The Children of the King (20 page)

May said softly, “I can.”

Peregrine smiled; he reached for the pot but the tea was almost gone. Heloise made to ring for more, but Peregrine said, “Don’t bother on my account. We’re almost done.”

“Almost done?” Cecily was scandalised. “This story isn’t scary, Uncle Peregrine!”

He turned his black gaze onto her. “You’re not scared?”

“Not by boys playing with broom-horses!”

“Not by the thought of an uncle who kidnaps children and locks them in a dungeon?”

“No!”

“Not by the thought of rooms that had never known sunlight, not since the last stone had been put in place a hundred years before? No sounds of life had passed through those walls for a century — no bird’s chirp, no baby’s cry, no rattle of passing carts. The prison would have been as silent as a grave. And that’s surely what captivity felt like, for two young boys: a suffocating, lonely, living death, trapped in a beautiful tomb. They must have known they were prickles in the palm of their uncle, and that such a man wouldn’t tolerate the irritation for long. Maybe they laughed, and told each other stories, and dreamed of being free: but underneath their laughter must have simmered a tortured dread. Every footstep, every turn of a key, would have made their blood run cold. Each time the door opened they’d have hoped to see their mother, the Queen; but she was never there. Instead it would be one of the thickset, silent men who were their gaolers. And every night they must have gone to sleep wondering if they’d live to see morning; if they’d live to grow old.”

Cecily stuck out her lip. The storyteller waited for her comment; she had none.

“The Duke was still off parading, far from the city — far enough away to look innocent, should he need to look that way. The prickles in his palm burned at his mind. As long as the princes existed in the Tower, the people would never quieten down and accept him as king. Something had to be done.

“He sent for a man he trusted, a man who slept on the floor like a dog, an unnoticed man in whose brain turned that desperate worm, the desire for power. The desire to sleep somewhere better than the floor; the desire to have a king’s gratitude. To earn these, the dog-man would do anything. When the Duke whispered into the man’s ear — whispered to the worm, which listened closely — and told him what he required, the dog-man heard, and did not blink.

“Having whispered the words, the Duke headed north, further from the city and the black Tower, to the wild lands where he was still welcome.

“The dog-man took a helper, and rode into the city. In his cloak was a letter from the Duke. He arrived at the Tower in the grey light of evening, gave the letter to the princes’ guards. The letter was read and, according to its instructions, the keys to the Keep were handed over to the dog-man. With a growl, the dog-man then sent three of the princes’ guards away, keeping one as a second helper in what was to follow.

“Midnight is the time when dark deeds are done: at midnight the dog-man unlocked the door of the room where the two boys slept. No moonlight could have found its way through the walls to shine on their childish faces: whatever light there was would have come from torches, red flames licking the stone. It was a late hour for two children, and no doubt they were asleep; but Edward was unwell and nervous, and maybe he woke at the slightest sound. Maybe he saw a silhouette in the doorway, and knew that this thing he had been waiting for had finally come for him. His brother, huddled in sheets beside him, probably did not stir. Perhaps Edward, remembering he was a prince, imperiously demanded to know what was happening. Possibly the dog-man, like all good dogs, assured him of his kind intent. Or perhaps the three curs went about their work in silence, as befitting those who’d always lived in shadows.

“Two boys, powerless, defenceless, weakened by the weight of fear, present no difficult challenge to such shadow-creatures. It is a simple thing, the work of mere moments, to cover children’s mouths, to swathe them in linen, to lift them from where they lie. When the dog-man and his companions left the room, each helper carried in his arms a bundle wrapped in sheets; and they left behind nothing living but a stray beetle or two, nothing moving but the quaking torch flames. An empty room, and silence; and moonbeams no longer trying to breach the stony walls.”

Heloise, Jeremy and May stared at the floor, at the forest of chair legs and the overlapping layers of rug. May’s face was white.

