This is a short story containing no bad language but some violence (although not graphic). It is set in Telmarine Narnia, at the end of their first century. Rough justice administered on Great Caspian's Day leads to even more serious matters.
.
.
.
Great Caspian's Day
(or A Distant Good)
.
.
.
Year 23 (Telmarine reckoning)
Western Narnia, near the borderland
.
Soldiers pouring along the Leaf Sceard valley! Thirty – forty – no fifty heavy cavalry! Their polished cuirasses glinted in the winter sunlight; pointed lances upright, a thicket of spears. What's that? Something emerges from the trees to the south – men – guards - a trickle at first - then more. Scores of troopers begin to form straight lines; pike-men at the fore, with wicked, sharp pikes. What unlooked for danger was this on Christmas Day?
The summer had been hard enough, with the collapse of the 'new diggings'. "He's past it, silly old fool," they'd muttered. Poor Stan Wryhta, the engineer, enduring three weeks of complaints, name calling and backbiting. Then the disappearances began: it had been a stone-wyrm after all. The creature had wrecked the new tunnels and (presumably) eaten the five missing miners. Clever Snotor had finally recognised the signs. Brave Snotor led the hunt for the worm through the fallen, twisting, dark tunnels. Poor Snotor delivered the final blow whilst fatally wounded.
The sickness began in autumn; aelf-adl they called it. The lucky ones suffered blisters and pustules but recovered. The less fortunate died within a fortnight. The healthy had camped out in the rough, fearing confinement with the sick. They'd found fresh air beneficial during previous outbreaks. By the time blood month was out the sickness had gone. Thirty of the elf addled had recovered yet one hundred and eight lay dead. A month of mourning was declared. Beards were shorn, garments rent and foreheads covered in ash. 'From the dirt we came, to the dirt we'll go,' they cried.
Just over a hundred Red Dwarfs had survived, living in temporary huts until the tunnels were free of any unhealthy miasma. "We'll celebrate Christmas Day," their new chief, Snotor's successor, decided. Official mourning would even be lifted for twenty four hours. Preparations for the feast were underway when the soldiers arrived.
.
.
Any port in a storm
Year 99 (Telmarine reckoning)
.
They'd been seen; of that they had no doubt. What would they do with the information? Would it concern anyone? Would they even be believed? They were all unanswerable questions. They'd thought it wise to put some distance between themselves and the inquisitive children. Why weren't they at supper or in bed, they grumbled? The pair always rode at night having studied their maps well. They avoided the roads of course. They wouldn't go near towns, nor any farm or isolated cott. The ponies jogged placidly on, through copses, beside hedgerows, across scrubland and all manner of other lonely places.
"Old Gerontius would have known we were here," the elder of the two reflected.
"He must have had nerves of steel, living in these parts;" Sigeric gave a shudder.
"Ha! Most townsfolk stayed home at night, in his time." Eric glanced about him, "He must have put the wind up a few poachers too."
They rode on. To the south-west lay Farmer Guido's farmhouse. They could see the chimneys and roof, dim in the moonlight. "It'll be dawn soon," Sigeric said ruefully.
"We'll be there shortly."
"I just hope it's still there!"
.
.
The officer of the law
.
Streddling was a neat little market town, notable for supplying the royal castle. Its twice weekly fair was established by charter and it held two royal warrants. That kind of thing impressed the Telmarine settlers of Narnia. Being the officious sort, Telmarines liked to plague each other with mayors and constables, tax collectors and beadles, market inspectors and stewards. 'Weights and measures' men poked their nose into every costermonger's business. They enjoyed nothing more than suspending trade whilst checking a pair of scales or weighing a sack of grain. As is sometimes the way, officiousness didn't equate to honesty. The mayor, for example, required a bribe to grant a trader a licence. A tax collector might 'revise' an assessment for a modest financial consideration. The market inspector held considerable patronage in the granting of prime pitches. The local constable was no exception in his ways.
