Kate Forsyth is a bestselling author across several genres. Her titles include the Witches of Eileanan series, The Gypsy Crown, The Silver Horse, The Herb of Grace and The Cat’s Eye Shell, the first four books in the Chain of Charms series, The Starthorn Tree, Wishing for Trouble and Dragon Gold. Kate lives with her husband, three children and a black cat called Shadow in Sydney.

ALSO BY KATE FORSYTH

The Chain of Charms series:

The Gypsy Crown

The Silver Horse

The Herb of Grace

The Cat’s Eye Shell

The Starthorn Tree

ALSO BY KATE FORSYTH

AND ILLUSTRATED BY MITCH VANE

Ben and Tim’s Magical Misadventures:

Wishing for Trouble

Dragon Gold

THE

LIGHTNING

BOLT

First published 2007 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

1 Market Street, Sydney

Text copyright © Kate Forsyth 2007

Illustrations copyright © Jeremy Reston 2007

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

Forsyth, Kate, 1966– .

The lightning bolt.

For primary school children.

ISBN 978 1 4050 3784 6

1. Gypsies – Juvenile fiction. I. Title. (Series: Forsyth, Kate, 1966– Chain of charms; 5)

A823.3

Internal text design by Seymour Designs

Typeset in 11/17 pt Janson Text by Post Pre-press Group

Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

These electronic editions published in 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

The Lightning Bolt

Kate Forsyth

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THE

LIGHTNING

BLT

KATE FORSYTH

ILLUSTRATED BY JEREMY RESTON

C H A R A C T E R S

THE FINCH TRIBE

Luka Finch (13)

Emilia Finch (13) – his cousin

Maggie Finch, called Queen of the Gypsies – their grandmother

Jacob – Luka’s father

Silvia – Luka’s mother

Lena (14) and Mimi (9) – Luka’s sisters

Beatrice (15) – Emilia’s sister

Noah (9) – Emilia’s brother

Ruben – Luka and Emilia’s uncle

Sabina (10) – Ruben’s daughter

Alida – a grey Arab pony

Zizi – a monkey

Rollo – a dog

Sweetheart – a brown bear

THE SMITH TRIBE

Fairnette Smith (12)

Van Smith (10)

Old Man Smith – their father

Stevo Smith – their eldest brother

Bean-Pole, Potato-Head, Pea-Brain, Scar-Face, and Lazy-Eye – their other brothers

THE HEARNE TRIBE

Janka Hearne – the tribe’s grandmother

Felipe Hearne – her eldest son

Julisa – Felipe’s wife

Sebastien (15) – Felipe’s son

Cosmo Hearne – Janka’s second son

Nadine (15) – Cosmo’s daughter

GORGIOS

Pastor Spurgeon – the Puritan minister of the Kingston-Upon-Thames parish church

Coldham – a thief-taker for Cromwell

THE STORY SO FAR . . .

In 1658, England is a dangerous place to live.

For eleven years, Oliver Cromwell has ruled the land with an iron fist, determined to bring the people to a more godly way of life. Under his Puritan regime, football and horseracing are banned, dancing and singing and feasting are frowned upon, and everyone is expected to lead a quiet, sombre life, without Christmas or Easter to break the monotony.

But now Old Ironsides is getting old and weak. He has been struck down with a violent and mysterious illness that some suspect is caused by poison, or witchcraft. Those who have remained faithful to the monarchy gather secretly to plot for the return of the young king, Charles II, who lives hand-to-mouth on the Continent, relying on charity. Others dream of a new society, where noble and commoner have equal rights and everyone has the freedom to choose their own religion.

To maintain order, Cromwell’s men have clamped down on anyone they suspect of such treasonous thoughts. Old friends of the king’s have been thrown in the Tower, several high-profile men have been executed, and everywhere Quakers, Levellers, Catholics and other radicals are persecuted and imprisoned.

Luka and Emilia Finch are thirteen-year-old gypsy children whose family has been imprisoned in Kingston-Upon-Thames, facing death by hanging if Luka and Emilia cannot find some way of saving them before the end of the month.

Their grandmother Maggie has charged them with an urgent and dangerous task – they must travel to each of the gypsy tribes and beg them for their help. Once, Maggie tells Emilia, there was a gypsy witch who wore on her wrist a chain of six lucky charms. The witch gave each of her six children one of the charms as their lucky talisman, but ever since the chain of charms was broken, the gypsies have been dogged with misfortune.

Maggie gives Emilia the first of the charms – a golden coin – and tells her to search for the other five. So far, they have found three – a silver horse, a sprig of rue, and a cat’s eye shell – but time is beginning to run out for their family in prison. Now they must try to find the charm that belongs to the Smith family – a lightning bolt forged from the heart of a falling star . . .

Contents

The Knight of Swords

The Gun Foundry

Rose Honey

Telling the Bees

The Secret Society of the Swallow Feather

Cursed Bad Luck

A Storm of Bees

The Gypsy Camp

A Hungry Beast

Fire and Smoke

For the Want of a Horse

The Facts behind the Fiction

The Knight of Swords

HORSMONDEN, KENT, ENGLAND

27th August 1658

The smugglers had their own secret ways through the dark, sleeping countryside.

Leading ponies laden with mysterious bundles, the Owlers crept down narrow tracks, through sunken lanes, up steep bridlepaths and along forgotten byways. Their ponies were black or bay, and any blaze or sock was darkened with soot. With their tack and hooves muffled, they moved as silently as ghost-horses, and the men that walked beside them did not speak, or cough, or smoke their pipes.

Slumped on the back of one of the ponies, poked on all sides with boxes and parcels, Emilia felt the night seeping into her very pores. She felt the wind moving over her skin and through the trees; she heard the far-distant bark of a badger and the invisible gurgle of water over stones; she saw a constant ruffle at the edges of the darkness as leaves rustled, clouds drifted, grass swayed and the hunters of the night leapt past on soundless paw or muffled wing. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. And, because she did not need to guide her pony, which blindly followed the tail of the pony before it, Emilia found her eyes giving up their urgent desire to see, and allowing her nose and ears and skin to see for her. The night scents were sharper, the night sounds were stranger, the night air was silkier than she was used to. It was a different world entirely that she found herself riding through, and it so fascinated her that she forgot her fear and her impatience, and rode as if she were some night animal herself, a cat or an owl, eyes as round as a moon.

That is why they call themselves Owlers, she thought. Not because an owl feather is their secret signal.

She was almost asleep when Milosh drew the ponies to a halt.

‘Horsmonden is down in that valley,’ he whispered to Emilia and Luka, as he helped them down from their ponies. ‘Are you sure you do not want to ride to London with me, and wait till I come back this way? The Smiths are hard men. They do not care for children.’

Luka and Emilia shook their heads. They had already discussed this with the leader of the smugglers. He could not change his route to suit them. It was meticulously planned and organised. Any change and it could all fall apart. Much as the two gypsy children would love to have Milosh at their backs as they confronted the Smiths, they dared not wait any longer. Every day they delayed on the road was one more day in gaol for their family, one more day at the mercy of the cruel, fanatical Pastor Spurgeon. Already it had seemed an agonisingly slow journey for them, since the smugglers only travelled by night and spent the day hiding and resting. Two days already had passed in this fashion, and it had almost driven Luka mad with impatience.

‘Thanks though,’ Luka whispered, tucking his monkey Zizi up under his collar to keep her warm. ‘Will we see you at the end of the month? At Richmond Park?’

‘If I can, I will be there,’ Milosh answered. He must have sensed their dismay at his reticence, because he added, humorously, ‘Only the gallows will prevent me, I promise,’ and he gave each of them a white owl feather.

They had to be satisfied with that.

Standing in the dark, the owl feathers in their hands, the two children watched as the train of ponies vanished from view. A few steps and they were gone. Emilia put her hand on Rollo’s shaggy back. Although she could not see the big dog, he was satisfyingly warm and solid beside her.

‘It’s too dark to see the way,’ Luka said. ‘Let’s lie down under the hedge and sleep awhile, and in the morning we’ll go on, when we can see.’

‘All right,’ Emilia said, ashamed of how small her voice sounded.

Silently, they dug themselves a bed of sorts in the leaves under the hedge, and lay down, back to back, Rollo curled up by Emilia, Zizi huddled in Luka’s arms. It was cold, and they spread Emilia’s shawl over them both, and shut their eyes, sure they could never sleep.

Somehow they did. Emilia woke in the dew-bright dawn, rubbing the crust from her eyes. Luka was still sleeping, and Rollo opened one eye, thumped his tail, then shut his eye again. Emilia huddled her skirts about her cold feet and looked about her.

Fields stretched away on either side of the road, silver with dew. All the harvesting was done, and the farmer had recently ploughed so that the furrows lay across the dark earth like puckered seams. A hare sat up in the verge to stare at her. Although Emilia was hungry, she did not call to it, to see if it would come leaping into her arms. They had no cook-pot, and anyway, Emilia liked to see it running wild over the bare earth.

She dug through the satchel until she came to her grandmother’s things, wrapped up in a gaudy old scarf that smelt, faintly, of her Baba.

Inside lay a cloudy crystal ball and a pack of worn tarot cards. Emilia touched them gently, tears prickling her eyes. She had not dared look at her grandmother’s things since Nonsuch Palace, when she had foreseen Colonel Pride’s death. The memory filled her with horror. Even now, almost two weeks later, she dared not look in the crystal ball, for fear of what it might show her. She laid it aside on the grass, and slowly looked through the shabby old tarot cards.

Emilia had grown up with these cards. It had been a rare day when her grandmother had not laid them out, either for herself or someone else. Emilia had always watched as Maggie read their mysteries, utterly fascinated by what she saw.

The cards seemed to tell fantastical stories, of love and war and fate and disaster. Laying them out about her, fingering their bright, strange pictures, of stars and roses, flaming comets and winged lions, bodies pierced with swords, laughing devils, weeping queens and dancing fools, Emilia had to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.

We have four of the lucky charms, she told herself, and soon we will have the fifth. Soon Baba and Beatrice and Noah will be free, and the rest of the family too, and we can go back to the Great North Wood and live in peace.

Emilia rhythmically shuffled the cards, soothing herself with the easy flow from hand to hand. She then laid out three cards on the grass before her, silently asking, What is to become of us all? This, the three-card spread, was the easiest of all the many different spreads, and at its simplest, stood for the past, the present and the future.

Emilia turned over the cards, one by one, and saw:

A tower struck by lightning. That meant calamity, a reversal of fortunes, a stroke of fate.

Seven swords crossed. A trial that can only be overcome by inner strength and courage.

The Knight of Swords. A treacherous man.

Emilia stared down at the three cards, troubled and unhappy, then, as Luka stirred and sighed, swept them up and wrapped them quickly in the bright scrap of scarf, tucking them and her grandmother’s crystal ball back in the satchel. These were the tools of the drabardi, and as such were women’s mysteries, not meant for the eyes of thirteen-year-old boys who thought they knew everything.

‘I’m starving,’ Luka said, sitting up and scratching his dark mop of hair. ‘Did Milosh give us any more food?’

‘Only some more bread and bacon,’ Emilia said, getting the small parcel of food out of the satchel and unwrapping the greasy napkin.

Luka sighed. ‘I never thought I’d be sick of bacon.’

‘It’s not so nice cold,’ Emilia agreed, tearing the hard, stale roll in half.

‘I’ll have that one,’ Luka said and grabbed the larger half.

‘Not fair!’

‘You tore it, I get to choose,’ Luka said. ‘That is so fair.’

‘But it’s much bigger than mine! I didn’t mean to tear it unevenly.’

‘You should’ve left it to me to cut it with my knife,’ Luka said through a mouthful. ‘Girls are hopeless at things like that.’

‘Are not!’

‘All right, then, you’re hopeless at it. I suppose somewhere in the world there may be a girl who can measure and cut properly, but you’re not one of them.’

Glowering at him, Emilia chewed her bacon roll, doing her best to ignore Rollo who sat very close to her, his soft ears raised, his brown eyes fixed imploringly upon her breakfast. After a moment, she gave him the hard rind, which she did not like. In a snap and a gulp it was gone. She sighed and let him eat the rest of her roll. He swallowed it without chewing, and looked at her hopefully. As soon as he realised she had no more, he transferred his attention to Luka, who let the big dog lick his fingers.

‘That barely touched the sides,’ Luka said. ‘Do you think the Smiths will feed us?’

‘Sure they will. Probably some cold pottage and beans.’ Emilia sighed.

‘What I’d really like is some roast rabbit and potatoes hot from the coals,’ Luka said, and tucked his cold hands into his armpits.

Rollo barked eagerly, his tail wagging.

‘Rollo does too,’ Emilia said with a giggle.

‘My darling monkey girl wants some plums,’ Luka said, picking Zizi up and swinging her onto his shoulder. She pushed his cap back to the usual jaunty angle so she could seize hold of his ear and croon something into it in her own liquid, monkey language. Luka listened solemnly, then said, ‘And some fresh bread with cherry jam and . . . what was that, sweetie? Oh yes, some walnuts and dried figs.’

‘I can just imagine the Smiths having dried figs and walnuts,’ Emilia said. ‘She may as well ask for a satin cushion and a new velvet dress at the same time.’

‘Nothing but the best for my little monkey girl,’ Luka said. ‘And she does need a new dress.’

‘So do I,’ Emilia answered, shaking out her own skirts rather ruefully. They were badly stained, and covered in pony hair, and the hem hung down at one side where she had caught it on a bramble. It had only been ten days since old Martha of Tanglewood Manor had given her this dress, but it looked as if Emilia had slept every night since in a ditch.

‘Well, the sooner we find the Smiths, the sooner we can be begging them for some more food,’ Luka said, and set off down the path that ran down through the copse.

‘Not to mention the lightning charm,’ Emilia murmured, and followed him, her shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders.

The path led them down through the woods, all tangled with sloe berries and crimson rosehips and the fluffy grey seeds of clematis. The leaves of the beech trees above them were bright as new coins against the pale blue sky. Ivy smothered the ground, its invisible flowers sending a faint wild fragrance into the chilly air. Emilia’s feet did a little dance as she went down the path, the bracken brushing against her skirt. Luka began to whistle. She knew how much he had missed his music since he had given away his violin. It made her heart lift to hear him whistling as gaily as any blackbird.

They came out of the woods, and stopped.

Aghast.

A ruin of a landscape lay before them. There were no trees, no hedges of blackthorn, elder or wild rose, no late drifts of wild parsley, no birds singing or rabbits bounding about. The ground was pitted and poisoned, littered with dead trees, and piles of ugly slag, and raw gaping holes from which sounded the dull ring of metal on stone. Smoke from the smouldering fires of charcoal-burners hung over the scene. Shallow pools of poisoned water were edged with nasty red slime like the inflammation of a wound. The only living things to be seen were grey-faced men in filthy smocks, working away with axe or pick or hammer, and the weary-looking horses, their heads hanging low as they trudged along the roads. At the far end of the valley, a huge grey building loomed over a huddle of low houses, its chimneys belching smoke, its windows flaring red.

‘What . . . what is this place?’ Emilia stammered.

‘I guess . . . I guess it’s the gun foundry. Milosh told us they make guns and cannons here, remember? They dig out the iron ore, and turn it into stuff – weapons, mainly, but other things too. Horseshoes . . .’ Luka’s voice trailed away.

‘It’s awful. Everything’s dead. And it smells horrible.’

‘We won’t have to stay long,’ Luka promised. ‘Let’s go and find the Smiths, and then we’ll go.’

They both felt nervous as they made their way down the path to the road, Zizi hidden inside Luka’s coat, but no one paid them any attention. After a few minutes a cart came trundling past, and the driver yelled at them to get off the road.

‘Hey, know where I can find the Smiths?’ Luka cried as they scrambled onto the verge.

‘The Smiths? Everyone in this blasted valley is a smith,’ the driver yelled back and went on his way.

‘I guess he didn’t understand what I meant,’ Luka said.

They trudged on behind, choking on the dust. Another cart passed them ten minutes later, and again they asked and again they received the same response.

‘No, I mean the Smith family,’ Luka yelled this time.

The driver shrugged. ‘So did I,’ he answered, and cracked his whip. ‘They’re all Smiths round here.’

Luka and Emilia sighed and walked on, Rollo at their heels. They came to a large common in the centre of the town. Houses were crowded higgledy-piggledy all round it, most built of red brick with timber framing. There was a large, prosperous-looking inn on the road, with a picture of a gun hanging above the door, but, much to Luka’s surprise, no church. He had never before been to a village that did not have a church.

Two women were gossiping over a front fence, one with a basket of washing on her hip. A big, burly man with a shock of black hair and a huge beard was smoking a pipe on a bench outside the inn, a mug of ale in his hand. Luka saw one of his eyes was miscast, so it was hard to tell if he was staring at them or at some point behind their shoulders.

On the green, children sat in a circle, tossing a ball from one to the other.

‘Earth!’ cried one skinny girl as she threw the ball away.

‘Rabbit,’ called the boy who caught it, then he turned and flung it hard at another child, shouting, ‘Water!’

‘Um . . . um . . . trout!’ stammered the catcher, before throwing it on to another child, and shouting, ‘Earth!’

Taken by surprise, that child dropped the ball and at once everyone shouted, ‘You’re out! You’re out!’ He had to get up and leave the circle, while the other children went on throwing the ball back and forth, shouting out the names of the primary elements and the creatures that lived in them.

‘Wind!’

‘Eagle. Earth!’

‘Cat. Air!’

‘Swallow. Water!’

‘Herring. Fire!’

At once there was silence. Everyone ducked their heads and stared at their feet. It was so strange to see them sitting so quietly after all the noise and motion that Emilia and Luka stopped to watch. For eight long counts everyone was quiet, then one of the boys wriggled impatiently, and sighed. At once he was made to get up and leave the circle too, and the game went on.

‘Why did you all have to sit all quiet like that?’ Emilia asked the boy, who was kicking his boot into the ground, looking cross. ‘What does it mean?’

He stared at her in surprise. ‘It’s Earth, Wind, Fire. That’s how you play.’

‘But how come everyone has to be quiet when someone says “fire”?’

He looked at her as if she was stupid. ‘There’s no creatures that live in fire, dummy. Fire burns everything to ash.’

‘Aye, I suppose so,’ Emilia said, and he ran off to join some of the other boys before she could ask him any more.

‘I guess you need to have a healthy respect for fire if you work in a forge,’ Luka said, crossing his arms across his stomach to stop Zizi from wriggling out. She was not at all tired and wanted to get out and play too.

‘Let’s go ask those women there if they know where we can find the Smiths,’ Emilia said, and led the way across the road.

The women just stared at them in response. ‘Which one?’ the woman with the basket of washing said at last. ‘For we’re all Smiths here.’

‘Everyone?’ Emilia was flabbergasted. ‘In the whole valley?’

‘Well, not everyone,’ the woman said. ‘The Brownes own the foundry, of course, and the vicar’s a Poole, and the miller’s a Miller.’

‘But most of the rest of us are Smiths, if not by birth then by marriage, and if not by marriage then by trade,’ the other woman said. They both laughed.

‘So who do you want?’ the washing-woman said.

‘The Big Man,’ Luka said. ‘Where’s he?’

The women exchanged glances. ‘I suppose Stevo is the Big Man now,’ one said hesitantly. ‘But his brother Dax is just here, you could ask him . . .’ She turned and glanced at the inn but the big man with the big beard was gone. She shrugged and turned back to the children. ‘They’re all up at the foundry. You shouldn’t go there. It’s not the place for children. Wait until tonight when they knock off work. They’ll all be here, at the Gun, wetting their dry throats.’

‘We can’t wait,’ Luka said. ‘It’s important.’

‘We’ll be careful,’ Emilia said with a winning smile.

