The Starkin Crown

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘It is sacred to us,’ Peregrine said. ‘It stays green in the midst of winter, when the tree it grows in is bare of all leaves. We call it the golden bough, for it often glows golden in the bare winter trees, and thunderbesem, for it is thought to offer protection against lightning, both in the air and …’ he hesitated and looked away, ‘… and in the brain’.

  There was a moment of silence, then he went on slowly, ‘Sometimes it is called all-heal, even though it is poisonous. A ring carved of mistletoe, or a sprig carried on your body, is thought to ward off illness and help wounds heal’.

  Peregrine slid his hand into his pocket and drew out his own sprig of mistletoe and showed it to Nan and Molly. ‘Queen Rozalina plucked it for me on Midwinter’s Eve. She cuts it with a silver knife and does not allow any part of it to touch the ground. We think that is a custom left over from the day Wolfgang the Storm King cut mistletoe to make his spear’.

  ‘So the spear of thunder is made from mistletoe?’ Molly asked. ‘He made it to get around Lady Grim’s spell?’

  Peregrine nodded. ‘He spent all year thinking and studying, and the following midwinter he used his Gift to find a place where mistletoe grew from a lightning-blasted oak tree …’

  ‘Our Grimsfell,’ Nan said, nodding her head.

  ‘It must be,’ Peregrine said. ‘He cut a branch of mistletoe and carved himself a spear, engraving magical runes along its length and honing its point till it was as sharp as an arrow. He anointed the point with the poisonous juice from its white berries, which only grow at midwinter, and then he called Lord Grim.

  ‘Although he was compelled to come by Wolfgang’s Gift of Calling, Lord Grim came without fear, galloping through the sky with his great black-horned steed, all his hounds howling at his heels. Lady Grim rode beside him and his ten sons rode behind. Midwinter is the time of Lord Grim’s greatest strength. He was arrogant and sure of his power, which would not begin to wane until the twelfth day of Midwinter.

  ‘Wolfgang confronted Lord Grim and told him he must submit to law and order. Lord Grim only laughed.

  ‘Wolfgang warned him that if he would not submit willingly, he would have to hunt him down and kill him. “Try to catch me if you can!” Lord Grim laughed and off they galloped, howling, shrieking, turning the sky black.

  ‘Wolfgang threw his spear of mistletoe. Because it was made with the Storm King’s Gift of Finding, it could never miss its mark. No matter how Lord Grim swerved and leapt and galloped and dodged, the spear sped ever closer. For twelve days Lord Grim and his Gallop rode, turning the whole land black with frost and shadows, but still the spear sped closer.

  ‘At last Lord Grim and his Gallop began to grow weary. His horse began to stumble and droop its head. The dogs were panting and limping, the boo-bogeys were failing, and still the spear sped ever closer. Lord Grim’s sons were sagging in the saddle, Lady Grim was white-faced and drooping, and still the spear sped ever closer. At last Lord Grim’s youngest, who was only a child, could hang on no longer. He fell from the saddle and Lord Grim turned and caught him as he fell.

  ‘It was then that the spear at last found its mark. It plunged straight through the body of Lord Grim’s youngest son and into Lord Grim’s heart. Father and son went tumbling down, down, down, and would have been impaled on the sharp peaks of the mountains below if Lady Grim had not swerved her steed to break their fall.

  ‘The spear flew straight back to the hand of the Storm King and Lady Grim followed, the body of her youngest in her arms, her older sons bearing the body of their father. Her grief was terrible to see. Wolfgang’s heart was touched, for he remembered his own grief at the loss of his mother. He made a bargain with Lady Grim. He would heal her son if she and all her sons would agree to go back through the dark and secret gate to their own realm.

  ‘Lady Grim hesitated. “Only if you heal my husband too,” she said. The Storm King was torn. He did not trust Lord Grim, but he was determined to bring peace to the land and wanted to make some grand gesture of his intentions.

  ‘In the end he agreed to heal Lord Grim, but only if he submitted to being bound under the hill, to be roused in a time of desperate need, by the striking of the spear of thunder upon the rock under which he was bound. And the Storm King said to Lord Grim …’ Peregrine put on a deep, resonant voice: ‘“This I promise you! If Lord Grim should rise and help me and mine in the hour of our greatest need, then he shall be free to return to his own realm thereafter.” ’

  There was a long moment of silence. Peregrine reached for his cup of warm mead to ease his dry throat. There was a little murmuring and stretching as the spell of the story began to wear off.

