The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “Well, that’s it!” he said. “Saltcombe Farm. Let’s go down and get it over with. . . .”

  He strode off down the incline, making no effort to keep out of sight. Once in the valley, he made straight for the front door, which I expected to spring open at any moment as the gang raced to attack us. When he was less than twenty paces away, he came to a halt and turned to face me, nodding toward the two dogs.

  “Hold their collars firmly and don’t let them go,” he ordered. “When I shout ‘Now!’ release them. But not before. Understand?”

  I nodded uncertainly and gripped the dogs’ collars as they strained forward. If they decided to go, there was no way I’d be able to stop them.

  “What if something goes wrong?” I asked. There were five soldiers inside the house—still probably armed with blades and clubs. I remembered what the old lady had said about the parish constable. They’d beaten him to within an inch of his life.

  “Master Ward,” he said scornfully, “if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s a pessimist. Believe that you can do something and half the battle is won before you start. I’m going to sort this lot out and then get on with my real business. Here, watch this for me,” and he dropped his big bag at my feet. Then he reversed his staff so that the murderous spear was pointing downward. It suggested that he didn’t want to do the soldiers any permanent damage.

  With that he strode directly toward the front door and, with one kick from his heavy left boot, smashed it open. He went straight in, swinging his staff, and I heard swearwords, then shouts of pain and anger from inside. Next a big man in a ragged uniform with blood running down his forehead came running out of the door, heading straight toward me, spitting out broken teeth. The two dogs growled simultaneously, and he halted and stared straight at me for a moment. It was the sergeant with the scarred face, and I saw recognition and anger flare simultaneously behind his eyes. For a moment I thought he’d decided to attack me despite the dogs but then he turned to the right and ran up the slope.

  I heard Arkwright shout “Now!” and before I could react, the dogs tore free of my grip and raced toward the open door, barking furiously.

  No sooner had Tooth and Claw entered the house than the remaining four deserters left it. Three fled through the door and followed the sergeant up the hill, but the fourth jumped through a front window and headed straight toward me, brandishing a knife. It was the corporal. The dogs couldn’t help me now so I raised my staff and held it diagonally across my body in a defensive stance.

  As he drew closer, a mirthless smile creased his face. He halted, facing me in a crouch, the blade held wide in his right hand. “Made a big mistake in deserting, boy. I’m going to slice open your belly and take your guts for garters!”

  So saying, he ran at me fast, the knife already curving toward my body. I moved faster than I could think, the practice with Arkwright paying off. My first blow was to his wrist, spinning the knife from his hand. He grunted with pain as I hit him a second time: a blow to his head that sent him to his knees. He wasn’t laughing now. There was fear in his eyes. He came slowly to his feet. I could have hit him again but I let him be. He turned and with a curse set off after his companions. They were all running up the hill as if the Devil himself were at their heels.

  I headed toward the house, thinking it was over, but then watched openmouthed from the doorway as Arkwright, roaring with anger, proceeded to smash everything inside into tiny pieces: furniture, crockery, and every remaining window. When he’d finished, he whistled Tooth and Claw back to heel and set fire to the house. As we climbed out of the valley, a thick plume of dark smoke obscured the setting sun.

  “Nothing for them to come back to now!” Arkwright remarked with a grin.

  Then, from high on the fell, someone called down to us:

  “You’re a dead man, Spook! A dead man! We’ll find out where you live. You’re dead: you and the boy! You’ve both got it coming to you now. We serve the king. You’ll hang for sure!”

  “Don’t look so worried, Master Ward,” said Arkwright with a wry smile. “He’s all talk. If they had the stomach for it, they’d be down here fighting now, not cringing with fear up on that hill.”

  “But won’t they report what’s happened and send more soldiers after us? You’ve hit one of the king’s soldiers and we’ve destroyed all their possessions.”

  “The war’s going badly so I doubt very much whether they’ve got soldiers to spare for hunting the likes of us. Besides, I’m pretty sure they’re deserters. They’re the ones who need fear hanging. They certainly don’t behave like a proper press-gang. Beating up the parish constable wasn’t part of the job when I was in the army!”

