‘I feel it,’ he said. ‘I know this …’ He looked at Lady Anne, strangely. Her face … distant memories drew together.
A glittering, cold, harsh sound, like a hundred mirrors breaking, resonated; there was a feeling of suspension, as if everything in the world had been put on hold. A gash formed in the air.
Out of it a strange figure approached. The gash closed.
The figure was wearing a tunic, and a lace collar, and breeches. Edward recognised him immediately.
He was the melancholy fellow in the portrait hidden near the beams of Great Hall, forever looking down upon the father who had cursed him. He was Tristram de la Zouche. He spoke softly to Edward.
‘You have nearly completed your task, my faithful squire.’
A sob came from Lady Anne, and everybody turned to look at her.
‘Oh, Ferdy,’ said Lady Anne. ‘I tried to get rid of him … I even used Strangore to get him suspended, here, by the pond … I knew that he would get in the way …’ Her long fingers trembled. There were no birds singing now.
She moved towards Guy, and laid her fingers gently on his head. He pulled away.
‘My son …’ she whispered. ‘My son … Guy … my son …’
Ferdinand looked as if he wanted to stop her. ‘Don’t!’
‘No,’ said Lady Anne, ‘he must know now.’ She took Guy by the shoulders.
She knelt down in front of him, on the grass, careless of her dress now, her rings flashing quietly in the sunlight. ‘Guy … my sweet Guy … you must understand. There are many things that you have to know, many things that you must learn, and the first of these is that … you are my son,’ she said, and released him. Guy shrank back to the tree, and looked at his father with something like hatred.
‘There is one more thing to be done,’ said Tristram, ‘before the Other Book can be restored.’
‘I know what it is,’ said Edward, for in the rushing of his mind there had surfaced one bright thought, as sharp and pointed as steel.
The blood of a maiden.
‘The blood of a maiden must surely be spilled for the source of evil to be truly killed.’ The words of the prophecy felt like fire on his tongue. He sensed fulfilment ahead of him, just in his reach. He turned to Tristram. ‘It’s Galahad, isn’t it? Galahad, the maiden knight. It’s me. I’m Galahad. I’m the one who has to be sacrificed. I’m the pure one who has to be sacrificed to get rid of the evil.’
Tristram looked at him and nodded gently. ‘Prepare yourself.’
‘I’m ready.’ Edward braced himself. ‘The Other Book, Guy,’ he said. ‘Hold it out. It is the sacrifice which I must make to purify the evil.’
And before Guy could say anything, Tristram pulled his sword out of his scabbard and ran it into Edward’s side. Blood spurted from the jagged wound, on to the Other Book. The droplets were absorbed into its bindings with a sound like water slurping down a plughole.
Pain showered upon Edward, sparking and shivering through his body. There was a shuddering, and a shifting, and he fell to the ground.
A light began to glow from the Book, dim at first, then growing so bright it was impossible to look at. Edward shielded his face, but Guy stood, holding the Other Book in front of him, the light illuminating his face, and there was a roaring sound, the brightness came to a peak, and then there was nothing. Guy dropped the Book.
Tristram spoke, breaking the silence that lay heavy: ‘It is purified now. It has been returned. The line of the de la Zouches will flourish once more.’
Lady Anne sat down on the grass.
Edward heard another sound like the first, when Tristram had appeared, but more heartrending still, and three men appeared. They were tall, and Edward thought they looked proud. Though his concentration was ebbing, he saw that they were dressed in long blue tunics, and that they carried weapons which glimmered in the air–part musket, part blade, part something almost organic. As Edward breathed his increasingly more difficult breaths, the air seemed to him sweeter, as if it emanated from the men. They looked to Edward as angels might look–or gods. He spat blood.
‘It is finished, my Lord,’ said one of them to Tristram. ‘You may go to your rightful place now.’
‘Wait,’ said the knight, and turned to Edward, who was lying on the ground, the blood still pouring out of him. He welcomed nothingness, void. He was part of everything now, just a mass of atoms, senseless, mindless, without fear, without love, without anything.
He was prepared to die. Tristram had been saved the terrors of the Other World; the Other Book had been restored. The part he had played as carrier and sacrifice was over.
‘I give to you my deepest gratitude,’ said Tristram. He gave a courtly bow. ‘Hold out your hand.’ Edward did so, and Tristram held it.
‘I’m ready to go,’ said Edward. He felt an uplift of power coming from Tristram, so hot it burned. But when Tristram released his hand, Edward felt his vision clear, and the world around him humming with life. The wound in his side was healed. All pain had gone.
