by Derek Smith
His head swung. In the pain and confusion he didn’t know the answer to the question. Tell them and what? Don’t tell them and what?
Dead either way.
He said in a bloody lip, ‘Lady Orly Gomm. Her family have been killed. I found her.’
The man got down on his knees and held the girl’s face in his hands. And looked close.
‘It’s her alright.’ He turned to Toby. ‘You bloody fool.’
With his face aching, his throat constricted, he was whatever the man said.
The one-eyed man looked around his men. He spat. ‘Let ‘em go.’
Bewilderment, all around.
‘What?’
‘Take half a minute.’
‘Get back to your grub,’ ordered the one-eyed man. He held his blade at them. ‘You heard.’
The fence of soldiers broke up, and retreated resentfully. The one-eyed man watched them amble back to their fire and horses.
On his haunches, he said quietly, ‘I’m one of Gomm’s men. My dad runs his stable.’
Toby thought, your dad’s dead, but didn’t say it. It wouldn’t be wise to be the messenger. Instead he said, ‘She’s the last of the family.’
‘Poor kid. I used to get her horse out. Good rider,’ said the man sucking his lip. ‘Where you going?’ He waved a hand. ‘Best not tell me.’
‘Who are you?’ said Toby.
‘We’re a gang of Zeke’s raiders. I’m captain of this riff raff. Now get going. My men might just mutiny.’
‘Got any grub?’ said Far.
The man strode into a group of soldiers crouched down by a small fire. He grabbed a loaf of bread and came halfway back. He threw it across.
Toby just caught it.
‘Clear off, quick.’
Chapter 27
The night came down quickly, almost as soon as they had entered the forest. It began to rain, and as it grew colder, the rain became sleet. Toby gave up speaking, his lip had swollen and his throat constricted. All adding to his awful weariness. He plodded like a sack. Ahead was Sly. She’d been waiting at the forest edge. There was no sign of the dogs.
The bread they’d been given was stale and hard. Toby broke a bit off and had to suck it in his mouth for several minutes to soften. Then he couldn’t swallow it, his throat was so painful. He spat out the pulpy bits.
Behind him, Far was groaning. He had taken a blow to the face, his feet were hurting and he was aching from hours on the horse. Toby had no words of comfort. What was there to say? That there are no killers on the road, the sun will come out soon and a table will appear covered in hot food… The last thought amused him slightly and enabled him to cover a further ten paces.
The truth was his father was dead, he was the enemy of every man, hell had broken out in the Kingdom, he was bruised, exhausted, hungry and cold. Should he try a happy song?
He didn’t know any.
The sleet soaked into them, working its way through their clothes to their skin like chewing worms. Cold and so weary, Toby knew if he stopped he would not start again. Only by moving could he keep moving.
Stop and die.
They had to cross a stream in the dark. The water was fierce and fast. Toby slipped on a stone. The water was icy, but coming out he was not a lot colder. Or wetter. Just as miserable, just as tired. He wanted to scream at the fox – where are we headed, when the hell is all this going to end? But it made as much sense as yelling at the stream for soaking him.
He thought it couldn’t get worse.
But then they began to climb.
At first through forest, but then it was gone. Hacked down for firewood or houses. He tried to imagine it one big fire, glowing round the horizon and hot enough to fry his feet. Please! The track was rockier and had narrowed. And still they were climbing. The wind was biting cold, scouring any bare flesh and eating their clothes. It began to snow and settled very quickly. The flurries came in blasts of circling wind. Toby’s frozen hands were pulled into his sleeves, his chin was icing up. He could feel the horse shivering beside him. He glanced at the girl. One side of her hair was covered in snow, he wiped some off her face with his sleeve but it settled again. Far had stopped groaning. He felt the youth’s hand, it was icy cold. His arm was stiff.
Was he even alive?
Toby found his face, shook it and slapped it. A weary groan issued. A little life still. Oh this cold! And it was up to him; the very thought exhausted him. He was so tired, so beaten.
