The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “Master Maculatum,” Ysabelle began.

  “Please, good Lady!” he interrupted, holding up an objecting paw. “Address this Tomfool as either Wendel or Squire Ticklerib, or perhaps simply Jester Long Body, but no ‘Master’—that is a title fit only for the glums and brainpans of the world, not I.”

  “Wendel, then,” Ysabelle continued, “now that you are here, stay by my side. I need diverting from the dark roads ahead.”

  “Then here shall I remain,” the stoat replied. He bowed once more but just as he was about to straighten, Wendel’s expression changed drastically.

  “What is it?” asked Ysabelle, disturbed by his staring eyes and shocked look.

  “Thine ear, madam!” the stoat declared.

  Ysabelle’s paws went to her ears but she could feel nothing wrong with them. Beside her, Griselda frowned and wondered what the impudent jester was up to now.

  “Allow me!” Wendel begged and he leaned forward, cupping her right ear in both his paws. “There!” he cried. “I have it!”

  With an extravagant flourish, he appeared to pull a length of brightly coloured cloth from the squirrel’s ear. Ysabelle laughed in spite of her worries and the stoat leapt in the air, whirling the material about him.

  “I’ve seen that trick before,” muttered an unimpressed Griselda, “and done better—why, ’tis older than I!”

  Wendel pulled a small wooden chest from his cart and stuffed the cloth inside it before spinning round and staring at the mousemaid with a curious look on his face. “Is this not my dancing partner?” he chuckled.

  “You keep your distance!” squeaked Griselda as he leaned under the canopy and reached for her. “M’lady! M’lady!”

  The jester ran his fingers over the mouse’s lips and suddenly the litter was filled with the flutter of many wings as countless painted moths seemed to escape from her mouth.

  “Eeeek!” she wailed as the insects issued forth and tickled her face. “Oh, you wretch!”

  Ysabelle batted the moths away with her paw and giggled as they flew from the canopy.

  “Dear jester,” she laughed, “if you have any more tricks you had best leave them in your cart. I fear my maid does not approve.”

  “Be not so certain, ma’am,” the stoat replied with a wink. “I do believe thy nibbler has warmed to me already.”

  “I have not!” spluttered Griselda, fiercely throwing a cushion at the insolent fellow. “Why, I have never seen such disgraceful behaviour! Keep away, you knave, before I tell the guards to see you off and leave you to the mercy of the Hobbers!”

  For an instant the stoat’s face lost all trace of humour, as though the mere mention of the dreaded cult had terrified him. Quickly he recovered and said hastily, “Why, here comes another of my many admirers—Master Godfrey of the gloomy disposition and humourless aspect.”

  The prime counsellor blustered towards them. With a sniff for the stoat and a nod for Ysabelle, he briefly explained that all was now well and they could set off again—a group of wardens were clearing the way ahead.

  “You may return to the rear of the company,” Godfrey dismissed Wendel, “we don’t want the rag-tag cluttering things up here—now run along.”

  Griselda’s snort of approval was swiftly curtailed as Ysabelle spoke up. “The jester will remain where he is,” she told Godfrey, “his presence pleases me.”

  The old squirrel scrunched up his face and clenched his teeth as the jester stuck out a pink tongue to him. “Whatever you wish,” he said from behind a forced smile.

  Through gorse and thorn, the army of the Hazel Realm cut its way. The day wore on and the afternoon shadows grew long. Above them the sky was growing dim and the hour that all of them had been dreading crept slowly closer.

  As the shadows increased, Wendel tried to amuse the squirrel maiden and at first she was grateful to him, but eventually nothing could turn her thoughts from the horror they had left behind. As the jester related riddles and nonsense stories, Ysabelle could think only of her parents and his words washed over her like babbling water over an immovable stone.

  At the forefront of the company, the wardens hacked and sliced through the thick undergrowth. Their palms were blistered and the blades of their swords notched where they struck hidden roots. It was tough work and the squirrels strained and sweated over it.

