As they stopped at each stall, Marcel soon realised that all of the horses suffered from an ailment of one sort or another. One trod gingerly on its foreleg; there was a plough horse recovering from ulcers where the heavy yoke had rubbed against its shoulders; and in the stall beside it another withered beast stared at him, sad-eyed and listless.
Old Belch answered Marcel’s question before he could even ask it. “People send me their horses, to heal them.”
“What’s wrong with this one?” Marcel asked, looking into the next stall, at a horse with rather spindly legs and a long neck hidden beneath a matted mane. This mane was black, but as for the rest of the horse, name a colour and it was there: earth-brown, grey and plenty of dirty white with flecks of a lighter brown on its rump and face. “This one’s an ugly thing,” he commented bluntly.
Immediately the horse snorted and threw back its head as though it protested at these words. Old Belch went into the stall and spoke to it in whispers that Marcel couldn’t hear, but they had an immediate effect and the horse settled down. “There’s nothing wrong with her,” he said in a voice that seemed far too soft and friendly for a man whose hair looked like a grizzled nest of snakes. “She’s just a bit wild, that’s all, too wild for her master – he didn’t want her any more. So now she’s mine.”
Marcel took another look at the mare. She was no beauty, that was certain, but she was alert and eager to be free of the stall that confined her, no matter how well Old Belch cared for her. Wasn’t that just how he felt about Mrs Timmins and her orphanage?
The last stall was the one Marcel had cleaned out. Old Belch was impressed with what he saw. “You worked hard. A proper young Hercules – but I suppose you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, would you?”
“Hercules,” Marcel repeated. “Yes, I know who he was: a great hero who cleaned out the dirtiest stables in the world.”
Old Belch’s eyebrows shot up. “So he did. Now, where would a simple boy from the high country hear that story?”
Marcel shrugged his shoulders. “Someone must have told me.” This puzzled him. He couldn’t remember a name or a face or a single day of his life before yesterday, yet he knew the tale of Hercules. There was more he remembered too, and the excitement of such memories made him eager to repeat them. “Didn’t Hercules have a horse, a special horse with wings?”
“Ah, now you’re thinking of Pegasus. It wasn’t Hercules but another great hero, Bellerophon, the only man who could tame such a wild beast.” Old Belch’s face glowed proudly as he glanced over at the speckled mare. “The poor fellow came to a bad end, though. Pegasus was stung by a gadfly and bucked him off while they were high in the clouds.”
Marcel had followed Old Belch’s eye back to the ugly mare. “Does she have a name?” he asked.
“Name! Not that I know of. I’ll ask her, if you like, to see what she wants to be called.”
Marcel laughed, thinking this was just a joke, but his smile slipped a little when Old Belch entered the stall again and put his lips to the horse’s ear. What was more, when he was finished the horse did the same, pushing her long snout close to the man’s own ear.
“She was listening to my story about Pegasus but she doesn’t want the name of a horse that was tamed. She would rather be the gadfly.”
“Should we call her Gadfly, then?” suggested Marcel.
“Why not!”
The horse reared her head away and turned a stern eye on both of them. Could she really understand them? Marcel was beginning to wonder, but Old Belch was unconcerned. “I prefer these animals to the well-bred beasts I looked after in the Army,” he confided.
“You were in the Army?”
“Not as a soldier, no. Fighting’s not for me. I cared for the horses. In fact,” he said, standing a little straighter and pulling back his shoulders, “I was once in charge of the royal horses. Had my own room in the palace, no less.” He looked down in mild embarrassment at his huge stomach, which he patted gently. “Of course, that was in my younger days. But it’s true. You can ask Lord Alwyn if you don’t believe me.”
“Lord Alwyn! You know him?”
“A little, but then everyone round the palace knew Lord Alwyn. It’s a great surprise to see him here, in Fallside, I must admit. Most brilliant sorcerer of his age, they say. He’s served our kings and queens for as long as I can remember. Master of the Royal Books, he was. Still is, I suppose, since I haven’t heard tell of a new one.”
