‘Lord Mandible,’ he said, catching his breath.
‘What of him?’
‘He is back. Look out of the window.’
There was an urgency to the statement that made everyone lay down their knives, spoons and cleavers and rush en masse to the window. They were below ground so their view of the outside world was restricted to a narrow sliver above their heads, but they could see enough. And what they saw made them exclaim.
‘Lord above!’
‘Mercy!’
‘Tickle me with a thorn bush!’
‘I don’t believe my eyes,’ said Mrs Malherbe. Then she turned around to her motley crew. ‘Get to it, lads,’ she said. ‘There’s work to be done!’
Few who have been close enough to witness the evil expression of an oncoming Hairy-Back have lived to tell the tale. Its size, its viciousness, its enormous tusks! And with a skull that is two inches thick and cushioned with a thick layer of shock-absorbent cartilage, it is able to run head-on into tree trunks and rocks without injury. No other forest animal could withstand such an impact. This porcine monster is well adapted to its forest home.
It was exactly this sort of beast that Lord Mandible had envisaged on the dining table of his dream. So when the day of the Feast finally dawned he had joined his hunting party at sunrise and gone to the oak forest determined – and oddly confident – that today would be the day.
By the time the group reached the edge of the forest Mandible had managed to settle into his usual uneasy and awkward rhythm on his horse. It was a comical sight and his band of fellow huntsmen amused themselves by taking wagers as to how long he would manage to stay in the saddle and, specifically, which side he would fall from, because they were certain from previous experience that he would be unhorsed eventually.
Mandible was blissfully unaware of the amusement he caused his companions as he rallied them all with great enthusiasm.
‘Today is the day, my friends,’ he cried. ‘On this the occasion of the Midwinter Feast it is imperative that I put a Hairy-Backed Hog on the table. We shall not return until our goal has been achieved.’
Inwardly the huntsmen groaned. They knew how desperately Mandible wanted to catch a hog. They also knew how unlikely it was and could see a long day of fruitless hunting before them.
But if Mandible displayed more confidence than usual it soon seemed he had good reason. The hunting party had just arrived in the forest when they heard rustling and snorting sounds from the undergrowth only feet away from their leader. The huntsmen warned him to be patient (they had seen his hasty technique before), but to no avail.
Mandible levelled his musket in the general direction of the sounds and without warning shot a blast of lead down the barrel into the bushes. It seemed to echo in the forest, as if two shots had been fired, but the hunters hardly had time to consider that, as with an almost human squeal and a roar a bloodied and enraged hog burst out of the bushes and came careering towards Mandible. His horse, having more sense than the rider, turned tail and began to gallop as fast as it could in the opposite direction. Mandible fell off backwards (so no bets were won) and landed fat out on the forest floor. The hog bore down on him at a tremendous speed and in a panic he brandished his musket wildly and fired again. There was a strangely loud bang and to everyone’s surprise, Mandible’s in particular, the hog stopped in mid-charge, went rigid and keeled over.
All was silent.
‘Well done, Your Lordship!’ congratulated his chief huntsman finally, wide-eyed with disbelief. The rest of the group let out a genuine cheer. Mandible himself was still in a state of speechless shock. He scrambled to his feet, aided by a couple of the men, and stood in amazement by the side of the hog.
‘I did it!’ he breathed. ‘I finally did it!’
Genuinely moved, he knelt by the fallen hog. He reached out cautiously to feel its still warm body and a tear or two coursed down his face.
‘It’s a miracle,’ he said softly. ‘A miracle. I have bagged the biggest boar in the province! I am a hunter extraordinaire.’
For a moment, he could almost forget his extreme distress about his missing beloved cat. And the entire group of men, some wishing that they too could bag the biggest bore in the province, clapped and cheered in anticipation of an early return to the Hall.
