Hell's Chimney Read online

  Hell’s Chimney

  DH Smith

  Earlham Books

  Contents

  Title Page

  Publishing Info

  Part One: The Hunted Prince

  Part Two: The Underworld

  Part Three: The Secret Of Life

  Thank you!

  Books by DH Smith

  Books by Derek Smith

  About the Author

  Published 2019 by Earlham Books

  Book design & cover art by Lia at Free Your Words

  Text copyright © 2010 DH Smith

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-909804-33-3

  Part One

  The Hunted Prince

  Chapter 1

  The darkness was total. Not a chink of light, no indication of walls or ceiling. No window. Straw was under his puffed up hands, tied too tightly behind his back. He could feel the blueness, the pins and needles in the fingers as he tried to move them in the damp straw. His ankles too were bound. Was he in a barn? The urine from a horse, or was it his own? He groaned and rolled in a sea of pain: bloated hands, ankles, his right eye throbbed, flashing deep redness. The side of his face ached. Patches of his body cried out their bruising.

  He remembered the kicking. They grabbed him, he had struggled – and they came in punching with fists and boots. He’d tried to protect his head with his hands but they’d ripped his arms away. They trod on his fingers and they went for his helplessness. He’d screamed and yelled for his mother, of all people. Dead three years. Mother – to come and stop them, to rip them away. To save him, to make it stop.

  The thought brought tears. Perhaps for his mother, but mainly for his sorry self, trussed like a chicken, kicked into unconsciousness. He tugged at his wrist bonds. There was no give. The circulation must be almost cut off; he could lose his hands. He tried wriggling the fingers and groaned as if they were still kicking him.

  Toby was on his side, his ear and cheek in the pungent straw. How long before they came? They must come soon. Was this simply a lesson? He had stormed out of his father’s presence declaring he could never respect that woman. That woman, who had bewitched his father and now insisted on replacing his mother. ‘Call me Mother,’ she had declared. And he yelled, ‘I’ll call you bitch.’

  Fool. There are things which must not be said. It was the drink. And the sight of Zeke, her crow ugly son, loving it as his own father dressed him down. And she, sweet loveliness herself. The bitch. She had his father on a string. She pulled and Father yelled and screamed and ranted at him. It was like a pummelling with hot coals, with the lady nodding, smiling reassurance while Father harangued.

  Until he broke.

  He had thrown his plate at her. The chicken flopped into her lap. Onion and gravy besmirched her face and her yellow dress. She was not smiling then. Her lips pressed thin, her eyes blazing at him. Oh no, she was not smiling then.

  He must apologise. Eat crow, lick boots. How it had all burst out of him! Wine words, wine insults – and on top of it – throwing the plate. This was the result. Beaten up, tied up in this stink hole. He groaned and rolled, wanting to rub his jaw, scratch his ribs. He yanked himself to sitting position but it was no better. The ache and pain moved round him as he moved. From jaw to belly, to ribs, to hands.

  He wanted his mother. She would have interceded, taken his part. She would cool down his father’s temper. She would.

  But she wouldn’t. Never could. Wouldn’t. Dead is dead.

  In fury, he had ridden away into the forest. Rode the horse too fast until he had to stop and walk the animal. By the stream, as the horse drank and its flanks steamed, he knew he was trapped, at least for the next few years. He must do her bidding, keep out of his stepbrother’s way. Be dutiful, be respectful. Honour his father the King and accept his Queen and her son.

  Damn them both.

  Pity took him over. He rolled and wallowed. He yelled out, ‘Help me! Help me!’ He was beaten. He would give in. The point was made. He would respect her. The bitch. She would be his new mother. The crow’s vomit. He would love her. The pig’s dung.

  He had ridden back, determined to make amends. Over the drawbridge, into the courtyard. And instantly they had set upon him. Dragged him from the horse. Kicked him, smashed him. Such brutality, like a man set on by robbers. Though he noted there had been no swords or knives. So surely the purpose was to punish him? Humiliate him.

  It had worked.

