by Kate Forsyth
Above the island was an extraordinary panorama of clouds, mounting high into the sky in soft billows, blazing orange and gold with shadows of the most intense blue. Over the fenlands, the moon was hoisting itself above the horizon, the fattest, fullest, reddest moon Peregrine had ever seen. It looked bloated on blood, and a profound shudder ran all through him.
He gazed up at it, hardly able to breathe. It seemed the worst kind of omen. A golden pathway led to it across the water, glittering and scintillating. Peregrine felt a familiar brightness and clarity come over him, and the smell of rain on roses. ‘No,’ he whispered. He tried to steady his breath, clenching his fists. The colours in the water whirled and drew together. He saw a woman looking up at him from the water’s surface. Her curly hair was streaked with grey, her eyes were black and fathomless. She was weeping. He stared down at her and saw she clutched a long knife in one hand. Blood dripped from her other palm. Her eyes widened as she recognised him. Peregrine, where are you? she called. He could barely hear her.
I go in search of the Storm King’s spear, he answered silently and lifted one hand to point to the island drifting closer and closer.
Where? the Erlrune cried. Where are you?
‘Where are we?’ Peregrine whispered.
‘That’s the Isle of Eels,’ their guide answered in a soft, reverent voice. ‘That’s where our king be’.
Peregrine could not speak. He gazed down at the Erlrune’s face and saw her nod and raise her hand in a gesture of blessing and farewell. Then the vision blurred and dissolved away. Peregrine clenched his fists on the side of the boat, holding himself steady as the water and sky swung wildly around him. He tasted blood as he bit his tongue. For a moment he heard nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing. Then the whirl of colour steadied. He bent his head down onto his knees.
‘Are you all right?’ Jack asked, leaning forward.
Peregrine nodded, trying to calm his breathing.
‘You’re tired,’ Jack said. ‘We haven’t slept properly in hours. You’ll be fine once you’ve slept’.
‘Yes,’ Peregrine said.
‘I’m looking forward to thawing out by a fire,’ Grizelda said, sitting up. ‘I’m completely frozen! My feet are like blocks of ice’.
‘I’m starving,’ Jack said. ‘Let’s hope they’ll give us some grub!’
‘There’ll be eel stew,’ their guide said, patting his basket of writhing eels. ‘We’ll just toss these beauties in a pot of water with some salt, and we’ll be a-gobbling them down in no time’.
‘Delicious,’ Grizelda replied.
‘Mighty good,’ the fen-man agreed, not understanding she was being sarcastic.
Gradually Peregrine returned to himself. His temples pounded and he felt a little sick, but no-one had noticed and that made him feel better. He gazed up at the darkening sky. The moon was shrinking and fading as it rose. Outside it had been eerily quiet. Inside all was noise and activity. By the light of lanterns strung overhead, men chopped wood. Peregrine was comforted that the Erlrune knew where he was and what he was doing.
He could see no sign of Blitz’s distinctive sickle-shaped wings outlined against the clouds. He pulled out his flute and blew his falcon’s call note. Far away he heard a responding cry and put his flute away, smiling.
As the punt approached the island, they heard the deep, eerie boom of the secret signal ring out, and their guide at once responded, blowing on his own whistle. He poled the punt up to a muddy beach and leapt out. A few men came down to help him pull the punt up higher. Like the fen-man, they wore plain, rough clothes of brown and grey wool, with eelskin capes pinned at their shoulders with a carved wooden brooch. With their shaggy hair, bristling beards and broad shoulders, they all looked exactly alike, all except for their fenman who was as skinny as a rake.
Peregrine was so stiff and weary he could hardly walk, but he made his bow and said, ‘Thank you, sir, for your timely assistance. If you would be so kind as to take us to Lord Percival?’
‘Liah’s eyes, Fred, who’s this babbling babe?’ one of the men said.
‘Says he be the prince, Ged,’ the fen-man responded laconically. ‘Had starkin scum on his tail, orright’.
The man’s heavy eyebrows shot up. ‘Prince, he say? Leeblimey!’
Jack stood at Peregrine’s side, his hand close to the hilt of his sword. Peregrine shook his head slightly and Jack reluctantly fell back. Grizelda had drawn the cloak about her, its hood hiding her fair hair, and kept her hand on Oskar’s head, keeping him still.
