The Children of the King (6 page)

She took his advice and climbed down from the gate — just as a shadow romped from the darkness of a distant copse of trees. It romped, and it barked — it was Byron. The dog’s blurred shape was followed by another, small and swathed. Cecily watched the girl pick her way over the changeable earth; and as Byron, sighting her, ambled up sloppy-tongued and sodden of paw, and as it became clear that the child had merely been out for a walk, Cecily’s anxiety hardened into crossness. “I was worried about you!” she shouted, when May was close enough to hear.

“Why?” the girl shouted back.

“I thought you’d drowned in the lake!”

“Why?” May replied.

Cecily clamped her mouth shut: she wouldn’t enter a thankless conversation. She watched the girl toil over the unpredictable terrain, her hands held out for balance. It was not in Cecily to hope somebody would slip and break a leg, but the evacuee deserved at least a reprimand. “You’re not allowed to leave the house before breakfast,” she told her.

The breeze had reddened May’s white cheeks, and whitened her red lips. Her black hair shone blue, her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. Her hands were smirched from touching trees, and her wellingtons were stuck with leaves. “Why?” she asked.

“Cook doesn’t like it, that’s why. Cook gets angry. Look at you, you’re filthy, you’ll have to wash, and change your clothes. Where have you been?”

“I went for a walk —”

“Well you’re not allowed to —”

“Why?”

“Stop saying why! Uncle Peregrine wouldn’t want it, that’s why!”

May wiped her nose. “I don’t think Mr Lockwood would care if I went for a walk,” she said.

“He wouldn’t!” snapped Cecily, who wasn’t skilled at fibbing. Honesty was, for her, not merely the best policy, but the only one she could reliably manage. “I was worried,” she said again.

May answered, not unkindly, “You don’t have to be. I’m used to looking after myself.”

“In the city, not —
here
!” Cecily waved a hand at the landscape as if there resided dragons. “Where did you go?”

“I followed Byron. We found a big stream.”

“You mean the river? That’s far.”

“How can it be a river? It only came up to my ankles.”

“I don’t think there’s a law to say how deep a river should be,” Cecily said archly.

May chose not to argue. “We crossed the river, and we found some old ruins.”

“Those ruins! It’s dangerous there. You could have been lost or killed. Probably killed.”

“Killed how?”

“A stone could have fallen and smashed your brains, ninny!”

“Huh.” May was impressed.

They had followed Byron into the courtyard, May’s boots leaving prints on the cobbles. While Cecily’s back had been turned to the house, the curtains had been opened in the drawing room and Cook had put out a saucer of milk for the cats. Cecily registered this as a good sign: Cook would not be feeding cats if she’d found her nephew’s name in the newspaper. The world had righted itself, all was as it should be. “What
are
those ruins?” May asked.

“Just some ruins. They were once a castle, maybe for — a knight? Ask Uncle Peregrine, he knows. He knows things about — history.”

“Is he a historian?”

“No . . .” There was a problem, Cecily didn’t know exactly what a historian was, or if her uncle was one; and if he wasn’t a historian, she didn’t know what he was. “He reads a lot of books. He knows all sorts of things. I know he sends telegrams to Daddy, and Daddy sends telegrams to him. Something to do with the war, I expect. Everything’s to do with the war. It’s no use asking me, I don’t know anything, and what I do know — I forget.”

May smiled. She wasn’t a particularly smiley child, indeed she wore a serious expression almost always; but she smiled at Cecily like somebody who could read a person’s thoughts. It was a worrying revelation, and also a relief. But then she said, “Look at the stripy kitten — oh Byron, don’t chase him!” and Cecily decided she’d smiled because of the quaint animals, and was both disappointed and reassured.

May appeared at the table with clean clothes and face, the dewdrops brushed from her hair, her nose no longer blanched. No one would have guessed she’d spent the first hours of the day fording rivers under the gaze of ravens.

