The Stones of Ravenglass (2 page)

‘With an arrow like that?’ Aelfric growled. ‘Bandits don’t have fine arrows. They use spears and axes.’

‘I don’t have a bow.’ Timoken winced as the soldier on his left twisted his arm. It was all he could do not to cry out. ‘How could I have killed, without a bow for my arrow?’

‘So where is it? Hidden back there?’ Stenulf’s gloved fist slammed into Timoken’s shoulder.

The pain took his breath away. ‘I told you. I don’t have a bow,’ he gasped.

‘Come on, we’re wasting our time out here.’ Aelfric pulled out the arrow and, with his thumb and forefinger, deftly closed Mabon’s eyes. ‘Stenulf, help me with the body.’

Stenulf lifted Mabon and threw him over Aelfric’s wide shoulder. They strode away, while Timoken’s guards dragged him after them.

As they reached the drawbridge, Timoken looked up into the pale sky. The low sun had gathered strength and begun to gild the mist with droplets of gold. He thought of using the fire in his fingers to free himself, he thought of escaping up into the golden mist, he even thought of calling eagles to attack his captors, but he knew he could do none of these things, for where would he go without his friends?

They marched him over the drawbridge and across the great enclosure where men hammered and sawed, where pigs rooted in the churned earth and sheep bleated in their pens. There was such a clamour Timoken couldn’t hear Aelfric’s shouted command, but a carpenter hastily moved a saw-bench barring the soldiers’ way. Several men stopped their work and stared up at the body hanging from Aelfric’s shoulder. Sadly, it was a common sight. The forest was a dangerous place; bands of outlaws hid in the depths: men who had lost everything to the conquerors but refused to accept their laws.

Timoken heard a sudden, high-pitched call that carried above the din in the enclosure. Someone was shouting his name.

‘What’s going on?’ Red-headed Edern jumped over a bale of straw and ran up to Timoken. ‘What’s happened, Timoken? Where are they taking you?’

When Timoken opened his mouth to answer, one of the soldiers jabbed an elbow in his face.

‘Clear off!’ shouted Aelfric. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’

The boy leapt in front of the group, his freckled face creased with concern. ‘It’s got everything to do with me,’ he cried. ‘I’m Edern, son of Elvin the poet. You wait till the prince hears of this. The great wizard, Eri, is my uncle, and you don’t want to cross him or . . . or . . .’

‘Or what?’ With a sweep of his great arm, Aelfric shoved Edern aside, but the boy jogged beside the soldiers as they continued to drag Timoken along.

‘Hey! What’s happening?’ Another boy had pushed his way through the crowd and appeared, breathless, beside Edern. ‘What’ve you done, Timoken?’

‘Peredur . . .’ Timoken began but, afraid of losing his teeth this time, he said no more and mutely shook his head.

‘This isn’t right. We’ll do something, Timoken. I promise.’ The boy grinned, revealing two extraordinarily long, pointed teeth. His wolfish appearance could be rather alarming and he often used this to his advantage, grinning at his adversaries, instead of scowling.

‘Save your smiles, Wolf-face,’ said Aelfric sourly. ‘Your friend won’t get away with murder.’

‘Murder?’ Edern had been staring at the body slung over Aelfric’s shoulder. He couldn’t see Mabon’s face, but he recognised the gloved hands of the archer.

‘Murder,’ said Stenulf, leaning towards the boys. ‘Your friend has murdered Mabon the archer.’

‘No,’ Timoken burst out. A soldier’s fist smashed into his chin, but he continued through swollen lips, ‘It’s not true.’

‘Take the prisoner to the tower,’ Aelfric commanded. He grunted heavily as he mounted the steep steps to the castle. ‘I’ll carry our dead archer to his family.’

Timoken’s heart sank. Mabon’s family had been good to him. What would they think of his treachery? ‘I didn’t know,’ he muttered under his breath.

At that moment, the glove fell off Mabon’s right hand. No one bothered to pick it up. If he hadn’t been staring miserably at Mabon’s bare hand, Timoken wouldn’t have seen the sign: a slight movement of the fingers. And then it was gone, and the hand hung limply from the lifeless body.

His friends hung back as the soldiers pulled Timoken up the steps. He looked over his shoulder and shook his head. Edern and Peredur were staring at him in shock. Surely they didn’t believe that he had harmed Mabon.

When they entered the castle courtyard, Aelfric turned through an arched door on his left. Stenulf carried on across the courtyard to the tall central tower. ‘Put him in the old man’s cell,’ he ordered as he pulled open the heavy door into the tower.