Constable Damon Greasemore (who could call on four full-time deputies and twenty part-time) preferred to patrol the market alone. His curious cat-skin waistcoat was as distinctive as his white hat (a badge of office). He wore a broad, hide belt supposedly made from the skin of six hanged men. It wasn't incidentally, although many believed it. He liked to swagger with hands in his weskit, his greatcoat apart, displaying the cudgel hanging from said belt. A sheath knife and 'brass knuckles' sat beside the club. "Folk have a great respect for the law," he'd say, if anyone ever questioned the wisdom of his solo beat. There was some truth in that, for 'Gallows Greasemore' had seen sixteen men hanged in his time. Some were even guilty. Of all the constables then in Narnia, he had the most fearsome reputation.
The day had only just reluctantly dawned but the market was setting up. Carts trundled into town, rattling, to the grumbles of sleepy townsfolk. Traders that had paid handsomely for the privilege were already in the prime pitches. Greasemore strolled about in the dim light, thumbs thrust in his belt. He'd already looked in at the kidcote; Tolliver Oliphant – a labourer of no small size – had been picked up the night before, for being drunk and disorderly. Charges of soaking bonfire wood would later be dropped, when he finally woke. The constable was just taking his morning draught of thick, creamy milk (courtesy of Farmer Procepta) when his chief deputy, Serge Smallbeer, found him. "I must speak to you, Damon." Smallbeer tugged at his sleeve and he allowed himself to be led into a corner; "I've been given some information."
.
.
Under cover of darkness
The young men passed the stone bottle about; the cider was potent. They all looked up as the yard door opened. Farmer Cruz grinned as he surveyed the assembly. "As likely a bunch of lads as I've ever seen," he approved. "Don't be stingy with the bottle," he reproved. "Is this everyone then?"
"It's all we'll need," Jorge gave a lopsided smile. He'd been badly thumped one previous Great Caspian's Day, remodelling his face.
Mistress Cruz brought out a large dish from the pantry, setting it on the table, to general approval. "You'll take some ham pie with you?" It was a rhetorical question. The crust of hot water pastry was firm and crisp; the pink meat inside set firm with jelly. She wrapped each slice in broad cabbage leaves and the men mumbled their thanks.
"Fill your bottles," the farmer suggested, generously. Each took his, in turn, to the ale cask. That done, Cruz decided, "Well, we'd best be going."
Lacking a safe path, it was a good fifty minutes trek, across rough farmland, to reach Farmer Guido's Old Top Field. Originally a ten acre plot, it had been divided from another by a long established hedge. Like all farmland in Narnia it lay fallow and ownerless until the Telmarines arrived. It hadn't taken Guido long to realise the benefit of amalgamating the two fields by grubbing up the hedge. Look! There was the clump of ancient oaks where young Daphne (Cruz's niece) claimed to have seen Old Caballo. She'd been sent to bed without her supper, still defiant in the face of her father's anger. Old Caballo! That weird hybrid, half horse, half man, once supposed (by children and the credulous) to dwell in Spink Wood. It was far quicker to cross open ground than it was to find the field boundaries and good cover. Even so, it was wise to keep low. They ran as quickly as possible, aided by ground frozen hard beneath their feet. The moon might still betray them but the fields weren't within sight of Farmer Guido's house.
"Keep your eyes out for the Sky Elf," young Alfredo joked, referencing an old, midwinter superstition.
"The Sky Elf! I'm more bothered about Farmer Guido and his lads," Cruz replied. In the distance they could see the last few twinkling lights of Streddling but no other signs of life.
"It's too early for blinkin' Sky Elves."
Eric lay dozing on an improvised pillow, his body covered in his cloak and old sacking. Dwarfs have an amazing capacity for sleep, less vaunted than their reputation for hardiness. Rather as a camel is said to store water in its hump, Dwarfs could store up sleep, providing great reserves of energy. Sigeric sharpened his knife on a whetstone by the miserly light of a precious candle. He'd had enough of sleeping; it was surely near midnight and they'd rested since dawn. No, he'd be glad of the action the next day promised.