‘I’m telling you, it’s not the place for weans, it’s dangerous,’ the woman insisted. ‘No one wants another accident . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

‘We’ll be all right,’ Luka said cheerfully. ‘Thanks for your help.’

The women stared after them all the way up the street.

The Gun Foundry

The foundry was an immense dark hulk of a building, spewing forth smoke and great bursts of fire as if a dragon was imprisoned inside, fighting to escape a massive iron collar and chain. The air was so acrid that Emilia and Luka’s eyes were stinging before they were within twenty yards of the place, and the ground beneath their feet shook.

A banging and a clanging assaulted their ears, like the sound of a thousand giant iron hammers pounding on a thousand giant anvils. Then came a great roar, and fire glared from the window slits. Rollo whined and pressed against Emilia’s leg. Inside Luka’s coat, Zizi whimpered and huddled closer to him, her paws pressed over her ears.

Bang, clang, clash, rattle, boom boom boom!

‘I don’t like it,’ Emilia said, pressing her hands over her ears.

‘You stay here,’ Luka said. ‘Here, take Zizi! Don’t let her escape. I’ll be back soon. You stay with Milly, darling girl. I won’t be long.’

He had to break Zizi’s clinging hold to pass her over to Emilia, and then he went on alone, staring up at the foundry in fascination. Luka had never seen anything like it.

Bang, clang, clash, rattle, boom boom boom!

At the top of a huge chimney, men were shovelling in great hard lumps of reddish-brown iron ore, and pouring in charcoal, and spadefuls of chalky limestone, while a hot, yellow, stinking liquid poured out at the bottom of the chimney, to be flung aside onto great mounds that set hard into ugly hunks of yellow-grey slag. More men were trundling wheelbarrows filled with sacks up to the men at the top of the foundry: others were manhandling heavy bars of iron onto carts, and others still were working away in the forge, hammering the iron into shape.

They all worked furiously fast, most wearing nothing but tattered, filthy breeches. The sweat ran down their grimy bodies, forming grey rivulets in the black. It was ferociously hot. Luka stripped off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, mopping his forehead with the back of his arm. The air was so hot, it burnt the back of his throat when he breathed.

He saw that a great pond of water had been created behind the foundry, with a mill-rush where the water came rushing and foaming down a broad channel, churning over the huge waterwheel attached to one side of the building.

Spray was flung up, and Luka stood beneath it for a moment, catching drops on his parched tongue. Then he took a deep breath, and went in through the big double doors.

Inside, all was darkness and smoke and fire. Men with soot-black bodies were silhouetted against a waterfall of liquid flame that poured ceaselessly down from above. Massive hammers pounded away, making Luka’s teeth shudder in his skull. He could feel the vibrations jolting up through his bare feet, all the way to the delicate bones behind his ears. There was a long hiss, like a giant serpent, and he jumped violently and spun. Behind him a pair of enormous bellows worked, more than twice as long as Luka himself.

Sparks flew wide, like burning bees.

‘More charcoal!’ a stentorian voice roared. ‘Tell the men, more charcoal!’

Luka peered towards the voice. Then a great black shape loomed up over him, a huge, hairy hand seized him by the scruff of the neck and he was lifted and heaved out, away from the falling river of fiery gold, away from the clang and bang and boom, and out into the smoke-hazed sunshine.

‘Idiot boy!’ the voice roared in his ear. ‘A blast furnace is no place for weans! Do you want to be cooked like pork crackling?’

Luka wriggled free and straightened his shirt with dignity. ‘I’m looking for Stevo Smith.’

‘Why? What do you want him for?’

‘That’s my business, and his. Do you know where he is?’

Fierce black eyes glared down at him. He was a giant of a man, with a thick mane of curling black hair and a bushy beard that jutted out over his massive chest. His arms were near as thick as Luka’s waist, and bulged with muscles. He wore nothing over his breeches but a leather jerkin, pitted with scorch marks, and his eyebrows drew down over his big nose in an intimidating scowl.

‘I’m Stevo,’ he said in his deep, gruff voice. ‘What do you want with me, boy?’

Luka took a deep breath, finding it hard to begin. ‘I’m Luka Finch. My Baba is Maggie Finch, who they call Queen of the Gypsies. She and all our family have been arrested and thrown into gaol. The pastor wants to hang them. Baba told me to come and find you, and see if you can help. You’re our kin . . .’ His voice trailed away. He looked up at the big, black, hairy man despairingly. There had been no change of expression on the fierce man’s face. If anything, his scowl had deepened.

‘There is nothing I can do,’ Stevo Smith said. ‘Go home, little boy.’

‘Please!’ Luka cried. ‘My Baba is old, she shouldn’t be in gaol. And my little sister, she’s only nine, and my cousin Noah too – and he’s blind!’

The big man froze midturn, then slowly turned back to Luka. For a long time he stared down at him, his eyes almost hidden by his scowl. His great beard quivered. Then he shook his head. ‘I cannot help you. I have my work to do here. We cannot leave the blast furnace once it is fired up. I’m sorry.’ He said this with no hint of apology in his voice, but as a way of terminating the discussion.

‘But you are our kin!’ Luka cried. ‘If we cannot call on our family in time of need, who can we call on?’

‘No one,’ Stevo said, and walked back inside the foundry.

Luka felt anger roar up his body. He ran after Stevo Smith, back inside the black, stinking belly of the foundry, and seized the big man by his arm. ‘You can’t just walk away like that!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you care? You’re a Rom too. The Rom need to help each other, for no one else is going to!’

Stevo glared down at him. ‘We’re not Rom any more. We’ve given up the roads.’

‘Once a Rom, always a Rom,’ Luka said.

Stevo jerked his arm free. ‘Will you get out of here, boy! What do you think I can do to help you? All I’ll do is get myself and my family into trouble. I tell you, we’ve given up the roads, we’ve got work here, and homes, our noses are clean. You’re bad news, you are. I’ve no desire to get myself tangled up with the constables. You’re a wanted man, and if I do anything to help you, they’ll be seizing me and throwing me into gaol too.’

Luka was in such a rage he barely took in what Stevo had said. ‘You think you’re so high and mighty!’ he cried. ‘I know you’ve been selling cannons to the enemy! That’s treason, that is. What if I tell the constables about that?’

Stevo seized him by the arm and propelled him rapidly across the foundry floor and into a small, dark office, slamming the door behind him. It happened so fast that Luka could not even try to resist. ‘You fool!’ Stevo hissed, thrusting his dark, hairy face very close to Luka’s. ‘What do you think you’re doing, shouting out things like that on the foundry floor, where anyone could hear you!’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’ Luka flashed back, trying not to show how shaken and afraid he was. ‘And if you don’t promise to help us, I’m going to tell.’

Stevo laughed uproariously, and flung himself back in a chair, sticking his huge, thick legs out in front of him. ‘Who? Who are you going to tell? The constables? They’ll just be glad to get their hands on you. That thief-taker would pay a handsome reward to have you back, I bet. Besides, do you really think Old Ironsides and his spymaster don’t know about the cannons? They’re not easy things to transport, you know. We can’t just hoist them up onto the back of a pony like a bale of wool. No, if the Lord Protector really wanted to stop us, he could. But then who would make his guns for him? We’re more use to him here in the foundry than in prison, I assure you.’

‘How do you know about the thief-taker?’ Luka whispered.

Stevo rocked back and forth on the back legs of his chair. ‘Word’s gone out, little man. He’s looking for you. A boy, a girl, a dog and a monkey. He knew you’d come here asking for help. So, you see, I’m not such a hard man as you think. I could hold you here and send word to him, and claim that reward for myself. But I won’t. I’ll warn you instead. You’d better get out of here fast, for that thief-taker doesn’t like to be crossed and, by all accounts, you’ve been crossing him at every turn.’

Even though it was stifling hot in the dark little hole of a room, Luka felt chilled through. ‘Coldham’s here? Here in Horsmonden?’

‘Not far away,’ Stevo said. ‘Better get moving, little man.’

Luka’s legs and brain felt frozen. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then said, ‘You know then why we’re here? It’s not just to beg you to help us break my family out of gaol, it’s to ask you for the charm as well. The lightning bolt charm. Do you have it?’

Stevo dropped the front legs of the chair down to the ground. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Just then the door banged open. Luka jumped, and spun round. In the doorway was a crowd of other men, all nearly as big and dark and hairy as Stevo. One was taller and thinner than the others, another was short and wide with a bulging big forehead, one was gaping in open curiosity, and the fourth had a long scar puckering the side of his mouth into a sneer. At the very back was the man they had seen at the Gun Inn, his lazy eye making him look shiftier than ever. These were evidently the other Smith brothers.

Instantly Luka christened them Bean-Pole, Potato-Head, Pea-Brain, Scar-Face, and Lazy-Eye, for want of other names. It was pure bravado.

‘Everything all right?’ Scar-Face growled.

Stevo got up. ‘Everything’s fine. This little game-cock was just leaving.’ He turned to Luka. ‘Go on, get out,’ he said.

Luka’s legs felt quite wobbly. He put his head down and pushed out between the six men, then made his way across the foundry floor, unable to help peering around to make sure Coldham was not lurking in the shadows. When he reached the sunlit yard, he broke into a run, and he did not stop running until he had found Emilia.

Emilia, meanwhile, stood by the hammer pond, skipping stones across the surface. Zizi perched on a fallen log beside her, mimicking her. She had not got the movement quite right, though, and so her stones all sank with a big plop! This made the monkey very cross. She leapt up and down on the log, and gibbered wildly, then began picking up sticks and stones and throwing them at the pond willy-nilly.

‘Don’t let the Smiths see you throwing sticks in the pool,’ a boy’s voice said behind her. Emilia turned round. It was the boy she had spoken to on the common.

‘Why not?’ Emilia asked.

‘Sticks can get caught in the waterwheel and stop it turning. Once the blast furnace is lit, they can’t turn it off, and so anything that might damage the waterwheel is very dangerous. They have a man whose only job is to keep the pond free of weed and sticks. He’ll be furious if he sees you.’

Emilia bent and picked up Zizi, soothing her with a pat. ‘Oh, I see. Thanks. I didn’t know.’

‘Can I pat the monkey?’

‘Sure.’

Zizi bared her teeth at the boy as he came closer and he hesitated. ‘He won’t bite me?’

‘She’s a she, and she won’t bite as long as you’re polite to her. Shake hands with her, introduce yourself.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘All right.’ The boy put out his hand rather cautiously, and said, ‘Hello, monkey, I’m Bob.’

Zizi put out her tiny paw, and shook hands with him, then leapt up and down, shrieking with laughter. Bob laughed too.

‘Her name is Zizi,’ Emilia said.

‘I wish I had a monkey,’ he said longingly.

‘Zizi’s not mine,’ Emilia said, ‘she belongs to my cousin.’

‘Do you think he’d trade her? I’ve got a fairy arrowhead he could have, or . . .’

‘Luka wouldn’t trade Zizi for anything in the world,’ Emilia said.

‘You sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

Bob threw a couple of stones at the log, then said, ‘So, are you gypsies? Have you come here for the horse fair too? You’re all early this year.’

‘No, we’re here to see the Smiths,’ Emilia answered. ‘We want to ask them a favour.’

Bob looked sour. ‘You won’t get any favours out of the Smiths. My mother says their hearts are as black as their hair.’

‘So you’re not one of the Smiths?’

‘No, no. I mean, my father is a smith – a blacksmith, I mean – he works at the foundry – but we’re not Smiths. Worst luck. The Smiths run everything round here. I mean, the Brownes own the foundry but the Smiths run it, and they give all the good jobs to themselves. There’s seven of them, seven brothers and one little girl, but she doesn’t live here any more, she’s gone up the valley with the old man and . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘You ever seen any of the Smiths wearing a sort of lucky charm . . . shaped like a lightning bolt?’ Unconsciously Emilia rubbed the charms hanging from the chain about her wrist, taking comfort in their smooth, familiar shape.

‘Aye, I have,’ Bob said in surprise. ‘Old Man Smith always wore a charm like that. I often used to see him fingering it. Haven’t seen him round since the accident . . . but last time I saw him he was wearing it, just as usual.’

Emilia was excited. ‘You say the old man doesn’t live here any more?’

‘No, he went wandering in his wits, you know, after what happened. The Brownes gave him a cottage up near the woods, and he lives up there with the girl to look after him, and with the boy . . . no one sees any of them any more.’

‘Know where the cottage is?’

‘Up past the church,’ Bob said. ‘That’s about three miles south of here. Here, I’ll draw you a little map.’ He squatted down and began to scratch in the dirt with a stick.

‘How come the church is so far away?’ Emilia asked. ‘I’ve never heard of a village church being three miles from the village.’

Bob shrugged. ‘I guess the village moved when the gun foundry opened. Just about everyone works for the foundry these days. There’s nothing out near the church any more but a couple of hop farms.’ He gave a wry little grin. ‘Guns and beer are the only businesses worth anything round here. No wonder the rector has trouble filling his church.’

‘Don’t they get into trouble?’ Emilia was wide-eyed. No one she knew dared miss church. The parish constables would arrest you and throw you in the stocks, or worse.

‘As long as Cromwell needs more guns, the blast furnace will keep on working,’ Bob said. ‘Night or day, work day or rest day, it never closes down.’

Emilia was amazed. The Puritans were very strict about the observance of the Sabbath. No one was allowed to cook or clean or hang out the washing or scrape the mud off their boots, or walk anywhere except to go to church. The only work that was permitted was to feed the animals and milk the cows, for it would have been cruel to do otherwise. Emilia could not believe the foundry men were let off the hook just to make Cromwell more guns. Old hypocrite, she thought scornfully, not for the first time, and bent over Bob’s shoulder so she could try to make sense of the marks he was scratching in the dust.

It was then she saw Luka running full pelt towards her. He made a broad gesture with his hand, meaning, Let’s get out of here!

Emilia hastily fixed the crude map into her memory, said, ‘That’s great, thanks, Bob. Got to go!’ and went running to meet her cousin.

‘Coldham’s around,’ he panted. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

Rose Honey

It was impossible not to imagine the thief-taker lurking behind every slagheap and every pyramid of burning charcoal. Luka and Emilia felt very exposed as they hurried back through the valley, steering clear of the village and the pub with its ominous sign.

As they left the foundry behind them, the air slowly cleared so that their eyes stopped stinging and they could breathe more easily. Glancing back, Luka saw the foundry’s windows glaring red and spiteful through a haze of heavy smoke. He quickened his pace, glad to have fields and copses of trees around him again.

After a little under an hour, they passed the church, its square tower rising high above the towering poles of hops in the fields about it. Next to the church was an oast house, with three tall conical towers, each topped by an angular white wind-funnel that swung round each time the wind moved. A man on tall wooden stilts was checking the hop cones that clustered at the top of the poles. Luka guessed he was seeing how long till harvest time. He himself had never travelled down into Kent for the hop harvest, but he knew his parents and grandparents used to every year, before the Civil War had made it too dangerous to travel away from the safety of the forest.

A little further round the curve of the hill, they came to another oast house next to an apple orchard. This one stood idle, its steep roof all green with moss and ivy choking one of the roundels from the ground almost all the way to the crooked white windvane. A small cottage, red-tiled and black-timbered, was built between the three roundels, smoke drifting from its tall chimneys. It was surrounded by a colourful profusion of flowers – foxgloves and lavender and roses and columbines. In the apple orchard behind, mossy old trees were heavy with reddening fruit.

Emilia stared. She had never really wanted to live in a house before, but this cottage, with its conical towers topped by steep pointed roofs, was quite the prettiest she had ever seen.

A girl stood in the middle of the garden, her hands full of roses. She had a round, rosy face, sparkling black eyes and a very thick, glossy plait that hung down her back from under a white cap. She was neatly dressed in a plain brown dress and a snowy-white apron, and her neat leather shoes were as black and shiny as her hair.

She smiled when she saw Luka and Emilia trudging wearily up the path. ‘Why, there’s only two of you. I was expecting three.’

Luka and Emilia were completely taken aback. ‘You were expecting us?’

‘Well, not you necessarily. I was expecting visitors. The bees told me so this morning.’

‘The bees told you?’

‘Aye. They always let me know when to expect visitors. Come along in. You look like you’ve come a long way.’ She looked them up and down, and said, ‘I expect you’ll want a wash.’

She led them round to a small stone room on the side of the cottage. Inside was a deep sink with a pump with a most beautiful ornate iron handle. Buckets, basins and watering cans were all lined up in a perfect row on a shelf, while various tools were hung neatly on hooks on the wall. The stone floor was scrubbed white.

‘Your feet are very dirty,’ the girl said disapprovingly, laying the roses down in the sink. ‘Why don’t you sit out there on the bench and I’ll bring you a basin to wash them in.’

Luka and Emilia were glad to sit on the bench, and even gladder to put their hot, dusty feet into the basins of cold water she brought them. She gave them a long-handled scrubbing brush and some hunks of brown soap, and obediently they washed their feet and dried them on her linen towels, Zizi slapping the water with her paw and sending it spraying everywhere.

Rollo lay beside them, panting, and she brought him a bowl of water which he lapped up thirstily. ‘The dog and the monkey had better stay outside,’ she said, looking them over dubiously.

‘Then we’ll have to stay outside too,’ Emilia cried, and glanced furiously at Luka, who for once had not leapt immediately to his monkey’s defence. He was staring at the black-haired girl as if he had never seen a girl before.

She looked apologetic. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but the monkey is bound to have fleas. And the way your dog wags his tail, he’ll knock everything off the shelves and smash them.’

Rollo at once wagged his tail furiously.

‘He’ll lie quiet,’ Emilia said. ‘He does whatever I tell him to! And Zizi does not have fleas!’

She was rather inclined to take a dislike to this neat girl with her perfect plait and shiny shoes. But then Rollo licked the Smith girl’s face, and she laughed. ‘He’s trying to clean me up too!’ she cried. ‘No, stop it! I’m quite clean enough.’

Emilia decided at that moment to be amused instead of offended.

Zizi, who always liked to copy whatever her loved ones were doing, dipped her tiny paws into the basin too, then daintily dried them on the towel, before dabbing her wizened brown face. ‘Oh, what a little dear!’ the girl cried. ‘Are you sure she doesn’t have fleas?’

‘Quite sure,’ Luka answered, crossing his fingers behind his back.

‘Then I suppose she may come in, as long as she does not make a mess,’ the girl said. ‘Come on into the scullery and wash up.’

As soon as they were clean as soap and a scrubbing brush could make them, the girl mopped up all the water they had spilt, rinsed the towels and hung them neatly back over the rail, and put the basins back in the exact same position they had been in before. When the scullery was spick and span, she opened a door and led them into the kitchen.

This room was as trim and tidy as the scullery. The dark oak furniture gleamed, smelling of beeswax, and the big iron stove and oven had recently been blackened. A fire glowed behind a beautifully wrought iron grille, and a pair of bellows were hung, one on either side of the fireplace, at exactly the same height. Lined up along the mantelpiece was a row of pewter plates, as precise as soldiers on parade. On the top shelf of the dresser were jars of honey, arranged in order of colour from the darkest to the lightest. Each had a square of green and white checked cloth tied over the top to keep out the flies. A cushion of the same material was set very neatly on the rocking chair by the fire. It looked as though it was never sat upon.

‘You must be hungry,’ the girl said, and pulled out some chairs for them. She took a loaf of bread out of a tin and neatly cut off a few slices. ‘Do you prefer heather honey, clover honey, rose honey, apple-blossom honey or thyme honey?’

‘I don’t know,’ Emilia said and glanced at Luka, wondering why he was so quiet. He was staring at the girl, quite dumbstruck. Emilia kicked him under the table, and he winced and said hurriedly, ‘Whatever you think is best.’

‘The rose honey is very rich and strengthening, and heartens you when you are weary,’ the girl said. ‘You both look worn out.’ She got down the darkest jar from the shelf. It was the colour of toffee, and very thick. She spread it on the bread and gave them each a slice, perfectly aligned on the plate, then poured them a mug of cold, frothy milk. Emilia and Luka ate and drank ravenously, while the girl got Zizi some dried apple slices out of a tin.

