Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1) (11 page)

He was up early, sitting in the kitchen trying to figure out what to do, when he heard a loud banging on the front door. It took a moment for him to realise that the doors were still locked. He was never the first out of bed in the mornings–normally anyhow–so he never unlocked them. He got up to see what the commotion was.

His father just beat him to the door. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ he called out, at the same time tying his dressing gown about himself.

Two men stood outside, large and scruffy, in black uniforms. At first Adam took them for Kingsmen, and maybe from a distance he would have continued in that belief, but up close the uniforms were shoddy and second rate. These were definitely not Kingsmen. His nose confirmed that assessment; the men stank of stale beer and piss. Not a pleasant smell first thing in the morning.

‘Got orders from the mayor,’ one of the men said, the odour from his breath causing Adam’s nose to wrinkle. ‘Prisoner’s gonna get ‘is just desserts, and everyone’s gotta watch.’

‘Yeah,’ the other thug added, ‘anyone not outside in half an hour gets a beating in the stocks. And no skulking off neither, all doors to be locked.’

Orders from the mayor?
Since when did the mayor give orders? And when did he get a private army?

Adam’s father shut the door. He looked quite pale, Adam noticed, suspecting he didn’t look much better himself after hearing that. He saw Flick standing at the top of the stairs, looking worried and his father went up to talk to her.
 

‘Come on Adam, we need to get everybody up and out,’ his dad called.

He followed his dad around, banging on doors and rousing the guests, telling them to go into the square as quickly as they could. As the last guest scurried down the stairs, he finally hit on a plan to get the radio. Desperate, but it had to work.
 

‘Dad, I just need to grab a coat from my room,’ he said.

‘Okay, but be quick,’ his father replied. ‘Flick’s counting everyone out, and we have to lock the door.’

Adam bounded up the stairs to his room, grabbed the biggest coat he had and put it on. Then, as he came back along the corridor, he tried Flick’s door. It opened. Good. He went in. There was no sign of the radio, so he cast his eyes about. The drawers. He rummaged through them; yes there it was. He put the radio in his pocket, pushed the drawer closed and shut the door behind him. Moments later he was outside in the town square.

By seven o’clock the square was filling up with people. Normally there would be a buzz of chatter and excitement, but today everyone was unusually quiet, their faces grim or blank. A fine drizzle fell from the barely light sky, grey clouds adding an ominous overcast to the already gloomy mood.

The Watchmen guarding the town hall had been replaced by two unknown men wearing black uniforms. Flick could tell they were not Kingsmen just from their deportment. But something told her that maybe they were meant to
look like
Kingsmen. They held rifles, at least at a glance they looked like rifles. But if she looked carefully she could see they were just carved pieces of wood. Two more of these men stood on top of the wooden platform that served as a scaffold, scanning the crowd constantly, stern expressions suggesting they were only too keen to use the weapons they were holding.

Around the edge of the square, the regular Watch were arranged, keeping a check on the roads in and out of the square, to make sure that nobody slipped away. They looked uncomfortable, almost apologetic. The only weapons they had were their normal wooden truncheons, wedged into their belts. Flick noticed more of the black-uniformed men dotted about on the edge of the crowd. How many were there? What were they, she wondered, some kind of militia or private army?

Flick, Adam, Rosie and their father stayed close to the inn. The three travellers that had been staying as guests stood nearby, looking nervous. The doors and gates to all the buildings that fronted onto the square were shut and locked as had been demanded. Flick had her arm around Rosie, holding her protectively. People in the crowd were muttering among themselves and Flick caught snippets of conversation. Who was the prisoner? Did anybody know him? What had he done?

‘I don’t like this,’ said Rosie, ‘I just want to run away and hide.’

‘I know sweet,’ Flick replied, ‘we all do.’

‘Do you think it is him–your friend, I mean?’ she asked.

‘I really don’t know, Ro. I hope not, I really do.’

Rosie hugged her sister tightly and buried her head in her shoulder.
 

Flick stroked her hair soothingly. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon and we can all go home and try to forget.’ She locked her expression tight, and tried not to show the fear that was welling up inside her.

