Spook's Curse by Joseph Delaney Read Free Book Online Page B

billowing down into the street.
    So I lay on top of the bed and, still gripping the handles of the Spook’s bag, quickly fell asleep.
    Just after eight the next morning I was heading for the cathedral. I’d left the bag locked inside my room because it would have looked odd carrying it into a funeral service. I was a bit anxious about leaving it at the inn but the bag had a lock and so did the door and both keys were safely in my pocket. I also carried a third key.
    The Spook had given it to me when I went to Horshaw to deal with the ripper. It had been made by his other brother, Andrew the locksmith, and it opened most locks as long as they weren’t too complex.
    I should have given it back but I knew the Spook had more than one, and as he hadn’t asked, I’d kept it.
    It was very useful to have, just like the small tinderbox my dad gave me when I started my apprenticeship. I always kept that in my pocket too. It had belonged to his dad and was a family heirloom but a very useful one for someone who followed the Spook’s trade.
    Before long I was climbing the hill, with the steeple to my left. It was a wet morning, a heavy drizzle falling straight into my face, and I’d been right about the steeple. At least the top third of it was hidden by the dark grey clouds that were racing in from the south-west. There was a bad smell of sewers in the air too, and every house had a smoking chimney, most of the smoke finding its way down to street level.
    A lot of people seemed to be rushing up the hill. One woman went by almost running, dragging two children faster than their little legs could manage. ‘Come on! Hurry up!’ she scolded. ‘We’re going to miss it.’
    For a moment I wondered if they were going to the funeral too but it seemed unlikely because their faces were filled with excitement. Right at the top the hill flattened out and I turned left towards the cathedral. Here an excited crowd was eagerly lining both sides of the road, as if waiting for something.
    They were blocking the pavement and I tried to ease my way through as carefully as possible. I kept apologizing, desperate to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes, but eventually the people became so thickly packed that I had to come to a halt and wait with them.
    I didn’t wait long. Sounds of applause and cheers had suddenly erupted to my right. Above them I heard the  clip-clop  of approaching hooves. A large procession was moving towards the cathedral, the first two riders dressed in black hats and cloaks and wearing swords at their hips. Behind them came more riders, these armed with daggers and huge cudgels, ten, twenty, fifty, until eventually one man appeared riding alone on a gigantic white stallion.
    He wore a black cloak, but underneath it expensive chain mail was visible at neck and wrists and the sword at his hip had a hilt encrusted with rubies. His boots were of the very finest leather and probably worth more than a farm labourer earned in a year.
    The rider’s clothes and bearing marked him out as a leader, but even if he’d been dressed in rags, there would have been no doubt about it. He had very blond hair, tumbling from beneath a wide-brimmed red hat, and eyes so blue they put a summer’s sky to shame. I was fascinated by his face.
    It was almost too handsome to be a man’s, but it was strong at the same time, with a jutting chin and a determined forehead. Then I looked again at the blue eyes and saw the cruelty glaring from them.

    He reminded me of a knight I’d once seen ride past our farm, when I was a young lad. He hadn’t so much as glanced our way. To him we didn’t exist. Well, that’s what my dad said anyway. Dad also said that the man was noble, that he could tell by looking at him that he came from a family that could trace its ancestors back for generations, all of them rich and powerful.
    At the word ‘noble’ my dad spat into the mud and told me that I was lucky to be a farmer’s lad with an honest day’s work in