The Snarling of Wolves

by Vivian French

  Alf, watching from his curtain rail, shook his head. “No point hanging about here. Think I’ll check and see if the little ’un’s come back. Be nice to have a catch-up with Mr Prince as well.” And he flittered away, leaving Nina-Rose doing her very best to persuade her fiancé to risk life and limb in the interests of demonstrating his undying affection for her.

  Marcus was making his way to the stables when Alf caught up with him.

  “Hi, Alf!” he said. “How’s things? Heard you got your Batster Super Spotter certificate. Well done!”

  Alf flew a surprised, but highly gratified, circle. “Who told you that, Mr Prince?”

  “Marlon kept me company when I was riding home last night,” Marcus explained. “Said you’ve got a trainee, as well.” He looked round. “Is he with you?”

  Feeling that losing his pupil suggested a certain carelessness, Alf changed the subject. “You’ve been seeing Miss Gracie, I hear, Mr Prince. Me and Billy – that’s my trainee – we popped in to see her last night.” He gave Marcus a knowing wink. “Went ever so pink when I mentioned your name, Mr Prince.”

  Marcus laughed, refusing to be embarrassed. “Good.” He swung into the stable yard. “I’m off to Niven’s Knowe. Coming?”

  Alf dithered. Where was Billy? This was the ideal opportunity to introduce him to Royalty, and continue his education. Surely he couldn’t be too far away…

  “Erm … you haven’t seen a very small bat out here, have you, Mr Prince? Name of Billy?”

  “Has he gone missing? Oh, look! Here’s Ger!” Marcus nodded at the stable boy, who was leading out Marcus’s pony. “Thanks, Ger. You’re a marvel.”

  Ger handed over the reins and Marcus rubbed the pony’s nose affectionately. “Good boy, Glee. Good boy.” He turned back to Alf. “So what happened? Did you scare Billy away with stories of trolls and dragons?”

  “Would I do a thing like that, Mr Prince?” Alf tried to sound outraged, but part of him was beginning to wonder if Marcus could be right. Had he told Billy too much?

  Marcus mounted Glee, and began heading for the gates that led out of the yard. “Maybe he’s gone home for a rest. Or could he have gone to see Marlon? He’s dozing in the barn if you want him.”

  “Unc? In the barn?” Alf circled Marcus’s head while he did some speedy thinking. Should he pretend that everything was fine? But what if Billy had been found by Marlon, and was in the barn under his supervision? It was probably best to own up. “Coolio. Thanks, Mr Prince. I’ll check it out.” And he whizzed away.

  “Bye!” Marcus called. Moments later the palace of Gorebreath was left behind, and he was on the road that eventually led to Niven’s Knowe. Vincent’s news was very much in the prince’s mind, and he considered it as the pony trotted steadily onwards. “Fancy old Bluebell thinking of Gracie as her successor … makes a lot of sense, of course. All Loobly wants to do is play with her ratty friends, and Vincent’s got about as much brain as a bluebottle … but would Gracie really want to be a queen?” Marcus stared at Glee’s ears as if they might hold the answer. “And would I want to be a king? Not a lot. Although it would make Nina-Rose as sick as a parrot … might almost be worth it just for that … no. No, it wouldn’t. But what about Gracie?” Marcus pulled Glee to a halt. “Should I tell her? Give her a chance to think about it before it all kicks off … if it really happens. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vincent had got the whole thing upside down, but if he hasn’t then she needs to know. It’s only fair… What do you think, Glee?” Glee whickered softly, as if agreeing, and Marcus nodded. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll see Tertius today, but I’ll get up early tomorrow and spend the day with Gracie.” His decision made, Marcus urged Glee into a canter and set off once more for the kingdom of Niven’s Knowe.

  “Unc! Uncle Marlon!” Alf zoomed high into the rafters of the old wooden barn, much to the annoyance of a cluster of elderly bats who had gathered together for a peaceful afternoon’s snooze. “Unc? Are you there?”

  “Where’s the fire, kiddo?” A much older bat, grizzled and grey about the whiskers, emerged from the shadows. “And where’s your manners?”

  “Sorry, Uncle Marlon.” Alf looped a cheery double loop. “How’s tricks?”

  His uncle was not taken in. “You’re up to something, kid. What’ve you done?”

