Authors: James Moloney
They reached the level ground of the valley just as the sky darkened into evening, sore and exhausted yet relieved.
“I was beginning to think I’d never be warm again,” gasped Marcel, dropping to his haunches to feel the day’s heat still lingering in the soil.
Nicola lay full-length on an inviting stretch of grass. “I’m just glad to stop walking,” she groaned dramatically.
For once Starkey did not turn a deaf ear to their complaints. “We’ll stop here for a little while,” he declared.
Marcel fell into a doze, but he was awoken some time later by the stamping of a horse. He sat up, confused and thinking for a moment that it was Gadfly and Bea. This horse, though, was not dappled but dark brown from head to toe, with sturdy legs and wide, heavy hooves. This much he could see by the light of a torch Starkey was carrying. Then he noticed she was hitched to a hay wagon.
The questions flew.
“Where did it come from?”
“What do we need so much hay for?”
Starkey laughed at the last one especially. “Do you see that farmhouse in the distance?” he asked, pointing. “The farmer there now has more gold coins than he ever hoped to see in his life. As for the hay, you’ll see soon enough.”
Yes, they saw that hay at very close range, for the best part of the night. Starkey ordered them into it and under it, checking that not a single part of them was visible, then buried himself beneath the pile as well. “Hector is the only one who will not be recognised in an instant. He will have to drive the horse. As for the rest of us, we must stay completely out of sight.”
The hay was rough against their skin, and found its way inside their clothes, where it itched and prickled. After the freezing high country, they were now stiflingly hot under the hay. But at least there was no more walking.
They slept fitfully as the night wore on. Every so often they woke as Hector cajoled the horse to keep going, sometimes cursing or even whipping it harshly with a switch he had cut from a tree.
Roosters were beginning to stir when Hector whispered back to Starkey, “I can see the gates ahead, but they’re closed.”
“They’ll open at dawn, but wait until others are crowding through on their way to market and the soldiers have no time to search.”
This was how they entered the city, under the very noses of Pelham’s soldiers, who were scouring the streets. Marcel couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse at the bustling place that had swallowed them up. The activity of the day was already under way, and the streets were alive with shouts and the clattering of cartwheels. Even the air seemed crowded, as houses jostled for space, their upper storeys leaning in over the narrow cobbled lanes. Sheets hung like ghosts from the washing lines strung between them. To a boy who knew only the treacherous forest and the sleepy village of Fallside, these sights and sounds were both frightening and exhilarating.
The cart lumbered on, seeking out the darkest and most deserted streets, until finally Hector turned down a dingy lane in one of the poorer districts and knocked at a nondescript double gate.
An eye appeared at a knothole soon afterwards. “Who’s there?”
The mention of Starkey’s name was enough. The gates were opened by a woman who kept herself well hidden from any passers-by. The cart rumbled into a small courtyard and the gates were bolted shut again. At last Starkey and the children could escape from beneath the hated straw.
“This is Mrs Farjeon,” said Starkey, introducing the woman. “She’s a friend of our cause who will help us while we stay in the city.”
Marcel caught a glimpse of a worried face as she led them
across the courtyard. She moved with more grace than Mrs Timmins and her dark blue dress was unpatched and finer than anything that kindly woman would ever wear.
In the light of the doorway, Mrs Farjeon turned again to speak, but before she could say a word her mouth fell open at the sight of the children’s faces.
“Yes, they are who you think they are, but they don’t know it themselves, thanks to Alwyn’s magic,” Starkey informed her. “Now, is the cellar ready?”
“The cellar, yes, of course, Sir Thomas. Just as you ordered.”
Mrs Farjeon guided them from the courtyard into a modest two-storey house. They found themselves in a gloomy passage, and after only a dozen strides she stopped and bent low to pull up a heavy trap door. She slowly lifted a lighted candle from a bracket on the wall. “Be careful of the steps,” she warned them, as she began to disappear through the hatchway. The children followed, descending quickly into a cellar much the same size as Mrs Timmins’ dining hall, though without any windows. In the sparse light of a single candle, all they could make out was a large, comfortable-looking bed in the corner. It was the most wonderful thing they had seen for days.
