Dark Mist Rising (28 page)

‘But you're dead.'

‘Eleven years dead,' she says, and gives a laugh that shivers
my bones.

Always before, the dream ended there.
But now my sister
emerges from the fog and I see her for the first time. She is not a
woman but a girl, although tall and well grown. She wears a
simple lavender gown like my mother's, but without blood on
the skirt. Her eyes too are my mother's, dark brown, although
my sister's eyes are open, as my mother's will never be again.

Those eyes look wild; they look mad. And she speaks to me
directly, as if I inhabit the dream beside her.

‘You will not succeed, Roger. Nor will they. I am queen of this
realm, and what queen willingly gives up her throne? Eleanor
did not, Caroline did not, Stephanie does not. But now all three
are mine. As you will be too.' Again that bone-shattering laugh.

I woke, screaming. Tom, amazingly, snored on, and if everyone at the palace had slept so soundly three years ago so that no one overheard my sleep-talking, I would not be here now. Here, in a caravan moving forward to an unknown country, awaiting a rescue I did not believe in, threatened by a phantom in a realm that my father said I may cross into and Mother Chilton said I may not.

And I had not gone there. My sister had come to me. She had used sleep, that little death, to cross over into my mind, as she could not do in body. She had spoken to me directly. ‘
All three are mine.
'

Queen Eleanor, Queen Caroline – both dead. I had seen both of them there, in the Country of the Dead, both quiescent and unknowing. But the little princess was alive, being carried off by her bridegroom in one of the caravans accompanying mine. Stephanie was not dead. So in what sense did she belong to my mad half-sister?

‘As you will be too
.'

It was a long time before I could sleep again. When I did, slumber must have lasted the whole night through.

Tom stirred, woke. ‘By damn, I'm hungry! But first where's the piss pot?'

I had found it last night, behind one of the rolled-up rugs. Before it could be used, the caravan door opened. A young savage stood there. He said something unin-telligible and motioned for me to go outside.

‘Let me go first,' Tom said, ‘in case you need defending.'

I ignored him, climbing down the one step. Tom cursed and followed me. We were led to an efficiently dug piss pit and then to one of the cook fires, where a silent boy ladled thick gruel into two bowls and handed us tankards of ale from a great cask on one of the wagons. The savage guard watched our every move, his
gun
in his hands. He especially watched Tom, who was more interested in the young cook.

‘Were you stolen from the palace, boy?'

The boy looked at him. He was perhaps fourteen, the same age as I when I killed Hartah. This boy looked capable of murder. He had small narrow eyes, shiny with contempt, and a sneer on his wide mouth. Clearly he considered Tom's question stupid. This boy was one who would always side with the victor, no matter who that might be. There would be others like him. He turned from Tom without answering and began to scour the gruel pot with sand.

We were the last to eat. The caravan was packing up for the day's travel. Far ahead, clouds of dust said that the main army was already on the move. Behind the rearguard, the sun rose red and gold. Our guard motioned me back to the caravan.

‘Hey, you,' Tom said to him. ‘We can't just stay in there all day. My ... my master needs exercise. You know, exercise? Look!' He pantomimed running in place, jumping high, flailing his arms. The savage, alarmed, pointed his
gun
.

I grabbed Tom's arm. ‘Stop that. He thinks you're attacking.'

‘Then he's a moron,' Tom said hotly. ‘If I wanted to attack, I would. Listen, Peter, I really can't stay still all day in that travelling box. A man needs to move.'

I didn't need to move. It seemed that for months I had been moving, or being moved. Everything in me was weary: muscles, mind, heart. Where was Maggie? Was she safe?

I said, ‘I'll ask about it later. For now, Tom, just do what they say. That's what George would advise, you know. Go along with the enemy until the best moment.'

Tom nodded soberly. ‘I daresay you're right. Well, at least we got fed.' Resignedly he walked back to the caravan, forgetting that he was my servant and was supposed to follow me. The savage looked puzzled but guided us back inside.

Someone had done minor housekeeping. The empty wine bottles and cheese rind were gone, replaced with fresh food on the low table. The piss pot had been rinsed. One of the rugs had been rolled up again at the far end of the caravan.

The savage soldier locked us in, and a few moments later the caravan jolted forward. Tom pushed aside the curtain to look out the barred window. ‘I wonder which caravan has the princess. By damn, to think that Tom Jenkins might see a princess! I daresay George has seen scores of them. Oh, that must be her caravan, the purple one. “Purple for the princess,” my father used to say, damn his black soul. Did your grandmother tell you that the savage chieftain actually married that little girl? They're barbarians, for certain. Do you think there are any girls with the caravans? Not that I'd bed a traitor to The Queendom like that foul cook, but if there's a girl captive ... Of course it ain't likely the—
What's that?
'

Tom leaped towards the back of the caravan, his expression ferocious. One huge fist clenched as the other hand clawed at a rolled-up rug. He threw the rug open and dragged out a small form wriggling and flailing his legs.

It was Jee.

‘No.' Jee gave the question the scorn he evidently thought it deserved. ‘Maggie maun stay.' Further questioning elicited that he had slipped into camp during the night; Jee could move as unseen and quiet as a small animal. He had slept under the caravan, crept inside while Tom and I were at our brief breakfast and hidden himself in the rug. Now he eyed the food on the low table.

‘Eat,' I said, and he fell on the bread and cheese.

Tom said, ‘Are we taking him with us? Maybe he should go back the next time the door is unlocked.'

