Deceit (4 page)

But I no longer need to worry about my ragged thief of a carter, for he is gone, taking my sovereign with him. I try not to cry, but I am tired and I have a low dragging pain in my belly. I fear for the baby. And my hands are blistered with the digging.

I untie the bundle and take out the laudanum; calmness floods through me as the sweet sticky liquid trickles down my throat and the pain recedes. Now that the world is restored to colour again and with the hood of my cloak now over my head and hiding my red hair, I start to walk. I intend to leave the city as many people are doing and go north, out towards the village of Clerkenwell to find Martha, if I can. Or if I cannot, I will shelter under a hedge, or in a pigsty or stable. What then, only the Lord himself can know.

So I hurry along the Strand, through Temple Bar and into Fleet Street, until I come to Fetter Lane.
I am only three steps along it when I stop fast in my tracks. I feel the ring, on its old red braid about my neck, burning hot against my skin. I am jostled and buffeted by the stream of people passing by me up the lane, but I cannot move. It is as if my limbs are all made of lead and the only feeling I have is of my heart battering up into my throat. For I see
him
, Nicholas, sprawled across the steps of a house and motionless.

The mob has punished him. Knowing nothing of the sins he has committed against me, they simply believed him a foreigner, and have beaten him to a pulp in retribution for the fire still raging in the city. Is he alive still? There is blood smeared across his face and his clothes are ripped and filthy. But his leather bag with its 20 spells inside is still strapped across his body. I hesitate… am about to run to him in spite of my terror and snatch the bag… when I feel someone at my back. “
Arrêt!
” A familiar voice whispers in my ear and I spin round in joy at the sound of it and throw my arms about him.

“Christophe!”

He pushes my hair back from my face and kisses my cheek. I feel myself colour up and start to babble.

“Quick… we must take the spells now that he is dead!” But Christophe pulls me away, along the lane and into a jitty between two houses and out of sight of Nicholas’s body.

“Margrat, he cannot be dead. The spells protect him!”

“But he is at Death’s door… it is plain to see. We can take the spells and he will not be able to stop us.”

Christophe looks at me and doubt flickers across his face. “You must stay here and I will try and take them from him… but if anything should happen to me, you must run away as fast as you can.
Tu me promis?
” He holds me by the shoulders and shakes me a little… but gently.

“I promise.” His eyes smile and he takes the deepest of breaths, as if steeling himself for what he has to do.

C
laire tried to jump up from the table and run from the café, but Doctor Nicholas Robert Benedict… Robert Benoit… had hold of her wrist and, though he looked very, very tired, his grip was like steel.

Not dead then
, Claire thought bitterly.
How can I ever have believed he was? And guess what?
Her eyes rested on the black leather bag he always carried slung across his chest.
He still has the spells. Of course he has – without them, he wouldn’t be alive
.

He saw her looking and smiled… then he reached across with his free hand, pulled up a chair and sat down close to her. She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her. With his free hand he forced her chin round until her eyes met his and she could see herself mirrored there.

“So…” He seemed pleased with himself.
His hand dropped from her face, though he held on tight to her wrist still and with every second he held her close, felt her breath on his cheek, the years seemed to fall away from him, the lines on his face softening and blurring, his hair thickening.

“What next? How shall we arrange the necessary transfer of the 21st spell into
my
hands? Would you like to bring me the casket first? Yes… that would be best I think. You do still have it?”

Claire tried to pull her wrist free. She must try and act as if she were angry when really she was just scared witless.

“Of course not!” Would he know that she was lying? “Do you think I’m stupid? Jacalyn has it. She’s the guardian now Zac’s dead. She’ll keep it safe and it will never be yours. Besides…” she was having to think quickly, “…when I opened the casket at the top of the crane, I used all its power. I won’t be able to unlock it again.” Did she look convincing? No. He was smiling.

“Oh you will, because it’s clear that at least
some
of the spell’s power is still inside you. I saw the dead sparrow fly away, Claire. How does it feel to take something that is dead and bring it to
life again? Tell me… how does it feel knowing that every second I am near you, I feel so much stronger?”

For a moment his concentration seemed to slip and his grip loosened just a fraction. Claire felt it and was able to pull free. She leaped up, and in her panic, toppled her chair backwards with a crash. The chatter around them stopped dead. Heads turned in their direction.

“Try and stop me leaving and I’ll scream.”

“I have no intention of stopping you. No, you must go. You have things you must do. And then we will meet again.”

“In your dreams. I’ll go to the police and tell them everything. And Jacalyn will
never
hand over the casket. She’d rather die first.”

“Well, I do hope you will do none of those things. And I am sure you will find a way of persuading Jacalyn to part with it…”

“I don’t
have
to do anything.” Claire was panicking. Did he know she was lying, that she still had the Emerald Casket?

