by Derek Smith
‘Lord Jerome,’ he said, plucking at a name, the Lord of an estate he had visited.
‘I shall talk to him about your manners, boy.’
Toby shook his head and sighed. There was something rather sad and silly about this. He couldn’t go on this way.
‘My manners may need improving, My Lady,’ he said, ‘but this isn’t the time for me to learn. You are lying under a wet blanket, badly hurt, your family has been slaughtered…’
He was about to explain more when she broke into tears.
‘Tell me it’s not true,’ she begged. ‘Tell me, boy.’
Toby was unsure what to say. But he couldn’t lie to her. What would be the point pretending her family were still alive? He began slowly. ‘Do you live on the estate back there?’
She nodded, not correcting the lack of title.
‘I was there yesterday,’ he went on cautiously. ‘I came for food, to find some work…’ the latter not quite true but he didn’t want to mention Far. ‘And there, at the front of the house…’ he stopped. Did she really not remember?
She shook her head, sobbing. ‘I thought it was the most terrible dream. When I woke here… I hoped it hadn’t happened.’ She was a flood of tears, her body shaking.
Toby waited for her to subside, then said quietly, ‘You were the only one I found alive.’ He didn’t add that he hadn’t looked very hard. How would that help? And what could he have done besides?
She was bawling now. Toby was fearful of the noise. The soldiers might be about, though he hoped they were far off. Or others, as bad or worse.
But he let her sob, and hoped.
In a while, she quietened and he said, ‘Why did they do it?’
She looked at him fiercely, wiping a tear with a knuckle. ‘They said we were Tobards.’
That word again. Bad enough to be slaughtered for.
‘What is a Tobard?’
She clenched her fist. ‘You stupid boy. I pity your master. Don’t you know what is happening?’
Plainly he didn’t. And not wanting to appear more stupid he kept quiet. She was so annoying. He had come back to help her, and she treated him like he was some despised dog at her feet. Easily done, he thought. He’d done it himself. Yell at a servant. Order a peasant whipped. Not that she could have him whipped, and her yelling was rather subdued – but the loss of respect pierced him.
‘Tobards,’ she said slowly, to make sure even he understood, ‘are the followers of Prince Toby.’
‘Oh,’ he emitted, feeling somewhat stupid at not working it out, and for not knowing he had followers.
‘He killed the King,’ she went on, ‘and with his followers was ready to take over the land… but the Queen…’ She stopped in a fit of coughing that seemed as if it would throw her insides out.
Toby’s mind was a whirl. His followers were being slaughtered. But he had no followers. Hadn’t thought of it. Hadn’t had time. Were there really men and women rising up in his name?
For the first time he felt a little hope.
‘My father has always been loyal,’ said the girl at the end of a cough. ‘How could they believe we were followers of that filthy traitor!’
Toby’s hope flickered out.
He said, ‘You are not Tobards? Definitely not Tobards?’
‘You insolent boy…’ she began, but was unable to go on.
‘Then why kill you all, every single one of you, My Lady?’ He added the title to lessen her distress, as its omission seemed to be as important to her as the death of her family. Killed as Tobards – but they weren’t Tobards.
Why?
She didn’t answer his question, but she hadn’t needed to. Lady Orly’s family were slaughtered as Tobards. Far was about to be, and so was he himself. And none of them were. It was clear to Toby what he had known when she’d begun to explain. There were no Tobards. He had done no conspiring. He had no bands of armed men about the countryside. There were no followers rising in his name. But this girl, whose family had been slaughtered for being Tobards, still believed they existed…
It hit him like a clout round the head. He had been allowed to escape the dungeon. The cell door left open, the drunken gaoler, the reduced guard… They were no accidents. With Prince Toby free, the Queen could do exactly what she wanted and blame it on the Tobards.
As for Earl Gomm’s estate – well that was simple. Kill them as Tobards. Then blame the killing on the Tobards. And, of course, take the estate.
He almost smiled at the cunning.