“Here you are, children,” Mrs Farjeon said kindly. “I was only expecting one of you, so you’ll have to share a bed, I’m afraid.” She glanced apologetically at Starkey.
They didn’t need any more encouragement than that. By the time Marcel had slipped his tortured feet out of his shoes, Nicola had already climbed under the covers. He was luxuriating in the warmth of the bed and falling rapidly towards sleep when Fergus took his place on the other side of Nicola.
Starkey and Mrs Farjeon backed away to the stairs without another word. By the time the trap door was eased into place, Marcel and his two companions were fast asleep.
M
ARCEL SLEPT ALL THE
rest of the day and finally awoke at dusk to the most delicious smell in the world: bacon and eggs frying in a warm house. For days he had eaten nothing but turnips, carrots and dried meat. The aroma wafting down from above teased his nostrils in a form of delightful torture.
He realised he had been dreaming about Bea and Gadfly. He had thought of Bea many times during the journey, hoping she had arrived safely at the orphanage. Lord Alwyn and his beast must surely have been gone by the time she reached Fallside. Besides, Mrs Timmins would protect her. He didn’t need to worry about her, he said over and over again in
his mind, but he fretted all the same.
Slowly he became aware of things around him. This was a cellar – he remembered that much – but the room was much gloomier than when he fell asleep. In the morning a chaos of tiny holes and cracks had admitted light through the floorboards above, but now he needed the candle’s light to see anything at all. Apart from the bed, the only other furniture was an ornately carved table and four matching chairs with green satin cushions on each seat. They seemed oddly out of place against the rough stone walls and floor.
Fergus was sitting in one of the chairs. “Do you think that food cooking up there is for us?” he asked when he saw Marcel staring at him.
“I hope so,” said a voice close by. Nicola was awake now and sitting up in the other half of the bed, the pillow supporting her back as she stroked determinedly at her hair. The long journey had turned her brassy tresses into a lank and wind-tossed mess of knots that she battled to untangle.
Then Marcel noticed the fine silver hairbrush she was using. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“Mrs Farjeon brought it down while you two were still sleeping. She was very polite, and she
curtsied
when she gave it to me. Can you believe it?”
“She bowed to you!” Marcel laughed as he pictured it. “Why would she do that?”
Noises at the head of the narrow staircase distracted them.
“Someone’s coming,” said Fergus.
Their noses told them more than their eyes. The bacon and eggs
were
for them after all! Here they were, on a tray being carried by that same woman. They had the plates off the tray and began to attack the meal ravenously before they had even reached the table.
“I heard you stirring and thought you must be hungry,” Mrs Farjeon explained. She watched them with a smile until they were nearly finished. “Would you like some more, Marcel?”
He nodded without even looking up from his plate.
“And you, Edwin?”
The eating stopped instantly. It was obvious whom she was talking to. “My name! My real name!” exclaimed Fergus.
The woman put her hand to her mouth, but her eyes showed she was mortified by the mistake she had just made. “I shouldn’t have let that slip,” she said, turning hastily towards the stairs.
“Wait!” Fergus cried.
“
I’m
not to tell you anything. Only Sir Thomas,” she retorted, and before any of them could say more, she had scuttled through the trap door and disappeared.
“You know your real name at last,” said Marcel. “Do you want us to start calling you Edwin now?”
But the question seemed to unsettle Fergus, and he hadn’t
managed an answer when the trap door was suddenly wrenched open and Starkey’s black boots appeared on the staircase. His muddy clothes from the journey were gone, replaced by a fine silk shirt and breeches, and he had shaved off the stubble that had given him a sinister look in recent days. His handsome face was once again revealed as he stood rubbing his forefinger along the line of his jaw.
