Coughing, wheezing, tears in their eyes and their clothes ruined, they saw how close they had come.
The next roof, tiled in slate, was many peaked and the building was extensive. It was only two houses along from Alice’s home in Bishopsgate. So they sat a moment, looking down and catching their breath.
Below them the city stretched huge and beautiful. From that height, they could see some miles, beyond the old city wall, beyond The Tower, beyond the Bridge and beyond the Abbey of the Westminster. It seemed as though London spread its power across all the visible land, but looking only a little north, to where Bishopsgate blurred into green fields, Poppy could see old buildings and a high iron fence, kennels and low sheds.
Watching where she looked, John mumbled, “Bedlam Hospice, for them not right in the head. Locked up, they is, but some goes out begging.” Where Poppy now knew the city to be a buzz of buildings and business, here stretched greenery, fields, reedy wasteland and monastery gardens. She pointed, and once again John explained, “That’s St. John’s Wood. Tis another hospice, fer the lepers, it is, them poor folk sick to die and must be kept away from the rest of us.”
But she had no time to feel upset or confused. “Hurry,” urged Peter. “Only one more roof to go, and we’re there.”
There was a larger space between the roofs of the grand houses, surrounded by their grounds, but here was a long stable block, its hayloft high. That gave the perfect access and within minutes they had climbed to the towering chimneys of the old Parry Mansion, Alice’s home where the baron and his brother were living in stolen luxury.
Edmund and the baron were already in the cellars, marching past the great tubs of wine and beer, and thrusting into the small stone cell, windowless and airless, which the baron called his dungeon.
“Now then, smirked Edmund, “time to amuse ourselves.”
The baron stamped one large flat foot. “No. Leave these two boys here and lock them in. Then get this girl upstairs to the little chapel, and get this marriage over and done with before anything interferes.”
Edmund sniggered, then frowned. “What could possibly interfere? Dinner? A visit from the king?”
“I’m taking no chances,” insisted the baron without a smile. “What if that fool lawyer turns up? And some of those brats are still out there.”
Edmund was complacent. “We have five men guarding the front of the house, and another three guarding the back where they broke in through the pantry window last time. If they show their faces today, they’ll be knocked out and hauled off to gaol.”
Alfie and Nathan were both slung to the ground, tumbling onto the hard stone with a groan, their wrists and ankles were still tied tightly, and their mouths gagged. Then they heard the squeak of an iron key in the lock, click and clang, and then silence. They were locked in and it was totally black around them. They could not even see each other.
It was sometime before Nathan managed to wriggle his mouth around the gag, and whisper to Alfie. His jaw was extremely painful, and he felt that every bone in his body was bruised or broken. “What do we do now?” he managed to ask.
Alfie couldn’t answer. In any case, he felt that no answer existed. They would lie there until Alice was married to Edmund Darling, then the men would come down to whip and torture them. Death, Alfie thought, might be a better and easier outcome.
Nathan continued to wriggle, biting his lip to stifle the pain in his head. He had never had such a terrible headache in his life before. But with persistence, he managed to push down his arms behind him, and by squeezing his knees up to his chin, he brought his arms up and over so they were tied in front instead of at his back. Now, although his wrists were tied tight, he could move his fingers and started the careful attempt to untie his ankles. Head pounding and eyes stinging, he continued to struggle until he had succeeded. Now with his legs free, the gag gone, and his arms tied in front of him, he could move and quickly bent over Alfie.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “I think I can untie your hands. Then you can untie mine. We’ll still be locked in, but at least we can talk and move around.”
The little private chapel was on the second storey, and Father Michael, a small and intimidated priest who found the baron terrifying, and was prepared to do whatever he was told, was waiting patiently. The candles were lit, and their wisps of pale smoke twisted up to the beamed ceiling.
Alice was still tied wrists and ankles, but Edmund tugged off the dirty rag around her mouth as he lifted her and slung her over his shoulder. She had regained consciousness, but finding herself suddenly hoisted over one fat shoulder, with the sweaty smell of Edmund’s armpit in her face and her head upside down, she almost fainted once again.