  Samuel Muin hewed at a stubborn thicket of holly. He had been in the service of the boundary wardens for nearly five years and behind him he had left a wife and three young children. It enraged him to think what would befall his family and his furious resentment was spent upon the vines and branches which barred the way. Every bough of thorn and bramble was, to him, one of Hrethel’s bats and his sword sang through the undergrowth more violently than any other.

  He hated this place, it was nothing like the well ordered woods of his home. Here the leaves had been left to rot upon the ground and at times he had to wade up to his middle to push through the mouldering drifts. The sickly smell of leaf decay was everywhere and he hoped that the long journey to Greenreach would not always be so arduous.

  Suddenly, his sword ceased hissing through the air. Samuel held his breath and motioned for those about him to do the same.

  “What is it?” wheezed his neighbour.

  “There’s something over there!” Samuel whispered. “I’m sure of it!”

  Everyone stared in the direction the warden pointed. It was a dark hollow in the undergrowth where two ragged thorn bushes met and twisted together.

  “I see naught!” someone grumbled uncertainly.

  “Look there!” growled Samuel. “Small footprints lead into that gap and see—for an instant a pair of eyes did gleam in the shadow!”

  That was enough for the others. With a shout, twenty of them ran forward, brandishing swords and spears. From within the thorn bush there came a terrified howl and a small figure tried to scurry through a narrow opening in the brambles.

  “A bat!” the wardens shrieked. “It is a bat we have cornered. Take him! Take him!”

  Vesper squirmed between the sharp thorns as fast as he could. His heart thumped in his chest and panic flooded his mind. He had been listening to the approach of the company for some time but had been unable to move for fear of discovery. Now it was too late; as tears of fright ran down his cheeks, he left his cover and anxiously pelted through the leaf piles beyond.

  It was no good. The young bat’s left wing was damaged and he was unable to fly. He cursed himself for ever being so stupid. Why had he disobeyed his mother? Why had he put on his father’s armour and followed the Moonriders to Greenreach? Now that armour was gone—Terrorgrin, which his father had worn with so much honour, he had lost and the gauntlets with it.

  They had been right—all of them. He had been too young to wear the screechmask. He hadn’t even made it to Greenreach in time, the war gear was so heavy that all the fighting was over when he arrived. All he saw was the fierce flames that surrounded the hill and for a few desperate moments wondered where the other bats had gone. Fortunately, or so he had thought then, he saw the dark mass of the great host in the far distance of the southern sky and immediately set off after. But how weary Vesper soon became, how the armour pulled him down and how his muscles ached trying to keep him airborne.

  Eventually, Vespertilio had plummeted from the heavens—even as the sun began to rise. Down he fell, the gauntlets slipping from his feet and Terrorgrin spinning from his head. That was all he could remember, for the bat had struck the branch of a tree and fallen senseless to the forest floor.

  When he awoke he found that his wing was hanging limply at his side and the pain of it caused him to cry out. And now his mortal enemies had caught him.

  Floundering through the rotting leaves, Vesper dragged his wing behind, but all efforts were in vain. The squirrels had surrounded him and their faces were vicious and cruel.

  “Get him!” one of the tree rats cried.

  Vesper shrieked as they launched themselves at
him and their strong paws seized him roughly. For a terrible second he thought he would be torn to pieces right there, but one of the squirrels pushed the others away and lifted the bat off the ground.

  “Maggot fodder!” screamed Samuel Muin into Vesper’s face. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done! Say a quick prayer to your vile lord for, by the Almighty Green, this is the last you’ll see of this world!” He hurled Vesper down and swiftly drew his sword.

  The young bat wept and scuttled backwards, scattering the dead leaves about him. But Samuel raised the sword and it came scything down.

  “Hold!” cried a stern voice. Samuel Muin whirled round and there was Godfrey Gelenos.

  “Keep out of this, counsellor!” the warden snarled.

  “I will not!” Master Godfrey firmly replied. He pushed through the ranks of the other sentries that had gathered behind Samuel until he stood beside him and glared at the warden threateningly.

