by Robin Jarvis
From his position on the floor the miller broke in, “Oh I got me plenty of money—ha ha. Anyway, about thish lass from Gloucestershire.”
“There we are,” snarled Peg with menace in her voice, “your friend says he’s got plenty of money. Your tally’s five shillings.”
Will knew that the situation was getting treacherous. Fumbling, he drew some coins from his pocket. “Here,” he said, “there’s two shillings and that’s still robbery.”
Peg’s hand snaked out and caught hold of his arm. “Oh no you don’t my little manny,” she growled. “I said five and I means it. Your friend’s caused me great heartache he has, said he loved me truly and promised to marry me he did—”
“No he never!”
“Oh yes he did, and there’s plenty in ’ere who’ll swear to it. Them street traders’ll do aught fer me. Does I have to call ’em over to take it from you? They’re a ’orrible lot they are—kill their grannies fer a free drink they would.” She cackled and revealed for the first time her mottled brown teeth. Will could only stand there and watch as she slid her other hand into the pocket of his jerkin.
Suddenly Peg screeched and was yanked backwards. The goggle-eyed man with the red hair had seized her once more and dragged her onto his knee.
Will took his chance. As Peg yelled for assistance and kicked Verney the Adamite, he heaved the miller to his feet and they staggered out of the door.
It was a still night. No wind stirred the smoke which rose from London’s chimneys and the columns climbed steadily into the sky, forming a great dark canopy high above the rooftops. This thick layer of sooty cloud blanketed the heavens and obliterated the stars, and far below, the narrow streets and lanes were filled with shadow. An air of anticipation enveloped the city, its waiting calm an unnerving contrast to the chaos inside the Sickle Moon.
Into this silence came Will and the miller. Flustered and cursing, the boy propelled his drunken friend into the yard where he leant him against a post. “Just you stay there, whilst I get the horses,” he told him sternly. Mr Balker grunted and passed a sweating palm over his forehead—he was becoming drowsy.
Will peered into the blackness of the stables—they were empty. The horses are gone!” he cried in disbelief. “They’ve stolen the horses!” He looked round madly. What were they to do now?
“Don’t you... don’t you get a f... fre... frettin’,” hiccuped the miller in a sleepy voice. “We... we can walk to bad ol’ Sam... Sammy’s—not far, not far.”
“Yes,” agreed Will trying to think straight, “that’s the only thing we can do now—my uncle can settle this. He will know where to find a Justice.” Will eyed Mr Balker doubtfully. “Maybe I should douse you in the horse trough—are you sure you can lead us?”
The miller tapped his nose then took a deep breath followed by a long and purposeful stride. “John Balker always w... walks a true path,” he proclaimed. “Come, young Master Godwin.” With his legs wobbling beneath him he tottered out of the yard.
Will shook his head; since they had arrived everything had been a disaster, surely nothing else could go wrong. He ran under the arch after the miller and so did not see the light spill into the yard as the door to the tavern swung open to let out two figures.
The cobbles rang under Mr Balker’s heavy boots as he made his meandering way along Cheapside. Will caught up with him, glancing for a moment at the immense midnight bulk of St Paul’s rising behind them. Silhouetted against the dark sky even that holy place appeared to be a fortress of dread and despair—more a home for the Devil than the Almighty.
The miller was humming softly to himself, his eyes fixed on the empty street ahead. “A might... mighty fine night,” he said to Will. “Who could have woes at such a time as this?” The boy said nothing; he was thinking of the churchyard that now contained his family and in his alcoholic stupor the miller guessed his thoughts. “Aah, Will lad,” he sighed. “Look not to the past and what’s gone. They’re books bes... best left aside, their pages are too bitter for you or I to look on. It’s tomorrow we have to consider now. Let’s make that a page worth rea... reading.” He tutted to himself and the sound reminded him of his sister. “Oh Hannah,” he breathed, “I should have listened to you. You were right. I’ll not seek her out. She’d have come back long ago if she’d a mind to. You’ve a wise little head on yer shoulders, Hannah Balker, and as large a heart as any I’ve met—though I’ll deny sayin’ that if you tell her, lad.”
