The Butterfly in Amber Page 5

  Behind him came a woman in a severe black gown. Her hair was parted in the middle and smoothed back into a sleek coil. Its severity did nothing to detract from her exotic beauty. Everything about her was delicately formed, her skin was the colour of old ivory, and her hair and eyes as black as sable. Emilia had to bite back a gasp of surprise, for Mrs Purefoyle looked very much like Emilia’s own sister Beatrice. She nudged Luka, and he nodded, his face alive with sudden interest.

  ‘I thought we must be over the worst!’ Mr Purefoyle walked with quick, impatient steps to the fire and stood before it, scowling at the hearthrug. Emilia shrank down, her hand on Rollo’s muzzle to keep him quiet.

  ‘So His Highness has taken a turn for the worse?’ Mrs Purefoyle shut the door quietly behind her and turned, her hands folded before her.

  ‘Indeed, he is suffering exceedingly. None of us can understand it. This is not the way an ague normally runs. He has had the usual run of fever and sweating, and should now be recovering. Instead, though, he is in terrible pain. We are all nonplussed.’

  Emilia gave a little shiver. She could not forget the witch Marguerita Wood, stabbing the little poppet of Cromwell with hatpins and laughing as she thought of the agony she was causing him. She glanced at Luka, and saw by his face that he was remembering the poppet too. They grimaced at each other.

  ‘Oh, sir, what shall become of us all if the Lord Protector should die?’

  ‘Are you so ill-named, my dear? Have faith. God has not yet finished with the Lord Protector.’

  ‘But sir, this illness of the Lord Protector’s is unnatural. You have said so yourself. I fear . . .’

  ‘You fear some secret assassin?’ Mr Purefoyle laughed. ‘My dear, the Lord Protector wears armour even to bed!’

  ‘Does he make someone taste his food?’

  ‘You think he is being poisoned? That is a dangerous allegation, wife!’

  ‘Sir, I must tell you . . . I prayed for guidance, and then, when I opened the Bible and laid my finger on the page, it fell upon the Second Book of Kings, chapter four, verse forty . . .’

  ‘There is death in the pot,’ her husband said heavily, his brows drawing together.

  Emilia wondered if he knew every line in the Bible off by heart, that he could quote it so readily.

  ‘Aye, sir, that is what it said.’

  There was a long silence. ‘So, wife, did you call upon the Bible again? What did it say?’

  ‘Ezekiel, chapter thirty-seven, verse three,’ she answered in a low voice.

  ‘Can these bones live?’ her husband murmured, much struck.

  ‘So you see, sir, why it is that I fear the Lord Protector may not survive this sickness of his. The Cavaliers must realise that their only hope of overcoming him is to kill him. They have failed in battle, and they have failed in countless assassination plots. Why would they not try poison?’

  He stood silent, frowning down at the carpet.

  Mrs Purefoyle came a step or two closer, raising her eyes to fix upon his face. ‘Sir, you are the master of this household and I know you have a care for us all. Still, I cannot help but think we must look to the future. What shall become of us if the Lord Protector dies? I fear more war. I fear . . . Oh, I fear what will happen if the king comes back!’

  ‘You may rest easy on that account, my dear,’ Mr Purefoyle said bitingly. ‘The king lost his head and his crown together, and his son has not the nerve or the money to start another war. I’ve heard he lives on charity, pawning his watch to pay for bread. How could he afford to raise an army? No need for fear on that account.’

  He took a turn about the carpet, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I must admit I am troubled by what the Bible has told you,’ Mr Purefoyle said at length. ‘You know I scorn such superstitious nonsense, but the Lord moves in mysterious ways and perhaps you are the unworthy instrument of his will. Indeed, the verses revealed to you are ominous. I think perhaps you are right, my dear, and we must put our house in order.’

  ‘I have heard, sir, that there are fortunes to be made in the New World. Perhaps . . . ?’

  ‘And leave all I have worked for here? I think not!’

  ‘As you see fit, sir. I know you will do what is best for us all.’ Mrs Purefoyle’s sleek head was bent, but Emilia saw how she clenched her fingers together.

  Her husband was pacing the floor. ‘Poison . . . could it be? Certainly the violence of the Lord Protector’s last sickness . . . But who? None come near to him except his most trusted councillors . . .’

