stopped and waited, but when nothing more happened, he continued his slog up the hill. He was puffing by the time he reached the top, and he paused with hands on knees to catch his breath. It was then he heard voices-raised and angry. Glancing up, he saw four men-Sir Henry and Cosimo, and two hulking strangers in long black coats and tall riding boots-in an attitude of flat-footed confrontation.
“Burley Men,” muttered Kit. “Fan-bloody-tastic.”
He edged closer for a better look. Cosimo held a small silver bell-like object in his hands, but he saw no weapons. More to the point, there was no sign of the Burley Men’s man-eating mascot, the dreaded cave cat. That, it seemed to him, tilted the balance somewhat. It would be three against two; with those odds they should be able to subdue the thugs, or drive them off.
Between himself and the others stood the Trolls, the great old oaks. Keeping the gnarled boles of the venerable trees between himself and the others, Kit crept slowly around the perimeter of the flattened hilltop, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. As he came closer, he caught snatches of the ongoing argument.
“… we know you have it…,” said one, the voice of one of the strangers.
“… haven’t the least intention…,” answered his great-grandfather.
This was followed by, “… give it up, or suffer the consequences,” from the other stranger.
“And if we refuse?” countered Sir Henry.
They’re after the map, thought Kit. They think we have it.
Uncertain what to do next, Kit imagined the best thing might be to create some kind of distraction that would enable Cosimo and Sir Henry to seize the upper hand. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he drew himself to full height and burst from cover of the trees with what he hoped was a terrifying shout.
The surprise had the desired effect. The two dark strangers gave a start and turned as one. Cosimo leaped to one side, pulling Sir Henry with him.
“Kit!” cried Cosimo. “He’s got a gun!”
It was then that Kit saw what he should have seen before: one of the Burley Men held a flintlock pistol. Without the slightest hesitation, he raised it and levelled it directly at Kit, who threw himself to the ground. There was a dull clap as the flint chip hit the pan, followed by the sharp fizz of the powder igniting and the report of the explosion. Kit felt the whiz of a lead ball passing bare inches above his head. Without waiting to see what might happen next, he jumped up and threw himself headlong at the nearer of the two Burley Men. The thug lunged at him, but Kit launched a near-perfect rugby tackle; he caught the man in the stomach and drove him to the ground and onto his back.
Having tackled the man, Kit’s plan reached its natural conclusion.
Before he could think what to do next, he felt a sharp elbow smash into his ribs. Kit rolled away, clutching his side as his attacker struggled to his feet.
Sir Henry darted forward. Wielding his walking stick like a cricket bat, he swung it up and into the Burley Man’s face, driving him back. Cosimo took a wild haymaker swing at the second attacker; the punch failed to connect, but it threw the man off balance nonetheless. He staggered backward, and Cosimo tromped on his foot- which sent the rogue sprawling.
“Kit!” shouted Cosimo. “Here! Hurry!”
Kit, squirming on the ground, looked up through tear-smeared eyes to see his great-grandfather standing on a square stone marker; his arms were raised high, and he was surrounded by what appeared to be an inverted cone of radiant shimmering turquoise fog. Sir Henry stepped quickly into the unearthly haze and took hold of one of Cosimo’s upraised hands.
The nearest Burley Man lashed out with his boot, catching Kit in the stomach. Kit doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Kit! Now!” shouted Cosimo. “There is no time!”
But the Burley Man was not finished with Kit yet. He stooped and snatched up a hunk of rock. He stepped closer, lifting the jagged stone high over his head, ready to smash it down on Kit’s unprotected skull.
“Oi! You!” came a shout from behind them. “Stop!”
Into his blurry field of vision, Kit glimpsed Sir Henry’s coach driver charging toward them with the carriage whip. Kit pushed himself up on hands and knees and tried to rise.
The coachman bulled forward, brandishing the whip. The Burley Man standing over him took aim with the rock and heaved himself up on his toes to deliver the crushing blow.
The whip cracked.
A coil of braided leather snaked around the thug’s arm and ripped it sideways. His grip torn, the stone toppled from his grasp, colliding with his own head on the way down. The Burley Man gave out a cry of rage and pain and, turning away, rushed toward the glimmering cone of light. His black-coated companion shouted something Kit did not catch, and both men dived headlong into the shimmering light, joining Cosimo and Sir Henry.
Kit had a fleeting glimpse of the four men enveloped by the shimmering light. For the merest breath of a moment, all became very still, and then the men appeared to both stretch and diminish simultaneously. The turquoise cone shrank to a mere spark and disappeared with a little frazzled crack of static electricity. Kit, on his feet now, ran to the stone marker, but nothing remained of the light or the four men.
He jumped on the stone square where the men had been standing, with no result. Lacking even the remotest clue what to do next, he gave another feeble jump and then sat down.
“Are you injured, sir?” asked the coachman, rushing to him.
“Sore ribs,” replied Kit, pressing a hand to his side. “Oh, I don’t feel so good.”
“I came a-running soon as I heard the uproar,” explained the driver. “Seems I was too late.” He coiled his whip and gazed around. “Well, I reckon Sir Henry and the other gentleman are off on one of their journeys-in rough company, by the look of it.” Kit regarded the coachman closely for the first time and was mildly surprised to discover him to be a young fellow, more or less his own age, with a round head of short hair and a compact, stocky build. He had a wide, honest face, thick shoulders, and a bull neck. His hands were strong and well calloused from his duties, and he wore a white kerchief knotted tightly around his throat.
“What’s your name?”
“Standfast.” He made a curious gesture at his temple, the symbolic doffing of an invisible cap. “Giles Standfast.”
“What do your friends call you?”
The servant gave a puzzled look, then offered a halfhearted shrug. “I do not have any friends, sir.”
“Well, you do now.” Kit stuck out his hand. “You saved my life, and for that I thank you. Call me Kit.”
The driver regarded the offered hand with hesitant interest, then accepted it with a vigorous shake.
“Glad to meet you, Giles,” said Kit, wincing at the strength of the young man’s grip.
“Likewise, sir.”
“So, you know about Sir Henry’s journeys?” wondered Kit, removing his hand as from a bear trap.
“That I do, sir,” replied Giles the driver.
“Well, then,” replied Kit, accepting him at his word, “maybe you can tell me what we do now?”
“Well, sir, I am to go home and await Sir Henry’s return,” he answered simply.
“Back to London?”
“Aye, sir. Back to London.”
Kit nodded. He took a last look around at the flat circular top of Black Mixen. The Trolls loomed overhead, and the evening’s shadows had claimed the top of the tump. All was quiet, peaceful in the coming of night.
“Very well,” said Kit, patting the dust from his clothes. “Back to London it is. Lead the way, Giles, my friend.”
CHAPTER 16
In Which Wilhelmina Changes History Much for the Better
On the fortieth day of their steadily failing bakery enterprise, Wilhelmina rose early and padded downstairs to the kitchen to find Englebert sitting in a chair with his head in his hands, the oven cold and unlit behind him.
