The Children of the King

by Sonya Hartnett

  “Having whispered the words, the Duke headed north, further from the city and the black Tower, to the wild lands where he was still welcome.

  “The dog-man took a helper, and rode into the city. In his cloak was a letter from the Duke. He arrived at the Tower in the grey light of evening, gave the letter to the princes’ guards. The letter was read and, according to its instructions, the keys to the Keep were handed over to the dog-man. With a growl, the dog-man then sent three of the princes’ guards away, keeping one as a second helper in what was to follow.

  “Midnight is the time when dark deeds are done: at midnight the dog-man unlocked the door of the room where the two boys slept. No moonlight could have found its way through the walls to shine on their childish faces: whatever light there was would have come from torches, red flames licking the stone. It was a late hour for two children, and no doubt they were asleep; but Edward was unwell and nervous, and maybe he woke at the slightest sound. Maybe he saw a silhouette in the doorway, and knew that this thing he had been waiting for had finally come for him. His brother, huddled in sheets beside him, probably did not stir. Perhaps Edward, remembering he was a prince, imperiously demanded to know what was happening. Possibly the dog-man, like all good dogs, assured him of his kind intent. Or perhaps the three curs went about their work in silence, as befitting those who’d always lived in shadows.

  “Two boys, powerless, defenceless, weakened by the weight of fear, present no difficult challenge to such shadow-creatures. It is a simple thing, the work of mere moments, to cover children’s mouths, to swathe them in linen, to lift them from where they lie. When the dog-man and his companions left the room, each helper carried in his arms a bundle wrapped in sheets; and they left behind nothing living but a stray beetle or two, nothing moving but the quaking torch flames. An empty room, and silence; and moonbeams no longer trying to breach the stony walls.”

  Heloise, Jeremy and May stared at the floor, at the forest of chair legs and the overlapping layers of rug. May’s face was white.

  “I don’t understand.” Cecily spoke in a voice which suggested she was about to burst into stinging tears. “Tell me properly what happened. Did they carry them outside to set them free? Is that what happened?”

  “Nothing was left living but a stray beetle,” her uncle repeated sharply; he looked to the fireplace in which were heaped the black ashes and coals of another day’s fire. “That’s enough for today,” he said. “Go away now, I’m tired.”

  May was hurrying; Cecily could hardly keep up. Already they were almost to the woods and Heron Hall had shrunk to the size of a toy behind them. The evacuee had said barely a word since the storytelling had come to an end. Heloise had swept the girls off the floor and out of the room; Jeremy had followed in silence. Peregrine continued to sit in the armchair, his eyes on Byron, the only soul permitted to stay. Cecily had felt hot and disjointed, as if the tale of the princes had given her a dose of flu. May had slipped away without inviting Cecily to follow; but Cecily did follow, as if on a string, stumbling along unwillingly but also irresistibly. They’d left the cobbled yard behind before she’d gathered the wit to say, “May?” They’d crossed most of the wind-tossed field before May answered, “What?”

  But by then Cecily had forgotten the question, and was blowing with the effort of hauling herself through the grass. May flitted into the woods and Cecily lurched after her. She knew where they were going and felt increasingly reluctant to arrive, but the string towed her remorselessly. She didn’t want to go to the ruins, and May was clearly willing to go alone; but on and on she shambled, as if what must happen could not happen unless Cecily, too, was there.

  They crossed the far field and forded the river, stones plunking into the water as they clawed their way up the bank. And finally in front of them, sunk heavily in the land, stood the remains of Snow Castle, and May came to a halt. Her thin chest was heaving, there was dirt on her knees. She drew a breath and shouted, “Hello!”

  Hello! replied the castle. Hell-o.

  “We’re here! We’ve come to see you! Can you see us?”

  Us? asked the castle. Us?

  May’s sapphire eyes, alert as a tiger’s, searched the edifice. The walls with their glassless windows seemed to stare back sightlessly. “Can you see them, Cecily?”