‘I have a bone the dog could have,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I had planned to make soup with it. He would have to eat it outside though.’

‘I don’t think he’d mind that,’ Emilia said, and the girl smiled at her, recognising the gentle mockery in her voice. She took Rollo outside, to gnaw on his bone with great enjoyment.

‘What is your name?’ Luka asked as she came in again, first wiping her feet carefully on the mat.

‘Fairnette Smith,’ she answered, taking their plates away, and washing them, drying them and putting them back on the shelf. ‘What’s yours?’

‘I’m Luka Finch, and this is my cousin Emilia,’ he said, draining his mug. ‘Thank you for the bread and honey. We were starving.’

‘That’s my pleasure. Now tell me why you’re here. You don’t look like you’ve come to buy my candles. Is it my honey that you want?’

‘No,’ Luka said. ‘Though it was the most delicious honey I’ve ever eaten.’

Emilia glanced at him in surprise. It was not like Luka to be so courtly. He was gazing at Fairnette again, and Emilia felt herself getting cross. She kicked him again under the table. He grimaced at her.

‘Then what do you want of me?’ Fairnette asked, frowning slightly. ‘Surely you didn’t just stumble on our cottage by chance. We are so out of the way here.’

Luka and Emilia told her their story, talking over the top of each other. The rosy colour ebbed from her face when she heard of their family’s plight. ‘How awful,’ she said. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help. You say you made wax imprints of this bad man’s keys? My father could make copies for you, or one of my brothers, I suppose, only . . .’ Her voice trailed away, then she said, ‘And I don’t know where the lightning bolt charm is. My father does not have it now, I’m afraid. I have not seen it . . . for quite some time now.’

‘Is your father here? Could we ask him where it is?’ Emilia asked eagerly.

‘He’s here,’ Fairnette said. ‘I don’t know if he’ll remember what happened to it, though. He’s old now, you see, and wandering in his wits a little. He does not like to think about the here and now, I guess it is too painful for him. So he lives in the past, mainly. But you can ask him. Sometimes he remembers things. Sometimes he seems just like his old self. It never lasts, though.’

As she spoke, she rose to her feet. The other two rose too, Luka swinging Zizi up onto his shoulder. Fairnette pushed both their chairs back into the table, making sure they were set neatly, then led them down a whitewashed hall. Everywhere was evidence of the blacksmith’s art – tall wrought-iron candlesticks on the hallstand, beautifully worked hinges on the doors, and curling iron table legs.

Halfway down the hallway stood a door, standing a little ajar. Curious, Emilia glanced inside as they passed. The door led into one of the towers, a round room dominated by a huge fireplace. A hunched figure in a dark hooded cloak crouched before the fire, poking it with a long stick. The room was dark, with shutters drawn over the narrow windows. It had a strange lingering smell. As she passed, the figure looked up. She saw the pale, miserable face of a boy about the same age as her little brother, Noah, who was nine. He scowled at the sight of her, and picked up a small log of firewood and flung it at the door, slamming it shut. Fairnette looked round at the sound, but Emilia was already well away from the door, her hand on Rollo’s back.

A kitchen garden was laid out all along one side of the house. Emilia had never seen such straight rows of peas and cabbages. A vine grew along a trellis, shading a wrought-iron table and chair. Bees hummed in the rosemary and bean flowers. There was not a weed to be seen.

At the end of the yard was a long, low stable.

‘That’s my father’s forge,’ Fairnette said. ‘He works in there sometimes, on his good days. Not so often any more.’

An old man sat on a bench in front of the forge, staring down at his hands. They were huge and hard and callused, and lay idle on his lap. A pipe smouldered from the corner of his mouth.

‘Father?’ Fairnette said hesitantly.

He looked up at the sound of her voice, and took the pipe out of his mouth. He was huge, the biggest man Emilia had ever seen. He wore a blacksmith’s scarred leather apron over a rough linen shirt, rolled up to show the strength of his forearms, the collar undone. His eyes were yellowish and watery, with red, inflamed edges. Although his beard was vast, streaked with grey as if he had wiped his ashy fingers through it, Emilia could see that he wore nothing about his neck. Disappointment stabbed through her.

‘Eh?’ he said.

‘Father, it’s me, Fairnette. Your daughter.’

He stared at her without recognition, then moved his vacant, rheumy gaze to Luka’s face. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No,’ Luka said, ‘though we’re kin, way back.’

‘I think you may know their grandmother, Maggie Finch,’ Fairnette said.

‘Maggie? Maggie Finch? But she’s only a young thing, with black hair hanging down her back. They say she’s got the eye.’

‘Her hair’s grey now,’ Luka said, thinking of his grandmother, bent and crippled with rheumatism.

‘Can’t be the same Maggie. Why, I saw Maggie just last month, dancing at the horse fair. They married her off to that boy with a bear, I can’t remember his name.’

‘Sylvio,’ Emilia said, her heart aching.

‘Aye, Sylvio. What ever happened to him? We used to love his bear. He’d fiddle for it, and it’d get up on its hind paws and dance.’

Neither Luka nor Emilia wanted to say that Sylvio and his bear were both long dead. They looked to Fairnette pleadingly. She said gently, ‘Maggie Finch is in gaol now, Father. Emilia and Luka want to get her out. Can you help?’

‘I’ve got wax imprints of some keys,’ Luka said in a rush, and rummaged in their bag until he found them. ‘Could you make copies of the keys for us?’

The old man looked at them suspiciously. ‘Why? Who are you? I don’t do things like that any more! Why, I’m the master smith at the foundry. Our guns are the pride of England! The king himself came to see them. I’m no tinker boy, to make keys and lock picks for thieves.’

‘Lock pick?’ Luka asked eagerly. ‘What’s that?’

‘You trying to trick me? What are you, some kind of spy? Get out of here, I say!’

‘Father, no, Luka’s our kin, he’s no spy, nor a thief either. He just wants our help.’ Fairnette held out both hands imploringly.

He glared at her with his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Who are you? I don’t know you. What do you want? Coming round, trying to trick me and steal from me. I won’t allow it, I won’t!’ He surged to his feet and at once all three children scrambled back a few steps, for he was very tall and broad, with massive shoulders and thick, muscled arms. He shook a huge fist at them. ‘Get out of here, I say!’

‘Come on,’ Fairnette said, and pulled them away. ‘There’s no point talking to him when he’s like this. We’ll come back later. He’ll have forgotten all about it, and we can ask him again.’

Her voice was stiff and unhappy.

‘Does he not remember you? His own daughter?’ Emilia felt this would be worse than not having a father at all.

‘Sometimes he remembers. Sometimes he thinks I should still be only a baby, and does not believe I’m me. Other times he does not remember he has a daughter at all.’

As Fairnette spoke she was picking bunches of sage leaves from the herb garden and stuffing them into a shallow metal dish she had picked up from a shelf. The old man had collapsed back onto his bench, staring once more at his hands. He was muttering to himself under his breath, but Emilia could not hear what he said.

‘That’s terrible,’ Emilia said.

‘I’m just a girl,’ Fairnette said bitterly. ‘He never forgets any of the boys, not even Van who’s younger than I am. Though . . .’ her voice trailed away, and she said to herself, ‘though, of course, Van’s hard to forget.’

Emilia was bursting with curiosity but she did not speak. She shot a warning glance at Luka, who was just as curious as she was. He closed his mouth and was silent too.

For a moment it seemed Fairnette would say more, but then she shrugged and moved away. ‘Come and meet the bees,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to know who you are.’

Emilia and Luka raised an eyebrow at each other in surprise, but followed her willingly down a narrow path into the woods.

Telling the Bees

‘Do the bees talk to you?’ Emilia asked.

Fairnette smiled faintly. ‘No, not like that. But bees are very wise, you know. They always tell me when someone is coming. Except they said I’d have three visitors this morning. I’m sure they would not count Zizi as one.’

‘Why not?’ Luka said, frowning, cuddling his little monkey closer.

Emilia grinned. She was glad to hear Luka returning to normal.

‘Well, if they counted the monkey, why not the dog?’ Fairnette said.

‘A dog’s only a dog,’ Luka said. ‘Zizi’s practically a person!’

‘So is Rollo!’ Emilia cried, and fondled his soft ears. He wagged his tail and licked her, before bounding on ahead, his nose to the path.

Fairnette smiled at them placatingly. ‘They’re both the most people-like animals I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘But the bees wouldn’t count them, I’m sure. They’ve never counted dogs or horses or whatever before.’

‘How do they tell you?’ Emilia wanted to know. ‘Do they hum in your ear?’

Fairnette laughed again. She was very pretty when she laughed. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘They come inside. Bees don’t come inside unless they want to tell you something. Three were in the kitchen this morning. I opened the window to let them out and I thought to myself, Three visitors today, coming to buy some honey perhaps. So I made sure I had some new-baked bread, to try with the honey, and I went out to pick some flowers. I did not expect you so early!’

‘So do the bees always tell you things?’ Emilia asked. ‘What else do they tell you?’

Fairnette’s smile faded. ‘They always know when trouble is coming,’ she said. ‘They knew before Van had his accident. They were very unsettled all day, and I thought perhaps a storm was on its way, or . . .’ She sighed. ‘And then, after it happened, they knew we had to leave Horsmonden. They all rose in a big swarm, and flew away, and I had to run to follow them. They led me here, and hung off the eaves of the oast house, which had been abandoned for years. I picked them up and put them in a box, and then I went to Mr Browne and told him I wanted this house. He felt very bad about Van, you know, and so he gave it to me, or rather, to Father.’

‘Who’s Van?’ Emilia asked, although she thought she could guess.

‘He’s my brother,’ Fairnette said sadly. ‘He’s only ten, you know, two years younger than me. The rest of our brothers are all much older.’

‘So what happened to him?’ Luka asked, rather to Emilia’s relief. She had not wanted to ask.

Fairnette was quiet for a moment. ‘He got burnt,’ she said. ‘At the foundry. Stevo had to throw him in the water trough to put him out. We were all sure he would die, but I put honey on the burns. I didn’t know what else to do. My mother always used to give us honey to eat when we had sore throats. It seemed to work. He lived, anyway, though he says he just wishes I’d let him die.’

‘How awful,’ Emilia said, thinking of Noah and trying to imagine him being on fire. It made her feel sick.

Fairnette nodded. ‘He won’t go out where anyone might see him – he won’t go outside at all, not even into the garden, or to come and see the bees.’

They walked on in a subdued silence. Zizi swung through the trees, shrieking and throwing acorns at them. She was glad to be away from the smoky town.

‘Where’s your mother?’ Emilia asked.

‘She’s dead,’ Fairnette said. ‘She died when I was eight.’

‘My mother’s dead too,’ Emilia said. They looked at each other sadly. There was no way to explain the dark absence in their lives to anyone who had not lost their mother too. Only those who had suffered the same sorrow could understand.

‘And what of all your other brothers?’ Emilia asked. ‘Don’t they help you?’ For it had occurred to her that Fairnette had the care of both her injured brother and her elderly forgetful father, all by herself.

Fairnette shook her head. ‘Van doesn’t want them.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t know what happened that day up at the foundry. Van should not have been there, I know. But he hated being the youngest, he could not wait for the day he was allowed to start work too. He’s like all the Smith men, he loves the forge and the fire. I think . . . I think something must’ve happened that day, something no one tells me. Because they all blame each other for what happened, and Van blames everyone.’

Emilia would have liked to ask more, but they were approaching a clearing in the woods filled with the soft, ceaseless humming of bees. Emilia watched with interest as Fairnette lit the sage leaves in the iron dish she carried. Then, waving the smouldering leaves from side to side, she walked slowly into the centre of the clearing. Smoke drifted about the row of six dome-shaped straw beehives that stood on a wooden rack under the trees.

Bees were busily flying in and out of the entrances, zooming away into the woods on either side, or crawling about the beehives. Fearlessly, Fairnette walked into their midst, the smoke wreathing about her head. Bees hovered about her in a noisy golden cloud, landing on her head, her arms, her hands, her cheeks, her lips, her eyelids. Fairnette did not even flinch. She stood quietly until she was wearing the bees like a living shroud, and then, moving very smoothly, she approached each hive and checked it over carefully. The tops of the hives had been hinged so that she could lift them and peer inside, waving the smoke all about first. Then, step by step, Fairnette retreated back to the edge of the clearing, the bees unfurling sleepily from her.

Emilia and Luka stared at her with amazement and something that was almost horror. She’s a witch too, Emilia thought. A bee enchantress.

‘Do you want to see?’ Fairnette’s dark eyes were glowing. ‘It’s very beautiful, a beehive.’

‘Won’t they attack us and sting us?’ Luka asked.

‘Not as long as you are quiet and slow. The smoke calms them, and they trust me.’

‘I don’t think Zizi knows how to be calm and slow,’ Luka said. ‘I’ll stay here and keep her quiet, I think.’ He had a very vivid memory of the last beehive they had encountered, with Sweetheart the bear. Sebastien Hearne had been unable to sit down for hours.

Fairnette smiled. ‘Coward,’ she said. ‘What about you, Emilia?’

Emilia followed Fairnette across the clearing. Behind them, Luka laid one hand on Rollo’s neck to keep him near, cradling Zizi in the other arm.

‘One must always be clean and sweet and sober to come to the bees,’ Fairnette said in a soft voice. ‘They do not like noise, or clamour, or roughness, or bad smells. They do not like strangers. So stand by here and let me introduce you.’

Emilia nodded.

‘Oh, bees, we thank you for your good work and harmony,’ Fairnette said in a soft singsong voice. ‘We come here in peace, to tell you of strangers here among us. This here is Emilia Finch. She means no disrespect to you, coming with her hair all blowsy and her hem hanging down. She has not had time yet to tidy herself after her long journey. She means you no harm. She thanks you for your good honey, which gave her new heart this morning.’

Emilia found herself bowing her head and murmuring a thank-you, even as she lifted her hand to unconsciously smooth down her unruly hair.

‘There among the bushes is Luka Finch,’ Fairnette continued. ‘He means you no disrespect not coming forward to greet you himself. He has with him wild creatures that may not know enough of you to go gently among you. He, too, thanks you for your good honey. He said it was the most delicious he had ever eaten.’

The bees danced about Fairnette as if listening.

‘Luka and Emilia have trouble in their family, and have come to us for help. I hope that we can lend them a hand, and bring peace and harmony back to the Finch family, so that all is right in their world.’

Emilia stood very quietly, hearing the hum of the bees’ wings in her ears. One blundered against her arm, and it was hard not to flinch back. Then it flew off again, following an invisible road through the air.

‘Come see through my glass window,’ Fairnette said. ‘This is my favourite thing in the world. It always makes me happy to see how the bees all work together. Mr Browne had it made for me.’

To Emilia’s utter fascination, she was able to look through the window into the very heart of the hive. She could see the bees coming in from outside and delivering the nectar to other bees, one to another in a long, slow chain of honey-making. She could see the airy construction of honeycomb cells, with the dark heart of the brood buried deep inside. She even saw bees carrying in droplets of water to let fall on the backs of the worker bees who were busy fanning the hive to keep it cool. Fairnette was glad to explain everything to her, and Emilia had to turn and signal to Luka to come and see as well, for she knew he would be as entranced as she was.

Fairnette pointed out what she called soldier bees, whose job it was to attack any threat. ‘It is their job to guard the queen,’ Fairnette told them. ‘Without a queen, the hive will die.’

Emilia could not help wondering what would happen to their hive if Cromwell died. He ruled like a king, without being a king, and his sons were not princes to inherit the throne. She could understand why prayers had been said for him all over the countryside that Sunday. Everyone, Roundhead or Royalist alike, dreaded the turmoil that would follow his death.

‘I like looking into the hive,’ Fairnette said dreamily. ‘All is in order, everyone knows their job, they all work together for the good of the whole hive.’

‘If only people could be like that,’ Emilia said passionately.

Fairnette sighed. ‘I used to think so too. But they can be cruel, the bees. When there are too many new queens, the first born kills them all. She stings them to death. She is the only bee that does not die when she uses her stinger. She’ll kill her own mother too if she has to. And the male bees die once they mate with the queen, and if they do not mate with her, the worker bees drive them away from the hive and they die from hunger. Which is, I suppose, better than the fate of the poor drudges, who simply work themselves to death.’

Emilia and Luka stared into the hive. It suddenly seemed sinister. There was a long silence, then Fairnette gave herself a little shake and said, smiling, ‘Yet they make honey, the best and sweetest food in the world, and they make wax, which brings us light, and any one of them would die to protect their hive. So it’s beautiful as well.’

‘Sweetness and light,’ Emilia said. ‘And yet . . .’

‘Not all is sweetness and light in the honeybee’s world,’ Luka said, in a deep, dramatic voice. All three of them laughed, and then, since their laughter disturbed the bees, backed away from the hive as quickly as they dared.

They headed back to the cottage, talking and laughing. It was sad to see how Fairnette’s glow faded as they approached the forge. Her father was asleep, his chin sunk down into his beard. His pipe had fallen from his hand, and lay smouldering on the bench.

Fairnette picked it up and tapped it out. ‘He’ll burn the house down one day,’ she said sadly, and straightened his collar with a gentle hand. He did not stir.

‘Come back to the house,’ Fairnette said to Emilia and Luka. ‘I have much to do, I’m afraid. I have not yet done the washing, and soon I will need to start cooking dinner. You will stay for dinner, won’t you? Father may feel better after a little sleep. I’m sure he will help you make copies of those keys, if we ask him right.’

‘That’d be lovely, thank you,’ Emilia said gratefully.

‘I’ll make us a feast, in honour of you coming,’ Fairnette cried. ‘We have plenty of food, for most people roundabouts here tend to barter their goods for my honey and my candles. They give me eggs, or some bacon, or a sack of flour, and Mrs Browne brought me a hen yesterday. They use a lot of candles up at the big house, and she knows I’d rather not be paid too often in gold, for it only means I have to go to town to spend it. I don’t like having to go to town.’

‘So you make a living out of your candles and honey?’ Luka asked curiously.

‘We live well enough,’ Fairnette said. ‘Candles are expensive, you know. I could sell a lot more, if only I had the time to make them. But I already have so much to do around here, for I need to tend the garden as well as the house, and make sure my bees have plenty to eat.’

‘It’s a lovely garden,’ Luka said. ‘That must be why your honey is so delicious.’

Emilia shot him a suspicious glance. She did not really like this new gallantry of Luka’s. Fairnette liked it, though. She smiled and blushed and murmured thanks.

‘I have to make sure the bees have nectar all the time, else they’ll not have enough honey for the winter,’ she said. ‘So this means we have flowers from early spring to autumn. I do like that.’

‘No one grows flowers any more,’ Emilia said. ‘The Puritans think a garden should only be useful, not beautiful.’

‘Flowers are useful,’ Fairnette said. ‘How could bees make honey without them?’

‘My bet is the blue-noses don’t eat honey,’ Luka said. ‘Surely anything so delicious must be a sin?’

They came into the house, laughing, Zizi riding high on Luka’s shoulder, her paw on his ear.

They heard a bang from the kitchen, and at once Fairnette’s face sobered, and she hurried through the house.

The boy with the woollen hood was stooped over the kitchen table, holding a jar pressed to his body with a thin, red, knobbly stick. He was trying to open the lid with his free hand, but could not manage it. The bang they had heard was him thumping his fist on the table with frustration.

Emilia wondered why he did not just hold the jar in one hand and open it with the other, but the very next instant she realised with an awful shock that the red, knobbly stick was in fact the stump of his forearm. He had no hand.

Just then, he glanced around.

She gasped aloud.

One side of his head was horribly scarred. His hair was burnt away, and his scalp was mottled red and white like a slice of sausage.