He stumbled on, and wept with the pain of the cold. His feet were lumps of ice, his ears were stuck with pins. He had no warmth at all to fight. All strength had been sapped from him; he had been through too much. All I have to do is lie down, he told himself. It won’t take long. Very soon the life in him would give up. Surrender. Fighting was madness.
It was then he saw the man. At first it seemed just a dark rock ahead, but then through the blizzard, as they drew closer, it took the shape of a cloaked man with an arm held up. And within the hood a bearded face, long-haired.
He thought, why can I see him in this dark? There is a light around him…
He peered ahead. The snow was so fierce into his face. He heard his name surely. On the wind. And then again it came.
‘Toby! I’m here.’
It was his father. That must mean that he was dead himself. He had been walking so long through the cold that he had died. But why did it still hurt so? Why was he still so weary?
‘Father! Father!’ he called.
And he ran, and stumbled, fighting the blast. He left the horse and his companions – and ran to the one who beckoned. He who would give him shelter, he who would give him warmth…
He fell on a rock. And when he lifted himself slowly to his knees the figure was gone. There was the cold, there was the biting snow, there was the darkness.
And there was no one but himself.
For a little while he lay like a wounded animal, waiting for the kill. And when he did not die, he half crawled and half stumbled back to the horse. And at its feet he stopped.
And surrendered.
Chapter 28
Toby’s first sensation was warmth. He didn’t want to move, the warmth was so beautiful. It cocooned and cuddled him. His aching body demanded no action.
He must not think.
There were only awful things to think. Just feel. Take in the wondrous heat.
He must not open his eyes. Out there was the dreadful world. He wanted to not know, to stay in unknowing, to melt in the warmth. Something had taken over from him, some mothering force, that he wanted to go on and on, without any obligation from him. And if he looked, and if he knew, he would be dragged into struggling on.
Spare him.
Some traitorous part disobeyed. Or perhaps babies never know what they really want. He opened his eyes.
He engaged.
Above him was a roof of rough white rock, flickering with shadow. He could see no more without sitting up, which he didn’t want to do. That would be to reveal himself to whoever possessed the roof.
Over him were two rough blankets with stitched edges which he ran his fingers along. He was on a narrow bed, soft underneath. There was a sweetish, warm smell which curdled his stomach. And it was that which sat him up.
He was starving.
And in a large cavern, nearly the size of his father’s hall. There were shelves around the cavern, and on them in one area bottles of all shapes and sizes, green and blue and white glass, stoppered with cork, jugs, and two mortars and pestles. On another set of shelves were books and scrolls. Some books were very large and lay on their side; smaller ones had other books as bookends. In the middle of the cavern was a large wooden table, on it were a number of basins, spoons and an assortment of herbs, leaves and bottles. There were three other beds in the space, two of them occupied. In one he could make out Orly’s hair, the other head was under a blanket. Two lanterns were attached to the walls but most of the light came from a brightly burning fire. The wall b
ehind was charred, the ceiling low above the fire where a hole drew the smoke. Sly lay by the stones around the fire, for all the world like a domestic cat, watching him watching her. And tending to it, his back to him, was a bald man, grey hair fringing his dome like seaweed round an exposed rock. He was wearing a long, brown cloak which came below his knees, and baggy, black leggings with holes at the back of both knees.
‘Good morning, Toby.’ The man spun round, a wooden spoon in his hand. And Toby knew him at once from the toothy smile and the folds of his face. He must be Maeg’s son. The likeness was astounding.
Toby didn’t know what question to begin with. They were piled on each other like stones on a cairn. But like his mother the man knew the priorities.
‘Soup, Toby?’
And almost before he had assented, it was coming with bread.
He ate it in bed and the taste made him more certain this was Maeg’s son. The same flavour of carrot and cabbage and parsnips, the same soothing effect in his hands and feet. And the same result when he had finished. More was offered.
‘Your mother’s recipe?’ said Toby between mouthfuls.
‘Sharp young fellow.’ He tapped his nose, his mother’s too. ‘Your companions are asleep. The young man is exhausted. He was very cold, but he’s tough. I’ve put ointment on his feet and they should heal quite quickly. The girl…’ He sucked in a breath. ‘She is low. Barely alive when she arrived. Ice cold, lots of bleeding. Though I think the cold might have saved her. But now she must be warmed again and the poisons purged from her blood. I am making preparations.’
