The Book of Lies. James Moloney
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Название: The Book of Lies
Автор: James Moloney
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Детская проза
isbn: 9780007515110
isbn:
What could he do? How could he signal whomever had sent that message? All he could manage was to spread his hands wide in futility and wave the letter pathetically.
Minutes passed, and he was ready to turn away, aching with disappointment, when he saw a sudden movement. Someone dressed in black broke from behind a tree. Moments later a second figure emerged. They were in the open for only seconds before they disappeared again behind some sprawling blackberry canes.
“Marcel,” came the call soon afterwards. It was a furtive whisper, pitched to reach his ears and no further. “Marcel, don’t be afraid. Come with us into the forest.”
In the same carefully gauged whisper he replied, “I can’t. If I jump the wall, Lord Alwyn will know straightaway.”
“The great wizard!” came the deep voice again, clearly alarmed now. “He is here…?”
With a glance over his shoulder, Marcel confirmed it. “He lives in the tower above the house.”
This news brought silence, a silence so long that Marcel feared the men had backed away into the forest, leaving him to his fate.
“Please, tell me who I am!” he called, as loudly as he dared. “If you are a friend of my father, then you can at least tell me who he is! Where is he, and where do I come from? Please tell me something!”
The men had not retreated – or at least one of them had not, for after a further pause that seemed to Marcel to stretch out for a lifetime, a tall figure all in black stepped out from his hiding place so that Marcel could see him. That is, he let his body be seen, neatly dressed in a stylish woollen cape and splendid leather boots that came almost to his knees. His face, however, was hidden beneath a fine wide-brimmed hat topped by a large and jaunty feather.
The man kept low, but even so, the dozen strides he took to reach the stone wall were measured and confident. A sword slapped against his thigh but the object that caught Marcel’s eye was the dagger tucked into his belt, the rich red of rubies glinting on its handle. He halted and asked softly, “Are you saying that you don’t know who you are?”
“Only my name. Lord Alwyn worked his magic on me, on the night I arrived. I can’t remember a thing from before then.”
“No memory,” the stranger repeated to himself. Still he hesitated, weighing this startling news in his own mind, as though it were a heavy stone he did not want to pick up. Slowly, he tilted his head back until the face, unseen until now, was finally revealed.
An attractive face it was too, with a handsome nose and chiselled cheeks diminished only by the first shadow of stubble on its pointed chin. Standing to his full height at last, he was taller than any man Marcel could remember seeing. And there was no mistaking the proud bearing. This was a man whose orders were obeyed.
His sharp blue eyes demanded Marcel’s attention the very moment they fell on him. He seemed to be looking for something in Marcel’s eyes too, and after a moment the boy guessed what it was. Recognition – yes, this man expected him to know who he was.
“Who… who are you?” Marcel asked tentatively.
The question finally settled the man’s doubts and he answered then without hesitation. “My name is Sir Thomas Starkey, but it was a true queen who knighted me, Madeleine herself. Now that a usurper sits on her throne I refuse to use the title she gave me. People call me Starkey, and nothing more. I prefer it that way, until the false king is overthrown. I have dedicated my life to that end.”
His compelling eyes bored into Marcel as he paused. “Are you sure you haven’t heard of this king? His name is…” Again he halted, watching Marcel’s face while he pronounced the word. “His name is Pelham.”
“No, I have never heard the name before,” Marcel assured him immediately.
“What of Princess Eleanor, then? Does that name mean nothing to you? Or Prince Damon?”
He was supposed to know them, or why else would the man ask? Marcel’s misery narrowed his throat, so that he could answer only with a shake of his head.
“This is an amazing thing,” said Starkey, stroking his chin.
A movement behind Marcel made him spin around, afraid that one of the orphans had strayed into the orchard after all.
“Hector,” Starkey whispered urgently, “join me here and don’t say a word.”
To Marcel’s surprise, a man appeared from among the apple trees behind him. This was the second dark figure he had seen scamper from the forest, a much shorter man but strongly built like a fighting dog and, it must be said, with a face to match. Heavy brows hooded his eyes, which were little more than slits, and half of his left ear was missing. A longbow protruded from behind his shoulder, and hanging from his waistband, beside his sword, was a quiver full of arrows, each fletched in the same colours as the one that had so nearly pierced the sack of apples. The man lingered and Marcel heard him take a sharp breath, as though he intended to speak in defiance of his master. But he changed his mind and climbed silently over the wall to stand behind Starkey, scanning all directions at once.
Starkey’s hand continued to work at his stubbled chin.
“This is a terrible crime Lord Alwyn has committed against you. I can barely believe it, even of him. Such an evil spell could only have been ordered by Pelham himself, I’m sure of it.”
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