The Secret Kingdom Read online

  The wagon suddenly jolted to a halt, sending its occupants rolling against one another. They struggled upright and waited for something to happen. Were they to be rescued, or tortured?

  Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, the broad outlines of two men appeared at the open end of the wagon. The men climbed up and began to remove the gags around the children’s mouths. As they walked between the children, they roughly kicked and pushed their legs. One of the French girls began to whimper and the boy next to her whispered, ‘Ssh, Marie!’ The other children were silent. They knew that if they cried out they would get no supper.

  Pieces of black bread were handed out. At first the children had found it difficult to eat, tied to one another by their wrists. But they had learned always to use their right hands, leaving their left to be tugged up to their neighbour’s mouth. They had to take care not to spill the water, passing the jug from one to the other without tipping it up too far.

  When he reached the back of the wagon, one of the men opened the cage door and put a jug of water on the floor. He placed a hunk of bread and cheese beside it.

  The two men left the children and a few moments later the crackle of a fire could be heard. The kidnappers began to murmur to one another. One said, ‘In two days she will be off our hands.’ Another voice muttered, ‘What price did you ask?’ The reply could not be heard. Soon the tantalising smell of roast meat drifted into the wagon.

  One of the Britons clutched his stomach and rolled his eyes. He was thirteen and almost the height of a man. His father was an archer, and he was fast becoming one himself when he was kidnapped. He was broad and strong and always hungry.

  The copper-haired boy beside the cage said, ‘Do not make us laugh, Mabon. They will punish us!’

  ‘The smell of meat is punishment enough,’ said Mabon.

  Little Marie began to giggle. Henri, her neighbour, choked on his bread and soon they were all shaking with silent laughter.

  The copper-haired boy glanced at the cage beside him, wondering if the girl was smiling. She had only been with them for a day, and so far she had not smiled once, even when he tried to tell her his name.

  The girl stared at him and, once again, he pointed to his chest, saying, ‘Edern!’

  The girl laid a hand against her own chest and said, ‘Beri!’

  Everyone looked at the cage. It was the first time they had heard the girl speak. Was she British or French?

  First Edern, then Henri, asked the girl where she came from. She would not reply to either of them.

  Henri shrugged and said, ‘Mysterieuse!’

  Gereint, the smallest Briton, began to sing, very softly. He had a beautiful voice. He sang in Latin, a language his singing master had taught him. It was like magic. The girl gave a beautiful smile and clung to the bars of her cage. A stream of words poured from her, but they were neither French nor British.

  ‘Perhaps she is a Roman,’ said Mabon, when the girl sat back, still smiling at Gereint.

  ‘The Romans are all dead,’ said the boy beside him. His name was Peredur. With his narrow face and long sharp teeth, he looked like a golden-haired wolf.

  While they continued to argue and chatter, Beri’s thoughts were far away. Gereint’s song had reminded her of the cathedral in Toledo. The last time she had entered the cathedral, it was to see her cousin married. Beri did not want to get married. Not ever. She had always wanted more from life. She had wanted adventure, excitement. Only her father knew that she was already an accomplished swordfighter. Their lessons had been held in secret.

  ‘If only I had a sword,’ she murmured to herself in Castilian.

  ‘QUIET!’ One of the kidnappers appeared. He was the cruellest of the six. His face was scarred, and his nose flattened by years of fighting.

  Mabon, who was nearest to the man, asked, ‘Please, sir, where are you taking us?’

  The man stared hard at him. ‘How many times have you asked? I told you. You will know when you get there.’

  ‘Give us a clue,’ said Peredur bravely.

  The man gave an ugly smile. ‘All right. You asked for it. You are going to the East, to a place where paleskinned, golden-haired children like you fetch a very good price.’

  ‘Price?’ Edern swallowed nervously.

  ‘Slaves!’ The man’s crooked smile grew wider. ‘That is what you will be. And just so you know, there is not a house for miles, so you might as well save your voices.’

  When the kidnapper had gone a grave silence fell over the children. The French had not understood the man’s words, but the Britons’ desperate faces told them that things were not good.

