by Chris Tookey
***
Wenda might have thought of Mrs Scraggs as a possible surrogate mother for Wyrd, but the old cook certainly did not. She soon grew tired of having “that clumsy young fool” in and around her cavernous kitchen, which lay in the part of the castle that Wyrd knew most intimately, the south-east.
In this corner of Castle Otto were the kitchen, the great banqueting hall, laundry rooms and storage quarters and the like, all centred around a large kitchen garden where Mrs Scraggs supervised the growing of the castle’s fruit and vegetables – or most of them. Other foodstuffs arrived from the outside world via the huge pulley system that Wyrd had noticed on his arrival.
Boats of every shape and size would wait, bobbing up and down in the choppy waters of Castle Cove, as sacks of grain and other commodities were winched up to the kitchen entrance of the castle. Wyrd liked to venture outside the door of the kitchen and look down at the sailors as they lifted their goods up to Mrs Scraggs, their lined, weather-beaten faces looking anxious until she lowered them other food or coins in return.
He often wondered how many of these men would become food for the sea serpents lying in wait offshore, but he never marvelled that even tough, sea-hardened mariners seemed scared of Mrs Scraggs.
Wyrd noticed the way the old woman ruled her kitchen, through a combination of bad temper and magic, and learned to keep out of the way when she uttered oaths. This usually meant that some saucepan or sharp implement would disengage itself from a hook or fly out of a cupboard, across the cavernous kitchen and into Mrs Scraggs’ hands. If anyone was in the way, that was his or her bad luck. Even the lowliest of the kitchen staff memorised the spell which summoned the meat cleaver or sharp knives. Failure to get out of the way might easily prove fatal.
Mrs Scraggs never cooked out of a recipe book. She seemed to have every ingredient for every dish memorised, and it took her minutes to achieve what might take any other cook hours. It was not uncommon to find her sitting on her stool, half-dozing, while spoons stirred, knives cut and cleavers chopped, all apparently on their own, and pots emptied their contents into the cauldron before depositing themselves in a pile, ready to be washed up. She was a wizard in the kitchen, although she would have been deeply offended if anyone had called her that.
She mistrusted anything to do with wizards – she used to grumble that “you never know where they’ve been; shape-shifters and truth-twisters, all of them”.
Wyrd had the impression that Mrs Scraggs had a low opinion of the male sex in general, and him in particular.
Small parcels of gold reached her every six months from Merlin, but they earned Wyrd no privileges. He was just one of the castle’s workers, the lowest of the low. He lived off scraps of food from other people’s platters. He worked to live and lived to work.
Wyrd had to admit that he was not much use in the kitchen. His one distinction was that he was the least able servant in the castle, as Mrs Scraggs often reminded him.
“Why are you so cack-handed?” she would grumble, as he struggled to perform some simple menial task. Even repeated beatings by Mrs Scraggs’ wooden leg failed to knock what she called “common sense” into him. He was always forgetting things, dropping things, getting in the way. So, gradually, he had been given things to do that didn’t take him into the kitchen, or led to him mixing with other people, least of all Wenda. Most of his jobs involved cleaning up, washing down or taking care of rodents caught in the castle’s numerous traps.
Often, when Wenda and he tried to talk on their own, he was aware of Mrs Scraggs’ baleful eye on them. She didn’t like her kitchen staff talking when they should be working. And Mrs Scraggs left him in no doubt that she considered him a bad influence on Wenda. Mrs Scraggs didn’t want her ward to be distracted by boys, least of all a boy of Wyrd’s uncertain provenance and poor prospects.
***
In the south-western corner of the castle was the school. This was, at first, off limits to Wyrd; but inevitably there were occasions when his cleaning chores led him to venture into its forbidden courtyard, chambers and corridors.
Once, as they ran an errand through the school quadrangle, Wyrd impressed Wenda with his knowledge of the gods by pointing out the four statues to deities connected with wisdom: the Greek goddess Athena, the Roman goddess Minerva, the Norse god Baldr and the Celtic god Teutates.