“I don’t understand.” Cecily spoke in a voice which suggested she was about to burst into stinging tears. “Tell me properly what happened. Did they carry them outside to set them free? Is that what happened?”

“Nothing was left living but a stray beetle,” her uncle repeated sharply; he looked to the fireplace in which were heaped the black ashes and coals of another day’s fire. “That’s enough for today,” he said. “Go away now, I’m tired.”

May was hurrying; Cecily could hardly keep up. Already they were almost to the woods and Heron Hall had shrunk to the size of a toy behind them. The evacuee had said barely a word since the storytelling had come to an end. Heloise had swept the girls off the floor and out of the room; Jeremy had followed in silence. Peregrine continued to sit in the armchair, his eyes on Byron, the only soul permitted to stay. Cecily had felt hot and disjointed, as if the tale of the princes had given her a dose of flu. May had slipped away without inviting Cecily to follow; but Cecily did follow, as if on a string, stumbling along unwillingly but also irresistibly. They’d left the cobbled yard behind before she’d gathered the wit to say, “May?” They’d crossed most of the wind-tossed field before May answered, “What?”

But by then Cecily had forgotten the question, and was blowing with the effort of hauling herself through the grass. May flitted into the woods and Cecily lurched after her. She knew where they were going and felt increasingly reluctant to arrive, but the string towed her remorselessly. She didn’t want to go to the ruins, and May was clearly willing to go alone; but on and on she shambled, as if what must happen could not happen unless Cecily, too, was there.

They crossed the far field and forded the river, stones plunking into the water as they clawed their way up the bank. And finally in front of them, sunk heavily in the land, stood the remains of Snow Castle, and May came to a halt. Her thin chest was heaving, there was dirt on her knees. She drew a breath and shouted, “Hello!”

Hello!
replied the castle.
Hell-o.

“We’re here! We’ve come to see you! Can you see us?”

Us?
asked the castle.
Us?

May’s sapphire eyes, alert as a tiger’s, searched the edifice. The walls with their glassless windows seemed to stare back sightlessly. “Can you see them, Cecily?”

The breeze leapt up to blow Cecily’s blond curls across her face. She wiped them away and they returned eagerly, smothering as seaweed. She scanned the ruins and couldn’t see anything but smutted stone and smudged sky. In truth she didn’t want to see anything more, and said, “They’re not here. They’ve probably gone.”

May said, “No, they’re here.”

The wind vaulted the river with sudden ferocity. It gushed past the children, unravelled the ribbon in Cecily’s hair. It battered the castle like an invading force of old. The castle stood unflinching, impervious to everything but time. The gale moved on, dragging leaves in its wake.

May said, “They played army and warships.”

Cecily squinted at the ruins, the ribbon fluttering at her face. She looked high, to where the ceiling would have been; now there was nothing but a hazardous ridge of stones. No child could ever perch there. Only ravens and gargoyles could perch there. She stopped looking there. “It’s a coincidence.” The breeze took her words. “Any boys would play those games. They always play those games. They think it’s fun.”

It was a plain fact: boys have played war games for centuries, as if war is fun. May turned her face away. “Hello!” she called, and the castle returned the greeting with unfriendly cheek:
Hello! Oh, hello!

Cecily tried something: she laughed. It was a fake and empty laugh, but it made May look at her. “It’s just an old story, May. It’s hundreds of years old.” And although she’d been told by her most trusted uncle that history lives forever and touches everything, she said, “That story is just . . . dust. It’s not real anymore. And there’s no such thing as . . .”

She stopped before she said the word. She didn’t want to use the word, which was one her daddy would chuckle at. That word only appeared in make-believe, and this was real life. And if, on the odd chance, it
was
true and such things
did
exist in real life — well then, she’d rather not be here. She’d rather be somewhere else. She shifted her weight, started again. “Even if they
were
. . . why would they be
here
? What’s Snow Castle got to do with them? It’s not in their story.”