.
.
A little earlier in the day
.
The shortest day of the year would be, as always, a feast day and public holiday. Great Caspian's Day was marked with bonfires, feasting and public revels. The reigning monarch, a mediocre king, had done what he could to play the day down (for it was a rowdy occasion often marked with some lawlessness). Even so, he dared not ban it outright. In Telmar the monarchs were chosen by election from the great families. That custom hadn't been retained but, nonetheless, the noble houses still held much power. There would be too many complaints if the King cancelled the festivities.
Two bonfire societies competed annually for the bragging rights of hosting the best bonfire. The 'Bonefire Society' consisted mainly of farmers and labourers from the rural districts. The butchers of the Shambles (the meat market) contributed meat and carcasses. Their blaze was always held on the South Common. The 'Townsmen' were small traders whose fire would be lit on the wasteland known as 'Northside'. For once the two organisations didn't have to pay the 'Ploughboys' to avoid trouble. The criminal gang had been broken; its leaders were dead or in custody. Even so, sabotage (including the theft of firewood) was not uncommon. Arson or the soaking of bonfire wood was a civil offence, punishable by a fine.
Deputy Constable Smallbeer had been approached the night before, whilst in the 'Goatman' alehouse. "If I'd heard some news, what would it be worth?" 'Bullock' Lemuel, a labourer of no mean size, had loomed over him, breathing beer fumes.
"That rather depends on the news and – most importantly – whether it's true."
"You know me, Mister Smallbeer, I wouldn't put you wrong," Lemuel objected.
"Hm, sit down then and open your budget" the peace officer said (by which he meant the man should tell his tale).
"Well, I got this from Tom Butcher," Lemuel began, "He thought I'd find it funny, like."
"Go on, man."
"I hope this will be worth something… The Townsmen have got a load of bonfire wood hidden in Farmer Guido's old barn. They reckoned it'll be safe there; out of town, like. Someone has peached though and there's a bunch of farm lads from Clovis' Ditch going to fire it."
"You're sure of this?"
"I'm as sure as the world is flat."
"You're as sure as that sure, hey? And when is this going to happen?"
"Late tonight – midnight – early hours of tomorrow;" Bullock Lemuel shrugged. "I can't be certain, Mister Smallbeer."
Damon Greasemore rounded up a band of full and part time constables; all but four being available. They'd been told to assemble in the yard of the 'King's Arms' at sundown (which was well before five o'clock at that time of year). "Wrap up warm and bring cudgels, but no blades," they'd been warned. "Right, gentlemen," said Greasemore, when they were all assembled, "We'll be keeping the King's peace tonight, out at Farmer Guido's place. We've had it – on good authority – that the boys from Clovis' Ditch will try and fire one of his barns."
"Why's that, Constable?"
"Because there's a load of bonfire wood stored there, that's why."
"Oh ho!"
"It was a secret, but secrets are hard to keep."
There was some excitement at the prospect of ambushing their rural rivals. "We'll crack a few heads tonight," Jem Apprentice said with relish.
"We'll enforce the peace with appropriate force," Greasemore corrected him (marring the effect by winking).
"Certainly, Constable, that's what I meant," Jem agreed.
"Yes, I thought so. Now I don't mind administering a beating to protect property, but I don't want anything worse than bruises or a few broken bones. Hear me: I'll charge any man that pulls out a blade unless one is pulled on him first!"
"There you go, boys," said Greasemore cheerily. His warm breath carried like smoke on the cold air. Lacking the clever water-clock installed at the modern, royal castle, they didn't know for certain that it was nine o'clock, but most could make a close guess. "The barn is still intact, at least!"
"Constable!" a small man came dodging along the hedgerow for cover. He'd been keeping watch since late afternoon and was almost frozen to the bone.
"Have you anything to report, Tom Carpenter?"
"No, nothing yet, Constable."
.
.
Great Caspian's Day dawns
.
