by Joan Aiken
“Deil rax your thrapples, lads, are ye clean daft? Ne’er pit gude Bordeaux to sic a villainous ploy as yon! Na, na, it will gang mair glegly inside than out—” and he took the cup from Owen and drained it, muttering to himself in an undertone, “But there, whit can be expected from a wheen pock-pudding Welsh caterans?”
Owen was puzzled; he had begun to suspect that the wounded man might be the missing Prince of Wales, particularly when Dove, giving him a nudge, pointed out a crown and feathers engraved on the stranger’s silver wine-flask, cup, spoon, and hunting-knife.
But why should the Prince of Wales wear a kilt and speak with a Scots accent?
This riddle was presently solved, however. The chestnut porridge did their patient so much good that he was able to sit up, declaring in a stronger tone than he had yet used that he was muckle obleeged to them and that they were as gleg and handy a set of lads as a hunter could hope to meet. He then tried to stand, but found this beyond his power; his wounded leg had stiffened and he was unable to set it to the ground.
“Ech, oich, neighbours! Sair as I mislike tae trouble ye mair, I believe I’m obleeged to ask if ye will be sae gude as to convoy me to the nearest town. Dooms me! tae think that Davie Jamie Charlie Neddie Geordie Harry Dick Tudor-Stuart should land himself in sic a fashous fizzen-lous pass!”
“Oh, sir!” Owen exclaimed. “Then you are his highness the Prince of Wales!”
The other boys gaped in surprise at this, for they had not heard Mr. Smith’s proclamation, having been outside the museum at the time, and so had no notion that the prince was in the neighbourhood.
“Och, aye, sirs, I’m Wales, but nae case tae mak” a plisky-plasky abeut it“—as they began awkwardly bowing and tugging at their forelocks—”in the forest, ye ken, we’re a” friends thegither.”
And while the boys were collecting fallen boughs and weaving them into a rude litter to carry the prince he entertained them, in the most natural, cordial, sociable manner, with tales about his childhood in the castle of Balmoral, and the hunting he had enjoyed in the Scottish forests.
“But, Gude save us,” he concluded, “our Scots boars are douce and meek as lambs compared wi” yon flitesome Welsh tuskers! Three of the hallions set on me like Bulls o Bashan this morn in the tempest and I had muckle ado to dispatch them.—Ah, thank ye my lads, I’m fair beholden to ye“—as they assisted him on to the stretcher—“though it fashes me to take ye out of your road.”
The flood had now diminished so that it was possible to wade across from the island, and the boys set off southwards through the forest, four taking turns as stretcher-bearers while one rested and kept a lookout. The weather was much colder now; a keen wind whistled through the trees, almost stripped of leaves by the storm; to keep the hurt man warm they covered him with dry moss scraped from the undersides of rocks.
Owen, privately, was somewhat disappointed by the commonplace appearance of the prince, a slight, active-looking man in his early thirties, with a long nose, reddish hair, and a weather-beaten complexion due to his insatiable passion for hunting. However, his sparkling dark-grey eyes and air of command made the boys treat Prince David with instinctive respect, though he continued to chat to them cheerfully as they bore him along.
Presently Owen decided that the prince seemed recovered enough to hear some intelligence of a distressing nature, and so broke it to him that his father King James III was ill and calling for him. To their astonishment the prince burst out laughing.
“Aweel, aweel,” he said at length, “it’s ill tae mak” mock o’ the puir auld gentleman; doubtless I maun humour him and gang back tae London; ilka path has its puddle. But I’ll wager a guinea that nae mair than lanesomeness ails him; he’s aye of a shilpit and dow-spirited humour when I’m awa” hunting.”
Owen then ventured to ask the prince if he had yet received the letter dictated by Bilk and Prigman and addressed to him, demanding money for the stolen harp; but the prince had not; he had been alone, he said, hunting in the forest for the past five days, and no doubt a large bundle of mail was waiting for him at Caer Malyn, whither it had been his intention to proceed.
“Oh, sir! Then, please, when you receive the letter, tear it up and take no notice of it; indeed I was forced to write it, but I did not steal the Harp of Teirtu and do not want money for it; all I want is for it to be restored to the Pennygaff Museum.”
