The Butterfly in Amber (12 page)

With Zizi cuddled in his lap, Luka turned the
pack out onto the table and arranged their loot in neat rows. There was the sheaf of papers with Oliver Cromwell's own signature on it. There was the half-empty bottle of powdered fish-berries. There were the copies of Coldham's keys and the lock pick Old Man Smith had made them. There were Coldham's handcuffs, his clothes and helmet, his steel gauntlet, and his weapons. Luka was most pleased by these, and spent some time examining the pistol, and trying to determine how it worked. It made Emilia sick and nervous, seeing the long-muzzled gun in her cousin's hands, but eventually he laid it down.

‘We're going to have to rescue Dado and everyone by ourselves, tonight,' Luka said, looking inside Coldham's cartridge pouch. ‘We dare not risk being caught again, and besides, it's the perfect night for it – it's raining cats and dogs and no one will be around to see us.'

Rollo looked up at the word ‘dogs' and beat his
tail against the floor. Giving him a quick pat, Emilia nodded.

‘The best plan would be to get into the inn, and drug the ale, and hope that it knocks all the guards out cold. Then we could just creep in, and let everyone out, and get away without anyone being the wiser.' He busied himself pouring the powder into the barrel of the gun, as he had seen Coldham do earlier, then shoved the musket ball in with the little ramrod.

‘I doubt that it'll be that easy, though, and besides, it doesn't solve the problem of stopping the constables from chasing after us once they realise everyone's gone. I'm thinking I'd better dress up in Coldham's clothes and pretend to be a soldier. I'll say I've brought pardons from the Lord Protector.'

‘But won't they read the pardons?' The plan, Emilia thought, was as full of holes as her petticoat. ‘They'll see they're not for our family.'

‘I'm hoping the night guards won't be able to read too well.' Luka tapped a small amount of powder into the priming pan, and then half cocked the lock. ‘It'll be late, hopefully they're already half befuddled with ale, and if we're lucky, we'll have got some of the sleeping drug into them. Besides, look at all the words on these things! Some of them are so long they take up half the line. No one but a pettifogger could possibly know what they mean.'

‘But what if they ask Old Ironsides why he freed everyone?' Tom asked.

‘Cromwell's going to die, maybe even this very night,' Luka said. ‘Emilia's seen it and you know she sees true. Once he's dead, there'll be no one around to know whether he pardoned our families or not. Besides, once he dies, everything's going to be in such turmoil no one's going to worry about a few poor gypsies.'

‘No, of course not,' Emilia said. ‘Do you think
they'll be suspicious of you turning up on their doorstep at this time of night?'

‘It was the storm, sir,' Luka said, dramatically wiping his brow. ‘Trees falling down all over the place, rivers breaking their banks and flooding the road, branches falling on my head. I'm lucky to have made it here alive!'

‘What if they guess it's all a trick?'

Luka handed her the pistol. ‘Then you'll just have to come in and rescue me!'

K
INGSTON
-U
PON
-T
HAMES
, E
NGLAND

31st August 1658

I
t was long past midnight. Luka and Emilia crouched outside the small window by the back door, rain lashing their backs. They had left Tom to rest in the caravan, though he swore he would come after them if they were more than half an hour.

‘We'll just have to risk it,' Luka whispered. He drew out his lock pick and deftly unlocked the door, opening it just a crack to let Emilia slip through. She had changed into some old clothes
and wrapped her ragged shawl over her head, hoping she was unremarkable as a moth.

The flagstones were cold and smooth under her feet. Emilia crept along and found herself in the doorway to the public bar. Two men were sitting at a table before a roaring fire, drinking tankards of ale and playing cards. The one facing Emilia was quite the largest and ugliest man she had ever seen. He looked as if he made a living wrestling bears. His nose had long ago been smashed to a pulp, and his ears were large and flabby and purple. His brown leathery hands were so huge the cards looked absurdly small and dainty in them, as if they belonged to a doll. His brow was so low and jutted out so far, she could not see his eyes. He was dressed in a rough sort of uniform, and a cudgel leant against his leg.

The other man had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and a big ring of keys hung from his belt. Emilia guessed he was the warden.

‘At this rate, Maloney, you're going to clean me out.' The warden's words all ran together, as if he had been drinking for quite some time. ‘You've got the devil's own luck tonight.'

‘You're not concentrating, sir,' Maloney said. ‘You'd never have thrown out that six usually, Mister Riley.'

‘I keep expecting that sour-faced crow to come creeping up behind me,' Riley said morosely. ‘It's a sad day when I can't even play cards in my own inn!'

‘He'll be busy writing letters, like usual,' Maloney replied. ‘You got to wonder who he's writing to all the time.'

