The Snarling of Wolves

by Vivian French

  Marcus opened his eyes very wide. “What Great Terror was that, Father?”

  “I think it was a plague of rats, dear,” his mother said. “Very nasty.”

  “And they needed suits of armour?” Marcus sounded incredulous, and his father frowned.

  “The rats might have been a precursor of something far, far worse. And it’s always best to be well prepared. You will find the armour waiting for you in the great hall. It’s been cleaned and polished. I suggest you try it on after breakfast.”

  Arry tried once more. “But, Father—”

  “Arioso! Surely you aren’t thinking of disappointing me!” King Frank looked genuinely hurt as he gazed at his oldest son, and Arry, always anxious to oblige, stood up and bowed.

  “Sorry, Father. Your wish is my command.”

  “Good boy. Good boy.” King Frank settled down to attack yet another egg. “Come and show me when the two of you are … erm … encased.”

  As Marcus and Arry left the room Arry clutched at his brother’s arm. “Marcus! What am I going to do? I can’t joust! I can’t even stay on a pony for more than five minutes! I’m bound to fall off, and everyone will laugh, and Nina-Rose will—” Arry’s face morphed into the expression of a rabbit mesmerized by an extremely bright light. “Nina-Rose! What was she thinking of? Did you see? She wrote to Father … but she KNEW I didn’t want to take part!”

  Marcus shrugged. “What Nina-Rose wants, Nina-Rose gets, and she doesn’t mind how she does it.”

  There was a pause, then Arry said in a thoughtful voice, “Do you think she’ll ever change?”

  “No.” Marcus was on sure ground. “All those girls are exactly the same. Look at the way Fedora bosses Tertius!”

  There was a second pause, then, “Does Gracie ever boss you?”

  Marcus turned and looked hard at his twin. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I was thinking,” Arry said unhappily, “that I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life being told what to do.”

  “You don’t have to.” Marcus put his arm round his brother’s shoulders. “Stand up to her. For a start, you could say you’re not going to take part in the tournament.”

  Arry wriggled like a fish on a hook. “But then Father’ll be angry. And – even worse – disappointed. I can’t bear it when he’s disappointed.”

  Marcus withdrew his arm. “Sorry, bro. You’ve got to decide for yourself.”

  “I know.” Arry walked through the door into the great hall, and stared gloomily at the piles of gleaming armour heaped on the floor. “Look at this stuff! It must weigh a ton!”

  “Mmmm,” Marcus agreed, but he was not paying attention. He was inspecting the armour, sorting out the different pieces. “Were Great-Grandfather and Great-Uncle Frizzley twins like us? Everything’s identical, except for the helmets, and even then it’s only the feathers that are different.” He picked up a silver helmet with a red feather plume on the top and put it on. Flipping up the visor, he peered out. “Hey! Can you see me?”

  “You look as if you’re peering out of a letter box,” Arry told him.

  Marcus closed the visor. “And now?”

  Arry frowned. “You could be anyone.”

  “Exactly!” Marcus pulled off the helmet. “So – if you really want to please Father – say you’ll take part. I’ll help you.” He gave his brother a rueful grin. “Father’s always going to be disappointed with me, so we may as well make sure you keep him happy. And you never know … if he’s happy with you, maybe he could be persuaded that Gracie Gillypot’s the right girl for me.”

  Arioso stared at him. “You know what? You’re the best brother ever. And I’ll tell you something else. I like Gracie. I really do. Actually, I think she’s much, much nicer than Nina-Rose—” He stopped, appalled at what he was saying. “I mean … that is … I didn’t … oh dear!”

  Marcus grinned. “It’s OK. I’ll forget you said it. Just remember to put in a word for me when you can.”

  His twin nodded. “You have the word of Prince Arioso.” He sounded so serious that Marcus swallowed his laughter, and shook his brother’s hand. Then, embarrassed by this unexpected display of brotherly solidarity, they swung away from each other to look at the armour.

  Arry sighed. “It’s decent of you to offer to help, old bean, but I don’t really see how you can.”

  “Easy!” Marcus tickled his brother’s nose with a plume of feathers. “We’ll both be wearing armour, and there’s no difference except for the helmets. This one’s got red feathers, and that one’s got blue ones – so all we have to do is swap!”