  The breeze leapt up to blow Cecily’s blond curls across her face. She wiped them away and they returned eagerly, smothering as seaweed. She scanned the ruins and couldn’t see anything but smutted stone and smudged sky. In truth she didn’t want to see anything more, and said, “They’re not here. They’ve probably gone.”

  May said, “No, they’re here.”

  The wind vaulted the river with sudden ferocity. It gushed past the children, unravelled the ribbon in Cecily’s hair. It battered the castle like an invading force of old. The castle stood unflinching, impervious to everything but time. The gale moved on, dragging leaves in its wake.

  May said, “They played army and warships.”

  Cecily squinted at the ruins, the ribbon fluttering at her face. She looked high, to where the ceiling would have been; now there was nothing but a hazardous ridge of stones. No child could ever perch there. Only ravens and gargoyles could perch there. She stopped looking there. “It’s a coincidence.” The breeze took her words. “Any boys would play those games. They always play those games. They think it’s fun.”

  It was a plain fact: boys have played war games for centuries, as if war is fun. May turned her face away. “Hello!” she called, and the castle returned the greeting with unfriendly cheek: Hello! Oh, hello!

  Cecily tried something: she laughed. It was a fake and empty laugh, but it made May look at her. “It’s just an old story, May. It’s hundreds of years old.” And although she’d been told by her most trusted uncle that history lives forever and touches everything, she said, “That story is just . . . dust. It’s not real anymore. And there’s no such thing as . . .”

  She stopped before she said the word. She didn’t want to use the word, which was one her daddy would chuckle at. That word only appeared in make-believe, and this was real life. And if, on the odd chance, it was true and such things did exist in real life — well then, she’d rather not be here. She’d rather be somewhere else. She shifted her weight, started again. “Even if they were . . . why would they be here? What’s Snow Castle got to do with them? It’s not in their story.”

  May gazed at her intently, her eyes shining with a steady light. “But it must be in the story. The castle is the reason Mr Lockwood is telling the story, remember?”

  Cecily winced. “Maybe it’s in the Duke’s story, or the Queen’s. The princes died — didn’t they? — the dog-man came and killed them, didn’t he? — and they never had anything to do with Snow Castle.”

  May stood, buffeted by the breeze; and even as Cecily watched, the light in her eyes faded as if she was recalling what could and couldn’t be. She turned to the ruins, said, “I suppose so.”

  “Think about it!” Cecily clung to her piece of driftwood logic. “This place wasn’t in their story, so why would they be here? They wouldn’t.”

  “Hmm,” said May.

  “They’re just two boys, those boys — that’s all. Two boys like we’re two girls.”

  “Hmm,” said May.

  Again they looked into the ruins. Still no bird cried, no dragonfly flew. Cecily looked at the sky, the castle, at the scuffed earth at her feet. It had been a strange long day, cluttered with pictures: a palace courtyard bombed to pieces, her brother weeping on a first-floor landing, her uncle glancing up from his letter, two bundles lying laxly in workmen’s arms. She had the dreamy sensation of being feverish, being encased in a skin of glass: everything, so far, was happening outside the glass and could not touch her. But glass is breakable, and Cecily knew that the moment it broke, a river of fear would gush in — fear for her father in the pummelled city, fear for her brother and his troubled heart, fear for the world she would grow up in. She
tried to see again what she’d remembered here before, the long-lost toys, the cuddles from her mother, a taste of biscuits: and none of it returned. “Let’s go,” she said, because she wanted to be far from this trammelled place, she’d suddenly had more than enough of it. “I’m glad they’re not here. I don’t like those boys. They should stay with their host family and behave themselves. We should have told Mama about them, like I wanted to.”

  “Don’t,” said May.

  “I won’t,” Cecily answered curtly.

  She had the smallest concern that May wouldn’t follow, but the girl turned and traipsed home beside her. Cecily wanted her skin of glass to last as long as possible, so she didn’t say much. She pointed out a flock of sheep, a bramble bush, a few other interesting things. They didn’t speak of Snow Castle, nor of the princes and the Duke, nor of the look that had come to Peregrine’s face at the end of the story, a shadow of hard disgust. And Cecily didn’t think to ask why May, who, though brave, was just a little girl, would be so eager, even desperate, to talk to a pair of ghosts.

