Chapter Two. Christopher.
Christopher stepped out of the gymnasium door. He glanced unenthusiastically at the sky. At Marlo School for boys, whatever the weather, games were on Saturday morning. The morning's cold, unrelenting drizzle that could seep through a meagre sports kit and sting the skin in minutes had done nothing to deter the games masters of Marlo. Of course they were wrapped in coats and hats against the chill.
They had already marched most the boys over to the large playing fields behind the main school building, shouting rallying words of encouragement like “Do you think this would stop our chaps in France?” and “The Germans don’t stop attacking Belgium because it’s raining!”. The boys for their part understood that their masters knew what they were talking about. They threw themselves into games with enthusiasm.
The largest groups of boys were engaged in frenzied games of rugby. The two school rugby pitches, affectionately known as ‘Rose Waters’ and ‘The Stinker’, based on their proximity to the large compost heap the grounds men had, had been split into four smaller pitches for the morning, each containing its own game. There brave young heroes fought to best one another, imagining their abilities on the rugby field would serve them well in other fields of combat.
In the past few months an ambitious spirit had swept the staff rooms and dormitories of Marlo. The passion for the war that had filled the country had filled the school too. It was felt most keenly in the pitched Saturday battles on the rugby fields. Boys, who dreamed of being old enough to follow elder brothers and cousins in the stampede to join the army, acted out their own fantasies of victory in the games. Bravado and belief inspired the young combatants to run that little bit faster, kick that little harder and show themselves to be outstanding. At the touch lines the masters sucked at pipes and cigars. The smoke from their lungs mixed with icy morning breath as they hurled tight-lipped bellows of encouragement across the frozen ground.
Christopher trudged past the nearest game, hugging himself to keep warm and keeping his head down. With any luck he would be able to get past the pitch without attracting attention.
“Pick up that pace, Flyte!” Mr Shipway's voice bellowed across the frozen ground. “An Englishman does not shuffle about. Show some backbone!”
“Yes Sir,” Christopher automatically responded, straightening and picking up his pace before Mr Shipway could say more.
For once Christopher envied the rugby players. Normally, the prospect of a bloody nose, grazed knees, or the host of other minor injuries that older boys would inflict on younger put him off the game. There was plenty of opportunity for them to find ways to do that in normal school life, without giving them open excuse. However, the freezing morning made running around to keep up some kind of body warmth seem more appealing.
It wasn’t up to the boys what activities they got to play in games. The masters chose. A boy would only be at Marlo for a few days, barely enough time to find his way about, before his first games morning. He would be lined up in the courtyard, dressed in shorts and vest to await his fate.
Mr Shipway was actually a history teacher but also the unofficial head of games. He would march down the line glaring at the boys, assessing physical abilities and strength of character, before splitting them up, propelling them roughly into loose groups based on his decision.
Of course most boys played rugby at first. Eventually, those who turned out to be of a less able nature would find themselves moved off the pitches in favour of other activities. Christopher had endured a full year of being hurled into the mud before he had been told to report to the gymnasium. He had done so with some trepidation.
Fortunately the masters had seen that his size and wiry frame would be of no use to them in the boxing ring, either. Then his own house master, Mr Whitestone, had handed him a short, tightly strung bow and led him out to the three wooden targets to the north of Rose Waters. With his back to the cries and screams of the rugby pitch, Christopher had watched as Mr Whitestone explained how to hold the bow and how to aim. He had let fly to strike the nearest target with a shot that was just off bull’s-eye. When it came to Christopher’s turn to make his first attempt he felt more at home with the bow in his hands than he thought possible with any game.
Since then he had become quite good. He was regularly in the top five boys. He had even represented the school. He had found that the masters had begun to notice him in a positive light. Even Mr Shipway had exclaimed, “So you are a Flyte boy, after all”, after one successful match against another school. That was a compliment indeed.
Whilst he never blamed Freddy, Christopher often wished his big brother had not been quite so good at everything when he was at Marlo. He had also been popular with his easy way and equally easy laugh. Christopher, who was shy at the best of times, struggled to fill the void his brother had left. So seeing anything other than faint disappointment in school master's faces was a welcome change.
