Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  ‘Two doors along.’

  He swiftly let himself out and knocked insistently on Gabriel’s door.

  Curious as to what he wanted, she grabbed her shawl and sidled into the hallway.

  Gabriel was groggy with sleep, although he must only have been dozing in his chair because he still wore the same clothes he had worn all day: a grey banyan over his waistcoat, a white shirt, and deerskin breeches. Around his neck a cravat was tugged out of place. ‘Wakelin? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve been shot. The fly maggots did a good job of grubbing out me dead flesh, so I’m back in me boots, as ya see.’

  ‘You disturb me in the middle of the night to tell me that?’

  ‘Course not. I’m here to say I’m starving and could do with some food. I’ve brung me sack.’ He held it up for Gabriel to see.

  ‘Help yourself. Genevieve, would you mind ringing for Mrs Bellows and let her know, otherwise she might clonk Wakelin on the head with a frying pan, mistaking him for a burglar.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Wakelin said appreciatively. ‘There’s summat else I wanted to ask you. I rode here on a nag what I pinched from the knacker’s yard. I reckon I’d have got here faster with that horse riding on my back. It’s a miserable, head-hung beast with all its ribs showing. If I’m caught I’ll hang for horse thieving. But then I’m gonna hang for stealing Eppie, so what’s it matter? Ownee, I was thinking you might let me have a lent of one of your mounts? I’ve a fair bit o’ riding to do.’

  Gabriel was more than accommodating. ‘Please, Wakelin, empty my kitchen, take all my horses. Only, let me get to my bed.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  TRAPPED IN THE TUNNEL

  Something about seeing Wakelin roused Gabriel and Genevieve to seek out one another. Despite the chill of the autumn morning, fog rising off the woodland’s marshy places, they rode together to the Crusader Oak.

  Ever since they had met as children, the oak offered a sanctuary where they could escape. Stepping into the secret entrance always felt like entering the door to a magical world. As adults, the tree had taken on a deeper, spiritual resonance. It was the centre of their universe, its weary arms sweeping through the dappled light to heaven, its roots stirred by a breeze in the underworld, the realm of the faerie.

  Fresh cushions had replaced old, a new tin of biscuits offered sustenance. Resting together, high in the tree’s hollow, its sacred womb, they at once felt comforted, touched by the silence within their minds and bodies.

  Save for a wren, inconspicuous and skulking, its warble vibrating as clearly as the plucked strings of a violin, the woodland was utterly quiet. So, the thudding of hooves as a horse was ridden hard towards the tree, sounded especially loud.

  Genevieve stared out of the window. ‘How did you know we were here?’

  Wakelin pulled sharply on the reins. ‘Mrs Bellows.’

  She could tell by the stern look upon his face that something was wrong.

  He spoke anxiously to Gabriel, who was peering inquisitively at him over the top of Genevieve’s head. ‘When I was sick I heard that Thurstan was in hiding. So, soon as I were on the mend I tried to find out where he’s at. That’s why I needed this berra nag.’

  ‘Are you saying that you’ve tracked Thurstan down?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘Where?’ Genevieve persisted. ‘Tell us!’

  ‘I got to thinking, if I was him, which I wun’t wanna be, no way, who would? Anyway, if I was and I wanted to lie low, I’d hunker down at the caves.’

  ‘When Genevieve and I arrived home Dick told Colonel Catesby there was a possibility that Thurstan might be there. Though the yeomanry searched, they found no trace of Thurstan or his gang.’

  ‘How come? I’ve seen Thurstan with me own eyes.’

  ‘Maybe Catesby wasn’t telling the truth?’ Genevieve said. ‘I’ve always doubted his incorruptibility. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s still on good terms with Thurstan.’

  ‘Could be,’ Gabriel said. ‘When Dick offered to accompany Catesby he was pretty insistent that he didn’t.’

  ‘The caves ain’t a place Thurstan would choose to stay, but he’s a desperate rat. From the snatches of conversation I’ve overheard, Thurstan’s mind ain’t all there, not that it ever were to my way o’ thinking and Rowan’s life is in danger.’

  Urgency mingled with excitement in Gabriel’s voice. ‘Rowan is alive?’

