The Cat’s Eye Shell (8 page)

‘Hang tight, little monkey girl,' Luka said, holding Zizi close. ‘I don't want you falling over the cliff!'

‘I'd like to climb that one,' Emilia said, pointing to an immense high cliff further down the coast. ‘You'd feel like you were at the top of the world.'

They looked at Pevensey through Luka's telescope, and decided it was too dangerous to try
for a ship to France there, as there was a double line of soldiers marching into the town, rifles on their shoulders.

‘They must know I'm nearby,' the duke said, his fair brows drawn close together. ‘But how?'

‘Covering their bets, I'd say,' Father Plummer said.

‘And how does a priest of Rome know such gambling talk?' Nat said, looking very dour and suspicious. ‘Odd sort of a priest, I'd say!'

‘I was not always a priest,' Father Plummer replied serenely.

‘Let us not argue among ourselves,' the duke reprimanded them. ‘We must stick together if we are to get out of this trap alive. Come, let us try for Hastings. Perhaps the soldiers will not be searching for us so far east.'

They were all reluctant to get back into the cart, but it was still some miles to Hastings, and so they crawled back in, and let Simon cover them
up with the tarpaulin again. The duke and the priest were still discussing in low voices what to do once they got to Hastings. Nat was all for finding a ship heading across to France, while Father Plummer insisted it was too dangerous, and their best bet was to contact the smugglers out of Rye. They were still arguing about it when they heard Nellie say, in a bright voice, ‘Ooh, look, there's Hastings coming up ahead. And isn't the road busy, Simon! We're not the only ones going to market today!'

Everyone fell silent. Through the gap in the barrels, Emilia saw the road was indeed busy with the usual traffic of market day – carts piled high with barrels and boxes, mules loaded with chicken crates, and flocks of geese being herded along by girls. Women walked briskly along in the dust, baskets on their arms, white bonnets shielding their faces from the sun. A boy carried a piglet under one arm, and another carried a huge basket of fish up on
one shoulder. Freshly caught eels squirmed from big hooks hung from an iron staff carried by a man with a narrow face and a leather waistcoat. Another man pulled along a handcart with a big sign on it, showing someone having a tooth wrenched out of their head with a pair of pincers. There was a lot of dust and noise, but everyone was in a good mood, and Emilia wished she was out there too, walking along with Rollo at her heels instead of crushing her legs with his weight.

Simon turned off the road a little closer to the town, and went up a side road, pretending one of his horses was going lame. He pulled up the cart under a spreading beech tree, where it was hidden from the road by a hedgerow.

‘God bless you, my lord!' Nellie whispered. ‘Give the sweet king a kiss from me!'

‘I will, Nellie! Or at least, I'll tell him you said so. Give my thanks to your mistress,' the duke responded, then they all scrambled out of the cart
and hid behind the hedgerow. Simon, who had been pretending to dig a stone out of the horse's hoof, turned the cart around and went back to the road, joining the throng with none the wiser.

The six companions went quietly along the road, walking on the other side of the hedgerow, keeping a close look out for any farmer or shepherd. It was bright daylight, and they felt very exposed so close to the town. They came to the top of the hill, where a huge oak tree cast a dense shade over the grass, and there they stopped and looked down to Hastings.

It was a small, picturesque town, built in a sheltered valley between two high hills, and facing the English Channel. On the western hill, a ruined castle stood, still raising one impressive rampart against the blue sky. Tall black wooden sheds were erected all along the shingles, and most of the boats had been drawn up high on the beach, nets rolled on their decks.

‘That's the first Norman castle built on English soil,' the duke said, sounding sad, ‘and look at it now, all in ruins and half in the sea.'

‘Tell me, Luka, what can you see?' Father Plummer asked.

Luka was staring down at the town through his telescope. ‘It's swarming with soldiers,' he said. ‘Quite a few are looking through all the carts going into town, and more are examining the fishing boats. I can see more patrolling the market square.'

The duke sighed. ‘I'd heard Cromwell was keeping a close eye on the ports, but this is ridiculous. All right. It's early yet. Let's cut across country to Rye and see what we find there. I knew it was too good to be true that there was no walking to be done!'

E
milia trudged along the edge of a field, the hem of her skirt brown with dust that rose up in little puffs every time her bare feet hit the ground. It was hot, and she was parched. She longed to sit by a stream and dangle her feet in the cool water, and splash her face, and drink till she could drink no more.

‘Look how far Rollo's tongue is hanging out,' Luka said with a laugh. ‘It's practically dragging on the ground.'

‘He's thirsty too,' Emilia said.

‘He shouldn't slobber so much,' Tom said. ‘It's such a waste of water.'

‘It helps keep him cool,' Emilia said crossly. ‘You try being so hairy! You'd be hot too.'