Eric and his older brother had survived the massacre at Slitan. They'd been checking snares, and found themselves cut off behind the approaching cavalry. He'd been but a cnafa of ten winters back then. They'd watched in horror as their kin were cut down in swathes. The Dwarfs gave a good account of themselves but, with improvised weapons, weakened by sickness and rough living, they'd been overwhelmed. Scop, a thoughtful, creative, sensitive sort (for a Dwarf) had brought the young cnafa to safety, crossing miles of hostile country.
Captain Pomander, who'd led the soldiers, had acted way beyond his authority. There had been talk of a court marital but, in the end, the whole thing was hushed up. After all, Dwarfs didn't exist, officially at least. Every trooper was sworn to secrecy and – as is often the way of soldiers – many actually kept their oath. A small number would allude to it though when in their cups. Pomander found himself in command of a small watchtower on the northern border and should, perhaps, have considered himself lucky.
It had taken weeks on foot, travelling by night, on constant watch, for Scop and his brother to cross that northern border. Eventually they found their way to Hamholme, that ancient settlement of Dwarfs, in the wastes. En route they'd slept rough or, at times, had been put up by Black Dwarfs. Now they are so-called because they had never seen the light of Aslan. Tradition said that, at the creation of the world, their ancestors had turned their backs on the Great Lion. Red Dwarfs were fewer still during the Telmarine age. Scop had hoped to find kin at Grund but they'd become hopelessly lost and moved on.
Scop, embittered by events, had brought up Eric to hate the sons of Adam. In that he was more like unto a Black Dwarf. The Aelf-adl had left him with a weakness of the lungs and chest; he lived but eight more years. Eric seemed likely to be as much of a loner as his brother but, to everyone's surprise, he fell for (and married) Alfreda, of Hamholme. They had a son, Sigeric.
It was in the ninety sixth year of the Telmarine settlement of Narnia that the Aelf-adl came to Hamholme. It wasn't as severe as it had been at Slitan; perhaps because the tunnels were wider, airier and more extensive. Even so, a dozen Dwarfs died and two dozen more caught the sickness. Sigeric was one of the latter and Eric recognised the dreaded cough and wheeze that it left behind. As Eric sat, in Farmer Guido's barn, as Great Caspian's Day broke, he listened for the sporadic gasps of his Elf Addled son. It was like hearing Scop, all over again.
"Right boys, there it is," Cruz declared, pointing to the old barn. It was small by modern standards, being a relic of some long forgotten Narnian farmer. It had been patched up when the farm was first settled, but had proved too poky and in too inconvenient a location for the new farmhouse. Farmer Guido had been happy to store some of the bonfire wood there, to keep it safe. At dawn he intended to load it onto carts and escort it into Streddling.
The men ran openly across the field, with no great fear of being overseen in such a place and at such an hour. "It's not locked," Prosper said, examining the double doors. The bar lifted, the doors were pulled apart. "Hullo: a couple of ponies!"
"Well, bring 'em out," Cruz said, "Tie them up over there; we don't want them making a racket."
"Stop! Thieves! Vandals! Arsonists!" Suddenly it was as though all hell had broken loose. Men came swarming out of their hiding places, brandishing cudgels and sticks. The Clovis' Ditch marauders looked wildly about them, in alarm. They were much outnumbered.
"Into 'em, boys," Greasemore shouted gleefully. "We'll teach 'em a lesson!" The fight was at close quarters and brutal. The Constable urged his deputies on, administering what he considered to be justice with his truncheon, on the edge of the fray. The would-be arsonists were definitely getting the worst of it when – unnoticed by many – two small figures flew past them on ponies. Well, as fast as Dwarf ridden ponies can go, at any rate. Only the sharp eyed man of the law was in a position to do anything about it. He struck a cruel blow across Eric's back who – temporarily stunned – toppled to the ground. Sigeric wheeled about but Greasemore already had men pinning Eric down. In despair, Sigeric turned again and his pony pounded away.
.
.
Aftermath
.