“So, what’s that fifth statue?” asked Wenda, pointing to the centre of the courtyard.
“Oh,” said Wyrd, “that’s Neptune surrounded by sea nymphs.”
“Has Neptune anything to do with wisdom?”
“Not really,” replied Wyrd. “I imagine he’s there because he’s the sea god, which means that if he wanted to he could drown the castle any time he wished. That’s if he exists, which I very much doubt.”
“How do you know all this?” Wenda asked him.
Wyrd shrugged.
“It’s just something I’ve always known. My mother taught me a lot.”
“But I thought you were brought up in a village in the middle of nowhere.”
“Dumnonia, actually.”
“Why would she have taught you all about the gods and stuff?”
“That’s what my cousin Hogfrid used to say,” said Wyrd, shrugging again. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought I was interested.”
“And were you?”
“I suppose I must have been, quite. Or I wouldn’t have remembered it.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you, Wyrd,” she said, rumpling his hair affectionately.
“Let go of my hair,” complained Wyrd. “Someone might see.”
Wyrd was not allowed to attend lessons himself, of course; but he learned from listening to the knights that Buzzard, the head teacher, and Osprey, his second-in-command, taught all the more privileged boys within the castle until they reached the age of sixteen, when they would move to the north-western corner of the castle and become knights.
The person he most tried to keep out of the way of was Prince Artorus, a robust, blond youth. He was not as suave or mature as Sir Tancred but still handsome, in a mean and menacing way.
Artorus’s favourite sport was to pick on kitchen hands and other menials wherever he found them, chase them until their lungs were bursting and give them – as he put it – “a good kicking”. They couldn’t fight back, of course, because Artorus was heir to King Otto’s throne. Their helplessness not only fed Artorus’s already heightened self-esteem but also made him think himself a far better fighter than he really was.
One of the best things about Wyrd being so very unimportant was that no one cared much what he did, as long as he didn’t make a nuisance of himself.
Wyrd found ways of spying on Prince Artorus and the other children while they were given lessons. He achieved this by making tiny holes in the wall of one big schoolroom, and the ceiling of another, and watching from the relative safety of a cluttered broom cupboard and a dusty upstairs attic.
Being of a sharp and curious mind, Wyrd soon learned a fair amount of what the pupils were taught. Some of these pieces got jumbled in Wyrd’s memory and left him confused, as though he were trying to complete an impossibly large and complicated jigsaw. But plenty of information went in.
His mother – he still thought of Sieglinda as that – had taught him to read and write, and Wyrd’s most valuable possessions were an old quill pen, a discarded ink well and scraps of parchment he found around the castle, on which he could jot down notes from lessons he overheard.
For the first time, the boy felt gratitude for all those times his mother had made him practise writing. Slowly but surely, they had enabled him to hold a writing implement without it hurting his hand so much. One day, Wyrd was even able to sneak into a schoolroom and steal a look at Prince Artorus’s attempts at note taking. Even though the prince was two years older, they didn’t seem as neat or correctly spelt as h
is.
But Wyrd realised that, whatever his own secret feelings of resentment and injustice, they were of no significance to anyone but himself. He was not royal, unlike Prince Artorus, and that was what counted.
All the same, Wyrd admitted one evening in the kitchen, when he found himself alone with Wenda, that he often found himself daydreaming about what went on beyond the castle.
“What’s the point of doing that?” asked Wenda, who was chopping some vegetables. “It looks like we’re going to be stuck here forever.”
“Merlin once told me I had the makings of a mythic hero,” Wyrd pointed out.
“You still remember that?” cried Wenda, open-mouthed.
“Yes,” said Wyrd.
“You actually believed him?” asked Wenda.
“Shouldn’t I have?” asked Wyrd, flushing with embarrassment
“Sorry, Wyrd. I don’t mean to laugh. But you haven’t heard from him in years,” she said, resuming her chopping.
