The Book of Lies (6 page)

“Wait!” he shouted, stepping between the two boys as they stared at each other menacingly. “If you’re going to fight someone, Fergus, it should at least be a fair fight.” He put up his own fists to show that he was taking Dominic’s place.

“But he’ll make a mess of you instead, Marcel!” cried Hugh, behind him.

Oh, great. Even Marcel’s new friends thought he would lose. In fact, now that he was here, facing Fergus, he wasn’t so sure he had done the right thing. Fergus suddenly looked a lot bigger.

He glared at Fergus, whose round face was bloated with arrogance, as though he had won the fight already. Marcel would love to bring him down a peg or two, tussle that woolly brown hair and iron out those thin little lips so that they couldn’t curl into a permanent smirk. So what if he’s got shoulders like a plough horse? If I’m fast on my feet, he told himself, he’ll never land a punch.

Hugh was looking at those shoulders too. “It’s still not a fair fight,” he cried. “If this is some kind of challenge, then neither of you should have the advantage.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Fergus, dropping his fists.

“What about a race?” suggested Hugh.

But Fergus sneered at the idea. “That’s for babies.”

“A horse race, then,” said Marcel, as he recalled his morning’s work.

Fergus eyed him cautiously, but there was no doubt he was interested now. “A steeplechase, you mean, like the way cavalrymen race?”

Marcel wasn’t sure what a steeplechase was, but if it meant he didn’t get beaten up… “Yes, all right. When Old Belch comes back we can ask him if he’ll lend us two horses.”

“I’m not waiting for
that
”, Fergus announced impatiently. “If we’re going to have a steeplechase, then let’s have it now.”

F
ERGUS AND HIS LITTLE
band of followers hurried off towards the stables. Marcel found he had his own troop close on his heels. “We’re coming with you,” said Dominic, keeping up as best he could.

“Maybe you two should race as well,” said Marcel. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I’ve ever ridden before.”

They stopped in their tracks, staring at him dumbfounded. “Well, you’re about to find out, then,” Hugh commented drily.

They dragged open the heavy door of the stables and crammed inside. Fergus headed the march past the stalls. “I’ll take this one,” he said almost instantly.

Marcel was not surprised when he led out the
splendid chestnut stallion and began to strap a saddle on to its back.

Then it was Marcel’s turn. Forget the lame horse and the dispirited one, he thought, and no plough horse was going to win him this race. That left only the dappled mare.

At least she looks up to a race, he thought, as he took her outside to where Hugh and Dominic waited with the saddle. Fergus was standing ready beside his chestnut mount, but each time Marcel and his friends tried to heave the saddle on to
their
horse’s back she shimmied sideways.

Marcel wondered whether she’d respond to her new name.

“Stand still, Gadfly!”

The mare flared her nostrils and threw her head about wildly as though she were thinking of escape.

“Hurry up, or I’ll start without you,” Fergus threatened.

Marcel left the saddle to his companions and turned to confront him. “We haven’t decided on the course yet.” He looked around the grounds of the orphanage, planning a route in his mind. “What about twice round the inside of the orphanage walls?” he proposed.

“No, that’s not a real race,” said Fergus. “We’ll go through the orchard first, then follow the stone wall around past the blackberries and the oak trees, but once we reach the gate it’s out on to the road and across the bridge into Fallside. See the steeple of the church?” he said, pointing in case Marcel was left in any doubt. “That will make it a real steeplechase,” he joked.

“Into the village!” cried Marcel. He turned and found his own alarm mirrored in the faces of his friends.

“Marcel, you can’t ride into Fallside!” Hugh reminded him in a whisper.

Marcel ignored him, just as he was trying to ignore his memories of yesterday and that fearful roar from the tower. “We can’t let Fergus get the better of us,” he declared, clamping his teeth together. He hoped this made him look determined, because inside he was quivering like a leaf in a gusty breeze.

Fergus saw their indecision and seized his chance. “I’m not waiting any longer. The race has started.”

“No!” Marcel shouted angrily, but Fergus had already spurred his horse away from the stable and all he could do was stand and watch as it galloped towards the orchard. How would he ever beat Fergus now? They still hadn’t managed to get a saddle on to Gadfly.

“It’s all right,” he cooed, hoping to calm the restless mare. He tried to stroke that proud nose but she pulled her head away and shot him an exasperated glare, as though she were growing impatient with the boys’ ineptitude. “You know this is a race, don’t you,” he said to her, “but until we can get this saddle on your back, we can’t go anywhere.”

The mare rolled her eyes again and walked a few anxious paces in the direction of the orchard. Was it his imagination, or was she looking for Fergus to see how much ground they would have to make up? “Hugh, Dominic. Help me up.”

“You can’t ride her bareback! It’ll be hard enough with a saddle!”

He ignored them, and this time Gadfly seemed ready to oblige. After a little heaving and grunting, he was on her back, but before he had a chance to catch his breath she lurched into a gallop. He held on to her matted mane as if he were clutching at life itself. If he fell, it would be the end of him.

They charged towards the orchard, scattering aside the ducks and geese near the pond, then followed the chestnut stallion’s path between the wall and the blackberry canes, until they were climbing a gentle slope. Marcel began to get the hang of things, working into the rhythm of Gadfly’s movement instead of against it. Exhilaration replaced fear and he told himself, I can do this! Maybe I
have
ridden a horse before.

Was that Fergus in the distance, approaching the gate? Certainly they were closer, much closer than when they had first set out after him. They passed the two cows, who looked up, startled, from their grazing.

“Come on!” he shouted to his mount. “We can win this yet.”

A stand of oaks swallowed them up but Gadfly showed no signs of slowing down, not even for these thickly growing trees. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for her rider. He had grown more confident now, and sitting up to look for Fergus, he didn’t see the low branch reaching out through the shadows until it swept him from the horse’s back.

Marcel found himself on his bottom amid a cloud of dust and despair. He heard hooves trotting towards him and wondered if Fergus had come back to gloat, but when he looked up he saw Gadfly glaring down at him in disgust.

That look alone spurred him to his feet. This was a race, he reminded himself, and if he didn’t win… He couldn’t bear to think of Fergus holding sway over the rest of them. He scrambled once more on to that twitching, restless back and the horse did the rest, charging off again as she had from the start.

They galloped across the grass in front of the house until the stone wall loomed ahead once more. He expected her to turn and follow the wall to the gate – but not Gadfly. There was no time for Marcel to think. The horse simply launched herself into the air, clearing the stones easily, then crashed back to earth, front legs first. Marcel was catapulted high on to her neck, but she simply flexed the muscles of her shoulders and threw him back into place.

Up ahead, Fergus was crossing the stone bridge that led into Fallside. By the time they reached it, he had galloped to the church and begun his return, the thunder of hooves drawing people out of their houses and several men from the tavern, one still holding his pint of ale.

“You’ll never catch me, Marcel!” Fergus cried, passing Gadfly as he galloped back to the bridge.

Marcel.
The name tumbled free, the name no one was meant
to hear. Just once he called it, but Marcel dared not imagine the consequences. For now, he just raced, his mind locked on to the same goal as Fergus: to be first through Mrs Timmins’ gate.

Brave Gadfly kept up her punishing pace, but was there enough of the race left to catch Fergus? They thundered on, the villagers standing wide-eyed, some throwing themselves off the road to get out of the way. Marcel caught sight of Albert and Old Belch, but they barely had time for an angry shout. Beneath the steeple, he finally turned Gadfly for home, although by then Fergus had already crossed the bridge with only the length of the road to the finish line.

Suddenly Gadfly changed course, galloping wildly between the houses until she sighted the open fields. Then she set off directly towards the side gate, where Hugh and Dominic and the rest of the boys had gathered to judge the winner.