‘I'm hot enough, thank you very much, without having to wear a fur coat,' Tom replied. ‘Isn't this the hottest August ever?' He was a far different boy than the one they had encountered at the Kingston Fair, having shoved his long leather boots in his pack some miles back, so that he walked barefoot like Emilia and Luka. His once-white shirt was fraying where he had torn loose the lace; his long fair hair was wind-tousled, and he had lost the feather from his big hat.

‘How much further?' Emilia wanted to know. ‘We've been walking for hours and hours and hours.'

‘Only three,' the Duke of Ormonde said, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘It can't be far now.'

‘It wouldn't be nearly so far if Father Plummer didn't keep making us go the long way round,' Tom grumbled.

‘Better safe than sorry,' the priest panted. His round face was tomato-red. He fanned one hand in front of his face, and whooshed out a great gust of air. ‘Can't wait to wet my whistle at the Mermaid Inn!'

‘How are we to get in contact with these mysterious smuggler friends of yours once we get there?' the duke wanted to know.

Father Plummer winked. ‘You just leave that up to me, my lord!'

Nat scowled, and cast the priest a suspicious look, and dragged his feet as if reluctant to leave the comparative safety of the countryside, which slumbered under the hot afternoon sun, the fields bare except for the great mounds of hay. Occasionally a dray lumbered past, pulled by large carthorses with shaggy forelocks hiding their eyes,
and then the six travellers all scrambled behind the hedgerow.

It was late afternoon by the time they came to the little walled town of Rye. Built on a high hill between two broad rivers, the town seemed to float in the evening haze as if it were built on clouds. Beyond lay flat green fields and marshes, and to the south lay the sea, all burnished and bright, as if painted by someone dipping a brush into gold leaf. The rivers were gold too, and the sky the colour of ripening peaches; and the old red houses with their steep roofs and tall chimneys seemed to bask peacefully in the sunset warmth.

Passing under the old arched gateway, Emilia felt as though she was stepping back in time. The streets were narrow and cobbled, with little low houses leaning wearily against each other like old men napping on a bench. Emilia half expected to see ladies in tall hats with veils and knights in heavy armour, like she had seen in old church
windows. Instead there was just the usual crowd of people in the plain rough clothes of country folk, some wearing the heavy black of Puritans, but most dressed in homespun brown, carrying strings of fish, or baskets of fruit, eggs and vegetables. The streets ran up and down the hill as if they followed ancient goat tracks, instead of being built for horses and carriages, and were made of such small, uneven cobblestones that it hurt Emilia to walk on them. She picked her way carefully, turning her feet to fit the longer bricks that lined the verge so that she was walking sideways like a crab. Tom put his boots back on.

‘Just up here,' the priest said. ‘Here we go. This is Mermaid Street. We want the inn, just up the road. That's the smugglers' hideaway. We can get a bed there too, and a halfway decent meal.'

‘How do you know so much about smugglers, Father Plummer?' Emilia asked.

He twinkled at her. ‘I grew up near here,
remember. Why, I was a lad of only six the first time I saw the moon-cursers go by. I held a gate open for them and they tossed me a coin, my first ever money all my own. My father used to buy brandy from them, and my mother French silk. Everyone I knew did business with the smugglers, and there's few houses hereabouts that don't have secret tunnels or rooms in which to hide the contraband.'

‘Surely you do not approve of smuggling?' Nat said in a very cold voice.

Father Plummer turned to him. ‘I've come in and out of England with the Owlers half-a-dozen times in recent years,' he answered in a low voice. ‘They ask no questions, as long as you're willing to pay, and they don't mind what contraband they carry, as long as there's gold to be had for it.'

‘I'm contraband, am I?' the duke asked sweetly, and Father Plummer laughed.

‘But sssh, now!' the priest said softly. ‘Spies and
customs men everywhere, and soldiers too. This port will be watched like all the others. I doubt they will have expected you to get so far so fast, though, my lord, and so let's hope they're not looking for you here. Keep that monkey hidden, though, Luka, just in case.'

Luka nodded. He had Zizi tucked up snug in his jacket, and she was fast asleep.

‘Do not call me “my lord” here,' the duke said softly. ‘I am plain Mr Butler, remember.'

‘And I am plain Mr Plummer,' said Father Plummer.

‘And I'm never anything but plain Nat,' said Nat, looking so dour the children did not dare giggle.

At the high end of Mermaid Street was the inn, an ancient building with white plaster walls reinforced with old ship timbers, and a uneven thatched roof that jutted out over the street. Its windows were small, and fitted with diamond-paned
glass so thick and old it could not be seen through, though it allowed the warm golden light from the lanterns inside to shine out into the dusk. A picture of a mermaid hung above the door.

They pushed open the door and went inside. A narrow, dark passage led to the back of the inn, where they found a long, low room with heavy beams, and a fireplace at one end, already burning
high with flames that danced oddly blue. A heavy oak bar ran most of the length of the room, and a man in an apron was there, polishing glasses.

He nodded at them. ‘You look thirsty. What can I get you?'