‘How did you know we were out there?’
The man indicated Sly by the fire. ‘She came on her own. You were only a few hundred yards away. I took the others in by the horse. Then came back for you.’
Toby looked around the cavern. There was a noted absence. ‘Where is the horse?’ he said.
‘I fed and watered her. And then let her go when the blizzard ceased. She has an army brand on her which could only cause us trouble. Don’t worry. She’ll end up back with the army. These days no one would dare to steal an army horse.’
‘May I know your name, sir?’
‘I am Erdy, son of Maeg. My mother, of course, did not say where Sly was taking you.’
‘No.’
‘I am sorry for that. It must have been a troubling and difficult journey. But if you were caught and tortured, you could not betray me.’
‘We were caught too many times.’
Erdy shook his head and sighed. ‘There are soldiers everywhere. They are seeking Tobards, they say.’
‘There are no Tobards,’ interrupted Toby.
‘They are a fiction,’ said Erdy nodding in agreement. ‘Convenient to the Queen. But it’s why you are alive.’
‘She let me escape,’ said Toby.
‘I think she did.’ He was sitting on a stool watching Toby eat with some satisfaction.
‘Does it matter?’ said Toby. ‘She might as well have beheaded me.’
‘I think not,’ said Erdy, pulling at his chin. ‘Indeed not.’
Toby was full, the little left in the bowl he could not manage. He was sitting on the side of the little bed, wearing a long bedshirt that came below his knees. He vaguely wondered about the whereabouts of his clothes, but did it really matter?
Erdy was rubbing his fingers in and out of each other. ‘She can kill anyone and blame you. Take estates and say the owners were Tobards. Any rebellion, resistance. Tobards. They are everywhere. Under the bed, in the trees, along the footpaths.’ He stopped catching Toby’s eye. ‘Yes, she helped you escape. She needed you alive.’
‘The soldiers could easily have killed me,’ said Toby.
‘She can’t be everywhere. Can’t explain the subtlety of her plan to mere soldiers. They have been told to kill Tobards, and anyone who might be a Tobard, anyone they are not sure of. She would like to kill you secretly and claim you are still alive. Conspiring against her, organizing bands that she can then murder.’
Toby barely heard the last words as his eyes closed. As his head fell on his chest, he saw marauding bands yelling ‘Tobard!’ and ridding down helpless people, blades swinging. He was amongst them, standing still waiting, arms by his side, while all around him people ran in terror to be hacked down and trodden into the bloody mud. The soup bowl fell out of his hands, and he startled himself awake.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I am terribly tired.’
Erdy nodded. ‘I have put some herbs in your soup to put you to sleep. When you awake, your body will be repaired. Rest now. There is much to be done, but not in this state.’
Toby could not even take this much in and dozed where he was, sitting on the side of the bed. Erdy rolled the youth, without waking him, into the bed and pulled the blankets over him.
Across the cavern, Far was stirring.
Chapter 29
Orly was propped on four pillows, her long hair tied back in a ribbon, draped over one shoulder. She had eaten a little soup, and to follow Erdy had given her a preparation from a small bottle. The grimace after swallowing was still on her face. Her paleness at once said she was an invalid – and so this might have to be a short conversation. Toby and Far, back in their everyday tunics and leggings, were seated on stools by the bed. Far’s feet were heavily bound, a wooden crutch lay on the floor beside him. Seated at the end of the bed was Erdy.
‘If the boy is to be present…’ began Orly.
‘I’m as old as you are,’ mumbled Far.
‘Don’t speak until you are spoken to,’ snapped Orly. She turned to the others. ‘You see the way he already treats us? As equals.’
Toby was uncomfortable. He had made a promise to Far, rather rashly. That ‘brothers’ stuff, when plainly they weren’t and never could be.
‘I am a lady, you are a prince and he is…’ she turned to look at him loftily, not unkindly, but Far knew the expression and gazed at his nails. ‘A peasant,’ she went on. ‘No worse for that. The world needs peasants. But in the fields.’