  ‘Was not Dr Bate once physician to the late king?’ Mrs Purefoyle said. ‘He was most loyal to his master then, I heard.’

  ‘There are many in this country who were most loyal to the king until he lost his head,’ Mr Purefoyle said acerbically. ‘You cannot suspect his doctor simply because he was once a king’s man!’

  ‘Will they not suspect everyone if the Lord Protector should die? Even you, sir?’ Mrs Purefoyle said innocently.

  Emilia had kept her hands clamped close around Rollo’s muzzle all this time, trying to keep him quiet, but the conversation had gone on too long and Rollo was tired of it. He gave a small whine, and tried to shake his head free.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ Mr Purefoyle exclaimed.

  The next instant the curtain twitched back, and the lawyer’s hand fell upon Emilia. She and Rollo were dragged out into the centre of the room.

  ‘What is this? A thief? A spy? Call the constables!’

  Rollo barked furiously. He lunged at Mr Purefoyle, snarling. The lawyer seized a poker, whacking the big dog across the back. Rollo yelped, and Emilia clung to the lawyer’s arm, shouting, ‘Stop it! Don’t hurt him. We weren’t doing any harm!’

  Luka flung the curtain back and ran to her rescue. Zizi leapt at the lawyer, biting his ear savagely. He yelled, and flung her away from him. Nimbly she landed on the back of the chair and sprang from there to the mantelpiece. Luka grabbed Emilia’s hand and ran for the door, Rollo bounding behind them. Zizi swung from the chandelier to Luka’s shoulder sending hot wax spluttering everywhere.

  ‘Stop! Or I’ll shoot!’ came a commanding voice behind them.

  Luka opened the door with a crash. There was the sound of an explosion, and a lead ball slammed into the wood next to Luka’s hand. He sprang back, choking on the acrid smoke that billowed out from the flintlock pistol Mr Purefoyle held in his hand. The lawyer hurriedly poured another measure of gunpowder down the barrel, and rammed a lead ball wrapped in cloth after it. By the time the children had recovered from the shock, he had the short, snub-nosed gun pointing at them again, fully cocked and ready to fire.

  ‘Move away from the door,’ he said, his voice shaking with fury. ‘Faith, my dear, shut the door behind them. Sit there against the wall with your hands on your head.’

  The children obeyed, white-faced and trembling. Smoke drifted about the room, making their eyes water.

  The lawyer regarded them, the gun unsteady in his hand. ‘Why, I’ve heard about you,’ he said. ‘How many ragamuffin children can be running around the country with a dog and a monkey? I never expected to see the criminals Pastor Spurgeon described in my very own study!’

  Luka and Emilia stared at him unhappily.

  ‘Faith, my sister will be having hysterics. Will you go and reassure her, and bring me back something to tie up these thieves? And be quick!’

  ‘Please, we’re not thieves!’ Emilia spoke quickly. ‘We’re just children. We don’t mean any harm.’

  Mr Purefoyle snorted in disbelief.

  ‘Father, please!’ Obedience came out from behind the curtain, looking scared. ‘These are my friends.’

  Her father was flabbergasted. ‘Obedience! What are you doing here? How dare you!’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry. It was so cold. We wanted to sit by the fire.’

  ‘You brought them into my study? How dare you!’

  ‘I . . . they’re . . . they’re sort of long-lost cousins. We needed somewhere
quiet to talk.’

  ‘Obedience, go to your room. I will deal with you later.’

  ‘Father, did you not hear me? I said they were my cousins. They’re not criminals. Please don’t –’

  ‘These filthy, raggedy gypsy children related to us? Have you run mad? Go to your room, I said!’

  ‘But Father –’

  ‘Do not argue with me or I’ll give you the whipping of your life!’ Mr Purefoyle was white with rage, the gun in his hand shaking violently.

  Obedience did as she was told, casting an unhappy look at Luka and Emilia.

  ‘Please, sir, it’s true,’ Luka said.

  ‘Shut your mouth, boy, else I’ll take my belt to you as well.’

  ‘It’s true, really it is. Please, Fancy . . . Mrs Purefoyle! We came looking for you. We’re your kin, really we are. Maggie Finch is our grandmother.’

  Mrs Purefoyle had been standing immobile, her eyes lowered, her hands set flat against the wall. At Emilia’s words they clenched. She gave no other sign of having heard.

