The Widow and the King (12 page)

Nothing happened. After a moment the knight cursed him, set him straight in the saddle again, and kicked the horse onwards.

It was a long day, across that rolling, brown land. Now and again they dismounted at streams, standing in tightlipped silence while the horse drank. And now and again they passed buildings: small groups of huts or a stockaded farm. Ambrose's eyes lingered on them as they approached, and his stomach thought of bread, and hot soup and maybe fruit – until he saw that the fields were overgrown and the roof beams blackened against the sky.

The knight steered his beast past each silent, empty doorway, and said nothing. He seemed to be a creature of the wasteland himself.

Late that afternoon they came to the top of a steep slope that fell through stands of trees. Below them was a great expanse of water, pale grey in this light. Ambrose could just see low shapes on the far side which might have been clouds, or might have been hills on a distant shore. To left and right the water ran on endlessly until it melded with the dull horizon.

It was the big lake again. Ambrose had crossed it only two days before, huddling in the bottom of the fisherman's boat on the last stage of his journey to Chatterfall. He was surprised to find that they had come back to it. He had thought they were moving away from the places where he had been. Perhaps it was a very big lake indeed. There was so much about the world he did not know.

On a low hill by the shore stood a great house. It had broad towers with banners that strayed in the wind. Its walls were a dull grey-brown, not very different from the dullness of the earth on which it stood. There might have been people moving down there, but Ambrose could not be sure.

‘Bay,’ the man muttered behind him. He kept the horse going downhill, away from the treacherous skyline.

Ambrose stared at the castle. So that was where they were going, he thought. It looked a huge place. Many people must live there. He had never been anywhere like this before. But the more people there were, the safer it might be. He could see that. He looked at the high walls, and could imagine that there might be food and warmth and safety within them. And now he could see an end to the journey, he longed for them to get there; because it would mean this day would be over and he might be able to rest and eat and sleep for however long he needed. For ever, maybe.

The wasteland-knight was following a path that descended from the ridge in a line parallel to the lakeshore. The horse plodded slowly onwards. Each time it came to a fork in the track, or to a stretch of open ground on their right, Ambrose thought the knight must be about to turn
its head towards the house by the shore. It did not happen. He clenched his teeth, but would not ask his captor what he was doing.

On they went. The knight did not turn the horse. Ambrose watched helplessly as the castle fell back on their right hand.

The daylight dimmed. The path ran on into the evening. When they reached a low knoll Ambrose looked back and saw that lights were now beginning to burn on the distant towers.

Back there, guarded and defended, was light and warmth and food. And maybe there were people who smiled and hugged one another. Those walls still kept out the world, like an island of light in a dark sea. And the knight was taking him away from it. He had never tried to reach it. They were riding on, on into hunger and loss.

There was nothing that Ambrose could do. He could not steer the horse. He could not run on his lame feet towards the castle. He could not shout across that distance for rescue. He was nearly weeping as they crossed another ridge and left the lights hidden by the line of the hill. That was when he swore to himself that if the chance ever came to escape, he would seize it whatever it was.

Behind him the wasteland-knight moved them on to the south, and said nothing.

The chance came two days later.

There was another dreary dawn. Over breakfast the knight tried once again to be cheerful, and to get Ambrose to speak. When this failed, he suddenly lost his temper and cuffed Ambrose for ‘dumb insolence’. After that there were
long hours of riding, resting, and riding once more; all in silence. The lake appeared again, to their right. They followed the line of the shore, skirting woods of broadleaved oaks and groves of olives. They passed ruined huts but saw no one, nor any animal, nor even a boat upon the water. There was nothing but the brown country, the horse's head, and the man whom Ambrose had branded ‘Wastelands’ in his mind.

Towards evening another castle appeared on a low rise above the shore. This was a mass of towers and pointed roofs, without the banners they had seen at Bay. Ambrose stared at it, from under the oak tree where the knight had checked the horse. He thought once more of food and warmth, shelter from the rain, and light when the evening grew dark around them. He thought of an end to loneliness.

This time the knight did not seem to be riding by.

‘Trant,’ said Wastelands, speaking for the first time in hours. ‘Your mother grew up here.’