‘Don’t look much like a prince,’ another man said, looking Peregrine over.
Peregrine straightened his back, lifted his chin, fixed the men with a proud glance and held out his right arm. Blitz came hurtling down and landed on his wrist with a thump.
The men all stared, speechless.
‘I can assure you I am truly Prince Peregrine, son of King Merrik and heir to the Stormlinn,’ he said. He lifted Blitz so they all might see the peregrine falcon, which only princes of royal blood were permitted to carry. ‘Will you take me to your lord now, or must we remind you of the penalties of defying the expressed command of the prince royal?’
‘Leeblimey,’ one of the men breathed.
‘Liah’s legs!’
‘Best take him to the king, eh, Fred?’
‘Reckon so’. The fen-man they had met first pushed his hat to the back of his head and led the way up a rough track through willow trees. Small round boats, made of hide stretched over a lattice of willow twigs, were hidden here and there in the tangled undergrowth
An old castle towered above the trees, built on the very peak of the hill. It was small and dour-looking, with two tall round towers springing from heavy battlements. A flag fluttered bravely from a flagpole. Peregrine did not recognise the ensign, which looked like a grey bird crouched among grey rushes on a grey background.
The path wound up through the trees and came out in the midst of a small village which had, at some time in the past, been attacked and nearly burnt to the ground. There was nothing left of the houses but blackened foundation stones and a few scorched walls. Peregrine noticed the marks of swords and axes in the walls and doorframes.
The men did not linger in the desolate scene, but hurried up the hill to the castle. Peregrine, Jack and Grizelda followed wearily, Oskar trotting behind.
The only entrance to the castle was a heavy oak doorway. Two men stood guard outside, helmets of boiled leather pulled down over their faces, halberds of shining steel in their hands. At the sight of the small procession, one stepped forward, his halberd thrust out.
‘What’s all this then?’
‘Hey, Hal. This kid reckons he’s the prince,’ Fred said, jerking a skinny thumb at Peregrine. ‘Reckon he oughter see Percy’.
‘Leeblimey! How’d he get here?’
‘Knows the bittern call,’ Fred replied. ‘Liah knows how’.
Hal gazed at Peregrine thoughtfully, scratching his bristly beard. ‘Orright, better take him in then. Hey! Better give me your bow and all those arrows. No weapons allowed’.
Peregrine stilled, his hand on his quiver of arrows. ‘We mean Lord Percival no harm’.
The men all roared with laughter, slapping their thighs and bending over. ‘Harm! The stripling thinks he could be a-harming our Percy!’ One wiped tears from his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, but we cannot surrender our weapons without some undertaking from Lord Percival that we shall have safe passage’. Peregrine stood firm, locking his knees so no-one could tell how they trembled.
‘Liah’s eyes, don’t he talk pretty! Mebbe he do be a prince’.
‘I am indeed a prince and your liege-lord,’ Peregrine replied. ‘Am I mistaken in my belief that the people of the fenlands have sworn fealty to my father, King Merrik, and promised to uphold his rule? For I promise you he shall forgive no transgressions against our person!’
‘Leeblimey! Those are mighty big words from a mighty little fellow …’ one be
gan, but the man with the halberd held up his hand. At once all the men fell silent.
‘No harm meant,’ he said. ‘You keep your bow but I warn you, prince or no prince, we’ll kill you if you do aught to harm our king’.
‘He is no king,’ Peregrine said, holding the man’s gaze. ‘My father is the only true king and I bid you remember it’.
After a moment, the man inclined his head. ‘Orright then. Lord Percy is what I mean’.
Peregrine nodded and, holding Blitz high, walked through the oaken door the man flung open and into the outer bailey.
It was a very different scene inside the high stone walls. Outside it had been eerily quiet. Inside all was noise and activity. Men chopped wood, or mended old boots, or cleaned out pigsties. Women were taking in washing that had been spread over rosemary bushes, or ground chestnuts in heavy stone mortars, or wove baskets out of rushes. Children played here and there, dressed in dirty smocks, their bare legs muddy to above their knees. An older boy was fishing in a round pool with a long-pronged fork, impaling wriggling eels. Another was hard at work whittling ash boughs into long staves. A girl about the same age as Grizelda was feeding a flock of white geese, which hissed at the sight of the intruders, their white, snaky necks darting forward indignantly.
