The Sword of Straw (9 page)

“How dare you!” The nurse was shaking with anger. “How dare you talk to me of—of treason! I
love
the princess, and if you did, too, you’d want what I want for her. If she went away all this magical nonsense would stop—”

“How do you know that?”

“The magic’s
here,
bad magic, it’s common knowledge. Or it would be, if there were any commoners left. The king’s sick, the family’s cursed—cursed with that evil sword they’ve been hanging on to for centuries—a sword that jumps up all by itself and stabs people. A sword like that, what do you expect? That’s where all the bad magic comes from. I won’t have my Nellwyn spending her whole life under a cloud. If she could get away from the sword, she’d get away from the curse. She could have a normal life, be happy…That’s all I want for her.”

“I believe you,” said Frimbolus rather surprisingly. “That’s what I want for her, too. But running away won’t solve the problem. In any case, she won’t do it. She
is
a princess, Prendergoose, a true princess, and that means more than you know. She’s brave and generous and kind and as true as steel—that’s what makes her a princess, not a sparkly crown and a ball dress. She won’t leave her father or Carboneck—”

“She would if you told her to,” the nurse interjected. “She reckons a lot to what you think.” The admission was grudging. “If you said she ought to go, she’d be off quick enough, for certain sure.”

“Well, I can’t,” Frimbolus said, not mincing words. “Anyhow, you’re wrong. This is
her
place, you stupid old fussbucket.
Her
kingdom,
her
people—or what’s left of them—
her
problems to solve. Nothing you or I or anyone could say would make her budge. Now, if you’ve nothing more to complain about, I’d be grateful if you’d go away and leave me to get on with my work.”

“Don’t you go name-calling with me—”

“I said:
Go away!
”

Pointedly, Frimbolus returned to his experiments. The nurse stared impotently at his back for a few moments, sniffed angrily, then left. Nathan moved out of the shadows toward the old man, wanting to see what he was doing…and Frimbolus wheeled around, stared straight at him, and demanded: “Who—and what—are you?”

“You can see me!” Nathan gasped, or tried to, but only a squeak of sound came out.

“What’s that? Speak up, phantom, or be off with you! There’s a high level of magic in here; stray spirits tend to show up. I noticed you hovering in the background when I was talking to the Prendergoose. Felt you peering over my shoulder just now, too—gives me a prickle up the spine, having a specter right behind me. Who are you and what’s your business here?”

But Nathan’s essence in that world was still too flimsy for him to make himself heard. He thought of trying some sort of sign language, but he didn’t know how to convey the message
I want to help you
in gestures, and he visualized his spirit enacting a kind of ghostly charades, and knew it would be ridiculous. He spaced his hands and shook his head to show his quandary even as the dream receded, and the room blurred, and the last thing he saw was the perplexed expression on Frimbolus’s face.

He woke the next morning feeling anxious, though he wasn’t sure why. The hint of danger to the princess?—but that was nothing new. His own hazy materialization? Then he remembered. The Grandir’s laboratory, and the thing in the cage that he hadn’t been able to see—the thing whose proximity had filled him with a cold horror, so the mere recollection of it made him shiver. In a cage in that same laboratory the Grandir had kept the gnomons—creatures whose substance was fluid and whose collective mind was under his control, equipped with hypersenses and able to move between worlds. They were invisible here except as a stirring in the leaves, or the patter of following feet on an empty road—but their pursuit was relentless, and when they caught someone they would enter his brain, twisting his thoughts, draining his very self, until he was left a drooling imbecile. They were the guardians of the Grail, intangible yet deadly. Suddenly Nathan found himself wondering if the sword was similarly guarded, and by whom—or what.

He would have to talk to someone about it.

