by Jenny Nimmo
They had found six extra horses, and so everyone had their own mount. The girls were very pleased about this. They looked different today. They had found clothes in the deserted houses and were now dressed as boys. Their hair was tucked into hoods attached to their short tunics. Having discarded their long dresses, they now wore woollen stockings, so their legs were free and they did not have to ride sidesaddle, which they found annoying and uncomfortable.
As the group approached a small village, half-hidden in the woods, Henri began to look around him, studying the ancient trees. He twisted in the saddle, staring up at a towering pine and, with mounting surprise, declared that he thought he recognised the place, and that it was not so far from his home.
This caused a lot of excitement among the other French children. All at once their own homes seemed closer, and the possibility of seeing their parents before very long made some of them whoop with joy.
‘Shush!’ Madame Grüner commanded. ‘You will frighten everyone, and they will bar their doors.’
And so they entered the village in silence, until Madame Grüner saw her cousin peeping out of a window. With a joyful cry, the old woman half-slid and half-tumbled off the horse and fell to the ground, while her cousin, a woman much younger than herself, rushed out and clasped her in her arms.
There followed such a babble of frantic conversation between the two, even the French children could not understand them.
Other people began to emerge from their houses. They stared in amazement at the camel. None of them had seen such a creature. But, at length, they motioned for the children to dismount and, climbing off their horses, the children stood grinning at the villagers, who all grinned back.
The cousin, Madame Magnier, invited everyone into her house, while the horses were taken to be fed and watered. Gabar, however, was left well alone.
‘Well, Gabar,’ Timoken grunted softly. ‘I think you had better let me down, because I do not intend to fly.’
He heard a woman say, ‘The African can only speak in grunts.’
‘On the contrary, Madame,’ said Timoken. ‘I can speak many languages. I was merely instructing my camel.’
The woman gasped. When Gabar knelt, she suddenly saw Timoken’s crown. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, blushing. ‘I am a foolish woman.’
Timoken smiled. ‘You made a common mistake, Madame.’
Soon the whole village knew the story of the boy sorcerer and the fatal poisonings. When they heard that all the children, except Timoken, had been kidnapped, they clutched their own children protectively, agreeing never to let them out of their sight.
That evening the visitors were given a grand meal in the village meeting house. While they ate, the villagers pressed them to tell their stories.
The children’s accounts were listened to with outrage and horror. Several mothers stood up and piled even more food on their plates.
Madame Magnier’s husband was a soldier, but after being wounded in battle he had returned home for good. He walked with a limp, but declared that his sword arm was still good, and he offered to accompany the French children to the castle where Henri lived with his family.
‘My father will make sure that the others are taken home, I promise you.’ Henri smiled around at the French children, who began to cheer and clap.
Monsieur Magnier leaned over the table and asked Edern where he wished to go. Edern shrugged and looked puzzled.
‘He is asking you where you want to go from here,’ said Timoken.
‘I go with you,’ Edern said quickly. He asked the other Britons.
‘We stay together,’ said Peredur, ‘with you.’
‘And the girl there, who is not French?’ asked Madame Magnier.
‘Where do you want to go next?’ Timoken asked Beri.
‘Home,’ she said gravely.
‘Of course.’ Having no idea where the girl lived, Madame Magnier smiled at her.
‘And you, African?’ asked one of the mothers. ‘Where will you go, you and your camel?’
For a moment Timoken was unable to answer her. He had given no thought to his next destination. He had no home, and he felt like a blade of grass, tossed about by the wind, and having no direction. His ringed finger began to ache, and the ache spread through his body. Almost without thinking, he found himself saying, ‘I am going to Castile.’
‘Castile?’ A murmur went around the table. Many had never heard of the place.
Monsieur Magnier had heard of it. ‘You will never get there,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It is far to Spain.’
‘Not too far,’ said Timoken. He glanced at Beri and she smiled at him.
