The Lion Lies Waiting Page 22

  The heralds and a handful of guisers had reached the harbour already and the first of the tar barrels had been thrown onto the bonfire. It whooshed into life, eliciting a mighty roar of approval from the crowd. His world was a tangle of limbs and flames and frightening animal faces. Everywhere he turned he found a different set of eyes glaring at him. Some people in the crowd tried to pull him away, angry at the oaf for ruining their tradition, their fun. He tried to shout an explanation, an apology, but he went unheard. In the commotion, he ran full-on into a tall and elegant red deer, almost knocking her to the ground. She called out with surprising force.

  “Watch where you’re going, you boor!”

  “Eva!” Robin exclaimed, holding her slim arms.

  “Robin?” came a voice from behind.

  Robin turned to face a petite otter dressed in powder blue.

  “What a surprise!” Iris said. “A very merry solstice to you!”

  “Eva! Iris!” Robin shouted. “You ’ave to ’elp me! I need to find a jackdaw in the parade!”

  “A jackdaw? Why?” Eva asked.

  “I’ll explain after, please, ’elp me look!”

  They followed Robin into the parade, searching for the bird. It was no easy task. All of masks were different and the smoke from the tar barrels watered their eyes, making it hard to see. Many of the celebrants carried poles wound in ribbons and speckled with sleigh bells they waved in the air, creating further obstructions. Even Robin struggled to see over them. Iris was much smaller than almost everyone else present and she was standing on the tips of her toes, trying to see anything.

  “Robin!” she called out. “I have an idea! Lift me!”

  He scooped her up in his arms, depositing her on his expansive shoulder. From her lofty vantage point, she scanned the crowd. He did his best to keep her away from the plumes of tar smoke.

  She tapped her transport on the top of his head. “Over there, by the dragonfly!”

  Robin set her down and dashed off. The dragonfly was a short woman carrying a smaller barrel on her head and her insect mask was made from a shimmering blue lace. And behind her, walking briskly, was a man wearing the black and silver feathered mask of the jackdaw.

  EDWIN RACED TO the rear of the council stand, lifted up a flap of tarpaulin and clambered underneath. He paused at the crash of the first tar barrel as it ignited the bonfire. It cast enough light for him to see what Baxbary had arranged—a dozen or more barrels, waiting for the fire to ignite them. But of Duncan, there was no sign. Perhaps he’d already made his escape? Above him, the heavy thumps of Vince’s boots and the panicked shuffling of feet told Edwin the stage was being evacuated.

  “Duncan!” he shouted.

  The noise of the excited crowd was muffled somewhat by the framework of wood and fabric surrounding him and he strained to hear a reply. None was forthcoming. Frantically, he started checking the barrels, one by one, slowly realising he’d never check them all in time.

  “Duncan! Duncan, can you hear me?” he called, frantically.

  He stopped at the sound of a faint knocking. He spun, trying to find the source. One barrel in the centre, one different from the rest. It was larger, and it had holes in the top. Airholes. He clambered over the barrels and popped the lid from the keg. Inside he found Duncan, bound and gagged, one fist barely tapping the sides of the barrel. He went to untie him, but the knots were tight. And he had no knife. He removed the gag. Duncan said nothing but simply fixed him with curiously pitying stare.

  ROBIN BATTLED THROUGH the crowd to stop the man in the jackdaw mask. He had gotten close, close enough for his target to realise he’d been spotted. Suddenly, the jackdaw’s brisk pace became a run. The heavy, shallow barrel on his head began to tip out clumps of its sparking, red-hot cargo. The crowd backed off to avoid the burning debris. They laughed and sang as they mocked the jackdaw for buckling under the heat and shedding his load too quickly. For them, it was all part of the festivity. Robin knew better.

  The crowd were yelling, some at the people ahead to make room, but more at Robin for chasing one of their own. He was moving as fast as he could, his joints popping and burning. He desperately stretched out with one hand, trying to grasp at the loose ribbons of the jackdaw’s costume but several times he was slapped away by outraged onlookers. He was keenly aware of the dangers at play. He had to stop the jackdaw before he got any further but the risk of tackling him was great, he could easily drop the fiery barrel into the crowd, onto a child, even.

