“Urgent urgent urgent! She was listening! Listening on the stairs! She followed after you, Mrs Edna. Heard every word!”
Gracie’s eyes widened, but the Ancient One remained calm. “That’s unfortunate. Where is she now?”
Alf waved a wing. “On her way to bed.” He paused before adding with unwilling admiration, “She’s got ears like a bat, Mrs Edna. I could tell! She heard everything I did! And she smiled and oh, Mrs Edna! It wasn’t a very nice smile!”
“That’s her werewolf ancestry,” the Ancient One said with a sigh. “Acute hearing. I’ve noticed it in her before, and I should have remembered. I’m getting old. Marcus – are you going to go now, or do you want to stay and ride back early in the morning? If you’re going now, I suggest we send you on the path. Your pony will be too tired.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes, please. I’d like to be there for breakfast.” He gave Gracie a beaming smile and, much to the romantic Alf’s delight, blew her a kiss. “I’ve got a tournament to plan!”
“I’ll see you to the path,” Gracie said. “It always behaves better if I tell it what to do.”
“Thanks.” Marcus linked his arm through hers, and they went out of the door together.
Alf sighed happily. “Love’s young dream,” he whispered. “Maybe I’ll go with—”
“You,” Marlon said, and his tone was not friendly, “will stay right here. I’ve a word to say to you, Alfred Batster. Several words, in fact. Number one? Responsibility! Number two? Responsibility! Number three? Responsibility! Number four—”
The Ancient One chuckled, and left Marlon to it.
Vincent had not had a happy return to his ancestral home. Bluebell had been waiting for him, a grim expression on her face, and she had told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his behaviour.
“I had expressed a mere THOUGHT, Vincent! Now, I know that thinking is an alien concept to someone with a brain the size of a pea, but—” Her grandson’s blank expression caught her eye. “You don’t know what an alien concept is?”
Vincent tried his best. “Something to do with canaries?”
Bluebell slapped her head. “There you are. A classic demonstration of WHY I am seriously concerned about the future of Wadingburn.”
Her grandson attempted to defend himself. “I say, Grandmother! You’re not being fair. I’m just as clever as Albion, you know. In fact, I beat him twice at tiddlywinks last time we played, so I must be cleverer!”
Queen Bluebell was, briefly, at a loss for words. She gave an enormous sigh, and sank down in the nearest chair. “Are you TRYING to persuade me to adopt Gracie Gillypot, Vincent?”
“What?” Vincent’s eyes popped. “Persuade you? No, no, no, Grandmother. Absolutely not. You’ve got it all wrong if you think that. Dear me.” He sat down beside Bluebell. “What I think is—”
His grandmother held up her hand. “Stop right there, Vincent. I don’t want to hear another word about your thought processes. The very idea makes me feel extremely tired. I’m going to bed, and I suggest you do the same. I will see you again in the morning.” She rose to her feet, and sailed away to her bedroom, leaving Vincent wondering what he had said that could possibly have upset her.
“Odd,” he thought. “But it only goes to show that I was quite right to go to Gorebreath. She’s definitely confused. Very confused. Fancy thinking I wanted her to adopt Gracie! Softening of the brain, that’s what it is. I’ve heard about it somewhere.” He stood up, and stretched. “I wonder if there’s anything left in the kitchen? I fancy a little nibble … just to help me sleep.”
Wandering off in the direction of the kitchen, he was alarmed to hear a loud knocking at the front door. He waited to see if any of the servants were still up, but there was no sign of anyone. The knocking came again, and Vincent tiptoed nervously towards the door. Half expecting to see a furious Marcus, he bent down to the keyhole.
“Who’s there?” he whispered.
“Urgent message for His Royal Highness Prince Vincent of Wadingburn from Her Royal Highness Princess Marigold of Dreghorn answer awaited immediate response required,” said a voice.
“Urgent message? For me?” Vincent, with some difficulty, unbolted the door and peered out into the night. A dour-looking messenger pushed a small, pink and highly scented envelope into his hands.
“Answer awaited, immediate response required,” he repeated.
