Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  Would anyone believe him?

  They had been on their way for about half an hour since the break, when a scream startled him. It was followed by another of such piercing intensity that it curdled his blood. Happiness flashed off. His instinct was to run like a rabbit. He was trembling and had to steady himself against a tree. Sly stopped, her ears pricked up, sniffing.

  He heard the whinny of a horse.

  Sly ran off, away from the sound. Toby stayed, trying to quell his terror. Another scream. He could run, should run – but someone was being hurt. He already knew he was a fool and might yet be a dead one – but he couldn’t simply leave.

  Another scream. Laughter and the bark of a dog.

  He crept from tree to tree towards the sound. Sly had stopped, some way off. He beckoned to her. He could see she didn’t want to come, but he continued and then slowly, cautiously Sly came. He waited behind a broad oak and she caught him up.

  ‘Good girl,’ he whispered.

  Toby squeezed his hands tightly to stop them trembling. It didn’t work. He took his knife out of his sack and put it in his belt. Much good would it do him.

  Another scream. More laughter.

  Down on all fours, he inched his way up a bank. He knew the source was close by. Sly wouldn’t come, and stayed at the foot of the bank. At the top, he saw ahead of him a clearing. And in it, the cause of the screaming: a youth tied to an overhanging branch of a tree by his hands, dangling there, a few feet off the ground. Under him were two soldiers in what Toby must now call the Queen’s uniform. Their horses were a little way off, tied up. Closer in were two dogs chewing at bones.

  The soldiers had swords in their belts and wore helmets and chain mail. They were piling sticks under the young man, and every so often one of them would hit him with a stick on his bare legs.

  Toby was as close as he dared be.

  It was plain they were going to make a fire under the youth. He was about Toby’s own age and his build. A peasant, thought Toby, from his tunic. Were they going to kill him? Or was it torture? And then would they kill him?

  Why?

  One of the soldiers was kneeling by the pile of sticks under the youth. Toby could hear the striking of flint.

  ‘Do you like crackling?’ the soldier called to his mate.

  ‘With apple sauce.’

  The two of them laughed. The young man was whimpering. Smoke began to come off the heap under him. It curled about, catching the wind. The soldier roughly pulled off the young man’s shoes and threw them behind him.

  ‘Don’t want you getting cold feet,’ called out the soldier.

  The fire was catching quickly. The wood was cracking, and flames were coming through the smoke. The heap was piled high and ended just a few inches below the prisoner’s bare feet.

  What could Toby do but watch?

  ‘Please, please…’ the youth was begging.

  ‘You gonna admit it?’ said the soldier at the fire.

  ‘Anything! Anything!’

  The other soldier struck him on the back with a thick twig, making him swing slightly. The young man screamed. Already he must be feeling hot as he was trying to pull his feet out of the darting flame.

  One of the dogs began to bark. Then the other. And they began to run. Past the soldiers and the man hanging from the tree. They were coming for Toby; they must be. More wolf than dog, fierce grey hunters, snarling for meat. Toby lay flat, he drew out his knife. Could he take blood before they did?

  Up the bank they came. But to one side; they were not going for him. He lay still, holding his breath. Over they charged, growling. They were after the fox. Sly had raced off, and they were after her, into the thick of the forest.

  One of the soldiers was running up the bank yelling.

  ‘Dragon! Hunter! Back here!’

  He ran up the bank. Toby pressed himself flat. The soldier was over and after the dogs, which were out of sight, barking off into the thick of trees.

  The other soldier was laughing to himself as he fed the fire under the hanging youth.

  ‘Let’s have a real blaze while Jack’s away.’

  The captive was pulling his feet away ineffectually. Whimpering, pleading as the soldier selected pieces for the fire.

  Toby wondered, could he stab the man? If he failed – he’d either be dead or cooked.

  Quietly, he circled round. He was aiming for the tree where the horses were tied. Using them as cover, he could perhaps come in…

  And then what?

