hand on Rollo's head to steady herself, and he whined and licked her.
Luka
, she thought, and went in search of her cousin.

He was sharing a room with Tom, on the opposite side of the corridor. His door was
unlocked, and Emilia was able to run across to the bed, and shake him awake, without any difficulties.

‘Whaaaat?' he mumbled.

‘Luka,' she whispered. ‘Voices. Next door. I'm afraid.'

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What?' he said again.

‘Voices. From the priest's room. I'm afraid…'

‘Is he plotting something?' Tom's low voice came from the other bed.

‘I think so. He said “blood” and “he should die”.'

‘Did he mean my lord duke?' Tom sounded wide awake, and full of vengeful fury.

‘I don't know. I couldn't hear much. But I'm worried …'

Tom was up in a trice, pulling on his boots and groping for his dagger. In a moment, Luka stumbled out of bed too, scrubbing at his head, and lurching about looking for his breeches. Zizi
screeched and leapt onto his head, dragging at his hair so that he yelped.

‘Sssh!' Emilia hissed. ‘It's late!'

They crept down the hall together and listened at the priest's door. They could hear little, and Luka was all for going back to bed, but Tom turned the door handle and flung open the door.

‘What's going on?' he demanded.

The priest was sitting up in bed dressed in a voluminous nightgown, his sparse hair sticking up from his head. On the end of his bed sat the small, dark man Emilia had run into earlier. Without his big hat, he was revealed as being about forty, with short black curly hair, a blue chin, a big nose, beetling eyebrows, and narrow, suspicious black eyes. One boot was crossed over his knee, and he held his big hat in one hand. In the other he held a white owl feather.

‘Sssh!' the priest said irritably. ‘What are you
doing up at this hour? Come in, come in, if you must. Shut the door. Milosh, these are the children I was telling you about.'

‘Milosh!' Luka cried. ‘That's a Rom name.'

‘Is that so?' the small, dark man said. ‘And how would you be knowing that?'

‘We're Rom too,' Luka said. ‘At least, I am and Emilia. Tom's not. He's just a boy.'

Tom shot him a look, but said nothing.

‘You have our owl feather,' Emilia said. ‘Are you a smuggler?'

‘Who, me? How can you say such a thing? I'm a businessman.' Milosh smiled slowly, showing his dreadful teeth. ‘A businessman who just happens to prefer the night hours.'

‘The hours when most good children are asleep,' Father Plummer said acidly.

‘You woke me,' Emilia said. ‘You scared me. I heard you say something about “blood”, and someone dying.'

Father Plummer and Milosh exchanged quick glances. ‘You have sharp ears,' the smuggler said.

‘What were you talking about?' Tom demanded. ‘What are you up to?'

‘We were just talking,' Father Plummer said. ‘I showed the owl feather, Milosh heard about it and came to see what I wanted. He could not come earlier; those friendly gentlemen we were chatting to earlier were excise men. Besides, Milosh prefers to test how strong a man's heart is, and turn up on the end of his bed when he's asleep!'

‘Yours is ticking along well, old friend,' Milosh said, and grinned again.

‘I heard you say someone must die,' Emilia said, fondling Rollo's ears. The big dog was sitting with his head on her knee, and she drew comfort from his warmth and closeness.

Again the exchange of glances.

‘I fear treachery,' Father Plummer said.
‘Things don't smell right to me. I would like the duke to abandon this idea of a French ship and sneak out of the country on one of Milosh's boats. No one knows this coast like Milosh.'

‘No one,' the smuggler agreed complacently, twirling the white feather.

‘But he won't. The duke is not used to intrigue. Look at his hair! Emilia spotted he was a fake at first glance and she's only thirteen years old.'

‘But smart,' Emilia said, in a fair copy of Milosh's smug voice. He opened his eyes at her, and showed a glimpse of black teeth.

‘Aye, very smart,' the priest agreed. ‘Smart enough to know something smells fishy?'

Emilia hesitated. ‘Maybe …'

‘How about a priest that drinks French brandy and plays cards for money?' Tom jeered. ‘How fishy is that?'

The priest hid a smile, casting his eyes down modestly. ‘No man is perfect.'

Luka huffed out his breath. ‘What? You suspect Nat of treachery?'

‘I do. I have done since Arundel. Maybe even earlier. But the duke is a good man, and trusts those that declare they are trustworthy. Me? I've been on the run since I was twenty and discovered my vocation. I've been betrayed by men I thought of as brothers, and hunted high and low and in and out, till I cannot remember a day I slept easily. So I am not so trusting.'

Luka and Emilia exchanged unhappy glances. ‘But why have you not accused him?' Emilia burst out. ‘If you think Nat is a traitor? Why?'

‘I suspected you and your cousin too,' the priest said, smiling genially. ‘And young Tom here. I've even wondered about the duke once or twice. Perhaps he wants to be caught, so he can betray the confidences of all he has met these past few weeks.'

‘No!' Tom cried.

