A Skinful of Shadows Page 2

  And then, two years after her first ‘stick-sharpening’ expedition, Makepeace returned from a particularly bitter, sleepless night in the chapel shivering uncontrollably. A few days later she was burning with fever, and her muscles ached. Within a fortnight her tongue was speckled, and an unmistakable rash of smallpox pimples was spreading across her face.

  The world was hot, dark and terrible for a while, and Makepeace drowned in a choking, abysmal terror. She knew she would probably die, and she knew what dead things were. She could not think straight, and sometimes she wondered whether she might already be dead. But the black tide of the disease slowly went out, leaving her still alive, with just a couple of pockmarks on one of her cheeks. Whenever she saw them reflected in her water pail, they gave her a little spasm of fear in the pit of her stomach. She could imagine a skeletal figure of Death reaching out to touch her face with the tips of two bony fingers, then slowly withdrawing his hand.

  After her recovery, three months went by without Mother mentioning the graveyard, and Makepeace assumed that the smallpox, at least, had frightened Mother out of her project.

  Unfortunately, she was wrong.

  CHAPTER 2

  On a blandly sunny day in May, Makepeace and Mother ventured into the city itself to sell some of Mother’s lace. The spring was mild, but London had been crackling like a storm cloud. Makepeace wished they were not there.

  As Makepeace had been changing and becoming angrier, so had Poplar and London. According to the gossip of the teenage apprentices, so had the whole country.

  At prayer meetings, red-nosed Nanny Susan had always been full of visions of the end of the world – the sea brimming with blood, and the Woman Clothed with the Sun from the Bible walking down Poplar High Street. But now others were talking in the same way. A couple of summers ago, it was said that during a mighty storm vast clouds had taken the shape of two great armies. Now there was an uneasy feeling that two such armies might really be forming across the land.

  The Poplar folk had always prayed hard, but now they prayed like a people besieged. There was a feeling that the whole country was in danger.

  Makepeace could not keep track of all the details, but she understood the heart of it. There was a devilish Catholic plot to seduce King Charles, and turn him against his own people. The good men of Parliament were trying to talk sense into him, but he had stopped listening.

  Nobody wanted to blame the King directly. That was treason, and might get your ears lopped off, or your face branded with hot irons. No, they agreed that it was all the fault of the King’s evil advisers – Archbishop Laud, ‘Black Tom Tyrant’ (also known as the Earl of Stafford), and of course wicked Queen Mary, poisoning the King’s mind with her French wiles.

  If they were not stopped, they would persuade the King to become a bloody tyrant. He would turn to false religion, and send out his troops to murder all loyal, God-fearing Protestants in the country. The Devil himself was abroad, whispering in ears, curdling minds, and shaping the deeds of men with sly and subtle hands. You almost expected to see his singed hoof-prints in the roadway.

  The fear and outrage in Poplar was very real, but Makepeace sensed an undercurrent of fierce excitement as well. If everything did fall apart, if a time of trials did come, if the world did end, the godly of Poplar would be ready. They were Christian soldiers, ready to withstand, and preach, and march.

  And now, walking through the London streets, Makepeace could feel a tingle of that same excitement, that same menace.

  ‘There’s a smell here,’ she said. Mother was her other self, so it was natural to voice her half-formed thoughts.

  ‘It’s the smoke,’ said Mother curtly.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Makepeace. It wasn’t a smell exactly, and she knew Mother understood. It was a warning tingle of the senses, like that before a storm. ‘It smells like metal. Can we go home?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mother drily. ‘We can go home and eat stones, since you don’t want us earning our bread.’ She did not break stride.

  Makepeace always found London oppressive. There were too many people, buildings and smells. Today, however, there was a new fizz and fierceness in the air. Why was she even more nervous than usual? What was different? She glanced from side to side, noting the dozens of new placards stuck to doors and posts.

  ‘What are those?’ she whispered. It was a pointless question. Mother could not read any more than Makepeace could. The bold black letters looked as though they were shouting.

