The Starkin Crown (2 page)

B
EING A PRINCE WAS NO FUN AT ALL
, P
EREGRINE THOUGHT
moodily, staring out through the arrow slit at the pine trees shivering in the snowy dusk. Especially when you're the son of a king without a kingdom.

Peregrine was meant to be memorising the rivers and forests of all the counties of Ziva, but he couldn't help thinking there was little point when he wasn't allowed to visit any of the other lands. It was too dangerous, his parents thought. He could fall into the hands of their enemies and be killed. Or worse.

At least there was the Midwinter's Eve feast to look forward to, the only break in the dreary round of lessons. It was Peregrine's fifteenth birthday and he was, for once, allowed to take part in the wildkin rituals. He was to be the Oak King and fight the Holly King for an end to the dark winter months.

‘Your Highness, you are daydreaming again,' his tutor, Sir Medwin, said, tapping the atlas with his long pointer. A tall, thin man whose bones all seemed to jut at right angles to his body, he wore shabby black robes that flapped about his skinny
ankles and a pair of immensely thick spectacles that perched on the very tip of his long nose. He adored biology and geology and geography and chorography and all the other things that end in ‘aphy' and ‘ology', and could not at all understand why Peregrine did not enter into his enthusiasms. Sir Medwin was, however, also remarkably kind-hearted, always scooping spiders out of his bathwater and rescuing moths from candles, and he never ever told tales on Peregrine, even when the prince spent the whole day hawking instead of learning the alchemical tables.

Peregrine sighed and dragged his attention back to the atlas. Suddenly he heard the pounding of horses' hooves through the rush and swoop of the wind. He jumped up and ran to the arrow slit. By pressing his face right up to the narrow aperture, Peregrine was able to get a glimpse of a cloaked and hooded figure galloping across the drawbridge. At once he propelled himself away from the wall and caught up his fur-lined coat.

‘Come on, Blitz,' he called. His small falcon spread his speckled wings and flew to perch on his wrist. Peregrine flung open the door and rushed outside.

‘What is it, sir? What's wrong?' his squire cried, one hand flying to his dagger hilt.

‘Nothing, Jack! At least, there may be … There's someone at the gates. Let's go and see.'

Peregrine raced down the corridor towards the stairs, then slid down the broad marble banister to the great hall below. Blitz was quick to take to the air, screeching in displeasure. Jack ran after Peregrine, taking the steps two at a time. Sir Medwin flapped behind them, calling, ‘Your Highness! Sir! What about your studies? Your Highness!'

‘What a noise!' Peregrine's mother looked up from her weather maps. ‘Must you slide down the banister, Robin?'

‘I'm in a hurry. Somebody's here! A rider, coming in from the storm!' Peregrine held out his arm for Blitz, who at once flew down and perched on his wrist.

‘A rider? Who could it be?' Queen Liliana got to her feet at once, looking worried. ‘It must be urgent if they're prepared to brave the winter storms'.

‘I'll go see!' Peregrine cried. He did not wait for his mother but ran down the great hall. Jack, as always, was right behind him.

Peregrine flung open the doorway, letting in swirls of snow like a cloud of cold white butterflies. He bent his head against the arctic wind, so strong it threatened to force him back through the door, and fought his way through the storm to the inner bailey. He was in time to see the iron-barred gates creak open, letting in the mysterious rider.

By hanging over the battlements, Peregrine could see the horse limp in and the rider slip down to the ground, catching at the horse's stirrup. A tall hound was at the horse's heels; as the guards ran forward, weapons at the ready, the dog snarled. The rider uttered a quick command and the dog fell silent. Both horse and dog were white, the hound standing as tall as the mare's withers.

‘Who are you? What do you want?' the guard demanded, his sword out of its sheath. Behind him, the portcullis slammed back to the ground.

‘I must speak with King Merrik!' a clear, sweet voice rang out. As she spoke, the girl flung back her fur-trimmed hood to show a patrician profile and a fall of shining fair hair.

‘A starkin girl?' Peregrine whispered. ‘Here at Stormlinn Castle? She's brave!'

‘Or stupid,' Jack responded, leaning beside him.

One of the guards rumbled something and the girl said imperiously, ‘I will speak only to the king! Take me to him!'