The door to the Town Hall opened and the mayor emerged, a large man of mixed race, dressed in red robes and the chain of office. He looked like a bigger, fatter, slightly darker skinned, and much more menacing version of Joe. The mayor was followed by the vicar. Next the prisoner emerged dressed in simple rough cloth trousers and shirt. His face was bruised and bloody, his hair unkempt and lanky. His feet were shackled together, permitting him only to take tiny steps, and his hands bound behind his back with a rope that was held by more Kingsman lookalikes behind him. The guards pushed the prisoner through the door and up the steps, beating him whenever he stumbled. All the while he was silent, not making a sound or crying out. At the top he was forced to stand in front of the heavy rope noose.

Flick could clearly see the prisoner now, with his hollow cheeks and vacant expression, never looking up or around, only down. He was the right height, but scrawny, way too scrawny–although that could be the result of his treatment–but his hair was definitely too light and his features just didn’t fit. No, she was convinced this was not Shea.

Flick gave Rosie a squeeze. ‘It isn’t him,’ she said. ‘Oh Rosie, it isn’t him!’ There were tears in her eyes.

Rosie hugged her sister and said simply, ‘Good.’

The mayor moved to the front of the platform and raised his hands. The crowd quieted, but never quite raised their heads to look at him. Once he had decided it was quiet enough, he lowered his hands and reached into his robes for a sheet of paper.

‘People of Faringdon,’ he intoned, ‘we are gathered here today to pass judgement in the name of the King and of God on…’ and he paused to look at the sheet of paper, ‘…Thomas Pearson.’

The crowd stood silently, not looking at the mayor, or the prisoner, or each other. Some people shifted their feet restlessly.

The mayor turned to the prisoner and read out the list of charges. Murder, sedition, theft…
 

There were gasps from the crowd, and people started asking each other who had been murdered, but no one seemed to have an answer. Flick wasn’t listening though, she was clutching Rosie who was shaking like a leaf.

‘Don’t make me look.’

‘I won’t, RoRo, I won’t.’

The mayor droned on through his speech, and the sound of people muttering and shuffling their feet restlessly increased. They only wanted it to be over and done so they could get on with their lives. The mayor must have noticed because a hint of irritation crept into his voice. Eventually he finished. ‘…for which the sentence of the court, the King, the People… is death.’

Then there was silence.

Throughout this, the prisoner had not spoken or moved, or made any other sound. He just stared downwards, his expression vacant. The guards flanking the prisoner pushed him forward to the edge of the platform, the noose right in front of his face.

‘Crowd will watch the prisoner!’ a voice barked out.

That prompted more muttering. The crowd was clearly agitated, and some people tried to leave the square, but the black uniformed thugs seemed to have grown in number, and started to push people back towards the middle. A single loud shot rang out, echoing off the buildings. There were screams, but the crowd quickly calmed down.

Flick glanced around her, at the faces of the people nearby; her father, blank and resigned. Fred and Stanley, standing at the junction of Church Street, for all the world looking like they wanted to be anywhere else but here. Adam, standing next to their father, had his eyes glued to the stage, his expression of eager anticipation of what was to come in complete contrast to those around him. She looked down at Rosie, ‘I’m sorry, sweetie.’ She kissed the top of her head, and the pair clung together, each gaining comfort from the arms of the other.

When the mayor finally appeared satisfied, he nodded to the two guards at either side of the prisoner. Somewhere a drum started a long slow, drawn out roll. The guards grabbed the prisoner’s arms and held him tight. Only now did he seem to notice what was going on, and he started struggling violently, but to no avail; the guards had him in a grip of iron. The third guard behind him took the noose and forced it over his head, pulling it tight.

The three guards stepped back behind the prisoner, who was left standing alone. His eyes now darted around, taking in the scene for the first time, panicking, seeing the sea of faces looking at him. He opened his mouth and the most horrible wailing sound came out. Another order was barked out and the front of the platform dropped away. The prisoner dropped. The rope went taut. The wailing stopped, cut off. The drum stopped. There was silence.

The rope creaked, swaying. The prisoner’s legs danced a jig briefly, trying to find something–anything–to stand on, but finding nothing eventually they stopped.

