Hard on the heels of this thought came another: none of this is real.
This thought led inevitably to a third: you’ve fallen and struck your head on a rock, and when you wake up in hospital three weeks will have passed and you will be on a ventilator with tubes up your nose and wires attached to your broken cranium.
That was surely a safer explanation than the one where he was forced to admit that what was happening to him was in some way really happening.
Still, weren’t those horses a lovely sight?
CHAPTER 6
In Which Kit Acquires an Apostle Spoon
The carriage clattered along the darkened streets of an alien London, the iron-rimmed wheels bouncing over uneven cobbles, until at last it rolled to a stop outside a tumbledown thatched house in a cramped street of low clapboard dwellings. “Please remain seated, gentlemen,” said Cosimo. “It is but the work of a moment.” He disembarked and hurried to the rough plank door that supported a crudely hand-lettered placard: THOS. FARRYNER, BAKER.
Glancing up and down the narrow street, Cosimo banged on the door with the flat of his hand. When that failed to produce a result, he picked up a loose cobble and began beating on the planks, rattling the door on its hinges. In a moment, there came a cry from inside and the door flung open. “Here! Here now! Wot’r ye about then?”
“Sorry to bother you at this late hour, my good man,” said Cosimo. “I wonder if I might trouble you for a loaf of bread?”
“I be closed!” cried the somewhat woozy man. “You’ve woke me up, you have!”
“I do most heartily apologise and beg your pardon,” replied Cosimo. “But, seeing as you are awake now, might I purchase the bread? Any old loaf will do.”
“Hold yer water, then,” grumbled Thomas the baker. He shuffled back inside, reappearing a few moments later with a round lump of bread. “That’s a ha’penny to you.”
“Here’s tuppence for your trouble,” said Cosimo, passing over the coins. “You can thank me later.”
“Tch!” replied the baker, and slammed the door.
Cosimo returned to the coach with the bread under his arm. “That should do it very nicely,” he chortled, climbing back into the coach. “Drive on!”
As the coach jolted to a start once more, Kit puzzled over the meaning of the charade he had just witnessed. Finally, when he could no longer help himself, he asked, “What was all that about? What do you want with stale bread?”
“Oh, this?” His great-grandfather glanced at the loaf beside him on the seat. “But I don’t want it at all.”
With that, he took the loaf and, calling, “Free bread!” tossed it from the carriage to a clutch of poorly dressed women who had gathered around a lantern that cast a pale circle of light onto their bare heads and shoulders. One of them caught the loaf and at once began dividing it up among the others. “Thank-ee!” she called with a gap-toothed smile.
“Don’t you remember anything you learned in school?” asked Cosimo.
“Not much,” confessed Kit.
“Second of September . . . year 1666 . . . Pudding Lane? No?”
“Sorry, not with you.” Neither the date nor the place rang any bells.
“Why, it’s the Great Fire, dear boy. Never heard of it? What do they teach in school these days?”
“That I’ve heard of.” Kit thought for a moment. “So, by waking the baker you’ve prevented the fire—is that it?”
“Well done! There might be hope for you yet.”
“But isn’t that hazardous—messing with events?”
“Well, why not?”
“You’re changing the course of history. I thought that sort of thing was strictly forbidden.”
“Forbidden by whom?” inquired Cosimo. “Who’s to say the reality in which we find ourselves is the best one possible?”
“Yes, but—” Kit objected.
“See here, if a simple act of kindness or generosity, such as buying a loaf of bread for some poor working women, can mean that wholesale death and destruction will be avoided—why, a man would be a monster who had it in his power to alleviate all that suffering yet stood by and did nothing.”
The thought of messing about with history occupied Kit until the coach rolled up outside a large torch-lit house with a painted sign hanging above the door. The sign read THE POPE’S NOSE, and had a picture of—it was difficult to tell in the flickering light of the torches—what appeared to be the plucked rear end of a somewhat startled goose.
