Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1)

by Arnot, Tim

  The Watchmen guarding the town hall had been replaced by two unknown men wearing black uniforms. Flick could tell they were not Kingsmen just from their deportment. But something told her that maybe they were meant to look like Kingsmen. They held rifles, at least at a glance they looked like rifles. But if she looked carefully she could see they were just carved pieces of wood. Two more of these men stood on top of the wooden platform that served as a scaffold, scanning the crowd constantly, stern expressions suggesting they were only too keen to use the weapons they were holding.

  Around the edge of the square, the regular Watch were arranged, keeping a check on the roads in and out of the square, to make sure that nobody slipped away. They looked uncomfortable, almost apologetic. The only weapons they had were their normal wooden truncheons, wedged into their belts. Flick noticed more of the black-uniformed men dotted about on the edge of the crowd. How many were there? What were they, she wondered, some kind of militia or private army?

  Flick, Adam, Rosie and their father stayed close to the inn. The three travellers that had been staying as guests stood nearby, looking nervous. The doors and gates to all the buildings that fronted onto the square were shut and locked as had been demanded. Flick had her arm around Rosie, holding her protectively. People in the crowd were muttering among themselves and Flick caught snippets of conversation. Who was the prisoner? Did anybody know him? What had he done?

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Rosie, ‘I just want to run away and hide.’

  ‘I know sweet,’ Flick replied, ‘we all do.’

  ‘Do you think it is him–your friend, I mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I really don’t know, Ro. I hope not, I really do.’

  Rosie hugged her sister tightly and buried her head in her shoulder.

  Flick stroked her hair soothingly. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon and we can all go home and try to forget.’ She locked her expression tight, and tried not to show the fear that was welling up inside her.

  The door to the Town Hall opened and the mayor emerged, a large man of mixed race, dressed in red robes and the chain of office. He looked like a bigger, fatter, slightly darker skinned, and much more menacing version of Joe. The mayor was followed by the vicar. Next the prisoner emerged dressed in simple rough cloth trousers and shirt. His face was bruised and bloody, his hair unkempt and lanky. His feet were shackled together, permitting him only to take tiny steps, and his hands bound behind his back with a rope that was held by more Kingsman lookalikes behind him. The guards pushed the prisoner through the door and up the steps, beating him whenever he stumbled. All the while he was silent, not making a sound or crying out. At the top he was forced to stand in front of the heavy rope noose.

  Flick could clearly see the prisoner now, with his hollow cheeks and vacant expression, never looking up or around, only down. He was the right height, but scrawny, way too scrawny–although that could be the result of his treatment–but his hair was definitely too light and his features just didn’t fit. No, she was convinced this was not Shea.

  Flick gave Rosie a squeeze. ‘It isn’t him,’ she said. ‘Oh Rosie, it isn’t him!’ There were tears in her eyes.

  Rosie hugged her sister and said simply, ‘Good.’

  The mayor moved to the front of the platform and raised his hands. The crowd quieted, but never quite raised their heads to look at him. Once he had decided it was quiet enough, he lowered his hands and reached into his robes for a sheet of paper.

  ‘People of Faringdon,’ he intoned, ‘we are gathered here today to pass judgement in the name of the King and of God on…’ and he paused to look at the sheet of paper, ‘…Thomas Pearson.’

  The crowd stood silently, not looking at the mayor, or the prisoner, or each other. Some people shifted their feet restlessly.

  The mayor turned to the prisoner and read out the list of charges. Murder, sedition, theft…

  There were gasps from the crowd, and people started asking each other who had been murdered, but no one seemed to have an answer. Flick wasn’t listening though, she was clutching Rosie who was shaking like a leaf.

  ‘Don’t make me look.’

  ‘I won’t, RoRo, I won’t.’

  The mayor droned on through his speech, and the sound of people muttering and shuffling their feet restlessly increased. They only wanted it to be over and done so they could get on with their lives. The mayor must have noticed because a hint of irritation crept into his voice. Eventually he finished. ‘…for which the sentence of the court, the King, the People… is death.’