  Alf had been using his acrobatic skills as a cover to see if Billy was lurking under the old wooden beams, but there was no sign of him. “Unc,” he said casually as he settled himself beside Marlon, “has Billy been here?”

  Marlon snorted. “Lost him?”

  “No,” Alf said firmly.

  There was a pause.

  “Well … sort of.”

  Marlon snorted again. “Careless, kiddo. Careless. When d’you see him last?”

  Alf considered. “We hitched a ride from Wadingburn in a coach, but he’d vamooshed by the time we arrived.”

  “Vamooshed?” Marlon raised his eyebrows.

  “Erm.” Alf wriggled on his perch. “Well … I might have closed my peepers for a moment or two along the way…”

  “Snoozing while on duty?” The older bat folded his wings across his chest. “And you a Super Spotter! Thought you were going to do me proud, kid.”

  “Sorry, Uncle Marlon.” Alf drooped.

  Marlon took pity on him. “Billy’s probably winged it off home to his mum. He’s in the kingdoms, so he’ll not come to any harm.”

  Alf, recovering, agreed. “That’s right. Hey, Unc – guess what! Our Miss Gracie’s next in line to be Queen of Wadingburn! Me ’n’ Billy – we heard the old queen telling her grandkids. The fat prince – he didn’t take it too well. Hurtled off here to sneak on his grandma, making out she’d lost her marbles.” Alf sniffed. “They’re all of them madder than Queen Bluebell ever will be.”

  “Queen of Wadingburn?” Marlon was interested. “Hm. Sure you got it straight, kid?”

  “Sure as I’m here. Billy, he heard her too.” Alf puffed out his chest. “She – the old queen – she said she knew bats with more sense than her grandkids. And then she said Miss Gracie was the perfect solution! She’d make a great queen, wouldn’t she, Unc?”

  Marlon did not share his nephew’s enthusiasm. “Could be trouble ahead,” he said. “She ain’t popular with the crowned lot.”

  “But she’s a Trueheart!” Alf was appalled. “Look what she’s done – saved the Royals time and time again.”

  His uncle shook his head. “Don’t mean a duck’s quack, kid. Shove a crown on their heads and they’d forget their own ma.”

  Alf refused to give in to this gloomy view. “Mr Prince – he can tell them!” He wriggled closer to his uncle. “She’s the best, our Miss Gracie. You should have seen her sorting Billy out earlier! He said he’d seen a witch and got into a real old dither until Miss Gracie calmed him down.” Alf giggled. “Know who it was? Just Miss Gracie’s stepsister, peering through her window!”

  Marlon froze. “Say again?”

  “Miss Gracie’s stepsister.” Alf was puzzled. “You know, Unc. The one that lives with the crones. Does the weaving ’n’ all that—”

  “Foyce Undershaft.” Marlon’s voice was grim. “And you’re telling me her window was open?”

  “Not open. Just a little hole. Billy said he could see an eye – that’s all.”

  “Hmph.” The older bat considered the implications of this. “Might be OK. But she ain’t meant to see out … not at night when it’s this time of the month.”

  “Why not?” Alf asked. “What’s the deal?”

  His uncle paused. “You don’t know?” Alf shook his head, and Marlon went on. “Well. For starters, Foyce Undershaft ain’t no relation to our Gracie. Her dad married Gracie’s mum, that’s all. Biggest mistake the poor dame ever made – she didn’t last long, even though she was a werewolf. And that reminds me –” Marlon glanced up into the shadowy rafters above his head – “it’s coming up to a full moon.”

  “WOWEEEE!” Alf’s squeak was one of del
ight. “Will Foyce go hairy? Whiskers all over? Can we watch?”

  For a rare moment Marlon was speechless. Alf, unaware, continued to witter on about fangs until the sweep of a wing sent him flying backwards off his perch.

  “Ouch! Steady on, Uncle Marlon! What did I say?” The small bat was outraged as he fluttered his way back. “I only asked—”

  “Think, kid, think!” Marlon snapped in exasperated tones.

  Alf shut his eyes tightly. “Full moon…” he muttered. “Full moon … werewolves … hairy…” He shook his head. “Sorry, Unc. I’m just not getting it.”

  Resisting, with some difficulty, the urge to cuff his nephew for a second time, Marlon asked, “And WHERE is Miss Foyce Undershaft?”