“Hout, mannie, what’t all this hirdum-dirdum about a harp? Ne’er speir at me sae lang-nebbit, but tell me a round tale about it frae the beginning.”
Thus encouraged, Owen once more told the whole story of the harp, and the other members of the party also added their comments and amplifications to the tale as they carried the prince along. He listened with the greatest interest.
“Whisht, whisht, did ye ever hear sic a puckle pirn?” he commented. “And so who do ye jalouse has yon harp the noo, then?”
Owen did not quite like to voice his suspicions of Lord Malyn; Prince David was presumably a friend of his if he had been proposing to stay at Caer Malyn. But the other boys were more outspoken.
“No danger, sir, it’s the Marquess himself! Promised to pull down the town of Pennygaff stone by stone, he did, and let the forest grow over it, if he did not get his hands on our harp. Black shame it is!” Mog said earnestly.
“Rubbish! All wrong you have it, boy!” contradicted Luggins. “Not his lordship but the foreign gentleman wanted the harp, so I was hearing.”
“There’s a fool you are! It was the Marquess, look you, without a doubt!” asserted Hwfa.
“Nonsense, then! It was the foreign gentleman, indeed!” cried Dove.
“Humph!” said Prince David. “Whichever ane o’ them it was, it’s plain that those twa souple scoundrels Bilk and Prigman maun be sneckit into jail; ance they are tied up in iron garters they’ll soon enough betray the cheat-the-wuddy villain who hired them tae mak” off wi” yon harp. The faurst burgh we reach, I’ll e’en command the justices tae carry oot a search for them. Where are ye bound, lads?”
The boys had agreed, hastily discussing the matter, that since he was obliged to return to London it would be folly to carry the prince all the way to Caer Malyn; they had therefore turned aside in the direction of Nant Agerddau, which, Mog reckoned, would not be more than ten or eleven miles south of them. Here the prince could obtain treatment for his wound, and would be able to hire post-horses and a carriage from Mr. Thomas at the Boar’s Head for his journey home. Owen chafed somewhat at this interruption to his errand, but he admitted to himself that the prince’s convenience must come first. Also, there might be a chance to see Arabis again. And—another consideration—with the Prince of Wales prepared to help him, surely his own fortunes must now take a more favourable turn?
They had left the gorge and were making their way through a level stretch of forest, checking their course by means of Owen’s compass. In order not to jolt the hurt man too painfully they were obliged to go at a fairly slow pace; after an hour or so the prince announced that he was faint with hunger. At this time Hwfa, armed with the crossbow, was going ahead as lookout; not long afterwards he was lucky enough to shoot a hare, which they cut up and toasted on sticks over a hastily kindled fire.
The prince, nibbling a leg of hare washed down with the last of the wine, declared that Hwfa was a bonny shot and, given a little practice, would make as brisk a hunter as any lad north of the highland line. Having eaten, his highness soon became drowsy and Owen, a little anxious about him, urged the others to make as much haste as possible. The day had become even colder and the sky was thickening and darkening; a recurrence of the storm seemed probable. They went on fast and silently, saving their breath for walking, since the track they had taken now began to climb the lower slopes of Fig-hat Ben.
“Snow, it do look like,” said Mog after an hour or so, squinting up at the murky clouds overhead. Sure enough, in half an hour or so, a scurry of white flakes began to blow past them, borne on the north wind that whistle
d fiercely at their backs.
Dove, who had been taking his turn as lookout, came back to the main party and beckoned Owen aside during a pause when they were getting their breath at the top of a steep ascent.
“Hey, Owen boy,” he whispered, “what did those two crwydadiau look like? The two that took the old harp?”
“Bilk and Prigman? I hadn’t my glasses on for most of the time I was with them, but one was short and stout and sandy-haired, and the other was tall and dark with a flat face. Why?”
“Whisht, you,” Dove said. “If you will come this way I will show you two men the very spit-image of that, sheltering under a rock.”
Owen’s heart beat fast. He followed Dove, who led him cautiously round a rocky outcrop grown over with young firs, which gave fairly good cover.