  Kill him? A soldier? What chance had he? He’d never killed a man. A deer with bow and arrow, from a distance. But a man, in touching distance? His heart beat faster as he circled round. Shrub to shrub, tree to tree. The fire was smoking more heavily, the soldier had crouched down below it. The youth was choking. Toby could hardly see him in the smoke.

  In the distance he could hear barking and an occasional shout. He was at the tree where the two horses were tied. One of them was shaking its head and wrinkling its nostrils at the smoke. It then occurred to him that he had no need to kill anyone. Quickly he untied the reins. Then backed off behind the tree. But the freed horses just stood there. He wanted them to run off, for the soldier to chase – but these docile nags just waited for their masters.

  He couldn’t shout, he didn’t want to slap them. Instead he pricked one in the rump with his knife. It drew blood and the horse whinnied and reared. Then came to ground, and, seeing Toby by the tree with the knife – ran off. The other horse watched it go for a few seconds then followed.

  The soldier heard and saw the animals galloping off. And was then running too.

  ‘Oi, you two! Peace! Fearful! Back here!’

  The horses were off up the path, each pushing the other. The soldier pursued, waving his arms yelling. Toby watched from behind the tree, easing round as the soldier came past. In the distance, he heard a bark. He hoped Sly had outrun the dogs. The horses had rounded a bend and were out of sight. The soldier was still yelling but Toby could hardly hear him. The man stopped to walk, put his hands on his hips, and broke into a run again. And was gone round the bend.

  Toby came out of the tree, into the smoke. His eyes streamed and he had to cover them. He ran from memory to the trunk of the young prisoner’s tree. Close in, he was able to see again, his fingers rapidly found holds on the trunk. Maybe he couldn’t kill a man – but he could climb. All those years scaling the walls of the castle. Something he could do. He pulled himself into the crutch of the tree and wriggled along the branch. He had to close his eyes again as he was almost above the fire. The heat dried his face.

  He felt the ropes, and with his knife cut at them, glad the old woman kept her knives sharp. First one hand, then the other. The youth fell with a scream. He’d fallen on to the fire.

  Toby swung under the branch and dropped to the ground. The young man was lying there, howling. Toby pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Come on, run – they’ll be back soon!’

  And when he wouldn’t or couldn’t, Toby put his shoulder under the youth’s arm and half lifted him away. The young man whimpered, managing to limp a little. And the two staggered into the forest.

  Chapter 17

  The icy water gurgled swiftly over the stones. Toby watched the youth as he washed a foot in the water, then the other. Toby had wanted to go further but the injured youth couldn’t. And Toby was unable to carry him far as he had no shoes and the soles of his feet were badly blistered.

  ‘We can’t stay here long,’ said Toby.

  The young man nodded. ‘Thanks for what you did. I’m Far. My family…’ He stopped and shook his head. Then covered his face with his hands. A little later he raised a hand. ‘Sorry, it’s just…’ He stopped again. Words hurt as much as his feet.

  ‘I’m Ned,’ said Toby. He’d almost said Toby, in spite of practise. Ned Ned Ned, he said in his head.

  ‘I can’t walk at all,’ said Far uncovering his tear stained face. He turned up a foot to show Toby. It was a to
tal patch of large blisters, the skin bubbled up white and red.

  Toby leaned forward and touched one of the blisters. Far squealed and pulled his foot away.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Toby. ‘Why were they doing that? The soldiers.’

  Far chewed his lower lip. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. ‘They thought I was him. They burnt down our house. They killed everyone. Mother, Father, my brother and sister…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they thought I was him,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Who?’

  Far spat. ‘That pig faced traitor. Prince Toby. Don’t you know? I thought everyone knew. He killed the King. They thought I was him.’

  Toby was silent, boiling inside but unable to speak. What could he say? Far’s family had been slaughtered because they thought he was Toby. How do you answer that? They were the same height and build – true enough. Hair colour was similar, a curly brown. Far’s eyebrows were thicker, his nose thinner… But Far wasn’t him, it didn’t make sense.

  ‘Why?’ Toby said at last. ‘Why you?’

