by Farr, Cathy;
‘Well, you nearly made it!’ Mortimer grinned.
It was hard not to like Seth. He was obviously a mummy’s boy, thought Wil, but it was hardly surprising after what happened to his brother, Marcus. Although Wil did wonder if Seth really had what it takes to become a Fellman – he was very accident prone!
By mid-afternoon they reached the southern edge of Thesker Pyke. The dark woodland and overbearing cliffs that had edged the long Beck gradually flattened-out onto a great expanse of scrubland – there wasn’t a tree in sight. All Wil could see was grey, scrubby grass and grey sky – way off in the distance he could hear the sound of a roaring waterfall.
‘Welcome to Nell’s Reach, Wil,’ said Mortimer. ‘Leads down to Nell’s Drop and Esk Fall. Beyond that is Goatmed Scarp - it’s all the same - one big drop.’
He nodded towards the sound of the waterfall.
‘Are they high then?’ asked Wil.
‘Well, put it this way – you wouldn’t want to jump off Goatmed Scarp and expect to live – even if you were being chased by a pack of Wraithe Wolves!’
Wil made a mental note not to go over to have a look.
‘Well, from here, I’m pretty sure we’re about three hours walk from Saran,’ said Mortimer looking up at the sky. He was still carrying the carcass of the deer across his shoulders. ‘I’d say we’ve got about four hours of light left, so how about, we get on home and I’ll cook up this beast as a celebration when we get there?’
Wil’s heart sank. The others agreed enthusiastically and without any further discussion they set off in the direction of home.
They marched with renewed vigour along the top of the Reach, all the time accompanied by the distant sound of thundering water. On one side the river was flowing fast now as it gathered momentum on its way down stream, on the other was a long, narrow valley, filled mostly with pine trees, and a few oak and beech dotted among them – all of which seemed to have taken advantage of the shelter between the exposed Fells on either side. Mortimer’s face lit up.
‘Great! Hester Beck – I love this place – used to come up here when I was a kid to fish with my father and uncle. It’s a great little river for trout!’
‘Do you ever think of anything other than your stomach, Mortimer Merridown?’ exclaimed Gisella, grinning.
‘Well, yer,’ said Mortimer. ‘But there’s so much great stuff you can eat out here – just seems a shame not to try it!’
‘I don’t know if I’d like trout,’ grimaced Seth. ‘My mother says they’ve got too many bones and I might choke.’
‘And Mortimer says, I think you ought to stop listening to your mother and live a little, Seth Tanner!’
Gisella and Wil laughed at Seth’s expression of horrified disbelief.
‘Come on,’ said Mortimer, breaking into a run. ‘Let’s see if we can catch ourselves a nice big trout and I’ll cook it now – we haven’t had any lunch yet and I’m starving!’
They all ran down to the river and within only a few moments Mortimer had speared a trout using one of his bolts tied to a long stick. Fired-up with confidence after his swift catch, he made them stay while he pursued another – which took considerably longer to land!
As late afternoon drew on they sat and watched Mortimer gut and cook the two fish over a tiny fire that he made in between two river rocks.
‘This’ll be great - the fire will cook the fish and, in that little space, it’ll also smoke a bit – the flavour will be just fantastic – you watch!’
Mortimer was right – even Seth was forced to agree that the fish was absolutely delicious - there was even enough for Farrow to have some, which she gulped down in two grateful mouthfuls.
Wil sat a little way off from the others and watched them enviously as they laughed and joked. Now that they were nearing their home Gisella, Mortimer and Seth had begun to relax and enjoy themselves. After all, Wil thought, they were going home; he was going to face the very real prospect of being hung! His shoulder tingled again. In any other circumstance he would be loving every minute of this adventure. He really liked Mortimer and Gisella, and in spite of himself, he couldn’t help liking Seth. He was clumsy and hapless but he was also prepared to have a go and to laugh at himself if things went wrong, which - it seemed – they often did!
‘Well, well – what do we have here?’
A man’s voice suddenly came from behind them.
‘How lovely – a picnic! Can we all join in?’