Books!
“Belch,” Marcel interrupted anxiously, “Lord Alwyn came down to… er… meet me yesterday. Just me. He brought a special book with him. It knew whether I was telling the truth.”
“Ah, the Book of Lies, it sounds like. He created it long ago, to help judge matters in the royal court.”
“But how can it tell who is lying and who is telling the truth?”
“Well, only Lord Alwyn himself could tell you that for sure. It seems he managed to bind up all things, past, present and future, into that book. It knows it all. More than that…” Old Belch’s face became mischievous, like that of a little boy who knows a secret, and bending forward as much as his belly would let him, he said softly, “I heard talk at the palace. It’s said that book can look deeply into a man’s mind and discover what he’s thinking. Who could keep a lie hidden from such a thing, eh?”
“So powerful,” Marcel whispered in awe.
“Yes, and unpredictable too, even in Lord Alwyn’s hands.” He dropped his voice even lower. “There’s a story about the first time the Book was used. It was in the time of Queen Madeleine, as good a queen as any kingdom could ask for, and a wise woman, too. All the great lords and ladies were there, with the Queen on her throne and the Book on a table before them all. No one even saw the little sparrow.”
“Sparrow! What’s that got to do with –”
A loud burp interrupted Marcel, giving Old Belch a chance to go on. “The tiny thing had flown in through a window above them. It landed on the Book’s cover and started to chirp away, loud as you please. Then, as the whole court looked on, that sparrow became a mighty eagle.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Not at all. It was the Book, don’t you see? Even animals lie to themselves and pretend they are mightier than they are. I know that better than anyone. The Book of Lies discovered that little bird’s deepest secret and showed it to the world. In its heart, it wanted to be a mighty eagle, but as soon as it flew away from the Book it changed back into a harmless sparrow. Since that day, Lord Alwyn has kept his book well clear of animals. It’s no surprise he’s brought it here with him.”
“But what’s he doing here? Why did he leave the palace?”
“If you ask me, he’s come here to die.”
“Die!”
“You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Old and weary. He’s been Master of the Royal Books longer than most of us have been alive. But even great sorcerers are human beings. He can’t live for ever.”
Just then Albert’s voice called through the doorway, “Belch, Mum wants you to go with me into the village. As for you, Marcel, go and ask my mother if she has anything for you to do.”
Moments later, Marcel found himself standing alone under the eaves of the stable roof, trying to make sense of what he had just learned. One thing troubled him more than anything else. Yes, Lord Alwyn was old and weary, but he was sure Old Belch was wrong about why he was here. Dominic’s words echoed in his ears. He’s here because of you.
He shut the stable door, and was crossing the courtyard, hoping Mrs Timmins would have no more jobs for him, when he heard angry shouting coming from the direction of the orchard. Turning, he saw Dominic squaring off against another boy who already had his fists raised.
“Fergus,” he murmured. He hadn’t taken to the boy from the moment they were introduced, and every time he had seen him since, he had liked him less. Already his legs were running. He hurried into the trees, where he found Hugh trying to pull Dominic away, but behind the solid figure of Fer
gus were the three smaller boys, eager for the punches to start.
“What’s going on?” Marcel demanded as he caught his breath.
“He called me a cripple!” Dominic shouted furiously.
“Well, that’s what you are,” Fergus goaded him. ‘“Look at you. You can’t even stand up straight.”
Dominic advanced an unsteady step and swung wildly.
Fergus ducked under it easily then pushed him lightly. It was enough to make Dominic fall backwards. “There, what did I tell you?” crowed Fergus, enjoying the adulation of the little boys.
“Stop it, Dominic! You can’t fight him!” Hugh insisted.
Dominic stood up again as quickly as he could. If anything, the push had made him angrier than ever. “I’m sick of the names he calls me! ‘Lame Duck’, ‘Limpy’. I’ve had enough! I’m going to knock his tongue down his throat and then he won’t be able to talk at all!” He shaped up, his bony fists at the ready, though he was clearly no match for the lithe and muscular Fergus.
