by Euan McAllen
But the king had not finished with him yet. He led Tascho around the estate; past peasants tending to fields, clearing undergrowth, rebuilding dry-stone walls; past woodcutters felling and chopping up trees; past women heaving buckets of water or milk. Timothy was reminded of the monastery, but with extra dirt thrown in and more unhappy faces. Upon return to the castle forecourt, he was allowed a break; time to eat, wash and recover before his next appointment: archery with the king. As the king gave instructions and the horses were led away, neither of them knew that the queen was watching from the window of Prince Mozak’s bedroom.
Afterwards the inside of his thighs felt sore and his backside ached. But Timothy had to admit it to himself, it had been a thrilling experience: life on the physical edge. When had it been so before? he asked himself. When he had been taken prisoner, he reminded himself smartly. The Monastery had never given him such a physical thrill, only the prostitute.
Archery was a whole different experience: Timothy was in total control of his mind and body. All he had to do was hold himself steady; take aim whilst remembering his exact position of arms, legs and eye; and let the arrow go, towards the bull’s-eye. His first attempt was well off target. He was startled when the king touched him round the waist, moved him about, and tugged his arm into a better position. Bizi told him to pull right back on the bow, until his arm began to hurt. He even kicked Timothy’s feet further apart without warning. Timothy held his breath and shot his second arrow. This time he was much closer to the target and King Bizi clapped.
‘Well done my boy!’
Timothy made no comment. He was in a trance, in a dream. He was living someone else’s life. Once, not so long ago, he had been on his knees or prostrating himself in the worship of God, unable to hurt a fly. Now, here, in this strange new world, he was building himself up to the moment when he would seek out and shoot to kill something living - man or beast?
Timothy made adjustments and fired again, and again he improved. And again, and again he improved. He was almost there. He gave it one last shot. King Bizi now stood back in silence, as if thinking that his work was done for the day. Bull’s-eye! That made Timothy very happy. It made Bizi very happy. Even the errand boy who ran back and forth collecting the arrows was happy.
‘Well done my lord!’ he exclaimed.
‘My lord’, thought Timothy. That sounded good, very good - too good to be true?
After that Timothy insisted on time to rest, alone; time to recover. He just wanted to walk, switch off. He wanted to explore the gardens.
‘We have gardens back at the Monastery,’ he explained to his doubtful uncle. ‘I want to compare notes. We all had to do our share of gardening.’
Gardening? thought Bizi. What prince does gardening? He didn’t understand what ‘comparing notes’ meant so brushed it aside and allowed Tascho to go. They would meet up later, for lunch, which was not all that far off. Timothy returned to his room and found his Stevie sipping from a bowl of water. Someone had thoughtfully laid down two bowls: water and what now contained biscuit crumbs. Had Stevie missed him? Timothy could not tell. No matter.
***
Boy and dog went for a walk, dog straining at the lead; this way and that, avoiding people; around the grounds; through orchards of apple trees, pear trees and cherry trees; through gardens of flowers and vegetable patches; pass rose bushes; avoiding the secretive, sideways looks of the gardeners. Timothy now had a defence mechanism: he just looked straight ahead, just as any other prince would do. The gardens were laid out strictly to pattern and well tendered; interesting for a brief period of time, but not impressive. They did not reach the heights of the Monastery’s grand works of tamed Nature. The Monastery won hands down: its monks knew how to cultivate.
When Timothy passed by servants they pulled back, retreated, or simply froze; unsure how to - or whether to - address him. Knights, nobles and others of high rank simply stared, perhaps raising an eyebrow at the dangerous misfit; perhaps wondering what on earth the king was thinking. Had he gone totally mad? Timothy sensed a protective shield - his brother’s power - and it felt good. At one point, as he stood by a garden pond and watched Stevie trying to break free and jump in, he wanted to shout out to the world ‘I’m as good as him! Perhaps better!’ But he didn’t. He didn’t have the nerve - and as yet he didn’t have the bad manners.
Moving on - dragging a disappointed Stevie along with him - he found tall hedges with big broad leaves of deep luscious green, and in time the entrance to a maze. His excitement rebounded with a kick. He wanted to rush in. He wanted to lose himself. He wanted to let go of a world which was becoming a drag and discover his own secret one, even if it was tiny. Stevie caught on to the mood and tried to rush ahead, stretching his lead to the limit. Timothy apologized for not letting him off his lease.
‘Stevie I can’t. I may never find you again.’
Stevie barked.
Inside the maze, the concentrated smell of the hedges was fresh, invigorating. Stevie kept tugging at the lead, dictating which way to go, adventurous. Timothy was happy for him to take the lead. The hedges were so tall that sunlight only reached the ground at high noon, making it hard, barely carpeted by grass. They went this way and that; and back again; and on again until they reached a wooden bench at a four way junction. It was a place of symmetry: each exit almost identical except for the slight differences in foliage. Well decorated, the bench had been vandalised over the years by amateur carvings and scratch marks: many a person had sat on this bench and left their mark. At this point Timothy reigned in Stevie and decided to sit a while, hide a while; to think nothing. Let the world carry on without him. Let it wait for him (for a change). Stevie looked up, whimpering to express his eagerness to keep moving as his master tied him to the bench.