“Let me down,” she shouted, furious and light-headed, “how dare you treat me this way!”
“Cheer up, my dear.” The baron, walking behind, chortled. “This is your wedding day. Every bride should be happy.”
Alice wished with all her heart that she had one of the knives from the next-door smith which Nathan and John had been talking about. Instead, she managed to bite Edmund’s ear, as hard as she could. He squealed, dropped her immediately, and slapped her face. He was so angry he seemed to be spitting. “Wait till we’re wed,” he muttered. “Then I shall have you whipped.”
“Where’s my friends?” Alice demanded, sitting up and staring at both men.
“Both waiting for their own whipping,” laughed the baron. “Now, my dear ward, let’s get this marriage over and done with. Then everything you own will belong to my brother, and,” and here the baron turned to look challengingly at Edmund, “my brother will share everything with me.”
“I refuse to agree to the marriage,” Alice said, sitting solidly on the floor, arms crossed as she glared up. “I will not say the words of agreement.”
But Edmund laughed. “I don’t give a fig, my dear. Both the priest and my brother, your legal guardian, will stand witness and swear that you married me willingly, and spoke the words of compliance. I even have a ring for you. Was my mother’s.”
‘I shall throw it in the river.”
“Where you’ll probably end up yourself,” interrupted the baron. “Now, silence, wench. Or I’ll gag you again.”
Dropped from shoulder to floor, she was dragged along the passageway, with one brother pulling on each arm. At the far end of the corridor Alice could see the flicker of the candles in the chapel, and the priest standing in the doorway, his hands tucked in his sleeves. She wanted to cry, but instead she called, “Father Michael. You must never agree to this. It is illegal. It is cruel. I hate these men and they want to kill me.”
But the priest looked away, as if studying his toes peeping out from his monk’s robes, and said nothing.
Alice thought she would be sick and was heaving, coughing, and gasping for breath. Her gown was torn, she had lost one shoe and her little hat, so now her hair was loose and tangled, and she felt very ill and utterly miserable. And then, at the moment of her greatest desperation, she heard an extremely faint whisper from a room just behind her, where the door stood ajar and open to a sliver of black shadows.
“Don’t worry. We’re here.” She recognised Poppy’s voice, and blinked, amazed and overjoyed.
The footsteps were so light, as of stockinged feet on tiptoe, that they could barely be heard, but Alice understood. Meanwhile the baron was striding forwards, marching towards the priest.
“Ready, father? This won’t take long.”
“It is most – irregular, my lord,” faltered the priest, stepping back a pace.
“Nonsense man,” Edmund told him. “No one will ever question what happened here. The girl is of age, and,” he sniggered, “she has her guardian’s permission.”
“At least let me stand,” Alice said, twisting and trying to free both her hands. She was released, and stood, brushing down her torn skirts. But Edmund took a firm grasp on her elbow.
Everyone faced the entrance to the little glittering chapel, exc
ept the priest who was flushed and still avoiding Alice’s eyes. So nobody saw what was about to happen next as three figures stepped silently from the shadows of the open doorway.
First the sharp-edged roof tile flew suddenly from the darkness into the light, and then, as fast and as heavy, came the rock, hurtling from the gloom behind.
Chapter Nineteen
John threw the broken tile straight at Edmund’s head, and amongst his tufts of bright red hair, there appeared a trickle of bright red blood. At exactly the same time, with expert accuracy, Peter aimed a stone at the baron. It hit the back of his head, and with considerable force. John’s second roof tile hit Edmund in the middle of his forehead as he swung around to face the attack, and both John and Edmund raced towards each other in anger. Edmund was attempting to pull his short knife from his belt, but the width of his huge heaving stomach made it difficult to un-wedge the hilt, and John, both fists flailing, was able to punch his adversary twice, very hard, on the nose.
“You wanna cut me throat, does ya,” yelled John. “Well, take that.”
