The Book of Lies (27 page)

Marcel’s face creased into a contemptuous smile. “No we can’t. We know the evil trick you played on Damon and Eleanor. That door has no handle on the inside. Only someone on the outside can open it.”

“Oh, and who told you such a thing?”

Brother and sister glanced sideways to meet each other’s
eye. What was he hinting at? They had turned back to face him, but now their eyes were drawn to the door again. “Marcel,” Nicola said in a voice that could barely be heard, “there’s a handle on this side too.”

“Yes, a handle,” said Lord Alwyn, picking up her whisper. “The door works equally well from inside as well as out. You have my word on the matter.”

His word. With Bea already struggling to sit up, perhaps the old wizard’s word was not as worthless as it had once seemed. Nicola rushed over to the door and Marcel saw the handle glide down easily. She let go suddenly without opening the door. “You try, Marcel,” she urged.

He joined her cautiously, rested his hand on the cold metal and felt it instantly give way. The door swung slowly outwards until he and Nicola were staring into the beautiful garden beyond.

“But it doesn’t make sense! Why can we open it when our mother couldn’t?”

They turned again towards Lord Alwyn, who had taken the Book of Lies out of its sack on the couch and was rising painfully to his feet. “She claimed you both as her own, did she? Starkey’s idea, no doubt. What of a husband, then? Did she make up a father for you too?”

“He died in battle, for the old Queen,” Marcel responded, not understanding the wizard’s words.

“Battle? There’ve been no battles in this kingdom for as long as anyone can remember. I have made sure of that. No,
whatever she told you, Eleanor has never married. Like Damon, she has lived her whole life alone.”

“But she’s our mother!” Nicola protested tearfully. “She even gave me a pearl necklace from around her own neck!”

The Book of Lies lay in the crook of Lord Alwyn’s arm, a faint glow already reflected from the dull material of his robe. Glancing down at it long enough to draw the children’s attention, he said clearly, “Eleanor has no daughter. She has no children at all.”

The Book of Lies responded with a steady golden sheen.

This was all too much for Marcel. The Book must be wrong. He started to count off in his mind all the evidence that proved this must be a trick, and before he knew it, he heard these reasons spilling from his own lips.

“But… but they called us Prince and Princess,” he cried. “Not just Starkey and Eleanor. That guard, Joseph. He knew Fergus as Prince Edwin, and he called Nicola by her real name, Catherine. Even
you
called her Your Highness.”

“Oh yes, that part is true. You are indeed of royal blood. How else could you be the rightful heirs, with the power to open that door?”

Marcel didn’t know what to believe now, but the door stood open and he could see how the Book continued to shine.

“Then, if Eleanor is not our mother…” he murmured, overwhelmed by what the old wizard was telling him, “…whose children are we?”

Footsteps crunched the gravel of the path leading from a side entrance to the palace, and they spun around quickly to see a man hurrying towards the chamber. He was tall and dark-haired, dressed in the rich red robes of a lord, the edges embroidered in gold. Despite the speed of his approach, he carried himself with regal dignity.

He looked ahead and saw them watching him through the doorway. He threw his arms out towards them. Tears began to stream down his cheeks, heavy tears not of sadness but of joy and relief. “You’re alive after all!” he cried.

But when he was close enough to see their faces clearly, he suddenly stopped dead.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Marcel and his sister could only stare, dumbfounded. They had no memory of this man, but they had already guessed who he was.

A name escaped softly from Marcel’s lips. “King Pelham.”

But Nicola stood open-mouthed beside her brother, staring at him, then the King, then back at him again. “You can’t see it, the eyes, the nose… the two of you look so alike. Marcel, he’s our
father
!”

Marcel gazed at this man in the doorway. The King… his father. Could it really be true?

Pelham too seemed to struggle with himself, his face con torted by confusion. “Alwyn, what’s wrong with them?” he called sharply to the wizard inside the chamber. “Why do they look so surprised?”