‘No,’ said Timothy firmly, laying down the law. ‘We sit here. OK?’
Yes, having your own dog is a wonderful thing, thought Timothy. Shame they did not allow pets at the Monastery.
His thoughts did not travel far or deep. He was happy to browse the sea of green surrounding him: it locked him in; protected him from the outside; it made the world feel simple again. It was all down to Mother Nature: Mother Nature embraced you, entertained you; she fed you and warmed you; she put a roof over your head and never asked for anything in return except to be allowed to carry on growing. Timothy tried to hold that golden thought indefinitely; not wishing to drop it, let it slip but he was distracted by the sound of slow approaching footsteps and rustling leaves.
He looked to one side to see a girl, a big girl with big breasts - perhaps a woman, he could not choose - staring at him as if mesmerised. Another servant? was his first reaction. I’m not my brother, leave me alone! was his second. She’s not poor, her clothes are too good, was his third. He decided to speak, to dominate, like any good prince would.
‘What do you want?’
That immediately startled her and like a rabbit she was gone in the blink of an eye, which left Timothy feeling insulted. He jumped up and bounded after her - with Stevie barking him on. He caught sight of her again just as she turned left. He raced on to the junction but upon reaching it saw nothing. She was gone. Timothy drew breath and slowed himself back down in head, heart and body. No matter, he thought. The girl will pop up again and next time she won’t get away with whatever game she was playing. He returned to his Stevie who welcomed him with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out.
***
While Timothy sat in his small space, surrounded by Mother Nature at her most tame, her most disfranchised, the King’s Secretary and the King’s Chancellor sat in a similar space; in low light; thick curtains allowing only a crack of sunlight to invade the room. They liked it that way: they did not want the world to see in; they did not want the sound of their voices to leek out; they did not want their shared thoughts to spill out. They did not want to be seen or heard.
Sheltered in this small but well furnished room the two officials reduced their world to nothing more than a single living organism of many conflicting parts: to be examined, reflected upon, criticized, sometimes held in contempt; to be recorded for prosperity, nurtured and refined; to be cultivated, consumed and contained. It was their absolute duty to keep it alive and in good health by making all the parts work correctly: in particular that meant the stable continuity of the Royal Family and its relationship with the nobility and peasants; along with the smooth administration of the castle and royal estate.
The two had not met for nearly a week, having previously talked themselves into exhaustion on the subject of that blasted pig - a pig which had been seen wearing a bow tie! Now they suddenly had something far more important on the agenda. They were not natural friends but they were allies, and they both now shared a hatred of pigs and one pig in particular. They reappraised the king’s state of mental health; quickly agreeing that there were no obvious signs of deterioration. But who really knew what was going on inside that man’s head?
They talked as if they ran the place, which they did. The Chancellor was taller than the Secretary but he was fatter than the Chancellor. The Chancellor was very good with numbers, very precise. The Secretary on the other hand was very good with words - words which glorified, neutralized, congratulated, encouraged and placated - and he was good with lists - lists of things to be done or had been done, lists of assets and objects, lists of names, lists of lists.
They talked in hushed tones, using minimal energy, about the dead twin Tascho who now apparently had never been dead; and worse still who was back at the castle. Unfortunate, they both agreed. Dark days, they both agreed. Unfortunate, dark days and extra work for them. Upon this they were both agreed. They both sat with a headache brought on by the subject of Tascho. Neither wanted to meet him. Neither could face him yet. They wanted him to be gone, to return to the dead. Neither actually said this out loud. Some things didn’t need to be said. Complications. Neither wanted complications. For relief they turned to more mundane business. The King’s Chancellor counted and his Secretary recounted.
Sisters Lady Parmina and Lady Tarmina sat as only sisters could: close up, arms entwined; flesh firmly touching; thoughts wrapped around each other; each voice a copy of the other; each gesture resonating. They shared just about everything: the king above all. Lady Parmina was currently on duty and her sister wanted to know what state he was in, and about the twin returned from the dead.
‘Exactly like the Prince,’ replied Lady Parmina as her sister kept squeezing and rattling her for more information. ‘I only saw him once, briefly. He looked exactly like the Prince. What more can I say?’
Casting the twin aside, they moved on and agreed that the king’s madness was growing. The pig proved it: the pig was the measure. They agreed that Bizi had become boring: boring to listen to, to eat with, to be in bed with. They argued over when to swap.
‘Do a few more days,’ insisted Lady Tarmina.
They hugged and sang a stupid song together and spoke nonsense - in their own private language which no one else could understand or decode. They had invented it during childhood and had expanded it ever since.
***
Gregory was ordered to stand up smart, stand up straight, by a flustered guard. He had a special visitor. The heavy door creaked open to reveal the Dowager Queen. She stood stiff and appeared anxious, and was trying her best to look dignified. Using her left hand she made it clear that the guard was to get lost for a while, out of sight and out of earshot.
