Snap

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  There was only one other person that he thought could answer his questions, if he chose. So without saying anything to anyone, Nathan slipped out and climbed the steps to the outside. The smell of the burned out shop opposite was still unpleasant, hanging on the air just like the balloon which he was about to call. So he wandered up Bandy Alley to the great stone wall of the Tower at the end, turned the corner, and stood in the huge slanting shadows. Then he started, very softly, to call.

  “Brewster, please come. Come and tell me why you brought me here. Come and tell me who you are. Come and tell me about Lashtang. And why Granny and the smith both get called October.”

  Nathan did not expect immediate answers, but he had nothing else to do, so he stayed there, muttering aloud. No one else could hear him and no one else walked Bandy Alley. He could not see over the Tower wall, for this was the outer Bastian across the moat. The turn of the alley hid the moat’s glinting waters, but Nathan could hear shouted orders, marching boots, and once even the roar of a lion from the menagerie. He had already been told about the great royal menagerie kept at the Tower, and thought it rather strange, but it was something far stranger that he hoped to see now.

  Staring up into the sky, Nathan waited, called again, waited once more, and finally called over and over, under his breath, but growing louder.

  It was suddenly behind him that he heard the voice. “What on earth are you doing, Nat?”

  Startled, he whirled around with a jerk. “Oh bother. It’s you,” he frowned at Poppy. “You’re a nuisance. I wanted to be alone.”

  “I just saved your rotten life,” Poppy glared back. “So why do you want secrets? I’m stuck here too, aren’t I?”

  Relenting, Nathan pulled out the knife carefully from the torn wrapped ties of his hose. “Look,” he handed it to her. “I found this in the burned out ashes. It has something to do with this whole adventure, I’m sure of it. What do you think? And I’ve been calling Brewster. Just hoping that someone in this whole crazy world will explain something.”

  With interest and growing wonder, Poppy examined the knife and its hilt. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “It tells a story.”

  She smoothed her finger over the shapes on the handle. “People with wings. A flying snake. If it’s a story at all, then it’s one I can’t tell.” She handed back the knife. “Go on then, call your horrid wizard in the balloon. But make sure it’s not the wizard that brought me because he’s nasty.”

  Walking further and turning one more corner, Poppy and Nathan stood directly in front of the Tower moat, its ripples of dark water catching the sudden glint of reflected sun. Across this, the walls of stone rose high, mossy in its crevices, guarding the fortress within. Nathan stopped, staring up.

  “Alright,” he mumbled. “Come on Brewster. I know some of your secrets. Tell me some more. Or take Poppy and me back home to Granny October and leave us there in peace.”

  The entrance across the moat and through the wall was closed, although the drawbridge was down, and the iron portcullis was raised. Then, quite suddenly as Nathan and Poppy watched, the massive oak doors swung open, and two guards stood either side. From Tower Street, the wide road leading to the Tower entrance, there was the echo of many hooves and the sound of a bugle call. The noise came closer, a clattering of many riders clearly aiming for the Tower itself.

  Neither Nathan nor Poppy had ever seen such a grand and glorious parade. First came four armoured guards, their horses covered in bright swinging and tasselled tapestries. Next rode a group of laughing, talking men, all mounted, turning to each other to speak. Finally two liveried gentleman rode, sitting very straight in their saddles and staring ahead. Last of all came two more guards, their pikes held beneath their arms, pointing upwards as if in salute to the sun. Each horse was handsome as though polished, and the men were dressed in rich velvets, furs and satins.

  In considerable admiration, Nathan and Poppy stood back, keeping to the wall as the fine group of men trotted past. But at the last moment, as the parade began to cross the drawbridge, one of the men turned his mount aside, and came towards Nathan. Sure he was about to be in great trouble, he tried to shuffle into the deeper shadows, but the rider stopped in front and he and Poppy, looking down with a gentle smile.

  He was a fairly young man with light brown hair, but with a face a little lined with care and worry. Looking directly at Nathan, the man spoke clearly. “Well, young man, I see you have been in some difficulty. I don’t mean to criticise your clothes, but it would seem you have no money to spend on mending them or buying a new.”