  “The worm is mine!” Samuel growled and the murmurs which issued from those around him agreed totally.

  “Look again!” Godfrey told him. “What terrible warrior is it you have caught? What mighty general have you captured, Warden Muin?”

  Samuel glanced back at the terrified Vesper and his stomach heaved within him. “’Tis... ’tis naught but a child!” he stammered. “Why... why my own son Bergil can be no older!” He dropped his sword and staggered back—aghast at what he had been about to do.

  Godfrey turned to the others, they too were sickened. “Does anyone else have a quarrel with this child?” the prime counsellor asked. No one answered. “Then bring him to where the Lady Ysabelle waits—he must be questioned.”

  Once more Vesper felt squirrel paws take hold of him, but this time it was different—the creatures were almost gentle. He winced when they took hold of his wing and when they saw this they treated him all the more tenderly. Perhaps they were cowards, he thought to himself as they led him through the rows of sentries and guards. Why else would they have spared his life?

  But Vesper soon had other things on his mind, for now he realised how great a host this was. Surely this must be the sum total of all squirrels—never had he believed there were so many and all bore armour and deadly weapons. He blinked at the lethal array of blade and spear and wondered what this portended for the rest of his kind.

  Every face was turned on him as he stumbled past and he wondered how long he would stay unharmed, for here too anger and hatred smouldered at the sight of him. Vesper tried not to meet the eyes of his captors, for his spirit quailed and whatever courage he once thought he possessed had fled far away.

  A strange frame covered by green material rose behind the armoured heads of the guards in front and the bat found himself even more frightened than ever before. He was going to have to face the leader of his enemies. Vesper felt faint as he tried to guess what the canopy was for—perhaps the squirrel lord was so ugly that he had to be covered at all times.

  Godfrey led the bat to where a stoat in a strange head-dress gawped at him stupidly and beads of perspiration prickled over Vesper’s brow. This was it, the old black squirrel drew the green material aside and the young bat saw...

  Vesper nearly choked; seated upon a golden couch was a squirrel maiden and a ridiculous looking mouse—it was so unexpected and peculiar that he almost laughed at them both.

  “Master Godfrey,” the maiden began, “is this the cause of the disturbance we heard?”

  “It is indeed, madam,” came the solemn reply.

  Ysabelle stared at the bat and shuddered. “It’s as ugly as the one who killed itself,” she grimaced. “Are there more ahead?”

  “I think not, madam,” said Godfrey. “You will see that his wing is damaged. The fellow must have been separated from the main host.”

  Ysabelle leaned back, as though the bat offended her sense of smell and she waved a paw in front of her face. “Take it away,” she declared. “Give it to the guards—let them kill it!”

  At that Vesper’s cowed spirit rallied a little. “Here, Miss High and Mighty!” he cried. “Who do you think you are? Turn thy nose up at me, would you? Well hear this, no sweet flower art thou! Prettier dungheaps I’ve seen—but few with such low manners as thine!”

  “Oh the devil!” yelped Griselda. “Why he’s ruder than the jester!”

  “And who art thou, Mistress Plumpmouse? Why do you recline upon a cushioned bed? Are thy legs too weak to bear thee?”

  “Take this creature away!” Ysabelle commanded. “Execute it immediately—I want the foul beast dead!”

  Godfrey gave the bat a cautionary look and whispered in Ysabelle’s ear. “Remember the use your mother thought to make of Heglyr,” he said. “Perhaps this servant of Hrethel can be persuaded to aid us in his stead.”

  Ysabelle listened to his advice, her eyes brimming with loathing for the prisoner. “Very well,” she said when her anger had cooled a little, “bind him and bring the creature with us, I shall question him later.”

  So Vesper was bound with ropes and made to march with the company.

  Wendel Maculatum watched the guards bundle the young bat out of earshot and he scratched his head thoughtfully. “Methinks you shall come to rue the advice of Master Godfrey,” he told Ysabelle, “for are not all bats instruments of death and despair? Surely we both know that better than he? What viper have we taken into our bosom? Only evil will come of this, I fear.”