  The stand was in front of them. It was now or never. With one mighty yell and a thrust of his powerful legs, he leaped forward and grabbed the jackdaw, stopping him in his tracks. With his left hand, he gripped the rim of the barrel to keep it in place above the jackdaw’s head. It burned his skin, but he ignored the pain.

  He was yelling, so was the jackdaw, so were the crowd. Was Duncan free? Were Edwin and Vince clear? Had they warned the council? He didn’t know. He jostled with the jackdaw. Back and forth, back and forth the barrel went, sending out a flurry of sparks and embers. The jackdaw was kicking him. The crowd were beginning to turn, they were going to pull him away, they were going to free the jackdaw from his grip. With his scorched hand still firmly gripping the shallow barrel, he grunted in pain as he balled up his other fist and flung it squarely into the masked face.

  The jackdaw mask shattered and the man who wore it fell to the ground. Robin, still holding the heavy barrel, spun around, trying to steady the weight above him. He spun again and again, unable to balance himself on the icy cobblestones, finally tripping over his own feet. He came crashing to the ground, followed by the raging tar barrel which slid downhill at surprising speed, smashing straight through the tarpaulin covering the legs of the stage. The dry leaves and bark of the frame caught fire immediately and the errant barrel crashed viciously into the gunpowder.

  “Get back!” Vince yelled as he bundled headlong into Robin, pulling him clear.

  The explosion must have been seen for miles out to sea. The stand was gone, all trace of it burned away in an instant. The gunpowder ignited with such force and such noise it shattered the glass of the nearby Frost & Thaw tearoom. The onlookers would later speak of a massive fireball hanging in the air above the harbour. Robin scrambled to sit up, holding his seared hand close to his chest.

  “Edwin!” he said in a panic. “Where…where are Edwin and Duncan…? Did they…?”

  Vince rubbed his bearded face. “Don’t…I don’t know. Edwin went to find him, under the stage...”

  Robin faced the inferno in front of him, the heat singing his face.

  “Edwin…”

  Robin’s mind was cast back to the summer, when he and Edwin had participated in a rescue of fishermen who had become trapped in a cave. He thought of the bravery Edwin had shown in clambering down a slick cliff face to bring them to safety. He thought about how the rope snapped before Edwin could get to the ledge, plunging him toward the icy black waters below and how he himself had dived after him, grabbing Edwin’s shirtsleeve and pulling him to safety. How close he’d come to losing him. In that moment, their relationship had changed forever. Everything had become crystal clear, for both of them.

  Suddenly, his ear was stung by a hefty slap.

  “A day!”

  He turned quickly. A sopping wet Duncan was admonishing him, verbally and physically.

  “I was gone for a day, and you—”

  Slap.

  “—didn’t—”

  Slap.

  “—notice!”

  Slap.

  “Duncan! You’re alive! But where’s—?”

  “Right here,” Edwin said, shivering.

  Robin scrambled to his feet and grabbed Edwin in his arms, kissing him over and over.

  “We’re fine,” Edwin said. “We got clear and jumped into the sea, just before it went up. I’m glad you spent all those hours teaching me about knots.”

  Robin slipped off his overcoat and wrapped it around Edwin’s shoulders.


  “You sure you’re not hurt?” Robin asked, checking them both up and down. He clamped his good hand on the side of Duncan’s face, the bristles of his long sideburn tickling his palm. “You’re both unharmed?”

  “We’re fine, Robin,” Duncan said.

  “I’m sorry, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t ’ave made you leave your room at the inn,” he said.

  “No, it’s my fault,” Edwin said to Duncan, “I shouldn’t have dragged you here in the first place.”

  “Boys, boys, enough. You’re both to blame,” Duncan said.

  Robin flung his arms around the pair of them, kissing them on the tops of their heads and held them tightly. Too tightly.

  “Robin! Please! Air!” Duncan gasped before he let them go.

  “The jackdaw,” Edwin said, looking to the crowd. “Where did he go?”