  By the time the family gathered for dinner, the world was normal again. Rain was falling, which was typical, Heloise and Peregrine spoke, as was their habit, as though they’d only recently met, and Jeremy asked his uncle questions about the land. It was almost as if the war wasn’t happening, until Heloise spoiled it. “I suppose it will be another long night in London,” she said. “I expect the aeroplanes will come again tonight.”

  It was Cecily’s favourite dessert, strawberry tart, and she didn’t appreciate having a bomb dropped on it. She put her fork down and sighed. “I assume so,” Peregrine said.

  “And once again we’ll be able to do simply nothing to prevent it?”

  “That’s likely,” Peregrine agreed.

  “We’re so fortunate to be here,” Heloise said; and shivered at some memory of having come within a whisker of actually not being there. “Aren’t we, children?”

  “Yes,” said May and Cecily, but Jeremy only glanced at his uncle, and in that glance there was certainly gratitude, but something else besides: a barely quelled impatience with such sentiments, which he would not tolerate anymore.

  And maybe it was this glance that made Peregrine, at breakfast the next morning, look up suddenly from the newspaper and ask, “Where is Jeremy?”

  His teacup stood empty, his plate pristine, his chair tucked neatly against the table. At this hour of the morning, the light came through the windows in such a way that the chair and the porcelain looked dipped in gold, heavenly. “He must be asleep,” Cecily said, lunging to pluck the best toast from the rack. “More for us!”

  Peregrine’s gaze swept the room, stopped briefly on May, who was watching him, and moved on. “Run upstairs and find him. His breakfast will go cold.”

  “But —”

  “Now, please.”

  “Hurgh!” Cecily pushed back her chair.

  When she’d left the room and clomped off down the hall, Peregrine looked again at the evacuee. “Have you seen Jem this morning, May?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” The little girl looked at the table, the bowls, the pots and napkins, the silver cutlery. “Has he gone?” she asked.

  The wise lonely man looked at the wise lonely child, and answered honestly. “I suppose he has.”

  He was gone. He had left, on his dresser, a note which Cecily carried downstairs at a gallop. I can’t stand by and do nothing, it read. That is not noble. Please don’t worry about me. Peregrine read the note with a soft smile. “That is not noble,” he mused.

  Heloise, of course, had to be told. She emerged from her room like a wild witch, flew hissing to her son’s bedroom. She saw for herself that the room contained no fourteen-year-old boy. She glared again at the note crushed in her hand. It bore no time of writing, but the stillness of the room — the coldness of the grate, the closedness of the curtains, the very thin gap around the wardrobe’s slightly open door — testified he’d been gone for hours. He had waited until night was at its thickest before slipping into the dark. “Find him!” commanded Heloise; then, more like a mother and less like a witch, moaned, “Jem, you silly boy.”

  That morning, Heron Hall seemed the roost of flighty birds. The staff went about their chores distractedly, with frequent stoppings to update their understanding of the situation. Cecily, May and Byron found a corner in the kitchen where they could go overlooked while remaining warm, fed and informed.

  Within hours of the discovery of the note, certain facts were known. Jeremy had taken his coat, boots and money, as well as a change of underclothes which, carrying no suitcase, he must have stuffed in his pockets. The grounds of Heron Hall had been thoroughly searched by the staff, and no sign of the heir to the house had been found. Hobbs, the Hall’s driver, had gone to the village to make enquiries, and returned to report that no young man matching Jeremy’s description had bought a ticket or boarded a train. “So he’s on foot,” said Mrs Winter, leaving the house to keep itself while she sat down for mid-morning tea. “Wandering the road like a tinker.”

  “The police will pick him up,” said Cook with satisfaction, as if the collection would be followed by Jeremy’s boiling in a pot.

  “The police?” Cecily sat up. “Are the police looking for him?”

  “Probably not looking for him,” said the housekeeper. “Probably got better things to do than hunt for a naughty boy. But probably they’ll find him. They’ll have to answer to your mother if they don’t, and if that isn’t a good reason to bring out the bloodhounds and track him even to the ends of the earth, I don’t know what is.”

