Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  Perhaps this was just as well; for even though Wyrd no longer had to do cleaning around the castle, Osprey kept him and the prince busy. There was scarcely a minute of the day when Wyrd was not learning or exercising.

  Most of the academic lessons were taken by Osprey, whose methods were frankly authoritarian. His favourite technique was to tell his pupils something, and then have them repeat it back to him.

  One of the earliest history lessons was on the importance of revenge. Osprey taught them that many of the most glorious wars in human history had been fought to avenge some slight or other, whether real or imagined.

  “Blessed are the strong,” Osprey said, “for they shall inherit the earth. If a man smites you on one cheek, kick him speedily in the groin and, when you get a chance, murder him and every member of his family as an example. It is the honourable, Roman way.”

  Osprey stared at Wyrd, who was sitting in front of him with a quill pen poised over his parchment.

  “Why are you not writing that down?” asked Osprey.

  “Er, I was just thinking,” said Wyrd. “Doesn’t that mean that revenge could just go on and on indefinitely, until the people involved died out, or forgot what they were meant to be avenging?”

  “Indeed it could, but where is the honour in leaving a foul deed unavenged?”

  This argument seemed to satisfy Prince Artorus, who did not have an inquiring mind and had long since decided to write down whatever his teacher said without questioning it.

  But Wyrd pondered for a long time about how vengeful he felt towards the bugbears who had burned his village. Most of all, he wondered why they had done it and who that cloaked figure had been who had murdered Gunnar. There was so much, Wyrd decided, that he didn’t understand and quite possibly never would.

  In another lesson on religious studies, Osprey expounded on the importance of riches.

  “Riches maketh the man,” pronounced Osprey. “Wealth is one of the significant ways a man may know his lofty position in the scheme of things. Do you remember what I told you yesterday?”

  Prince Artorus put his hand up.

  “Yes, sir. Avarice is good.”

  “Exactly. And royal rapaciousness is especially to be recommended, since the wealth of the sovereign must inevitably trickle down to the benefit of his subjects.”

  “So, is King Otto very rich?” inquired Wyrd.

  “He is the richest king in this region of Albion,” said Osprey, cagily.

  “You mean,” said Wyrd, who had not yet learned when not to press a point, “there are richer kings elsewhere?”

  “I believe so,” said Osprey, clearly uncomfortable at any revelation that might be construed as disloyal to King Otto.

  “So, they might try and conquer us?”

  “Nothing is impossible,” said Osprey. “But perhaps you should ask my brother Merlin, when next you see him.”

  Wyrd looked puzzled.

  “Don’t you know why?” sneered Osprey. “For the last ten years he has been at the court of King Vitalinus, advising him on how best to conquer the whole of Albion.”

  Ah, thought Wyrd. That explains why Merlin wasn’t keen to use the front drawbridge at Castle Otto. They might not have been keen to admit a wizard who worked so openly for a rival king.

  “You mean,” said Artorus, “this Merlin is a traitor?”

  Osprey pondered for a moment.

  “My brother would not describe himself as one. But he sees little glory in Atlantis. What he cares about is this grandiose scheme of uniting the whole of Albion. And he is not fussy about who does it.”

  “Unite Albion? But that’s impossible,” said Artorus, who was not known for his imagination. “How many kings are there?”

  “Three dozen at the last count,” said Osprey.

  “Sorry, sir, but who is this King Vitalinus?” asked Wyrd, remembering that he had heard Buzzard disparage him before.

  “An opportunist without principle,” said Osprey. “No sooner had the Romans left Britain than King Vitalinus of the Brigantes, whose kingdom was to the north, saw his chance. He has moved inexorably southwards ever since, defeating other kings and making them acknowledge his rule. His present capital is perhaps fifty leagues to the north of Tintagel, along the coast.”

  “Does that mean Tintagel will be next?” asked Prince Artorus. “Why isn’t my father doing more to defend it?”

  “You had better ask him,” replied Osprey. “But your father is no longer the warlike leader he once was. He signed a treaty with Vitalinus some years ago.”

  “But what use is a treaty,” asked Artorus, “if Vitalinus chooses to break it?”

  “That,” Osprey responded with a tight-lipped smile that resembled the painful reopening of a wound, “is a question I am in no position to answer. You had best ask your father.”

  In conversations such as these, between Osprey and the prince, Wyrd often felt excluded and out of his depth. It was simply not important for Wyrd to know how to govern a country, for that lay well beyond his dreams, or his capacity. Wyrd frequently felt that governing a country would be well beyond Artorus’s abilities as well, but he never voiced that opinion. It would certainly have led to Wyrd being thrashed – if not by Osprey, then certainly by Prince Artorus.

  ***

  Wyrd feared the worst when one day, after a particularly arduous lesson on Roman Law (and why it remains vastly superior to all other kinds of legislation), Osprey fixed his gaze upon him at the end of class.

  “Uther, stay behind. The rest of you may go.”

  After the others had left, Osprey beckoned Wyrd to stand beside the schoolmaster’s desk. Wyrd fidgeted and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Being asked to stay behind could mean only two things: a beating, or expulsion.

