Easton's Gold (5 page)

“Who's to say what's dangerous?” he says. “Tomorrow danger and safety may change places. The world may be tipped upside down.”

“You're talking of religion and war. I am still quite new to England, but I have heard of such things.”

“There may be dangerous years ahead,” he says softly. He picks up the bag and hands it to Gabrielle.

Gabrielle takes her elbow from the counter and stands up straight. She takes the bag in her open palm.

“How much?” she asks.

“A shilling.”

“It was a shilling last time, but this is more.”

“But you're a repeat customer now,” he replies softly. “I can rely on you.”

Gabrielle stares at Fleet's brown eyes, and she feels a curious sensation radiate from her belly to her fingers and toes. For some reason this man seems closer to her than he logically should.

“Give it all to him and come back tomorrow.”

Gabrielle holds onto Fleet's gaze for a moment longer. Then she turns, smiles at him hesitantly and hurries away.

When Gabrielle enters the room, the Marquis is propped up on the pillow.

“My lord!” Gabrielle exclaims, running up to the bed. “You are getting better!”

But already her voice trails off a little. His face is full of anxiety, not joy, and his eyes are red as though he has been in pain.

“But what is it?” she asks, leaning over him.

“I have to go to Newfoundland.”

“What!” Gabrielle exclaims, laughing. Then, seeing the pain and worry in the old man's eyes, she stops. “But, my lord,” she says, turning now and sitting on the corner of the bed, “you cannot travel again, and not so far!”

The Marquis gasps for breath as though just holding himself together. “I must,” he stutters, his face reddening. “I must find my son!” His lips quiver alarmingly, and Gabrielle eases closer. “I lost him,” he splutters. “A half-caste boy without money or protection.”

Gabrielle has never laid her hands on the Marquis before except to move him, but now her arms gently enfold his head. She feels its weight drop like a cannonball into her breast. She strokes his thin white hair and pink scalp. The sobs are stifled at first, but gradually, as the Marquis's pink, swollen hands grope for her shoulders and take hold, he starts to let himself go. A loud wail rises like a storm from deep inside him. Gabrielle keeps stroking his head as her body is shaken by the steady rhythm of his crying. Soon the warm moisture of his tears seeps through her bodice and touches her skin.

They haven't said a word since, though it must be two hours since she entered. Now he has exhausted himself with crying, and Gabrielle knows he is ready to sleep for a while. She walks quietly around the bed to the night table, pours water into the cup and unties the bag of powder. She lets the contents fall into the cup. The heaped powder stays on the surface for some time before it begins to get soaked around the edges. Then, like before, it begins to fall.

“This will make you feel better,” she whispers.

He stares toward the curtains. “I will have to go,” he says quietly, as though to himself.

Gabrielle sighs and watches as the medicine begins to foam.

“You don't believe me,” he says.

“Let's get you better first.”

She waits another few moments for the foam to increase then hands him the cup. The Marquis's fingers tremble as he takes the stem. He holds it tight for a second then throws back his head, gulping the potion down in one. He hands the cup back to her and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Gabrielle places the cup back on the nightstand and helps him slide further down the bed. She adjusts the pillow under his head then takes the blanket and smooths it over his shoulders. Just as she is about to withdraw, her wrist is grasped with surprising strength.

“You must promise me, Gabrielle.”

“Yes, my lord?” His hand feels like heated iron around her wrist. She has to make an effort of will not to wriggle. “Promise me you will help me find my son.” “I promise,” she whispers. Suddenly, she is released.

With a gasp she makes for the door then, collecting herself, turns back to make sure the Marquis is comfortable.

Already the blanket is moving with a steady, light snoring.

F
leet approaches the crossroads. The night is quiet save for a faint buzz from the market beyond the dark trees. He peers hard through the dim moonlight. At first it looks like a cluster of branches awaiting an axe to turn it to firewood, but as he draws closer, he sees the straight edge of a post. Then a slight movement reveals a human outline—the dome of a head and skeletal shoulders. The man is on his knees and bent forward, his arms outstretched. Fleet's heart quickens.

