by Robin Jarvis
From her bedchamber, the Starwife’s eyes drank in the monstrous spectacle. More deadly than the poison was this to her yet she could not wrench her gaze from what was unfolding below her window.
The heat from the blazing groves was unbearable and the fur on her face was scorched.
“So it is over,” she muttered slowly. No tears glistened in her eyes, for the night was beyond emotion now. There was but one meagre chance left, one last way to cheat her enemies.
Clasping the amulet around her neck, the ancient squirrel closed her eyes and poured out her waning strength.
About the Blessed Hill, the carnage continued and death screams echoed across the great river.
In the distance, London slept. The barons snored in their solars and the pages slumbered in the halls. In the kitchens the serfs sweltered by the hearth and the dogs twitched and dreamed in the courtyards.
The horses dozed in the stables, their hot breath steaming in the sharp air. Nearby, the groom buried his face deeper into the hay and murmured grumpily to himself. Miles from Greenreach, the city was calm and still—but not all were lost in peaceful drowse.
The mews was warm and dark. A slant of moonlight slid through the poorly secured shutter, but none of the birds of prey who rested upon their perches within could see it.
Each wore a hood over its eyes and their feet were tied to the perch by ribbons of leather. With their covered heads tucked under their wings, two merlins stood silent. Nearby, upon a lower stand, the squire’s hobby shifted from one leg to the other. He was an impudent young fellow whose hooked bill always cheeked his elders and betters, but he had naught to fear for no one could rebuke or punish him whilst the hoods were in place.
In the driest corner, upon a perch raised higher than the others, a handsome peregrine falcon slept fitfully.
He was the pride of the lord who had trained him, and his equal had never been seen in the city. Nothing could match the falcon’s swiftness and he was justly respected by all, except perhaps the boisterous hobby. Only today that insolent peasant had been boastful about his own plumage and rude about everyone else’s. But the peregrine had shown great dignity then, not deigning to engage in vulgar jibes and insults. One day, that upstart would bitterly atone for the looseness of his tongue.
From the merlins however, the peregrine commanded the greatest fealty and when they spoke to him it was in humble and devoted tones. It was a pleasant and comfortable life, flying for fat wood pigeons in the day and roosting in the warm darkness of the mews at night. It had never entered the raptor’s head that anything would ever change and he was not like the hobby who longed for his freedom and cried for the heathlands when he thought no one was looking.
But this night, the falcon trembled. The black bars of his plumage quivered, as a sickening shudder travelled all the way from head to tail. Startled out of sleep, gorgeous visions of plump rabbits melted into the hood and he swayed giddily upon the perch.
The peregrine cocked his head and listened. Everything seemed quiet, and he wondered what could have awoken him. Probably that irreverent hobby, he thought to himself, something really must be done about that wretch—it simply wasn’t done to flout authority the way he did.
Moving from side to side in agitation, the bird of prey determined to settle the matter tomorrow when they were both being flown. Just a little scare would suffice to do the trick, plucking the nauseating pest from the air and throttling him would be most beneficial to them both. With this happy prospect in mind the falcon settled himself and, little by little, his head drooped onto his chest once more.
Suddenly he was bolt upright. Unfurling his powerful wings and shaking his primary feathers, he squawked his annoyance.
At once, the other birds blinked inside their hoods and were awake.
A terrible feeling of urgency and fear had overwhelmed their leader’s heart—summoning and compelling him to act. Somewhere he was needed, somewhere a desperate struggle was taking place. The bird cried in dismay, beating his wings and straining at the jesses which held him.
“What ails our lord?” the merlins chirruped, blindly twisting their heads in surprise.
“Poor old stripey pants!” tittered the hobby. “Perhaps he’d like a lullaby to soothe him?”
“Be still!” the merlins cried. “Repent thy insolent words, knave!”
The hobby jiggled and preened himself. “Pooh!” he muttered outrageously.
The merlins recoiled and began gabbling in the direction of the peregrine.
