The Accidental Highwayman (21 page)

There was a silence that gave to me the feeling of stepping off a high place in the darkness, not knowing what lay below. All eyes were turned upon me, and every face was an unreadable mask (except Gruntle's, which was characteristically blank).

Then Morgana spoke. “You suggest we conceal ourselves in the crowd.”

“We make our own crowds, and hide behind them,” Lily added.

“We hide in plain sight,” I agreed, relief flooding through me that they understood.

“What a load of steaming—” began Willum, but Gruntle piped up.

“I likes that idear. We found a merry Punch-theater inside one of the cupboards this arternoon. Willum and me can dress up as puppets and do plays for the childerns, and begging pardon to her Royal Highness, beside the several verses of them Eldritch Laws we're like to break, but we could use our comprimaunts to get them fancy effects what no other show has. Why, our old whiskered gentleman—he could talk the fish out of the trees, he's that good with words, like. He can do the tellin' of the shows, we do the showin', and by the ears of the stone wocklebear, nobody will dare bother us! We'll be too famoust.”

This speech positively stupefied Willum; he might as well have been hexed out of time by Magda. It may have been the longest statement Gruntle had made in a century.

“Just so,” I agreed, before Willum could gather his objections. “If we're popular, it will be that much more difficult to attack us. We'll be noticed; there will be human eyes upon us much of the time, and that will make it difficult for those blasted pixies to strike. Your Eldritch Laws could be useful, for once.”

“But you forget our entanglements in the
human
world,” said Morgana. “The very minute we show ourselves in public, that vindictive captain of yours may become interested, or word will get back to Prudence Fingers and her swain at Mr. Puggle's estate. Then undoubtedly there will be some human intervention in our scheme.”

“She'll have the magistrate on us,” I admitted. “I though we could paint a different name on the wagon.”

I didn't share my thoughts about Captain Sterne. If he came for me, I'd have to make a run for it, that was all. The others could carry on without me well enough, I hoped. The hanged man.

“I don't think we need worry ourselves about Prudence Fingers,” Lily said, tapping her forehead. “A cunning piece of business, is she. With Uncle Cornelius out of the way, she can have him declared missing and take over his property until such time as he returns—never, with luck to her. It's perfect—she's above suspicion and gets all the benefit. So she'll not be eager to find him now, thinks I.”

This was an unexpectedly profound insight from simple Lily—but then, I supposed, she knew well enough how a
female
mind worked. It was
men
she didn't understand.

“I remain unconvinced,” Morgana said, staring into the fire, the light transformed to gems in her eyes. “The business with your uncle, Lily, is one matter, and not a fatal one. My father's minions are quite another, and the Duchess another yet. Our chief obstacle remains the Faerie loyalists, who are searching for us with thousands of eyes. Should they find us, we shall have no rest or safety and our downfall is assured. If we make ourselves plainly known, as must be the case were we to perform in public, some magical creature will discover us before the first show is done, and we'll be captured before the second show begins.”

We all became quiet a while after that. I poked at the embers of the fire, and Willum's bottom flickered like a rushlight. Then the missing element of our scheme came clear into my mind.

“Your people,” I said, addressing the Faeries, “find human technology impressive, am I correct?”

“If by ‘impressive' thou mean'st ‘stupid,' then yes,” Morgana grumbled.

But Willum's posterior lit up handsomely. “Of course we do. The canals! What a triumph! Ships on the ocean, wheels, cannon, cathedrals, ironworks, woolen mills, pickled eggs—these are mighty feats.”

“And yet,” I continued, grateful that Willum, at least, would hear me out, “you laugh uproariously at our attempts to do things such as conjuring, or training brute animals to do our bidding. Even what Lily does you find unimpressive.”

“They don't, does they? Well I never,” said Lily. “Little ingrates is what they are.”

“It's nowt personal-like,” Gruntle broke in. “We can make pigs play the 'arpsichord, if we likes, and make neliphaunts walk upon two legs. We can dance on cobwebs and fly through the air. As for magic—well, nuffink personal to manling-kind, but you're doin' it wrong. That's all.”

“But don't you see?” I said, rising to my feet in my excitement. “If we do precisely the things the Faeries aren't interested in, they won't suspect us for a moment! They'll take one glance and say, ‘Oh, another miserable bunch of talentless, entirely human fools,' and leave us quite alone!”

“I think I begin to understand,” Morgana said, and her eyes were full of merriment now. She smiled at me, and I saw that when she smiled fully, she had only one dimple, because her mouth came up higher on one side than the other. But while I was falling into her eyes, she was still speaking: “What you suggest is we perform only human tricks and feats. No eldritch magic at all, no comprimaunts or caprizels. Our foes will look on our efforts with such scorn they will discount us!”

“Precisely my meaning,” I said. “Faeries will think we're beneath suspicion, and humans will think we're above it.”

“Brilliant,” Morgana said, and snapped her fingers at the fire. It burst up in a great green ball of flames, the coals flew up in a red spray, and all at once the light winked out. “I'm sorry,” said she, in the sudden darkness. “I didn't know I could do that, either.”

 

Chapter 21

PLAY-PRACTICE

F
OR A
few days, we divided our time between fleeing and rehearsing. Once, we heard gryphons screaming in the sky, but at a great distance; we spent the afternoon concealed inside a hay-barn, to be certain we were not detected. On another occasion Willum was scouting ahead and spied pixies upon our route, so we took another road that led us long astray. All the while, bees came and went, Morgana keeping up so busy a correspondence with sympathizers to her cause that I thought it might have a measurable effect on the supply of honey that season.

