Read The Stones of Ravenglass Online
Authors: Jenny Nimmo
The Stones of Ravenglass
| Books by Jenny Nimmo |
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Midnight for Charlie Bone
Charlie Bone and the Time Twister
Charlie Bone and the Blue Boa
Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors
Charlie Bone and the Hidden King
Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf
Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock
Charlie Bone and the Red Knight
The Secret Kingdom
The Stones of Ravenglass
The Snow Spider trilogy
For Eve
The Stones of Ravenglass
first published in Great Britain 2012
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA
First e-book edition 2012
Text copyright © 2012 Jenny Nimmo
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 5733 6
eISBN 978 1 7803 1186 9
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Timoken, the African, has been in Britain for a year now. He had arrived with his sister, Zobayda, and five children whom he’d met in France: Berenice, from the Spanish kingdom of Castile; Mabon, Edern, Gereint and Peredur from Britain. Timoken, a magician, had saved them from a band of kidnappers.
The boys had persuaded Timoken to travel back to Britain with them, and Berenice, the adventurer, had joined them. On their long, dangerous journey, the travellers formed a bond of loyalty and friendship that each knew could never be broken. Timoken made enchanted swords for them, and shields that they decorated with their chosen symbols: a bear for Mabon, the oldest and strongest; an eagle for red-headed Edern, who wanted to fly; a fish for Gereint, whose clear voice was like a singing stream; and a wolf for Peredur, with his long, pointed teeth. Berenice loved to run and she chose a hare. Timoken’s shield was emblazoned with a burning sun, a memory of Africa.
When their kingdom had been invaded, Timoken and his sister had wandered, homeless, through the world for over two hundred years. The four Britons had been born in Castle Melyntha, and their prince made Timoken and his sister so heartily welcome that, for the first time since their wandering began, they felt they had found a home.
Chapter One
In the deep, dark heart of the forest, Timoken was happy. He might have missed the heat and brilliance of his African homeland, but here, in Britain, there was magic in the autumn leaves spinning through narrow shafts of light.
A bell sounded in the distance and Timoken began to make his way back to Castle Melyntha. He was approaching the edge of the forest when something swept so close to his cheek, he felt it burn. Whirling round, he saw the arrow, its lethal tip embedded in an oak. Would there be another arrow? Did someone want him dead?
A minute later he got his answer. A second arrow came hissing through the air. There was a moment when Timoken could have leapt aside and used a tree to shield himself, but the danger had fired his quick mind, and he knew it was time to test his skill. He noted the arrow’s trajectory and held up his arm. He had an instant of doubt as the arrow came at his unsteady hand but, incredibly, it hovered, an inch from his palm, and when Timoken uttered the ancient words from his homeland, the arrow slid into the air, turned and flew back to the archer who had launched it.
There was a groan of pain and a soft thud as a body dropped into the undergrowth.
Timoken waited. Was the archer alone, or were there others, even now marking him out and raising their bows? He moved behind the oak and listened. But the forest was silent. There were no footfalls, no rustling grasses.
‘Have I killed?’ Timoken stared at his palm. He had never used his hands to do what he had just done. But perhaps his cloak had protected him. Timoken wore a cloak that he had brought with him from Africa. It was made from the web of the last moon spider the world would ever see. It had protected Timoken for more than two hundred years, though you would have found that difficult to believe, for the boy looked no older than twelve.
It was time to find out who had tried to kill him. Bent double, to avoid any more deadly weapons, Timoken sped through the forest. The arrow had come from the direction of the castle. The trees thinned out as he drew closer to the edge of the forest. He found the body in a clearing, the bow still clutched in a gloved hand. A rough leather helmet covered half the face, but there was something familiar about the square chin and line of whiskery hair above the wide mouth.
Kneeling beside the body, Timoken carefully pushed up the leather helmet.
‘Mabon?’ Timoken couldn’t believe his eyes. His friend’s pale blue eyes were still open, and gazed up at the sky in shock.
‘Mabon!’ cried Timoken. ‘Tell me it wasn’t you.’
Mabon didn’t reply. The arrow-head had pierced his chain-mail tunic and blood trickled from his chest.
‘Why?’ Timoken stood up and looked back at the castle, just visible through the trees. ‘Who sent you?’ He rubbed his head and felt the slim gold crown buried in his black curls. Who wanted him dead? And how had they persuaded Mabon, surely against his will, to try to murder a friend?
For a moment Timoken was too bewildered to move. He had left the castle alone, to stroll in the forest he loved. The drawbridge was down and the great doors open to receive traders. He had intended to slip back before the doors were closed for the night, but now what should he do? He couldn’t leave Mabon like this, out in the trees where wolves and wildcats would find him.
Perhaps he could carry the body back to the castle, thought Timoken, and blame his death on bandits that roamed the forest. No. That wouldn’t do. Whoever had sent Mabon to kill him would guess the truth.
It was the feel of his cloak, warm under his fingers, that brought Timoken to his senses.
‘The cloak!’ he exclaimed. Pulling it from his shoulders he quickly laid it over Mabon’s body and, gazing into the pale blue eyes, began to murmur in his own secret language. But Mabon didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and there was not a flicker of life in the shocked blue eyes.
It was too late for Timoken to run. He could hear the tramp of feet and the swish and rustle of men beating a path through the undergrowth. At that moment he could have escaped, for Timoken could fly, but his abilities were secret, and each of the five friends who knew he was a magician had kept their word and, so far, had never betrayed him.
Grabbing his cloak, Timoken pinned it back on his shoulders, just as four soldiers stepped out of the trees. One glance told them all they wanted to know. In a second, Timoken’s arms were roughly clasped and, while two soldiers held him still, the others bent over Mabon’s body. Timoken recognised them: Aelfric, a broad-shouldered bully who was missing half an ear, and Stenulf, an ugly fellow with a nose like a pin-cushion.
‘Sir Osbern won’t like this.’ The soldier holding Timoken’s right arm, almost yanked it out of its socket. ‘Mabon Ludd was the sharpest of all our young archers.’
‘I didn’t kill him,’ Timoken protested. ‘I . . . I found him. It must have been bandits.’