Rory (Hengist-People of the Horse Book 2) Read online

  What people say about Archer:

  “My mum was planning to read the book before I did but I insisted on reading it first so she has to wait. So far your book has been one of the best I've read in years. I'm looking forward to your next book.”AR

  “Archer is such a great character, with all the strengths you could want and vulnerability that cuts straight to your heart. His friends (and nemesis) are so real I found myself feeling a part of the story.” AD

  “Archer is a boy after my own heart. A little shy, wickedly clever (when he feels words are necessary), and loyal to the bone.” JF

  What people say about Rory:

  “I love the way Archer handles himself in some pretty horrible situations and the way he finds justice for those involved.”JD

  “Halfway through the book, I actually had to close down my Kindle and walk away; I knew just what that vile Mandy was going to do.”HS

  “Another of Jacky Gray's books which involve the reader to look at life's adventures through mystical, all-seeing eyes. Woven into the words as the pages unfold is a journey that we can all relate to and for me that is the magic of a good writer.”MW

  What people say about Reagan:

  “Another pacey book - a great way to get lost for an evening or two. Follow Reagan and his friends as they travel around Wessex trying to explain the reasons behind the white horses and their locations. I found this book almost as hard to put down as when I first read Archer.”CF

  “There is something about this story that really speaks to me. I can't put a finger on it, but it has to do with the way the author spins this one out, with the mixing of the mystery and the mystical.” HS

  “I picked up this book because I have an unnatural obsession with the chalk horses of England and was not disappointed! Reagan has to decode crop circles and spirit lines as well as find patterns in everyday events--all to help determine the position of the next white horse.” LR

  Hengist: The People of the Horse

  Rory

  Jacky Gray

  To Steph – for sharing my crazy explorations of Wessex and other magical circles – even in the rain

  To Sam – for knocking off a few rough edges and making Archer a little less of a machine

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events other than those clearly in the public domain are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 Jacky Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Front cover design Copyright © Rebecca Sterling

  www.sterlingdesignstudios.com

  White Horse designCopyright© 2010 Anthony Askew

  anthonyaskew.wordpress.com www.ant-askew.co.uk

  First published in 2010 by Lulu

  Second edition 2012

  This edition 2015

  http://www.hengistarcher.co.uk

  http://hengistpeoplehorse.blogspot.co.uk/

  https://www.facebook.com/HengistPeopleOfTheHorse

  https://twitter.com/jacky_gray

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1 Life on Mars

  2 The Cold Face

  3 Robin Hood meets William Tell

  4 Eco-warrior

  5 Constant Torment

  6 Memories

  7 Pub Grub

  8 Pool Shark

  9 Calamity

  10 The Race

  11 Bacon & Kisses

  12 Small Steps

  13 Preparing for Battle

  14 I Won’t let you Down

  15 A Trio of Scoundrels

  16 Back Home

  17 Starting Over

  18 Robin Hood

  19 Rory

  20 Blackmail

  21 The Wicked Witch

  22 Sandra Dee

  23 Is she really going out with him?

  24 This Kiss

  25 Live and Let Die

  26 We are Detective

  27 The Scam

  28 Welcome to the Black Parade

  29 Low Life

  30 Arrested

  31 Justice?

  32 Search for the Hero Inside

  33 Change for the Better

  34 Rat Trap

  35 An Innocent Man

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Archer was sixteen when he met Rory for the first time. Actually, that was not strictly true. When he was five, Rory’s mother Lynette stayed with his first foster parents for a while. At seventeen, Lynette was more like a woman, especially because she was going to have a baby. She did not stay long because of problems with the pregnancy, living somewhere else until the baby arrived.

  He saw Lynette several times after that. It was hard not to miss her melodic laugh or the smile that brightened up dark corners. She was probably the first female he ever loved and he nursed a passion for her that lasted until he began to take an interest in girls of his own age. Or, more accurately, until they began to take an interest in him. So in fact, he had met Rory before, when he was six and Rory looked exactly like any other baby: tiny and red-faced with lots of noise at one end and bad smells at the other.

  Archer remembered the second time well; he had come in from school, dumped his bags on the desk next to the computer and gone into the kitchen to see what he could scavenge. Penny always had something ready; she knew how hungry a full day at school made her teenage charges. Most days, they just helped themselves to as much as they wanted from the fruit bowl. Occasionally, there were chocolate biscuits with animal names like Penguin, Kit-Kat or Fox. They were only allowed one, and woe betide anyone who tried to take more.

  The best days were when she baked. Not the sweet, synthetic muck that passed for cakes in the shops. Those were full of chemicals supposed to make them last longer on shelves. Penny’s were freshly baked from wholesome ingredients like honey, oats, real lemons and fruits she had dried herself.