He flinched away at the sound of Emilia’s gasp, and hunched his shoulders. ‘Who are they?’ he cried, his voice shrill. ‘Tell them to go away!’

Fairnette rushed forward. ‘Are you hungry, Van? Here, let me open it for you!’

‘I don’t want you to open it for me!’ he cried. ‘I want to do it myself!’

‘It’s just a bit stiff, that’s all,’ Fairnette said, and went to pick up the jar.

He struck her hand away. ‘Leave it alone! I don’t want any!’

Fairnette was distressed. ‘Let me open it for you, Van. I don’t mind. Please. I don’t want you to be hungry.’

‘What’s the use?’ he said in a voice of utter misery. ‘I can’t do anything. I can’t even open a stupid jar.’

Zizi’s eyes had brightened at the sight of the jar, which she recognised as the one that held the dried apples. Paying no attention to the children, she swung herself down on to the table, picked up the jar and deftly opened it. She helped herself to a few dried apples, then, remembering her manners, held it out to Van, her head cocked to one side.

There was a moment’s silence. Emilia held her breath, braced for another explosion from the scarred boy, but instead he slowly put out his hand and took one of the apple rings.

Wondering what the other jars contained, Zizi swung herself up to the shelf and nimbly opened another. It held flour, which held no interest for her, though she dabbled at it with her tiny paws and tasted it, before spitting in distaste, screwing the lid back on, and trying the next, which held dried herbs. In the third jar she found fresh plums, which she adored. She gobbled a few down, then, wondering at the silence, looked round. In an instant she had bounded back to the table and was offering the jar to Van. Silently he took one with his good hand and ate it, and Zizi offered the jar to the others.

‘Isn’t she a darling,’ Fairnette breathed.

Van had a strange look on his face. ‘Oh, I wish . . .’ he murmured.

Luka at once scowled and gathered Zizi close. ‘Don’t you go helping yourself, you naughty girl. What will everyone think of you? They’ll think you’re a very badly brought up monkey girl.’

Zizi at once pretended to weep.

‘Oh, don’t scold her,’ Fairnette cried. ‘Let her have some more plums, Luka. I have plenty, really.’

Zizi spread her fingers and peeped through coyly.

‘Here, little monkey,’ Van said, and held out another of the reddish-green fruit.

Zizi screeched with joy, then leapt to Van’s shoulder, taking the plum and eating it greedily. She held onto Van’s ear with her other paw, and he stood very still, hardly daring to breathe. Zizi spat the stone out into her paw and offered it to Van, and rather dazedly he took it.

‘Isn’t she funny?’ Fairnette cried.

‘She’ll make herself sick,’ Luka said.

Zizi jumped up and down, showing all her teeth, then her paw darted down into the jar and she grabbed another plum.

‘Zizi, stop it!’ Luka said, not at all liking to see his monkey perched on another boy’s shoulder.

‘She’s all right,’ Van said. ‘She’s better than all right! Is she yours? Where did you get her?’

‘I got her when she was just a baby,’ Luka said shortly. ‘My father saw her in a basket at one of the markets, all sick and covered in sores. He bought her for me. I’ve had her ever since.’ He held out his hand and gave a little chirrup, and at once Zizi leapt over to his shoulder, and pressed her wizened little monkey face into his shoulder, clinging on tight to his arm with both tiny paws. He murmured something to her, and she murmured back, and he rocked her as if she was a baby.

Van watched enviously.

Absorbed in Zizi’s antics, Van had quite forgotten his scars, but now he remembered. He threw the plum stone into the fire, and began to withdraw, his head hunched down once more. At once Fairnette’s look of anxiety returned, and she put out a hand imploringly.

Emilia did not want him to go. So she said, ‘You wondered who we were and what we’re doing here. Well, it’s a long story, full of dastardly deeds and desperate danger.’

He paused, and half turned his head towards her.

‘We’ve been chased over half of England,’ she said, ‘by a cruel man who hates the gypsies and wants us all to hang by the neck until we’re dead. We’ve been helped by all sorts of strange people – a highwayman . . .’

‘Who only robs people who won’t drink a toast to the king with him,’ Luka said with a snort of laughter.

‘. . . and a smuggler . . .’

‘And a witch!’ Luka said.

‘And a poor young widow who hadn’t left her house in seven years,’ Emilia said, remembering Lady Anne Morrow sadly.

‘And a priest who likes to gamble and drink fine French brandy,’ Luka said, grinning widely. He had grown to be very fond of fat Father Plummer, and it had been very hard for them to say goodbye to him.

‘Not to mention Tom!’ Emilia cried, wondering how their friend was doing. They had left him with Father Plummer to recover from a shotgun wound he had got helping them, and she could not help being anxious about him.

Van was staring at them, caught between his desire to retreat into his room once again, and his desire to know more.

Emilia made a little gesture with her hand towards the table. ‘You see, it all began when we went to Kingston Fair to raise some gold for my sister’s bride price . . .’

The Secret Society

of the Swallow Feather

Beatrice sat bolt upright, unable to rest her head back against the stone wall because of the heavy contraption fitted over her head, an iron bar forced into her mouth to clamp down her tongue. It was, she had been told, a scold’s bridle. It was made to stop women from nagging.

Or, in Beatrice’s case, from singing.

She had only been crooning a lullaby to her little cousin, but it seemed Pastor Spurgeon could not abide even that. He thought it a sin to raise your voice in any way but prayer and, in his case, preaching.

All her life Beatrice had sung whenever the whim took her, and she had always been praised for her beautiful voice. Apart from the pain of the bar in her mouth, and the weight of the iron on her weary head, and the dreadful feeling that she was gagging and choking all the time, it was the shock and humiliation of the punishment that had Beatrice weeping quietly in her corner.

She looked across at her grandmother, who sat hunched against the wall, her chin sunk down onto her chest, her breath wheezing. Her eyes were almost shut. Behind the heavy lids, the eyeballs quivered. It gave Beatrice the shivers.

Suddenly Maggie took a deep breath and flung back her head, opening her eyes. She looked around her, as if she did not know what she was doing in this dank, stinking cell instead of out under her favourite tree in the forest. Slowly her shoulders slumped, and she called huskily to Mimi to bring her a little of the ale they had hidden under the damp straw, for Maggie was so crippled with her rheumatism she could no longer straighten her back, let alone walk. The small ale had been brewed especially for them by Jenny, wife of the night-guard Maloney, for no one dared drink the water.

Beatrice did not know what any of them would do without Maloney’s many small kindnesses. She watched as a pale and listless Mimi held the jug to her grandmother’s lips and then crept back to lie once more in the straw, her hand closed around the rag doll Maloney had given her.

‘How are you doing, darling girl?’ Maggie whispered from across the cell. Beatrice jerked her iron-bound head up and down, and waved her hand from side to side.

‘I’ve been walking the roads.’ Maggie’s voice was so hoarse Beatrice could hardly understand her. A sudden wry smile lifted the old woman’s sunken cheeks. ‘I’ve been looking for our darling girl.’

Emilia? Beatrice did her best to frame the word, but the scold’s bridle would not let her. She tried to speak with her eyes.

‘Aye, Emilia and our Luka too. They’ve travelled far, far . . .’ Maggie’s voice sank away into a whisper. ‘But they are so close now, so close to the lightning bolt of iron.’ She sighed. ‘So close and yet still they do not see it . . .’

‘Tell me more!’ Van demanded, after more than an hour had passed. ‘What about the smuggler? Did he really give you an owl feather? Can I see?’

Luka and Emilia were both sitting up at the table, wrapped in old blankets, for Fairnette had refused to let them eat at her table unless their clothes were washed first. Luka got up and hobbled over to their pack, digging through until he found the feathers Milosh had given them. He passed them to Van who took them in his left hand and brushed them against his left cheek, then laid them down on the table, side by side. ‘What does it mean? Why did he give them to you?’

‘It’s their secret signal,’ Emilia explained. She stopped to have another drink of water, for her throat was dry from all her talking. She had done all she could to make the story of their adventures as exciting as possible, and Van had been utterly enthralled. He had forgotten his shyness, his anger and his misery, and sat at the table, his stump resting on his knee, his eyes shining with eagerness. Fairnette had gone quietly about her work, first washing Luka and Emilia’s clothes and hanging them over bushes in the garden to dry, then peeling and chopping up vegetables for their midday meal. Every now and again she cast Emilia and Luka a deeply grateful glance, as she observed the rapt face of her little brother.

‘It means that if we’re in trouble, or need the smugglers’ help, we can show them the owl feather and they’ll know we’re friends, and will not harm us,’ Luka said.

‘It’s a sacred trust,’ Emilia said, who rather liked this expression.

‘Except, of course, we don’t know any of the smugglers by sight. They were all masked,’ Luka said.

Van gave a sudden grin of excitement. It made him seem much more like a real boy.

‘Father Plummer told us about another secret society who use a feather as their sign,’ Emilia said. ‘They call themselves the Brotherhood of the Grey Goose Feather. They’re from the Fens, which is a place up north a bit like the Romney Marshes, all water and swamp and quicksand.’

‘Oh, I like this story!’ Luka cried. ‘Tell Van about the king!’

‘I’m going to,’ Emilia said sternly. ‘Or at least, I would if you’d just be quiet for a minute.’ She turned back to Van, who was waiting eagerly. ‘You see, near the end of the war, when the king was escaping from Cromwell, the only way he could get away from the soldiers was to go by himself into the fens, with no one but an old man as his guide.’

Van picked up the feathers again, and twirled them, his eyes fixed on Emilia.

‘All the king’s advisers thought it was too dangerous,’ she continued, ‘but the old guide said, “Don’t you worry, I’ll initiate him into the Brotherhood and he’ll be safer in the fens than in his own palace.”’

‘Which was all too true, in the end, wasn’t it?’ Luka said.

‘So the old guide took out a goose feather from his pocket, and split it right down the middle, saying . . .’ Emilia paused, and lowered her voice. She loved this part. ‘“Whilst fishes have scales, and birds have feathers, I’ll do what I can for you, and so shall every other man of the Brotherhood of the Grey Goose Feather.”’

‘Did Milosh say that when he gave you the owl feathers?’ Van asked.

‘No,’ Emilia said regretfully.

‘So what happened?’ Van asked, trying to coax Zizi to come to him with another plum. ‘Did the king get through safely?’

Zizi bounded across to him and took the plum eagerly, perching on his shoulder to eat it. Van was utterly delighted. He stroked her very gently with his hand, and she chattered something to him, solemnly giving him the soggy, messy plum stone. He flicked it into the fire, grinning, then wiped his hand on his breeches.

‘Well, the old guide took him all the way across the fens without any trouble, but then they had to cross a river, and the only ford was guarded by two of Cromwell’s soldiers . . .’

‘So what happened? Did the king get captured?’ Van asked, stroking Zizi and then picking up her long tail, fascinated by the way it curled about his finger.

Emilia smiled. ‘The old guide took out his split goose feather and showed the guards, and they said, “Pass, all is well,” and so the king got through safely.’

‘Cromwell’s own guards let him through? Because of the goose feather?’

‘Aye. And when it was discovered how the king had escaped, the two sentries were dragged before Cromwell, and he said, “’Tis better for a king to escape than for the Fen men to go back on a man who carries the split goose feather,” for Cromwell was a Fen man too.’

‘Cromwell was? He knew about the Brotherhood?’ Van was absorbed in Zizi, who was now going through his pockets. She had found an odd collection of stones and flint arrowheads, a couple of small brass coins, a few rusty old bolts and bits of iron, and a brown apple core which she proceeded to eat with great enjoyment. Irritably Luka called her back to his own shoulder. Zizi patted Van’s cheek, not minding the scars at all, then bounded back to her master, the apple core in her mouth. Van, who had been sweeping everything back into his pocket, lifted his hand wonderingly to his cheek.

‘Indeed he did, he was one of them,’ Emilia said. ‘But here’s the end of the story, this is the good bit, you’ve got to listen.’

‘All right,’ Van said, and Emilia went on. ‘Later, the king was captured and sentenced to death, as you know. The night before his execution, he sent a messenger to Cromwell, saying, “The king does not beg for mercy but he demands as a right the help you must give to every man who carries this token.” And the messenger flung down the split goose feather in front of Cromwell. Well, Cromwell told everyone to go out and he sat looking at the grey goose feather, and in the morning when the servants came back in, he was still there looking at it. And the king was beheaded that day.’

‘So Cromwell didn’t help him, he did nothing?’ Van leant forward, his eyes wide.

‘No, he did nothing. He let the king die. And then what happened is all the Fen men in his service sent him their goose feathers, all broken and bent, and they left his army and all went back to the Fens, and refused to serve him any more, for he had broken the oath of the Brotherhood. And Father Plummer said Cromwell’s never been the same man since.’

‘He should’ve helped the king,’ Van said with conviction.

‘I think so too,’ Emilia said.

‘But how could he?’ Luka said. ‘He’d fought and fought to bring the king down, how could he just let him go at the very end? And what would have happened to him if he had?’

‘He still should’ve helped him,’ Emilia said. ‘He swore an oath. It was a sacred trust.’

‘I’d like to be in a secret society,’ Van said. ‘I’d like to know all the hidden ways through the marshes, and be able to escape from right under the noses of the soldiers, and have adventures.’ He lifted his left hand and rubbed the ugly stump of his right arm.

‘Maybe you can one day,’ Emilia said consolingly, but she knew that Van had remembered his scars, and the spell they had woven was broken.

‘We are in a secret society,’ Luka said. ‘We’re all Roms. Even though you Smiths have left the roads and settled down like gorgios, it does not mean you’re not still a gypsy at heart. Why, you could go back on the road any time you want.’

‘With this?’ Van held up his ugly stump. ‘How could I? I’m useless now, good for nothing.’

‘That’s not true,’ Fairnette cried, pausing in her task of plucking the chicken.

‘Aye, it is,’ Van said. ‘You know it is, Fairnette.’

‘We can make up our own secret society,’ Emilia cried, wanting to drive away Van’s unhappy look. She seized a chicken feather from the table. ‘Here you go! We can be the secret . . . well, not the secret brotherhood since Fairnette and me are girls, but we could be the secret society, of the white feather!’

Van could not help laughing, though only briefly.

‘Please, not a chicken feather,’ Fairnette pleaded. ‘Couldn’t we pick something a little more romantic?’

‘Like what?’ Van wanted to know. ‘A crow feather?’

‘No, not a crow!’ Luka was shocked. Gypsies thought crows were dirty indeed, almost as bad as snakes or cats. His eyes fell on the bunch of red roses on the dresser. ‘How about a rose?’ he suggested. ‘It’s not hard to find roses . . .’

‘Except in winter.’

‘You could use rosehips in winter, or a dried rose . . .’ His voice trailed away.

‘How about a swallow feather, since we’re gypsies and so are swallows,’ Emilia suggested. ‘You could pick one up whenever you saw one, and keep it for the day you needed it.’

‘The Secret Society of the Swallow Feather.’ Luka rolled the words over his tongue. He liked the sound of it.

‘We could call ourselves the Swallows . . .’ Emilia said.

‘. . . and mimic the call of the swallow when we wanted to alert each other with no one knowing.’ And Luka pursed up his lips and gave a fair imitation of a swallow’s whistle.

‘What’s the point even thinking about it?’ Van demanded. He got to his feet, the stump of his arm tucked close to his body. ‘You’ll be going once you’ve got what you want from us, and we’ll never see you again. Much good our secret society will be to us then.’

Cursed Bad Luck

Luka and Emilia looked at each other unhappily. Both knew he spoke the truth.

Emilia ran her fingers over the charms at her wrist. Golden crown for luck, silver horse for the beasts of field and forest, rue flower for the power of plants, cat’s eye shell for sea and water, and the power of seeing clearly. She wished she knew what had happened to Van, and to the lightning bolt charm. She felt the truth was hidden here somewhere, if only she could see it.

‘But we have our whole lives ahead of us, Van,’ she said. ‘It’s true we need to leave here very soon. If we cannot rescue them in time, our families will hang! We cannot stay here, as much as we like you. But once our lives have returned to normal, then why cannot we come and stay with you again? Or you could come to us. The Great North Wood is very beautiful. You could come to Beatrice’s wedding! We’ll sing and dance and feast.’

He stared at her, startled. ‘But . . . I cannot dance . . .’

‘Why not?’ Luka said, and Emilia knew he was about to say, ‘You’ve still got both feet, don’t you?’

‘Of course he can!’ she cried. She did not want Van to curl back into himself like a hedgehog, all his sharp spines raised. ‘I bet you’re a beautiful dancer, Van. It’d be great fun. You should hear Beatrice sing, Van, she sings like an angel.’ But then her shoulders drooped, and she turned her face away. ‘Though if we can’t break our families out of gaol, there’ll be no wedding because Beatrice will be dead.’ She did not need to pretend to cry. Sobs were shaking her narrow rib cage. ‘And Baba and Noah too!’

‘Not to mention all my family,’ Luka said soberly.

Emilia looked at Van pleadingly. ‘We really need your help, Van.’

‘My help? What could I do?’

‘You could ask Stevo to make some keys for them,’ Fairnette burst out. ‘They’ve got moulds, they just need someone to copy the keys.’

Van’s face closed down. He turned away from them, saying nothing.

Fairnette hurried on. ‘You know Stevo would do it if you asked him, Van. He’d do anything to make it all up to you, you know that. Or you could ask Father. He wouldn’t suspect you of being some kind of spy.’ Bitterness rang through her voice. ‘Either of them would do it in a flash, if you asked them.’

‘And you could tell us what happened to the lightning bolt charm,’ Emilia said softly.

Van spun round and stared at her with eyes wide with shock.

‘What?’ he croaked.

‘Your family’s good luck charm,’ Emilia said. ‘The lightning bolt.’

‘Why?’ he said shortly, through his teeth. The blood had drained away from his face, making the red scars uglier than ever.

She showed him the charms hanging from her wrist. ‘Our Baba sent us to find them,’ she said. ‘They’re the luck of the Rom. If we could gather them all together again, we could –’

‘They’re not good luck!’ Van cried. ‘They’re cursed bad luck!’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ Fairnette said. ‘I’ve never heard that said before. Father always used to say the charm had brought us luck.’

Van shut his teeth together smartly and would not speak.

‘Please tell us,’ Emilia said gently. ‘We really want to know.’

Van sighed, then said in a compressed voice, ‘It was all because of the charm that I got burnt.’

‘But . . . how? Why? I don’t understand,’ Fairnette said unhappily.

Van did not look at them. ‘Stevo and Father had been arguing about that stupid charm for weeks. Stevo thought Father should give it up to him. It’s always worn by the master smith, you know, the Big Man . . . and that was really Stevo now, for all that Father went up to the foundry every day.’

‘But I thought . . . do you mean Father was not really doing the job?’ Fairnette was surprised.

Van stared into the fire. ‘Father was getting rather vague about things, like ordering more limestone . . . and there’d been a string of accidents at the foundry, mostly small ones, not like mine. Stevo thought Father was . . .’ he hesitated, ‘. . . not keeping a close enough eye on things.’

‘Damned interfering pup!’ the old man roared. ‘Always thinks he’s right!’

They all jumped and looked round. The old man was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his burly chest, his eyebrows bristling.

‘Is that true, Father?’ Fairnette asked, looking upset. ‘Is that what happened?’

‘It’s all a lie,’ he said. ‘I’m as good a foundry master as I ever was!’

‘But the charm?’ Emilia said. ‘What has it got to do with the lightning bolt charm?’

The old man looked stricken. His hand groped up towards his neck, then fell away, fingers empty.

‘Van?’ Fairnette asked.