And that is exactly what Mrs Malherbe and her kitchen staff saw when they looked out of the kitchen window: the return of Mandible and his prize. Mandible rode at the head of the procession – for procession it was – with his horse slowed to a trot. At this pace he was able to grip its sides with his knees, hold the reins in one hand and raise the other in triumph. Behind him came the boar, tied by its trotters to a thick branch and carried by four men, two at the front and two at the rear. It was still dripping sticky spit and bodily fluids and blood, leaving a shining wet trail across the courtyard. Bringing up the rear came the remainder of the hunting party, laughing and joking.
‘Well, well!’ murmured Mrs Malherbe. ‘As I live and breathe I never thought to see the day that fellow caught a Hairy-Back.’ And Mandible immediately went up in her estimation a little further.
Someone else observed Mandible’s triumphant return too. From his Brummagem tower Bovrik watched the procession with a keen eye. So, he has caught a hog at last, he thought. It was a long time since he had seen a whole Hairy-Back that close up . . .
Bovrik raised himself from the chair by his window. At the mirror he examined his shoes and posed with one foot in front of the other, showing off his shapely silk-stockinged calves to their best advantage. He smoothed down his cream velvet knee-length breeches and pulled on his loose-fitting magenta coat. Perfect – he truly looked the part. He finished off with a splash of his lemon perfume.
Finally, Bovrik smiled and opened up his box of eyeballs. He picked out one between his finger and thumb and held it up to the light.
The seventh eyeball.
Fashioned from white opaque glass, hollow in the middle to lessen its weight, slightly flattened at the top and bottom to ensure a good fit, it might have been similar to those he already had but in fact it was overtly superior. The iris was a band of gold ringed with deep blue sapphires, and the pupil was studded with tiny diamonds that glittered in the light. It was utterly, utterly enchanting and his most expensive to complete the collection. He had an eyeball now for every day of the week and need never make do with an eyepatch again! Surely Lady Mandible would be impressed. And added to the success of that cat-eater it boded well for the future. Roll on the Feast! Then, reassured as to his appearance, he adjusted his frilly cravat, shook out his lacy cuffs, collected his cloak and went back to the narrow window of his tower. But his joy was rudely interrupted. From somewhere in the building came the cacophonous sound of the harpsichord. ‘Doesn’t that fool have anything better to do?’ he muttered. Lord, wouldn’t he be glad never to have to suffer that racket again!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Extract from
A Letter to Polly
Withypitts Hall
Dear Polly,
. . . Oh, Polly, how I wish you could see my butterflies! They are so beautiful, so delicate.
When I last wrote I told you the time had come, then I went to the Incunabulorum and sealed the windows and door. I lit the lamps beneath the tanks and stoked up the fire. And I waited. As the temperature rose I went from tank to tank, looking for signs of life – a tiny movement, a split in a cocoon. But there was nothing. The night wore on. I put more logs on the fire and watched the balls in the thermoscope begin to rise.
And then it happened. In the darkest hour before dawn one of the cocoons began to move. Only slightly at first – I thought I had imagined it – but as the minutes passed it was undeniable. Gradually, one after the other, a split appeared at the head and the butterflies began to emerge.
Polly, they are everything I hoped for and more. Huge, majestic almost, rainbow-coloured, astonishing to behold . . . and then there are my own special ones too . . .
Hector put down his quill and yawned widely. A globule of ink dripped on to his desk and the grey cuff of his shirt soaked it up as if it was thirsty. It was difficult to concentrate when he had been up so many hours on the trot, with so much to do. Outside the daylight was fading fast – another day gone and the Feast about to begin. His bag sat on the bed and beside it a leather purse heavy with coins. Lord Mandible might be strange in many ways but at least he had proved to be grateful and generous. When he had come up to Hector after the episode in the tower, and asked him to aid in the capture of a Hairy-Back, Hector had quickly agreed – the money was too good to refuse. And a splendid job he had done too! By the time Hector had reached the forest early this very morning, as instructed, an extremely large and incredibly dozy Hairy-Back (perhaps the very one he had had the pleasure of meeting before) had already been captured, thanks to some cleverly baited acorns and mushrooms, and penned in the bushes. Hector had released the creature just as the hunting party rode in. Then he had managed, as planned, to shoot the creature at almost exactly the same moment as Mandible’s own musket had discharged. When the hog unexpectedly kept going he had even shot it again. Both times the huntsmen thought it was Mandible’s own weapon that had brought the animal down. It couldn’t have worked out better.