“The stream!” Marcel cried, as though Gadfly could understand him. “You’ll never get across the stream!”

She ignored him, charging on towards the finish line, the stretch of swiftly flowing water in view now. It was thirty feet across, at least, with high banks on both sides. More worrying still, much more worrying, was the waterfall itself, only another hundred paces away. If Marcel found himself in that water, he would surely be swept over the falls before he could reach the safety of the bank.

He gripped Gadfly’s mane harder than ever and pushed
his chest down on to her neck. Here was the stream, only two strides ahead. If he’d had any energy left he would have screamed. Gadfly took one last stride to gather herself then leaped into the air, sailing upwards like a bird, her legs stretched out beneath her, that dappled brown and white and black body tracing a magnificent arc against the sky. As the stunned children watched from the distant gate, she crashed on to the steep bank on the other side, the hooves of her front legs biting into the grass of its rim. With a mighty grunt, she hauled her hind legs up and on to level ground and raced on towards the finish line.

Fergus was still closer to the gate than they were, but with every stride the gap narrowed. It was impossible to guess the winner now. The last few strides would settle it.

Then, with both riders only a pace or two from the gate, the race was suddenly over. Gadfly was the bravest of horses, but even she baulked at the sight that confronted them. She slammed her front legs into the dirt and sent Marcel hurtling forward, his arms locked around her neck until he fell painfully to the ground.

He sat up quickly as icy terror gripped his heart. A fearsome beast was circling him, a snarling, spitting creature with claws like knives. It had all the stealth and pose of a cat – yet what cat was ever this size? Its head loomed high above Marcel’s. Its body was covered in glistening black fur and its cruel mouth was drawn back to reveal a row of savage teeth.
A leather thong was laced around its neck, and dangling from it was a pouch large enough to hold a dozen gold coins. Could there be any doubt? This was the beast he had heard in the tower.

The world had gone silent except for the growls of this beast. All other things around Marcel had become invisible. He wondered whether his heart was still beating.

Fergus too had been thrown from his chestnut stallion, which bolted, whinnying loudly, back towards Fallside. He rose to his feet unsteadily, but when he saw the beast he froze in fear.

“Termagant, bring them both inside the gate,” cried a deep voice nearby, laced with fury.

The beast stopped its circling and came towards Marcel, who was still lying prone on the ground. A gasp of horror rose up from the boys huddled together beside the gate. One or two screamed.

But before the beast closed in, a desperate wail broke the silence. “No, Lord Alwyn! You mustn’t hurt him!”

It was Mrs Timmins. She had rushed from the house when she heard the sounds of the beast, followed by the girls, who had all been working indoors. She reached the gate and kept coming until she stood bravely above Marcel, shielding him from the beast with her stout body.

“Stand aside, Mrs Timmins. I told this boy to stay inside your boundaries. Instead, he rides a wild horse through the streets of Fallside.

“You disobeyed me,” Lord Alwyn said to Marcel, his voice low and threatening. “You showed yourself in the village. Worse still, your name was shouted out for all to hear.”

“But, Lord Alwyn,” Mrs Timmins interrupted, “the people of Fallside are simple folk –”

“Enough!” he cried fiercely. Turning back to the boys, his eyes blazed, and he focused on one of the pair in particular. “I blame you, Marcel. Didn’t I warn you to stay inside these walls? You can’t imagine the misery this day could bring upon you, and many others as well.”

“Don’t hurt him!” came an anguished cry, though which of the little girls had dared speak no one could tell.

The wizard ignored this pleading. He considered the boy before him, his face darkening. To Marcel, it seemed that not just the old man’s face but the whole world grew blacker. This is his magic working on me, he decided, and braced himself for what was to come.

But his concentration was quickly shattered by Fergus’s voice. “What’s happening?” he asked, looking around him in alarm. “Everything’s getting darker.”