As the small procession made its way through the crowded courtyard, everyone stopped and stared. The men laid down their tools and jostled close, whispering, ‘What’s all this then? Who’s the dandyprat?’
Small houses of mud bricks had been built inside the shelter of the walls and thatched with reeds. Instead of glass, their windows were protected by carved wooden shutters, now open to let warm light shine through the cracks. Smoke trickled from their chimneys.
Another heavy oaken door was the only entrance to the castle itself. It was propped open with a boulder. A mob of children ran out, pots on their heads and wooden swords in their hands. They came to a sudden halt at the sight of the strangers, gawping at the falcon on Peregrine’s wrist. Oskar growled menacingly, and Grizelda put her hand on his head.
Peregrine walked slowly and proudly through the archway and into the inner bailey. The ground here was cobbled, with archways all along one wall leading into stables and workrooms. Another wooden door at the far end of the courtyard stood ajar, allowing a glimpse of a garden. The castle loomed above, its only windows narrow arrow slits. A flight of steep stone stairs led up to the front door, which was reinforced with heavy iron bands.
A thickset man with a grizzled beard sat on a wooden block outside a long, low building of grey stone, a halberd leaning against the wall, his helmet of boiled leather at his feet. He was playing conkers with a grubby little urchin with tousled curls. At the sight of the newcomers, he dropped his conkers, grabbed his halberd and jumped to his feet, staring at Peregrine.
Once again there was low discussion and argument. By now there were about a dozen men in the procession, all of whom had something to say. Peregrine did not speak, just stood as straight as he was able, looking around him with interest. Jack and Grizelda stood close beside him, the starkin girl keeping the hood of her cloak shadowing her face.
The low stone building had two entrances, both framed by a giant horseshoe-shaped arch of curved bricks. In one, a green-painted door stood open, pots of herbs clustered close on either side. The other framed the village smithy, where sudden sprays of sparks illuminated the gloom. The ring of metal on metal came clearly over the sound of hens cackling, children playing and women gossiping.
‘What! He’s a-claiming he’s the prince? The wildkin one?’ The man who had been guarding the smithy stared thoughtfully at Peregrine, frowned, and went inside the smithy. All the men outside shifted uneasily from foot to foot, eyeing the travellers askance. Jack stared back at them belligerently, his hands on his belt. Grizelda kept her hand on Oskar’s collar. The hound was growling deep in his throat.
The ringing sound stopped. An immense giant of a man appeared in the archway, bending his neck to avoid banging his head on the stone.
He had thick curly black hair and eyes like black coals under bushy, angry-looking eyebrows. His black beard bristled all the way down to his waist, and was tied up with a piece of ancient leather, presumably to stop it catching fire. What little could be seen of his face was as brown and weathered as ox hide, and he carried an enormous hammer in one enormous hand. His leather apron was pitted with small scars from burning sparks, and Peregrine noticed many similar scars all over his hairy forearms and hands. His frowning gaze travelled over them all and came to rest on Peregrine, standing straight-backed and proud in his dishevelled, muddy clothes, the falcon perched on his wrist.
‘Your Highness, welcome to my home,’ the Marsh King said and knelt in the mud, his head bent low.
CHAPTER 16
The Marsh King’s Daughter
‘THANK YOU, MY LORD,’ PEREGRINE REPLIED, TRYING TO HIDE the rush of relief the blacksmith’s words gave him.
‘You look as if you’ve been a-travelling hard,’ the Marsh King said, getting ponderously to his feet. Peregrine had to raise his chin sharply to look up into his face, else he would have been staring at the blacksmith’s beard. ‘Won’t you come on in and have a sup of something with us?’
‘We would be most grateful for some refreshments,’ Peregrine said.
‘My lassie will whip something up for you, quick smart,’ the Marsh King said. ‘Come through here’. He strode through the other horseshoe-shaped door and Peregrine followed him, hoping his legs would hold out until he found somewhere to sit down. His arm quivered under the strain of holding Blitz aloft. Jack and Grizelda followed, the crowd of big, bristly-bearded men pushing and shoving to get in after them, their hobnailed boots making a great clatter on the doorstep.