  ‘Ink-lions roaring,’ said Mother. London was awash with raging pamphlets, printed sermons, prophecies and denunciations, some for the King and some for Parliament. Mother always jokingly called them ‘ink-lions’. All roar and no claw, she said.

  There had been a lot more silent roaring over the last two days. Two weeks before, the King had summoned Parliament for the first time in years, and everyone Makepeace knew had been ecstatic with relief. But two days ago he had dismissed Parliament again in a right royal rage. Now gossip had an ominous rumble, the pale sun seemed to teeter in the sky, and everyone was waiting for something to happen. Whenever there was a sudden bang or shout, people looked up sharply. Has it started? their expressions asked. Nobody was sure what it was, but it was unquestionably coming.

  ‘Ma . . . why are there so many apprentices out on the streets?’ Makepeace murmured quietly.

  There were dozens of them, she realized, loitering in twos and threes in doorways and alleys, crop-headed, restless, their hands calloused from loom and lathe. The youngest were about fourteen, the oldest in their early twenties. They should all have been labouring away, doing their masters’ bidding, but here they were.

  The apprentices were weathercocks for the mood of the city. When London was at ease with itself, they were just lads – dawdling, flirting, and jabbing at the world with crude, clever jokes. But when London was stormy, they changed. A dark and angry lightning arced unseen between them, and sometimes they broke out into wild, passionate mobs, breaking doors and skulls with their boots and cudgels.

  Mother glanced around at the little loitering groups, and she too began to look worried.

  ‘There are a lot around,’ she agreed quietly. ‘We will go home. The sun is sinking anyway. And . . . you will need your strength. It will be a warm night tonight.’

  For a brief moment Makepeace was relieved, then Mother’s last sentence sank in. Makepeace stopped dead, overwhelmed by disbelief and outrage.

  ‘No!’ she snapped, surprised by her own firmness. ‘I won’t go! I am never going back to the graveyard again!’

  Mother cast a self-conscious glance around, then gripped Makepeace’s arm firmly and dragged her into the mouth of an alley.

  ‘You must!’ Mother took Makepeace by the shoulders, staring into her eyes.

  ‘I nearly died last time!’ protested Makepeace.

  ‘You caught the smallpox from the Archers’ daughter,’ retorted Mother without hesitation. ‘The graveyard had nothing to do with it. You will thank me for this some day. I told you – I’m helping you sharpen your stick.’

  ‘I know, I know!’ Makepeace exclaimed, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. ‘The “wolves” are the ghosts, and you want me to learn to be strong, so I can keep them out. But why can’t I just stay away from graveyards? If I keep away from ghosts, I’ll be safe! You’re throwing me to the wolves, over and over again!’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Mother softly. ‘These ghosts are not the wolves. These ghosts are mere hungry wisps – nothing in comparison. But the wolves are out there, Makepeace. They are looking for you, and some day they will find you. Pray that you are full-grown and strong by the time they do.’

  ‘You are just trying to frighten me,’ said Makepeace. Her voice shook, but with anger this time, not fear.

  ‘Yes, I am! Do you think you are a poor martyr, sitting there at night with those little will-o’-the-wisps licking at your face? This is nothing. There is far worse out there. You should be
frightened.’

  ‘Then why can’t we ask my father to protect us?’ It was a dangerous angle to take, but Makepeace had come too far to turn back. ‘I bet he wouldn’t leave me out in graveyards!’

  ‘He is the last person we can go to for help,’ said Mother, with a bitterness Makepeace had never heard before. ‘Forget him.’

  ‘Why?’ Suddenly Makepeace could not bear all the silences in her life, all the things that she was not allowed to say or ask. ‘Why do you never tell me anything? I don’t believe you any more! You just want me to stay with you forever! You want to keep me to yourself! You won’t let me meet my father because you know he would want me!’

  ‘You have no idea what I saved you from!’ exploded Mother. ‘If I had stayed in Grizehayes—’

  ‘Grizehayes,’ repeated Makepeace, and saw her mother turn pale. ‘Is that where he lives? Is that the old house you talked about?’ She had a name. At long last she had a name. It meant that she could look for it. Somebody, somewhere, would know where it was.

