The constable laughed loudly when he saw Agba looking at the wall. “Don’t nobody try to scale this wall,” he said, his teeth showing like white fangs in the moonlight. Then he jerked Agba inside a yawning entrance where a turnkey stood, holding a torch in one hand and a great ring of keys in the other. With a whishing sound the turnkey closed the door behind them, and led the way down a narrow passage.
The stone floor of the passageway was cold and clammy. Once Agba slipped, and the constable boxed his ears sharply. Agba shook in terror. He wondered if he and Sham would ever meet again, would ever thunder across the fields again, would ever feel the wind beneath the sun.
Now the turnkey stopped before an iron-bolted door. He unlocked it with a loud jangling of keys, and motioned the constable and Agba inside.
Then he went away, carefully bolting the door behind him.
Wrist and leg irons hung everywhere on the walls and three tiny scales stood on a shelf in an open cupboard.
“This is the bread chamber,” the constable announced. “The scales are to measure your bread with. You get eight ounces a day. And good enough for a horsethief!”
Soundlessly the door opened and the chief warder himself entered. He was a squat man with a tightly drawn scar on his temple. He sat down at a table, reached for a crow-quill pen and pointed it at Agba.
“Where’d ye pick it up, Muggins?”
“At the Red Lion, sir.”
“Offense?”
“Horse-thievin’.”
“Name?”
“That I can’t say, sir. The keeper of the Red Lion says he comes from Morocco. He can’t talk.”
A look of doubt crossed the warder’s face. “Search him!”
The big hands of the constable began at Agba’s neck. They found the bag containing the amulets and Sham’s pedigree. Tearing the bag from Agba’s neck, the constable tossed it on the table. The amulets spilled out, making little twinkles of light. Quickly the warder scooped them into his pocket. Then he poked his fingers into the bag and pulled out the pedigree.
“Ah-ha!” he nodded, making a pretense at reading the Arabic writing. “Foul work afoot!” Fearing to show his ignorance, he tore the pedigree into little pieces and swept them to the floor.
Agba’s eyes widened in horror. Sham’s pedigree destroyed! But the warder was hurrying through the examination, not knowing what he had destroyed.
“What else has he got on him, Muggins?”
The constable’s hands suddenly found the furry warmth of Grimalkin.
“Pfft! Miaow! Pfft!” Grimalkin hissed and spat and scratched.
Yelling in fright and pain, the constable grabbed Grimalkin by the tail. “Into the cistern ye go!” he shouted.
Agba’s bound hands flew out in a pleading gesture. They must not take Grimalkin away! He would have no one at all to care for.
All at once the warder was on his feet, the pulse in the scar at his temple beating wildly. “Muggins,” he whispered hoarsely, “I live in the shadow of the statue out there night and day. The cat at the dame’s feet is supposed to be Dick Whittington’s own cat!”
He wiped the perspiration from his brow and slumped into his chair. Agba felt a thin thread of hope. He watched the warder’s face. He counted the pulse beats that showed in the scar. One—two—three—four—five—six . . .
“Who’s Dick Whittington?” faltered the constable.
“Who’s Dick Whittington!” the warder thundered. “Egad, man, he was thrice lord mayor of London. And ’twas a cat that made his fortune. ’Twas a cat he sold to the Sultan of Morocco to clean up the rats there. And ’twas the lord mayor himself who had the statue built.” He glowered at the constable. “How dare ye offer to kill a cat? How dare ye? It’s bad luck. Give it back to the boy, I tell ye.”
Muggins’ mouth fell open. Dazed, he handed the cat back to Agba.
“But,” added the warder, suddenly ashamed of his fear, “the cat gets no bread. And eight ounces is too much for the boy. Six will do.” Quickly he fastened a set of leg irons to Agba’s ankles, and summoned a guard who stood outside the door.
“Lock him up in the Stone Hold!” he commanded.
Dragging his heavy iron chains with every step, Agba was led away to the dungeon.
17. The Visitors’ Bell
THE DAYS that followed were dismal and wretched for Agba. He had nothing at all to do. Once a guard told him to clean the dungeon, but he laughed coarsely as he said it, knowing there was neither broom nor rag with which to clean.
Agba could not even move without stumbling over someone’s legs or irons, and being kicked as a result. At last he crawled into a corner and sat motionless in a kind of dream, holding Grimalkin by the hour.
Days stretched out into weeks. He shared with Grimalkin his bread and barley gruel and the cooked-out morsel of meat which the prisoners were given once a week. Grimalkin repaid Agba’s generosity. The dungeon was freer of mice and rats than was the warder’s own bedchamber.
On visiting days Agba heard the visitors’ bell clang loudly, again and again, followed by the scraping of chains as his prison mates shuffled to the visitors’ room. But no one ever came to see him. He and Grimalkin were left quite alone.
All this while the Quaker and his housekeeper, Mistress Cockburn, thought that Agba and Sham were happily located at the Red Lion. Busy though Mistress Cockburn was, she missed Agba’s quiet ways, and one fair summer’s day she decided to go to the Red Lion and take him a treat. She baked a goodly batch of sugar tarts and put them in a hamper along with some newly ripe peaches, the browned crust of a Cheshire cheese pudding, and a few garden carrots. Then she covered the hamper with a white linen cloth and set off for the inn.
She hummed a little tune as she boarded the coach, thinking how pleased the poor boy would be to taste his favorite sugar tarts. And she was thinking, too, how his somber black eyes would light up when he saw the cleanly scrubbed carrots for his beloved Sham and the Cheshire cheese nubbins for Grimalkin. As the coach jolted along, she kept peeking in under the white linen napkin to make sure that her tarts were not getting squashed nor the peaches bruised.
So busy was she, trying to think of little happenings to tell Agba, that she hardly noticed how fast the horses were traveling. And suddenly, far sooner than she had expected, the driver was calling out, “Cow Cross Lane at the sign of the Red Lion.” She alighted as quickly as she could, brushed the dust from her bonnet, shook out the folds of her skirt, and walked briskly into the great room of the inn.
“Good day, sir,” she said to a busy little man with red eyebrows. “Are you the keeper of the Red Lion?”
Mister Williams’ eyebrows traveled up and down, and a pleased expression came over his face.
“That I am, my good woman,” he spoke in his best manner. “A vast weight you are carrying there, I mean the hamper, madam. Pray, may I help you?”
Mistress Cockburn thanked him kindly, then stated her business. “It is three calendar months,” she said, “since a little hooded horseboy left the household of my employer, Jethro Coke. And to say the truth, sir, I have missed the poor boy sorely. If you judge it proper, sir, I should like to trot around to your stable and surprise him at his work.”
Mister Williams opened his mouth to answer, but shut it quickly again, for his wife had risen up from behind the bar counter like a jack-in-the-box.
“You’ll find the thief in Newgate Jail,” she snapped. Then she took her broom and began sweeping her way toward Mistress Cockburn, who soon found herself out in Cow Cross Lane in front of the Red Lion.
She stood there, dazed, in the very center of the lane, unmindful that a coach-and-six was rattling toward her at a great pace. The driver had to turn sharply to avoid hitting her.
With much pulling and shouting he halted his horses. Then the window of the coach was lowered, and the plumed head of an elderly but beautiful woman looked out.
“For your welfare, madam,” spoke a silvery voice, “I pray you to step bac
k out of the lane.”
Mistress Cockburn came to with a start. “Begging your pardon,” she said with a pretty curtsy, “but the honestest lad I know has been sent to Newgate Jail, and I am all a-twitter.”
The plumed head disappeared. There was the sound of a low-voiced conference. Then the coachman, in scarlet livery, stepped down from his box and opened the door of the coach. Out stepped a gentleman. He was powdered and be-wigged like all noblemen of his day, but that was not what Mistress Cockburn noticed. What impressed Mistress Cockburn was the kindliness of his gray eyes and the courtesy with which he addressed her.
“It so happens,” he was saying, “that we are on our way to Newgate now. The lady to whom you have just spoken is Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough.”
Mistress Cockburn clapped her hand over her mouth in astonishment. Why, the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough was as much at home in Windsor Castle as the Queen herself. It was almost like meeting the Queen!
“The Duchess is my mother-in-law,” the nobleman went on, “and I am the Earl of Godolphin.”
Mistress Cockburn made a low curtsy, inclining her head until her nose grazed the handle of her hamper.
The Earl returned her bow. “As you mayhap know,” he said, “the Duchess oft visits the prisoners to study their cases. Since today is Visitors’ Day, madam, the Duchess and I would be pleased to have your company to Newgate.”
Mistress Cockburn flushed with pleasure. She was too overwhelmed to talk. So she said nothing at all, but climbed into the coach, and sat facing the beautiful Duchess.
Apparently the Duchess was in a great hurry, for the driver cracked his whip and the coach went flying down the lane and on toward the heart of London. The rattle and clatter made by hooves and wheels was so great that there was no chance for conversation. Mistress Cockburn had all she could do to clutch her bonnet with one hand and her hamper with the other.
Meanwhile in the Stone Hold at Newgate Jail, Agba and Grimalkin were listening to the visitors’ bell and to the sound of footsteps and chains leaving their dungeon. Finally the bell became quiet, the clanking of chains grew fainter and fainter, and their small world was sealed in silence.
Agba lay down on the meager litter of straw. Perhaps if he slept he would be lost in a dream, and the prison walls would fall away and he and Sham would be together again. Perhaps in his dream he would be grooming Sham, going over the wheat ear quickly, then lingering long on the white spot.
Presently Grimalkin hooked his paw over Agba’s arm as if to attract his attention. The ponderous bolt was rasping along its iron groove. The door was coming open. A breath of air was flowing into the cell. It smelled of lavender mingled with the fragrance of freshly baked cakes.
For a few seconds the light from the corridor blinded Agba. Then his eyes went wide. There, standing on the threshold, was the chief warder, rubbing his hands and bowing like a reed in the wind. And behind him stood Mistress Cockburn with a nobleman and a lady. Mistress Cockburn’s eyes were blacker than burnt raisins and her cheeks flamed. “It’s him all right!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears. “Oh, my poor boy . . .”
Agba smiled at Mistress Cockburn, and such a warmth and happiness coursed through his body that he was afraid he was going to cry, too.
“As I was telling ye, yer Grace,” the warder was saying, “he can’t talk at all. The only sounds he makes is a sing-song humming, sort of like a lullaby when he and the cat beds down for the night.”
“And what,” asked the Duchess, “is the boy’s offense?”
The pulse showing in the warder’s scar was beating fast.
“As I understand it, yer Grace,” he said, “the boy climbed over the wall into the stable yard of the Red Lion in the dead of night. Horse thievin’ was his business.”
Mistress Cockburn flew into a rage. “It’s not so, yer Grace. The boy only wanted to see his horse which he brought all the way from Africa. And he himself wears the story of the horse in a little bag around his neck. Show it to the lady and gentlemen, Agba.”
Agba’s hand went to his neck. He shook his head.
The warder hesitated, then spoke. “Yer Grace, the lady says the truth. The boy was wearin’ a bag around his neck, and the constable he . . . he . . .”
“He what?” demanded the Earl.
“Well, the papers is gone, my lord, but I’ll give him the bag with the amulets in it.”
He took the bag from his pocket, and with a false show of kindness tied it about the boy’s neck.
“My poor boy! My poor boy!” Mistress Cockburn said over and over. Then she opened her hamper and placed a tart in Agba’s hand. She gave Grimalkin a crust of Cheshire cheese cake and quickly covered the basket to hide the brightly scrubbed carrots.
Agba bit into the delicious tart. He longed to tell Mistress Cockburn—in words she had taught him from her own cookery book—how good it tasted. But all he did was to eat and smile through his tears.
“I cannot help tumbling out my thoughts,” the Duchess was saying to the Earl in her tinkling, music-box voice. “My life is very near run out, and my only pleasure is doing good. Let us inquire into this case, and if it prove a worthy one, why could not . . .”
She flashed a radiant smile upon the Earl, and left her words fluttering in mid-air.
The Earl of Godolphin caught up her sentence and finished it off. “And if his case proves worthy,” he said quietly, “I will want him to help in my stables at Gog Magog. By all that is good and holy, I promise it!”
Agba looked up quickly. It was plain to see that he had a question to ask.
The Earl of Godolphin chuckled deep down in his throat. “Be eased of your fears,” he said. “We will go at once to the Red Lion to buy your horse. He will be welcome at Gog Magog. And the cat, too. There is room for all.”
18. The Green Hills of Gog Magog
THAT SAME fair summer’s day, Sham was lying in his stall at the Red Lion. He no longer needed to be shackled. No one feared him any more. He was too weak to kick and charge.
For weeks he had lived in a kind of daze, willing to lie on his bed of straw and let the world go on about him. Over the half door of his stall he could hear the rattle of pewter cups in the inn and listen to the comings and goings of horses and journeymen. He caught the mingled smell of dust and sweat when the horses came in. He caught the rain smells and heard the first drops beat out a mournful medley on the roof over his head. He snuffed the winds. But he was no longer a part of the smells and the sounds.
Mister Williams shook his head sadly every time he passed Sham’s stall. “That there ’orse, ’e’s got a gnawin’ pull inside ’im. ’E’s missin’ that boy.”
On this summer’s afternoon the sound made by Mistress Williams banging her pots and pans was suddenly muffled by the thunder of hooves and the rumble of wheels.
Lying half-awake, half-asleep, Sham heard the other horses in their stalls neigh a greeting to the newcomers. He heard the high, scrabbling voice of Mistress Williams. Then a silence broken by many footsteps and the low laughter of a gentlewoman.
The next thing he knew the door of his stall was thrown open, a feather-light creature was by his side, and a boy’s slim brown fingers were stroking his neck.
Sham touched Agba’s cheek with his feelers, as if to make sure of him. Then an excited whicker escaped him. He lipped the boy. He swiped his cheek with a great pink tongue. He tasted the warm, salty tears. Then he neighed his happiness to the whole wide world.
Thrusting his forefeet in front of him, he struggled to his feet. Lying down was no way to greet friends! He shuddered the straw from his coat as if to apologize for his lack of grooming.
A change came over him. He snorted at the half-circle of people about him, at the handsome gentleman in wine-colored velvet, at the lady in silk and gold lace, at the innkeeper and his wife standing at a respectful distance.
His eyes came back to Agba. “Let us be off!” he seemed to say. “Somewhere. Anywhere!”
Mister Williams’ eyebrows were traveling up and down at a great rate. “Split my windpipe!” he said to a journeyman who had once been tossed off by Sham, “it hain’t the same beast, I tell ye! ’E hain’t stubborn nor vicious at all. ’E and the boy are all of one color, and all of one mind. They can’t wait to go! D’you know,” he exclaimed, slapping the man on the back, “that ’orse—’e’s got brains!”
The Earl leaned his head out of the coach window. “We will lead the way up to Gog Magog,” he called to Agba. “Our pace will be slow to accommodate the weakened condition of your mount.” And he smiled a little smile of encouragement.
If the road to the hills of Gog Magog had been the road to the garden of heaven, the three silent creatures could not have been happier. It seemed as if the green meadows and the woodlands and clear streams had been created for them alone. The sun warmed their backs. The wind blew for their pleasure. They sucked it deep into their lungs. It washed them free.
Agba was almost sorry when the driver of the coach pulled to a stop before a gate surmounted by the crest of a dolphin. He wished the ride could go on forever.
The Duchess, however, seemed glad the journey was over.
“I declare, my lad,” she sighed, leaning her head wearily against the gilded frame of the coach window, “you and your mount and your kitling appear fresher than when you started.”
Now the gate was opened by two men in livery, and the coach-and-six led the way over a bridge and up a gentle hill between yews and hawthorn trees to the stables of the Earl of Godolphin.
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