‘No,' Jee said around a mouthful of bread. ‘Maggie said I maun stay.'

‘That woman orders everybody around,' Tom said, then glanced at me. ‘Sorry, Peter. I'm sure your wife is ... is really a wonderful person.'

He was sure of no such thing, and Maggie was not my wife, and I had no idea what to do with the dirty boy gobbling enough food for three children. How was I going to explain him to the savages? Another ‘servant'? But one thing was clear.

‘Tom, you can't tell anyone that Jee is my brother. It could put him in real danger. Promise me!'

‘All right,' Tom said. His face lit up. ‘I know. I'll say he's my servant! Like I'm yours.'

Jee scowled ferociously. ‘Not your servant.'

‘Yes, you are, Jee,' I said. ‘It's for your own protection. What was in Maggie's thoughts that she sent you into such danger?'

‘I maun give you this.' Jee undid the string that held his breeches around his waist. Under the full material, strapped to his skinny thighs, were two crude leather packages. When Jee unwrapped them, Tom's face lit up.

‘Knives! All right, I take my words back, Peter. Your wife is a treasure. Give those to me, boy; I can wield them much better than your big brother.'

‘Thank you, Jee,' I said. ‘But now that you've delivered the knives, I think you should leave the next time you can and go back to Maggie.'

‘She said I maun stay.'

Tom said, ‘Listen to your brother!'

But of course Jee did not, no more than Tom ever listened to me. Jee obeyed Maggie, Tom obeyed my non-existent cousin George, and I was a straw on the wind, blown about by a savage army, a
hisaf
father and Mother Chilton.

We spent the morning cooped up in the moving caravan, slowly fraying each other's nerves. Jee played plaintive tunes on his willow whistle:
tweet tweet tweety-tweet
. Tom paced the small space, restless as a caged fox, or peered out the barred window, keeping up a constant commentary.

‘That really must be the princess's caravan, no one else would have purple. Ho, there's a woman coming out of the caravan. Old and ugly, though. She must be a servant. Still, she hopped off the step pretty lively ... Do you think any young women from The Queendom were brought along to attend Princess Stephanie? Must be, yes? Do you think the Young Chieftain rides in one of the other caravans? Probably not. He's a soldier, curse his damn bones ... There's a fellow jumping off one of the supply wagons. I wish they'd bring us more wine or better yet some ale. Pepper my arse! There's a savage girl! At least I think she was. She went by so fast, but she wore a fur cloak like— No, it's only one of their boy singers. Red dye on his face and why do they braid those stupid twigs into their hair like that? It don't look— There goes the green caravan pulling ahead of the red one ... No, the red one is a length ahead now ...'

Tweet tweet tweety-tweet
.

Hours of this. Then more hours, until the sun stood directly overhead (or so said Tom) and the door opened.

Our savage guard stood on the step of the moving caravan, his knife drawn. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness within, his gaze fell on Jee, who had had no time to roll himself again into a rug. The guard's eyes widened and his face creased into an expression I had never yet seen on any savage's face: fear.

Of a small scrawny boy?

The man's face had gone white as swansdown. Hastily he thrust a basket of foodstuffs into the caravan. Before he could slam and lock the door, I jammed the basket into the opening. ‘Wait! Please!'

He stared past me at Jee.

I struggled to summon the words of the guttural savage language; the word for ‘exercise' eluded me. ‘Out – go out ... Yes, we go out to walk! We must walk!'

Slowly the savage swivelled his head to look at me, and both colour and scowl returned to his face. He pointed to me. ‘
Ven
.' To Tom: ‘
Nel, ven
.' Jee he ignored. Then he jumped down the step and gestured for me and Tom to follow.

Apparently all I had had to do was ask.

More bewildered than ever, I descended the step, followed by an eager Tom. We walked behind the caravan, its door widely ajar, and the guard walked behind us. Inside, Jee investigated the foodstuffs in the basket.

‘Well, this is much better,' Tom said. ‘Getting stuffy in there. Jee needs to sleep anyway – little toad must have been up all night. Where'd you learn to talk their speech, Peter?'

At court, as Queen Caroline's fool. But Tom knew nothing of that part of my life, so I didn't answer, instead pretending to choke on the dust raised by the caravan.

‘I'll get you some ale!' Tom said, bounding back into the caravan. He bounced out with two uncorked bottles of wine. ‘No ale, worse luck, but this'll do – here.'

We swigged the wine while trotting behind the caravan. Soon I had had enough exercise, and I climbed back inside. Jee was asleep in one corner. Tom and the guard, equally tireless, jogged along for hours. I sat inside alone with my thoughts, which were all and only questions, questions, questions.

On the fourth day, villagers attacked the caravan.

We had halted the night before on the north bank of a river, undoubtedly a tributary of the River Thymar. All day the land had been rising as The Queendom's vast central plain gradually gave way to foothills that, in their turn, would become the steep Western Mountains. The wide road grew narrower, less travelled, rockier. Nights became sharply colder; it was already the month of Styln. At night Tom, always restless when caged, pushed aside the curtain, and a huge autumn moon shone yellow through the barred window. Our guard, averting his eyes from Jee, brought us two thick furry cloaks, warmer than any we'd had.

But afternoons were still warm. Tom and I walked behind the caravan, which had slowed as the horses negotiated a steep rocky stretch of road. Jee slept inside. Across fields golden with hay lay a village, smoke rising from the cottage chimneys. Thick stands of trees, oak and birch and laurel cast long shadows across the road. Tom broke into little running circles that made the guard frown and raise his
gun
.