These Dark Wings

by John Owen Theobald

  Start Reading

  About These Dark Wings

  About John Owen Theobald

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  To read this book as the author intended – and for a fuller reading experience – turn on ‘original’ or ‘publisher’s font’ in your text display options.

  For Nana

  If the ravens leave the Tower, the kingdom will fall...

  In England they’re filled with curiosity.

  They keep asking, ‘Why doesn’t he come?’

  Be calm, be calm. He’s coming.

  Hitler, Berlin rally, 4 September 1940

  There were three ravens sat on a tree.

  They were as black as black could be.

  Then one of them said to his mate,

  Where shall we our breakfast take?

  The Three Ravens, English folk ballad

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  Display Options Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph 1

  Map

  Epigraph 2

  Epigraph 3

  Part I: The Tower and The Prison

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part II: The Lion and The River

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part III: The Ravens and The Ruins

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part IV: The Fire and The Moon

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part V: At Traitors’ Gate

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part VI: The Ravenmaster

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgements

  About These Dark Wings

  About John Owen Theobald

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  I

  THE TOWER AND THE PRISON

  These cruel, wanton, indiscriminate bombings of London are, of course, a part of Hitler’s invasion plans. He hopes, by killing large numbers of civilians, and women and children, that he will terrorize and cow the people of this mighty imperial city. Little does he know the spirit of the British nation, and the tough fibre of Londoners.

  Churchill, radio broadcast, 11 September 1940

  1

  Friday, 4 October 1940

  The shelter was under the playing fields at school. We weren’t inside for long, but it was sunny and I felt every minute in the hot darkness. Hitler had started bombing in the daytime. Afterwards I heard that a shell had hit near our street, and some motor cars and a bus had crashed. People were killed. My form teacher told me that. Bus 414, she said.

  All I thought of at the time was how much better the school shelter was than the flimsy Anderson shelter in the garden (always filled with spiders and earwigs), and that Mum would be happy I was here. I did not think of where Mum was.

  It wasn’t so close, but she liked the walk to the Underground. Mum only caught the bus to the tube station if the hot water had run out or breakfast had been burnt. She worked at the Evening Standard, as a journalist. I said it was all a mistake, that Mum was fine. Maybe she had not gone into work at all today. If they’d just let me go home, she would be in the kitchen making cheese on toast, worried about me.

  I wasn’t allowed to go home.

  Long after all the other kids had left, I stayed at school, wishing that my best friend Flo could be with me, but she was already on her ship to Montreal. I sat in the office with the headmaster, who watched me from over his papers with a queer expression. Even though I still had my book on the Stuarts from Mr Fenwick’s history class, all I could do was stare at the words – strange, meaningless.

  Then someone from the Women’s Voluntary Service came and sat in the chair next to mine. I was told that, during the incident, Mum had been on bus 414. I was told that on Friday, 27 September, Mum had died.

  It wasn’t possible. It simply... wasn’t. The headmaster smiled weakly, the woman not at all, and the sun was bright at the window and I was still at school.

  Raids at least happen quickly. They are endless, of course, but things change – die, explode, vanish. In that chaos, things happen. That afternoon, nothing happened at all. I stayed in the office.

  When night finally came, back down to the shelter we all went. That raid was one of the worst. I sat on the hard bench with the headmaster and the serious woman, the warden leaning against the wall. An old man, I remember, tried to push inside carrying a cage with a budgie in it. The warden shook his head. He didn’t even move from the wall.

  ‘You can’t bring that in now, can you, sir?’

  That made me sad. I wanted to say something, to yell out, to beg them to let the man and his stupid bird come inside. They didn’t come back but a few others arrived, and soon it was warm and clammy with all the bodies. The warden, in his overalls, wellies, and steel helmet, must have been sweating. I sat in silence as the raid pounded on.

  In the morning, I was in the office again. Someone else from the WVS came, with the same purple and bottle-green uniform. She held out a bag of things from the house. My blue hairbrush, Pond’s cold cream, some pictures (not the coloured photograph of Mum sitting at the kitchen table with Father and me – where Mum looks like Vivien Leigh but with fox-coloured hair).

  Clutching the bag, I was ushered into the darkness of a taxi.

  Crrruck. Crrruck.

  The croaking of the ravens drags me into the present. No more memories: this is my life now. My old life ended a long month ago on that horrible day.

  I stomp my feet in the cold dawn air, and inch closer to the series of giant, open-air cages built into the ancient wall of the Tower of London.

  Crrruck. Crrruck.

  Yes, yes, I am coming. I walk forward, shoulders tightened, and wrench open the stiff wire gate. If ravens are so smart, how come they do nothing all day but bury the same scrap of food over and over again? If they’re really such ‘sophisticated birds’, why can’t they understand the simplest gesture? No, Uncle Henry must have got a piece of shrapnel in the head. The Tower ravens are just as dumb as any other bird.

  Greedier, though. And feeding them is my job.

  ‘Good morning, MacDonald.’

  The great head turns, studies both me and the chopped meat, deciding which is the meal. Then the razor beak begins tearing and pulling, eyes never leaving mine. For now, the look says. I fill the water bowl and move on. Black eyes follow me.