  ‘Faith, go and get some rope. Hurry! I think we have ourselves some clever spies here. Who can believe those Cavaliers would stoop so low, using children to sneak about and spy for them!’

  ‘We’re not spies, sir, truly we’re not!’

  Mr Purefoyle levelled the shaking gun at Luka and said in a dangerous voice, ‘One more word from you and I’ll shoot you!’

  Luka and Emilia huddled together, their hands on their heads, their jaws clenched to keep back the words of pleading and protest. They did not think he was bluffing. Rollo whined and pressed himself against Emilia’s leg. She would have given anything to wrap her arms about him and take comfort from his warmth and strength.

  In just a few moments Mrs Purefoyle was back with some kitchen twine. ‘It was all I could find, sir,’ she said, bowing her head.

  ‘Here, take the gun. If either of them moves, shoot them.’ Mr Purefoyle took the twine, and made a grimace of disgust at its thinness. In a moment he had bound Luka and Emilia together, pulling the knots uncomfortably tight.

  Zizi was cowering in Luka’s lap, still frightened by the noise of the gunshot and the smell of the smoke.

  ‘If either of those animals moves, my wife will shoot them,’ Mr Purefoyle threatened. ‘Can you keep them under control?’

  Luka and Emilia nodded their heads. Both were gazing imploringly at his wife, but she avoided their gaze, holding the gun with outstretched arms. It did not shake at all.

  ‘I will go and get the constables, my dear,’ Mr Purefoyle said. ‘I may be a while, it is still early and I do not know where they might be. Call Grace to come and help you guard them. I do not trust them not to escape, for indeed they are slippery and sly. Gaining entrance to our house by pretending to be related to us! I am surprised by Obedience. I had not thought her such a fool.’

  ‘She is young, sir, and naive. She has been much protected. What does she know about the trickery of this world?’

  Mr Purefoyle sighed. ‘You are right, my dear. She is only a child. One cannot expect the wit and wisdom of a man to be found in the empty head of a girl.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Mrs Purefoyle answered as he went quickly out the door.

  Mrs Purefoyle stood silently, listening. They all heard the sound of his footsteps going down the hall, and the front door opening and shutting. Then there was a long moment of silence.

  Mrs Purefoyle heaved a great sigh, laid the pistol down, and picked up her husband’s pipe from where it lay smouldering on the mantelpiece. She sat down in the wing chair, stretched out her button-up boots, and puffed pleasurably at the pipe. Clouds of fragrant smoke rose up around her sleek black head.

  ‘So, you’re Maggie Finch’s grand-weans, are you? What in blazes are you doing here?’

  They gaped at her in utter surprise.

  ‘I thought you’d blown it when you blurted out that you were kin of mine!’ She laughed and blew a smoke ring. ‘Fortunately, poor dear Henry never listens to anyone. He’s always so sure he knows what’s best.’

  ‘So you are Fancy Graylings!’ Luka cried.

  ‘There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while! Fancy! What a name to give a girl in these times. I ditched that as soon as I could.’

  ‘What about your mother’s tarot cards, and her little amber charm?’ Emilia said coldly. ‘Did you ditch those as well?’

  Fancy pursed up her lips in a soundless whistle. ‘I’ll be hanged! You two have been digging up some dirt on me. How do you know about that? Criminy, imagine if dear Henry had ever found out! No, I sold them just as soon as I could, and bought myself a Bible and a good black dress. You think I couldn’t see which way the wind was blowing?’

  ‘Who did you sell them to?’ It was all Emilia could do to frame the words.

  ‘I sold them to Lady Elizabeth, the Countess of Dysart, out at Ham House. I knew she had a liking for such things. She came from Richmond once or twice to consult my mother.’

  Fancy got up and knocked out the pipe in the hearth, then stood before the case of dead butterflies. ‘It’s meant to be our lucky charm, that amber pendant,’ she said, putting out one finger to touch the fragile wings of one of the butterflies. ‘It’s got a butterfly suspended in it, you know, a crushed-up little thing, grey as a moth. That’s how we got our name, you know. From the Grayling butterfly. The Grayling angles its wings when it is resting, so it leaves no shadow. It makes them very hard to catch.’

  Like you, Emilia thought. How well you have camouflaged yourself amongst these Puritans.

