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.’
‘Tell that to the Lord Protector. He thinks there are spies and assassins under every bed these days.’
‘There must be something we can do,’ Luka said. ‘If I can get copies made of the gaol’s keys . . .’
‘But what of the guards? Do you plan to overcome them by force?’
Luka shrugged. ‘If I have to.’
Joe put his brush back in his pot and examined his handiwork frowningly. After a moment he added a few delicate strokes of white.
‘But I’d need help, obviously,’ Luka burst out. ‘Please, can’t you help us?’
Joe blew on the paint to help it dry, then said, ‘I don’t see how. I can’t leave my inn. And things are rather . . . hectic . . . at the moment.’
‘But you have to help us!’ Emilia burst out. ‘My brother is only nine . . . and he’s blind! And my sister . . . my grandmother . . .’
‘My little sister is only nine too,’ Luka said. ‘Please!’
‘They probably won’t hang the weans,’ Joe said, carefully hiding the pot of white paint. ‘They’ll make them wards of the state, I imagine. Put them into service somewhere.’
‘But my mother, my father, my uncle . . . my grandmother,’ Luka cried, at the same time as Emilia who was saying passionately, ‘I don’t want them to become wards, I want us to go home, for things to be the way they were before.’
Joe looked at her pityingly. ‘Is there anyone who does not at some point wish that? The past is the past, and nothing can change that.’
‘But you can change your future,’ Emilia cried, tears in her eyes. ‘If anyone must know about the possibility of becoming something new, you must!’
He regarded her for a long time out of eyes so dark it was impossible to read them. Then he said, very quietly, ‘Aye, I do, I suppose. Which is why I am a gypsy no longer, but an innkeeper. So I’m afraid you must go elsewhere for help. I have my hands full at present.’
‘With what? Serving ale?’ Luka said in bitter contempt.
Joe’s mouth quirked up. ‘Actually I have a house full of Royalist rebels, a stable full of stolen horses, and a spy for Cromwell who will no doubt be arriving on my doorstep any minute. I’m guessing he won’t be in a happy mood.’
The children stared at him.
He sighed. ‘Weans. I’m facing a traitor’s death as it is. Let me think on it, and if there’s anything I can do to help you, I’ll let you know. But for now, I need to be hustling my aristocratic guests into hiding, and getting rid of these horses, and thinking about what to serve for lunch. All right?’ He turned to go.
‘Please, wait,’ Emilia cried. ‘Can you tell us, please, have you got your family’s lucky charm, the sprig of rue?’
But just then a bell hung over the stable door clanged loudly.
Into the Oven
‘Quick, run!’ Gypsy Joe cried. ‘That’s the sign that troopers are on the doorstep. We’ve got to get you hidden. Here, hide your dog in here!’
He pushed his hand against the back wall. Unexpectedly a wooden panel sprang open, revealing a small, dark cavity inside. Hurriedly Luka and Emilia half pushed, half coaxed Rollo inside. He looked up at them, whining, his tail between his legs.
‘Stay, Rollo, stay,’ Emilia said, patting his rough head. Joe shut the secret panel, then they ran
across the stable-yard, hearts pounding with fear.
Joe led them into the kitchen, which was full of people peeling potatoes, stirring pots on the stove and turning a big lump of meat on a spit over a roaring fire. The heat hit them in the face as soon as they stepped inside.
‘Troupe of Roundheads,’ said Bob, the boy they had seen in the stable. ‘Headed by a big man with a mean face.’
‘Coldham!’ the two children cried.
Joe narrowed his eyes. ‘I’d like to know how he knew to come straight here. There’s a spy in our ranks, for sure.’
‘The guards on the gate saw us,’ Luka said. ‘Could they have told him?’
‘For enough money, they’d sell their mother,’ Joe said. ‘They’ll live to regret it if they have, though. Quick, you two, into the oven.’
‘What?’
‘Into the oven. Don’t worry, we make our bread in the evenings, the oven should be quite cool now.’