  With that, Arkwright turned on his heel and set off for the cave.

  “When were you a soldier?” I asked.

  “Long ago. After completing my time with Mr. Gregory I went back to the mill and tried to free my mam and dad. When I couldn’t do it, I was so bitter that I left the trade for a while. The army trained me as a gunner, but the land was at peace and there was nobody to shoot at, so I bought myself out and went back to being a spook. Funny how things work out. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’d never have run from a battle—not like those lily-livered cowards up there.”

  “You were a gunner? You mean you fired one of those big cannon?”

  “An eighteen-pounder, it was, Master Ward. The biggest cannon in the County. And I was a master gunner and sergeant to boot. To all intents and purposes, that was my gun!”

  “I’ve seen it,” I told him. “In the summer soldiers brought it up from Colne and used it to breach Malkin Tower.”

  “How long did it take ’em?” Arkwright asked.

  “They were at it from noon to sunset, then finished the job in less than an hour the following morning.”

  “Did they now? No wonder the war down south is going so badly. I’ve seen that tower and I reckon I could breach its walls in under two hours. It’s all about technique and training, Master Ward!” he said with a smile.

  It was strange how cheerful and talkative he’d suddenly become. He seemed elated. It was as if the fight with the deserters had lifted his spirits.

  But back at the hermitage, Arkwright’s anger bubbled up again when he discovered that the hermit hadn’t been able to discover the whereabouts of Morwena’s lair.

  “I’ve kept my side of the bargain, now keep yours!” he raged.

  “Have patience, William,” Judd said calmly. “Can crops be grown in winter? Of course not, because all things have their time. I said I haven’t discovered it yet. Not that I won’t be able to do so eventually. And I’ve got close enough to know that you’re right. Her lair is in the southern Lakelands. But it’s hard to find a witch. She’s undoubtedly used her powers to cloak her whereabouts. Is she a particularly strong witch?”

  Arkwright nodded. “They don’t come much stronger. Her true name is Morwena but some call her Bloodeye. No doubt you’ll have heard the name?”

  “That I have,” replied the hermit. “Both names. Who hasn’t? Every mother in the County trembles at those names. Scores of children have gone missing in the last twenty years. I’ll do all I can to help, but I’m tired now. These things can’t be rushed. I’ll try again tomorrow when things will be more propitious. What’s the weather like?”

  “Turning milder and starting to drizzle,” grumbled Arkwright, still far from pleased.

  “You don’t want to be traveling in those conditions, do you? Why don’t you settle yourselves down for the night? Have you eaten?”

  “Not since breakfast. I can manage but Master Ward here is always hungry.”

  “Then I’ll heat us up some broth.”

  But before supper Arkwright took me out onto the dark hillside and we practiced fighting with staffs again. It seemed he was determined to keep up with my training wherever and whenever he could. A fine rain drifted into our faces as we tried to keep our balance on the slippery grass. This time he didn’t del
iver any blows to my body but seemed content to force me backward and test my defensive skills.

  “Well, Master Ward, that’s enough for now,” he said at last. “I do believe we’re starting to see a faint glimmer of improvement. I saw how you dealt with that corporal earlier. You did well, lad. You should be proud of yourself. Keep at it and within six months you’ll be well able to look after yourself.”

  His words cheered me up, and as we headed back to the cave, I began to look forward to my supper. But it proved a disappointment. The broth was bitter, and at the first mouthful I pulled my face. I wondered what was in it.

  Arkwright just smiled at my distaste. “Eat it all up, Master Ward! That’s the best herb soup you’ll get north of Caster. Judd here is a vegetarian. The dogs’ll eat better than us tonight.”

  The hermit gave no sign that he was insulted by Arkwright’s remarks, but out of respect I made myself empty my bowl of broth and then thanked him. Whatever was in it, I had my best night’s sleep since leaving Chipenden.

