Tempus Fugitive by Nicola Rhodes Page A

understand?  I forbid it.’
    The men in the crowd touched their caps; the women curtseyed clumsily, as they all said. ‘Yes sir.’
    The man stalked away, holding Denny in his arms; abruptly he stopped and turned round.  ‘If I understand your superstitions correctly,’ he said, ‘If the alleged witch has drowned, then, even according your stupid beliefs, she was not a witch, isn’t that correct?  So, why would you drown what is clearly, even by your standards a perfectly ordinary cat?  You might want to think about that.’
    The man talked to Denny as he walked, although, of course, really he thought he was just talking to himself.  ‘Fools!’ he was saying, ‘when will they learn?  Poor kitty, you had a narrow escape, there.  What a pity I did not arrive earlier, and save that poor woman’s life. Your owner, I suppose. Well you can come home with me, you’ll be safe there. I hope you’re a good mouser.  Witches indeed! What nonsense!  Well, they will not do it again; they would not dare to disobey me.’
    He took Denny, now renamed Tinker by the cook, to the kitchens of his vast home.  The cook went into transports of delight, at the “pretty kitty” that she seemed to assume was female.  Denny, naturally, took umbrage at this, and went into a corner to sulk, there being no escape possible at the moment.  Denny had never owned a cat, or any pet, not after he killed the class hamster, by accidentally vacuuming it up, so he was not certain, but he thought he might be let out at night.  People did that he was sure. Unless those noises outside at three a.m. really were children screaming.  And even in Denny’s old neighbourhood, he doubted it – not every night.
    He was frantic to get away; he had to get back and find out what had happened to Tamar, get the Athame back and get the hell out of here.  Two young kitchen maids appeared, and made a fuss of him, which was not an altogether unpleasant experience, ‘if only they knew,’ he thought, amusedly.  But he had to focus, look for an open window – how could there not be an open window?  It was like a furnace in here.
     ‘Actually, it’s kind of comfortable,’ he thought. He was getting sleepy; he moved a little closer to the stove, ‘Ah, that’s it.’  He settled down with his nose on his paws and fell asleep. 
    * * *
    Tamar was wandering through the town. Asking for her cat did not seem like a smart move; neither did asking for her “ceremonial knife”, which, since it had undoubtedly been found by someone in Denny’s discarded clothes, would put her back in the river tout de suite.
    ‘Where the hell is he?’ she muttered under her breath. 
    She wandered through the streets until a red-faced man stopped her. ‘There you are wench,’ he snapped.  ‘Where have you been?  You’re late.’  And before she could stop him, he had dragged her into a tavern.  ‘Get to work, you lazy slut,’ he growled.  Obviously, he had mistaken her for someone else. Apparently she had inadvertently made herself look exactly like a girl called Sally. This was confirmed when the other barmaid, Lucy, called her by that name.  Since she did not want to draw undue attention to herself, she decided to go along with it, and hope that the real Sally did not suddenly turn up.
    She had been balancing trays and schlepping backwards and forwards for six hours, putting up with insults, innuendoes, and inappropriate fondling, before she finally snapped. 
    A large bearded man with a face like a boar and breath like a direct line from a sewer grabbed her and pulled her onto his knee, he slurred something at her with a gust of beery breath, and tried to kiss her. She had had enough; with a well-practised move, she stood up, and flipped him over her head. 
    ‘Pig!  – Keep your filthy hands off me, privy breath,’ she snarled.  The whole tavern was staring at her in silence.  Uh oh .
    ‘Witch!’ shouted a man, pointing at her.  Others took up