“They have moved on again,” Dove muttered. “There they are, see, Owen, climbing the slope.”
Owen peered through the snow, rubbing his glasses, and saw two figures, one short and stocky, the other tall, going up the hill; could they be Bilk and Prigman? It was hard to decide in the poor light. The two men stopped and seemed to dispute, shaking their fists at one another; then went on again.
“I do think it might be them,” Owen said, frowning with the effort to see through the flutter of snow. “Indeed I am almost certain. But I can hardly leave the prince to follow them.”
“See what the others have to say, is it?” suggested Dove. “Going the same way as us, anyhow, those two seem to be.”
So they returned to the stretcher party, who were busy adding another layer of moss to the prince’s covering.
“Not too good, the old prince, I am thinking,” Hwfa said, “Brick-red his face is, and breath coming very quick; best we get him to shelter fast, eh, boys?”
“Wait, you,” Dove said. “We have seen those two thieves, Bilk and Prigman, climbing the hill yonder; first give them a taste of their own medicine, is it?”
Hopeful grins spread over the faces of Luggins and Mog, who dearly loved a fight, but Hwfa shook his head.
“Best not to waste time,” he said, and Owen, who had been looking at the prince, entirely agreed with him.
“We must hope they are going to Nant Agerddau too,” he said regretfully. “But Hwfa is right; we ought to take his highness on as fast as possible; I’m afraid he is falling into a fever. Maybe the toasted hare disagreed with him.”
The prince was indeed very flushed and restless; he seemed asleep but occasionally muttered or called out a few incomprehensible phrases.
“O honari! Ochone! I hae missit the capercailzie! Sorrow fa” the brood. Gie ower yer daft reiks, man!”
“There is a pity, though, not to dust the jackets of that pair while we have them out in the forest,” sighed Mog wistfully. “Just a bit of a chat, sociable, and maybe they will be telling us who set them on to steal the harp and where they have taken it. Eh, Hwfa? Just you and me to go, and the other three carry the old prince to town, is it? Not more than a couple of miles now.”
“No,” Hwfa said, “I am for sticking by the prince. What do you say, Owen, boy?”
“That is not a bad notion of Mog’s,” Owen said. “Supposing you, Mog, and Dove, follow those two men; steal close if you can, try to hear what they say, and see where they go; then meet us in Nant Agerddau at the Boar’s Head.”
“Right, you,” Mog said happily. “Tie them up in knots, we will. A worm would find it hard to imitate. Come on, Dove.”
“No, just make sure they are the right men,” Owen cautioned. “They have knives, they are dangerous; especially Bilk, the tall one.”
“No matter for that,” huge Mog said comfortably. “A pair of Welsh lads can soon mash them into hotch-potch. You will see.”
Mog and Dove made off, running, up the hill, while the remaining three shouldered the litter once more and, being well rested, swung along at a rapid pace. Soon Owen began to recognize landmarks on the route he had taken with Mr. Smith the king’s messenger; they climbed out of the forest, up grassy slopes now greyed over with a thin layer of snow, and came at last into the narrow gorge leading to Nant Agerddau.
“No sign of the others yet,” Hwfa said, peering through the snow, which came thicker and thicker. “Roundabout way the thieves must have taken, not to be spotted by honest folk. But Mog and Dove will have them marked down, no danger. Old Dove is as good as a bloodhound when it do come to tracking.”
“I hope they will be all right,” said Owen, who was now having doubts as to the wisdom of his plan.
“No call to fret, boy,” Hwfa said. “I will back Mog and Dove against the whole British army, with boots on.”
“Perhaps the thieves are going back to the empty house,” Owen thought. “Perhaps they left something behind there, or decided to let me loose after all.” He wished he had thought to warn Mog and Dove not to go in there, supposing the house was still standing. But then he recalled how anxious Bilk and Prigman had been to leave it; they would hardly be likely to return.
Soon they passed the abandoned row, and reached the entrance to Father Ianto’s cave.
“Wait just a moment,” Owen said. “If anybody has skill to care for his highness, it is the good brother who is living in here.”
He put his head through the opening and called, “Brother Ianto! Are you there?”
