him, the boy leapt to the side of the carriage with his plaintive song: “Help an orphan! Buy an apple!”
The vehicle rattled on, so he began to jog alongside, holding up the apple and calling to those inside. After the third plea, he heard someone call out to the driver, who brought the horses to a halt. Archie stood at the carriage door as the window slid down. “Please, sir,” he called, “buy an apple. Help a poor orphan.”
A face appeared in the window: a youngish, long-nosed fellow with a shock of fair hair falling over a high forehead; he wore a knotted silk cravat with a gold stud. “Let me see the merchandise,” commanded the young gentleman, reaching a gloved hand through the window.
Archie dutifully handed over the apple, saying, “It’s a fresh one, sir. Very good fer yer appetite, sir.”
“Ha!” sneered the young gentleman. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He took a big bite from the middle of the apple, chewed it, swallowed it, then took another. Fully half the apple was gone in two bites. “This apple is bloody rotten!” cried the gentleman, flinging the apple into the gutter. He gave a rude guffaw. “Ta, you little blighter!”
Archie heard the twitter of female laughter from inside the coach. “Driver,” shouted the man, “drive on!”
The coachman, laughing at Archie, snapped the reins, and the horses jolted away.
“Oi! That’s not fair,” shouted Archie. “You ate my apple! You owe me!”
“Yah-boo!” The young toff waved his arm out the window, offering Archie the vee sign with upturned fingers as the carriage rumbled on. The boy scooped the apple from the gutter, drew back his arm, and let fly. The apple struck the broad back of the carriage, but missed the window.
“Thief!” shouted Archie. “You stinking bloody thief!”
Shaking with anger, he watched the back of the retreating carriage, and the thought came to him of running to catch it, jumping on the back. He had heard the older boys talking about this. Once a wealthy occupant had been identified, the boys hitched a ride and rode it to its destination-most often a great house or large town house where they disembarked before anyone was the wiser, and waited for an opportunity to enter the house and steal whatever valuables they might find to carry off.
In this instance, Archie felt the thievery justified: the young aristocrat had stolen from him first. Archie gathered himself. He was just drawing breath to start his run and scramble up onto the footman’s stand of the coach when he heard someone call from the pavement a few paces away. “They’re gone, lad. The damage is done. Let them go.”
Archie glanced around to see that he was being watched by a man in a long black coat and old-fashioned beaver-skin top hat. The man had dark, full moustaches and a little pointed beard shaped like a heart. He appeared to be of middle age and stood with his back to the bridge rail, holding a cane upright over one shoulder.
Embarrassed that his humiliation had been observed and his attempt at retaliation so nearly discovered, Archie felt the colour rising to his cheeks. He turned aside quickly and started to run away. He still had an apple left. If he hurried he could get to the next bridge and maybe still make a sale before dark.
“A moment!” called the man in the black coat. “A moment more of your time.”
Archie looked over his shoulder to see that the man was following him. Ignoring the man, he ran on.
“Wait, I say,” insisted the man. “Come back. I want to talk to you.”
“Can’t stop now,” called Archie.
“I shall definitely make it worth your while,” offered the man.
Although Archie did not fully understand what was being said to him, something about the man’s dry, clipped tones suggested an aristocratic bearing that compelled him to pause and turn back-if only to try selling his last remaining apple. He hurried back, fishing out the apple as he ran.
“I saw what happened,” called the man. “A most deplorable cad, that fellow. He should be publicly horsewhipped.”
“Would you like to buy an apple, sir?” asked the boy, rubbing the red skin of the fruit on his filthy shirt. He held it up to be admired.
“Are you really an orphan?”
“Yes, sir. Orphaned these four years.” He pushed the apple higher. “You like this apple, sir? Very good for you.”
“Tell me the truth, lad. Are you an orphan? I have a particular reason for asking.” When the boy hesitated, the man insisted. “The truth now.”
Archie shook his head. “No, sir. But it’s just me and me mum. I’m not really a orphan.”
“As I thought,” replied the man crisply. “And not a street rascal either, though no doubt well on your way. Here now-” Dipping his fingers into a waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a coin and flipped it to the ragged boy. “That is for telling the truth.”
Archie saw the glint of yellow metal in the fading light and caught the coin in midair. He opened his hand, and his eyes nearly started from his head. On his palm was a solid gold sovereign-a coin he had never seen before, but dreamed about often.
Clutching the coin, Archie extended the apple. “It’s too much, sir,” he said, his throat going dry. In truth, he knew there had to be a mistake, and when the man realised what had happened, he would cry thief and Archie would face a beating or worse-he’d be taken by the bailiff and thrown into gaol. “Please, sir, it’s too much. You made a mistake.”
“No mistake,” said the man, regarding him keenly. “Keep it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Archie whipped the coin out of sight.
The man still held him with a fierce attention. The boy squirmed, growing uncomfortable beneath such unwonted scrutiny. “How would you like a job?”
“I don’t understand, sir,” replied Archie, still holding out the apple.
“A job, lad-work and wages.” The man smiled suddenly. “There are more gold sovereigns to be had.”
Archie said nothing.
“Well? Come now! I could use a persistent, resourceful lad like you. How about it?”
“I don’t know how to do nuffin’-I mean, anything.”
“Do you know Marlborough House? Do you know where to find it?”
Archie shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Well, you’ll have to ask someone. Come to me there first thing tomorrow morning, and we will discuss your future.” He gave the boy a stern look. “Hear me, lad. This could be the most important decision you are ever likely to make. Do you understand me?”
Archie understood the part about more gold sovereigns, so nodded slowly.
“And you will come to me at Marlborough House?”
“I will, sir.”
“Good. I will take you at your word. When you come, ask to see Granville Gower,” said the man, taking the apple at last. “Until tomorrow, then.”
CHAPTER 13
Serenity seemed to flow over Etruria in wave after wave, like the gentle surf of an endless ocean of blissful calm. Never had Xian-Li felt more at peace. Although she still had not felt the baby move, she no longer feared the worst.
Turms’ continued assurance that all would be well served as a restorative tonic. It was as if the ceremony performed by the king to learn the likely fate of the unborn child had driven off the clouds of doom and disaster that had gathered so thickly about her, and dispelled any lingering doubt. Since that night, everything had changed; she held the memory of the strange ceremony as a rare and precious gift.
They had stood in the temple portico before a small stone altar. The king was attended by a fellow priest and one identified as the netsvis; dressed in a blue robe with a tall conical hat similar to the king’s, he would conduct the augury. A few curious onlookers had also come to observe the ceremony.
In the last rays of the day’s sun, a young lamb had been brought to the temple, its legs bound with a golden