Ahead, Mr Whitestone waved a friendly arm at him. There was one master, at least, who simply took him for who he was. Smiling, Christopher waved back and broke into a light jog, crossing the remainder of the distance to the archery practice targets with enthusiasm.
From the touchline by the posts of Old Stinker, Daniel Corbyne watched Christopher with a cruel smirk on his face. He had been particularly looking out for the slight boy. Now he could see his quarry was going to be conveniently close he was delighted.
In some ways Daniel and Christopher were very similar to one another. They were both quite naturally shy. Both lived in the shadow of an elder brother who had been in the school. But that was where the similarity ended. From a very early age, Daniel had found that the best way to hide his own failings was to root them out in others.
In this respect Daniel was a copy of his own brother. The only difference was that his brother was clever gifted, whereas Daniel was not. His brother could hurt with both brain and brawn. Daniel had suffered both more than most. Still, he had convinced himself years ago that he loved his brother. That was why he was so proud when he received a letter from him.
In the letter, Daniel’s brother had told him all about Frederick Flyte and the article in the Times. Newspapers were strictly forbidden to the pupils in the school, so without the letter Daniel might never had known of the outrage. His brother had even enclosed the clipping.
The letter itself savoured the story with relish. An observant eye would perhaps wonder whether Daniel’s brother had been at school at the same time as Freddie. Whether they had been actually been enemies. However, Daniel didn’t have an observant eye, so the letter left him with no questions. Lieutenant Frederick Flyte was not just mad; he was a coward.
He told his friends that night and word had spread. Freddie Flyte’s cowardice was Christopher Flyte’s cowardice and he should be punished. Now the boy had appeared it was just a case of waiting for the right moment.
Christopher hugged himself to try to keep warm. Though archery was far less active than rugby there was no concession to the cold; the boys still wore shorts and a thin school sporting top. The line of archers waiting their turn hopped and jumped about, wrapping arms tight to their bodies, jogging on the spot and breathing fast to get the blood pumping.
Practice was simple. Each boy would take three shots, then return to the back of the queue to await another go. This would continue until each had taken five turns.
Christopher had been off form that morning. The best he had achieved was a single arrow in the bull. Cold, and the conversations around him, had put him off and he was glad he would soon take his final turn at the firing line.
Philip Swann stood ahead of Christopher, his bow raised with his eyes half closed on his final shot. He was almost a full head taller than Christopher. To his left Bernard Miller slouched against the stump of a tree watching Philip intently, his podgy arms gripping his own bow tightly. When they had their bows Swann and Miller
never seemed to feel the cold, the rain, or anything for that matter. They were the two best archers in the school. They were also the nearest thing to friends that Christopher had.
Swann let loose his final arrow. It flew perfectly through the air to thump lightly into the centre of the bull’s-eye.
“Well done, Swann!” Miller grinned, “You’ll be beating my score soon, if I’m not careful.”
Swann looked back with a grin and stepped out of the way for Christopher to take the position.
From a vantage point about thirty feet behind the archers, Mr Whitestone watched the proceedings. Despite the ribbing he took good-naturedly from the other masters, the young teacher took the sport very seriously.
“Come on now, Christopher,” he called, his voice missing the harsh edge that was common in the other masters. “Let's see you hit that bull again”
Christopher lifted his bow and pulled back on the bowstring with a stiff, cold hand. It cut tight into his fingers until their tips throbbed fat with blood. Finally he released. The arrow flew toward the target, lodging itself into the outside ring.
“Bad luck, boy! Try again.” Mr Whitestone called.
“Yes bad luck, old fellow.” Miller said quietly enough that only the boys at the front of the queue could hear him. “Still, I’m sure you could still beat my Aunt Elizabeth.”
Swann stifled a laugh. “Has she lost her false arm then, Miller?”
The front of the queue erupted into laughter, Christopher included. Mr Whitestone smiled at the boys and walked toward them.
“All right, now. Do try to stay in control. If you don’t get these shots in soon there is a good chance that we will all freeze before we ever get a chance to show Stowe what we’re made of!”
The mention of the imminent contest with the old school rivals brought a respectful silence over the giggling boys.