Fleet has walked to the very southeastern edge of London to this half-forgotten crossroads because this is where erring slaves from the market are punished in the stocks. He has come to fulfill his promise.

Slowing down, he closes upon the man. Pebbles from his shoes scatter around the slave's knees, but the slave—chest heaving with pain, arms wrenching against the shackles—doesn't look up. Fleet waits a moment, wondering how to start. He hears the slave's unsteady breathing then becomes aware of his own. All of a sudden, he is at a loss. His clothes feel alien to his skin; it is as though he is wearing the enemy's colours in war. Too much time has passed for him to claim kinship with the slave.
I am no longer what I think I am. I should fold back into the shadows and disappear
.

But now the man's head moves, and his eyes stare full on him. The expression, which Fleet catches as the moon brightens, is at first difficult to fathom—just a steady, watery gaze. It might be fear of fresh blows to add to the bruises on his forehead or lips; it might be hope, or defiance, or hatred. But it is not new to Fleet. Slowly he remembers; that look is beyond pain, despair, or anger. It is man stripped and alone.

Fleet crouches down and the pebbles scrunch under his feet. The slave lurches so violently from the stocks that his wrists tug hard upon the wood, his shoulders bulging.

“Stop!” Fleet whispers. “Stop struggling. You'll tear away your hands!”

The slave calms a little, slackening the pull on his wrists. But his eyes are alive now, and Fleet can hear his short gasps.

“I've come to free you,” Fleet says, taking the long chisel from his coat pocket. He slides the bar through the hoops in the stocks bracket. There is a lock joining both hoops and thereby securing the contraption. By working the whole bracket section away from the wood, Fleet knows he can at once open the stocks and prevent its further use. Crouching on the opposite side from the slave, he holds his bar at the top and begins levering toward him. As he had hoped, the wood is aging and half-rotten. In a few seconds, it begins to creak, a sign that the bracket is loosening.

The slave pants harder as he hears the creaking.

“Just hold tight,” Fleet reassures him. “In a few seconds, you'll be free.”

The slave shuffles forward on his knees. “You hold!” he hisses through the dark. “You hold what you do!”

The lock is already tearing from the wood, but Fleet stops pulling and frowns back at the man.

“You not from the market. You not the man who put me here.”

“No,” Fleet explains. “I'm going to break you out.”

“You break me out. They hang me!”

They are now face to face on either side of the stocks, the man steady-eyed and defiant.

“They won't find you,” Fleet says quietly. But he draws his metal bar out of the lock hoops to calm the man. “Everything will be good. I know how to hide you.”

“You know?” he repeats. “What you know? You know nothing.”

Fleet feels the steam of the man's breath on his face. Something tightens in him.

“So you want to remain a slave?” he says, raising his voice. He puts his hands on his knees as though to rise.

“Want?” the man growls. A touch of the slave's spittle lands on Fleet's cheek. “Want got nothing to do with it. I am a slave in this place. Will always be. You go play white man's games some other place.”

“You think that's what it is?” Fleet splutters. “White man's games? You have me wrong.”

“I don't care,” the slave moans. “I don't care who you are or what you do.”

Sighing, Fleet slips the chisel back in his coat and stands.

“Now,” the slave spits, “leave me be before you get me into trouble.”

Without a word, Fleet turns and scrunches through the gravel back the way he came.

__________

M
Y FEET ARE HEAVY AND MY
knees are stiff, but walking is not the great effort I had thought it would be. It seems I am not dying after all.

Hardly breathless, I lean against the window frame and gaze out. Moonlight glimmers on the Thames as though its rolling waters were made of onyx. Night has cleared, and the stars begin to pierce the sky; the houses and trees of the south bank stand distinct in silver and black. Downstream, I catch the glistening Southwark Church spire. Birds no bigger than ink blots skim and tumble above the river's surface. Otherwise there is little activity on the river. Only an old punt weaves its way gingerly through the current, heading, it seems, for the Fleet River.

A sudden cool breeze ripples my nightshirt, and I have to close my eyes and smile.
What route did the roving air take on its way here
? I breathe in deeply and taste the clean, crisp air of the north where bears the colour of snow hunt amid the frozen dunes.

