“Oh no, Bluebell.” Kesta’s eyes were wide. “Our ancestors set up the border, and it’s that that protects us. And, now that you’ve mentioned Gracie again, I have to confess that I do rather agree with darling Fedora and Nina-Rose. She’s a nice enough child, of course, but I don’t think she’s a good influence on Marcus. Princes shouldn’t go across the border. Not ever … and as for leaving your kingdom to her, Bluebell, you MUST be joking!”
Bluebell took a deep breath, but before she could explode Hortense put a restraining hand on her arm. “Might I have another cup of tea?” she asked. “And another of those delicious muffins?”
After a moment’s internal struggle, Bluebell subsided. “Of course. And do let’s talk about something else. I’m beginning to worry about my blood pressure again…”
The evening was overcast and gloomy. Billy, tired out with his long journey, clung to the eaves of the House of the Ancient Crones and slept. The voice in his head had eased during the latter part of the day, and he had been able to stop and doze a couple of times along the way, but his dreams had been so horrendous that he had been glad to wake up and continue his journey. On and on he had flown, his small wings aching with fatigue; even though the voice was less insistent, the demand was still there. Now he had reached the House, and suddenly his mind was empty. He had no dreams. Nothing.
He woke with a start, and for a moment was quite unable to think where he was. When he remembered, he was miserable. “I want to go home,” he whispered. Tentatively he stretched his wings. Could he? Was he free? He flew a small circle, and then a wider one … yes! His way was clear! And his mother would be waiting for him—
“Bat. Take a message.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order. The witch woman knew he was there, and she wanted him to do something, and that was why she had emptied his mind.
“Yes.”
What else could he say? He was much too tired to make even the faintest attempt to resist.
“In the forest. The wolf woman. Tell her I’m here. Do you understand?”
The venom in the voice shook Billy wide awake. “I understand,” he whispered, even though his heart was frantically trying to thump its way out of his tiny chest.
“Go, then. GO NOW!”
Billy summoned all his strength, and flew. Behind him he heard a peal of silvery laughter that all but sent him dropping to the ground, frozen with terror. “I’ll know if you try and fly away,” called the voice. “I’ll know! And it’ll be the worse for you, little bat. I’ll skin you alive, and pick at your bones with my sharp white teeth…”
With an agonized squeak Billy redoubled his speed. Over the roof he flew, and the chimneys bent out of his way. Through the wisps of mist, and away from the hollow … and there, beyond, lay the Less Enchanted Forest, crouched in the gathering darkness. Without the cheery companionship of Alf to drive away imagined terrors it had the appearance of some horrible half-formed monster. Billy forced himself to fly over the first few trees, and then on and on, hardly knowing what he was looking for. He had no idea where he had been the night before, and he zigzagged to and fro, desperately trying to recognize something familiar … but every tree creaked and groaned as if it knew a dark and terrible secret, and the bushes whispered and rustled ominously.
There she was! The tall thin figure was walking swiftly along a narrow path, a basket of fir cones in one bony hand and a bunch of twigs in the other. Billy flung himself towards her, squeaking as he flew. “She said to tell you! She said, tell the wolf woman! Tell her she’s in the House!”
Agony Clawbone stood very still. “Who is that?” she asked, her voice harsh and rusty as if she seldom spoke. “Who is speaking to me?”
“It’s me, Billy,” Billy gasped. “She told me to tell you! She’s in the House!”
“Who is in the House?”
Billy fluttered to a thornbush and clung to a twisted spike. “The nasty one! The witch! She peeped at me through a hole … she tells me to do things I don’t want to…”
Agony, with the lithe movement of a beast pouncing on its prey, twisted round and snatched Billy from his perch. “Does she have a name, this witch?”
“Mr Alf … Mr Alf said she was…” Billy struggled to remember. He was half dead with fear, but Agony’s pale grey eyes bored into his. “Under … Under … half?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “Undershaft?”
Billy nodded. “Yes.”
“Tchah!” Agony tossed Billy into the air as if she wanted rid of him completely. “Get away! Get away from here!”