  Arioso, Prince of Gorebreath, had moments when the world seemed a deeply confusing place. This was one of those moments. “But why would we do that?”

  Marcus sighed. “You were the one who got high marks when Prof Scallio taught us! Don’t you see? I can ride for both of us! I’ll joust against Tertius, and then we’ll swap helmets so I can pretend to be you – and I’ll ride again. Easy peasy! Now, hurry up and make yourself look like a tin can so we can go and show Father. Do you want to be red or blue?”

  “Blue,” Arry said. “Nina-Rose likes blue.”

  There was a silence.

  “No.” Arry’s voice had changed. “Red. I want the red feathers.”

  “Good man,” Marcus told him. “That’s the spirit! And if you do my buckles up, I’ll do yours.”

  Foyce was weaving steadily, an expression of sweet girlish innocence on her face. Every so often she would turn to the Youngest and tenderly enquire how she was feeling. Val, who had been criminally devious herself in her youth, was not taken in. She responded to the enquiries politely enough, but as she threw the shuttle to and fro on the Web of Power she was wondering what Foyce was planning.

  Foyce had been up early patching the hole above her window. The House had made no further twists and turns and her window remained under the eaves; this was to her advantage, as there was a heavy shadow that would hide anything suspicious from observers outside the building. Inside her room she replaced the brick and then, after some thought, tore a strip of wallpaper from a dark corner. Snipping it neatly to shape with a pair of scissors stolen some weeks before from the workroom downstairs, she fixed it over the damage with a couple of dress pins from her secret hoard. Then she went to work on an area near the door, so that anyone coming to investigate would identify that as the centre of her activities. By the time she had finished it would have taken very sharp eyes to see what she had been up to during the night.

  She had gone down for her morning’s work with a spring in her step. She knew as clearly as if the words had been spoken that Jukk would come to the House again that evening, and she intended to set her plans for revenge in motion as soon as she saw him. A little more information was needed, however, and she was timing her remarks to Val with care. Smoothing the soft blue silk on the loom in front of her, and suppressing a burning desire to spit on it, she asked brightly, “Did we finish the tweed for King Horace, then?”

  “Near enough,” Val said.

  “And this lovely silk is for Gracie?”

  “Yes.” Val said no more, but Foyce was not to be discouraged.

  “So when does it have to be done by? Is the tournament very soon?” Foyce laughed a silvery laugh. “We do want our Gracie to look her very best, don’t we?”

  Up until very recently Foyce had never referred to Gracie as anything other than Little Slug, or Slimy Worm. Val noted the change, and gave Foyce a quick suspicious glance, but the girl was smiling and her weaving was impeccable. For a moment the Youngest wondered if Foyce’s concern could be genuine. It seemed almost impossible that she could be acting a part; everything about her questioning look and steady gaze seemed real.

  Foyce had seen the flicker of uncertainty. “I expect you think I’m only pretending to be nice,” she said sadly, and drooped over her loom. “I’ve been so terribly horrid to Gracie, haven’t I? Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” She saw confusion on
Val’s face, and mentally congratulated herself. “Oh, Val! I do feel dreadful!” Concentrating hard, she made herself think how she would feel if she failed to make the rest of Gracie’s life a complete misery. A tear trickled down her cheek, quickly followed by another. A swift sideways glance reassured her that Val had noticed, and with a loud sniff she wiped her tears away.

  Val, almost persuaded, handed her a handkerchief.

  “Thank you, dear kind Val. But I mustn’t cry on Gracie’s beautiful dress,” Foyce murmured, “must I?”

  “No way!” It was a chirpy Marlon.

  The mood was shattered. Foyce, tears forgotten, glared at the intruder, while Val shook her head to clear it of sympathetic thoughts. The bat flew round the looms, and landed near the Web. “Sorry, girls,” he said, sounding anything but apologetic. “Did I interrupt something? Gotta message … erm … nah. It’s gone. Old mind’s playing up these days. Forget my own moniker next. Toodle-oo!” And he was off.

  Val looked after him, her brow furrowed. “That’s not like Marlon. He never forgets anything.”

