The Herb of Grace (5 page)

She did not want to be shut up inside Luka's coat again, and refused to come when he called. Finally, with Zizi squirming inside his coat and his fiddle banging on his back, Luka raced towards the coach, and cannoned into the shrivelled stick of a lawyer who was just coming out through the inn door.

‘Ooops, sorry!' Luka cried.

The lawyer frowned, and drew his black gown closer about him. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he stared intently at Luka. With a sinking heart, Luka realised Zizi's bright, dark eyes were peering over the top buttons of his coat, which was rather too loose for him, having been made for Lord Jeremy, not Luka.

The lawyer's gaze flickered from the monkey's small, wizened face to the fiddle on Luka's back, and then to Luka's brown face and wind-tangled curls.

Hastily Luka clutched his coat lapels together, muttered ‘Excuse me', and went hurrying back to the stable-yard. At the archway, he turned and looked back. The lawyer had grabbed one of the inn's messenger boys and was pressing a coin into his hand, and pointing down the street.

Feeling shaken, Luka told himself it could not possibly matter that the lawyer had seen his monkey, even though it had been clear from his
conversation that he was a supporter of the Lord Protector. He joined Emilia at the steps up into the coach.

‘Where have you been?' she hissed.

‘Zizi escaped,' he muttered back.

‘Better keep her hidden,' she said. He grunted, not wanting to tell her someone had already seen the little monkey.

‘Let's get on before they ask us abut Rollo,' Emilia said.

They clambered on board, Rollo scrambling up after them. Immediately the two people already on board set up a holler, which brought the red face of the coachman to the window.

‘What's all this noise?' he demanded.

‘They've brought a big, smelly dog on,' a fat woman said, shrinking away from Rollo who panted amiably, and scratched his ear.

‘He's not smelly, he had a bath yesterday,' Luka said indignantly.

‘Still, no dogs allowed,' the coachman said. ‘Get him off.'

‘Oh, please,' Emilia said. ‘He's all we've got left in the world. Our parents have died, and we're being sent to stay with some grumpy old godfather we've never even met. We've had Rollo ever since he was a puppy, we can't leave him behind. What would become of him? He'd starve. Please, please, don't make us leave him behind.' Tears began to roll down her face.

The fat woman clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, you poor little mites.'

The coachman hesitated, and Emilia nudged Luka with her very sharp elbow. ‘Could we offer you some coppers?' he said at once. ‘For the cost of sweeping out the coach after we've gone.'

‘Thank you, that's very kind,' the coachman said, his big fist closing over the coins Luka offered him. ‘Now, let's get rolling, we're already late!'

As the coach moved slowly out of the stable-yard, Luka heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed back against the cushions.

Then a thin, dry voice cried, ‘Wait! Wait! I have a ticket for that coach.'

The door was yanked open, and the lawyer climbed in, his withered face all red and hot, his gown rumpled. Luka could only stare at him in dismay.

‘S
o?' the lawyer said, looking intently at Luka and Emilia as the coach clattered over the cobblestones. ‘Heading for Southampton?'

‘Aye,' Luka replied uneasily, for there was no point lying when they were all on the Southampton coach together.

‘Two small children, travelling all on their own?'

‘Aye,' Luka said again, though he very much disliked being described as ‘small'.

‘We're not on our own,' Emilia broke in, smiling. ‘We have Rollo.'

‘Not to mention the creature you're carrying inside your coat,' the lawyer said dryly, nodding at the small bulge that was Zizi.

Emilia's smile faded. She glanced at Luka who said stolidly, ‘That's right.'

The fat woman gave a little scream. ‘What? What are you carrying?'

‘Another pet,' Luka said. ‘A dear little thing.'

‘It's not a mouse, is it?' the woman said fearfully. ‘Or a . . . a rat?'

‘No,' Luka said, ‘she's not a rat.'

‘Not a ferret, or something awful like that?'

‘No, no, not a ferret,' Luka reassured her. ‘No need to worry, she's fast asleep.'

‘Is it a cat?' the woman asked, leaning forward and peering with interest at the bulge. Luka just smiled and did not answer, and after a moment the woman lost interest and began checking through her basket.

The lawyer, however, did not lose interest.
‘What are your parents thinking, allowing you to travel on your own?'

‘Their parents are dead, poor mites.' The fat woman looked up from her basket. ‘They're off to stay with their godfather.'

‘Indeed?'

Luka made an affirmative noise in his throat, and looked out the window, hoping that would discourage any more questions. The coach was moving slowly up the road, pushing its way through a muddle of other vehicles. Suddenly Luka made an exclamation. He had just seen the drunk young man, the one who had called Cromwell a tyrant, being dragged out of the Angel Inn by the town constables.

‘What is it?' Emilia asked in a low voice.

‘Nothing,' Luka said. His skin crawled. He wondered what would happen to that young man, and how the constables had known to arrest him. He glanced at the lawyer, who was
regarding him closely. It made him feel very nervous.