“He still sends money to Mrs Scraggs.”
“So what?” asked Wenda, carrying the vegetables to the cauldron and tipping them in. “It seems to me that he just wants to forget all about you. Maybe he already has.”
“Well, if he won’t help me,” said Wyrd, “I’ll just have to help myself.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Wenda.
“I’m learning a lot from Buzzard and Osprey.”
“What? You mean they’re teaching you?”
“No, but I spy on their lessons. Look, I’ll show you.”
When Wyrd showed Wenda the uncomfortable vantage points from which he watched the teachers at work, she waited until they were safely beyond the school courtyard, then shook her head and laughed.
“You’re incorrigible!” she said.
“What does incorrigible mean?”
“I dunno. I think it means resilient. Every time someone knocks you down, you just get up again and struggle on.”
“Well, you’re the same,” said Wyrd. “We’re alike, you and I.”
Wenda laughed and linked her arm in his.
“You mean we both limp,” she said.
“Not only that.”
“Wyrd, I’m not as clever as you are,” she said.
“You know a lot more about herbs and spices.”
“Knowledge isn’t the same as cleverness,” said Wenda.
“You’ve more common sense than me,” said Wyrd. “You’re not as clumsy. In fact, you’re not clumsy at all. And you know how to handle Mrs Scraggs.”
“That’s true,” replied Wenda.
“She’s like a mother to you,” said Wyrd.
“Almost,” said Wenda, unlinking her arm from his.
“Did you ever know your parents?” asked Wyrd.
“Not really,” said Wenda. “My mother died when I was quite young.”
“Oh, yes,” said Wyrd, remembering. “And your father?”
“I never knew him,” said Wenda. “I asked Mrs Scraggs, and she just shrugged. I don’t think she has a very high opinion of men.”
“She certainly doesn’t have a high opinion of me,” said Wyrd.
“I don’t think she dislikes you,” replied Wenda.
“She says I’m clumsy and don’t know anything about food,” said Wyrd.
“Maybe,” replied Wenda, “but sometimes I think she’s scared of you.”
“Why would she be scared of me?” asked Wyrd.
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have,” said Wenda. “But I’d better be getting back to the kitchen. The princesses will be wanting their tea.”
“Have you ever met the princesses?” asked Wyrd.
“Of course,” said Wenda. “Haven’t you?”
“I’ve never even seen them,” said Wyrd. “What are they like?”
“Well, the little one’s Beatrice, and she’s dark and I think rather spoiled,” said Wenda. “The older one is about my age.”
“Is that Princess Melisande?” asked Wyrd. “I hope she’s nicer than Prince Artorus.”
“I don’t know if she’s nicer, exactly,” said Wenda doubtfully. “But she’s very pretty.”
“Not prettier than you?” asked Wyrd.
Wenda blushed, with either embarrassment or pleasure.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said. “She’s much, much, much prettier. She’s not a cripple like me.”
“You’re not a cripple,” said Wyrd.
“One of my legs is longer than the other,” said Wenda.
“You’re not nearly as bad as me,” said Wyrd.
“You really think so?”
“I think you’re pretty,” said Wyrd.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” said Wenda. “But I’m definitely not pretty.”
“I wish I wasn’t so ugly,” said Wyrd.
“You’re not ugly.”
“I’m not handsome, like Sir Tancred.”
“Sir Tancred may be good-looking but he’s too vain,” said Wenda.
“Too vain for what?”
“For his own good,” said Wenda.
“I wish I looked like him,” said Wyrd.
“Well, I’m glad you don’t,” said Wenda. “I like you the way you are.”
“You’re weird,” said Wyrd.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Wenda. “You’re weird too.”
And then she kissed him. Suddenly, Wyrd felt even weirder than usual. It was the first time he’d ever been kissed by anyone who wasn’t his mother. Did Wenda want him to kiss her back? But before he could make a decision on that, she was off, with her peculiar limp that was like a mirror image of his own.
