Armand wiped away his tears. Gently, he took his father’s paw. ‘I swear.’
Auriol sighed. And, as he smiled at his son, the dying King saw another figure standing in the doorway. The long robe shimmered softly and a gentle light flowed from the Great Star. Slowly, the figure extended its arm in a gesture of welcome and the shadowed face seemed to smile.
Armand still held his father’s paw. But the King’s gentle spirit had already slipped away.
Armand looked at the Crown, half-expecting to see that the ruby’s light had gone out. But still it glowed, bathing the dead King in its gentle radiance. Kings lived and died but the Great Ruby of Carminel lived forever.
At last, Armand emerged from the cell. ‘My father is dead,’ he announced through his tears. ‘Please tell some of our mice to take his body up to the Great Hall.’
Tom glanced at his sister. ‘We’ll take him,’ he said. ‘But let’s get you out of here first.’
They put their arms round their young King’s shoulders and gently led him up from the silent dungeons and into the sunlight.
24. The Saint and the Sinner
Outside his inn, Barboza was perched precariously on a stepladder, busy with paint-pot and brush. As he finished, the assembled mice cheered, then rushed in to the newly-named ‘King’s Head’.
All over Aramon, bonfires were blazing and mice were feasting and dancing in the streets. Tomorrow was Coronation Day!
In a little house near the North Gate, in a neighbourhood blighted by poverty, an old grey mouse was carefully brushing his best robe. He was Father Dalban, once Chaplain to King Auriol. When every speck of dust had been removed, the old priest hung the robe in the cupboard and sank gratefully into his armchair. It had been a long day.
As usual, he had been up since dawn, caring for the sick and comforting the dying. A gale of laughter from the wine-shop next door gusted through the thin wall. Father Dalban smiled. He had even more reason for joy than those poor mice. For tomorrow in the Great Cathedral, at Armand’s special request, the old priest would perform the ceremony of Coronation.
It seemed a long time since that fateful day when he had stood beside King Auriol on the field of Barrowdown, and had passed the Crown to Forstus for safe-keeping. He sighed as he thought of the dreadful tales he had heard of Forstus’s treachery.
Suddenly, a searing pain lanced through his chest. Desperately, he fought for breath. Gradually, the pain subsided. But it had been getting worse lately, and the old mouse knew his strength was failing. Perhaps, after the Coronation, he would have a rest... but that was impossible. Since the Battle, he had devoted his life to the poor. They needed him. Somehow, he must carry on.
He felt cold and there was a strange tingling down his left arm. He tried to breathe steadily to calm his pounding heart. Yes, that was better. He breathed more deeply – and the pain shot through him like a dagger-thrust.
Dalban clutched his chest, gasping for breath, until the pain died away. He must be well for the morning! He had better get to bed. He had risen to his feet and was shuffling across to his mattress in the corner when, above the racket from the wine shop, he heard a faint tapping at his door.
Outside stood a cloaked and hooded mouse, leaning on two sticks. ‘Good evening, Dalban,’ he said, and pushed back his hood. For a moment, Dalban stared without recognition at the silver fur and the pain-filled eyes. Then the voice struck a chord of memory.
‘Forstus! Great Lord of Light! Can it be – ?’
‘Yes. It’s me. May I come in?’
Forstus greedily wolfed down the soup and bread that Father Dalban had given him. It was his first hot food for days.
Dalban’s pain, though bearable, was continuous now. His whole chest was throbbing. But his heart was glad. Forstus, it seemed, was a reformed mouse.
‘So you are to crown Armand tomorrow?’ asked Forstus. ‘I am overjoyed to hear it! And afterwards? Perhaps I might stay with you for a while? I could help you in your work, if you would allow me ...’
‘Certainly! But first, you must go to the King and swear loyalty. Will you do that?’
‘With all my heart! Only... he will have much to do. I will wait a little while. Then I will go. Dear friend, I have travelled far in the service of the Lord of Light and I am tired. May I... ?’
‘Of course! Take my bed. I can manage in the chair. It is late, good Forstus, and I am not feeling my best. Let us sleep now. Tomorrow is a busy day!’
All night, Forstus lay awake. What with the racket from the wine-shop and Dalban’s laboured breathing, sleep was out of the question. Besides, he was too busy thinking.