‘That's a very large dog you have there,' the lawyer said.

‘Aye, Rollo is big,' Emilia said politely.

‘I've never seen a dog quite like it before,' the lawyer said. ‘What breed is it?'

‘I don't know,' Emilia said. ‘I don't think he's any breed. He's just a mongrel, I guess.'

The coach was crossing the River Wey, which rolled low and slow and lazy between broad banks hung with willows. Windmills lined the banks, their arms turning slowly in the breeze. On a hill beyond the town was a ruined castle with a tall square keep.

‘I wonder when that castle was built?' Luka said to Emilia, who leant past him to see.

‘Years and years and years ago,' she said.

‘I wonder who lived there?'

‘Knights in shining armour, and ladies with long veils that they tied to the knights' lances.'

‘So when did your parents die?' the lawyer asked.

Emilia turned back to him, looking woebegone. ‘Last week,' she said.

‘Oh, poor mites,' the fat lady said.

‘Both together, at the same time?' The lawyer sounded sceptical.

‘Aye,' Luka said. As the lawyer raised one of his grey, bushy eyebrows, he added hastily, ‘Plague,' just as Emilia said, ‘Smallpox.'

They cast quick, anguished glances at each other.

‘So which was it, plague or smallpox?' the lawyer demanded.

Emilia gave a little sob and shrugged, and Luka said, in a tone of deep unhappiness, ‘Plague, pox, what does it matter? They're dead.'

‘They . . . they had spots,' Emilia volunteered, scrubbing her eyes hard with her kerchief so that they looked suitably red.

‘And a cough,' Luka said.

‘A fever,' Emilia said, frowning a little at him.

‘So now we're orphans,' Luka said sadly.

The fat woman shook her head. ‘Oh, what an unhappy story. Such terrible times we live in. I do hope your godfather will be kind to you.'

‘I'm sure he will,' Emilia said in a very small voice, making it quite clear that she did not expect so. The fat woman was so affected she rummaged through her basket and gave the children some toffee, which had the happy effect of making it impossible to answer any more questions.

The day rumbled past. The road was so rough that they were quite often bounced up and down violently, and had to hang on for dear life to stop being thrown right off their seats. The coachman set a rattling pace, though, and the children enjoyed seeing the landscape change as they headed west into Hampshire. The lawyer, who rather reluctantly told the fat lady that his name
was Mr Pettigrew, had stopped asking so many questions. He still stared at them a lot, and often turned to look out the window as if checking to see what was behind them. This made it hard for Luka to relax, and he could only be grateful that the constant rocking kept Zizi quiet.

They stopped for the coachman to moisten his dry throat in Farnham, then stopped again a few hours later in Alton. By now all were feeling very jolted and bruised, and were glad to be allowed out to stretch their legs while the horses were changed.

The coachman disappeared into the inn to consume some more beer and some lunch, but the children wanted to get away from the other passengers, and so they quickly climbed the hill, searching for a cool, green spot where they could eat some of Martha's supplies and let Zizi out for a play. The little monkey had woken as the coach had jerked to a stop, and she was doing her best to wriggle out from inside Luka's coat.

‘Don't be too long, dears,' called the fat woman, who was called Mrs Hudson. ‘The coach will only stop for half an hour or so.'

They waved at her and hurried away, not liking the way Mr Pettigrew was staring after them. As soon as they were out of sight, Luka let Zizi out of his coat and she leapt about like a mad thing, gibbering loudly. She swung through the trees overhanging the lane, leapt down onto Luka's shoulder and pinched his ear sharply, then dropped down onto Rollo's back, riding him like a pony. Rollo twitched his ear back, but otherwise tolerated her.

‘I don't like the way that scrawny old man keeps asking questions,' Emilia said. ‘Do you think he knows about us?'

‘I'm afraid so,' Luka answered, ‘though I don't know how he possibly could.' He told her about how the lawyer had seen Zizi, and how he had paid one of the inn's messenger boys, and how, a few
minutes later, the young man who had spoken so unwisely in the inn had been seized by constables.

‘Maybe he's an informer for Cromwell.' Luka spoke the thought that had been worrying him for the past thirty miles. ‘And if so, he could know about us and have let the pig-man know where we are.'

‘But how?'

‘If he knew where Coldham was, he could have sent him a message. Then Coldham would be back on our trail.'

‘But how could he know about us?'

Luka shrugged. ‘How does Cromwell find out about all these plots to restore the king? There are spies everywhere. They must have some kind of information exchange. If Fishface worked for the government, I mean, as more than just a pastor . . . I remember he said something about how he had been sent to Kingston to stamp out rebels . . .'

‘We're not rebels!'