  He rolled over and crushed his hand, and cried out in pain. Surely, they would drop off. The fingers were losing feeling. They must be going black. Let them come soon. He would agree to anything. Please, Father – whatever you say. I am your obedient son.

  Chapter 2

  He heard the sounds, metal grating metal. Someone had at last come. He sat up, wincing at the pain in his wrists. He couldn’t see his body but he could map it out in aches. As the metal continued grating, he hoped this would be the end of it. A key in a lock, he guessed, someone having trouble with it.

  The door slowly opened. A wedge of light thickened from a strip, and fanned out until it took him in. Framed within the doorway was a stubby man in a tunic, carrying a lantern. He lifted the lantern high and peered into the cell. For that was clearly what it was. There was a small window high up in the far wall, but showing no light as it must be night outside, a cloudy dark night. The walls were black with some scrapings here and there. And on the earthy floor a puddle of scattered straw.

  The man came in and stood over Toby. He was bare-armed with thick fat fingers, the finger nails black with dirt.

  ‘You alright, lad?’ he said, revealing a few rotten teeth. His face was pitted, and the nose squashed as if it had been hit with something heavy.

  ‘I’m not alright,’ said Toby shaking himself.

  The man smiled, showing his gaps and a thick wet tongue. ‘You’re alive. That counts as alright down here.’

  Toby shuffled in the straw, trying to show his bound hands. ‘Can you undo these ropes? They’re killing me.’

  The man pursed his lips, then shook his head. ‘Can’t, sonny. It’s not down to me.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  The man grinned again, like a schoolboy pleased at knowing the answer. ‘You’re that prince. What’s his face.’ He flicked a grubby finger and the lantern shook, rocking the light. ‘Prince Toby – that’s you.’ He peered closely at the young man, sucking his lower lip under a couple of blackened teeth. ‘Don’t often get a prince.’ He broke into a cackle, his body shaking in his enjoyment. ‘In fact, never had a prince. Had a Chancellor once.’ He shook his head and sucked through his teeth. ‘Nasty man, but dead scared. Afraid of torture. Didn’t stay long.’ He winked a bloodshot eye and wiped down his nose with a grubby index finger. ‘They say money changed hands. A house even. I don’t know about that. I just hear bits and pieces down here. They come, most stay. Everyone goes in the end, of course.’

  ‘Please untie these bonds.’

  The man shook his head as if he cared. ‘Can’t. Orders.’ His tongue lolled thoughtfully in his cheek. ‘Though, don’t see a lot of use for ‘em. But it ain’t down to me.’

  ‘Will you loosen them?’ Toby’s eyes pleaded.

  The man walked round him sniffing. ‘You do go on.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You got some good gear there. Dirtying up a bit. But be worth something.’ He rubbed Toby’s sleeve between a couple of fingers. ‘Prince’s gear. Someone’ll want that, be sure of it.�
�

  The candle flickered in the lantern, shaking the light and shadows. The man peered in at the candle, and flicked some wax off the edge with a finger.

  Toby said, ‘I’m a prince.’ He paused then said with deliberation, ‘I’m going to be freed soon.’

  The man considered this then shook his head. ‘Doubt that.’

  ‘You don’t know it.’

  He smiled toothily. ‘What do I know, down here? They might free you. Might. Most likely not.’

  ‘When they free me,’ said Toby firmly, ‘I shall have you whipped.’

  The man stood back startled. ‘What have I done?’

  Toby looked hard into his eyes. ‘Untie my bonds.’

  The man trembled, the light shaking on the walls and floor. ‘Can’t, sir. Can’t do it. If they found you all undone they’d have me. Can’t do it, sir.’

  Toby watched his twitching face, and the shudder going through the man’s body. The man was afraid of what Toby might do – but more afraid of what others certainly would.

  ‘Loosen the bonds then,’ said Toby quietly.

  The man looked about him as if someone might come through the walls. ‘I’ll do it a bit. Just a bit so it don’t show.’ He crouched to do it then stopped. ‘Only promise – you won’t tell.’