Wil swallowed his last mouthful in one. He knew that voice. He looked in the direction it had come from – there stood a tall, thin man with a straggly black beard.
‘Sir Jerad Tinniswood,’ thought Wil. ‘This is not going to be good!’
Tinniswood’s sunken eyes were blood-shot and he looked as if he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep or a good meal in years. He was flanked by a dozen or so thuggish-looking men mounted on sweating horses. Each one was armed with either a crossbow or a sling shot - all of which were, at that moment, trained down on the picnicking group.
Farrow shifted her weight back onto her haunches and prepared to spring - Sir Jerad guessed her plan.
‘If I were you I would keep that mutt under control – she might be fairly proficient against four, but fifteen, all with bows aimed at her heart – I think the odds may not be in her favour this time!’ sneered Tinniswood. A few of his companions nearest him nodded – one spat on the ground.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Mortimer, slowly wiping his fishy hands in his trousers.
‘My dear boy – at this moment it’s not really what I want that counts. You see, my new friends here were simply going about their business the other day – venison rustling, you know – when four of their colleagues were set upon and unceremoniously dispatched by an animal that, they tell me, looked amazingly like this one,’ Tinniswood gestured towards Farrow, feigning shock as he spoke. ‘And now, strangely enough – they want revenge!’
‘No! It couldn’t have been – we were – no, not Farrow!’ Seth looked in confusion from the smirking Tinniswood to Wil and back again.
‘Yes – Farrow!’ spat Tinniswood. ‘But luckily for the rest of these men, the whole of Saran hurtled to the conclusion that young Master Calloway here tried his best to murder you, boy. The trial sounded an absolute hoot! It was such a marvellous spectacle to see you disappearing into the dusk,’ he said addressing Wil directly. ‘Clinging on to that poor girl for dear life – she looked most unhappy – good-looking boy like you, too!’
‘How do you know about the trial?’ asked Wil.
‘Oh, I have my sources. The natives of Saran might have closed ranks with Lady E, but others have not!’ As he spoke his eyes flashed towards Gisella.
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Gisella. ‘I haven’t made any pacts with anyone!’
‘No, young lady – you haven’t, ha, ha!’
Gisella looked utterly confused but then Tinniswood’s words sank in.
‘Mother?’ she said almost imperceptibly.
‘What a bright girl you are after all, Miss Fairfax! I must mention it to your dear mother next time I see her – you are such a disappointment to her, you know.’
Gisella looked devastated but stayed silent. Wil could feel anger rising with every word that passed from this malicious man’s lips.
‘Don’t listen to him, Gisella – everything he says is pure poison!’ said Wil, remembering how Tinniswood had tried to turn him against Lady Élanor in the jail.
‘Well this really is the most amazing luck,’ continued Tinniswood in mock surprise. Ignoring Wil, he turned to his henchmen. ‘A precious son, a loving daughter, a chef and a seer – you see, gentlemen – patience really is a virtue!’
‘What are you going to do with us?’ demanded Wil.
‘Well first I’m going to insist that your chef here cooks up something delicious with that deer,’ he answered in a slow drawl, looking down at Farrow’s earlier kill.
‘I’ll do no such thing!’
objected Mortimer, staring fiercely at Tinniswood.
‘Oh, you will, boy – because if you don’t I’ll put an arrow through Miss Fairfax’s pretty thigh… and if you serve it up burnt, I’ll put an arrow in the other one!’ Tinniswood calmly took a bow from his nearest henchman, clicked it into position and pointed it at Gisella. The men around him guffawed.
‘How do I know that you won’t just wait until I’ve cooked it and then shoot us anyway?’ asked Mortimer.
‘You don’t,’ answered Tinniswood and kicked the dead deer towards him. ‘Now get on with it, I’m hungry!’
As Mortimer started to prepare the deer for cooking, Sir Jerad gave the order for the others to be tied up.
‘When do we get the hound?’ growled one of the thugs as he bound a length of rope tightly around Wil’s legs. Wil could feel the hilt of his hunting knife digging painfully into his ankle – he tried not to flinch and prayed that the weapon wouldn’t be noticed.
