How the Hangman Lost His Heart (3 page)

Now she did not even pretend to rest, but got up and began to walk about her room. Faster and faster she paced, as if winding herself up to the right speed, then she ran to her wardrobe to find suitable clothes.
Uncle Frank will not spend one more night on that Temple Bar
, she vowed as she rummaged among her garments,
not one more night
. She pulled out a pink dress, then rejected it because it was too frilly and stealing a head
was a serious business—and anyway, she didn't think it suited her and on such an expedition you never knew whom you might meet. In the end she chose a green gown that had once been her best but was now a little battered. That would do very well. She thought her courage was high until she sat down to lace her boots. Then she paused. Now that she was out of it, her bed looked irresistibly downy and inviting. Perhaps she should just get back in. After all, Uncle Frank was dead.

The trouble was that she could see his expression as clearly as if he was in the same room and his open eyes reproached her. Resolutely, she hugged her cloak around her shoulders, took her candle, and tiptoed downstairs. On her way through the hall, being a practical girl, she shoveled up all the money her grandmother kept in the long case clock. Then she quietly let herself out of the back door and, before she could talk herself out of it, hurried away.

It was much longer after dawn than Alice had hoped before she was standing once again underneath Temple Bar. Several times she had lost her bearings and, with the heads now silhouetted against a brightening sky, she needed every ounce of her determination to keep going. The Bar looked so big and she felt so small. She spoke sternly to herself. Having got this far, she would not slink away.

Her first challenge was to get to the top of the monument and to do this she first tried the door of the shop whose staircase Dan had used. Unsurprisingly, it was firmly closed. She glanced up. Uncle Frank glanced down.
Come on
, he seemed to be saying,
come on.
Alice could feel panic creeping pox-like over her skin, because even as she stood there the city was beginning to wake and early traders were already splashing their way through the oily skim left by the rain. Soon the road would be busy. She looked wildly about her.

Amid a mass of building work and scaffolding farther down the street, she spied a long ladder and her spirits rose. Surely that would get her onto the wide ledge parallel to the shop window and, once up there, she was sure she would find the shorter ladder Dan had used to shin up past the scrolls and onto the roof. She craned her neck to see Uncle Frank again. He was still staring straight at her. She steadied herself. She couldn't—wouldn't—disappoint him.

Setting her chin, she ran to the ladder and tilted it over. It was so heavy that she could only just drag it through the wagons collecting the night soil. The tradeshorses stamped their feet as she began to talk aloud to herself. “Keep your head,” she repeated again and again, but could not manage even the smallest smile at her joke.

When she finally got the ladder to the Bar, it took her several goes to hook it up against the wall, but eventually, though it threatened occasionally to fall and flatten her, she managed to make it reasonably secure. There was no time to look at Uncle Frank again. Now she must climb.

Nobody took much notice to start with except a few rude chimney sweeps' boys and flower girls. They scoffed but let her be. They saw stranger things than Alice every day. However, after a while, when people began to emerge from their breakfasts, they gathered
in small crowds until it seemed as though the entire neighborhood had assembled to watch her progress.

Concentrating hard and counting every rung, Alice climbed higher and higher, higher than the postern gate, higher than the windows, higher than she had ever been before, even when she had climbed the ancient Towneley Hall chestnut tree on a dare. The ladder, once so heavy, seemed flimsier and flimsier, as if the tiniest movement could send it flying and leave her stranded. Her ankles went all rubbery. She closed her eyes and just kept climbing until the rungs gave out. Then she took a deep breath and hauled herself onto the ledge on which the scrolls of the Bar rested. The smaller ladder, as she had thought, was still propped against the buttress and Alice was soon halfway up this too. Then, almost disastrously, she wavered, for although she had the ledge below her, she was suddenly and acutely aware how far above the street she was. Too far. But it was no good going all wobbly now, just when she had to work out exactly how to remove the head from the pike. In Grosvenor Square, this had seemed like a minor detail. Now it seemed easier to knit with rats' tails. Nevertheless, she must try.

