The Book of Lies (7 page)

Sure enough, it was not just Lord Alwyn who had fallen into shadow. All around them, the ground, the house, the orchard beyond it, everything was becoming dimmer and harder to see.

Now even Lord Alwyn was looking around him for the cause, and moments later they all saw it: a black curtain
sweeping quickly over the forest, blocking out the day’s bright sunshine. Night had never come like this, marked by a black line across the sky – and it was not even midday.

“What is it?” Fergus cried, but his voice was quickly lost amid the screeching that rained down from that writhing black canopy.

Then Marcel knew. “Bats!” he exclaimed. “Thousands, millions of them!” Already the leaders of this mighty horde had reached the village. Any minute now, it would break over the rim of the great cliff and sweep down into the valley below.

But Marcel’s attention was torn away from this sight by words, the old wizard’s words, though none he could understand. He turned to find Lord Alwyn with his arms outstretched, calling up to the blackening heavens above them. As he chanted his strange verses and swept his arms across the sky with as much grace as his ageing limbs would allow, that great, raucous cloud stopped its progress. More words, more waving of those thin arms, and the tide gradually began to turn back.

It took many minutes, but at last the darkness was repelled and the bats returned to wherever they had come from. Most of them, at least. Some came to earth instead, landing on the stone wall and on the roof of the house, a few hanging upside down from the eaves as though they had come especially to watch Marcel face his punishment.

“What happened?” cried Mrs Timmins in terror. “Your Lordship, all those bats! Where did they come from? Why would they suddenly appear like that? And so many! They almost hid the sun.”

The sorcerer didn’t answer her. He seemed deeply troubled by what had happened. “It should not be,” he muttered, but slowly he forced himself out of his daze. His wrinkled brows weighed heavily over his weary eyes as he turned them on Marcel.

This made the boy more terrified than ever. He would gladly ride Gadfly over that treacherous stream a dozen times rather than stand here, waiting for Lord Alwyn to unleash his magic upon him.

Suddenly the sorcerer stretched out a hand, not to call down punishment on Marcel but to steady himself. If Mrs Timmins hadn’t rushed to his side and taken hold of his arm, he might have fallen to the ground. When he recovered, he threw her hand off petulantly, but it was clear now that the effort of turning back the strange cloud of bats had drained him.

He motioned feebly to Marcel, summoning what little strength he had left. “You disobeyed me,” he said gravely, his voice quavering. “If you cannot do as I command, I shall need other measures. Come here, take this.”

Marcel held out his left hand and found a gold ring lying in the centre of his palm.

“Put it on your finger,” Lord Alwyn commanded faintly.

He slipped it loosely on to the smallest finger of his right hand.

“Since you refuse to do as I say, that ring will
remind
you. If you dare cross these walls again, Termagant will come after you, to fetch back that ring and you with it.”

A shudder ran through Marcel’s body at these words. He felt the ring, cold and unfamiliar against his skin. His thumb worried at it, trying to push it free, but though it turned easily around his finger, somehow he couldn’t get it past the knuckle.

“Try all you like,” said the wizard. “It will not come off.”

“Never? Not even with your magic?”

Lord Alwyn smiled contemptuously. “Oh, yes, there is a way.” He looked at the mud-splattered mare, still panting from her desperate gallop. “I see you dare to ride wild horses, and no doubt these children here think you a brave young man. The true test is whether you find the courage to remove that ring.”

The wizard gazed at Marcel searchingly until it made him uncomfortable. He pulled at the ring openly now, but Lord Alwyn seemed unconcerned. He turned away and spoke harshly to Fergus. “Don’t think I have forgotten your part in this escapade. You would do well to heed Mrs Timmins and become the kind of boy a farmer would gladly take into his home.” Then he addressed Mrs Timmins. “Send them both to bed hungry.”

Turning back to Marcel, he lowered his voice. “You have escaped unpunished this time, but disobey me again and Termagant will bring you to me…in her jaws.”