Peregrine Lockwood was already at breakfast, as were his niece and nephew. Heloise had breakfast brought to her bed, an indulgence for which the at-table diners had a low opinion. But her absence meant they ate without formality, forgoing the fine dining room for a small round table in a room that seemed to have no purpose except to catch the morning sunshine with its windows, and beam warmth and light onto its occupants. It was a lovely room, a sleepy room, a room which smelt of hot bread.

May slipped into her chair opposite the master of the house. He was perusing a newspaper and didn’t look up. He said, “You stole my dog.”

“I didn’t . . .”

“He claims you did, extremely early this morning. He says he was on guard as usual outside my door, but that you lured him away with hypnotism.”

May smiled. “He wanted to come with me.”

Peregrine turned a page of the newspaper. With his wild hair and white shirt turned back at the cuffs, he looked a lot like a pirate. “It’s his word against yours. I’d believe a dog before a child.”

“You went out this morning?” asked Jeremy.

“What’s her punishment, Uncle Peregrine?”

The pirate glanced sideways. “Only criminal minds turn to punishment, Cecily.”

“But she stole Byron! She should be punished.”

“Perhaps her punishment could be to watch you eat a soft-boiled egg.”

Cecily was baffled. Her uncle knew she hated soft-boiled eggs. “You should keep quiet,” her brother advised. “Where did you go, May?”

“Only to the river.”

“You thought it was a stream! She thought it was a stream.”

The maid brought in a rack of toast and fresh tea, and asked the evacuee what she would like. “A soft-boiled egg!” yipped Cecily. And May, who hadn’t yet fully embraced the luxury of ordering whatever she chose, shrank in her chair and mumbled, “A soft-boiled egg, please.”

They shared the toast and passed the marmalade. Sunshine purred around the room, sprinkling stars of light on the silver pots and cutlery. Through the tall windows the breakfasters could see chaffinches and starlings hopping on the lawn. The room faced the front of the house: out there was the gate, the road, the town, eventually London followed by the world. Peregrine folded the paper and passed it to his nephew. “Debacle,” he remarked.

“What does that mean?”

“
Debacle.
A noun from the French, meaning utter collapse, a point at which we haven’t quite yet arrived, but very soon might. Cecily, your ignorance is repellent. Don’t they teach you anything at school?”

“They try, but it doesn’t stick.”

“Perhaps because you’re never there. Why aren’t you? There’s a school in the village.”

Cecily shrugged. “Mama hasn’t sent us.”

“I won’t go.” Jeremy sliced his toast savagely. “What’s the point? A poky little village school won’t teach me anything I don’t already know.”

May’s boiled egg arrived, accompanied by toast; Cecily grunted, “Ugh!” when decapitation revealed the yellow syrup inside. Sunlight sparkled on Jeremy’s hair as he scanned the front page of the newspaper. Reports of the war barked across it in sooty print. “Debacle,” he agreed.

“If it’s just going to be a debacle,” opined his sister, “we shouldn’t fight it. We should stop before it all gets silly.”

Peregrine looked sharp at her. “Absolutely and without question we have to fight. We had to fight, and we have to keep fighting.”

“But if it’s a debacle, and soldiers are being killed…”

“The consequences of not fighting would be worse. May’s father knew that; it’s why he volunteered.” Peregrine chose a pear from the bowl, halved it with the glide of a knife. “Soldiers have died and many more will die, there’s no doubt about that. But there are times when men’s lives can’t matter as much as what they must be used for.”

“For victory!” shouted Cecily.

“Don’t shout!” said her brother.

“Yes,” agreed Peregrine, “for victory.”

“Is victory more important than anything?” asked May.

“Not always,” said Peregrine. “But in this case, certainly.” To which the small girl nodded.

There was a knock, and the maid brought in the post, several envelopes for Mr Lockwood and a parcel each for the Lockwood children. “Oh!” Cecily gasped. “From Daddy!”

