I, Coriander (22 page)

28

The Night of the Fox

I
found myself alone in a forest, snow falling, the light shining an eerie blue through the darkening trees. This place I knew all too well. I had dreamt of it often since I had been back on Bridge Street. This was where they killed the fox.

I heard a huntsman’s horn ring out and I started to run. I was in my nightmare but this time I knew there was to be no waking.

Oh, how I ran. I slipped, I stumbled, I fell, got up again and carried on until, exhausted, I could go no further. My breath rose like steam from a cooking pot. I stood frozen with fear, my eyes shut, hoping that I was only a blue light, knowing in my heart that I was not.

I shuddered with fright as I felt a horse’s hot breath on my neck. Terrified, I opened my eyes to see Tycho’s white stallion standing behind me. The sense of relief was overwhelming but short-lived.

The cries of the huntsmen rang out again, the noise darting from tree to tree, echoing through the frozen forest. Were they behind me or in front of me? Without another thought I grasped the horse’s silvery mane and with much difficulty pulled myself up on to his back. In truth, I had never been on a horse before and I felt certain that I would fall. As if sensing my anxiety, he slowed down until I had the rhythm of him and only then did he set off at an almighty gallop. I held on for all I was worth.

We galloped out of the forest and over fields bordered with hedges of holly and looking like pieces of Danes’s needlework. My cap came off my head and my hair blew out in the wind. I allowed myself to glance back once to see in the distance the misty outline of the huntsmen.

We rode on without stopping until at last the white horse came to rest at the top of a hill. From here I could view the valley below. Silhouetted above the snow-filled trees stood a tower. Nearby I could see several small hamlets, hugging the dips in the landscape. Smoke curled up from their chimneys. What would I not give now to be sitting by a fire somewhere safe and warm?

Night was beginning to draw in, the moon a watery tear in the sky. The cold had crept into my bones. Snowflakes whirled into my face, and my fingers were numb. I started as I saw a black carriage driven by four black horses, a slash across the white winter landscape, make its way towards the tower. The sight made me feel sick. Rosmore was near. The white horse, as if sensing my terror, moved swiftly into the cover of the silvery trees that gave way to a wild tangled wood. I could hear the howl of wolves and the hoot of an owl and I buried my head in the horse’s soft mane, comforting myself with his warmth, his smell.

The horse stopped at a tumbledown hut. He pawed urgently at the ground. I slithered down and stood staring at the unwelcoming place. Seeing my hesitation, the horse nuzzled me forward as an icy wind whipped up a flurry of snow. The cold was now so intense that my teeth began to chatter. I was shivering so much that I could not feel my hands as I opened the latch. I stood in the doorway, unable to see anything.

‘Is anyone there?’ I called to the darkness, and nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a low moan in reply.

‘Who is it?’ I whispered.

The moon shone in, as if curious to know the answer, and by her watery light I could see the wounded fox, an arrow in his side, blood seeping on to the wooden floor.

‘No!’ I cried. ‘Please no! Let it not be so.’

I knelt down beside the fox and held his paw. I had come too late. The fox was dying, his dark eyes cloudy. I stroked his fur, tears rolling down my face, and felt as if I was drowning in sorrow. I knew that, like Tycho, I too would be hunted and killed by Rosmore.

For what? A shadow whose power I did not understand. Should I lie down like a lamb and die with the fox? I felt close to despair. What was the point in going on? I sobbed, silvery tears rolling down my cheeks on to his bloodsoaked fur. I was overcome with grief for all that I had lost, all that should have been.

I woke with a start, unsure of what had happened. I was lying curled up on the floor, a fur pulled over me. A wintry morning light shone through the broken shutters and snow was blowing into the empty hut. I could not see the body of the fox anywhere, only a scattering of tiny animal bones. If he had died in the night surely he would be here? Yet there was nothing.

Had it all been a dream? What could have happened? Where was the fox? Where was the white horse? I felt very frightened and very alone.

Stiff with cold, I got up so suddenly that the little hut began to spin. I put out a hand to steady myself on a wooden shelf. Down in the grate a feeble fire was stuttering to life. Who had lit it? The arrow that last night I was sure had been in the fox’s side was leaning against a pile of firewood.