“Well, I rather think you’ll find a way to reclaim it from her.”

And then he reached into his pocket and brought
out a tiny square of cloth and held it up. Blue cord fabric, with a pattern of circus animals.

Oh my god
. Robert
had Matthew
.

Claire went for him. “What have you done with him? Where is he? If he’s dead I’ll kill you. I will.”

“Of course he isn’t dead. What use would he be to me then? If I hadn’t needed Matthew alive then I would never have allowed him to be born. You know very well I have power over that. No he is perfectly safe, for now anyway. Unhappy and crying and wanting his mother and sisters of course. And he will stay safe as long as you do as I ask and bring me the casket. And do not forget that he is my blood, just as you are. I would not want to hurt him… unless I absolutely had to. I am not a monster, Claire.”

Now she looked at Robert, Claire could see how much Matthew looked like him. The same dark eyes and curly hair. The same mouth. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it before. Matthew, his grandson, ten times removed.

“These last ten days have been torture! Why did you have to wait so long before showing yourself? And if you’re here, who’s looking
after Matthew? You haven’t left him on his own have you?”

He seemed to think this was amusing. “Well I suppose
you
would understand the grave consequences of doing that. But he
is
looked after. As for leaving it until now to make contact with you… I wanted the police to waste a considerable amount of time and resources looking in the wrong direction. Oh and I wanted you to really feel the pain of loss, just as I have.” His face looked angry and bitter. “Now, no more idle conversation… I must be going. And you must too. You have so much to do. I will give you a little time. I am not an unreasonable man. Three days should be enough time to persuade Jacalyn to give up the casket and for her to travel from Paris. Do not look so surprised, Claire…I know she’s there. She’s been watched. All of you have been watched.”

But not carefully enough though
, Claire thought,
because I don’t think you know who’s got the casket
.

“So we will meet here again on Thursday. Twelve noon. Be on time. I will bring Matthew and will return him unharmed as long as you have the casket. And if you tell
anyone
, you will never see Matthew again. Believe me.”

Claire did.

“But I’ll have to tell Jacalyn won’t I?”

He sighed. “Now tell me, why would she give the casket back to you?”

“To save Matthew.”

“She is the guardian of the
spells
. Not of Matthew. The whole point of her existence is to keep
them
safe; she is not going to be worried about him. And does she have my 20 spells? No. She thought I was dead. A guardian ought to have known that was impossible. As long as I have the 20 spells I cannot die. And once I have the casket
and
the 21st spell, there will be a Heaven here on Earth, and I will be
immortal
!” He gave a triumphant little half smile that turned quickly to a frown. “Personally I would not tell her anything unless you can be sure what she will do.”

“I trust her…”

“But you trusted Zacharie too…” He shrugged. “Well, it is up to you. I am not much interested in
how
… all that concerns me is that you
do
. To be honest I am a little tired now. It has been such a
very
long time since I first found the spells and the casket and
still
I do not have the 21st spell. I have
taken no pleasure in extinguishing so many lives along the way. Really I have not. Death is an abomination, which is why I must have true immortality. And if I have to take another life… Matthew’s… in order to achieve that immortality, then I will.”

He stood up and was walking away now and Claire thought about trying to follow him. But he knew what she was thinking and, not even stopping to look back at her, he shook his head, just the once. And really what good would it have done to follow him? At some point he would have given her the slip and she would only be wasting precious time. And there was so little of it. Somehow she had to get Matthew back without giving Robert the casket, because if he were able to force her to open the box again or somehow extract the spell from her… God only knew what might happen then.

No, the overwhelming need was to save Matthew. Once he was safe, she would somehow deal with the rest. She had faith that she would be able to do that and she believed that she had the power. She couldn’t go home, though, not yet. She was supposed to be in school still. So she carried
on sitting at the café table, her brain frozen. More than once she took out her phone and started to call Jacalyn. She would tell her what had happened. Robert was wrong. He didn’t know Jacalyn like Claire did. She was a good person wasn’t she? She would understand that Claire had to trade the casket for Matthew. They might have been twins, but Jacalyn was nothing like Zac… who had seemed kind and honest but who had betrayed Claire for the money and power he thought the spells would give him.

The little niggling doubt was rising up again… wasn’t Robert right? Wouldn’t a true ‘guardian’ have known that Robert was still alive and warned her? Maybe… and this thought suddenly popped into Claire’s head and horrified her… maybe Jacalyn had known all along that Robert wasn’t dead. Maybe she thought Claire could be used as ‘bait’ to lure Robert in. Maybe
that
was why she’d insisted the casket stay with Claire. No, that was madness. She wouldn’t believe it. It was Robert… messing with her head again and she mustn’t let him.

