Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

Wary as he was of riding, he did not like the look of a vast chestnut stallion that was led out for him, clomping over the cobblestones and baring its teeth as soon as it saw him.

‘Have you got nothing a bit smaller?’ he asked nervously.

‘Sorry, Sir, but this be the last beast left. Night’s falling and all the horses are hired. Strawberry’s all right as long as you let him know who’s master.’

‘Oh God,’ the Apothecary muttered, and gamely put his foot in the stirrup which, even with the mounting block, was a very long way up. Finally, with much heaving of his backside from the stable lads, he was seated. At which the horse took off, furiously going out of the yard, and down the street as if all the devils from hell were after it.

‘Whoa,’ shouted John and pulled hard on the creature’s reins, at which it slowed its pace a little — but not a lot.

So it was with great speed that John left the city behind and started to traverse the countryside outside. With every step the animal took he felt that he would be thrown.

‘Stop that! Behave yourself! Slow down, you fiend,’ he shouted at various intervals. But Strawberry took no notice whatsoever and continued to plunge onwards as if its life depended on it. The Apothecary had a vision of himself shooting over the animal’s head and landing in a ditch, and even while he was trying to control the horse his hat flew away and he was left with his cinnamon curls flying into a tangled whirl like those of a rain-soaked scarecrow. And finally that which he had been dreading throughout the whole terrible ordeal happened. A fox, startled by the sound of approach, bolted from its lair right at Strawberry’s feet. The stallion came to a dead stop and John whizzed over its head and on to the ground below, where he landed in a boggy piece of earth. Looking up dazedly he saw that Strawberry had turned and was bolting back to Exeter like a racehorse.

‘Damn your eyes!’ he shouted at its retreating rear end. The horse whinnied and tossed its head to show how much it cared and continued on its journey at breakneck speed.

Slowly and gingerly the Apothecary got to his feet, relieved to find that nothing was broken. Looking round him he discovered that he had reached the bottom of the hill on the top of which stood Elizabeth’s house. Walking carefully and somewhat painfully with no light to guide him except that of a new moon, John made his way upwards. He fell over six times during the journey, once landing in what he could only think was a dried-out cow pat. By this time he had acquired a hole in the knee of his breeches and his stockings were filthy and torn. And all the while the lights in Elizabeth’s home taunted him, never seeming to draw nearer however hard he tried to reach them. At long last he reached the main gates and rang the bell on the lodgekeeper’s cottage.

He stood, panting in the darkness, while he heard two big bolts being drawn back and the eventual creak as the door opened. The lodgekeeper stood there, lantern raised on high. John stood rooted to the spot as he stared down the barrel of a blunderbuss.

‘Don’t shoot, Harrison, for the love of God. It’s me, John Rawlings.’

‘Get away you varmint. You tatterdemalion. Be off with you.’

‘Harrison, please. It really is me. I was thrown by my horse and I’ve had to walk here.’

The lantern was thrust right into his face so that John was forced to screw up his eyes, squinting at the brightness.

‘Stap me, if it ain’t you. I’d never have recognized you, Sir. You look like a tramp.’

‘Thank you,’ John answered with what little patience he could muster.

‘You’d best come in, Sir, and have a bit of a wash before you goes to the big house. Mind you, Lady Elizabeth ain’t there.’

‘She’s not? Where is she then? Do you know?’

‘She went off in the carriage to see Lady Sidmouth and she hasn’t returned, Sir.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Three days, Sir.’

‘Oh, hare and hounds, I haven’t missed another one,’ John said to himself.

‘We don’t know, Sir. We ain’t had no word.’

‘I’d better go there straight away.’

‘Wash yourself first, Sir. They’ll not let you in else.’

John looked at his reflection in a small mirror and allowed himself a shriek of horror at the sight he presented. Then he set to in an old tin bowl and kettle full of hot water, stripping off until he had managed somehow to remove the top layer of dirt. He surveyed his clothes as he put them back on. There was no help for it. He would have to go to the big house and change into something that he had left behind on his previous visit, his trunk being left in Exeter to be brought the next day by a man with a cart.

Plodding up the drive with Harrison lighting his way, John suddenly felt exhausted. Every step he took hurt and by the time he reached the grandeur of Withycombe House, the Marchesa’s great and stately dwelling, he felt fit to faint. The head footman took one look at him and immediately ordered him to bed.

‘But Lady Elizabeth…’

‘Sir,’ said the footman firmly, ‘’twill make no difference if you go tonight or not. Anxious as we all are for Milady’s welfare there is nothing you can do about it at this hour of the night. Now go to bed, Sir, and you will arise fresh and well in the morning.’

‘Will you wake me at six?’

‘You will be woken at seven, Sir, if you’ve no violent objection — and there’s an end to it.’

Too tired to argue, John slowly climbed the great staircase and made his way to the guest suite, glad that someone else had made the decision for him.

To John’s horror when he opened the clothes press on the following morning, he discovered that he had left only two ensembles behind in Devon. One was a perfectly ghastly affair in a violent shade of lime green with violet embroidery — a colour combination that could have come off had it not been for the vivid hue of the lime. It had been created by a tailor in Exeter and the Apothecary felt he only had himself to blame for the purchase. The second was the divine outfit he had had made for Lady Sidmouth’s ball, crimson satin decorated with silver butterflies, with a straight-cut short waistcoat also made of silver. This too had been made locally, though by a different craftsman. The decision was to choose which to wear.

Eventually John chose the lime, thinking it preferable to look like a piece of fruit than a complete dandiprat, one who tries to be something that he was actually not. Very conscious of his vivid apparel he covered all with his long travelling coat — from which the servants had obligingly scraped off the mud — and set forth for Lady Sidmouth’s lovely home, perched high on the cliffs overlooking Sidmouth Bay. John suddenly found that he was sweating profusely — bathed in it, in fact — at the thought that Elizabeth might be dead. She was very old indeed to be a mother and it came to him that her body might have been too tired for the rigours of childbirth. Then it occurred to him that the child might be dead as well and he would be going to a house draped in darkest mourning. He prepared his face as he rang the bell and thus was looking extremely stern when a footman answered the door.

‘Good morning, Sir.’

‘Good morning. I have come to call on the Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi.’

‘Very good, Sir. Step inside. I will fetch Lady Sidmouth.’

The man seemed cheerful enough and John felt his spirits begin to rise. He was ushered into a small parlour and then his hostess came in, bustling like a harvest mouse, her strange face with its tiny mouth as jolly as he had ever seen it.

‘Elizabeth…?’ he said.

‘Asleep and not to be disturbed,’ she answered promptly.