  The name sounded old. She could not quite picture the house it described. It was as if a heavy, silvery mist lay between her and its ancient turrets.

  ‘I won’t go back to the graveyard,’ said Makepeace. Her willpower set its pike in the earth, and braced for the onslaught. ‘I won’t. If you try to make me, I’ll run away. I will. I’ll find Grizehayes. I’ll find my father. And I’ll never come back.’

  Mother’s eyes looked glassy with surprise and anger. She had never learned to deal with Makepeace’s new defiance. Then the warmth leaked out of her expression leaving it cold and distant.

  ‘Run, then,’ she said icily. ‘If that’s what you want, good riddance to you. But when you are in the hands of those people, never say that I did not warn you.’

  Mother never yielded, never softened. When Makepeace challenged her, Mother always raised the stakes, calling Makepeace’s bluff and pushing back harder. And Makepeace had been bluffing about running away but, as she stared into Mother’s hard eyes, for the first time she thought that she might actually run. The idea made her feel breathless, weightless.

  And then Mother glanced at something over Makepeace’s shoulder, out on the main street, and stiffened, aghast. She breathed a few words, so faintly that Makepeace only just caught them.

  . . . Speak of the Devil . . .

  Makepeace looked over her shoulder, just in time to see a tall man in a good coat of dark blue wool stride past. He was only of middling years, but his hair was a flare of white.

  She knew the old saying, Speak of the Devil and he will appear. Mother had been talking of ‘those people’ – the Grizehayes people – and then she had caught sight of this man. Was he someone from Grizehayes, then? Perhaps even Makepeace’s father?

  Makepeace met Mother’s gaze, her own eyes now wild with excitement and triumph. Then she turned, and tried to dart for the street.

  ‘No!’ Mother hissed, grabbing her arm with both hands. ‘Makepeace!’

  But Makepeace’s own name jarred against her ear. She was tired of ‘making peace’ with troubles that were never explained. She wriggled free, and sprinted into the main thoroughfare.

  ‘You’ll be the death of me!’ Mother called after her. ‘Makepeace, stop!’

  Makepeace did not stop. She could just make out the stranger’s blue coat and white hair in the distance, disappearing around a corner. Her past was getting away from her.

  She reached the corner just in time to see him disappearing among the crowds, and set off in pursuit. Makepeace was aware of Mother calling her name somewhere behind her, but did not look back. Instead, she pursued the distant figure down one street, then another, then another. Many times she thought she had lost her quarry, only to glimpse a distant shock of white hair.

  Makepeace could not give in, even when she found herself hurrying across London’s great bridge and into Southwark. The buildings on either side grew dingier and the smells more sour. She could hear laughter drifting from the waterside taverns, and oaths and oar-creaks from the river itself. It was darker now, too. The sun was sinking from view, and the sky had dulled to the colour of stained tin. Despite this, the streets were unusually crowded. People kept getting in her way, and blocking her view of the white-haired man.

  It was only when a road spat her out into a large, open space that she halted, suddenly daunted. There was grass under her feet, and she realized that she was on the edge of St George’s Fields. All around her seethed a shadowy, restless, raucous crowd, heads silhouetted against the darkening sky. She could not judge how far it stretched, but there seemed to be hundreds of voices, all of them male. There was no sign of the white-haired man.

  Makepeace stared around her, panting for breath, aware that she was attracting hard, curious glances. She was dressed in clothes of plain, cheap wool and linen, but her kerchief and cap were clean and respectable, and here that was enough to draw stares. She was also a lone female, and one of less than thirteen years.

  ‘Hello, love!’ one of the dark figures called. ‘Come to tickle up our courage, have you?’

  ‘Nah,’ said another, ‘you’re here to march with us, aren’t you, miss? You can throw stools at those bastards, like the Scottish ladies! Show us your cudgel arm!’ Half a dozen men laughed uproariously, and Makepeace could sense menace in the teasing.

