A Necklace of Souls Page 4

  There was a flock of sheep, three cows, milked once a day, and two pigs that grunted and snorted in their sty and ate the household scraps. Aunt Agnes had a nanny goat, as hard-faced as her owner and just as mean-spirited; Will only had to enter the yard for the goat to put her head down and run at him. Fortunately, she had no horns.

  Two big horses were kept for ploughing and general heavy duties, as well as a smaller cob for general transport. The farm had numerous cats that were always having kittens. Will was supposed to drown these poor, mewling creatures in the disused farm well, but he could never bear to. Instead, he hid them, placing them at far ends of the barn, or in empty sheds. As a consequence, the cats liked Will. In the rare moments when he had a chance to rest, they would come to him, purring, and rub their faces against his fingers.

  Will rarely saw his cousins, Aled and Whithern. Apprenticed to the Castle, they only returned to the farm when on leave, or if stood down for some misdemeanour.

  Aunt Agnes appeared to care for her sons more than she cared for her husband or her home. She smiled at the big lads when they came in, a rusty smile that seemed to creak from lack of use.

  ‘What is it this time?’ she would ask, and shake her head when they told her. Greasing the cellar steps; fighting the other guardsmen; betting on a dogfight.

  Aled was the worse. Thickset and squat, with a low forehead and thick eyebrows, he looked more ape than man. Aled seemed to enjoy enlivening his off-duty hours by tormenting Will. ‘It’s the Foreign Maggot!’ he said. Will learnt to run very fast to dodge blows, to lie quiet for hours at a time.

  Monday through Friday, Will went to school. The schoolhouse was a half-hour walk, and Will was expected to make the distance on his own two feet, regardless of the weather. Today was Friday, and it was raining.

  Will slogged miserably through the mud. He wore his school trousers (horrible things that reached halfway to his ankles so he felt like a pirate, but Aunt Agnes refused to make him new ones because, she said, he would only grow out of them), his summer jerkin and a cloak. It was early autumn and the wind off the sea was cold. The rain blew into his face, stinging his eyes so he could barely see. He’d been in the Kingdom for near on six months.

  ‘Hey, Will!’ It was Jimmy Vale. His da, the village baker, let him take the donkey to school. ‘You want a lift?’

  Will wiped the water from his face. ‘Can he carry me?’

  ‘He’s a donkey. ’Course he can carry us.’

  Will clambered onto the furry back. The animal turned his neck and gave him a resigned stare. It wasn’t much faster than walking, but at least it kept his feet out of the mud.

  ‘I got some more bread for you,’ said Jimmy, glumly.

  Long ago, Jimmy’s da had decided that Jimmy should follow the family tradition, be a baker too. But Jimmy wanted to be a wanderer and cared nothing for bread. So Jimmy and Will had struck up an understanding. Jimmy would bring in soft bread for Will and Will would taste it and describe how it was made, what kind of yeasts were needed, how to grow them. Then Jimmy could go home and tell his da, and his da, impressed by his son’s knowledge, would give him a week’s rest from the bakehouse.

  Will couldn’t face food, not this morning. ‘I’ll eat it later.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jimmy. ‘Don’t want it all wet. Might spoil the taste.’

  The two boys sat on the donkey’s back and rocked from side to side in the rain.

  ‘Whithern’s home again,’ said Will gloomily.

  ‘Ma says the way those two misbehave, it’s a disgrace. What’s he done now?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s been promoted.’

  ‘What? Never!’

  ‘To the princes’ own guard.’

  ‘They must be desperate. There are two princes, aren’t there?’

  Will shrugged. What did he know of princes and castles and such stuff? He was just an orphan with a taste for yeast.

  ‘What of Aled? Is he home too? What’s he done?’

  Will shook his head. ‘He’s trying to behave, I think. He got flogged last time.’

  ‘What do you think a flogging would be like?’

  On the back of the donkey, Will shifted uncomfortably. It would be like Uncle and his belt, he thought. Like this morning, when the gate had come open and the sheep had gotten out. It was his fault, of course. And last week: broken crockery, a missing cake, the fox in the chicken coop. Everything that went wrong at the farm was Will’s fault, so Will got the punishment. The leather belt on the bare back. Sometimes, Uncle used the buckle end.