I was pulled up short when I stared at the dusty shelf. I wondered if my eyes played tricks with me, for there lay the most wondrous and delicate gold locket, embroidered with diamonds. What such riches were doing here abandoned I had no idea. Who could have left such a locket?

‘I knew you would come,’ I heard a voice behind me say softly. ‘I knew that one day I would see you, that you would come back and save me.’

I spun round and there, standing in the doorway, was a young man who looked as wild as any animal, his hair long and with a beard that covered nearly all his face. His clothes hung from his thin bony body as if they belonged to someone else.

‘Coriander, your disguise does not fool me. Do you not know me?’ he said.

I looked at him. That voice I recognised, those brown eyes I knew. ‘Tycho?’ I said, though I had no faith in my words.

‘Yes,’ he said, coming into the room. He moved as if his body was a stranger to him.

‘I do not understand,’ I said. ‘Last night you were a wounded fox, an arrow in your side.’

‘Coriander, I have been a fox since I refused to marry Unwin. It was Rosmore’s curse. I took refuge here in Medlar’s hut.’

‘Medlar?’ I said. ‘So you know him well?’

‘Very well,’ said Tycho. ‘Medlar gave me hope, for he was certain that you would come back with the shadow. Every day with this hope in my heart I fought to stay alive, wondering and waiting.’

‘I wish I could have got here sooner, but it was not to be,’ I said.

‘I watched you sleep, and wondered how your silvery tears had made me well. I can only think that you have brought the shadow back. Am I right?’

I nodded.

‘I thank you,’ said Tycho, and he moved forward to touch me. I backed away. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, hanging his head. ‘I disgust you like this.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, but I am shocked to see you so. I thought that if I were to bring back the shadow, all would be well.’

‘Only when Rosmore is gone will the spell be truly broken.’

I felt ashamed of my reaction. It was true he did not look the same, but he was still the person I remembered, and I thought of all he had been through and how abandoned and alone he must have felt out here, with only the white horse for company.

He went over to the shelf and tentatively picked up the gold locket and opened it. Sweet music filled the hut, gentle as a lullaby. It sounded strange in this cold and lonely place, and I was reminded of my mother and of our home in Thames Street before my world was shattered.

‘Here,’ said Tycho, showing me a tiny painting that lay like a thumbprint in the gold locket. ‘This is a portrait of you. It does not do you justice. You are far more beautiful. Your eyes are river-green.’

‘But where did you get it? How did anyone know what I looked like?’

‘Medlar followed you back. He has his ways.’

I went over to him and took both his hands. ‘With all my heart I am pleased to see you,’ I said.

He turned and looked at me. ‘I have thought of you every day since we last met.’

‘So have I, and I have often wished that I might see you again,’ I said, blushing.

‘Though not like this,’ he added with a laugh.

‘Rosmore is back,’ I said. ‘Last night I saw her carriage.’

‘Then we must be gone from here,’ he said.

He went towards the door of the hut and sent out a long, low whistle.

Nothing happened. No white horse appeared. He called again. Across the snowy fields all was deadly still. Even the wind seemed frozen in its tracks. Something was wrong.

‘Coriander!’ shouted Tycho. He slammed the door and rushed back towards me, pulling me to the floor. As he did so, the raven flew in at the shuttered window, splintering it to pieces, and swooped down on us, his claws outstretched. Tycho rolled over on top of me as Cronus came at us again, claws tearing at Tycho’s doublet. Tycho hit out at the bird with his bare hands. Then, with a sweep of wings, the raven was gone.

‘You are hurt,’ I said, and I touched his arm. A silvery gossamer light came from my fingers and the wound was gone. I could feel my heart beating. I was scared. I was truly scared.

‘What is happening?’ I asked.

‘You must not be afraid, Coriander,’ said Tycho. ‘The shadow is yours to keep. It is within you and cannot be taken from you unless you let it.’

He picked up a stick and opened the door a crack.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘We will make a run for it.’

‘No,’ I said, pulling him back. ‘Look!’

I stared at the fire and saw the flames stand upright in the grate like a painted picture. I remembered seeing that once before, when I first met Rosmore on London Bridge. I was sure that she was nearby.