T
HAT DAY
was Sunday, and Annie was going to tea with Bartlemy. Nathan excused himself, saying he needed to visit Rowena and Eric in Crowford to do some historical research. He didn’t want to explain further at this stage, and Annie didn’t ask questions, merely adjuring him to phone first and make sure they weren’t otherwise occupied. Nathan went out after breakfast to play football with George and some of the village boys, and Annie sat contemplating a plan she had been making and leafing through a book. It was more a tome than a book, leather-bound, with gilded lettering on the cover and beautiful illustrations inside shielded with tissue paper. It was called
Magical Herbs and Their Properties,
and she’d acquired it the previous week. Maybe it was the book that had given her the plan. She knew things were happening, probably bad things, and although she worried about Nathan, and told him to be careful, it didn’t occur to her to take her own advice. Annie would never have claimed to be adventurous—indeed, she thought of herself as peace loving, even rather timid, a quiet sort of person who liked a quiet sort of life. But last summer she had nearly been killed at least twice, she had hit Lily Bagot’s husband over the head with a saucepan and attacked a psychopath with a hairbrush—not to mention discovering a decayed corpse without screaming, or being sick, or suffering post-traumatic stress. (She had
felt
sick, very sick, but sheer determination had kept her stomach under control.) Now she wanted to know more of what was going on—there were things she had to find out if she was going to protect Nathan, or at least help him—and her plan was only a small plan, risk-free and relatively innocuous.

She had scanned a few websites, identified a photograph, found an address in the telephone book. A rather affluent address, in the village of Willowdene, about half an hour’s drive from Eade. She left a note for Nathan,
Gone shopping
—after all, she would have to shop on her way home—and set off in her car with the book on the seat beside her.

The car was a fairly recent acquisition, a new-look Volkswagen Beetle, secondhand but little used, sprayed a beautiful primrose yellow—Annie found, slightly to her surprise, that she adored it. She still wasn’t sure how she had managed to afford the expense, but Bartlemy gave her a salary for running the shop, and as they lived on the premises she paid no rent, and somehow there was always a little over. The car’s license plate started with
SBL
so she christened it Sybil, and treated it like a favored pet.

In Willowdene—one of those rambling villages with no real center or even a main street—she had to ask the way twice before finding the house she wanted. A big house some distance from its neighbors, evidently a barn conversion—or, to be precise, several barns—with old beams, and new windows, and an apparently limitless garden. She turned into the drive and pulled up just short of the front door, feeling suddenly pushy and vulgar, like a social climber using a tenuous connection to try to shin a few rungs up the ladder of class and wealth. The fact that she wasn’t anything of the kind made her feel only a little better. She rang the doorbell, wondering if they had a butler.
If there is one,
she thought,
I’ll run away.

But the woman who answered the door definitely wasn’t a butler. She wore tracksuit pants faded from much washing and a shapeless sweater, no outfit for a butler or maid. Her hair was expensive and her face very tired, and Annie instantly felt sorry for her.

“Mrs. Hackforth?”

“Yes.” The woman didn’t look hostile, or wary, or even interested.

“I’m Annie Ward. I think we’ve met at Ffylde Abbey—my son’s there, he’s some years younger than yours. I run a secondhand-book shop in Eade. Your husband bought a book from me recently, a grimoire, and I thought, if he was collecting that kind of thing…I’ve had this in, a few days ago”—she flourished
Magical Herbs
—“and I was over this way anyhow, so I thought—I wondered—if he might like to look at it.” Never a good liar, she was stammering by the time she finished this speech and conscious of a rising blush, but Mrs. Hackforth accepted her errand without question.

“Thoughtful of you.” The phrase was automatic. “My husband’s out at the moment but he should be back shortly. Would you like to come in? I’m afraid…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

Annie followed her into the house and was promptly mobbed by a couple of retrievers who slobbered enthusiastically over her. “Sorry—they’re a bit uncontrolled,” Mrs. Hackforth apologized, roused to faint animation.

“That’s all right,” Annie said. “I love dogs.”

She could see no sign of any offspring, though the distant twitter of a television came from some far-flung corner of the house. They went into a palatial kitchen, all stainless steel and stained wood, and her hostess made coffee in a complicated piece of equipment that seemed to take much longer than a cafetière. It was clearly a struggle for her to maintain even the most desultory small talk, though she did say: “Call me Selena.” Tentatively—in view of Damon’s reputation—Annie brought up the subject of Ffylde, and what a good school it was.

“My son’s a scholarship boy,” she explained. “Otherwise I could never afford it. It’s a wonderful opportunity for Nathan. Of course, I think he’s very bright—very special—but I daresay all mothers say that.” She wasn’t being tactful, she realized, but at least she might provoke some reaction in the other woman.

“I suppose so.” For a minute an expression lingered on Selena’s face that was beyond tiredness, a bone-deep, soul-deep fatigue—a weariness of life, a dreariness of spirit. “Damon—my son—is a bit…
difficult
. Teenage stuff, the psychiatrists say. But then, psychiatrists are like mothers: they always say that.” A flicker of dried-up humor lifted her mouth. “Let’s be honest,
difficult
isn’t the word.” For the first time, she looked directly at Annie. “He’s a thief, a liar, a vandal—a monster. My daughter is chronically sick and my son is a monster. Three cheers for motherhood.”