“I did as we agreed, Pelham. I took away all memory of their lives here in the palace, even of you and of each other. Your daughter thinks of herself as Nicola, and if this little girl had not interfered, Marcel would have a different name as well.”

Marcel’s head was spinning and he felt a deep dread in his chest. This talk between the two men seemed to confirm what he could barely believe. Pelham
was
his father. He had come here to save Bea’s life, prepared to accept whatever fate would befall him, but this!

As he tried to make sense of it, a new thought began to enter his mind. Eleanor was
not
his mother. That must mean that… He leaned closer to Nicola, whispering his thoughts as this wonderful hope came to life within him. “If we really are Pelham’s children, then the Queen must be our mother.”

He called to the King, “Our mother, the Queen, is she here in the palace?”

“Yes, she is here.”

He didn’t like Pelham’s solemn tone, but he brushed this aside. “Where is she?”

“Don’t they know, Alwyn?” Pelham demanded of his sorcerer.

“It is as I told you. They remember nothing. Not joy, not grief.”

“Not even her name?”

“No! Don’t say it!” came a wretched cry from Nicola,
sending a new chill through Marcel’s body. “I already know her name, and so do you, Marcel.”

“You cannot know it,” Lord Alwyn insisted. “I swept away all memory of her from your mind.”

“She’s out there, isn’t she?” Nicola shouted through tears she couldn’t hold back any longer. She raised her hand and pointed past the King, into the tranquillity of the rose garden. “She’s under that gravestone.”

Gravestone! Marcel’s mind twisted and fought with what he was hearing. He saw again, behind his eyes, their dash through the rose bushes, with Starkey leading the way, until they came across a woman of the court who was weeping before a beautiful tombstone. “Ashlere,” he murmured, remembering the simple letters carved into the marble.

“Is she right?” he asked, turning towards Lord Alwyn. “Was Ashlere our mother?”

Before the wizard could answer, Marcel charged through the doorway, with Nicola and the King following him. Brother and sister stood side by side before the grave, while the King stayed back. He seemed unwilling to come any closer to this gravestone among the roses.

“Do you remember, Marcel?” said Nicola in misery. “Eleanor told us how she died. It wasn’t just another of her lies. The Book was there in front of her, so it must be true. Queen Ashlere was poisoned…”

Marcel turned on the King, his father, the words tumbling out in a terrible rage. “It was you who gave her the cup!” he shouted.

But Pelham was a king and not easily cowed. He thrust off Marcel’s savage accusation and called to Lord Alwyn, who was approaching slowly from the chamber. “Take them up to their quarters and see that a guard is posted outside to watch them day and night.”

And with this command, Pelham charged off towards the palace almost as rapidly as he had arrived.

As Nicola watched him stride away she whispered desolately into her brother’s ear. “Do you see what’s happened, Marcel? All we’ve done is swap a murderous mother for a father who killed his own wife.”

“I
MUST OBEY YOUR FATHER’S
orders and so must you,” said Lord Alwyn sternly as they saw King Pelham disappear through the distant doorway of the palace. They returned to the chamber, where Lord Alwyn slipped the Book of Lies back into the leather sack and hooked the strap over his shoulder. Bea was still too weak to walk, so Marcel took her up in his arms once more.

Others in the palace had heard of their arrival, it seemed. By the time Marcel and Nicola emerged from the chamber they found dozens of richly dressed courtiers staring at them from the central doorway. Words drifted down to
them, as they had done out in the lane. Catherine… Marcel… The Princess… The Prince…

“You might not remember these faces, but they certainly know you, and they know what has happened,” Lord Alwyn told them gravely.

If these words were not unsettling enough, two armed soldiers now appeared, dressed in the King’s scarlet livery, and began to march closely behind them.

The little procession crossed the bridge to the main entrance and the courtiers stood back to let them pass. Among them was the weeping woman from the garden. There were no words of welcome, only silence and grim gazes set against them, though here and there, Marcel found a friendlier face unable to hide genuine affection. One round-faced woman seemed on the point of rushing forward to greet them, but something was holding her back.