Vincent turned the envelope over. He recognized Marigold’s looping handwriting, and his heart fluttered. “It’s for me,” he said.
The messenger, who had been hauled from his bed to ride out into the darkness and deliver a letter that, in his humble opinion, could perfectly well have waited until the following day, sighed heavily.
“Yes. Sir. It’s for you. And I’m not to come back until I’ve got an answer. Sir.”
“Oh!” Vincent nodded. “I’d better see what it says then, hadn’t I?”
Aware that his favoured response would be unsuitable, the messenger remained silent. He watched wearily as Vincent turned the envelope over once more, and finally opened it. His lips moving, and his finger pointing at each word, Vincent read the letter slowly and carefully … and then read it a second time. The messenger, now leaning against the doorframe with his eyes closed in an effort to catch up on lost sleep, was startled awake by a loud squeal.
“Look at that! Just LOOK at that! What shall I do? I can’t ride a horse! I can’t. I absolutely can’t!” Vincent was quivering with agitation. The messenger hid a yawn behind his hand, and took the letter.
“‘Dearest darling Vinnie,’” he read, and stopped. “Not sure as I should be reading this, sir. Personal, and all that.”
“No no! Go on … go on!”
The messenger shrugged, and continued. “‘I want you to be a big brave boy and play in the centeenery tornament with Tertius and Marcus and Arry so I can sit on the stage and be your Lady Fare and wear a pritty dress. I will give you –’” the messenger paused, but was urged to continue by an insistent wave of Vincent’s podgy hand – “‘I will give you a big kiss and I will make sure we have the bestest picnick ever with rarsperrys and creem. Your very loving Marigold xxxxx PS There will be merangs lots and lots of merangs speshly choclat ones as my darling Vinnie liks them best.’”
Vincent came a little closer. “What was that last bit? What was that about chocolate meringues?”
The messenger repeated the PS, and Vincent began to look interested. “What,” he enquired, “what EXACTLY is one supposed to do at a tournament? I mean, of course I know, being a prince and all that – but just remind me.”
“A tournament?” The messenger scratched his head. “Well, you get two guys on horses, see, and they each carries a long pointy stick, and they run at each other – leastways, the horses do the running. The guys just have to stay on board – and then they try to knock each other off. I say – are you all right, sir?”
Vincent had gone green. “Go on,” he said in a hollow voice. “What do they do then?”
“Then they gets up and shakes hands and says, ‘Jolly good show!’ to each other. That is, if they ain’t dead. Feeling a bit poorly, are we, sir? You don’t look too good, if you don’t mind my saying so. Here – have a swig of this!” The messenger pulled a dubious-looking bottle out of his pocket, and held it to Vincent’s lips. Vincent took a hearty mouthful, and gasped.
“What … whatever is it?” His mouth was burning, and his eyes watering, but there was no doubt he felt better. MUCH better, in fact. “That’s amazing! Stout fellow! Well done! What’s your name?”
“Barry,” said Barry. “Barry Poodle. Want another swig, sir?”
“Yes, I do,” Vincent said. This time the fiery liquid was even more effective, and he began to smile as he handed the bottle back to its owner. “Goodness me, Barry. I must ask Cook to get hold of some of that. What’s it called?”
Barry, who was acquainted with the Wadingburn Palace cook, hesitated. He was well aware that she had at le
ast a dozen bottles of the magic brew stashed away in her private cupboard, but he was not at all certain that she would wish this to be known by the heir apparent.
“I suppose you could ask her for a bottle of the Wadingburn Special,” he said.
“The Wadingburn Special,” Vincent repeated. “I’ll remember that. Well I never. Makes a chap feel hicketty poppetty sooper dooper, doesn’t it?” He puffed out his chest and strutted about the hall. “Tell me some more about this tournament stuff. Sounds much jollier than I suspected. By Jove, it does! Running around with long sticks, eh. Anything else? Oh, and I’ll have another little sip of the Special, Barry, my boy. Really warms the cockles, don’t it?”
Barry watched doubtfully as Vincent helped himself to a rather more than substantial sip. The prince was now very red in the face, and his eyes were beginning to roll.