‘We're not god-fearing Puritans either,' Luka said dryly. ‘I mean, I know we go to church more often than not, to keep the rector off our backs, but none of us do more than mouth the words, do we? And you know Baba could be burnt as a witch for looking in her crystal ball, or laying out the cards. We're Rom, and we have our own way of doing things, but these pastors . . . they cannot abide anyone not thinking or believing the same way as them.'

They reached the end of the laneway and spied an old white church with a square tower topped with a tall spire, surrounded by grass and flowers. The churchyard was quiet and empty, and so they went in through the lychgate and sat under one of the trees, spreading out Luka's coat so they did not have to sit on the damp ground. It was very peaceful, with only the hum of bees and the warbling of birds to disturb the quiet. The town was nestled into the slope of the hill below them,
and beyond were rolling brown meadows hemmed with trees.

‘So you think Pastor Spurgeon has written news of us to all his cronies all over the country?' Emilia said in a small voice as she sawed at their loaf of bread with their very blunt knife.

Luka nodded, his mouth full of hard-boiled egg. ‘I think he's angry we got away,' he said when he had swallowed.

‘But why? Why is he so angry?'

Luka shrugged. ‘Grown-ups always seem to be angry. Who could possibly know why?'

Rollo had been sitting with his eyes fixed intently on the children's faces, watching as they ate. Emilia tossed him a hunk of cheese, and he caught it midair and swallowed it whole. ‘Poor Rollo, he must be so hungry,' Emilia said. ‘It's been days since that ham bone.'

‘Martha gave him the dregs of the soup,' Luka reminded her.

‘Aye, and he wolfed it down in about three seconds flat,' Emilia replied, feeding the dog some more cheese. Rollo inhaled it, and looked pleadingly at Luka, who laughed and gave him the last of the hard-boiled egg. ‘At least it's chicken . . . sort of,' he said consolingly.

Rollo swallowed the egg, and put his head on one side, his eyes fixed on Luka's face. ‘You're as big a wheedler as Emilia,' Luka told him.

Rollo's whole face and attitude suddenly changed. He looked fixedly over Luka's shoulder, and growled deep in his throat. Luka whipped around and saw Mr Pettigrew peering at them over the church wall.

‘Mmm,' the lawyer said, stretching his withered cheeks into a smile that looked very unnatural. ‘Having a picnic, are we?'

The children nodded.

He looked rather hot and flustered, and Emilia wondered if he had been searching for them. ‘I . . .
I've come to look at the church,' he said. ‘It's very old, you know. Eleventh century.'

Emilia turned to stare at it, surprised. It looked very much like any other church.

‘There was a battle here, you know, during the war.' Mr Pettigrew spoke quickly, and Emilia wondered if he was trying to justify his presence here, so that they would not suspect him of following them. If so, he had failed miserably.

‘The Cavaliers held the town, but they were foolish, they only watched the main road, and so Parliament's men were able to sneak up on them from behind. The tyrant's cavalry fled, abandoning their infantrymen, who took refuge in the church. Our men cut them to pieces, as you can imagine. I've heard tell you can still see the bullet holes inside.'

Emilia grimaced and offered Rollo the last scrap of bread and cheese. The big dog wagged his tail and took it delicately from her fingers.

‘Aren't churches meant to be places of sanctuary?' Luka said.

The lawyer sniffed. ‘Not for a good thirty-five years, little boy. That's one of the few worthwhile things that James Stuart did during the years of
his
tyranny. A ridiculous notion, sanctuary, and one that completely undermines the power of the law. So where's your monkey?'

Luka was taken by surprise. Involuntarily he turned and looked up into the tree, where Zizi was perched, enjoying an apple. The lawyer followed his gaze, and said, with a peculiarly smug expression in his voice, ‘Unusual pet.'

‘Not really,' Luka bristled. ‘Lots of people have monkeys. The old queen had one, called Pug, which is a pretty stupid name, I think.'

‘The widow of the tyrant Charles Stuart also had a dwarf that was only two feet high,' the lawyer said. ‘She collected strange creatures. But it is certainly a peculiar animal for a young boy to own.'

‘She is not peculiar,' Luka flashed. ‘She's a darling little thing. Don't you dare call her peculiar.'

Emilia gave a little cough and nudged Luka with her foot. She knew he was capable of saying almost anything if he lost his temper, and she did not want to antagonise this withered-up husk of a man if she could help it.

Zizi, knowing she was being talked about, threw her apple core at the lawyer and knocked his hat off. Angrily he snatched his hat up and jammed it back on his head, staring at them with narrow eyes. Zizi gibbered, jumping up and down. Luka held up his hand to her. At once she swung down to his shoulder, holding his ear with one paw.

‘Not at all the sort of pet a normal young boy would have,' the lawyer said in a cold, hard voice. ‘A queen, perhaps, particularly a queen with a taste for follies. A sailor back from foreign parts, perhaps. Or, maybe, a
gypsy
boy.'

Luka's cheeks went hot. He jumped to his feet. ‘I think I'd like a look at those bullet holes,' he said. ‘Where did you say they were?'