“Not far now,” he was calling. “Up to the top and you’ll see for miles!”
Alf twittered a greeting and swooped to join him.
The messenger pigeon so unexpectedly released by Gubble was a bird with a very small brain. Arioso had chosen it for its attractive plumage, ignoring the pigeon master’s gloomy prognostications of error and fatal mistakes. It had celebrated its freedom by heading straight for a field of peas, but after an hour or so of pleasurable eating had begun to wonder whether it was, perhaps, time to fly home. It took another while to make a decision. Yes, it thought, as it wandered round the pea field. Yes. It’s definitely time to go home. And then, But which home?
The pigeon had been trained to fly between Gorebreath and Dreghorn, so was now in a state of severe confusion. It moved on to a field of barley while it considered the problem. Finally the call of a home roost became pressing and, with some difficulty, the bird took off and began flapping lazily toward Dreghorn. It arrived just as King Frank and Queen Mildred were taking their leave, having had a peaceful day with no mention of abductions or kidnappings. The queen had whispered to Princess Nina-Rose that Arry had very much wanted to come but had been sent on a special mission by his father. The princess inquired, with some interest, if it was very dangerous. When Queen Mildred said that she sincerely hoped not, Nina-Rose seemed disappointed rather than relieved but asked that Arry be given her love.
“So we’re agreed?” Queen Kesta said as she kissed Mildred good-bye. “We’ll hold the surprise party at Wadingburn, and darling Hortense will be there already, so all we have to do now is round up Horace and Tertius and dear little Fedora, although I don’t think we’ll ask Dowby because he won’t come even if he’s asked. And it’s Cockenzie Rood Day, which is so annoying because dear sweet Albion will be busy all day, and I had hoped that he might like to sit next to sweet little Marigold because they’d make an absolutely lovely match, even though I hear she rather fancies Bluebell’s funny little Vincent. And we’ll bring the cake. Eighty-one candles! It’ll be quite a sight!”
King Frank was yawning. He had dined well and was conscious of the first stirrings of indigestion. “Come along, Mildred old girl. Time to get home.”
The pigeon, also suffering pangs of indigestion, decided to take a quick rest before heading for the pigeon loft and landed on top of the royal carriage. Queen Kesta was the first to notice it. “Oh! A darling pigeon. Someone must have sent us a message.”
The coachman reached out a hand and caught the bird. “Gorebreath bird, by the look of it, Your Majesty.” He inspected the container on the bird’s leg and tossed the pigeon back into the air. “No message, though. Nothing at all.”
Queen Mildred watched it flutter away with gradually increasing agitation. Was it really a Gorebreath bird? Could it have been a message from Arioso — a message that had gotten lost? Or could her darling boy have been in such difficulties that he had actually been prevented from writing and had sent the bird as an SOS? She hurried the king into the coach, and as soon as they were inside, she leaned forward. “Frank, dear, did you SEE that pigeon? I’m sure it was one of ours! Oh, what do you think it means?”
King Frank frowned. “Did wonder about it myself. But there was no message. Why would Arry send a bird with no message?”
His wife clasped her hands together. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have sent it if everything was all right. I’m worried, Frank! What should we do?”
“There’s only one answer to that,” the king said firmly. “We must go to Cockenzie Rood and see for ourselves!”
The queen heaved a huge sigh of relief. “You’re so right. It’s been at the back of my mind all day, and when that pigeon arrived, I all but fainted on the spot. Oh, dear! You don’t think it’s a little late for a visit, do you? If nothing’s wrong, Hortense will think it very strange . . . but I do so want to know if darling Arry is in any danger!”
“Not at all,” King Frank declared. “Hortense won’t mind an iota. And it’ll put your mind at rest, my sweet. Can’t have my little woman worrying all night.”
Mildred gave him a fond look. “We can tell Hortense about the plans for Bluebell’s party while we’re there,” she pointed out.
The king nodded. “Good plan all around.” He gave the coachman his instructions, and as the coach began to roll away, the two of them settled back in the carriage to have a comfortable doze.
Seconds later they were shaken awake by the coach coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. The carriage door was flung open, and Princess Nina-Rose climbed in and flumped herself down beside an astonished King Frank.
“I couldn’t help hearing what you said,” she announced. “You do have terribly loud voices, you know, so it wasn’t exactly eavesdropping. Mother didn’t hear — she’s ever so deaf — so she won’t be in a panic. I told her you’d invited me to stay, but actually I’m coming with you to Cockenzie Rood. If anything’s happened to my dearest darling Arry, I ought to be the first to know.” She pulled an exceptionally small, lacy hankie out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “We ARE practically engaged, after all. You don’t mind, do you?”
There was no opportunity for the king or the queen to reply. Nina-Rose tapped on the roof of the carriage with her parasol to set it in motion once more, then fell back on the velvet cushions. “Tell me when we get there,” she instructed, and a moment later had every appearance of being fast asleep.