“You’re wide awake at last, I see. Good. You won’t be sleeping here tonight.”
“Where are we going?”
“To meet your parents, of course. It is almost time.”
“Time you told us who we are, like you promised,” asserted Marcel, taking the lead.
“I already know my real name,” said Fergus. “That Mrs Farjeon let it slip by accident.”
“Yes, she told me of her mistake just now. My hand has been forced, I see,” Starkey conceded. “But no harm has been done. It’s time you knew, in any case. If Mrs Farjeon had dared use your full name, she should have addressed you as
Prince
Edwin.”
“Prince!” cried Fergus, scrambling to his feet so quickly his chair toppled backwards.
“The curtsy,” Marcel breathed, as he and Nicola jumped to their feet as well. He stared at the boy he had now come to know, even to like, in a cautious kind of way. But there was so much he wanted to know about himself as well.
“
My
name, Starkey,” he said, slowly, firmly, forcing Starkey to look him in the eye. “You came halfway across the Kingdom because you had heard it. Why am I so important?”
“And me, Starkey!” Nicola demanded.
Starkey smiled. “It seems you won’t be content until I’ve told you everything. You’d best sit down, all of you. This story will take some time to tell.”
They settled back into their chairs, though Marcel found it difficult to keep still.
Then Starkey began. “Before Pelham became King, this land was ruled by Queen Madeleine.” It was a name Marcel had already heard, but it was new to the other two. “Madeleine had no children of her own, so when she grew old and frail, the people urged her to announce who should succeed her to the throne. I have already told you the names of her rightful heirs. Do you remember them?”
“Damon and Eleanor,” said Marcel, surprised that the names came to him so easily.
“Yes,” replied Starkey, impressed, “they were niece and nephew to the old Queen. But she turned against them and named Pelham as her successor, even though he has no royal blood at all in his veins.”
“Who is he, then? Why did she choose him?” asked Marcel.
“It was the old wizard’s doing. Pelham is no more than a foundling from the streets of Elstenwyck. Alwyn brought him
to the palace as a boy and convinced Queen Madeleine to take him in.”
“Are you saying Lord Alwyn used his magic on her?” Fergus asked.
“All three of you have felt his powers. You can decide such things for yourselves.” He paused briefly, as though he needed to steel himself before he could say what came next. “Surely you can guess what happened,” he continued. “Alwyn used his magic against you to make sure Pelham stays on the throne. In fact, it was Pelham himself who gave the order. You three were to be taken away and all memory of who you are was to be wiped from your minds.”
“But who
are
we, Starkey?” Nicola urged impatiently. She pushed back her chair petulantly and rose to her feet. “
My
name,” she insisted, slapping her hand to her chest. “What is
my
real name?”
“Young lady,” he replied, addressing her respectfully, “you are Princess Catherine.”
Nicola stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. “A princess,” was all she managed to say.
Starkey turned. “And you, Marcel. I can see in your face how much you want to know more.” He leaned back in his chair, taking delight in the delay, it seemed. He swept his arm towards Nicola. “This girl is your sister.”
“Sister!” It was all too much. Marcel’s mind could pick out only one thing at a time, and the first was this: “Then… then I am a prince too.”
“Yes, you two are prince and princess – and your mother should be queen. It’s the gravest injustice that she is not,” he said solemnly. “Your mother is Princess Eleanor.”
“Eleanor,” Nicola whispered, letting the name roll over her lips and tongue as though she didn’t want to part with it.
The name lay on Marcel’s tongue as well. At last he knew. When he had woken up in Mrs Timmins’ house, with Robert for a name and little else, he thought he had lost his mother to a fever. Even after that false life was gone from his mind, the sense that his mother was dead had stayed with him, niggling, nagging, impossible to throw off with the rest of Alwyn’s thwarted magic.