‘She will be useful when we go over Tel Harion. You can do what you like with her once we get back to Armelia, but remember, the seer is mine!’ Tinniswood answered.
‘Why are you going to take us there?’ Gisella asked. The high pitch of her voice gave away just how scared she really was.
‘Because, my pretty girl, you will be useful to me – of course! And even more useful to Lord Rexmoore once I deliver you to him!’
He spoke right into Gisella’s face and, as he stopped speaking, he kissed her on the cheek. Gisella jerked away. Rage flared in Wil’s gut.
‘You keep away from her, Tinniswood, or I’ll..’
‘You’ll what exactly, young Calloway – what exactly do you think you will accomplish trussed up like a chicken?’
He strode over and grinned down at Wil lying on the ground with his hands tied firmly behind his back. Suddenly Tinniswood’s eyes glimmered. He squinted down at Wil’s belt.
‘What have you got there, boy – in that pink purse – is that gold you’re carrying? Silly to wear it where anyone can see it!’
‘It’s not gold – it’s nothing,’ Wil answered hurriedly. He tried to squirm away but before he could do anything Tinniswood snatched at the bag – the cord that kept it fastened to Wil’s leather belt snapped.
‘Let me see, what do we have here?’
‘That’s mine, give it back!’ shouted Wil.
Tinniswood plunged his long skinny hand into the silk bag and pulled out a smaller plain cloth package. Frowning with distain he held it up – Wil could see a familiar label and dreaded to think what that one might say. He prayed that neither Lady Élanor, nor Tally, had thought to put Belladonna or Hemlock into the bag – he could imagine Tally justifying such an inclusion - just in case!
Tinniswood held the handwritten label at arms length and squinted at it.
‘What is this?’
He read the writing on the label out loud.
‘“Juniper… excellent accompaniment to venison. Crush and rub into meat before cooking. For best results cook over an open fire. Best before-” is this a joke, boy?’ He stooped and glared through narrowed eyes. Wil swallowed a smile and desperately hoped that his relief didn’t show as he answered.
‘Mortimer gave it to me – to look after when he went up for the chase. Just in case it… uh… got in the way.’
Wil caught Mortimer’s eye but looked away quickly.
‘Oh, yer… Thanks, Wil – I was just about to ask for it actually – juniper – hmm, good idea!’ But Mortimer didn’t sound too convincing.
‘How do I know this isn’t a trick?’ Tinniswood demanded, peering into the bag again. He pulled out another plain cloth bag and read the label dangling from it.
‘Garlic – delicious with all meats. Not advisable for game. Rub into meat and leave to rest for three hours. Ideal for casseroles and roasts. Best before the next full moons.’
By now Mortimer had cottoned on. He and Wil exchanged amused glances. Mortimer spoke again.
‘Oh, absolutely! Garlic with venison – ooh, never a good idea, unless you’ve got lots of time for the flavour to really go into the meat – my mother always says…’
‘I don’t care what your mother, father or Aunty Nelly says about cooking with bloody garlic – just cook our supper and get on with it!…and if it isn’t absolutely delicious, I’ll shoot Master Tanner – it’s his hound I’m after anyway!’
Tinniswood chucked the bag at Mortimer and stormed down to the river where he stooped to throw a handful of water over his face.
Mortimer looked at Wil – in spite of their current predicament, his eyes twinkled with amusement.
‘I think that bag of yours has a mind of its own, Calloway! Do you think it will give me black pepper, too?’
He spoke in a whisper and reached into the bag. As he drew out another pale cream, plain cloth bag he let out a snort of laughter – Tinniswood looked up – but Mortimer managed to turn his outburst into quite a convincing sneeze. He showed the label to Wil.
Wil smirked back.
‘Don’t worry, Wil – I don’t know what this bag is but I’ll keep it safe for you - if I give it back now, Prince Charming over there will suspect something!’ Mortimer whispered and tucked the little bag into his own belt.