  As the wagon began to move again, Edern whispered to Peredur, ‘I am going to escape. I am the fastest runner, so I stand a chance. Will you use your teeth to help me, Perry?’

  Peredur grimaced, showing his wolf-like teeth. He lifted his hand and Edern’s with it, and he nodded, putting his mouth against the rope that bound their wrists together.

  ‘Not yet,’ whispered Edern. ‘Wait until we reach some trees where I can hide. It looks so desolate out there.’

  Gereint, who had overheard them, said softly, ‘You are fast, Edern. You can escape. But will we be rescued? Will you come back for us?’

  ‘Of course. All of you.’ Edern looked at the shadowy faces around him. ‘All,’ he repeated. And then he turned to the cage. The kidnappers had been discussing Beri, he realised. ‘In two days she will be off our hands,’ they had said.

  Soon, it would be too late to rescue the girl in the cage.

  Chapter Ten

  You are a King!

  Summer had arrived, but in the mountainous country where Timoken found himself, the nights were still chilly. One morning, as he and Gabar were walking along a narrow mountain track, they heard a long, wailing call. There was no mistaking the desperate urgency in the voice.

  Timoken had been leading Gabar, rather than riding him, and now he dropped the reins and, kneeling on the ground, looked over the edge of the track. At first, he could see nothing, and then, far below, he made out the small figure of a boy. He was sitting on a ledge that jutted out a metre or so above a fast and furious river. The boy had thick copper-coloured hair and a face that looked all the paler for the dark blood that streamed from his nose.

  ‘I fell!’ The boy looked up at Timoken. ‘Can you help me?’

  A strange language, thought Timoken. But he could understand it. He sat back and tried to think what to do.

  ‘Please don’t leave me, I beg you!’ called the boy. ‘I think my arm is broken, and I cannot swim.’

  How did he think anyone could rescue him? It was an almost sheer drop down to the ledge. Even with a rope it would be impossible to rescue the boy if he had a broken arm. Timoken had no choice. He would have to fly.

  ‘Gabar, don’t move!’ Timoken commanded. ‘This track is dangerous.’

  Gabar gave a loud snort and stamped his foot, sending a shower of rocks bouncing down the mountainside.

  ‘HELP!’ came a cry.

  ‘I’m coming,’ called Timoken. He launched himself off the track and floated gently down to the ledge where the boy was sitting. For a moment they gazed, astonished, at each other. And then the strange boy said, ‘Do all Africans fly?’

  ‘No,’ replied Timoken. ‘Do all your people have fiery hair and … and marks across their faces?’

  ‘Only some,’ said the boy. ‘My father and my brothers are all freckle-faced.’

  A cascade of stones came tumbling down behind him and he yelped, ‘Can you lift me, African? Can you fly with me?’

  ‘I can lift camels,’ said Timoken, putting his arms around the boy’s waist. Lifting him carefully, Timoken easily flew up to the track.

  Gabar, surprised by the sudden appearance of the two boys, stepped away nervously. One of his back feet slipped off the side of the track and, with a rumble of stones, the camel disappeared over the edge, bellowing with fear.

  Without hesitation, Timoken dropped
the boy on the ground and flew after Gabar. He tried to catch him as he fell, but the camel was heavy and laden with bags. He dropped like a stone into the fast-flowing river, his desperate voice gurgling up through the water in rings of muddy bubbles.

  Timoken plunged after him. The river was thick with weeds and mud but he could feel Gabar’s shaggy hair just beneath the surface and, looping his arms around the camel’s neck, he pulled with every ounce of his strength. Gabar thrashed in the water for a moment and then, all at once, his body sagged and he sank down to the riverbed.

  Timoken pressed his face against the camel’s head and, keeping his mouth closed, he hummed into his ear. ‘You will not drown. You cannot drown. You are my family, and I am yours. Up, Gabar. Up!’

  The camel’s head drooped, but Timoken would not let go. His lungs were bursting and he longed to take a breath, but he rubbed the shaggy neck and hummed into his ear again, ‘Up, Gabar! Up, up, up.’

