Igraine the Brave

by Cornelia Funke

  Igraine started trembling with rage.

  “I want an answer by noon tomorrow!” cried Osmund. “I shall send my castellan to hear it as soon as the sun stands above that ridiculously wonky castle tower of yours.”

  “You can have your answer now, you puffed-up toad!” Igraine shouted down. “You —”

  But she got no further. Albert grabbed her from behind, put his hand over her mouth, and pulled her down from the wall. “Are you crazy?” he hissed in her ear. “Have you forgotten that our parents can’t work magic at the moment? And it isn’t as easy as you think to turn them all into wood lice! We have to play for time. Only that can save us!”

  He let go of Igraine and climbed up on the battlements himself. His magic coat fluttered around his tall, thin figure, and the mice hid in his sleeves.

  “Forgive my little sister, noble Osmund!” cried Albert, bowing low. “She’s only just twelve, and she’s heard minstrels tell too many tales of chivalry. I am Albert of Pimpernel, eldest son of noble Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande. I will inform my parents of your generous offer as soon as they get back from their journey. But we’re not expecting them for another two weeks. So I must ask you not to expect an answer any sooner than that.”

  Igraine could almost have bitten off her tongue with fury when she heard her brother talk like that. But Albert was right. They needed time — time to go and get the giant’s hairs. Time to turn their parents back into human form. Otherwise they were finished.

  “Oh, I could bite my curly tail with rage!” grunted her father beside her. “Why does that fellow have to show up just now? I’d turn him straight into a slug if I weren’t stuck in this stupid itchy pigskin, I’d turn him into a stinkhorn, I’d turn him into the backside of an ape….”

  “Shhh!” hissed the Fair Melisande, listening with bated breath for an answer from below.

  None came for an agonizingly long time. Then they heard Osmund’s voice again. “Oho! So your parents have gone away, have they? For two weeks. Leaving their children all alone in a crumbling castle like this for two whole weeks?” Some of his men laughed. “Hmm. All alone with their lovely Books of Magic. Well, well. Two weeks, that’s really quite a while. But I’ll wait for the answer, my boy. After all, I’m a man of honor, aren’t I?”

  Igraine clenched her fists with fury. But Osmund smiled mockingly at his castellan.

  The Spiky Knight raised his lance, and Osmund’s men turned their horses and rode away with their master. Only the Spiky Knight lingered by the castle moat for another moment, motionless. He looked up at the walls, examined the gargoyles, the drawbridge, and the leaning tower that rose above the battlements. Then he bent forward, spat into the moat where the water snakes were writhing, swung his horse around, and galloped away.

  8

  “Now what? You can bet Osmund won’t wait two weeks to come back,” said Albert.

  He and Igraine were sitting side by side on the carpet in the magic workshop. The Singing Books were sitting on their shelves, looking depressed, and Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were trotting restlessly about among their items of magic equipment.

  “No, he certainly won’t,” sighed Melisande. “In fact, he’ll be back very soon, because he thinks it’s going to be easy for him.”

  “And he’s probably right,” said Albert gloomily. “Perhaps we ought to take the books and all hide in the Whispering Woods, before he throws me and Igraine into Darkrock’s dungeon and turns you two into roast pork.”

  “No, no, we most definitely ought not!” cried Sir Lamorak, stamping his trotter. “We’re not done for yet. You’re already a good magician, Albert, and the books can help you.”

  A worried muttering was heard up on the shelves.

  “But he’s only passed Grade Three of the magic exams!” said one of the fatter books.

  “That’s right!” agreed a very slim volume. “We can’t possibly work with such a beginner. He doesn’t even know how to read our writing properly.”

  Albert jumped up. “Of course I do!” he said in an injured tone. “And I know the page numbers of almost all your magic songs. Even my mice practically know them by heart, I’ve said those numbers out loud to myself so often!”

  “But that … that …!” The books were whispering to each other. “That’s an insult!” one of them squawked.