  For a while, Osprey continued to write something in his black book. Then, affecting to notice Wyrd’s presence, he looked up.

  “Uther,” he said, “your presence in this classroom is not something I have desired.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nor have I any admiration for your attitude towards your elders and betters.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “If it were up to me alone, I would expel you from this school and return you to your kitchen duties, or better still find some pretext on which to execute you, and place your head on a spike as an awful warning to others.”

  “Yes, sir. I thought that might be the case, sir. Can I go now?”

  “However,” Osprey continued, raising his hand to indicate that Wyrd should stay, “something has come up which may offer you the opportunity to rehabilitate yourself in my eyes.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It would involve you leaving the castle—”

  “I’m not sure I could do that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a bit… afraid, sir.”

  “Ah,” said Osprey, with a superior smirk. “The Greeks had a word for that. They called it agoraphobia. Fear of open spaces.”

  “It’s not so much a fear of open spaces, sir, as a fear of being killed.”

  “Really?” Osprey looked amused and even more superior than usual. “Is this, perhaps, connected with events in your childhood?”

  “One event in particular, sir. My parents – that is, the people who brought me up…”

  “Yes, Uther, I know what parents are,” remarked the teacher sarcastically.

  “Not just my parents but my whole village were attacked by bugbears. They were all killed.”

  “And eaten, I expect,” remarked Osprey, who regarded tact as an unimportant virtue, except when used in order to ingratiate oneself with social superiors. “Bugbears are barbaric creatures. The Romans refuse even to acknowledge that they exist. Understandably, in my view, if a shade premature. What the whole of Albion needs is a spot of ethnic
cleansing.”

  He looked longingly out of the window towards the east, possibly imagining himself to be in an ethnically cleansed, supremely imperial Rome. But then he shook himself back to present realities.

  “However,” he continued, “that is not why I summoned you. Have you heard of the Empress Honoria?”

  “You have mentioned her,” replied Wyrd, wrinkling his brow as he tried to remember. “Isn’t she a Roman in exile somewhere on Atlantis?”

  “That is correct,” said Osprey, brandishing a handwritten note. “She has been in contact with me, with two requests. One is to ask me if I would care to write her autobiography. In return for a modest fee.”

  “That can’t be right, sir, can it?”

  “What do you mean, boy?”

  “If it’s an autobiography, doesn’t that mean she should write it herself?”

  “That is an example of just the kind of attitude I deplore in you. Persons of breeding and distinction cannot be expected to spare the time and effort to write their memoirs. They employ others to do it for them. These are called ghostwriters.”

  “Oh I see, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “And the finest ghostwriters require scribes. Which is where you come in.”

  “Sir?”

  “For all your faults, you are the nearest thing to a competent scribe that this castle possesses. And I require a scribe who will write down everything the Empress says, whereupon I will turn it into written prose that will have the appropriate weight, style and dignity.”

  “But wouldn’t that involve me leaving the castle, sir?”

  “Yes, boy,” replied Osprey testily, “I’ve already explained that it would.”

  “I’m not sure Merlin would like that. When he left me here, he told me I was safe only inside the castle.”

  Osprey let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Merlin! I would not wish to speak ill of my brother, but even now he is advising Vitalinus, the most evil tyrant in the land, and refusing to support Aurelius, Queen Elinor’s intrepid brother, who is attempting to bring Roman law and order back to this benighted country!”

  “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “Then you should listen more attentively in class!” snapped Osprey.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Uther,” continued the wizard, softening his tone, “can you not see that I am offering you the opportunity of a lifetime? The Empress Honoria is a legend.”

  “I’m sure she is, sir.”

  “And if your concern is for your safety, you will be under my protection. I fancy that when it comes to the dark arts of magic, I am at least Merlin’s equal, if not his superior.”

  “I’m sure you are, sir.”

  “Good,” said Osprey. “That’s settled.”

  “But…”

  “No. No more. Except…” Osprey thought for a moment. “Ah yes, I need your advice.”

  “Advice, sir?”

  “I need to find someone from the castle kitchen who is knowledgeable about herbs, roots, berries – that kind of thing.”

  “Well, Mrs Scraggs…”

  “Apart from Mrs Scraggs,” interrupted Osprey. “She cannot be spared from the kitchen. Besides which, she is not the kind of person with whom I would wish to be seen in respectable company. She is part goblin, you know, and a former witch.”

  “Well, there is a scullery maid,” said Wyrd. “She’s called Wenda.”

  “A scullery maid!” exclaimed Osprey. “Can she string two words together?”

  “Well, she knows a lot, especially about herbs.”

  “Oh, very well. I expect she will suffice. Ask this Wenda to accompany us on our journey.”

  For some reason, this information made Wyrd feel a bit safer than if he had been travelling with Osprey alone. All the same, he couldn’t stop himself asking why Wenda would be needed.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need Wenda? Is it to mix the ink or something?”

  “No, no, no. We have more than enough ink!” said Osprey, with a supercilious snort. “My interest in this kitchen maid is in connection with the Empress’s second request, which is for a herbologist.”

  “Why does she need a herbologist?”

