Land of Hope and Glory (37 page)

Jack slipped back into the darkness. Pain jabbed him in the chest. William was so close to him – but what now? He fought to think clearly.

Once the night was out there would be just seven days before Elizabeth was executed. And he’d been told it would take two days to get to Poole from London on horseback – and even then only if he rode through the nights. Worse still, the Rajthanans were due in a few days’ time and once they attacked everything would be out of his control.

Was he going to kill William? Capture him and hand him over to the Rajthanans?

Could he bring himself to do that?

He was in a worse position now than when he’d been hunting William in Dorsetshire. Back then at least he’d only had to
find
William – Sengar and the French would be doing the rest – but here in London it was all down to him.

He remembered all those times he and William had prepared to go into battle. He remembered standing in the trench at Ragusa, waiting in that terrible silence after the guns had stopped, waiting for the horns to sound the attack.

He should be fighting with William, not against him.

Maybe he could go to William and beg for his help?

No, there was no chance of that. William would never leave the city now with the Rajthanans approaching. Would he even want to help Jack after everything that had happened? And anyway, the English could never hope to raise an army large enough to march on Poole – the Rajthanans were too strong.

There was a creak and a scrape as the door opened. Jack lurched back from the window. A man stumbled out into the semi-dark.

Jack’s mouth went dry. He eased himself into the corner where the house met the courtyard wall.

The man walked unsteadily away from the building, humming tunelessly to himself. He put his arms out before him, as if he were finding it difficult to balance. He seemed drunk.

He staggered in a diagonal away from the house, heading towards the wall where Jack was hiding. As the man drew closer, Jack made out his features in the dim light. It was Harold – the long-haired man, one of William’s rebels. The last time Jack had seen him he’d had his arm in a sling, but this was gone now.

Jack tried to stay as still as possible. Harold reached the wall, put out one hand and leant against the stone. Although Jack was hidden in the shadows, Harold would only have to turn his head to see him. Jack’s hand tensed around the knife. What would Harold do if he saw him? In Dorsetshire he’d wanted to kill him.

There was a sound like rolling marbles and Jack realised Harold was urinating. Jack’s hand eased slightly, but he still held the knife handle. A long time seemed to pass, but perhaps it was less than twenty seconds. Harold stood up straight again and looked back the way he’d come. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, swaying, as if lost in thought. Jack willed Harold to move on. Why was he still standing there?

Finally, Harold belched and meandered back to the house. Soon he disappeared inside.

Jack breathed out. His heart was beating quickly and pain crackled in his chest. That had been too close. He would have to be more careful next time. If he was going to get William back to Poole, he needed to plan things carefully. And right now he could do nothing while William was sitting with his own men.

He stole around the edge of the courtyard and reached the wall opposite. Tonight he’d done as much as he could. Now he needed to think through what his next move should be.

He made his way back across London to his billet. A soldier guarding the gate admitted him with a nod and he went through the dark, arched passage and into the courtyard. The yard was silent. He could just make out the men sleeping beneath the canopies around the edges.

‘Where’ve you been?’

He was startled by the voice in the darkness. To his left he saw a faint red glow. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the outline of a hookah with a man sitting cross-legged beside it.

‘It’s me,’ came the voice, and this time he recognised it – Charles.

‘What are you doing?’ Jack walked over. He spoke quietly, not wanting to wake the others.

‘Can’t sleep.’ Charles’s voice sounded flat.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Charles moved in the darkness, but didn’t say anything.

Jack lifted a pipe and inhaled. The coals at the top of the hookah glowed brighter and Charles’s face appeared for a moment – a red spirit – before vanishing again.

‘You’re out late,’ Charles said.

‘Met an old friend. From the army.’

‘I found out about my regiment – the 12th.’

‘They’re here, then?’

Charles paused. ‘No. Didn’t make it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They were sent to south Hampshire after I left them. They were in the fighting. Rajthanans smashed them to pieces.’

‘All of them?’

‘Don’t know. There were heavy losses. All the rest ran off. Who knows where they are now?’

‘Ah . . .’

‘End of the regiment. It’s all gone. All the men, the officers, the standard. Finished.’

‘That’s evil news. I’m sorry.’

‘Suppose that’s war.’

‘It is.’

There was nothing more to say.

They continued puffing into the night, the aromatic smoke swirling between them like silent words.

Jack glanced at Charles as they stood looking down from the city walls. Charles had been quiet all morning. The news about his regiment must have hit him hard. He was young. Probably the first time he’d had friends killed.

But Jack had his own worries. He’d agreed to come to the wall when Charles and Saleem had invited him, but he didn’t plan on staying long. He had to get over to William’s billet, had to find a way to get to his friend.

