A Necklace of Souls

by R. L. Stedman

  Here is the mud, and here are my fingers and my toes, I told myself fiercely, and shook them, to remind myself of where they were.

  Behind me, someone coughed. I stopped my hand waving and tried to look normal. As normal as someone standing beside a road waving her hands and covered in coal dust could. I turned around. There was the open road, grey-white in the early evening light. High above, the Castle walls were turning the rose pink of sun set. And here, next to me, was a boy on a heavily laden donkey. The donkey just blinked, but the boy stared at me with a startled expression, as though trying to make out if I was mad, or merely eccentric.

  Then he smiled. There were two dimples on either side of his mouth, and his eyes were kind. ‘You heading to the Castle?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘Want a lift?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said, gratefully. ‘Is there room for me?’

  ‘I can fit you on behind.’

  The beast sighed. His soft, grass-scented breath grazed my cheek.

  ‘Won’t I be too heavy?’

  ‘You don’t know donkeys, do you? He’ll be fine.’

  I clambered on awkwardly. I’d never be able to do this in a skirt. Pots and spoons hung from the saddle and swung with each stride. The donkey clanked mournfully as he plodded up the hill.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Name’s Will.’

  ‘And the donkey?’

  He laughed. ‘Mostly he’s just called “hey you”. Or other words, but they’re a mite rude for repeating.’

  ‘How fast does he go?’ I asked.

  ‘Donkeys never push themselves.’

  I liked riding; Mother had let me take lessons. But a donkey was different to a horse. Softer, wider, lower to the ground. Slower. I clung to the saddle frame in front of me.

  ‘Do you have any water?’

  The boy uncorked a flask. ‘Here. You come far?’

  I shook my head. ‘You?’

  ‘Aways. The kitchens sent me to the Crossing. Cook wanted her pots mended.’

  ‘I thought you were a tinker.’

  ‘They don’t ride donkeys. They have horses, and live in caravans. They’re at the Crossing at the moment. Be a grand life, though, wouldn’t it? In a house on wheels, always on the move.’ He twisted in the saddle, staring at me over his shoulder. ‘Where do you come from? I’ve not seen you before.’

  ‘I work in the laundry,’ I said quickly. ‘I do the errands and such for the maids.’ Hopefully, he’d think I was a boy.

  ‘For someone who works in a laundry,’ he said observantly, ‘you’re plenty grubby.’

  ‘It’s the collier’s delivery day.’ I felt virtuous, for I was telling the truth. ‘He had an accident with his cart. I went back to help him.’

  ‘You’d think he could have gotten you home.’

  ‘You don’t know the collier. He’s got a mean temper. What do you do in the kitchens?’

  ‘I’m a ’prentice. I turn the spits and such. Bit like you. Run errands, wash the pots.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s alright, I guess. It’s better than living with my aunt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s an evil cow, that’s why.’ His voice was grim.

  What would it be like to be forced to do something one had no interest in, to do tasks that meant nothing? I had to do French verbs, true, but at least I had a family who cared. Not at all the same as turning spits and washing pots.

  ‘Why don’t you run away?’

  ‘Where would I go? Outside ain’t no better.’ His voice lightened. ‘Won’t be forever, anyways. I’ve been taken into baking.’

  He sounded proud. ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I start next month.’

  ‘Are your parents bakers, then?’

  ‘They were. They’re dead now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, but he didn’t reply.

  We bounced on the back of the donkey, the pots and spoons clanking in the cooling evening air. Beside me the forest opened up, showing an avenue of grass. The Great Ride, which led straight as an arrow to the river. Above, crows returning home to their nests in the tower cried harsh sounds of welcome. But there was a smell of coldness, of something in the wind.

  The air trembled, the forest leaves whispered. I looked behind me, down the road. In the east, clouds were growing.

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ I said.

  Will twisted in the saddle. ‘Looks like a big one,’ he said, kicking the donkey with his heels. ‘Come on, you.’

  My face felt suddenly chill, as the wind shifted. The world quivered.