‘I’ll go sit by the fire,’ said Far awkwardly. He gathered up his crutch and began pulling himself to his feet.
‘Stay,’ said Erdy.
Far half looked up, first to the lady and then to Erdy.
‘You talk, masters. You don’t need me.’
‘Stay,’ said Erdy. And then added. ‘Sit down please.’
Far sat down.
Orly sighed. ‘I must insist.’
‘And so must I,’ said Erdy.
Toby said, ‘He can sit with us, but be silent.’
‘In my house,’ said Orly, ‘servants are summoned. They are given their duties. And then they go.’
‘You are not in your house,’ said Erdy quietly.
He could have added much more: the Queen had Orly’s house and her servants were dead, but had no need as Orly’s eyes welled with tears. She fought to hold them back, but they seeped out and rolled down her cheeks. Her lips pressed as she worked to hold in her crying.
‘But a lady is a lady,’ said Toby defensively. ‘It is birth, not simply estates.’
‘Then Far and I will sit by the fire,’ said Erdy, turning from them.
‘I didn’t mean you…’ pleaded Orly.
‘No, not you,’ agreed Toby, ‘but position must be preserved. Otherwise what is a king or a prince or a lady?’
Far was picking the dirt under his nails with a splinter of wood. Not that his nails were dirty. He was cleaner than he’d been in weeks. But he could not argue the place of peasants. Those who tried to were severely punished.
‘I live up here,’ said Erdy, ‘because I need bow my head only to storm clouds. My only King is the mountain. But you have come from down there, and it seems need kings and princes and their serfs. And if that has to be so,’ he said with a sigh, ‘then I shall be King up here. It is not a role I want, but otherwise you will squabble us to death.’ He turned to Toby. ‘You are a prince.’
‘Yes,’ said Toby.
‘And she is a princess,’ went on Erdy.
‘She is not!’ exclaimed Toby.
‘Don’t disobey your King,’ said Erdy. He turned to Far. ‘And you are a prince.’
‘I don’t want to be a prince,’ mumbled Far.
‘And I don’t want to be a King. How unhappy we all are.’ He sat down at the end of the bed. ‘And it is because of that we must talk. All of us.’
‘Not with that boy,’ said Orly stubbornly.
Erdy rose. ‘Come, Far. We’ll sit by the fire.’
He left the bedside and crossed to the fire. Far took up his crutch and he stumbled after him. Halfway he had to stop, as his feet still hurt him. Then gritting his teeth he made the remaining steps. Once there, he crouched by the fire and stroked Sly who still watched the two at the bed.
‘We must not give in to this equality,’ said Orly, keeping her voice low. ‘Otherwise who are we?’
Toby was uncomfortable. He wanted to be with Far and Erdy who were talking by the fireside, but knew too the sick girl needed his support.
‘Erdy saved our lives,’ he said.
‘I grant he is noble,’ said Orly.
‘He isn’t,’ said Toby. ‘I have seen his mother’s cottage. She is hardly above a peasant.’
‘I am a lady,’ said Orly defiantly. ‘I must be treated as a lady. Or else I am nobody.’
Toby suspected she might be nobody. As he was. But said nothing.
‘I will not talk in the boy’s company,’ she added. Tired, she subsided on her pillows, breathing rapidly.
‘Don’t talk,’ said Toby.
‘We must treat our peasants well,’ she continued, working hard to get out the words. ‘I accept that. But we are not peasants.’ She coughed, but painfully continued. ‘Nor is it by accident we are highborn. We have a duty to be what we are. If we admit to equality – they will hang us.’
She stopped in a fit of small coughs.
‘Enough for now,’ said Toby.
All that anger in one so sick. She lay back now on her pillow breathing rapidly. All those words she must say. He wiped her brow with the damp flannel next to her pillow. She was so hot. He wondered how many of the words belonged to her father. As they could have belonged to his own. But he wondered too about her talk of hanging. Or rather who was the hangman. It hadn’t been the peasants who had killed her family. Or his father for that matter. Though he didn’t doubt they could.
