Black Wreath Read Free Page B

for James with hardly anything in it but a spare shirt and some stockings. James hoped his new host would have a good supply of linen and extra coats should he need them, but he had no desire to make inquiries of Miss Deakin on the matter.
    As soon as his bag was packed, Miss Deakin herself took him in hand and bundled him towards the door as if he were an old carpet.
    ‘I must speak to my father,’ James said, twisting out of hergrip. ‘I need to speak to Lord Dunmain now,’ he insisted, as if the title might intimidate her. It didn’t. He had to get to his father and straighten out this confusion. His father couldn’t just forget him, after all. He thought of the moments they’d had, when Lord Dunmain wasn’t maddened with drink or pestered by debtors. Then, he would seek James out for a playful wrestling match, or he’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell tall tales from his past. Even if he knew those moments would quickly pass, James loved them, and he knew his father cared for him, whatever anyone else might think.
    ‘Do you dare defy me, foolish boy?’ Miss Deakin said, pulling him firmly by the arm and slamming the door behind her, leaving James to lift the heavy brass knocker and bring it down repeatedly until the whole street must have heard the racket. But no one answered, and no one came to his aid. If his father heard, he gave no sign.
    Once she pulled him away from the door, Miss Deakin flagged a hackney and dragged James into it.
    ‘Stop fussing, boy,’ she said. ‘It will do no good.’
    James sank into his seat and kept his eyes away from her. The hackney clattered away from the house and sped down in the direction of the river. When they got to the busy district near the castle Miss Deakin rapped on the roof with her cane and they descended into the crowd. James looked around desperately as if rescue might lie somewhere in the throng. But all he saw was the hectic life of the street: messengers running up and down with their baskets of groceries, hawkers standing in the middle of the street crying out their wares.
    It was not easy to walk this street with its crowds and dirt, and the carriages that came thundering with their drivers shouting at people to get out of the way. Miss Deakin did not seem very comfortable here.
    ‘Is it far?’ James finally asked.
    She didn’t reply but kept on walking. An elderly woman hobbled towards them, carrying a basket of hot cakes.
    ‘Buy one of me cakes, missus, diddle, diddle dumpling cakes. A cake for the young gentleman, missus. A handsome son indeed.’
    Miss Deakin pushed by her impatiently, stung equally by the woman’s brazenness as by her assumption that the boy was her son.
    ‘Bad cess to you, missus,’ the woman called after her.
    Miss Deakin pulled James after her as she strode away. They passed through the narrow exit where the old walled city ended, and suddenly they were in the Liberties. Lying outside the city walls, this part of Dublin was a law unto itself, James had heard, but it was not a place he was familiar with. He was surprised how thronged it was. They came to a market with many stalls selling meat and fruit and greens and, in the middle, a ballad singer in full spate, something about a footpad on his way to the gallows. He was cheered on by a crowd of ragged onlookers. The herring-women were marching up to the throng, their red faces even angrier than usual.
    ‘Would you buy a herrin’ and not be blockin’ the street listenin’ to that racket?’
    Some of those watching directed their attention to MissDeakin and James, looking them up and down.
    ‘Part the Red Sea, lads,’ said one, ‘the quality is passin’ through.’
    Miss Deakin hesitated, as if put out by the attention, or as if she wasn’t quite sure of the way. But she managed to push through the stalls, holding tight to James’s arm until they came to a church. She glanced briefly at the facade and, satisfied by whatever she saw there, walked quickly past,