‘Some ale would go down well, I must admit,' the duke said, ‘but I'm also interested in hiring some rooms for the night. Have you any free?'

The innkeeper nodded. ‘Once upon a time, you'd have been lucky indeed to get a room for the night without a booking, but now the river's silted up and Parliament's brought in a tax on beer, we've rooms to spare. I'll show you up later and you can take your pick.'

He had a soft, rolling voice, and a wry way of speaking that reminded Luka so much of his father that he felt tears prickle his eyes. He blinked them away and looked around him. They were not the only people in the room. A few old fishermen nursed mugs of ale along the bar, and
two men sat near the fire, their greatcoats tossed over the backs of their chairs, small glasses of golden wine before them. Nearby sat a group of other men, farmers by the look of their boots.

From the corner of his eye, Luka saw the priest slide his hand into his pocket and bring out the owl feather he had picked up at Arundel Castle. He twirled it in his fingers nonchalantly, then dropped it on the top of the bar, saying cheerfully, ‘Can I suggest the beer? They make the best for miles around. And the dinner's pretty good too. I had a nice haunch of roast mutton last time I was here.'

‘Beer and roast mutton sound exceedingly good,' the duke said.

The innkeeper nodded and poured some foaming amber liquid into big silver tankards, sweeping up the coins the duke paid him into one big hand. Luka picked up his mug and gulped down a grateful mouthful, as the priest led them to
an inglenook by the fire, chattering genially all the way. Luka glanced back at the bar, but the innkeeper was busy serving some other fishermen who had come in on a blast of cool, salty air. The owl feather was gone.

The beer was stronger than he was used to, and it went straight to his head. He saw Emilia blink as she drank, and put down her cup rather unsteadily.

‘That's no small beer,' she said.

The priest laughed. ‘No. Not at all. Round here they think watering down the beer encourages the plague. You won't get a Rye fisherman to drink Adam's Ale, and maybe they're right. The water's not so pure, I think.'

Luka drank another great mouthful. He felt his weariness and anxiety melt away, though the room began to seem oddly long and distorted, and wavered before his eyes.

The priest was in an expansive mood. ‘You know, the monks used to make beer, using the
foam off the top of apple cider, and then it was the woman's job, like making butter and jam. Since they've started fermenting hops, though, it's now men's business. I wonder why? Maybe because there's money in it? Anyway, did you know Good Queen Bess was very partial to her beer? I've heard she and her ladies used to drink more than a pint for breakfast, and the queen used to send couriers ahead of her wherever she travelled, to taste the beer and make sure it was drinkable. If the couriers thought it was not up to scratch, she would order barrels sent down from London to her.'

‘Nice job,' the duke said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Official beer-taster to the queen. I might apply to my dear Charles for a similar position.'

The priest shot a warning glance at the duke, though he chatted on genially with no change in his voice. ‘Shakespeare's father was an ale-taster, did you know? They used to pour some of the ale
upon their bench and sit on it, and by the time they had drunk a pint or two, they would know if too much sugar was in the ale because their leather breeches would stick to it!'

That made everyone laugh so much, Luka almost forgot the warning look that had preceded it. By now they were all feeling very merry, and then the innkeeper brought them a fine meal of roast mutton and potatoes, with a scoop of green baby peas and a fresh jug of beer. They ate and drank and laughed, stretching their weary, dust-caked feet out to the fire.

‘My lord, I do not like this,' Nat hissed to the duke, looking more austere than ever. ‘We should be finding a ship for you, not sitting and listening to a drunk fool's tales. Let me go and see if I can find a ship to France for you, my lord. Every minute we sit and drink and gossip is another minute the soldiers grow closer to you.'

‘Oddsblood, Nat, let me eat my dinner and rest
awhile,' the duke said irritably. ‘Plummer has things well in hand. Did he not guide us safely here?'

Nat looked sour. ‘You may say so, sir, but all I can say is we've had the soldiers on our heels every step of the way.'

‘Not today, thank God,' the duke said, leaning back in his chair and gulping another mouthful of beer.

Once the innkeeper had cleared away the dirty plates, the two men sitting nearby leant over and said genially, ‘Fancy a game of cards?'

Luka, Emilia and Tom exchanged excited glances, wondering if these were some of the smugglers, making contact. They did not look much like smugglers, though Luka had to admit he really had no idea what smugglers would look like. These two men were both clean-shaven, with light brown hair cropped below their ears in the fashion of the day, and tall boots that came above their knee. They wore long dark coats with lots of
buttons and large cuffs turned back at the wrist, and both had swords which they had unbuckled to sit down, and which now leant against their greatcoats. They looked more like respectable tradesmen or landowners than smugglers. Certainly they did not look much like gypsies.

‘You know I do not care much for cards,' Nat said to the duke, only just managing to remember not to call him by his title. He got to his feet abruptly. ‘I'm sure Mr Plummer here will be glad to play, though. I will go out and see about that business of ours.'