  ‘Come on, donkey,’ I said.

  With a sigh, the animal heaved himself up onto the edge of the moat, where the road ran like a towpath beside it, until meeting the gate house a few hundred yards away, just beyond the curve of the road. Many years ago the moat had been ugly, full of stinks and rubbish, but Daddy’s grandfather, my great-grand father, who had a thing for pipes and taps, had reorganized the plumbing and now the Castle was much more convenient and, Daddy said, cleaner.

  Running water. Pipes. Taps. Which meant baths, hot water. Soap. ‘Do you think we’ll reach the Castle before the storm?’

  ‘I can see the gate house,’ said the boy, pointing.

  My hair lifted, gusting into my eyes as the wind picked up, blowing dust and debris from the road. I could smell rain.

  9

  Stormy Beginnings

  Couldn’t this wretched donkey go any faster? Maybe it heard me, for it picked up its heels. The wind gusted harder; the storm scent was strong. The donkey shivered, shaking its head as though a fly was trying to bite it.

  ‘Hey, now,’ said Will, sliding down to walk beside the animal. He patted its neck.

  ‘What are you doing? We’re nearly there.’

  ‘Look at him. He’s trembling.’ Will stroked the dusty mane. ‘He’s not normally like this.’

  Should I dismount as well? Will was right; the donkey was restless. The pots and pans clattered until I felt like a fairground monkey. So much for slipping in undetected.

  The wind came in a sudden rush, lifting the road dust, blowing my hair.

  The soldiers shouted. ‘Shut the gate!’

  Down from the gate house towers ran the sentries, fighting against the stormy air.

  ‘They’re going to shut the gate!’ I shouted. ‘But evensong hasn’t rung.’

  The guards were calling to one another in urgent voices of fear or battle. The donkey brayed, his call louder even than the wind, echoing from the stone walls, shuddering into the sky. Across the moat came an answering ‘Halloo’. The walls of the Castle sprouted spears.

  I threw myself off the donkey’s back, sliding to the road in a cloud of dust. Just in time. Putting his ears back, his eyes wide in panic, the animal lifted his front legs and brayed, almost drowning the pots and the guards. An answering shout came from the ramparts and, as an echo, another call from the gate house. Two of the guards dropped to their knees, spears at the ready. More guards, arrows at their bowstrings, stood at the ramparts. What was this? Did they see the donkey as a threat?

  On the far side of the moat came a dreadful sound. Chains, clanking. The guards were turning the windlass! Slowly, the black-pitched bridge lifted up, separating the gate house from the Castle.

  We stared disbelievingly at the unbridged moat, its water muddy-grey in the twilight. The wind was whipping waves on its surface. Clouds towered above us, the wind roared.

  ‘Come on,’ said Will. ‘There’s shelter at the gate house.’

  Together, we pressed forward, the wind pushing us up the final curve of the hill. The donkey followed behind, clanking and braying. And then came the rain.

  Sheets of water that turned the road grey, sluicing mud into puddles. Our hair plastered to our heads; we were soaked in seconds. The guardsmen called above the wind’s roar. They had their bows ou
t. Squinting through the darkening evening, wiping rain from my face and hair from eyes, I felt a shock of fear.

  Will pushed his hand across his face, peered up at the guardsmen. ‘What?’

  ‘They’re aiming at us!’ I stared around. There was nowhere to run, no shelter here beside the moat. This was the killing ground.

  ‘Not at us. At that!’ Will pointed.

  There was a shade, a darkness, hiding in the shadow of the gate house walls. It crouched, like a panther about to spring. Will and I stared at each other, gasping for breath in the downpour. Above, crows croaked, harsh above the rain and wind. Streaming in a great cloud, they flew from the tower, speeding around the Castle like smoke.

  The rain stung my face and I brushed strands of hair from my eyes. It was so hard to see. A black figure, silhouetted against the grey stone gate house. Its cloak blew around it, blurring into the rain.

  ‘They’re trying to stop him,’ said Will.