“Ah, here we are, gentlemen!” cried Sir Henry, snatching up his walking stick and leaping to his feet the moment the coach creaked to a stop. “This is my preferred chophouse. The food is uncommonly good, but the place is ferociously noisy, I fear, and likely to be crowded. I do hope you will not mind.”
“Not in the least,” replied Cosimo. “As usual, Sir Henry, you have anticipated my desires precisely. Lead on!”
They stepped from the landau and marched up to the public eating house arm in arm, with Kit bringing up the rear. As they approached the entrance, Kit caught Cosimo’s elbow and pulled him back for a word. “Look, I’m hungry as anything—but what’s going on here? Aren’t we worried about Wilhelmina? I thought it was important to find her.”
“Rest assured, dear boy, it is my main concern and the focus of all our efforts. Trust me. We are definitely working on it. But it will do no one any good if we starve ourselves into a state of mental and physical exhaustion. We’ve got to keep up our strength and acuity, do we not?”
“I suppose so,” Kit allowed dubiously.
“And does not Sir Henry strike you as exactly the sort of ally who might aid our search?”
“I guess so.”
“Well then!” Cosimo waved him through the wide-open door.
The ground floor of the house was given to two large public rooms with smaller, more private chambers upstairs. They were met inside the door by a red-faced man in a shabby leather jerkin with a greasy white apron around his more-than-ample middle and a sweat-stained blue scarf knotted around his neck. A limp cap of folded linen, balanced atop his round head, was listing to the side and causing him to hold his head at an angle. “Welcome, gentlemen! Come in! Come in! I am honoured, good sirs. Honoured, I declare.” He clapped his hands, and a boy came running and offered to take charge of any hats, cloaks, swords, or pistols they might wish to shed for the evening.
They handed over their hats, and the landlord gave a flick of his hand and sent the boy away. “I have prepared your customary room, Sir Henry. The fire is made up and fresh cloth is laid.”
“Thank you, William, but we will begin down here,” declared Sir Henry, indicating the large open room before them. “I feel like eating in company tonight. If you please, we will make our way upstairs in due course.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the landlord. “Whatever your pleasure. Right this way.” He led them into the room, as into a den noisy with feasting lions. They passed among three long tables crowded with other diners, of which there were perhaps twenty or so, all munching and chomping with true abandon. Lord Castlemain appeared to know many of these, and he paused often to exchange a greeting or a word, shaking hands and bowing, before moving on.
The landlord conducted them to a small table near the hearth where a coal fire burned brightly in the grate. They settled into large, heavy carvers, and Kit surveyed the table, which was spread with a spotted and stained blue tablecloth and white napkins folded into vaguely boatlike shapes. There were no utensils, so he reached for the napkin closest to him, took it, and shook it out just as a gangly young adolescent wearing a faded, much-stained yellow turban approached the table and plunked down three wide-bottomed crockery jars overflowing with frothy ale. Sir Henry raised the jar before him and cried, “To friends old and new! May they always remain true!”
“Was hael! ” answered Cosimo, and drank.
The ale, though flat, was sweet and nutty with a warming flavour of cloves. Very nice, Kit decided, sipping liberal
ly from the jar. Meanwhile, the turbaned lad had begun laying wooden bowls of soup before them. Sir Henry lowered his face to the bowl and sniffed. “Ah! Periwinkle! My favourite.” Taking a large silver spoon from an inner pocket of his coat, he began to ladle soup into his mouth.
As no other spoons—or anything else—seemed to be forthcoming, Kit simply gazed at his watery reflection in the clear, tawny liquid.
“Not to your liking, my friends?”
“Far from it!” remarked Cosimo. “I’m terribly sorry, Sir Henry, but in our haste to meet you we seem to have come away from the house without our spoons.”
“Quite,” agreed Kit.
“We shall soon put that to rights,” said Sir Henry. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Two of your best spoons for my friends here, William, if you please.”
“Right away, Sir Henry!” cried William, shouting to make himself heard above the general din. He returned on the trot bearing two large and well-wrought silver spoons. “Peter, or Paul?” asked the landlord, wiping the spoons on his soiled apron.
“Pardon?” replied Kit.
