The Widow and the King by John Dickinson Page A

much better if only he had tried, but he made no move to go and look himself. He took the onions, tore the outer leaves off them, and dropped the remains into the mix of meal and water in his pan.
    Ambrose gathered the eight white stones from the ground where he had been sleeping and put them into his pouch. He wondered what he was doing here, in a wrecked house in a flat brown land where nothing useful grew. Home was gone, and Chatterfall was gone, and for the moment there was nothing but the light rain on his shoulders, and the rising hiss from the pot.
    The rain poured on, ceaselessly. He huddled into the slight shelter of the wall, as close as he could get to the flames without being in the man's reach. The broth, at least, was beginning to smell good. There had been so little to eat since leaving home.
    At last the knight removed the pan from the fire.
    ‘Well enough,’ he said.
    Ambrose reached out at once, hunger rising in him like a beast. The knight struck his hand away.
    ‘Let it cool, you idiot,’ he said. ‘Did your mother teach you nothing?’
    How could he talk about Mother?
    The knight waited for an answer, then shrugged when he did not get one. After a bit he took a knife and cut up some of the windfalls Ambrose had found, throwing away the bad pieces. They ate them in silence. Then the knight picked up the pan and began to spoon the mess in it to his own lips. Ambrose watched mouthful after mouthful disappear into that sour, stubbly face. He couldn't help thinking that Mother had always served him first – unless he was being punished.
    At last the man passed the pan over to him. He took the spoon, and gulped at it. It was just a porridge, flavoured with the onions, but at that moment it tasted very, very good. Ambrose felt it moving down inside him, warming him. He had not realized how cold he had become. So he ate every drop that he could spoon up, and then without being told took the pan to an old trough to wash it. He limped back to the knight, who offered him water to drink.
    The rain was easing, down to a few spits from the sky.
    ‘What happened here?’ said Ambrose, suddenly. Food had made him bolder.
    The knight looked around as though seeing the house for the first time. He pulled a face.
    ‘Raided,’ he said. ‘It is common enough. All this land was fought over in Tarceny's rising, ten years ago, and Baldwin's rising after that. A house like this – it is built for defence, but if you have enough force and a bit of time you can always take it.’
    Ambrose thought of the fire flickering through thetrees at Chatterfall. He remembered Uncle Adam, at the door to his house; Aunt Evalia, lurching in the saddle behind him; and his mother's voice, speaking beside the pool.
All the fields are wastelands, Amba.
    ‘So,’ said the knight. ‘Let's see what you're carrying there.’ He held out his hand for the pouch of stones. ‘Give it,’ he said, frowning again.
    Ambrose thought of refusing. But the knight snapped his fingers impatiently and held out his hand again. Reluctantly, Ambrose passed the bag over.
    ‘They're mine,’ he said.
    ‘I need them.’
    The knight peered into the pouch. He did not seem interested in the stones, but after a moment he drew out the strip of paper with Mother's writing on it. He frowned at the writing.
    ‘That's her name, isn't it?’ He held the paper at arm's length to Ambrose, jabbing his finger at the end of the line of writing. ‘That's your mother's name.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Ambrose, warily.
    The knight grunted, and handed the pouch to Ambrose. Ambrose was so relieved to get the stones back that for a moment he forgot about the letter. When he looked up the knight was stuffing it into his own pouch.
    ‘That's mine!’ said Ambrose.
    ‘It says who you are. I'll take care of it. Now, boy,’ he said, once again in that voice that tried to sound friendly when never a smile crossed his face. ‘I met your mother in the mountains a week ago. I'm here