Hector had not bargained, however, on sustaining a wound himself. The first squeal the hunting party heard hadn’t been the hog’s, it had been his. But he was lucky. It was only a graze to the side of his face, caused by Mandible’s musket ball as it flew past him. He still felt a little dizzy though, and now he put his hand to the wound on his forehead. He winced, but weighed again the purse in his hand. It was worth it. This money, along with the mysterious ring he had found in the forest (he could feel it in his waistcoat pocket at this very moment), would certainly help him on his way. For once he left the Hall what would he have other than the satisfaction that came with the ultimate revenge? Only the contents of his bag: a couple of books, some clothes and his unsent letters. He planned first to go to Urbs Umida and pay to have his father buried in a better grave. Then he would visit Polly, but after that his future was in the hands of fate.
He pulled on a pair of gloves. On the floor in the corner of the room sat the single glass case wherein quietly rested twenty newly hatched specimens of Pulvis funestus, each black as night and sipping daintily from dishes of syrup. He reached for the mortar beside the tank and pulled off the cover.
‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘hold still.’
Not long after, Hector set to work rapidly boxing Lady Mandible’s huge and colourful butterflies in time for her to see them before the Feast. He was soon sweating profusely from the effort of his exertions in the steamy Incunabulorum, but more from fear. The moment of truth was drawing ever closer.
The insects were sluggish, having drunk their fill of syrup, and easily caught. Before long Hector was loading the boxes one by one on to a low wheeled trolley. He was just lifting the last one on when there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Gerulphus waiting to take him to Bovrik and Lady Mandible. For the last time, Hector hoped.
Bovrik was already at Her Ladyship’s chambers, pacing outside the double doors in one of his plainer eyepatches. When he saw Hector he frowned. ‘At last,’ he said, and took a butterfly box, looked briefly inside, then indicated to Hector to follow.
In her room, Lady Mandible was waiting for them, powdered and painted and coiffured – hair conventional in style but still improbably high – and wearing a surprisingly plain gown. Hector guessed she had not yet dressed for the Feast.
‘Your butterflies,’ said Bovrik with a flourish, proffering the box. ‘It has been a fery successful hatching, if I say so myself.’
Lady Mandible folded down the flaps of the box and almost jumped with delight.
‘Oh, they are perfect,’ she said, and a wicked smile crossed her face. ‘So big, such beautiful colours.’ She looked pointedly at Hector. ‘What a marvellous job you have done.’
Hector smiled carefully. He would not be drawn in again. But the Baron frowned and stepped closer to Her Ladyship, smiling slightly desperately.
‘What is that smell?’ asked Lysandra.
Bovrik beamed. ‘My perfume,’ he said. ‘The essential oil of the plant Lippia citriodora. I have worn extra for tonight.’ Heartened by her interest in him he went on, ‘Will you not tell me now, Your Ladyship, what you plan to do with the butterflies at the Feast? Haf I mentioned I haf my own surprise, of which I dare to think you will approve . . . ?’
Lysandra was hardly listening. She was too distracted looking at the butterflies in her box and cooing softly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Feasting Begins
All day long carriages had been arriving in convoy up the rocky hill to Withypitts Hall. They carried within them the self-styled elite of Urbs Umida, some rather higher up the social scale than others, but all with plenty of money or land.
Surprisingly – or unsurprisingly perhaps, dissatisfaction being the curse of the well off – emanating from these carriages were numerous complaints about the state of the road, the distance of the journey, the weather and suchlike. And, of course, there were the ever-present expressions of anxieties: that one might be seated at a disadvantage around the table, or that a particular person would or wouldn’t be there.