  CHAPTER XV

  The Dancing Finger

  THERE was no breakfast. Soon after dawn Judd Atkins opened the lakes map and laid it on the ground near the embers of the fire.

  “Right!” he said at last, staring at it. “I’ve had a good night’s sleep and I’m feeling much better. Should be able to find her now . . .”

  So saying, he pulled two items from his breeches pocket. One was a short length of fine string; the other was the severed witch’s finger. He then tied one end of the string to the finger.

  The hermit saw me watching and smiled. “Before I retreated from this wicked world, I was a dowser, Thomas. Mostly I used a birch twig to find water. Many of the wells to the north of the County were found by me. Occasionally I found missing people, too. I could suspend a shred of clothing or a locket of hair above a map until my hand twitched. Sadly, many of those I located were already dead, but their families were still grateful to find a body to bury in hallowed ground. Now, let’s see if I can find myself a water witch called Morwena. . . .”

  Arkwright moved closer and we both watched as the hermit began a systematic search. Moving the suspended finger slowly from west to east, then east to west, he made steady sweeps across the width of the map, moving slightly farther north each time. After less than a minute his hand suddenly twitched. He paused, took a deep breath, moved his hand to the right and brought it back again very smoothly and steadily. It twitched again, this time jerking upward so that the witch’s finger danced on the end of the string.

  “Mark that, William!” he called, and Arkwright walked across, knelt, and made two small crossmarks. That done, the hermit continued to traverse the map. Soon his hand twitched again. Within moments the severed finger was once more dancing on the string as he identified a third location. Each time Arkwright marked the spot very carefully. The hermit continued but found nothing more to report.

  All three crosses were to the west of Coniston Water: the first was on its northwest shore; the second marked a very small lake called Goat’s Water; the third, farther to the north, was called Lever’s Water.

  “So is it all of them, old man, or are you simply not sure?” Arkwright asked, impatience strong in his voice.

  “Is to be certain to be right? We must always allow room for doubt, William. It could well be all three. I’m sure she spends some time at each location,” came the reply. “There could even be others farther north than you asked me to investigate. I got the strongest reaction from the Coniston shore, but I also feel that she roams the whole area west of that lake. Do you know the place well?”

  “I’ve had cause to work up there more than once, but I don’t know the lake’s northern extremity, on the border of the County. They’re a surly lot up there in Coniston, set in their ways, and don’t take kindly to outsiders. They’d rather suffer in silence than bring in a spook from the south.”

  Wisely I kept my thoughts to myself, but I thought that was a bit much coming from someone as unfriendly as Arkwright, who could barely tolerate an apprentice in his house.

  Just when we were about to set off, the weather closed in, the west wind driving the rain hard against the hillside so that it drummed on the roof of the cave and encroached into its entrance, at times hissing into the edge of the fire.

  “You daft old man,” Arkwright taunted. “Why on earth choose a cave with an entrance facing the prevailing winds?”

  “The cold and wet are good for the soul. Why do you live in a house on the edge of a swamp when you could live more healthily up in the bracing air?” Judd Atkins retaliated.

  Anger flickered across Arkwright’s brow but he said nothing. He lived there because it had been his parents’ house, and now that his mother’s spirit was trapped, he couldn’t leave them. The hermit probably knew nothing of that, otherwise he would surely not have spoken so cruelly.

  Because of the inclement weather, Arkwright decided to stay for one more night and then head north toward Coniston at first light. While Judd built up the fire, Arkwright took me fishing in the pouring rain. I thought he’d use a rod or a net but he had a method he called “tickling.”

  “Never go hungry if you can do this!” he told me.

  It consisted of lying on his belly on the wet riverbank with his arms plunged into the cold water. The idea was to tickle the belly of the trout so that it moved backward into your hand, at which point you flipped it onto the grass. He showed me the technique, but it took a lot of patience and no trout came even within reach of my hands. Arkwright caught two, however, which he soon cooked to perfection. The hermit simply sipped more of his broth, which meant that Arkwright and I got a whole fish each. They were delicious and soon I was feeling much better.