The Sherriffs' apartments at the royal castle were poky and rather dingy. They faced north and the windows were small yet draughty. An overhead lamp spluttered constantly. "So, that's it, ma'am." The Constable sat on the edge of the hard, wooden chair, a cup of thick, creamy milk in his hand, and finished his tale.
"Have another roll," Mistress Malprice suggested, proffering him a tin plate. The unofficial, acting Sherriff was in an uncommonly good mood. An attempt to disrupt Great Caspian's Day revels had been foiled. An armed stranger – his neck broken – had been thwarted in some presumed mischief. She looked at the crossbow on her table. "This is most unusual."
"It's uncommonly well made," Greasemore agreed. "The range is impressive;" he knew that because he'd test fired it. Telmarine crossbows were rather primitive uncertain things, prone to jamming or falling short. They were unpopular as a consequence. "The workmanship is superb."
"Well, I'll tell his Majesty, he'll be pleased to know that the rule of law is properly enforced." Cecilia Malprice was looking forward to bringing the King more good news. She lived in hope that the office of Sherriff, held by her elderly and ailing husband, might soon be officially bestowed on her.
Damon Greasemore chewed his bread and swallowed. "It's always a pleasure, ma'am; for you and his Majesty."
"Your tenure ends soon, I think?"
"It ends next Quarter Day, ma'am."
"And you can't serve a fourth consecutive term?" It was a rhetorical question but he answered it.
"Not under normal circumstances, ma'am, no."'
"But if you had special permission, from an influential person, you might?"
"Well, that would be most gratifying, ma'am." Greasemore permitted himself a bright smile.
"Then you had better keep finding ways to please me, Constable Greasemore!" The lady rose to her feet; the interview was over.
Dwarfs rarely flee. Still less commonly do they leave a relative or companion behind. Sigeric saw his father fall heavily but they had an agreement that must be honoured. The task was more important than their lives. Knowing nothing of Gallows Greasemore's brutal methods, Sigeric doubted that his parent would reveal anything of importance. In that, he was right. The old Dwarf had hit the ground with considerable force, almost breaking his neck. The Constable's attempts at interrogation had soon proved pointless.
They'd been fortunate that the Constable and deputies had come on foot. They didn't want horses 'giving the game away' as it were, needing to catch the saboteurs in the act. Sigeric had fled with none in pursuit. He'd then let his pony loose and trudged off, by a devious route, in a most unexpected direction: to Streddling. Normally he'd have been sorrowful to lose his faithful pony but the greater loss of Eric overshadowed everything. He saw a cumbersome covered wagon bringing produce into the town and managed to stow away.
.
.
The young prince
.
"It's going to be a lovely night for it," the Prince declared, prinking the points of his ruff in front of the steel mirror. The Queen's apartments in the royal castle were large compared with others in that modern building. When the sun was in the right place they were full of light too.
"Not as lovely as you consider yourself," said his Mother sharply. She lifted from a reclining position to better view her son. "For goodness sake, you think more of your appearance than Princess Lotz; and you know what happened to her."
"I just want to look my best in front of everyone," Xander protested. He gave one last, lingering look in the mirror and turned regretfully away. He wandered over to the table and picked up a triangle of cold toast.
"Look your best – hah - all for a rowdy bunch of tosspots, shopkeepers and butchers." Queen Clothilde replied with all the scorn of one from generations of wealth, with very little to actually do.
Clothilde's son, although slightly too concerned with his appearance, was a more understanding sort. He mixed with ordinary people - as much as his position allowed - and understood their fears and concerns somewhat better. He also had a deep feeling for the (still new) land and didn't compare it unfavourably with the Telmar he'd never even known. "They're hard working people, Mama, that know how to enjoy themselves."
"Hm; they'd do better to work a little harder and revel a little less."