“If anything’s going to get knocked, it’s your head,” Hugh tried to persuade him, but Dominic wasn’t listening. Watching from close by, Marcel could tell this wasn’t the first time his new friend had been stirred up like this. This time, he’d clearly been pushed too far.
“I’m going to get Albert,” said Hugh, disgusted.
“He’s gone into the village with Old Belch,” Marcel told him.
“Mrs Timmins, then.”
Fergus snorted rudely. “You lot are always running off to her. I say we work out who’s boss, here and now.”
Oliver, Watkin and Jonathan all cheered at this, and Marcel could see that Fergus wouldn’t back down, not with these three for an audience.
“We don’t need Mrs Timmins,” seethed Dominic, too enraged to see sense. “I’m ready, Fergus.” His fists were still in position. “You think you can lord it over the rest of us, well now’s your chance.”
The trouble was, as Marcel could see, that was exactly what was going to happen.
“Wait!” he shouted, stepping between the two boys as they stared at each other menacingly. “If you’re going to fight someone, Fergus, it should at least be a fair fight.” He put up his own fists to show that he was taking Dominic’s place.
“But he’ll make a mess of you instead, Marcel!” cried Hugh, behind him.
Oh, great. Even Marcel’s new friends thought he would lose. In fact, now that he was here, facing Fergus, he wasn’t so sure he had done the right thing. Fergus suddenly looked a lot bigger.
He glared at Fergus, whose round face was bloated with arrogance, as though he had won the fight already. Marcel would love to bring him down a peg or two, tussle that woolly brown hair and iron out those thin little lips so that they couldn’t curl into a permanent smirk. So what if he’s got shoulders like a plough horse? If I’m fast on my feet, he told himself, he’ll never land a punch.
Hugh was looking at those shoulders too. “It’s still not a fair fight,” he cried. “If this is some kind of challenge, then neither of you should have the advantage.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Fergus, dropping his fists.
“What about a race?” suggested Hugh.
But Fergus sneered at the idea. “That’s for babies.”
“A horse race, then,” said Marcel, as he recalled his morning’s work.
Fergus eyed him cautiously, but there was no doubt he was interested now. “A steeplechase, you mean, like the way cavalrymen race?”
Marcel wasn’t sure what a steeplechase was, but if it meant he didn’t get beaten up… “Yes, all right. When Old Belch comes back we can ask him if he’ll lend us two horses.”
“I’m not waiting for that”, Fergus announced impatiently. “If we’re going to have a steeplechase, then let’s have it now.”
Chapter 4
The Race
FERGUS AND HIS LITTLE band of followers hurried off towards the stables. Marcel found he had his own troop close on his heels. “We’re coming with you,” said Dominic, keeping up as best he could.
“Maybe you two should race as well,” said Marcel. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I’ve ever ridden before.”
They stopped in their tracks, staring at him dumbfounded. “Well, you’re about to find out, then,” Hugh commented drily.
They dragged open the heavy door of the stables and crammed inside. Fergus headed the march past the stalls. “I’ll take this one,” he said almost instantly.
Marcel was not surprised when he led out the splendid chestnut stallion and began to strap a saddle on to its back.
Then it was Marcel’s turn. Forget the lame horse and the dispirited one, he thought, and no plough horse was going to win him this race. That left only the dappled mare.
At least she looks up to a race, he thought, as he took her outside to where Hugh and Dominic waited with the saddle. Fergus was standing ready beside his chestnut mount, but each time Marcel and his friends tried to heave the saddle on to their horse’s back she shimmied sideways.
Marcel wondered whether she’d respond to her new name.
“Stand still, Gadfly!”
The mare flared her nostrils and threw her head about wildly as though she were thinking of escape.
“Hurry up, or I’ll start without you,” Fergus threatened.
Marcel left the saddle to his companions and turned to confront him. “We haven’t decided on the course yet.” He looked around the grounds of the orphanage, planning a route in his mind. “What about twice round the inside of the orphanage walls?” he proposed.
