Jane Feather - The Emerald Swan

"Packhorses and mules. But London is a very long way, is it not? Too far to ride on a mule."

"You may ride pillion. Tell them to use a pillion saddle on the nag."

Miranda went cheerfully on her way, Chip leaping ahead of her down the narrow staircase. At the foot, however, he jumped into her arms when she whistled for him. She was greeted in the kitchen with great good humor after her rooftop performance, and having relayed milord's instructions she went off in the direction of the privy.

She had the noisome outhouse to herself, which augured well for the day. It wasn't that she objected very strongly to sitting hip to hip with her fellows, but privacy was a definite pleasure. An almost unheard-of pleasure in the rough-and-tumble of life on the road.

Her family would be nearing the coast of France by now, if the wind and weather had been set fair for the crossing. Would they be wondering about her, about what she was doing, how she was faring? Of course they would. Mama Gertrude, Bertrand, and Luke in particular. And Robbie would be miserable without her. Luke would make sure he had food when they all ate, but he wouldn't be watching for when the boy grew fatigued as he stumbled along in the troupe's wake. Robbie would never admit his tiredness and ask to ride on the hand-pulled cart that carried most of their possessions; it was always Miranda who lifted him up, ignoring his protests.

Chip had been sitting on the roof of the shed waiting for her and jumped down onto her shoulder as she emerged from the privy. Her customary bubbling optimism was somewhat subdued, and she was feeling rather lonely and forlorn as she returned to the kitchen yard. How could she be certain she could do what Lord Harcourt wanted? What kind of life did he lead in London? What kind of people would she meet? Like none she had known hitherto, of that much she was certain. And the familiar faces and voices, the familiar way of life, hard though it was, suddenly seemed very precious, with a value she had not properly appreciated.

She paused at the rainwater butt and splashed water on her face, smoothing down her hair with wet fingers. She tried to sponge the grubby marks from her sleeve but without much effect. Milord Harcourt would be freshly shaven, his linen fresh and clean, at the breakfast table, while she looked as disreputable as any street urchin.

She was scrubbing with renewed vigor when Gareth stepped into the kitchen yard. He watched her as she combed through her hair with her fingers, wiped her wet face on her skirt, and disconsolately examined her sleeves.

She looked up from her ablutions and saw him in the kitchen doorway. "I beg your pardon, milord, have I kept you waiting?" She hurried over to him, confiding ruefully, "I was trying to tidy myself, but I don't seem to have had much success."

"No," he agreed, scrutinizing her with the glinting smile that always reassured her. "But then you were hardly starting from a promising point. Come, let us break our fast." He put a hand on her shoulder, urging her ahead of him through the kitchen and into the taproom, deserted save for a serving wench laying dishes on the long scrubbed central table.

Miranda licked her lips at the spread of coddled eggs, sirloin, manchet bread, and a pig's head. She slid onto the long bench, her mood of loneliness and apprehension lifting. "I'm ravenous."

"I'm not surprised after your dawn exercise." Gareth took up the carving knife. "Brawn? Or sirloin?"

"Both, if it wouldn't be greedy." She pushed her bread trencher toward him so he could lay the slices on it, then dipped her spoon into the dish of eggs.

The serving wench put tankards of ale beside them, curtsied, and hurried to the inglenook to rake through the previous night's embers.

Miranda ate in appreciative silence for a few minutes then said, "Where's Chip? He's disappeared."

"God's in His heaven after all," Gareth murmured. "I was wondering why my breakfast was so peaceful."

Miranda swung her legs over the bench and went to the window that looked out onto the street. A lad with a tray of pies passed by, shouting his wares, followed by a man pushing a handcart laden with onions and cabbages. An elderly woman was sweeping rubbish out of her house and into the kennel in the middle of the lane. She retreated hastily at the alerting cry of "Gardyloo," just managing to escape the contents of a chamber pot hurled from a window above.

A perfectly ordinary early-morning street scene, but there was no sign of Chip.

Miranda returned to the table, but her appetite had gone. "I'll just go and see if he's still in the kitchen yard."

Gareth nodded amiably and took up his tankard again.

A piercing scream brought him to his feet, knocking his tankard over, dropping his knife to the table. He was halfway to the door to the kitchen before he realized that the scream was not human, and he was through the door before the animal shrieks were joined by Miranda's no longer melodious tones. She was yelling, wordlessly, but at such an extreme pitch of rage and pain that the sound went through his head like a knife.

He raced through the kitchen, pushing through the circle of gawping kitchen folk crowding the door. In the yard, he stopped. Chip was screaming in high-pitched terror, a burning brand tied to his tail. He was running round and round in panicked circles as Miranda tried to capture him amid a group of laughing louts pelting both the petrified animal and the girl with stones and lumps of horse dung.

"Miranda, you won't catch him if you don't stop screaming!" Gareth ran forward, catching her shoulders. "Speak to him calmly."

"But he's on fire," she cried, tears pouring down her cheeks, her face white, her lips even whiter.

Gareth swung sideways, picked up the bucket by the pump, and hurled the contents over the screaming monkey. Then in almost the same movement he turned on the convulsed louts. He had his sword in one hand and with his other he was unbuckling his belt before anyone understood what was happening. Then he was in the middle of the group of ruffians, the flat of his sword swinging in one arc, his thick studded belt in another, and now the lads were screaming to rival the monkey, racing to escape this devil of vengeance and the agonizing cuts of steel and leather.

