by Kate Forsyth
She gave him a sideways glance, then dropped her lashes. ‘Is it true that her own curse rebounded on her, so that all her children have died?’
Peregrine nodded. ‘Yes, it’s true. Though whether it’s the curse rebounding no-one can tell for sure. Except that Princess Adora lost six babies, and so now has Aunty Rozalina. I think she blames herself. We have a saying, you know, that curses are like chickens, they come home to roost’.
‘Who is we?’ Grizelda asked. ‘I mean, you’re a starkin, aren’t you? Like me? Yet that’s not a starkin saying’.
‘I have the blood of all three races in me,’ Peregrine said proudly. ‘That is why I will one day be the true king of prophecy. Born between star-crowned and iron-bound … in him, the blood of wise and wild, farseeing ones and starseeing ones’.
She stared at him, and he gazed back, his jaw set, his head held high, trying to read her expression. He wondered if she felt the revulsion that many of the starkin felt about his mixed blood. Mongrel blood, Vernisha the Vile called it, and swore that no-one with such tainted ancestry would ever wear the crown. For twenty-five years she had sat on the starkin throne and worn the starkin crown, and Peregrine’s father, the true king, had not been able to wrest it from her.
A roar of excitement went up as a hobhenky carried in a huge oval platter with a roast boar proudly displayed upon it, its head garlanded with ivy and mistletoe. He carried it up to the high table, and Peregrine stood up, saying, ‘I must go. My parents will be wondering where I am’.
‘I don’t understand it!’ Grizelda burst out. ‘Why are they not packing? Don’t they believe me?’
‘Oh, they believe you,’ Peregrine answered. ‘Though my father will have sent out scouts to verify your tale’.
‘But they must flee before the army gets here!’
Peregrine looked at her scornfully. ‘My parents won’t just abandon the castle. We have old and sick and wounded who couldn’t manage to struggle through the snow, and besides, we’re better staying here where we have food and shelter than freezing our bums off in the forest. We’ll enjoy watching the starkin do that instead’.
‘But … everyone’s feasting and having fun! Why aren’t they getting ready?’
‘We are always ready,’ Peregrine replied in exasperation. ‘My family has been fighting for years, you think they don’t plan for surprise attacks? They’re not stupid! Besides, it’s Midwinter’s Eve. This is one of the most important dates for the wildkin. To leave the rituals undone would be a very bad omen indeed’.
Grizelda gave a superstitious shudder. ‘I just can’t understand it. Don’t they realise an army’s coming to annihilate them?’
Peregrine cocked his head. ‘Can you hear the wind?’
Grizelda shrugged her shoulders impatiently. ‘Well, yes, of course. It’s howling like anything’.
‘That army of yours will barely be able to take a step out there. Their best bet is to hunker down and wait it out, and it won’t be stopping any time soon’.
‘How can you be so sure?’
He stared at her in amazement. ‘Surely you know one of my mother’s Talents is whistling the wind? She’s a weather-witch. That army of yours will be buried in snow come morning time’.
‘I thought that was just a story’. Grizelda gazed at Queen Liliana, who was trying to coax Queen Rozalina to eat some of the roast boar. At Peregrine’s snort, Grizelda said stubbornly, ‘Well, at least an exaggeration’.
‘It’s no exaggeration,’ he said shortly. ‘She can call wind and thunder and lightning and rain’.
‘What else can she do?’
Peregrine hesitated. Grizelda smiled winningly and he said reluctantly, ‘She can heal too, with the touch of her hand. That’s what makes her one of the Crafty, you know, having two Gifts. Most people only have one’.
‘What’s your Gift?’
All her questions were making him feel uncomfortable, but Peregrine could not see how to avoid answering her without being rude. He was opening his mouth to reply, when Jack barged forward to fill up Grizelda’s glass of elderflower wine and accidentally spilt it all over her skirt.
‘Idiot!’ she flashed and mopped up the golden liquid with her napkin.
‘Sorry, my lady,’ Jack answered stonily, and filled up Peregrine’s goblet, all the while waggling his thick eyebrows meaningfully.
Peregrine bit back a grin. ‘If you will excuse me, Lady Grizelda, I must go. I have only a short time to eat before the battle begins’.