Will smiled; even after all that had happened the miller could lift his spirits. The large man might be brusque and foolish at times but he was a good soul. “I’ll not tell her,” Will said. “I like the Millhouse just as it is; if harmony were to settle there it wouldn’t be the same.”
“Ha! That’s true enough—never was there a truer word spoken. It’s ever been a place of discord, and that’s a truly grievous fact.” Mr Balker paused on a corner of the street and a large grin split his face. “Listen to us,” he laughed, “clucking on like two old hens. If that’s what London grog does, then I’ll not touch the infernal brew again and it’ll be a long time afore I set foot in the city after tonight. Come now boy, yer uncle’s not far.”
“Too far fer you!” hissed a foul voice.
The miller halted in surprise and peered into the shadows on either side of them—there didn’t seem to be anything there. He shook his head to try and shrug off the effects of the drink then stared into the gloom once more. “Who’s there?” he ventured.
Will stood by his side and whispered nervously, “I heard it too. Let’s leave it alone, whatever it is.”
But Mr Balker was curious. If they had come across one of the devils which his sister was always ranting on about then he wanted to see it. “Come out!” he demanded.
“As you wish,” returned the dreadful voice and from the darkness emerged two figures. There was nothing supernatural about them, they were just men—yet the miller’s heart quailed when he saw the look in their eyes.
“Run, Will!” he shouted.
But it was too late. Before either of them could move their attackers pounced.
One of them lunged at the boy and hurled him to the ground. Strong hands shoved his head back and it struck the cobbles with a horrible thud. The man pinned his arms down then sat on his chest. Will could not move, the back of his head ached and he knew it was bleeding. His eyes closed—as if sparing him the sight of the hate-filled face above.
Mr Balker staggered to and fro, the other rogue clinging to his back in an attempt to throttle him. But the miller’s neck was thick and all those years of carrying flour sacks had made him strong. With his face turning purple, he cast off his assailant like a dog shaking off a flea. The startled man sailed through the air and with a splash landed in the gutter. He wiped the stinking water from his face and wailed when he saw the fat miller charging at him like an angry bull.
The sound of the brawl echoed through the deserted streets and drummed into Will’s pounding head.
“Now, my young master,” snarled the man on his chest, “you’d best keep quiet if you want to keep yer tongue. It’s just yer money I’m after.” Will shuddered as he felt bony fingers search through his pockets. “Aha!” sniggered the evil voice. “Here we are—what’s this then? Three shillin’s! Is that it? ’Ere Jessel,” he called to his partner, “thissun’s only got three lousy shillin’s.” But the other man was too busy trying to fend off the miller to answer. “Curse it!” growled the voice above Will. “I’ll ’ave summat to say to him that’s fer sure.”
In the upstairs window of a nearby house a lantern was lit, the noise below having drawn the attention of the owner. As the sudden light slanted down into the street. Will’s eyes fluttered open and in the yellow glare of the lantern he saw his attacker’s face.
It was large and ugly, with a great scar running across the broken nose and down the cheek, but the eyes were black as coal and brimming with malice. Will recognised him at once. “You were in the Sickle Mo
on,” he said.
The man punched him in the ribs. “You’ll be sorry for that, lad,” he spat. “I’m not gonna leave you alive to bear witness against me.” From his belt he swiftly drew a long knife and pressed it against the boy’s throat. “I don’t care what he told us. Jack Carver won’t dance at the gallows for the likes o’ you.”
Will held his breath. The cold blade snicked into his neck and a hideous chuckle gurgled over him.
“Leave him be!” boomed Mr Balker suddenly. The miller bounded up towards Will, seized hold of the man’s shoulders and snatched him away just as the knife broke the skin. Three drops of blood flew in the air as the blade flashed in the light of the lantern and sliced a gleaming arc through the shadows.
With a clatter the weapon spun to the ground. Mr Balker made a grab for it but Will’s attacker was too quick and he kicked it from his grasp. “Let’s see how you deal with two of us!” he snapped. “Jessel—hold him.”