  There was a sharp intake of breath as Alf’s eyes widened. “You don’t – she wouldn’t – she couldn’t hurt our Miss Gracie, could she?”

  Marlon sighed. “Give her the chance, she’d eat her alive.”

  “But…” Alf was quivering with shock. “But Miss Gracie’s a Trueheart! And what about the crones? And the Web—”

  “If she turns werewolf while she’s inside the House, who knows what’ll happen?” Marlon shrugged. “Not me. Seen a lot of things in my time, but a half-blood werewolf face to face with a Trueheart? Nah. The hopeful money’s on the Trueheart, but it ain’t a cert. Tricksy things, werewolves. Could go either way.”

  “We have to stop her!” Alf was now flying in agitated circles round and round his uncle’s head. “Come on, Unc! We’ve gotta go! Right now!”

  “Hold your horses.” Marlon tapped his head. “Know what’s needed right now, kid? Brain.”

  Alf looked doubtful. “If you say so. But—”

  “There ain’t no buts,” Marlon glowered. “Think about it. We fly in – the dame turns hairy – then what? You got superhero powers?”

  Suitably squashed, Alf settled once more beside his uncle. “What about telling Mr Prince?” he suggested.

  Marlon stretched his wings. “Better, kiddo. Better. But we don’t want the guns goin’ off before we’ve set up the target.”

  “Guns?” Alf stared. “When did Mr Prince get a gun?”

  His uncle snorted. “Figure of speech. Don’t want the lad rushing into action before we know where the action is.”

  “But we do!” Alf protested. “Miss Gracie’s in terrible danger!”

  “Nah. Potential of danger? Yup. Certainty of danger? Unresolved. So what does a Super Spotter do?”

  Alf leapt to attention. “Check the situation. Watch and listen. Grade and assess. Report to higher authority as appropriate!”

  “Correct. So – what are you waiting for? Get going!”

  Alf looked surprised. “What about you?”

  Marlon raised an eyebrow. “Need your hand held?” he enquired, and Alf launched himself into the air with a squeak of protest.

  “Alfred Batster – on his way!” And with a flip of his wing he was gone.

  Marlon gave him a couple of moments, then followed him out of the barn. Instead of heading for the border of the kingdoms and the House of the Ancient Crones, however, he turned and swooped towards the palace. “Better see what’s goin’ on,” he muttered as he flew. “Our Gracie could be in danger in more ways than one. Pack of werewolves? Or a pack of angry Royals? Hmph. Give me the werewolves every time.”

  Marcus was whistling as he rode along. Life was good, he decided. Vincent’s news could be dealt with when and if it happened, but for the moment there was a lot to look forward to. Prince Tertius had suggested a royal tournament as part of the Centenary Celebrations, and Marcus had jumped at the chance to avoid the speeches, parades and balls that everyone else seemed to think were necessary. What was more, he was now able to take himself off to see Gracie whenever he felt like it; all he had to do was claim that he needed the time away from home in order to do Serious Tournament Planning, and his parents positively encouraged him to leave the palace.

  “Excellent to see you so involved in the Centenary Celebrations!” King Frank had told him with a slap on the back. “Glad to see you’re taking part!” Marcus, who was not entirely without a conscience, had mumbled something about armour, and hurried away to the stables. He had soothed his guilty conscience by having a long discussion with the Ancient One about tournaments; it appeared that she had been present at several, and had supplied him with a good deal of useful information.

  Tertius, an old friend, was equally delighted to have an excuse to steal away from his own palace. He explained to Marcus that married life was splendid, absolutely splendid, but a chap needed a break from time to time … and for this reason he happily provided Marcus with an alibi whenever he needed one. In return, Marcus reassured Princess Fedora that her young husband’s regular absences were required for practice sessions, and research into the ancient weaponry of Times Past. He would have thought it a terrible breach of trust to reveal that Tertius spent the time fishing, a pursuit that Fedora considered totally unsuitable. Fishing, she believed, was for the Lower Classes. Royalty, she informed Tertius early on in their relationship, did not handle fish.

  Recently, though, rather too many questions had been asked about how the tournament was progressing, and Marcus and Tertius had agreed to meet to concoct some kind of plan.

  “It won’t take long,” Marcus told himself. “After all, it’s only two guys on horseback bashing away at each other. And Tertius always falls off if his pony goes faster than a trot, so it’s not as if we’ll have to do much. We can arrange beforehand who’s going to win. I expect it’d better be Terty – Fedora would be furious if he lost. And Gracie won’t mind a bit. She’ll understand. She always does. She’s not at all like Fedora and Nina-Rose or that dreadful Princess Marigold…” Marcus smiled as he mentally compared the loud and opinionated Marigold with his calm and sensible Gracie. “Gracie’s much prettier, too—”

  The loud call of a trumpet broke into his thoughts, and he looked up to see a coach rattling towards him. As it drew nearer a familiar head popped out of a window, and called imperiously to the coachman to stop. Marcus reined in Glee, and waited. A moment later Princess Fedora flounced her way out, followed by a nervous-looking Tertius. Fedora’s feet had hardly touched the ground before she began talking, and Marcus stifled a sigh. He could quite understand why Tertius needed to escape.

  “So THERE you are, Marcus! Terty said you had a meeting today, but I said it would be FAR better if we came to see you. I’ve had such a fun idea! I was asking my darling Tootle Toes about your little tournament, and he’s in such a muddle that I’ve decided to take over. I’m much MUCH better at organizing things than he is, aren’t I, sweetie pie?”

  Tertius cleared his throat, and threw an agonized look of appeal at Marcus. “If you say so, precious – but you should ask Marcus. Ahem. He’s got our plans all worked out, haven’t you, Marcus?”

  Marcus hesitated, then rose to the occasion. “Absolutely. It’s all sorted, Fedora. Nothing left to do. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey—”

  Fedora gave him a steely glare. “So what are these plans, exactly? I want to know, Marcus. I’m quite sure I can think of something better.”

  “They’re – they’re secret.” Marcus folded his arms. “It would completely spoil the surprise if we told you. I expect that’s why Terty sounded confused. He didn’t want to give the game away, but he’s much too nice to tell you to mind your own business.”

  It was Fedora’s turn to hesitate. Marcus sounded as if he meant every word … but had she caught the suspicion of a wink? She turned on Tertius. “Is this true?”

  “Of course! You don’t think Marcus would tell you fibs, do you?” Tertius raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a convincing manner. “Haven’t I been telling you it was all sorted?”

  “No,” Fedora said baldly. “Every time I asked you told me something different.” She swung back to Marcus. “Is Arry going to be part of it? And Vincent? And Albion? Because I think ALL the princes should take p
art! I don’t see why my darling should be the only one in danger of having a horrid spear stuck through his chest.”

  “What?” Tertius went pale. “Who said anything about spears?”

  Marcus, realizing his house of cards was in danger of toppling, took a deep breath. “Spears? No no no. We won’t be using spears, Fedora – and we won’t be using swords either, will we, Tertius?”

  Tertius gulped. “I should say not! Why, the very idea! The girls would be terrified!”

  “So what will you be using?” Fedora’s eyes were narrowed. “Tell me!”

  “Lances,” Marcus told her. Tertius was looking like a rabbit cornered by a ferret, and was unlikely to say anything sensible. “Long wooden poles, and they don’t have sharp ends, and we’ll be wearing armour so we can’t possibly be hurt even if we do manage to whack each other – I mean, hit. But we’ll be aiming for each other’s shields, won’t we, Terty?”

  “Erm … yes.” Tertius was so obviously about to fall apart that Marcus jumped off Glee and came to stand beside his fellow prince. He put a supportive arm round his shoulders, and grinned cheerfully at Princess Fedora. “Tertius thought of the best bit, you know. He’s told me all about knights, and jousting – and how important the girls are.”

  “Girls?” Fedora raised her eyebrows. “I hardly think girls are involved.”

  “Oh, but they are,” Marcus said. In his head he was making a mental note to take the Ancient One a very large bunch of flowers. “A knight always has to have a lady to inspire him.”

  Tertius’s eyes were wide with admiration as he looked at Marcus. “Ha! Exactly what I was thinking. Inspiration! That’s you, my precious poochy pie…”

  “And when the knight is ready,” Marcus went on, “he rides into the tournament arena, and salutes the lady of his choice, and she steps forward to give him her hankie to wear in his helmet. And everybody claps, because…” For a moment Marcus faltered. The Ancient One had been vague on this point. “They clap because she’s so inspiring! Oh, and beautiful, of course.”