“Which saint, sir? Peter?” He held up a spoon. “Or, would you prefer Saint Paul?”
“Ah, um, yes,” said Kit, glancing at his great-grandfather for advice and receiving only an expectant nod. “Paul, I suppose. No! Make it Peter—definitely. It’s Peter for me all the way.”
“A very wise choice, sir,” replied the landlord, handing him one of the deep-bowled spoons that, on closer inspection, turned out to have a handle fashioned in the bearded likeness of said saint.
Kit dipped his utensil into the steaming broth and brought it to his tongue. To Kit’s untutored palate, the soup had the musky savour of seashells stewed with old socks. Unable to match Sir Henry for the gusto with which the nobleman attacked this delicacy, he sampled a few spoonfuls politely. While his companions slurped down the soup, he looked around the room at his fellow diners: all men, and all wearing the same dark wool clothing with minor variations. All sported elaborate lace neckwear and a marvellous profusion of beards. This, Kit decided, was really where they splashed out. Indeed, the general population seemed to be in some sort of tonsorial competition to see who could achieve the most outlandish whiskers. Judging from the results on display, the contest was at a highly advanced stage.
There were men with sideburns so thick it looked as if they were peeping out from behind a scrubby bush; others with moustaches that had long since covered their mouths and threatened to engulf their chins; there were pointed beards, pencil-thin beards, ornately sculpted beards, goatees, and full-blown Father Time beards. Several had immaculately pin-curled their facial hair, and one especially hirsute fellow had grown his neck hair long and brushed it upward to meet his face, rather than vice versa. Kit ran his fingers over his own scruffy growth and knew himself to be something of a pitiful specimen to the others.
The soup bowls were removed and exchanged for a platter heaped with steaming, half-open shells of mussels and clams; on the rim of the platter were shucked oysters interspersed with little round dollops of pale, squidgy meat Kit could not readily identify. Sir Henry and Cosimo fell to with a vengeance, and soon discarded shells were clicking like castanets.
Kit, whose notion of acceptable shellfish extended only to prawn vindaloo, stared at the small mountain of glistening, gaping mollusks before him and felt his throat seize up. He picked at one and another of the critters closest to hand and tried to make it look as if he was enjoying himself. When that failed, he turned his attention to the rounded dollops decorating the perimeter of the platter. They looked harmless enough, so he tried one and decided it was not only edible, but positively delicious.
“Wise choice, sir!” exclaimed Sir Henry, glancing up to take a pull from his ale pot. “Poached eel! A delight!”
Ordinarily, this knowledge would have somewhat dampened Kit’s appetite for the morsels, but the heavenly taste outweighed any squeamishness he might naturally have felt, and he proceeded to devour them one by one. He was genuinely sorry when the boy returned to take away the platter; when the debris was cleared away, he was given a clean crockery vessel the size of a generous mixing bowl. Two more lads followed bearing a wooden plank that, at first glance, appeared to contain the disjointed carcass of an entire pig. In fact, it was what Kit considered a mixed grill of the highest order containing not only chops of pork, but beefsteaks, veal stuffed with brawn, lamb shanks, assorted ribs, a plump loin of venison and, around the whole, slices of pale pink flesh that Kit could not identify.
Knives had been stuck in some of the cuts, and Sir Henry wasted not a moment, but seized the handle of the nearest knife, speared a chop, and began eating it from the blade. Kit did likewise, impaling one succulent cut after another, sampling them all. The pork was excellent—all smoky, juicy, and hot from the flames. The lamb and ribs were next, and equally toothsome, as was the stuffed veal. He skipped the beef—it was a little too rare for him—and went for one of the pale pink slabs of flesh he did not recognize. The meat was somewhat chewy, but with a fine, delicate flavour unlike any other meat he had ever tasted.
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Sir Henry, watching him with amusement. “You are a very trencherman, sir. I salute you!”
“It is wonderful,” enthused Kit around a large mouthful. “This one is especially delicious. What is it?” He held up what remained of the slice for inspection.
