He opened his cupboard and dragged out his Running Away Sack. Merlin’s robe was the first thing to go in. Then came Robin Hood’s doublet and cloak, his picture book of stories, his pirate flag with the skull-and-crossbones, and his black eye-patch. The suit of chain mail that Aunty Dova had fashioned out of some long chains they’d found in an abandoned cowshed followed. He took his nightshirt and the pair of bedsocks Fanny had knitted for him for Christmas, and in case it rained he added his Sunday hat. The sword, bow and arrows, and wooden pistol stuck up a bit at the top, but they wouldn’t fit any other way. Next, to the larder to commandeer a wedge of cheese and the end of a loaf. A tray of jam tarts demanded instant attention and he lingered over these forbidden fruits, half hoping Fanny would come in and catch him, but he heard her laughing down in the basement with Papa, and he went back upstairs, feeling scorned and unwanted.
He was gathering up his sack when he remembered the helmet. Eric had made it for him out of an old saucepan, and Aunty Dova had found some very tall plumey feathers in a trunk in the attic and stuck them on top. It was a fine helmet, but when it was added to the rest the Running Away Sack seemed much heavier than it had been when he’d set off for London last year to find Harry Rogers, the gardener’s boy. It was because of the chain mail, prob’ly, he thought, which was new since last year. Still, he was bigger now, and should be able to get there, ’stead of having Etta and Papa come and fetch him home. With a considerable effort, he succeeded in throwing the sack over his shoulder.
After he picked himself up, he had to admit that the Running Away Sack with the chain mail inside was just too heavy. If he couldn’t carry it as far as the door, he prob’ly wouldn’t be able to get it down the stairs. He pondered the matter, but it was Friar Tuck who found the obvious solution by suggesting with a roll-over and a stretch that he wear the chain mail, and thus lighten the sack.
“That’s a sp’endid idea,” he said, beaming. “’Sides, I’ll have to have some lightness left, so’s to carry my spear!”
The suit of chain mail was not easy to put on, but after some convulsive wriggles and a lot of puffing and blowing, he was ready at last. He decided to wear the mighty helm also, and when he scanned himself in the cheval-glass in Etta’s bedchamber he looked so strong and tall that his spirits picked up considerably.
Friar Tuck raced in and leapt onto the bed, being a Mad Beast.
“That’s a good Mad Beast, Friar,” acknowledged Arthur. “But you can’t be that today, ’cause if I’m goin’ to be Sir Lancer Lot, you’ll have to be Sir G’waine.” An idea dawned, awesome in its nobility. “What we’re goin’ to do, Sir G’waine,” he declared, “is leave a legend ’hind us. We’ll do a Deed of Shivery—like the knights of old did. Then they’ll ’member us! An’ they’ll be sorry!”
Inspired, he found the coil of rope he had used to tie Etta to the tree when she was captured by The Dragon. He made quite a number of winds around the sack, and luckily he was getting better at knots. It wasn’t easy to lift the sack through the window without dropping it, but at last he overcame that hurdle. Having lowered the sack most of the way to the ground, he made his way downstairs and clanked across the hall. Everyone, it appeared, was stone deaf.
He wasn’t able to straighten out the once-tall fern where the sack had landed, but he apologized to it politely, and with Friar Tuck bounding after him, he set out on his quest, staggering a little, and tripping over his lance occasionally, but forging onward.
The third time he had to rest he was quite tired, and dozed off for a little while. He was surprised when he awoke and found that the sun had fallen into the fog. He ate his bread and cheese and watched Lanterns begin to blur as the fog rolled in. “Oh, Sir G’waine,” he breathed, enraptured. “We’re goin’ to do the best Deed of Shivery what ever was! They’ll be glad to play with us after this! Even Papa!”
CHAPTER III
“My love!” Mrs. Cordova had come in at the back door just as the front door opened to admit her niece, and they met in the hall. “Had you a nice time? Has Mr. Coville left? You should have invited him to stay and dine with us, or at least have a few words with your father.”