  “Oh, don’t make such a fuss!” said Igraine, taking her brother’s side. “We’re good enough to dust you, right? But when it comes to working magic …”

  “Hush, hush, hush, my dears!” grunted Sir Lamorak, nudging his children gently with his snout. “This really isn’t the time to quarrel.”

  “Dear books, believe me, you wouldn’t like living with that Osmund,” said Melisande.

  “He wouldn’t dust you every other day!” said Igraine crossly. “And I bet he wouldn’t give you nice padded shelves.”

  “He’d chain you up, the way the King chains up his valuable books,” said Albert. “The chains would be just long enough to let you be taken off the shelves. And you’d have to sing until your voices sounded like toads croaking and your pages fell out like an old man’s hair!”

  The books looked at each other in dismay.

  “Do please help Albert, books,” said Sir Lamorak. “It’s only for a few days.”

  “He mustn’t leaf through us!” said a fat red book.

  “Or dog-ear the pages!” grumbled another. “No bookmarks, and always a civil tone of voice, if you please.”

  “All right, all right!” muttered Albert. “I’m not a beginner, you know!”

  “Oh, yes, you are!” cried the books. Then they put their heads together and whispered, while Albert juggled his mice and Igraine scratched her parents’ bristles (pigs’ backs tend to get very itchy).

  At last one of the books tipped forward and leaned down from the shelf to them.

  “Very well,” it muttered. “We’ll help Albert. Just for once, and only on account of the adverse and extremely ominous circumstances. What’s more, we don’t think that man Osmund is worthy to be our new master.”

  “Good, excellent!” cried Sir Lamorak. “In that case …”

  “In that case I’m riding off this minute to find those giant’s hairs,” said Igraine.

  Her piggy parents immediately drooped their ears.

  “Don’t look so sad,” said Igraine, putting her arms around their bristly necks. “I’ll be back in two days’ time with the hairs, you wait and see.”

  “Two days’ time?” Albert wrinkled his sharp nose in derision. “How are you planning to do that? Have you learned to fly now, little sister?”

  “No, but I’m going to take the fastest horse between the Whispering Woods and the Giant’s Hills,” replied Igraine. “You’d fall off him the first time he broke into a gallop.”

  “What are you talking about, honey?” asked her mother, sounding worried.

  “I can’t go on my pony, Mama,” said Igraine. “That would take at least four days, and Osmund will be here very soon, you said so yourselves. I wouldn’t be any faster on one of our other horses, either. They’re all dear creatures, but slow and a bit too stout. And as for Albert’s powers as a magician, no offense intended, but the books are right: He is still a beginner, so I’d better be as quick as I can.”

  “Meaning what?” said Albert. “You want me to conjure you up some wings?”

  “No,” said Igraine, “they’d probably fall off while I was still flying over the moat. Meaning I’m going to borrow Lancelot. On him I can do the journey in two days, not four.”

  “The Baroness’s favorite horse, Lancelot?” Albert looked at Igraine as if she was out of her mind. “That horse is so wild that no one can ride him!”

  “Well, I …” Igraine avoided looking at her parents. “I’ve often ridden him before.”

  “You’ve done what?” cried the horrified Sir Lamorak.

  “Every time I went to see Bertram,” muttered Igraine. “He didn’t want to let me at f
irst, but when he saw how well Lancelot and I get on, he said no more. And the Baroness never noticed a thing, because I only rode him while she was sitting in her room drinking spicy mead.”

  “But you can’t go to Darkrock, not now!” cried Albert. “The place is teeming with soldiers. And suppose you run into Osmund or his spiky castellan? Have you forgotten that they’ve both seen you before?”

  “Oh, no, they haven’t,” said Igraine. “They saw my armor, that’s all.” She took off her helmet and shook out her hair, which was as black as her mother’s. “I’ll put a dress on and ride to Darkrock on our donkey — taking my suit of armor with me, of course. Then I’ll go to the stables, get Bertram to bring me Lancelot, and I’ll be off again right away.”

