Eagle Warrior

by Roger Mortimer

  ‘But I assure Your Honour,’ whined Forstus. ‘They plan to rescue Prince Armand and restore him to his father’s throne.’

  ‘Oh?’ sneered the General. ‘And did you happen to overhear Rumont telling Gideon where the little brat’s to be found?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Your Honour. At the Monastery of the Black Mice of Rastatt.’

  Cambray slammed his fisted claws on the desk. ‘Lord of Light!’ With an effort he mastered his temper. ‘If you know that, you must be telling the truth. No one knows that except for me, Rumont and the regiment guarding the Monastery ... Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because the Cardinal is going to lose, and you, My Lord, are going to win. And I prefer to be on the winning side.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, that’s honest at any rate. So, Master Forstus, what do you suggest we do about this little plot?’

  ‘Nothing – yet. Gideon cannot accomplish this rescue alone. Catch him in the act, and you will bag all his accomplices as well. Then Your Honour may deal with my former master, the Cardinal, as you see fit.’

  Cambray thought about this. ‘Very well. Is it your job to escort Gideon out of the Fortress? Then do it. I don’t need to warn you to keep your stinking gob shut about all this. I don’t like spies, and I hate turncoats. But you’re right. I am going to win. And you’ll get your reward. When the time comes.’

  ‘Your Honour is most gracious,’ smarmed Forstus. ‘But I’m a poor mouse. Perhaps ... a little something ... on account?’

  Moodily, Cambray picked at the matted grey fur on his face. Something on account? He’d like to give the little swine a kick up his backside and close the account once and for all! But he owed him something ... ‘Oh, all right,’ he growled.

  Dabo, to his horror, heard Cambray’s heavy tread approaching the cupboard. But the General only yanked open one of the drawers, and Dabo heard the chink of coins being counted out and handed over.

  ‘Oh, Your Honour is more than gracious,’ purred Forstus.

  ‘All right, get out. Serve me well and you won’t be the loser. Betray me, and you’re dead meat.’

  ‘Oh, Your Honour, I protest!’

  ‘Out, I said! And have a bath before you come in here again!’

  After Forstus had left, Cambray walked slowly to his chair and sat down heavily. Dabo waited. How long before the General went to bed? Did he ever go to bed? He heard Cambray take out some paper from his desk-drawer. Then the rasping of his pen in long, bold strokes. Suddenly, there came a knock at the door and booted feet crossed the threshold.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Cambray.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, General, but we have a deserter in the Fortress.’

  It was the Officer of the Guard! Dabo’s heart sank.

  ‘Who?’ asked the General sharply.

  ‘Private Dabo, sir. From the Regiment of Life Guards.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Where was the little wretch last seen?’

  ‘With the guard, up on the roof, sir – about an hour ago.’

  ‘All right. I’ll see the Corporal of the Guard myself.’ The unlucky Corporal was in for a flogging, thought Dabo sadly; and I’ll be shot if I don’t get out of this horrible Fortress!

  ‘Come on!’ yelled the General, and he stamped out of the room, followed by the officer. The door slammed behind them.

  Dabo slumped in relief against the cobwebs. But there was no time to hang about. First, he had to find Forstus, who would be escorting Gideon out of the Fortress, probably by the postern gate in the south wall. This exit was so small it was only ever guarded by that fat old soldier, Private Button. If I can follow them, thought Dabo, and get out of the Fortress, I could warn Lord Gideon that his plans have been betrayed. And in return, I could ask for his protection ...

  Already, he saw himself fighting recklessly for the famous Eagle Warrior. But he’d never even fired a shot, except in target practice, and then he generally missed. He shook his head. Time to stop day-dreaming and get out!

  Finding Forstus proved easier than he had feared. All Dabo had to do was to follow his nose through a maze of dark passages, until at last he saw a glimmer of light and heard footsteps. Very cautiously, he inched forward. The smell grew stronger and there, just creeping round the corner, was Forstus himself, carrying a lantern. He was followed by a tall mouse, wrapped in a long cloak, with the outline of a sword beneath it.

  Dabo counted to ten, and followed. Now he knew where he was. At the end of this corridor was the little postern gate. He could hear the snores of Private Button ... the creak of a key ... and he saw Gideon leave the Fortress.

