The Widow and the King

by John Dickinson

  VI

  The Wolf and the Wall

  hand was over his mouth.

  As he lurched from sleep Ambrose thought it must be his own, and that it had somehow lost all feeling. But his arms were by his sides. The hand was someone else.

  He started where he lay. It was dark. The hand pressed down, stifling his grunt. Metal pricked beneath his chin.

  ‘Ssshh.’

  A man was kneeling by him, holding a hand over his mouth and something sharp against his neck. He could see the shape, hulking black above him.

  ‘Quiet now,’ the voice said softly. ‘Keep still.’

  The man had a knife against his neck. Ambrose lay with his heart pounding and looked straight up above him.

  He was in the chapel in his mother's house at Trant, lying by the wall where he had rolled himself in his blanket after the fire had gone out. Moonlight shone through the long windows and lit great pale patches of stonework above him. The white pebbles were around him, Wastelands asleep by a side wall.

  ‘Up now. Quietly.’

  He knew the voice.

  Maybe it was because of the knife below his chin, but he knew it. He had a sudden, insane memory of a man who had shaved, and who had told him how to keep knives sharp.

  It was the man called Raymonde! The one who had hit Mother!

  How had he got here?

  ‘Up.’

  The hand lifted from his mouth. The knife stayed exactly where it was.

  ‘I can't,’ gasped Ambrose.

  ‘Up,’ the voice hissed.

  ‘I can't leave the stones!’

  For a moment the man seemed to hesitate. Then the knife dug against the soft skin below his jaw.

  ‘Don't worry about them,’ the man whispered. ‘Worry about this.’

  Ambrose could not think. The touch of the knife seemed to think for him. Slowly his limbs gathered themselves. They got him to his hands and knees; then to his feet. The man rose with him, and stood behind him.

  ‘Walk that way. Not a sound.’

  The knife was gone from his neck. He did not know where it was, but it must be close. Perhaps the man was holding it at his back. He limped forward, slowly, up the side aisle of the chapel. He could think about nothing but the knife, and the shelter of the white stones receding behind him.

  ‘Left.’

  Ambrose turned, and approached the dark, empty altar.

  ‘Kneel down.’

  Ambrose knelt on the altar-step.

  ‘That's it,’ the man whispered.

  ‘You can pray if you like.’

  ‘What – what are you going to do?’ Ambrose stammered.

  ‘Keep your voice down. We're just going to talk, that's all.’

  Wastelands must be lying asleep, only yards away. Ambrose could shout to wake him.

  If he did that, the man would use the knife.

  And if he didn't shout?

  Ambrose wondered desperately what the blow of the man's knife would feel like.

  And how had he got in here? Wastelands had shut the gate! He'd rigged a tripwire!

  ‘Careful now,’ the man said.

  ‘Do anything wrong and you'll be dead in seconds.’

  Ambrose could not answer.

  ‘Or it could be slow. I could give you a cut in the belly. You could sit and look at it for hours, wondering how long it would take.’

  He's trying to scare me, thought Ambrose. That's all. He wants to scare me so I'll do what he says.

  ‘Quick or slow. Could be either. Remember that woman you rode through us with the other night? Dead before I'd even turned her over and found she was a woman. Pity, that. Just my bad luck that I was the one holding the crossbow at the time. I'm sorry it had to be me.

  ‘Pretty shot, though,’ he mused. ‘In the dark, and moving away. Smack, into the heart. That's quick. I could do the same for you.’

  ‘Are – are you going to?’ said Ambrose.

  ‘So tell me why I should,’ said the voice beside him.

  ‘I – I don't know.’

  A soft, sharp breath that might have been a chuckle.

  ‘Not a bad answer,’ he said, in that smiling, confiding way that Ambrose remembered. ‘I don't know either. But old man Paigan wants me to. He seems to think I should. Why's that, do you suppose?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don't you know? He knows you. He'll do anything to get you, if he can. Come on, now. Why does he want you so much?’

  He meant the Heron Man. Of course he did. Ambrose swallowed.

  ‘An angel told him I'd defeat him,’ he said.