  Blushing slightly, Nathan said, “Someone beat me up. And I’ve nothing to mend them with.”

  “Then after that, our home just got burned down,” interrupted Poppy. “It’s not been a lucky week.”

  “I cannot create good luck,” smiled the man. “But perhaps I can help a little. I don’t wish the children of my capital city to suffer. Have you no parents?”

  Poppy shook her head. “We haven’t any.”

  Nathan noticed that the entire group had stopped, their horses reined in and waiting. He wondered who the grand man was. Saying, “We’re living in the ironmonger’s cellar, because there isn’t anywhere else,” he smiled back with a small bow. He had never bowed to anyone in his life before, but he guessed this was a lord of some kind, and unlike the monstrous baron, this lord seemed pleasant and helpful.

  The man leaned down across the horse’s neck, and, calling back across his shoulder, said, “Francis, give this boy a sovereign.” Smiling again at Poppy and Nathan, he continued, “I wish you both well. If you find yourselves still homeless in days to come, you have my permission to come to the Palace of Westminster, and ask for Sir Francis Lovell, saying that you have express permission.” He waved to the man behind him. “This is Sir Francis Lovell, a gentleman of great talents and kindness who may order someone to find you work and a warm bed. In the meantime, God speed, and I wish you luck.”

  The grand man nodded, turned and road on, leaving the man he had called Francis to throw down a small leather purse at Nathan’s feet. “Here, boy,” he called. “Come to see me at the palace, should you require further help. Tell the guards there that you have a direct invitation from his majesty.”

  “Who was that man who came over to us?” mumbled Nathan, astonished, as Poppy quickly bent to grab the fallen purse.

  Francis Lovell, riding off, looked back over his shoulder, laughing. “Why, the king of course. His royal majesty, King Richard. Surely lad, even a penniless beggar boy should know the king when he sees him. The greatest monarch we’ve had in many a long century. You’ve been lucky to meet him. He’s in mourning for his queen, but no King has the choice mourn in peace.”

  And they were gone. The whole party trotted over the drawbridge, rode beneath the mighty portcullis, and disappeared into the Tower’s huge courtyards. The sounds faded, the heavy doors clanged shut, and Nathan and Poppy, clutching the purse, were left staring after them in astonishment.

  “The king,” repeated Poppy, impressed. “I never thought I’d meet any kings or queens. Which one was that?”

  “Richard III,” muttered Nathan. “Brewster told me he was the king here. But I heard tell he was horrible, like the baron.”

  “I don’t know anything about him, but he seemed nice to me,” Poppy grinned, and opened the purse she still clutched. “Look. Three coins, one silver and two gold. But I don’t know what they are.”

  “I know exactly what they are,” said Nathan with a large sigh. “Fabulous good luck, that’s what. The king said he couldn’t create good luck, but he just has.”

  “But we didn’t get Brewster.”

  “I don’t care about Brewster just at this minute,” Nathan said, turning quickly. “Let’s go back with the money and show the others and tell them we have a special invitation from the king.” He chuckled. “John always reckoned he’d end up as Sir John, Knight of the Realm. Now maybe he will.”

  “O
r you will.” Poppy was giggling. “I can’t wait to tell Peter I’ve spoken to the king.”

  With just a few steps and two corners back to Bandy Alley, Nathan and Poppy arrived at the ironmongers to discover Pimple, firmly tethered, standing patiently in front of the shop, munching on turnips.

  John was standing beside the horse, pulling his fingers gently through the tangled hair of its short mane. He looked up. “Now don’t go telling me off fer buying them turnips,” he said at once. “We all gotta eat.”

  “We can eat whatever we want now, and buy clothes too,” grinned Nathan.

  “Courtesy of the king,” said Poppy, skipping in a circle and clinking the purse.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I met the king.” It still seemed incredible to him and to everyone else as Nathan told them his story. They clapped him on the back and pretended to bow at his feet. The excitement bubbled through the shop, into the cellar, and up again.