  Swiftly, Dabo retreated to an intersecting passage. It was so dark that he smelt rather than saw Forstus pass on his return journey. The lantern was out. The spy walked in darkness, shrouded in his cloak of wickedness.

  Minutes later, Dabo was out in the sweet night air and hurrying down the steep pathway that led to the North Gate of the city.

  ‘OOMPH!’ He tripped and fell heavily. His head was enfolded in a mass of dense material and he felt himself picked up and carted off down the slope. Just as he thought he was suffocating, he was dumped on the ground, the thick blanket of stuff was removed, and he was gasping for air – and in pain, as his right paw was twisted cruelly behind his back.

  ‘Who are you, little spy?’ said a harsh voice from behind him. ‘And why are you following me?’

  5. The Plan

  ‘Stop!’ hissed Gideon. Conal stuck his oars into the water and held the boat still beneath the arch of the bridge.

  The sound grew louder, until the marching feet were thudding above their heads. Dabo lay in the bottom of the boat, covered with an old blanket, shivering with terror.

  ‘Keep a sharp lookout for Dabo!’ yelled a voice from the bridge. ‘The General wants him for breakfast!’

  As the sound of cruel laughter faded, Conal rowed cautiously away and the boat slipped upstream, invisible in the shadows of the tall houses that lined the river bank.

  At last, far beyond the city, they disembarked and hastened over frozen fields until they reached a tumbledown barn. As they ran inside, Dabo smelt the sharp tang of ancient, rotting straw.

  ‘Galliard,’ whispered Gideon.

  Dabo gave a cry of terror as the great eagle loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Gideon, soothingly. ‘Now, up you go!’

  To his astonishment, Dabo found himself seated on Galliard’s back. He pushed his frozen paws in amongst the thick feathers, marvelling at their warmth and softness. Then Conal scrambled up behind him, and Gideon mounted in front.

  Out of the barn – and a sudden icy wind as Galliard’s wings beat against the air. Dabo shut his eyes and flung his paws round Gideon’s back as the eagle soared into the sky.

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it!’ Conal yelled in his ear. Dabo doubted it. He was frozen stiff and terrified of falling. At long last, after the worst journey of his life, he sensed that they were descending. He opened his eyes, and gasped in wonder.

  He was encircled by mountains, their jagged peaks piercing the starlit sky. On the highest, most majestic mountain of all reared such a castle as Dabo had only seen in his dreams. Graceful spires soared from the tall keep, and the encircling wall was defended by slender towers, each one topped with a curious, conical roof, like a lid.

  Then the whole scene tilted sharply – ‘Hang on!’ yelled Gideon – and Galliard swooped to a perfect landing. Conal stiffly clambered down and waited while Gideon lowered the frozen Dabo to the ground. ‘Take him inside and get him warm,’ said Gideon. ‘The poor little blighter’s half dead.’

  Gideon sat for a few more minutes. As always, he was unwilling to break the spell that flying, and especially night-flying, always cast upon him. At last, he slipped to the ground, stroked the eagle’s side lovingly, and smiled up into the proud eyes that glowed with affection.

  He stepped back and Galliard soared to the north­west tower. Inside, she sank gratefully on to th
e warm straw of her nest. She wasn’t as keen as Gideon on night-flying.

  Her fierce eyes roved around the silent courtyard. Once, before that accursed Battle of Barrowdown, every tower had been a nest and the castle had shrilled to the cries of eagles. Now there was only Galliard. The others had fled deep into the mountains and would not return. Wearily, she snuggled into the straw and closed her eyes.

  Apart from a long, dusty table and a dozen tall chairs ranged around it, the Great Hall of Gideon’s castle was bare of furniture. Old tapestries hung from the walls but their glowing colours were veiled in deep shadow. The only light came from the blazing log fire roaring in the cavernous fireplace. Gideon and Conal sat on their cloaks and basked in the warmth. Dabo sat huddled in an old rug that Gideon had found for him. He was warmer now and feeling hungry but he was far too nervous to ask for food.

  ‘Well, Dabo,’ said Gideon at last. ‘You’re a remarkably brave young mouse.’

  Dabo glanced up in astonishment.

  ‘Oh, yes. You deserted your post, of course, which was disgraceful.’ Dabo flushed with shame and looked down.

