Myths and Magic

by Kevin Partner

  He shook his head as if pondering an age-old puzzle that still gnawed at him.

  “And then what?” prompted Bill as his patience began to wear thin.

  “What? Oh yes. Then she left."

  Just as Bill was about to erupt in frustration, the old man continued.

  “She asked me to watch out for you. She said she knew your father would take care of your corporeal needs, but she wanted you to be educated, as she was. She knew then, you see, that you were a bright child. So, once you were old enough, I spoke to your father - I didn’t mention your mother’s request, you understand, she’d asked me to keep it secret. Blackjack was a bit resistant but, in the end, he saw the value of what I was offering. And, I must say, you’ve proven a most able student, my boy. Quite your mother’s son.”

  “Didn’t you ask her where she was going?”

  Vokes shrugged. “Of course I did, but she wouldn’t tell me even though I begged to be allowed to help her. She knew her mind and no-one could persuade her otherwise once she was set upon a course.”

  Bill sighed. “And you’ve got no theories of your own? No idea at all?”

  “I have theories,” said Vokes, “but that’s all they are and, like your mother, I am strong-willed enough to keep my own counsel until I have some evidence, if that ever happens.”

  The old man raised himself stiffly out of the chair, grabbed a poker from beside the fire and prodded at the coals.

  “You know, you could help me in my researches. I’m too old to go travelling, but you’d make an adequate substitute.”

  “Me?” said Bill, astonished.

  The wizard turned towards him, a hungry gleam in his eye. “And why not? You have wit enough to do my bidding, to ask the right questions and go to the right places. Or do you see your entire life being lived in the coppice woods?”

  Truth to tell, Bill had indeed feared that the only exposure he’d get to the wider world would be the occasional trading trip to one of the larger nearby towns, perhaps even going as far as the provincial capital, Montesham, once or twice during his lifetime. The thought of travelling beyond the borders of his direct knowledge excited him. It also frightened him and fear, right now, was winning hands-down.

  “I don’t think I could leave dad,” he said, putting his glass down and heading to where his coat sat.

  “A pity. Perhaps you’re not quite as like your mother as I thought. For all her faults she never lacked courage,” Vokes said, bristling.

  He paused, his shoulders dropped, and he looked into Bill’s eyes. “All I ask is that you think about it. You’ve learned enough of the wider world to know that there is much to see beyond the borders of these woods and, in finding your mother, you might do a greater service than simply having your questions answered. Troubling times are approaching, and she might be important.”

  The old man heaved himself out of his chair, waving away Bill’s questions, and walked to the front door, his hand resting on the bolt. “No more tonight. I am tired and have much still to do. Come and see me soon, preferably during daylight, you quite startled me on the door.”

  “What were you frightened of?” Bill asked as he stepped across the threshold and looked back at Vokes and the merry warmth of the cottage hallway behind him.

  The wizard’s expression hardened.

  “Frightened? Me? What in these woods could possibly scare me?” he said and shut the door, leaving Bill standing in the darkness.

  What indeed? thought Bill as he headed along the familiar pathway back home.

  A curious face looked out from the other world - a curious, impatient face with anger management issues. Refined eyebrows creased together and a mouth that generally wore a sarcastic smile now bordered on the verge of a snarl. How long was he expected to wait? It had been 20 years since he sent his messenger forth and still he was trapped on this side when there was so much of interest on the other.

  “Tea, sir?” rasped a voice from the darkness behind him.

  The face at the round window inclined his head slightly, without taking his gaze from the tempting world over there. “Not now, Bently, can’t you see I’m occupied?”

  There was a gentle cough. “If I may be so bold, master, but you’ve been standing there for some time. You appear to have an arachnid nesting in your hat, and I fear we may have to lift you out of your boots when you tire of watching.”

  “You are brave, I’ll give you that. I will reward your boldness by not killing you, for the moment.”

  An audible nod could be heard from the shadows. “Thank you, master. Would you anticipate requiring refreshment?”