‘The battle? I thought you said my brother and the army will be hunkered down, freezing their … backsides off’. The starkin girl sounded disgruntled.
‘Oh, not that battle,’ Peregrine replied. ‘Much more exciting than riding out against a few goose-pimply starkin lords. No, I’m talking about the battle I must fight tonight, against the implacable forces of darkness and death!’
She stared at him, amazed, and he grinned and walked away.
CHAPTER 3
The Oak King
PEREGRINE CLIMBED THE STEPS BACK TO HIS SEAT AT THE high table. His mother turned and smiled at him, lifting one eyebrow. Peregrine shrugged slightly and took his seat.
Jack took up his position behind him. ‘I think she was sent here to spy,’ he whispered as he carved Peregrine some meat and served him from the various jugs and platters on the table. Jack then drew his eating knife from the sheath on his belt and delicately tasted everything on Peregrine’s plate before placing it back before his master.
‘Maybe,’ Peregrine whispered back. ‘Yet what does she hope to gain? She’ll be watched closely the whole time. It’s not as if we’d let her eavesdrop on any council meetings, or send messages in secret code’.
‘She wants something,’ Jack said darkly.
‘Maybe she and her brother really do want to help overthrow Vernisha,’ Peregrine replied. ‘Imagine what it must be like having that horrible woman ruling over you! We can’t just assume that Lady Grizelda means us harm simply because she’s a starkin’.
‘You can’t trust a starkin!’ Jack protested.
‘My father’s grandmother was a starkin, remember,’ Peregrine answered rather sharply. Jack looked mutinous, but said, ‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir’.
He stood back, sliding his knives and carving fork back into the sheaths at his waist.
Peregrine waited a few moments, to make sure Jack had suffered no ill effects from the food, then began to eat. Jack was his taster as well as his squire, and so sampled all Peregrine’s food and drink in case of poison.
It was not a purely symbolic gesture. Jack’s father had been the king’s taster for many years and had died horribly three years ago from poison smuggled into the royal gravy jug. Jack, who had then been just thirteen, had begged for the right to inherit his father’s position. King Merrik had appointed him taster to the prince and, when Jack had proved loyal and handy, promoted him to the prince’s squire. King Merrik had his own taster, Jack’s uncle Liam.
The feast continued for several hours, though Peregrine knew just how difficult it must have been for the cooks to stretch out their scant supplies. He knew his mother had led a hunting party into the forest every day for a fortnight, shooting numerous deer, wild pigs, hares, beavers, rabbits and game birds for the feast, while his father’s men had cut holes in the ice to fish.
It was close to midnight when two lines of men ran in, spinning flaming torches in their hands so the dark hall was filled with giddy whirligigs of fire. Peregrine closed his eyes, shielding them behind his hand, till Jack bent and touched his shoulder gently.
The men had taken up ceremonious positions all along the wall, their torches now still and smoking fiercely. Peregrine stood up, allowing Jack to unfasten his short cloak and lay it aside. Jack passed him an oaken spear, carved beautifully with runes all along its length, and a shield woven from willow twigs. He jumped down the steps to the stone-flagged floor, where six pretty girls were sweeping an area free of straw and rushes. Queen Roza
lina brought him a crown made of brown oak leaves which rustled as she placed it upon his brow. She kissed him and smiled at him. ‘Fight well, my prince!’
He smiled back at her then took the mask she passed him, made from the hide and antlers of a stag. A low thunder of drums announced the arrival of his opponent. A tall man, twice Peregrine’s weight, bounded into the lit archway. He was dressed in red and wore a holly crown upon his bushy dark hair, the red berries glowing like droplets of blood. He carried a spear made from the wood of a holly tree and wore a mask fitted with stag antlers.
Peregrine and the horned man saluted and then ran forward to clash their spears together. It was a ceremonial battle, so neither wished to hurt the other. It was as much a dance as a battle, each attempting to leap higher or twirl faster. The crowd cheered and called encouragement, but no-one laid bets. The outcome of this battle was always the same, and had been for centuries. Peregrine, acting the role of the Oak King, the ruler of the summer months, at last laid low the Holly King, ruler of the winter months, and wrested his crown from him. Everyone cheered and toasted him and, panting slightly, Peregrine went and laid the crown of holly leaves at the Erlqueen’s feet, sweeping off his own crown.