  Sir Lamorak shook his head, looking anxious. “I really don’t like it, my dear,” he said. “I definitely don’t. It sounds very, very risky.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Igraine, stripping off her wonderful armor. “It’s nothing for me, Papa. Really and truly. Word of knightly honor.” Then she kissed her parents on their snouts, made a face at Albert, and went to the door.

  “She won’t be back!” moaned the books as she left. “The giant will tread on her. Or the Spiky Knight will skewer her — and we’ll have to work magic with Albert until our glue wears out! That’s what will happen.”

  But Igraine wasn’t listening. She was already on her way down the tower stairs.

  9

  Everything had changed at Darkrock Castle. When Igraine last visited, the old Baroness’s cats had been basking in the sun on the battlements, and she had stumbled over chickens running about in the courtyard between the outer walls and the main keep. Now the battlements were swarming with guards, and knights were crowding outside the gate. The clink of weapons could be heard beyond the high walls, and wooden carts full of hay were coming up the narrow road from the village to feed the horses of Osmund’s army.

  The guards at the gate, swords at the ready, checked everyone who wanted to go into the castle. But when a girl of twelve rode up on a rather stout donkey, carrying a basket of new-laid eggs, they let her pass without any trouble. So Igraine entered Osmund’s castle.

  She had hidden her armor and her sword in the bundle of clothes hanging over the donkey’s back, and the basket of eggs she was using as camouflage contained one that Albert had enchanted. As soon as she was past the guards she cracked it on the castle wall, and out slipped a tiny gray bird. It would fly away and warn Albert the moment Osmund and his army set off for Pimpernel.

  Igraine watched the little spy flutter up to the highest of the castle turrets. Then she rode her donkey through the crowd of people in the castle courtyard, making for the stables. Bertram was sure to be there at this time of day. She took the donkey to the stables where the Baroness’s ponies were kept, near the clock tower. There were several donkeys there, too, and no one would notice that another had suddenly joined them. Lancelot’s stable stood opposite. Sweating grooms were shoveling muck out of the boxes, but Lancelot’s box had already been cleared. The stallion looked bored; he was nibbling the wood of his manger and prancing restlessly from leg to leg. Igraine opened the door of his box and slipped in.

  “Hello, Lancelot,” she whispered, blowing gently into his nostrils so that he would recognize her by her smell. “We’re going for a ride together, and you’ll have to gallop fast, very fast. Would you like that?”

  Lancelot butted her chest with his head and began nibbling her dress.

  “Does that mean yes?” Igraine whispered as she gently pushed the horse’s big nose aside. Then she slipped out of the box again and set off in search of Bertram, but the Master of Horse was nowhere to be found.

  “Jost!” she called quietly when one of the grooms passed her. She had often seen him riding Lancelot. “Hi, Jost, where’s Bertram?”

  Alarmed, the groom grabbed her arm and hurried her into the harness room.

  “Are you mad, coming here?” he asked angrily, as they huddled in the darkest corner among saddles and bridles. “The new master’s had criers going everywhere to proclaim that your family are all witches and black magicians, and you’ve changed his men into fish for no good reason. Do you want him to throw you into the Dungeon of Despair?”

  “No, definitely not.” Igraine took a halter from its hook and put it in the egg basket. “I’m looking for Bertram. Where is he?”

  “Bertram?” Jost looked very gloomy indeed. “He’s in the dungeon already.”

  “Wh-what?” stammered Igraine. “Why?”

  “Osmund’s castellan saw him go out riding the day before yesterday,” whispered Jost. “He sent a man after him, and when Bertram came back from Pimpernel he was arrested for treachery.”

  “Oh, no!” groaned Igraine.

  “You’d better get back to Pimpernel fast!” hissed Jost. “Darkrock is no place for you these days!”

  And then he was gone, and Igraine stood in the dark harness room wondering what to do.

  Could a girl who truly wanted to be a knight leave a friend languishing in the Dungeon of Despair — a friend who was there only because he’d warned her family against an enemy? No!