Only too relieved to find himself alive and not crushed to a pulp by iron fingers, Billy did as he was told. As he flew for his life Agony called after him, “House? What house?”
Billy didn’t answer. The wind was with him, and he had one thing and one thing only in mind. A vision of Gracie Gillypot and the warmth of her hands kept him in the air … surely he was getting closer now? Exhaustion was creeping over him, deep into his very bones … each lift and drop of his wings was harder than the one before.
“Must … get … there…” he whispered, and saw the mist lying thick beneath him, filling the hollow to the rim.
“Nearly … there…” Billy shut his eyes, and dived. Relief lent him speed, and he hit the solid object in his path so hard that the breath was knocked out of his body. Gubble, thinking he had been stung by a wasp, dropped his load of logs.
“OOF!” Gubble sat down with a thump, clasping Billy’s limp body in his large green hands. “OOF! Bad bat! Very bad … bat? BAT?” With a thick green finger he gently stroked Billy’s damp and matted fur, but there was no response. “Find Gracie.” Gubble struggled to his feet. “Gracie make better.” And, forgetting all about his logs, he stomped off towards the house.
Agony Clawbone remained standing where Billy had found her. Her eyes were closed, and she was muttering to herself. “Undershaft. Undershaft … that was the man.” She shivered, overcome by old and bitter memories she had tried her best to bury.
It had been Moon Time and, as always, she had turned. Safe in her human’s house it had been nothing much more than fur, and running on all four paws, and a sharpening of her features … and it had never bothered the man before. But then he had come staggering in from a long and beery evening in the Battered Herring, and everything changed.
Once again Agony saw the angular figure of Mange Undershaft, and heard the sound of his harsh breathing as he seized her by the scruff of the neck and threw her out of their house, bolting the door against her frantic howling. He had stood at the window and jeered as she padded round and round trying to find a way back in and, worst of all, she had seen the child climb up to stand at his side and laugh with him. Laugh, and point at her mother, and laugh again while her father clapped and urged her on. That had been the moment when Agony had lost hope, and slunk away to the forest. There she had found a dark cave where she could rest, and weep. When she regained her human shape she had set off to find her wolf family, hoping for comfort, but they had rejected her. They felt, and Agony could only agree with them, that she had made a fatal error in believing that a human being like Mange Undershaft could ever be trusted. His wickedness had tainted her; she was not to be trusted either.
“Who’s trying to find you?” The voice came from the shadows, and Agony swung round. “What house?”
“Nothing, Keel. Nobody.”
“I don’t believe you.” The bushes swayed and a figure stepped out … a figure that could easily have been mistaken for Agony’s taller shadow. “Someone wants you, cousin. Is it that man?”
“No. He’s gone.” Agony shivered. “You know he’s gone, Keel. You and Jukk have been following me and spying on me long enough to be certain of that.” She scowled at her cousin. “Or did you think I hadn’t noticed? One of you always beside me, or behind me … watching and waiting in the shadows, but never speaking. What are you waiting for? For me to disgrace you yet again?” Her voice rising, she stepped t
owards Keel. “Is that what you fear? You really believe I could trust a man a second time? After all that I suffered?”
“Yet someone is searching for you.” Keel’s eyes glittered. “Who is it? Tell me!”
“I don’t know. How could I know? The bat said ‘she’—” Agony gave a sudden start, and clutched at her head. “Keel! Could it … could it be my daughter?”
Keel stared at her. “Your daughter? Foyce?”
“It might be! Or then again … it might be the other.” Agony sank down against a tree trunk. “I heard there was another child, later on. Fracture … they lived in Fracture. Two girls and the man. But I never knew the second child, or where she came from.” Agony looked up at her brother. “But why would Foyce look for me now? She laughed at me, Keel. She rejected me. I was shut out, and she never once asked her father to let me back in – oh, I could have borne the man’s beatings and cruelty if she had only called for me. If she had needed me … just a little.”
Keel’s gaze softened a little. “Forget her, cousin.”