“Go on, Flyte.” A voice came from somewhere in the back of the line. Christopher lifted his second arrow, took aim trying to ignore the shivers running through him, and let loose. The arrow followed the path of the first, landing only fractionally closer to the bull.
The final arrow proved marginally better for him, lodging just inside the middle ring. The bull's-eye remained defiantly free of arrows. Christopher sighed and turned to where Miller and Swann waited. Behind him one of the younger boys ran to the target and pulled the arrows from the straw face.
“Never mind, Flyte. There’s another practice on Tuesday,” Swann said, flashing him a commiserate smile.
Mr Whitestone gestured at the three of them. “Right, gentlemen. You may return to the gym.” He turned his attention back to the line of remaining archers.
Christopher fell in next to Miller and Swann. The three of them started back across the field in silence. As the sound of their feet crunched into the frosty grass they fell into rhythm until it seemed that there were not three boys but one heavy footed man. Boys always seemed to fall into pace when walking together at Marlo school. Christopher supposed it was all the drilling and marching that was so often a part of their school activities.
Ahead, on the Stinker, a school master signalled the end of a game to a group of older boys. The boys ran dutifully to the touch lines, gathering around the master in a tight semi-circle. Their breath rose above them in little steam clouds.
“They looked on good form.” Miller noted, always the first to break a silence. He glanced at Christopher quickly. “All right, old man?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Christopher said, then trailed off, not really sure how else to reassure his friend. He actually felt rather useless, but the position of being the least able of them was something he’d grown accustomed to. There was little point in dwelling on it.
“He’ll be happier when he gets back to his books,” Swann said, grinning and punching Christopher lightly in the arm.
Miller raised his brow, “Oh yes. That reminds me! We have a question for you. Wondered if you’d settle an argument.
“Swann here was telling me that your old chum King Arthur had a couple of swords, the Sword in the Stone being one, and Excalibur being the other. Now I say that they’re both the same, and you being the expert in this we thought you’d be able to tell us. There’s a good size tin of jam resting on the outcome.”
Christopher didn’t doubt for a moment that there had been an argument. Most subjects that the two happened upon would be used to fuel their well-established rivalry. Of course, they probably had no need for him to help them prove the answer. It would have been very simple for them to look it up in the vast school library and neither boy was afraid of books. However they were generous friends and this was a subject that Christopher knew well. They would often find ways to let him use it.
Christopher smiled at him. “Sorry, Miller, Swann’s right.”
Miller frowned. “Really?”
“Actually, I may have something of an advantage over you here, Miller.” Swann said. He glanced across, a sheepish grin on his face. “I’m reading a book on Camelot.”
“That’s cheating!”
“Well yes, I suppose, but it’s funny to see your face!”
Miller did indeed look a little red for a moment before he saw the joke.
Christopher’s interest had been caught. “Which book are you reading?”
Swann stopped, looking guilty. “Hope you don’t mind, Flyte. It’s your mother’s. ‘The Little Knight’.”
Christopher felt his skin tingle at her mention. “Of course not. She wrote them to be read.”
“Well, that’s as may be, but your still a rotten cheater,” Miller said, “I think I might have to look in your tuck box and take your jam anyway as punishment.”
With that he took off down the side of Old Stinker in the direction of the gymnasium as fast as his chubby legs could go. After a moment, when Swann decided he had allowed him enough of a head start, he leant forward on the balls of his feet and took off.
He pulled up suddenly a few paces later and turned back. “My sister sent it to me. I should have told you.”
“I’m glad you’re reading it.” Christopher smiled broadly in order to leave Swann in no confusion that he was completely fine.
“It really is very good, Christopher,” Swann said, then turned and sprinted after Miller.
Christopher nodded. “Yes it is, isn’t it?”
Michael Stone, the thick-necked scrum half, spotted Flyte was alone first. He slapped Daniel’s shoulder and nodded in the direction of the boy. Daniel smiled with anticipation.
As if on cue the master dismissed the boys and turned away, relighting his pipe and stomping away to the other end of the field, where pupils still battled for mud-soaked victory. Some boys followed suit, keen to be seen to be showing an interest for the school. Others jogged off toward the gym. Soon Daniel Corbyne stood with just Michael Stone.
“What about the others?” Stone asked, looking around him.