Dear God,
Annie thought, overcome with pity.
And my only problem is a son who pops into other universes in his sleep…

“Damon hates the people he loves—he hates himself—the only thing he doesn’t seem to hate, oddly enough, is the school. Father Crowley has been wonderful; even Damon respects him. My husband’s with him now. They should be here very soon.”

Annie stood up abruptly. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely guilt-stricken. “I’m intruding. I’d better go.”

“No—please.” Just as Annie was feeling like an imposter, her hostess had become anxious to keep her there. “It was really kind of you to bring the book. I don’t know if you realized, but Giles is a publisher: he has a genuine love of books. He’s been collecting this sort of thing lately—antique volumes on magic and so on. I know he’ll want to see this one.”

“I could leave it with you…”

“Have some more coffee.”

Annie accepted, feeling she should, wanting to abandon her researches but aware that she was trapped in the role she had created for herself. “Has your son—has Damon always had problems?” she inquired, fishing for diplomatic language.

Selena shrugged. “Not really. Not that we noticed. As a little boy he was naughty but not wicked. It’s a teenage thing—it always is, isn’t it? The psychiatrists say it was triggered by his sister’s illness destabilizing his environment—he’d always been very fond of her but suddenly he became jealous. It showed in irrational tantrums—violence—it was as if he was possessed.”

“The Catholic Church believes in possession,” Annie said. “Does Father Crowley…?”

“This is the modern world,” Selena said. “They don’t use the word except in horror films. All we know is the abbot seems to be the only person who can ever get through to Damon.” She looked up at the sound of a car outside. “That must be them now.”

Annie, increasingly uncomfortable, wasn’t certain whether she should expect the teenage monster as well, but only Giles Hackforth and Father Crowley came in, fetched to the kitchen by Selena. If they had suspected her of vulgar curiosity or subversive investigation Annie would have been horribly embarrassed, but their unquestioning acceptance of her motives augmented her sense of guilt. This was a family in desperate trouble, and she was being nosy. She wasn’t happy about it.

Giles was vague, mumbling something about her kindness, but Father Crowley leafed through the book with genuine interest. He was a man whose personality made him appear taller than his actual height, with a lofty nose and a face at once grave and graven, deeply lined with both humor and thought. Silver hair retreated from a high forehead, and he had the keen gray eyes of popular cliché—not merely keen-sighted, Annie felt, but keen from a profound wellspring of inner keenness, as if he had just discovered a formula for making the world a better place, and was eager to put it into action. She always thought he looked much more like a wizard than Bartlemy.

“This is good of you,” he told her. “A lovely book—absolutely lovely. Look at the delicacy of these drawings.” This to Giles, or possibly Selena. “You shouldn’t miss the chance to acquire this.”

Annie was forced to mention a price, which she kept low, but Giles insisted on overpaying her. Afterward, rather to her surprise, Father Crowley asked for a lift: “I know it’s a little out of your way, but I would welcome the opportunity to talk to you about Nathan.”

Annie couldn’t have refused even if she had wished to.

The priest was dressed in civilian, apart from his dog collar, but a very long raincoat flapping around him in the wind gave the impression of monkish robes. He admired her car, arranging himself comfortably in the passenger seat—“It’s larger inside than out, like the TARDIS”—and they drove off toward Ffylde.

“Nathan hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” Annie demanded without preamble.

“No indeed. On the contrary, an outstanding pupil. Many of our boys are
not
academic—at the school we like to focus on developing the individual in whatever way is best suited to him—but Nathan is exceptional. I wanted to take the chance to tell you so. I don’t know if you’ve thought ahead as far as university, but he’s definitely Oxbridge material. He seems to be particularly good at history and the arts, though he’s strong in the sciences, too—and, of course, a talented athlete. It’s just that lately he seems a little…abstracted, at times. Less attentive in class, though it doesn’t affect his essays. I gather he went through a similar phase last summer, though it wore off.” He paused, allowing Annie the chance to say something. When she didn’t, he went on: “It’s a difficult age. The urges of the body can often outweigh every stimulus of the intellect. Perhaps there’s a girlfriend?”