Agony leapt to her feet and seized his arm. “How can I forget my own daughter? And how can I ignore a call that might come from her? Imagine if it’s really truly Foyce! She may be like her father, she may be evil … but perhaps not all evil? It could be me, her mother, that she’s searching for!” Her grip tightened. “Keel! You can find her! Find her, wherever she is, and bring her to me.”
Keel hesitated. “Why not go yourself?”
A tremor ran through Agony’s body. “The bat said she was in a house. I can’t go near a house … don’t ask me! Never!”
The older werewolf heard the appeal in her voice. “I’ll try,” he said. “But do you know what you’re risking? What can she want of you now?”
Agony shrugged her bony shoulders. “Whatever it is, I need to know.”
“So be it.” Keel nodded.
“Thank you.” Agony pushed her hair away from her face. “Thank you, cousin Keel.”
Keel shook his head. “It’s as well it was me following you, and not Jukk. He would have nothing to do with the daughter of that man.”
Agony wasn’t listening to him. She pointed at a faint path that wound its way in and out of the trees. “Go that way, Keel. Go to the House of the Ancient Crones. That must be what was meant – there’s no other house in the forest that I know of. They’re strange, and powerful, but they won’t harm you. I’ve heard good things about them. Go there…”
Keel nodded, and a moment later he was gone, lost in the shadows. Agony sighed, and began to make her way to her shelter.
Vincent was feeling extremely pleased with himself. He had left King Frank and Queen Mildred in a splendid state of agitation about his grandmother’s plans, and while they were discussing what should be done he had quietly consumed the rest of the cake. He had then been offered a large plate of meringues and, thinking that it would have been rude to refuse them, he had dealt with them in the right and proper fashion. Biscuits had followed, and a substantial apple pie with cream … but then, rather curiously, Queen Mildred had told the helpful maid that nothing more was required, thank you.
When Vincent finally came to take his leave Nina-Rose had kissed him goodbye, which he took to mean that she agreed with him on the subject of Gracie Gillypot, and he had kissed her back with enthusiasm and a generous dispersal of crumbs. Although he detected a certain lack of heartiness in Arioso’s handshake, he put it down to an objection to stickiness rather than any disagreement with his views. Or quite possibly, Vincent thought, Arry was jealous of the favour Nina-Rose had shown him. He had been momentarily disconcerted to find no sign of his coach, but a page had been despatched to track it down, and he was now comfortably watching the moon-bathed landscape roll past the windows while toying with the remains of his picnic. All in all, he decided, it had been a very worthwhile expedition.
“Rather a pity that Marigold wasn’t there,” he mused. “Nice girl, Marigold. No nonsense about her. Shame it’s getting so late … I could have gone to see her at Dreghorn. Maybe I could go tomorrow? I could take another picnic. I’m sure Grandmother won’t—”
Vincent sat up. His grandmother. He had forgotten about his grandmother. She would be waiting up for him… Would she guess what he had been doing? She had an uncanny gift of knowing when he had ideas of his own, and her usual reaction was to disapprove. His self-satisfaction drained away, and he drooped against the cushions.
“It’s not fair,” he told himself. “I’ve just saved Wadingburn from a terrible fate. She should be grateful.” This remark did not comfort him as much as he felt it ought, and he peered into the picnic basket to see if there was better consolation there. The stale crumbs and smears of grease were unappetizing, however, and he sank back with a groan. “She’s going to be angry. I’m sure she is.” Vincent began to pout. “I should have stayed the night in Gorebreath. Funny how they didn’t ask me. And Queen Mildred almost hustled me out! How does she know if it’s past my bedtime or not? Bit of cheek, now I come to think of it. Rude, in fact. There I was, trying to be helpful, and—”
Vincent’s monologue came to an abrupt halt as the coach lurched and stopped. There was a loud shout from the coachman, and an answering shout from close by; Vincent flinched, and considered hiding in the picnic basket. Marcus was the last person he felt like talking to – but he was given no choice. The coach door was flung open, and Marcus, Prince of Gorebreath, was staring in at him. His expression made Vincent look again at the basket, and for the first time ever regret his size.