‘Writing reports on us all, no doubt, and sending them to that spymaster fellow, what's his name?' The warden's voice was so slurred this came out as ‘wassissname'. He drained dry his tankard and banged it down on the table. ‘They say he's got spies everywhere, that man, and you can't drink a toast in your own home without him wanting to know why.'

While they spoke, Emilia was examining the two men and the room closely. She saw a jug of ale on the table with them, and a small barrel with a cork bung on the top of the scarred wooden bar. This was where the jug would be refilled, she guessed. The bar was about six paces away from where she crouched. She took a deep breath and crept across the open space, slow as a cat stalking a bird. It was quick, jerky movements that attracted the eye, she knew. At last she slid into the shadows behind the bar, and allowed her tense muscles to relax.

Once she was sure she had not been seen, Emilia got to her feet and risked a quick glance over the top of the bar. Both men were staring at the cards in their hands. Emilia slowly prised up the lid of the cask and tipped in the bottle of powdered fish-berries. She had to give the lid quite a hard tap to get it to close again, and crouched down hurriedly afterwards, her pulse hammering so hard in her ears it made her feel sick.

‘What was that noise?' the warden said.

‘Prob'ly just a shutter banging somewhere,' Maloney said. ‘Listen to that wind! It's howling out there. I bet you this is one night our gypsy friends are glad to be indoors.'

‘Can't understand them,' Riley mumbled. ‘Why do they travel round the country like that, instead of settling down in one place like normal folks? It's not natural.'

‘Guess they have their own ways,' Maloney answered. ‘You sure you want to throw out that ace, Mister Riley, sir?'

‘Whoops! Guess not. Here, give it back. Thirsty, man? I'll get us some more ale.'

Emilia heard a chair being pushed back, the sound of unsteady footsteps crossing the floor, then the pop as the bung was removed, followed by a low gurgle. Then Riley pushed the cork back in and carried his jug back to the table, pouring more ale into the tankards. The two men drank
and talked desultorily, and all the while the wind shrieked and drummed on the roof like a giant having a tantrum. Emilia rested her head on her arms and waited.

It took about a quarter of an hour – and a few more tankards of ale – for Riley to pass out. He snored loudly, his head pillowed on his arms. Emilia waited for Maloney to grow drowsy too, but either he had not drunk as much of the drugged ale as the warden, or he was simply too large a man to be much affected. He arranged a blanket over Riley's shoulders, then sat by the fire carving a little toy from a piece of wood.

Emilia was growing stiff and cold in her draughty hiding spot. She wondered how much longer Luka would wait before coming to the door. She wished she had some way to warn him that one of the guards was still alert. It would have been so much easier if they were both drowsy and confused.

The pistol was heavy in her pocket. It seemed
to weigh on her very bones. Emilia wondered if she would have the courage to point it at a man and pull the trigger. Already tonight she had struck a man down with lightning. This seemed a dreadful thing, an astonishing thing, to have done. Emilia clamped her hand around her charm bracelet, as if it were a rabid dog that might break free of her control. It seemed to her that such power was dangerous.

She closed her eyes, her fingers walking a ritual path around the circle of charms, praying silently for this tempest to blow itself out, for her family to be saved, for peace to return to this war-torn land. A wish was a kind of prayer, she thought, a declaration of faith. So too were spells and curses. She had cursed Coldham, and by her words he had been struck down. Now it was time, she thought, to pour all that vehemence, all that intensity, into making a miracle happen. For surely a miracle was magic too.

An imperious
rat-a-tat-tat
sounded on the front door. Emilia jumped, and opened her eyes, but did not stop the circling of each charm until she had reached again the end and the beginning, the golden coin her grandmother had given her. She listened to the sound of Maloney opening the door, then heard Luka's voice, demanding to be let in.

‘I have come from London, from the Lord Protector himself, with pardons for all who lie in Kingston Gaol tonight,' he declaimed grandly. ‘I insist that you set free the prisoners at once!'

Emilia smiled to herself. She recognised the confident tone, that note of command. Luka was impersonating the Duke of Ormonde. She crept around the side of the bar so she could see him, and smiled again as she recognised the straight-backed stance, the squared shoulders, the lifted chin. He had his cloak flung back from his shoulder in exactly the duke's way, one gauntleted
hand on his belt, the other holding out the sheaf of rolled parchments.

Maloney seemed to take the sudden appearance of a damp and demanding young soldier at his door in his stride. He let Luka in, along with a great gust of icy rain, and shut the door hurriedly.

‘Yes, sir, right away, sir,' he said in a low voice. ‘Come on up. I'll unlock the cells straightaway and then record it in the ledgers. We don't want any questions asked on the morrow.'

Luka frowned. ‘Certainly not,' he said, maintaining his imperious tone.

‘Wha-a-at? Wha-a-aat's going on?' a slurred voice asked. The warden lifted his head from the table.