  Today was one of those days, with huge cookies, almost as big as saucers, with apricots and pecan nuts. He crept up to squeeze her waist as he pretended to steal one. Usually, she would jump and scold him, but he knew she enjoyed the game by the smile on her face. Today there was no smile as she peered down the garden.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ He sniffed, then bit.

  ‘Yes. It shouldn’t take that long to walk back from the den. Tom came back a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Yeah, he was in such a hurry, he knocked me over. He muttered something about going to the shop to buy snakes. But there is no pet shop close by, I must have misheard.’

  Penny was too distracted to explain. ‘Could you do me a favour? Walk up the garden and check Rory’s all right. I’m probably just fussing, but Tom’s friends can be a bit rough with the younger ones.’

  ‘Sure no problem. Consider it done.’

  Passing the empty greenhouse, Archer took another bite of the cookie, getting a burst of sweet apricot. There was no-one hiding in the space between the greenhouse and the shed. Tom normally leapt out from here shouting ‘boo,’ followed by a race to the bottom of the garden. Archer had to catch the younger boy before he reached his den. Nine times out of ten, he let Tom win.

  Putting the last bite of the cookie in his mouth, Archer passed the vegetable patch and checked behind the fruit trees. All that was left was the den and the compost heap; only someone with a strong stomach or a weak nose would hide there. His sharp hearing picked up the sound of voices, a scuffle, then a scream.

  Archer took o
ff, his speed increased by years of warrior training.

  1 Life on Mars

  Archer examined the tiny room for somewhere to conceal his bow and quiver. Under the cot may suffice – no, Julie called it a bed. His new foster mother had instructed him to “hang out” with the other boys when he finished unpacking. Opening the back door, he was half expecting a gallows mob. Sure enough, they surrounded him like predators.

  ‘So, Archer, think you’re Robin Hood, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s with the bow and arrows?’

  ‘Most people throw their toys away when they reach puberty.’

  ‘He obviously thinks he’s still a baby; calls his bed a cot.’

  Where I come from, babies sleep in cradles. Archer said nothing. This was familiar territory; he learnt long ago to show no reaction. He knew only one way to deal with bullying, deny the wolves their sport until they got bored or caught the scent of fresh meat.

  Their howls followed him into the house where his new foster father, a gruff man called Dave, was staring at a box in the corner of the room. Archer gaped in horror at images of a battle with mighty explosions and wounded people.

  ‘Can we not help those people? They need…’ he tried to fathom how best to treat a leg torn off at the knee and pumping blood.

  The picture changed to women on a beach as Dave glanced round. ‘Close your mouth son, never seen a woman in a bikini before?’

  ‘What happened to the wounded men?’

  ‘Are you for real? They’re in the Middle East. Didn’t they have a TV where you came from?’

  ‘A TV? Is that what you call the box? How does it work?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m no electrician.’ Dave’s sigh was evidence of his annoyance. ‘I’m sure it’ll tell you on the internet. Well it would if Peter hadn’t kicked his football at the monitor and smashed it. Try the encyclopaedia.’ He nodded at a shelf. ‘You can read, can’t you?’

  Archer smiled as he saw something he could understand. Books. He took the one marked S-U, up to his room and lay on the bed, catching up on several hundred years’ worth of inventions.

  The next three days were no better; Archer had little to record in his journal. The blank page taunted him; the first lines were the hardest.

  Being sixteen is not easy with nasty chemicals invading your body causing embarrassing smells and things growing where you don’t expect. The hormones take over: one minute they have you laughing wildly, the next you don’t know whether to fight, run or cry.

  He threw down the pen with a growl that sounded close to a curse. Writing about his feelings was not easy. After reading it through, he crossed out the word “cry” – something he had not done for a very long time. And he would never run; warrior training had reinforced his natural urge to stay and face whatever threatened him.

  This was a ridiculously difficult task for a “man of few words.” He grinned at the phrase used by the woman he called mother as she tended injuries from a brawl. A brawl caused when he defended her good name. It took Archer a while to understand that she found his wounds more distressing than the spiteful insults of bullies.

  Archer frowned at the now incomplete sentence. The council leader who sent him to this alien world did not expect a literary masterpiece. However, he insisted every thought should be written down, no matter how trivial, saying it would help the council to understand the effects of living in this toxic environment. Picking up the pen, Archer tried again.

  To get through this, what you need are a few people on your side. What you don’t need is to be in a strange place, where they use the same words, but in different ways, with different meanings. Who knew that calling something “bad” meant it was good? That if you liked someone they were “cool,” but if you really liked them, they became “hot.”

  There was so much more to discover than just the language, but he’d had enough of writing. Flinging himself on the bed, Archer wished for the millionth time he had not been voted the top male student in his graduating class. Then he would not have to endure this torment. So far, he had only discovered how to put up with unrelenting ridicule.