Instead he said, ‘My Lady, please accept my sorrow at the terrible death of your family. But we must leave here. You are ill and we have no food or water…’
Chapter 25
Toby lifted the canopy of leaves; it had stopped raining, the sky was clearing. Orly wanted to walk the short distance to the horse. She didn’t want to be assisted by a ‘boy’. Impatiently, Toby let her try. She couldn’t even stand unassisted. But when at last she was up, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding a branch overhead, still she wanted to walk herself. And it was only in steps he got to carry her, as she resisted her dependency. The hand on Toby’s shoulder became an arm round his shoulder – and, when that was hardly better, his arm round her waist, her full weight against him. Finally the carry. She did not say a word in her humiliation and tried to suppress her groans. Toby knew better than to chide her. Peasants simply do not carry ladies. They would be whipped for it. Lady Orly would only allow her mother or her maid to touch her. She was the mistress here – but she wasn’t at all.
He attempted to sit her on the horse, but she fell to the side and he was just able to catch her. Instead, he laid her over the horse’s back. She had given up her struggle to be ladylike. This gave him the opportunity to wring out the sodden blanket, more for comfort than for warmth. He twisted it, working from both ends to the middle. Then again until the wringing hurt his hands. He put it back on her, hoping that the warmth of the horse would dry it properly. She was asleep or at least pretending to be.
Toby could sit behind her, but only if they travelled on the broad rides. And those were dangerous, especially with her, as there would be no escape. No outrunning his pursuers on a double-burdened horse.
They must take the paths. And he would have to walk, to assist the horse through.
By the time they set off, she was obviously unconscious, her efforts had utterly exhausted her. She lay over the back of the horse like a large rag doll, her hands hanging limply below her head. Toby walked ahead, the reins of the horse in one hand, looking back constantly to make sure she wasn’t slipping off. Water dripped on them from the trees and sprayed from the undergrowth as they pushed through.
He stopped at a stream to water the horse. He drank himself, cupping it in his hands. He couldn’t do anything for the girl. He’d only choke her. What was he going to do about food? Merely hungry at present, but a long walk on a cold day would soon empty his stomach. There were three to feed including Far, and not counting the horse who would have to forage for herself.
Toby was about to set off again, when he heard a rustle in a hedge. When he looked, he saw the familiar face of Sly, ears alert, nose twitching – and those dark, mysterious eyes. What power was behind them?
He was immediately grateful for her presence. He had only vaguest notion of the way back to Far – and there was every chance he’d get lost. But here was his guide once more. How did she find him?
The fox went ahead, as ever, waiting to make sure they were following. They walked with caution. Any sound and Toby would stop the horse. Mostly it was nothing: a bird, a deer, but once horsemen, some way off – but close enough to still them for quarter of an hour.
He stopped once more to look at the girl. And at once felt concerned; her face was going blue. Upside down, it must be all the blood going to her head. With difficulty, he sat her on the horse, she kept trying to flop off. He leaned her forward against the neck – and had to hold her there as they continued. It was an arduous wa
y to walk, leaning over, holding her, directing the horse. He wished he had some rope to tie her on.
But given wishes, there were better things than rope.
By the time, they got to Far’s field, Toby’s back and legs were aching. The girl was breathing weakly and he was starving. Far though was not there. And neither was the haystack.
He took the horse into the field where the haystack had been. And found evidence enough that it had been there. Remnants of hay were scattered around. What had happened was easy to work out. The ground about was churned up by hoofprints. They’d taken the hay for fodder. A band of soldiers he guessed. Had they taken Far too? Or killed him? He couldn’t run. Or even walk. Would Toby find his strung up body hanging from a tree?
He almost collapsed with weariness.
The horse was eating hay, the remnants of the haystack. She was a brown, sleek animal and he had grown quite fond of her. On her rump was an army brand. That would get him killed – that is if they needed another reason.
He examined the girl. Fresh blood was trickling down her leg, her face was bluish white. He could not detect any breathing. Had she gone at last? This rude, haughty girl. At last to join her family. He placed his hand over her mouth. She might still be breathing. He wasn’t sure. Yes, there was a little life left in her.