They were gone in a squealing, earsplitting scramble like so many stuck pigs and Gareth's arms slowly ceased their windmill action. He rebuckled his sword belt, sheathed his weapon, and came over to Miranda, who, calmer now, had managed to catch the sodden Chip and removed the brand from his tail. She was cradling him in her arms as she examined his singed fur.

She raised her tear-stained face to Gareth and her eyes were brightly vengeful as she said with ringing triumph, "Oh, you really thrashed them! But I wish they hadn't escaped so soon."

Gareth, who could guess how much damage he'd inflicted in a rage more violent than any he'd experienced in many a long year, thought they had probably escaped in the nick of time. But he said only, "How is he?"

"Just a little charred fur. He's more terrified than anything. How could they do such a thing?" Her eyes filled with tears again. "I'm sorry I was stupid. I should have thought to throw the water… but I couldn't think clearly."

"No, that's hardly surprising," he said, reaching to brush a lock of hair, sticky with tears, from her cheek. "Bring him inside now."

The monkey pushed his head out of the sheltering curve of Miranda's arm and surveyed his rescuer with glittering eyes that Gareth would have sworn had tears in them. The monkey chattered softly, lifting one small scrawny hand toward the earl.

"He's saying thank you," Miranda interpreted and Gareth, for all his skepticism, was inclined to believe her. "He'll always trust you. He'll be your friend forever now," she said.

"How lucky can I get?" Gareth murmured and was rewarded with a watery smile before she returned to soothing the still-quivering Chip. Her head was bent, her glowing hair parting on her nape to swing behind her ears. Gareth, in a manner rapidly becoming familiar, put a hand on her shoulder to urge her inside. Then he stood immobile, staring down at the pale slender column of her exposed neck. His hand moved from her upper arm to her neck, his fingers tracing the tiny silvery crescent mark tucked up against her hairline.

"How did you get this?"

"Get what?" She raised her head against the warm clasp of his fingers, twisting to look at him over her shoulder.

"This little crescent mark. It's a scar of some kind." He moved her head around again, bending her neck so he could look more closely. The blood was suddenly racing in his veins.

Miranda reached behind her neck, trying to feel what he was talking about. "I don't know what it is. I've never seen it… not having eyes in the back of my head," she added with a tiny laugh that did nothing to disguise her sudden unease. She could feel his tension in the fingers on her neck and she began to have the unpleasant sensation that, all unknowing, she had been carrying some deforming stigma around with her all her life.

"You don't recall ever cutting your neck, falling perhaps?"

"No." She shook her head. "Whatever it is must be a part of my skin. Is it very nasty-looking?" She tried to sound indifferent, casual, but there was a residual quiver to her voice.

"Not in the least," he said swiftly. "It's very tiny and hidden by your hair most of the time." He took his hand away and she raised her head, her hair swinging back over her neck. "Come, let's be on our way."

But he paused in the yard as she went ahead of him back to the inn. It was extraordinary. He knew now with absolute certainty that the itinerant acrobat was very much more than Maude's look-alike.

Dover's town gaol was a gloomy place even on a bright August morning. Only a thin shaft of daylight penetrated the dark cell from a barred slit high up on the wall. Mama Gertrude eased her substantial frame away from the slimy damp stone wall at her back as the first spike of light told her that the long cold night was finally over. She shivered, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders, silently counting the huddled bodies on the filthy straw covering the mud floor. The checking comforted her, although she knew perfectly well that none of her companions would have melted through the thick stone walls overnight.

A stinking open drain ran down the middle of the cell, a wooden pail in the corner served as commode. There were no other amenities, not a stick of furniture.

They were all there, except for Miranda. It wasn't the first time the troupe had spent a night in gaol, picked up for vagrancy, or on suspicion of thieving. But on this occasion, it was Miranda's fault. Miranda and her monkey. As far as Gertrude could gather, the missing pair had caused a hue and cry in the town but had managed somehow to evade the pursuit. As a result, their confederates had been rounded up just as they were to take ship back to Calais and shoved into this reeking hole as consolation prize for the irate citizens of Dover.

Bert coughed, hawked into the open drain, and sat up. "God's death, how did we get into this?"

"We'll be out soon enough," Gertrude said. "They can't 'old us without charges, and there's no charges they can lay agin any of us. Whatever Miranda was up to, we weren't there."

"She wouldn't 'ave been thieving," Bert declared, struggling to his feet, his whole body protesting after its hours on the hard damp floor.

" 'Course not, but that's not goin' to stop 'em charging 'er." This was from Raoul, the strongman, who flexed his mighty biceps and stood up, towering over the small group. " They'll charge 'er an' find 'er guilty without the girl ever openin' her mouth. In cahoots wi' the monkey is what they'll say."

Robbie whimpered. "Will they hang M'randa?"

" They'd 'ave to catch 'er first, laddie," Raoul said.

"And Miranda's quicker than an eel," Luke put in with a touch of vicarious pride. He drew himself upright, his long skinny body straightening like a piece of string. "If they haven't caught her by now, they won't. And if they had, we'd know about it."

"Aye," Raoul agreed, relieving himself at the bucket. "But we're still in a pretty pickle. They want to bring us afore the magistrate wi' a charge of vagrancy, an' we'll all be whipped through the town square, an' count ourselves lucky to escape slit noses."