  The sun begins to rise. High above, the day looks like it will be empty, clear. Down here, mist still clings to the stone. The White Tower, the oldest, tallest building – the heart of the Tower of London – is also the home of the ravens. As I reach the second raven, a shiver runs through me. I am cold, not afraid. They are only birds.

  I yank open the cage. Croaks issue from the dark before the large bird strides free. He pauses, gazing over the Green, before turning to his meal. I try to keep my voice neutral.

  ‘Good morning, Edgar.’

  I receive only a sideways glance for my role as servant.

  ‘Just feed the ravens,’ Uncle answers whenever I start to ask questions. ‘Remember their names, and give them their meal.’

  Uncle Henry is an important man in the Tower. Everyone calls him ‘Ravenmaster’. He says I am brave for a little girl – I am not little, I am almost thirteen – and so he can trust me with the dawn feeding. But I know there are other reasons. When I was first brought here, Uncle proudly marched with the sunrise. Each day he came to the roost later and later, his hat sliding down his tired face. Now he does no
t come at all.

  I can handle feeding some giant birds. The bucket is heavy, the measurements confusing, but I have learned these past weeks. Hold the bucket grip in the middle, let it swing with your steps – that way, the mess will not slop over the rim. Never forget your gloves. The leather is warm, the cage wires cold, and the ravens’ beaks like metal. Always they are sharpening their beaks.

  At least four ounces of raw meat (Uncle chopped it last night) and two biscuits, soaked in blood, placed well out of reach. Much easier than the evening feed, which Uncle still does, when the birds are alert and irritable. They hate the bombs as much as the rest of us.

  Greet each bird by name.

  ‘Hello, Cora.’

  A girl bird, as if it makes any difference. Even though I have tried to imagine her croak as softer, lighter than the others, it is the same low, gurgling noise from deep in the throat. Orrk. Orrk. Grey breath steams from her black beak.

  ‘Be honest with me, Cora. Uncle is only teasing, isn’t he? I mean, can you really be a Guardian of the Empire? You’re a bird, and a bird that can’t even fly.’

  A cold wind blows against the castle.

  ‘You’re up early.’

  Startled, I turn to face the voice.

  ‘Yeoman Oakes,’ I say, controlling my fear. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘We should always carry our masks, Anna.’

  Oakes holds up a black mask attached to a strap at his shoulder, and offers a smile as unconvincing as my own.

  I stare, hunting for the proper words. In his Warder uniform – dark blue coat with a red crown on it, long cloak and stiff hat – Oakes is strict and imposing, like a painting of an old king.

  ‘I know, Yeoman Oakes, sir. I forgot this morning. I am sorry.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, watching the birds at their breakfast with a frown, ‘they are the real Beefeaters of the Tower, are they not? I must go and see if there’s any toast for us humans.’

  Oakes heads off to the kitchen.

  Ruffled, I lift the heavy bucket, continuing down the line.

  I am forced to carry the black mask everywhere, the bloody nuisance, in case Hitler puts poison gas in the bombs. Everywhere I go, the mask must come in the cardboard box. Oakes is such a misery about it. Mum always carried hers. I can see her, in her Burberry and rubbers, mask over her shoulder. It didn’t help.

  And I am not up early. Every morning I must be at the roost for dawn. Yeoman Oakes knows that. He practically follows Uncle Henry around. Likely, habit brought him here looking for Uncle. Was that why he gave me such a queer look? Did he forget that I help with the morning feeding? That I can do it just fine on my own?

  He’s right about breakfast, though. Toast and an egg, tea without a spoon of sugar, and yet there is food for these birds. How is that fair? How can we care about birds when people are dying?

  Uncle has told me why, though I don’t believe him.

  Always there have been six ravens at the Tower. If the Tower ravens fly away, the kingdom will fall. What does that mean? How can a bunch of croaking birds protect us from bombs and poison gas? My mind swings around slowly. Without them, we would have no King or Queen, no London or Edinburgh? What would there be instead? Germany? Nothing? I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

  Taking a long breath of the morning air, I release the next bird, Merlin, avoiding the black swamp of his eyes. On each of them the flight wing is clipped, so they can’t get any proper height. Mainly they swoop and perch on the low branches and battlements, sometimes reaching a turret or rooftop. The ravens could fly away, Uncle says, but it is not a serious worry. Well fed and looked after, they have no desire to become just a common bird.

  The cages are for their own safety. Foxes sneak inside somehow – I remember Uncle saying, in his official tour-guide voice, ‘The Tower is a place of great secrets and mysteries, of countless hidden passageways and tunnels.’ Uncle insists that, far from being prisoners, the ravens are in fact happy. Special.

  Oakes gave a different reason. One night after dinner, his face splotchy and red, he leaned across the table: ‘The birds will not leave. They came here for the corpses. Their big dinner is coming.’ He laughed as if this were funny.

  Happily, I approach the final cage, the now light bucket swaying with each step. This visit is the only reason I am able to make it through this dreary task. I always save it for last.

  ‘Good morning, Grip and Mabel.’