Mother had grown up here. Surely, surely, thought Ambrose, the journey was going to end now. And it was going to end among people who had known her, and therefore would be kind to him. He wondered what their faces would be like, what they would say when he told them who he was, and whether they would embrace him as she and Aunt Evalia had done. He thought he would not mind if they did.

They approached slowly. Ambrose watched the walls and the blank, unshuttered windows for signs of movement. But nothing in the castle answered his longing. No one called to them as they came on. There was no smoke or light as there had been at Bay.

A large black bird, perhaps a crow, flew heavily from a turret.

They crossed a low dyke and the remains of a stockade into an enclosure that ran down to the lakeshore. A bridge led over a ditch with a low film of water in it. Beyond it was an open gate like a tunnel between two massive towers. It was dark inside.

Wastelands dismounted and led the horse cautiously through the cavernous gatehouse into the courtyard beyond. The ground within was full of weeds and the smell of wet stone. There was no light or fire. Ambrose looked around the huge and gloomy buildings, and understood that the place was a shell.

Here was a house bigger and stronger than any he had known. He could not imagine how many people had lived in it – at least as many as in the whole of the hill village, and maybe more. And they had all known Mother, and maybe loved her. And yet it was empty: a dank ruin, just like the farms they had passed. All gone. All useless!

And Wastelands had known this! He had known there was no life here. That was why he had come to camp within its broken stones!

It was as the knight stood at the horse's head and looked about him that Ambrose saw the man's sword was still slung from the saddle. It was within easy reach. He could see it clearly, even down to the curious oak-leaf design that was cast upon its pommel. He stretched his hand for it. Wastelands still had not noticed. The sword came free, with a long, awkward scrape. Wastelands looked round.

Now!

Raging, gripping the hilt in both hands, Ambrose heaved and swung the thing over his head. It was heavy. He saw the knight look up into the coming blow, heard him shout, saw him step in, reaching up with a gauntleted hand to catch his wrist as the sword flailed over the armoured shoulder and thumped loosely into the mail on his back. Ambrose was already losing his balance, falling forwards. The man pulled, and he tumbled from the great height of the horse's back. The ground smashed the breath from him. He had lost the sword. For a moment he could not see. He put his hands to his head to guard against the attack that must be coming. Nothing happened.

‘Get up,’ said Wastelands's voice.

Ambrose rolled and looked around. The sword lay by him on the ground, unregarded. Wastelands had moved around to the other side of the horse and was fumbling with something. When he appeared again he was carrying the small triangular shield that had hung there. The face of the wolf grinned at Ambrose from behind the crudelypainted staff.

‘Pick it up,’ Wastelands said. ‘Try harder, this time.’

Ambrose dragged himself to his feet.

‘Pick it up,’ said Wastelands.

The sword lay at Ambrose's feet. He picked it up. It was heavy. He had to put both hands on it. Wastelands waited for him, eyes angry, with the shield on his arm.

‘You've a lot to learn,’ Wastelands said. ‘Time you had a lesson.’

The horse stood by, impassively.

Ambrose swung the sword. It was clumsy in his hands. Wastelands watched him. He did not flinch. He did not
even move his feet or lift his shield. Ambrose realized he was well out of reach. He would have to get closer, on feet that were still sore. The knight could move that shield, too – far faster than Ambrose could lift the sword. And then what?

Ambrose's arms were weak, and the sword wavered in his grip. He knew he wasn't going to be able to hurt Wastelands. Wastelands knew it, too. He just wanted Ambrose to make the attempt. He was angry, but not because Ambrose had tried to kill him. That was only an excuse. That just meant that he could hit Ambrose as hard as he liked.

Ambrose knew he could not fight. And if Wastelands wanted him to fight, then he was not going to try. Making Wastelands angry seemed to be the only thing he could do.

He dropped the sword again, turned away and sat down.

‘If you were
my
son …' Wastelands began. But he stopped.

He's angry because I'm not talking to him, thought Ambrose. He pretends he doesn't care, but he does. He's been getting angrier all the time.

‘Be
damned
to you!' said Wastelands behind him. The man was angrier than ever now.