‘That day . . .’ Van paused and looked at Fairnette pleadingly. ‘I know I was not meant to go to the foundry, but Dax had been teasing me, calling me a wean and a whelp and a spoilt little baby, so I . . . I went up, just to look around, just to show him I wasn’t scared. Father and Stevo were arguing again. Stevo was saying there was not enough charcoal in the pot, the pig iron was coming out too grey, too brittle. Sparks were flying everywhere and Father was yelling at Stevo to mind his own business and go back to school –’

‘How dare he tell me how to run my own foundry,’ the old man muttered, and sat down heavily at the table. Fairnette moved automatically to pour him some mead, and he drank deeply.

‘So what happened?’ Luka asked.

‘Father said he would give Stevo a clip around the ear for being so cheeky, and Stevo said he wasn’t a wean any more, and Father had no right to beat him, and then Father swung a punch at him and got Stevo on the side of the head, and Stevo grabbed his hand, and anyway, they began going at each other hammer and tongs, you know what they’re like once they lose their tempers.’

Fairnette nodded, looking more miserable than ever.

‘Anyway, Father heaved Stevo right over and gave him a kick, saying that’d teach him to disrespect his elders, and Stevo got up and went for him. I thought he was going to strangle him! He had Father about the throat, and he grabbed the chain and it broke, and he had the lightning bolt in his hand. He stood there, holding it, panting, and he said, “You don’t deserve it, Father. You’re old now, and forgetting your craft. Someone’s going to get killed if you don’t be more careful.”’

‘Impertinent young pup,’ Mr Smith said, glowering into his cup.

‘So what happened then?’ Fairnette asked.

‘Nothing!’ Mr Smith banged the cup down on the table. ‘Nothing happened! It was an accident.’

Fairnette turned her dark, unhappy gaze back to Van’s face.

‘Father ran at Stevo, roaring and shouting, and tried to snatch the charm back,’ Van said. ‘He pushed Stevo and he fell back, and bumped into me. I was sort of hiding behind one of the grapples. I got knocked flying, and just then there was a sort of explosion and a big splash of the molten iron came raining down everywhere, all over me.’

‘It was not my fault!’ the old man shouted. ‘Van shouldn’t have been in the foundry in the first place. It’s got nothing to do with there not being enough charcoal in the pot! Stevo has no right to say so.’

He thumped his fist on the table and pushed his chair back so hard it toppled over. ‘Stevo had no right! Blame me, will he? If he’d given me the respect I deserve, it would never have happened! It wasn’t my fault!’ He stamped out of the room, banging the door behind him.

There was a dreadful silence.

‘What happened to the charm, Van?’ Fairnette asked, her voice very low. ‘Did you see?’

He shook his head, not looking at them. ‘No. I don’t remember much after that. Stevo threw me in the water barrel, and then brought me home. You know all about that.’

He lifted his stump helplessly.

Fairnette nodded.

‘I asked Stevo if he had the lightning bolt charm, and he said he knew nothing about it,’ Luka said angrily.

Van looked at him wearily. ‘He would not want to give it up for anything. It’s forged from a falling star, did you know that? By the very first gypsy, the one that made the nails for the crucifixion. It’s the Smith family’s most precious thing. The Big Man always wears it. It means . . . I guess it means power.’

‘But we need it,’ Emilia whispered. ‘Truly we do. Without it we’ll never be able to save our family.’

Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away.

‘But why?’ Fairnette whispered. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s magic,’ Emilia said. ‘The charms have magic. Apart, their magic is . . . well, not broken . . . but weaker. Together, they are so much more powerful.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do,’ Emilia said. ‘I feel it.’

Luka was frowning. She knew he did not have the same faith in the charms that she did. So far, he had humoured her insistence that they search for all of the charms because he had wanted to get more practical help, like the sleeping drug the innkeeper Joe Wood had given them, or Milosh’s promise to come with men and ponies. She did not know how to persuade him. She put her hand up to finger the charms, rubbing them one after the other. ‘It’s hard to explain. Things have happened, just when we’ve needed them to. Rain coming, or mist, or Coldham’s coach being held up by Lord Harry.’

‘Luck, pure and simple,’ Luka said.

‘It’s too uncanny to be simply luck,’ Emilia argued. ‘And there’s more. The longer I’ve been wearing them, the more clearly I seem to see things. It’s like . . .’ She struggled for words. ‘It’s like on a really bright, frosty morning, when you can see for miles, and everything is so sharp against the sky, and you can smell things, like you were a fox, and hear them too. Everything seems so much clearer. That’s what it’s like, wearing the charms. And each time I add a new one, the powers of the ones I already have get stronger. I can’t explain how. I just know it.’

‘What powers?’ Fairnette whispered, fascinated and afraid.

‘Making things happen,’ Emilia said after a moment. ‘Changing things.’

‘I wish you could turn rocks into gold, and then we could buy our family free,’ Luka mocked, and she sent him a hurt and furious look. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, and on his shoulder Zizi bounced up and down, shrieking derisively.

Emilia’s fingers caressed the golden crown. Luck, and life, and magic . . .

‘Without them we would not have come so far,’ she said insistently.

Van stared at her, his hand thrust in his pocket, his eyes troubled.

Luka shook his head. ‘Stevo will never give us the charm, Milly. You heard Van. He’ll never give it up.’

‘Not for us,’ Emilia said. ‘But he might, if Van asked him.’ She looked pleadingly at the scarred boy.

Van shook his head. ‘No. I can’t. I can’t go to the foundry. No.’

‘You wouldn’t need to go to the foundry. You could go to the inn in the town. They said your brothers are there every night.’

‘No! Are you mad? Go to town, looking like this?’ He flung back the hood and shook back his sleeve so they could see the full horror of his scars.

Emilia was struck dumb with pity. He met her look challengingly.

‘You only need to go once,’ she whispered. ‘To help us, Van.’

‘You could go at night,’ Luka said.

‘Nothing could make me go,’ Van cried. ‘Nothing!’

‘Nothing?’ Emilia whispered, bitterly disappointed.

Van’s eyes suddenly flicked towards Zizi, who was combing Luka’s hair lovingly with her tiny paws.

Luka went white. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘You couldn’t ask me to give up Zizi! She’s like my own little baby, I’ve had her all her life. She’d never understand. It’d be cruel. She’d mope to death.’

Van said nothing.

Luka clutched his monkey close to him, his eyes suddenly bright with tears.

‘You can’t ask it of him!’ Emilia’s voice shook. ‘It’s not fair. He’s already given up so much. He gave away his violin and his telescope that he really loved – you couldn’t ask it of him, could you?’

But even as she spoke, she was thinking of her own mare Alida, who she had loved at least as much as Luka loved Zizi. Her cousin glanced at her. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and cuddled Zizi so close she squeaked in protest.

‘You’re asking me to go where people can see me,’ Van said passionately, his voice shaking as much as Emilia’s. ‘You say he’s lost his violin, and his telescope. So, tell me, what have I lost?’

Once more he shook his stunted red stump in their face, then turned and ran out of the room.

A Storm of Bees

There was no one to eat Fairnette’s roast chicken but Luka and Emilia – and Rollo, who enjoyed the best meal he had had in weeks as each of the three children surreptitiously passed him down tidbits from under the table.

Fairnette took a tray to Van’s room, but he would not open the door to take it, and she took another tray to the forge where her father was banging and hammering away but not actually making anything, which was, she said, a very bad sign.

‘I’m sorry we’ve brought trouble upon you,’ Emilia said unhappily.

Fairnette sighed. ‘You didn’t bring the trouble, Emilia, it was already here.’

They helped her clear away the remains of the meal, and put the chicken bones on to simmer with a bunch of herbs to make soup. Luka in particular was very quiet, and kept Zizi cuddled close to him. They all felt very low and miserable. Fairnette brought in their clothes, stiff and smelling of soap, and deftly sewed up any rents and tears while Emilia and Luka washed and dried the dishes for her. No one said very much.

Then Rollo lifted his head from his paws, and growled, deep in his throat. Luka and Emilia at once tensed and looked up. They heard a low, sullen humming that quickly increased in pitch and intensity.

Fairnette lost all her rosy colour. ‘The bees . . .’ she whispered.

A storm of bees swept in through the open door. Instinctively Luka and Emilia ducked low, arms over their heads. Zizi gibbered with fear and dived under the table, pressing her face into Rollo’s shaggy fur. Rollo buried his face in his paws, whining.

Slowly Fairnette bent and thrust a taper into the fire until its tip was burning brightly. She then straightened and began to sweep the taper through the air, trailing smoke this way and that. ‘What is wrong, noble bees?’ she crooned. ‘What has angered you?’

The bees were confused and lulled by the smoke. They stopped their furious zooming, and bumped about her head.

‘Is there danger?’ Fairnette asked. ‘So many of you, here in the house. Are we to have a whole crowd of visitors today?’

Luka and Emilia looked at each other in sudden alarm. Coldham! Constables!

‘Fairnette,’ Luka said in a low, urgent voice. ‘We need to get away. There are constables on our trail. I did not think they would track us here but –’

‘Bob!’ Emilia cried. ‘The boy who told us where you lived. He would not know to keep it quiet.’

‘We must hide . . .’ Luka bent and swooped Zizi up into his arms, and she wrapped both skinny arms about his neck.

Rollo growled and rose to his feet, his body stiff, the hair on his neck standing up. He was staring at the door. They saw a flicker of movement, a flash of light on metal.

‘They’re all around,’ Emilia whispered. ‘What are we to do?’

‘Quick, hide in the old oast house,’ Fairnette said. ‘We only use one of the towers. The other one is full of junk. They might not find you there.’

Luka and Emilia flashed an anguished look at each other. Might not was not good enough!

‘Is there any way out?’ Luka asked.

‘There’s a door to the outside, where they used to load the bags of hops onto the cart, but it’s bolted on the outside,’ Fairnette said.

Luka grimaced. ‘What about through that white thing at the top?’

‘You mean through the cowl?’ Fairnette asked doubtfully. ‘But how would you get up there? And the hole is very small. Zizi could get out, I guess. It’s really a chimney, you know, that cowl, and it’s just as narrow as a chimney.’

‘I can climb a chimney,’ Luka said.

‘He can climb anything,’ Emilia added loyally. ‘He’s a monkey boy.’

‘And Milly’s a monkey girl.’ Luka grinned at her, sharing a very old joke.

‘Hopefully you won’t need to try,’ Fairnette said, opening a door in the side of the kitchen. ‘It’s an awfully long way down to the ground!’

The door led into a round, dark, cavernous room. Along one wall was a huge fireplace like the one in Van’s room, though it was cold and bare of anything but cobwebs. The strange smell was much stronger in this tower, and the floor was covered in brown leaves and petals that crunched underfoot and sent the smell up in dizzying waves. Everywhere were barrels and sacks and peculiar equipment covered in dust.

There was nowhere safe to hide.

A ladder led up to the next floor. Luka and Emilia scrambled up it, Zizi leading the way. Rollo put his paws up the ladder and whined, but it was too steep for him to follow.

Above was a vast, empty space. The floor was wooden, and scattered with dried hop cones. The roof narrowed to a point far above their heads, and there was the white post of the wind vane, letting in a thin beam of light and a faint draught to move the dried hops so they murmured about the children’s feet.

Luka stared up at it, wondering. ‘Could we, if we had to?’ he whispered.

Emilia frowned. ‘It’s very narrow.’

‘We’re only skinny.’

‘Aye, but skinny enough?’

‘Lucky we didn’t eat much lunch,’ Luka grinned.

‘What would we do about Rollo?’

Luka did not answer, only pressed his lips together.

They crept back down the ladder and put their ear to the door.

‘Open up, else I’ll knock the door down!’ a rough and all-too-familiar voice was roaring. Coldham!

They heard Fairnette open the door, and then her voice, sounding scared, ‘What is it? Who are you?’ Then she screamed. ‘Ow! Let me go! You’re hurting me! Father, Father, help me!’

‘We’re looking for a couple of gypsy brats,’ Coldham snarled. ‘They had a dog with them, a savage, hairy brute, and a horrible flea-bitten monkey. They were last seen coming this way.’

‘Aye, they’ve been here,’ Fairnette said.

Luka and Emilia stared at each other in horror. Never would they have thought Fairnette could betray them. ‘They were here at the crack of dawn,’ Fairnette went on. ‘I don’t know what they wanted, none of it made any sense. I sent them on their way.’

‘Where? Where were they headed?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fairnette said crossly, then screamed again. ‘Ow! Don’t! You’re hurting me!’

They heard Van’s door creak open. ‘Stop it! Leave her alone!’ he cried, sounding frightened. Then Fairnette screamed again.

‘London!’ Fairnette sobbed. ‘They were headed for London, I’m sure.’

Luka and Emilia could only gaze at each other in consternation. They were indeed planning on going next to London, because that was where the last of the Graylings was meant to be, but they had not told Fairnette so. She was only guessing, or perhaps, more likely, saying the least likely place she could think of.

‘London!’ Coldham said. ‘Why on earth . . . All right! Men! Rip this place to pieces. I want to make sure this girl isn’t lying through her teeth. If those gypsy kids are hiding here, I want them found.’

They heard a great clatter of boots, a cry of dismay from Fairnette, and then the crash of furniture being overturned, plates falling, pewter jugs clanging, glass smashing, iron clanking, fists hammering, and doors banging.

Rollo barked angrily.

‘The dog!’ Coldham cried. ‘That dog’s here! Find it!’

‘Sssh, Rollo, sssh!’ Emilia hissed. She exchanged an agonised look with Luka.

‘We’ll go out the cowl,’ he decided.

‘But . . . Rollo!’

Luka seized the dog by his thick ruff and dragged him over to a pile of sacks by the big double doors that led out to the courtyard. ‘Down, boy, down. Stay!’

Obediently Rollo lay down on the sacks, and Luka draped more sacks over him. ‘Stay, boy. Sssh now.’

‘He’ll never stay quiet if the soldiers come in here,’ Emilia protested. ‘He’ll fly at them and they’ll shoot him . . .’ She gave a little sob.

‘We’ll get out the cowl and then open the doors and let him out,’ Luka said. ‘Come on! We have to be quick!’

They could hear banging and crashing in the kitchen, and the sound of Fairnette crying, ‘Father!’ Emilia could only hope the soldiers would not notice the door to the oast house, which was white-panelled like the walls and easy to miss. It was a faint hope.

Under the cover of the noise, Emilia and Luka quickly climbed to the next floor, and looked up at the tiny crack of light so far above them.

‘No help for it,’ Luka said.

A rope and pulley was attached to the cowl so that it could be moved to catch the wind, funnelling air down to the drying hops below. Luka had to jump and jump before he could catch the end of the rope and draw it down towards him. Then Emilia swarmed quickly up it, and Luka and Zizi followed swiftly behind.

The hole at the top was not much bigger than Emilia’s head, and the mossy red tiles of the roof fell away steeply. Emilia was afraid.

‘I’ll hold your ankles,’ Luka said. ‘Can you see the ivy growing up? It looked thick and strong. Try and grab it, hold on to it.’

Emilia took a deep breath, then squeezed her head and shoulders out through the tiny hole. She had to twist and squirm to get her body through, and there was only the narrow windvane for her to cling to as she wriggled out. Luka had a tight grip on her ankles, but the roof was too tall. She could not reach the ivy growing over the gutter. So she kicked her feet free of Luka’s grasp, and slithered helplessly down towards the edge of the roof, making a great clatter as she went. Over the edge she went, at high speed, and the ground hurtled up towards her. In midair, she managed to grasp the top of the ivy. At once it pulled away from the house, but it had slowed her descent long enough for her to bring her body somersaulting round so her head was up and her feet down.

Her feet found a thick branch. Panting, she clung to the side of the tower, and rested her hot face against her scratched and filthy arm.

Zizi paused by her head, chattering derisively, then bounded easily down the wall to the ground. Slowly, her heart still hammering, Emilia followed.

Luka catapulted himself through the tiny hole at the top of the tower with great speed and very little thought, and, like Emilia, found himself slithering down the steep slope of the roof with no way of slowing his descent. He saw the edge of the roof coming, grabbed it with one hand, and slid sideways, sending old tiles crashing down. Then he too found the ivy, and managed to grab it before he slid right over the edge. It was an old, stout plant, very strong and wiry. Luka was able to climb down it as easily as if it had been a tree, and soon found himself, rather scratched and shaken, on the ground.

Quietly he dragged back the bolts and opened the door to the oast house. Rollo leapt up, whuffing with joy, and their hearts sank. They dragged him out, bolted the door again, then ran into the woods, Rollo bounding at their heels. Behind them, they could hear soldiers shouting.

‘Did they see us?’ Emilia panted.

Luka shook his head. ‘They must’ve heard Rollo though. You’re a bad, noisy dog! We told you to be quiet.’

Rollo wagged his tail happily.

‘It could be any old dog,’ Emilia said. ‘They’ve got no way of knowing it was Rollo barking.’

‘Coldham will know,’ Luka said grimly.

They came to the glade where the beehives were, and stopped in sudden dismay.

Someone had smashed open all the hives and stolen the honey.

‘No wonder the bees were in such a rage!’ Emilia said. ‘Look! They’re all wrecked.’

Slowly the two children went forward, afraid of the bees. There were only a few, though, buzzing aimlessly about. They did not seem to know what to do. The hives lay broken on the ground, their contents hacked out. Honey dribbled from one like blood from a wound. Dead bees were stuck in it.

Luka bent and examined the ground. ‘Milly, look!’

Emilia came to see. There, in the soft ground before the beehives, were the marks of a big boot.

And the large, heavy and unmistakable print of a bear.

The two children stared at each other, scared and astounded.

‘It couldn’t be!’

‘Sweetheart? Here?’

Emilia suddenly remembered something that Bob had said to her. So, are you gypsies? Have you come here for the horse fair too? You’re all early this year.

She had paid no attention at the time, thinking only of the lightning bolt charm, but now she realised what it meant. ‘Luka! The Hearnes! They must be here! That boy, Bob, who sent us here, he said there were gypsies here for the horse fair. Remember, Sebastien said they come here to Horsmonden, for some fair in early September. They’ve come early . . .’

‘. . . because they knew we would be coming, to beg the Smiths for help.’ Luka was furious. ‘It was the Hearnes that told Coldham we were here!’

‘They wouldn’t,’ Emilia said feebly.

‘They must’ve!’ Luka snapped.

‘But why?’

Luka shrugged. ‘For money? To save themselves from being arrested?’

‘But we’re kin. Sebastien and Beatrice are betrothed.’

‘Maybe they wish they’d never agreed to the marriage. Maybe they don’t want to be associated with gaolbirds.’ Luka’s voice was bitter.

‘But they’re Rom. The Rom don’t talk to constables.’

‘Do you really think they would risk getting on the wrong side of the law for our sake? What if Coldham threatened them, said he’d take away all their horses?’

Emilia felt close to tears. ‘I can’t believe it! I thought Sebastien was our friend!’

‘It mightn’t have been Sebastien. It was probably that Cosmo fellow. He never wanted to help us in the first place.’

They could not discuss it any more, because Rollo was looking back the way they had come, his hackles raised, growling deep in his throat. Then they heard a distant shout.

‘Come on, let’s go!’ Luka cried, and they ran on past the plundered beehives, and through the forest.

All was quiet in Kingston Gaol.

The women sat listlessly. They were so weak from lack of food that no one had the courage or the energy to tell stories any more, or sing, or play games with the little girls. The only sound was Noah’s constant cough, a sound that struck fear into Beatrice’s heart, for a young man had died of gaol fever only a few days earlier. Noah had begun to cough soon after, and now the harsh hacking sound punctuated the thick silence like the sound of paper being torn to bits.

‘Baba, Baba, I want to go home,’ Mimi suddenly wailed. ‘When can we go home?’

‘It won’t be much longer,’ Maggie said, her voice hoarse. ‘Never you fear. Milly and Luka will have us out of here, I promise you that, and then we’ll go back to the Great North Wood and we’ll have us a feast . . .’

‘What of?’ Sabina asked longingly.

