Sound of the Heart (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

Handed Down

Tap tap tap.

Dougal awoke, disoriented and thick with interrupted sleep, and pried open one eye. Ah. Now he remembered. The strange pressure beneath him, it was a mattress. He was upstairs, above the tavern. He was safe. He would never see Tilbury Fort again.

Tap tap tap.

He glared at the ceiling. How could it possibly be morning already? Damn. Now he needed the chamber pot. He stretched his legs, extending his toes as far as they could, and groaned softly. But it was so comfortable, just lying here, thinking about nothing. Maybe he could just sleep a little longer—

Tap tap tap.

If it weren’t for the damn
tap tap tap,
that is.

Now fully awake, Dougal sat on the edge of the mattress and glanced around. A small rectangle beside the foot of the bed told him the room contained a window, but it was shuttered, keeping out the light and noise—or at least that’s what it was supposed to do. Dougal rose and stretched, popping his shoulders and yawning widely as he walked toward the window. He tugged open the shutters and leaned out, becoming instantly acquainted with the source of the noise. Rain fell in a continuous mist, drenching the city, and when the water toppled off the roof, it landed right on his windowsill. Except this time it landed on the crown of his head instead.

Tap tap tap
. Dougal didn’t much mind. He was too curious about the city to be bothered by a little rain. The road outside the tavern door was a cesspool, trapping mud and slop as it drifted down the slight slope, but no one bothered to remove whatever was blocking the flow. The stink of the city slithered up the wall of the tavern, clawed around the edges of the window, and seized Dougal’s nostrils. He paid it no mind.

He stared down at the busy road, bemused. People came and went, talking with each other then moving on, as they would in any other village. But this was no village. This was a busy swamp. And these people, for some reason Dougal couldn’t fathom, seemed to have chosen to live this way. He didn’t judge them. He figured people were entitled to live as they wished. But he was confused by it all. How could they be happy, raising their children in this pit? Not for him, this life. Dougal ached for the Highlands.

He glanced back toward the bed, where Aidan still slept soundly. In the moments after Dougal had risen, the boy had emerged from the tight cocoon of his sleep and now sprawled like a star across the empty place where Dougal had lain. Sleep took years from the boy’s face and Dougal couldn’t help staring. He was a beautiful lad, with soft lines to his face, long eyelashes touching bone white cheeks. Angelic, almost. What was an angel doing in this hell? From the beginning, Dougal had felt protective of Aidan and Joseph, simply because protecting the weak was in his nature. Now he felt a resurgence of his initial need to take care of the boy. Especially with Joseph gone.

Aidan and Joseph had been best friends for six years, inseparable. And before that? They’d grown together since they’d been bairns, sharing families, meals, secrets.

Like Dougal with Andrew. Not that they’d been alone. They’d had a good life, with everything they could ever have needed. Their parents, unlike many he’d known, loved each other and showed nothing but affection and respect for each other, and for their sons. Their father taught them how to hunt, fight, survive. Their mother gave them the other side of their education: the reading and writing and arithmetic. Dougal had tried to raise some sort of interest in what she taught, but it was lost on him. Not because he wasn’t smart enough. He knew he was, and he learned all that was required of him. It was just that his body was constantly on the move, his mind always seeking adventure, wanting to accomplish, not just sit and learn.

Dougal and Andrew had been very close. He had always heard Andrew’s voice in his head, but there was more. When they’d sat quietly together, or when they spoke without words, Dougal felt a pressure, a direction, as if he were being led toward something. And he was fairly sure Andrew felt the same way. Neither of them ever mentioned this strange connection; it seemed too odd to discuss out loud. The feeling was like something magical, and magic was not always wise to discuss.

Even if they hadn’t known each other’s thoughts as clearly as if the words had been spoken out loud, they would have been inseparable. Part of the reason Dougal had so much trouble believing Andrew was dead was because somewhere, in a tiny place in his mind, Dougal thought he could still hear him. He knew it could be happening just because he had always been there and the memory was as real as his presence had been, like a deep footprint in the mud, but he didn’t think that was it.