  Cook smirked. “Good luck to him. Enjoy his freedom while it lasts.”

  “Isn’t freedom he’s after. He wants nobility, according to his letter.”

  “Nobility? What’s that? Nobility. There’s nothing noble in this world anymore.”

  “Wants to make a pest of himself, by the looks of it.”

  Her brother’s escapade had initially astonished and hugely impressed Cecily; now, three hours later and cooling like gruel, it was shaming her. Jeremy had upset Mama and disrupted the house, and now the police were involved, as if he’d committed a grubby crime. She was quite certain he would soon be found and brought home, and then everyone would quietly laugh at him. He had done something foolish. Somehow, he had sullied Heron Hall, or at least the flawless memories she had of it. He’d be brought back and then sent to boarding school, and he had only himself to blame. Cecily was angry. “I agree!” she declared imperiously. “He’s making a pest of himself.” And looked expectantly at May but the girl was typically unforthcoming, as though her thoughts were rare jewels only she could admire.

  By lunchtime Jeremy should have been sitting in his place at the table, but he wasn’t. Heloise tried to laugh, as if the situation amused. “I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing,” she said. “What is the point of it? What’s he trying to say, Peregrine? You were a boy once: what do you think he wants?” And Peregrine didn’t answer beyond smiling a cool smile, because they all knew what Jeremy wanted, even Heloise. He had been telling them since the day they arrived.

  Midday dragged into afternoon. Hobbs had been away from the house for hours, driving the roads and laneways that the runaway might travel. Cecily and May played with Cecily’s dolls. Cecily did not speak about it, but she was somewhat concerned for her brother now. Evening was coming. The day, which had been mild, was growing damp and overcast.

  At five o’clock Heloise decided to telephone her husband to tell him that his wayward son had escaped Heron Hall and was presumably making his way to the city. “It’s really very wicked of Jeremy,” she said. “Humphrey has enough to worry about.” Cecily eavesdropped on the conversation, which took place in an alcove where the telephone sat like a crown in a museum. “You’ll tell me the moment he turns up, won’t you?” she heard her mother ask, and there was a note of real worry in her voice when she said it, a note she had kept quelled so far.

  By dinnertime
there was despondency, although Cook had made a special effort to serve up something consoling. The fragrant courses on silver and china, the polished furniture reflecting the dancing fire, the curtains and paintings, the rugs on the floor only highlighted the emptiness of the night outside. Cecily thought it might be nice to talk of something other than Jeremy, if only to make everything, even her brother’s absence, seem natural: but Heloise brushed her attempts aside, her daughter an irritation, her world compressed around the figure of a single boy. “He’s going to London, of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t yet settled this assumption into her head. “If he walks all the way, it will take days. So presumably he won’t walk. Presumably a farmer or a lorry driver will pick him up and drive him to the city or to a train station somewhere.”

  “Presumably,” said Peregrine.

  “He’ll look like a tramp,” Cecily envisaged, “all shabby and smelly on the side of the road.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Cecily. That’s not how he’ll look at all. Really, that’s an absurd thing to say. Do try to think about what comes out of your mouth before it does so, please. Sit and be quiet, or leave the room.”

  Cecily cowered as if whipped. May looked away from her friend’s embarrassment. Heloise had already forgotten her daughter. “I don’t know what he thinks he can do in London. Something noble, according to his letter. He can’t stand by and do nothing. He hasn’t thought anything through sensibly, of course. No one will want a boy wandering about, getting in the way. He’ll be no help to anyone. What can he do that’s of use?”

  She shook her head many times, as if to shake out the vision of her fine-boned son smeared with soot. Perhaps the image dropped away, only to be replaced by another; something worse. “And London is so fearful at the moment, isn’t it. If he’s wandering the streets, the lights are out, the aeroplanes are coming, the bombs dropping, there’s no shelter close by . . .” She stopped, put a hand to her eyes. “What makes a boy want to do such a thing? What makes men create a world where a boy feels he must do such things?”