“Oh, yes!” answered Sir Henry appreciatively. “You have hit on it there, sir. For that is hart’s tongue—a specialty of the house—aged and then brined, and slow roasted. I daresay you’ve never tasted the like.”
“I don’t get out much,” remarked Kit. He finished the slice, and another, before moving on to taste a little more of the venison. Two additional bowls, largely overlooked, were also present on the board. One contained a mash of turnips and parsnips mixed with cream and drenched with melted butter, and the other held some sort of sautéed greens. He spooned up a hefty helping of the mash and politely tasted the greens, then resumed his steady work on the heap of ribs and shanks before him. By the time Kit pushed himself away, his bowl was a slaughterhouse tangle of bones and gristle, and his cheeks, chin, and hands were dripping with grease. He felt as if he might possibly explode from internal pressure and that, all things considered, this would probably be for the best.
“Well done, sirs!” cried Sir Henry. He commended them on their gustatory prowess and sat back in his chair, smoothing the fat from his trim beard with glistening fingers. As the serving boys appeared to clear away the carnage, he announced, “I believe we shall take our port and sweetmeats in private, gentlemen.” Rising from his chair, he paused to wipe his mouth and hands on the tablecloth. “This way, if you please.”
Kit rose to follow. Sir Henry paused, picked up the apostle spoon, and turned to Kit. “Any man who would hold his own at table with me must wield a ready spoon.” He handed the silver utensil to him. “It would please me to offer you this as a commemorative token of our new friendship.”
Kit glanced at his great-grandfather for guidance. Cosimo smiled and gave him a slight nod of encouragement.
“Then I would be honoured to accept it in the spirit in which it is offered, Sir Henry,” he said, in imitation of the high-flown style of address. “I shall treasure it.”
Sir Henry beamed and then led them back through the dining room and up a staircase to a smaller chamber where, as the landlord had said, a table had been made ready and a fire glowed in the grate. Sir Henry settled into one of the big leather chairs and waved his guests to others. A small bald man appeared with a decanter of ruby liquid that he proceeded to pour into shallow silver cups.
“Thank you, Barnabas. We will see to ourselves. You may go,” said Sir Henry Fayth when they each had a cup in hand. The serving man gone, he lifted his cup and said, “Here now, let us discuss the issues of the day.”
“Nothing would please me more,” replied Cosimo. “First, however, I would hear more about
this experiment that you have proposed in the hall tonight.”
“Oh, that,” replied Sir Henry. “The merest trifle, a bit of subterfuge—nothing more.”
“But do you think it wise?”
“I think it wise to nip the weed in the bud,” replied Sir Henry reasonably. “Too many of our members are talking about this so-called ley discovery. By leading and conducting an experiment which not only fails, but is seen to fail—and fail spectacularly, I might add—then no respectable member will dare raise the subject again for fear of being considered . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “. . . ridiculous, yes—a laughingstock, let us say.”
“I see,” replied Cosimo doubtfully.
“You disagree, sir?”
“Not entirely.” Cosimo shook his head. “No.”
Sir Henry took a sip from his silver cup and waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Tosh! You and I both know we cannot allow any outside interference. The rumour has spread, and it is beginning to attract interest. We must eliminate any serious inquiry before someone stumbles upon the truth.”
“My chief concern is that they might see through your sham experiment,” said Cosimo, swirling the sweet liquid in his cup.
“One or two might,” conceded Sir Henry, “given the chance. The rest would not recognise a genuine scientific principle if it jumped up and bit them on the bum. I shall, of course, choose my participant observers from amongst the latter.”
Kit listened to this exchange, and it occurred to him that Sir Henry moved easily from his antique English into Cosimo’s and Kit’s modern version. From this, he surmised that the two had enjoyed a long acquaintance. However that might be, in one thing he was confirmed: Sir Henry, for all his lofty airs, was a levelheaded, trustworthy, and honourable man. How very civilised, Kit decided.
It should be like this always. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to stay here and be a part of whatever it was the two grand gentlemen were cooking up between them. He was thinking how this might be accomplished when he heard his name mentioned.