  ‘Why? Who is he?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  I staggered towards the gate house, the wind pushing me on. This had to be stopped. I needed to get warm and dry, and so did Will, and so did the donkey. Whoever it was could wait. I wanted the bridge down.

  For a moment, the figure stood as the wind surged and roared and then, in an explosion of fury, flung both fists into the air, as though reaching into the clouds. Thunder roared, reverberating off the stone fortress.

  The guards lifted their weapons.

  ‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Put that drawbridge back!’

  The person straightened. Male? Female? It was shorter than the guards. But powerful. The air tingled, the shadows shifted. The thunder paused. The figure lifted an arm. Pigeons lifted from their nests in the rock face, startled into a clattering rush. A wave of air pushed past me, and another, longer, thundering echoed against the stonework until the air and ground shook with the strength of the sound. The unwinding of heavy chains clattered above the thunder. The windlass began to turn, creaking faster and faster, and the bridge came loose, dropping into place with a splash.

  Calls from the Castle gate house across the moat. Almost negligently, the person in black waved his hand. The rain stopped, the wind stilled. The waves along the moat subsided, stilled. The stranger stepped onto the bridge.

  From across the water, a clear voice called, ‘Let her pass. She’s a friend!’

  But the soldiers had their weapons ready and their faces were hard, suspicious. ‘Hold!’ roared the sergeant, ‘or I fire.’

  One word, one thought, was all it would take and the stranger would be dead on our bridge. And, I thought, we’ll never know what she’s here for. I remembered my father’s sleepy voice repeating his dream: ‘If we are to weather this, our doom.’ I ran forward, towards the archers.

  We cannot slaughter a stranger.

  All this happened fast, yet I seemed to see it all slowly, as if time itself had stilled. I reached the gate house. The guards did not notice me. They were watching the person on the bridge, who had turned her back to stare upwards at the Castle.

  ‘Ready?’ called the sergeant. The men pulled back their bowstrings, held them taut. ‘Aim.’

  I stepped between the guards and the stranger, turned to face the arrow points. Held my palm up. ‘Stop!’

  ‘Fire!’ called the sergeant.

  My father, watching from the parapet, had a look of horror on his face.

  Too late.

  Time snapped back. The clanging donkey reaching the gate-house. My father calling, a fear-filled cry. Will, leaping towards me, bundling me out of the way of the arrow that sped, faster than thought, towards my heart. The stranger turning in surprise.

  She lifted a hand. As one, the arrows thudded into the ground. Their points jabbed into the soil like a picket fence across the base of the bridge.

  I lay underneath Will’s warm body, my face pressed into the small stones of the road, and felt only surprise. Turning my head, I saw my father gasping, then he doubled forward. Through the crenellations of the tower I could see his body shaking. He was being sick. Briefly I wondered why, but then my eye was caught by the slight, still figure in white that stood beside him.

  Gold glittered, shining bright at her neck, its radiance lighting the darkening clouds. She lifted pale arms.

  ‘Enough,’ she breathed, so quietly that I doubted anyone but me could hear her, but all the guards stopped, frozen in their places, their weapons falling to the earth. The shadowed stranger sighed and smiled, a flash of white teeth against her hood, and the storm clouds scattered like a flock of birds.

  Will climbed to his feet, offered me a hand. Above us a star glittered: Venus, the star of evening.

  Part Two

  10

  No More Governesses

  The woman in white waved at me. Her voice sounded inside my head. ‘Well done! You found your way home.’

  It was the voice of the girl from the forest. Yet, this person was no girl. Even seen from a distance, she seemed old. Very old.

  Daddy, his personal guards trailing behind him, crossed the bridge at a run. ‘Dana! Dana!’

  He hugged me, crushing me to him so my cheek was scratched on his gold buttons.

  ‘Daddy, I’m alright. Really.’ Embarrassed, I struggled out of his embrace.

  Will gasped, stared at me with bulging eyes. ‘You’re the princess?’ he whispered. He pulled the brown cap off his head and knelt on the dusty road. ‘Sire.’

