Raiders' Ransom (2 page)

Don't let it be anyone, not even Lun.

I turn the tiller and head fast as I can, fast as this stupid little wind will take me, for home.

To get into harbor, I have to push my boat through a tide of broken wood. On the quayside there's a great gang of fishers — just standing, not sorting fish or mending nets. They're dressed in the browny woollens and raggedy trousers that every fisher wears under their oilskins. Like they jumped straight up from their beds and ran down to the quay. And they're all staring out over the water, like they ain't ever seen it before. I'm staring, too, cos there ain't one boat left whole. The whole fleet is sitting half out of the water, or leaning with their masts broken. It looks like a giant reached down to the village and crushed all the boats for matchsticks.

“Lilly! Lilly!”

There's Andy, waving and shouting my name, his curly black hair sticking up like a mushroom over the other heads. First off, I'm so happy to see him alive and well, but then my stomach knots up. Cos why is he waving and shouting at me?

As we get in near the harbor wall, the only sound's the crunching and creaking of the wood-filled waves. I can't get close, what with all the wood, so I stand up and throw out a coil of rope. And I'm pulled in by half a dozen fishers, even Captain Ainsty, who ain't done any work himself for twenty years. I step out of the boat and climb up the stone steps to the quay, Cat trotting behind me. Everyone just looks at me with thin, pinched faces. A few shake their heads.

“Raiders?” I ask. And I get some nods.

“A terrible, terrible day,” says Captain Ainsty, and for once he doesn't sound full of his own importance.

“They just came in this morning, no warning, out of the early mist,” says John Greenstick. Everyone nods and moans.

Captain Ainsty claps his hand on my shoulder.

“Lilly, this has been a terrible day. You must be brave.”

Brave?

I look around panicky at the sea-roughened faces, but their eyes flick away from me. Only Andy holds my gaze, and I know he'll tell me.

“What is it?” I whisper, and the tears start dropping from his charcoal eyes.

“Oh Lilly,” he says. “It's your granny.”

And he doesn't have to say any more, cos now I'm pushing and struggling my way out of the crowd.

“Let me through!” I'm shrieking, and then I'm running, feet pounding over the smooth gray cobbles, racing two at a time up the little steps. Past the black and charred front of the carpenter's workshop, around broken furniture, over a torn mattress, fluffy stuffing spilling out onto the flagstones. Behind me, Andy's calling my name, but I ain't slowing for anything.

Then I'm home. Chest burning, lungs panting. And the front door's standing open, an axe-sized hole in its middle. And when I run inside, there's Granny lying out on the table: arms crossed, eyes shut, lips blue. Hetty's sat next to her on a
chair, her face bloated from crying. She jumps up as I crash in, and for a moment she doesn't say anything, her mouth hanging open. Then she wails.

“Oh Lilly! They'd heard about Cat! Half a dozen of them broke off from the rest and came straight up here! You should have seen Granny — like a fiery fury she was! But there was one of them, young and nasty. He wouldn't believe Cat was out at sea. Kept going on and on, said she was lying and hit her with his sword … And she fell down, and she never got up again … Oh Lilly, I tried to save her, I did, but the blood just kept on coming …”

And she's crying, and I'm crying, and Andy comes in and he's crying. And Cat skitters in, and he's mewing and mewing.

And I put my arms around Granny's poor cold body, hold on to her like I've done so many times before. But she doesn't hug me, or stroke my hair, or tell me everything is all right. And still I hold on to her, hold her tight in that dark little room, cos how can I ever let her go?

The next few hours is just crying and misery. I don't want to say any more about it. But eventually I have to pick myself up, cos Hetty says, “We've got to get her laid out proper.” And she's right; people are poking their heads in, wanting to pay respects.

The vicar arrives when it's getting near to dark.

“Your grandmother was a good woman,” he says. “She was honest, hardworking, and never let herself be lured into the bad old ways. She'll be getting her reward for her good life.” And that's something I hold on to, hoping he's right.

Andy says, his voice wobbling and strange, “Vicar, do you want help with the grave?” and Vicar Reynolds nods, all solemn. Then he takes Andy away to help with the digging in the churchyard. Just one hole. Just for Granny.

“It really is something of a miracle no one else was killed,” says the vicar before he leaves, “but it seems the raiders had other things on their minds. Even the two soldiers at Mrs. Denton's will recover from their wounds.”

And I hate him then, for saying Granny's death is a miracle. So I don't ask him what he means.

The late afternoon draws into evening, and people come in ones and twos to sit with us and say their good-byes to Granny. Then comes night, passing in an age and a flash, both at the same time. And when the first light creeps in rosy through the parlor window, the fog in my head starts to lift, leaving an empty, horrible hole.

We dress Granny in her best clothes and wrap her in a winding sheet. The church bells start to toll, and Andy comes back, with James the carpenter in tow. They set Granny on a wide plank and carry her out of our house for the last time, with me and Hetty following behind. As we walk to church, first one person, then another, then another comes out of their smashed-up houses and walks quietly after. I look over my shoulder and see fisherfolk and captains, all marching solemnly behind us. Fishing caps off their heads, eyes down, wearing their best clothes. Even shoes, if they have them.

When we reach the church, the vicar leads the service. I sit through it in a front pew, everyone's eyes on the back of my head.

“The raiders fester in their marshes,” he roars, “fleeing from decency and righteousness, just as their ancestors fled from London. Their forebears were the scum of that terrible
city, and the raiders have descended even further into depravity!” I keep hoping he'll say something nice about Granny, but he just keeps on about the raiders leading wicked lives, and everyone in Greater Scotland being not much better, cos they won't renounce technology, and how us being poor and hungry is good for our souls.

“Only in the Last Ten Counties has any virtue survived the floods, storms, and destruction that have rained down over these lands!”

When he does finally give a word to Granny, he just says what he did before. How she was kindhearted and honest. Like he can't think of anything else to say about her, even though she's been going to this church since before he was born.

When he's finished, we go outside and lay Granny in a deep, dirty hole. Next to the little stone for my ma and pa, lost at sea. It's over so quick, and I'm left looking at a mound of silent earth. It's while I'm stood there, wondering if I'll ever be able to move again, I overhear the captains talking behind me.

“I reckon they must have known she was visiting the village, tho who knows how.”

“Worth a pretty penny, I suppose.”

“But snatching the Prime Minister's daughter? Them raiders're getting crazier every year. They'll more likely get a war party than a ransom. Randall won't take it lying down, that's for sure. There'll be a fine old ruckus once word gets to Swindon, you wait.”

“Strange how they knew where the girl was. Even the pillaging wasn't much — they just rushed in and straight out again.”

“I think I'd prefer pillaging to smashing all the boats in.”

“Maybe they was worried we'd chase after their hostage?”

“Not I!”

“Not for Randall! He ain't a patch on his father — now
he
were a good Prime Minister.”

“And his granddad before him.”

“But this one, he's just in it for hisself!”

“Hush up. Ears might hear and tell on us for saying such things. We don't need any more trouble.”

“I reckon we'll be getting it, tho.”

“ 'Tis a terrible shame about Melkun's old missus.”

“She were a fine woman, and a good fisher in her day.”

“How did they know there was a seacat in the house?”

“Same as how they knowed little Alexandra Randall was here, I suppose.”

“It just goes to show, there's no good comes from a young girl having such a beast. If he'd gone to a captain with a proper-sized boat, he wouldn't have needed a home on land, and the raiders wouldn't have thought they'd a chance of getting theirselves a seacat.”

“The cat
was
out at sea.”

“But that ain't the point, is it? Hers is the only seacat lives ashore. And the raiders heard about it and thought they had a chance.”

“That'd be sense — they knows the value of 'em, just like we do.”

“Aye, seacats is rare. Should be on a decent-sized boat with a proper cat's mate. Not some flimsy thing run by a little girl.”

“I allas did think maybe Lun was right about the cat. Should've been given to someone suited to it. Melkun's missus would be alive today if it had.”

Their voices roll out over the crowd. By the time the captains have finished, every other conversation has kind of fizzled out, and everyone's just staring at them, and at me.

“Cat chose me!” is all I can think to say, the words popping out of my mouth into the silence. People near me cough and look embarrassed, but Captain Ainsty's wife pulls herself up like a ship in full sail and glares at her husband. Who suddenly looks right cowed and scuttles into the cover of the other captains.

“Now is not the time for this discussion,” she says, in her ordering-everyone-about voice. “Mrs. Melkun was a fine woman who deserves our respect. And the taking of the Prime Minister's only daughter by raiders — and a little child of seven at that — is a dreadful disaster. I think you'll all agree gossiping does nothing to help things along.”

The captains bow their heads meekly and walk off in single file. But they're heading straight for the Old Moon, and I know they'll be going over this every which way for a month.

After the captains leave, everyone else trickles off, too, shaking my hand and saying how sorry they are. In the end, I'm on my own, stood by Granny's grave. I look around, and the only people left are Andy and his ma and pa, stood a bit away. Andy comes over to where I am.

“Don't listen to them, Lilly,” he says, his dark eyes narrow. “Them captains are old fools; they never think any further than boats and fish.”

I shake my head.

“It was me went to sea, leaving Granny all alone.”

“You had to go fishing, just like everyone does in this miserable village!” And I know Andy's right, 'cept … seacats
are
meant to be on the boats all their lives. That way they get to know every lump and hush of the ocean. That way they can tell when something's up and warn the captain or the cat's mate. But I couldn't hardly leave Cat down at the harbor in my little open boat, and, anyway, he followed me home right from the first. Ten years old I was — all puffed up to be chosen by a seacat — thought I must be something really special.

Well, that was three years ago, and now how special am I? Special to lose Granny to the raiders? Special to be left an orphan?

Andy clears his throat, then says, “Do you want to stay with me and Ma and Pa for a bit? You know, so you won't be alone? “

I smile a bit of a smile, and he takes hold of my hand. Our fingers link together, making a pattern of browns. Darker
and lighter, like the strong joints on a wooden chest.

In the evening, Andy's ma makes us beachy stew. She must have walked the whole afternoon to find all them mussels, cockles, winkles, and whelks. Andy's face lights up to see such good food. And then she plumps on the table a steaming bowl of potatoes.

“Here, Lilly,” says Andy's pa, “have some of these. I got 'em special from Will, works at Burnt Tree Farm.”

Beachy stew and potatoes! We don't get that hardly once a month; most days it's oat porridge and dried fish. And even though we laid Granny into the ground this morning, my stomach still growls for such a feast, and I put the food into my mouth. While I'm eating, Andy keeps on trying to cheer me.

“You'll see, things are going to get better, I promise. I'll make sure of it.”

And it does give me a tiny bit of cheer to think of me and Andy, saving up to get our own rig.

“We'll be the best fishing boat in the village,” I whisper, cos that's what I always say. 'Cept the words seem hollow and dry now, without Granny. Cos she was the one going to be proud when me and Andy started bringing in big catches. She was the one going to be proved right for standing up for me and Cat.