  Then there was silence.

  Throughout this, the prisoner had not spoken or moved, or made any other sound. He just stared downwards, his expression vacant. The guards flanking the prisoner pushed him forward to the edge of the platform, the noose right in front of his face.

  ‘Crowd will watch the prisoner!’ a voice barked out.

  That prompted more muttering. The crowd was clearly agitated, and some people tried to leave the square, but the black uniformed thugs seemed to have grown in number, and started to push people back towards the middle. A single loud shot rang out, echoing off the buildings. There were screams, but the crowd quickly calmed down.

  Flick glanced around her, at the faces of the people nearby; her father, blank and resigned. Fred and Stanley, standing at the junction of Church Street, for all the world looking like they wanted to be anywhere else but here. Adam, standing next to their father, had his eyes glued to the stage, his expression of eager anticipation of what was to come in complete contrast to those around him. She looked down at Rosie, ‘I’m sorry, sweetie.’ She kissed the top of her head, and the pair clung together, each gaining comfort from the arms of the other.

  When the mayor finally appeared satisfied, he nodded to the two guards at either side of the prisoner. Somewhere a drum started a long slow, drawn out roll. The guards grabbed the prisoner’s arms and held him tight. Only now did he seem to notice what was going on, and he started struggling violently, but to no avail; the guards had him in a grip of iron. The third guard behind him took the noose and forced it over his head, pulling it tight.

  The three guards stepped back behind the prisoner, who was left standing alone. His eyes now darted around, taking in the scene for the first time, panicking, seeing the sea of faces looking at him. He opened his mouth and the most horrible wailing sound came out. Another order was barked out and the front of the platform dropped away. The prisoner dropped. The rope went taut. The wailing stopped, cut off. The drum stopped. There was silence.

  The rope creaked, swaying. The prisoner’s legs danced a jig briefly, trying to find something–anything–to stand on, but finding nothing eventually they stopped.

  At the back of the crowd, several people cheered. The mayor stood on the platform, smiling, but the expression did not reach his cold eyes. They scanned the crowd looking for signs of dissent, anyone that might challenge his rule. Flick and Rosie kept their eyes down, looking at the ground, avoiding the sight of the mayor and his grisly spectacle. Finally the mayor, vicar and guards turned and descended from the stage, leaving the hanging body of the prisoner swaying slightly.

  Rosie let go of her big sister, sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

  12

  Queen of the May

  MAY DAY, THE traditional start of summer, had dawned sunny and bright. Flick walked in to the kitchen to be greeted by the smell of cooking bacon. She’d already been out gathering may blossom with other girls from the town.

  ‘Hey, that smells good!’ she said, going over to the sink and rinsing her hands and arms in the pail.

  ‘Just what a working girl needs to start the day!’ called her father, from somewhere near the hob. He turned to the table, pan in one hand and wooden spatula in the other. Then he noticed the myriad small cuts and scratches on Flick’s arms. ‘Looks like you had a bit of a fight on your hands there,’ he said.

  She looked down. ‘Yeah, the hawthorn
put up a valiant struggle, but in the end we beat it into submission. Us one; hawthorn nil!’

  The door opened and Rosie came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She didn’t speak as she grabbed a plate and sat at the table next to Adam.

  ‘Hey, RoRo,’ said Flick. ‘How did you sleep?’

  Rosie said nothing, but just stared ahead.

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  She nodded.

  Flick dried her hands and went over to her sister. ‘I won’t pretend it gets better, ‘cos it doesn’t. But try not to think about it, eh?’ She gave her a big squeeze. ‘It’s your big day today. What do you say we go and get dressed up?’

  Rosie looked down at her plate.

  ‘After breakfast though,’ said their father as he forked a rasher of bacon onto the plate.

  Rosie smiled. ‘After breakfast,’ she said, and started eating.

