The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Well,’ Sedgely said cheerfully, his eyes brightening at the sight of the jar of apple-ale on the table. ‘I think a toast may now be in order!’

  He uncorked the jar with an enthusiastic pop, and was just lifting it to his mouth when a chorus of voices cried, ‘No, Sedgely! Stop! ’Tis starthorn ale!’

  Sedgely stopped with the mouth of the jar only an inch away from his bristling moustache. He put it back on the table, shaking his head sadly. ‘I should’ve known,’ he said miserably. ‘All together too much apple-ale left lying about in this castle. I should’ve known some of it would be poisoned! Remind me never to touch another drop of starkin brew.’

  ‘Very well, if you are sure,’ Lisandre said.

  Sedgely tugged his beard despondently. ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s rather a shame, though, for I was just about to ask my brother to grant you unlimited access to our kitchen and our cellars for the rest of your life, as a reward for your courage and loyalty. But since you are determined not to drink a drop of starkin brew . . .’

  ‘Now, now, no need to be hasty,’ Sedgely said hurriedly. ‘Have to give an old horse time for reflection, you know. Mustn’t be rash. I know you young things are always in a hurry, not taking the time for reflection or repose, but it doesn’t pay, I promise you. Slowly does it, young miss, slowly does it.’

  ‘You are a very wise old horse,’ the starkin girl said, her blue eyes gleaming bright with laughter. ‘Ziggy, will you call for refreshments? I think Sedgely is right. A toast is definitely in order—and I’ll bet a bag of silver crowns that Pedrin and Durrik are hungry!’

  Lisandre had been bemusingly pretty even when grimy and matted with leaves, or with her face red and scrunched up with tears, or set hard with misery and determination. Now, with her whole being radiant with joy, her face alight with mischief, she was so entrancing that Pedrin could not take his eyes off her.

  Suddenly he became aware that Briony was watching him, her eyes sombre and grey as the sky outside. Colour scorched up his face, right to the very tips of his ears. He gave her an anxious, pleading look and she smiled at him, the colour of her eyes suddenly lighting to moon-silver. He smiled back rather ruefully but, as if drawn by a magnet, his gaze returned once more to Lisandre, who was gleefully telling her brother some of their adventures.

  Durrik nudged him in the ribs. ‘Shut your mouth, Pedrin, you’re drooling,’ he whispered.

  Pedrin cast him a furious, embarrassed look but Durrik only grinned and mimed wiping his mouth.

  ‘You climbed down from the castle on a rope?’ Ziggy cried, a little scandalised. ‘And stowed away on a barge? Lisandre!’

  ‘Well, Ziggy, you’d still be fast asleep if I hadn’t,’ Lisandre said rather impatiently. ‘Or dead.’

  ‘I suppose so, but Lise . . . what if someone had seen you!’ Zygmunt said. ‘And really, the clothes you are wearing . . . and your hair!’

  Lisandre rolled her eyes and looked towards her friends, expecting and receiving sympathetic grins. Then her eyes suddenly lit with impishness.

  ‘Pedrin, Durrik, I’ve got one! Listen! What is the difference between Ziggy awake and Ziggy asleep?’

  ‘What?’ they asked obediently.

  ‘The first, he’s a sheepish count, and the second, he’s counting sheep!’

  Laughter pealed out.

  ‘Bully beef!’ Mags cried.

  ‘Not bad,’ Durrik conceded. ‘We’ll make a riddle-master out of you yet.’

  ‘You are such a tomfool, Lise,’ Pedrin grinned and gently punched her arm.