Blind Man's Buff

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be

  Reproduced without prior permission of the author

  except in the case of brief quotations and reviews

  Cover design by

  It’s A Wrap

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Afterword

  Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  This book is dedicated to

  all my readers,

  of any age

  Hello again, and welcome back to Nathan, poppy and friends and their adventures.

  As you may already know, there can be some differences in the way things are spelt in England, America and other English speaking countries. As well as this, some of Nathans friends speak with an old cockney accent, which means they don’t always use the proper spelling or pronunciation either. I hope this will not cause you any problems with reading these adventures. Please do let me know if you are having particular problems.

  Kind regards

  Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Chapter One

  Bent double, keeping his head down and keeping to the shadows, John edged down the alleyway, watching for the first possible silver flash of magic in the air, while listening for any passing gossip that might be important. He could smell the rank sliding sludge in the gutters, the stale beer when passing doorways of inns and taverns, and the sweat of the people pushing past him. But that didn’t worry him. He was working hard at the one thing that mattered.

  He was covered in mud from his hair to his feet. It slipped down his face, stuck in his eyelashes and trickled over his nose, so he kept his mouth firmly shut. He didn’t want a breakfast of thick sludge. It squelched up between his toes. Ten toes. He almost laughed, but this was no laughing matter.

  The City of Peganda closely resembled medieval London, in some places so closely that he almost started looking for Bishopsgate, and Alice’s home where he could have a wash and change his clothes. But the mud served its purpose. He was part of the Resistance Movement and needed anonymity. He was a shadow amongst shadows. And that was the way it was supposed to be.

  He could hear Alice, but he couldn’t see her. Avoiding where he knew she sat, he crept the other way. She was sitting dressed in rags, cross-legged on the dirty cobbles, with her hair in tangles and dirt on her face. She was singing in a fine, high voice and placed on the ground before her was a battered hat, turned upside down, to collect the coins that passers-by might throw to her in sympathy. They were Peter’s fine compositions that she sang, none of which had ever been heard in Lashtang before, so the hat was almost full. Lashtang money, each copper coin, was heavy. But it wasn’t the money Alice truly wanted. It was the gossip she heard while sitting there, and the people she saw meeting in the old house opposite. Meanwhile, at some distance away across the city, Peter, dressed in a dirty old tunic with a torn hem and big wooden clogs, was on another street corner, playing his beautiful lute, carefully watching the pluck of his fingers while he played, but listening only for the gossip in the passing crowds.

  Sam sat on the doorstep of a grand house overlooking the high stone wall that surrounded the city. He was also dressed in rags and looked even more of a beggar than he had in London when he truly was a penniless orphan. He pretended to be half asleep, but he too was listening for any important conversations between the men passing by.

  Alfie sat on the river’s edge, dabbling his bare toes in the dirty water. He was very close to the end of the big wooden bridge. Crowds of people were pushing and shoving to cross from one side of the river to the other. Unlike London, this was a poorly made bridge with no shops or houses and no sheltering wall, so sometimes passing children and animals were elbowed out of the way and fell head over heels to tumble into the River Rass with a yell of fear. Alfie had already rescued one little girl who had nearly drowned, and one little brown puppy who wagged its tail, shook the water from its fuzzy coat, and ran off with a yelp and a bark for its master.

  Also hoping to hear important gossip, Alfie’s toes were looking like wrinkled prunes from being in the water so long, but he stayed where he was and ate an apple he’d found under the old apple tree on the bankside.

  Poppy was on the other side of the river, wearing Lashtang-style trousers and a grubby torn shirt on top, her hair knotted and dirty, and a smudge of mud on her nose. More noticeable were the bright red spots all over her cheeks and forehead. “I’ve lost my brovver,” she kept moaning. “Will anyone help me find him?” No one offered to help such a dirty child, and they hurried out of her way, thinking she must have some dreadful disease. But she could hear whatever they said, she had very good hearing.

  It was Braxton that Nathan was looking for. Zakmeister’s brother had pretended to work for the same Resistance, but he was a traitor and worked for the other side. This risked all their plans being discovered. Braxton had to be stopped. But so far, no one had found him.

  “You go that way,” Nathan whispered. “And I’ll slip down by the River Rass where Alfie is.”

  John had nodded. Beneath the mud, he wore the clothes of a medieval clown, the fool of the village. He had laughed at himself when Nathan pointed to the long mirror in their new secret bedchamber.

  “I looks a proper twit.”

  Nathan nodded. “Yes you do. A good disguise.”

  Sniggering, John had answered, “You might say this ain’t no disguise, for I’s a proper twit meself.”

  But they were all disguised in different ways and were collecting information that no one else heard.

  The rebellion had been planned and was due in ten days. But some essential news had to come first. How many more of the Octobr resistance movement might be traitors? Did the Hazlett regime have any idea that the rebellion was already organised?