“About that answer, sir,” he said. “The lady was anxious to have your reply as soon as possible.”
“My darling little shweee … shweee … poppet.” Vincent beamed. “Whatever she wantsh she shall have. Giss ush a piece of paper, and the meshage shall be wrote!”
Barry, well prepared by Marigold, whipped a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket. Vincent seized them, and in wobbling capitals wrote, “Yes I will play in the torniment for you and for the rarzberries and I will give you a big kiss and you are my laddy fair for ever Vinnie. PS bring Wadingburn Speshul too it is the best ever.” He handed his answer to Barry, who tucked it carefully into his messenger bag. “Thank you, sir. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better be off. Her Royal Highness’ll be waiting.”
Vincent was now leaning against a wall. “Dearesh Little Marigold,” he murmured, and his eyelids drooped. “Do anything for dearesh…” He slid down the wall, and pulled the doormat over his legs. “Time for beddy-byes,” he remarked. “Time for beddy … weddy … beddy byes…” A moment later he was fast asleep, and the steady sound of his snoring filled the hallway.
Barry Poodle saluted the prone figure and tucked the much-depleted bottle of Wadingburn Special back in his pocket. Then, with a merry whistle, and leaving the front door wide open, he headed for his horse and the road to Dreghorn.
Up in her room, Foyce Undershaft was pacing to and fro. She desperately needed moonlight; the new ferocity burning in her bones would fade if she could not find a way to feed it and recover her full strength. Over the past months she had felt her passion for evil draining away; the constant presence of the Ancient Crones had weakened her, softened her resolve to escape and, even more importantly, take revenge on the source of all her troubles. She had had to draw on every reserve of anger and resentment to keep her intention clear in her mind; once or twice she had even wondered if it would be better to give in to the forces of good surrounding her, and allow the Crones to win. She had been rescued from these thoughts by staying close to Gracie; when the Trueheart was nearby Foyce’s own wickedness was polarized, and the small remaining flame burned more fiercely. And then – after endless nights of searching – she had found the knothole. She had found it just in time; only that morning she had voluntarily offered the Ancient One a plate of biscuits. Retrospective horror at this behaviour had lent urgency to her determination to resist all attempts to change her ways, and she had redoubled her efforts … and that was when she had spotted the tiny weakness in the heavy wooden shutters. A long night’s work with a potato peeler stolen from the kitchen had won her a glimpse of the night sky and the moonlight that she craved. At once the darkness deep inside her had surged back, and any inclination to help or do good of any kind was swept away in the welcome torrent of evil thoughts and feelings.
Hope had grown with the knowledge that she had discovered a way to resist the power of the crones, and she had decided to pretend that she was softening day by day while she considered what to do next. Each night she had gloated over her increasing strength and power, and licked her lips as the possibility of revenge became more and more likely. But then her secret had been discovered – and yet again Gracie was to blame.
Foyce ground her teeth, and went on pacing. She had succeeded in bending Billy to her will, but the effort had been exhausting, and the result remained to be seen. She had been unaware of the presence of werewolves so near the House; Billy’s twitterings outside her window had surprised her, and she had acted on impulse. Surely they would want to help her, half werewolf as she was? But, then again, what would they be like? Her memory of her mother was of a craven creature, cowering in a corner to avoid her husband’s blows. Her father had seldom mentioned her; when he did it was with a sneer, and the comment that she was lost and gone and good riddance to bad rubbish. Foyce had agreed with him – but she was desperate to make some kind of contact with the world outside the House, and any way was better than no way.
Another thought came to Foyce, and for a moment her scowl lightened. What if it was her mother who emerged from the forest? If she did, pathetically forgiving the past and answering the call of her long-lost child, then, without a doubt, she could be used … and that in itself would be a gratifying state of affairs. But that was only a faint possibility. What Foyce needed at this moment was certainties. She could not even be sure that Billy had done as instructed; her scowl returned, and she resumed her pacing.
“What can I do? How can I hurt the little slug most?” She considered what she had heard while crouched at the top of the stairs, and began to review the information she had gathered.