  ‘But,’ Gideon continued, ‘you’d been unfairly treated and had not volunteered for Cambray’s army, had you?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ whispered Dabo.

  ‘So you could have simply slipped away from the Great Fortress and out into the countryside. Instead, you overheard something of great importance, followed me and told me all about it. Why?’

  ‘Because of the terrible things I’d heard! General Cambray’s planning to murder the King, and the Cardinal is desperate to find the Crown. Then I overheard about Prince Armand being held by the Black Mice of Rastatt. Oh, my lord, every mouse knows their terrible reputation for fighting, and the Abbot is General Cambray’s cousin! So if the General’s planning to murder the King, then maybe – probably – the Abbot will do away with the Prince! There was just so much evil in that Fortress – sometimes I felt I was drowning in it. So when I heard that you were actually there, I felt I simply had to find you and tell you about ... about ... ’

  Seeing that poor Dabo was on the verge of tears, Gideon went to the store-cupboard and took out half an apple pie, a slab of hard cheese and a flagon of elderflower wine.

  ‘Supper!’ he announced. ‘Soldiers’ food, Dabo, not terribly fresh, I’m afraid, but good and plentiful, and the wine’s excellent!’ Drawing his dagger, he cut Dabo generous slices of pie and cheese, and poured him a mug of wine.

  Dabo fell upon the food, and the rich wine warmed him almost as much as the fire. The two warriors ate and drank little, but watched as the light returned to Dabo’s eyes.

  When all the food had vanished, most of it into Dabo, Gideon crossed to the sideboard and returned with a map, which he spread out on the stone floor in front of the fire.

  ‘Now,’ he said briskly. ‘This shows the Monastery of Rastatt. As you see, it’s a big place. The Monastery buildings – abbey, chapter house, refectory, dormitories, barns and so on – are encircled by an inner and an outer wall. Each one is defended by several towers, and the only way in is by a strong gatehouse in the outer wall, which leads to another gatehouse in the inner wall. So, Conal, Dabo, what do you think?’

  ‘It’s impossible!’ cried Conal. ‘Young Armand is bottled up in a monastery that’s more like a fortress! The Black Mice are a fighting order and the Abbot’s kin to old Cambray himself. Sure, an’ it’d take a six month siege with heavy artillery to get inside that place! And to cap it all, young Dabo tells us that the General knows all about the Cardinal’s scheming, so we can expect a couple of regiments at least to be taking up their positions around the Monastery right now!’

  ‘Suppose we managed to get in?’ asked Gideon.

  ‘Even supposing that, if half of what I’ve heard about the Black Mice is true, you’d need a big helping of luck to get out again, so you would. No, sir. It’s a suicide mission!’

  ‘I do not believe the mission is hopeless or suicidal,’ Gideon said quietly. ‘We have one powerful weapon, you see: this.’

  He took out a paper, folded across and sealed with the Cardinal’s personal seal.

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Conal.

  ‘It is the Cardinal’s authority for a very special mouse to enter the Monastery: Doctor Prunard, of the University of Aramon, who is to be tutor to Prince Armand. Rumont has already written to the Abbot. The monks will be expecting the tutor within the next few days. Now, with this sealed paper, if one of us could get into the Monastery...’

  ‘But didn’t Dabo tell us that Cambray knows all about the plot from that stinking cur, Forstus? How far do you suppose this bogus tutor’s going to get?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Gideon, calmly. ‘But the Cardinal wrote this letter, and the letter to the Abbot, while I was with him. At no time did he utter a word. Cambray knows that there’s to be a rescue attempt, but he does not know how it’s to be done!’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Conal, grudgingly.

  ‘This letter is our way in: but it will place the mouse who carries it in deadly danger.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘All right,’ said Conal. ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Gideon.

  ‘Oh no you’re not! Your face is too well-known. Besides, you’d never pass as a tutor. And if you’re caught and killed ... ? No. I’ll go.’

  ‘No,’ replied Gideon firmly. ‘Since your performance at Auriol’s trial you have become quite a celebrity! And in any case, if I don’t look like a tutor, you don’t sound like one! No. We must return to Aramon and find one of the mice who escaped from Barrowdown. Barboza will know of one, I’m certain: one who can pass as a scholar ...’

