won’t remember. It’s about the King of Hearts.’
Merry did remember, vaguely. It was a scary story: dark and sad. It had given her nightmares. She remembered Mum yelling at Gran about it. One of the many, many minor explosions in her mother’s relationship with her grandmother even before they had That Argument.
‘I remember a little bit – it was horrible. Wasn’t there something about a wizard, and a prince? Or was it a princess? And—’
‘And jars. Jars with hearts inside them,’ Leo interjected. ‘I remember it too. Mum got cross with you.’
‘Your mother is always cross about something. The point is, it’s not a made-up fairy story. It’s part of our family history. The most important part. The boy in your room …’ She paused to take a sip of tea. ‘The boy is the prince. His name is Jack. In many ways, he is the victim of the story. He is also the monster.’ Gran frowned. ‘Stupid of me. I knew something was happening when the attacks started – you know we like to make sure Tillingham stays mostly free of violence. But I just didn’t make the connection. You see, in the story, Jack didn’t merely attack people. He killed them. He cut out their hearts.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Quite. Leo, be a dear and turn on all the lights. There’s no sun today, and some things are better not talked about in the dark.’
Leo did as he was told and sat back down.
‘Right. Are you sitting comfortably?’
‘Not really,’ Merry murmured, but Gran ignored her.
‘Then I’ll begin.’ She cleared her throat.
‘Once upon a time …’
Once upon a time – because that’s how all the best stories start, even the ones that lead to death and darkness and unhappy ever after – there was a kingdom. For the most part it was a soft, green country, of rolling downs and rich fields and fine orchards. To the south, where the land fell into the sea, the kingdom ended in tall white cliffs, with golden beaches at their feet. And the people of the land loved the sea, and built sturdy boats to fish and sail. But to the north lay steep, razor-backed hills, their lower slopes shrouded in sombre forests. Even in the springtime, none of the people went further into the forests than they had to.
All the land south of the forests was ruled from Helmswick, where the king lived in a great wooden hall built from mighty oak trees. King Wulfric was strong and ambitious, and kept the kingdom safe. He was wise too. Though not quite as wise as he might have been, if his queen had not died so young. But the king’s law did not extend into the forests. And because this was the Dark Ages, before men had learnt to believe that magic does not exist, a sorceress lived in the dark heart of the wood. She was just as strong as the king, and just as ambitious, and no one had ever been able to defeat her.
At least, no one up until now …
THE KINGDOM OF THE SOUTH SAXONS, 498 AD
Gwydion ran his finger under the collar of his tunic, and wished he could stop sweating. He could see the servants and guards looking at him sideways, smirking. He caught the subtle tone of mockery: ‘A flagon of ale, my lord? Or perhaps some sweetmeats, my lord?’ It was because he had grown up here. Many of the servants remembered him, and they knew him only as the son of the king’s falconer, little more than a boy. To them, he was nobody.
Of course, he had almost been less than nobody. A slave passed nearby, carrying a load of firewood for the kitchens, the permanent iron collar round his neck advertising his status. If King Wulfric had not freed Gwydion’s father, that would have been his fate: a piece of property to be bought and sold, to live and die at the will of Wulfric and the rest of these filthy Saxon usurpers –
Gwydion mastered his anger and forced a smile at the woman who had approached to offer him some bread. After all, his fortunes were about to change.
In the meantime, however, he was sitting in the outer hall, kicking his heels while the king dealt with other matters. The son of an Irish chieftain had arrived earlier. Gwydion had caught a glimpse of him and his companions, sweeping into the palace courtyard: laughing carelessly, sunlight glinting off golden torcs and polished armour, their horses splashed with mud. The Celt was just as tall as Gwydion, strongly built, as blond as Gwydion was dark. Gwydion had disliked him the moment he had laid eyes on him. But he had been waiting so long now; waiting for the day when his worth would finally be acknowledged, when his life would really start. Waiting, and planning, and giving up so much. He could wait a little longer.
Finally, the door to the great hall opened.
Gwydion stood up, adjusted his sword belt and straightened his shoulders. He walked through the long, vaulted room, past the assembled ranks of knights and captains, up to the dais where the king sat. There he stood stiffly, pulling his cloak forwards to hide the worn patches on his tunic.
The king cleared his throat.
‘Gwydion, welcome. And forgive me for the delay in receiving you. But now the court is assembled, to do you honour for the great quest which you undertook and accomplished.’ The King looked around at his courtiers, and gestured to a crystal jar that was displayed next to his chair. Inside the jar was a dark, shrivelled mass. ‘Behold, my lords, the heart of the Sorceress, cut from her corrupt carcass by the hand of this young man. Truly, Gwydion, I know not how to reward you.’
Murmurs of surprise and disbelief ran around the room.
Gwydion bowed. ‘Thank you, Sire. There is only one reward I desire: the hand of the princess I rescued. The reward promised to whomsoever should return her alive to Helmswick.’ Gwydion heard the courtiers behind him muttering. He ignored them.
The king picked up the crystal jar, as though to examine its grisly contents more closely. ‘To marry the heir to the kingdom – that was the stated reward, was it not?’ Wulfric replaced the jar and stood, wincing as he straightened up. ‘Come, walk with me a little.’ The king, leaning on Gwydion’s arm, passed out of the great hall into a smaller private room beyond. The room was dark apart from the bright squares of sunlight on the rush-covered floor, falling from the windows high up in one wall. ‘Help me to that chair, Gwydion. Then sit.’
Gwydion fetched a stool from the side of the room and sat near the king, who beckoned to a servant hovering nearby.
‘Here.’ King Wulfric said, as the servant handed Gwydion a small, cloth-bound package. ‘I have been waiting to give this to you.’
The package was surprisingly heavy. Gwydion balanced it on his knees and carefully opened the wrapping. A large gold brooch, fashioned in the shape of a wolf with garnets for eyes, glittered against the dark cloth.
Gwydion smiled. The wolf was the symbol of the royal house.
‘Thank you, Sire.’ He pinned the brooch to his cloak. ‘May I see Edith now? I did not speak to her about our marriage on the journey back to Helmswick, but—’
‘Gwydion,’ Wulfric raised his hand, interrupting, ‘I am afraid the matter is more … complicated than I anticipated.’
Gwydion frowned.
‘I see no complication, Sire. I have completed the quest.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The king paused again. ‘But you see, when I offered the reward, I did not expect …’ He straightened up. ‘The truth is, Gwydion, I did