“A Centenary Celebration. A tournament … and the slimy worm –” Foyce’s eyes glowed a furious yellow – “and the slimy worm is to be there. Dressed in silks and satins – hm. Could they be woven with poison? To turn her flesh sour and rotten?” Foyce savoured the idea for a moment, then went back to her first thought. “A tournament, and her precious prince will be taking part. Oh, if only I could be there, to slice him through with his own sword right in front of her big blue eyes! THAT would be revenge indeed. First his arms, then his legs and then his stupid royal head, to lie glassy-eyed in the dust in front of her … surely that would hurt her most.” Foyce gave a shrill mirthless laugh as her imagination caught fire. “And the bats. Those tittle-tattling bats. They must be destroyed. Tossed into a cauldron of boiling water, or fried to a crisp, and their ashes poured over the little slug’s feet. And the Crones –” Here Foyce hesitated. Her imagination was unable to deal with the Ancient Crones. Even if she were free and fully recovered, what could she do against their power? Remembering several unpleasant encounters with the Ancient One, she hastily put the idea to one side.
“There are other ways,” she decided, and then stopped, chewing her lip in frustration. “But how?” she demanded of the empty room. “HOW can I begin? The little worm must pay for what she’s done – she must be made to suffer, and go on and on and on suffering until her hair and teeth fall out and her bones rot away – but how? How can I begin?”
She stared at the window, as she had done over and over again since coming upstairs. The new shutters were substantial; she had found no weak point, and her attempts to pull out the nails had been unsuccessful. Gubble had been too thorough. Angrily she flung herself on her bed, and glared at the wall. There was a constellation of cracks that was horribly familiar … or was it?
Foyce sat up, her eyes narrowed. Above the window were several new, deeper fissures; white flakes of plaster lay beneath on the carpet. Gubble’s enthusiasm had had an unexpected result.
Leaping to her feet, Foyce seized a chair, pulled it to the window and climbed up, her long nails picking at the wall above the heavy wooden shutters. A small chunk of plaster came away, quickly followed by another, and another. The girl gave a low growl of excitement and worked even harder. A moment later she was greeted with success. Between the window frame and the lintel above crept a thin line of silver light; Foyce leant forward, and breathed it in with hungry gasps. So near to the full moon it was wonderfully powerful; she could feel her heart hardening and her mind settling back into dagger
-sharpness and steely force. A strange feeling came over her, a feeling she had never had before, and that she didn’t recognize. Without realizing what she was doing she flung back her head and howled.
“NO!” She stopped herself. “No!” Her hand over her mouth, she forced herself to be silent. Had anyone heard her? She ran to her door to listen, but there was no sound. Shocked at what had happened, she moved slowly to the window and cautiously climbed back on the chair. The light shone on her face once more, but there was no recurrence. Sighing with relief, Foyce closed her eyes and drank in the moonlight.
Foyce’s howl, so quickly silenced, went unheard by the inhabitants inside the House. Even Marlon and Alf failed to hear it. Marlon was too busy listing Alf’s inadequacies, and Alf had his wings over his ears in a vain attempt to block out his uncle’s hectoring tones.
Outside the sound was clearer; Marcus and Gracie, making their way to the path that lay curled up by the back door, looked at each other in surprise.
“Did you hear that?” Gracie asked.
Marcus nodded. “Must have come from the Forest.”
Gracie looked doubtful. “But didn’t you think it sounded nearer than that? It almost sounded as if it came from inside the House.”
“Can’t have done,” Marcus said. “Well, not unless Gubble’s started howling.”
“Ug,” said a voice, and Gubble came round the corner of the House carrying an armful of logs. “No howl.” He dropped the logs, and studied the sleeping path. “Gubble kick?”
The path hurriedly straightened itself out, and stretched itself invitingly from the back door to the gate.
“SUCH a good path,” Gracie told it. “Now, could you take Marcus back to Gorebreath?”
The path gave an obliging wriggle, and Marcus stepped on and sat down. “Thanks,” he said, and looked up at Gracie. “Do you think Alf or Marlon would bring Glee back tomorrow? Or –” he looked hopeful – “maybe you could? Then I’d get to see you.”
The Snarling of Wolves Page 8