Hunter and hunted
'Unsafe' – 'No entry' – 'Danger'. The signs were plain enough. Only the foolish would enter the tumbledown tower. It was old; that much was obvious to even the casual onlooker. The top was crenallated but the battlements now resembled decayed teeth, being mere grey stumps. Much of the roof had fallen in and birds made their nests in the remainder. Quite how old the place was, the Telmarines had no idea. Those few that had seen the strange castle on the coast knew it to be more ancient still. The tower was the last remnant of a chain built by the great Queen Reposco, successor to the Pevensey siblings, during the forgotten Golden Age of Narnia. The authorities were divided as to whether to demolish the place or rebuild it. As is so often the way with bureaucracies, nothing could be settled and so the tower was left to deteriorate.
The lock on the door had been picked as promised, to Sigeric's relief. The wooden staircase inside had long since rotted away. A series of stone blocks, built into the wall, marked each lost stair, winding upwards. Only the most sure footed would dare scale the blocks, with nothing to cling onto on the right hand side. Sigeric was surprisingly nimble and had a sound stomach. He left his pack on the ground and carefully climbed that most precarious staircase, with a crossbow strapped to his back.
A small perch, consisting of several stones – and now lacking floorboards - jutted out on what was formerly the third floor. Sigeric propped his crossbow against the wall and peeped from the narrow window. The 'Northside' was already busy with people assembling the bonfire. The burghers of Streddling little thought that 'old Narnians' remained and still less that the more intrepid might spy on them at the dead of night. Eric's informant had been right: the fire would be in the usual place, marked out with stone flags, at sufficient distance from the nearest houses. A temporary platform had been erected near the growing woodpile. It too was in the same position as its predecessors. Eric sat patiently on his perch, eyes open but his body effectively asleep, in the manner known as 'unsleep,' a thing peculiar to Red Dwarfs
The search had been extensive and would continue in the morning. Greasemore cursed the short, winter days when a protracted manhunt was impossible. Finding one small person in the black countryside would be like finding a needle in a haystack. "We'll leave it until the morrow, boys," he'd declared in the end. "Go fetch the others back."
The deceased stranger troubled him, although not because he was dead of course. No, Gallows Greasemore had sent innocent and guilty men to their deaths and it was all the same to him. The dead man's lack of inches and general otherness bothered him for several reasons. First, the other small escapee meant that the dead man was hardly unique. Second, there was his grandfather's strange story. Old Jeremiah had served as a cavalry trooper in the early years of the settlement. On high days and holidays, when he got stupidly drunk, he'd talk of a hushed up mass killing of 'Dwarfs'; small beings, not men, although like them in some ways. His family took the drunken ramblings as tall tales but young Damon had always felt him to be sincere on that matter at least. Then there was the crossbow, strapped to the dead man's pony. It was surely of foreign origin, for the quality was far superior to any that had ever come out of a Telmarine workshop. Finally, there was the bill, probably ripped from some tree or fence, advertising the forthcoming bonfires. The 'Townsmen' had the honour of hosting Prince Xander who would light the bonfire and make a speech. Various important personages took it in turns to attend one fire or another. Getting the young, popular prince was however considered something of a coup. The bill had been tucked inside the dead man's wallet and Xander's name heavily underlined, three times, in ink. "Now, why should that interest him?" Greasemore wondered throughout the day.
"His Highness will be drawn in Her Majesty's best carriage to the Northside," Captain Adonis said, in his effected drawl. He didn't like having to explain anything much to such lowly persons as constables, but Mistress Malprice had insisted they liaise.
It was late afternoon and would be dark within the hour. "The carriage is covered, Captain?"
"Of course;" Adonis sniffed. He couldn't imagine why anyone, let alone a prince, would want expose his person to the hoi polloi.
"Good, because these can be rowdy occasions, Captain. I'd not trust some of the wilder sort, from the villages, to behave themselves. I'd hate to see his Highness pelted with cabbages or eggs."
"Goodness! You think that likely?"
"Who knows? Competition spills over into lawlessness at times. Some of the square toes might think to embarrass the Townsmen."
"They'll taste the flat of my sword if they do," Adonis promised.
"He'll be escorted too?"
"Four mounted men in front, six behind; I'll lead them personally."
