The Herb of Grace (7 page)

‘I could say the same,' Emilia retorted, and he laughed.

‘Can you ride?' he asked. ‘Because I'd like to get away from here fairly quickly.'

She gave him a scornful glance, then vaulted up onto the back of one of the coach-horses, which was no easy task as it was fifteen hands high.

‘I guess that means “yes”,' the highwayman said.

Luka had finished taking an impression of the keys, and was carefully tucking them back into Coldham's pocket, making sure there was no wax left on them to make the big man suspect they had been copied. He then joined Emilia and the highwayman with a smile of pure joy on his face.

‘I have a feeling these could be very useful,' he said to Emilia as he tucked the wax impressions carefully in the bag.

‘You think they're the keys to the gaol?' she whispered sceptically. ‘But would the pig-man have them?'

‘Maybe, maybe not,' Luka said. ‘Only one way to find out.' He winked at her. ‘Besides, even if they're the keys to his dear old father's cottage,
they still may come in useful. I like to be prepared.'

‘After all, they could be the keys to his strong-box,' Emilia replied, grinning.

‘Exactly.' Luka deftly leapt onto the back of one of the other horses, his monkey's tail whipping round his neck as she fought to stay on his shoulder.

‘Let's go!' the highwayman cried, and gave a wild cry, whipping up his horse. At once the bay was off, galloping along the road, the two other coach-horses racing along behind him.

‘Be careful!' Luka called. ‘This road is full of potholes!'

But the highwayman only laughed, and galloped on, the lantern tied to his pommel casting an uncertain light on the road ahead. Emilia and Luka followed at breakneck speed, huge clods of mud spraying up from the hooves of their horses, the darkness hurtling past them.

T
he highwayman rode under a heavy branch, lifting it with one hand. Luka and Emilia came close behind, bending over their horses' necks. Hidden beyond the big tree was a narrow bridle path, gleaming white in the darkness. They rode along in silence, and finally came to a rough camp in a small hollow. A tent was slung over a rope tied between two bushes, and there was a dead fire in a circle of stones.

‘Home sweet home,' the highwayman said, dismounting gracefully. He unsaddled and hobbled his mount, then laid a fire. Emilia and Luka were so tired, it was all they could do to dismount. They slithered down and unbuckled the bridles with fingers that did not seem to want to work properly. The highwayman helped them hobble the horses nearby, then they all sat around the fire, grateful for its warmth.

Luka and Emilia could not help feeling a little scared of the highwayman, even though he had spoken to them kindly. He had taken off his big feathered hat, and in the light of the fire they could see he was a young man, long-limbed and lean, and dressed like a gentleman in a velvet coat with lace cascading over his wrists. His face was olive-skinned and bony, with hollows in the cheeks and deep-set eyes that looked to be as dark as Luka's.

‘You look a bit like Lady Anne,' Emilia said shyly. ‘Are you really her brother?'

He gave her an ironic bow, the fingers of one hand brushing the ground as he bent low. ‘Lord Harry Morrow, at your service.'

‘If you're a lord, why are you working the bridle lay?' Luka demanded.

‘I prefer to call myself a knight of the road,' Lord Harry responded.

‘Road pirate, highwayman, whatever you want to call it, it's not what you expect a lord to be doing,' Luka said.

‘What else am I meant to do?' he replied bitterly. ‘My estate has been stolen, my house burnt to the ground, my family are all dead . . .'

‘Lady Anne isn't dead,' Emilia said.

‘She is to me.' Lord Harry's voice was hard and cold.

‘Because she wouldn't do anything to help when you were fleeing the king's last battle?'

‘So you've heard the story. Which makes me very curious. Who are you, and why do you know so much about my family?'

‘It's a long story,' Luka said.

The gentleman leant back against his saddle. ‘I'm in no rush.'

So Luka and Emilia told him a short version of their tale, and as he listened he smoked his pipe in silence, his brows drawn close together.