As the baron, rubbing his head, turned to run at Peter, Alice stuck out one foot, and tripping, he tumbled at her feet, and wailed, clutching his stomach.
The priest, in wide-eyed astonishment, scurried back into his chapel and stood before the altar, doing nothing at all.
But Poppy followed him in and grabbed two of the tall flaming candles in their heavy silver holders. In the swirling chaos, she managed to hit Edmund over the head with one, and then, as he bent, cursing, shoved the burning flame into the neck of his fine frilly shirt. The other candlestick she flung at the baron, and although she missed, the burning wick unexpectedly caught his sleeve and flared into fire, scorching his grand brocade and engulfing his hand.
“There! That’s what a woman can do,” Poppy shouted, though considerably surprised at her own success.
John moved in, discovered a large earthenware urn on a table beside the chapel entrance, and banged this on Edmund’s already very bruised forehead. His knees buckled, as the candle, wedged inside his collar, flared up. His soft fat flesh puckered below his neck, and a trickle of fire singed up to his red hair.
Edmund’s eyes rolled up, closed, and he gave a strangled moan, finally collapsing to the floor of the corridor. “Brute,” Alice shouted. “Wanted to whip me and kill me, did you? Well, see what your intended bride and her friends can do to you.” The licking flamelets on his hair hissed and went out with a sizzle but Edmund lay still.
The urn had broken into a flurry of pieces, each long and sharp, and John grabbed one of these and stabbed out in the baron’s direction. But the baron turned and turned again, blood in his eyes, his hand burning furiously as he tried to clamp out the flames with his other fingers. He was still conscious and raging in uncontrolled temper. “Cowardly fool,” he roared at the hovering priest. “Call Lacey. Call the guards.”
Yet the priest still hesitated. “I must remind you, my lord, that I also owe loyal diligence to the Lady Alice. This is her home, as I understand it, and I owe her my friendship and guidance.” His voice took on more volume as Alice smiled warmly at him. So he continued a little louder, saying, “Intending to marry the young lady against her will, did not sit easily on my conscience, my lord, in spite of your orders. Now I fear I must remove myself from this situation. I shall kneel at the altar and pray for your safety and understanding.”
The priest shuffled off, Edmund was still lying unconscious on the floorboards, and the baron turned on Alice. Although Poppy ran in and hit him again with the candlestick, he pushed her away and managed to clamp both hands around Alice’s neck and haul her backwards against him. He stared at the others over Alice’s shoulder.
“Well,” he shouted, “want to kill me, do you? So, let me warn you that the girl dies first. I can break her neck with one twist. Back off now, or she dies.”
John and Poppy stared at him in disgust and horror, but Peter was no longer there. It was some time previously that he had crept away, and was trying to remain unseen as he searched for the way downstairs, and the cellars where he knew Alfie and Nathan would be locked away. Sidling silently down the huge staircase, Peter kept to the shadows, making himself seem smaller than he was. The stairs seemed to go on forever, but he saw no one. It was on the final flight that a maid trotted past him, and stopped suddenly, staring at him.
With a gulp, Peter muttered, “I’m the new scullion. Just been up to ask the lord’s permission.”
The maid looked doubtful. “You ain’t in livery.”
“Haven’t got it yet. It’s – on order. Coming tomorrow. I’ve been – collecting the chamber pots.”
“You ain’t carrying none,” she pointed out.
“Done finished,” said Peter. “Don’t hold me up or I’ll be late and get the sack before I even start.”
He hurried past her, turned once, and was relieved to see that she was no longer watching him. Pattering through the narrow corridor to the kitchens and pantries, Peter managed to avoid open doorways, and since he knew exactly where the kitchens were, and could hear the noise of cooks and cooking, he dodged again into the darker places at the very back of the house.