He frowned, still staring at Aidan. A slight smile played over the boy’s lips as he slept. What would it be like to sleep so deeply? Dougal never did. What did the boy dream of? Dougal closed his eyes and tried to relax his mind, dig into Aidan’s unconscious thoughts, but there was nothing. As if a barrier existed, one Dougal couldn’t breach. It was frustrating, because Dougal rarely had trouble reading most men’s minds. He usually had more trouble blocking them out.

There was no need to wake the boy. There was nowhere they needed to be. But Dougal was restless. He felt a buzz in his veins, a need to move, to explore, to make things happen. How long had it been since he had walked without orders, letting his feet go where they would? He decided to come back later for Aidan. The boy needed sleep. He left quietly, went downstairs, and told the tavern owner to let Aidan know, if he asked, that he had gone out for a bit.

He stepped out a side door and emerged into a dark, narrow alleyway, walled on both sides by chipped bricks and falling mortar. Using the infinite gray of the sky, Dougal took in the scene, letting his eyes follow the lines of the walls as they climbed. The buildings looked as if someone had built them as quickly as they could, so they could move on to the next one. He saw no windows besides the one in their room, and other than the one through which he had just passed, Dougal could see no doors. Only brick, mud, and misery.

He stood in the doorway, trying to decide whether it was really worth wading out into the deepening puddles of muck. Probably not, he thought. But he couldn’t just stand still.

He stepped around an open drain, shuddering when his foot flattened something he didn’t want to identify. He moved more quickly after that, striding through the honeycomb of alleyways, following a vague hint of light that he hoped was the exit onto the main street. When he looked up, the walls over his head seemed to lean toward each other, as if weary of standing straight. A sinister mound loomed up from the ground and Dougal hopped to one side of the alley, then the other, to avoid whatever it was. He clutched at the blackened brick wall beside him when he lost his balance, then recoiled when his palm struck the cold, slimy stone.

Why would anyone choose to live this way? Like rats, he thought. Except rats probably had it better, because they seemed able to eat anything and still flourish. As if he had summoned the creature with his thoughts, an actual rat appeared a few feet away, waddling rapidly toward him, its profile black as the rest of the place. Dougal wished he had his knife, but he had no weapons. Hadn’t had one in months. If he did have one, he could have made a meal out of the creature for both him and Aidan. The rat didn’t slow in its approach and Dougal stood back, waiting for the vile thing to pass, which it did. It seemed unconcerned by the human presence. At least he hadn’t sensed a meal, Dougal mused as he continued toward the street.

Finally Dougal burst into the relatively bright grayness of the street, and the noise, muffled before by the alleyway walls, struck him anew. Shouts and cries, people selling anything from boots to fruit. Young boys—or were they girls? it was impossible to tell through the grime on their bony faces—flitted like dragonflies from door to door, hovering, then darting away. The streets of London were no prettier today than they had been when they’d arrived. Would sunshine have been an improvement? Probably not.

A woman sat in her doorway, offering small bottles of clear liquid, and Dougal glanced at them with interest. He was thirsty.

“Gin, my love?” the woman asked. One swollen finger trembled when she pointed up at him, blinking milky white eyes. “Made it myself, I did. Sweeter than any of the other rubbish you’ll find around here.”

“Gin? Oh, I’ve no’ the money for gin.” He indicated his empty hands. “I’ve no’ the money for anythin’.”

The woman cackled, and Dougal noticed a vague hint of yellow in her skin. The woman had tasted her wares a little too often. “Nor have any of us, my lad. You’d best figure out a way to have some or you’ll be dead as yon cat before nightfall.”

Dougal turned his back on her and continued down the street. The mist was letting up but the air was still cold, to say nothing of the freezing mud under his feet. He shivered and clutched his arms over his chest, trying to preserve whatever heat he carried.

Despite what he’d told the old woman, he carried some money from Aidan’s performance the night before, and wondered how best to spend it. Food? No. Aidan could provide that if he sang again.

“Damn!” he exclaimed, yanking his foot from something brown. “That’s disgusting, that is.”

Shoes. Maybe he should buy shoes. That would be fine. But necessary? No. Not a priority. Though if he were to cut his foot on something, then step in something worse, well that could end badly. Yes, shoes were on his list.