What had they done to Far? Caught him asleep, then cut him up for sport? Why was there so much murder and terror in this land? It seemed anyone walking or travelling could be its victim. He had escaped long enough. It was his turn. And would it matter? There had to be an end for him too.
How he needed his father. His strength, his certainty, his temper even. With him gone the world had shattered, smashed like a cup under a blacksmith’s hammer. And now the pieces were being smashed too. All to dust. Who would ever know what they once were?
He crouched down on the ground playing with the straw. Tying it in knots, making a weak and useless string. The sun was low in a clear sky, across the hummock of the grassy field. The fox crouched and waited. The girl was slipping off the horse as it munched hay. The prince in a muddy tunic was tying straw as if his life depended on it. And a young man, even more mud-covered, was crawling out of a ditch.
‘Toby!’
That sharpened his ears. He saw a kneeling figure, black with mud, arms waving. And at once forgave him for yelling a forbidden name.
Chapter 26
‘I saw them coming from a distance,’ said Far. ‘Soldiers on horseback. And was able to crawl to the ditch. Just in time.’ He shivered. ‘I’m frozen to the quick. Got any food?’
Toby shook his head. ‘None.’ He indicated the girl now lying on straw on the ground. ‘I don’t know why I went back for her.’
‘She still breathing?’
‘Just about.’
The sun was sagging in the clear sky. The midday warmth was going quickly. Far was caked in wet mud, from head to toe. Toby helped him wipe it off with the hay. At least it thinned the mud and spread it. Far took off his leggings and jacket, and wrung them out. He put them back on and then stuffed hay inside his clothes. In his chest, down his leggings. It would give him some warmth, and hold the wet clothes off his body.
‘It’ll be a chilly night,’ said Far, looking at the sky. ‘Clear ones are the coldest.’
‘I can’t walk another step,’ said Toby. He was as weary as winter, as worn out as an old shoe. ‘I’ve got aches on aches. I could eat this horse – if I could cook her.’
‘I ate a toad in the ditch,’ said Far.
‘What was it like?’
‘Like jelly. Lots of bones to spit out. Some nasty bits. Don’t know what they were.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t care.’
Toby rose stiffly. ‘Best move on. Don’t want to die here.’
‘How much further?’
‘I don’t speak fox.’
‘Hey – you’re speaking better!’
Toby managed a grin. ‘I’ve been practising. I’m Ned.’ Then he remembered Far’s earlier transgression. ‘For heaven’s sake – don’t yell ‘Toby’ at me. I’m Ned.’
‘Sorry, Ned.’
‘And who’s your Lord of the Manor? She asked me.’
‘Earl Gomm,’ said Far.
‘Well would you believe it,’ said Toby grimly. ‘Do you know who she is?’
‘No.’
‘Lady Orly Gomm. And she is the haughtiest cow I have ever come across.’
Far sucked in a breath. ‘The company I keep. Princes, ladies. Mum and Dad would’ve been proud.’ He flapped an arm helplessly. ‘You know, you look just like one of us.’
‘I shall have you whipped for that, boy!’
Far searched him closely to make sure it was a joke.
Toby said, ‘It’s only fair. She’s going to have me whipped.’
‘Who by?’
‘By my master.’
‘Her dad – that would be. Earl Gomm. Not that he’d do it himself of course.’
Toby shook his head. ‘No one left on her estate can hold a whip.’ He stood over the girl. ‘She tries so hard to stay the lady.’
‘I bet she’s a real stinker. Run here, fetch that,’ said Far resentfully. ‘I keep out of their way. Her sort.’
‘My sort.’
‘You never come to give us money,’ said Far. ‘My Dad says…’ He quickly corrected himself. ‘Said. They… your lot… come for taxes, blood and sweat.’
‘I’m not asking for your blood now,’ said Toby wearily. ‘And you haven’t got any money. Keep your sweat, and let’s get away from here.’