"Well, that all sounds very wise," the Constable approved.
The alehouses were shut by royal decree, from noon until sunset. That had been the state of things for ten years (to avoid 'excessive revelry' shall we say?) The Bellman would set off from the castle at a time determined by the water clock. His arrival in the main square signalled that hostelries might reopen. As a consequence, the Bellman was a very popular person in midwinter. He was offered all manner of encouragements to quicken his pace. A mob would already be awaiting his arrival. The crowd on Northside was also building. Men arrived with the last of the good wood and youths appeared dragging old timber that their parents had no further use for. Loafers stood about watching, cracking jokes and surreptitiously passing around stone bottles.
"Good evening, Constable."
"Nearly, but not quite, Mrs Hospitaller," Greasemore replied cheerfully. The stout, middle aged lady, clad in a clean apron, was the landlady of the 'Bag O Nails' public house. It backed onto the Northside. "You'll be busy tonight."
Like other publicans, Mrs Hospitaller kept the Constable in free food and ale in return for occasional favours (such as locking up nuisance drunks and turning a blind eye to after-hours drinking). "You'll have to pop in," she suggested, "There'll be quite a turnout to see the young Prince."
"Yes, there will, won't there?" the Constable said, more to himself than to the lady. He was troubled and went to find some deputies. He was glad to find Serge Smallbeer keeping a careful eye on some idlers.
"There's a lot of riff-raff about," Smallbeer judged.
"Yes, there is, isn't there?" Damon Greasemore was uneasy; it was a difficult night at the best of times, yet things must go smoothly for the Prince. "Get a few of the boys together and have them scout about for any signs of that fellow that fled the barn."
"What? Him? Why, he'll be nowhere near town."
"You'd think not but my nose twitches." Now Greasemore, for all his faults, had what we might call a 'copper's nose' (meaning a lawman's intuition). His late mentor had been the first to notice it.
"Like Old Bagpudding?"
"Bagpudding was a fine peace officer," Damon said. "His nose would twitch; and so does mine."
Smallbeer was hastily despatched to round up some help and Damon strolled across the rough ground of the Northside. He appeared to wander aimlessly, glancing lightly at this and that, sometimes retracing his steps whilst all the time taking everything in. Soon his meanderings took him near the old tower. He paused, seemingly to examine the strap of his shoe, whilst actually looking hard at the tower door. The chains were still in place, undoubtedly, but they hung loose and the hasp of the lock was surely broken?
The constable wandered some more, paying no further attention to the tower, until he turned back. From the corner of his eye he saw a pigeon fly towards the blank, staring eye that had been an upper window. Many birds roosted in the tower. Ah! Something had startled it; the pigeon flew straight back out. Greasemore continued to walk casually, across the waste. One might have thought that he was either killing time or was just a tad tipsy. Certainly, he seemed to have no particular intent. Once back across the Northside he found that Smallbeer had succeeded in rounding up five other deputies. "Good man," Greasemore clapped Serge on the shoulder, "Now I need someone to run to Castle Row, as fast as possible…"
Keeping the peace
"Well, Constable, it must have been a long day for you;" Mistress Malprice lolled back in her chair. The sun did its best to peep into the mean little windows of her official chambers.
"It was, ma'am." Great Caspian's Day, book-ended by assaults on barn and tower, had been taxing yet satisfactory. He'd taken rather a risk with the tower but his instincts had been right.
"Help yourself to a comfit." Cecilia waved her hands towards the marchpane treats.
"Thank you, ma'am; but maybe another glass of October?"
The acting Sherriff nodded her assent, "Please do. These rogues, there were just two of them?"
"As far as I can tell, ma'am."
"Imagine having the audacity to find his way into the town, when rousted from his hideout!"
Old Bagpudding used to say to his protégée: 'Madmen, lovers and fanatics are unpredictable; give me a decent thief, motivated by greed alone, any day.' Greasemore shook his head, "He was some sort of political zealot."
