LITMIR.BIZ

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loved him. Jack knew that was the truth, whatever deceit they had been forced into.

       And here am I, behaving like a child who cannot get his own way?

      Jack went back into the house. His parents were sitting by the hearth. ‘Who am I, father?’

      Edwin glanced at Hilda; she nodded.

      ‘Well, Jack … you are the son of the king and queen: John Aetheling, their firstborn. You are a prince. You will likely one day be king.’

      Jack laughed, but the sound died in his throat as he realised his father was serious. Aetheling was the title given to potential heirs to the throne. Using that title – it wasn’t something his father would do in jest.

      ‘If I am their son, why did they send me away?’

      ‘Your life was in danger,’ Hilda replied, ‘and now the danger has passed.’ Hilda took Jack’s hands in hers. ‘Trust the queen, Jack. I was her majesty’s nurse, many long years ago, and I love her almost as well as I love you.’

      This comforted Jack a little; his mother would not love anybody unworthy of being loved. And now he thought of what this might mean: a chance to leave the village, to adventure …

      A thought occurred, and Jack smiled a little. Winifred’s uncle was bound to let her marry him now.

      ‘You’ve grown into a man,’ said his father. ‘You must ride out to meet your destiny.’

      A hour later, Jack was sitting astride a large grey horse, trying to understand his feelings as he waved goodbye to his parents and to Winifred, and trying to remember what he had learnt in the handful of riding lessons the thane’s steward had given him. He did not feel very much like a man: surely a man should not feel this torn, excited about the future but also grieving for that left behind?

      As soon as they’d ridden out of the village, Harold started talking to him about Helmswick, about the king and queen and his brothers, and what life would be like for him now. Jack knew the man meant well – he had a kind face – but the weight of so much instruction bore down on him like the sea. All he really wanted was to be left in peace, with his own thoughts.

      Eventually, they came to a thick band of trees that grew across the top of the downs. Harold rode ahead; he said he had to make sure of the route, but Jack heard one of the other knights mutter something about outlaws. Jack looked around him with more interest, and surreptitiously tested the weight of the sword Harold had given him. It was still early in the year, and the trees were only just coming into leaf, but they were dense enough that only a few glimmers of sunlight breached the canopy, and the undergrowth on either side of the path was in deep shadow.

      After a few minutes the party came to a halt. Jack nudged his horse forwards until he had caught up with Harold.

      ‘What’s the matter? Why have we stopped?’

      ‘I’m uneasy, lad. I mean, my lord. I know these woods, and it’s too quiet. There should be birdsong, animals – but there’s nothing. Just this – silence.’

      ‘Can we go back and find a way around?’

      ‘We could, but it would take us far out of our way. We might take the road through the western Weald, but we would not reach the hunting lodge tonight.’ Harold peered up and down the path. ‘I think – I think we should go on. The lodge is just the other side of the trees. But be wary. There may be worse things than wolves in this forest.’

      They rode on in silence with Jack now in the centre of the company. After what seemed an age the rider at the front gave a shout of relief. Harold turned to Jack and smiled.

      ‘See, we have nearly reached the end of the trees: just another half-mile or so. And from there it is an easy ride down to—’

      There was a scream from behind them.

      Jack swung round in his saddle.

      A huge, brown-pelted wolf had dragged one of the knights from his horse; the beast had its jaws clamped round the man’s shoulder and was shaking his body back and forth. More wolves – at least twenty, all different shades and sizes – were poised nearby, growling, teeth bared. And in the centre of them stood a man clothed in black, his thick, dark hair streaked with grey.

      ‘It is the wizard,’ cried Harold. ‘Attack! Attack!’

      The knights yelled and turned their horses, spurring them back towards the snarling wolves as the animals leapt forward to meet them. ‘My lord, you must fly. Follow the path – it will bring you to the lodge.’

      ‘But I can help,’ Jack said. ‘I can—’

      ‘No! We cannot defeat him. We can only give you time to escape. Go!’ Harold urged his horse forwards. The knights were hacking at the wolves with their swords, shouting at each other, trying to organise a defence, but they were outnumbered. Another horse was dragged to the ground, whinnying in terror, and Jack heard the scrape of claws on armour as its rider disappeared beneath a surge of fur and fangs.

       Think, Jack, think.

      These were not normal wolves. Jack could see the wizard moving his hands, as though he was directing their attack.

       You cannot leave these men here to die.

      He galloped towards the lodge, but at the last minute he turned off the path into the forest and rode back through the trees until he was close to where the knights were fighting. Abandoning his horse, he crept along as quietly as possible. Things were not going well: only Harold and two other knights were still standing, and they could not get past the wolves to get close to the wizard. The silent forest was now filled with the groans of dying men and animals.

      Jack gasped. There was a wolf lying in front of him, but it seemed to be dead. Something glinted in the shadows, and Jack knelt down to get a closer look. The remains of a gold embroidered belt were fastened around the wolf’s middle – the sort of belt a wealthy man might wear. But why in the name of all the gods would a wolf be wearing man’s clothing?

      A yell of pain reclaimed his attention. Whatever this evil was, the wizard was its source. That was where Jack had to strike.

      Jack crept on past the battling knights and wolves, past the wizard, back in the direction they had come from. He drew his sword, wished he had brought his axe with him instead, and stepped out on to the path.

      Two more knights were dragged to the ground, their screams cut short as blood sprayed across the clearing. Only Harold was left now, facing more than half a dozen wolves. He must have seen Jack, but he did not betray him, and the wizard still did not turn around. Jack crept closer and closer – raised his sword in both hands – sliced downwards –

      Harold cried out and fell beneath the wolves. Jack’s blow went wide, catching the wizard on the shoulder. The next moment his sword glowed red hot in his hands and he dropped it with a yell. The wizard spun around, pulled a knife out of his belt and held it to Jack’s throat.

      ‘Kill me then, you coward,’ Jack panted. ‘Or I will see you hanged for the deaths of these men.’

      The man smiled.

      ‘No. I don’t think I will kill you today, Jack.’

      The last thing Jack saw was the wizard writing in the air, lines of red fire pouring from his fingertips …

      When he regained consciousness, Jack was somewhere dark and cold, his wrists and ankles tightly bound, propped up against a hard surface. He could not tell how much time had passed: hours, or days. Someone with a lantern was shaking his shoulder. Jack screwed up his eyes against the light as his memory returned.

      ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

      The owner of the lantern allowed the light to fall on his own face. It was a face that might once have been attractive, but now it was as cruel and hard as a talon: dark eyes glittering beneath arching brows, full lips twisted into a sneer, deep lines running from nose to mouth.

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