With that, he turned and made for the house, his faltering steps among the loose stones an odd contrast to his ominous words. In a few quick bounds, the beast he called Termagant was at his heels. The orphans watched as he disappeared around the end of the house, and only then did anyone move or dare to say a word.

Even as Lord Alwyn delivered his dire warning, it was too late. The name had been heard. In Fallside, when the drinkers returned to their tankards of ale, the landlord soon noticed that one had been abandoned half-full. Where was the traveller who had paid for it? No one had seen him since they had all rushed outside to watch those mischievous orphans race by on horseback.

And they wouldn’t see him again, for at that moment he was already urging his horse along the forest road. By nightfall he would be travelling across the plains below, and in the morning he would gallop on to the capital. He knew a man there who would pay a hefty price in gold to find a brown-haired boy named Marcel.

M
ARCEL’S BODY SHIVERED, HALF
with exhaustion and half with fear. Beside him, Mrs Timmins looked ready to faint. “That beast would frighten the bravest knight. I don’t like having it live above us,” she declared, turning to the boy. “But listen to me, Marcel. Do as Lord Alwyn says. Stay within these walls and you’ll be safe. If you leave…” She hesitated, shocked by what she was about to say. “If you leave, you may well be killed.”

“Yes, by Lord Alwyn,” he snapped, suddenly infuriated. “And you’re helping him.”

“No!” she cried, hurt to the quick. “He won’t harm you, not while I draw breath.” Then she addressed both boys with
all the sternness she could muster. “The pair of you need a good lesson. Fergus – Albert and Old Belch will be back with a new load of firewood shortly, and when it’s here you’ll spend the rest of the day with an axe in your hands. As for you, Marcel, you can get on to your hands and knees in the vegetable garden, and there’d better not be a single weed in sight by nightfall. But first you, Fergus, can go and find that stallion, and Marcel, you can put this poor mare back in her stall. Just look at the state she’s in!”

Marcel led Gadfly back to the stables where he rubbed down her flanks with a cloth to wipe off the sweat, as he somehow knew he should do. At first his hands trembled after his encounter with Lord Alwyn’s beast, but there was something about Gadfly that helped him overcome his fear, and by the time he had finished grooming her his nerves had steadied. She had taken him so close to victory. He could still feel the wind in his face and the power of her galloping body beneath him. Even the mad leap across the stream, with their lives hanging in the balance, had become a triumph now that the real danger had passed. “For a moment I thought you could fly,” he told her.

Even after the meal that evening the smaller children talked wide-eyed about the race. They gathered around the fireplace with the glow of the flames dancing on their cheeks.

“Marcel’s horse flew like a bird,” said Watkin, describing the fantastic jump.

But it was little Dot who turned their attention to the most frightening part of the story. “What about Lord Alwyn’s beast? Did you hear its name? Termagant,” she whispered, sending a fearful shiver through all who were listening.

Marcel wasn’t part of the excited circle, but he had crept close to catch a little of the fire’s warmth. When he heard those awed whispers, his mouth went dry. He looked for Fergus, who had given him a wide berth since the race, and found him in a corner picking gingerly at his palms, which were blistered from woodchopping. Did those swaggering shoulders droop a little? Fergus was doing his best to hide it. Without realising, both boys stood up together, making everyone in the dining hall notice, when in fact each had hoped to slip away to bed unseen.

Marcel fell into bed drained and desperate for sleep. It wouldn’t come at first. The race had been exhilarating and he was a victor of sorts, but in the things that mattered most he had fallen further behind. He fidgeted with the ring that Lord Alwyn had forced him to wear, a ring that tied him to the orphanage more powerfully than ever. When finally he drifted off, he slept fitfully, strange faces filling his dreams, though none showed themselves clearly. A voice began calling to him. “Marcel! Marcel!” He tried to ignore it but the voice continued, whispering so closely it seemed to echo inside his ear.

Gradually he realised it wasn’t a dream at all. He woke with a start to find a hand on his shoulder, and though he couldn’t see anyone the voice was one he knew.

