The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  Every so often I saw a figure dressed in a black cassock, and I would change direction or cross the road. I found it hard to believe that one town could have so many priests.

  Next I walked down Fishergate Hill until I could see the river in the distance, and then all the way back again. Finally I came round in a circle, but without any success. I couldn’t just ask somebody to direct me to an inn whose name had nothing to do with churches because they’d have thought me mad. Drawing attention to myself was the last thing I wanted. Even though I was carrying the Spook’s heavy black leather bag in my right hand, it still attracted too many curious glances my way.

  At last, just as it was getting dark, I found somewhere to stay not too far from the cathedral where I’d first begun my search. It was a small inn called the Black Bull.

  Before becoming the Spook’s apprentice I’d never stayed at an inn, never having any cause to wander far from my dad’s farm. Since then I’d spent the night in maybe half a dozen. It should have been a lot more, for we were often on the road, sometimes for several days at a time, but the Spook liked to save his money, and unless the weather was really bad he thought a tree or an old barn good enough shelter for the night. Still, this was the first inn I’d ever stayed in alone, and as I pushed my way in through the door, I felt a little nervous.

  The narrow entrance opened out into a large, gloomy room, lit only by a single lantern. It was full of empty tables and chairs, with a wooden counter at the far end. The counter smelled strongly of vinegar, but I soon realized it was just stale ale that had soaked into the wood. There was a small bell hanging from a rope to the right of the counter, so I rang it.

  Presently a door behind the counter opened and a bald man came out, wiping his big hands on a large dirty apron.

  “I’d like a room for the night, please,” I said, adding quickly, “I might be staying longer.”

  He looked at me as if I were something he’d just found on the bottom of his shoe, but when I pulled out the silver coin and put it on the counter, his expression became a lot more pleasant.

  “Will you be wanting supper, master?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I was fasting anyway, but one glance at his stained apron had made me lose my appetite.

  Five minutes later I was up in my room with the door locked. The bed looked a mess and the sheets were dirty. I knew the Spook would have complained, but I just wanted to sleep and it was still a lot better than a drafty barn. However, when I looked through the window, I felt homesick for Chipenden.

  Instead of the white path leading across the green lawn to the western garden and my usual view of Parlick Pike and the other fells, all I could see was a row of grimy houses opposite, each with a chimney pot sending dark smoke billowing down into the street.

  So I lay on top of the bed and, still gripping the handles of the Spook’s bag, quickly fell asleep.

  Just after eight the next morning, I was heading for the cathedral. I’d left the bag locked inside my room because it would have looked odd carrying it into a funeral service. I was a bit anxious about leaving it at the inn, but the bag had a lock and so did the door, and both keys were safely in my pocket. I also carried a third key.

  The Spook had given it to me when I went to Horshaw to deal with the ripper. It had been made by his other brother, Andrew the locksmith, and it opened most locks as long as they weren’t too complex. I should have given it back, but I knew the Spook had more than one, and as he hadn’t asked, I’d kept it. It was very useful to have, just like the small tinderbox my dad had given me when I started my apprenticeship. I always kept that in my pocket, too. It had belonged to his dad and was a family heirloom—but a very useful one for someone who followed the Spook’s trade.

  Before long I was climbing the hill, with the steeple to my left. It was a wet morning, a heavy drizzle falling straight into my face, and I’d been right about the steeple. At least the top third of it was hidden by the dark gray clouds that were racing in from the southwest. There was a bad smell of sewers in the air, too, and every house had a smoking chimney, most of the smoke finding its way down to street level.

  A lot of people seemed to be rushing up the hill. One woman went by almost running, dragging two children faster than their little legs could manage. “Come on! Hurry up!” she scolded. “We’re going to miss it.”

  For a moment I wondered if they were going to the funeral, too, but it seemed unlikely because their faces were filled with excitement. Right at the top, the hill flattened out and I turned left toward the cathedral. Here an excited crowd was eagerly lining both sides of the road, as if waiting for something. They were blocking the pavement, and I tried to ease my way through as carefully as possible. I kept apologizing, desperate to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes, but eventually the people became so thickly packed that I had to come to a halt and wait with them.

  I didn’t wait long. Sounds of applause and cheers had suddenly erupted to my right. Above them I heard the clip-clop of approaching hooves. A large procession was moving toward the cathedral, the first two riders dressed in black hats and cloaks and wearing swords at their hips. Behind them came more riders, these armed with daggers and huge cudgels, ten, twenty, fifty, until eventually one man appeared riding alone on a gigantic white stallion.

  He wore a black cloak, but underneath it expensive chain mail was visible at neck and wrists, and the sword at his hip had a hilt encrusted with rubies. His boots were of the very finest leather, and probably worth more than a farm laborer earned in a year.

  The rider’s clothes and bearing marked him out as a leader, but even if he’d been dressed in rags, there would have been no doubt about it. He had very blond hair, tumbling from beneath a wide-brimmed red hat, and eyes so blue they put a summer’s sky to shame. I was fascinated by his face. It was almost too handsome to be a man’s, but it was strong at the same time, with a jutting chin and a determined forehead. Then I looked again at the blue eyes and saw the cruelty glaring from them.

