because she asked me to come to Chatterfall to find you. Now we know Chatterfall's gone, we need to go somewhere else. That will mean riding south …’
‘That's a
lie
!' yelled Ambrose.
The knight stopped, staring at him.
‘She's dead!’ he shouted. ‘They're all dead! You're a liar!’
‘That she is not! I saw her, a week ago. She said …’
‘Liar!’ Ambrose screamed. ‘And it's
your fault
!’
The knight looked like the man who had hit her. He was so like, he
must
have had something to do with him. And he saw how the knight's face whitened – how he glared at the words. For a moment Ambrose knew that he was right. Then …
‘I'll not be called a liar by you!’ the knight shouted.
And angrily, deliberately, the knight leaned across and cuffed Ambrose hard around the ear. Ambrose's head sang. He put his hands to the side of his face. The knight's gauntlet smacked into Ambrose's other ear, and Ambrose reeled. Through his pain he heard the man say: ‘I've not come days out of my way and business so
you
can call me names. You learn this lesson!’
Ambrose could not remember being struck before – not like this. Not at home, nor in diManey's kindly place by the waterfall. Both sides of his head throbbed, and he was fighting tears. His heart raged, helplessly, against the world and this evil man.
‘Now get up,’ the knight said. ‘Someone attacked Chatterfall last night. Whoever it was will be out looking for you. We've made smoke here. We need to move. Get yourself together.’
‘I'm still hungry,’ Ambrose mumbled defiantly.
‘If we see a whole roof today, we may get food. Otherwise there will be nothing until nightfall. Don't put your hopes up.’
The man had already turned away, and was stamping out the fire.
He had said it now.
She's dead
. He hadn't wanted to.
Saying it was like making it happen again: (her body turning in the air, bouncing outwards from the rocks with a noise like a wet sack dropping). Saying it made it real. Now the emptiness of the world was in him, as well as outside.
Oh, there were people like Aunt Evalia and Uncle Adam, who would embrace him and feed him in an afternoon, and be gone themselves before dawn. There were ill-faced knights who stole her last writing and beat him around the head. There were even berry-bushes, and as he was now learning, old strip-fields, that might provide a mouthful now and again. But they were part of the emptiness.
And all the fields were wastelands now.
The rain had lifted. The sky remained a thick, mottled grey that dulled the heart. They set off together on the horse along a path through the thorn-hills. It ran up slopes, over ridges, along valleys. Before crossing each skyline the knight checked the horse and looked back, but nothing moved behind them. Ambrose, perched once more upon a rolled blanket before the saddle, found his seat growing more and more uncomfortable. He hated the feel of the knight's arms around him. When at last the man spoke to him, he barely heard.
The man repeated himself. ‘Have you not ridden before?’
He was trying to be friendly again. But Ambrose did not want to talk to the knight. It was his fault, too.
The man grabbed his collar and jerked him backwards.
‘What's the matter with you?’ he said roughly. ‘Lost your tongue?’
Because of the way they sat, he could not force Ambrose to look at him. And Ambrose stared away across the brown heath, clamping his jaw shut. He felt the knight's anger rising, suddenly and violently, just as it had done over breakfast. He barely cared.
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
‘That's a
lie
!' yelled Ambrose.
The knight stopped, staring at him.
‘She's dead!’ he shouted. ‘They're all dead! You're a liar!’
‘That she is not! I saw her, a week ago. She said …’
‘Liar!’ Ambrose screamed. ‘And it's
your fault
!’
The knight looked like the man who had hit her. He was so like, he
must
have had something to do with him. And he saw how the knight's face whitened – how he glared at the words. For a moment Ambrose knew that he was right. Then …
‘I'll not be called a liar by you!’ the knight shouted.
And angrily, deliberately, the knight leaned across and cuffed Ambrose hard around the ear. Ambrose's head sang. He put his hands to the side of his face. The knight's gauntlet smacked into Ambrose's other ear, and Ambrose reeled. Through his pain he heard the man say: ‘I've not come days out of my way and business so
you
can call me names. You learn this lesson!’
Ambrose could not remember being struck before – not like this. Not at home, nor in diManey's kindly place by the waterfall. Both sides of his head throbbed, and he was fighting tears. His heart raged, helplessly, against the world and this evil man.
‘Now get up,’ the knight said. ‘Someone attacked Chatterfall last night. Whoever it was will be out looking for you. We've made smoke here. We need to move. Get yourself together.’
‘I'm still hungry,’ Ambrose mumbled defiantly.
‘If we see a whole roof today, we may get food. Otherwise there will be nothing until nightfall. Don't put your hopes up.’
The man had already turned away, and was stamping out the fire.
He had said it now.
She's dead
. He hadn't wanted to.
Saying it was like making it happen again: (her body turning in the air, bouncing outwards from the rocks with a noise like a wet sack dropping). Saying it made it real. Now the emptiness of the world was in him, as well as outside.
Oh, there were people like Aunt Evalia and Uncle Adam, who would embrace him and feed him in an afternoon, and be gone themselves before dawn. There were ill-faced knights who stole her last writing and beat him around the head. There were even berry-bushes, and as he was now learning, old strip-fields, that might provide a mouthful now and again. But they were part of the emptiness.
And all the fields were wastelands now.
The rain had lifted. The sky remained a thick, mottled grey that dulled the heart. They set off together on the horse along a path through the thorn-hills. It ran up slopes, over ridges, along valleys. Before crossing each skyline the knight checked the horse and looked back, but nothing moved behind them. Ambrose, perched once more upon a rolled blanket before the saddle, found his seat growing more and more uncomfortable. He hated the feel of the knight's arms around him. When at last the man spoke to him, he barely heard.
The man repeated himself. ‘Have you not ridden before?’
He was trying to be friendly again. But Ambrose did not want to talk to the knight. It was his fault, too.
The man grabbed his collar and jerked him backwards.
‘What's the matter with you?’ he said roughly. ‘Lost your tongue?’
Because of the way they sat, he could not force Ambrose to look at him. And Ambrose stared away across the brown heath, clamping his jaw shut. He felt the knight's anger rising, suddenly and violently, just as it had done over breakfast. He barely cared.
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
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