  For a moment the man said nothing. Ambrose guessed that he was surprised. Of course, it would be surprising, if you didn't already know. Ambrose felt himself tremble. Maybe the man would be angry now, and stab him for it.

  ‘An angel? Is that it? Well now, we are favoured, aren't we? What did this angel say? And why you, of all people?’

  Ambrose gulped. When Mother had explained it to him, in that bright morning by the pool, he had accepted it. She had always told the truth. But when he tried to put it into his own words they just seemed silly.

  ‘So what was this angel like?’ said the man. ‘Fiery wings, seven eyes? Did you see it?’

  ‘I – wasn't there.’

  ‘Of course not. No one ever is. But you do believe in the Angels, don't you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nice to see you were well brought up. I wasn't,’ the man said. ‘But go on anyway. What did it say to him exactly?’

  The knife was back, tickling just below his ear. The touch of the point brought the words out of him.

  ‘L-least of your father's sons …’ he stammered.

  ‘What's that?’ the man hissed.

  ‘That's what it said! “Paigan Wulframson. Least of your father's sons. By the last of your father's sons shall you be brought down.”’

  ‘Oh.’ The man seemed to relax slightly. ‘And what does that mean, do you think?’

  ‘I – I don't know.’

  That was true. He did not know any more.

  ‘Well now,’ said the man, sounding as if he was enjoying the riddle. ‘If you believe in angels, then you should take it seriously. He does. Maybe he was well brought up, too. Ironic, isn't it? Considering what he's done since …

  ‘Least of Wulfram's sons, eh? Not very polite. But accurate. We all remember his brothers – Dieter, Rolfe, Talifer and the rest of them who founded the Kingdom. But who remembers him? That bit's clear enough …

  ‘But the last of his father's sons – why should that be you? No, don't tell me. Your father was descended from Talifer, and all the other male lines have died out. So they have. So that means the line's going to stop with you, does it?

  ‘Maybe around now, before your mother's altar?’

  Ambrose could say nothing. The moonlight gleamed on the steps a few feet from him. He could see the individual grains of dust gathered there.

  ‘I don't know if I believe in angels,’ the man breathed. ‘But if I did I wouldn't always believe what they say. They might cheat. They might lie. They might not be able to make happen what they say will happen. How do we know you're the last son, if I don't kill you now?

  ‘Or maybe it's your death that will bring him down. Thought of that?’

  Ambrose did not answer.

  The man chuckled again. Then to Ambrose's surprise, he sat down on the altar-step beside him, as easily as if the two of them were back sitting on the throne-steps at home, watching the mountains turn gold in the evening sun.

  ‘Defeat him? Good luck. I don't know about angels, but him I have met. I reckon he'd give them a run for their money. Maybe he's chased them all off already. He's something, I tell you. That pool-water of his. I didn't believe half what I read about it in your father's book, but it's all true. I can go where I want, see what I want, as quick as that. I got past the old gate just now, past your tripwire – no problem. And even if you'd been watching for me you wouldn't have seen me till
I was on you. I could be walking beside you, and you'd never spot me unless you knew how to look. I've drunk it three times now. And already I've taken a city with it. I've got the man who's going to be King grovelling with thanks for that. See?

  ‘It's not witchcraft,’ he added, as though he thought Ambrose would say it was. ‘Your father's quite clear about that in his book. It's under-craft. You need to know how to use it, that's all.’

  ‘It's tears,’ Ambrose said, because he wanted the man to be wrong.

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Does it matter? What matters is that what he's promised me isn't going to last for ever. Not if I want to keep doing things with it. And I need to. So guess what he wants before he gives me more?’

  The Heron Man. He wanted Ambrose dead.

  ‘I've told him I won't do it,’ said the man. ‘And he laughed at me. So I came to have a look at you. But no, I still won't. I've got a better idea, haven't I?’