  She fetched her donkey, who was having a fight with one of the ponies, and set off for the prison tower.

  Fortunately she knew her way around Darkrock very well, but too many of the maids and grooms knew her, so she kept her head bent as she made her way to the inner courtyard. She was in luck, and no one called her name or grabbed her arm, but as she entered the courtyard the Spiky Knight came toward her, with five other knights following him.

  Go on! she ordered her legs, but they refused to obey, and the Spiky Knight passed so close to her that his sword almost brushed her dress.

  “Right, this shouldn’t take too long,” he said to the other knights. “Pass the word on. As soon as the catapults arrive, we attack that ridiculous castle. Get your fat donkey out of my way, girl.”

  Head still bent, Igraine pulled the donkey aside. Her heart was thudding so hard that she thought the Spiky Knight was bound to hear it. But he didn’t even look at her.

  “With those Singing Books,” she heard him say, “Osmund will be more powerful than the King himself, and the whole land will belong to us, all the way to the Giant’s Hills.”

  Go on, Igraine, she told herself again, go on! And this time her legs obeyed, although her knees were still trembling when the prison tower cast its shadow at her feet. Never in her twelve years of life had anyone scared Igraine as much as the Spiky Knight.

  10

  The prison tower lay at the end of a dark yard right behind the castle armories. Only a single guard stood in front of it, a tall, thin man who was picking his teeth with a small stick and looked bored.

  “Only one,” Igraine murmured to herself, observing him from a distance. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.” Before she left, Albert had taught her ten magic spells for all kinds of different situations. One of them was sure to do the trick.

  “I’ll need your help, Graycoat,” she whispered in the donkey’s ear. “And no braying,” she added, for Graycoat enjoyed a good long, loud “Hee-haw!”

  “Or they’ll make you into donkey sausage and I’ll end up stuck in the Dungeon of Despair with Bertram, understand?”

  The donkey snorted scornfully, but when Igraine walked up to the guard he followed her like a lamb.

  “Good day,” said Igraine, bobbing a curtsy. “I’m supposed to be delivering my eggs here.”

  “Nonsense!” growled the man, spitting. “Does this look like the kitchen?”

  Igraine scrutinized the tower, frowning. “How would I know?”

  The guard twisted his mouth in a mocking smile. “This is the dungeon, little one. The prisoners here don’t get anything as nice as fresh eggs to eat.”

  “The dungeon?” whispered Igraine, going to a great deal of trouble to sound immensely impressed. “Ooh, is there anyone in there?”

  “You bet. Or why do you think I’m coo
ling my heels standing around here?” growled the guard. “Now clear out!”

  But Igraine put the basket of eggs down and gave him a beaming smile. “The Sleeping Beauty,” she whispered. “Yes, that ought to do it. How does it go, now?”

  “What’s all that you’re whispering?” growled the guard, leveling his spear at her. “I said clear out!”

  However, Igraine didn’t move an inch. Following Albert’s instructions, she stared straight at the guard’s forehead and began murmuring:

  Slumber now like Sleeping Beauty,

  Forget your post, forget your duty.

  Your eyelids droop, you fall asleep,

  May your rest be sound and deep.

  Wondrous dreams your mind shall cloud

  Until you hear me laugh aloud.

  After the first line the guard’s eyes were already closing, and when Igraine had finished reciting the spell he was snoring.

  “Keep quiet, do!” Igraine whispered, and she pinched his nose until his snores stopped. Then she closed his visor so that no one would see he was asleep, wedged his spear under his arm to keep him from falling over — and opened the tower door. It was only bolted. Igraine hauled the donkey in and kicked the door shut behind them.

  It was dark inside the tower. Daylight filtered in only through a couple of narrow stone slits. Igraine had been here once before, a few months ago, when the Baroness had asked her to count the barrels of spicy mead. Igraine had been happy to help, though it had been tough to let herself down into the deep hole, guessing how many spiders were lurking in the dark. She still shuddered at the memory — and prayed that the spiders had left the Dungeon of Despair along with the barrels.