The Deptford Histories by Robin Jarvis

Author:Robin Jarvis [Robin Jarvis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

11 - The Furze Cat

Giraldus sat down morosely. “A lamentable predicament,” he observed.

Tysle nestled beside him in the clean straw and tried to sound more cheerful. “Aw,” he said, “them won’t keep us here for long—not when they realise how downright daft they’ve been.”

“Let us hope you are correct,” Ysabelle commented. “If only they would trust me, if they could but see how I might help them.”

Vesper kicked the bars of their prison then leaned against them. “That Fenny won’t ever listen to reason,” he said, “his sort never do. I’ve seen the generals of my folk behave like him—too ready to suspect the worst and not willing to pause and actually look beyond their own noses. That is how enmity breeds and wars begin.”

For nearly an hour, they remained locked within that small cell, too despondent to talk and with only the unhappy sniffs of Wendel to break the oppressive silence.

Then Giraldus looked up. “Someone approaches,” he whispered and in a moment they all heard the sound of footsteps tramping down the tunnel towards them.

“A dismal quiet is this,” said the voice of Captain Fenny as the mouse looked in at the bars. “Where are your protestations now—daughter of Ninnia?”

Ysabelle regarded him with disdain. “I shall not waste any more words on you,” she said coldly. “Your mind is too closed to hear them. Show to me instead a higher authority to whom I might prove mine lineage.”

“Tut, tut,” Fenny scolded. “Still the play-actor, aren’t we? Well, my patience will not be everlasting, you will give me the intelligence I requested, whoever you pretend to be.” He brought his grim face close to the bars and added with a hiss, “As for someone higher than myself—there is no one. The folk of the wood have no use for tyrants or princes.”

“Yet they have a captain,” put in Vesper.

Fenny eyed him crossly. “That they have,” he answered, “and more beside, but only to keep the Hobbers out and purge the forest of them. Once that is achieved then I shall return to my old life and have no more dealings with sword and spear.”

At this Giraldus was spurred to disagree and gravely muttered, “You can take the plough from the paw but never can you remove the sword—so it is written. A warrior and leader shalt thou always be—and if there is a peaceful future beyond this dark time then you will have no part in it.”

The mouse scowled at him. “Very well,” he spat, “if you persist in concealing your true intentions and denying your dealings with the black brotherhood, then no food shall be sent unto you until I decree otherwise.”

He whirled around and was about to storm back along the passage when a small vole came rushing up to him—breathless and panting.

“Captain,” the gasping creature wheezed, “I must speak with you.”

“What is so urgent?” Fenny asked, his paw straying to the hilt of his sword.

The vole was quick to reassure him. “Oh,” he cried, “there is no alarm, nothing of that kind.

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