“He’s chatting with Papa now. But I think he is anxious to get back to Downsdale Park.”
“Bother, bother, bother!” Mrs. Cordova shook out the voluminous black satin robe she carried and inspected it anxiously. “I knew some of the spangles were coming loose! The poor boy must worry so for his step-mama. Were you able to lighten his spirits?”
“There was little need. I think he conceals his feelings very well, for we scarcely spoke of the lady. Where is—”
“Which does but prove how clever you are, Etta. You will make someone a good wife. Ain’t that so, Warrington?” she added as her brother-in-law came in the front door.
“Oh, very true.” Sir Lionel beamed at Marietta and slipped an arm about her. “Clever puss! You have quite captivated young Coville. He could not say enough good of you. Which is understandable, of course. But you must try to keep him in the vicinity, child. He is greatly admired in Town, you know, and if he were to go back, there’s no telling—he might forget you. And we cannot have that, now can we?”
Marietta pointed out gently, “You know, Papa, I have left my salad days behind and I have no fortune to bring to a marriage. Perhaps you should not refine too much on—”
“Pooh! Nonsense! You are the prettiest young lady in all Sussex, and would grace the home of any gentleman. Besides, Sir Gavin is rich as Croesus—or was it Midas? Well, no matter. Much the young fellow needs dowries. He is properly smitten, I’m sure of it. With luck, m’dear, you’ll be Mrs. Blake Coville before the year is out!”
Envisioning a rosy future which included a fine London house and the restoration of his servants, horses, and carriages, Sir Lionel patted his daughter on the back, beamed at his sister-in-law, and went down to his workshop humming blithely.
Watching her niece, Mrs. Cordova asked, “You do like Mr. Coville, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes, very much. Who could not?”
“Enough to marry him?”
For a moment Marietta did not answer. Then she said, “Do you know, Aunty, I really don’t believe I shall ever have to consider that possibility. Now do pray tell me, where is Arthur?”
“Goodness, I don’t know. With Fanny, I suppose. I shall have to find some thread or I’ll lose these spangles. I had quite forgot that Mrs. Stroud had made an appointment with Madame Olympias this afternoon.” She giggled. “Luckily I got to the caravan before she did. Do you think they suspect it is me, Etta?”
“No, I don’t, for you keep it very dark and mysterious in your caravan. Besides, between your robe and turban, and the funny accent you use, to say nothing of all the paint you put on your face, I would not know you!”
“Even so, I’m glad we put it about that the great Grecian mystic likes to escape from London occasionally, and that we make a little extra money by permitting her to keep a caravan on a corner of our property. It is—not completely unbelievable, do you think?”
“I hope very much they go on believing that, Aunty,” Marietta said with a smile. “In view of the advice you give to people we would be liable to have some very angry visitors if ever the truth came out!”
“But—Etta!” protested Mrs. Cordova, stung, “I really am a mystic! I only tell my clients what is revealed in the Mystical Window Through Time. Or what it is best for them to believe. I do not hurt or deceive anyone.”
“No, dearest, of course you don’t. You just bend the truth a trifle. And you give them a good dramatic performance for their money, which they very much enjoy. Now I really must go and find Arthur. I had thought he’d be waiting for me.”
“He must be with Fanny. Do you know where the child has got to, Mrs. Hughes-Dering?”
Not waiting for Mrs. Hughes-Dering’s ‘reply,’ Marietta went down to the basement. Sir Lionel’s workshop was incredibly cluttered and a magical place for a small boy, and despite
endless warnings not to touch, there were temptations everywhere that proved irresistible to a curious mind and a pair of astonishingly quick little hands. Arthur’s last visit to the workshop had ended in disaster. The memory of her father’s singed hair and eyebrows and his enraged howls that the child would burn the house down caused Marietta to hasten, but her apprehensions proved groundless. Fanny was there, fascinated by her sire’s new invention, an as yet unperfected device to remove fleas or head lice. She told her sister gaily that Friar Tuck had taken a very dim view of the invention when they’d attempted to test it on him. As for Arthur, she supposed he was in his room.