Fiddleduster Squint had reached the foothills some time before. He, too, had had to scramble up the shaley slope, slipping and falling, then scrabbling his way up once again, and by the time he reached the top, his anger was fueled to the boiling point. He looked back to where the turrets of the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood caught the last light of the setting sun and shook his fist. “This time tomorrow,” he threatened, “that will be rubble. Rubble and the shrieking ghosts of those who are crushed beneath the ruins.”
“Rubble and ruins, Master,” the shadow echoed.
Fiddleduster swung around to stare ahead. Night mists were creeping over the wilderness, and it was difficult even for someone habitually used to darkness to see clearly what lay below and beyond the hills that edged the Five Kingdoms. The shadow stayed close to his master, saying nothing. At last the zombie gave a long, low whistle. “Over there, Shadow,” he said, pointing with a long bony finger. “Do you see? They are farther than one could wish, but we should be there by dawn.”
The shadow was uncertain if he was studying the bodies of reclining giants or the gentle swell of a cluster of hills, but as he stared, he realized he could make out the faintest rise and fall, as of breathing. “I see them, Master.”
“Then, let us move on. We must be there before they wake, or our chance will be lost for another day. If we are fortunate, they will sleep beyond first light . . .”
As Fiddleduster strode on, the shadow hesitated. Had he heard a distant clatter of falling stones? Should he tell his master there was a possibility they were being followed? He listened again but could hear nothing. Resolving to be more vigilant in the future, he hurried to take his place beside his master.
The shadow had been right. Marcus had made an attempt to ride Hinny up the slope, but the pony had been unable to get any kind of foothold on the loose sliding stones, and the result had been a small landslide.
“We’ll have to go on foot,” Gracie whispered.
“OK,” Marcus agreed, and then, “Why are you whispering?”
Gracie put her finger on her lips. “Look at Marlon.”
Marcus looked up and saw Marlon hovering high above them, a minute black speck in the twilight. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s seen something odd,” Gracie told him. “Shh! He’ll be down to tell us if he thinks it’s dangerous.”
Sure enough, Marlon came dropping like a stone only moments later. “Want the bad news or the bad news?”
“Is it very bad?” Gracie asked.
Marlon considered. “Could be worse. Could be plagues of r
ats. Or snakes. Nah . . . the zombie’s already at the top of the hill, and he’s spotted the giants. They’re asleep. Reckon he’s aiming to reach them before sunup, so you’ll have to travel all night if you’re gonna have any chance of catching him.”
“Is there any way of getting Hinny up the hill?” Marcus asked. “If we took turns riding, we’d travel faster.”
The bat flew a wide circle. “Maybe,” he reported on his return. “There’s a stream on your left. Worth a try.”
Gracie was twisting the end of her braid while she tried to think of an alternative plan. “If only we could slow him down . . . but I can’t think how. Or we could warn the giants . . . Would they listen to you, Marlon?”
“Nah. They don’t hear bats. Fact.”
“There’s nothing else we can do.” Marcus stood up. “Let’s find this stream and do the best we can. It’ll be dark soon. Marlon, can you show us the way?”
“Sure thing, kiddo. Follow me.”
As Marlon flitted in front, Gracie and Marcus followed him, Marcus leading Hinny. The stream was some five hundred yards away; it meandered down the hill, cutting a twisted course through the slither of the shale. The prince and the pony splashed into the shallow water, and Marcus announced that it was much easier walking. “It’s mostly sand and larger stones,” he said. “The water’s freezing, though.”
Gracie, grateful for her oversize rubber boots, stepped into the stream after him. Steadily they climbed the hill; from time to time, they tried to walk along the bank but were driven back into the stream by the shifting stones and the unreliability of the footholds.
By the time Alf swooped down to join them, they had arrived at the top, where scrubland and stunted gorse were interspersed with clumps of windswept trees. The sun had set, and there was only the faintest glimmer of light in the western sky.
As Gracie looked up, a star twinkled back at her, but even as she watched, it was extinguished by a bank of heavy clouds. She shivered. “It’s very misty,” she said. “I can’t see anything. It’s a good thing we’ve got you and Alf, Marlon.” She smiled at the bats and then went on, “I was wondering . . . I don’t know if it’s possible to do it in time, but I just thought I’d ask . . . how long would it take to fly to the House of the Ancient Crones, do you think?”
“Never get there and back by morning, kid,” Marlon said. “Don’t think I haven’t checked it out, neither. Why d’you ask?”
“I keep getting a weird feeling about what we’re doing,” Gracie told him. “I suppose I just wanted to know if Auntie Edna had any good ideas. I mean, how do you stop a giant?”
Marcus snorted. “Trip it up?”