A guard stepped in front of Stenulf, barring his way with a raised spear.

‘It’s me,’ Stenulf grunted. ‘Give them the key to the wizard’s cell.’

The wizard’s cell? What was Edern’s uncle doing here? Timoken wondered. The prince thought highly of Eri the wizard. Why had he been imprisoned?

The guard nodded and fumbled with a ring of keys hanging from his belt. Selecting a large, rusty-looking object he handed it to one of the soldiers.

‘Don’t be long about it,’ called Stenulf, as the prisoner was marched towards a shadowy set of steps.

Timoken had never got used to the damp, spiralling stairways of Castle Melyntha. A melancholy smell lingered on the steep, cold steps; a musty scent, putrid and dark. He had no choice but to follow the first soldier up the steps; the second man came close behind, continually prodding Timoken’s legs to hurry him up.

They came, at last, to a long passage where a low door faced a narrow window slit. The leading soldier turned the key in the lock and the door creaked open. Timoken was pushed inside and the door clanged shut behind him. He stumbled over a pile of rags and fell on to the hard planked floor. As he lay there, staring at the filthy straw beside him, the rags cursed softly.

Timoken sat up and looked into a pair of owl-like eyes; eyes the colour of a storm-cloud, mysterious and alarming. They belonged to the wizard, Eri.

‘Sir, forgive me,’ Timoken murmured. ‘I didn’t know . . . didn’t think . . .’

The wizard raised his head and shook out his black and silver hair. He sat up and brushed dust and hay seeds from his shoulders, revealing the faded gold stars on his once splendid cloak.

Timoken tried not to stare at the great wizard. Men bowed their heads when Eri passed; they whispered behind their hands, ‘Watch out, here comes the wizard’, afraid that he’d take against them, and turn them into pigs, though he’d never done such a thing.

‘You didn’t think that a prince’s favourite could end up as pile of rags.’ The wizard’s chuckle was heaved out of his rattling chest with a stream of spittle. ‘Well, I knew you would soon be here, African. But what did you do to give them the excuse?’

‘They say I killed an archer,’ said Timoken. ‘But not any archer. He was my friend, and yet he tried to kill me.’

‘And how did you kill him?’ the wizard sat up.

Timoken hesitated. ‘With . . . with my hand, sir,’ he mumbled.

‘Ah,’ said Eri, scratching his long nose.

‘And yet I think he might still be alive,’ Timoken said, almost to himself.

‘Either he is, or he isn’t. Whichever the case, once in here, no one ever gets out.’

‘What is happening?’ asked Timoken. ‘For you to be imprisoned the world must have turned upside down.’

‘Precisely.’ The wizard shuffled over to Timoken and sat beside him.

‘Prince Griffith honoured you,’ said Timoken, his glance travelling from the wizard’s bruised cheek to his torn and bloodstained robes. ‘What did you do to anger him?’

‘Not the prince, Timoken. Our prince has gone to war far over the ocean.’

‘And when he returns he will punish whoever did this to you,’ Timoken said hotly.

The wizard hung his head and muttered, ‘He will not return.’

‘How do you know?’ Timoken was aghast. Prince Griffith had been good to him. When Timoken had arrived in Britain, the first African ever seen in the part of that part of the country, the prince had welcomed him. He was allowed to dine and sleep with the boys of high rank, he took lessons with them and wore the same clothes. Even Timoken’s camel was treated with respect and stabled close to the prince’s favourite horse. Though the camel, being rather a proud animal, didn’t consider this a favour.

‘Tell me, I beg you.’ Timoken gently nudged the wizard, who appeared to have fallen asleep, for his eyes were closed and his chin rested on his chest. Timoken raised his voice. ‘How do you know our prince will not return?’

Without opening his eyes, Eri replied, ‘I am something of a seer. That means that, on occasion, I can dream the future.’

‘And what did you dream?’

‘Last night I saw our prince lying on the battlefield. “I am dying, Eri,” he told me. “Save yourself and the African. Leave the castle, for dark –” And then our fine young prince gave a moan and said no more.’

‘Dark?’ Timoken didn’t like the sound of that word. ‘Leave the castle for dark . . . ?’

The wizard turned his stormy gaze on the boy. ‘He meant Osbern D’Ark, the castle steward. The prince has always known that Osbern hated me, and I suspect the same holds true for you. You are popular, Timoken, and something of a leader to the other boys. And then there is that hint of a golden crown in your black hair. Osbern is from a family of conquerors. He wants this castle and every man it holds. He will probably get his way.’