The one called Jessel darted forward and launched himself at the miller once more. “I got ’im, Jack,” he cried. “Take ’is purse an’ let’s scarper.”
Bony fingers closed about the handle of the knife and the man with the scar stepped into the pool of light. On the ground nearby, Will propped himself up on his elbows and saw him advance towards the miller. “Watch out, John!” he called.
Mr Balker could see the blade glinting before him. He struggled to get free of Jessel’s grasp but his strength was spent and he cursed the madness which had made him drink so much. “Quickly, get away from this place!” he shouted to Will in despair.
“Stay where you are, whelp!” commanded Carver. “Or your pig-faced friend gets it in the gut.”
Will stared up at the lit window where a frightened face peeked down at the scene below. “Help!” the boy shouted. “Help us please!”
Jessel glanced up at the troubled face. “’Urry up,” he urged his partner, “’im up there’ll have the nightwatchman down on our necks!”
“Not if ’e wants to stay alive ’e won’t,” snarled Jack lifting his sparkling, black eyes menacingly. The face withdrew from the window and the light was extinguished.
He waved the knife before the miller. “Now then, fat one,” he said in a deadly tone, “gimme yer purse.”
Mr Balker took the bag of money from his pocket and handed it over. The scar-faced man shook it and the coins jingled inside.
“Listen to that,” burbled Jessel gleefully, “there must be a few golden crowns in there.”
Jack Carver nodded. “I fancy there is,” he replied quietly, “and I can’t let this gentleman go without giving him something in return now can I?”
“I don’t want nothin’,” said Mr Balker.
“Now that ain’t true!” Jack told him. “A minute ago you wanted this ’ere knife—well now I’m givin’ it to yer!”
In one swift movement the deed was done. John Balker clutched his stomach and fell to his knees. “Margaret,” he whispered hoarsely, and then he died.
Jessel stared at the body of the miller. A dark pool of blood was oozing over the cobbles. “You killed ’im,” he stammered. “What you do that fer? You ’ad his money.” He looked nervously down the street. Others had been roused from sleep by the fight and candles shone in many windows. “Yer mad Carver!” he cried rounding on his partner. “Look, folk are stirrin’ themselves—the nightwatchman’ll come—we’re hung fer sure!”
Only now did the horrific scene before him sink into Will’s mind. Mr Balker was dead. The boy threw back his head and screamed. Then he picked himself off the ground and ran into the night.
Jack whirled round and cursed. “We’re not crow bait yet,” he told Jessel, “but we’ll not be safe with that lad runnin’ free.” With murderous thoughts now burning in both their brains they leapt over the miller’s corpse and gave chase.
Will had no idea where he was going. He charged through the streets and lanes like one gone mad. The sight of Mr Balker falling to his knees danced before his eyes and no matter where he ran he could not escape that terrible image.
Blindly he charged down an alley, tears of shock and fear streaming down his face. He had to run—he had to get away from this mad city and if he had to race all the way home on foot then he would do so. With sewer water splashing round his ankles he pelted into the shadows. He could hear the men coming after him but he was younger than them and he knew that not even the Devil himself could catch him tonight. It was fear that guided his feet and fear it was that drove him on, faster and faster.
Then he saw it, a great wall rearing above him, rising from the darkness of the shaded alley like a wave of doom, mocking his efforts to flee. He had run into a dead end.
An icy pain gripped Will’s insides as he realised there was nowhere else to go. He spun round but two silhouetted figures were already creeping down the alley towards him. The boy looked up at the sheer wall and flung himself against it. Frantically he tried to climb, vainly groping with his fingers for something to hold on to. But it was no use, the mason had been too great a craftsman, for there was no gap or niche anywhere between the bricks. Will slithered down, his fingers cut and bleeding. Sinister laughter floated on the chill air and the sound cut right through him—this was it, he told himself, his life was over.
“Poor little mite,” sniggered Carver wickedly, “gone an’ got hisself trapped—you can always tell a foreigner. They don’t know this city like what we do.”
Will pressed himself against the bricks and watched with mounting terror as the figures approached. It was too dark to see their faces, but the blade of the knife in Jack’s hand gleamed with a cold light of its own, as if it lusted for more blood.
