Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  Stopping to sit on a log, he took off his shoes. He poured out the water. He took off his leggings, naked to the waist. Ignoring the indignity, he wrung them out, twisted them, swung them at a tree to batter out the moisture and finally put them on again. Shoes on once more, he began to jog.

  He knew this part of the forest as he’d ridden out many times. But then he’d taken the broad rides, now he went for the footpaths. There were more of them, less trod, more chance of losing his pursuers. The leaves had gone from the trees, so he could take his direction from the growing light in the east. He must get into the very thick of the forest.

  Where were they?

  He had been in this forest only a week ago with his father hunting deer. There had been the two of them, with the master of the hunt. And the outriders, the dog men and beaters on foot. Later, servants had come bringing the midday meal on a wagon. A fire had been lit, and while they ate, a minstrel had sung for them. It was one of those cold, sunlit days. He had loved it, alone with his father. That had not been often since he had taken a Queen.

  That woman. And her son.

  Hate pushed him on. He wanted to stick them like pigs. Roast them screaming, trample them under the horses. And then, as sudden as it had come, hate was gone. Fear ran it off. He was alone. He would never hunt with his father again. He had no horses.

  For the first time in ages he felt hungry. Fear had been too strong before and had filled his stomach. Now that fear had gone. He had seen the dogs work too many times. They could tear a man to pieces in seconds. They were kept hungry for it. The brutes dined on fugitives. But he had not eaten since the row with his father, yesterday at noon. Must be over eighteen hours ago. He stopped at a stream to drink, but water wasn’t the problem. The winter forest was no place to forage.

  He had to keep the vision of the dogs. He wouldn’t die of hunger, not for a long time yet – but the dogs at his heels… See them. Baying, fangs dripping in eagerness. Use them. Be very afraid.

  Run.

  The track was hard underfoot, with frozen ridges, and between them iced-over puddles. Light seeped between the trees. The shadows were longer than a flagpole. A bright orange sun rolled on the horizon. The watch would be changing at the castle, he thought. Soon all would be awake – and all would know their midday entertainment had forsworn them. He must make distance. He groaned with each stride, the smoke of his breath signalling his fear.

  What had he become, in less than twenty-four hours? From beloved Prince to the lowest beast. A pauper had more freedom. Could ask at least for alms. He was quarry. The hunted. The pursued to death. All humanity was on his trail.

  Was there anywhere to go? Who would give him shelter?

  He must not just die.

  Father! he called into the winter forest. A lone bird trilled. He willed his heavy legs on. Father! If he could just get away… then… He dared not think of then. There was but now. He was the running, exhausted hare. Where was home?

  Chapter 10

  Earl Gomm was in the front row, seated with a blanket over his knees. In the cold midday air, he cradled a mug of hot wine. Alongside were others of the nobility. Behind, also seated, but on benches were lesser lights, knights and so forth, and behind them stood the populace.

  In front, against the castle wall a low, wooden stage had been set up. Seated on it were the Queen, Prince Zeke, and to one side Councillor Higgs. Between the Queen and the watching crowd was the block. Everyone had heard Prince Toby was not to be its victim. All morning the castle had been a fire of rumour. Guards had been running about, arrests had been made, the torturers were working overtime. Gomm had been told of the Prince’s escape immediately on his arrival. Before he could ask much else, he had been ushered in with a number of other lords to an audience with the Queen. Each in turn had sworn allegiance to her.

  Now the circus.

  Gomm never liked executions. They brought out the worst in everyone. Blood lust devalued human life. He wanted peace, he had tried to live in peace. There were times the King called for men for his army. Gomm had always sent them with reluctance. And was saddened at those who did not return.

  There were four to die today. Poor wretches. Three guards and a gaoler. Gomm had heard they played some part in the escape. The informant was vague as to exactly what. Gomm watched as they stumbled out of the dungeon door, bare to the waist, chained hand and foot with guards on either side. Their backs were stripped of flesh from whipping, bubbling blood. They could barely walk. The boot, thought Gomm. He had met the King’s head torturer once, Alec. Alec swore he could get a man to betray his mother in ten minutes. Gomm had asked him why, what was the point? He’d got no coherent reply, but realised it was all a game with Alec. He enjoyed the blood and gore, the screams. Breaking men was the point.