They will humour me, I know. When I lay out my plans for the voyage, they will whisper and titter. Jacques will mock me, of course, in private if I seem in good health and to my face if I am sick. They will imagine the journey is a whim that will be forgotten in a day or so. When I do not forget; when I will not be swayed; when I pay the captain and close up the house; when victuals, livestock, supplies, and furniture are packed in boxes and loaded on a ship at the Bermondsey pier, then they will worry.

Illness and age are my only enemies. I must become fit. I must exercise and keep taking this medicine. Action is the only answer to this kind of remorse, and if I spend the last breath of my life, so be it; I will go to Newfoundland to find the boy.

I can hardly wait until dawn kisses the dark rooftops opposite. How quickly I will turn this household into a torrent of preparation. My heart beats faster at the thought. I imagine the spittle of salt water on my face again.

I have heard once more that ancient herald that first called me to the sea. I must and will follow.

__________

G
ABRIELLE IS HALFWAY UP THE
broad aisle of a vast cathedral. Overhead are lofty arches. The floor shines with black and white tiles. Stone angels line both sides of the aisle. A young priest behind the altar, host held high in both hands, smiles at Gabrielle, beckoning. Gabrielle tries to make her way to the altar, but the angels converge upon her, jutting into the aisle, blocking her path. She tries to weave in and out as she presses on toward the priest, but an angel toe snags her dress and she has to bend and tug it free. Then a wing tip nudges her shoulder, and a stone hand becomes entangled in her hair. Still the priest beckons, so Gabrielle continues, letting the angel hand rip away some of her hair. She weaves, dodges and even climbs over the angels, but the priest and the altar seem to come no nearer.

Suddenly, there is a ringing sound, faint and far off. Gabrielle assumes it to be the cathedral bell above her but wonders why it should be so quiet when it ought to be deafeningly loud. She tries to call out to the priest, telling him the angels are blocking her way, but the words get stuck in her mouth, and she finds herself staring at a grey plaster ceiling.

The angels are gone, and so is the cathedral. But the bell is still ringing.

Gabrielle sits up in bed and listens; the ringing stops for a second then starts again.
It's the Marquis. He must be in trouble
! She throws off her blankets, spins around and lowers her feet to the floor. She looks across to see Philippa open-mouthed, close-eyed. On the other side is Maria, her face buried in the pillow. The light is faint; it must be only just dawn.

Gabrielle throws on her day clothes and winds a scarf around her hair. In a second she has opened the hatch and is climbing down, imagining all manner of ills that may have befallen the old man. She sees him lying in a pool of fresh blood, having fallen out of his bed. She sees him clutching his chest, his face turning deep green from asphyxiation.
He cannot die. He cannot die
. She repeats this over and over as she runs down another flight of stairs. There is just too much at stake for him to die.

She reaches the ground floor and hurls herself at his door. Flinging it open, she stands upon the threshold trying to make sense of what is before her.

Standing expectantly, back to the window, fully clothed in formal attire, is the Marquis himself. His eyes are alert, his hair well combed, and there even appears to be a streak of dark in it Gabrielle hadn't noticed before. Unlike Jacques, the Marquis researched the current fashion in England before returning. The result on him now—black jacket with white puritan collar, black breeches, and dark shoes with silver buckles—would make him not only respectable but fashionable were he to stray onto a London street.

The Marquis stares at her, a trace of amusement playing on his lips. Gabrielle realizes she has been standing with her mouth open for some time.

“My lord!” she eventually exclaims, scuttling into the room. She realizes that her eyes have become quite moist. She has to palm back a tear.

“My lord,” she says with a sniffle, “you are a miracle!”

The Marquis bows and unclasps the hands behind his back. He places the bell on the window ledge and takes a couple of paces, circling the room. His movements are slow, and he walks with deliberation, as if afraid of falling. “Much credit goes to you, Gabrielle, for finding the only honest apothecary in London. The profession is infested with tricksters who publish their false cures far and wide.”