  At twelve o’clock, after a mercifully brief service, everyone gathered outside the church. Rosie and the other girls wore their frilly white dresses, decorated with yellow ribbons; each had a garland of leaves and white may blossom in her hair. Flick at least wore her Sunday best dress, pale green with a small floral design. Adam and their father wore their Sunday best suits.

  The children, girls in their white dresses, and boys in white shirts and grey shorts, lined up into two rows behind Rosie who, as May Queen was at the front of the procession. In front of them, the local side of Morris men were resplendent in red and blue baldrics, with coloured ribbons and strings of bells tied to their shins. An eleventh Morris man stood apart from the others, wearing a large black top hat, and very mismatched clothes. He was the fool.

  Once everybody was lined up, the Town Crier struck his bell.

  ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ he bellowed. ‘Any persons here present wishing to witness the crowning of the May Queen shall follow our procession!’ He rang the bell again before bellowing, ‘God save the King!’

  The musicians struck up a tune, and the procession moved off down the hill into the town. The Town Crier was at the head, followed by the Morris men, jangling the bells on their legs and waving white handkerchiefs in their hands, then Rosie and her handmaidens, and finally everyone else. All the while, the fool gallivanted about the procession, sometimes mimicking one of the musicians or dancers, or swapping places with them, or grabbing one of the townspeople and dancing a quick jig.

  As the procession passed through the square, Flick couldn’t help but glance over at the Town Hall. The body still hung from the gibbet, a constant reminder, but some wag had decorated the corpse with sprigs of blossom.

  The procession passed through the square and turned left up the hill towards the folly and the festival field. It wound its way up the track to the top of the hill where the tower stood. A small stage had been erected against one wall of the tower, and on it was a large wooden chair, like a throne, decorated with flowers, green leaves and may blossom. In the middle of the clearing stood a large maypole, wound round with long coloured ribbons.

  Now the musicians struck up again, and the Morris men entered the clearing, handkerchiefs a waving and bells a jangling. The crier walked in front with Rosie following. They walked slowly around the edge of clearing, Rosie grinning at the crowd and waving at people she recognised. When they reached the stage, the Town Crier and Rosie climbed the steps, and Rosie sat on the throne. Now the other children followed the musicians around the clearing. Rosie watched the procession from her throne on the stage.

  The town crier stood, as the mayor climbed onto the stage, wearing his chain of office. ‘Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Hear Ye!’ he bellowed, loud enough that he could probably be heard back in the town, and ringing his bell. ‘Hearken all manner of persons here present; be silent and attend his worship George Griffin, Mayor of Faringdon. God save the King!’

  The mayor came forward and held up his hands. He looked around the crowd and smiled a steely smile.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouted, ‘it gives me great pleasure to crown this year’s Queen of the May, Rosie Carter.’

  He took a small silver tiara and placed it on Rosie’s head. Then he took a large silver coin and held it up for the crowd.

  ‘The King’s shilling,’ he called, ‘to pay the queen!’ He handed it to Rosie, who took it, smiling.

  The crier rang his bell again. ‘Hear Ye! Hear Ye! All persons here present stand and pay homage to the Queen of the May!’

  The crowd stood and clapped, and Rosie stood and waved back, with a big grin on her face.

  ‘Speech!’ The voice came from the back of the crowd.

  Rosie, dwarfed by the big men on the stage, held her hands up and waited for quiet. ‘Mister Mayor, ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted, her voice strong and confident, ‘I am honoured and pleased to be crowned this year’s May Queen. Thank you all for coming, and enjoy the festivities!’

  Flick wandered through the woods, looking at the various stalls and sideshows. The stalls had been set back from the edge of the clearing, leaving more space for the main events.

  She’d watched the maypole dancing, clapped and cheered as Rosie was crowned, clapped after each dance when the ribbons were all untangled, laughed when one of the dancers had messed up and the maypole turned into a tangled mess that took several minutes to straighten out. Now the dancing was over, she browsed the stalls, waiting for the next event.

  ‘Go on Miss, three balls for a quid!’

  Flick laughed. ‘Sure they’re not glued down, Pete?’