  “Right here!” shouted Eva.

  She stood with one hand on her hip and clicked her fingers. From behind her, two gentlemen appeared holding the would-be assassin between them. One wore a puppy mask on the top of his head, taming his flaxen mane and opening up his impressive features. His companion wore a duck mask, similarly pushed to his scalp but with his lank, oily hair forced behind his ears and the bird’s bill pointing skywards, it had a grotesquely comical effect. He held the remains of the jackdaw mask in his hands.

  “Mr. Penny? Mr. Kind?” Robin said.

  “I spotted them in the crowd and pressganged them into helping. I had to pry this one away from a vivacious kitten,” Iris said, poking Mr. Kind in the side.

  Edwin was about to express his surprise at seeing the Blashy Cove natives on the island when Duncan stepped up to the jackdaw.

  “Wait,” Edwin said. “He’s the jackdaw? But isn’t he…?”

  “Mr. Oliver Boon,” Duncan said, with obvious disappointment in his voice.

  Oliver struggled to break free of Mr. Penny’s grip but didn’t stand a chance. His captor was a hardened sailor, used to gripping slippery ropes in raging storms. If he didn’t want the man to go free, there was nothing Mr. Boon could do about it.

  “You made the masks for the fox army we saw in the Roost,” Duncan said.

  “Why did you do this?” Edwin asked.

  “Gull’s Reach was a mess even before the hurricane,” Oliver said. “The council have never been interested in helping us, always looking down their noses at us. And when the people of this town needed help, who took them in? Was it the council? Was it the big houses in Barley Hill? The merchants in Pudding Quarter? No, it was us. The people of Gull’s Reach. We opened our doors and we took them in. The ones who’d lost their homes, their possessions, their livelihoods, their loved ones. We had the least to offer, but we offered it gladly because it was the right thing to do. The council wouldn’t listen, so they needed to be swept aside.”

  “That’s what Baxbary Mudge told you, was it?” Duncan asked. “Let me guess—after he rented you the shop, elevating your position in Port Knot society, he’d pop in every once in a while, friendly at first, but then he’d start talking about what was happening in the council. Accidentally saying things he shouldn’t. Letting you in on what the other council members really thought about Gull’s Reach.”

  Oliver hung his head a little.

  “He manipulated you, you tuss. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison. You could have killed these people. You could have killed me!”

  Oliver looked surprised at the last part. “You?”

  “Baxbary put me under the stage. With the gunpowder.”

  “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t,” Oliver said, his eyes wet.

  “Would it have stopped you, had you known?”

  Oliver paused for a moment, the flames from the burning pyre where the stage had stood illuminating one side of his handsome, unshaven face.

  “I hope so,” he whispered.

  “It wasn’t coincidence we met on our first night here was it?”

  “No. Baxbary sent me. He wanted to know what you were doing here. One of his men followed Vince the day you arrived and recognised you. Baxbary thought you’d remember his men, so he got me to…talk to you.”

  “And what else did he get you to do?”

  “Nothing,” Oliver said. “The rest was me. Just me.”

  While the watchmen led Oliver away, Robin placed his hand on Duncan’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry. I could tell you liked ’im a lot. I ’ope you’re not too disappointed.”

  Heartache and embarrassment washed over Duncan in equal measure as he watched Oliver being dragged through the crowd.

  “You really think I’d fall for someone I just met?” Duncan said. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ARTHUR DAMERELL WATCHED the parade from behind his plain fox mask. Around him in the crowd were other foxmen from the Roost, all wearing similar masks, all dressed in tattered taupe cloaks. They blended in perfectly with the crowd. In fact, they would have stood out more if they hadn’t been outlandishly garbed. As the clock tower chimed five bells, they gathered together at the corner of Pudding Quarter. Before long, a masked man wearing a pristine white linen suit approached and ducked low. The skulk of foxmen quickly surrounded him, throwing their ragged cloaks over him to shield him from view. Moving as one, they ushered him towards the council building.

  Once inside, the skulk closed the doors as the man in white straightened himself up and dusted himself off.