Peregrine bounded down the stairs to the lower courtyard. Jack hurried behind, calling, ‘Your Highness! Please … she may be dangerous'.

Peregrine ignored him. Bearing Blitz on his wrist, he strode across the cobblestones, saying, ‘You want to see my father? He's in council, but I can send him a messenger'.

The girl gazed at him in surprise. She was dressed in a blue velvet mantle edged with white fur, which matched the voluptuous muff in which her hands were buried. Her eyes were an extraordinary colour, blue and translucent as aquamarines.

‘I don't think that's wise, your Highness,' one of the guards said. ‘She's starkin'.

‘I know that,' Peregrine said impatiently. ‘What else could she be with hair that colour? But I doubt she's here to assassinate me, not galloping up to the gate like that. And I've got my dagger'.

‘And I've got mine,' Jack said, his hand again on its hilt.

‘Are you … could you possibly be Prince Peregrine, the son of King Merrik?' the girl asked.

Peregrine nodded, and was dumbfounded when she dropped to her knees in the snow, seizing his hand and bending her head to kiss it. He snatched his hand away. ‘Don't do that!'

Blitz shrieked his displeasure, spreading wide his speckled wings, and the girl flinched back.

‘I'm sorry, your Highness, I didn't mean to offend you. It is just …' She rose to her feet again, one hand on her dog's collar to steady herself. ‘Your Highness, I have come to warn you and your father!'

‘Warn us? What about?'

‘Can we not go inside? Please, sir? I'm so cold … and I've ridden so very far'. She swayed on her feet, and at once Peregrine was sorry. He reached out a hand to support her, and she crumpled against him, her muff falling to the ground. ‘I feel rather faint …'

‘Your Highness,' Jack said desperately, starting forward, but Peregrine waved him away with an impatient hand, helping her stand and asking anxiously if she was all right. She nodded and stood upright, keeping one hand on his arm for support. She wore crimson gauntlets with a flaring cuff, embroidered with gold thread and jewels. A heavy silver ring, set with a huge aquamarine the same colour as her eyes, was worn over the leather. Despite the heavy gloves, her hand was trembling.

‘You're shivering,' he said contritely. ‘Come in out of the snow'.

Jack bent and picked up her muff and she took it from him with a faint, sweet smile, cuddling it to her face. Gently Peregrine led the girl up the stairs towards the great hall, his falcon perched on his other arm. The tall hound slunk close behind them, his tail between his legs, a ridge of hair standing up stiff along his spine. Jack followed, scowling and gripping his dagger, while more men came to lead the horse away to the stables.

The girl slipped and almost fell on the ice. Peregrine put his arm about her back to support her. She leant against him, murmuring, ‘Thank you, sir … I'm sorry … It's just I'm so
tired. I've been riding for days, as fast as I could, to get here before them'.

‘Before whom?' Peregrine asked.

‘An army … sir, they seek to take you by surprise … attack you under cover of the snowstorm'.

‘Jack, go and get my father, will you?' Peregrine said.

‘But, sir …'

‘I'm fine. Go on!'

Jack hesitated a moment longer, looking imploringly at the prince, but after another impatient wave of Peregrine's hand, he went running away across the courtyard.

Sir Medwin hurried towards Peregrine. ‘Your Highness, that was most ill-considered! You must learn to think before you act. And walk, not run! Have I not told you a thousand times?'

Peregrine hardly heard him. He led the starkin girl across the snow-whirling courtyard. Queen Liliana was standing in the arched doorway, her old shawl wrapped close about her. ‘Come on in, it's freezing!' She drew the girl inside, the dog staying close to his mistress, growling low in his throat. Peregrine followed, Sir Medwin scurrying behind him.

As the starkin girl pulled back her hood, Queen Liliana's old nursemaid struggled to her feet from her rocking chair by the fire. She pointed at the girl with two fingers spread wide in an age-old wildkin gesture against evil, her heart-shaped face grey with fear. ‘Starkin!' Stiga hissed.

‘Yes, I am of starkin blood, but that doesn't mean I'm your enemy,' the girl said angrily. ‘I have ridden many furlongs here, through the snow and the storm, to bring you warning!'

‘Venom in your heart and venom in your hand, to spill out across the land,' Stiga intoned, her eyes wide and blank.

The girl's face whitened. She clenched her hands into fists. ‘How dare you!' she said in a shaking voice. ‘I have come to warn you. How dare you accuse me?'