Toby lifted the girl onto the horse, laying her onto the neck as before, then covering her with the blanket. He helped Far sit behind. It would now be his job to hold her on. Toby led the horse.
And so they went.
Out of the field and along a track, which went in the direction of a forest, some way off. Toby assumed they were heading that way. Sly kept ahead, keeping well into the hedgerow, just as anxious as they were at being out in the open. There were a few distant cottages, cows and sheep in some of the fields, but no people. It reminded Toby of Earl Gomm’s estate. No one around in the fields, the stables, the kitchen… until he’d come to the front of the house. And found them all.
They passed two dead bodies on the road, a boy and an old woman. Perhaps granny and grandson, thought Toby, flies buzzing around them. He halted to examine them, though heaven knows what he would have done if they weren’t dead. The boy had the top of his head hacked off, the old woman had her throat cut.
Neither spoke as they moved on. This was a land of death.
A couple of dogs, guarding sheep in a field, scented Sly. Shaggy, wolf-like animals, they came barking over. Sly immediately headed off across a meadow and they gave chase. Toby had no doubt she would lose them. And then be back. In the meantime they headed for the forest, now no more than half a mile ahead. Sly might even be waiting there for them when they arrived.
They came to a cottage on the side of the track. Smoke issued from the chimney, the shutters were closed.
‘Ask them for bread,’ said Far.
Toby hesitated. Begging doesn’t come easy to princes.
‘They can only say no,’ insisted Far.
Toby rapped on the door. He could hear footsteps inside, and someone saying, ‘Sh, sh,’ but no one came out. He rapped once more. This time there was simply silence.
‘Scared,’ said Far.
This irritated Toby. It was so obvious. But he bit his tongue, knowing it was hunger making him peevish. They moved on. A cool wind was blowing and they were heading into it. He had no collar to turn up. He wished he had a cloak and hat. Though he might find a body soon to strip. He glanced at the girl, lying against the horse’s neck, held in place by Far, and tucked in her blanket. Her face bluish white, she reminded him of a fish on a slab. How much closer could she be to death without being dead? The last sparks, the final splutter of a wet fire.
They rounded a bend and walked into the riders. There were pe
rhaps a dozen of them on foot, by a stream watering their horses. A smoky fire was burning. Sly would have smelt them and warned Toby, but Sly was way over the hills, defending her own life. Swords were being drawn and in a very few seconds they were surrounded.
The men were mud-splattered from hard riding and living rough. And mingled in the mud were streaks of red, splashed on the swords, on the hands holding them, and rubbed into grubby faces. The grip of their swords was purposeful, their faces set. One more chore before they could eat.
A man grabbed Toby by the throat and shook him.
‘What you doing out?’
He had one eye, the empty socket knotted inside. His face was grizzled in a blood-crusted beard.
Far answered quickly. ‘Going somewhere safe, master.’
Another man, as bloody and as grizzled, dragged Far off the horse into the mud.
‘Who asked you?’
He kicked Far in the face. Far yelled out as the girl rolled round the horse’s neck and slipped onto the ground. Toby could barely breathe, his throat held so hard. He thought, this is it. It has come at last.
The one-eyed man gave another squeeze. ‘I asked you a question.’
Toby staggered, the blood swimming before his eyes. He fought for breath. The man let go and gave him a push. He too fell to the ground, the men above them like malevolent trees.
‘Looking for somewhere safe,’ he rasped.
A few men laughed. The one-eyed man inspected his captives, like a slaughterman picking out sheep. He spat into the mud. ‘I cannot understand you thick heads. No one is to be out. You would think that would be clear.’
‘Kill ‘em and be done with,’ said someone.
‘My Mum and Dad were killed, master,’ sniffed Far, holding the bloody side of his face. ‘I ran for my life.’
‘Not far enough,’ said a man.
‘Who’s she?’ barked the one-eyed man to Toby, indicating the girl. She was lying on her side in the mud, pale-faced, eyes closed, the blanket half round her.
‘That one’s a lady,’ said a man.
‘I said who is she?’ snarled the one-eyed man smacking Toby round the face.
