Читать книгу Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire - Robert J. Harris - Страница 10

Will stared ahead but could see only a vague black bulk set against the rain-drenched gloom. Then a bolt of lightning cracked the sky and in the flash Will saw the whole house.

It was a vast, rambling structure. The central, stone-built bastion reared up five storeys high, the upper floors piled crazily on top of each other like badly balanced bricks. Adjoining wings jutted out on both sides, their roofs capped with mismatched gables and turrets. At ground level, further extensions sprawled out this way and that like the roots of some enormous tree. Will had never seen anything so bizarre.

And then it was gone, swallowed up in the darkness of the storm. Will rubbed his eyes. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of some grotesque goblin palace.

“Ah, Will, what an entrance we’ll make!” Beeston exclaimed. “Like two shipwrecked mariners emerging from a tempest!”

The possibility of shelter, a warm fire, perhaps even a hot meal, renewed Will’s strength as he and Beeston hurried through the ill-tended grounds towards the great house. Yellow lights glimmered at one or two of the upper windows, but other than that the house was as dark as the surrounding landscape.

There was a brass knocker on the door in the shape of a crescent moon. Beeston gave two loud raps then stood back, his eyes raised to the floors above. When there was no response, he rapped again – louder this time – but still with no result.

“Maybe they can’t hear us over the wind and the rain,” Will suggested. “I suppose we could just wait here for the others to arrive.”

“What? Stand here shivering for an hour or more?” Beeston exclaimed. “What sort of an entrance would we make then?” He huddled under the lintel and wiped a trickle of rain from the end of his nose. “Here’s a notion, Will. You investigate the rear of the house, see if you can find some means of ingress.”

“You mean break in?”

“I mean find a way to get us inside before we are washed away in the flood,” said Beeston. “You can leave the box with me.”

Will set the box of books down at Beeston’s feet and looked out at the rain. Bowing his head against the downpour, he stepped out into the storm. As he made his way round the side of the house he saw the blurred outlines of a garden and some straggly trees set out in an orchard pattern.

At the back of the house he discovered a door, but it was firmly bolted. He knocked several times, but – as he expected – there was no answer. Then he looked up and saw above him a small, high window lying ajar.

He tried a standing jump, but his fingers never even touched the sill. Cursing his luck, he cast a look around and spotted a rain barrel, full to the brim and with water spilling down its sides. It was just the thing to give him the boost he needed. With a decisive heave, he toppled it over, sending a tide of water cascading over the sodden ground.

Shaking the rainwater out of his eyes, Will turned the barrel upside down and wrestled it over to the wall under the open window. Mounting the upturned base, he shoved the flapping shutters back and pushed off with a grunt.

His elbows found purchase on the window ledge and with a hefty kick he heaved himself head and shoulders through the gap. Legs dangling, he wriggled forward until suddenly he overbalanced and tumbled headlong into the dark.

Will thudded down on to a hard, earthen floor, jarring every bone in his body. Outside a roll of thunder drowned out his squawk of pain as he tentatively fingered his ribs to check that nothing was broken.

“Not too bad then,” he thought. Even bruised and winded, he was still glad to be out of the storm. But what sort of place was this?

He struggled to his feet and gazed around him, straining to penetrate the gloom. He appeared to be in some sort of storeroom, though there was little enough stored here. Lightning flashed again, showing him a table with two broken legs, a small tub of mouldy flour and a pile of moth-eaten blankets.

Not exactly a wyzard’s treasure, Will thought.

He put a hand over his nose as the stink of rat droppings pricked his nostrils. With his other hand he felt his way to the door and pushed it open. He stepped out into a cramped, dusty passage and followed a faint, distant gleam to a wider corridor where a few shafts of grey light slipped through the slats of a shuttered window.

Buffeted by the storm, the house was creaking and groaning at every joint. It was easy for Will to imagine the noise as the weeping and moaning of restless ghosts. He wanted to call out for someone to come and lead him through the dark, but he was afraid any voice that answered might not come from a living tongue.

He pressed on, leaving damp footprints and a trail of droplets from his sodden clothes. Passages branched off this way and that, some ending in blank walls, others splitting into more forks or opening on to narrow stairways, some of wood, some of stone. Remembering that a couple of the upstairs windows had been lit, Will worked his way upwards.

As he mounted a final steep stairway, he heard a strange noise coming from above. It was a whirring sound, like the fluttering of a bird’s wings but much more rapid. At the top of the stairs he emerged into a branching corridor. To the left the walls disappeared into darkness, but the right-hand passage led to a door with yellow light spilling out from under it. This was the source of the unnerving noise.

Along with the whirring he could now hear a regular metallic grinding, like a pair of knives being scraped together. He swallowed hard and started cautiously down the passage. The wall to his left was covered by faded hangings, to his right the rain rattled on some shuttered windows.

Suddenly he heard a stealthy footfall at his back. A poacher’s instincts made Will duck as a heavy iron pan whooshed over his head and smashed a chunk of plaster out of the wall. With a loud clang, the pan clattered to the floor.

Will spun round to confront his attacker. He barely had time to glimpse a pair of malignant black eyes glaring at him out of a round, sallow face when he was seized by the arms and lifted off his feet. Rough, powerful hands slammed him against the wall with a force that made his teeth quiver.

“You’re a sneaky thief,” rasped the stranger, “but not sneaky enough to outfox Caleb Cook!”

Will tried to protest his innocence, but Caleb Cook slammed him into the wall again and bashed the breath out of him. His heart hammered and a red mist spread over his eyes. If he didn’t fight back, this man was going to kill him. He twisted his arms free and locked his fingers around his attacker’s neck.

“You don’t beat Caleb like that,” croaked his sallow-faced opponent, shaking Will’s fingers loose with a guttural cry of triumph.

He caught Will under the shoulders and hoisted him off the floor, swinging him about like a doll. Then he gave a mighty heave and flung the boy across the passage. Will hurtled backwards into a window. The shutters banged open and he toppled out into the dark and empty air.