Free The Deptford Mice 2: The Crystal Prison by Robin Jarvis Page B

her a yellow shawl and she pulled it tightly over her shoulders.
    All the mice were carrying bags, packed with provisions, blankets and personal treasures. Audrey’s arms ached with the weight of hers and she was glad when Thomas said it was not much further. Somewhere, in amongst the folded clothes was a dried hawthorn blossom. Oswald had given it to her when she said goodbye to him that evening it was one of those he had saved from the Spring festival.
    Gwen Brown was savouring every moment with her children, storing up the sound of their voices for when she was alone.
    Twit and Arthur ran ahead once more, swinging their baggage happily. After some moments they came rushing back, their faces aglow with excitement.
    ‘Thomas,’ squealed Twit eagerly, ‘there be summat up there. We done heard it.’
    ‘Yes,’ joined in Arthur. ‘Someone’s singing.’
    The little group of mice edged forward cautiously. In the shade ahead nothing could be seen, but gradually a voice floated to them on the night air. It was a merry, hearty sound; first singing, now humming.
Poor Rosie! Poor Rosie!
I’ll tell you of poor Rosie,
The tragedy that was Rosie
And why she died so lonely
Coz for all her looks her armpits stank,
The suitors came, but away they shrank
Far away from Rosie,
With their paws tight on their nosey.
    Twit spluttered and laughed helplessly as the song continued. Gwen Brown gave Thomas a doubtful look. The midshipmouse shrugged and hid a smile.
    ‘Who is it, Mother?’ asked Audrey.
    ‘That is Mr Kempe,’ Gwen replied dryly.
    Thomas coughed and shouted. ‘Ahoy Mr Kempe! Come out so we may see you! And before your verses become too colourful, remember there are tender ears here.’
    From the shadows a great clanking noise replaced the song, as if some metal monster had been roused from sleep. Audrey waited with wide eyes wondering what this Mr Kempe would be like.
    ‘Are you the party bound for Fennywolde?’ came the hearty voice. ‘That’s right,’ Twit piped up, ‘that be the name o’ my field.’
    ‘Why that sounds like a fieldmouse.’
    ‘I be ’un.’
    The clanking drew nearer and into the dim light stepped one of the strangest figures Audrey had ever seen.
    There was a mass of bags, pans, straps and buckles mounted on a pair of sturdy legs and somewhere amongst all this madness was a furry round face and two small bead-like eyes. It was friendly and welcoming, and Audrey warmed to Kempe immediately – especially as he said, ‘Bless my goods, two beautiful ladies and I knew nought of it. A curse on my palsied tongue that you should hear it yammering away like that. But ’tis the lot of the lone traveller to sing when he’s on his tod. Forgive my verses dear ladies.’ The clanking began again as he attempted to bow.
    Gwen, Brown smiled as she accepted his apology. ‘You just keep your songs tucked away while my daughter travels with you, Mr Kempe,’ she said.
    ‘Oh please,’ he protested, ‘there’s no “Mister”, plain Kempe I am – no titles, no end pieces! Kempe and that’s all.’
    Audrey was staring in fascination at his bags. Poking through the sides there were glimpses of fine silks and silver lace and strung round the handles of his pans and around his own neck were beads of every type and variety. Pear-shaped droplets done in gold, green leaf patterns threaded on a single hair from a pony’s mane, little charms worked in wood and hung on a copper wire and chains of fine links from which dangled tears of blue glass.
    ‘I’ll trade anything for anything,’ he continued, catching Audrey’s eye. ‘Well, young lady – see anything that tickles you? I see you like fine things, with your ribbon, and all that lace. Why I’ve got such an array of ribbons in here – enough to make rainbows jealous. Take your pick, and all I ask are those wee bells on your tail.’
    ‘But these bells are silver!’ Audrey exclaimed. ‘They’re worth more than all your ribbons.’
    ‘Alas for