Marietta’s premonition that something was amiss communicated itself to her aunt, and together they went upstairs. Once again, Arthur was not to be found. The state of his room confirmed Marietta’s fears. “Only look at this mess!” she exclaimed. “His Running Away Sack is gone, Aunty Dova! Poor little boy, I really let him down! And only look how the fog is rolling in. I must go after him before it starts to get dark!”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” moaned Mrs. Cordova, accompanying Marietta to her bedchamber. “I shall have to tell your father, and he will fly into a fit as he always does!”
“Then don’t tell him just yet. With luck I may be able to find Arthur and fetch him home before Papa misses him.”
“You’re never going outside wearing that? For pity’s sake, child! You will look a proper figure of fun.”
Marietta agreed but put on the black cloak and the witch’s hat and told her aunt that Arthur might forgive her if they played at goblin-catching en route home. “Besides, who will see me? We are the only people living on the estate at the moment, and Sir Gavin and Mr. Coville are halfway to Downsdale Park by this time.”
“I will be so anxious! How shall you know which way to go?”
“Oh, I fancy he’s off to Town again and he usually drops things as he gets tired, which should give me a trail to follow. Would you be a darling and take in the wash?”
Mrs. Cordova agreed to perform this task. She shook most of the dust off the things she dropped and hid them at the bottom of the pile, and after she had carried in the laundry basket she went in search of a needle and thread so as to repair the robe of the Great Grecian Mystic. She sat on the drawing room sofa beside her friend, ‘Captain Miles Cameron,’ and said comfortably, “Now do tell me, dear boy, are you not glad the war is over at last…?”
* * *
The tall man who slipped out of Lanterns’ massive front door remained in the arched recess for a minute or two, watchful and silent, as one with the deepening shadows of the mist-shrouded afternoon. When at last he emerged, his movements were smooth and catlike. He wore riding boots, but there was no sound of jingling spurs, no rattle of a pebble as he seemed almost to drift down the time-worn steps. He turned aside from the bridge that had once been the drawbridge, and followed a weedy sunken garden that encircled the house. In olden times this had been the moat, but through the centuries the sea had eaten away the cliffs and now the south end of the moat was gone and the sunken garden was cut off by a low wall at the very brink of the cliff.
The tall man rested long, thin hands on the wall and looked down at the rocks far below and the waves that swept in to swirl over them, only to sink down and retreat again. The sea was quiet today. The house was quiet, too. The doctors had said he needed quiet. Doctors! But this time, at least, they’d managed to remove the musket ball from his back; perhaps because he’d told them he’d not endure another series of their excruciating efforts. He watched a seagull swoop over the beach and wondered why it was not perched on a buoy or a post somewhere with its fellows. A loner, he thought wryly, as he had been for most of his life. By its very nature his occupation dictated that he have few friends. As to enemies, Mac was right, he had more than enough of those!
The gull swooped low, and alighted some distance along the wall. It moved its feet up and down, half turning to view the human from the corner of a beady eye.
Amused, the man sketched a salute. “Good afternoon, sir. Or is it madam? Jolly good of you to drop in. Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Diccon. But perhaps you came to call upon Mr. Fox?”
The bird uttered a squawk and regarded him warily.
“No cause for alarm. You are perfectly welcome to share the wall. What? Going already? I’ll find you some bread if you’d care to stay for tea.”
Of whatever gender, the gull refused the invitation and with an impressive spread of its wings departed, to be quickly swallowed up by the thickening Channel fog.
Diccon’s thoughts turned inward once more. It was a strange road he followed through life. A road that had earned him more than his share of hard knocks, and that seemed of late ever more solitary. But nobody had forced it on him. He’d followed where his interests led, and, whatever else, the years had certainly not been dull. And yet, what had he to show for it all? At an age when most of the men he knew were comfortably wed and had set up their nurseries, here he stood on a chilly autumn afternoon, keeping company with an unsociable gull (not even a bird of paradise!) and with his back reminding him that he’d do better to go inside and light a fire. He heard a distant and familiar summons and smiled faintly. There was always Mr. Fox, of course, to scold him for moping about feeling sorry for himself. He pushed away from the wall and stood straight. He’d go and see what—
He sensed rather than heard someone behind him. Had he been at the top of his form he’d have been aware of an intruder a few seconds earlier. The lapse cost him dearly. Before he could turn, something smashed into his back bringing pain so savage and blinding, that it forced an anguished cry from him. But because he lived with danger his reaction was instant and efficient. He crouched and spun about, caught a glimpse of a blurred but decidedly bizarre figure, waving plumes, and a lance poised for another attack. Furious, he wrested the lance aside with a force that sent his attacker spinning into the wall to slump there, unmoving.
It had been a surprisingly easy victory, but, taking no chances, Diccon held the lance poised and ready while he moved closer to his assailant. His vision was clearing. He was bewildered to discover that the ‘lance’ was a headless broomstick. With a horrified gasp he viewed the still form of a small boy, a battered saucepan topped with long plumes sagging on his head. A large ginger-and-white cat sprang up onto the wall, froze as it encountered him, then went tearing off.
“Aah! You monster! You hideous brute! What have you done?”
Turning unsteadily to meet this new attack, Diccon reeled. A witch, complete with high-pointed hat and long black cloak was rushing at him. “Madre de Dios!” he gasped, fearing that his brain had become disordered.
The witch flew to kneel beside the boy. “Arthur!” she sobbed, “Oh, my dearest! What did he do to you?” She lifted the pseudo-helmet from the child’s head, revealing a very small white face and closed eyes. Smoothing back the tumbled dark curls, she turned like a tigress on the man who dropped to one knee beside her. “Do not dare to touch him!” There was a note of hysteria in her voice and tears poured down her cheeks as she clawed at his hands. “You’ve killed him! You murderous, monstrous man!”
Diccon hid his terror that she might be right, and said coolly, “Try not to be so ridiculous. And don’t pull at him, you’ll make him feel worse.”
She fought him madly, and he took both her flying hands and held the wrists in an iron grip. “Stop, or I shall be obliged to slap you!”
Between the fog, the deepening dusk, and her tears, Marietta couldn’t see him very clearly, but she had an impression of a gaunt face, unruly light brown hair, and piercing, very pale eyes. She choked back sobs, and fought for control.
The deep, cold voice said, “That’s better. I think he’s just stunned, but we must get him home. Is he yours? Who are you? Do you live nearby?”
“He is … my brother.” She watched as he felt for a pulse and explored that pathetic little figure with steady, practised hands. “How could you … strike him
like—like that?” she demanded.
“I don’t think anything’s broken. If you saw it, then you must know that he came at me from behind.”
“But—he is only a child!”
“Yes. Well, he was uphill from me and didn’t look like one with that damned great thing on his head. I thought— Never mind about that.” He took off his coat rather awkwardly and spread it over the boy. “I’ll go and get a horse poled up. How far away is your home?”
“Less than two miles.”
He said inexplicably, “Then Mr. Fox will do,” and walked away, his head a little bowed and his steps rather erratic. Over his shoulder he called, “Don’t go mauling him about. He’ll do better to lie quietly.”
“He’d do better had you not struck him!” she retaliated.
There was no response. He disappeared into a great frowning door of the manor, and Marietta hovered over her brother, holding his small hand, and praying.
The ‘hideous brute’ returned quite soon but instead of a team he led a small, shaggy donkey harnessed to a cart. Marietta’s suspicion that he was a penniless wanderer using Lanterns as a temporary haven was reinforced.
He left the leathers trailing, and came to bend over the child.
She said with loathing. “I’ll lift him, thank you very much!”
Her outstretched hands were again thrust aside. “Madam,” he said icily, “I appear to have won an ignoble victory. I do not propose to watch you drop my victim and then blame me for any further damage.”
“I am perfectly capable of lifting him, and I do not want you to touch him with your—”
“Murderous hands? You will discover how murderous they are if you do not stop being ridiculous. Move!”
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