“I want to talk to you,” Marcus said. “I’ve just been home, and I found Mother and Father in a complete stew – well, Father is, and Mother always agrees with everything he says – and he’s talking about Royal Precedents and Defence of the Realm and stuff like that in the most pompous way ever. And he keeps going on and on about royalty being special – and he called Gracie a commoner! I nearly hit him.” Marcus’s brow darkened further. “I would have, too, if it wouldn’t have made things worse and upset Mother. And it’s all your fault. Father says you told him that Bluebell’s been talking to her prime minister, and that means she has to be serious about resigning – but you never said that when I was listening. I know you, Vincent – you make things up so people think you’re clever. What I want you to tell me is, is it really true?”
Vincent’s very small brain seized up completely. He opened and shut his mouth, but was quite unable to answer.
“Erm…” he said.
Marcus scowled. “I’m waiting.”
“Erm … Grandmother said she WANTED to talk to the prime minister.” Vincent put one hand on the picnic basket for moral support. “That was all I said –honestly it was! I never said she’d actually done it – ask Arry! Ask Nina-Rose! They’ll tell you! Come and ask Grandmother! She’ll tell you as well!”
There was a pause while Marcus studied Vincent’s face, and Vincent strengthened his hold on the handle of the basket. At last Marcus said, “You know what? That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Vincent, intensely relieved, managed a smile. “Good thinking! Hop in. Sorry about the crumbs—”
“I’m not coming with you,” Marcus told him. “I’m going to ride on ahead. I’ll see you there.” He slammed the coach door shut and disappeared into the darkness. A moment later Vincent heard the sound of hoofbeats galloping into the distance, followed by a whistle from his coachman as he cheered on the horses. As the coach rumbled on its way Vincent began to wonder what kind of reception he was going to get from his grandmother. Anxiety gave him hiccups, and the discovery of an uneaten ham roll made him feel faintly sick.
Marcus, as he rode, was still brooding over the scene with his father. He and his father had had their differences before; King Frank believed that royalty moved in a very different sphere from the inhabitants of his kingdom, whereas Marcus knew that kings and queens and princes and princesses were no better than anyone else. If asked, he would have said that they tended to be worse.
In his view they gave themselves quite unnecessary airs and graces, and their determination to consider themselves superior drove him to distraction. He had always known that his father did not approve of his relationship with Gracie, but it had never been made so apparent before. “Gracie – a commoner!” Marcus fumed. “How dare he? She’s the most uncommon person I’ve ever met. I’d much rather be like her than Father … and if he thinks I’m going to give her up he’s got another think coming. I’ll give up being a prince if that’s what it takes … being royal doesn’t do me any good. Doesn’t do anyone any good … look at Vincent, and Albion … total idiots. And even Arry. He’s better than they are, but once he’s married to Nina-Rose he’ll be completely under her thumb. And Tertius … he’s OK when he’s away from Fedora, but when she’s there he’s a wimp.” Marcus heaved a sigh, and pulled Glee back into a steady trot. “Sorry, old boy,” he apologized. “Didn’t mean to take it out on you.” The pony whinnied in sympathy, and Marcus looked round. The lights of Wadingburn were shining in the distance, and his mood lifted a little. Bluebell would understand, and sympathize … unless she had indeed, as Vincent suggested, gone mad.
“Feeling better yet, kiddo?”
Marcus jumped. “Marlon!” The bat was hovering over his head. “Where did you spring from?”
“Been behind you all the way,” Marlon said, “but you were going like the clappers. Saw your face, and thought you’d best ride it off.” He chuckled, and landed on Marcus’s shoulder. “Liked your style with young Vincent. Really put the wind up him.”
Marcus blushed, then grinned. “I feel a bit bad about that now.”
The bat shrugged. “Got good reason to be fed up. Your Uncle Marlon heard it all.”
Marcus looked puzzled. “Heard what?”
“Barney with yer dad. Alf tipped me off, and I knew there’d be a ruckus.” Marlon sniffed. “Can’t go upsetting apple carts without a load of rotten apples rolling out. Bluebell’s biggest fan, me, but she’s started something tricky.”
The Snarling of Wolves Page 6