‘Lamb stew with bacon and potatoes,’ Maggie said.

‘Lamb stew!’

‘Aye, tender and sweet as you can imagine, with baby peas and carrots, and a thick, rich gravy that you could smell for miles. We’ll have all our neighbours coming sniffing around our campfire, saying “Mmmm, mmmm, Maggie Finch, what are you a-cooking there?” And I’ll say, with a little wink, “Never you mind, Mr Squire, sir, you just sit down here on this old log and I’ll spoon you up a ladleful.” And the lord of the manor will be sitting there, gobbling down my stew, and never thinking it’s one of his own lambs that’s tasting so good.’

The little girls laughed. ‘What else, Baba, what else?’ Mimi asked.

‘Why, there’ll be stuffed cabbage leaves, of course, and potatoes baked in their skins –’

‘With butter?’

‘Aye, with butter, of course,’ Maggie said promptly, although gypsies rarely had butter as it was not something housewives were very willing to part with.

‘And baked hedgehog?’ Sabina asked.

‘Aye, of course! Emilia will catch us one each.’

One each! Mimi and Sabina looked at each other in joy. As the littlest girls, they were always served last and had to rely on the generosity of their elders to get any of the choicest morsels.

‘When, Baba, when?’ Mimi demanded. ‘When will Emilia and Luka come?’

‘On the very last night of the month,’ Maggie said. ‘See, I’ve been scratching the days on the stone with my pipe. It’s been fifteen days since we were nabbed. That means we have five days left until the magistrates come to town. Milly and Luka will come before then.’

‘Only five days till we face the beaks!’ Lena cried in alarm.

Maggie shot her a quick scowl, for the girls’ hopeful expressions had turned to dismay.

‘Only five days,’ Maggie said. ‘They’ll be here by then, and they’ll have us free, don’t you worry about that.’

How? Beatrice wanted to ask, but she could not frame a word, the iron bar paralysing her tongue. Seeing how much happier the two little girls looked, she could only be glad she had not spoken, though her own doubt and despair weighed her down more heavily than iron chains. Luka and Emilia are only children, she thought. What can they possibly do to save us?

Maybe Sebastien will come, she thought, and went off into a happy daydream where her betrothed broke down the doors of the gaol to rescue her, and she swooned prettily into his strong arms. The details of how he would overcome the guards, get them all out – including her crippled grandmother and her sick little brother – and make sure no one pursued them and dragged them back to prison, were not allowed to complicate the warm haziness of her daydream.

Maggie, however, sat with her shoulders bowed and her eyes hooded, her cold pipe clamped between her teeth. As dusk closed down over the stinking little cell, she slowly took the pipe from her mouth and used it to scratch another mark on the wall.

Another day gone . . .

The Gypsy Camp

‘Find Sweetheart!’ Emilia panted, to Rollo. ‘Where’s our Sweetheart?’

Rollo put his nose to the path and led the way, his plumy tail wagging. When the path came to a fork, he did not take the wider way, but led them scrambling up a rough, brambly path and over a rocky outcrop. Behind them they could hear the crashing of branches as the constables searched through the woods.

The path led them back towards Horsmonden. Through gaps in the trees, they could see the dark chimneys of the foundry, belching out smoke, its windows glaring red. The hammer pond behind it gleamed strangely as the rays of the sinking sun struck through the bronze-coloured smoke. Clouds hung heavy over the horizon, an odd colour like a new bruise. Beyond the wood and the foundry was nothing but a bare blasted heath, pitted with shallow mines and mounded with ugly slagheaps.

Crossing the heath towards the village was a huge, burly man in a dark coat, leading along a big brown bear. She went reluctantly, dragging back on the chain, and it brought tears to Emilia’s eyes to see how the man jerked sharply on the chain, hurting her sensitive nose. Sweetheart moaned and sat back on her hind legs, holding her nose in her paws, and the man whacked her with a heavy stick.

‘He’s hurting her!’ Emilia cried. ‘Why is he yanking her along like that? Where is he taking her?’

‘It’s one of the Smiths,’ Luka said angrily. ‘No one else is that big!’

‘Why does he have her? We left Sweetheart in the care of the Hearnes! They shouldn’t have given her to someone else.’

Luka looked very grim. ‘We should never have done it. Uncle Ruben left Sweetheart in our care. We were wrong to trust the Hearnes, the treacherous, two-faced dogs!’

Emilia suddenly remembered the card of the Knight of Swords. It had warned her of a treacherous man in their future. She had assumed it meant Coldham. Perhaps, though, it had meant someone else. Cosmo, or Felipe, or maybe even Sebastien. Her heart sank. She hated to think that her sister was betrothed to someone who could heartlessly betray them to a man like Coldham.

‘We need to get Sweetheart back,’ she said. ‘If Coldham knows she’s here, I bet he plans to hurt her somehow. He likes hurting things.’

Luka stared at her in horror, then grabbed her hand, breaking into a run. He wondered how far ahead of them Sweetheart was. It could not be more than ten minutes. If they ran, they could catch her up, surely. But how were they to wrest her away from that huge man? He was ten times as strong as they were.

As they ran, they kept their eyes on the big brown bear, so they saw how, when Sweetheart refused utterly to move any further, the big man thrust a hand into a big pot he carried and pulled out something that made the bear stretch out her snout and follow along eagerly.

Honey! That was why Fairnette’s hives had been plundered!

The path led down to a clearing not far from the road, where a small encampment of gypsy caravans was set up. Elaborately carved and gaily painted, the five caravans were drawn in a circle round a fire. A few tents had been set up beside them, no more than canvas slung over stripped saplings. Women in long, colourful skirts were busy about the fire, cutting up vegetables, stirring the big pot on its hook above the flames, mending clothes, or weaving baskets. A few dark, curly-headed children played a game of tip, and dogs lay under the caravans, panting.

‘There’s Alida!’ Emilia cried in joy, seeing her Arab mare tethered close by the wheel of the largest caravan. She clasped her hands together. ‘She looks thin,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘What have they been doing to her?’

‘Racing her half to death, most like,’ Luka replied.

‘We need to get her back,’ Emilia said. ‘But, oh! We can’t! For I promised they could have her until we rescued Baba and Beatrice! If I take her back, I’d have to give them back their silver horse charm.’ She began to weep bitterly.

‘Don’t cry,’ Luka whispered.

‘I want my horse,’ Emilia said fiercely. ‘I want her back! And Sweetheart! Oh, Luka, I’m scared! What do they mean to do with her, dragging her away like that?’

She rubbed her eyes dry, and started down the path.

‘Where are you going?’ Luka asked in dismay.

‘I’m going to talk to them,’ she said. ‘I want to know what’s going on!’

‘Milly, wait!’

But Emilia did not wait. With Rollo at her heels, she ran down the steep path towards the gypsy camp. Luka huffed out his breath in exasperation, swung Zizi back onto his shoulder, and followed.

The dogs gave warning of their approach. Bawling a challenge, they threw themselves at Rollo, who growled menacingly. Emilia put her hand on his neck and said gently, ‘Sssh, boyos. All’s well.’

The dogs stopped their noisy, headlong rush and their tails began to wag. It was impossible to tell whether it was the power of the silver horse charm that hung at Emilia’s wrist, or simply because the dogs recognised their smell. Emilia would have said one thing, Luka the other. Either way, the whole camp was made aware of their presence.

Nadine got to her feet angrily. She wore a vibrant orange skirt, and gold hoops hung in her ears. ‘The Finch weans!’ she cried. ‘I can’t believe they have the cheek to show their faces here! After the trouble they’ve caused!’

‘What trouble?’ Luka demanded, scowling.

Emilia put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Have we caused trouble? We didn’t mean to. What’ve we done?’

‘Nothing but bring the constables down upon us,’ Nadine cried.

‘Peace, Nadine!’ Julisa Hearne said. She was Sebastien’s mother, one day to be Beatrice’s mother-in-law. ‘You should not be here, weans,’ she said, glancing about her nervously. ‘This place is crawling with constables. They know you’re here, and are determined to nabble you. If they see you here, we’ll all be in trouble. Go on, get away while you can!’

‘How do the constables know we’re here?’ Luka demanded. ‘No one knew but Sebastien! Why did he betray us?’

‘Maybe he thinks better of marrying into your tribe,’ Nadine cried. ‘Maybe he sees there’s a better wife to be had closer to home! Maybe –’

‘That’s enough, Nadine!’ Julisa said. She looked at Emilia with troubled eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my weans, but that thief-taker has it in for you bad. I don’t know what you’ve done to annoy him, but he’s determined to drag you back. We had no choice but to do as he said. I swear we didn’t do it happily.’

‘ You mightn’t have,’ Nadine muttered.

‘Get going while you can. There’s nothing good for you here,’ old Janka said, folding her arms across her thin chest. She was Sebastien’s grandmother and the one who had given Emilia the charm of the silver horse. ‘If he finds you, he’ll take you back for the gallows, mark my words.’

‘But why? Why does he hate us so?’ Emilia asked, almost in tears.

Janka let her hands fall to her side. Her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. ‘They hate us because they fear us,’ she answered softly. Emilia met her piercing black eyes. She had often heard her grandmother say the same thing. She had never understood it. Why would the gorgios fear the Rom? The gorgios all had houses and food and money and shoes, and the right to whip the homeless from their parishes. The Rom had nothing but their wits and their quicksilver tongues and the roads unrolling under their feet. What was there to fear in that?

‘Come on, Emilia, let’s go,’ Luka said. ‘We need to find Sweetheart!’

‘Where did that man take her?’ Emilia asked miserably. ‘And why?’

Janka said nothing. She turned and walked away, her shoulders bowed. Julisa bent and picked up her mending, unable to meet their eyes.

Nadine laughed. ‘Don’t you know? Why, I thought the whole valley knew! They haven’t seen such fine entertainment since Cromwell came to power.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emilia clenched her hands together.

Nadine swung round in a swirl of orange. In a few steps, she had seized a piece of paper from the ground and thrust it in Emilia’s and Luka’s faces. ‘These are stuck up on every tree between here and Tunbridge Wells,’ she said mockingly. ‘They should get a fine turnout.’

It was a poster showing a snarling bear beset upon by a pack of rabid dogs. Emilia could not read the letters printed below, but she did not need to. The blood drained from her face. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Not our poor Sweetheart.’

Luka was furious. ‘How dare you!’ he cried. ‘We gave her into your care. Sebastien promised he’d look after her. She’s a tame bear! She’ll be hurt, or killed! How could you?’

‘She was a pain,’ Nadine said. ‘Always moaning and complaining and slowing us down. We were all sick of her. We were glad when Sebastien finally offloaded her.’

She spoke these words in a low hiss, but Julisa heard her and whirled around.

‘Don’t you go blaming my Bas! You know he had nothing to do with it. He tried to stop them. You’re a sly little snake, Nadine, to be bad-mouthing my Bas. If you think this is the way to get him to marry you, you’re greatly mistaken. He’d never have you, and frankly, I’m glad!’

In the silence that fell after her words, Luka and Emilia suddenly heard a frantic banging coming from the largest of the caravans. Both Julisa and Janka looked towards it guiltily.

Luka caught his breath. ‘Who . . . is that . . . is Sebastien locked up in there?’

Neither answered him.

Luka leapt up the steps and banged on the door. ‘Sebastien?’

‘Let me out!’ a voice cried from within.

‘Hang on, won’t be a second!’ Luka was not exaggerating. The caravan door was held shut with nothing more than a stick thrust through the handles. In seconds he had it open. Sebastien stumbled out. He was pale and dishevelled, and sported a black eye.

‘Why are you all locked up? What happened?’ the children cried. Zizi shrieked and leapt up and down.

‘I tried to stop my father from giving your bear to the thief-taker,’ Sebastien explained, grinning widely at the sight of them.

‘Oh no! But why would he . . .’ Emilia clasped her hands together in distress.

‘It’s a trap, to lure you in,’ Julisa said. ‘And maybe, who knows, a punishment too. He’s a nasty piece of work, that thief-taker.’

Nadine tossed her head. ‘He paid us good money for the bear, enough to almost cover our losses this summer,’ she said. ‘What did you expect the Big Man to do? Try to save the bear, and have us all tossed in gaol too?’

‘He didn’t need to tell the thief-taker Sweetheart was here,’ Sebastien cried, ‘or that Emilia and Luka were coming here to Horsmonden. We could have just kept our heads down and slipped away, like we normally do.’

‘Your father told Coldham about us?’ Luka was incredulous. He had liked and admired Felipe Hearne, who had seemed so handsome and assured. Emilia, however, was remembering the bag of gold she had seen Sebastien’s father take from Nat, the Duke of Ormonde’s servant, and how, soon after, the soldiers had come galloping up. She had barely escaped that morning, and what’s more, the Duke of Ormonde had barely escaped too. Later, Nat had been revealed as a traitor, trying to lure the duke into a trap. But how had Felipe let Coldham know? He had not left the gypsy camp that morning. He had sauntered about, smiling and taking bets and winking at Emilia. How . . .

‘It was you!’ Emilia turned on Nadine furiously. ‘You followed me and Bas that night, and you told Coldham where we were hiding. That’s how he knew exactly where to come!’ Overcome with anger, she threw herself on Nadine, pummelling her furiously. Nadine fell backwards, howling in pain.

Janka pulled Emilia off. ‘That’s enough now,’ she said shortly. ‘Go on, you two! Get away from here before you’re caught.’

‘We have to save Sweetheart,’ Emilia cried, tears burning her eyes.

‘What could you possibly do?’ Janka shrugged. ‘It’s too late. Let the bear go, and think about saving your own hides.’

But Emilia could not possibly walk away from their own dear Sweetheart, the cub of her grandfather’s bear, whom they had known and played with all their lives. She gazed imploringly at Sebastien. ‘You’ve got to help us,’ she begged. ‘You promised to take care of her. You’re practically our brother now! Please, won’t you help us?’

‘But how? What could we possibly do?’

‘We’ll think of something!’ Emilia cried. ‘Won’t we, Luka?’

‘Sure,’ he said gamely. ‘Of course we will.’ But he did not look very sure.

‘Coldham’s such a fraud,’ Emilia said bitterly. ‘He professes to be such a good Puritan and then he plans to set a pack of dogs onto our poor Sweetheart. How can he be so cruel?’

Luka put up one eyebrow. ‘What makes you think the Puritans banned bear-baiting because it’s cruel to the bear?’ he asked mockingly. ‘They only banned it because it brings pleasure to the audience!’

‘Well, we have to stop it,’ Emilia said.

‘But how, Milly? You heard Julisa, it’s a trap. Coldham’s hoping we’ll try and save Sweetheart. There’ll be constables there, with guns probably. How can we fight them?’

Emilia squinted her eyes in thought. ‘You know what Baba always says? “Surrounded by gorgios, the Rom’s tongue is his only defence.”’

‘Aye, so?’

‘Well, so tonight I’ll use my tongue as a weapon.’

Puzzled, Luka was about to demand what she meant, but just then Rollo whined and looked back the way they had come. The next instant, Emilia smelt a wrongness in the wind.

‘We need to go back to Fairnette,’ she cried.

‘What?’ Luka said.

‘We need to go back. Fairnette needs us.’

‘But . . . why?’

‘Fire,’ Emilia said. ‘Can’t you smell it? Their house is on fire.’

A Hungry Beast

Luka and Emilia ran all the way back, Sebastian at their heels.

‘But what can we do?’ Luka panted.

‘Must do something,’ Emilia panted back. ‘Besides . . . we’ll need their help. Can’t . . . rescue . . . Sweetheart without it.’

Luka was silent. He carried Zizi in his arms, like a little child. Her hairy arms were wrapped about his neck, and her anxious face looked at Emilia over his bobbing shoulder.

She could not say any more, her heart filled to bursting. She knew how Luka loved his monkey. She knew he also loved his mother and father and sister and grandmother, and all his cousins too. It was a cruel, cruel choice. In a way it had been easier for her. A horse was a simpler creature than a monkey. Although Alida loved her, and had always given Emilia her best, Emilia had known she was unlikely to pine away to death if they were parted. Zizi, though, Zizi was like a small, uncomprehending child. If Luka gave her away, her heart would be broken. Emilia knew she would never get over it. Alida at least was surrounded by her own kind, her nostrils filled with the smell of horse, her ears filled with the wheedling of horse-whisperers who knew how to keep her happy. Zizi was a monkey who had never known another monkey. Luka was her mother and father, the Big Man of her monkey tribe. Van was a stranger to her, a strange smell, a strange voice, a strange hand, and far too likely to let her make herself ill on fruit and sweets. Emilia knew that Luka felt he was choosing between his monkey’s life and the life of his family, going back, yet the other choice was too hard, too horrible. Because how could Luka forgive himself if he let his whole family die for the sake of his darling monkey girl?

As they ran past the plundered beehives, the smell of burning grew. Then they heard the hungry roar of flames. Emilia felt sick with anxiety. The smoke in the air stung her eyes. They saw the red glare of fire as they burst out of the wood into the garden.

One of the roundels was up in flames. Old Man Smith was drawing up water from the well and running to throw it onto the crackling blaze. Van was crouched in the dirt, his arms up over his head, rocking back and forth and moaning in terror. Fairnette was trying to comfort him, tears pouring down her face.

Luka and Emilia did not stop to talk. They ran to help, Sebastien by their side. Luka seized the bucket from the old man’s hand, and flung it to Sebastien who quickly lowered it into the well.

Sebastien hauled up the bucket, which was slopping over with water, and passed it to Luka, who passed it Emilia, who passed it to Fairnette, who passed it to the old man, who threw it on the burning roundel. It was of little use, though. With only one bucket, they could not move the water fast enough. The fire leapt and gibbered at the gaping windows, and tore great chunks out of the pointed roof.

‘Van!’ Luka shouted. ‘Get up and help!’

‘I can’t, I can’t!’

‘Criminy, Van, you’ve still got one hand, use it! Find us another bucket!’

Van looked around wildly, then, unbelievably, got to his feet and ran to the forge. He staggered out with the smithy’s big quench-bucket and flung it to Luka, then went back for another. Soon there was a breathless, heaving, desperate chain of buckets passing back and forth between the well to the fire. Smoke hung heavy in the air, hurting their lungs. Each splash of water made the fire shrink and wince, but did not douse it. Then, with a roar, the roof collapsed and fell in. Charred and blackened timbers fell on the roof of the cottage, smouldering coals raining everywhere.

‘The whole place will go up in flames now!’ Sebastien cried. ‘We’ve got to have more water.’

Panting, in tears, Emilia ran her fingers swiftly over her charms, her eyes shut, every atom of her body begging for rain to come and help kill this dreadful hungry beast of red flaming eyes and red devouring mouths. Rain had come before when she needed it. She believed absolutely that it would come again.

And it did. A sudden rain-burst that drenched them all to the skin, and quenched the fire in a matter of minutes. They stood in the grey downpour, jumping up and down and cheering. Emilia felt so weak with relief that she fell to her knees in the mud. Zizi jumped up and down and squealed, then tried to creep inside Luka’s shirt. She hated the rain.

Fairnette wept.

‘You came,’ she sobbed. ‘Thank you, thank you! I thought you were gone forever.’

‘We had to come back,’ Emilia said. ‘We smelt the smoke.’

‘That horrible man did it. He knew you’d been here, he heard Rollo bark. He said he’d teach us to lie to him.’

‘I knew it, I knew it!’ Emilia cried. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Fairnette said. ‘He’s a bad man, a very bad man. But Father knocked him down!’

‘I showed him!’ the old man shouted, shaking his fist. ‘He dared hurt my girl, the sweetest girl that ever lived.’

Fresh tears sprang into Fairnette’s eyes. ‘Oh, Father!’

Mr Smith put his arm about her shoulder. ‘It’s all over now. Come on in, and we’ll see what the damage is.’