Once on the roof itself, Alice flattened herself out and began to crawl over the curved lead. It was slippery and as soon as the pike was within grasping distance
she grabbed it thankfully. However, to her horror, her grabbing made Uncle Frank's head spin around. “Stay still, Uncle Frank! Stay still,” she cried. After a long minute, both head and pike stopped twirling and Alice managed to haul herself up the pike shaft, one hand above the other. Pushing her feet against a ridge, with great difficulty she began to pull the pike shaft out. It swayed like a drunk.

A veritable age later, she felt a lurch and the pike suddenly came loose. But now, horrors! Though she tried to be so careful, Alice was not strong enough to hold it and it crashed off the roof and onto the ledge. There was a loud crack as Uncle Frank's nose hit the scroll, but since this was nothing in comparison with what he had endured already, Alice did not waste time apologizing but saved what remained of her energy to clamber down in pursuit.

Yet now that Uncle Frank's head was within reach, how hard it was to approach! Alice loved Uncle Frank, she really did. But he certainly seemed different without his body attached. Her movements became very tentative. First she took off her cloak and laid it out. Then, screwing her eyes as tightly shut as she could without blotting out all her vision, she dropped to her hands and knees, crawled to the end of the pike, seized Uncle Frank's hair, and, with a desperate tug, jerked his head free. This was much worse, much
much
worse, than any nightmare. It took every ounce of her courage to crawl back to her cloak and wrap the head up in it, because—and this was something Alice had not bargained for—it was impossible to avoid being spotted with blood and other stuff quite unmentionable.
Never again
, she swore to herself as she turned her cloak into a makeshift sack, tied a knot in it, and hooked it over her arm for her descent.
Never, ever again.

The descent should have been easier, only it wasn't because Alice's whole body rattled as if she had the palsy. “Help me, Uncle Frank,” she prayed. But how could he help her, when all that was left of him was his silent stare and a pair of pale lips? By the time she got back to the ladder, her shoes were so slippery and her muscles so achy that several times, as she eased herself onto the top rung, she missed her footing and nearly fell. It was no good telling herself not to be so silly, that all she had to do was climb down the way she'd gotten up. When you are clutching a head, things don't appear quite that simple.

The crowd had fallen silent as soon as they realized what this strange little figure was doing. Now they watched with growing disbelief. Some began to mutter and shake their heads. Others backed away. They wanted to see if Alice made it to the ground, but even to witness such an audacious theft of a criminal's head
was an act of treason toward the king. They remained only because they were gripped by an atmosphere tense as a breaking thunderstorm.

But it was not thunder they heard. Quite suddenly, the air was filled with the brisk clatter of hooves and, above it, a voice shouting, “Move. Move for Kingston's Light Horse! Make way.”

Alice, at last firmly established on the long ladder and beginning to feel as if she had made it, choked. Not soldiers, surely not soldiers? Please, please let them just pass on.

They did not. Instead, there was a barked order to stop and her head swam as she saw dozens of shiny boots and dozens of open mouths tilted up toward her. “Ignore them. Ignore them,” she ordered herself. But it was no good. Her concentration was broken and, with Uncle Frank a dead weight at her side, all she could imagine now was spiraling down, her hair streaming like a great yellow wave. She clutched at the ladder rungs, her ears full of the jangling of steel bits and the occasional impatient rasp of iron-shod hoof against cobble. These sounds were not reassuring.

Forcing her eyes to focus, she began to climb onto the ledge again. Maybe escape was possible over the rooftops. But from out of high windows, people were leaning forward, anxious, so it seemed to Alice, not
to help her but to arrest her. One man actually had his leg over the sill and when Alice heard him drop down behind her, she grabbed the short ladder and began to climb back onto the roof. Oh, why was Uncle Frank's head so heavy? She could hear the man's excited panting. He would get her! He would get her!