  Gabar did not move. Timoken thought, briefly, of the boy he had just rescued. What would he do now, if Timoken drowned with the camel? Because he would drown if Gabar did not move. He could not bring himself to leave his oldest friend, his family.

  There was a movement beneath him. The camel was struggling to his feet. With a surge of hope, Timoken pulled Gabar’s head upwards, up to the surface of the water where they both took long gasps of air, and then up again, the camel’s heavy body struggling out of the river while Timoken shouted encouragement. Gabar’s big feet kicked themselves free of the water, and Timoken lifted him into the air. Now they were flying, their grunts and cries of delight filling the air.

  They landed on the track with a bit of a scramble. Gabar sank to his knees, water pouring from the bags tied to his saddle. Timoken lifted the bags off the camel as fast as he could. Only when he had made sure that Gabar was safe did he notice the red-haired boy gaping at him, almost in horror.

  Timoken grinned at the boy. ‘I thought I had lost him,’ he said. ‘He is my family, you see!’

  The boy just stared at Timoken. At last he said, ‘What are you?’

  ‘I am just a boy,’ Timoken replied.

  The boy shook his head vigorously. ‘No, you are a king, I think.’ He pointed to the gold band embedded in Timoken’s thick hair. The crown that had never left his head. ‘A magician-king,’ the boy added, dropping his voice.

  Timoken could not help laughing. He still felt so happy to have rescued Gabar. ‘My name is Timoken, and I suppose I would be a king,’ he admitted, ‘if I had a kingdom. But it is all gone.’ He fell silent for a moment and then said brightly, ‘We must find somewhere safe to dry ourselves and talk.’

  The boy went first. He limped a little, from a twisted ankle, but pressed on in a very determined way, his free hand holding his injured arm against his side. Gabar followed the boy, placing his feet carefully on the rough track. And Timoken came last, so that he could watch the others. He dragged the saddle and the wet bags behind him, and he thought of the moon cloak, and how he could use it to warm Gabar’s back and perhaps, even, to mend the boy’s arm.

  Luckily, they did not have to walk far before they came to a small grove of trees growing in an old quarry. There was room to spread out the wet clothes and for Gabar to sit in the sun and dry himself.

  The boy’s arm was not broken after all, but badly bruised. Timoken gave him some water and then, a little self-consciously, he lit a fire. Although the sun was out, the wind was chilly and Gabar was still shivering from fright and the cold.

  The boy watched Timoken for a while, and then he said, ‘My uncle can do that!’

  ‘He can use his fingers to …?’

  ‘Light a fire, yes. But he cannot fly.’

  Timoken began to spread out his possessions in the sunlight. He gave the boy some dried meat, and they sat watching the flames and each other before Timoken eventually asked the boy’s name.

  ‘Edern,’ the boy replied and then, unable to keep quiet any longer, he began to explain how he had come to be in such a dangerous place and so far from home.

  ‘I come from a land many, many days away,’ said Edern. ‘My father is a poet and I lived in a castle in much splendour, because the prince of our country values poets even above soldiers. One evening a group of monks came to the castle, begging for shelter. It was our duty to let them in. But that night they stole up to the room where I and my three friends were sleeping. Before we could cry out, they had gagged us and bound our hands and feet. They carried us out of the castle, past two guards who were sleeping, drugged, no doubt.’ Edern’s mouth formed a grim line. ‘We kicked and struggled but those men were no holy monks; they were built like oxen, brutal, powerful and cruel. They put us in a covered wagon and drove us to the sea where a ship was waiting. We were carried aboard in sacks, like so much rubbish, and thrown into the hold. There were other children there, weeping and groaning. Some lay very still, too still.’

  Edern rubbed his bruised arm and stared at the sky, shading his face with his hand. ‘When we came to this land, wherever it is, we were loaded on to carts. But some of the children got sick. They were thrown out to die on the road, like dogs.’

  ‘But you escaped,’ said Timoken, trying to sound cheerful. ‘And now you are on your way home.’

  Edern shook his head. ‘Not without my friends. I promised to go back and rescue them, when I found someone to help.’

  ‘Well, you have found help,’ said Timoken. ‘But who are these men who are not monks? Did they kidnap you for a ransom? And were your families unable to pay the price?’