  I cannot tell them apart by look, but they behave as complete opposites. The two birds are mated – they are both ten – and while Grip is angry and mean, Mabel is quiet and calm. She always responds to Uncle’s ‘secret whistle,’ leaving whatever she is burying to collect her meal. She does not look at me like the other birds do.

  I pry open the tight hinge, which screams as it swings. Grip is out in a flash, blinking in the light. Ravens blink sideways, like some sort of feathered lizard.

  Crrruck. Crrruck.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grip. And where is your lovely wife? Waiting to take her meal inside the cage? Not ripping everything apart in front of me? Well, I know why she’s my favourite. Manners make the bird, you know.’

  Showing Mabel the same courtesy, I peer inside the cage, alerting her to my presence before I enter. I can’t do Uncle’s secret whistle anymore than I can fly. Mabel is not grubby or horrid. She is proof that life in the Tower is possible. It is because of her that I have not gone mad in this place.

  The bucket slips from my hand, clatters on its side. For a long moment I can only stare. All around ravens croak madly, knowingly.

  Crrruck. Crrruck.

  The cage is empty.

  Mabel is gone.

  Don’t worry about Mabel. She’ll be back.

  I’m the one who’s leaving.

  Uncle will not be coming to breakfast. Not because he’s upset about the lost bird – he knew all about that, though it surprised me when he said so. But, of course, he had put the ravens to bed and Mabel had not been among them. He’d hoped that she might be found sunning herself on the ramparts this morning. He did not seem worried when she wasn’t. Lying still, eyes almost closed, he smiled.

  ‘She’ll turn up. Just worry about the others for now.’

  But I hear something else, something he didn’t say. If the Tower ravens leave, the kingdom will fall. Well, there are still five ravens here, croaking and flapping. Surely five are enough. Just eat your toast.

  Like all the other rooms here, the kitchen in the Bloody Tower is made of smooth stone. Patches of white but mostly dark stone, climbing up to a huge vaulted ceiling. The stained-glass window pours down sparkling red and blue light. I had no idea how freezing it could be indoors. A thousand years old. All of that cold trapped inside the stone itself.

  A large fireplace with too few logs extends into the room. All I want is to crouch down beside it. Instead I take my place on the bench, as far from Oakes as I can be. An empty, musty smell battles with the cooking eggs. At least I can put the gas mask on the floor.

  Without Uncle’s smiling presence the kitchen is gloomy. Smoke clouds the damp air. Little can be seen aside from the small glow of pipes and cigarettes, washed in colour from the stained glass. Stony voices echo through the room.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? The railings are gone, and suddenly everyone is walking across the grass.’

  ‘It’s a short cut.’

  ‘The green plots are not to be walked over.’

  The Warders are a prickly lot, and it is strange to see them out of uniform. In regular suits and ties, they look almost... normal. There’s no talk of the missing bird. Uncle alone seems to care about them.

  Oakes stares at the wall as he chews. The stiff hat is gone, but he is the only one in his uniform. Oakes is tall and freckled, his hair thin and brown. He might be Uncle’s age, though he looks older. Where Uncle is round and sturdy, Oakes is all straight lines and angles. Even his eyes are dark and strict. Always he wears an expression as if he is looking at something but
not quite sure what it is. It is a wall.

  Warders with families eat in their own kitchens. The bachelors come here; I don’t know why. In addition to Uncle and Oakes, there is Mr Cecil – Mr Cecil’s wife died of illness years ago and his sons are old enough to be in the war, so he is all alone; and giant Mr Brodie with his almost crooked nose, whose wife and son actually live in the Tower, but who is here at every breakfast anyway.

  Knives scrape plates. My thoughts are drawn again to Mabel – how she and Grip would hook beaks and play. Is she gone? Has she really escaped?

  ‘A fine room,’ Mr Brodie says in a ringing voice. It is clear that he is talking to me. ‘Medieval, you know. Well, except for the ceiling. Some modern adjustments are necessary at times.’ He leans in, as if imparting a great secret. ‘Had two Archbishops of Canterbury in this room. Not bad, as far as prisons go.’

  I take the fork from out of my mouth. ‘It is a beautiful room, Yeoman Brodie.’

  Even if the company was more welcoming, with food being so scarce one prefers to eat in private. Flo would have been great at this. Even before the Blitz, she ate slower than anyone I’ve ever seen. Once she carried the same banana from her bedroom to the parlour, taking a bite and putting it down again, as it turned all spotted and black. Cherries she ate like they were little apples.

  Now the Warders are arguing. I hear occasional shouts of laughter, but Yeoman Oakes has an angry tone. Each time he brings his head forward to speak, I see the empty spot of hair. I focus on the mugs, the table.

  ‘That is what a leader is for,’ Oakes is saying.

  ‘For making peace with Hitler?’

  ‘For putting an end to the U-boat blockade, Brodie, so the people can eat. Putting an end to this bombing, so people stop dying in the streets. What will protect us from a two-thousand-pounder? These walls?’

  Suddenly Oakes turns and faces me. I sit up with a jolt. That long, triangular face staring into mine. I look back through the smoke in surprise.