  With a flick of his wrist, the spider, or at least its long-discarded skin, was ejected. “Not just yet, Bently. I’ll watch a while longer.”

  “Very well, master.”

  The servant creaked away backwards.

  “But it pays to be prepared, so inform my torturers that I may require their services should I find my time has been wasted.”

  A dark chuckle.

  “Oh, very good sir. Very good indeed.”

  Chapter 3

  Chortley Hatchit Colin Fitzmichael watched as the man was brought in. He didn’t normally attend his father’s court, but this promised to be fun, so he’d taken his position to the side of the dais. Unfortunately his sister Aggrapella was also here, sitting next to their father in the heir’s position. She was officially there to receive training in how justice is dispensed to prepare for the day when she would be making the judgements. In truth, Chortley knew, she was there because she was a twisted bastard who liked to see fear and pain in others. It ran in the family.

  The man had been brought to stand before his father. He had obviously once been a man of means, at least by the standards of the natives, but a few weeks in the care of his father’s dungeon keepers had left him grubby and filthy clothes hung from his emaciated body. Chortley smiled, perfectly aware that a normal person would feel pity for the wretch. But then, empathy requires a soul and Chortley was pretty certain he didn’t possess one.

  “Habeus Smithson of Montesham,” intoned the Clerk of the Court, “you are brought here to receive the just judgement of your Lord and Master, his High Excellency the Count Walter Fitzmichael. Do you understand?”

  The man swayed a little and Chortley wondered whether he was simply exhausted or out of his wits. Not the latter, he hoped, as that would rob him of some of the enjoyment.

  “Do you understand, Smithson?” the clerk barked, his reedy voice bouncing off the stone walls and disappearing among the carved pillars that formed a colonnade down the middle of the hall.

  Smithson nodded and mumbled something that the clerk took to be an affirmative. His gaze returned to the charge sheet.

  “You are accused of laying hands on a member of the noble class and causing injury unto him. You are also accused of spreading falsehoods regarding the honour and propriety of that gentleman thus unjustifiably endangering his reputation. How do you plead to these charges?”

  The prisoner raised his head, and Chortley could see, for the first time, that one of Smithson’s eyes was so swollen it was hard to tell if there was an eyeball in there or not.

  “I am guilty of the first charge,” Smithson murmured, his words whistling through the gaps in his teeth, “but I will not accept the second. I spoke no falsehood.”

  There was an intake of breath from the watching crowd. Most had turned up simply for the spectacle of watching someone else receiving Varman justice and it seemed they were in for a treat. Rare indeed was the prisoner who survived torture with the wit and resolve to defy his lord in public.

  “Master Smithson.”

  The court fell silent as Count Walter Fitzmichael spoke, his deep but restrained voice commanding instant attention. “You accept the charge of attacking one of your betters. That alone would be enough to guarantee a most unpleasant death. However, I am prepared to consider clemency if you confess to the second charge also.”

  Chortley co
uld have sworn he saw a tear run down Smithson’s face. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t tell a lie. Lord de Grey dishonoured my daughter, and I sought nothing more than the customary recompense, for her sake and that of her child.”

  “Do not disrespect the name of a lord, peasant!” hissed Aggrapella. “Your task is to serve your betters, not assault them.”

  Fitzmichael raised his hand. “My daughter is correct, though she should know when to hold her tongue.”

  Chortley barely suppressed a snigger as his sister’s face reddened and she fell back into her chair.

  “I will give you one more chance,” said Fitzmichael, turning back to his prisoner. He signalled to a waiting guard and a door opened. Two terrified women, one grey and middle-aged, the other heavily pregnant, entered the room, each escorted by a man in mail. Tears streamed down their faces as they saw Smithson and recognised the sort of condition he was in.

  The prisoner reflexively jumped forward, as if he could embrace them, but his guards were ready and simply hauled on the chain around his neck, pulling him up short.