  “He was spying,” Foyce hissed. “Nasty little—” With a start, she remembered her plan, and forced herself to laugh. “Dear me! That wasn’t very kind of me, was it? I’m so sorry. Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes. You were just about to tell me when the tournament was.”

  The Youngest crone, distracted by Marlon’s sudden appearance and disappearance, was caught unawares. “Wednesday afternoon,” she said.

  “Goodness!” Foyce nodded. “So not long at all. We’d better stop nattering, fun though it is, and get on with our work.” She bent over her loom to hide her delight, and straightened a tiny thread. Val, realizing she had been outwitted, was silent.

  In the kitchen along the corridor Marlon was proudly describing how he had foiled Foyce’s efforts to win Val round. “Cried real tears,” he said. “Can’t help but admire the dame. Good enough to fool anyone. Not me, natch.”

  “She must have found some way of catching the moonlight again,” Elsie said. “She’d never be that perky if she hadn’t.”

  Gracie, who was tidying Gubble’s cupboard, looked up. “Do you want me to go and see if there’s another hole in the shutters?”

  Before Elsie or the Ancient One could answer, Alf came fluttering in.

  “Hello, all!” he said cheerily. “Anyone got some breakfast for a hungry Super Spotter?”

  His uncle raised an eyebrow. “Stopped sulking in the hallway, kiddo? About time too.”

  Alf sniffed. “Actually, Unc, I’ve been busy. Only just got back. Got a bit of info…” He glanced at Gracie, and lowered his voice. “Did you hear the howl, Miss Gracie? Last night?”

  “Yes.” Gracie pulled at the end of one of her plaits. “I’ve been wondering where it came from. Marcus and I both heard it. We thought it sounded really close to the House.”

  Alf shook his head. “Nah. This was later – after you came back inside.” He gave his uncle a frosty stare. “Unc was asleep, but I was awake, and I heard it. So I went to check it out. Want to guess what I saw?”

  “Surprise us, kiddo,” Marlon told him.

  “Werewolves!” Alf was triumphant. “I saw them running away into the forest, side by side, so I followed until one went one way and one went the other.”

  The Ancient One leant forward. “Did you hear them talking?”

  “Not much. Didn’t seem too friendly. Snarled at each other, they did. Think the big one was some kind of leader, though. Told the other one to get back to his duties, and to leave the House alone. Said he’d be in trouble if he went anywhere near, and looked like he meant it.”

  “To leave the House alone? Interesting.” The Ancient One looked thoughtful. “He didn’t say why?”

  Alf shook his head. “Nah. Sorry, Mrs Edna. The other one looked mightily peeved, though. Went off muttering. I was going to follow him further, but I reckoned I’d better report in first. Ahem.” He threw his uncle a meaningful glance. “Wanted to be responsible, see.”

  “You didn’t do bad, kid,” Marlon conceded. “But sounds like we’d best carry on where you left off. Time to spend time in the deep dark woods!” He stretched his wings. “Ready?”

  “Sure thing, Unc!”

  Alf flew a happy zigzag, and headed for the door. As he flew a small voice squeaked, “What about me, Mr Alf?”

  Alf paused midflight. “Billy? At last! Where did you spring from?”

  “I think Billy had better stay here,” Gracie said gently. “You need a good rest. You can go adventuring with Alf tomorrow, maybe. Or –” she paused – “maybe you’d like to come out with me?”

  Billy struggled out of his tea-towel nest and flew to her shoulder. “Yes, please.”

  Gubble, who had been watching the cleaning of his cupboard with undisguised disapproval, stumped to Gracie’s side. “Gubble go too.”

  “Of course,” Gracie said. “I was just about to ask you.”

  “Where are you going, duckie?” Elsie asked.

  Gracie put down her duster. “I was thinking of taking Glee back to Gorebreath.”

  Alf circled over her head. “I’m sure Mr Prince’ll be THRILLED to see you, Miss Gracie. His heart’ll go pitter pitter pitt—”

  “Okey doke – made your point.” Marlon pushed his nephew towards the door. Alf, still twittering, didn’t resist, but his voice could be heard fading into the distance.