The gates to Withypitts Hall were manned by guards resplendent in full uniform, displaying the Mandible colours, a rather gaudy yellow and bright green. The gold-leaf-edged invitations were presented and, once carefully scrutinized (it was not unknown for forgeries to be made), the guests were waved through.
As they stepped down from their carriages the ladies stole sly glances from behind their fans at the attire of their companions in line, reassuring themselves that they were better dressed. They knew, however, that not one of them could hope to outshine Lady Mandible. Indeed, it would have been unforgivable to even try! As for the men, they were no less vain and had perfected the art of instantly assessing each other’s outfit in a single rapid upward sweep of the eyes (one always started with the shoes). They had for competition Baron Bovrik de Vandolin.
By the stroke of seven everyone was seated at the huge dining table but there was no sign of the hosts. What matter! The honeyed wine was already flowing freely, and when the half-hour struck tongues were loose, eyes were bright, laughter was high-pitched and table manners were hardly in evidence. There were ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ as the guests admired the Hall and each other. The table, which was dangerously overladen, groaned with food and an excess of cutlery and silver. An excess because the more that was consumed by glass, the less was consumed by tine and blade, fingers being the preferred choice.
The revellers, each and every one, ate as if there was no tomorrow. What a feast it was! What a fellow this Trimalchio must have been! As fast as a pitcher of wine or a plate of food was brought out, it was emptied and another was demanded. Up and down the length of the table gaping mouths and drooling dribbling chins were the order of the day, and the beleaguered servers were grabbed by one fellow and tugged by another until their tunics were practically torn asunder.
Hector, keeping a low profile, observed it all from the sidelines. How could he resist seeing the denouement of so much preparation before he left the Hall forever? And of course there was the small matter of his butterflies. He watched the guests feed, hand to plate to mouth, hand to plate to mouth, in a ceaseless repetition. Dormouse tails (apparently particularly delicious) dangled from their lips; entire sparrows dropped into their gaping maws; fat plums and cherries ready to burst were forced into their mouths until the juices squirted in all directions. This was not hunger, this was sheer unadulterated gluttony.
Seeking respite from it all, Hector turned away to see Bovrik hovering around the end of the table looking decidedly ill at ease. As was expected, the Baron was eyecatching in his apparel of midnight blue and apricot with hints of violet, but Hector was somewhat surprised to see that
he was wearing an eyepatch. On a night such as this he thought he would be showing off one of his garish eyeballs. Watching Bovrik wringing his hands and shooting his cuffs repeatedly made Hector himself anxious, so he chose the lesser of two evils and looked again to the table.
Down in the kitchen, by now a steaming hellish place, Mrs Malherbe and her minions were labouring away. Every minute a servant would rush in and demand more food, more drink, more everything! There was hardly enough room to move what with the piles of food, both dead and alive, stacked up in every available space and the extra people running about. And the noise! Orders, often conflicting, were barked out, pots and pans were slammed down, food slopped over the sides, and the air was blue with the language.
‘Nobles, they call themselves,’ muttered Mrs Malherbe as she abused the pastry for another pudding. ‘They are like animals up there. And what have they provided towards tonight? Nowt! All the ordinary people, the farmers and hunters and shepherds, the real providers of food, where are they, I ask you? Not here, not on your life!’
Back upstairs, as the guests took a breather after what had proved to be only the first course, the doors to the great hall were at last flung open to the sound of a trumpet fanfare. Hector looked up.
‘Please be upstanding for His Lordship Lord Burleigh Mandible and his beautiful wife, Lady Lysandra Mandible,’ came the cry and all stumbled to their feet, belching and with buttons straining, clutching their glasses and goblets.
Lysandra entered the hall first and there was an immediate muted gasp of surprise. She was radiant, there was no doubt about that, in a cream dress that sparkled with diamonds and glowed with pearls. But it was remarkably understated. This was not what the ladies had anticipated at all and there was a palpable feeling of disappointment. All had been led to believe that her outfit would be unrivalled in its splendour. After all that fuss, could this really be it?
The Eyeball Collector Page 13