  ‘On my honour,’ said Toby. ‘You’ll be rewarded.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ mumbled the man and set about the bonds around Toby’s wrists.

  He put the lantern on the straw which brought the light down with it. As he tugged at the ropes with his fingers, Toby winced.

  ‘Go easy.’

  ‘Bugger me,’ cursed the gaoler. ‘They done these tight.’ He was on his knees now, behind Toby’s back. ‘I shall have to get me teeth into ‘em.’

  Toby could smell his oniony breath. The man spat into the straw then pulled Toby’s arms up. Tony groaned. His wrist hurt awfully but he could barely feel his hands at all. All at once he felt some give – and he was yelling in pain.

  The man drew a grubby hand over Toby’s mouth and hissed, ‘Keep it down, master. Keep it down.’

  ‘Pins and needles,’ moaned Toby. ‘Ooh – they’re killing me.’

  The man began rubbing Toby’s fingers. At some other time he might have objected to the filthy hands but now he was only grateful.

  ‘That’s as much as I can do, master.’ The gaoler had stopped and was getting to his feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Toby still breathing heavily but the pain was easing. ‘Do the ankles.’

  The man hesitated, licked his lips and then bent to them. They weren’t quite as tight and in a combination of fingers and teeth, he was able to loosen them.

  ‘That’ll have to do,’ he said standing up.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Toby, wriggling to make the most of the looser bonds.

  ‘You won’t say nothing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Toby.

  The man relaxed. ‘Now what I really come for. Your breakfast tomorrow.’

  It was Toby’s turn to smile. ‘Do I get a choice?’

  The man nodded. ‘You can have what you want.’

  Toby looked hard into the man’s eyes. He didn’t seem to be joking. ‘Why?’ he said.

  The man shrugged. ‘Cus they said.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fruff. The Head Gaoler,’ he said.

  ‘Who said it to him?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Someone. Some messenger was talking to him. Dunno who. All I know is you get what you want for breakfast.’

  Toby tried once more. ‘Do you know why?’

  The man smiled. ‘Seems a bit of a waste to me. If you’re going to get your head chopped off…’

  Toby wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. ‘Who is going to get his head chopped off?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’ A shudder gripped his body. He felt prickly round the neck. ‘I am going to be executed tomorrow? Me?’

  The man nodded. ‘At noon. The executioner is here already. I seen him sharpening his axe in the blacksmith’s shop. Won’t hurt. He’s good. They cover your eyes if you want. Then one smack and it’s off. He’s good. Used to be a woodcutter. Says it’s no different from chopping a log – except for all the blood spurting. So what about bacon?’

  ‘At noon,’ mumbled Toby, very aware of his neck, the bones and the veins within, the bridge between head and body.

  ‘I’ll put you down for bacon then. Ham? Best ham? Anything in the kitchen you can have. Eggs? Goose eggs even. A jug of beer? I would. Not too much. Don’t want to be peeing while you’re waiting.’

  Toby’s teeth were chattering. He could barely think, hardly make words. ‘Are you sure of this?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Yeh,’ said the man. ‘Anything you like. Chicken. Bread just out the oven soaked in butter.’ The man slobbered. ‘Almost worth losing your head for. Go on, feed up. Anything you don’t have – I’ll finish.’

  Toby lowered his head. His knees had a life of their own, the blood was pumping in his ears. It couldn’t be true. How did this man know?

  ‘Why?’ he whispered, and then to prevent more additions to the menu, added, ‘why am I going to be executed?’

  The man lifted the lantern and chewed a fingernail thoughtfully. ‘Well, if you kill a king – what do you expect?’

  Toby stared at him. ‘Kill a king?’

  The man sucked in a breath and licked round his teeth. ‘Did you think you’d just injured him? No such luck, mate. You done a real good job. He’s dead and proper is the King. And you’re going to join him tomorrow. Did you say you wanted the ham? I’ll put you down for four eggs, and the blood sausage…’

  ‘Put me down for…’ said Toby, stopping as the tears welled in his eyes. Suddenly he was sobbing, his body shuddering. His father was dead. Could that really be true? Then why else had he been kicked and bound like a felon? Because, it could only be, there was no other possibility – because he was to die too. On the executioner’s block.