But the great bird was oblivious to all that was said, so anxious was he to escape. His expansive wings thrust at the air and the perch rocked alarmingly. And then, something strange began to happen. The tethers which held the falcon’s feet, moved as if invisible hands had clutched them. Slowly at first, the knots began to slip and were gradually untied by this unseen force.
With a tremendous, shrill yell, the peregrine rejoiced. His feet were free and he immediately tore the hood from his head.
The other birds squealed and trilled in fright. What was happening?
“Our lord is loose!” the merlins wailed. “Our sovereign is at liberty!”
At this the hobby nearly fainted. “Clemency!” he beseeched. “Have pity on a poor chick with no sense in its skull. Wound me not! Or if you must—make it quick!”
But the falcon was not listening. His bright yellow eyes gleamed in the moonlight and fixed upon the locked shutters. Then, with one sweep of his wings he left the perch and flew around the mews in a frustrated temper.
The other birds ducked and cowered as he whirled over their heads; they thought he had gone mad and all began pleading for their lives.
And then, by the same unseen power, the bolt was drawn back and, with a resounding slam, the shutters of the mews were thrown open. The peregrine gave a grim screech, the sound of which made the other raptors quail, and shot out into the night—free at last.
Morwenna hastened from the Chamber of the Starglass and swept down the narrow stairway. All she had ever craved was coming to pass and her pinched face was wreathed in ghastly mirth. The clamour of battle sang in her ears and she revelled in the sounds of the dying. None would be left to oppose her succession to the Oaken Throne and she would be able to take up the silver acorn without fear of reprisal. How well the bats did their work, yet once they had served their purpose, they too would know the meaning of betrayal. Morwenna had other allies and no one could have guessed where her true allegiance lay.
A dark and glorious future was opening before the faithless handmaiden and, as she came to her mistress’s bedchamber, she thrilled at what would come to pass.
Morwenna barged inside—but at once her dreams were snatched away. There, upon the sill of the window, a great falcon sat and, standing before him—swaying and nearly spent, the Starwife held up the symbol of her high office and entrusted it into the bird’s massive talons.
Morwenna screamed in rage and leaped forward, her paws reaching for the silver amulet that dangled from the peregrine’s claws.
“Fly!” the Starwife commanded. “Bear it to safety, let no other claim it!”
There was a beating of powerful wings. Morwenna dragged the ancient squirrel out of her way and lurched at the acorn—but too late. The falcon left the window and in seconds he was out of sight, leaving Greenreach far behind.
In her fingers, Morwenna clutched only feathers—without the amulet she was nothing and she stared at the scenes of burning and slaughter that still raged below—and appeared as one turned to stone.
“Drink deep of this cup,” the Starwife’s cracked voice mocked her, “all your treachery has been in vain. At the very end, the acorn has eluded you and your victory is an empty one.”
Morwenna’s head twisted from the window and her countenance was terrible to behold. Her thin lips parted and a bitter voice came rasping from her throat.
“Too many years have I humbled myself before you!” she hissed. “Too long have I toiled for m
y own ends to have you cheat me now. This is but the beginning for me—the acorn will be found and I shall rule. But for you—vile old hag—it is indeed the end.”
Quickly she drew the dagger from her belt and took a step toward the ancient squirrel. “Now pay the price!” she cried and, shrieking with evil laughter, put her mistress cruelly to death.
Rushing back to the window, Morwenna shouted at the top of her voice. “Rohgar!” she yelled. “Rohgar! Quickly—I command you!”
Taking a step back, she waited a moment and presently a ferocious screechmask appeared over the sill, followed by the large noctule. With a rush of his leathery wings he alighted upon the ledge but the eyes which glared through the slits of Slaughtermaw seethed with hostility and anger.
“Curb thy tongue,” he snarled, “the legions of Hrethel are commanded by none but he and the council. It would be tragic indeed should I forget what part thou played this night and give you over to my armies.”