  “The Empress has a daughter whom she wishes to educate in the magical arts. She has asked me to tutor the girl, but I shall require a servant to gather the raw materials for our experiments. Hence the need for a herbologist.”

  “I’m sure Wenda could do that, but…”

  “But?” Osprey left the question hovering in the air.

  “I mean, I like Wenda a lot, but she’s quite, well, rough and ready. I mean she speaks her mind. She’s not very… Oh, what’s the word? Deferential?”

  “Is she not?” said Osprey, with a cruel smile that was like the cracking of frozen leather.

  He reached for the cane with which he regularly beat the boys in his class and, predominantly, Wyrd.

  “In that case,” Osprey said, with the amiability of a professional executioner, “I may just have to beat some obedience into her.”

  Wyrd gulped. What was he letting Wenda in for? Come to think of it, what was he letting himself in for? Merlin had warned him not to leave the castle. But that was precisely what he had to do, in the company of the least sympathetic person he had ever met. If they ever encountered enemies, Wyrd was perfectly sure that Osprey would give him up without the slightest compunction.

  Where was Merlin when you needed him? Definitely not here.

  Oh well, thought Wyrd, what was that expression Mrs Scraggs always used? Out of the frying pan, into the fire. There was another favourite of hers, too. If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.

  In some ways, it would be a relief to escape not only the heat of Mrs Scraggs’ kitchen but also the restrictions of castle life. But Wyrd had an awful feeling that life on the outside would be far more dangerous. He wasn’t wrong.

  13

  Across Atlantis

  In which Wyrd learns to believe in fairies

  Wyrd’s insides felt as jumpy as a sackful of rabbits as he, Osprey and Wenda rode out of the main gate of Castle Otto and across the drawbridge. Merlin had once warned him that the outside world would be dangerous, and Wyrd had no doubt that on that, at least, the wizard knew his stuff.

  “Does our path lie through the forest?” he asked, pointing to the wild Forest of Leafmould that spread out before them to the south and east. Wyrd tried to conceal the anxiety in his voice, but he noticed Wenda look across at him with concern.

  She had been outside the castle many times over the last few days, gathering herbs, berries and other kinds of mysterious provisions for the journey. The outside world seemed to hold no terrors for her. She had even forgotten about dangerous goblins, as far as Wyrd could tell. Wyrd took a deep breath and tried to look much more manly and self-confident than he felt.

  “What is it, Uther? Does the forest frighten you?” sneered Osprey, looking down at Wyrd from his loftier mount. Osprey was astride one of the King’s finest hunting horses, while Wyrd and Wenda had to make do with two of the tubby ponies on which the younger knights first learned to joust.

  “No. It’s just, er…”

  Wenda helped her friend out of his embarrassment.

  “There’s no need to go through the forest, sir, is there? Doesn’t the Empress live over there, more or less due east?”

  “Yes,” said Osprey, swinging his horse round to face east. “Our path leads over the northern moors. If we keep to the paths, the Puca should leave us alone.”

  “What’s the Puca?” whispered Wyrd. “Some kind of giant?”

  “Exactly the opposite,” whispered Wenda. “They’re the little people.”

  “Oh,” said Wyrd, “I’m not scared of little people.”

 
“You should be,” whispered Wenda. “They may be small, but there’s lots of them. And they’re always hungry.”

  “Do not underestimate the Puca,” said Osprey. “Before men advanced into their woodlands, they used to be one of the ruling races of Albion. Today, their power has shrunk, and their habitats are few. Yet this is possibly the last area in all Albion where they remain strong. So, if they believe we do not come in peace, they will do their utmost to defend it.”

  Osprey led them down a green lane with bushes on either side. The hedgerows rustled as they went past, and Wyrd was afraid that at any moment something large and terrible, or – if they were Puca – small and terrible, would burst through. Occasionally, their hooves would disturb a game bird’s nest and one would shoot out in front of them and make the ponies rear. But that was the worst that happened, until they came to a wide valley that offered a clear view of the sea to the north.

  Wyrd noticed the anxiety on Osprey’s face as he shielded his eyes and looked northwards. Between the three of them and the cover of hedgerows on the eastern side of the valley lay several hundred yards of open grassland, with a narrow river snaking through from the wooded hills in the south down to the northern sea.

  Wenda rode ahead into the valley, oblivious of any danger. Osprey raised one finger, and a flash of light blinded her eyes.

  “Ow! What did you do that for?” she asked.

  “Come back here!” hissed Osprey.

  “All right, all right,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  A few moments passed, with Osprey continuing to gaze intently towards the north. Then a large boat passed, not a hundred yards from the coast. It had a bright green sail and at least thirty oars protruding from its landward side, all moving in perfect unison to the beat of a low, insistent drum. Occasionally, there was the sound of a whip being cracked, followed by a high-pitched scream or a low groan of agony.

  “A slave-ship,” muttered Osprey.

  “I’ve seen them from my window,” said Wyrd, “but never this close to the shore.”

  “They avoid the castle,” said Osprey, “for King Otto has forbidden them to land there. But that does not stop them raiding the coast for male slaves to replace the ones that have perished, and new women and children for breeding stock and… playthings.”