She has aged! was Gregory’s initial reaction. She has aged badly, was his second. Where had the slim Anneeni gone? Did she not have ladies-in-waiting to manage her meals? Did she not believe in exercise? No, of course not you twit, he reminded himself. This is the Royal Family. I’ve been away too long. Had she forgotten how to smile? The Dowager Queen thought the same of him.
‘You look good,’ she said, and she meant it.
‘You too,’ he replied. He did not.
Queen Anneeni entered the cell at a snail’s pace - at a pace becoming a queen - and looked around in disgust, afraid she might pick up some infection.
‘You can’t stay in here.’
‘I have no choice in the matter.’
‘I do. I’ll speak to him. I’ll get you moved out but you must promise him - and me for that matter - total silence on the subject of Tascho. You will speak to no one, understood?’
‘Absolutely. Understood.’
It could have been King Bizi speaking.
‘Good. I’ll speak to the king.’ She paused then spoke again. ‘You still have that ridiculous cottage?’
‘Yes. My brother lives there.’
The Queen waved away the words, hating it when people drowned her in detail, even the slightest detail.
‘So tell me, what happened?’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Yes, I supposed so.’
Gregory sat back down in his now favourite, least uncomfortable spot, and placed his hands between his knees as if the headmistress was about to lecture him. He looked almost timid, which surprised her. (Though it may have been a ruse to lower her defences, soften her up.) Where had her young feisty advisor gone?
Eighteen years. That was a long time. It could not be counted. It could not be written down. Gregory looked up at his queen, perhaps unsure if he could trust her like he once had. Eighteen years was a very long time: in that time you could produce a baby and release it upon the world as a fully grown man. His Anneeni came across as brittle, too composed, too collected, constrained by an invisible force. Where had all that emotion gone? It used to gush forth: sometimes for the wrong reasons and at the wrong times, Gregory reminded himself with much regret.
‘Well obviously you know he was never murdered and now he’s back.’
‘Of course, I know. Move on. Quick!’ The Dowager Queen did not want to hang around in this loathsome place longer than was necessary.
‘I raised him on the Outside, beyond the Village.’
‘Does that place still function?’
‘Definitely. And it’s doing rather well. You can’t call it a village anymore.’
‘What would you call it?’
Gregory scratched his upper lip with his lower teeth, as if to check he was still in control of both.
‘A small town?’
‘Interesting. Continue.’
‘I enrolled him in the monastery.’
‘The what?’
‘A religious establishment, owned by, run by the church. The church outside controls everything, rules everything.’
‘Rules? Like us?’
‘Pretty much so, except in the name of God.’
‘God. Gods. How many do they have?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Just one? Why one?’
‘I have no idea. One seems more than enough.’
For the first time the Dowager Queen looked out of her depth. ‘Carry on.’
‘The monastery supports a community, an order of monks: holy people, like priests. Timothy - Tascho - joined as a novice.’
‘Timothy?’
‘The name he took outside. I gave it to him, to hide him, protect him, help him fit in.’
That made perfect sense to her. ‘So Tascho is a monk, a holy man?’
‘No, not exactly. He didn’t complete his training.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘He got expelled.’
‘Expelled? Why?’
‘Caught sleeping with a prostitute - and other minor offences.’
That disclosure made the Dowager Queen burst out laughing, almost hysterically. She had not laughed in a long time and this was the perfect reason to catch up. That in turn made Gr
egory laugh - but less so, with nervous constraint and nervous content. Suddenly she stopped laughing and snapped back into her usual self. She was all serious again, deeply serious. It reminded Gregory that he was sitting in a cell, possibly in deep trouble.
‘So why did you bring him back? After all this time? Tell me.’
Gregory paused for as long as he could, to formulate the right words.
‘Well? Speak to me.’
Dowager Queen Anneeni was impatient to the core. She could be impatient with anybody at the castle except King Bizi. It never worked on him, which she hated. And it rarely worked on his chancellor, which also infuriated her.
Gregory decided to hold nothing back: if he could not tell her, trust her with these facts, then what was the point?
‘Timothy, sorry Tascho, had been denied his chosen vocation in life. He had no future, no purpose. It may have crushed him. He was approaching his eighteenth. To make matters worse, he had been brought up believing he was an orphan from the Village. He wanted to go back. I could not stop him.’
‘But why here? Why not there?’
‘It became complicated. He found out the truth. How could I stop him coming here?’
‘Did he meet Mozak there?’
‘Yes, briefly.’
‘And Mozak told him?’
‘No, not exactly. As I said, it’s complicated.’
Now the Queen’s head was beginning to hurt again. She turned and waved Gregory away. She had enough information for now. It was complicated.
‘Enough. Later. I’ll come and see you at the cottage.’
‘Very good, Your Highness.’
That address made her smile, which in turn caused Gregory to smile back. It was like the old days - if only briefly.