Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  Artorus paled, backed away and drew out his knife. When the gryphon breathed fire at him, the prince was ready for it, rolling under the flaming jet and burying his knife in one of the gryphon’s wings. Artorus wrenched his dagger so that it tore through the gryphon’s wing as if it were parchment rather than skin. Small gave an awful scream as he felt his wing-muscles being torn and severed.

  “Don’t kill him!” shouted Wyrd.

  “Why not?” said the prince.

  “I wasn’t talking to you!” said Wyrd.

  With one flick of his maimed wing, Small slapped the prince to the floor.

  “Make for the roof!” cried Wyrd.

  Small half flew, half ran out of the room. He blundered up the spiral staircase. On the roof, battered by the driving rain, he spread his wings. Through the solitary window in his room, Wyrd saw him fly away. One of the gryphon’s wings had skin hanging off it and was moving much less smoothly than the other. Wyrd felt sorrowful at having lost Small but was proud that he had knocked Artorus to the ground without trying to kill him. Wyrd wondered if Small’s wing would ever heal.

  Artorus rose to his feet, nursing a bump on his head and a graze on his arm.

  “Count yourself lucky,” said the prince, as he started to go down the staircase, “that I was here to protect you!”

  No one else bothered to look for Wyrd that day. The game of hide and seek petered out into tears and recriminations. Princess Melisande so liked being the centre of attention that she could scarcely bear to hide, and when she did she quickly became so bored and made such a noise, sighing and tapping her feet, that she was invariably found first.

  Eventually, the other children became tired of not being allowed to play an active part in her game and wandered off. When the sun came out, everyone forgot about hide and seek and ventured into the castle courtyards. But Wyrd stayed alone in his room, hoping that he would see Small again.

  If, like Merlin, he had been able to see into the future, Wyrd would not have wished any such thing. For although Small’s wing did heal, he never forget what a human had done to his damaged wing. He flew far away to the north-east and found a cave to sleep in. Where he grew. And grew. And grew.

  Small did not stay small for long.

  10

  The Fairy Princess

  In which Wyrd becomes horribly confused

  The day after the fateful game of hide and seek, Wyrd was up in his room, savouring a lump of cheese that he had abstracted from the castle mousetraps. Suddenly he realised he was not alone.

  There, in the doorway of his room, stood a fairy princess – or rather Princess Melisande, dressed as a fairy princess.

  “You there,” she said imperiously, “do you like my dress?”

  “Er, yes,” said Wyrd, puzzled and confused why the princess seemed to have come all the way up the tallest and most remote tower of the castle to ask his opinion about anything.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s fine,” he added. But still the princess stared at him, as if he hadn’t said enough.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?” asked Melisande.

  “Of course,” said Wyrd. And it is fair to say that he did.

  “What’s that you’re eating?”

  “Oh,” said Wyrd. “Cheese. It’s a bit dusty. Want a bit?”

  The princess shuddered.

  “What would I want with nasty old cheese?” asked the princess. “Besides, my mother says cheese is bad for the figure.”

  She pirouetted, so that Wyrd could admire her.

  “Oh,” said Wyrd.

  “But you’re so horribly, horribly thin,” continued Melisande, who was noted for her brutal honesty. “Don’t we feed you enough?”

  “Actually, you don’t feed me at all,” said the boy. “I live off scraps, leftovers, anything I can find.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said the girl in an uninterested way.

  She walked across the room and looked out of the window.

  “Is it true what my brother says, that yesterday he rescued you from a deadly gryphon?”

  Wyrd didn’t know what to say – he certainly did not want to risk calling Prince Artorus a liar – so he turned the question back on the princess.

  “Is that what he says happened?”

  “Yes. Mind you, he’s always making up things like that. Making himself out to be a hero and all that. So I thought I’d ask you myself.”

  “Well, he did fight a gryphon. In here.”

  “It can’t have been a very big gryphon,” said Melisande. “What a nasty, poky little room!”

  “It wasn’t full grown – maybe a bit bigger than me.”

  “Did the gryphon bite you?” asked Melisande, studying him curiously. “Scorch you? Anything like that?”

  “Not really,” said Wyrd. “He – I mean, it – did try and scorch your brother, but the prince managed to get out of its way.”

  “So, what are those bruises?” asked Melisande. “There, on your arm.”

  She pointed to some of the bruises that Wyrd had received in his latest kicking from Prince Artorus.

  “Oh, they’re nothing,” said Wyrd.

  “Take your top off,” said Melisande.

  Wyrd hesitated.

  “Boy, I said, take it off!” said Melisande in a tone of voice that expected to be obeyed.

  Wyrd pulled his ragged smock over his head and dropped it on the floor. Melisande circled him, staring at his torso.

  “Why, you’re black and blue,” she said, wonderingly. “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s all right.”

  Melisande poked out a finger and prodded one of the bruises, which was a deeper purple than the rest.

  “Ow!”

  “So, it does hurt,” said Melisande. “I thought so. Boys are funny.”

  “We’re not all the same,” muttered Wyrd.