He'll hit me, thought Ambrose. He'll hit me, but he'll get nothing for it.

Suddenly the knight was crouching in front of him. His face, red with fury, was a few inches from Ambrose's own.

‘If you were a squire of mine,’ he hissed, ‘I'd have you birched until you couldn't stand for a trick like that!’

Ambrose blinked. A fleck of spit had hit him. He looked Wastelands in the eye, and waited for the blows to begin.

‘Right,’ said Wastelands. He swallowed, as though his anger was something he could gulp back down inside himself. ‘Right. You remember this. When you use a sword you must be clever. Clever twice over if you're on horseback. You balance your weight against the blow. And you look for the gaps in a man's armour, or for a weak guard. But first and above all you
must
be strong. You
cannot
use iron without strength in the arm. Do
not
try until you've got it!’

His hand caught Ambrose by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

‘Now be useful,’ Wastelands said.

‘Find firewood. The roof of the chapel is whole. It will be dry in there.’

He was not going to be hit, then. Ambrose did not feel grateful; but he did feel surprised, and so he obeyed.

The old chapel was a good place for fuel. They built the fire together on its sheltered stone floor and crouched beside it. Ambrose set his circle of stones around him. Wastelands watched him in silence. But later, when Ambrose was feeding some of the pieces he had found onto the flames, Wastelands stopped him.

‘What's that?’

Ambrose looked at the wood in his hand. It was a bit of a broken old chair – part of a leg, he thought. Once he would have been struck by the beautiful smoothness of the wood-join. Now it was only a little warmth.

‘I know who sat in that,’ said Wastelands. ‘And he'd
not thank me for burning it. Nor would
he
,’ he added, jabbing a finger at the wood.

Ambrose looked at the leg again. It was carved in the shape of a man. At first he thought that the folds cut around the shoulders were meant to be a cloak. Then he saw that they must be wings. The figure held an open book. On the book were a number of tiny lumps. Turning it in the light of the flames, Ambrose realized that they must be eyes.

It was the Angel Umbriel.

‘We'll not burn that,’ said Wastelands. ‘It could mean bad luck.’

Reluctantly, Ambrose put it aside. It had been one of the best pieces he had found. It seemed a waste not to burn it, even for the sake of an angel. Even for Umbriel.

The Angels did not seem to have much part in his days now. He realized that he had not offered one prayer or asked for one thing of them since he had seen his mother fall. It was as if they had gone with her. And perhaps they had.

After a moment he said: ‘Whose chair was it?’

The words sounded strange in his throat.

‘Hmm? You've found your tongue at last, have you?’

‘You said you knew who sat in it.’

Wastelands looked at him, as though there had been a lot he had been planning to say as soon as Ambrose broke his silence. But all he said was: ‘I'll show you.’

He took a long stick, which burned at one end, and walked a few paces away from the fire. Ambrose got to his feet, picking two white pebbles from the ring he had set around him. Holding one in each fist, he followed. The
stick gave very little light. It was a bright spark in the darkness, showing a few feet of stone paving. Shadows moved in the ceiling as Wastelands stopped by the wall.

‘Here.’

He held the stick close to the stonework. There were letters cut there. They said AMBROSE.

There were oak-leaves carved around it, and the words WATCH FOR WHO COMES.

There were more words beneath, but his eyes were stinging with the smoke and he could not read them.

‘He was your grandfather.’ Wastelands said. ‘Your mother's father. He was a good man, but he lived to see this house fall to his enemies, and he was slain shortly after.’

‘And they did this?’

‘This?’ said Wastelands, raising his torch and looking around him. ‘No. The house lived on then. This was done later. After we had defeated your father, the King, Septimus, gave all your mother's lands to Tancrem of Baldwin, to hold in stewardship until she should be found. It was foolish, for Baldwin was not loyal, and he wanted to keep the lands for himself. So the seeds of Baldwin's rising were sown even as your father fell; and the land was at war again within three years, when there should have been peace. Now Baldwin's brother, the Lord of Velis, rises to claim the throne, and Septimus must fight yet again to keep his crown from falling. And already both sides of the lake are waste. There are no farms that will feed so much as a knight and his dog. This kind house is empty, and many another with it.’