  His voice trailed invitingly. He wanted Ambrose to ask what his idea was. Ambrose stayed kneeling on the altarstep, just as if the knife had never left his neck. He had begun to pray. Please Umbriel, help me. Help me. Help me …

  ‘I like you, you see. I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you, bobbing at your gate and reeking of billy-goat. Why should I have your blood on my head? I've done plenty for him anyway. Eight stones I knocked over for him. Damn, but they were heavy! I've never worked so hard. And he lets me drink just once for each stone. Three gone already. Five left. And I have to sip it from his hands each time. Ugh. Can't help my lips touching his fingers. I suppose he likes that because I have to bow my head to him.

  ‘And he didn't tell me he couldn't get you himself. I didn't know about your pebbles until I saw them. They made you pretty hard to see. If I hadn't spotted old Stefan outside, and got curious, I might still be looking. That's not fair, is it? He should treat me better. So if he asks me again, I may just put my price up.’

  Again Ambrose glanced sideways. The man had fallen silent. He was pulling at his chin with one hand, looking down the chapel to the shadows where Wastelands lay. Ambrose still could not see the knife.

  Please, Umbriel, if you are there. Help me.

  ‘Look at the old oaf,’ the man grumbled. ‘Sleeping like a pig until I've got iron within an inch of his ear. Does he want me to slit his throat? What's he doing here, anyway? I thought I'd left him chasing in circles after me in the mountains. Has he started to beat you yet?’

  Ambrose hesitated, confused by the way the man's thoughts had slipped so quickly from the Heron Man to Wastelands.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said.

  The man grunted. It might have been another chuckle.

  ‘He does it because he knows he's no good, you see. No good for me; no good for you either. So he goes into a rage and then it's whack, whack. And he gets drunk, too. Nice man. He could never take it that he had been packed off home like old baggage after your father's fall. And all the time he was sitting on a book that could have told him just where to go, and what to do, to get all the rewards he wanted. But he could never read three words in a row. So in the end I got it instead. That about sums him up for you. At least your father was Something. He's nothing.’

  ‘My father was evil,’ Ambrose said. ‘He wanted to kill me.’

  Anything to show him he was wrong – even this.

  And now this grinning man should be sorry! He should be sorry for what he had done! Killed her! Let him out! Left Ambrose to struggle all the way to Uncle Adam and Aunt Evalia – and then killed them too!

  The man pulled at his chin again. Perhaps he was sorry – a very little bit. But all he said was: ‘So that's something we have in common, isn't it?

  ‘Your father wanted to kill you,’ he went on. ‘Mine …’ He jerked his chin at the sleeping knight. ‘Mine wants to kill me. We should stick together, you know.’

  Ambrose stared away into the shadows that concealed Wastelands's sleeping form.

  ‘Now your father,’ said the man softly. ‘He made himself King. Sons of kings can be kings themselves. Did you ever think about that?’

  ‘No,’ said Ambrose, confused.

  ‘I have. I told you I'd been having ideas. People need kings, you see. The worse things get, the more they think they need one. And things are bad, believe me. As it happens, I'm making a new king right now. That's what I got the water for. And we've started well. No one thought we could take Watermane, but I did it. I did that for him. Winning unexpectedly like that – it'll bring a lot of people over to us.

  ‘But this king – I can see he's going to be a handful. I could be his friend one day, and called a traitor the next. I might be looking for someone better, soon. And if you can show you're Wulfram's stock, that would swing some scales.’

  Ambrose sat quite still, trying to understand what the man meant. Someone better? Someone from Wulfram's line – to be King?

  ‘No,’ he said at last.

  ‘No?’ The man smiled.

  ‘You can do more than that, little Wulf,’ he said easily. ‘I'm being a friend to you. I could be your only way of staying alive.’

  Ambrose clenched his jaw. He could hear the threat. But now he could think, too.

  Wulf ? Wolf yourself !

  ‘I mean it,’ said the man. ‘You're being hunted, didn't you know? Those fellows who came down on Chatterfall the other night – they're still on your trail. They've been given good reasons for wanting to catch you. We stirred up a regular hornet's nest after you there. How do you think you're going to get away – two of you on one horse, and a big, white one at that, which will stand out a mile in any country?’

  Ambrose met his eye. The only way the enemy would know about Stefan was if this man had told them.