  “Well, obviously not…” The princess pouted. “My brother’s braver than you are and better at fighting. He is a prince, after all, and you’re only a cripple. But he’s just like you when he gets hurt – trying to be all manly and pretending he can’t feel it. When really he can! Just like you!”

  Melisande made a playful prod at several bruises on Wyrd’s torso and laughed as he yelped with pain. Wyrd grabbed her wrists and drew her towards him.

  “Don’t do that!” he yelled.

  “I shall do whatever I please,” replied Melisande, her blue eyes glittering. “You try and stop me, boy!”

  Exasperated, Wyrd let go of her wrists. But instead of running away, she remained in front of him and even moved a little closer.

  “Look at me, boy. Have you ever kissed anyone?” she asked softly.

  “Er,” Wyrd hesitated, wondering if she was about to humiliate him, and looked at the floor. “Maybe once.”

  “I said look at me, boy. Do you want to kiss me?” asked the princess, pushing her body against his.

  He didn’t reply at first, but his face reddened with embarrassment.

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, finally.

  “It’s all right to say you want to,” she breathed.

  Wyrd took a step away from her. Then, impulsively, he grasped her right hand, then bowed and pressed his lips to her outstretched fingers.

  “My lady,” he said.

  The princess burst out laughing.

  “I didn’t mean that kind of kiss. You are funny, boy! I meant on the lips. Here,” she said, putting a hand on each side of his head and drawing his face towards her. “Like this.”

  Wyrd felt hot and confused, as the princess kissed him and opened her mouth slightly, so that her tongue was tickling his lips. He felt even stranger when she took his right hand and placed it on her chest. He broke away. />
  “I – I don’t think we should be doing this,” said Wyrd. “What would… What would your mother think?”

  He knew this sounded lame, but he was not prepared for Melisande to burst out laughing.

  “Oh, she wouldn’t mind!” she laughed. “You should see what she gets up to with Osprey!”

  “Osprey?” said Wyrd.

  He was genuinely astonished. Queen Elinor gave every indication in public of being in love with King Otto. She was forever brushing his shoulders with her hand, adjusting his crown, gazing adoringly at him as he made his speeches.

  “Yes, Osprey!” said Melisande, amused at his surprise. “You should see what those two get up to when they think no one’s watching! Kissing – and more. A lot more.”

  Wyrd wasn’t sure what she meant, though now for the first time he realised why Osprey might have taken a teaching position that was subordinate to an elder brother whose opinions on the Roman Empire he so despised. Perhaps Osprey had taken the post in order to remain in the company of his mistress, Queen Elinor. Might the younger wizard be, despite all appearances to the contrary, something of a romantic?

  “Come on, boy,” said the princess. “Stop day-dreaming! Kiss me again. Properly this time.”

  “I can’t,” murmured Wyrd.

  “Haven’t you been told to obey royalty?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “Well, I’m royalty, aren’t I, boy? And I’m ordering you to kiss me.”

  This time, Wyrd opened his mouth to let her tongue enter. Soon their two tongues were wrapping and unwrapping around each other. A few minutes later, the princess’s fingers began to explore the front of his breeches, and he pushed her away.

  “No,” gasped the boy. “We mustn’t.”

  “Haven’t you ever done anything like this before?” laughed Melisande.

  “No. And what if someone caught us? You’re so young, and I’m so… unsuitable. Your father would cut my head off.”

  “I think that just adds to the excitement,” said Melisande. “Anyway, I’m not that young. I’m nearly fifteen. That’s old enough to marry.”

  “But you couldn’t marry me!” said Wyrd.

  “Of course not,” said the princess, pouting, “but that’s no reason for us not to have fun.”

  “Fun!” echoed Wyrd. “Is that what this is to you?”

  “Of course. So, boy, would you mind if I came up here again?”

  Wyrd thought about this for a moment.

  “It’s a bit smelly,” mused the princess, “but I could get used to it.”

  Wyrd thought for a few more moments.

  “Well,” the princess pouted, “if you really have to think that long about it, I’ll just go.”

  And she did.

  All the same, that was the first of many “snogging sessions”, as Melisande called them. Over the next few months, they kissed and cuddled with fewer and fewer clothes on, until one day they were writhing on the floor, and Wyrd was groaning with a mixture of lust and frustration. He had his back to the door, so he couldn’t see that Wenda was in the doorway, watching them. All he did notice was that Melisande’s sighs and groans grew much, much louder. It was only when Melisande pulled him by his hair and manoeuvred herself roughly on top of him that he realised the princess had been performing for an audience. He caught sight of Wenda’s face, which was paler than he had ever seen it before.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Wenda. “But Mrs Scraggs sent me to find you, Wyrd. She says you didn’t clean the pots properly.”

  “Well, he can’t come now,” said Melisande, rumpling his hair affectionately. “He’s otherwise engaged. Aren’t you, boy?”

  Wyrd thought he saw a tear in Wenda’s eye, but she turned away so quickly that he couldn’t be sure.

  After Wenda had gone, Wyrd couldn’t really concentrate on the princess, and she ended up pushing him away, saying that he was no fun and maybe he’d better go back to his pots and his ugly kitchen maids.

  So he did.

  ***

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Wyrd a few days later, in the kitchen, when there was no one else around.