  ‘The dogs lost the trail,’ said Far, flapping a hand. ‘I don’t know why. Our cottage was nearby… They said I must be him.’ He spat again. ‘Me! A prince! Can you believe that? Look at these ploughboy hands.’ He held them up. ‘Has a prince got hands like this?’

  ‘No,’ said Toby, sitting on his own.

  ‘They said I had to say I was the Prince. And when I didn’t they kicked me and beat me. So I said I was the Prince. I thought they’d stop. But that wasn’t enough – they’d already killed my family for hiding the Prince. They tied me to the tree like you found me. I had to talk like the Prince they said.’ Far shook his head in puzzlement. ‘How do I know what a prince sounds like?’

  Toby didn’t reply. But it was too late. He’d already said too much.

  ‘How come you speak so grand?’ said Far, his eyes screwed up, staring intently at Toby.

  Toby shrugged, thinking quickly. Why did Ned speak so grand? He hadn’t even thought about it. He knew who was who in Ned’s family but hadn’t thought about how he spoke. Grand.

  ‘I was brought up by my grandmother, Maeg the Healer,’ he said, giving himself time to think.

  ‘I’ve heard of her,’ said Far. ‘She doesn’t live far from us.’

  ‘When I was little she worked for a lord. She was his healer… Lord Palgrave.’ Palgrave would do, though heaven knows where he lived. He went on, ‘And she looked after his children. And I played with them and learnt to talk like they did.’

  ‘Grand,’ said Far.

  Toby forced a grin.

  ‘But how come you still speak it?’

  Toby shrugged. ‘I expect it’s because we lived on our own. No one else about. I never played with other kids after we left Lord Palgrave’s.’

  The boy bit his nail thoughtfully. It seemed to satisfy him.

  ‘You ever seen the Prince?’ said the boy.

  ‘No,’ said Toby.

  He put a foot in the water. ‘Lucky for you, they didn’t catch you. That grand voice.’

  Toby didn’t reply. That had already occurred to him. If they’d have caught him, they might have let Far go. And if they’d caught him earlier enough, Far’s family would be still alive.

  ‘All the more reason to get away,’ said Toby. ‘Those soldiers might have caught their dogs and horses by now.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Tell you what though. Just in case they come. The soldiers. You could teach me to speak like you do.’

  Instantly he said it, he regretted it.

  Far was staring hard at him. ‘You are him.’

  Toby shook his head. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘You’re him.’

  ‘Course I’m not. I’m no prince. Look at me.’

  ‘Show us your hands.’

  Toby had no choice. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

  He showed them. If only he hadn’t washed them a few minutes ago. Covered in mud, he might have got away with it. But clean and pink…

  Far turned them over and looked at the soft palms.

  ‘You’re him,’ he said triumphant.

  Toby didn’t know what to say. High class voice, soft hands. He couldn’t convince the young man. He should just run off. Leave Far to look after himself…

  ‘If it weren’t for you,’ said Far bitterly, ‘my Mum and Dad’d be alive. My baby sister and my big brother Tom…’ Far had his back to him. He was throwing twigs into the stream.

  ‘I didn’t kill them,’ said Toby quietly.

  ‘You might as well have done. You killed the King.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Then piss on everyone!’ Toby kicked the tree they were under. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. Why do you think I saved your life?’

  Far was silent.

  ‘I don’t believe you’ll save mine,’ said Toby. ‘In fact you’d sell me out to the first soldier we meet.’

  Toby was standing over Far who still had his back to him, his feet over the stream. He was in a fury.

  ‘I’m off then,’ he said.

  Far turned. And looked up at him. ‘What d’you mean? You can’t leave me.’

  Toby laughed. ‘Can’t I? If you can’t walk, you can crawl.’

  ‘The soldiers,’ said Far, ‘the dogs…’

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ said Toby.

  Far held up an open hand. ‘I promise you.’

  ‘What’s your promise worth to me?’

  Both were silent. Neither trusting nor trusted. Toby saw Far crawling along the forest paths. Easy meat for baying hounds…

  He said, ‘If I’d killed the King, the best thing I could do now is cut your throat.’