  He reminded me of a knight I’d once seen ride past our farm, when I was a young lad. He hadn’t so much as glanced our way. To him we didn’t exist. Well, that’s what my dad said anyway. Dad also said that the man was noble, that he could tell by looking at him that he came from a family that could trace its ancestors back for generations, all of them rich and powerful.

  At the word noble, my dad spat into the mud and told me that I was lucky to be a farmer’s lad with an honest day’s work in front of me.

  This man riding through Priestown was also clearly noble and had arrogance and authority written all over his face. To my shock and dismay I realized that I must be looking at the Quisitor, for behind him was a big open cart pulled by two shire horses and there were people standing in the back bound together with chains.

  Mostly they were women, but there were a couple of men, too. The majority of them looked as if they hadn’t eaten properly for a long time. They wore filthy clothes, and many had clearly been beaten. All were covered in bruises, and one woman had a left eye that looked like a rotten tomato. Some of the women were wailing hopelessly, tears running down their cheeks. One screeched again and again at the top of her voice that she was innocent. But to no avail. They were all captives, soon to be tried and burned.

  A young woman suddenly darted toward the cart, reaching up to one of the male prisoners and trying desperately to pass him an apple. Perhaps she was a relative of the prisoner—maybe a daughter.

  To my horror, the Quisitor simply turned his horse and rode her down. One moment she was holding out the apple; the next she was on her side on the cobbles, howling in pain. I saw the cruel expression on the Quisitor’s face. He’d enjoyed hurting her. As the cart trundled past, followed by an escort of even more armed riders, the crowd’s cheers turned to howls of abuse and cries of “Burn them all!”

  It was then that I saw the girl chained among the other prisoners. She was no older than me, and her eyes were wide and frightened. Her black hair was s
treaked across her forehead with the rain, which was dribbling from her nose and the end of her chin like tears. I looked at the black dress she was wearing, then glanced down at her pointy shoes, hardly able to believe what I was seeing.

  It was Alice. And she was a prisoner of the Quisitor.

  CHAPTER V

  The Funeral

  MY head was whirling with what I’d witnessed. It was several months since I’d last seen Alice. Her aunt, Bony Lizzie, was a witch the Spook and I had dealt with, but Alice, unlike the rest of her family, wasn’t really bad. In fact she was probably the closest I’d ever come to having a friend, and it was thanks to her that a few months back I’d managed to destroy Mother Malkin—the most evil witch in the County.

  No, Alice had just been brought up in bad company. I couldn’t let her be burned as a witch. Somehow I had to find a way to rescue her, but at that moment I didn’t have the slightest clue how it could be done. I decided that as soon as the funeral was over, I’d have to try and persuade the Spook to help.

  And then there was the Quisitor. What terrible timing that our visit to Priestown should coincide with his arrival. The Spook and I were in grave danger. Surely now my master wouldn’t stay here after the funeral. A huge part of me hoped he’d want to leave right away and not face the Bane. But I couldn’t leave Alice behind to die.

  When the cart had gone by, the crowd surged forward and began to follow the Quisitor’s procession. Jammed in shoulder to shoulder, I’d little choice but to move with them. The cart continued past the cathedral and halted outside a big three-story house with mullioned windows. I assumed that it was the presbytery—the priests’ house—and that the prisoners were about to be tried there. They were taken down from the cart and dragged inside, but I was too far away to see Alice properly. There was nothing I could do, but I’d have to think of something quickly, before the burning, which was bound to take place soon.

  Sadly, I turned away and pushed through the crowd until I reached the cathedral and Father Gregory’s funeral. The building had big buttresses and tall, pointy stained-glass windows. Then, remembering what the Spook had told me, I glanced up at the large stone gargoyle above the main door.

  This was a representation of the original form of the Bane, the shape it was slowly trying to return to as it grew stronger down there in the catacombs. The body, covered in scales, was crouching with tense, knotted muscles, long sharp talons gripping the stone lintel. It looked ready to leap down.

  I’ve seen some terrifying things in my time, but I’d never seen anything uglier than that huge head. It had an elongated chin that curved upward almost as far as its long nose, and wicked eyes that seemed to follow me as I walked toward it. Its ears were strange, too, and wouldn’t have been out of place on a big dog or even a wolf. Not something to face in the darkness of the catacombs!

  Before I went in, I glanced back desperately at the presbytery once more, wondering if there was any real hope of rescuing Alice.

  The cathedral was almost empty, so I found a place near the back. Close by, a couple of old ladies were kneeling in prayer with bowed heads and an altar boy was busy lighting candles.

  I had plenty of time to look around. The cathedral seemed even bigger on the inside, with a high roof and huge wooden beams; even the slightest cough seemed to echo forever. There were three aisles—the middle one, which led right up to the altar steps, was wide enough to take a horse and cart. This place was grand, all right: Every statue in sight was gilded and even the walls were covered in marble. It was worlds away from the little church in Horshaw where the Spook’s brother had gone about his business.

  At the front of the central aisle stood Father Gregory’s open coffin, with a candle at each corner. I’d never seen such candles in my life. Each one, set in a big brass candlestick, was taller than a man.

  People had started to drift into the church. They entered in ones and twos and, like me, selected pews close to the back. I kept looking for the Spook, but there was no sign of him yet.

  I couldn’t help glancing around for evidence of the Bane. I certainly didn’t feel its presence, but perhaps a creature so powerful would be able to feel mine. What if the rumors were true? What if it did have the strength to take on a physical form and was sitting here in the congregation? I looked about nervously, but then relaxed when I remembered what the Spook had told me. The Bane was bound to the catacombs far below, so for now, surely, I was safe.

  Or was I? Its mind was very strong, my master had said, and it could reach up into the presbytery or the cathedral to influence and corrupt the priests. Maybe at this very moment it was trying to get inside my head!

  I looked up, horrified, and caught the eye of a woman returning to her seat after paying her last respects to Father Gregory. I recognized her instantly as his weeping housekeeper, and she knew me in the same moment. She stopped at the end of my pew.

  “Why were you so late?” she demanded in a raised whisper. “If you’d come when I first sent for you, he’d still be alive today.”

  “I did my best,” I said, trying not to attract too much attention to us.

  “Sometimes your best ain’t good enough then, is it?” she said. “The Quisitor’s right about your lot, you’re nowt but trouble and deserve all that’s coming to you.”

  At the Quisitor’s name I started, but lots of people had begun to stream in, all of them wearing black cassocks and coats. Priests—dozens of them! I’d never thought to see so many in one place at a time. It was as if all the clergymen in the whole world had come together for the funeral of old Father Gregory. But I knew that wasn’t true and that they were only the ones who lived in Priestown—and maybe a few from the surrounding villages and towns. The housekeeper said nothing more and hurriedly returned to her pew.

  Now I was really afraid. Here I was, sitting in the cathedral, just above the catacombs that were home to the most fearsome creature in the County, at a time when the Quisitor was visiting—and I’d been recognized. I desperately wanted to get as far from that place as possible and looked anxiously around for any sign of my master, but I couldn’t see him. I was just deciding that I should probably leave when suddenly the big doors of the church were flung back wide and a long procession entered. There was no escape.

  At first I thought the man at the head was the Quisitor, for he had similar features. But he was older, and I remembered the Spook saying that the Quisitor had an uncle who was the bishop of Priestown; I realized it must be him.

  The ceremony began. There was a lot of singing and we stood up, sat down, and knelt endlessly. No sooner had we settled in one position than we had to move again. Now if the funeral service had been in Greek I might have understood a bit more of what was going on, because my mam taught me that language when I was little. But most of Father Gregory’s funeral was in Latin. I could follow some of it, but it made me realize I’d have to work a lot harder at my lessons.

  The bishop spoke of Father Gregory being in heaven, saying that he deserved to be there after all the good work he’d done. I was a little surprised that he made no mention of how Father Gregory had died, but I suppose the priests wanted to keep that quiet. They were probably reluctant to admit that his exorcism had failed.

  At last, after almost an hour, the funeral service was over and the procession left the church, this time with six priests carrying the coffin. The four big priests holding the candles had the harder job because they were staggering under their weight. It was only as the last one passed by, walking behind the coffin, that I noticed the triangular base of the big brass candlestick.

  On each of its three faces was a vivid representation of the ugly gargoyle that I’d seen above the cathedral door. And although it was probably caused by the flickering of the flame, once again its eyes seemed to follow me as the priest carried the candle slowly by.

  All the priests filed out to join the procession and most of the people at the back followed them, but I stayed inside the church for a long time, want
ing to keep clear of the housekeeper.

  I was wondering what to do. I hadn’t seen the Spook, and I had no idea where he was staying or how I was supposed to meet up with him again. I needed to warn him about the Quisitor—and now the housekeeper. I also needed to talk to the Spook about Alice. I hoped he’d know what to do.

  Outside, the rain had stopped and the yard at the front of the cathedral was empty. Glancing to my right, I could just see the tail of the procession disappearing round the back of the cathedral, where I supposed the graveyard must be.

  I decided to go the other way, through the front gate and out into the street, but I was in for a shock. Across the road two people were having a heated conversation. More precisely, most of the heat was coming from an angry, red-faced priest with a bandaged hand. The other man was the Spook.

  They both seemed to notice me at the same time. The Spook gestured with his thumb, signaling me to start walking right away. I did as I was told and my master followed me, keeping to the opposite side of the road.

  The priest called out after him, “Think on, John, before it’s too late!”

  I risked a glance back and saw that the priest hadn’t followed us but seemed to be staring at me. It was hard to be sure, but I thought he suddenly seemed far more interested in me than in the Spook.

  We walked downhill for several minutes before the ground leveled out. At first there weren’t many people around, but the streets soon became narrower and much busier, and after changing direction a couple of times we came to the flagged market. It was a big, bustling square, full of stalls sheltered by wooden frames draped with gray waterproof awnings. I followed the Spook into the crowd, at times not far from his heels. What else could I do? It would have been easy to lose him in a place like that.