“Bea!”

“Shh,” she cautioned. She motioned to him to follow her.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Hugh beside him, and went with her into the passageway. He could only guess what time it was, but the house was dark and surely Albert and Mrs Timmins would be fast asleep. The two of them crept soundlessly along the corridor, but on the stairs Marcel lost his footing and slipped heavily on to the step below.

“Watch your feet!” Bea hissed.

“How can I, when it’s pitch-black!” he protested, but he grasped the banister all the same. “Where are we going?” he whispered.

“The kitchen,” Bea replied. They reached the bottom of the stairs and she pushed the kitchen door gently ajar. As soon as they entered, she lit the candle Mrs Timmins kept on the table and led him into the pantry, a snug little alcove separate from the room itself.

“What’s going on?”

“I have something for you,” she told him at last.

“At this time of night!” He watched as she pushed aside some large earthenware jars. Even then he had to wait while she carefully drew back a folded tablecloth. But when finally he saw what lay revealed, he could barely breathe. “The Book of Lies!”

He reached in and took it down from the shelf, carrying it carefully to the kitchen table, where he stroked the cracked and flaking red leather of its cover. “What was it doing there, in the pantry?”

Bea sent him an exasperated glance. “I hid it there,” she said, in a tone that hinted he should have guessed that much for himself.

Marcel didn’t notice. He was still trying to grasp the fact that the Book was right here in front of him. “But how did you get hold of it?”

“I took it from the tower, of course.”

“You can’t have! The door is sealed by magic.”

“I told you, there’s another way up there.”

Another way. What was she talking about? Then it came to him. “The hidden tunnel! You mean you…”

“This morning, when you and Fergus were racing into the village, I sneaked away from my chores and saw Lord Alwyn watching you from the window.”

“You guessed he would send Termagant down through that passage to get me, didn’t you?”

Bea was excited now. She could barely manage to keep her voice down. “I hid myself near the bushes and saw where she came out. The opening, Marcel – I found it at last! Now I can go up there any time I like.”

Marcel stared at her. “Any time you like! Are you mad?”

“No, it’s all right. Tonight, I just had to wait until I heard
that noise in the wall and then I knew Termagant had gone out hunting. It’s so narrow; no wonder Termagant makes such a noise when she squeezes through it. And even in daylight it’s impossible to see.”

“But what about Lord Alwyn? I suppose he said, ‘Hello, come on in, Bea. Let me hold the candle for you.’”

Bea made a face. “Even wizards sleep at night, you know – and besides, even if he had been awake, he wouldn’t have seen
me
,” she said confidently. She folded her arms to show she was growing tired of his lack of faith in her.

Marcel made himself calm down. If he had sounded a little harsh, it was only because he was worried about her. Terrified, really. This was the second time she had taken a dreadful risk to help him. “I’m sorry I questioned you,” he said softly, and to show it he touched her gently on the arm. “You went up there just to get this book for me. I can’t believe it. Bea, that’s braver than anything I did today.”

Bea blushed brightly, not easy for a girl who usually faded into the shadows. “Now we can work out whether your real life is written inside. Quickly, see what you can find,” she urged him. “Termagant won’t stay out all night, and I’ll have to return it before she comes back.”

Marcel opened the cover and leaned forward, impatient to read the words inside. There were so many. Every page was covered from top to bottom and edge to edge with a solemn, flowing black script. The pages were yellowed and furred at the
corners, some torn a little in places. Marcel read the first page, but by the second his eyes were growing tired. He began skimming the text quickly, hoping to pick out his name. But even this took an age. Four, five, six pages. He couldn’t take them in any faster. “This is hopeless,” he moaned. “It would take me a year to read every word in this book.”

He was hardly ready to give up, though. “Old Belch told me how it works. A little bit, anyway,” he muttered. He had seen Lord Alwyn use it too, at their first meeting in this very room. Closing the Book again, he laid his hand on the rough texture of its cover and said, “My name is Marcel.”