  Scorn and name-calling was nothing new; he had suffered far worse. The scar on his arm caught his eye – a constant reminder of how the torment had escalated back at home. When he stopped caring about the bullies’ taunts, the insults lessened. Instead, physical attacks became the norm. He got used to showing no reaction as they nudged, tripped or spilled drinks on him. So they stepped it up a level: his belongings got damaged, destroyed or disappeared. Archer had no friends, so he simply tolerated it.

  Until That Night: the night he nearly lost his life and the esteem of the only person who had shown him any kindness. The night he finally found two real friends. As he settled down to sleep, Archer grinned at the vivid picture of the pair teasing him; their camaraderie made his hitherto solitary life bearable.

  2 The Cold Face

  Archer’s new life became a daily battle to cram as much information as he could into his overtired brain before it started to hurt. Not an easy task with so much energy wasted on boys determined to break his spirit. Jack and Kyle were fostered like himself; they hounded like the bullies back home. Peter, whose parents ran the foster home, was far worse, as though trying to prove how “hard” he was. He always found some way to take each scheme to the next level of torment, like persuading the others to jump Archer in the garden and restrain him.

  ‘Hah. Not so tough without your bow are you?’ Peter dug inside his jacket, tugging to release something.

  Jack leaned over to see. ‘Whatcha got there?’

  Peter’s grin was unadulterated malevolence. ‘I borrowed it from Dad’s shed.’

  Archer’s mind quickly recalled the many bladed tools he had seen there; most could be used as effective weapons. He tried to appear unconcerned. It would have cost little effort to swat all three, but Archer’s orders were clear: under no circumstances must he use his warrior gifts against the other boys. Yet again, he had to endure the abuse. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

  ‘What the ...?’ Kyle’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the device.

  ‘It’s called a bungee, stoo-pid.’ Peter brandished an evil-looking contraption.

  Bungee was much too friendly a name for the metal ring with six red limbs, each ending with a lethal hook. Archer’s imagination taunted with images of how the device could be used to inflict damage on his body. His mind transported back to the training room he had dubbed “Kalen's torture chamber”...

  ~*~

  Archer’s feet and chest were bare; his only clothing the normal wrestling attire: a pair of tight breeches which stopped above his knees. His arms were strapped so tightly to large rings they were nearly pulled out of their sockets. The iron rings were set in concrete posts which stood three paces apart so the muscles on his bare torso were stretched taut. He tried to ignore the intense vulnerability, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the damage caused by his mind.

  As Kalen, the specialist trainer, buckled leather cuffs around Archer’s ankles, he took unseemly pleasure in relating how this method came from Middle Eastern torture techniques. How they would blindfold the victim and do unspeakable things to his body with knives and spears, rats and beetles. The description of the torment with honey and ants made Archer’s skin crawl. His legs crossed involuntarily. Kalen tugged on the thick straps, stretching Archer’s legs out a foot more than was comfortable, securing them to the lower rings as he continued.

  ‘You see, so much of the fear is in the mind. Some men died of sheer terror before a finger was ever laid upon them. Those who survived, would only have to catch the scent of honey in the breeze or hear the scratch of a claw and they would be bringing back their dinners.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Surely yes. Especially those with a great imagination. Take a look at this tray of instruments. How do you think they might be used to extract a confession?’

  Archer scanned the evil-look
ing array of bent and twisted hooks and blades, each sharpened to cruel points. Three items looked out of place.

  ‘Why is the fork there? I suppose you could use it to stab someone or pierce their kidney, but a spoon? That would not cut anything.’

  ‘It would if you dug hard enough, and it would hurt a lot more as well.’ Kalen picked up the items, inspecting them with an evil grin. ‘Actually, they’re just left over from lunch, they’re not supposed to be there at all.’

  ‘And the feather? How could you possibly hurt someone with a feather?’

  Kalen flaunted it close to Archer’s face, scratching his cheek with the sharpened quill. ‘There are a number of places you could stick this where it would cause unimaginable pain: underneath a fingernail, through a nostril, in the corner of an eye.’ He lowered the feather to Archer’s waist as though considering his belly button, then whispered. Archer’s eyes grew wide as he visualised other places a feather could be used.

  Kalen hid the tray from view as he selected and rejected several objects, returning them to the tray with a clatter. ‘So, do you think you are ready for this? I’ll give you a bit of a chance the first time. I will not use the blindfold so you can see it coming; it’s not quite so terrifying.’ He brought his left hand forward and Archer knew without looking what was in it.

  ‘You know the rules. I will not stop until you can convince me your mind has complete control over your body. You can only do that by refusing to acknowledge the messages coming to your brain from your skin and muscles. Ready?’

  Archer nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Kalen examined various sites on Archer’s body as though deciding where to start. Each time he got close, Archer flinched before the implement even touched his skin.