“What about them? We can’t put off our duty because we haven’t got a full company.” Daniel said, feeling that morally he had the might of the entire British army behind him. “Come on.”
Daniel strode toward Christopher, his sense of right bolstering the other sense of thrill he felt at the opportunity to dominate. Behind him Stone stayed close to his shoulder, his second in command, ready to move at the leader’s word.
As they approached, Christopher looked up. Immediately Daniel saw the fear in his face. Just like his brother, scared at a hint of danger. Daniel drew himself up, puffing out his already wide chest.
“Flyte!”
The boy stopped walking and visibly shrank back a little.
“Can you hear me, Flyte?” It was obvious to Daniel that the boy could hear him, but it was something his brother had used to shout at him when he was hiding from a beating back at home. He remembered how scared it made him feel. It felt good to shout it now.
They re
ached Flyte. To his credit he didn’t try to run. He just stood there, fear in his eyes but prepared to see what the matter was.
“What do you want, Corbyne?” The boy asked, the tremor in his voice kept barely in check.
“You’re a dirty little coward, Flyte. Just like your brother.”
To Daniel’s surprise, the personal insult fell on deaf ears.
“My brother is not a coward!”
Daniel stepped forward and grabbed the boy before he could shy away, pulling him close until their faces were almost touching. Behind him, Stone glanced backwards, but everyone was involved with the games still in play. The three of them were unnoticed.
“Don’t answer me back,” Daniel snapped, pleased with the way little drops of spittle sprayed into the boy’s face, making him blink. “If I say you’re cowards then you’re cowards.”
“Why?” the boy asked.
Daniel hadn’t expected a question and it confused him a little. He imagined that the boy's fear would make him accept whatever he was told. “Because I say so.” He said, expecting this would make the boy see the sense of agreeing.
Christopher’s face, though scared, remained confused.
“And because your brother ran away from the Hun, and went mad,” Daniel added, feeling that now would be a good time to put weight to his words.
“What?” At the mention of madness, Flyte’s face took on a different look altogether. It suddenly seemed to Daniel that the grip he had on him might have been the touch of the school nurse for all the effect it was having. He considered maybe twisting the boy’s wrist to actually cause pain.
“What do you mean?” The boy asked again before he could act on the thought.
“He went mad at the front and tried to lead his men away from the battle. My brother wrote to me and told me about it.”
“Freddie!” The anguish in the boy’s voice had completely taken over the fear. This wasn’t going at all how Daniel had imagined.
“They’re going to court martial him, as soon as he’s sane enough to understand.” Daniel spat again, but the moment was lost.
“Get off me.” Flyte pulled out of his grip, actually sounding annoyed with him. “When did you hear about this?”
“Don’t ask me questions!” Daniel said, feeling completely ineffectual.
The boy glanced at him, well, through him actually, then turned away and started hurrying toward the gym. Behind Daniel, Stone made a noise that could have been a giggle. This wouldn’t do at all.
“Do you know what they do to cowards?” Daniel called after him. “When they court martial him, they’ll shoot him stone dead. Just like your mad mother!”
The boy stopped and turned around. Any look of fear or anguish was gone, replaced by one of pure anger and hate.
All of a sudden Daniel remembered what it was like to be the scared one.
Afterwards, Christopher tried to remember what had happened. No matter how hard he tried, he could recall nothing. That scared him more than any punishment that might be meted out.
When Corbyne had mentioned his mother’s death in that gloating voice he used, Christopher had felt a rush of blood to his head. When he turned and saw the look of fear on Corbyne’s face, even though he was a full two years older than him and a good half foot taller, the rushing had become deafening. As he had run back and leapt at the elder boy, hands stretched out before him like talons ready to rip at the face before him, his vision had blurred to white-hot blindness.
When he came to his senses, he was being marched across the quadrangle, towards the headmaster’s house, a full three hundred yards and two buildings away from the playing fields. How he had gotten there or what had happened was a mystery to him.
His mother had once told him in one of her more lucid moments towards the end that she had suffered sudden memory losses. If he could go blank like this then it could mean that he could also suffer from the madness.
And, if Christopher was honest with himself, over all the things that he feared, madness was the scariest of all.
The Boy In Winter's Grasp Page 2
