The Herb of Grace (8 page)

Noah missed his violin too. The bad man had
smashed it to smithereens. If he could have played his violin, and filled the cell with music, it would have drowned out the dreadful sound of the sick man coughing, coughing, coughing, and the squeaking and rustling of the rats in the roof, and the clang of iron doors slamming shut. Noah thought he hated that noise more than any of the others. It was the sound of iron bars, and heavy iron locks, and chains and manacles and shackles. It was the sound of his soul being imprisoned.

Noah pressed his face into his arm. His eyes may not be able to see, but they could still weep tears.

‘Do not cry, my boy,' a low voice said beside him. A warm, gentle hand patted his shoulder. ‘You must not let them break your spirit. That is why they persecute us, you know. They seek to keep us broken and in bondage. Fear, sorrow, desperation, madness, they are the chains of the mind. You must not let them fetter you.'

Noah sniffled and sat up, turning his blind face towards the speaker. It was Gerard Winstanley, a strange yet compelling man who had been locked up on the same day as Noah and his family. Like them, he was waiting to be taken up before the magistrates in a few weeks, charged with sedition. Noah could understand why. He had never met a man with such peculiar notions. Winstanley thought all people should be equal, and that the fruits of the earth should be divided evenly between them so that none were rich or poor, powerful or weak.

Noah found his words quite intoxicating, even though he understood how dangerous they were. He said, very low, ‘But we
are
fettered, we're locked up here in prison, and we can't get out.'

‘They may fetter our bodies,' Winstanley said softly, ‘but they cannot fetter our souls. Remember that.'

Noah sighed and shut his eyes, trying to
imagine he was running through a warm, sweet-smelling meadow, Rollo beside him. It was hard.

Emilia opened her eyes, her breath harsh in her chest.

She had been trapped in a dream, a terrible dream, where she had been running through endless stone corridors and cells, looking for her family. She had called and called their names, but her voice was strangled. She had not been able to find them.

Something had woken her. A rustling in the bushes, a small cry like a broken bird or a frightened baby. Lying still, every muscle rigid, Emilia listened. Her heart was pounding so hard it filled her ears. The sound came again, and Emilia threw aside her shawl and scrambled to her feet, straining her eyes to peer through the darkness. The only light came from the fire, where the log
had collapsed into smouldering coals. The sky above glowed faintly, filled with stars.

‘Rollo?' she whispered, and went forward blindly, feeling her way with her feet.

She heard it again, a faint whine, and turned towards it. Her shins bumped into something soft and hairy. Tears of joy pouring down her face, Emilia flung herself to her knees, throwing her arms about the neck of the big dog who was creeping along slowly, his head hanging. ‘Rollo, Rollo,' she cried. ‘You're alive! You found us! Good dog, good dog!'

He gave a faint whuff and licked her face, then laid his head on her knee. She stroked his rough fur, and found a wet sticky patch between his ears. Although she at once flinched and snatched her fingers away, Rollo whined again.

‘Oh, you poor boy, you poor darling boy. That bad man hit you, he hit you so hard. But you found us, you found us. Did you smell where we
had gone? Did you follow the coach? Oh, what a clever dog, what a good, clever dog.'

Rollo licked her fingers.

‘Come on, boy, come on, I'll get you some water. You must be so thirsty. Come lie here, near the fire, and I'll wash that cut, and get you a drink. Good boy!'

As Emilia stirred the fire up again and added some wood so she could see, Rollo lay down and put his aching head on his paws, his tail stirring up a little puff of dust. Emilia brought him a pan of water to drink, and then lay down beside him, stroking his ears, the tears running down her face. Occasionally she lifted her hand to wipe her face.

‘I'm so glad you're here,' she whispered to the exhausted dog. ‘I'm so glad you found us, Rollo!'

She thought to herself,
Everything's going to be all right. Already the magic of the charms is helping us, protecting us. Tomorrow, maybe, we'll find the rue charm
 . . .

S
ALISBURY
, W
ILTSHIRE
, E
NGLAND
18th August 1658

I
t was a mad ride through the darkness before dawn. Lord Harry crouched low over the saddle, never losing his balance as his bay swerved and leapt over the worst of the ruts. The only sound was the heavy hooves hitting the road, the jingle of the harness and the blowing of the horses' breath.

‘Aren't you afraid you'll take a tumble and break your neck?' Luka demanded, when at last the
highwayman slowed down, allowing them to draw their big black horses up on either side of him.

Lord Harry laughed. ‘Better to die in the saddle than at the end of the hangman's noose.'

‘But why take up the bridle lay?' Luka asked. ‘You could have turned yourself in, and taken your pardon, and paid the fine for the return for your land.'

‘With what?' Lord Harry replied. ‘We were utterly ruined by the war. My father mortgaged himself to the hilt to raise funds for the king's army. After Worcester the Roundheads burnt the house to the ground, and all the barns and stables too. Besides, to beg pardon would have meant betraying everything we fought the war for. This way I am still fighting for my king, in the best way I can, and raising money to restore my lands once he is back on his throne where he belongs.'

‘How is holding up coaches helping restore the king?' Luka wanted to know.