  Pete was a tall thin man, with white hair and a small white moustache. He wore a red and white striped apron. He normally ran the butcher’s shop, and he was often a customer for any of the hunting kills that Flick couldn’t use at the inn. And she in turn was often a customer for meat she couldn’t easily hunt. Today he was running the coconut shy. Idly she wondered why they were still called coconuts–nobody had seen a real coconut in living memory, possibly as far back as The Collapse, more than a hundred years ago. These were carved from wood and painted, like giant coloured wooden eggs.

  ‘Half a pound of sausages if you knock three off. And they’re not stuck down!’ Pete said, pouting.

  ‘Okay, go on then,’ Flick said, and handed over a coin.

  She picked up the three wooden balls, about the size of a cricket ball, and sized up the coconuts arranged on spiked poles at the back of the stall. She squared off and threw the first ball. It glanced off the coconut, which wobbled momentarily before falling off its stand. One down. The second ball hit its target square on with a clunk, and sent the coconut flying. Two down.

  ‘Last ball,’ she said, blowing on it and rubbing it just as if she were a spin bowler. Rosie stood watching as Flick let fly and it clipped the top of the coconut. It wobbled, but it didn’t drop. Damn!

  ‘Oh bad luck!’

  Flick turned to Rosie, ‘He sticks them down, I’m sure of it!’ she said.

  ‘Do not!’ came from the back of the stall. ‘See!’ Pete poked the coconut with his finger and it fell off its perch.

  ‘All right Pete, I’ll believe you. But they must be magnetic or something,’ said Flick. They laughed. They had this same conversation every year, it had become a ritual.

  She turned back to Rosie. ‘I see you’ve lost your crown already.’

  ‘Yeah, I had to give it back,’ she said, pouting. They started to wander through the trees towards another stand.

  ‘Anyway I wouldn’t want to keep anything the mayor had touched. That man gives me the creeps’

  ‘You and me both, Ro,’ Flick replied, ‘but keep your voice down: walls have ears!’

  ‘Or trees.’

  ‘Walls have trees?’

  ‘No. Trees have ears!’

  Flick glanced up. Above their heads there was a large metal sculpture of a bird painted black, perched on one of the branches, its giant wings outstretched. It had glass beads for eyes.

  ‘I swear I think they’re watching me,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I think they
move around too,’ Flick said. ‘There’s supposed to be twenty-four–you know, like in the rhyme–in the woods and up the tower, but I’ve never found them all.

  They wandered past a few more stalls until they found themselves back at the clearing. The crowd was smaller now than it had been earlier, so Flick could easily see the Morris dancers going through their paces. They clapped as the dance came to an end.

  While the dancers were chatting and getting ready for the next set, the fool came cavorting up. He was looking for somebody, doing a passable mime act, pointing at people and gesturing towards the middle of the clearing. So far there had been no takers.

  Rosie nudged Flick in the ribs. ‘Go on, Flick, why don’t you? It’ll be fun. And who knows–you might meet the man of your dreams!’

  ‘Nightmares, more like!’ quipped Flick, ‘anyway, with my luck it’ll be a pig farmer from Swinford!’

  Rosie poked her again. ‘Go on, or are you chicken?’ She flapped her arms and made chicken noises.

  ‘Okay,’ sighed Flick, and waved at the fool, who did a quick jig as if all his Christmases had come at once. He rushed over to her, and pulled her into the clearing, cavorting as they went.

  ‘Now, whatever happens, don’t move!’ he whispered in her ear before skipping back towards the crowd, in search of another victim.

  The dancers now formed into a ring with Flick at the centre. She couldn’t help notice they each held two wooden batons, one in each hand. Before long the fool forced his way into the ring, with another victim in tow. It was a lad. Flick looked him over. Not the usual Sunday best, he was wearing dark woollen trousers and a white linen shirt, over which he wore a supple light brown leather waistcoat. He had a straggly beard and a big grin. Flick had a sudden flash of recognition.

  Shea!

  Then the music started, and the dancers started circling, their arms held out.