The roundel the children had escaped from was a blackened ruin, and the kitchen was scorched with smoke, particularly around the doorway. Miraculously the rest of the house had survived, though the floor was a mess of broken crockery and glass, with flour and honey and raisins and dried herbs littered everywhere and ground into the floor with filthy boot prints.

Fairnette picked up the overturned chairs and set them neatly at the table, and then found a couple of battered tin mugs. The soldiers had not found her secret hoard of mead, a sweet, potent drink made of fermented honey. She poured it into the mugs and they all took turns to drink. The mead made their heads spin and their hearts leap.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Mr Smith said. ‘That rain . . . it came at just the right moment.’

‘Magic,’ Emilia said confidently.

‘Luck,’ Luka said, not quite so confidently.

‘A miracle,’ Fairnette said.

They smiled at each other.

‘So who are our saviours?’ the old man said. ‘Friends indeed in our time of need!’

Fairnette flashed a quick look at Emilia and Luka. ‘Father! Let me introduce you. This is Luka and Emilia Finch. They’re the grandchildren of Maggie Finch, who I think you know . . .’

‘Of course, I remember Maggie. She had the most beautiful long hair. Her family used to come for the horse fair in September, and to pick hops sometimes. She married . . . Sylvio Finch, of course. He had a dancing bear, and could play the fiddle like a demon. I wonder what happened to that bear?’

‘We have one of his cubs, though of course it’s not a cub any more,’ Luka said. ‘We call her Sweetheart. She loves to dance too, and play football.’

The old man laughed uproariously. ‘Sylvio’s bear liked to play football too. I’ll never forget it!’

Luka and Emilia exchanged a glance of wry amusement.

Van had shrunk back into his hood, his stump tucked out of sight. Emilia pursed up her lips and mimicked the sound of a swallow. It made him smile crookedly, and glance at her. She looked towards Luka, who had Zizi cuddled up in his arms, then looked back at Van pleadingly.

His colour rose. His gaze fell.

‘So what brings you and your cousin here to Horsmonden? It’s too early for the horse fair, isn’t it?’ The old man had noticed nothing, as usual.

So, once again, they told him. He nodded when they mentioned the Graylings tribe and said, ‘Aye, that’s right, they left the roads and went to London, hoping to make their fortune there. Last I heard old Mala’s daughter had married a gorgio, some lawyer fellow.’

Luka was very interested to hear this, and pressed the old man for details, but if he had ever known any more, he did not remember it. So Luka hurried on to his next urgent need, and this time, when he mentioned the wax imprints, the old man nodded his head jovially. ‘Sure, that’s easy enough. I could do that in my sleep.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been asked to copy keys. In the bad old days, that’s all we Smiths ever did, half the time, before they built the foundry.’ He paused, and his face clouded.

Fairnette said quickly, ‘Did you used to make keys, Father? I didn’t know. It’d be great if you could make them for Luka.’

The cloud passed away from the old man’s face. ‘Keys! It’s been a while. The hands don’t forget, though, no. I remember everything I’ve ever made, I do. My father taught me, just like I taught my boys. You know, my father would be amazed at the things we make now from our iron. That foundry! Those cannons and cannonballs, and all those guns. Amazed he’d be.’

Fairnette was tense and anxious, waiting for her father to grow unhappy, but he rambled on, his mind far back in the distant past. ‘Mainly horseshoes in those days, and spades and rakes and ploughs. My father had a good business making those. But his brother! It was his brother who wanted him to cut keys for him all the time.’

Mr Smith took out his pipe and began to stuff it with tobacco. ‘He was a bit of a wild fellow, my uncle,’ he said. ‘Would wheedle keys to the grand houses out of the scullery maids, pretending to woo them, then get my father to cut them for him before he gave them back. Then he’d break into the house and steal all the silver and the jewels. If they guessed it was him, the maids wouldn’t tell, not wanting to get into trouble themselves. He’d drink away all the profits, though, and so would come back to Father the next week, with another set of keys he’d bribed or charmed or filched away, asking Father to copy them for him quick. In the end, my father made him a little tool, to pick all the locks. Worked like a charm, he said.’

Luka leant forward, intent. ‘A tool? For picking locks?’

‘Aye. Simple enough to make, he said, if you knew what you were doing.’

‘Do you think you could make me one of those tools too?’ Luka asked.

‘Me? I can make anything,’ the old man boasted.

‘It’s true, he can,’ Fairnette said. She smiled at her father. ‘Father, do you think you could make one for Luka? Please?’

‘Sure I could,’ the old man said. ‘Give me five minutes, and I’ll whip one up for you.’

Luka’s and Emilia’s eyes met in pure joy.

While Mr Smith busied himself out in the forge, Luka and Emilia and Sebastien helped Fairnette put her kitchen back in some kind of order. Zizi made herself busy sweeping up with a little broom, while Rollo fled to the garden with a rather charred bone.

‘First time that dog has proved himself smarter than my monkey girl,’ Luka grumbled, scrubbing the panelling with soapy water.

Van sat and watched them. He had pulled his hood all the way forward to hide his scars, and his stump was tucked out of sight. All they could see of him was his mouth, which was set very tightly. Every now and again he gave a convulsive shudder, which he did his best to control.

Emilia’s heart ached for him. It must have been terrifying, being so close to a raging fire when he had already suffered such dreadful burns. No wonder he had fallen to pieces.

Luka evidently had no such compassion, for he cast him an impatient look and said sharply, ‘Aren’t you going to help, Van? Or are you going to make Fairnette do all the work, as usual?’

‘What can I do?’ Van cried, his voice shaking. ‘I’m useless! I can’t do anything! I can’t even sweep up the dirt like Zizi can. You ever tried to sweep with one hand? It’s impossible.’

Rather startled, Luka picked up the broom and tried to sweep using only one hand, but found he had little control and his arm soon began to ache. He looked back at Van with a new stir of sympathy.

The scarred boy went on, words tumbling over themselves. ‘I can hardly even feed myself, Fairnette has to cut up all my food, as if I were a baby. I can’t get myself dressed or undressed, or tie my own laces, let alone help Father in the forge, like a real man! I’m useless, absolutely useless. I wish I was dead!’

‘Oh, Van, don’t say that,’ Fairnette cried, tears rising in her eyes again.

‘Why don’t you ask your father to make you something you can stick onto the stump?’ Luka asked, with his usual practicality. ‘Surely he could rig up some way to attach a knife, so you can cut up your own food. Why, he could make a whole range of tools for you. A spade to dig in the garden, a hook to cut apples down with . . .’

‘A spoon to scoop up your soup,’ Emilia suggested.

Van and Fairnette stared at Luka, utterly taken aback.

‘Well, why not?’ Luka said. ‘Your dad can make anything, he said so himself. Why not a new hand?’

‘A new hand? Made of iron?’ Van stared down at his stump, then gazed at Luka, his eyes beginning to shine.

‘We never thought of that,’ Fairnette said, her voice rising in excitement. ‘But . . . how? How could you . . .’

‘Attach it?’ Luka said, not realising Fairnette had paused out of tact. ‘I don’t know. Maybe make a leather cup that fits over the stump. With straps, perhaps, that you could tie about your shoulder to keep it in place.’

‘You could make it nice and soft with lamb’s wool inside,’ tender-hearted Emilia said.

‘Your father could make all sorts of different tools that could be screwed in and out,’ Luka went on. ‘You could even work in the forge one day if he found some way to attach a smith’s hammer to your stump.’

‘Could it work?’ Van whispered. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be like having my hand back again, but . . .’

‘Of course it would work,’ Luka said. ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

‘People would stare,’ Van said, in an agony of shyness.

‘Who cares?’ Luka said, dunking the scrubbing brush in the water again.

‘Heaps of people lost their hands during the war,’ Emilia said. ‘We saw crippled soldiers begging in Guildford. Some had lost an eye, or their whole arm. One we saw had even lost both legs. No one would think anything of you having only one hand, really they wouldn’t.’

‘They’d want to know who made your iron hand and then they’d come and beg your father to make one for them too,’ Sebastien said. ‘He’d make a fortune!’

Van began to look excited, but then he suddenly put one hand up to his scarred, hairless head, and the light went out of his eyes.

‘You know what,’ Emilia said. ‘If you wore a wig, no one would ever know you had scars underneath. All the fine gentlemen in France wear wigs now, the duke told us. They have to shave off all their own hair to fit it on their heads. Once the king comes back, wigs will be all the rage here too.’

‘You think so?’ Van rubbed at the thick, ugly scar above his maimed ear.

‘I know so,’ Emilia said confidently.

‘But where would I get a wig? They must cost a lot of money, if they’re for gentlemen to wear.’

‘I’ll give you my hair if you like,’ Emilia said, surprising them all. She put her hand up to her wild black curls. ‘The king wears a wig just like this when he rides back into London,’ she said dreamily. ‘People are cheering, girls are throwing roses, trumpets are blowing. And all the lords riding behind the king have long dark curls to their shoulders too. You would look just like the king.’

‘How do you know these things?’ Van whispered. ‘Are they true?’

Emilia nodded.

‘But how do you know?’

‘I just do,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the eye, you know.’

‘But would you really cut your hair off for me?’ Van sounded dazed.

‘We need your help,’ Emilia said. ‘And I don’t want you to force Luka to give you his monkey girl. Zizi belongs with him, it’d break her heart if he gave her away. But, if it’ll help you, I’ll gladly cut off all my hair to make you a wig.’

Luka stared at her, gratitude shining in his eyes, then gathered his little monkey close in his arms. She chattered away lovingly, patting his arm with her leathery paw.

‘But what could I do?’ Van said slowly. ‘Father has already said he’ll cut those keys for you.’

‘You could give us the lightning bolt charm,’ Emilia said.

There was a long silence.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Van said at last, in a strangled voice, his hand groping in his pocket.

‘Aye, you do,’ Emilia replied. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Of course you have the charm. We know your father doesn’t have it, we could see his neck was bare, and Luka says that your brother Stevo wasn’t wearing anything about his neck either. Yet we know that he pulled it off your father’s neck during their fight at the foundry. So where is it? I think you grabbed it that day. I think it flew off your father’s chain, and fell on the floor, and you bent to pick it up. I’ve noticed how often you put your hand into your pocket, fiddling with the things you have in there. I didn’t think anything of it at first. But I think you have the charm in there, and you touch it, for courage, like I touch mine.’

Van did not say anything for a moment, then he withdrew his hand from his pocket. He held a small piece of iron, forged into the jagged shape of a lightning bolt. He rubbed his thumb over it, then held it out to Emilia. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you before. I . . . I wanted it to be all mine. It’s got power, you know.’

‘I know,’ Emilia said.

She put up her hands and twisted her hair into a thick rope. ‘Can I have your knife?’ she said to Luka.

‘No, don’t cut your hair!’ Van cried. ‘You don’t need to.’ Then he looked at Luka. ‘And you don’t need to give me Zizi. I could never take her away from you. I’m sorry I said so. It’s just . . .’

‘But what can we give you then, in return for the charm?’ Emilia said, looking troubled.

‘You’ve already given it to me,’ Van said. He pursed up his lips and mimicked the call of the swallow, then said, ‘Whilst fishes have scales, and birds have feathers, I’ll do what I can for you . . .’

Emilia leapt up and flung her arms around his neck, kissing him on his cheek so he flushed scarlet. ‘Thank you, Van!’

She hung the lightning bolt charm on her bracelet. It swung to and fro, black as night, hard as hate, hot to the touch. A little shiver ran over her, half dread, half excitement.

‘Now to rescue our bear, and get on our way,’ she said. ‘Van, I need to make fire and smoke. Do you know how?’

He nodded, smiling broadly. ‘Indeed I do,’ he said.

Fire and Smoke

Night had fallen and all was dark, but torches planted all around the village square cast a flickering red light over the crowd gathered together in the street before the Gun Inn.

An improvised bearpit had been built with rough stakes in the centre of the green. Sweetheart sat in the middle, chained by the leg. She looked very sulky. She did not like the noise of the crowd, shouting and jeering as they drank beer and laid their bets. She did not like the smell of the half-starved dogs snapping and snarling in the back of a cart parked nearby. She was covered with cuts and bruises where she had been beaten with a stick, and her nose was very sore. Sweetheart just wanted to go home.

Excited children darted here and there among the crowd, so no one paid much attention to a couple of boys loitering near the dog cart, hoods drawn up over their heads against the evening chill. The owner of the fighting dogs was busy taking bets, and so he did not notice when the two boys surreptitiously dropped half-a-dozen lumps of meat into the dog cart, before creeping away. Soon the snarling died away as the dogs settled down to devour the meat. It did not take long for the powdered fishberries sprinkled on the meat to take effect. One by one the dogs lay down and put their heads on their paws, yawning and sighing. Some began to snore.

It was more difficult to reach Sweetheart. Luka had to clamber over the fence, first folding his coat over the sharp points of the stakes. Luckily a thick mist had begun to drift in over the town, and so no one saw him. He crept right up to Sweetheart, talking softly to her as he wrestled with the lock that chained her leg to the stake. He had practised all afternoon with the lock pick Fairnette’s father had made for him, but it was much more difficult to pick a lock in the dark and the mist, with a disgruntled six hundred pound bear growling and grumbling at the other end of the chain, than it was in the light of the day.

He gave the slender little hook another wriggle and suddenly the padlock clicked open. Luka was able to hastily unfasten it from the chain and creep away.

Shouting and jostling, the audience began to call for some action. The dog-man drank down his beer, and swaggered across to the cart. When he found his dogs snoozing, he cursed and began to lay about him with his whip. The dogs yelped, and staggered to their feet, and he dragged them from the cart towards the bearpit.

Sweetheart looked up as the crowd surged all round the circle of stakes, and growled. The dogman clambered over the fence, seized the chain that hung from the ring in Sweetheart’s nose and gave it a vicious yank. She yowled and put both paws to her nose. When he yanked it again and hit her with his whip, she rose high onto her hind paws and bellowed her displeasure. At once everyone cheered, and Sweetheart snarled and struck out with her paw. The dog-man ducked and backed hastily away, then drove his poor, thin, half-drugged dogs into the bearpit, lashing cruelly with his whip. With tails slunk between their legs, they staggered around, whining. Sweetheart, who was feeling very cross and out of sorts, growled at them. One or two snapped at her, but most of the dogs were simply too groggy to fight. One even lay down and went back to sleep.

‘Poor show!’ one man shouted. ‘What’s wrong with your dogs?’

‘What kind of bear-baiting is this?’

‘Tie some fireworks to their tails, that’ll get them jumping!’

Suddenly there was a loud bang and whoosh. Purplish smoke billowed up from the grass, and the smouldering flames in the torches shot high, spraying sparks everywhere. Everyone glanced around, startled.

Emilia stepped out of the smoke. She was dressed in her vivid gypsy skirt, with a gaudy scarf tied over her head, and big golden hoops in her ears. Her black curls hung in wild disarray down her back. She held her grandmother’s crystal ball in one hand. With the other she pointed three fingers at the startled crowd.

‘Curse the voices that cry for blood!’ she called. ‘Curse this town, which lives by fire and iron and death! May your foundry crumble to dust and ashes.’

The crowd stood still, shocked and afraid.

Emilia turned her gaze and her pointing fingers towards the dog-man, who cowered back. ‘Curse the hand that strikes a poor, dumb beast! May you feel the sting of the whip, the bite of the chain.’

He stumbled backwards, terrified. At once Sweetheart lunged forward, lashing out with her massive, sharp claws. Shrieking, the dog-man tumbled head over heels over one of his huge, pug-faced mastiffs, who snarled and snapped at him, closing his jaws over the screaming man’s hand. Blood spurted. The dog-man screamed. He managed to wrench his hand away, and went running out of the bearpit, still screaming. Excited by the smell of blood, the bigger, meaner dogs raced after him, howling and snarling. The crowd shrank back and let them through.

Emilia was as shocked as anyone. She certainly had not expected her curse to work, let alone so graphically. Her hand dropped, and sought the comfort of the charms hanging from her bracelet. Golden crown, silver horse, the sprig of rue, the cat’s eye shell . . .

‘Seize her!’ Coldham cried, striding out of the crowd, flanked by burly constables. He was grinning broadly. ‘We have her now!’

Emilia’s fingers touched the last of her charms, the unfamiliar serrated shape of the lightning bolt charm.

Her hand flashed up again. She pointed her three stiff fingers directly at the thief-taker, and cried, at the top of her voice, ‘And I curse you, Coldham. With fire you fought, and so with fire you shall be struck down!’

Luka and Sebastien, hidden in the crowd, at once threw more handfuls of saltpetre into the flickering flames of the torches, while Van, his hood drawn down over his face, ignited another of his smoke bombs. Again there was a loud whoosh. Sparks flew high, and a bitter, acrid, purple-coloured smoke billowed out, obscuring Emilia from sight. She ran forward and seized Sweetheart’s chain. ‘Come on, Sweetheart, come on, we have you now. Let’s get out of here.’

As she ran away from the bearpit, Sweetheart loping along beside her, she shoved the crystal ball in her hand deep into her pocket to keep it safe. The crowd was in complete disarray. People were screaming and running in all directions, others were belligerently searching for her, while Coldham stood, pale-faced and sweating, struck dumb with terror.

He hates us because he fears us, Emilia thought to herself. Well, now at least he really has something to fear!

She wrapped her black shawl about her waist, trying to hide the bright rose-pink and crimson of her multi-layered skirt, and dragged her grandmother’s gilt-threaded scarf away from her hair, shoving it into her pocket too. Sweetheart was glad to be running away from the crowd, frightened by all the shouting and screaming and the foul smell of the smoke.

Those smokebombs Van made for us really worked! Emilia thought exultantly. Now all we have to do is get away from here.

In the darkness, the only landmark was the gun foundry. Its windows glared red through the night, and the clang and pound of its giant hammers never ceased. Emilia ran towards it, pulling on Sweetheart’s chain every time the big bear protested and tried to rear backwards.

‘I’m sorry, darling Sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘I know it hurts. I promise, just a little further . . .’

Behind her she heard shouts and the thud of running feet. She recognised Coldham’s grating voice, and ran faster. Sweetheart bounded forward, her heavy paws thumping on the dirt of the road.

Overhead, the clouds parted for a moment and she saw the red glint of Mars, the planet of the god of war. She cast some kind of wordless prayer towards it, as the road began to rise under her feet, leading her inexorably to the gun foundry.

Then her foot fell into a pothole, and she stumbled and was thrown to the ground. Her arm was almost jerked out of its socket as Sweetheart ran on. As the chain snapped taut, Sweetheart yowled in pain. Shaken and bruised, Emilia staggered up. ‘Sorry, Sweetheart, sorry!’

A big hand seized her elbow.

‘If it’s not our little devil in child form,’ a familiar voice murmured in her ear.

Emilia swung round in fury. ‘You sold us out!’ she hissed. ‘How could you?’

Felipe made a deprecating sound. ‘He offered us our horses back, if we helped him.’

‘You’re Rom! And you betrayed us.’

‘Don’t take it so hard, my wean,’ he said. ‘It was not personal. With one behind you cannot sit on two horses, you know that. I had to do what I could to save my family.’

‘What about mine?’ Emilia was trying hard to hold back her tears, but her voice quivered so much, she knew Felipe heard them.

‘I’m sorry about your family, little one, but what could I do? Coldham is a bad man to cross.’

‘May he burn in hell!’

‘Is that another curse? I swear you made my blood run cold with those curses of yours, my little gule romni. Will it come true, what you said to him?’

Emilia was silent. Beside her, Sweetheart shifted her weight uneasily, not trusting Felipe’s scent. The shouting and running came closer.

‘I don’t know,’ Emilia said. ‘Words have power. Maybe.’

‘Well, I just hope you don’t ever curse me, Emilia Finch.’

‘May you pay for your shame!’ Emilia flashed.