  ‘You deaf? I’ve just said ain’t I? Anyhow, from what I’ve seen, things have turned nasty, and it’s my reckoning they’s gonna turn nastier. We need to round up yer best pigeon-shooters, the more of us the berra.’

  Gabriel leapt down the hollow of the tree, and rapidly unhitched his horse. ‘Many of my labourers have succumbed to the sickness which is sweeping the countryside.’ The bridle jingled as he turned his horse’s head. ‘The longer we delay the worse it will be for Rowan.’

  ‘Gabriel, stop!’ Wakelin bellowed, watching him gallop away. ‘We ain’t a weapon atwixt us.’ He was further riled by Genevieve’s look of determination as she remounted. ‘No way, Eppie. We need to go quiet, the caves in’t no place for a loud-mouth like you.’

  ‘What is it about men, always reckoning they have the right to tell women what to do? All my life you’ve pestered me like I’m some stubborn chicken what’s laid its eggs in a hedge. Pa was the same with mam, thinking he was better than her.’

  ‘Ah, give over grizzlin’.’ He hastened after Gabriel. ‘Do as I say!’

  As a child there had been wilfulness in Genevieve’s character that made her determined to do whatever he told her not to do. This had not changed in womanhood. Crying an encouragement to Goddess, she followed.

  This was an extraordinary journey. Sped by the dread that they might be too late to save Rowan, it was strange to see people going about their ordinary day-to-day lives. Busy in his smithy, Ebernezer paid them no attention as they rode past. He dipped a red-hot shoe in water and held it against a horse’s hoof, steaming. Children were leapfrogging headstones in the graveyard.

  In Litcombe it was market day. Fog coiled around the houses. Shouts cut through the blind streets: ‘Get yer hot ‘taties here!’ ‘Buy a dish o’ eels!’ Carriages rattled past as though invisible. People coughed.

  ‘So,’ Wakelin asked Gabriel, as they slowed their pace through the town, ‘how’d life in jail suit ya?’

  Clearly worried, Gabriel had not spoken a word throughout the journey, nor did he appear inclined to indulge Wakelin in his cheery banter.

  Not long after, they left the road, just beyond where Jenny was buried, and headed into the forbidding forest. Frozen into stillness, trees seemed to listen as the horses picked their hooves over fallen branches and around rocks that littered the ground. Dead crows dangled from branches, forewarning unsuspecting travellers to keep their distance.

  Wakelin spoke quietly to Genevieve, as though afraid to raise his voice. ‘The caves have a fearful reputation with townsfolk. Few venture there. Them what do never return.’

  She knew he spoke truthfully, but also knew that he was doing his best to impart a mood of terror. It riled her.

  By now the fog had lifted and the sun shone strongly, giving them no cover from furtive observers.

  A river murmured. The scent of pine trees filled the air. This would be a pleasant ride were it not for the dread of the unknown, of what lay ahead.

  Gazing around, Genevieve shivered. Who knew what, or who, might be lurking behind the thick, rustling wall of leaves?

  Frequently, Wakelin glanced about anxiously as though expecting them to be jumped upon by Thurstan’s gang. ‘We’re getting close now. Go as quiet as silverfish. Eppie, this is me last warning. There’s sights you’re better off not seeing.’ Exasperated by her frowning face, he threw up a hand in frustration. ‘Gabriel, can’t you tell her?’

  Turning his horse’s head, Gabriel waited for her to draw level. ‘Maybe you ought to wait here?’ He knew by the look in her eyes that he was wasting his breath.r />
  Goddess descended a slippery dell. ‘I’ve seen many a ghastly sight in my life,’ Genevieve said crustily. ‘Nowt shakes me.’

  ‘Don’t she get on yer wick with all her rattling? I ain’t sorry she’s your sister, and not mine.’ Wakelin slewed in the saddle so that he could gaze at her over his shoulder. He could not refrain from grinning. ‘Here’s summat that might give ya the quivers.’

  In a clearing before them lay a body, partly covered by leaves. By the look of Kenelm, still wearing his soldier’s uniform, he had been dead for some time.

  ‘Now see why you shouldn’t have come?’ he asked.

  She bit her lip, stunned into quietude.

  ‘When you two bumpkins have done with staring at Kenelm, come and tether yer nags alongside mine. We’ll hoof it from here.’