Why had he said that name? he wondered. Castile. Where was it? He knew only that Beri lived there, and yet it seemed to tug at him. He looked at the ring, twisting it pensively around his finger.
‘She is there,’ came the whisper.
‘She?’ gasped Timoken.
Chapter Fourteen
Zobayda’s Dream
Zobayda was old now, and spent much of her time dreaming. There were the nightmares, too. They would always haunt her. She would see her father, in his white robes, riding out to meet the lord of the viridees, who sat on his horse like a dark shadow, waiting to kill a king. However hard she tried, she could never blot out the flash of the sabre, and her father’s tumbling, headless body.
Sometimes, she dreamt about her journeys with Timoken, and the camel whose name she could never recall. These were the scenes that made her smile, but they always led to the day, sixty years ago, when she thought she had died, when she leapt into the river and was swept over the thundering falls. She had expected to drown, but somehow she had survived. She had tied herself to a floating log and was carried through the water for days and days. Without a doubt, any other mortal would have died, but the Alixir that Zobayda had taken for over a hundred years kept her alive. She had been unconscious and almost dead when Ibn Jubayr, an Arab traveller, found her on the shore and saved her life. She would never forget his kind, concerned face looking down at her.
When Zobayda had recovered, Ibn Jubayr took her with him on his travels. She washed his clothes, cooked and tidied for him. His eyes were failing and he taught her Arabic, so that she could read aloud from the large book that he always carried with him. They crossed the Mediterranean Sea to Spain, and travelled to Toledo, in the kingdom of Castile, the city that Ibn Jubayr called home. And there Zobayda met his nephew, Tariq, whom she came to love. Eventually, they were married.
Her husband had died a year ago, but Zobayda still kept his workshop exactly as it had been. Tariq had made the most beautiful toys ever seen; even the king admired them, and had bought many for his children. But Zobayda could not bring herself to sell the toys that were left.
She felt unwell today. Not unwell, exactly, but troubled. The toys always soothed her and so she descended the narrow steps to the workshop. She often walked here, her skirt whispering over the wood shavings, her fingers touching the shelves where wooden dolls sat side by side with leather animals and birds made of coloured straw. She was especially fond of the camel, with its squirrel-hair eyelashes and shiny glass eyes. It stood knee-high and when she sat down she could stroke its smooth wooden head.
She did this now, and then she took the camel on to her lap and asked it, ‘What was his name, that camel I rode so many years ago?’ She wondered if Timoken had found a home at last. Or was he still wandering, searching for a place where he could grow old?
A sudden prick in her finger made her thrust it into her mouth. ‘What was that?’ She examined the camel to see what could have pricked her. But there was nothing.
Zobayda had once worn a ring on the finger that was now throbbing with pain. She could still see the pale mark that it had left on her skin.
She stood up, letting the camel fall to the ground. The workshop around her began to spin and fade. Strange images swam into her head. She saw the viridees, the creatures that had forced her into the river. Now they
were dressed in fine clothes, but she knew them by their strange limbs and swamp-water faces. Their powerful horses sent clouds of dust into the air as they thundered along the dry, stony road. Their leader was a boy of twelve or thirteen. He was not like them, and yet, beneath his cold, handsome face, beneath the fur-lined cloak and fine green tunic, she could see the rubbery bones and fluid sinews of a viridee.
Zobayda covered her face with her hands; the dust in her dream was so real it seemed to sting her eyes. And now she saw a great black beast, a giant horse that snorted flames and bared its teeth. It was pulling a wagon driven by a burly fellow in a brown monk’s robe. Behind him in the wagon sat three others. Their faces were partially hidden by their hoods, but they were not monks. All of them wore swords in their belts, and the driver’s face was scarred by knife wounds.
Why were they travelling so fast?
Now, in the very corner of her vision, something appeared that made Zobayda cry out in astonishment.
‘Timoken!’
Her brother looked just as he had sixty years ago, the last time she had seen him. He was riding the camel whose name she had forgotten. Behind him came five children on horseback. They were laughing and singing, and Timoken looked carefree and happy.
‘I’m glad that you are happy, Timoken.’ Zobayda went to the small window in the workshop, almost expecting her brother to appear on the road below.
But, of course, he was not in Toledo; he could not be. And yet she felt he was nearer than he had ever been. As she absently rubbed the mark on her finger, she began to feel that she was floating high above the world, and her brother and his friends were now tiny dots in the landscape. As they vanished from view, something appeared on the road behind them. Zobayda might have been a mile above them, but she knew that she was seeing the black horse and its wagonload of armed monks.
‘Timoken, take care!’ He could not hear her. Could not see her. Probably thought she was dead. There was nothing that Zobayda could do. Besides, someone was shouting her name, and banging on her door.
Zobayda’s dream faded. She felt herself floating to the floor. She was back in the workshop, staring at the empty road from her small window. Somewhat unsteadily she climbed the steps to the courtyard and went to open the door on to the street. Her friend Carmela was standing outside. She looked distraught.
‘What is it?’ Zobayda ushered her friend into the courtyard and closed the door behind her. ‘Has something happened, Carmela?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’ Carmela lowered herself on to the stone seat in the centre of the courtyard. Behind her, roses bloomed, filling the air with their fragrant scent. Carmela never failed to admire them, but today she ignored the roses and bent her head, puffing loudly.
Zobayda sat beside her friend and waited for her to get her breath back.
‘Terrible news,’ Carmela said, patting her chest. ‘There has been enough fighting in our precious city, and now it is happening again. Did you not hear the shouting, Zobayda?’
‘I heard nothing. I was … dreaming.’
‘Well, I heard it. It came from the river. My neighbour had the news. Strangers came over one of the bridges. They would not pay at the tollgate. When the guards forbade them entry, their leader, a mere boy so I am told, he …’ Carmela closed her eyes. ‘He …’
Zobayda took her friend’s hand. ‘You are distressed. Take your time, my dear.’
‘The boy’s sword came out so fast you could not see it,’ Carmela cried. ‘Someone said he had no weapon at all. But the guard’s hand was severed.’ She turned to Zobayda and stared into her face. ‘They say the boy is a sorcerer, his followers not even human.’
‘Not human?’
‘They say they have a greenish look, arms like roots, hair like vines.’
A shiver of fear ran down Zobayda’s spine. ‘Viridees,’ she murmured.
Carmela frowned. ‘Do you know of them?’
‘I have met them.’ Zobayda stood up and began to pace the courtyard. ‘What are they doing here, so far from Africa?’
‘Africa?’ Carmela got to her feet and made for the door. ‘Lock yourself in, my dear. That’s my advice.’
‘Stay with me,’ begged Zobayda.
‘I must be with my children,’ said Carmela. ‘Go down to your husband’s workshop and stay there until it’s over. They have sent for Esteban Díaz.’ She stepped out and closed the door behind her.
Zobayda bolted the door and pulled the bar across it. She could hear screaming now, and the clatter of hooves. ‘Esteban Díaz,’ she breathed as she hurried down to the workshop.
Esteban Díaz was the most famous swordsman in the kingdom of Castile. He had never been beaten in a fight. Several weeks ago his daughter had been kidnapped and Esteban had gone to search for her. But it was rumoured that he was returning to Toledo, to await the ransom note that must surely be delivered.
Zobayda was tempted to look out of the window, but decided instead to sit on a bench at the far end of the room. From here she could see almost every toy, and she tried to ignore the sounds outside and think of her husband, carefully cutting and stitching, carving and painting.
The screams, the roars and the clatter of hooves were getting louder and closer. Had the boy conjured up an army?
Zobayda waited. Waited and waited. An unlikely battle raged in the streets. If the boy was a sorcerer, what kind of dreadful power could he use against the people? But, surely, if Esteban Díaz had arrived, there could only be one outcome. Even a sorcerer could not defeat the famous swordsman of Toledo.