‘Thank you,’ Queen Rozalina said in her low, sweet voice. ‘Well fought! And happy birthday, Peregrine’.
‘Fifteen now and old enough to fight a real battle,’ he replied exuberantly.
She smiled wistfully and drew him close so she could kiss his cheek. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to grow up,’ she said, then ruffled his hair affectionately.
A toast was called for Peregrine’s birthday and his victory over the King of Winter, and everyone stood up, clanking their horn cups together and shouting a huzzah. Grizelda stood up too, and raised her cup to him. Peregrine grinned and returned the gesture, and then lifted his cup to the high table and the crowd.
Servants marched in with platters of midwinter pudding, blazing with blue fire. Oohs and aahs sounded all around the room. Peregrine bounded back to his place, stripping off his heavy antlers with relief.
Jack took his spear and shield and mask from him and stowed them away neatly in their chest, then cut him a slice of pudding with his knife. Before placing it on Peregrine’s plate, he tasted some, then stood waiting to see if he would fall writhing in pain as his father had done. Nothing happened, so he offered the pudding to Peregrine on bended knee.
Peregrine ate with pleasure, knowing they would not eat so well again for a very long time. When his bowl was half-empty he mentioned to Jack to eat the rest. Apart from the small mouthfuls he had tasted, his squire had been on duty all night and so had had no chance to eat any supper of his own. By the time the feast was cleared away, there would be only scraps left and very little pudding. Peregrine knew Jack loved midwinter pudding.
The servants scrambled to clear away the dirty plates, and the trestle tables were dismantled and put outside in the corridor, leaving everyone to stand against the walls. Only the royal family stayed seated, and Stiga, who huddled in her rocking chair by the fire. Peregrine looked for Grizelda and found, as he had expected, that she looked outraged to be treated like anyone else in the crowd. His father noticed too, and beckoned one of his squires, who ran to find her a stool.
The Yule log was brought in, garlanded and beribboned. Young men danced all around it, leaping and cartwheeling. As the huge oak trunk was carried around the hall, the glowing ashes of the fire in the hearth were smothered with a heavy blanket, sending smoke billowing out into the room.
When the smoke had cleared, a fire was laid with the charred remains of last year’s Yule log, and the new green log was arranged upon it and anointed with salt and wine.
At midnight, the candles were snuffed and the torches quenched, so that chill darkness descended on the great hall. The wailing of the wind sounded very loud.
After a long moment of silent contemplation, standing quietly in the pitch blackness, Queen Rozalina struck a piece of flint with her steel file. A single bright spark flew out, and she caught it adroitly with a tinderbox filled with a small handful of dried moss draped with charred cloth. A red spot sprang to life on the cloth, slowly unfurling like a glowing flower, and the wildkin queen bent and blew gently on its golden heart. At once a small flame leapt up, and everyone cheered.
Ceremoniously Queen Rozalina carried the tiny dancing flame to the fireplace, and knelt on the hearthstone. Very carefully she lit the tinder under the Yule log. Everyone held their breath, and released it in a communal whoosh as flames began to lick up the sides of the great oak trunk. People cheered and clapped, and one by one came with their candles to light them from the newly kindled fire.
Jack stiffened as Grizelda came to the dais, looking up at Peregrine to ask, ‘What does it all mean? Why do they put the fire out and then relight it again?’
Peregrine shrugged. ‘It’s the custom. We do it every year’.
Grizelda watched as everyone took their lighted candle and walked out of the great hall in groups of two and three, smiling and talking. ‘Where is everyone going? Is the feast over?’
‘They’re all going to light their own fires again,’ Peregrine explained. ‘Every fire in the castle is extinguished, and relit again from the Yule fire’.
‘That explains why it’s so cold,’ Grizelda said with an exaggerated shiver.
‘Most will go to bed now. Only the Erlqueen will stay up, to watch the fire and make sure it doesn’t go out. Normally we’d all stay up too, drinking mulled apple-ale and telling stories till dawn, but Father thinks it’s best if we all get some sleep while we can’. Peregrine stood up and picked up his own candle, set in a beautifully wrought silver holder with a handle shaped like a swan.