The children glanced nervously at the oven, which was an iron tunnel set into the wall at about hip height, above an open fireplace. The grate was swept clean, they could see, but the idea of being locked inside was very daunting.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to cook you,’ Joe said. ‘I just haven’t time right now to smuggle you up to the secret room, they’ll be here any second. Quickly! I can hear their boots on the stairs!’
So could Luka and Emilia. They let Joe lift them up so they could slide into the oven, feet first. There was just enough room for them to lie side by side, though they were very squashed. Zizi whimpered, and Luka cuddled her close, whispering, ‘Sssh, darling girl, sssh.’ She buried her face in his chest as the iron door was slammed shut.
Lying jammed in the hot darkness, Emilia tried to breathe slowly and steadily, feeling panic tightening its hold on her chest. She hated to be shut up anywhere small and dark. She could hear very little through the heavy iron door, just clangs and shouts and clattering. She strained her ears and heard Joe’s voice quite clearly. He must have been standing with his back to the oven door. ‘But I’m just a simple innkeeper,’ he was protesting. ‘I know nothing about highwaymen, or Royalists.’
There was an answering rumble which made the children catch their breath, instantly recognising Coldham’s harsh voice.
‘Oh, of course,’ Joe said. ‘Your men are welcome to search the house from attic to cellar if you wish. You will not mind if we keep on about our work, though, will you? For we’re very busy at this time of the day, as the coaches come and go. Which reminds me! Bob, the London coach needs a change of horses, quickly! Give them Star, Blaze, Stripe and Snip, would you? They’re fresh.’
Luka and Emilia stifled giggles as they realised that Gypsy Joe was talking about Coldham’s own coach-horses. What a clever way to get them out of the stables, before the soldiers discovered them.
There was another low rumble, then Joe said, ‘Certainly, sir, of course. At once! I’ll get the girls to bring it to you in the parlour.’
Coldham said something else, and Joe replied in a tone of long-suffering, ‘Very well then, sir. I shall have a bedchamber prepared for you then.’
After that he moved away from the door, and the children could hear nothing more. They lay in the hot, stifling darkness for a long time before the door was at last heaved open and they were able to crawl out and be lifted down. They had no chance to say even a word. People hurriedly tied long, drab aprons on them, the same as those worn by everyone else in the room, and thrust large laundry baskets into their arms, piled high with sheets and blankets. One woman hurriedly seized Emilia’s long mane of wild black hair and twisted it up under a big white cap, pinning it on ruthlessly, while another gave them some wooden clogs to put on.
‘Hide your monkey well,’ Joe said tersely. ‘Don’t let anyone see her, for heaven’s sake!’
Luka nodded and coaxed Zizi into the basket, hiding her under some sheets. She tried to lift the sheet and peep out, her eyes wide and anxious, but he pressed her down firmly, tucking her tail out of sight.
‘Go with Daisy and Rosie,’ Joe instructed, jerking his head at two girls who stood nearby, baskets on their hips. They were dark-haired and dark-eyed, and looked so much like Joe they had to be his daughters. ‘Just nod and smile if anyone talks to you. Pretend to be shy.’
Luka and Emilia nodded.
‘I’ll keep your dog safe, don’t you worry. He can’t come in with you, it’s impossible. You’ll have to lie low all day. I’ll get you out under cover of darkness. Just keep that monkey quiet!’
Emilia would have liked to have asked him again about the lucky charm, but Joe turned and strode away before she had a chance. She gazed after him unhappily, then heaved up a basket and followed the two girls up the back stairs and along a corridor. She kept her head low as they passed the soldiers, who were stripping beds, knocking on walls, and turning back rugs to examine floorboards. The soldiers took no notice of them, even when they squeezed right past two who were trying to drag aside a big chest. They reached the room at the end of the corridor and went in, pushing the door shut behind them.
‘Right,’ Daisy said. ‘Strip the bed, and if anyone comes in, cough, all right? Rosie, take the empty basket back down to the kitchen, and bring something else back, so they see you coming and going.’
The other girl nodded and went out, and Emilia began to strip the bed as she had been commanded. Daisy took Luka to the fireplace and showed him how to creep inside and stand upright. Emilia watched in amazement as he suddenly disappeared from sight, only his feet dangling down from the chimney.