  ‘I’ve decided something,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I grow up, I’ll be a minstrel.’

  ‘But you can’t sing.’

  ‘I can learn, can’t I?’

  Will wasn’t sure about this. Seemed like singing is one of those things you can either do or not. It wasn’t as though Jimmy loved music; Jimmy liked talking fast and moving quickly. Useful qualities, no doubt, but not what one thought of as useful to a minstrel.

  ‘Can you play an instrument?’ Will asked.

  ‘I can whistle. Listen.’ Jimmy pursed his lips and blew out with force. The donkey paused mid-step.

  ‘I think,’ said Will seriously, ‘you need to practise more.’

  ‘Don’t you tell no-one of this, Will Baker. Da will skin me alive, you know. He’s set on me baking, and that’s that.’

  ‘If you learn some songs, maybe he’ll change his mind,’ said Will.

  What would Will do when he grew up? He was nearly thirteen, old enough for ’prenticing. He didn’t want to be a farmer. The only animals that liked him were cats. You can’t farm cats.

  Will arrived back at the farm that afternoon in better spirits than usual; Jimmy had given him a lift home on the donkey. He stood at the gate, staring down the narrow lane towards the farmhouse. In the grey light it seemed to squat on the land like a toad. Behind the thatched stone house were barns, all thatched. Their peaked roofs looked like witches’ hats.

  Will sighed. He didn’t want to go inside. There would be Aunt Agnes, with her grim face and maybe some of her horrid visitors. Perhaps, if he skirted through the forest and came into the barnyard from the rear, he could start on his chores and avoid his aunt.

  Will often escaped into the woodland; it was a quiet place, where no-one called him names, where the rules of life were simple and clear. Eat or be eaten. He’d taught himself to find his way through tangled undergrowth by watching the lichen on the trees, by following small clues like rabbit and wild boar runs. In the forest, he felt free.

  Not so this afternoon. He stepped into his favourite clearing, the one with the big beech at its end, and stopped. Cousin Whithern stood at the other end, facing away from him. He had a bow and an arrow on its string. He was trying to shoot with it.

  What was he aiming at? Cautiously, Will stepped backward, behind a tree trunk, and squatted down to watch. A fawn, with clear brown eyes, watched the hunter calmly.

  ‘Go away!’ whispered Will, but not so loud that Whithern would hear. He’d be likely to shoot Will instead of the deer if he thought Will had interfered.

  Whithern pulled back the bowstring, held the arrow to the string. He seemed to pause for breath, listening to something. Then he let go the arrow. The string hummed.

  Just as the arrow seemed sure to hit, the fawn started, ran. Cursing, Whithern picked up the arrow. He turned, paused. Had he seen Will?

  Dropping into the bracken, Will lay still, listening to the pounding of his heart. He didn’t dare to breathe. Whithern stalked towards him, gazing at the bracken with narrowed eyes. He fitted the arrow to the string, pointing it at the undergrowth.

  The world seemed to slow, to still to this moment. The young man, with a bow and a scowl, and Will crouching in hiding. Even the breeze hushed. Will could almost feel the earth moving below him. Any second now, he thought dizzily, he’ll shoot that arrow right through me. He felt balanced on a brink: death or life.

 
A loud roar burst from the trees where the fawn had stood. Whithern spun around, staring. A boar! Huge and wild, meant for the king’s table, it saw Whithern and charged.

  Whithern dropped bow and arrow, turned and ran full tilt through the clearing, past Will’s hiding place. The animal roared and stopped, but the man kept running until he was out of sight. The boar snorted, as if laughing, and began rooting at the ground under the trees.

  Heart pounding, Will stayed in the undergrowth, waiting for the boar to leave. It seemed loath to go. Maybe there were truffles under that tree, for it snuffled and tramped at the earth with great energy. How long could he stay here before Aunt Agnes decided he was shirking his duties? And that would mean Uncle and his belt. Will was still sore from the morning’s beating.

  Moments like these were bad times. Mostly, Will was too busy doing chores or studying or trying to keep warm to think. But sometimes there might be an occasion when he was quiet and still and not too cold. Then he would think of Ma, of her warm, steady hands holding the yeast to the light, or Da, treading the dough in the trough. Even the apprentices, how they laughed and teased him. Laughter. That was what he missed the most. That and Ma’s hugs. Sniffing, Will wiped his nose.