Edward felt a cold object in his hand. He opened it and looked down.
‘This is my gift to you. It has its own properties,’ said Tristram. ‘It is the Jewel of the Scryer. Now that Guy has the Other Book, he will need a companion. You have held the Other Book and know what it is. With this, if you wish it, you can aid him in his travails.’
Rage and relief roared around Edward’s mind, as he took the jewel in his hands. It was an emerald, glistening and green, on a thin gold chain.
‘What is it?’
‘Its uses you shall come to know soon enough,’ said Tristram.
A thought struck Edward. ‘But why couldn’t you have given the Other Book to Guy?’
‘He would have been too easily corrupted by Lady Anne. Now it is with him, she cannot take it from him. You could overcome those temptations to power that others could not have. Consider Lady Anne.’ Edward looked at her now, seated on the grass, her head still up, but the fire out of her eyes.
Tristram took his sword out of his sheath.
‘Kneel, Edward,’ he said, and Edward knelt before Tristram. The knight touched him on both of his shoulders with the sword, and said gently, ‘You are no longer a squire. Rise, Sir Edward. You are a Companion of the Order of the Blood.’
Edward rose, unsteadily, his heart spilling over with pride, joy, confused and muddled up with fear and foreboding.
‘It is time to go,’ said one of the men. ‘The Other Book will go to the heir of the line.’ He picked up the Other Book. It was gloating, strange and alive. And Edward still, slightly, wanted it.
The man spoke formally to Guy: ‘You are the son of Lady Anne de la Zouche, you are the next in descent from the Lord Merlin and the Lady Vivien. All hail the new Guardian!’ He and the other two men knelt in front of him.
And Guy, who had felt something fresh and wonderful, old and powerful, when he held the Other Book, did not blanch.
Ferdinand looked at Guy and said, ‘I will do all I can to help you, Guy. I have so many things to talk about with you.’
Guy looked at the Other Book for a few seconds, and then at his father, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He breathed deeply, and took it from the man’s outstretched hands.
‘Do you know what the Other Book is?’ said the first man.
Guy shook his head.
‘It is the repository of Merlin’s wisdom, and of Vivien’s charms: the words that were said at the beginning and those that will be said at the end of the world. You are the Guardian, you are in it and of it, you will use it and keep it for the rest of your life. You will defend this world against the Other World. You are Lord Guy de la Zouche, Scion of the Blood.’
Guy looked much older, tall and noble. ‘I will. I am Lord Guy de la Zouche, Scion of the Blood,’ he said, and his voice was rich with deep music.
The three men bowed low to him. Edward found himself standing up, and bowing too.
‘And now, we must deal with Lady Anne, tr
aitor to the line,’ said one of the men. ‘What happened to Wentlake will happen to you. You wanted to become like him, and so you will.’
They began to fill the air with a strange red light–the light that Edward remembered from his dream, which felt sweet, and good, and yet terrible. It had an odd effect on Tristram. He knelt down and closed his eyes. It looked as if he was crying, or praying.
The red light grew stronger. Lady Anne began to scream, as her poisonous ancestor had screamed so long ago; and then Guy began to shout too, and Lady Anne seemed to be folding in on herself, and Guy cried, ‘No!’ and ran at the men. Something happened: a battle of wills, a shifting of power; it was as if Guy had taken hold of the light and was pushing it back towards the men. He himself didn’t look as if he knew what he was doing; but he began to take control, and the red light faded, and Lady Anne was left crumpled on the grass, her hair spread out beneath her like a carpet on the daisies.
‘You can’t do it,’ said Guy. ‘She’s … she’s my mother.’
The men talked angrily amongst themselves. After a while the first man spoke: ‘We cannot go against your word, my Lord,’ he said. ‘But you will pay for it soon enough. Do you accept the condition, or will you see to her punishment?’
And then Edward realised that things are not always closed; that there are gaps through which tragedy slides, that there will always be horror seeping in from somewhere.
‘Fine,’ said Guy. ‘I accept. Save her. I don’t care what happens to me.’ He did not look at Lady Anne, but she looked at the grass, and wept.
‘Thank you, my son,’ she said. And Guy went to her, and she sat up, and held him, and they did not speak, and no one knew what went between them.
Tristram went to the men. He was laughing for the first time that Edward had ever seen. His kind, gentle face was lit up in the summer sunlight. The three men bowed to him.
‘You are welcome, my Lord Tristram,’ said the first of the men.
‘It has been a long time,’ he said. ‘But now I can be at peace.’
He looked back at Edward one last time, and then he and the men vanished.