At that very moment she heard the door open. Coldham came in, accompanied by two soldiers in buff coats and metal helmets. Panic seized her by the throat. She coughed violently into her hand, then bent and seized a sheet and shook it out so it hid her from view.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we’re not quite ready for you,’ Daisy said respectfully, standing in front of the fireplace, dustpan and brush in hand. ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving us another few minutes?’
Coldham grunted and went out again, but left the door standing open. Emilia could hear him barking orders at the soldiers. ‘They’re here somewhere, I want them found, do you hear me?’
Daisy beckoned urgently. Emilia threw the sheet down and hurried across to the fireplace. She crawled inside, and found within a much larger space than she had expected. Shallow grooves in the wall led up the chimney like a ladder. Emilia climbed up nimbly, and heard Daisy hurriedly begin to lay a fire below her.
Emilia hauled herself into a narrow alcove and stood, her heart racing. Below her, Daisy turned and said, ‘Almost finished, sir. I’ll just light the fire for you.’
‘Where’s the other girl that was here?’ Coldham asked. Emilia’s heart jumped, and she pressed back into the alcove. The wall behind her gave way under her weight, and Emilia bit back a gasp of surprise.
‘She just went to get some other sheets, sir, didn’t you notice her? These ones felt a little damp.’ Daisy spoke above a great clatter of fire irons, and Emilia realised she had heard the little sound Emilia had made and was trying to cover it up.
Coldham grunted in response, and Emilia heard the scraping of a chair being pulled out. She pushed back with her hands and felt the wall swing away noiselessly, revealing a greater cavity inside. Emilia stepped through and found herself in a long, narrow room crowded with people. Her eyes opened wide in surprise. Luka beckoned her inside, one finger on his lips, then swung the door closed behind her, latching it shut. Emilia groped her way forward a few steps, then sank down onto a hard wooden bench.
The secret room was built along the back of the bedchamber, above the fireplace. Light struck through what must have been small holes in the wooden fretwork of the mantelpiece. Putting her eye to one of the holes, Emilia could see into the bedchamber. Coldham was sitting at the table, papers spread out in front of him, a quill in his hand. He was writing laboriously, his teeth clenched with the effort.
Daisy and Rosi
e were swiftly making the bed with fresh sheets, then they bobbed curtseys and went out. Emilia watched Coldham a moment longer, then turned to stare at the people crowded into the secret room with her. Luka was crouched beside her, Zizi on his lap, and Lord Harry was smiling at her from the bench on the other side.
Sitting beside Lord Harry was a tall man with a mop of thick black hair and a shabby green velvet coat. Emilia stared at him in surprise, recognising him at once. It was James Butler, the Duke of Ormonde, one of King Charles II’s most trusted men whom she had last seen up at Epsom Downs. She could not believe she was so close to him they were bumping knees. No wonder Gypsy Joe had been so anxious to hide him. If he was discovered, the Duke of Ormonde would have his head cut off if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he would die a traitor’s death – half hanged, then cut down and disembowelled while he was still living, his entrails flung on burning coals before his living eyes, then torn into four pieces by horses whipped in opposite directions.
Emilia repressed a shudder. The Duke of Ormonde smiled at her, and lifted his finger to his lips. Emilia could hear the scratch of Coldham’s quill on the paper, so she understood the need for silence. She nodded, then glanced at the burly man beside the duke, who was dressed in neat brown wool, with a red scarf about his neck, and a large bag on his knees. She vaguely remembered seeing him in attendance on the Duke of Ormonde at the racetrack.
There were several other lordly-looking men in the secret room too, and a middle-aged, round-faced man dressed in a heavy gown, clutching a jewelled cross. Emilia wondered if he was a priest. She had never seen a priest before, and she was startled to see he looked quite ordinary, if rather tired and anxious.
Lastly Emilia looked at the person who was sitting right next to her, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. It was Tom Whitehorse, glaring at her in angry suspicion, his arms folded over his chest.