‘Why?’

‘The prince was young and leaves no heir. He was rare among the British – he kept his castle while all over the country the conquerors turned families off their land. Young Griffith was safe because his mother was sister to a conqueror. But now . . .’ Eri shook his head. ‘I am afraid for all the prince’s favourites, especially my brother, the poet, and my nephew, Edern.’

‘What will happen to them?’

Eri shrugged. ‘Osbern will find a way to get rid of them, no doubt. And your friend with the wolf’s teeth will fare no better.’

‘Peredur? His father is the prince’s most respected general,’ Timoken said hotly.

‘And if he has died at the prince’s side, then it will be all up with his family.’

‘No.’ Timoken began to see the pattern now. He and his friends were slowly but surely being separated. Gereint had already been sent to a monastery. Mabon spent all his time with the archers, and Berenice was closeted with the women. ‘At least she is with my sister,’ Timoken muttered.

‘Eh? What’s that you say?’ Eri said irritably. ‘My hearing’s not so good.’

‘I was thinking of my sister,’ said Timoken. ‘If Osbern D’Ark means to keep me in this prison, what will become of her? It seems that you and I must escape from here, but I can’t leave Zobayda behind.’

‘The conquerors have nothing to fear from women,’ Eri said. ‘They won’t harm your sister.’

‘We have travelled so far, and for so long. I thought we had found a home at last.’

‘Hmm,’ grunted the wizard. ‘This was my home for sixty years; it’s too late for me to find another.’

‘No, sir. Not true. I’ll build a home for all of us.’ Timoken spoke without thinking. He immediately wondered how he could achieve such an impossible task. Getting to his feet he stood on tiptoe and looked through the window. It was too narrow even for him to crawl through. He could see the autumn forest, stretching for miles beyond the castle fields. On the horizon, a ridge of blue hills could be seen, their shape softened by the mist. ‘There,’ he murmured. ‘That’s where we’ll go, Eri. Into the hills.’

The old man said nothing but, when Timoken turned, he found the wizard’s eyes on him. ‘Are you going to reveal yourself at last, African?’ he said.

‘Do you mean my . . . ?’

‘Your gifts, yes. Your talents.’

‘Did my friend Edern tell you?’

‘No,’ the wizard sounded almost angry. ‘My nephew kept your secret. I knew what you were the moment you arrived, and I’ve observed you flying through the night sky on your camel. You must think me a fool, boy. We are the same, you and I.’

‘Forgive me.’ Timoken looked away from the wizard’s accusing gaze. ‘I have always respected you, sir. I didn’t know that you had guessed.’

‘The time has come for you to use your magic, for it is beyond my skills.’ Eri stood and laid a hand on Timoken’s shoulder. ‘Osbern would not have put us in this tower if he meant us to live. I daresay your friend, the archer, was threatened with death for himself and his family if he did not kill you.’

Timoken nodded. He had already worked this out for himself. He ran his hand over the thick timber beneath the window. Slowly, his fingers felt their way through time. He touched the sapling that the oak had once been, and even the soft earth that had nurtured it. ‘I can do it,’ he said.

‘Wait until nightfall,’ the wizard advised.

They sat together on the dusty floor, and Eri clasped his bony knees to his chest, muttering, ‘It is a long way to fall, boy, from this tower. I hope you hold some charm for avoiding broken bones.’

‘I will carry you,’ Timoken said simply.

A smile lit the wizard’s face. ‘Ah.’ He patted Timoken’s knee. ‘We are in with a chance, then.’

Chapter Two

The meagre light began to fade. Soon they were plunged into a gloom beyond darkness, with not even a candle for comfort. No one came to the door, not even a crust was thrown into the prisoners’ cell.

‘They mean to starve us,’ muttered Eri.

‘When shall we go?’ asked Timoken.

‘It’s early yet,’ said the wizard. ‘There will be feasting in the courtyard, animals to tend and all the bedtime din.’

Timoken slept a little, and then woke up. The wizard was snoring. The noise he made rebounded from the walls like dull thunder. Timoken stuffed straw into his ears, but it made little difference. At that moment he would have exchanged any of his extraordinary gifts for a spell to stop snoring.

After a while Timoken became aware that, behind the wizard’s rumbling snore, there was a deep silence. He went to the tiny window. The stars were fading. It was time to go. He shook the wizard’s arm and the old man mumbled and grunted. A second later he was up. Gripping Timoken’s shoulder, he whispered, ‘Now or never, boy. Let’s go.’