The sun began to sink. The toys cast long shadows on the floor. The noise outside began to fade. Silence, at last. Had the boy and his viridees left the city, or were they dead?
A sudden crash above brought Zobayda to her feet. The courtyard door had been broken. She could hear the clangs of iron on stone as the bolts and the bar hit the ground. Silence again. Zobayda waited, clutching her throat.
A figure appeared at the top of the workshop steps: a boy in a green cloak. When he descended, the viridees followed. Four of them. Their footsteps soundless, their faces sickly, their eyes red as sores. They filled the room with their awful stench.
The boy came towards her, kicking the toys out of his way. He had no use for toys. He was no ordinary boy.
‘Who are you?’ asked Zobayda, her mind seeing the greenish bones under his pale cheeks.
The boy’s smile was icy. ‘My father is lord of the viridees, my mother the daughter of Count Roken of Pomerishi. I am Count Harken.’ He gave a mocking bow.
Zobayda glanced at the tall figures behind the boy. Her throat was dry with fear. ‘What do you want?’ she asked huskily.
‘You are awaiting your brother, no doubt. Well, so am I. We will wait together.’
Timoken and the five children had been heading west for several weeks, but they were making little progress. The land was dry and rocky. Even the horses found it hard going. Sometimes, Gabar would refuse to go any further. He would sink to his knees and chew at the rough grass and thorny undergrowth, ignoring all of Timoken’s attempts to move him on. There was only one way to make the camel go faster. He would have to fly.
At first, Gabar did not think much of this idea. But Timoken pointed out that there were no other camels around to embarrass him, and it was not as though he would have to fly over a mountain. So, a little reluctantly, Gabar allowed Timoken to lift him a short distance above a particularly rocky stretch of land.
The first time they saw the camel flying, the children were, momentarily, too astonished to speak, and then they all began to cheer, urging their startled horses after the flying camel.
Now, they often travelled in this way, and they began to make better progress. At night Timoken would build a fire, and they would cook the food they had managed to find during the day. When Peredur suggested they steal a chicken from one of the hamlets they passed, Timoken knew that he would have to reveal yet another of his talents.
‘If we are caugh
t we will be hanged as thieves,’ Timoken told Peredur.
‘We won’t be caught,’ Peredur insisted. ‘How else are we going to eat? The food the Magniers gave us has all gone.’
‘Except for this.’ Timoken took the last piece of dried meat from the bag. He cupped it in his hands for a moment, and muttered a request in the language of the secret kingdom. When he spread his palms, two pieces of meat were revealed.
The others stared at the meat, and then at Timoken. No one spoke as he multiplied the meat until there was enough for all of them.
‘Thank you, magician,’ Mabon said at last. ‘We will never go hungry again.’ Mabon loved his food.
That evening, as they sat around the fire, Beri talked about the day she was kidnapped. She was the only one who had not yet told her story.
‘My father is famous in the kingdom of Castile,’ said Beri. ‘His name is Esteban Díaz, and he is the best swordsman in the land. Whenever there is a battle, our king calls for my father. He has never lost a fight, and the king has made him very wealthy. My mother is from Catalonia, and she wanted me to marry a distant cousin who lives there. His family is rich and well-connected. But my father insisted that I meet this young man first and decide for myself. And so we made a long, uncomfortable journey to Catalonia, and all the way I kept seeing two men riding behind us. Following. I told my mother, but she insisted that I was imagining it.’
‘And what did you decide, when you met this cousin?’ asked Timoken.
Beri pouted. ‘I did not like him. He was older than me. Fat and boring. I ran away from him one day. And that is when I got caught. I think that the kidnappers had followed us all the way from Toledo. They had been waiting for a chance to grab me and when they saw me alone, outside the castle, they could not believe their luck. Before I could cry out, they had run up and, while one put his hand over my mouth, the other bound my hands and feet. I was thrown over one of the horses, and they galloped off before anyone even knew that I had left the castle.’