  These four were broken. Alec had excelled himself. The whipping, the boot, their faces swollen like pigs’ bladders. The gaoler had lost three fingers, one of the guards an ear, another had lost half his nose. They had all confessed to helping Prince Toby escape. And for their reward had their tongues cut out.

  Gomm shuddered. What sort of truth was this? How could anyone know whether they had helped Toby or not? It was wise though not to say such things. He went to sip his warm wine but its bloody colour nauseated him. He put it down. Gomm knew he must be a loyal subject. This was a gory start to a reign.

  It did not augur well.

  The prisoners and their guard had halted by the executioner, who wore black leggings, black shoes, black singlet, as if he were in mourning for the lives he would take. His burly arms were bare and held the double-edged axe over his shoulder. His head was completely covered in a black bag down to his shoulders. Holes had been cut at the front for eyes, nostrils and mouth. He waited patiently. Gomm feared he would have no shortage of work.

  The herald blew his horn. The Queen rose. All the audience stood and bowed or curtseyed.

  ‘Be seated,’ said the Queen.

  They sat. The Queen waited until all eyes were upon her. And then a little longer. She wore clothing suitable for a widow: a black, long-sleeved robe from neck to feet. Around her neck was the full royal regalia and within its semi-circle the smaller yellow jewel she always wore. On her head was the crown of state. She was proud, thought Gomm, she was beautiful. She was dangerous.

  ‘My people,’ she began. ‘The murder of our beloved King has brought me reluctantly to the throne. I will do my duty. There will be a week of mourning throughout the land. My coronation will be in a month. The Lords have sworn an oath of loyalty.’ She looked along the front row, catching an eye here and there. ‘Heaven help any who betray me.’ She turned to the prisoners. ‘These traitors helped Prince Toby to escape. He is now a fugitive.’ She returned to the crowd and gazed deep into their midst as if she were seeking out their deepest secrets. ‘Prince Toby was the murderer of my dear husband, your King. Anyone who assists Toby shall die. Their family will be slaughtered and their houses burnt. These four traitors await their punishment. Their families have been put to the sword. Let that be my warning to all of you.’

  Gomm caught her eye and shuddered. How much blood would there be?

  The Queen turned to the executioner.

  ‘Behead them.’

  The gaoler was brought forward by a guard, a gurgle was coming from his tongueless mouth. A plea for forgiveness, a protest, or simply a groan of pain – who would know? His chains rattled in his trembling. The executioner took his head by the hair and thrust it on the block. The man did not resist. Gomm wondered what had been done to him in a morning that the man went so willingly to death. The executioner stood back. He held the axe in both hands and gently placed the blade on the back of the gaoler’s neck. He raised the handle slowly. Gomm closed his eyes. He was much closer than he wanted to be. He heard the swish, then the chop and the gasp of the crowd. He opened his eyes. There, a few paces away was the headless man in the block, the torn hole gushing blood. Almost at Gomm’s feet, in reaching distance, wa
s the bloated head.

  The executioner picked it up by the hair and raised it high in the air. The crowd roared as the blood dripped down his arm.

  Chapter 11

  The four had been executed. Their heads were on pikes. The crowd were roaring. How much longer could this go on, thought Gomm. He had come, he had seen, he felt sick – and yet he must stay like a schoolboy until he was dismissed.

  He vowed to spend as little time as possible at court. Prince Zeke and the Queen were chatting. Or rather her son was shouting in her ear above the racket. He was smiling, plainly enjoying himself and she was grinning more than a widow should. Gomm grimaced. The Prince enjoyed this, the Queen too. How far would they go?

  He must look after his family. Take no sides, make no enemies. Guard his tongue at all times. Life would be cheap at court. He hoped on his estate, he could be left out of things. Be allowed to grow his corn, keep his cattle and sheep, look after his people.