  Every sound, the scurry of creatures in the undergrowth, the whirl of a disturbed pheasant, was heard with startling clarity, enhancing their jumpiness.

  It was not long before they alighted upon another body, slash-like bruise marks from a constricting rope shining dark around swollen veins.

  ‘They’re going down faster than Ed’s skittles; Molins weren’t hanging around here yesterdee.’

  A carriage used by the Resurrectionists rested at a tilt. Still tethered before it, the horses had starved to death in their traces. Empty seed plumes quivered faintly as Genevieve thrust aside grasses. Pinecones and twigs sprinkled upon his corpse, Fulke was dressed in his coachman’s cape, the whip still clutched in his gloved hands.

  Without further word, they pressed on, aware of the need for increased vigilance.

  Rocks loomed, mysterious, above the treetops. They were the rocks Genevieve recalled seeing in the distance, several years ago, when they had trudged to the marl pits.

  Swooping crows uttered ugly, raucous cries, warning of their approach.

  Gabriel stared up in trepidation at the cliffs. ‘Do we have to go up there?’

  ‘It’s your choice,’ Wakelin answered. ‘If you ain’t got the guts, stay here.’

  Gabriel’s frown matched Genevieve’s.

  Higher and higher they climbed, the rocks rising steeply, culminating in craggy crests.

  Circumspectly, they trod along a sinuous ledge, wide enough only for them to walk in single-file. They scrambled where the outcrop had worn almost to non-existence. To keep their footing, they clung to stunted, curly trees that grew in crevices.

  Every now and then tunnels opened up.

  ‘It’s higher than I imagined.’ Gabriel was unable to disguise the panicky rattle in his throat. ‘There must be an easier way.’

  ‘Stop screeching like a kicked hog,’ Wakelin berated. ‘I figured you’d prefer to go the back way, especially if you wanna keep that tongue of yours and the head it flaps in.’

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ Gabriel replied. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  Reaching an entrance hewn into rock, Wakelin withdrew his jack-knife. His tone became serious. ‘Go careful. Go quiet.’

  Genevieve glanced back at the stunning vista. The patchwork valley of silver-greys and mauves stretched countless miles to the swoop of the skyline. Here they stood higher than the loftiest treetops. Leafy boughs licked their feet.

  Wakelin lingered to light the lantern he had taken from the bodysnatchers’ carriage. ‘Having second thoughts is we?’ he teased.

  The chilled air of centuries past filled their lungs as they made their way, painfully slowly, along the dank, salty-smelling tunnels. Water oozed down stone, slippery to the touch like the hide of a horse caught in a rainstorm.

  ‘What is this place?’ Genevieve whispered nervously.

  ‘An old copper mine. The caverns are so cold they made the ideal stopping off place for packing bodies before they were taken to London.’

  To the strangeness of the rocky maze were added thoughts about the ghosts of miners long gone. ‘How do you know the way?’ she asked, groping through the dripping darkness.

  He held up the lantern. ‘See ‘em secret markers at each turn? Them tells me.’

  An icy draught blew across their faces as they passed a tunnel leading off to the left.

  Wakelin checked their position on the carved notches. ‘We’re about half way there.’ He set off again, but stopped short. So closely were they following Wakelin that Gabriel thumped into him and Genevieve thumped into Gabriel.

  ‘What is it?’ they asked apprehensively.

  ‘Be quiet for once, ya blundering numbskulls.’ Wakelin strained to listen. ‘Can’t you hear it?’

  Seeping water sopped the tunnels so it was easy to hear feet slapping into puddles. It was one of Thurstan’s gang, approaching from the direction they had entered, a man so familiar with tunnels and darkness that he tramped swiftly towards them. Too quickly! They would be caught!

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  BEDEVILLED

  ‘Back to that last side tunnel!’ Wakelin urged. ‘Our ownee chance is to hide n’ hope he goes past.’ He blew out the lantern light.

  Panic rose, black and hard, inside Genevieve.

  This part of the tunnel was so constricted that she was forced to take the lead, Wakelin cursing her for her slowness. ‘Get going, Eppie!’

  ‘I am going!’ she exclaimed, the words bursting from her.

  ‘Be quiet you two,’ Gabriel warned.

  Coming closer, louder, the beat of steady footsteps.

