The Gypsy Crown (3 page)

‘But surely you need someone to carry your handkerchief for you? And a little basket of sweetmeats in case you get peckish?'

‘I don't have time for this,' Tom answered and went to brush past them.

‘Don't mind Luka. You know he likes to tease. We're just surprised to see you here, since your father likes to keep you so close. Has he given you leave for the day?'

‘Sort of.' Tom glanced round anxiously.

Luka gave a crow of laughter. ‘You've given him the slip, haven't you? Good on you!'

‘Not at all,' Tom replied coolly. ‘I'm here on my father's business.'

‘What a shame,' Emilia said. ‘It's fair day! You should be having some fun.'

‘Fun!' Tom said scornfully. ‘There's not much fun to be had in England these days, is there? Can't even raise a toast to an absent friend, or choose the way you wear your hair.'

Luka looked at Tom's long curls critically and said, ‘Well, the Lord Protector's got it right about the unloveliness of lovelocks!'

Tom glared at him. ‘I'm not going to cut my hair just because Cromwell tells us too! Why should I? My father says the whole world is coming to ruin, and he's right! We should never have let them kill the king.'

Emilia glanced about quickly. It was not wise to say such things. A soldier was staring at them suspiciously. He was big and burly, with a grey-bristled chin and a nose that looked like it had been spread flat by being pressed against too many windows.

‘Sssh!' she hissed. ‘Do you want your tongue nailed to the pillory?'

Tom at once looked round him too, and stiffened when he saw the soldier watching. ‘I have to go,' he said at once, and without a word of farewell, went hurrying away into the crowd.

‘Well,' Luka said. ‘Our fine young cock was rather ruffled today, wasn't he? Probably scared someone would tell on him to his father.' He let one hand flop over at the wrist and minced forward, saying in a high, affected voice, ‘Oh, my goodness gracious, I would so hate my dear old daddy to hear I've been hobnobbing with those dreadful dirty gypsy children. I might spoil my velvet coat!'

‘Well, his father is very protective,' Emilia reminded him. She looked round for any sign of the watching soldier but he had disappeared and she felt herself relax. ‘We should be more careful. You know Baba says Cromwell has spies everywhere.'

‘It wasn't me flapping my tongue about,' Luka said. He clasped his hands under his chin, flapped his eyelashes and said in a high, girlish voice, ‘Oh! It's fair day! You should be having some fun!'

Zizi shrieked with laughter and copied him, her paws clasped under her wizened chin.

Emilia punched him.

‘Ow! Do you have to hit so hard?'

‘I can hit harder,' Emilia threatened.

‘Only if you catch me!' Luka broke into a run, weaving in and out of the barrows. Emilia raced after him.

They heard Beatrice before they saw her. She was singing a favourite song of hers:

‘If I were a blackbird I would whistle and sing,

I would follow the vessel my true love sailed in

All on the top rigging I would build my nest

And I'd sleep the long night on his lily-white breast.'

It was a lovely song with a lovely tune, and a large crowd had gathered to listen. In her green ruffled skirts, with a rose tucked behind her ear, Beatrice looked prettier than ever amongst all the drab farmers' wives in their plain browns and blacks. Noah was exciting a lot of attention too, a blind boy playing the fiddle with such skill and dexterity. Emilia could see the cap at his feet was filled with coins.

Then a shadow fell over the square, pointing like an accusing finger at Beatrice. Rollo leapt to his feet and growled, deep in his throat. Beatrice's voice faded away. Noah lowered his violin and put out one hand to his sister, unable to see why she had stopped singing. Emilia turned to look, and felt her heart shrink.

The pastor stood frowning in the middle of the square. He was tall and thin and very pale, and dressed all in black, except for his collar and cuffs which were white as frost. His tall steeple hat was set very straight on his head, and it was the shadow of this which had fallen upon Beatrice. Two white lines were driven from the sides of his high-bridged nose to the corners of his narrow mouth. He looked at Beatrice and Noah with something like loathing. It was the pastor they had seen in the coach yesterday. Behind him were four other men, all as soberly dressed as he, and the big, ugly man who had been staring at them in the square. He wore the steel helmet and buff coat of a Roundhead soldier, and had a pistol and a knife in his belt, and a steel gauntlet on his left wrist, which showed he was a cavalry-man.

‘Seize her!' the pastor cried, his eyes blazing with righteousness. ‘Singing in the marketplace for coins, right before our blessed church! Surely it must offend us all, such brazen-faced sin? We'll have her to court, and the boy too.'

‘It's gypsies, sir,' the ugly man said in a harsh, grating voice. ‘Filthy, thieving hedge-birds. Should be hung, they should. Only cure for them.'

‘Indeed, they are an ungodly people,' the pastor said, and folded his long, pale hands. ‘And if you are right, dabbling in treason too. Very well. Let us have them to prison and the magistrates called. I will not have gypsies singing and fiddling at the very door of my church. Seize them!'

‘C
riminy!' Luka cried. ‘We've stumbled into a crow-fair.'

‘Quick, quick!' Emilia's tongue seemed to have turned to wood. ‘Find your dad! We've got to get them out of here!'

Luka nodded and went running back towards the inn. The ugly man was gripping Beatrice and Noah, one in each big hand. Beatrice was weeping and trying to reach her brother, who was struggling as well as he could with a fiddle and bow clutched to his skinny chest. Rollo snarled and lunged at the big man, who kicked him hard in the head, knocking him head over heels.

Rollo whined and got dazedly to his feet, shaking his head.

Noah turned his face from side to side. ‘Rollo?'

Still gripping Beatrice close, the ugly man stepped forward, drawing his knife.

‘No!' Beatrice and Emilia screamed together. Emilia whistled to the big dog urgently, and Beatrice cried, ‘Go, Rollo! Go to Milly!'

‘Go!' Noah called, his voice high with fear. ‘Rollo, go!'

The big dog reluctantly obeyed, head down and tail sunk between his legs, turning to look back at Noah. Beatrice reached out and grabbed her brother, drawing him to her side, and he hid his sightless eyes against her skirt.

Meanwhile, the pastor had turned to stare at Emilia, her hand held out to Rollo, the other gripping Alida's rein. The pastor frowned, and pointed at her, crying, ‘Another gypsy child, look! Seize her too!'

Just then Luka brought Jacob and Ruben running towards them, Lena on their heels. Silvia charged along behind, the two youngest girls clinging to her hands and looking frightened.

‘A whole tribe of them!' the pastor said with loathing. ‘Arrest them all!'

Jacob raised both hands and said placatingly, ‘Come now, she's naught but a lass, she's not doing any harm.'

‘Call the constables!' the pastor cried.

‘Nay, no need for that,' Jacob said, casting a warning look at Ruben whose hand had dropped to his dagger. ‘We're just here for the fair, like all these other good people. We've done our business, we'll be on our way, no need for any trouble.'

The pastor looked at him in contempt. ‘Get the constables,' he said to one of the men in black, who went running away through the square. Within moments the four constables were in the square, cudgels in their hands.

Mimi and Sabina began to weep, so that Silvia gathered them close to her ample bosom, glaring angrily at the pastor and crying, ‘We're not doing any harm. Let us be!'

‘Get the girls out of here,' Jacob hissed at Luka, but as he began to hurry them away, the constables grabbed them roughly, dragging them to the pastor.

‘Stop it, you're hurting me,' Mimi wept, trying to wrench her wrist free of the constable's grip. He gave her a swift blow across the ear, and Luka immediately flew at him in fury, only to be knocked down to the ground.

‘How dare you! She's naught but a babe!' Silvia cried. She swung her basket and hit the constable hard across the head. ‘Take that, you big bully!' she yelled. ‘And that!'

The constable let go of Mimi's wrist and raised his arm to protect his head as Silvia rained blows upon him. She was a tall, strong woman, and her basket was laden with all she had bought or bartered for at the fair. The constable retreated, cursing, and Silvia charged after him, her basket swinging. Then he tripped and fell back over a stall of ironware. The whole thing came crashing down upon him, pots and pans and ladles and skillets raining everywhere. They banged and clattered, rolling away over the cobblestones, and at last lay silent around the ruin of the stall. All that could be seen of the constable were his big boots, sticking out from underneath. They did not move.

After a long moment of frozen surprise, the ironmonger leapt forward and struggled to raise the heavy stall from on top of the constable. At last he managed it, but still the constable did not move. His head lolled sideways.

A shrill scream rose high into the air.

‘He's dead, he's dead,' the ironmonger's wife shrieked. ‘Murder!'

Silvia went white as whey and dropped her basket. She did not struggle or protest as the other constables seized her, but stared in horror at the dead man lying amidst all the cooking ware.

Emilia could not move. It was as if the world had suddenly been disconnected from her.
That's the death
, she thought.
Baba heard right
.'

One of the constables seized hold of Emilia. The hard grip snapped her back to reality. She kicked him hard in the stomach, dodged round a fat lady, ducked behind a thin man, and dived through another constable's legs, tripping him over. The big man tried to grab her, but Beatrice hung onto his arm with both her hands, so that Emilia was able to slip through his fingers like a will-of-the-wisp. She leapt up onto the back of the fallen constable, using him as a mounting block to scramble onto Alida's bare back. The mare whinnied and reared, the constable staggered back and fell over again, and then Emilia wheeled Alida about, her eyes flashing towards her sister and brother.

‘Go! Go!' Beatrice cried frantically. ‘Get out of here!'

Glancing about, Emilia saw all her family had been caught. Her uncles Ruben and Jacob had been seized, and were held with their arms twisted painfully up behind their backs. Silvia huddled in the charge of the constables, the little girls clustered around her, sobbing. Luka was lying on the ground, a constable's knee in his back. His eyes met hers. ‘Go, Milly, go!' he shouted. ‘Get yourself out of here!'

Then Zizi leapt onto the constable's shoulder and, yanking his hair hard, bit his ear. He yelled and flinched away. At once Luka was up and running but then the big, ugly man let go of Noah to smash Luka down with his steel fist. Noah stumbled forward, his violin clutched to his chest, trying to escape.

‘Here, Noah, here!' Emilia screamed. He turned towards her, hand groping out in entreaty. She kicked Alida forward, thinking for one glad moment that she could reach him and swing him up behind her. Then the pastor stepped forward and grabbed Noah, dragging him back. Noah cried out in fear and hit out with his violin. The pastor wrested the violin from him and flung it down on the cobblestones, stamping upon it until it was smashed to smithereens. Noah sobbed in despair.

‘You devil!' Emilia cried, wild with fury and grief. ‘How could you!'

The pastor glanced up at her, his face rigid and white, his eyes blazing with righteous anger. Then he gestured with his hand for the constables to seize her.

‘Godless infidels,' the pastor said coldly. ‘We shall see them all hang, and this town cleansed of their profane presence.'

He strode forward and seized Alida's halter, but Emilia kicked him square in the chest. One boot slipped on the filthy cobbles and he lost his balance and fell back, straight into a huge, green, sloppy pat of cow manure.

Emilia looked down into his face and knew she had made an implacable enemy. Once again she looked across at Beatrice, who pressed her hands together beseechingly and cried, ‘Go!'

Tears pouring down her face, Emilia leant low on Alida's back and galloped out of the market square, knocking over a cage of chickens and a barrow of apples on the way. Rollo raced behind her, low to the ground.

Behind her she could hear the pastor screaming, ‘Catch her and bring her back! We'll see her burn in hell for this!'

Luka rubbed his head, which was ringing from the ugly man's blow. Zizi was crouched on an awning a few feet away, gibbering with fear. Luka looked up and saw the pastor staring down at him. He clutched his fiddle close under his arm, afraid the pastor might seize it and stamp it to pieces too.

‘Godless heathens,' the pastor hissed. He glanced at the ugly man and said, ‘Lock them up. We'll have them before the magistrates at the beginning of next month. Murder, vagrancy, begging and trading in the marketplace without a licence.' He looked across at Beatrice, who shivered and drew her shawl up about her head. ‘And singing,' he said, very softly.

Luka was hauled to his feet and marched along the market square with the rest of his family. Zizi leapt down onto his shoulder and cowered against his neck, her tail wrapped tight enough to half strangle him. Afraid they might drag the little monkey away from him if they noticed her, Luka tucked her away inside his coat and she lay quietly, her head pressed against his fast beating heart.

They were hustled down a side street to a small crooked wooden building with a steep thatched roof and tiny mullioned windows. A poorly painted sign hung over the door, depicting a hand holding up a mace. The sour smell of beer gusted out of the front door, and to Luka's surprise they were ushered into a dark, grimy, straw-strewn public bar. An innkeeper, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbow and a filthy apron on over his breeches, looked up and sighed.

‘What, more? I haven't room for all these prisoners, and more importantly, I haven't the funds. This new pastor of yours has scared away all my customers with his talk of hellfire and damnation.'

‘Thank your lucky stars he hasn't had you closed down altogether,' the constable growled, jerking Luka towards a set of narrow, dark stairs.

‘Where would he lock up all his prisoners if he did?' the innkeeper cried, opening a drawer and taking out a ring of jangling keys. ‘I'm offering a community service, I am, and for precious little reward too. Where does he think I get the money to feed all these gaolbirds he keeps dragging in off the street? Where am I meant to put them? We're bursting at the seams as it is!'

As he grumbled, he led the way up the stairs and the Finch family were pushed along after him.

‘It's on the orders of the Lord Protector,' said the constable. ‘Haven't you heard the young gentleman
Mister
Charles Stuart has set a price on Cromwell's head? They say Old Ironsides dare not sleep without his armour on, in fear of secret assassins.'

At the mention of the young king-in-exile, Charles Stuart, Luka began to listen with closer attention.

‘One of Mister Stuart's men has been seen here in England, in disguise,' the constable said. ‘The Duke of Ormonde!'

‘No! Really?' the innkeeper said, fumbling at the lock of a thick, wooden door. ‘Dangerous job, spying for the young king … I mean, tyrant. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes if Cromwell's spymaster gets hold of him.'

‘That thief-taker Coldham is in Kingston searching for him. It'd sure be a feather in our caps if we helped capture the Duke of Ormonde!' the constable said.

Luka was pushed through the oaken door, almost stumbling over the uneven step. Beyond was a roughly furnished room. As the guard took down their details and confiscated their weapons and money, the innkeeper and constables continued to chat.

‘I heard Old Ironsides took his daughter's death badly?' the innkeeper asked.

‘Couldn't even make her funeral yesterday. He's still here, at Hampton Palace, they say, and sure his darling girl was murdered or bewitched. It's all a Royalist plot, I've heard. Pick the Cromwells off one by one.'

‘But why kill his daughter, or his little grandson?' the innkeeper said with a snort of disbelief. ‘Old Copper-Nose, aye, I can see them wanting him dead. What did that mad Leveller, Sexby, write? Killing him would be no murder? But little Betty Cromwell? What would they gain?'

The constable shrugged. ‘Beats me. Revenge? That young gentleman in France must hate all the Cromwells.'

‘Did you know we have a Leveller in here now? They brought him in this morning, charged with conspiracy.'

‘The pastor's bent on cleaning up the whole town,' the constable said rather dourly. ‘He's working us to death. He sees rebels and devils and witches under every rock, and it's us that has to go and dig them out.'

‘Oh, well,' the innkeeper said. ‘I guess he wants to put on a good show for old Copper-Nose. Can't be easy having the Lord Protector right across the river, breathing down your neck every day.'