  For the few hours of daylight that remained, the company plunged deeper into the forest. Dusk was near and every step brought them closer to nightfall. Slowly the light failed and the rays of the sun dwindled behind distant tree tops. All talk ceased as they waited and strained to hear what they knew they must. And then it came.

  Great pools of shadow now covered the forest floor and the trees rose dark and threatening on every side.

  As if controlled by a single instinct, the entire host of squirrels halted.

  Far away, a dull explosion boomed into the night and a red glare shone in the heavens. The battle had begun.

  No one moved, all were as still as the trees that surrounded them, whilst the distant explosions continued to balefully light the sky.

  “It is the end,” Ysabelle whispered. “Coll Regalis is falling—the fire-eggs have come to them.”

  The roaring resounded in all their ears and they lowered their eyes so that they might not witness the awful glare any longer. Ysabelle’s paw took hold of Griselda’s and the two gripped each other grimly. The world they had known was burning and they both knew that even now the Moonriders were attacking.

  Only Vesper’s face was raised to the radiance of the mighty blaze and a wonderful rejoicing filled his heart. The forces of Hrethel were victorious once more. He almost felt like cheering, but one quick glance at those around him soon quashed that idea. It would not be long before his kindred found this dreadful army and then he would be set free. The bat gazed long at the crackling glow that illuminated the darkness, then he too had to hang his head, but that was because a broad grin had split his face and he did not want the others to see.

  The eight squirrels who were carrying the litter, placed their burden upon the ground and, beneath the canopy, Ysabelle wept.

  Suddenly she gasped—clutching her breast as though a knife had been plunged between her ribs. Then she screamed and a violent shuddering seized her. “Mother!” she cried. “Father!”

  “M’lady!” howled Griselda, frightened by her mistress’s behaviour.

  “They’re gone!” Ysabelle whispered. “They’re dead! I know it—I sensed their pain!”

  She sobbed into the mouse’s shoulder, then the host of squirrels lay down their weapons and knelt in prayer and sorrow upon the ground.

  “Majesty,” said Godfrey at Ysabelle’s side, “now thou art our sovereign queen.”

  The maiden raised her head and drew her palm over her eyes. Godfrey was right—he was telling her that henceforth she must be like her mother and govern them. Trembling slightly, she
took hold of the silver acorn and steadied herself.

  Her old tutor nodded faintly and his gaze held her for many minutes. “The time is come,” he spoke quietly. “Now, when lesser folk would wither, thou must be true to the blood of thine ancestors. Much greatness is bred in thee, accept now this terrible mantle and take a step nearer thy destiny.”

  Ysabelle closed her eyes and his words seemed to reach deep within her, awakening some ancient power which had long lain dormant.

  When next she looked up, her glance was keen and clear. She knew now why her mother had forced her upon this road and she was determined that the sacrifice of the Hazel Realm would not be in vain.

  In a firm and level voice, she addressed her counsellor and gave her first instructions as queen. “We cannot remain here,” she told him. “Greenreach is still many leagues distant. We must press on.”

  And so the journey continued, while behind the silent company, the ruddy night reflected the blood that was being spilled in the land they had left.

  For another hour the army marched, until Ysabelle decreed that the time had come to rest.

  Beneath the shelter of a dense row of holly trees, where the dead leaves were dry upon the ground, the squirrels made their camp. Blankets were cast onto the soft, musty heaps and a circular tent was erected for the new queen and her maid.

  The many guards who were lucky enough not to be in the first watch, ate a frugal and morose meal then threw themselves upon the makeshift beds. But the slumber into which they quickly sank was filled with horror and the ghosts of those they had left behind.

  Griselda patted the cushions she had taken from the litter and arranged them inside the tent. “Most unsuitable!” she observed, nibbling the last few crumbs of the oat biscuits which had formed her supper. “A bed of the softest down she ought to be sleeping upon.”