In the still silence, Lady Anne and Guy got up. Edward wanted to say something, but he felt that speaking would taint the air.
He walked slowly with Ferdinand, and ahead of them Guy and Lady Anne went, leaning slightly into each other, back up the lawn to the office.
‘Hey, Pollock!’ said Munro. ‘Where have you been? You’ve really been missing out on things!’
‘Yeah, the wierdest thing just happened,’ said Peake.
Edward smiled at them. ‘Tell me all about it,’ he said, and joined them on the way to the dorms.
‘Forester fed Page so many carrots his skin went orange!’
Edward laughed; but inside him there welled an enormous feeling of emptiness; it was as if the pain of thousands of centuries was rumbling inside him; the constant presence of the Other Book had gone, and, like a hostage who grows to love his captor, Edward was aching for it.
Edward was taken home for a week, whilst the scandal raged around him. For a while he was withdrawn; he found it difficult to interact with his family. He avoided reading anything. He could still not quite believe that the Other Book had gone from him. It was like losing his closest friend and worst enemy at one blow. He lay in his room, wrapped up in a duvet and blankets, in spite of the heat, and Tristram did not visit him once. At the back of his mind Edward knew he would never see him again, but still he hoped. Again and again he would take the emerald out of his pocket, twisting it and turning it with his hands, peering into it from every angle. The Jewel of the Scryer, Tristram had called it, but Edward could not make it see anything.
One hot Sunday, he was taken back to school. He stared out of the window for the entire drive, not saying a word. When they came into the Manor, up the drive, the first person he saw was Guy. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered to his father, and ran out of the car.
They stood there for a moment, in silence, the events of the past weeks hanging invisible but strong between them. And then Guy spoke. He didn’t need to say any words of gratitude, and Edward knew he wouldn’t.
‘So what do you say?’ said Guy. ‘Feel like being my squire?’
‘Shut up, Guy,’ said Edward. ‘Or should I say, my Lord?’
‘Shut up, Ed. Or should I say, Sir Ed?’
The sun was low on the horizon. Below them the thwack of tennis balls sounded softly.
‘So?’ said Guy. ‘Will you help me?’
Edward looked out across the valley, at the slow river, at the lush fields, and he struggled with words, the membranes on the surface of feelings that we cannot articulate, the double and triple layers of meaning which haunt everything we say. And all that came out, from the massing rush of emotion, were two simple sounds that were to seal his fate for ever: ‘I will.’
Acknowledgements
To Lizzie Spratt, Lucy Holden, Georgia Murray and everyone at Bloomsbury. A special mention goes to Lucy Howkins, for taking an interest in my book one wet fireworks night in Dorset–and thanks to Jo Langham for throwing that party. My agent, Felicity Rubinstein. Emma, Andrew, Rose, Helena and Laura Sutcliffe, for lending me the dog kennels at Kildale, and especially Helena for her thoughtful reading. Con and Nicky Normanby, and Sib, Tom and John, for their help and friendship. Alastair Bruton and Fernanda Eberstadt, and their children Maud and Theo, for idyllic summers at Margès. To Nancy Sladek for her kindness in giving me writing days. To Camilla Swift, for my first ‘literary’ job. To Kira Jolliffe, for publishing my first article in Cheap Date when I was still at school. To Bobby Christie, for telling me the first draft of The Other Book wasn’t the best thing I’d ever written. To Alida Christie, for initial proofreading. To Julia Finch, who marked the first draft like a teacher with a big red pen in a pub in Lyon, and to Olivia Breese for continued support in the line of fire. To Cressida Pollock, for her perceptive comments. To Al Braithwaite for his elegant website. Thanks are due to everyone on whom I forced one draft or another: in no particular order, Katerina Vittozzi, Sibylla Phipps, Iain Hollingshead, Nenna Eberstadt, Ali Price, Kitty Stirling, Marcus Sedgwick, Emma Way, Anna Arco, Lottie Edge, Tom Fleming, Tom Scrope, Lucy McMillan-Scott, Julie Sturgeon, Olivia Cole, Laura Bishop. And finally, to everyone who kept me sane at law school, where I began to write it: Fred Powles, Isobel James, Alex Schofield, Gallia McDermott, Anouska Spiers, Max Neuberger and Charlie Flodin.
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi and New York
First published in Great Britain in 2008
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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www.bloomsbury.com
This electronic edition published in November 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Philip Womack 2008
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
Lines from the poem ‘Death & Co.’ by Sylvia Plath, are from Sylvia Plath: Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath, Faber and Faber Ltd, 1981
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978-1-4088-5253-8
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The Other Book Page 17