  ‘Is that Margaret Lightfoot’s girl?’ asked a younger voice suddenly. Peering into the darkness, Makepeace could just make out a familiar face, the fourteen-year-old apprentice of the weaver that lived next door. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I got lost,’ Makepeace said quickly. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re on a hunt.’ There was a fierce, wild light in the apprentice’s eyes. ‘Hunting old William the Fox – old Archbishop Laud.’ Makepeace had heard that name hundreds of times, usually being cursed as one of the King’s evil advisers. ‘We’re just going to go and knock on his door, and say hello. Like good neighbours.’ He hefted his cudgel and slapped it hard into his other palm, fizzing and fidgeting with excitement.

  Too late, Makepeace guessed at the meaning of all the placards. They had been announcing a great and angry gathering in St George’s Fields. The crowd was full of apprentices, Makepeace realized, as her eyes adjusted. All of them were hefting makeshift weapons – hammers, broom-handles, fire-irons and planks – with a fierce jollity that meant business. They were hell-bent on dragging evil out of its palace and breaking its crown. But in their bright eyes Makepeace could see that it was also a game – a game of blood, like a bear-baiting.

  ‘I need to go home!’ Even as Makepeace spoke the words, they had a bitter taste. She had lost her one chance of finding out more about her past, but what if she had lost her home too? Her mother had called her bluff by telling her to run away, and Makepeace had done just that.

  The apprentice’s brow wrinkled, and he stood on tiptoe, craning to see past the crowds. Makepeace did the same as best she could, and realized that the road she had run down was now clogged with a solid mass of figures, all pouring into St George’s Fields.

  ‘You stick with me,’ the apprentice said anxiously, as the crowd started to surge forwards, carrying the two of them with it. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

  It was hard for Makepeace to see past the crush of taller figures, but as she was swept along, she heard more and more voices joining the rallying cries and laughing at the jests. The apprentice army sounded vast now. No wonder they were so confident, so bristling with purpose!

  ‘Makepeace! Where are you?’

  The call was almost swallowed by the crescendo of yells and bellows, but Makepeace heard it. It was Mother’s voice, she was sure of it. Mother had followed her, and was now caught up in the crowd somewhere behind her.

  ‘Ma!’ Makepeace called out as the crowd bore her relentlessly onward.

  ‘There’s Lambeth Palace!’ came a cry ahead. ‘There’s lights at the windows!’ Makepeace could smell the river again, and could see a gr
eat building ahead at the water’s edge, with high, square towers, its silhouetted crenellations biting into the evening sky.

  From the front of the mob came sounds of furious argument, and the crowd took on a feverish, wavering tension.

  ‘Turn yourselves about!’ somebody was bellowing. ‘Go home!’

  ‘Who’s there ahead?’ a dozen voices in the crowd were demanding, and a dozen different answers came back. Some said it was the army, some the King’s men, some that it was the archbishop himself.

  ‘Ah, shut your mouth!’ one of the apprentices shouted at last. ‘Put William the Fox out of doors, or we’ll break in and halloo the whole bunch of you!’

  The other apprentices responded with a deafening roar, and there was a furious press forward. The patch of sky above Makepeace shrank as she was half crushed by taller figures. There were battle-cries ahead, and the bellow and yell of men fighting.

  ‘Force the door!’ somebody was shouting. ‘Give ’im the crowbar!’

  ‘Smash their lights!’ came another cry.

  When the first shot rang out, Makepeace thought somebody had dropped something heavy on the cobbles. Then a second shot rang out and a third. The crowd convulsed, some pulling back, some charging forward. Makepeace took a knee in the gut, and a careless cudgel jab in the eye.

  ‘Makepeace!’ It was Mother’s voice again, shrill and desperate, and closer than before.

  ‘Ma!’ The crowd around Makepeace was thrashing now, but she fought her way through it towards the sound of her mother’s voice. ‘I’m here!’

  Ahead of her, someone screamed.

  It was a harsh, brief sound, and at first Makepeace did not know what it was. She had never heard Mother scream before. But as she elbowed her way forward, she saw a woman lying on the ground at the base of a wall, being stepped on by the blind, surging crowd.