The wall stretched away from them in both directions, dipping and rising with the gentle curve of the land. Half a mile to the east lay the point where the dark stone changed to a lighter grey, the beginning of the so-called ‘New Wall’ built some 300 years ago by the Moors. The entire London wall had been extended, repaired and rebuilt many times and now the strength of the fortifications varied greatly. Jack had seen parts of the wall that looked ancient, the battlements worn and crumbling. But other sections were formidable, ten feet thick and at least fifty feet high.

At regular intervals, square, round and octagonal towers rose from the ramparts, and here and there guns had been set up, pointing out at the plains.

The four bastions that formed the fortress-like Moor Gate stood nearby. Looking down, Jack could see a column of people streaming out of the opening. They were mostly women, children and the elderly. The Rajthanans were two day’s march away and Sir Gawain had advised all those who weren’t going to fight to leave the city. Men waved goodbye to their wives, children and parents. People hugged, held hands, began to part, embraced again. A crowd had gathered on both sides of the road to watch the column amble away. People carried as much as they could on carts or on their backs – chairs, tables, wardrobes, rolled-up rugs, chickens, geese.

A quarter of a mile from the walls, the road split into a series of stone causeways that led across the marshes. A pair of villages lay in the distance, and beyond them heavily wooded hills. Away to the west, the city had expanded beyond the walls, and houses, cottages and churches trickled off into the fields.

There were shouts below. Five men had stopped a young man driving a cart. Even from up on the wall Jack could make out the cries.

‘Coward! He’s leaving the city!’

‘Stay and fight!’

‘Traitor!’

The man in the cart waved his arms about, as if shooing away flies. The crowd became agitated and more people gathered around. The man picked up what looked from a distance like a cudgel and the mob reacted quickly. The man was dragged from the cart and across the ground. Men swarmed around him like wild dogs, kicking and shouting.

Guards rushed out from the gate and forced back the crowd. The man clambered to his feet and limped over to the cart. The guards kept the mob at bay until he’d trundled away.

‘Coward.’ Charles spat on the walkway, then walked off and clattered down the steps.

‘Charles.’ Saleem went to follow.

But Jack held his arm. ‘Leave him.’

They watched as Charles crossed the street on the inner side of the wall and disappeared into the bustling city.

‘He told me about his regiment,’ Saleem said.

Jack nodded. He looked back at the line of people leaving the gate. He thought of Charles’s mother, of how he’d promised to protect her son.

‘You sure this is your fight?’ he asked Saleem abruptly. He surprised himself saying it.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. You’re . . . not a Christian.’

Saleem looked at the ground and his eyes widened and moistened.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘I just meant, you don’t have to be here. No one expects you to.’

‘I want to be here,’ Saleem said quietly. ‘I know what people say about me, but I’m going to prove them wrong.’

Jack clenched his fist. Saleem was irritating him again. The lad was a fool and knew nothing about what he was getting into. And yet, at the same time Jack’s throat felt swollen and his face prickled. Saleem had spoken bravely – he was a true patriot.

Jack patted Saleem on the shoulder, his voice cracking slightly as he said, ‘Good lad.’

Jack sat beside the window, slightly to the side and partially hidden by the open shutter. He was on the third floor and had a clear view across to the building where William was billeted.

He’d been watching all afternoon. He’d seen Harold come and go several times and other people had left regularly. But so far there’d been no sign of William.

One day had passed since he’d watched the crowds leaving from the Moor Gate. That meant there were just six days left. Four if he considered the ride back to Poole. And all he could do was watch and wait.

The thought of Elizabeth’s execution boiled constantly in his stomach. From the moment he woke until sleep clutched him away, he was haunted by the image of his daughter locked in the cell. Even in his dreams, the threat hanging over his little girl tortured him.

He was in one of the many empty buildings left by those who’d fled the city. He’d come across the place by chance and now used it to spy on William. The rooms had largely been stripped bare, although the occupants must have packed in a hurry as they’d left behind several chairs, kitchen utensils, candles and a lantern.

Below, four men emerged from the double doors of William’s quarters. Jack sat forward and stared hard. One of them was William, another was Harold. The other two he didn’t recognise.

Finally, a chance.

He ran down the stairs and unbolted the door to a covered walkway that ran along the side of a tavern. The tavern’s wall consisted of little more than thin wooden slats, through which he could see men drinking and puffing on hookahs.

He slipped down the walkway. The door swung open behind him – the only way to keep it closed was to bolt it from the inside. He would have preferred to have locked it to stop anyone else using the building, but he didn’t have the key.

He reached the main road and stood waiting. William and the others appeared from a side street, paused for a moment and then walked away in the direction of the Tower.