Stiga whispered, ‘I see true'.

Queen Liliana frowned. She gestured to the guards, who at once drew their weapons.

‘I can assure you I have no poison … or weapon of any kind on me,' the girl said through her teeth. ‘I've put my own life at risk to come here!'

‘Nonetheless, I'm afraid we shall have to search you,' Queen Liliana said. ‘We are at war with those of your kind, remember'.

‘Is your king not of starkin blood too?' the girl demanded. ‘Is that not why he seeks to seize the throne?'

‘He is the rightful heir!' Queen Liliana cried. ‘It is Vernisha who stole the throne'.

‘Of course,' the girl said quickly. ‘That is what I meant. Forgive me my clumsy tongue, I have ridden a long way today and am very cold and tired'.

What a difference a mere word can make
, Peregrine thought. To
succeed
to the throne. To
seize
the throne. To
steal
it. To
win
it. Each side had their own rhetoric and their own justifications for what they did. Peregrine's father, Merrik, believed he was the rightful heir because he was the only descendant of the eldest child of King Zhigor the Sixth. When King Zhigor's son, King Zabrak, had died twenty-five years ago his niece Vernisha had snatched the crown, even though she was the daughter of King Zhigor's youngest child. Vernisha, however, was of pure starkin blood, while King Merrik had a wildkin grandfather and a hearthkin mother. The war was therefore not just about who wore the crown, but also about
the rights and liberties of the hearthkin and the wildkin, kept in subjugation for so long by the ruling starkin.

‘You must know we have little cause to trust those of starkin blood,' Queen Liliana replied coldly. ‘Come, sit by the fire, try to warm yourself a little, and then tell us why you have come to Stormlinn Castle. Stiga, I know it distresses you to be near those of starkin blood. Will you go to the kitchen and ask one of the cooks to bring us some tea?'

The old woman got up and shuffled away, casting suspicious looks over her shoulder at the girl, who removed her ring so she could strip off her crimson gauntlets, dropping them all on the bench. She unfastened her rich, fur-lined mantle to show a riding dress in fine blue wool, trimmed at hem and waist and cuff in red velvet, over a flouncy red silk petticoat. Her feet were shod in crimson boots of the softest lambskin. Peregrine had never seen clothes so fine.

‘See, no weapons,' the girl said angrily, letting her fur-trimmed cloak fall across the bench and spreading her hands wide. Indeed, her riding dress was so closely tailored it would have been difficult to conceal a weapon anywhere, but Queen Liliana made a swift gesture to Palila, an old woman of the Crafty.

Palila deftly searched the girl, then shook her head and said, ‘Not even an eating knife, ma'am'.

‘I would not be so unwise as to hide a dagger in my boot,' the starkin girl said, sinking down onto the bench near the fire and holding her hands to the blaze. Her ring lay with her gloves and she slipped it back on her finger, looking about her with undisguised scorn.

It was not a very grand room, the great hall of Stormlinn Castle. For years the castle had been a ruin, and had only been repaired when Peregrine was a baby. There was little time or
money for major renovations, and so the tumbledown walls had been patched with whatever rock could be found, and hung with ancient tapestries to block the worst of the draughts. The few bits of furniture were old and shabby too, and grouped close about the fire, leaving a large stretch of empty floor where the men-at-arms slept at night. In an attempt to keep out the cold and the damp, the floor was strewn liberally with straw and dried rushes, mixed with rosemary and other winter herbs to mask the smell of the damp stone. Queen Liliana and her ladies had done what they could to patch and mend old cushions and rugs, and the men had built a tall screen for the fire which Peregrine himself had painted, with a picture of men and ladies riding out from the castle, hawks on their wrists.

Till now, Peregrine had always loved the old hall, with its massive oak rafters arching overhead, their ends carved with the faces of all kinds of birds and beasts, and its enormous fireplace with the secret door hidden to one side. Seeing the disdain on the girl's face made him look at it with new eyes, and squirm with embarrassment at its shabbiness.

‘You must be half-frozen,' his mother was saying. ‘What is your name, and what brings you here on such a bitterly cold night?'

‘I have no time to exchange pleasantries with servants,' the girl replied. ‘Do you not understand the castle is in danger? Summon the king at once!'