Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

She knew what she’d have to do. There was one person who could get her back to where she needed to be, and it would mean ’fessing up, but she was too exhausted to care. She would wear the consequences and damn the rest. She walked into the clearest space she could find and listed up her chin, ready to shout for help. Tate would be cross at being followed, but anything was better than this.

She emptied her lungs of air and then took a huge breath, lifting her chin to call out far into the woodland.

“Mmmp!” A hand clamped over her mouth and nose, pulling her back against a solid form that dragged her backwards through the undergrowth, clamping her hands to her sides. She squeaked, and kicked, her lungs full to bursting but unable to make more than the tiniest of sounds. They suddenly stopped, backed up to an old tree stump.

There was a whisper, close to her ear. “Not a sound, understand?”

“How do you know where all the Way-nodes are?” asked Angela.

Blackbird walked slightly ahead of her, eager to reach their destination. “Most of the time you find them by trial and error,” she said, “but as time goes by you accumulate the knowledge of how to find things, where the nodes are, and how they all relate to each other.”

“Like taxi drivers?” said Angela.

“Sorry?” said Blackbird.

“Taxi drivers; they do that thing called the Knowledge, where they ride around London with a clipboard attached to a moped and learn where all the little alleys and shortcuts are. You must have seen them,” said Angela.

“Of course,” said Blackbird. “I suppose it’s similar, though we don’t tend to carry passengers.”

Angela wasn’t sure what to say to that. “It’s a strange name, Seething Lane,” she said.

“It used to be a threshing ground, where they separated the wheat from the chaff,” said Blackbird. “Hence the name. It would have been a noisy, dusty place in those times.”

“You didn’t see it yourself, then?” asked Angela.

“That was long before my time.” said Blackbird.

They reached the bottom of the lane. The Church of All Hallows by the Tower was across the main road and they used the crossing rather than brave the already heavy traffic.

“Have you been in the church before?” asked Angela.

“You ask a lot of questions,” said Blackbird, walking towards the church entrance.

Angela stopped until Blackbird had to stop too. “You know many things,” said Angela. “You’re familiar with codes, and laws, and all manner of lore. You know the correct way to address the Lords and Ladies, and where trolls live, and where the Ways go, but you don’t know everything. If you knew what I know, you’d be more scared than you are.”

“Would you like to elaborate on that?” asked Blackbird.

“If I could, I would,” said Angela. “I can’t make sense of it. It scares me just to think about it.”

Blackbird regarded her with cold eyes. “I’ve been scared most of my life — scared of death, scared of life, scared of being noticed. I’m past that. My head is above the parapet and if I get shot at, so be it.”

“I don’t think it matters whether your head is above the parapet any more.”

“It matters to me,” said Blackbird. She turned to walk briskly into the Church of All Hallows by the Tower, and Angela had to jog to keep up.

Outside the church, the traffic rumbled and horns sounded. Inside the church it was a distant irritation. Inside was an island of peace in a sea of turmoil. They stepped though a short arcade into the church proper. Fluted stone pillars rose on either side of the aisle forming peaked arches that spanned the dark ranks of wooden pews. Beyond them, light streamed through the plain glass of five vertical panes, which together formed the east window over the altar. A cross was suspended in the space before the window, silhouetted against the fading winter daylight.

As Blackbird approached the altar, a man in a dark suit emerged from the Lady Chapel to the side, intercepting her. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“That depends,” said Blackbird, glancing towards the altar and noticing the fresco over the altar depicting a last supper with some seriously anachronous forms of dress.

“We’re looking for a rose rent,” said Angela. Blackbird gave her a stare that said that she wouldn’t be invited on any more of these ventures if she didn’t shut up.

The priest smiled ingratiatingly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said.

“That may be true,” said Blackbird, glancing at Angela.

“Annually there is a fine presented here. The land in Seething Lane was once owned by the Knollys family and the lady of the house, Letticia, got fed up with the dust and the smells in Seething Lane so she had it made over into a garden. To prevent her boots becoming muddy in the lane when she crossed to her garden, she built a bridged walkway between them, but unfortunately she did not have permission. A red rose from the garden on midsummer’s eve was her fine for the bridge. That’s presented here at midsummer.”

“So there is no rose rent?” asked Blackbird.

“Oh, but there is,” said the man. “Henry VIII granted her and Robert Knollys property in Oxfordshire for which the rent is a rose, but that’s paid to the crown at the summer solstice, and not the winter solstice. Do you see?” said the priest.

“I understand,” said Blackbird. “Will there be anyone here on the eve of the winter solstice — just in case?” she asked. “You never know when others are going to make the same mistake we did.”

“The church welcomes visitors at all times of the year, not just for historical events.”

“You’ve got flowers in the church,” said Blackbird, “though Advent is traditionally a time of fasting. There are burger bars and sandwich shops all around. Where is the fast? How can there be a feast when no one hungers beforehand?”

He clapped his hand together. “You are right! It is a pleasure to welcome someone who understands Christian doctrine. Will you join me in prayer?”

“I’m not a Christian,” said Blackbird.

“We welcome those of all faiths,” said the priest, suspiciously.

“I’m a historian. Just because I know what people did, it doesn’t mean I think it was right. Is there another ceremony? Another rent paid at the winter solstice?”

“Is this some kind of research?” asked the priest.

“Yes,” said Blackbird. “That’s exactly what it is — research.”

The priest considered her for a moment, glancing at Angela. “I’m sorry. You’ve come at the wrong time. There is no ceremony at the winter solstice, unless you mean Christmas, which is a little later. We’re a Christian church — always have been.”

“Thank you, said Blackbird. “Angela?” She turned and walked to the exit.

“I’m sorry if we…” said Angela.

“Angela!” The call was insistent, and Angela shrugged and followed Blackbird to the exit. They walked in silence across the road and back down Seething Lane towards the Way-node.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Angela.

“What makes you think that?” asked Blackbird.

“The priest said there wasn’t another ceremony,” said Angela. “You heard him.”

“I did indeed hear him,” said Blackbird. “But I also heard what he didn’t say.” To Angela’s blank look, Blackbird said, “He didn’t say there wasn’t another rent, paid at the winter solstice. There are secrets here, I can smell them,” she said.

Angela trailed after her. “Let’s hope you can tell the difference between secrets and lies,” she said.

Driving down to Kew wasn’t the quickest way to travel, but I would not be able to use the Ways once I’d collected the horseshoes. I’d had one bad experience, when I’d tried to use my power to take a hammer across the underground River Fleet. I’d almost drowned proving that magic and iron didn’t mix, and I had no wish to repeat the experiment. I was using Blackbird’s authority to commandeer the car, and this way I’d been able to wait until we were clear of the courts before expanding on our destination and purpose. Even so, I had simply told Big Dave that I was collecting something for Blackbird and that we needed the car to carry it back. He knew better than to enquire further.