  Too easy. He had a vision of blood flowing off the hills into the lakes below.

  Zeke was still speaking to his mother. She was nodding. Whose death were they plotting? If he could he would walk away now. But he dare not. He was in the Queen’s presence. She dictated the coming and going.

  The executioner was standing by his block. He was holding the axe downward, the metal head on the ground. The blood, running down his arms, trickled off his fingers and snaked round the axe handle. He was calm and waiting, his black vest blotched with gore. His family at least were safe, thought Gomm. Father was assured of work. These were the good times. Meat would be on the table, grain in the barn.

  The herald was blowing his trumpet. All were silenced. They knew the rules. They knew when they could shout and scream. They knew when they must keep their mouths shut.

  Prince Zeke rose. He raised his arms for silence. There was no need. Every eye was on him, every jaw clamped shut. Zeke wore close fitting black, the colour of mourning. But he wore too chain mail, black to be sure – but unusual for the death of a monarch. As was the sword he wore at his waist. On his hands were his customary black gloves. Mourning, or otherwise, he wore these.

  ‘God save the Queen!’ he shouted.

  ‘God save the Queen!’ came the immediate response from every throat.

  ‘These traitors have received their punishment.’ He pointed up to the dripping heads on their pikes to the right of him. ‘The Queen’s justice will be quick. Slow justice is weak. It allows men to conspire, armies to gather…’ He raised a hand, and swung a pointed finger round the crowd. ‘There are some here who are already conspiring. The King hardly a day dead, and the crows are gathering. I am the instrument of my mother.’

  The Queen behind him nodded.

  ‘I will not allow traitors to bring her down. Already followers of Prince Toby gather. Their leader has killed the King – and they conspire in his name to take the country. My mother and I will nip it in the bud. Followers of Prince Toby will die.’

  The crowd cheered. Gomm shouted his yea with the others. He could not been seen tight-lipped.

  Prince Zeke waited for silence. Both arms were on his hips, legs slightly apart, his lips closed tightly. The Queen behind was nodding, faintly smiling as she adjusted her headscarf.

  ‘There are traitors here,’ shouted Zeke. ‘Amongst those voices cheering are serpents whose poison must be cut off. We know who you are.’

  Prince Zeke scanned the crowd. Gomm could feel the shudder. Who would he pick out?

  ‘Eight of you,’ went on Zeke. ‘Eight traitors. Eight followers of Prince Toby.’ His hand swung round. ‘Eight who will die.’

  He turned and the Queen handed him a piece of paper.

  Zeke turned back to the crowd. ‘I have the list of traitors. Let’s begin.’ He glanced down at the first name and with a wry smile said, ‘Earl Gomm.’

  Gomm rose, his legs shaking. It wasn’t totally unexpected. As Zeke played out his game he had thought, anybody could be chosen. It was a lottery. Yes, it could be him.

  The crowd were hurling abuse.

  ‘Your Majesty…’ Further words were lost in the uproar.

  Two guards had taken an arm each, a third put a bag on Gomm’s head. There were muffled cries as he was dragged to the block. He struggled and pulled. The executioner grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into place. The guards held his arms to the ground, the third had a foot on his back. Still he struggled.

  The axe was lifted and came down swiftly. It missed Gomm’s neck but cut his backbone and spinal cord. All movement stopped in his limbs. He was alive but paralysed in all but his head. God save my family, he thought. God save my country…

  And thought and word and life were hacked off, in a better aimed chop.

  His head fell onto the cobbles.

  Chapter 12

  Frost was forming again on the branches and undergrowth. In the west were red layers of cloud with an underlay of gold. Toby shivered. It had been a little warmer during the day, but now there was a return to the cold of the night. All he’d eaten that day was a parsnip he had pulled out of the frozen ground. He’d barely stopped. His feet were badly blistered, but he limped on. If he’d been going in a straight line, he must be twenty miles from the castle. But he doubted he had. He was a sack of weariness, tramping so slowly it was pointless going on. Except to stand still would be to freeze. He had to find shelter. A night out in the cold would kill him.