Tycho pulled the door to and went cautiously to the window. Outside we could hear the snorting and neighing of many huntsmen’s horses.

‘Think you can escape? Think again,’ crowed the raven above the now deafening noise of the barking dogs.

We sat hunched against the wall of the hut, Tycho still holding the stick.

‘Come out or we will set the dogs on you,’ screeched Cronus.

Tycho looked at me, his eyes wild with anger. I held tight to him, fearful that he might do something foolhardy. Standing in the doorway stood two huge huntsmen. There was no escape. Tycho got up and rushed at them, trying to protect me. They hit out at him and threw him hard across the room.

I ran to where he fell and touched his face. Once again, I saw the light dart from me to him. He pulled himself to his feet.

‘What are you doing here?’ he shouted, throwing himself in front of me.

‘We have no interest in you,’ said one of the huntsmen coldly. ‘It is the girl we want. Now move away before I kill you.’

‘Please, Tycho,’ I cried, ‘do as they say.’

The huntsman pushed him away but still Tycho would not give up, not until the huntsman had him tight in his grasp. The other one picked me up as if I were no more than a rag doll.

‘What shall we do with him?’ said the huntsman, giving Tycho a blow in the side.

‘Bring him,’ said my captor. ‘When he has changed back to a fox we can have more sport.’

29

The Light of Shadows

I
t must have been around midday when we finally arrived at the tower. It was dark and forbidding, a place where the sun would be shy of shining, and I recognised it from my mother’s painting. A feeling of cold terror settled on me.

The tower was tall, very tall, built from black stone with no windows. The land around it was bare. Even the trees kept their distance, for nothing grew in this frozen place.

The huntsmen and their dogs surrounded the tower. They dragged Tycho to one side and tethered him to a stake. I was led roughly to the door of the tower.

‘No,’ shouted Tycho, fighting like a wild animal to pull himself free. ‘Leave her be. Take me, not her. Leave her!’

The huntsman cracked his whip. ‘Quiet, fox,’ he shouted, pushing me inside and closing the door behind me.

The silence in this dark, damp place was overwhelming, and I felt as if the stone walls were sucking all warmth from me. An unnatural green light hung in the air, illuminating the stairs that looked worn down by many feet. I was sure that whoever had climbed up here had done so, like me, with a heavy heart and an even heavier tread.

At the top there was an oak door that creaked open as if it had been waiting for me. I found myself in a room that was triangular in shape, the ceiling going up to a sharp point. It was made entirely of small panes of green glass. I felt as though I were deep underwater.

Rosmore was seated in an ornate chair, the sides of which were carved like huge wooden wings. She looked like some strange flightless bird, dressed in a dark purple gown with a shawl of ravens’ feathers. In her hand she held her mirror and at her side sat the raven on his perch, watching me.

I stood still, trying to catch my breath. I was shivering with cold and fright and so weak with hunger that my eyes began to play tricks, for it seemed to me as though there were endless Rosmores, one behind the other, going on into infinity.

‘I have waited too long for this day,’ she said, stroking the raven’s head. ‘Have I not, my beauty?’

‘Too long,’ echoed Cronus.

‘What have I to do with all this?’ I said, my legs shaking.

Rosmore laughed, her face, sharp as a knife, coming into focus as she leant towards me.

‘What indeed? Did your mother never tell you? Shall I tell you?’

‘Oh do,’ cawed the raven harshly.

‘It was like this, Coriander. Many years ago, long before you were born, I heard that your grandfather King Nablus had had a daughter, born with a shadow made of everlasting light. Oh Cronus, Coriander is baffled! Do you know how rare such a shadow is? It is the most precious gift a fairy can ever be given, and I knew that it was meant for me, not some wretched, snivelling child who would never understand the meaning of it.’

‘I still do not understand,’ I said.

‘That surprises me not,’ said Rosmore. ‘You are your mother’s child, I see. The shadow holds beauty. It holds life itself. It holds power, untold power. With it, I will rule this world.’

‘Quite,’ said Cronus, ‘and we devised a plan. You took a present to King Nablus’s wife. Alas, within a week she was dead.’