Before the palace swallowed them up, Marcel took a final glance upwards at its sombre turrets and half wondered whether he would ever see the sky again. Then the wizard conducted them through the wide doorway and they found themselves inside a glittering antechamber, its ceiling gilded and its walls decorated with magnificent paintings and heraldic friezes. It might have dazzled their eyes if they had been in a mood to notice such grandeur.

Their way ahead was blocked by imposing oak doors that reached halfway to the high ceiling. A splendid marble
staircase swept away to the left, and another to the right, with views of twin courtyards beyond. They turned left, and at the top they proceeded along a well-lit corridor, lined with wooden panels carved with scenes of hunting and carnivals. Finally, Lord Alwyn opened a door and ushered them into a large bedroom, leaving the soldiers to stand guard outside.

This room was not as lavish as the antechamber below perhaps, but Marcel looked down, amazed, when he felt his shoes sink into the thick carpet. A wardrobe stood in the corner, and pressed against opposite walls were two splendid beds, both draped in rich brocade. In the middle of one a black cat lay sleeping, and rather than disturb it, Marcel laid Bea’s little body on the other bed, beneath a large shield attached to the wall.

“Let her rest for a day or two and she will regain her strength,” Lord Alwyn advised, with a sympathy he seemed to reserve for Bea alone. Meanwhile, the cat had awoken, and after a graceful leap to the floor, it now threaded its way playfully between Marcel’s legs.

He barely noticed, since he was staring at Nicola, who was struggling, like him, to take in all that had happened since they stepped inside the palace grounds.

“This must have been our room,” he murmured to her.

“You can tell a boy lives here,” she said, nodding at the shield. “Was that my bed?” she asked, walking over to where the cat had been sleeping. Both beds boasted ornately carved
bedheads, but this one had a chair and writing desk close by, and on the desk were a candle and a quill lying next to a pot of ink. On the other side of the bed stood a bookcase crowded with heavy tomes.

“No, Marcel slept there,” Lord Alwyn replied.

Nicola’s face dropped in sullen surprise. But she was not to be disappointed for long.

“You had your own room through there,” the wizard continued, glancing towards a crimson curtain made of the heaviest velvet and trimmed with gold brocade.

“My own room!” exclaimed Nicola, her face coming to life just a little. She had taken three tentative steps towards the curtain before she stopped and turned round slowly. “Lord Alwyn, if I slept in there, and this bed with all the books was Marcel’s, then who slept under the shield?”

“I’m surprised both of you have not guessed already, especially you, Marcel. You were as close as any two boys can be.”

Despite all he had learned, the emptiness inside Marcel’s head had never been so unbearable. He looked again at the bed. It was sparse, nothing around it to hint at the person who slept there, except for the shield. The many dents and the ruptured paintwork suggested that it had been well used in tournaments or by knights in training. Whoever had hung it there must have enjoyed such heroics.

It was this thought that pushed a name on to his lips.
“Fergus,” he whispered, bringing a gasp from Nicola.
As close as two boys can be.
Could Lord Alwyn really be suggesting that… “But why would Fergus live here? He is my cousin, not my… not my brother.”

The old wizard remained silent, though his steady gaze did not leave Marcel’s bewildered face. “It can’t be true, it can’t,” the boy mumbled, shaking his head vigorously.

Nicola was desperately trying to make sense of this too. “Wait, Marcel. Do you remember what Joseph said when we came through the gate? He asked where our brother was.”

“But Starkey said that –” Marcel stopped. Everything that Starkey had told them was a lie.

Still his mind rebelled. “Fergus and I are the same age. How can we be brothers?”

“The same age. Indeed you are. You and Prince Edwin were born on the same day.”

“Are you saying they are twins?” cried Nicola. “But they don’t look the least bit alike.”