May gazed at her intently, her eyes shining with a steady light. “But it must be in the story. The castle is the reason Mr Lockwood is
telling
the story, remember?”

Cecily winced. “Maybe it’s in the Duke’s story, or the Queen’s. The princes died — didn’t they? — the dog-man came and killed them, didn’t he? — and they never had anything to do with Snow Castle.”

May stood, buffeted by the breeze; and even as Cecily watched, the light in her eyes faded as if she was recalling what could and couldn’t be. She turned to the ruins, said, “I suppose so.”

“Think about it!” Cecily clung to her piece of driftwood logic. “This place wasn’t in their story, so why would they be here? They wouldn’t.”

“Hmm,” said May.

“They’re just two boys, those boys — that’s all. Two boys like we’re two girls.”

“Hmm,” said May.

Again they looked into the ruins. Still no bird cried, no dragonfly flew. Cecily looked at the sky, the castle, at the scuffed earth at her feet. It had been a strange long day, cluttered with pictures: a palace courtyard bombed to pieces, her brother weeping on a first-floor landing, her uncle glancing up from his letter, two bundles lying laxly in workmen’s arms. She had the dreamy sensation of being feverish, being encased in a skin of glass: everything, so far, was happening outside the glass and could not touch her. But glass is breakable, and Cecily knew that the moment it broke, a river of fear would gush in — fear for her father in the pummelled city, fear for her brother and his troubled heart, fear for the world she would grow up in. She tried to see again what she’d remembered here before, the long-lost toys, the cuddles from her mother, a taste of biscuits: and none of it returned. “Let’s go,” she said, because she wanted to be far from this trammelled place, she’d suddenly had more than enough of it. “I’m glad they’re not here. I don’t like those boys. They should stay with their host family and behave themselves. We should have told Mama about them, like I wanted to.”

“Don’t,” said May.

“I won’t,” Cecily answered curtly.

She had the smallest concern that May wouldn’t follow, but the girl turned and traipsed home beside her. Cecily wanted her skin of glass to last as long as possible, so she didn’t say much. She pointed out a flock of sheep, a bramble bush, a few other interesting things. They didn’t speak of Snow Castle, nor of the princes and the Duke, nor of the look that had come to Peregrine’s face at the end of the story, a shadow of hard disgust. And Cecily didn’t think to ask why May, who, though brave, was just a little girl, would be so eager, even desperate, to talk to a pair of ghosts.

By the time the family gathered for dinner, the world was normal again. Rain was falling, which was typical, Heloise and Peregrine spoke, as was their habit, as though they’d only recently met, and Jeremy asked his uncle questions about the land. It was almost as if the war wasn’t happening, until Heloise spoiled it. “I suppose it will be another long night in London,” she said. “I expect the aeroplanes will come again tonight.”

It was Cecily’s favourite dessert, strawberry tart, and she didn’t appreciate having a bomb dropped on it. She put her fork down and sighed. “I assume so,” Peregrine said.

“And once again we’ll be able to do simply nothing to prevent it?”

“That’s likely,” Peregrine agreed.

“We’re so fortunate to be here,” Heloise said; and shivered at some memory of having come within a whisker of actually not being there. “Aren’t we, children?”

“Yes,” said May and Cecily, but Jeremy only glanced at his uncle, and in that glance there was certainly gratitude, but something else besides: a barely quelled impatience with such sentiments, which he would not tolerate anymore.

And maybe it was this glance that made Peregrine, at breakfast the next morning, look up suddenly from the newspaper and ask, “Where is Jeremy?”

His teacup stood empty, his plate pristine, his chair tucked neatly against the table. At this hour of the morning, the light came through the windows in such a way that the chair and the porcelain looked dipped in gold, heavenly. “He must be asleep,” Cecily said, lunging to pluck the best toast from the rack. “More for us!”

Peregrine’s gaze swept the room, stopped briefly on May, who was watching him, and moved on. “Run upstairs and find him. His breakfast will go cold.”