  Daddy kept one arm around me, but with the other he pulled the boy up by his shoulder. ‘No kneeling, son. I’m in your debt.’

  I didn’t mind Daddy holding me. There’s nothing like your father’s arm to make you feel safe. ‘He saved me, Daddy.’ It was a relief to be home.

  ‘I saw.’ Daddy reached his hand out to Will, who took it. They shook hands seriously, man to man. Will was only a little shorter than my father, but so much slighter in frame that he seemed smaller. His brown hair was tousled and dirty from the road. Hesitantly, he shook Daddy’s hand. Finally, as if not quite believing where he was, or who he was with, he began to smile. He had a nice smile; his eyes crinkled and his cheeks dimpled. I grinned back at him.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten you, missy,’ said Daddy, and I stopped beaming. Letting go of my rescuer, he squeezed my shoulders and shook me, a quick shake. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been hunting all over for you. When we found your clothing we thought you’d been kidnapped.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, sulkily.

  ‘You’re filthy! No wonder this young man didn’t recognize you.’ He looked at the boy again. Keep looking, I thought, hoping he’d stay distracted. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

  ‘William,’ said the boy. ‘But people call me Will.’

  The sergeant, a deep-voiced man with a barrel chest, bowed. ‘Sire. My most humble apologies.’

  ‘It’s not your fault that my daughter decided to throw herself in front of archers,’ said Daddy. ‘Although, perhaps a little less enthusiasm with the weapons might not go amiss.’

  The man had a deep scar on his cheek that twisted his face. He stared at Daddy like an equal. ‘When you’re in battle everything seems to slow down. I swear I could see the arrow coming out of that string, inch by cursed inch, just as I realized who this young lady was. My men would never miss a target at that range. We knew she’d be dead.’

  I swallowed.

  The sergeant grabbed Will’s hand. ‘Young man. You’re very brave. Very fast. Never seen anyone move so quickly. And what’, he added grimly, ‘made you leap in front of the archers, my lady?’

  I shrugged. How to explain my impulsive dive? ‘You were going to make a mistake,’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘She wanted to protect me,’ said the stranger, and put back her hood. Female. Her wrists were delicate, her neck lifting in a strong, clean line. But there was nothing feminine about her strong face or her clothes — dusty peasant-brown jerkin and hose. Her voice was deep and she spoke
with an accent. Was it French?

  We stared. Oh, how we stared, all of us frozen into stillness before this stranger. For although her grey eyes glittered, her blue-black skin merged with the dull brown of her clothes. Black on black. The last of the colour left the sky as she spoke. It was as though night itself had taken on human flesh and paid us a visit. Then she smiled, and I was no longer afraid. For a smile is always a smile, no matter the colour of the skin, and she seemed a lonely and tired stranger.

  I smiled back. ‘Welcome, lady.’

  She took my hand. Her black hair was braided into strange patterns on her skull. ‘Greetings, child. I thank you.’

  Then she looked past me and sighed, a sound of pleasure, or relief. ‘Ah. My lady. You called — I have answered.’

  An old woman walked across the bridge. White hair resting on her shoulders, a plain white robe held tightly closed at her throat. Where had I seen that hair, that robe, before? I felt a sense of something hidden, of great power tightly controlled. My dream: an old woman and a necklace and a chest torn open. But, no, this woman was moving. Yet still I had an image of a woman in white and a girl with brown hair.

  The guards backed away, creeping on silent feet towards the side of the road. The sergeant swallowed and tried to ease the armour at his throat. He looked behind him, as if searching for escape.

  Only Will and my father remained. Will, looking puzzled, stared first at the stranger in black then at the old woman.

  My father cleared his throat. ‘Rosa. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Brother,’ said the old woman. Her voice was that of the girl in the wood, but deeper. Softer. Older. She came up to me, took my hand. She smelt musty. Like an old person, but when she smiled at me I could see the spark in her eye. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  Holding my hand, she reached out the other to Will. ‘Thank you too, young man. You did well.’ She smiled at us both for a moment and in my head I heard her: ‘Well done, my dear. Well done.’