But no answer came out. Owen went inside and found the cave dark and unoccupied; the tapers had burned out. He tripped over something and, stooping to feel about, discovered Brother Ianto’s little wooden toolbox. It lay open and, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the tools were scattered untidily over the floor.
“That is queer,” he thought, rather troubled. “It isn’t like Brother Ianto to leave his things all strewn about so. What can have happened?”
Hastily he gathered the tools into the box and then made his way back to the others.
“Brother Ianto does not seem to be there,” he said. “I will ask about him in the town. He can’t be far, or he would have taken his tools. Luckily I have another friend in the neighbourhood who will be able to help the prince.”
They took the litter straight to the Boar’s Head Inn, where Mr. Thomas the landlord and his wife nearly fell into a distraction with anxiety about their royal visitor, and gratification at the honour done to their roof, and dismay over the need to send somebody somewhere with a message about the prince’s mishap, and worry about how they were going to get enough provisions to feed his highness as a highness should be fed.
Sheets were aired, fires lit, cauldrons put on to boil for poultices, and a stable-boy sent running for the doctor.
“Lucky it is we have good Dr. Jenkins in the town,” Mr. Thomas said. “A fine skilled physician he is, and does wonders for the folk that come here to take the waters.”
“Fine high fees he do charge too,” sniffed Mrs. Thomas. “Pull a tooth and he will come near to ruin you, indeed! Sooner take my troubles to the pretty young lady and her da up at the fair, I would. Beautiful oil of goutweed and angelica she has given me for my housemaid’s knee, and only a groat to pay.”
Owen, when he saw the pompous, consequential little doctor, was inclined to side with the landlady; escaping from the fuss and uproar as the prince was put to bed, he ran off through the snowstorm to the top of the town.
He had been anxious in case the unseasonably early winter weather might have made the fairground people decide to pack up and move on elsewhere; however when he reached the quarry he was relieved to find that most of the tents and wagons were still there, though it was plain that they were not doing very good business. He flew to the spot where the Dandos’ caravan had been located—and drew up short in dismay. The wagon was no longer there. Thinking that he might have gone astray in the snow, he turned back and searched more carefully, but without success.
“Have the Dandos left?” he asked an elderly lady in a red cloak, frilled bonnet, and steeple-hat, who was smoking a pipe in the doorway of her tent under a notice
that said “Synamon Byns.”
“Eh?” She leaned forward, cupping her hand over her ear.
“MR. DANDO AND HIS DAUGHTER? Where are they?” Owen shouted.
“Eh, dear boy, How should I know? Went from by here, they did, yesterday, but I am not knowing where. Not a one to chatter, Tom Dando, and his daughter I was not seeing at all before they left. Will you be buying a cinnamon bun, my little one? Fresh baked, they are, and so crusty to melt on the tongue!”
Owen’s mouth watered at the thought, and at the warm scent of baking which came from the old lady’s tent, but he had no money, and regretfully declined. On his way back to the inn he asked all the people he met if they had seen Brother Ianto, but nobody had. However the potman at the Boar’s Head, when asked, said he believed a messenger had come from the Marquess inquiring for Brother Ianto, and had later been seen driving him off towards Caer Malyn in a gig.
“But why should his lordship want Brother Ianto?” Owen demanded, rather troubled.
“How do I know, boy? Leave bothering me—dear knows, enough work I have for three men, looking after the customers in the bar and mixing up this devil’s brew for Dr. Jenkins. Lucky it is that old Seljuk and his servant left and went off to stay with Lord Malyn; pity all this lot wouldn’t go as well.”
The potman was beating eggs, turpentine, vinegar, and ammonia together in a pewter beermug; the doctor, leaning over the stair-rail, called,
“Make haste, man! Am I to stand all day empty-handed?”
“0 dammo! Here, you give it to the old gorynnog,” the potman said, pushing the mug at Owen, who carried it upstairs into the prince’s chamber. Hwfa was here blowing up a newly lit fire, Luggins carefully supported the prince’s reclining form on the bed, while Dr. Jenkins tried to persuade him to drink a treacle posset made from figs, barley, and liquorice. But the patient was far from willing. He threw himself from side to side, uttering strange cries,