Part of our collective disguise was the appearance of leisure. If we raced at speed across the countryside, it would be evident that we were either fleeing someone or rushing somewhere. The former would arouse the suspicion of the human king's forces, and the latter would arouse the suspicion of the Faerie king's forces. So we took our time about it, stopping in the afternoons to practice our performances. These pauses allowed Morgana time to concentrate on her bees, as well. She didn't need play-practice in order to read palms, or so I thought.

The order of business was as follows: We would halt the caravan in some secluded place, preferably near flowing water so that there would be a defensive barrier against attack on one side. Then, while I freed Midnight from the harness, Lily would secure a rope between two trees, a couple of hands above the ground. Uncle Cornelius would set up the puppet theater. Willum and Gruntle would don their costumes, the hand puppets.

I observed that the feyín's wings could curl up like overcooked bacon if they wished to get them out of the way, until they resembled a rucksack on their backs. Gruntle's injured wing would not curl, but it was flexible enough to lie along his side, so it wasn't a hindrance to wearing the puppets.

While everyone readied for their parts, I'd saddle Midnight—he would frisk like a colt at the sight of the leathers—and guide him to a level, clear patch of ground about the correct size for a riding-ring. The reason trick-riders go in circles is because the horse, in galloping, leans toward the center; this makes it easier for the rider not to be flung off. It also creates a full ring for the audience to stand in, which earns more pennies. But the primary advantage is defeating the effect of gravitation, at least a little bit.

*   *   *

On the occasion of our first practice, during an afternoon halt, Midnight and I started out with simple things, riding around and around. The horse thought I'd gone mad. We had lovely countryside on every hand, and here we were pelting about in circles. But he soon got the hang of it, and seemed to find me scampering across his back rather interesting. I practiced hanging from the stirrups, standing in the saddle, and mounting and dismounting at a run, leaping across his back like a Minoan bull-dancer of ancient times. Midnight practiced not tossing his head or kicking up his heels at inopportune moments.

I love horses, and the riding of them, as I believe this narrative reveals. But to return to the old trade after a long interval, and to find it still fresh in my mind (if not my body), awakened such a joy in me that I wanted to ride all the way around the world. Instead we rode around the ring, man and beast discovering a new partnership. It wasn't until we cantered to a stop after that first practice that we discovered the rest of the troupe had ceased what they were doing to watch us.

I'm proud to say that the first applause to ring out for Puggle's Spectacular was earned by Midnight and I. That it was our fellow performers doing the cheering diminished the delight of it not one whit.

*   *   *

That same evening, we made camp in the corner of a field with a brook along one side and a wood on the other. There was a crust of ruined monastery in the middle of the field—whether the result of the Tudors or Cromwell, I knew not. Until my recent adventures I hadn't noticed how many ruins were scattered about the English countryside. It was like Rome with more sheep.

I set Midnight to graze, then sat on a monastery stone to watch Willum and Gruntle, who had elected to continue practicing their show beside the fire. They dispensed with the puppet theater, performing on the ground, which meant their legs were visible below the skirts of the puppet costumes. Willum took the part of Punch and Gruntle took every other role. The overall effect was of watching ugly dolls hop about on very thin legs.

“Act three, scene three, the prison,” Willum cried from within Punch's head. “Enter Gruntle as Jack Ketch.”

“Not as the doctor?” Gruntle demanded, for he was costumed as the doctor.

“The doctor is dead by act three, scene three. That's why it's set in the prison, thou lummox.”

“And because Mr. Punch slain 'is wife and child.”

“Right, but the doctor is deceased at this time. You're Jack Ketch,” Willum explained, his voice getting higher as he grew more irritated. “Why would a doctor hang a fellow? What sort of a doctor would he be?”

“A Hippocratic oaf,” said Gruntle. “I done a joke.”

Willum struck his companion over the head with his Punch-stick and there was an interlude of boxing, but as neither of them could see anything more than their opponent's feet, no telling blows were landed.

“'Oo plays the constabule, then? There be a constabule in this scene,” Gruntle inquired once the fisticuffs were ended.

“We'll cut that role. Ketch can do both parts.”

“Oh good,” Gruntle said. “I ain't learnt the constabule part norhow.”

“But you have committed the Jack Ketch bits to memory?”

“No.”

They went on like this for a considerable period of time, never quite getting to the point of rehearsing the scene.

Fred was prodding the fire, Uncle Cornelius was peeling potatoes he'd bought from a farmer, and Lily was inside the wagon, doing what women do when they're doing things men don't know about, whatever those are. Morgana was in conference with some bushes at the edge of the wood, within which I presumed there must be concealed some feyín. Or, for all I knew, she might be talking to the bushes.

“Fetch me the salt, will you?” Uncle Cornelius asked me. “It's in the grease cask on the other side of the wagon.” Salt! I sprang to my feet and went straight to the wagon. We hadn't had salt since our escape. Lovely salt. Unfortunately, the cask contained axle-grease, as it was intended to do. So I got out the brush and greased the axles.

This meant that I was bent below the little window in the side of the wagon, and so heard Lily's voice from within.

“I
am
a pretty girl,” said she. “You're very kind. Nowt like a fine princess, pr'aps, but for a common sort I'm uncommon 'andsome.”

My curiosity piqued, I stole a peep through the window. Had her garments been disarranged I'd have perished of shame, but she was entirely decent, sitting on a tiny stool at the tiny table beneath the tiny looking glass hanging on the bulkhead within. I could not see the glass, but I could well see Lily simpering and tossing her curls at it.