  He didn't want to kill Ambrose. He didn't want to slit Wastelands's throat. But he wouldn't mind if somebody else did it for him.

  Wolf yourself!

  The man must have seen what he was thinking. He scowled.

  ‘Come on. You need me. I don't need you. And if I did, I could just take you.’

  His knife was in his hand again. Ambrose drew breath.

  ‘After what you've done?’ he said deliberately.

  ‘What's that supposed to mean?’ said the man sharply.

  ‘You killed my mother.’

  The man was silent. Then he said: ‘Don't be stupid …’

  ‘You killed my mother,’ Ambrose repeated. ‘And Aunt Evalia.’

  He knew the man had been sorry. So he knew his words would hurt. They were the only way of hurting that he had. And he didn't care about the knife any more.

  ‘Damn it, I didn't mean that she should fall …’

  ‘You killed her!’

  The man swore. He seized Ambrose by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet. Ambrose clenched his teeth for the knife-blow. It did not come.

  The man released him. They stood, inches apart, glaring at one another. At the far end of the chapel Wastelands was stirring, mumbling, ‘What – what?’ in his blankets.

  If you say anything, Ambrose thought, I'll say it again. I'll shout it. I'll run after you screaming it in your ear. Call me a wolf ? You're the Wolf ! That's what you are!

  ‘Sorry,’ said the Wolf savagely, and turned away.

  And he walked through the wall.

  For a moment Ambrose thought that the light had grown. There was a sudden deadness to the air, as if it gave no echoes. Before him Ambrose glimpsed a landscape of brown rocks under dull light – some place completely different from the silver-and-dark aisles of the chapel around him. He saw the man beginning to pick his way through the rocks that could not be where they seemed to be. Then the chapel wall rose in front of him again, blank and patched with moonlight. The man was gone.

  ‘What's all the noise?’ growled Wastelands in a voice heavy with sleep.

  Ambrose stood by the altar with his heart beating hard. He wondered how close the man – the Wolf – had come to stabbing him. For a moment Ambrose ha
d almost wanted him to. But the Wolf had hated to be reminded of what he had done. And he had gone.

  Gone? Where? Into a dream, Mother had once said. He could do that because the Heron Man had given him water from the pool. That was how he had appeared so suddenly.

  The Heron Man must be able to do that, too.

  If the ‘Wolf ‘ could find Ambrose, so could the Heron Man.

  As fast as he could Ambrose limped back down the aisle to huddle within the ring of pebbles. Some of them had been displaced. Angrily he jammed them back into their ring.

  ‘What's the matter there?’ Wastelands growled.

  He had lifted his head and was looking at Ambrose. In the moon-shadows his head was a shape, and no more. It was the same shape as the Wolf ‘s had been. It could almost have been the Wolf, lying there. Wastelands was like the Wolf, who was his own son. And he wanted to kill him.

  Ambrose shrank into his blankets and said nothing.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ grunted the man, and settled again.

  Ambrose was left in the darkness.

  The moonbeams lanced through the high chapel windows and fell around him. He sat bolt upright in the ring of stones with his eyes wide.

  Sleep? Ambrose thought he would never sleep again, if he could help it.

  What if the Wolf changed his mind, and came back to stab him? What if the Heron Man came? What if Wastelands woke properly – what would he do? He wanted to kill his son, just like Ambrose's father. Only the Heron Man could have made him want that.

  So the Heron Man had caught Wastelands, too.

  The Heron Man was everywhere. He touched everybody. The pebbles kept him away, but what use was that when he could whisper to a man and send him stealing out of a dream to put a knife at Ambrose's neck?

  He was like a huge shadow, looking down into the world, standing still, still, until it struck. And where it struck, lives wriggled and went out like fish in a heron's beak. One after another, they went out suddenly and without warning: Uncle Adam; Aunt Evalia; Mother. So suddenly. So meaninglessly.

  Ambrose sat sleepless, and thought about his mother. She had known everything, it seemed. She had comforted him. She had given him everything that he had had: everything he had eaten; everything he had learned; everything he had played with.