  The boar paused, lifted his head. Just then, Will heard singing:

  I’m a pirate strong and bold,

  Wealthy but I’m growing old,

  I’d like to shower a lass with gold

  But when girlies look at me, they scold.

  That’s Jimmy! Where did he learn that song?

  So before I leave my ship at night,

  To meet a maiden, fair and bright,

  I’ll drink a wine to stop my fright,

  Another gin to set me right.

  The boar snorted, pricked up his ears.

  Now maidens do not bother me,

  For I am brave and strong and free,

  I’ll pour some whisky in my tea,

  And ask them ALL to marry me.

  The boar trotted out of the clearing. Will popped his head out of the bracken. Now Jimmy began whistling. The boar didn’t seem to like this.

  ‘Jimmy, ware!’ Will shouted.

  The whistling stopped. Picking up the discarded bow and arrow, Will ran towards his friend.

  There were crashes in the undergrowth; branches tore, earth sprayed as the boar began to charge the musician. Jimmy screamed, the boar roared.

  ‘Beat it, pig!’ Will shouted.

  He put the bow to his cheek, the arrow against its string, and through broken bushes, looked for the boar. Black and hairy, it was nearly as tall as Jimmy. Jimmy, screaming, clung to the lower branches of an oak, trying to pull himself upwards.

  ‘Gerroff!’ shouted Will.

  The boar turned to face him, hesitated for a moment, and charged.

  Will had time to notice details: upturned tusks, steam from the pig’s nostrils, angry little red eyes. He put the bow up, pointed the arrow and released the string.

  As the arrow flew, time seemed to flicker. Everything happened as quickly as a heartbeat, an eyeblink. The animal roared. Jimmy screamed. Will shouted.

  Silence.

  Jimmy whimpered. Will stood motionless, as though turned to stone. And the boar stopped, shook once and toppled onto its side. The arrow had struck true. Will had shot it in the eye.

  Will crossed the clearing, stared up at the oak. Jimmy still clung to its bark, his legs covered in muddy grazes, snot on his face. The boys said nothing for a time, just gazed at the hairy beast, now lying unmoving on its side. Suddenly feeling sick, Will sat. He’d never killed anything before. Then he looked up at wide-eyed Jimmy.

  ‘I don’t think it liked your singing,’ said Will.

  Much later, Cousin Whithern came up to Will’s chamber. Aunt Agnes, her mouth grim, had washed Jimmy’s cuts and sent him home on his donkey. Uncle Wavern removed the boar’s carcass and hung it up for butchering on the morrow. Sent to bed without any supper for not doing his chores, Will shivered under a thin blanket.

  ‘Did you really shoot that thing?’ said Whithern.

  Expecting a blow, Will ducked. ‘I … I used your bow. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was a good shot,’ said his cousin, unexpectedly. He put the bow and a quiver full of arrows on Will’s bed. ‘You can have it, if you like. I’ve got another bow at the Castle.’ From his pocket, he pulled a beef pie. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You must be hungry.’

  Next day, being Saturday, there was no school, so Will was put to work hauling wood. He was stacking it against the porch when Jimmy’s da came to the farm.

  Aunt Agnes answered the door. ‘Master Vale. What brings you here?’

  ‘I want to talk with your lad,’ said the baker.

  ‘Will? Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘Mistress,’ said Master Vale, ‘he saved my lad’s life. Don’t you think I might be a little grateful?’

  Aunt Agnes jerked her thumb in Will’s direction, and stood, sour-faced, as the baker dismounted and went over to Will.

  ‘Boy,’ Master Vale said, ‘my Jimmy’s told me of you. He says your family were bakers?’

  Will nodded. Jimmy’s da was much smaller than Will’s own da. How could he lift the heavy sacks of flour? Or tread dough?

  ‘Jimmy tells me you’ve got a way with the yeast, like.’

  Will nodded. ‘I used to help my ma.’

  ‘Mistress,’ said the baker, turning to Aunt Agnes, ‘I’ll be needing another ’prentice soon. This lad seems like a good worker. And he’s got a knowledge of the craft. I’d be keen to take him off your hands.’