"Well, the Queen is very pleased," Malprice smiled, "as is the Prince. Word has been sent after the King; he's been called away."
"Maybe they'll look favourably on me serving another term…"
"Oh, I expect so."
The assault on the tower had begun inconspicuously. By a circuitous route, kindling and hay bales had been taken to the door. Sigeric couldn't have heard or seen anything as they'd approached from the rear. He avoided peeping out of the window anyway, for fear of being spotted. It wasn't until the fire took hold that two men, hugging the masonry, began to shout, 'Fire – help – fire – the tower's on fire!" Roused, Sigeric looked out of the window hole but could see nothing. He sniffed and then glimpsed tendrils of smoke rising in the air, from the tower itself. The crazy old front door had gone up like matchwood.
"I will of course need your discretion," Mistress Malprice said, holding Damon's gaze. "There is something a little… uncommon about this whole business." She hesitated, "The fact that these two miscreants were on the small side, for example."
"It happens, ma'am."
"It does, but there are some ignorant people; ruled by superstition and old wives' tales."
"I've already told my lads to hold their tongues."
"And you think that will work?"
Damon smiled ruefully, "They'll hold their tongues until they bend their elbows." He mimed imbibing from his mug. "Circus folk, I reckon."
"Circus folk?"
"It stands to reason that the pair came from some travelling circus troupe." Greasemore spread his hands, indicating the sense of his proposition. After all there was no one, so far, to gainsay him. Sigeric had clambered back down the stone blocks like a mountain goat, despite the crossbow strapped to his back. Of course he feared a trap, but what choice did he have, stuck up there like a cat up a tree? It was Great Caspian's Day after all; a fire might have been started by accident or purely out of mischief. He'd burst out of the collapsing door and through the flames unharmed. "Now!" shouted Greasemore as he saw Sigeric emerge. Unbeknownst to the Dwarf, Jack and Jenkin Archer of Castle Row, the best bowmen in Streddling, were waiting. Two arrows took him squarely in the heart.
"Circus folk, as you say," Cecilia Malprice agreed, "it stands to reason. You'll put the word about, amongst your men?"
"Of course I will, ma'am. Perhaps Captain Adonis might do the same, with the Castle Guard?"
"I'll send for him directly," the lady decided, rising. The interview was over.
Eric and Sigeric were buried in the same unmarked grave, in two acres of land outside the north face of the royal castle. It was reserved for anyone who died in custody and such deaths, sadly, weren't infrequent. Their plot to avenge the Dwarfs of Slitan had failed and there was none willing to take their place. A distant good came out of Constable Greasemore's actions, although it took centuries to come to fruition. Prince Xander had no siblings but, on inheriting the throne, did have a brood of his own. From his stock, ultimately, came the Caspian that restored Old Narnia. It would, once again be a land where magical beings and talking animals would live, side by side, with the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve.
.
The end
.
.
Glossary
Aelf-adl Elf disease (unknown sickness, perhaps skin disease) (Old English)
Blood monthNovember (a time to slaughter cattle for winter) (Anglo Saxon)
BonefireBonfire is a contracted form (archaic)
Budget A purse (English, archaic)
Cnafa Trans. Boy / youth (Old English)
Comfits Sweetmeats (English, archaic)
Cott Cottage (English, archaic)
Grund Trans. bottom, ground, earth, abyss (Old English)
Leaf Trans. leaf (Old English)
MarchpaneMarzipan (English, old fashioned)
OctoberThe finest ale was brewed in October
PeachedInformed, told (English, old fashioned)
Princess LotzA figure from Telmarine legend; she fell in love with her own reflection
Sceard Trans. shade (Old English)
Scop Trans. poet (Old English)
Slitan Trans. to bite, rend or tear (Old English)
Snotor Trans. prudent / wise (Old English)
Square toesA reference to the ugly, unfashionable shoes sometimes worn in rural parts
Stan-wyrhtaTrans. stone mason (Old English)
TosspotsHabitual beer drinkers, derogatory (English, archaic)