Fooling Dalban had been easy: he had simply told the old mouse what he wanted to hear. But he would have to keep up the act and that would be difficult. The thought of trailing around after Dalban, tending sick mice in their miserable hovels, filled him with disgust, but at least he would have a roof over his head. He would lie low for a while, and then...
At last he slept, to be awoken by a loud rattling of milk-cans in the street outside and the creaking of carts trundling through the North Gate. Lord of Light, what a din!
Forstus staggered out of bed and went in search of breakfast. But there was not a crust in the house. Oh, that miserable old skinflint! What did he live on? Good works and fresh air? He would have to wake him. Composing his face into a simpering smile, Forstus knelt beside the chair.
But Dalban was beyond waking. That gallant old heart had stopped for ever. Forstus let out his breath in a long whoosh of astonishment. He felt sorry... for himself!
What was he to do? Once again, luck had turned against him. His whole body trembled and he clenched his paws in fury. Suddenly, a fit of dizziness sent his brain reeling, and he clasped his head and cried in terror as he felt himself falling. Thunder-clouds darkened his mind, and through them he glimpsed the Crown. And his ambition, like a dark angel, whispered: ‘Take it! Fulfil your destiny!’
When at last he opened his eyes, his brain felt wonderfully clear and he knew exactly what he had to do. Why had he not thought of it before? The Crown had rejected that fool, Cambray, but surely it would accept him!
He would seize the Crown in the most spectacular way possible, and his enemies would grovel at his feet! Throwing back his head, he gave a wild cackle of laughter. The power he had always longed for was within his grasp!
There was just enough time. Slowly, painfully, Forstus heaved Dalban’s body out of the chair, dragged it across to the mattress and covered it with a blanket. He would return later and bury it in the cellar. Next, he opened the wardrobe: there was Dalban’s best robe, with its wide, deep hood. Perfect!
Forstus splashed some water into the sink and washed carefully, as the Black Monks had taught him. Then he put on Dalban’s robe, pulled the hood over his face, and took up the staff with its Star of the Lord of Light. Taking the key from its hook, he slipped out of the house, locking the door behind him.
25. Coronation Day
The great day dawned on a city bright with banners and brilliant with flowers. Delicious cooking-smells floated on the breeze as mice prepared for street-parties, and in the harbour, ships’ guns roared in salute.
As the clocks chimed eleven, mice began pouring into the Great Cathedral and a sense of expectation filled the air. But, as Conal watched the huge congregation, he felt uneasy: Forstus, it was rumoured, was in the city. A silver-furred mouse had been seen last night creeping through the North Gate. So, on Gideon’s orders, Eagle Warriors flanked the Throne, sea-mice from Janus guarded the Cathedral and eagles patrolled the sky, their penetrating eyes alert to every movement in the streets below.
To a flourish of trumpets and a great shout of joy, the procession entered the Cathedral. First came the choir, their voices soaring sweetly to the rafters; then Gideon, magnificent in cloth of silver, followed by Armand, robed in gold, with Dabo, in royal blue, walking proudly beside him.
After a hymn of praise to the Lord of Light, Armand rose from t
he throne and spoke the words of the Coronation Oath:
‘I, Armand, son of Auriol, do swear to govern according to the Laws of Right and Reason, set down for our guidance by the Lord of Light; to resist tyranny and oppression, and to deal justly and mercifully with all good mice of this my Realm!’
The congregation cheered him to the echo; but then fell silent, for now came the most solemn part of the ceremony. Armand’s heart was pounding as he mounted the steps to the High Altar, in the wide open space directly beneath the tower. Cloaked and hooded, and leaning heavily on his staff, the priest was waiting.
Armand remembered his father’s old chaplain, with his stooped figure and his fur silvered with age, but the priest’s eyes were hidden by his hood. With trembling paws, he laid aside his staff, took the Crown from the altar and raised it high.
But the congregation’s cheer died away into horrified silence. A brilliant red beam shot from the ruby, bounced off one of the tall pillars and came shooting back, striking the priest like a blow. He staggered back in alarm and his hood fell away to reveal his face.
The light grew stronger, and Armand watched in horror as the chaplain’s silver fur turned brown. Bald patches and ugly sores appeared, a black aura encircled his head and a foul smell spread like a disease.