At the back of the crowd, several people cheered. The mayor stood on the platform, smiling, but the expression did not reach his cold eyes. They scanned the crowd looking for signs of dissent, anyone that might challenge his rule. Flick and Rosie kept their eyes down, looking at the ground, avoiding the sight of the mayor and his grisly spectacle. Finally the mayor, vicar and guards turned and descended from the stage, leaving the hanging body of the prisoner swaying slightly.

Rosie let go of her big sister, sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

MAY DAY, THE traditional start of summer, had dawned sunny and bright. Flick walked in to the kitchen to be greeted by the smell of cooking bacon. She’d already been out gathering may blossom with other girls from the town.

‘Hey, that smells good!’ she said, going over to the sink and rinsing her hands and arms in the pail.

‘Just what a working girl needs to start the day!’ called her father, from somewhere near the hob. He turned to the table, pan in one hand and wooden spatula in the other. Then he noticed the myriad small cuts and scratches on Flick’s arms. ‘Looks like you had a bit of a fight on your hands there,’ he said.

She looked down. ‘Yeah, the hawthorn put up a valiant struggle, but in the end we beat it into submission. Us one; hawthorn nil!’

The door opened and Rosie came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She didn’t speak as she grabbed a plate and sat at the table next to Adam.

‘Hey, RoRo,’ said Flick. ‘How did you sleep?’

Rosie said nothing, but just stared ahead.

‘That bad, eh?’

She nodded.

Flick dried her hands and went over to her sister. ‘I won’t pretend it gets better, ‘cos it doesn’t. But try not to think about it, eh?’ She gave her a big squeeze. ‘It’s your big day today. What do you say we go and get dressed up?’

Rosie looked down at her plate.

‘After breakfast though,’ said their father as he forked a rasher of bacon onto the plate.

Rosie smiled. ‘After breakfast,’ she said, and started eating.

At twelve o’clock, after a mercifully brief service, everyone gathered outside the church. Rosie and the other girls wore their frilly white dresses, decorated with yellow ribbons; each had a garland of leaves and white may blossom in her hair. Flick at least wore her Sunday best dress, pale green with a small floral design. Adam and their father wore their Sunday best suits.

The children, girls in their white dresses, and boys in white shirts and grey shorts, lined up into two rows behind Rosie who, as May Queen was at the front of the procession. In front of them, the local side of Morris men were resplendent in red and blue baldrics, with coloured ribbons and strings of bells tied to their shins. An eleventh Morris man stood apart from the others, wearing a large black top hat, and very mismatched clothes. He was the fool.

Once everybody was lined up, the Town Crier struck his bell.

‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ he bellowed. ‘Any persons here present wishing to witness the crowning of the May Queen shall follow our procession!’ He rang the bell again before bellowing, ‘God save the King!’
 

The musicians struck up a tune, and the procession moved off down the hill into the town. The Town Crier was at the head, followed by the Morris men, jangling the bells on their legs and waving white handkerchiefs in their hands, then Rosie and her handmaidens, and finally everyone else. All the while, the fool gallivanted about the procession, sometimes mimicking one of the musicians or dancers, or swapping places with them, or grabbing one of the townspeople and dancing a quick jig.

As the procession passed through the square, Flick couldn’t help but glance over at the Town Hall. The body still hung from the gibbet, a constant reminder, but some wag had decorated the corpse with sprigs of blossom.

The procession passed through the square and turned left up the hill towards the folly and the festival field. It wound its way up the track to the top of the hill where the tower stood. A small stage had been erected against one wall of the tower, and on it was a large wooden chair, like a throne, decorated with flowers, green leaves and may blossom. In the middle of the clearing stood a large maypole, wound round with long coloured ribbons.

Now the musicians struck up again, and the Morris men entered the clearing, handkerchiefs a waving and bells a jangling. The crier walked in front with Rosie following. They walked slowly around the edge of clearing, Rosie grinning at the crowd and waving at people she recognised. When they reached the stage, the Town Crier and Rosie climbed the steps, and Rosie sat on the throne. Now the other children followed the musicians around the clearing. Rosie watched the procession from her throne on the stage.