  Edern leant forward. ‘We were to be slaves,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Rich men in the East will pay a fortune for slaves with pale skins and yellow hair –’ he touched his head with a rueful grin – ‘and even more, it seems for boys with hair like mine.’

  ‘Slaves?’ said Timoken in horror. ‘Where are your friends now? Have you come far?’

  ‘Not far,’ said Edern. ‘This track will soon descend through woods into a wide valley. The false monks hold my friends in a barn there in the trees. Every night we were roped together by our hands. I was at the end of the line, next to my friend, Peredur. Peredur is renowned for his sharp teeth; they are like the teeth of a wolf.’ Edern opened his mouth in a wide grin and pointed to his incisors. ‘And so he gnawed the rope between us, and when his jaw began to ache, I gnawed, and between us we chewed right through the rope. As soon as I was free, I stood on Peredur’s shoulders and climbed through a hole in the roof. It was but a short jump to the ground.’

  ‘Were there no guards?’

  ‘All the false monks were asleep in a stone house beside the barn. The dogs were our guards; three great brindled hounds that set up a great barking at the slightest noise.’

  ‘And they did not see or hear you?’

  ‘They did. But we had saved a little of the meat that evening, and hidden it beneath the stones where we sat. I threw it to the dogs and they let me pass, but their first warning barks had woken the false monks, and one came stumbling out of the house. He must have thought the dogs were eating a rabbit, or some other creature, for he cursed them for their noise and went back to bed.’

  Timoken’s mind began to race. He was confident that he could rescue Edern’s friends, but he had to plan his actions. ‘How many of you are there?’ he asked.

  ‘There were twenty or more. But only twelve of us survived the sickness. We must rescue them soon,’ Edern said anxiously. ‘Tomorrow they will be on the move again.’

  ‘Perhaps they have gone already,’ Timoken said. ‘Would those brigands stay another night in the same place?’

  ‘They were waiting for someone,’ said Edern. ‘We heard them talking. One of the girls is to be collected tomorrow. She is in a cage.’ He paused for a moment and added, with a frown, ‘I am afraid for her, Timoken. I am afraid for all my friends, but the way those false monks talked, I think they expect a large sum of money for this girl, and so they will guard her very closely. Perhaps we cannot re
scue her.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible,’ said Timoken. ‘I have a plan already. We will wait for moonlight.’

  That evening he packed the bags for travelling. Everything had dried in the sun, even the woollen blankets. Gabar had thoroughly recovered and ate a hearty meal of dried fruit and grass before dozing off. Timoken unfolded the moon cloak and laid it under the trees. The boy watched, his expression a mixture of wonder and curiosity.

  ‘What is that?’

  Timoken hesitated. Should he tell Edern the truth? The boy already knew so much about him, what did it matter? Timoken trusted him. He was certain that Edern was not the one whom the ring had warned him about.

  ‘It is made from the silk of the last moon spider,’ he said at last. ‘I call it the moon cloak, and it will protect us. We must get some sleep before we set off to rescue your friends.’ Timoken lay beneath the moon cloak and beckoned to the boy.

  After a moment of uncertainty, Edern crawled in beside him. The red-haired boy was soon asleep, but Timoken lay staring up at the night sky. Where was the moon? They needed a good light if they were to rescue all the children and escape. He had been gazing at a pale splinter of light for several seconds before he realised what it was. The new moon was rising in the eastern sky.

  Quickly rolling from beneath the moon cloak, Timoken ran to the bags that were piled beside Gabar. The Alixir was kept in a small pouch of red calfskin. But it was not there.

  ‘It must have been lost in the water,’ Timoken said to himself, ‘when poor Gabar fell in the river.’ He looked again at the thin slice of moon and shivered. He had found no home as yet, but he was going to grow. He would be like other mortals. The prospect was exciting, and a little alarming. He had been eleven years old for almost two centuries; in less than another eleven years he would be a man.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Angel on the Roof

  Edern woke up. A thick blanket of clouds obscured the stars, and yet there was a light in the grove where he lay.