  Alice, back sore from sitting on wet cobbles, and tired of getting a sore throat as well, suddenly forgot the tune, and started to croak, turning it quickly to a cough. Nathan could hear her and tried not to laugh.

  The streets were so narrow, and those passing by in the opposite direction pushed him into the central gutter, which was full of dirt and rubbish. Then there was a groan. A loud creaking, and with a squeak of breaking timbers tipping, suddenly the whole front of a nearby house came tumbling down into the street. The metal rods that pushed against the front wall had slipped on the wet cobbles and had left the little iron balcony without any support. It cracked in two and fell with a crash. That was when the front wall began to hurtle down and break into a hundred pieces of stone, wood and metal. Explosions of smashing brick on the cobbles continued and piece by piece the entire house collapsed, while those on either side began to shake and tremble.

  There were screams and shouts as people leapt from the destruction, running for protection or falling in a
heap, hands and knees bleeding. Furniture fell in splinters, and a large bed, complete with its blankets, came skidding down the street with a great deal of noise, and its sole occupant, a little frightened woman, stared in amazed consternation, clutching the eiderdown up to her chin.

  Nathan ran back, avoiding the awful destruction, but he watched carefully in case someone needed help. That was when he saw the blind man. Elderly, bent over, and shuffling to feel his way with a gnarled white stick, the white haired man had been caught in the tumble of the building, and knocked to the ground.

  Running over to help, Nathan put out both hands to the old man’s elbows as he staggered, trying to stand again. “Are you alright?” Nathan yelled over the shattering noise.

  The old man peered up. “Thank you, young man,” he said, his voice shaking. “I believe I’m unhurt. But I need a place to sit and perhaps a good drink to bring me back to strength. Could you show me the way to the nearest tavern?”

  “Yes, sure,” nodded Nathan. “I remember one quite near here. It’s the Reedy Ram. They sell good hot pies.”

  “That will do nicely,” sighed the man. “And perhaps you could join me, and I shall buy you a pie and a cup of apple ale.”

  Having been busy looking for Braxton, Nathan did not really want to stop for food and drink, but he was slightly hungry and he wondered if the old man might make a good ally. After all, people would often talk of private matters in front of old men and blind beggars, believing they couldn’t be recognised again anyway.

  It began to drizzle as they walked slowly to the far corner of the street where the Reedy Ram Tavern stood, its doors wide open to a large crackling fire, a cosy flickering candlelight, and plenty of big tables. They could already smell those delicious pies, and the fire smelled good too, of burning logs and blazing heat.

  “Thank you,” said the old man again. “Let us sit down, and then we shall order hot food while you tell me all about yourself.”

  Well, Nathan had no intention of doing that, but he led the man to a table and they both sat in the big wooden chairs, while Nathan called the waiter. “Two lamb pies, hot and crusty,” ordered the man, “and two big mugs of hot spiced apple ale.” As the waiter hurried away, the man regarded Nathan. “Well, young man,” he said again. “Tell me about yourself. I’m sure you have a great deal to tell.”

  Frowning, Nathan shook his head and then remembered that the man couldn’t see him. “Nothing to tell,” he said. “I’m just a street kid. I’m called Nat. But I don’t steal. I just – um – sleep where I can and get food from the market.”

  There was a short pause, and then the old man stretched out his legs, brushed his hair back from his face, and smiled. His face was very lined and deeply scarred, as though he might be a hundred years old, and his eyes were milky white. “Well now,” he said softly, “I see very little, but sometimes in a dull light and away from the glare of sunshine, I can see vague outlines and some colours. So, Nat, I must thank you again for your help, and ask if you recognise me in any manner?”

  Nathan was startled. “No, I’m afraid not,” he stuttered, trying to remember the faces of the few people in Lashtang that he had ever fleetingly met. “I’m sorry, but I’m sure I’ve never met you. You see, I haven’t lived long in Peganda.”

  Still smiling, and showing off a row of broken teeth, the old man continued, “Not long in Peganda, perhaps. But what about old London, young man? And what about the old smith Grandad Octobr who used to live next door?”

  Mouth open in astonishment, Nathan had no words. He just stared and gulped. The old man said nothing more as the waiter brought the pies and two mugs of steaming ale smelling of cinnamon and apple. Then Nathan managed to mumble, “It can’t be. You – you’re – dead.”

  “But surprisingly active for a dead man,” smiled the smith. “These bent old legs are not active enough, and the blind eyes are a terrible handicap, but once I was the Emperor of Lashtang, and the Octobrs cannot be finished off so easily.”

  “I remember you,” Nathan whispered, “but I saw you after that terrible fire. You were lying beside the old furnace. You were all scorched.”

  “But I have a good deal of magic,” nodded the old man. “I was able to travel through time.” He chuckled. “It was you who saved me back then, my boy, for I was able to see where you had come from, like a fine thread of silver through time. I knew you for an Octobr because of your hair, and so I followed that thread on into London in the future, and fell down on the steps of a hospital. They found me and took me in. First degree burns and blind as a bat but they kept me alive, and after many weeks I saw you again, quite unexpectedly.”

  “In hospital?”

  “Indeed yes,” William smiled again. “You came to visit your young friend who had been hurt in the battle against Henry Tudor. I heard you speaking about it in the corridor outside my hospital room when the door was a little open. I recognised your voice.”

  “But you couldn’t see me?”

  “I can see a little,” he answered Nathan. “A few shadows. A few spots of colour. And when I see bright striped hair in orange and brown, just like a busy wasp, I know it must be a relative of mine.” William finished his drink, and leaned back in his chair. “Your pie is going cold, Nat.”

  Nathan started to chew. “I can’t see your hair colour anymore, sir,” he mumbled, mouth full. “It’s gone white.”

  “And also,” the man nodded, “you don’t trust anyone now. Quite right too. But who else would remember a waspy haired young man living in a cellar next to a medieval smithy where lived a William Octobr, known as Granddad Octobr, who sang songs of Lashtang, long before you’d ever even been there?” And he started to sing, very softly. “Lashtang Tower, dark as night, with no moon, Lashtang Palace, blazing with flame. One whispers soft the Hazlett name, The other roars. Both hide your tomb. Come taste the flames, come taste the ice. Nightmare beckons, dreams of death. Enter. Now breathe your final breath. Peace at last, but Lashtang claims the price.” Then he lowered his voice even further, saying, “I was the Emperor William Octobr when the murderous Lester Hazlett invaded Lashtang and won the final battle. That was the year 1485, so when I fled and took my family safely to London by magic, it was also the year 1485, right at the beginning. And there I met you and recognised your hair. But I was suspicious – as you were. After the invasion and the slaughter of my people and friends, I was never sure of anyone again.”

  Nathan had sat in silence listening to this, and finally leaned over, taking the old smith’s hand firmly in his own, and murmuring, “I understand, sir. And I accept your story. I believe you’re who you say you are, and I should like to take you back to the place where I’m living here, and introduce you to my own friends and family.”

  “And I,” said William, “would like to do the same. I live in a small house near here, and my son and his daughter live with me. All have the Octobr hair, but it can be dangerous to appear in Peganda with such unique colouring, so both have dyed their hair black.”

  “True. I cover my hair with mud and dirt. And I’d love to meet your family,” said Nathan at once, “but come and meet mine first, for we’re quite a crowd.”

  It was a long walk but Nathan took old man Octobr’s arm, and they walked slowly through the dirty old city and its wet shadows. Eventually they came to a grand house made of white stone with gleaming windows, which stood overlooking the great River Rass at the far edge of the city where the river widened before rushing into the many streamed estuary and finally the southern ocean. The sound of the water was a peaceful gurgle, and in the far distance could be heard the rushing waves of the sea. But the house stood in silence.

  Nathan looked around. This was a quiet and expensive part of the city and there was nobody in sight. Inside it was dark, and then there was another door. Whispering, at the keyhole, Nathan called, “Marks and Spencer’s,” and immediately the second door inched open one little crack. Leading William with him, Nathan pushed in.

  I
mmediately there was light and sound. A hundred blazing candles and a huge flaming fire lit the great room in warmth and brightness. The day was delightful outside with sunshine, yet the wind was cold and as winter approached, the fire across the hearth brought a welcome heat. But most of the occupants stopped talking as Nathan led in his companion.

  Nathan’s parents both stared. Messina was standing by one of the long windows, but stood tall, gazing with mistrust at the old white haired man. Bayldon was sitting by the fire, but turned, looking at Nathan and William. Sitting with a cup of wine, Granny pulled a face, and next to her Sherdam was frowning. The great warrior Zakmeister, his black skin shining in the firelight, walked forwards. “I am most surprised, Nathan, that you bring a stranger to our house,” he said gruffly.

  Bayldon was a little kinder, “Well, well, Nat, my son. This must be a very close friend for you to bring him here.”

  “Don’t faint, Dad,” said Nathan, hurrying forwards. “He’s safe, honestly he is. This is the last true Emperor Octobr. When Lester Hazlett nearly killed him, he managed to escape to medieval London. That’s where I met him. But he’s gone through a lot of disasters and now he’s lost his sight.”

  Zakmeister reached for his sword, and was ready to fight.

  “And you have lost your mind, Nathan,” said his mother loudly. She walked over, and crossing her arms, looked very angry. “How can you believe such a story. What proof is there?”