May cleaned out the contents of the eggshell while the parcels were opened. Humphrey Lockwood had sent a book of Shelley’s poetry to his son and a gold bangle to his daughter. With each gift came a letter in an envelope; Jeremy tucked his letter into his pocket but Cecily tore hers free and read.
Dear Cecil-doll, I hope this letter finds you happy, and not thrown down the privy by your brother. No doubt by this time you are running Heron Hall with efficiency, and perhaps giving Peregrine cause to wish he’d never been born. Home is very quiet without you, but I am getting a lot of work done without interruption. I miss you Dolly, and enclose this bangle which I hope will remind you of me. I saw it in a shop window and it seemed right to buy something pretty when everything is so serious . . .
“Oh, Daddy,” she sighed, sliding the bangle onto her arm. “Poor Daddy. What did you get, Jem? I got a bangle. Look, it’s lovely.”

She twirled her wrist so the gold caught the light. “It suits my white arm,” she decided. She looked at May. “Still no letter for you, May?”

“No.”

The kindness of Cecily’s nature rose up to give her trouble. “Maybe your mum was busy. I’m sure she’ll send something — maybe tomorrow?”

“It’s all right,” said May.

“And if not tomorrow, probably the next day. She wouldn’t have forgotten you — not yet.”

“Cecily! Leave her alone.”

“It’s all right,” repeated May.

But it was a sorry sight, the evacuee and her eggshell amid the ribbons and wrapping; it caused Cecily pain. A distraction occurred to her: “Uncle Peregrine, May was asking about those ruins by the river. What is that place? I’ve forgotten.”

“Snow Castle. You should be careful there. Ruins can be dangerous.”

“That’s what I said! Didn’t I, May?”

“Snow Castle.”
May mused. “It sounds like something nice to eat.”

“That’s not its real name though, is it?” Jeremy folded the paper and put it aside. “That’s just what local people call it.”

Peregrine sat back in his seat, taking his teacup with him. Walls of sunlight boxed him in, making his chair a throne. “The true name of the castle isn’t known,” he said. “Flimsy things like words become lost in time. But some say the castle never had a name — that it was always a castle of no name. It was built at least five hundred years ago, maybe a hundred more.”

“Golly,” said Cecily.

“Hardly golly at all,” her uncle replied. “Old castles aren’t rare. Every well-to-do person’s house was a castle in those days, there were lots of them around. Most are ruins now, just broken stones and a few crumbling walls; even most of the grandest ones are lost. What does make Snow Castle unusual is the fact that much of its stone is marble — snow-white marble, originally.”

“So whoever built the castle must have been someone grand.”

Cecily swung to May, curls bouncing. “How do you know?”

The girl, challenged, blushed a little. “Marble comes from Italy, where Michelangelo lived. So only a rich person could bring it all the way here and use it to build a house.”

Peregrine smiled. “How do you know that, May? Do you have an interest in architecture?”

The evacuee blushed pinker. “My dad taught me things.”

“Is your father an architect? An artist?”

“No; but on weekends we used to go to the museum to see the paintings and the stuffed animals and the fossils, and he used to tell me things.”

“I’m scared of those stiff animals.” Cecily boggled her eyes.

“The animals were my favourite,” said May. “We always visited them first. I like the walrus. Then we see the mummy in the sarcophagus, he is Dad’s favourite. I like the mummy too. Then we visit the icons and the head-hunters, and after we’ve looked at everything we . . .” She paused, glanced up.

“You what?” asked Cecily.

The girl seemed to have forgotten what she meant to say. Then she spoke with a start. “We’d get ice-cream if it was a warm day, and chips if it was cold.”

She looked down at her plate. Peregrine Lockwood ate the last slice of pear, contemplating her. Jeremy said, “The land around here is full of artefacts — Iron Age metal, Roman glass. We’ll go digging if you like, find a gift for your father.”

Jealous Cecily said, “What would anyone want with a bit of old glass? Look, May, I’ve got an idea: we can share this bangle. I’ll wear it today and you can wear it tomorrow, and I’ll wear it the next day and you —”

“It doesn’t matter.” May raised her head. “You keep it, Cecily.”

“It suits your white arm,” said Peregrine.

“So if he isn’t an artist, what does your father do, May?”

“Before the war he was a school teacher.”

“A teacher.” Peregrine sighed. “And here you are, brain turning to mush.”