in low tones.
‘You are vile and evil. One day you will pay for your actions. I hope I am there to witness that moment.’
King Cyril the Yeah-Yeah-Whatever laughed arrogantly and waved his hand at Ashlyn as he turned away.
‘Remove her! I said I don’t ever want to see her again. Revive the boy from his cowardly faint and take him to Faydon. NOW!’
A guard moved over to Marloynne.
‘Come on Princess,’ he chuckled as he dragged the still unconscious Marloynne out of the room. Ashlyn watched them go, offering no resistance as she was led by two other guards out of the castle grounds. Outside, with heads lowered, the guards told Ashlyn she must not return, for to do so would mean her death.
‘My death is assured as it is,’ she answered. ‘My heart has been removed and it is only a matter of time before my body realises it is so.’
The guards shook their heads, their faces betraying their sadness. They re-entered the castle grounds and slammed the gates.
Pete’s father had left not long after the sickness struck. A disabled boy and a dying wife? The place must be cursed. The whole town spoke of the McGees in whispers behind their backs.
‘The poor boy, with his problems and having to look after his mother as well.’
‘How they get by is anyone’s guess. They’re both pretty much useless.’
And so on …
Occasionally the McGees would hear such talk. Rather than get them down, it raised their determination to be as normal as they possibly could.
The smell of a cooked breakfast reached Mrs McGee before the actual food did, wafting in and teasing her nose before darting away on the breeze from the open window. Pete raced in, the tray of food balanced precariously on his open palm.
‘Sir Pete, good Sir, why the rush?’
In his excitement Pete basically threw down the tray, then jumped onto the edge of the bed next to his mother.
‘You know exactly why, Mum. You know today is the greatest day of the whole year. The rides. The games. The Tellings.’
Putting on her confused face, Mrs McGee shrugged.
‘Good Sir, this means naught to me. Methinks thou art a young man of twelve years who merely wishes to see that of which he speaks.’
‘Oh cut the fancy talk, Mum. You know.’
‘Sir Pete, thy tongue is vicious. Surely thou can talk like a knight to get thy message across to a poor, sick maiden.’
Pete knew that the only way he could please his mother was to play along. Usually he loved this game, but today was different. He groaned and brushed his hair out of his eyes.
‘Do I have to?’
Mrs McGee nodded. Pete jumped off the bed, placed his hand over his heart and began to speak.
‘Hear ye. Hear ye. It doth please me to announce that this day marks the fifth anniversary of our King’s inauguration. That snot-faced shoe-licker, whose taxes mean you cannot get any pain relief, has ruled us harshly for five years now. Verily, though I do believe him to be an evil and wicked swine fit to wallow in mud and eat slops, he doth put on one humdinger of a soiree.’
‘Very well then, Sir Pete McGee, be gone. Be sure to have many great tales to relate as we sup tonight.’
Pete grinned a broad grin that did reach his eyes. He kissed his mother’s forehead and bolted out the door. Mrs McGee smiled. She knew that she would struggle to keep down the breakfast her son had cooked, but she couldn’t let Pete know that. He lived to help her, so she wanted more than anything for this to be a perfect day for him.
Pete raced into his room and grabbed his pack. He slung it over his shoulder and flew down the corridor. The Green Book on the shelf caught his eye, as always, but he ignored it and burst out the front door. The note his mother had written all those years ago was tucked safely in his inside jacket pocket. Pete skidded to a stop in the dirt in the front yard, turned around, and closed the door. A sudden itch attacked his back. He tried to reach it, twisting and squirming. Unfortunately, the combination of holding a pack and no right arm meant the itch remained unscratched. Pete edged up to the house and relieved his discomfort by rubbing his back against the rough wooden surface. His look of relief turned into a smile as he saw one of the pigs in the yard in exactly the same pose, with a look of relief on its face, rubbing against the wooden post. Pete laughed and ran off again, chickens clucking and scurrying out of his way. He headed for the town centre, which was where all the action would be. He rounded a corner and the royal castle came into view. As always, Pete was struck by how huge it was. Also as always, he stopped and stared, wondering why it was he was stuck in a little peasant’s shack when someone like the King got to live in luxury. Pete knew that King Cyril the Crooked wouldn’t have got his money through honest means. Rather, it would have been at others’ expense, through unfair taxes or imaginary fines. He shook his head clear, knowing he would much rather be with his mother in their house anyway. He was about to move on again when he heard a voice calling to him.
‘McGee! What are you staring at? You’re not still dreaming about being a knight are you?’
The voice was whiny and smart-alecy, and Pete knew instantly who it was. Larson Smithers. Larson was training to become a knight, and now that he was fourteen had just started in the service of Sir Joustalot. By the time he was twenty-one Larson Smithers would be a knight of the realm, something Pete could only dream about. Pete turned and saw Larson walking towards him, a wicked grin on his face.
‘It’ll never happen McGee. Never. You can’t even hold a shield and a sword at the same time. And you would never be able to joust, unless you held the lance with your mouth or something.’
Pete glanced over Larson’s shoulder and saw a group of trainee knights. They were all watching and laughing. Larson continued, right next to Pete now.
‘No knight would take you on McGee, so even when you turn fourteen you won’t be able to do anything. Just keep dreaming, Stumpy.’
Pete felt anger welling up, the heat rising to his cheeks. He knew that Larson was basically mean for the sake of being mean, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Pete felt so angry he wanted to knock Larson flat, but he knew that Larson was bigger and stronger and better trained than he was. Then