  “Stupid bat,” Gubble remarked. “Heart goes thump. Not pitter. Go now?”

  Gracie nodded. “You don’t mind, do you, Auntie Edna?”

  The Ancient One smiled at her. “Of course not. Take care … and give our love to Marcus. We’ll expect you back tomorrow – it’s too far to go there and back in a day.”

  “I will.” Gracie kissed her adopted aunts, then took Gubble’s arm. As the door closed behind them Edna let out a long sigh.

  “Just as well to have her out of here, I’d say.”

  Elsie looked at her in surprise. “I’d have thought this was the safest place she could be.”

  “Haven’t you noticed?” Edna asked. “Every time she gets near Foyce it makes Foyce worse, and as Foyce gets stronger so the effect is greater. Which reminds me – I’d be really grateful if you could have a look at that young lady’s bedroom.”

  As Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn encouraged the pony along the narrow winding path that led to the House of the Ancient Crones, she was thinking how very pleasant it was to be away from her palace and the irritations of royal life, and what fun it would be when she retired. “I’ll be able to drive out whenever I wish,” she told herself. “I might even ride from time to time. Must remember to ask Dowby to look me out a nice—”

  “AAKK! AAKK!” An agitated pheasant, disturbed by the sound of wheels, flapped out of the bushes. The pony shied violently, took the bit between its teeth and bolted. Bluebell hauled on the reins, but the pony took no notice. Convinced it was escaping from terrible danger, it galloped madly between the trees until the inevitable happened. An outlying root caught a wheel, the trap overturned and Bluebell found herself sitting in a clump of nettles. Swearing in a manner that would have shocked and appalled her subjects, she extricated herself with some difficulty and made her way back to the path to inspect the remnants of the trap. There was no sign of the pony, the broken ends of the harness drooped despondently and several vital sections of the trap were missing.

  “Blast,” Bluebell said with feeling. “Oh well. No help for it, I’ll have to walk. Hopefully it isn’t too much further.” She checked to see that her lorgnette had not been damaged in the accident and, finding all was well, set off at a brisk pace in the direction she had been travelling.

  She had not gone far when there was the sound of hooves in the distance; for a moment she felt a faint flicker of apprehension but telling herself not to be a foolish old woman she strode on. As she rounded a corner she realized to her delight that it was Gracie coming towards her, mounted on Marcus’s pony. Gubble was stomping so
lidly alongside, and a very small bat was perched on Gracie’s shoulder.

  “Gracie, my dear! I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you!” Bluebell beamed.

  Gracie was equally delighted to see the queen. “Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened?” She looked round. “You haven’t walked here?”

  “I was driving,” Bluebell explained, “and the stupid animal was frightened by a bird and took off at a gallop. We had a bit of a smash. Ruined my dear little pony trap, I’m afraid.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I was enjoying myself so much I wasn’t paying attention. On my way to see your Ancient Crones, as it happens. I could do with a spot of advice from someone sensible.”

  “Really?” Gracie tried not to look surprised. “I know they’d love to meet you – they’ve heard so much about you from me and Marcus.” She paused. “And Alf. He’s a big fan of yours.”

  Bluebell let out a bellow of laughter. “Glad to hear it! I’m a bit of a fan of Alf, as it happens.”

  She patted Glee’s neck as Gracie swung herself out of the saddle. “Now THIS is a sensible kind of beast. Belongs to Marcus, doesn’t it?”

  Gracie nodded. “He left Glee at the House last night, and I’m taking him back to Gorebreath.”

  “Left him behind?” The queen raised her eyebrows. “So how did the boy get home?”

  “Oh – he travelled back on the path.” The memory of Marcus’s abrupt departure made Gracie giggle. “Rather faster than he meant to. I’m hoping he didn’t fall off along the way.”

  Bluebell’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Travelled by path? Well, well, well. What a lot I have to learn!” A thought came to her. “So … would I be able to make the return trip to Wadingburn by path?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Gracie told her.

  “Splendid!” The Queen of Wadingburn beamed at her. “Although I’m sure I could find my way. I used to be a bit of a hiker in my younger days, as it happens. Of course, I don’t have my boots, and I daresay there are a few things lurking in the forests that might need a stern word or two.”