  ‘But what do you care? Is that why you came to find me?’ Fancy put the pipe back in its stand, then stood over them, her mouth twisted. ‘Criminy, but my heart was in my boots when I saw you lot. I just knew my wicked past had come back to bite me on the bum!’

  ‘Our family’s been thrown in gaol,’ Luka said angrily. ‘We heard you had married a lawyer, and were hoping . . .’

  She laughed. ‘You thought Henry would help you get them out? He’s more likely to press the judge to a harsher sentence. Nay, no help for you here, weans.’

  Luka said fiercely, ‘Well, you’d better help us get away then or we’ll tell him everything. We’ll make him believe us! And we’ll tell him how you robbed your own mother and left her to starve on the streets. We can tell him where to find her so he can ask her himself!’

  ‘What, the old hag’s still alive?’ Fancy’s beautiful dark eyes narrowed in calculation. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you go, though it means Henry will be very angry with me, but I want your word of honour you’ll never come back and bother us again.’

  ‘You have it!’ Unlike you, our word actually means something!’

  ‘No need to get nasty,’ she said, rising to her feet and coming quickly to untie their bonds. ‘These are dangerous times, especially for a young girl with no one but a half-crazy old crone to look after her. Do you blame me for wanting to be safe and comfortable? Henry’s one of the most powerful men at court. You think I could ever have lived in a house like this if I had not married him?’

  ‘Meanwhile, your poor mam is sleeping on the streets,’ Emilia said.

  Fancy frowned. ‘Well, she wasn’t sleeping on the streets when I left her. She made a good enough living telling fortunes.’

  ‘Until you stole her tarot cards.’

  ‘Think of them as my dowry,’ Fancy replied. She stepped back and regarded them thoughtfully. ‘Now, how will you manage to escape me? I know! I went out to fetch Grace, finding it all too frightening, and while I was gone you got loose and snuck out the back door.’

  ‘Sounds possible,’ Luka said, rubbing his wrists and getting stiffly to his feet.

  ‘Very well then. I’ll go and distract Grace. You two get out of here fast. And don’t think of going back on your word – if all goes according to plan, we’ll be leaving here soon anyway. I’ve had enough of dreary old London! I think we should try our fortune in the New World.’

  ‘That would be
wise,’ Emilia said deliberately. ‘I think you have some of your mother’s second sight, Fancy. For you were right. Cromwell will die very soon, and then the king will return. He will seek a bloody revenge on all those who helped his father to the scaffold. He’ll have Cromwell’s body dug up and hanged on the gallows, then he’ll chop Cromwell’s head off and stick it on a spike in front of the palace gate. I’ve seen it, and I know I speak true.’

  ‘Oh, that husband of mine is a fool!’ Fancy whispered. She opened the door, laid her hand against her forehead, and ran out calling in a fading voice, ‘Oh, Grace, I think I’m going to swoon! Those dreadful gypsy children. My heart’s all a-flutter!’

  Luka swung his pack on to his shoulder. ‘Right! Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘I wish we could say goodbye to Beedee,’ Emilia said sadly. ‘She was nice.’

  ‘And clever,’ Luka said approvingly. He glanced about, ensuring they had left nothing behind, then, on an impulse, snatched up the thick sheaf of parchment Obedience had shown them from the desk and stuffed it into his pack too. Then they bolted out the back door and across the small yard to fetch Sweetheart who, bored by her long, lonely wait, had made a great mess. As they hurried out of the shed, Sweetheart for once pushing ahead of them in her eagerness to be gone, they glanced up at the house and saw, with a leap of their hearts, Obedience leaning out one of the windows, waving madly.

  They grinned and waved back, then ran away down the street, their animals bounding after them.

  Rough Justice

  The two children ran till they were out of breath.

  ‘We should try and get on a boat to Kingston,’ Luka panted, pausing in the shade of a tall house to wipe his face with his kerchief. ‘We’ll get along much faster that way. We’re really running out of time now. They go up before the magistrates the day after tomorrow, and after then it’ll be too late.’

  Emilia nodded, her face sombre. She knew that her family would all be hanged the same day as the magistrates passed sentence on them. This was so the magistrates could see justice done before they travelled on to the next town, and the next assizes. The faster they got through each assize, the sooner the magistrates could get home. It was a rough sort of justice, and left little room for a change of heart.