Forstus cursed. The Crown had betrayed him! Surely it wanted him, not Armand? But it was too late, for Gideon, Conal and Dabo were dashing up the steps.
With a wild cry, Forstus drew his dagger. ‘Stand back! Or Armand dies!’
But without the support of his staff, Forstus was vulnerable and suddenly, he felt himself falling. Conal drew his pistol, but Forstus saw it. Grabbing the altar, he clawed himself upright and lunged for the King. His dagger was within inches of Armand’s breast when Galliard dropped like a stone. At the last second, she spread her wings and soared back into the tower, with Forstus dangling from her talons.
Dabo pelted up the steps and ran to comfort his friend. Armand was trembling. Never had he been so close to death.
On her perch, high in the rafters, Galliard slowly opened one of her talons. Forstus swung wildly and screamed in mortal terror.
‘Oh, Lord of Light,’ whispered Conal. ‘She’s going to drop him.’
Armand had picked up the Crown and was holding it tightly. Now he could feel its strength pouring into him. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No more killing! Bring him down!’
Galliard could not believe it. She was tempted to disobey. But she too could feel the power of the Crown and she loved Armand almost as much as she loved Gideon. She glided down and dumped the sobbing Forstus at Armand’s feet.
Gideon’s rapier-point was at Forstus’s throat. ‘Where is Father Dalban? If you have killed him..!’
‘No!’ shrieked Forstus. ‘I swear it! Father Dalban died in his sleep. I did him no harm ... believe me ... please!’
‘Father Dalban will be buried with honour,’ said Armand. ‘All Aramon will mourn for him. He was a true and faithful servant of the Lord of Light. Unlike you! See where your evil ambition has led you! Take this traitor to the dungeons. Never again will Forstus disturb the peace of my Kingdom.’
As Forstus was dragged away, the tension snapped and the congregation erupted into cheers for the safe delivery of their King. Armand stepped forward and held the Crown above his head. A great hush descended upon the Cathedral.
‘A few minutes ago, I swore to rule according to the law, and even Forstus must have a fair trial. I am no tyrant! My power comes from the Lord of Light, who commands that I govern with justice and mercy. And that is what I shall do!’
Golden light streamed from the ruby, gilding the heads of the congregation as the mice knelt in awe. Slowly, Armand lowered the Crown onto his head. Then the trumpets sounded, the bells pealed, and the mice leapt to their feet, shouting and cheering as the King walked down the aisle followed by his faithful friends.
Suddenly, Galliard swooped from the tower, flew down the nave and vanished through the great doors. With a screech of triumph, she rose into the air and suddenly, the sky was filled with eagles, wheeling, diving, calling to one another until their cries merged into a great symphony of joy.
Galliard soared until she was floating high above the city. She loved Armand, and if danger threatened, she would serve him with all her strength. But her heart longed for the castle in the mountains and when Gideon was ready, she would take him home.
Copyright
PUBLISHED BY APOSTROPHE BOOKS LTD
www.apostrophebooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-908556-15-8
First published in Great Britain in 1998 by Mammoth
Digital edition 2012 by Apostrophe Books Ltd
Copyright © Roger Mortimer 1998 & 2012
The author has asserted his ownership of the electronic rights and his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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Cover design and eBook development by Downhams
About the author
A Londoner by birth and a Devonian by adoption, Roger Mortimer originally worked for an advertising agency, where he met his wife; they have been married for over forty years. He then became an actor, training at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, and working in theatres up and down the country. Finally he became a teacher at Highgate Junior School in North London, where he started the school library, taught History, English and Drama and directed over twenty plays. (One of his former pupils is Tom Hooper, director of ‘The King’s Speech’.) While teaching at Highgate, Roger wrote the Mouse Kingdom trilogy.
He has now retired from teaching and he and his wife live in Devon. One of their daughters is a teacher in a North London primary school; the other is an actress, currently on a world tour of Richard III.
Roger enjoys gardening, photography and reading novels: his favourite author is Bernard Cornwell, author of the Sharpe series. When his wife allows him into the kitchen, Roger also enjoys cooking – curries are his speciality. He loves archery, and spends Sunday mornings at his local archery club, pretending he’s at Agincourt. He volunteers as a reader for talking newspapers for the blind, and he particularly enjoys his role as a volunteer Steward and Guide at Exeter Cathedral.
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