  Far’s hand went to his neck. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  Far shrugged. Plainly confused.

  ‘You saved my life,’ he said.

  Chapter 18

  The day was warmer, a little windy. The sky had clouded over. The path he was on had come out of the forest into fields. Across them at some distance, there was a big house. The fields must belong to it. The sheep. He’d passed a hut at the edge of the forest. That too. Someone important must own it all. Maybe owned the forest too.

  He and Far had finished off the bread and cheese. They hadn’t spoken much. Neither was sure of the other. He wanted to be rid of Far. But felt responsible for him. His dead parents, his burnt feet. All somehow his fault. Common sense said – let Far look after himself. Guilt said – Far was his charge. He hadn’t yet decided. He had left him hidden under a thick holly in the forest. Far couldn’t be seen but dogs might smell him out. Toby had given him his blanket. After leaving Far, Toby had chipped a tree here and there with his knife as he went along, as markers. If he was going to go back for him… But why not simply abandon him? Far would realise soon enough that he’d been deserted. And Toby had his own life to save.

  If he could get a wheelbarrow then he could move Far. If he could get a pair of shoes then maybe Far could walk a little… Or he could just tell someone on the estate about an injured man in the forest and leave it to them. And be done with him. It depended whom he met. What they were like. It was risky but he felt better on an estate like this. In the forest he was at the mercy of whoever came. This, though, was someone’s home. He was used to such places, visited them often. Often without warning. A Prince could just turn up and be sure of a welcome, especially if with his father. But now he wasn’t who he’d been. And needed to get used to it. He was Ned, a young peasant. And peasants could not just go where they wanted. And must not speak grand. Dare not. That could be his undoing. He’d muddied his hands, bit the nails crooked. But the way he spoke… That could get him hanged, sure as cheese was cheese. While walking he’d tried to speak like Far. But it was hard. He practised on ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘No, sir,’ and a few other subservient phrases. Peasants got in trouble for speaking too much. So if he acted a bit stupid…
r />   Maybe.

  No one seemed to be around. He was coming in towards the back of the house. Those buildings would be the stables. There might be someone there. If he could borrow a wheelbarrow, then he could bring Far in… Let them take him on.

  Be free of him.

  He came into the yard. There was no one about. A wagon was by the stable buildings, needing a horse. Across the yard, parallel to the stables, was the house. It was long with two floors. Small windows were on this side. They would be the servants’ rooms and kitchens. The family rooms would be at the front. He’d been to many houses like this.

  He went to the stable and called out.

  ‘Hello!’ He poked his head in the door. ‘Anyone here?’

  A few horses were tethered in their stalls. There was a wheelbarrow full of straw. He thought of just tipping it out and taking the barrow. No – he didn’t want to be caught stealing. Better to ask. Except there was no one about to ask. He came back out into the yard.

  Where was everyone?

  A back door was open in the house. He went across and knocked on the door.

  ‘Hello, masters.’ His best Far accent.

  When no one answered he peered in. It was a kitchen. In the centre was a large wooden table with food on – bread, cheese, pickle, some plates and knives. Part eaten as if they had all been called away. A fire was burning in the large fireplace.

  He stepped inside and made sure no one was about. This was a big kitchen, plenty of shelves with pots and pans hanging. Whoever owned this house would know his father. Might know Toby himself. Would he recognise him? Surely not like this. Dirty, in peasant clothes. Who looked at peasants anyway? Toby picked a piece of cheese off the table and gulped it. Then a bit of bread, it was fresh, still warm – all the time, watching the far door, to see if anyone came in from the hallway. He stopped his eating. Too risky to get caught at it.

  He went to the kitchen door and peered out into the hall.

  ‘Hello, masters. Anyone there?’

  No reply. He cautiously came out into the wide hall. A broad staircase came down from the upper floor. There were side rooms, the doors closed. He was afraid to go in those. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Peasants and servants stayed at the back unless they had work to do. He could get in trouble here.