  “Mildred, Beth!” he cried, his face white with shock and fear.

  “Good,” Fitzmichael said, and the room fell silent again, “you have spared us the tedium of formally identifying these women to the court. They are your wife, Mildred, and your daughter Izabeth. Now, it would be entirely just for me to charge each of them alongside you as abetters in the crime you have admitted but, were you to publicly withdraw your accusation of Lord de Grey, I may consider leniency for them.”

  Smithson was shaking, his face wet and his mouth open in shock and terror. The very embodiment of a broken man, thought a delighted Chortley.

  The clerk of the court prodded him with his ceremonial stick. “Well, man? Answer His Lordship.”

  Habeus Smithson, silversmith, respected pillar of his community and head of the local jeweller’s guild, nodded slowly.

  “I withdraw, my lord.” He looked up in utter defeat at the man who held their lives in his hands.

  Fitzmichael grunted an assent and turned to his daughter. “And what would be your judgement, daughter and future countess of this shire?”

  Aggrapella seemed surprised to be asked, and a smile of wicked delight spread across her face. “Father, the prisoner is condemned by his own words - he struck a member of the noble class and did so without any mitigating cause. He should suffer to be hanged, drawn and quartered in a public place.”

  Smithson was beyond reacting now, he stood there as if he was dead already.

  “As for the wife, she shall hang beside her husband for abetting him,” spat Aggrapella as the court erupted in noise. “And his whore of a daughter shall be taken to the gates of the city and stoned. That will make an end of this.”

  Smithson let out a spine-chilling wail and struggled against his chains.

  Count Fitzmichael raised his hand, and there was instant silence, aside from the sound of the Smithson family weeping.

  “Daughter, I commend you on your enthusiasm for justice,” he said, “but, no - it shall not be so.”

  This caught Chortley by surprise, and he was momentarily torn between his delight at his sister’s embarrassment, and disappointment at missing a grisly execution. Say what you like about his father (and people tended to say “murdering ruthless bastard”, at least in the privacy of their own thoughts) he was anything but predictable.

  “Habeus Smithson, you shall pay the following price. You will be taken from this place to the dungeons below, and your left leg shall be severed above the knee. If you survive, you will pay a tax of 75% of all earnings to my exchequer until a fine of one thousand marks has been raised. After that, you will pay 25% of earnings in addition to any other taxes for the rest of your life. For her crime of assisting and sheltering you, your wife shall hold you down as your leg is removed.”

  Fitzmichael now pointed at the pregnant Beth. “As for your daughter, she shall forfeit her freedom and will be taken into a noble household to work. Her child, having Varman blood, will be educated and found a place from which to rise out of the shame of its family. That is my judgement. Take them away. The court is now concluded.”

  Watching the group as they shuffled away, Chortley marvelled at the fact that they were almost happy that Smithson would lose a leg and his daughter her child. Life was everything, it seemed. The great hall emptied quickly as the bystanders sought to get out of range of the Fitzmichael family as fast as possible, just in case they decided to vent their venom on anyone else.

  Chortley tagged along with his father and sister, listening to them argue. As they reached the privacy of his chambers, Fitzmichael Senior pushed the door to and turned on Aggrapella. “Never question my judgements, daughter, especially where we might be overheard.”

  “But you humiliated me, twice!” she whined. “And why were you so lenient?”

  To his surprise, Chortley’s father turned to him. “Why do you think I made that judgement, boy?”

  Chortley didn’t like being called “boy”, but this was an Opportunity, so he swallowed his anger, thought for a moment and spoke.

  “It could be one of two reasons. You might think that Smithson was innocent, since we all know that De Grey is a malicious piece of shit quite capable of refusing to pay the traditional price for dishonouring a serf.”

  Fitzmichael nodded. “Or?”

  Hesitating momentarily, Chortley decided to gamble. “Or you reckoned that a master silversmith is worth more alive than dead. Cutting off his leg was a brutal enough punishment to remind peasants that touching one of us has serious consequences. And killing the girl was never an option.”