‘So you say this Coldham man has been chasing you across the countryside? It seems a most unlikely tale.'

‘But it's all true!' Luka exclaimed hotly.

‘I don't necessarily disbelieve you, lad. I did, after all, find you in his coach. I'm just wondering if there's not more to this than meets the eye. If my information is correct, he's a government agent, a pursuivant, whose job it is to hunt down Catholics and Royalists. Old Ironsides has spies everywhere. I've heard tell he can greet a man and
tell him exactly when and where he raised his glass in a secret toast to the king, when the poor man thought he was among friends.'

Luka thought about the young man at the Angel Inn. He shivered and crept closer to the fire.

Lord Harry regarded him through heavy-lidded eyes. ‘I'd quite like to know where your loyalties lie. Tell me, are you for the king or Parliament?'

Luka was too tired and dispirited to be tactful. ‘I'm for myself, my lord,' he said bluntly. ‘We gypsies say, when we are dying, “Bury me standing, for I've been on my knees all my life.” Well, it's true. We were branded and whipped and hanged when a king sat on the throne, and there's no difference now a Lord Protector sits there instead, as far as I can see.'

Lord Harry frowned and examined his shabby boot.

‘Well, me, I'm for the king,' Emilia said. ‘The Roundheads killed my father and took our horses, and left us with nothing. I was only a baby when the old king had his head cut off, so I don't remember what life was like back then, but I know things could hardly be worse than they are now. Maybe if the new king came back, he would have learnt some kind of lesson and rule better than his father did.'

‘And maybe he'd be worse,' Luka pointed out.

‘Oh, no, he's a great man,' Lord Harry said eagerly. ‘I fought with him at Worcester, and a braver prince never lived! Again and again he charged into battle, calling to all the men by name, and when it was clear the battle was lost and the common soldiers began throwing down their arms, he cried to them that he would rather they shot him then and there than surrender. All through the city we fought, till the gutters ran
with blood, but still he would not give in. It was only when it was clear that the day was lost then he was convinced to flee, and even then his men had to drag him away.'

He sighed and looked into the flames, tears glittering in his eyes. ‘It was a miracle he got away. Indeed, it is a sign of God's favour that he was preserved.' He lifted his cup to the stars, then drank deeply.

‘Martha says it's a sign of God's favour that Parliament won the day,' Luka said.

Lord Harry glanced at him and, unexpectedly, laughed. ‘Indeed, I guess we all believe it is by God's Providence that we are delivered, when in truth it is probably nothing more than blind luck.'

Emilia caressed the gold coin at her wrist, and said in rather a shaky voice, ‘It was more than luck that saw you save us tonight. If it was not for you, we'd be on our way to the gallows.'

‘Luck or Providence, who knows?' Lord Harry bent and patted his saddlebags, where he had thrust the papers he had taken from Coldham's coach. ‘Either way, I got what I was after, as well as some nice swag. I'll be off to Gypsy Joe's in the morning to sell those nags, and –'

‘Gypsy Joe?' Both children sat up to attention.

‘Aye, do you know him? The innkeeper of the Herb of Grace in Salisbury?'

The children looked at each other, torn between hope and disbelief. An innkeeper did not seem very likely, but the name of the inn was encouraging.

‘Do you know his last name?' Luka crossed his fingers, and Emilia held on tight to the golden coin.

‘Wood, I think. We generally just call him Gypsy Joe, he's as dark as any gypsy.'

Luka and Emilia caught their breath in delight. The innkeeper was one of the Wood tribe, maybe even the one who carried the sprig of rue that was
that family's lucky charm. But what was a Rom doing running an inn in Salisbury?

‘We think he may be the man we are looking for,' Luka said carefully. ‘He's a relative of sorts. But we thought he lived in the New Forest.'

‘Oh, all the gypsies have been cleared out of the New Forest,' Lord Harry said. ‘Cromwell's cutting down all the trees to build new ships for his navy.'