***
In the north-eastern corner of the castle lay the royal palace, with its own, very private courtyard. For the first five years he lived at Castle Otto, Wyrd was never allowed to venture into the palace square. Wenda described it to him as one big exotic garden, which had been planted with strange and wonderful trees, shrubs and flowers, collected from all over the world on the orders of Queen Elinor.
There were a dozen or so royal goblins, decked out in special purple regalia and forked beards as carefully groomed as the topiary. Their only job was to tend to the plants. Their favourite joke – which Wyrd often overhead when he passed them in other parts of the castle – was that the Queen was fonder of her flowers than she was of the King.
It was the goblins’ proud claim that there was no day of the year when something in the Queen’s garden was not in bloom.
Wyrd occasionally saw the King and Queen from a distance; and, like every other member of the kitchen staff, he had suffered beatings at the hands of Prince Artorus; but he had no first-hand knowledge of the royal princesses, until one fine summer day when he was fifteen.
He had been sent to empty rat-traps in the royal quarters and took the opportunity to sneak a look at the Queen’s exotic courtyard of flowers. He had heard about it for years but never seen it. He thought he was alone, surrounded by strange trees with their long, pointed leaves and jagged fronds, climbing shrubs and burgeoning blooms that towered high above his head, until he turned a corner and almost bumped into a blonde, very pretty girl with bright blue eyes. She was probably a year younger than Wyrd, but her air of confidence and sophistication made her look twice his age. She was holding the head of a flower in her hand and burying her nose inside it to savour its scent. When her nose came out, it was peppered with golden pollen.
The girl sneezed and raised one hand to her mouth. At that moment, she caught sight of Wyrd.
“Who are you?” she asked, backing away. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come for the vermin,” said Wyrd, showing her a couple of rats hanging from his belt. “The normal bloke’s off sick.”
“Ew
ww! That is so disgusting! What are you doing in the garden?” asked the girl.
“I must have taken a wrong turning. I don’t really know this part of the castle.”
“You know I’ll have to report you,” said the girl sternly. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t really have one,” said Wyrd honestly, “but people call me Mouse.”
“That’s so grotesque!” said the princess, giggling. “You mean you’re a Mouse who kills rats?”
“You must be the Princess Melisande,” said Wyrd, unaware that he was thinking aloud. “You… you’re so beautiful.”
The girl blinked. She flushed, but not with pleasure.
“You shouldn’t talk to me like that,” she said sharply.
“To whom are you talking, dear?” asked a female voice.
Queen Elinor appeared from behind a large piece of statuary. She was a dark, feline beauty in her mid-thirties, who looked at least twenty years younger than her husband. She had long, white fingers with nails upon them of so glistening a red that she looked as if she might have just come away from tearing apart some small mammal with her bare hands. Despite her graceful bearing, her face in repose had a teasing pout. Wyrd thought she looked as though she had just done something naughty and was shortly expecting to be spanked.
Queen Elinor was carrying a small tub with a large, exotic flower. Wyrd thought it was the most glorious bloom that he had ever seen. The outside was as pink as Princess Melisande’s flushed cheeks, but the inside was flushed with gold.
“It’s the rat-man, Mama,” said Melisande. “I’ve told him he shouldn’t be here. He’s so grotesque. He doesn’t walk right.”
“He’s no more than a boy,” said Queen Elinor, looking Wyrd up and down before turning to her daughter. “What do you think of my new flower? It is from the forests of the Orient.”
“It’s lovely,” said the princess, reaching out to touch the petals.
“Don’t touch it,” said the Queen. “Its beauty is deceptive. It’s carnivorous. You see? It attracts bees with its gorgeous colouring and then, when the bee is inside, collecting pollen, it closes up and traps him.”
“What would it do if this boy put his finger inside it?” asked Melisande. “Would it bite it off?”
