The Power of Dark. Robin Jarvis
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about his throat, tucked under his collar, was a thin scarf of grubby green silk, but it couldn’t disguise his misshapen neck. A nub of bone protruded from under the skin, where the marks of an old rope burn were still clearly visible.
At the sight of him, half the mob hurried away and the rest followed when he pulled a snaplock pistol from his belt.
John Ashe was visibly shaken and he turned back to Melchior Pyke.
‘Now I know you, my lord,’ he declared. ‘There has been talk of this crook-necked man. He has gained an ungentle reputation in the alehouses, and what is it you do, locked away in your rooms behind The White Horse?’
‘Science,’ Melchior Pyke answered flatly.
‘Science, is it?’ the Puritan snorted. ‘What science could guide you to Whitby?’
‘I was invited here to discover a more efficient method of extracting alum from the local shale.’
‘Is that why those foul, sulphurous reeks hang over The White Horse?’
‘Verily, sulphuric acid is essential to the process. Or are you ignorant enough to believe I was summoning Old Nick in those outbuildings?’
The Puritan blustered and pointed an accusatory finger at Mister Dark.
‘What manner of science drives your trained walking corpse to tramp the shore at night?’ he demanded. ‘He has been sighted; do not deny it.’
At that moment, there was a flash and a small explosion as Mister Dark fired the pistol close to the Puritan’s head.
John Ashe sprang back and glared at them both.
‘King’s friend ye may be,’ he said, ‘but King James is a long way from here. Tread with caution, my lord. I have you under my observance now. John Ashe shall know what truly brings you hither, with such a misbegotten creature as this – and why you give protection to witches. Aye, these things I shall discover.’
He turned his back in a deliberate snub and strode off towards Sandsend, following the fleeing crowd.
‘There’s the fuse of trouble set smouldering,’ Melchior Pyke observed. ‘’Tis a blessed fortune my work here is almost done.’
Looking down at the girl he had rescued, he helped her to stand.
‘All that were mine in this world were in there,’ she uttered, staring at the dying flames. ‘Weren’t much, but it were mine.’
‘Then until those villains make reparation, we must disregard the proprieties and invite you to our lodgings, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I know there is a supper waiting, to which you are most welcome, and we shall hunt you out fresh clothing. Come, take my arm.’
Scaur Annie wasn’t used to kindness from lordly folk. She gazed into his handsome face and tried to read his purpose.
‘I saved your life,’ he reminded her gently. ‘I have travelled through many countries; in some of them, that very act decrees you are now my property.’
The girl pulled away. ‘I can flit fast as a rabbit,’ she boasted defiantly. ‘You’ll never catch me. I know places where no one would never find me.’
Melchior Pyke laughed. ‘Calm yourself. I seek only to feed and clothe you – naught else. There is no reason to be afraid.’
So Annie allowed herself to be coaxed and she walked beside him, along the sands, towards Whitby.
Behind them, the sinister Mister Dark cast his eyes up and down the shore and over the grassy cliff. He thought he caught sight of a small, weather-beaten face watching from behind a rock, but it was gone in an instant.
A low, threatening growl sounded in his throat as he recognised it as one of those strange creatures who lived in the caves beneath the cliff. Melchior Pyke’s main intent in coming to Whitby was to speak with those legendary aufwaders, who alone possessed the knowledge vital to his true work. However, those small, secretive beings had so far evaded Mister Dark and his irritation had turned to anger.
His eyes glinted as he stared into the night. Now perhaps there was a chance. Scaur Annie had the complete trust of those creatures; he had witnessed the young witch speaking to them several times. His master’s new plan was to use her to approach them.
Mister Dark grinned unpleasantly. Sir Melchior Pyke had inveigled his way into the most strongly guarded libraries of distant empires and enticed the deepest mysteries from the wise; he would certainly be able to charm a low, beggarly girl into doing his bidding.
As he turned to leave, Mister Dark rasped his thumb and forefinger together, and crackling whiskers of blue fire spat from his hand.
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