Practically without thinking, she did the only thing she could. She hauled herself from the ladder not onto the roof but onto the cornice that ran above the frieze of the Bar. Clinging to the coping as far as its slope permitted, she edged her way along, facing inward toward the ashlar stones. She moved very slowly, her hands feeling their way, for the surface was rough and chipped in places and to balance she had to press her weight hard onto the balls of her feet. The cornice was terrifyingly narrow and Uncle Frank unbalanced her. Nevertheless, it worked. Her pursuer did not follow but, laughing, gave the short ladder a hefty push and sent it sliding away.

Alice hardly had time to take this in before a breeze caught the bottom of her dress and it billowed out like a sail. She would be torn away! But at the last moment the breeze was kind and changed direction. Now it slammed her against the pediment and squashed her chin in some bird droppings. Far below, the crowd oohed and aahed, but Alice did not hear
them. All she knew now was that if the wind blew again and swung Uncle Frank's head just a little harder, she would fall and die. She forced herself to ease her bundle off her arm and onto the cornice beside her. She still had to hold it, which left only one arm with which to steady herself against the stone, but at least she felt more stable. After a short rest, she began to ease herself and her precious cargo carefully along until, in the middle of the pediment, she stopped. Too late, she realized that climbing onto the cornice was the stupidest thing she could have done. The coping arched and she was too short to reach its fullest height, so she could not get over to the other side. She would be here forever, or at least until her raised arm ached so much that it could no longer support her. She would have cried, except that tears seemed far too feeble a response.

Underneath the main arch, a stony-faced dragoon major dismounted from his horse and stood, apparently deep in contemplation. Years ago he had been a good-looking man, but too many military campaigns had coarsened his face, and eyes that might once have been kindly had long since turned sour. Looking up at Alice, he did not see a girl, he saw another traitor—there were a lot around these days. True, he had come across this one by chance, as he and his men accompanied a thief to
the gallows, but he would see justice done, you see if he didn't. He watched Alice almost nonchalantly, flicking imaginary dust from his yellow cuffs. When she swayed this way and that and the crowd sighed, half-hoping and half-dreading that this fair-headed heroine would end up a bloodied pulp in the gutter, he shifted his legs a little wider apart. He was in no hurry. Executions were two a penny, but a pretty prisoner was a rarity. When he had secured Alice, he would take her to the barracks and, after suitable questioning, which might or might not involve a little physical “discomfort,” he would hand her over to the authorities with a confession hung around her neck. His lips curled in what passed for a smile. His men, milling about on their uniformly black and bobtailed horses, saw the curl and felt sorry for Alice. It was their experience that recipients of such a curl seldom survived long. Sensing their sympathy, the major clapped his heels together and barked at them. “Back into your lines, you fish-eyed fleabags!” The reaction was gratifyingly electric. Even the horses jumped. “Captain Ffrench!” He turned on his second-in-command. “Are you a soldier or a lapdog? These men are not children on a nursery outing. You forget your duty, sir.”

The captain on his handsome gelding had been helping the cornet, who usually held only the troop's colors, hold on to the major's horse—for the cornet
was small and the animal strong. Now he let go and began to shout orders himself. “Form back into your riding order,” he cried. “I'll see two lines. Come on now, troopers. No more gawping at the lady.”

The major settled his legs apart again. “So you think she's a lady, do you, Captain Ffrench?”

“Well, sir.” Hew Ffrench's voice betrayed his nerves. He had once loved the army, but life under Major Slavering needed a stronger constitution than he possessed. “She's certainly a female.”

The troopers laughed and the major's eyes narrowed. Two vertical dents appeared as he sucked in his cheeks. The laughter died away. Hew tensed. He knew those dents.

“Get off your horse.” Every word was enunciated clearly. The crowd shushed at each other and shimmied forward. Here was more sport. What a day this was turning into.

“Now,” said the major, stroking his mustache, “where are your manners, Captain Ffrench? Up on the Bar, as you have noted, we have a ‘lady' in distress. But tell me this. What is the point of having two fs in your name if, having identified a ‘lady,' you can't behave as a man with two fs should?” Now the major turned to the people, inviting them to appreciate his humor. They obliged. “Shall we send him up after the blond damsel, my good friends? Shall we order Captain
Ffffffrench up the ladder and along the ledge to get our lady traitor?”