  But then it was more fighting with staffs. I got off lightly, ending up with just one bruise on my arm, but Arkwright fought me to a standstill and I was exhausted. So I slept well in that cave. It was certainly more restful than the mill.

  By dawn the rain had ceased and we set off without further delay, heading north toward the lakes.

  The Spook had certainly been right about the scenery in this part of the County. As we reached Coniston Water and skirted its western tree-lined shore, all about us were sights to delight the eye. The slopes to the east were forested with deciduous and coniferous trees, the latter providing greenery to brighten the somber late-autumn day. The clouds were high, so there was a spectacular view of the mountains to the north, and the rain had evidently been falling as snow up there, causing their peaks to gleam white against the gray sky.

  Arkwright seemed in a slightly more cheerful mood so, tired of the long silence—he hadn’t spoken a word since we’d left the hermit’s cave—I risked a question.

  “That mountain ahead, is that the Old Man of Coniston?”

  “That it is, Master Ward, as you should well know. You’ll be familiar with it after our study of that map yesterday. Quite a sight, isn’t it? Far higher than the fells behind Mr. Gregory’s house. It attracts the eye, but sometimes places of equal significance don’t stand out so much. See that bank over there?” he said, pointing across to the eastern shore of the lake.

  I nodded.

  “Well, that’s the spot where I slew the Coniston Ripper. Right under that very bank. Probably the best thing I’ve done since completing my time with Mr. Gregory. But if I could catch or kill Morwena, that would top it for sure.”

  Something approaching a grin creased Arkwright’s face, and he even began to whistle low and tunelessly while the dogs circled us, snapping at the air in their excitement.

  We entered Coniston village from the south. There were few people about, but those we saw seemed unfriendly; some even crossed to the other side of the street rather than pass close to us. It was only to be expected. Most people were nervous at being close to a spook even in Chipenden, where Mr. Gregory had lived for years. My master liked to keep his distance and avoided walking through the center, and when I collected the provisions, not everybody w
as as friendly as the shopkeepers, who welcomed our regular custom.

  On reaching a stream—marked on the map as CHURCH BECK—we began to climb a steep track to the west, leaving behind the huddle of houses with their smoking chimneys. Above us loomed the formidable heights of the “Old Man,” but just when my legs were beginning to ache, Arkwright led us off the track into a small garden that fronted a tavern. The sign proclaimed it as: The Beck Inn.

  Two old men were standing in the doorway, each holding a pot of ale. They stepped aside briskly to allow us through, the alarm on their faces probably not only caused by the sight of the two fearsome wolfhounds. They could tell our trade by our clothes and staffs.

  Inside, the tavern was empty but the tabletops were clean and a welcoming fire blazed in the grate. Arkwright walked to the bar and rapped loudly on the wooden counter. We heard someone coming up the steps and a rotund, jovial-looking man in a clean apron came through the open doorway to our right.

  I saw him glance warily at the dogs and give Arkwright a quick up and down, but then his initial uneasy smile settled into the businesslike welcome of an experienced host. “Good day to you, good sirs,” he said. “What can I offer you? Accommodation, a meal, or simply two tankards of my very best ale?”

  “We’ll take two rooms, landlord, and an evening meal—hot pot, if you have it. In the meantime we’ll sit over there in the corner by the fire and start with a caudle.”

  The landlord bowed and hurried away. I took my seat opposite Arkwright, wondering what was going on. On the very rare occasions Mr. Gregory and I stayed in a tavern, we shared a room; he got the bed while I slept on the floor. Arkwright had ordered us a room each.

  “What’s a caudle?” I asked.

  “It’s something to cheer you up on a cold, damp late-autumn evening. A hot, spicy mixture of wine and gruel. Just the thing to sharpen our appetites for the hot pot.”

  I worried a bit when he said the word wine. The fight with the soldiers had shown me again how violent and angry Arkwright could become with wine inside him, and I feared him when he was like that. I’d hoped that he had started to curb his drinking recently, but perhaps the episode with the press-gang had given him a taste for it.