‘Maybe,' the priest said. ‘It would not be the first time, believe me. Either way, I have no proof, only suspicions, and I have those always. Why accuse and turn the duke against me? He trusts Nat.'

‘So you plan to kill him.' Tom spoke flatly.

‘Who, me? I'm a priest in the service of our Lord Jesus Christ,' Father Plummer said. ‘It is a sin to murder! No, no. I merely suggested to our friend Milosh here that, if Nat was planning some kind of treachery, perhaps it would be best to nip it in the bud, as it were. Drag him off before he took the duke wherever he plans to take him tomorrow.'

‘But much as I wish to oblige my old friend, I said it was impossible. There's a garrison of soldiers installed up at the old Ypres Tower, keeping a close eye on the town, and these excise men trying hard to appear like normal travellers. It's too risky. In the town, at least. Once we're on the water, it's a different story,' Milosh said.

As he turned his face to look from one to the
other, the light of the candle caught suddenly at his ear lobe. It gleamed green and strange, like a cat's eye in the darkness, and Emilia exclaimed aloud.

‘What do you wear there, in your ear?' she asked.

The smuggler put up a dirty hand and fingered his earring. ‘Why, that's my good luck charm,' he said. ‘It's old, very old. Belonged to my great-grandfather and then my grandfather and then my father and then me. Older still, maybe. It brings in clouds to cover the moon, or rain to hide our tracks, or high seas to hide us from the lanterns of the excise men. I'd never be parted from it.'

‘Oh, but please,' Emilia said, knowing she was doing this all wrong. She was very tired, though. ‘Please, can't I have it?'

‘No,' Milosh said, scowling. ‘It's not just a pretty trinket for a wean to beg for. It's magic, a charm, a talisman. It has meaning.'

‘I know,' said poor Emilia. ‘But truly I need it. Please?'

‘No,' he said and got up, slapping his hat on his thigh before drawing it down over his head. He looked at the priest. ‘Your cargo's chosen another route. You have no need of me now. I'll be going.'

Both Emilia and Luka jumped to their feet, begging him to stay and listen, but he would not. He cast them a look through narrowed eyes, and went out, shutting the door quietly after him.

‘Stupid!' Emilia said. ‘Stupid, stupid!' She banged herself on the side of the head.

The priest regarded them with a quizzical expression. ‘Now, that was odd. I had not marked you as a vain and frivolous child, Emilia. Why on earth would you ask Milosh for his earring?'

‘It's magic,' Emilia said miserably. ‘It's part of a charm bracelet that was broken up long ago. My Baba told me to find them and join them together again. I have found three, but I need the other three before we can rescue our family.'

Luka was angry with her. ‘Forget the stupid charms! We could have asked Milosh for practical help. We'll need horses to get away, and the smugglers have ponies, a whole herd of them, which they use to carry their goods through the
countryside. And they'll know how to hide from the constables, and maybe even how to break into the prison. There was so much I wanted to ask him, and you had to ruin it all with your craze over these stupid charms. They're not magic, Emilia! It's just stupid old-fashioned superstition.'

‘It is not!' Emilia cried, bursting into tears. ‘How can you say that! The charms have saved us again and again.'

‘Like when?' Luka said scornfully.

‘Like when Lord Harry rescued us from Coldpig!'

‘That wasn't the charms, that was just luck!'

‘No, it wasn't!'

‘It was, Emilia. You've got all crazy about these so-called lucky charms and forgotten what we're really meant to be doing. What's important is rescuing our family –'

‘You … think … I … don't … know … that …' Emilia was so distraught she could barely speak.

‘That's enough, children. Come, it's very late and you are both exhausted. Do not fight like this. We'll leave another owl feather for Milosh tomorrow, and explain it all to him. He's a gypsy too, I'm sure he'll understand it all.' Father Plummer sounded quite bemused, as if he did not at all understand what all the grief and trouble was about.

Emilia had tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘How … can you … say … how …'

‘It's complete rubbish, Emilia! And you lost us our chance of asking for real help! I've humoured you this far, but never again. Never!' Luka was in such a rage he could not sit still, but leapt up and paced back and forth.

Emilia stared at him, in utter despair, then she jumped up and dashed for the door. Rollo got up to follow her, but the door slammed on his nose. Tail drooping, he looked back at Luka who kicked at the priest's bed. ‘Stupid girls!'

‘Go to bed,' the priest said. ‘It'll all feel better in the morning. Go on. To bed! I'm so exhausted I'm all befuddled, and I'm far older than you. Go on. You can make up in the morning.'

‘I don't want to make up,' Luka said. ‘Emilia's nothing but a silly little girl.'

He went out and banged the door loudly. The priest and Tom looked at each other, then Tom shrugged and went out too, Rollo at his heels. The big brown dog whined outside Emilia's door and scratched the wood, but there was no answer.

‘Come in with us,' Tom said, and went into the bedroom he was sharing with Luka. The gypsy boy was lying in bed, his back to the door. Zizi was enfolded in his arms, but she peeped over his shoulder and showed Tom her sharp yellow teeth. Tom sighed, undressed and got into bed.