Where he had come with Alice to rescue Alfie, had broken a window and climbed in, now the window opening was boarded up. But Peter smiled. That didn’t bother him for he was already inside, and now he knew exactly where he was. Slipping through the wine cellars, and hiding behind one of the kegs when he heard approaching footsteps, and stayed, holding his breath, until the steps faded away. He hated the smell of stale wine and strong beer, spilt and trickling across the ground. It stank but there was no time for him to feel sick. Now, quickly arriving at the low locked door to the underground cell, where Alfie had been thrown before, Peter stopped, calling softly. “Are you there? Don’t worry. Just me.”
He took the little bent nail from his rolled tunic cuff, and began to pick the lock. It took him only a moment, and he pulled the rickety door wide. Its rusty hinges creaked. And there, crouched inside, were Alfie and Nathan.
They leapt up as they saw Peter. “How?” “That’s truly wonderful” “You’s proper brilliant, Pete.”
“No time. Hurry up,” Peter whispered. “We’re still in danger.”
Having already managed to extricate themselves from their gags and ropes, Alfie and Nathan were immediately able to follow Peter as he led them back up to the chapel.
“Shame we can’t go into the kitchen and pick up some carving knives,” whispered Nathan.
Alfie was in a furious temper, and could hardly wait to get his hands on Edmund and the baron. “We’ll manage anyway.” He glowered. “Reckon I’m going to kill them both.”
“You can try,” Peter nodded. “But you both look pretty weak to me.”
It was true. They had rope burns around their wrists, bruises and blackened eyes, and their knees buckled and ached as they tried to hurry, feeling as though they could hardly stand, let alone run. First beaten, then knocked unconscious, they had then been carried in a swelteringly hot cart over a thousand bumps, and finally dragged and thrown into the cell. But Nathan and Alfie struggled on, determined to achieve their own freedom and help Alice and the others.
Clattering up the stairs, several of the servants came out to see what was happening, but knowing nothing of the situation, they stood back, confused, and muttering to each other. But the wine steward frowned and said, “Most peculiar. Time to call Mister Lacey, I believe.”
Outside the chapel, Peter stopped abruptly, and Alfie and Nathan stared. A dozen candles flickered, the priest stood, a little ashamed and slump-shouldered, before the altar, and standing in front of him were the baron and his brother Edmund, both supporting between them the rigid figure of Lady Alice Parry. It was difficult to see whether Alice was conscious or not, but her head was slumped and had the brothers not been holding her up then she would clearly have fallen.
“Stop,” Alfie yelled. “Let her go.”
; Nathan was looking around for Poppy, but there was no sign of her. One second later, John came rushing from the room opposite, bursting from the shadows with a poker from the hearth. With half a blink at the arrival of Peter, Alfie and Nathan, John aimed directly at Edmund’s back and plunged the poker into the sliver of neck showing below his straight cut red hair, and the already singed collar of his shirt.
The point of the poker was raging hot from the fire, and glowed. Edmund howled. He was barely conscious himself, and had only just managed to clamber to his feet at his brother’s insistence, ready to complete the marriage at last. But now, releasing Alice, he clamped both hands to the back of his neck and flopped to his knees. John promptly hit him over the head with the poker’s edge.
The baron swung Alice in front of him and faced the others. John, Alfie, Peter and Nathan glared back, hesitating.
“You know what I said before,” the baron snarled. “Alice dies right now, unless you all back off. This wedding will take place, even if the girl lies dead. Do you hear me? Get back.”
“Your vile brother isn’t capable of marrying anyone,” Nathan pointed out, taking a step forwards. “He’s squealing like a sick pig, flat on the ground.”
The Baron raised his burned hand. All the flesh was wrinkled and black, and long strips of bleeding skin hung loose. Across one finger, the bone showed through stark white. He said, “You will all pay for this, and so will the girl. But she’s not dead yet. And whether my brother stands here or not is of no consequence. This marriage will now take place.” He turned to the priest. “Speak those words now, or I shall strangle the girl, and you can carry the blame for that for the rest of your life.”
Father Michael quaked, shivering. “But it is hardly proper, my lord –”
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