  He’d seen few people that day, and those he had – kept out of their way. A woodcutter with a wheelbarrow of logs, a shepherd on a wider trail came along with half a dozen sheep, a priest singing hymns – at the first sound, he had hid behind a tree. He’d waited until they were gone before continuing. No one must see him. He was an outcast, found guilty of the worst crime. The time for his execution had come and gone. He could imagine what a crowd had gathered for a royal execution. And how disappointed they would have been when he didn’t show.

  In a day he’d gone from prince to prisoner to vagabond. He had no money. He never carried money. Princes don’t need it. A valet carries the purse. Not that he would have been left with anything in the dungeon. He halted, leaned against a tree and squeezed a painful foot. His teeth chattered. He could not simply walk and walk. He was walked out. He was starving, blistered and bruised. Could he try a cottage? Not in this embroidered jacket. Muddy it might be, but no peasant wore such finery. Throw it away? And then freeze all the quicker.

  He took it off and turned it inside out. It looked odd with the hemming and lining – but he put it on that way. It wouldn’t save him if anyone chose to look closely but it might pass a glance. He must find a cottage. He would offer to work for food. Ask to sleep in a cowshed. It was a risk – but likely a small cottage would not have heard the news. Especially one out here in the forest. He must try to talk like them. How did they talk? He didn’t know. He had never talked to a peasant.

  Wearily he hobbled on. The track was icing up, the hard ridges pressing against his blisters. He scrunched his toes and in a little way found a stick. That was easier but it broke after a quarter of a mile. He wished he had a knife. Found another stick which did him for a short distance before that broke too.

  Dogs, he thought to himself. The dogs are coming. It had worked in the morning. The images of baying and ripping teeth had pushed him on through the morning. But it didn’t work now. Instead, he couldn’t help himself, he thought of sausages spitting in the pan, eggs frying with brilliant yellow yolks and bubbling whites, bread toasted with the butter melting into it. He laughed in spite of his misery, reminded of the breakfast the gaoler had promised him. Had there been anything at all? He’d welcome now even a mouldy crust. Had the gaoler had it? A smile escaped from him when he thought of the instant the gaoler had got to the top of the stairs and he’d slammed the door on him.

  No doubt he is being punished.

  The sun had gone down but it was not yet dark. A single bright star was following the route of the sun.

  ‘O
help me, star!’ he cried into falling light. ‘Help me find shelter.’

  He gazed into its brightness as if it were a god that could grant such things. So light, in so much deep blue. Surely it could perform wonders?

  It was then he saw the fox. He hadn’t noticed it before. His eyes either on the star or his feet. It came right up to him in the nature of a dog. That surprised him. He had only known foxes as timid creatures, running from the hounds. Whenever he’d come across one, when not out on a hunt, they sped off as soon as seen. This one sensed his weakness. The animal sat in the middle of the path, and gazed up at him with its dark eyes as he approached.

  Toby stopped. The fox continued to stare, its ears twitching. Then it turned and began walking slowly along the track, its tail raised. When it had gone a little way, its head turned back. Clearly it meant him to follow.

  Or that’s what Toby guessed. And what did it matter anyway?

  He followed.

  Chapter 13

  He stumbled on in the growing dark. The fox was about ten yards ahead, adjusting its pace to his. When he stopped, it stopped and waited for him to begin again. And his stops were often. There was clearly some purpose in the fox. And he had none himself. At least it kept him moving.

  The fox stopped at a side path, waited until he was close enough, turned down it and a little way along halted again. When Toby was safely along the fox continued. He could by now barely see it in the gloom. But that hardly mattered as the fox with its dark-adjusted eyes could see him – and stopped often enough even for poor human sight.

  The sky was filling with stars. Almost above him was the saucepan of the Plough, and across from it the W of Cassiopeia: the cold stars of winter nights on either side of the Pole Star. Astronomy was a subject thought suitable for a Prince. A fit of shivering overcame him. He could not stop himself. It juddered through his body, from his chattering teeth, down his shaking arms and knees.