‘What happened to them all?' Luka said.

Lord Harry glanced at him, then said gently, ‘I don't rightly know.'

Luka said no more. Zizi looked up at his face, then patted his arm.

‘Why don't you come with me to the Herb of Grace?' Lord Harry said. ‘Then you can see if Gypsy Joe is the man you seek. We'd need to leave pretty soon, though, as I have no desire to ride into Salisbury in broad daylight with four horses that belong to one of Cromwell's pursuivants!'

‘All right,' Luka said.

Emilia yawned, and rested her head on her hand.

‘Why don't you get some sleep in the meantime?' the highwayman suggested. ‘It's very late.'

Emilia lay down, pulling her shawl about her, but Luka felt in the dark for his violin, which lay in its case next to his knee. ‘Would it be safe for me to play my fiddle?' he asked. ‘Just for a little while. We've been running and hiding for so long, it's been ages since I've played, and she should be played every day. It's bad for her to lie quiet.'

‘We're miles from anywhere here,' the highwayman said. ‘Play away.'

Luka took out his violin and fitted it to his chin. He tuned the strings carefully, then began to play, glad to fill his ears with music. The lack of it had been a hollow ache inside him all these days.

His fingers found their way into a lament. Luka shut his eyes, playing by touch and sound alone. The music soared out into the starlit darkness, wild and plaintive, an incoherent wail of grief. When Luka at last laid down his fiddle and opened his eyes, he felt much calmer and happier. He was surprised to find Emilia lying curled in a ball, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Lord Harry surreptitiously knuckling his eyes.

‘I haven't heard a fiddle in a very long time,' the highwayman said, clearing his throat. ‘I'd forgotten how beautiful its music can be.'

Luka smiled and stroked Zizi's fur. The little monkey was sitting bolt upright, her black-button eyes fixed on his face, her head cocked a little to one side. She knew when Luka played music to dance and tumble to, and when he wanted her to sit and listen.

‘I want my mumma back,' Emilia suddenly sobbed. ‘I want her back and alive, and Beatrice and Noah out of gaol, and Baba . . . I want . . .' Her voice failed. ‘I want to go galloping on Alida . . . and I want Rollo! Oh, Rollo!'

She buried her face in her hands, her whole body shaking.

Luka patted her arm awkwardly. ‘Never mind, Milly.'

He wished that he had Emilia's way of always saying the right thing. He searched for something
else to say that might comfort her. ‘We're going to get them all out of gaol, don't you worry. Haven't we got this far already? And I've got a plan, Milly, really I have. So don't you worry now. Try and get some sleep, and we'll go find that rue charm tomorrow, and see what Gypsy Joe can do to help us. All right?'

Emilia did not uncover her face but she nodded her head emphatically. He saw her hand move to touch the charms hanging from her bracelet, letting out her breath in a long sigh.

He patted her shoulder again, then lay down beside her, looking up at the stars, his hands behind his head. He wished he really did have a plan, but all he had was a number of different ideas, most of which would probably never work. He thought of the wax imprints of Coldham's keys, and what he could do to find out what locks they fitted, and fell asleep still turning over different strategies in his head.

Noah lay curled on a rough blanket, his arm tucked under his cheek so he did not have to feel its harshness against his skin. He did not like the feel of coarse fabrics. He wished he was at home in his own bunk, with the softness of his rabbit-fur rug tucked around him, and the smell of apple-wood burning in the stove, and Baba's soft voice telling him wondrous tales of mute hunchbacks and swans, kings and tinkers, witches and seelies.

It smelt very bad in this cell. All the men had to share a single chamber-pot, and it was only emptied once a day. The sounds were all horrible too. No birdsong, no wind rustling in the heather, no horses stamping and snorting, no darling dog panting as he lay beside Noah, his tail beating on the ground. Noah missed Rollo so much it physically hurt him. Without Rollo there to guide him and protect him, Noah felt truly blind for the first time.