‘Nothing, sir. A soldier from London, about the prisoners. I can look after it.'

‘From London? About the prisoners? What does he want?'

‘It's naught to worry about, sir,' Maloney
began, but Luka lifted high his scrolls and said, ‘I have here pardons from the Lord Protector. I insist that the prisoners be released at once.'

‘Pardons? From Old Ironsides! For a lot of dirty gyps?' The warden snorted in derision. ‘Let me see!'

Reluctantly Luka passed the scrolls to the warden, who peered at them through first one eye, then the other.

‘Criminy, that there is Old Ironsides's signature. Well, I'll be damned.' He began to laugh. ‘Isn't that going to get the pastor's goat? What a joke! He'll be livid.'

‘I'll go up and make sure all is in order, sir. No need for you to rouse yourself,' Maloney said.

‘You must be joking. I want to see the old crow's face. Come on, man, let's go show him.' The warden heaved himself to his feet, still clutching the pardons in his fist.

Luka fell back a pace, his face showing the same alarm that Emilia felt. The pastor! Here at
the gaol? But it was well past midnight! What was Pastor Spurgeon doing here at this time of night?

Maloney said meaningfully, ‘You don't want to upset the pastor, sir. Friends in high places, you know. How about you have another cup of ale, and we'll get this business done nice and quiet, eh, sir?'

He poured the warden another cup of ale which he drank greedily, and before Luka had taken three steps, had fallen asleep again and was snoring like an arthritic spaniel. Maloney winked at Luka, who straightened his helmet and tried to look soldierly.

They climbed the narrow stairs, and went through a passageway lined with heavy iron-barred doors. The stink and the darkness made Luka's muscles clench in dread, and sweat sprang up on his palms. He wiped them on his trousers nervously.

Maloney brought out the thick ledger. ‘I'll just make a note of the pardons, sir,' he said in a low
voice. ‘Here, why don't you unlock the cells for me, sir, it's getting late and I'm sure you're keen to go on your way.'

Luka nodded eagerly, caught the keys he tossed deftly and went at once to the door to the women's cell. Behind him, Maloney wrote laboriously, the tip of his tongue sticking out one corner of his mouth, the quill looking like a down feather in his huge hand.

‘Maloney, what is all this about?' The pastor's voice sent a chill down Luka's spine. He stiffened, his key turned halfway.

‘A soldier's come from the Lord Protector, sir, with a pardon, sir, for the prisoners.' Maloney spoke with great reluctance, shuffling his boots on the floor.

‘What? The Lord Protector has pardoned the prisoners? Impossible! He has no such right. Besides, why would he? It is his agent who has been gathering information against the prisoners,
evidence of treason to add to those of vagrancy and murder.'

‘Maybe they've got friends in high places,' Maloney offered.

‘A tribe of filthy gypsies? Don't be a fool!'

‘Well, then, maybe this gypsy tribe's been working for Cromwell all this time,' Maloney said. ‘You know, travelling around, gathering information. I've heard the Lord Protector has spies in the most unlikely places. Maybe that's why he's pardoned them.'

‘I do not believe it. It's a trick. Let me look at those pardons!'

Maloney held them tightly in his hand. ‘Well, sir, I'm not sure you have the authority to look over official documents such as these. Not being a magistrate yourself, you know. Mister Riley's seen the pardons and says that they're all right and tight. It's just my job now to record the judgement in the ledger and let the prisoners go.'

‘Absolutely not. Those pardons are obviously a forgery.'

‘They've got the Lord Protector's own signature on them, and his seal too,' Maloney said. ‘No reason to think they're fake. Besides, how could anyone get hold of a forged document like that?'

‘Give me those papers!' The pastor could barely speak, he was so angry.

Maloney shook his head unhappily. ‘I would need Mister Riley's permission to do that, sir, and I'm afraid he's a trifle indisposed tonight.'

‘Where is the soldier that brought them? Let me interrogate him.' The pastor made an angry movement, as if to push past Maloney, but found his way barred by the massive figure of the night guard. ‘What are you doing? Let me past!'

‘Just doing my duty, sir,' Maloney said stolidly. ‘You are, after all, an officer of the church, not of the court.'

‘How dare you disobey me!' Pastor Spurgeon shrieked. ‘Who do you think you are? I'll teach you the inadvisability of defying me!'

He whirled about, seized a whip from the wall, and lashed out with it cruelly.

‘You'll go to hell, all of you! The lake of burning brimstone opens up under your feet, the dreadful pit, the great furnace of God's wrath, it's gaping open beneath you . . .'

Maloney shrank back, covering his head with his hands. The pastor raised the whip high, laughing. Just then, Emilia ran forward from the stairwell and hit the pastor hard on the back of the head with the butt of the pistol. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

‘Thanks, miss,' Maloney said, wiping the blood away from a cut above his eye.