  “Mr. Mudge, welcome home,” Arthur said.

  Baxbary Mudge greeted him warmly by placing his hands on his shoulders. “You encountered no difficulties, I hope?”

  “None,” Arthur replied. “None whatsoever.”

  A sudden, ferocious explosion from outside rattled the windows and startled everyone present. Well, almost everyone.

  “Bolt the doors,” Mr. Mudge said, calmly.

  He entered the council chamber, whereupon he was greeted by a tremendous roar. All around the room were gathered men and women from the Roost, each with the face of a fox crafted by the hands of Mr. Oliver Boon.

  “My dear people! You have done so well!” Mr. Mudge said. “However, I must sadly report the demise of our dear Mrs. Farriner. The Voice of the Roost was sadly consumed by the same explosion which has forever rid this island of the tyrannical council.”

  There were murmurs of discontent at the news. They had trusted Sylvia Farriner, had followed her instructions. She had told them Baxbary Mudge would lead them in their revolution, take care of them and see to it they got what they wanted, what they deserved. They had gone to the council building armed with weapons handed out earlier that evening, expecting to fight their way to the chambers, to seize control of the island by threats if possible and by force if necessary, but instead had strolled in, meeting no resistance at all. And now Sylvia was dead? The council was dead? It wasn’t going at all as Arthur had expected.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A terrible accident at the stage, I fear,” Mr. Mudge replied. “I warned them it was a hazard.”

  Arthur didn’t believe him, but they’d come so far, there was so much at stake, what choice was there but to continue?

  “Sylvia Farriner’s loss is a great blow to our cause,” he said. “But we must strive on. There is still much to be done.”

  Mr. Mudge smiled, his teeth shining beneath his fox mask. “Indeed there is,” he said. “Indeed there is.”

  THERE WAS MUCH confusion in the aftermath of the explosion. Townsfolk standing close to the stage had been injured—some had minor cuts and bruises caused by flying debris, others had more serious burns. The parade had, of course, been entirely abandoned. With nowhere else to put the blazing barrels, the guisers had been forced to continue throwing them onto the bonfire which paled into insignificance next to the blaze where the council stand had been. Edwin and Duncan had been given warm coats. Edwin tore a strip off his shirt and used it to bandage Robin’s burned hand.
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  “This looks bad,” he said.

  “Just a singe,” Robin said. “Plenty o’ time for it to ’eal before I’m back out fishin’. It’ll be fine come Spring.”

  Edwin wasn’t so sure, and he wasn’t convinced by Robin’s forced smile. “I’m sure your mother will have a poultice or tonic to help it along.”

  “I’m not lookin’ forward to tellin’ ’er what ’appened. I can already picture the look on ’er face.”

  “Let her fuss over you, Robin. She missed out on the chance to do so for so long.”

  Vince, who was lurking awkwardly nearby, was approached by Rabbit, Badger, and Magpie.

  “You!” Rabbit shouted. “You knew this was going to happen! Summon the watchmen!”

  “Hang on, I saved you,” Vince objected. “I didn’t know he was planning this.”

  “He? He who?” Rabbit asked.

  “Baxbary Mudge, of course. Didn’t you know that?” Vince replied.

  “What?” Magpie screamed.

  She was positively incandescent with rage and pounded her fists against her legs as she paced back and forth along the waterside. Edwin’s mother stood and twitched.

  “He staged the whole thing. Didn’t you notice how he was conveniently absent before the explosion? He had gunpowder and weapons brought to the island and—” Vince trailed off.

  “What? What is it?” Rabbit asked.

  “There isn’t time for this, we’ve got to get to the town hall.”

  “Why?” Badger asked.

  “The uprising, it’s happening tonight,” he said, barging past the council.

  Rabbit looked as though she were about to strike him. “Uprising?” she yelled.

  “We’ve got to get to the chambers!” Robin said.

  “Robin, wait,” Edwin said, grabbing his arm.

  A chiaroscuro flurry of snow and ash tumbled softly to the ground around them.

  “There’s nothing we can do against him. He’s got his own private army, remember? Those foxmen from the Roost?”