  Blood pumped fiercely in Genevieve’s temples. Her heart lurched painfully against her ribs. ‘Where’s that tunnel?’ she screamed in her head. She wanted to break into a run. Could only creep.

  ‘Eppie, get a move on!’ Wakelin hissed.

  ‘I can’t find it!’ she cried in terror.

  The man was almost upon them, his breathing amplified in the darkness. He must have been nearer than she imagined, or marching faster than she would have believed possible for, without warning, she thumped into the chest of the hurrying man.

  ‘No!’ she gasped in horror.

  ‘Ep!’ The man drew her close, circling his arms around her waist.

  Stunned to hear Dawkin’s voice, her world shivered into silence. All the heartache and loneliness she had felt at not being with him these last few months melted in that moment.

  ‘You scared the wits outta us there,’ Wakelin said.

  It seemed uncanny to Genevieve that she should be clasped in the arms of her lover, yet not able to see his face. A tone of incredulity was in her voice as she put the same questions to Dawkin that she had asked Wakelin when he had stolen into the Swan Chamber. ‘What are you doing here? Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Keep your honking down,’ Wakelin growled. In a hushed tone, he explained, ‘Daw dragged me outta the river after Thurstan shot me. We’ve been hiding out on a wrecked barge.’

  ‘How many men have you fetched?’ Dawkin asked.

  Despair was evident in Wakelin’s voice. ‘We’s alone. Guns might as well be at the bottom o’ the canal.’

  Gabriel realised the folly of his rush. ‘It’s entirely my fault.’

  ‘Yur,’ Wakelin answered insensitively, ‘you’re right there.’

  ‘At least we’ve got Ep with us,’ Dawkin said, making light of their predicament. ‘She’s bound to knock a few of ‘em down just giving ‘em one of her mean looks.’

  Genevieve made to wallop him.

  Wise to her ways, he leapt back.

  From further along, a roar of anger boomed through the tunnels, followed by an ear-splitting blast from a pistol, a blood-curdling cry and, finally, silence.

  Wakelin sounded jolly. ‘Sounds like that’s one less to trouble us. We need to move on.’ Even without his urging, they had already set off.

  The further they crept, the quieter it became, the sound of wind wailing down the innumerable tunnels left well behind.

  A cork of light, a cresset, flared in its holster on the wall.

  Towards the end of the tunnel was a scattering of empty kegs and moulderi
ng sacks. Some crates were filled with salted food and other provender. Others were stuffed with sawdust. After scouring the burial pit, Genevieve was all too aware of the odious smell of human flesh. Clearly these were the crates that had been used to pack the bodies.

  Alighting upon a yawning cavern, her heart leapt in wonder. A cathedral of nature, this truly was a world beneath a world. Mighty pillars of stone, like petrified tree trunks, upheld its lofty roof. High above their heads, part of the roof had collapsed. Sunlight filtered down. Rock walls shimmered like diamond dust as though raindrops had sprinkled upon them and frozen.

  Copper-miners had hewn holes in the curtain of rock to provide handy shelves upon which to place candles. These now served another purpose, as openings through which they could peer into the cave, without giving away their presence.

  To Genevieve’s relief, after expecting to confront an ugly band of men, she saw only two. Smoke rose from an open fire in the centre of the cavern. Jaggery was huddled before the blaze. A miserable look on his face, he spread his hands to its warmth as though it were winter. Meat sizzled on the spit, ready to be set down on stones and disjointed.

  Bodies were strewn about the cavern.

  Not far from where they crouched, she made out Thurstan’s slumped, dejected figure, his hands dangling between his knees as though they were weighted with chains.

  Through Jaggery’s complaining bluster the listeners pieced together what had happened immediately following the torching of the cotton mill. Squabbling had broken out amongst some of those who returned to the caverns. Obsessed with the thought that the men would give him away, Thurstan had killed them. One by one, over the subsequent months, the remaining men tried to make fast their escape, and also met a swift demise.

  Thurstan’s meal lay on a platter, balanced on the chest of a dead man. Drawing a knife from his belt, he stabbed the meat. ‘Who’s on guard? Molins?’

  Jaggery grinned wryly. ‘If my memory serves me right, you hung him last night after you lost at poker.’

  ‘Did I? Mortui non mordent.’