  “Why should there be anything the matter?” asked Wenda.

  “You’re not talking to me,” said Wyrd.

  “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?” replied Wenda, concentrating on chopping a carrot.

  “Not really,” said Wyrd. “Is it something I said? Or did?”

  By way of reply, Wenda merely sniffed.

  “Is it Melisande?” he asked.

  “It’s Melisande now, is it? Not Princess Melisande?”

  “Well…” Wyrd’s voice trailed away uncertainly. He had to admit that he’d never dared to call the princess by her name to her face.

  Wenda stopped chopping and ran one hand through her hair, looking exasperated.

  “It’s your life,” she said, “but can’t you see she’s using you?”

  “Maybe I don’t mind being used.”

  “Wyrd, you’re better than that.”

  “Am I?” asked Wyrd miserably. “I’m not sure that I am.”

  “Well, I can see it, even if you can’t.”

  “Thanks,” said Wyrd. “I suppose. But I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’re so immature,” said Wenda, looking him straight in the eyes.

  “And I suppose you’re not,” asked Wyrd.

  Wenda paused to consider.

  “No,” she said finally, “I’m not. And I’m not stupid, either.”

  For weeks after that, the atmosphere between Wyrd and Wenda was strained. Neither wanted to talk any more about what had happened up in the tower, and now that Small had gone Wyrd had no one else to talk to. The person he saw most often now was Melisande, and she never seemed very interested in talking.

  Over the next weeks, Wyrd became more and more aware of curious things going on in the castle. When he was cleaning at night in the royal wing, he often heard the tap-tap-tap of Osprey’s staff in the corridor, followed by the creak of a door as he went into Queen Elinor’s bedchamber. An hour or more later, there would be the same tap-tap-tap, as Osprey returned to his own quarters.

  Once, Wyrd thought he saw Osprey turn and stare suspiciously at the shadows where Wyrd was hiding. But Osprey did nothing further and walked back to his bedchamber.

  Wyrd was much less prepared for the shock of another night, when he was scrubbing the floor just around the corner from King Otto’s suite. The boy heard the sound of footsteps – two pairs of them, one much lighter than the other – as they drew nearer. One belonged to a seven-foot bugbear, who Wyrd recognised as Mogbut, master of the palace guard. With him was Wenda, in a sheer, cotton nightshift, carrying a glass of clear, golden-brown liquid. It looked like brandy.

  Wyrd ducked behind a tall chair, not wishing to be seen. The guard knocked on the door, and King Otto opened it.

  “Wenda,” said Otto. “How pretty you look! And how tall you have grown!”

  Wenda curtseyed, with a femininity that Wyrd had never observed in her before.

  “Let me kiss you, my child.”

  “If it pleases you, Your Majesty.”

  Wyrd felt a certain revulsion as the old King drew her close to his body and kissed her upturned face. First one cheek. Then the other. Wenda looked so young and fragile compared with the corpulence of the King more than forty years her senior. It was with a spasm of revulsion that Wyrd realised that Queen Elinor had been only six years older than Wenda when King Otto had married her.

  Wyrd felt confused and disturbed as the King ordered the guard to go and ushered Wenda into his suite. Wyrd had only ever thought of Wenda as a friend. She was one of the boys. And now here she was, almost a young woman. Had King Otto sent for her? And had she obeyed, knowing she must do as she was told? Wyrd fe
lt sick, and he sat against the wall trying not to think of what might be going on in the room behind him.

  The walls in this part of the castle were so thick that he could not possibly have heard. Not for the first time, Wyrd began to wonder whether Castle Otto was really the safe haven that Merlin had promised, or whether it was a prison, where the best he could hope for was a life of obscurity and humiliation.

  11

  Mouse Droppings

  In which our hero faces expulsion

  The day Wyrd knew he was in serious trouble was one when most of the King’s knights had gone out hunting werewolves, as they often liked to do in the early evening if there was a full moon. Wyrd was in the stables, cleaning out the empty stalls, when he heard a voice behind him.

  “You, boy! Did you drop this?”

  Wyrd jumped to hear himself directly addressed – and by none other than Osprey, who was leaning on his stick and holding out a parchment. It was one on which Wyrd had been practising his writing.

  “Is this yours, boy?”

  The voice had such a chill in it that Wyrd didn’t know how to reply.

  “Are you dumb as well as impertinent?”

  Wyrd found his voice.

  “No, sir.”

  “You are not impertinent?”

  “I hope not, sir.”

  “I think you are. For what is this I read? ‘The prince is an arrogant bully, as mean in spirit as he is ostentatious in his wealth.’ Would you not describe it as impertinent to write of your betters in such a manner?”

  “I was practising my script, sir.”

  “There is nothing wrong with your script. It lacks finesse, perhaps, but I take it you have not been formally educated.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who taught you to write, boy?”

  “My mother. And when she died, I taught myself, sir.”

  “Indeed?” Osprey curled his lip and looked as if he was about to laugh at his impudence. “While you were at it, you should have taught yourself not to write disrespectfully of princes and not to drop your writing where others might see it and get you into trouble.”

  “I don’t want any trouble, sir.”