But Morwenna was not afraid, and replied with haughty authority. “Be silent!” she snapped. “Your triumph is not yet assured and your lord would be most displeased should you fail. Remember, I am in communion with him and have his complete trust.”
Rohgar growled at her insolence and shook his wings to show displeasure. This tree rat had an inflated opinion of her own worth—it would be most pleasant to let his gauntlets close about her scrawny neck.
“Hear me!” the squirrel continued before he had the chance to threaten her again. “The silver acorn has escaped us! The harridan despatched it before she died—it must be retrieved at all costs!”
A hollow laugh rang within the screechmask. “So!” the bat cried. “The perfidious one has been robbed of her shining bauble. What care I for the loss of your heathen trinkets?”
Morwenna leaned forward, her voice rising to a shriek. “Idiot!” she screamed. “Without the amulet I cannot accede to the Starwifeship, nor can I wield the might of the forces locked in the Starglass. Only with the acorn about my neck can I undo the spell laid upon your kind and restore your birthright!” She spat the last sentence and her words had a remarkable effect upon Rohgar.
“What say you?” he bawled. “Tell me where this trinket may be found!”
“Your legions let it slip by,” Morwenna snapped back. “Even now a peregrine bears it to some distant place of safety—I know not where. Go find this powerful talisman, Rohgar, take a host of your brethren and return the prize to me—then shall prophecy and insight be given back to you.”
The bat lashed his wings and circled over the hill. Furiously, he called to his captains and yelled his commands. Like a black mist, the bats rose from Greenreach, leaving behind their wounded and dying victims and, in an enormous sweep across the smoke-filled sky, the desperate chase began.
Morwenna moved towards the doorway, glancing with contempt at the body of her late mistress. The stairs outside the bedchamber were deserted and not a sound issued up from the main hall. All the guards were dead, barbarically slain upon the hillside and only a few terrified serfs remained huddled under tables or lay trembling in storerooms.
Descending the narrow steps, Morwenna rubbed her paws together and her tail flicked with agitation. If Rohgar thought she would place all her trust in him, then he was a greater fool than she had anticipated. Her alliance with the legions of Hrethel was only temporary and, with a wicked grin glowering over her face, Morwenna determined to send her own, more sinister, messenger to retrieve the silver acorn.
2 - Aldertide
Far away, amid the trackless and dangerous forests, a bright dawn gently edged into the pale, clear sky. It was a beautiful spring morning and surprisingly warm for the alder month. Here, the unruly tangle of the wild wood became ordered and the grass grew thick and green—free of scrub and nettles. Within the borders of this oasis of calm, the trees flourished straight and tall, attended and cared for by those who dwelt there.
Here then, the second noble house of black squirrels had long ago made their home. Coll Regalis—the Hazel Realm, it was called, for the hazel was regarded as the fount of all knowledge and the one who ruled that land wore a bronze fruit of that tree about her neck.
Ninnia was her name and her subjects loved her, for she was wise beyond mortal minds and by her counsel and guidance the colony had protected its borders for many years. No magic defended the Hazel Realm, for only their cousins in Greenreach possessed such power. This land was kept free from harm by a constant vigil. Many sentries were posted near the untamed forest’s edge and the watch was never neglected.
Today, however, all thoughts of the dark were banished. It was Alder Day, a date high in the squirrel calendar, and wonderful festivities had been planned.
The warm rays of the morning sun gilded the avenue of trees which led to the circle of nine hazels. Upon the green lawns an excited and merry crowd had begun to gather. The celebrations were to begin early and already those entertainers who still dared to travel were arriving.
Striding through the dewy grass came all manner of outlandish folk and the children of Coll Regalis rushed to greet them, dancing around each newcomer as he strode into the central clearing.
Stalls were swiftly erected, with colourfully striped canopies and ribbons flying in the fragrant breeze. The merchants arranged their wares in pretty displays and called to old friends as they waited for the festivities to officially commence.