Christophe slips from the jitty and threads his way through the mass of people squeezing along Fetter Lane. I catch a glimpse here and there of his fair hair, and then he is lost from view.

Though Christophe has told me to stay hidden, I cannot. I need to know that he is safe and to be of help if he is in danger. So I too fight my way through the crowd. It swirls and eddies about me like river water flowing under and around the arches of London Bridge and I have to fight against its current.

Then at last I see Christophe bending over Nicholas and carefully reaching out a hand towards him. Now his hand is on the strap of the leather bag. He slowly, slowly begins to lift it. In my mind’s eye I am lifting it with him.

I hold my breath and time slows; the noise around me is somehow muted, muffled, distorted as if it were travelling through water. Then, just when I think God smiles on us and all will be well, Nicholas’s eyes snap open. His hand strikes up and snatches at Christophe’s tattered shirt. He lets out a roar as loud as any of the lions at the Tower.
Christophe pulls away hard, but Nicholas still has hold of him.

Heedless, I rush to Christophe and throw my arms around his waist and pull and pull as if I were playing at Tug o’ War. And Christophe is suddenly pulled free from Nicholas’s grasp and we stagger back and the hood falls from my head… and Nicholas looks up… and our eyes lock and I can see that though he is in great pain, he is struggling to stand up. He is clutching at his side and his breath is rasping as he calls out my name.

A few people have stopped to look at the spectacle. But a fight or a casual robbery is nothing when fire might be burning and crackling only streets away and you fear for your own life. Why take a risk and step in?

Except… except… now Nicholas points at Christophe and cries, “Filthy Frenchman! Stinking foreigner!” His voice is hoarse and ragged from the smoke and the beating he has suffered. People take notice now. There is a low murmur rising to an angry crescendo as the passers-by rise to Nicholas’s bait.

“Foreigners! Stinking Frenchies!”

I am close enough to see the smile on Nicholas’s
lips, hear his words, “You can never be free of me, Margrat. You know that. You are mine and you always will be.” He holds out his hand to me. “Come…” And to my everlasting shame I reach out…

But I am saved, for Christophe snatches my hand away and shakes me roughly and I am in the world again. “
Allez vite. Allez
…” And we are running and running and running. I knock a small child to the ground, but Christophe will not let me stop to pick her up. We are nearly trampled under the hooves of a horse gone wild from the smell of fire and the smoke in his nostrils. I slip and fall into the filth of the gutter, but Christophe hauls me to my feet like a sack of flour and drags me on.

We do not stop running until we have passed through Smithfield, across Long Lane and Aldgate, and reached the Moorfields and its gravelled walks and avenues of trees. Already there are many refugees from the fire gathered here, spread out as far as the eye can see. Standing guard over the few possessions they have managed to save from the fire. And every moment more and more people flock in.

Spotting some shade free under a tree, Christophe helps me across and we sit down wearily together. He puts his arm about me and I rest my head against his shoulder. Now he asks about the Emerald Casket and I have to tell him that I have buried it, that it will be safer in the orchard than if I carry it with me. That Nicholas will expect me to have taken it. Christophe says nothing, but I can tell that he is worried. He takes my hand and kisses its blistered palm which flusters me greatly, but soon with the great heat and exertions of the day and with Christophe’s arm around me, I fall asleep and no dreams disturb me.

When I awake it is night, though the sky is aglow with the fire that still rages. A pall of black smoke hangs in the air, blocking out any starlight or moonshine. And it is hot, so hot still.

At first I think Christophe is asleep, for he breathes deeply. He seems at peace. But when I stir, make an effort to stand and stretch my legs, he whispers, “Stay a little while.” And he pulls me in closer and I feel his breath against my neck and I turn my face up to him and he kisses me
again, and though there is passion there, it burns soft and gentle.

I feel safe. I block all thoughts of Nicholas from my mind. I will not think of how I felt in
his
arms. Such wild emotion.

“Do not cry,” Christophe says, wiping away a tear and saying, as if he reads my thoughts, “I will not let him win.” I smile up at him and hug him close, burying my face then into his shoulder and trying to still the fear that Nicholas speaks the truth: that I am his and always will be, however much I fight against it. That he has won already.

Where there are people gathered together, there are always those hoping to profit from it. And so there are hawkers in the Moorfields, selling ale and bread and pies. At a great price. But we are parched and hungry. Apples alone will not suffice. So I slip a little money from my pocket and we buy food and drink.

We do not care in the least that the ale is weak as water and the pies all gristle. But we save some of the food and as I bundle it up in my shawl I see that Christophe is looking at the bottle of
laudanum. He stoops down and picks it up, takes out the stopper and tastes a little on his finger.