  ‘Three times you need to strike the stone,’ Nan said, to Peregrine’s surprise, ‘and then the old oak tree will grow green, the dry spring will run with water, and Old Grim and his Gallop will wake’.

  ‘I hadn’t heard that part,’ Peregrine said.

  ‘It’s what my nan told me when I was just a lass,’ Nan said. ‘Round here, if we think something is never going to happen, we say: “Yes, when the old oak grows green and Old Grim rides again”’.

  ‘That was a marvellous story,’ Molly said, lifting her chin from her knees. Her carving was tucked by her side, forgotten.

  ‘His Highness tells the best stories,’ Jack agreed, taking up his poker again and putting another apple to roast in the fire. ‘Don’t let him tell you a ghost story, he’ll scare you out of your wits’.

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Grizelda said stiffly. ‘Nor in this Lord Grim. I hope you don’t have your heart set on rousing this old boo-bogey from the grave, Robin’.

  ‘I plan to give it a go,’ he replied coolly.

  ‘You’ll need to find the spear first,’ she reminded him. ‘Though I hate to be the one to remind you that the spear is bound to have rotted long ago’.

  ‘But that’s the thing,’ Peregrine said, joy in his voice. ‘The bog doesn’t make wood rot, it preserves it! Molly says they find things in the bog that were flung there hundreds and even thousands of years ago’.

  ‘No! That’s impossible!’ Grizelda stared at him.

  ‘It’s true,’ Molly said. ‘Look, this is bog-oak I’m carving now. See how hard and dark it is?’ She told Grizelda about the bodies that had been found in the bog, corpses that turned to leather instead of rotting away.

  ‘So the spear could still be there?’ Grizelda sounded dumbfounded. ‘That’s … amazing’.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ Jack cried, leaping up and dancing a wild jig about the fire. ‘I’m so glad! Oh, your Highness, you really think you’ll be able to find it?’

  ‘If it’s there, I’ll find it,’ Peregrine answered. ‘Did I not find the road? You know it’s my Gift’.

  Grizelda’s eyes, huge and shadowed, were fixed on his face. ‘And you think you can use the spear to rouse this old boo-bogey?’

  ‘Of course I plan to rouse him!’ Peregrine said. ‘As soon as I heard the hill was called Grimsfell I began to hope it would be possible. And it’s still midwinter. Lord Grim’s powers are at their full. If he can cast mountains down, I should think he’ll be able to help smite the throne of stars asunder’.

  ‘I saw Old Grim once, when I was just a lass,’ Nan said dreamily. ‘The old king’s son called him out of the hill’.

  Peregrine and Jack exchanged quick, thrilled glances. ‘Yes? What happened?’

  The old woman shrugged. ‘The prince came down the old road, a-swaying in a litter, with a girl they called a wildkin princess chained beside him. I remember her well, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, with hair as black as night and eyes a-shining like stars’. She nodded to Peregrine. ‘You’ve eyes just like her, lad, I thought so as soon as I heard you were a wildkin prince’.

  Peregrine gazed at her in wonderment. Nan was talking about Queen Rozalina’s mother, his own great-aunt.

  ‘The prince’s men asked about Grimsfell and my cousin agreed to guide them there. He says the who
le way the prince was jeering at the wildkin princess, a-telling her that he’d make sure that all her prophecies and predictions came to naught.

  ‘We all got on with our work. It was late in the afternoon and a-getting dark when I heard a noise the likes of which I’ve never heard before. All the ground was a-shaking and a-trembling. We locked our doors and banged our shutters shut, and doused our fires, just in case. The prince came a-riding in an hour or so later, and his men beat on our doors with their swords till we all came out. He had Old Grim there in chains, with bells around his wrists and ankles, and paraded him around for us to see’.

  Peregrine sucked in his breath. He knew, of course, that Prince Zander had captured Lord Grim before throwing the spear in the bog. His mother had told him how she had freed Lord Grim from the palace at Zarissa at the same time as Queen Rozalina was rescued. Wondering how he had come to be imprisoned, the Erlrune had asked the Well of Fates to show her. Old Nan’s description seemed somehow more vivid and immediate, told here in the flickering glow of the peat fire, so close to Lord Grim’s hill.