Three jolly red squirrels sat down and began lacing themselves onto tall stilts. It was not long before they were tottering loftily through the crowds—giggling and pushing one another, while those below tried to leap up and catch their tails. A fire-eating weasel cursed his luck when he discovered that his torches were damp and refused to light, while a travelling band of acrobatic voles were practising ‘The Daredevil Pyramid’ and getting it hopelessly wrong.
Through the thronging multitude, a strange figure slowly wound his way. It was a tall stoat. A jester’s red and yellow head-dress was pulled snugly over his ears and the bells which hung from the three drooping points jingled sweetly as he went. Behind him the stoat pulled a garishly painted cart which contained all his tricks and props and as he approached the clearing, he hummed humorous ditties to himself.
High above, from the branches of the central oak, a young squirrel maiden looked down—intoxicated with the glamour and delight of it all. She was a lovely creature, with ebony fur and large brown eyes; her dark hair fell in long tresses about her shoulders and she scampered from bough to bough to see what new joys she could discover.
This was Ysabelle, daughter of the Lady Ninnia and the Lord Cyllinus and never had the forest been graced by such beauty as she possessed.
The strains of a happy tune drifted up from below as the musicians practised. A flute piped the loudest and Ysabelle found her feet tapping to the melody, then began dancing over the branches.
“M’lady!” squeaked a nervous voice. “M’lady, come away from there! Oooh, it’s so dangerous! You might break your neck—I can’t bear to look!”
A mouse had peered out from a curtained window in the trunk of the tree and her small paws were thrown over her face.
“Don’t be silly, Griselda!” Ysabelle laughed as she pirouetted on a slender branch. “I’m in no danger. I have nothing to fear—the height does not scare me.”
“Well it do me, M’lady,” the mouse complained, her eyes stealing a peek at the clearing below them. She winced and drew back inside. “’Tain’t right for one such as I to be so far up—and ’tain’t seemly for you to be cavorting so.”
Griselda had looked after Ysabelle since the day she was born and fussed a great deal over her charge. Red squirrels were the usual choice for nursemaids but, in her wisdom, the Lady Ninnia had chosen a mouse instead to care for her daughter. Griselda was a worried little body, prone to fretting about the smallest detail.
She was a plump fieldmouse and her chestnut hair was always hidden in a large cap of white linen. The frills of this shaded her eyes a
nd tickled her whiskers, so she was continually blowing at the irksome thing from the corners of her mouth—but it never entered her head to change the cap. She was a stickler for tradition, and although those of the black squirrels were not her own, she zealously defended and adhered to them. This was the cap of a nursemaid and it was her duty and privilege to wear it; so wear it she jolly well would—however inconvenient.
Ysabelle traced out a dainty little dance in time to the brisk music and the mousemaid stamped her foot in irritation.
“You stop that at once!” she demanded. “Why, with your hair all loose and askew, what will folk think? That I’m not fit to wait on you—that’s what! Is it your intent to shame me, M’lady?”
The young squirrel stopped dancing and laughed. “Oh Griselda!” she said with a grin. “You win. I’ve no wish to cause you shame. You do worry so. I’m quite sure no one thinks you are a bad nurse.”
“That’s as may be, but you never can tell what nastiness some folks’ tongues is capable of.” She glanced at the ground again and nearly wilted with fright. “Ooh, do come in, M’lady,” she implored, puffing at the brim of her cap. “Makes my head all squiggly it do, looking down there.”
Ysabelle capered over the branches and climbed in at the window. “It’s such a marvellous day—to think that this year I join the alder maids.”
The mouse pulled her charge away from the hazardous opening and into the room. It was a cosy place, containing two beds, the smaller being Griselda’s. Fine tapestries were draped over the walls, some of them worked by Ysabelle herself in those tedious winter evenings that had passed, and clean rushes were strewn over the floor.
The maid extracted a twig from the squirrel’s bushy tail. “You won’t be going nowhere, M’lady,” she clucked, “not till you’ve braided your locks and made yourself decent. In front of all them folk—I ask you, and most of them strangers too!”