‘I only rob Roundheads,' Lord Harry replied shortly. ‘And in particular the king-killers.'

‘But how do you know?'

Lord Harry glanced at him in exasperation. ‘I get information, from innkeepers and stagecoach drivers and post boys and anyone else willing to pass on news for a few coins. And I lie in wait for them, and let anyone else by.'

‘But what do you do if you pull up the wrong coach?' Emilia asked, turning to check on Rollo who had fallen some way behind. She wished Lord Harry would remember Rollo's sore head.

‘I ask them to drink a toast with me to the king,' Lord Harry replied. ‘If they refuse, I rob them and reprimand them, and let them go on their way, but if they agree, we share a nice drop of brandy and we part friends and comrades.'

Luka laughed out loud.

‘Many of us highwaymen are Royalists, sworn to have our revenge on the Roundheads. Have you
heard of Zachary Howard? He's the most famous of us, having held up the Earl of Essex himself, and bested Cromwell too, and made him a laughing-stock all over the country.'

‘Why, what did he do?' Emilia asked.

‘Oh, Zachary was a cheeky fellow. One day he found himself staying in the very same inn as Old Ironsides. So he passed himself off as a Roundhead, and got on so famously with Cromwell that the traitorous dog asked him to dinner. Some days later, having lulled them all into a false sense of security, Zachary broke into Cromwell's room and found him on his knees, praying, the old hypocrite. So Zachary binds and gags him, and takes all his swag, and then says to Old Ironsides, ‘So you want to be crowned like a king, do you? I'll crown you as is fitting,' and he takes the full chamber-pot and up-ends it on his head, and leaves him there, with all the muck running down his face.'

‘He didn't!' Emilia exclaimed.

‘He did! Though to my mind he should have shot the traitorous dog there and then, and rid the world of him.'

‘He would have been caught, though, and hanged,' Luka said.

‘He was hanged anyway, not long after.'

‘Surely you don't want to die by hanging?' Emilia exclaimed.

‘No, of course not,' Lord Harry replied. ‘But I'd rather die in service to my king than surrender tamely to this upstart Cromwell and his blue-nosed cronies.' He sounded sad and angry all at once.

‘I can't see how turning a chamber-pot upside down on the Lord Protector's head is helping the king to win back his throne,' Luka said, adding hastily, ‘though I can see the joke, of course.'

‘I don't just rob coaches,' Lord Harry replied testily. ‘I work for the Royalists too. I carry messages, and information about troop movements, and help guide fugitives to the coast and the king's
agents about the country. Quite a few of us knights of the road do that, for we can move about freely, while many who support the king cannot. You know it is against the law for a Catholic to move more than five miles from home without a permit? That makes it very difficult to coordinate an uprising, particularly since Cromwell's spymaster has all the mail opened and read.'

‘So are you planning an uprising now?' Emilia asked in high excitement, thinking of the Cavaliers she had seen in close conversation at the racetrack, and the man with the dyed-black hair, whom she had heard named the Duke of Ormonde, one of King Charles's right-hand men.

‘Now that would be telling,' he smiled, and spurred his horse on.

All along the east the horizon was smudged with colour, and birds were beginning to sing. It was not long before Lord Harry rose in his stirrups and pointed. ‘Look! There lies Salisbury.'

They saw a small grey town set within medieval walls, from which soared the cathedral spire, so high and so fragile it seemed impossible it would not snap. It was like a sword point held to the heart of the brightening sky, sharp and infinitely dangerous. It was the highest church spire in all England. Luka wondered that the Roundheads had not sought to tear it down.

‘Let's get a move along,' Lord Harry said, tapping his heels to his bay gelding's side. ‘I'd like to be within the walls before the city begins to wake up.'

The town rose on its hill on the other side of the River Avon, roofs and towers rising from behind the thick walls. A stone bridge crossed the river, and they clattered across to the barred gate, which was manned by two guards with pikes. A wink, a quick flash of gold, and the gates were hauled open and the five horses and three riders were allowed through. As they rode down the
narrow street within, the buildings leaning over them and almost obscuring the sky, the gate swung shut behind them. Emilia gave a little shiver.

‘Isn't it a bit of a risk, letting the guards see us all like that?' she whispered.

‘No way into Salisbury except through the gates,' Lord Harry said cheerfully. ‘They're good fellows, though, those two, and goldmines of information. They won't give me away.'

‘Are you sure?' Emilia asked.

He shrugged. ‘Let's say I hope I'm sure.'

The town was a maze of narrow streets and higgledy-piggledy houses, but Lord Harry showed no hesitation as he led the way, the horses' hooves clip-clopping on the stones. Emilia kept glancing behind them, to make sure no one was following them, and to keep an eye on Rollo who was plodding along slowly, his head hanging.

Everywhere, people were beginning to stir.
Maids were flinging open windows and shaking out rugs, or scrubbing the front doorstep on their hands and knees. A water cart clattered down one street, and people came out with jugs and stood chatting as they waited for their turn to fill them up. A young woman went from door to door selling eggs from a basket, and someone else led a cow around, calling loudly, ‘Milk-o! Milk-o!'

By the time they reached the Herb of Grace, the sun was up, gilding the river so it hurt to look at it. The inn was long and low and white, cross-hatched with heavy oak beams, with tall chimneys sprouting from the thatched roof. Hanging above the front door was a large, vividly painted sign depicting a yellow flower growing from a bunch of grey, three-lobed leaves. The inn had a magnificent view of the cathedral set in its rolling green lawns, and was bounded by the river on one side and the high road on the other. Already coaches were preparing to leave, with luggage piled high on their roofs, and
coachmen in their heavy coats perched on the driving seats, shouting and swearing as they tried to squeeze past each other.

Lord Harry took them down a side alley, and into the stable-yard behind the inn. Here all was quiet and peaceful. Horses stood in dim stalls, heads in nosebags, their tails whisking at the flies. A groom was mucking out one of the stalls. He nodded his head at Lord Harry and said, ‘You're late. I'll get Joe.'

A few minutes later he returned with a small, lean, swarthy-skinned man with a large hooked nose and a gold earring in his ear. He wore the usual garb of an innkeeper, with an apron over his breeches and a grubby shirt rolled up to his elbows. On his feet he wore leather clogs.

He ignored the highwayman and the two children, casting a critical eye over the four black coach-horses, then running his hands down their legs to check their feet and lifting their lips to look
at their big yellow teeth. He grunted and stepped back, wiping his hands down his apron.

‘You're late,' he said to Lord Harry. ‘This is my busiest time. Too many people around to see you and wonder about you.'

‘We came as fast as we could,' Lord Harry said, cheerfully as ever. ‘I had two gypsy brats to slow me down. Kin of yours, they say.'

Gypsy Joe flicked them a quick glance but said nothing. He jerked his head at the groom, and together they led Coldham's four black coach-horses into a large barn at the back of the stables. Working quickly, they unharnessed the horses, rubbed them down well, and fed and watered them, while Lord Harry told Joe all his news.

When the horses were quiet and relaxed, Joe jerked his head at the groom and said, ‘Go make sure the kitchen's not on fire, would you, Bob.'

He then took out a pot of white paint, and delicately began to alter the appearance of
Coldham's coach-horses. He gave one a white sock and a blaze; another, four white socks and a white stripe; the third he gave a half-pastern of white on the forelegs and a star; and the fourth he put a tiny splodge of white on its nose, a marking called a snip, then a crown of white to each of its four hooves. Lord Harry had obviously seen this done before, for after he had attended to his own horse, he went whistling into the inn, calling for ale and bacon and eggs. Luka and Emilia sat on upturned barrels, though, staring in fascination. Evidently Joe did not mind them watching, for after a while he said quietly, ‘So, who do you know?'

Luka gave Joe his parents' names and his grandparents' names, and it was soon established that Joe's aunt had married Luka's mother's cousin, some time back, and that his father was a second cousin to Emilia's father. All the Rom were linked together in an invisible cobweb of kin.

‘So why are you here in Salisbury?' Joe asked.

Luka took a deep breath. ‘They've arrested our family in Kingston-Upon-Thames, and say they are all to hang. Only Emilia and I managed to get away. Baba told us to seek out the Rom and ask them for help.'

‘And what kind of help are you seeking?'

‘Any kind,' Luka said rather hopelessly. ‘The gaol is in the centre of town, near the church. I thought maybe we could storm the gaol, if we could get enough men . . . break them out by force.'

‘The Sealed Knot did that here in Salisbury, a few years back,' Joe said, concentrating on the white he was painting about one of the horses' fetlocks.

‘They did? Here?' Emilia was enthralled. Although she tended to go off in a dream when adults began talking, she always listened to tales about the Sealed Knot, which was the secret underground organisation that worked, desperately and futilely, to restore the throne to
the king. In the past nine years, since King Charles I had had his head cut off on the steps of his own palace, there had been many failed attempts to rise against Cromwell. The Salisbury rising had occurred three years ago and had been responsible for the hated introduction of military rule in England under the major-generals. That was as much as Emilia knew about it.

‘Aye. The plan was for men to rise all over England, but the spymaster's spies did their job too well. Cromwell had troops brought in to reinforce garrisons all over the country, and most of the rebels' hearts failed them.'

Luka and Emilia sighed, and settled themselves in for the story, recognising the change in Joe's voice, as it deepened and found a singsong rhythm.

‘The one-who-would-be-king was so confident of victory he had travelled to a port in the Netherlands, waiting to be told he could sail across and reclaim his throne. But John Thurloe's
men swooped down and seized many of the plotters, and others fled. Only here in Salisbury did the uprising gain any force, and that was because of a brave and foolhardy man called Penruddock, who pushed ahead against all odds. He and his men entered Salisbury late one night in March, and stormed the gaols and begged the help of the prisoners. They arrested the sheriff, and took him hostage, still dressed in his night-gown, and then they marched out, only to be met by the army, who tore them to pieces. Penruddock and all his men had their heads cut off, and that is what would happen to you if you tried to do the same.'

‘But we don't want to start a rebellion, we just want to save our families.'