“No, that’s not a real race,” said Fergus. “We’ll go through the orchard first, then follow the stone wall around past the blackberries and the oak trees, but once we reach the gate it’s out on to the road and across the bridge into Fallside. See the steeple of the church?” he said, pointing in case Marcel was left in any doubt. “That will make it a real steeplechase,” he joked.
“Into the village!” cried Marcel. He turned and found his own alarm mirrored in the faces of his friends.
“Marcel, you can’t ride into Fallside!” Hugh reminded him in a whisper.
Marcel ignored him, just as he was trying to ignore his memories of yesterday and that fearful roar from the tower. “We can’t let Fergus get the better of us,” he declared, clamping his teeth together. He hoped this made him look determined, because inside he was quivering like a leaf in a gusty breeze.
Fergus saw their indecision and seized his chance. “I’m not waiting any longer. The race has started.”
“No!” Marcel shouted angrily, but Fergus had already spurred his horse away from the stable and all he could do was stand and watch as it galloped towards the orchard. How would he ever beat Fergus now? They still hadn’t managed to get a saddle on to Gadfly.
“It’s all right,” he cooed, hoping to calm the restless mare. He tried to stroke that proud nose but she pulled her head away and shot him an exasperated glare, as though she were growing impatient with the boys’ ineptitude. “You know this is a race, don’t you,” he said to her, “but until we can get this saddle on your back, we can’t go anywhere.”
The mare rolled her eyes again and walked a few anxious paces in the direction of the orchard. Was it his imagination, or was she looking for Fergus to see how much ground they would have to make up? “Hugh, Dominic. Help me up.”
“You can’t ride her bareback! It’ll be hard enough with a saddle!”
He ignored them, and this time Gadfly seemed ready to oblige. After a little heaving and grunting, he was on her back, but before he had a chance to catch his breath she lurched into a gallop. He held on to her matted mane as if he were clutching at life itself. If he fell, it would be the end of him.
They charged towards the orchard, scattering aside the ducks and geese near the pond, then followed the chestnut stallion’s path between the wall and the blackberry canes, until they were climbing a gentle slope. Marcel began to get the han
g of things, working into the rhythm of Gadfly’s movement instead of against it. Exhilaration replaced fear and he told himself, I can do this! Maybe I have ridden a horse before.
Was that Fergus in the distance, approaching the gate? Certainly they were closer, much closer than when they had first set out after him. They passed the two cows, who looked up, startled, from their grazing.
“Come on!” he shouted to his mount. “We can win this yet.”
A stand of oaks swallowed them up but Gadfly showed no signs of slowing down, not even for these thickly growing trees. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for her rider. He had grown more confident now, and sitting up to look for Fergus, he didn’t see the low branch reaching out through the shadows until it swept him from the horse’s back.
Marcel found himself on his bottom amid a cloud of dust and despair. He heard hooves trotting towards him and wondered if Fergus had come back to gloat, but when he looked up he saw Gadfly glaring down at him in disgust.
That look alone spurred him to his feet. This was a race, he reminded himself, and if he didn’t win… He couldn’t bear to think of Fergus holding sway over the rest of them. He scrambled once more on to that twitching, restless back and the horse did the rest, charging off again as she had from the start.
They galloped across the grass in front of the house until the stone wall loomed ahead once more. He expected her to turn and follow the wall to the gate – but not Gadfly. There was no time for Marcel to think. The horse simply launched herself into the air, clearing the stones easily, then crashed back to earth, front legs first. Marcel was catapulted high on to her neck, but she simply flexed the muscles of her shoulders and threw him back into place.
Up ahead, Fergus was crossing the stone bridge that led into Fallside. By the time they reached it, he had galloped to the church and begun his return, the thunder of hooves drawing people out of their houses and several men from the tavern, one still holding his pint of ale.
“You’ll never catch me, Marcel!” Fergus cried, passing Gadfly as he galloped back to the bridge.
The Book of Lies Page 4