  Having found Pimple wandering forlornly outside his own home at the beer carrier’s yard, John Ten-Toes had been utterly delighted, bought turnips at the market, and led the small horse home again. Whether it was the sight of John, or the sight of the turnips, it was hard to tell, but Pimple was clearly cheerful again. Although hesitant at the lingering smell of fire, he allowed himself to be tethered outside the ironmongers and continued chomping. Mouse was licking her kittens clean as they rolled into obedient balls, squeaking and blinking. Sam curled content, Peter was busy trying to comb his hair which had blown into long and unkempt knots, and Alice, Alfie, Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry had arrived back home. While Mister Winters kept the business bustling, Mistress Winters greeted her two eager guests, and showed them into her tiny solar upstairs from the shop. Although there was insufficient space, and also insufficient stools to sit on, everyone crowded in and were smilingly offered a light beer in a small wooden cup.

  Poppy shook her head, trying not to pull a face, but Nathan took his with considerable curiosity. He tasted it and the suspicion cleared. He found it very watery, somewhat unpleasant, but easy enough to drink since nothing else was on offer. With no soft drinks in existence yet, and most water highly contaminated, dirty and full of disease, Nathan supposed that sloppy ale was all they had even for children.

  “Well,” said Uncle Henry, rubbing his hands together, drinking his beer with satisfaction, and smiling widely at everyone, “I believe we have succeeded. The admirable Percival Weeks is convinced that he can present the document, which is the Lady Alice’s mother’s final Testament, to the judge with every expectation of acceptance. My dearest Margaret is the next of kin named, and not the baron. We can have him evicted, and my dear Alice can move back home.”

  “Mister Weeks has his final important appointment to see the judge tomorrow morning,” Aunt Margaret said quickly, “and I gather he has already hinted that he’ll sign and seal an order demanding the departure of the baron. I shall be ready to watch as the wretched creature is hustled out with his tail between his legs. He has been a brute to Henry and myself, and I’ve lived in fear of him for several years.”

  “Only a few hours more to wait.”

  “Just one night more. But how shall I ever sleep?”

  “Who cares about sleep when everything is about to go right at long last.”

  “The greatest good luck, my dear.”

  “Which is what the king said,” mumbled Nathan. “And it’s really happening.” He was standing by the one little window, and looked across at where Uncle Henry sat. “If the judge says yes tomorrow. How long do you think it will be before the baron gets thrown out?”

  “The nobility very rarely get thrown anywhere, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “But he will be served with notice to leave, and if he hasn’t done so by the end of the month, then guards will be sent to warn him that time is up.”

  Poppy slumped down again. “That means ages and ages and ages. What if he just won’t go?”

  Alice stood abruptly. “Then I shall appeal to the courts, the Constable, and the king too if I have to.”

  “We shall stay this night at the Whistle and Wherry,’ nodded Aunt Margaret, “and tomorrow we’ll accompany the lawyer to see the judge. Alice will come with us too, of course. And,” she smiled in a sweeping circle to include everyone, “we’ll be back in an hour or two, bringing the wonderful news that we’ve all been waiting for.”

  After Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry had left, with many thanks and kisses to Alice, Alfie hurried back downstairs to tell Sam and Peter. It was over dinner, sitting around on the floor of the cellar, that they all told each other their stories, exclaimed over the excitement of meeting the king, talked about the future, and planned exactly how they would live once they could move into Alice’s proper home with her.

  “We have to take Mouse.”

  “Of course we will.”

  “The king wore black velvet with golden padded bits on his shoulders.”

  “And the kittens.”

  “And Pimple.”

  “Pimple can have the best stable there is, and eat turnips every day until he gets too fat to trot.”

  “Black. Because the court’s in mourning.”

  “Can I have a bedchamber to myself?”

  “No, I don’t want to be all alone. I’ve never slept alone. I want to share a bed with everyone.”

  “Well, not with me and Poppy.”

  “You’ll have the grandest room of all, and the grandest bed.”