Shoddy stalls were set up along the side of the road, some nothing more than a few wares spread over a cloth, and Dougal perused each one as he walked. He stopped behind a small crowd, peering over their heads at a puppet show: two wooden-headed figures bobbing with disembodied voices, banging at each other with sticks. The audience laughed on cue and Dougal let the meaningless entertainment divert him for a moment.

He felt a tug on his breeks, slight enough it could have been a breeze, only it wasn’t. Dougal’s hand shot out and grabbed a tiny wrist just reaching for the paltry bag of coins at his waist. The wrist was attached to a bony arm, which led to a furious red face.

“Let go,” the child hissed.

“So ye can take my money?”

The child, whose head reached no higher than Dougal’s belly, stuck his other hand on his hip, hitching up a stained pair of breeks. Long black tendrils of hair covered most of his face, like algae on a rock. The boy’s eyes were hard, and old.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone you’re an escaped prisoner.”

That knocked Dougal back. He blinked. “What?”

The boy’s lips puckered briefly, relaxed, then puckered again. He tilted his head to the side and regarded Dougal critically. “They’d all believe me, you know. Why, maybe you are, come to think of it. You’re a filthy Scotsman, you are. These folk would be only too pleased to—”

“Enough, mouse turd,” Dougal snarled. “Ye’ve a mouth on ye needs to be sewn shut. Ye need to learn yer craft better. Look at me. Look how I’m dressed. I’ve no money for ye. Get away.” He shoved the bony wrist away, and the boy stumbled backward. The little face studied him a moment longer.

“Watch yourself, Scotsman,” he warned through missing teeth, then spun and vanished into the growing crowd on the street.

Had he just been threatened by a six-year-old? Why yes, he had. That was a first. The most frightening thing was how quickly the boy had identified him, revealing just how easy it would be for Dougal to end up imprisoned again. Or worse.

The encounter gave Dougal a feeling of helplessness, a sensation he despised. He felt relatively confident that his strength would return soon, bolstered by air, movement, and food, but his fists would only take him so far. He decided what he needed to buy with his meagre cache of coins was a knife.

“Oy! That’ll teach you!” came a cry, followed by a small grunt.

Dougal turned toward the voice, which was being joined by others. Some poor devil’s hands and shaved head drooped from a pillory, set on a raised platform so onlookers could have easy access. Something red and slimy slid down the man’s miserable face, hooking on his ear, then plopping onto the floor by his feet. Rotten tomato, Dougal thought, then figured at least that was better than an egg. As if on cue, a hard white missile flew through the air, just missing the man’s head, whacking him instead on the side of the shoulder, where it split on impact and flooded the air with a sulphuric stench.

The onlookers issued a collective “Aww,” when the stink hit them, and hands fanned uselessly in front of noses. Dougal kept walking, reading the man’s crime with vague interest:
THIEF
was carved into a board by his feet. As Dougal left the area, more people moved in to take his place, their interest fed by the smell and the shouts.

People blustered on their way, regardless of Dougal, even though he stood a head taller than most of them. A scrawny, hunched woman, her scabbed face partially hidden by a shawl, shoved past Dougal, muttering obscenities. A skeletal woman dragged a screaming urchin by one ear.

Down a little farther he came upon a man selling a variety of swords and knives, their blades old and most likely dull. His wares were displayed on a slanted table set in front of a doorway. He had fashioned a kind of awning over the top, but rain still soaked the table, shining the metal of the knives, rinsing old blood and rust from the blades. Dougal paused, studying the sad collection. He wanted a weapon very badly, but these were rubbish. Old swords with chunks of metal broken from them in key spots, knives pocked with rust, others with broken hilts.

“What you looking for, man?” asked the salesman. He was short and stocky, with burly arms folded across his chest. He wore a dirty white shirt covered by an ancient green waistcoat, as if he’d dressed for a formal gathering but had done it all wrong.

“No’ these,” Dougal replied. He stood taller and folded his own arms. Staring down at the salesman, Dougal could hear the man’s thoughts, dark and confrontational, as clear as if they were written on his forehead. A mean man, one who felt himself superior to the rest of the population, but he was also a man intent on making a sale. Dougal knew how to handle a man like this. “I couldna cut a branch wi’ the likes o’ these.”