‘Why? Why does the queen have to stay up? Can’t a servant do it?’
‘No,’ Peregrine answered curtly.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just all so strange. I’d like to understand’.
Her words disarmed him. Peregrine came down the steps to her side. ‘It’s the Erlqueen’s duty and her honour to kindle fire for her people. One day it’ll be my job. I have to practise lighting fires so I can do it with a single spark. It’s harder than it looks’.
‘I have never lit a fire in my life,’ Grizelda said.
‘You can start now. Jack, get Lady Grizelda a candle. She can kindle her own fire and share in the Yuletide luck’.
Glowering, Jack went across to the side table and picked up two of the hundreds of candlesticks laid out neatly in rows. He brought them back, and Grizelda took one with a quick smile of thanks. Then she and Peregrine joined the long queue of people filing past the Erlqueen, who gave them all small gifts of scented candles, or candied fruit, or a little pot of rosemary or winter hyssop.
Peregrine bent and kindled his candle, with Grizelda and Jack following after, then went to make his bow before the Erlqueen. She bowed her head and gave him the midwinter blessing, then offered him a sprig of mistletoe from her crown. He stared at her, his heart sinking, and she nodded her head and tried to smile. He stepped back and Grizelda gave a perfunctory bob, then stared as the Erlqueen passed her a small pot planted with trailing ivy.
‘Ivy is symbolic of fidelity and friendship,’ Peregrine explained to her as, carrying their lighted candles and their gifts, they moved towards the door. Jack accepted his gift—a pot of heal-all salve—and hastened after them.
‘So it’s like a message to me?’ Grizelda asked.
Peregrine nodded. ‘Everything has a deeper meaning for the wildkin. The Erlqueen is offering you a hand in friendship, but she expects loyalty and friendship in return’.
‘What does your gift mean? It’s just a mistletoe twig,’ she said contemptuously.
‘It means many things,’ he replied slowly, trying to think how to explain. ‘It’s sacred to the wildkin. It is their winter crown. The Erlqueen cuts it with a silver knife and does not allow it to touch the ground. A sprig from her crown is a great honour an
d shows that I am her heir’.
‘Yet you looked surprised when she gave it to you,’ Grizelda said. ‘Surely you’ve always known you were her heir’.
‘Well, since her last little boy died, yes, I have’.
‘So why so surprised?’
‘She always gives me mistletoe when I’m about to go on a journey. It’s protection against misfortune and illness and lightning. See how the twig grows, in a forked shape like a lightning bolt?’
Grizelda gave him a sharp glance. ‘So you think you’re being sent away from the castle? I want to go too!’
‘I don’t know …’
His parents were standing together at the far end of the hall, both looking tired and worried. King Merrik had flung open a window and was looking out into the storm-swept night. There was a gust of wind that made the heavy curtains billow and the hundreds of tiny candle flames flicker like snakes’ tongues. Snow whirled in, bringing with it a small bat-winged creature with smouldering orange eyes. ‘Wake up, wake up!’ the omen-imp shrieked, swooping through the crowd, knocking off wreaths of flowers, tweaking ears and pulling beards. ‘Get your spears and swords, time to fight starkin lords!’
‘So it’s true?’ Queen Liliana cried.
‘Are you sure, Tom-Tit-Tot? Did you see them? What do they plan?’ King Merrik asked.
‘Through the storm, soldiers creep, hoping to kill you while you sleep,’ Tom-Tit-Tot replied.
‘How many?’ the king demanded.
‘Many as trees in a wood, many as plums in a pud,’ the omen-imp answered, flinging wide his hairy arms.
‘Where are they? How far away?’ Queen Liliana wanted to know.
‘Not as far as I can spy, not as close as I can spit’. The omenimp came to rest on the stag-horn chandelier, causing it to swing madly and shadows to hop and skip over the walls.
‘That close? There’s no time to waste’. King Merrik glanced at Peregrine, then issued a quick order in an undertone to the head of his bodyguards, who went out of the hall at a run.