“I’m gonna slice ’im up so good that his own mother wouldn’t recognise him!” the evil man hissed.
“Keep quiet, Carver,” snapped Jessel. “Just do it and have done. Listen, they’ve found that fool of a miller back there, won’t be long till they track us down! This job’s been naught but trouble from the start.”
“Mebbe,” returned Jack, “but I’m here to make an end to it now.” He raised the knife and Will shivered anticipating the deadly blow. But the strike never came.
“ENOUGH!” boomed a forceful voice.
Carver and Jessel whirled round, and from a narrow doorway stepped a man cloaked in black with a hood covering his face.
“Keep out o’ this whoever you are,” warned Jack fiercely, “or I’ll cut you too.”
“Let the boy be,” commanded the stranger. “He is mine. Go now if you value your necks.”
For a moment Will thought he was saved, but when he saw that the man was unarmed his relief turned to doubt. The boy wondered who the man was—he must be insane to challenge those two cut-throats. Obviously Jack thought so too for he let loose a horrible laugh.
The cloaked figure was not intimidated. Instead he sailed towards Will and placed himself between him and his attackers. Calmly he told Jack, “Assuredly, you loathsome creature, there is little cause for merriment on your part, for at this moment your very soul is in peril. The more you linger here the closer you come to being thrown into the pits of Hell itself. The boy belongs to me.” His tone was insistent and there was a disturbing quality about it which unsettled Jessel and made him take a step backwards.
“Leave it, Jack!” he told his friend. “There’s summink foul about that one.”
“He don’t frighten me!” Carver spat viciously. “I got the knife—it’s him what’s gonna see Hell first.”
“So be it,” said the stranger. A hand appeared from the folds of the cloak and pointed an accusing finger at both of the men. “I consign your miserable skins to the nightmare of perdition!” he cried flinging his arms open.
A terrific roar shook the alley. Orange flames leapt from the ground and a cloud of noxious yellow smoke exploded all around them.
That was enough for Jessel. “It’s Old Nick himself!” he howled and he fled out of the unnatural, choking fog like lead from
a musket.
“Jessel!” called Jack, terrified at being left behind. “Wait fer me!” He threw down the knife and ran wailing, “Spare me, Lord—spare me!” at the top of his voice.
Will coughed; the smoke smelt like bad eggs and it stung his eyes. He squinted through the haze at the hooded figure who stood before him and felt afraid once more. What kind of creature was this? What black powers were his to command? Will almost wished Jack had knifed him—better a quick death than to be tormented by demons for eternity.
The stranger made sure the men were gone before catching hold of the boy’s arm and dragging him to the doorway he had come from. “In there,” he told him. Will was thrust inside the building and he stumbled down the unseen steps beyond the threshold. It was a large unlit room, with a wide leaded window that faced the alley outside. He moved forward but in the darkness knocked a jar off a shelf which fell with a crash on the floor.
“Keep quiet!” he was told. “The mob are coming, they are hot on the trail of those knaves.”
Will held his breath and listened; from the street outside he heard the tramp of many feet and outraged cries of ’Murder! Murder!” And high amongst those voices came the shrill shrieks of Peggy Blister. Unconsciously Will withdrew into the blackest corner and crouched down.
The cloaked figure left the doorway and darted back into the alley. A great crowd of people were streaming towards him with lanterns and flaming torches held high above their heads.
“Hold,” shouted the hooded stranger.
The thronging mass halted, holding out their torches to try and glimpse the face beneath the cowl. “A most heinous act has been committed,” a bewigged man piped up. “There has been murder!”
“Let me through!” screeched Peggy Blister, pushing others out of the way. She squeezed to the front and in the flickering torchlight her painted face looked even more startling. With her hands on her hips she eyed the black figure with suspicion. “Who’s that?” she demanded. “Get out of our way! There’s killers on the loose an’ we’ll not rest till we’ve strung ’em up. They done butchered my childhood sweetheart, they did.” For this shameful lie she received much sympathy and she basked in it like a dog in the sunshine.