There was a brief silence, then Felipe let go of her elbow. ‘Who am I to stop a Rom from running where she wills?’ he said softly. ‘Go, little one. I’ll try to throw them off the scent.’

Emilia did not hesitate. With a little jerk to the chain, she was off and running again, Sweetheart bounding beside her.

‘No devil in child form here!’ Felipe called loudly. ‘I think they’ve slipped your net again, Coldham!’

‘I’ll see that girl hang,’ Coldham replied nastily. ‘And you too, you dirty gyp, if you don’t find her!’

‘I swear, she must’ve slipped through a crack in the ground and gone down to find her master,’ Felipe said, in mock piousness. ‘For she’s not to be found anywhere!’

‘Kindle some fire!’ Coldham shouted. ‘Let us have some light here!’

‘Are you sure that’s wise, Coldham?’ Felipe said, very coolly. ‘Given her curse and all?’

There was a long moment of silence. Emilia quirked her mouth up in a rueful smile. She could not help liking Felipe.

The big doors of the gun foundry yawned before her. She slowed to a creep, and slipped inside.

All was black above, and red below, with sudden sparks and showers of gold and silver, beautiful and dangerous. Men worked away, sullen with exhaustion. They did not notice the tiny stick figure of Emilia or the giant dark hump of the bear beside her. Emilia stuck to the wall, and searched around for her friends, for they had all agreed the foundry to be the best meeting place.

‘Hsst! Milly!’

Emilia looked around, and saw the sudden floating apparition of a face out of the darkness, and the urgent wave of a hand. She sidled towards them, and drew a reluctant Sweetheart close into the shadows under the ladders.

‘You all right?’ Luka whispered.

‘Aye,’ Emilia whispered back. ‘But they’re close on my heels. Do you think they’ll come here?’

‘They’ll think we took to the wood, or went back to the oast house,’ Luka replied softly. ‘We should be safe.’

‘I can’t believe we got Sweetheart free,’ Sebastien said. ‘I never thought your plan would work, Emilia.’

‘I had my doubts as well,’ she said dryly. ‘We could never have done it without Van’s smoke bombs, and that stuff you threw on the torches.’

‘Saltpetre,’ Van whispered. ‘They use it to make gunpowder. Lucky it’s easy enough to get.’

‘Why? Where do you get it?’ Luka asked with his usual quick curiosity.

‘It’s in manure,’ Van grinned. ‘They send saltpetre men round to gather it from stables and dovecotes and henhouses and so forth, for they need so much to make gunpowder for all their guns. All I had to do was scrape it out from the walls of our henhouse.’

Emilia smiled wearily.

‘How do we get out of here?’ Luka whispered.

Van pointed one hand straight up and said tersely, ‘Up the ladders. You can climb out the furnace chimney. I’ve done it before. Be careful of the fire.’

Emilia looked up and up and up, into the very apex of the foundry, where the molten iron ore poured in a gaudy waterfall down into the hearth below. Men, half-naked, soot-streaked, worked feverishly swinging moulds in and out of place, and manhandling great slabs of pig iron away from the hearth. Above, she could see a hazy circle of clouded stars. It did not surprise her that the red planet winked there.

‘What about Rollo?’ she said tersely. Beside her, the big dog whined softly and licked her hand. ‘He cannot climb. Nor Sweetheart. Not so far. She’d never do it.’

Van was silent. ‘There’s a back entrance,’ he said eventually. ‘But we’d have to pass whichever of my brothers is on duty. They see everything, my brothers.’

‘I cannot leave Rollo or Sweetheart,’ Emilia said. ‘We’ve come so far . . .’

‘Make a diversion,’ Sebastien said, a grin in his voice. ‘Shout “Fire!”’

Van was not amused.

‘Come this way,’ he murmured. ‘Keep quiet and low.’

They followed him along the wall, keeping to the shadows. A cascade of sparks burst out, and Emilia could clearly see the forms and faces of her companions, their glinting eyes, the bear’s massive shape. But no one cried the alarm. The sparks died down, and they went on.

Behind the main room was another series of small apertures or chambers. In one a mechanism of cogs and wheels slowly churned over, pumping a giant pair of bellows that sounded first like a pit full of adders, then like the sea in a cave. It puffed out great gusts of air that kept the fire leaping and crackling. Elsewhere, giant hammers were pounded up and down by another piece of machinery. The sound made their teeth shudder. Then there was a dark passageway, and a set of steps leading up into utter blackness. A faint riffle of fresh air down the steps made Sweetheart lift her snout, sniffing, and Rollo wag his tail against Emilia’s legs.

A big, dark, burly man sat on a chair inside a little office, laboriously going over a sheaf of papers, a quill stuck behind his ear, his brows drawn so close over his eyes they could not be seen. Slowly, silently, the children tiptoed past, Emilia in the lead, then Luka pulling along Sweetheart, Zizi on his shoulder, then Van and Sebastien close behind. Rollo had run on ahead, bounding eagerly up the stairs.

The burly man looked up. His eyes fell on them, illuminated by the light streaming from the door. He stared, uncomprehending, for a long moment, then opened his mouth to yell.

‘Don’t!’ Van cried. ‘Please, Stevo! These are my friends.’

Stevo stood up slowly. ‘Vandlo?’

‘Aye. It’s me.’ Van stepped forward into the light, lifting a hand and a stump in entreaty. ‘Please don’t give us away, Stevo.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Escaping the bad man,’ Van said. ‘He tried to burn our house down today. He hit Fairnette and twisted her arm, and then he smashed Father across the face with that steel gauntlet of his. He would have hit me too if I had not cowered away from him as far as I could get.’ There was bitter self-mockery in his voice.

Stevo peered through the darkness. ‘It’s the Rom weans, is it? That the thief-taker is after?’

‘Aye.’

Stevo stepped back. ‘Take them through then, Van.’

Van nodded and pressed forward.

‘It was good to see you, Van.’

Van looked back at his brother. ‘And you, Stevo.’

They had taken no more than a few steps when a shout rang out behind them. ‘There they are! Call the thief-taker!’

They spun round in fright. Another Smith brother stood at the end of the passageway, pointing at them. As another spray of bright sparks lit up the cavernous room, they saw it was the man with the miscast eye, the one Luka had christened Lazy-Eye.

‘Dax, no, please!’ Van cried. ‘Let us go! We’re not doing any harm.’

His brother laughed. ‘Crawled out of your hole, have you, Van!’ he cried. ‘You always were a stupid young pup.’ He spun on his heel and seized a pitch torch and thrust it into the heart of the blazing hearth. At once a yellow flame sprang up, and he went running towards the front doors, waving the torch from side to side and shouting.

‘That’s torn it!’ Luka groaned. ‘Come on!’

‘He’s a nasty piece of work,’ Van panted, taking the steps two at a time. ‘If it hadn’t been for him taunting me all the time, I’d never have come in that day. He’s always wanted to strike it rich quick. He’ll probably demand a pretty fee for turning us in.’

‘If we escape, he won’t get a penny,’ Luka threw back. ‘Hang on, Zizi darling! Rough ride ahead.’ He began to leap up the stairs. The monkey clung to him tighter than ever, her tail wrapped so tight about his throat she almost strangled him.

‘Ease up, darling,’ he croaked. ‘I can hardly breathe.’

There was a rush of boots behind them, then he was seized and roughly shaken. ‘Got you!’ Lazy-Eye hissed. ‘Won’t the thief-taker be pleased with me!’

For the Want of

a Horse

Emilia burst out into the night air, Rollo and Sweetheart beside her, and ran past a startled group of men who were busy unloading sacks of iron ore and charcoal from a cart backed up against the upper floor of the gun foundry.

At once she vaulted up into the driver’s seat, whistling Rollo to her. As the big dog leapt up into the cart, she turned to look for her companions. Sebastien was up beside her in a trice, kicking down someone who tried to stop him. As he seized the reins she was able to coax Sweetheart into the cart too. The horse between the shafts reared in terror at her scent, and took off at a gallop, just as Emilia grasped Van’s hand and helped haul him up.

‘Luka! Where’s Luka?’ Emilia cried.

The cart swayed and jolted forward. Emilia gazed behind her desperately, but there was no sign of her cousin, only angry men chasing after them with shaken fists. ‘Luka!’ she screamed. ‘We have to go back! They’ll get him!’

‘It’s no use, Emilia. He got nabbed. We’ll be no use to him if we get nabbed too,’ Sebastien said, whipping up the horse so it galloped wildly round a bend in the road, leaving the gun foundry and the angry blacksmiths far behind them.

‘Nabbed? Luka? We have to go back! We have to rescue him.’

‘There’s a dozen men on our heels, Emilia. We’ll just be caught too.’

Emilia tried to grab the reins, to turn the bolting horse around, but Sebastien elbowed her away. ‘You’ll have us over! Don’t be a fool.’

‘We need to go back!’ Again Emilia sought to grab the reins, but Sebastien would not let her. ‘We can’t just leave him. Pull up the cart!’

‘But Emilia . . .’

‘Pull up the cart!’

Reluctantly Sebastien gathered in the reins, bringing the snorting, sweating horse to a gradual halt. Emilia jumped down from the cart, Rollo following her.

‘Emilia, what are you doing?’

‘I’m going back for Luka,’ she said in a muffled tone.

‘Emilia . . .’

‘You go on. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Rollo and Sweetheart.’ She tried to coax the big bear out of the cart but Sweetheart was tired of running, and refused to budge.

‘Emilia, you’ll be caught. Don’t go,’ Van said, sounding scared.

‘I’m not leaving Luka behind!’

‘I tell you what,’ Sebastien said. ‘I’ll tie up the horse and cart, here in the shadows where it won’t be seen, and we’ll leave Van here to guard it. You and I will go back together, all right?’

Emilia could have wept with relief. ‘Thank you, thank you!’ she cried.

‘We’ll leave the bear here,’ Sebastien said firmly. ‘She’s a bloody nuisance!’

‘No, she’s not, she’s a sweetheart,’ Emilia protested, smiling through her tears.

‘After her, I think I’d find the worst scold in the world a sweetheart,’ Sebastien said. ‘Beatrice will find me a most forgiving husband!’

Emilia could only smile weakly.

Sweetheart was bribed to leave the cart and curl up some distance away with some broken pieces of honeycomb that Emilia had hidden in her pocket and forgotten about. With the bear downwind, the horse relaxed and dropped its head to crop the grass, its reins tethered to a low branch. Van was not happy about being left all on his own in the cold, damp, misty darkness, but when Emilia promised to leave Rollo with him, he consented, rather shakily.

Then Emilia and Sebastien together went hurrying back towards the gun foundry, their only weapons the last of Van’s smoke bombs and Emilia’s good luck charms.

Luka had found himself being dragged brutally back down the stairs, with as little concern as if he was a sack of iron ore and not a living, breathing boy. Lazy-Eye had him by the arm and the neck. The bag bumped uncomfortably underneath him, digging into him. Zizi leapt off his shoulder and fled into the darkness, shrieking in terror. Luka tried to fight, but it was no use. Dax was twice as tall and three times as broad, and shook him like a terrier shook a rat, until Luka felt he might faint.

He was dragged out into the main chamber, and there was Coldham, striding in from outside, his mouth stretched in a mirthless grin.

‘Well done, Smith,’ Coldham said, and tossed him a coin. ‘Where’s the witch-girl?’

‘Escaped up the stairs,’ Dax replied, biting into the coin with his crooked, discoloured teeth.

Coldham seized Luka and snapped a cold iron handcuff about his wrist. In a second he was chained to one of the rungs of the ladder. ‘You can wait and sweat it out,’ Coldham said, grinning. ‘I’ll go get the witch-girl. Maybe we’ll see her burn tonight. Plenty of fire here.’

Even as Luka’s stomach dropped towards his bowels in a cold rush of terror, Coldham was gone, running towards the steps, all the men racing after him, eager to win a gold coin too. Dax went with them, showing them the way. Luka was left alone.

He twisted this way and that, but the iron handcuffs bit into him cruelly. He glanced around. The molten-gold river of iron ore streamed ceaselessly from above. But there was no one left to tend it. He was all alone.

‘Zizi?’ he called. ‘Where are you, monkey girl?’

No sound but the roar of the fire, the hiss of the bellows, the clang clang boom boom of the hammers.

He whistled. ‘Zizi?’

Down she came from the vast fretwork of shadows above, quick and silent. She leapt onto his shoulder and seized his ear in her paw, scolding him. ‘That’s my girl,’ he whispered. ‘Zizi. In the pack. Keys. Find the keys.’

Zizi stared at him with bright, puzzled eyes. He tried to mimic turning a key with his hand, but it was bent up behind him. ‘Keys, darling girl. Keys,’ he said.

It took an agonisingly long time, but at last Zizi seemed to understand, and delved her paw into the pack on his back. She rummaged around, then withdrew the bread Fairnette had packed for them and tried to stuff it in his mouth.

‘No, Zizi, no, keys.’ Luka turned his face away, spitting out the bread.

The little monkey pulled out the ladle, the rusty old knife, an apple – which she ate, offering Luka the occasional bite – Maggie’s tarot cards, and at last, the keys.

‘Aye, that’s it, darling! Good girl. Zizi. Unlock the padlock. Can you do it? Unlock the padlock.’ Again he tried to mime what to do, but Zizi was too scared to listen. She clung to Luka’s shoulder, shivering. He repeated his words, trying not to let his desperation ring through his voice. At last Zizi understood. She swung over to the ladder, hung upside down and deftly unlocked the padlock.

‘I knew those keys would come in handy,’ Luka said, and dropped them back in his pack, along with the handcuffs. Then, with Zizi on his shoulder once more, he climbed quickly and easily up the ladder towards the mouth of the chimney so far above.

Emilia and Sebastien crept slowly through the undergrowth, their eyes fixed on the gun foundry. It was lit up with a red glare, the tiny black men running and shouting and gesticulating before it looking like shadow puppets made with fingers in front of a candle.

Coldham was shouting in utter fury. ‘Get me a horse, now!’ he bellowed. ‘That girl is a witch, a servant of the Devil! If she escapes me again, I’ll flay the skin from your backs myself!’

‘I’m sorry, sir, there is no horse,’ Lazy-Eye said nervously. ‘There’s no stable here. You’ll have to go back to the inn.’

‘Fools! Idiots! Nincompoops!’ Coldham shouted, shaking his gauntleted fist.

‘Where’s Luka?’ Sebastien whispered.

Emilia did not answer. She stared down at the red and black marionette stage, all her senses strained to breaking point. Unconsciously her fingers sought the golden coin, then skipped rapidly round to the lightning bolt charm. There was a sudden burst of bright embers from the chimney, and she saw, fleetingly, the silhouette of a thin boy with a monkey crouched on his shoulder, climbing out of the chimney. Her breath rushed out of her in a sigh.

‘There! He’s there!’

She watched as Luka sidled along the roof of the gun foundry, about ten feet above Coldham’s head. Every time the red light flared high, her heart stopped, but he was not seen. Emilia closed her eyes and traced her fingers round and round the cat’s eye shell. Once again, a damp mist swirled up, hiding Luka from view.

‘Where’s he gone?’ Sebastien whispered, dismayed.

Emilia did not reply, focusing all her attention on keeping the mist high and Luka hidden from view.

A twig cracked nearby.

‘Ssssssh,’ Emilia said, very softly. ‘Luka, here!’

‘Criminy, I can’t believe I found you,’ he whispered, creeping up beside her. ‘What’s the odds?’

She smiled at him and gave his shoulder a little rub. ‘Pretty good so far,’ she answered.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘Got us a horse and cart,’ she whispered back. ‘Come on! Coldham will be on our trail all too soon. We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘On to London now!’ Luka said exultantly, then turned on Sebastien. ‘Don’t you dare tell your father that!’

‘I won’t!’ he promised, a smile in his voice. ‘Nor Nadine!’

‘Nasty little cat,’ Emilia said, the worst insult she could think of.

They found Van sitting nervously in the cart, rubbing Rollo’s ears between the fingers of his hand. ‘All’s well!’ Emilia cried joyfully. ‘We’ve got Luka, and Coldham’s stuck for the moment. Let’s get going!’

They coaxed Sweetheart back into the cart, and set off up the road, the horse knowing its way despite the darkness and mist.

‘If you drop us off at the next crossroads, I’ll make sure Van gets home safely,’ Sebastien said. ‘Then I’ll be seeing you at the end of the month, like I promised.’

‘Thanks, Sebastien,’ Emilia said gratefully.

‘Do you know yet how you’re going to get your family out?’ he asked.

Luka sighed and shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve discovered the keys we copied from Coldham fit his handcuffs, so I’m guessing that means they don’t fit the doors to the gaol,’ he said wryly, ‘and we used most of our sleeping drug on the dogs. So I suppose the answer is no.’

‘We’ve got five of the charms now, though,’ Emilia said exuberantly, ‘and friends who’ve promised to help us.’

‘And maybe we can find that lawyer fellow the Graylings girl married,’ Luka said. ‘A lawyer could be just what we need!’

Emilia thought of the last of the charms, the butterfly in amber. It meant change and transformation, Maggie had said. It made her heart leap with hope.

The cart crested a high hill and came to a crossroads. There was a way-stone, with a big letter carved so deep into it they could see it even in the dark, and an arrow pointing to the north. Emilia had never learnt to read but she had seen this letter on way-stones before. It looked like a man sitting down, at ease, his legs stretched out before him. It stood for London, she knew, where everyone was so rich they rode about in carriages, instead of walking on their own two feet.

She smiled.

T h e   F a c t s   b e h i n d   t h e   F i c t i o n

The Weald is an area of hilly country south of London, most of it in the county of Sussex. Small streams have cut valleys into the landscape, and a belt of iron-bearing rock can be found near the surface in many places.

Its particular geography means that iron has been made in the Weald since Roman times. Iron ore could be mined from the rock, the trees of the forests could be cut down to make charcoal, and the numerous streams were dammed up and fitted with huge waterwheels to provide power for the bellows and hammers of the forges and furnaces.

In Stuart times, the Weald was the main iron-producing region in Britain. At the outbreak of the Civil War, it was the first area to be secured by the Parliamentarians, because of the importance of the iron industry in the production of guns, cannons and cannonballs. At this time English cannons were the best in the world, due perhaps to the moulds which were made from the local Sussex clay.

The iron foundry at Horsmonden was the largest in the Weald. It was owned by John Browne, and he and his two hundred workers produced guns for the army and the navy. In 1638 King Charles I visited the foundry to watch a cannon being cast. It was a forty-two inch long, bronze four-pounder, and is now preserved in the Tower of London.

During the Civil War, the Horsmonden foundry provided weapons for both sides of the conflict, and also sold them overseas, even to England’s enemies. The foundry’s blast furnace dominated the valley, being at least three storeys high, and constantly at work. In 1669, Edward Browne wrote ‘the flames rush forth with such violence . . . that they are seen about the country at ten miles distance’.

The foundry closed in 1685, and all that remains to show where it stood is the Furnace Pond, once the largest in the Weald, and the local pub, now called the Gun and Spit.

Today, the ruins of furnaces and forges, scatterings of slag, and the ponds that supplied the water for bellows and hammers are dotted all over the landscape of the Weald. In some places only the names remain, like Upper Forge Pond, Hammerwood, Gun Green, Furnace Farm, Smithy Wood, Minepit Lane and Cinder Cross, all meaning nothing unless you know the history of the Weald.

Apart from its guns and hops, Horsmonden is also known for the gypsy horse fair which has been held there on the second Sunday in September since the twelfth century.

The Grey Goose Feather

This story appears in British Folk Tales and Legends – A Sampler, collected by Katharine Briggs, and published in 1977. She cites her source as WH Barrett, who heard the tale from an old fen-man, Chafer Legge, in 1900 and collected it for his Tales from the Fens in 1963. I have no idea if it is true or not. I like to think it is.