  ‘Ooh, he was a terrifying sight,’ Nan went on. ‘Black as a sablefish, he was, with a great black cloak. As he passed us, all the lanterns went dim and blue, and the puddles froze over. Next day we found none of the hens had laid and the goats were all dry. They marched on after that, a-taking the wildkin princess and Old Grim away to the palace, to be put in the prince’s wildkin zoo’.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Peregrine said. ‘My parents rescued the princess’s daughter, and set free all the creatures in the wildkin zoo, including Lord Grim’.

  ‘That must’ve been when Old Grim came back,’ Nan said. ‘It was before you were born, Molly, my moppet. He came back in a gust of icy air, and all our spring crops were blighted and the blossom shrivelled on the apple trees and the berries died on the bramble. It was a bad year for us, the year he came back’.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peregrine said. ‘But Prince Zander should never have captured him’.

  ‘What will happen if you release him?’ Molly said. ‘Will he go back to his old wicked ways?’

  ‘I hope not,’ Peregrine replied, frowning. ‘Surely he wouldn’t? Because I would have the spear, to strike him down again. Besides, I think the agreement was he’d be freed from his bonds and allowed to go back to his own world’.

  The door opened and the Marsh King came in, smelling of smoke and steel, his enormous hands filled with sharp-pointed, glittering arrowheads.

  ‘Thank you!’ Peregrine cried and jumped up to take them. He could not hold them all in his hands and had to pour them into a sack made from his cloak.

  ‘It’s late,’ the Marsh King said. ‘If you wish to be a-going to Grimsfell early in the morn, you’d best all be a-getting some sleep’.

  ‘Yes,’ Peregrine said. ‘I’ll just finish my arrows and then we’d best get some sleep’.

  The Marsh King hesitated, then gave Peregrine such a hearty clap on the shoulder that he staggered forwards. ‘You spoke well today, your Highness. You’ve won the fen-folk over. I just hope you can find this spear of yours and start a-smiting at the throne of stars, like you said’.

  ‘So do I,’ Peregrine agreed fervently.

  CHAPTER 20

  Attack from the Air

  MOLLY WOKE FROM A RESTLESS SLEEP TO HEAR BELLS TOLLING frantically. She sat up with a gasp and looked around her. Everything was dark.

  She swung her legs out of bed and fumbled for her clothes. Dragging her gown over her head, she called in a low voice, ‘My lady! Wake up. We’re under attack’.

  There was a mumbled groan from the lump lying on the other side of Molly’s bed, then Grizelda sat up. ‘Wha … at?’

  ‘We’re under attack. It’ll be starkin soldiers flying in on sisikas. You’d think they’d know better by now. Come on, get dressed, we’re not safe here. One may drop a firebomb, or they may have found some fusillier fuel’.

  Soon both girls were dressed and hurrying down the stairs in the darkness, Molly hobbling as fast as she could on her crutch. Oskar padded along silently at his mistress’s heels.

  The boys were already up and getting dressed by the low gleam of the peat fire. Blitz was flapping his wings and screeching in anxiety, and Peregrine lifted the falcon close to his chest to calm him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jack cried.

  ‘Sisika attack,’ Molly said briefly. ‘My da was expecting it. We would normally take refuge in the castle but I think it’d be better if we slip away while we can. Grab your packs and we’ll go find a boat. Nan, will you tell Da we’ve gone to Grimsfell?’

  ‘You be careful now,’ Nan said anxiously, wheeling herself forward. She had slept in her chair by the fire, with the boys making up beds from soft otter skins on the floor. She had the marmalade cat, and her bundle of knitting, on her lap.

  ‘I will, I promise, Nan,’ Molly replied.

  ‘It’s cold out. Have you got your warm underdrawers on?’

  ‘Yes, Nan’. Molly blushed.

  ‘What about a shawl? And a clean hanky?’

  ‘I’ve got everything I need, don’t you worry, Nan’. Molly patted her bulging pack, which she had crammed full of provisions and other necessities the previous night.

  ‘I’m your nan, I’m meant to worry!’