  ‘You want Will? Why? You’ve already got a son,’ said Aunt.

  ‘I could use two apprentices, mistress. And I’d like to do something for this lad here.’

  Aunt Agnes thrust her hands into the pockets of her apron, shook her head firmly. ‘In our family, baking brings ill fortune.’

  ‘Oh Aunt, please? Can’t I go?’ Da had always wanted Will to be a baker, just like his father, and his father before him.

  ‘You forget yourself, Will,’ said Aunt Agnes. There were spots of colour on her cheeks. ‘It’s not your choice whether you go or stay. And baking means nothing but ill luck to me and mine. Why,’ she snorted, ‘look at your mother, your father! No, Baker, ’prenticing for a baker is not for Will.’

  The baker looked at Will’s downcast face, at the angular woman in front of him. ‘What do you plan for him, then, mistress? You can’t have him here forever. Your oldest will have the farm. What of this lad?’

  Aunt Agnes avoided his eyes. ‘He’ll be taken care of.’

  The baker snorted. ‘An able-bodied lad, brave and strong from the looks of him, to be left to live on charity. That’s no life, mistress. It’s a waste.’

  If Will hadn’t been feeling sick with disappointment, he would have laughed at the look of shame that crossed Aunt’s hard face.

  ‘Come now, mistress. What do you think if I get this lad into the Castle kitchens?’ said the baker. ‘I know the Head Cook, and from what I hear, they’re always looking for willing lads. Now, you know the Castle; you’ve got two sons there, and they’re doing right well. It’s a good life for a youngster. And,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘from what I hear the kitchen boys get plenty of leftovers to take home. Might be useful, come winter when food is scarce.’

  Aunt Agnes looked interested. Will was less sure. What would he do, with all the royal folk about? He’d make mistakes, for sure. Punishment at the Castle was certain to be worse than Uncle’s belt. He was just getting used to the farm — another change would hardly be a good thing.

  ‘Lord knows, the boy is a big eater,’ Aunt Agnes sighed. ‘I’ll have to talk it over with my husband.’

  The baker winked at Will. ‘Aye, you do that, mistress, you do that.’

  He led his horse over to the mounting block and, when Aunt Agnes wasn’t looking, passed Will a small package. Quickly, Will stuffed it into his pocket. Later that night, when getting ready for bed, he pul
led it out.

  Inside the paper wrapping lay two gold coins and a cake. Will gasped. Two gold coins! On one side was a man’s face. He had a crown and a beaked nose. On the other side was the Castle, a tiny picture done in metal. There were the towers, the flags flying. The metal felt slippery and cool. Carefully, Will pushed the coins into gaps in the floorboards, where they’d be hard for prying eyes to find.

  The cake had pink and green icing. Will licked it off, bit by bit. Sweet and rich, it tasted like heaven in his mouth. Could he find another boar for Jimmy to sing to? Maybe then he could get more cake.

  Master Vale was true to his word. A fortnight later a letter arrived at the farm. It bore a seal done in wax and the writing was in an elegant hand. After reading it, Aunt Agnes carefully propped it against the chimneystack in the parlour, where visitors would notice it and comment.

  ‘This?’ she would say carelessly. ‘Oh, it’s just a letter from the Seneschal of the Castle. He’s offered my nephew an apprenticeship, you know. In the kitchens.’

  It seemed strange, thought Will, to hear her pride in him. Yet, it was only his departure that caused her satisfaction.

  6

  Only the Brave Deserve Freedom

  It was Daddy who had told me of true dreams, how they ran in our family. I should not fear them, he said.

  ‘Instead, you must learn from them, Dana, for they teach only truth,’ he said.

  We were on the parapet, gazing out at the small tenant farms and the forest beyond. I picked at the mortar. It was crumbly and came apart in my fingers. Where it had been the stone was deeper yellow, almost buttery. ‘How will I know if a dream is a true dream?’

  ‘It will feel very real,’ he said.

  All dreams feel real, at least when you are in them. Once, I dreamt I was a pig, flying over a marzipan castle. Was that a true dream? One day, could I grow wings and a snout, and learn to fly?