  Dabo sipped the last of his wine and cleared his throat. ‘My lord, I was at the University of Aramon. Studying farming. I know I’m not much of a soldier, but I’m sure I can pass as a tutor.’

  Gideon and Conal stared at him in astonishment.

  Dabo scrambled out of his blanket and stood up. ‘Please, my lord. Let me go. I know I can do it!’

  The icy air rushed past him, but Galliard’s thick feathers kept Dabo warm. When he dared to look down, he was entranced by the patchwork of brown fields, the dark, fuzzy lines of hedgerows and little copses of bare, spiky trees, all mapped out beneath him. He clung on tightly, as Galliard swooped in to land on the edge of a fir forest. Still thrilling to the excitement of the flight, Dabo slid to the ground and gazed in wonder at the great eagle. To think he had ever been afraid of her!

  ‘Goodbye, Galliard! Thank you!’ Galliard’s fierce eyes softened; then as Dabo stepped back, she spread her mighty wings and soared into the sky. Dabo watched until she had dwindled to a distant speck. Then he adjusted his pack, straightened his black cloak and set off into the forest.

  As he trudged along the narrow track, he thought over Gideon’s instructions. Once through this forest he could expect to find Cambray’s troops. If challenged, he was to produce the Cardinal’s letter. The soldiers would be suspicious: but Gideon hoped that one harmless mouse, clearly a tutor by his black clothes and scholarly air, would be allowed to pass.

  The trees thinned and sunlight flooded across the broadening track which led, straight as an arrow, up a long, gentle slope of moorland, and at the top –

  Dabo gasped. The Monastery of Rastatt was enormous! The outer wall, reinforced by massive towers, seemed to stretch for miles. But even worse

  was the sight of a line of soldiers, halfway up the slope, blocking the path.

  As the butterflies danced in his stomach, Dabo put on the spectacles that completed his disguise and tried to remember what Gideon had taught him.

  ‘It’s no good pretending to be the tutor. You must be the tutor. Think his thoughts: plan your lessons, fill your mind with learning, think what books you’ll buy with your first month’s pay. If you can do that, your thoughts will show in your face and you’ll be accepted by every mouse you meet. And remember, you’re the Prin
ce’s tutor, so add a touch of pride to your character!’

  As he approached the soldiers, Dabo began to plan his lessons. He had got as far as the day after tomorrow’s Geography, when he heard a loud cry of ‘Halt!’

  A short, stocky soldier in a grey, battle-stained uniform was blocking the path. Other soldiers lay on the grass, eating, picking their teeth with their daggers, or sleeping.

  ‘Who might you be, friend, and where are you bound for?’

  Adopting a stuffy, rather pompous air, Dabo announced: ‘My name is Prunard. Doctor Prunard. I am bound for the Monastery of the Black Mice.’

  ‘Sorry, friend, no can do. Not without written authority.’

  ‘But I have written authority,’ said Dabo mildly.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ replied Dabo, blinking rapidly and smiling kindly. ‘You merely asked me — ’

  ‘All right, all right, don’t make a ruddy meal of it,’ said the soldier. ‘Let’s have a dekko at your papers.’

  ‘Certainly! Now, where did I ... ah, here we are!’ He fished out his letter and handed it over with a superior smile.

  The mouse took it and glanced at the seal. He whistled. ‘Cardinal’s seal! Can’t break that. Yes, well, I’ve no wish to detain you, sir. Just be so good as to tell me your business up at the Monastery, and you can be on your way.’

  ‘I am to be tutor to the young Prince, who is, at present – ah – a guest with the Black Mice.’

  The soldier grinned. ‘Tutor to the Prince?’ He turned to the nearest group of soldiers, lounging on the grass, playing cards and smoking their pipes. ‘Eh, lads, you hear that? Bad enough him being in jail with a load of monks – but now the poor little beggar’s got to have lessons!’

  The soldiers burst out laughing. Instantly, Dabo was on his dignity. ‘Er hmm! My letter of authority, my good mouse, if you please!’

  ‘Ha! Lessons! Oh, dear ... what? Letter? Oh, yes, here you are, sir, here you are!’

  ‘Thank you, Private!’ Dabo replaced the letter carefully in his pocket and hastened on up the track, nose in the air.