  At this point, he glanced into the poisonous stare of his sister. “Her child has Varman blood, so it must be protected, that is our creed.”

  “Well done,” Fitzmichael said and Chortley reflected that these might have been the first words of praise his father had ever uttered to him. “In fact, you are right on both counts. Smithson was right to feel aggrieved at De Grey breaking the code, but wrong to strike him, even in self-defence.”

  “But I don’t understand why a piffling thousand marks is better than setting an example no-one will ever forget!” Aggrapella said.

  “Tell me, how do we maintain order?” asked Fitzmichael.

  Aggrapella shrugged. “Force of arms, obviously.”

  “Indeed,” said Fitzmichael, “and armies cost money. That ‘piffling’ thousand marks will pay the wages of a hundred warriors for a year, and it’s a piffling thousand we don’t have to find from elsewhere. Now then, I hope you have learned some wisdom today. At some point, you will be making these judgements and our domain could stand or fall through them.”

  “Yes, father. I hope that point is many years in the future.” Aggrapella gave a brief curtsy and left, looking for all the world like a modest and dutiful daughter, although Chortley suspected his father was as aware of the disguise as he was.

  Fitzmichael turned to his son. “Find De Grey and communicate my displeasure to him in whatever way seems fit, short of permanent injury. Inform him that if I ever hear of such a case again, I will remove his means and motivation for being a nuisance. Do you understand me?”

  Chortley nodded with enthusiasm. “I do, father. I won’t let you down.”

  For a moment, Walter Fitzmichael’s face darkened. “See that you don’t,” he said before dismissing the boy.

  He sighed. After all, it wasn’t Chortley’s fault who his mother was. When he’d met her, Fitzmichael had believed her to have flown in from the Darkworld like some fairy princess born at the sunrise of creation. It was the first time he’d experienced love, and, he was certain, it would be the last. His own father had been incandescent at the idea of them marrying, and so they were lovers and Chortley was the result.

  He’d been only a week old when she'd disappeared, leaving Walter Fitzmichael heartbroken and, soon enough, in need of a true heir. Aggrapella’s mother was the loveless choice made for him,
her only redeeming feature being that she didn’t live long enough to really get on his nerves.

  But Chortley remained as a constant reminder of that past and, occasionally, it prompted him to make decisions that were not truly befitting a tyrant. Curse the woman, wherever she now was. She’d better hope he never saw her again.

  Chapter 4

  Bill was a young man of nineteen years so, naturally, for the past several of those years, girls had leapfrogged wooden swords, pig bladders and charcoal to take pride of place in his ponderings during the many hours alone in the forest. He regarded those younger than him as nuisances, women older than him as obstacles and girls of around his own age as a mysterious combination of promise and blind terror.

  The lads who worked in the town or on the local farms had the advantage of seeing girls often enough to get used to talking to them the right way. Malleable and Ductile Johnson, sons of the local blacksmith were each as thick as a shark sandwich, but years of physical labour had moulded their bodies into shapes local girls, for some reason, found irresistible.

  By contrast, Bill only ever communicated with girls when in town on errands. An exception was the landlord’s daughter at the Cock and Bull who was the only female of Bill’s age allowed to serve in the pub. A good looking and articulate young woman, Enid Bull would make an effective wife for some young lad lucky enough to be stone deaf. Enid was capable of verbally eviscerating any male cheeky enough to give her lip, and Bill had no desire to stray into her cross-hairs. He stayed out of her way and kept his equipment intact.

  If anything, Blackjack Strike was even more inhibited around women than his son and Bill had wondered more than once whether the Strike line might have died out if his mother hadn’t, 20 years ago, wandered into his father’s firelight.

  A preoccupied Bill tramped along the familiar paths of the forest as night fell, his imagination painting an image of an elfin princess bathed in an amber glow. It was almost as if he could see it in front of him. And then he smelled it. Burning.