‘On foot?!’ exclaimed Eliza.
‘No, not on foot,’ Emerson replied. ‘I will show you how I intend to get there when we reach Erith. Come now, the ship is ready to leave.’
We did as instructed and asked no further questions. The ship’s anchor was raised, and she slipped away from the docks to begin her river voyage. Tabatha, Eliza and I found a quiet spot to sit on the deck among a stack of empty barrels, from where we watched the city drift past as daylight broadened. Emerson had disappeared below deck, occupied with the mysterious bag he had brought with him, and we did not see him again until the ship docked.
Jack paced restlessly nearby and said little. Tabatha watched him with growing agitation for a while then beckoned him over.
‘He will wear a hole in the deck if he paces that spot any more,’ she muttered while he was still out of earshot. I wished she had left him to it. His presence made me uneasy, and I had no desire to converse with him beyond what was absolutely necessary.
‘Tell me,’ said Tabatha as he approached us, ‘how did you come to join the Guild?’
Jack looked down at his feet and answered quietly. ‘I was apprenticed to an apothecary who kept a shop near Cripplegate. I had hopes of opening my own shop when my seven years’ training came to an end, but my master fell ill and died in the winter of my fifth year. On occasion, he had sent me to the Agriculturian to purchase the more unusual plants and roots he required. I didn’t know who he was or even that he was a magician. I had certainly never heard of the Guild of Gatekeepers. Nonetheless, when my master fell ill he wrote to the Agriculturian and asked that he accept me as his apprentice in the event of his death. Not even a week later he died, and I found myself standing on the steps of the Gatehouse waiting to meet my new master.’ Jack paused, but now he had started he seemed eager to tell his story, as though it was something he had waited a long time to say.
‘During the handful of occasions I had been sent to purchase from him, we had exchanged barely a dozen words. I had never been beyond the door of the Gatehouse. I had always found it unnerving and its inhabitants mysterious, yet I had little choice but to go along with the arrangement my old master had made, having no lodgings or other means of supporting myself.
‘To my relief, my new master was pleasant and eager to share his knowledge, but I soon learned there was far more to the Gatehouse than appeared on the surface. To tell the truth, when the Agriculturian told me what the Guild really was, and that I was to be an apprentice magician, I was terrified. And more than anything else, I was terrified of William Devere. I suppose that is why my pledge was not found to be truthful.
‘“Take him to the labyrinth” was all Devere said with complete indifference. I was still blindfolded, but I heard a man speak up for me and plead with Devere to allow me to go free, but he would not be swayed. Their exchange became quite heated, and I heard the man leave the room. Then I felt hands grab me and bundle me down the stairs and across the hall to the trap door. The door was opened and I was thrown inside. I pounded on the other side of the door and begged to be let out, but there was no reply, and I heard footsteps walking away from the trapdoor. I had been left to die.
‘I sat on the steps and sank into despair, wondering what awful doom awaited me- a slow, lingering death through starvation and thirst, or a victim of the terror which lurked in the labyrinth and whose true horrific nature had only been spoken of in whispered hints. Just as I had resigned myself to death, however it might meet me, the trapdoor opened above me, and George thrust a cloak coated in a strange powder into my arms and a slip of paper with a hastily-drawn map. ‘Wrap the cloak about you- it will repel the terror. There is a cavity in the wall through which you can escape. Follow the map.’ Before I had chance to reply, he slammed the trapdoor shut again.
‘If it hadn’t been for George, I would not be alive now. He risked his own life in helping me. Devere was ruthless, and I’ve no doubt if he had discovered what George had done he would have killed him without hesitation. I never had a chance to thank him, and I don’t suppose I ever will now.’
‘Oh, you will,’ said Tabatha darkly. ‘I’ve no intention of allowing Mabson to beat us to the tourney glade.’
The day grew gradually brighter and the view from the deck more pleasant as we left the city behind, though Tabatha quickly tired of watching the countryside slip by and went to see if she could find anything worth stealing while Jack sloped off to another corner of the deck, much to my relief.
Eliza took an embroidered sampler that she had been working on from her pack and set to work on it. As I sat idly watching her sew, I thought suddenly of the Watchmaker’s appointment book I had taken from his workshop, entirely forgotten until now. I felt inside my breeches pocket for it. It was still there.
‘What is that?’ asked Eliza as I leafed through it.
‘Oh, just the Watchmaker’s appointment book,’ I replied. ‘I took it from his workshop. I thought it might be useful. I meant to give it to Emerson but I’d forgotten I had it.’
‘I can’t imagine it will be much use now,’ replied Eliza without looking up from her work. ‘We know who killed him and why.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ I murmured as I turned over page after page of the book and noted the careful detail with which the Watchmaker had recorded his appointments and dealings with patrons. Materials, designs and sizes of all the timepieces he made were all diligently recorded. It was an eerie peep into a dead man’s life.
I turned to the last page. A pocket had been made on the inside cover, from which a thick wedge of paper poked out. I pulled it out and unfolded it.
7th July 1648. To my beloved wife in the event of my death was written at the top of the page in the Watchmaker’s hand, then below he continued: Mary, all I own I leave to you, my wife and life-long companion. My last will and testament is in the drawer of my writing case. Please see to it that Anna Perenna is committed to the care of Emerson Prye, the brother of the late George Prye.
I frowned and passed the note to Eliza. ‘Look at this. It was written last year before we found George. The Watchmaker must’ve been told of George’s supposed death.’
Eliza put down her sampler and looked at the note. ‘Who is Anna Perenna?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Did the Watchmaker and his wife have children, do you know?’
‘I don’t think so, but perhaps she was another relative whom they took into their care,’ Eliza suggested. ‘Maybe they wanted her to become an apprentice of the Guild. The Watchmaker and George were friends, so ‘tis not inconceivable that he would want Anna to become George’s apprentice. Maybe after learning of George’s death he thought apprenticing her to Emerson instead was the next best thing.’
‘Maybe, but still ‘tis rather odd,’ I replied.
I folded the note back up and returned it to its pocket, and we said no more about it. I couldn’t say quite why, but I was reluctant to show it to Emerson. Eliza had turned her attention back to her embroidery and seemed unconcerned by what she had read. I contemplated suggesting we keep the discovery to ourselves, but I couldn’t think how I might say it without sounding suspicious or accusatory, so I said nothing and hoped she wouldn’t speak of it.
By early afternoon we had dropped anchor at Erith. Its dock was far smaller than London’s and was filled mostly with naval ships and a few merchant vessels discharging some of their cargo before proceeding further upstream where the river became considerably shallower before draining into the North Sea.
‘What have you been doing?’ Eliza asked Emerson as he reappeared from below deck.
‘Considering our next step,’ Emerson replied enigmatically.
We disembarked and followed him towards the centre of the town where he hoped to procure the services of a coachman. He remained tight-lipped about how he intended to reach Paimpont.
Erith itself consisted of little more than two streets of houses with a church and a small inn. A few coaches were parked outside
its stables. Emerson spoke briefly with one of the drivers, and soon we were rattling along the road out of town heading west, but to where Emerson would not say.
I glanced uneasily at Jack as we sat in the back of the coach. He had barely said a word since we spoke to him on the deck, but more than once I caught him watching me out of the corner of my eye. His gaze made me uneasy.
‘Stop here,’ Emerson called to the driver suddenly, distracting me from my thoughts.
We had reached a large mansion of dull grey stone some miles out of Erith. Two stone owls atop the gate posts glared down at us, the sole guards of the heavy iron gates before us.
Emerson dropped a few coins into the coach driver’s hand and turned his attention to the padlock upon the gate once the coach was out of sight. The gates groaned on their rusted hinges as they swung open, revealing a long driveway surrounded by landscaped grounds dotted with yew trees which extended out of sight behind the house.
The mansion itself was undoubtedly old, having the fortress-like appearance of large houses from previous centuries. Jackdaws rested on its roof and flitted in and out of holes where the stonework had crumbled away, and a thick curtain of ivy had almost entirely colonised the front of the building. It looked altogether lifeless and forgotten.
‘Follow me,’ said Emerson, striding up the driveway.
‘Whose house is this?’ asked Eliza.
‘It belonged to the Devere family,’ Emerson replied. ‘It is abandoned now. William Devere was the last of that line.’
‘I had no idea. Were they a prominent family?’ asked Eliza as she gazed up at the mansion, its former glory still evident in spite of its dilapidated state.
‘They were the descendants of an unimportant son of the House of Evreux of Navarre who came to England to escape accusations of witchcraft. Amaury d’Evreux anglicised the family name to Devere to disguise his royal origins- and the humiliating loss of status he had suffered -and worked to ingratiate himself with the rich and powerful of England. The Deveres acquired considerable wealth and influence but were nevertheless relegated to serving rather than being the served, as their ancestors had once been.’
‘But why are we here?’ I said shortly, not at all eager to hear the Devere family history.
‘For that,’ said Emerson, pointing beyond the largest yew to the top of a tower reaching even above the tree’s great height.
Chapter 24
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It is a folly,’ Emerson replied. ‘A tower built for no other purpose than ornament. Devere had two identical follies built in secret by the previous Architecturian in the event he ever needed to escape England in a hurry: this one and another not far from St. Malo in France. One can enter either folly, climb the stairs and pass through a door at the top to find oneself in the other folly within an entirely different country.’
‘You mean we can reach France just by passing through a doorway at the top of a tower?’ Eliza asked incredulously.
‘Exactly,’ Emerson replied.
I cast a doubtful eye over the tower. It was square sided, wider at the base, and with parapets along its top. A single window looked out from its south-eastern side. It looked plainly out of place, like a lighthouse in the middle of a field, yet there was no hint of magic about it.
Emerson drew his sprig of moonwort from his pocket and set it to the door’s lock. It opened soundlessly onto a staircase spiralling up to the top of the tower. I counted one hundred stone steps until we reached the top where a plain wooden door stood at the end of a short landing. Emerson opened the door and stepped into the empty room beyond. We followed one by one and crossed the room to where another door stood on the opposite side.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Tabatha.
‘Step through the door, that is all,’ Emerson replied as he opened it and led us down another winding staircase on the other side.
‘Whatever magic the old Architecturian used, I don’t believe it has worked,’ Eliza complained, but she stopped short as Emerson opened the final door at the bottom of the staircase. Instead of the gently undulating grounds of the Devere mansion, we looked out across a cornflower meadow to low sand dunes sweeping down to a beach of pale sand. I stepped out and looked back at the folly in suspicion. It was identical to the one we had entered just moments before.
‘How is it possible?’ gasped Eliza. ‘’Tis as though there is an invisible bridge joining the two towers together.’
‘That is indeed the magic of it,’ Emerson replied. ‘We have saved ourselves a long and troublesome journey by sea, but we still have two days’ ride ahead of us to reach Paimpont. We must do it in one. We must reach Paimpont by this time tomorrow.’
‘How can we? We have no horses,’ I said.
‘We can soon remedy that,’ Emerson replied. ‘Follow me.’
Across the meadow, a row of poplars had been planted as though to screen the folly from the view of a track winding up to a large farmhouse with well-tended fields and stables spread out around it. We followed Emerson through a gate between the poplars and along the track to the house. At the gate he stopped.
‘Wait for me here,’ he said.
We watched him stride up to the farmhouse and knock loudly upon the door. A moment later a young woman opened it. Emerson spoke to her in French, but she simply shook her head and disappeared back inside. We waited anxiously until a man- the squire, I guessed from his clothes and bearing -appeared. Emerson repeated what he had said to the girl and held up a bulging pouch of coins, but the man simply frowned and waved his arm in a gesture of dismissal. Beside me, Tabatha fidgeted impatiently. Emerson appeared to be trying to bargain with the man, but he was in no mood to negotiate. Suddenly Tabatha stepped forward and drew her knife. In a moment, its tip was touching the man’s throat. She spoke to him in a firm voice in unfaltering French then took the pouch from Emerson and placed it in the man’s hand. Emerson disappeared into the stables and returned a moment later leading five beautiful piebald horses. Tabatha returned her knife to its sheath, and the man shrank back into his house, slamming the door behind him as though the devil himself stood on his doorstep.
‘I may be a thief, but I am an honest one nonetheless,’ said Tabatha as she jumped into the saddle of one of the horses, hauling Bandit up with her. ‘Monsieur didn’t wish to sell his horses. I see why; they are beautiful beasts, but we haven’t time to waste with bartering.’
‘Climb up,’ said Emerson. ‘We must leave at once.’
Jack, Eliza and I mounted our steeds, Peggy sitting in front of me, and soon the farmhouse and the folly were lost from view as the track joined a larger road which passed through apple orchards and fields bordered with hedgerows. It reminded me of home- my real home in Osmington Mills.
Emerson rode in front with Tabatha, followed by Eliza and then me, but Jack lagged behind despite the road being wide enough for three horses to ride abreast with ease. Though I could not see them, I felt his eyes boring into me as I rode, and I longed to be rid of him. His very presence unnerved me, and even Peggy seemed wary of him.
We rode without rest until afternoon was spent, and the shadows began to lengthen as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. Emerson allowed the horses a brief pause beside a millpond, where they slaked their thirst and cooled their hocks in its dark water, then we were off again. The farmsteads and villages we had passed in quick succession earlier in the day grew sparser until eventually they disappeared altogether, and the land became rockier while the road grew steadily worse.
‘I have never ridden so fast or so far in my life,’ gasped Eliza as her horse stumbled up a steep climb in the road, ‘and we still have the forest to pass through once we reach it.’
Emerson, some distance ahead, reined his horse and hung back until Jack drew level with him. ‘When did Mabson leave England?’ he asked.
‘Six days ago,’ replied Jack. ‘His ship was bound for St. Malo.’
‘Have we any chance of catching up wi
th him?’ asked Tabatha.
Emerson frowned. ‘He has had a considerable head start. We cannot hope to overtake him before he reaches Paimpont, and there is little chance of finding him in the vast swathes of the forest. Our best hope is to make for the tourney glade and hope we reach it before he does, but time is against us. We still have some distance to go before we can make camp for tonight.’
He spurred his horse on, and we followed with a renewed sense of urgency. The cool of the evening made the ride more comfortable, even pleasant, but Emerson seemed tense and loosened his pistol in its holster.
We rode on for another hour or so until, one by one, the stars began to appear in the sky and darkness swallowed up the last of the day.
‘We shall stop here for tonight,’ said Emerson, reining his horse and guiding us towards the shelter of a copse not far from the road. ‘The land between here and Paimpont is sparsely populated but for the wandering vagabonds whose livelihoods depend on what they can steal from travellers. It would be unwise to travel any further until morning.’
None of us disagreed, stiff and weary as we were from riding. We gathered together what kindling we could find close at hand and made a fire beneath the trees. I had scarcely finished my supper before I was dosing off with my feet to the flames while Emerson set himself to watch first, his pistol ready in his hand.
Chapter 25
I woke to darkness and Tabatha poking at the dying fire with a stick. She glanced at me then turned her attention back to the flames.
‘You’ve still another hour before it’s your watch,’ she said.
‘I won’t get back to sleep now,’ I replied. My back was stiff and my feet and hands numb from lying on the damp ground. ‘I’ll take over from here. Dawn can’t be far off.’
‘Very well,’ Tabatha replied. ‘Don’t let the fire go out.’
She wrapped herself in her cloak and lay with her back to the flames. I stood up and stamped my feet to get the blood flowing again. The fire blazed as I fed it more kindling, sending sparks hissing into the dew-soaked grass. Only the softest murmur of a breeze in the branches overhead could be heard above the crackle of the flames.
The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers Page 11