  “And I,” sighed Poppy, “hope to go back to my own room and bed and granny.”

  Peter grinned. “Bet Alice’s house is best. I bet you don’t have a hundred candles, nor a big bed with four posts and a feather mattress, and a real garderobe with a painted chamber pot.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Poppy with a smirk. “I don’t even know what a garderobe is. But I still want my own home.”

  “Just shows,” sighed Peter. “you future folks don’t have anything grand anymore. A garderobe is a proper private privy.”

  “A loo.” Poppy giggled. “We have loos in the future, I promise we do.”

  Curled beneath his blanket, Nathan tried to sleep. He wondered if he was a little drunk after drinking beer for the very first time in his life. But it was the mystery of the Hazlett twins, of Lashtang, and of how he could get home that troubled him. Silently, he called to Brewster. But nobody answered him and finally he fell asleep.

  Immediately he found himself back in his own kitchen, with the sun blazing in through the large windows, and the daffodils waving from outside in the garden. Granny October looked up from the kitchen table, where she was busy mixing something in a big blue bowl. “There you are at last,” she scolded. “I’ve been waiting for you all day. Look, I’m making your favourite chocolate cake.”

  “I want to come home,” Nathan insisted, and heard his own voice fading out, as though coming from a great distance. “You have to help me.”

  “I’m making a very nice cake,” said Granny. “What more do you expect?”

  “Tell me about Lashtang.”

  “Don’t be silly, Nathan,” she said, concentrating on the mixing bowl.

  “Alright,” Nathan sighed. “Tell me about the Hazlett twins.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nathan,” she answered, not looking up.

  Finally, taking a deep breath, Nathan asked, “Tell me about your name, then. I’m Nathan Bannister. So where’s October come from?”

  She finally looked up, gazing at him over her glasses. “I am your mother’s mother,” she told him with a slight frown. You know this. Your father’s name is Bannister. Your mother’s is October.”

  “October is a month,” Nathan said quickly. “Not a name.”

  “Ah,” Granny frowned, “that’s because you assume it is spelled like the month. But naturally it is not. O – C – T – O – B – R. There’s no ‘e’ between the ‘b’ and the ‘r’.”

  Nathan stared. “Does that make any difference?”


  “Of course it does, silly boy,” said Granny. “That’s the only way it has any meaning at all. Now,” and she pointed, “sit down while I put your cake in the oven.”

  Which is exactly when Nathan woke up.

  “Hurry, hurry, I want to look my best, even if I have holes in my stockings and my gown is ruined.” Alice was combing her hair, trying to wash her face in a bowl of rain water, and brushing down her skirts.

  “That lawyer man understands,” Alfie assured her. “Tis the whole point, ain’t it? What wiv that vile step-father o’ yourn trying to outright murder you.”

  “Shall we all go?” suggested Poppy? “It’ll be so exciting, waiting outside, to hear the good news.”

  “T’were waiting near outside when the pig-baron done found us and attacked last time,” John pointed out.

  “This time,” grinned Alice, “It will be the judge’s chambers. And there are guards keeping a watch outside.”

  Alice and Alfie set off for the Whistle and Wherry at the London end of the Bridge, and the others settled to cleaning themselves up, which was virtually impossible, playing with the kittens, although they kept wriggling back to their mother’s contented purr and dribble, making some attempt to clean up the cellar, which was even more impossible than cleaning up themselves, talking to Mistress Winters, although she was hurrying off to help her husband in the shop, and pat Pimple, even though the only thing he wanted was a turnip.

  Eventually, except for Sam who curled up with Mouse, they all strode off, heading west through the old winding streets, avoiding markets, and making for the judge’s chambers. Carter Lane, just south of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the address they had been told. It was a lengthy but not exhausting walk, and although late March had turned frosty, the sun shone low behind the clouds, brightening the rooftops.

  Walking with John and Poppy, Nathan asked if anyone had heard about the smith’s funeral arrangements.

  “Woulda been done by now,” John said. “Maybe ‘e had no family and the priest done it quick. A bit of a mess, ‘e was, after that fire.”