Read Online Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Arnold
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daily.’
Lisette frowned. ‘Her?’
Greetham let them move into the antechamber, where the smell of ink was that much riper, and moved aside to provide a good view of the interior. ‘ Her ,’ he said grandly, sweeping his arm back as though he were introducing a play at one of London’s (albeit now defunct) theatres.
Lisette looked beyond Greetham. There it was, the reason she had made this journey.
‘You wanted a printing press,’ Quigg boasted, ‘and I found you one.’
She ignored him, her attention instead focussed upon this thing that was so alien to her eyes. It was a machine. A vast skeleton of ink-stained wood and iron that squatted in the room’s centre, ugly and dominating, a huge screw rising from its very core like the ominous dorsal fin of some biblical sea creature. That screw was suspended between two broad wooden pillars, rising vertically from their fixings in the floor and connected by leather straps to the ceiling.
‘This here is my pride and my joy,’ Henry Greetham declared, moving to place a hand upon one of the press’s stout uprights. ‘My pet. My baby.’ He moved across to one of the stone walls and snatched a long apron from a hook. The garment might have been white once, Lisette supposed, but it was now as black as his stained paws. He deftly fastened it around his neck and waist, and returned to pat the machine fondly, as though it were a beloved dog.
‘You are an experienced newsmonger, sir?’ Lisette prompted.
‘Learned the trade in Holland, mademoiselle.’ He looked lovingly upon the press once more. ‘Brought her back to these shores piece by piece. Assembled her in this very room, for she would not have fit down our alley, let alone through the door.’ He beamed. ‘But she was worth it.’ He clapped his hands together smartly, startling his guests. ‘Is she not a thing of rare beauty?’
Lisette and Quigg exchanged mute glances, but already the newsmonger had darted across to stand beside the huge contraption’s mechanical core. Slowly, almost tenderly, Greetham began to caress the vertical screw with his dark fingertips. ‘See here; the spindle sits snug in this collar.’
The collar, as far as Lisette could ascertain, was a metal ring that covered the entire circumference of the screw, holding it in place. A long bar jutted from that collar, curved at the insertion point but straight after that, and she watched – more than a little discomforted – as Greetham let his hand snake up and down its length.
‘The bar,’ he said, ‘may be pulled down to lower the spindle and, being raised, will lift it. When we pull her thus, she will exert a great force, but precise for all that.’ He demonstrated briefly, easing the bar towards him so that the screw moved directly downwards into the very heart of the press. ‘The consequence is neat, legible, lettering.’ He grinned again. ‘News-sheets, pamphlets, decrees. Anything a man, or woman , could wish for.’
Now that was what Lisette had wanted to hear. ‘You will print what I ask?’
‘God save the King,’ Greetham intoned in a low voice.
‘ Bon ,’ Lisette said, her mind already wandering. She was standing beside a low table strewn haphazardly with sheets of paper, and something on those sheets had caught her eye. She noticed they had already been used, crammed from top to bottom with neat letters, all encircled by an elaborate floral border. She picked one up, scanning the printed pages with interest.
‘Oh, madam,’ Greetham stammered suddenly, unease inflecting his hitherto jaunty tone, ‘do not mistake—’
‘ Joyful news from Kent ,’ Lisette read aloud, scanning the page for the next piece of pertinent information. ‘ Troops loyal to God and the Parliament suppress heinous uprising by Papist plotters .’ She dropped the pamphlet, casting Greetham an acid look. ‘You shift for the Parliament, sir?’
‘No no no,’ Greetham protested, the words tumbling from his narrow mouth. ‘I
Lisette frowned. ‘Her?’
Greetham let them move into the antechamber, where the smell of ink was that much riper, and moved aside to provide a good view of the interior. ‘ Her ,’ he said grandly, sweeping his arm back as though he were introducing a play at one of London’s (albeit now defunct) theatres.
Lisette looked beyond Greetham. There it was, the reason she had made this journey.
‘You wanted a printing press,’ Quigg boasted, ‘and I found you one.’
She ignored him, her attention instead focussed upon this thing that was so alien to her eyes. It was a machine. A vast skeleton of ink-stained wood and iron that squatted in the room’s centre, ugly and dominating, a huge screw rising from its very core like the ominous dorsal fin of some biblical sea creature. That screw was suspended between two broad wooden pillars, rising vertically from their fixings in the floor and connected by leather straps to the ceiling.
‘This here is my pride and my joy,’ Henry Greetham declared, moving to place a hand upon one of the press’s stout uprights. ‘My pet. My baby.’ He moved across to one of the stone walls and snatched a long apron from a hook. The garment might have been white once, Lisette supposed, but it was now as black as his stained paws. He deftly fastened it around his neck and waist, and returned to pat the machine fondly, as though it were a beloved dog.
‘You are an experienced newsmonger, sir?’ Lisette prompted.
‘Learned the trade in Holland, mademoiselle.’ He looked lovingly upon the press once more. ‘Brought her back to these shores piece by piece. Assembled her in this very room, for she would not have fit down our alley, let alone through the door.’ He beamed. ‘But she was worth it.’ He clapped his hands together smartly, startling his guests. ‘Is she not a thing of rare beauty?’
Lisette and Quigg exchanged mute glances, but already the newsmonger had darted across to stand beside the huge contraption’s mechanical core. Slowly, almost tenderly, Greetham began to caress the vertical screw with his dark fingertips. ‘See here; the spindle sits snug in this collar.’
The collar, as far as Lisette could ascertain, was a metal ring that covered the entire circumference of the screw, holding it in place. A long bar jutted from that collar, curved at the insertion point but straight after that, and she watched – more than a little discomforted – as Greetham let his hand snake up and down its length.
‘The bar,’ he said, ‘may be pulled down to lower the spindle and, being raised, will lift it. When we pull her thus, she will exert a great force, but precise for all that.’ He demonstrated briefly, easing the bar towards him so that the screw moved directly downwards into the very heart of the press. ‘The consequence is neat, legible, lettering.’ He grinned again. ‘News-sheets, pamphlets, decrees. Anything a man, or woman , could wish for.’
Now that was what Lisette had wanted to hear. ‘You will print what I ask?’
‘God save the King,’ Greetham intoned in a low voice.
‘ Bon ,’ Lisette said, her mind already wandering. She was standing beside a low table strewn haphazardly with sheets of paper, and something on those sheets had caught her eye. She noticed they had already been used, crammed from top to bottom with neat letters, all encircled by an elaborate floral border. She picked one up, scanning the printed pages with interest.
‘Oh, madam,’ Greetham stammered suddenly, unease inflecting his hitherto jaunty tone, ‘do not mistake—’
‘ Joyful news from Kent ,’ Lisette read aloud, scanning the page for the next piece of pertinent information. ‘ Troops loyal to God and the Parliament suppress heinous uprising by Papist plotters .’ She dropped the pamphlet, casting Greetham an acid look. ‘You shift for the Parliament, sir?’
‘No no no,’ Greetham protested, the words tumbling from his narrow mouth. ‘I
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