  Jack helped Molly push Nan outside to the courtyard, which was full of people hurrying into the castle, baskets of food and bundles of belongings clutched under their arms. It was cold and Molly’s breath puffed white before her face. She huddled her shawl tighter about her and looked up at the sky.

  A phalanx of sisika birds soared overhead, their white wings in rigid formation, starkin lords crouched on their backs. Suddenly a spurt of blue fire from the top of the castle illuminated the scene. A sisika bird screamed and dissolved into ash. Simultaneously, there was a deafening twang. Giant arrows shot out from the ballistas ranged along the top of the battlements. Although a few arced away to fall into the lake, most hit their target, sending sisika birds tumbling down to crash into the lake or the marshes. Grizelda gasped, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  ‘You have fusillier fire?’ Peregrine cried.

  Molly grinned at him. ‘Of course we do! The Ardian fenlands are the biggest source of marsh gas in the world. You think we wouldn’t make use of it ourselves?’

  Two of the big, bristly-bearded men were nearby, hurrying people along. They laid down their halberds so they could lift the tiny old woman in her chair and carry her up the stairs to the great hall. ‘Holy mackerel,’ she said. ‘Gently now! Don’t rattle my poor old bones about, else they might fall off’.

  ‘Sorry, Nan,’ the big men said, as abashed as little boys.

  ‘This way,’ Molly said, and began to limp away from the castle, going down the hill towards the water’s edge. Peregrine, Jack and Grizelda followed close behind, Oskar slinking at their heels, his tail tucked between his legs. Peregrine kept the falcon tucked inside his cloak.

  Overhead the battle still raged. The starkin lords on the backs of the sisikas were dropping pots of hot coals or shooting fiery arrows. In retaliation, the castle’s giant crossbows twanged. Mangonels flung boulders and giant studded balls of iron. People shouted, the bell tolled relentlessly, and the sisika birds screeched. Smoke and ashes drifted in the air.

  Molly led them through a grove of willows to where a long eel-boat lay concealed in the darkness under the drooping brown fronds. It was a broad, flat-bottomed craft with a small hut built upon it. The back of the boat was crowded with curiously shaped baskets and long four-pronged forks. There were also a few heavy, long-shafted spades.

  ‘Will you pole the boat for me?’ Molly asked Jack.

  ‘Of course. Just tell me where to go’.

  ‘At first we must stay as close to the shore as possible, so that the soldiers do not see us. Head to the left’.

  Molly propped her crutch on the deck and swung herself over. She did not like boats. Her hip ached wors
e than ever in the damp air, and the way the boat rocked and swayed underfoot made her gait even more unsteady. Most of the other children on the Isle of Eels had their own small boats and would be out on the water from dawn to dusk, fishing and gathering rushes and setting eel traps. Molly was never allowed to go out on her own, though. She had tried once a few years ago, but her hip had given way while she was poling. She had fallen overboard and nearly drowned. Her father’s boat had been found, drifting and empty, on the tide. The men of the Isle of Eels had searched the bogs for her all night, at last finding her crouched in the reeds, shivering with cold and cramped with pain. She had been sick with a fever for days, and her hip had throbbed with a low, deep, grinding pain that no amount of beaver fat poultices would fix. Molly was not allowed out on the eel-boat alone after that, her nan preferring to keep her under her watchful eye.

  Molly had still been taught the secret ways of the marshes, though. At least once a month she went out with her father, who had rebuilt his punt for her comfort. There was a cushioned bench where she could safely lie, a brazier with a tin chimney to keep her warm, and with her father poling the boat along, she had no need to risk dislocating her hip again.

  Still, it was an adventure to go out in the middle of the night, without her father to look after her. Molly had craved adventure all of her life. She tingled with excitement, her cheeks pink and her eyes glowing despite the bitter cold.

  Peregrine handed Grizelda aboard, Oskar leaping after her, and then clambered onto the boat himself, Blitz on his wrist as always. It must be awkward for him, Molly thought, always carrying the falcon on his wrist. It meant he only ever had one hand to use. He didn’t seem to mind, though. Perhaps he was used to it.

  Slowly the boat began to inch along, keeping close to the island. Bangs and twangs and cries and screams from the battle concealed any sound they might have made. Eventually, though, the small boat had to strike out from the shore. Molly waited until the moon was covered by thick black cloud before giving Jack the go-ahead.