With a brief nod Wil lay back on the grass. Bound and helpless, he could only watch while Mortimer prepared the food.
Wil thought about the pink bag. Had Tally really gone to the trouble of packing cooking ingredients - or did the bag somehow know what you needed when you reached into it? After all, when he had needed the wound treatment earlier, Pricilla found it straight away – and then, just as he was wondering how to apply the wound powder, the bandage had fallen out.
Thoughts of the wound powder brought Wil back to reality with a jolt. How was a pink silk bag going to help him now – enchanted or not? He needed to get himself, and everyone else, away from Tinniswood and his men, preferably before they went back up onto Tel Harion – but if he helped them all to escape, they would still end up going back to Saran and he would have to face the music once the injury to his shoulder was discovered! Then he remembered that Becky already knew he’d been injured – would she tell even before he got back? They might even know already – unless something had happened to her on Tel Harion?
Just to reinforce the memory of the Order of the Magewizen of Saran, Wil’s shoulder tingled. It was an odd feeling – not quite painful.
Very soon the delicious aroma of cooking meat wafted tantalisingly around the little valley. Wil’s stomach rumbled. He was glad that they had not long feasted on the trout because it was fairly obvious that they were not going to be offered even the smallest morsel of venison.
He was right. Tinniswood gave the order for Mortimer to be tied up with the others the second he had finished cooking and then set about greedily helping himself before he called the others to join him. No one spoke as they ate, although no one could miss the sound of chomping and the occasional appreciative belch. By the time the venison had been devoured it was almost dark.
Grease glistened off Tinniswood’s beard when he next stood up to address his men. He wiped his sleeve hard across his mouth and burped loudly before he spoke.
‘Right, we’ll make camp here tonight and start out at first light tomorrow. I want to be across Tel Harion by late afternoon.’
‘Do we get the hound then?’ asked a mean-looking man leaning against a tree licking his fingers.
‘Yeh, and the girl … we want the girl too!’ leered another out of the darkness. The others muttered in agreement.
‘Gentlemen,’ soothed Tinniswood, holding his palms up as he spoke, ‘Once we are over Tel Harion and away from any risk of Wraithe Wolf attacks, you can have both the hound and the girl with my blessing - but until then, they are my prisoners, is that understood?’
An ice-cold chill ran through Wil’s veins at these words. Somehow they had to get away – he just didn’t know how!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Flight
into the Night
Wil woke in pitch blackness – it was so dark that he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or still closed. A thick fog had fallen like a blanket over the valley and smothered any glimmer of moonlight that might be shining elsewhere on the Fells.
At first he couldn’t work out exactly what had woken him – was it the loud snoring of the thug who was supposed to be standing guard over them or the chill of the early winter night air nipping at his nose and ears? But then he felt a soft tapping on his boot. Alarmed, he jerked his foot away thinking that it might be a rat looking for a midnight snack, drawn in by the remnants of the deer carcass.
Tap, tap, tap.
There it was again – very gentle, but certainly persistent. He jerked his foot again – a little rougher this time and squeezed his eye lids firmly shut – not that there was any point in opening them, as he couldn’t see a thing anyway! There was silence for a few moments, but it was the kind of silence that told Wil that there was something there.
His ears prickled as he strained to listen.
Suddenly there was a brisk flutter of wings – a definitely disgruntled flutter, Wil thought, and a very small object was dropped onto the ground right by his face. Then he felt a very soft tap on his nose and a low, ‘Crronk!’
He opened his eyes in disbelief. There, right in front of his face as he lay on the cold, damp ground, was Pricilla! She was holding one of the small, plain packages from the pink silk bag in her beak, which she kept picking up and dropping right next to his nose. Then she lifted the label so that he could see it. To his amazement the writing was glowing silver.
‘Yes, I know about that, Pricilla, but I don’t think its going to help right now!’ Wil whispered to the persistent bird, praying that she wouldn’t wake up anyone else. He was trying to work out what on earth she was trying to tell him when she flicked the label over and held it up again - then realisation dawned. On the reverse side of the label, in the same elegant silver writing shone the words: