Save for eleven tall candles that gleamed on the High Altar, the Abbey was in darkness. When all the mice were seated, the great south doors slammed shut.
One Black Mouse remained outside. When the lights appeared in the sky, he would give three loud knocks at which all the mice would file out of the Abbey to watch the display of natural fireworks. Until then the congregation would remain in silence, listening to the Black Mice chanting songs that told of the wonderful doings of the Lord of Light.
Dabo and Armand were sitting rather nearer to the monks than Dabo would have liked. The Abbot himself had conducted them to this place of honour, close to the choir-stalls. The better to keep an eye on us, Dabo thought sourly – until he saw, with relief, that the Abbot was fast asleep.
But no doubt other, more vigilant eyes were watching. Forstus was nowhere to be seen, but Dabo wished he knew where his enemy was.
The chanting of the Black Mice soared to the rafters in waves of heart-stopping beauty. Unobtrusively, Dabo took out his pocket-watch. Ten minutes to go ...
Suddenly, he was aware of a disturbance in the front row. Despite the darkness, he could make out the long, stooping shape of the old, blind mouse. He had risen to his feet and the gentle mouse-girl was anxiously bending over him. He seemed to be gasping for breath. The ancient mouse, followed by his devoted nurse, wheezed and staggered down the long nave and disappeared into the gloom. Only the heavy boom of the closing door told Dabo that the two mice had made it as far as the courtyard.
During the next few minutes, several young mice began to feel the effects of too much rich food and had to be hurried outside by their embarrassed parents. Dabo nudged Armand, who instantly moaned loudly and gripped his stomach. As Dabo fussily helped the Prince down the aisle, he received nothing but sympathetic glances from the silent congregation.
‘His Highness feels most unwell! I fear we must go outside for a few moments,’ Dabo announced pompously to the Black Mouse who guarded the door. As the monk hesitated, Armand clapped a paw to his mouth and heaved noisily. Instantly, the monk flung open the door and Dabo, with Armand still whooping and retching, was out in the starlit courtyard.
‘Come, Prince Armand,’ said Dabo loudly, ‘let us find a quiet place for you to rest and recover yourself!’ He hurried the reeling, staggering Prince round the corner.
‘Come on!’ whispered Dabo, and they sprinted for the high tower at the northern end of the Abbey.
Half-hidden by a pillar at the rear of the nave, Forstus had watched them leave. He slipped outside, and was just in time to spot two shadowy figures flitting round the corner of the Abbey. Drawing his dagger, Forstus set off in pursuit.
It was the custom for the Abbot and the most senior monks to watch the display of lights from the battlements of the tower. The door to the spiral staircase was, therefore, unlocked. As Dabo and Armand slipped inside, Dabo bolted the door behind them.
‘Quickly!’ he hissed, and started up the steps, the young Prince following eagerly. Round and round, higher and higher, until at last Dabo heaved open
a massive trap door and they emerged, breathless, on to the wide, flat roof. Pulling Armand into the shadow of the battlements, Dabo sat on the cold stone floor and pulled out his watch. ‘Five minutes!’ he gasped. Then: ‘Oh, Lord of Light, what’s that?’
Thunderous crashes echoed from below, as if someone had taken an axe to the door. Crash upon crash – then the sound of splintering wood. He looked again at his watch: three minutes! The crashing and splintering stopped abruptly but now came the sound of angry voices. Risking a quick peep over the battlements, Dabo saw, far below, black shapes milling around the base of the tower, like fat black beetles whose nest has been disturbed. He heard loud shouts of anger; then everything seemed to happen at once.
Gunshots crashed out from the south side of the Monastery. Dabo gazed intently down the long roof of the Abbey. More shots, and now he could see the flashes of the guns. Was the Monastery under attack?
As the same thought occurred to the Abbot and his Black Mice, they left the base of the tower and ran to the south wall, but so brilliant were the flashes that they could see nothing and the repeated firing sent them scurrying for cover.
Dabo ran back to Armand, who was sheltering under the battlements. ‘It’s all right! Any second now!’
But as he spoke, there came an evil stench. Whirling round, he stared in horror as Forstus walked slowly towards him, eyes glittering, a long dagger clutched in his paw.
‘You’re finished, Dabo! Do you under —’
The starlight was blotted out as a huge shape, swooping over the tower, knocked Forstus to the floor then gripped him tightly in its powerful talons. Forstus screamed in terror and wriggled helplessly. Galliard hovered above the roof of the tower, beating her powerful wings, while Dabo pulled the terrified Armand towards her.
‘Don’t be afraid! Get hold of the feathers and scramble up!’ Grasping Armand round the waist, he lifted him towards the eagle. Armand managed to heave himself aboard, squirming between the eagle’s body and her beating wings, finally arriving safely on her back.
Dabo leapt for Galliard’s feathers – and fell back. Again he leapt, while Armand watched in frozen terror. Finally, after the third attempt, Galliard lowered her beak, gripped Dabo firmly by the collar and, with a casual flick of her neck, sent him tumbling on to her back.
To the sound of gunfire, Galliard rose majestically, still clutching the screaming Forstus. Swooping over the south rampart, she opened her talons and dropped Forstus into the space between the inner and outer walls.
Galliard flew on, gaining height. Then banking steeply, she turned and glided downwards, back towards the south wall of the Monastery.
As Dabo saw the grim double wall rising rapidly to meet him, he realized why Galliard was returning. On the inner rampart, the blind mouse and his daughter were perched on the battlements, arms outstretched towards the approaching eagle. Dabo could just see black-robed figures hurrying along the wall, but they fell back in alarm as Galliard hovered above the battlements. The two mice leapt and gripped a talon apiece, Dabo heard Gideon’s voice yelling ‘Go!’ – and the eagle was flying again, turning aside from the looming mass of the Abbey and soaring high into the sky.
‘Oh!’ shrieked Armand. Dabo looked up and saw the northern sky erupt in a dazzling display of colour and light. Glittering bursts of red, blue, silver and gold streaked out of the darkness, trailing plumes of light. Glorious colours cascaded wildly, criss-crossing one another in a glittering blaze, looping and whirling, rising and falling. Armand felt as if he were flying through the very heart and centre of this magical realm of swirling colour and light. The little Prince burrowed his paws deeper into Galliard’s warm feathers and laughed for sheer happiness. ‘Oh!’ he cried. ‘This is the best Birthday ever!’
7. The Crown
Dabo burrowed into the warmth of his rug and closed his eyes. Beside him, wrapped in Gideon’s war-cloak, Armand slept. The floor felt hard but Dabo didn’t mind. He was safe in Gideon’s Fort.
This was an ancient stone tower, three storeys high. Each floor consisted of a single, circular room linked by a spiral staircase cut into the walls.
Outside, the snow had transformed the wild moorland into a white wilderness, and an icy wind howled round the fort. To the north, snow-draped hills led up to the High Collada Mountains. Somewhere beyond the horizon was Gideon’s castle.
In a shadowy corner, Galliard sat on her nest of dry twigs and straw. She was statue-still but her fierce eyes were watching over her beloved Gideon and his friends.
Staring into the embers of the fire, Conal smiled as he thought of the night’s adventures: the wigs and costumes that had transformed Gideon and himself into the old, blind mouse and his gentle daughter, and the volleys of shots from pistols concealed beneath those costumes that had sent the Black Mice diving for cover.
But was Forstus dead? Conal’s smile faded as he thought of him.
&nb
sp; Gideon, too, was staring at the dying fire and in its glowing heart he seemed to see Rumont’s purple robe. He had done what the Cardinal wanted. Armand was free. But what next? Cambray knew all about the plot. Would he now sweep Rumont aside? Murder the King and seize power? But where was the Crown? Did Cambray really have it, as Rumont believed?
Gideon gnawed at his claws, wondering what on earth to do next.
Suddenly, Armand cried out in his sleep. Dabo, who had been dozing in his blanket, woke at once and gently stroked the little mouse’s head, soothing away the nightmares. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, ‘all safe now.’
Armand woke with a start and stared blankly at Dabo. Then remembering where he was, he sighed and propped his head up on one paw.
‘Did you wake me?’ he asked. ‘I’m glad you did. It was a horrid dream. We were on the battlefield and eagles were flying overhead. Then there was a tremendous bang and a flash and suddenly eagle feathers began dropping out of the sky. I looked at my father and there was darkness all around him. He took off the Crown ...’
Gideon looked up sharply. ‘The Crown? What happened next? What did he do with it?’
Armand sat up and stared into the fire. ‘He passed it to the chaplain,’ he said slowly. ‘Told him to ... er ...’
‘Was this in the dream?’ asked Conal gently, ‘or did it really happen?’
‘Both,’ said Armand. ‘I was dreaming about it, but it really did happen. I remember the chaplain, old Father Dalban, taking the Crown and hobbling off with it ... but I can’t remember what my father said.’
‘Before the battle, did he say anything about sending someone away with the Crown?’ asked Gideon.
‘No. I think it was on the spur of the moment. I think he had a premonition we were going to be defeated and he couldn’t risk losing the Crown. Whoever holds the Crown – ’
‘Holds the Kingdom,’ concluded Gideon. ‘Try to remember, Armand.’
Gideon, Conal and Dabo waited tensely.
‘It’s coming back,’ said Armand. ‘My father gave the Crown to Father Dalban. “Take it to safety,” he said. But poor Father Dalban couldn’t! Well, he’s so old, and has to walk with sticks, so my father told him to give it to one of the other chaplains. I didn’t know this one – we had so many! But I remember he was called Forstus. Why, Dabo, whatever’s the matter?’
More logs had been thrown on the fire, and the room was bright with fresh candles. Armand, Conal and Dabo sat at the table, mugs of steaming, spiced wine in front of them. Galliard, alarmed by the uproar that had followed Armand’s announcement, sat on her nest, her bright eyes fixed on Gideon as he paced restlessly up and down.
‘What would Forstus have done with the Crown?’ he muttered.
‘Hidden it,’ said Conal, ‘where he could easily find it again. Then sell his secret to Rumont – or Cambray.’
‘Not Rumont,’ said Gideon. ‘He thinks Cambray’s got the Crown.’
‘And has he?’ asked Dabo.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gideon. ‘Forstus is cunning. He’d wait to see which of them would come out on top, then trade his secret for money – or power.’
‘Or both,’ said Conal. ‘Trouble is, the verminous creature’s dead! So no one knows where the Crown is!’
‘Mmm. He may not be dead,’ said Gideon. He strode over to the fireplace and stood scratching his head and scowling into the flames. At last he spoke.
‘We’ll wait here for a few days; give the Black Mice time to get a message to Aramon. Then Armand and Dabo must stay here – there’s plenty of food and weapons – while Conal and I fly to the barn by the river. We’ll sneak into the city and find out what’s happening. Unless I’m very much mistaken, Cardinal Rumont has only a few more days to live ...’
8. The End of a Traitor
In a foul, dripping dungeon deep beneath the Great Fortress of Aramon, and lit by a single, spluttering candle, a helpless prisoner sat at a table.
Around the walls, their shadows leaping up the rough stonework, stood six mice of the General’s Bodyguard. With them, trembling with fear, stood two Black Monks. That morning, they had brought the dreadful news of Armand’s escape from the Monastery of the Black Mice. In the centre of the dungeon, General Cambray stood and glared at the prisoner. He pointed his grimy paw at the sheet of paper on the table. ‘Sign it!’ he yelled. ‘Sign it, you damned traitor!’
Suddenly, his powerful right paw swung over the table and raked the prisoner’s face. Blood oozed through the fur and dripped to the floor.
Cardinal Rumont raised hate-filled eyes and glared at his rival. ‘You can hit me as much as you like, you hulking peasant. But I will not sign my own death warrant! I’m the rightful king, remember – and I’ll kill you for this!’
In the flickering candlelight, the Cardinal’s bloody face was a mask of defiance; the General’s features were distorted with rage.
‘You will sign!’ he snarled savagely – and even the tough mice of his Bodyguard shuddered. ‘It’s all true and you can’t deny it! You plotted with Gideon to free the Prince and use the miserable little wretch against me to further your own selfish, rotten schemes for power! That stinking verminous spy of yours told me the whole thing!’
‘Oh?’ sneered Rumont. ‘Then why don’t you call him? Let us see if he will bear witness against me!’
Cambray leant across the table, shoving his snout close to Rumont’s face. ‘We can’t. Your precious Forstus lies at the Monastery on the edge of death. His bones are smashed and he hasn’t opened his eyes since Gideon’s eagle dropped him – probably couldn’t stomach the stench!’
Cambray stood towering over his prisoner, and took a deep breath to calm his fury. ‘But it makes no odds,’ he continued quietly and menacingly. ‘Forstus told me the whole plot the night it was hatched. It’s all there on paper. You’re guilty. Now SIGN!’
Rumont shivered: and not just from the cold. He knew that Cambray was quite prepared to torture him to get what he wanted. And at the thought of the rack, the red-hot irons, the pincers and the thumbscrews, a wave of terror engulfed him. He buried his face in his paws.
‘Well?’ growled Cambray. ‘Will you sign? Or do we have to crack your legs with the iron bar? That’ll do for a start. After that, we’ll —’
‘NO!!’ Rumont’s scream reverberated round the bare, stone walls as if trying to escape. ‘No! I’ll sign! I’LL SIGN!!’
In a nearby cell, King Auriol was listening to the Cardinal’s screams. But the knowledge that his brother was suffering gave no comfort to Auriol’s gentle spirit. Lying on the damp, stinking straw, he felt only a deep sorrow that his weak, greedy brother was now going to pay the ultimate price for his treachery.
Auriol’s cell was the smallest and darkest in the Fortress. On the other side of its narrow, iron-barred gate, a roomful of soldiers smoked, drank, played cards, shouted and laughed. Every hour, the guard was changed to ensure maximum vigilance – and noise. Auriol was allowed no peace. But he had grown accustomed to the din and for long periods he was able to detach his spirit from his dying body and give it freedom. At other times, he listened to the soldiers’ talk: and during the changing of the guard, half an hour ago, had heard all about the Cardinal’s arrest.
Auriol knew he was dying. He knew also that they were gradually reducing his food ration. Why waste even the scraps he received on a dying mouse? But he was grateful. He had no wish to prolong his life. He was prepared for death. But tonight, his heart lifted and his tired eyes smiled for joy as he heard of Armand’s rescue.
For once, the guards’ voices were hushed. Despite orders to talk always at full blast, they whispered the news in a mood of superstitious fear. Straining his ears, the King heard it all, and felt a great weight lifted from his soul. If Armand were free, and under Gideon’s protection, the little Prince might yet regain the Crown that he, King Auriol, had lost.
But ... would Armand know where the Crown had been hidden? Probably not. Auriol would just ha
ve to trust that the priest who had taken the Crown to safety would find Armand and tell him: and surely Forstus was a trustworthy mouse!
On the morning of his execution, Cardinal Rumont stared down from his rooms in the South Tower, his whiskers quivering and his tail twitching in terror at the sight of the neatly-built scaffold, draped in black cloth, the axe and block set ready.
A troop of Cambray’s Elite Guard was drawn up in full parade uniform of silver and black, ceremonial matchlocks cradled in their arms. Rumont dragged himself to the table and sat down, quaking. But his mind was made up. He knew what he had to do.
A few minutes later, Captain Antenac, the Commander of the Elite Guard, entered the room. His duty was to escort the prisoner safely to his execution and he carried, as was the custom, a golden tray bearing a silver goblet filled to the brim with warm, spiced wine: the traditional last drink. With a bow that was barely a nod, Antenac placed the tray on the Cardinal’s desk.
‘Your wine, Eminence.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Rumont, trying to keep the terror out of his voice. He took a sip. ‘Very pleasant. Er – has the General arrived yet?’
‘I don’t believe so, Eminence. But have no fear,’ said Antenac, with a grim smile, ‘he’ll be there.’
‘No doubt,’ murmured the Cardinal. ‘And what about the executioner? Has he arrived? I don’t want the thing botched, my dear Captain. I have no wish to be butchered by some bungling apprentice! Just see if he’s arrived, there’s a good fellow.’
With a sigh, Antenac turned away, crossed the room and looked down. He saw the burly figure of the General standing in front of the scaffold like a spectator reserving a ringside seat. Beside him stood the squat, black-masked figure of the Chief Executioner, gripping the great axe in one paw, while with the other he delicately tested the blade.
‘Yes, the executioner’s there,’ Antenac called offhandedly. ‘The General’s there, too,’ he said, as he turned away from the window. ‘So we might as well – oh, Lord of Light!’
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