  He wept for his father. He wept for his neck. The gaoler made further suggestions: porridge, pork scratchings and apples. And as the young man didn’t reject them, he added them, wondering aloud how big a breakfast he would be permitted. But then a prince was a prince. There was royal blood in that neck.

  At last he left, locking the door. Leaving Toby in his own darkness.

  Chapter 3

  It was impossible to sleep tied up. And even if he wasn’t, too much had happened. He ached all over, his head buzzed like a hive. His weeping was over. And he began to think.

  Why did he believe the gaoler? Because he told him. But why believe him? Because in his miserable state, he would believe anything. Tied up, abandoned in the dark on stinking straw – any explanation would have worked. So perhaps the man was lying. He certainly was about breakfast. Toby could not believe he would get a magnificent feast an hour before they cut his head off. For what reason? It was a gaoler’s joke. The man would have a good laugh when he brought in the stale bread and water. So, if he was lying about breakfast, then it could be he was lying about his father being dead. And if he wasn’t dead Toby couldn’t be accused of the murder.

  Except.

  Was he really in the dungeon because he had thrown a plate of food at his stepmother? And tied up? And beaten up like a common criminal? It was not impossible. His father had a temper and maybe wanted to teach him a lesson. But his father also believed in family honour – would he so publicly humiliate his son, a prince of the realm? Never. If he was going to lock him up, he’d lock him up in his chamber. He could take away his horses. There were ways to punish princes who were badly behaved. And there were ways to punish murderers.

  Which was most likely?

  All he had was the word of one man. One filthy, nail biting, onion smelling, toothless gaoler. A man who had tortured, bullied and starved hundreds of prisoners. The word of the lowest of the low. He could be told anything by such vermin – and how would he ever know what was true?

/>   He convinced himself his father was alive. Then convinced himself his father was dead. He convinced himself he didn’t know anything about anything – that he had been too proud, too sulky, too rude to his stepmother and her son. He would go on his knees before her. He would beg her forgiveness. He would tell his father he had changed.

  That is – if his father was still alive. And if his head stayed on his neck at one minute past noon.

  How could they think he had killed his father? He went on that tack. Supposing the awful story was true, that his father had been murdered. It had to have been at the time while he was off riding in the forest. He’d have to have come back to do it. The guards at the drawbridge would have seen him if he had. The stable boys… You can’t sneak into a castle with a horse. Could you sneak in without one? Suppose he had been planning to kill his father? Then riding off to the forest might have been a good idea – his alibi. And then somehow get back in without being seen. And then back out again – so he could return from his ride pretending to know nothing.

  It could be done. By bribing a guard or two.

  Did they really think he had done that? Planned all that. And what about the guards? Could he have risked leaving them alive? It was all so much nonsense.

  He must steel himself. Let time pass. This would all come right.

  Toby was in this frame when his visitors arrived.

  The door creaked wide and the gaoler stood between the jambs holding a lantern. Just behind him were two guards, both with an upright spear in one hand and a lantern in the other. Behind them were others he couldn’t make out, one of them also holding a light.

  The gaoler stepped into the cell, followed by the guards. They peeled away like curtains, to allow those behind to come between. One was Councillor Higgs in his ermine robe and the soft black hat that had always reminded Toby of a sleeping cat. Around his neck was his ornate chain of office, indicating his importance. He was the King’s first Councillor. Beside him were the Queen and her son, Prince Zeke.

  For an instant, he thought: now it will come right. But she was in black, her long robe almost scraped the ground, and covered her shoulders. The sleeves were half-length and puffed at the end. The dress had a velvety sheen in the lamplight. There was a thick black band around her forehead and brown hair, and her long pigtails draping over her shoulders were tied in black ribbon.