Within was a long, low room, its walls whitewashed, with a door at the far end. A fire smouldered on the floor at the other end, the wall behind it stained black. There were various pieces of beautifully carved and painted wooden furniture, softened with cushions and rugs of otter fur. Along one wall stood a tall dresser crowded with jars of preserved fruit, pickled onions, jellied eels and potted shrimps. Bunches of dried herbs and smoked fish were strung above the fire, and the dirt floor was brushed clean, hard and smooth as stone.
A tiny old woman sat napping in a wheeled chair by the fire, a marmalade cat asleep on her lap. Beside her sat a thin girl, quietly spinning. She looked up in surprise as her father led the trio of weary travellers inside.
‘Ma, Molly!’ her father roared. ‘We have guests! They’re cold and hungry. What’s t’eat?’
The old woman in the chair woke with a jerk. She put up one hand to straighten her lace cap, saying loudly, ‘Holy mackerel! Percykins, my lamb, must you make such a racket?’
‘Sorry, Ma,’ he said contritely.
‘Have you washed your hands and wiped your feet?’
‘No, Ma,’ he replied.
‘Then out you go, quicksticks! All of you!’
The Marsh King obediently turned to go, shepherding Peregrine, Grizelda and Jack before him. The twelve big, black-bearded men hastily fell over themselves to get out too, and stood by while they all washed their hands and faces at the pump outside, wiped their feet carefully and trooped back inside.
‘There you are, right as rain,’ the old woman said, beaming. ‘Muddy as a duck puddle, you boys get, a-romping and a-rumbling out there. Come on in! Where’s your hanky, Percykins? You’re dripping water on my nice, clean mud floor’.
‘Sorry, Ma,’ the blacksmith said and pulled out a handkerchief the size of a pillowslip, mopping his face with it.
‘That’s all fine and dandy then. Mustn’t forget your manners! Did I hear you a-saying you was hungry? Holy mackerel, the lot of you? Percykins, you know I don’t mind you bringing your wee friends home for a bite of supper, but a woman needs a bit more warning! We haven’t enough bowls for you all!’
The blacksmith looked around in surprise and saw the men crowding in the doorway, looking
rather sheepish. ‘Not you lot!’ he roared. ‘Go on, out you go! Hal and Hank, go close the gate! Fred and Frank, go mind my fire! Bill and Bob, go ring the bell! Will and Wat, go draw some water! Gus and Ged, go stand guard! Ty and Ted, climb the tower! And look sharp about it!’
Grumbling, the dozen men all clumped away, leaving the long room strangely peaceful and quiet.
‘Sorry, Ma,’ the blacksmith said. ‘I sent those louts away. It’s only these lot left’.
The old woman rolled her chair forward. It was an odd contraption, rather like a rocking chair but on wheels instead of rockers. Peregrine could tell her legs were thin and wasted under her luxurious otter-skin lap rug. She had a face like an uncracked walnut, with two beady black eyes and sparse white hair that curled under her cap, rich with lace and ribbons. She peered short-sightedly at Peregrine, who bowed to her politely. ‘Holy mackerel! What a poor, dwizzen-faced young fellow! He looks like something the cat’d cough up! Where did you drag him in from?’
‘He’s the prince, Ma,’ the blacksmith said gently. ‘He’s fair tuckered out, poor lad. Have we got aught for him t’eat?’
‘I’ve got some soup all ready, Da,’ the thin girl replied. One hand groped for a wooden crutch, which she hitched under her left shoulder before struggling to her feet. She limped forward eagerly, her crutch swinging.
Peregrine started forward, his bright eyes moving swiftly from the crutch to her thin shoulders, one hitched up because of the crutch under her arm, and then to her face. She was a skinny, freckle-faced girl, with a long plait of brown hair and green-brown eyes. She looked surprised at his close scrutiny, and her thin face turned rosy. Peregrine began to say something, then checked himself.
‘That sounds wonderful, my lady,’ he said instead. ‘We are indeed hungry. May I introduce myself? I am Prince Peregrine of the Stormlinn and my companions are my squire, Jack, and …’ He hesitated, looking towards Grizelda.
She drew herself up proudly and put back her hood, so the firelight gleamed on her blonde hair.