Alf tittered, but Gracie went on with her line of thought. “Why should they listen to us, anyway? I don’t know anything about them . . . only that Auntie Edna once had a friend who was a giant. She gets sad when she talks about him.”
“There’s your answer, kiddo.” Marlon landed on her shoulder. “If the Ancient had a giant as a pal, they have to be OK.”
“So why will they listen to Fiddleduster Squint?” Gracie shivered again. “Yeuch. Even thinking about him makes me feel cold. And a bit sick.”
Marcus put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Maybe they won’t take any notice of him.”
“Maybe. But I’m sure he’s got some kind of hideous plan.” Gracie took a deep breath. “So we’d better go and find out what it is.”
There was a sudden small squeak from close beside her. “I’ll go, Miss Gracie. To the Ancient Crones. I’m ever so fast, you know! Even Unc says I am! Don’t you, Uncle Marlon? Just watch me, watch me fly! Wheeeeeeeee!”
“Alf! NO!” Gracie called in alarm. “Alf? Alf, come back! It’s too far.”
There was no answer.
Marlon sighed. “No telling ’im,” he said, but Gracie could hear pride in his voice. “Flip, flap, fly, and off they rush. That’s young ’uns for you. We’d better be off as well. This way, kiddos!”
Prince Arioso was feeling remarkably pleased with himself. He had effected the rescue of a fellow prince and was now being feted and applauded in the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood. It was true that the rescue had not been especially dramatic, and Arry would be the first to admit that he himself had not made any attempt to carry the moaning Albion, but who had provided the soldiers who had had that privilege? He had. And who was it who had stepped out from the trees and declared, “Fear not, Prince Albion. Help is at hand!”? It was true that Albion had not uttered a single word of thanks and had sulked all the way back to the palace, but the duchess and Queen Bluebell had more than made up for his rudeness.
And then . . . then had come the ultimate accolade. As they were finishing a celebratory dinner, there had been the rumble of wheels outside. A servant had been dispatched to see who could possibly be calling so late in the evening and had returned to announce not only his father and mother, but his beloved Princess Nina-Rose.
The duchess was seldom at a loss in a social situation. “What a very unexpected delight!” she said. “Do ask them to come and join us!”
Nina-Rose, pausing only to check her appearance in the hall mirror, was first through the door. She rushed to Arioso and flung her arms around him. “Darling Arry!” she cooed. “Are you wounded?”
“Of course he isn’t.” Albion, slumped in a chair at the head of the table, spoke for the first time. “It’s me who’s wounded. Bopped, battered, bruised, and then deserted.” He glared at Queen Mildred. “If it wasn’t for Arry, I’d still be lying out there in the cold, wet grass.” He gave a self-pitying sigh. “In fact, I’d probably be dead by now for all that some people cared.”
“Oh, Arry!” Nina-Rose kissed him fondly. “What a hero you are!”
Queen Bluebell peered at Albion over her lorgnette. “Excuse me, young man,” she said. “As far as I’m aware, your cousin and I never left your side.”
“Yes, you did.” Albion stuck out his lower lip. “You went to talk to Marcus and that girl, Gracie Frillypot or whatever her name is.”
This was more than Bluebell could bear, and she stood up to protest. At the same moment, King Frank came puffing into the room, and good manners required that she restrain herself. With an effort, she sat down again.
“Evening, Hortense,” the king said as he sank into a chair. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. Mildred and I got in a bit of a flap, doncha know. Looks like it’s all OK, though. See young Albion’s safe and sound, after all!”
“No, I’m not.” Albion frowned. “I’m hurting all over. I was bopped on the head and then kidnapped and wheeled away in a barrow to be tortured by horrible noises.”
King Frank and Queen Mildred stared at him, openmouthed.
Nina-Rose gave a little cry of horror. “Poor, poor little Albie! But darling Arry found you and rescued you, didn’t he?”
“I escaped first.” Albion nodded hard. “Yes. I escaped, and I ran very very fast until my legs wore out. And then I met Gracie Frillypot and Marcus, and Marcus wheeled me back in the barrow —”
“MARCUS?” The king and the queen spoke together.
“Yes. Marcus wheeled me, but he bumped me on all the stones before he tipped me out and the wheelbarrow broke, and then he and Gracie rode away and left me. Abandoned me! Didn’t even say good-bye!”
There was a horrified silence, finally broken by Nina-Rose. “And THEN darling Arry found you and rescued you?”
Albion gave a grunt of agreement. “Yes.”
Bluebell took a deep breath. “I would like to say that dear Hortense and I met Albion, Marcus, and Gracie quite by chance just after the unfortunate accident with the wheelbarrow occurred. At no point was Albion left on his own and, far from abandoning him, Marcus took every care to make sure he was rescued. A messenger was sent to Prince Arioso. Isn’t that the case, Arry?”
“Erm . . . yes. Yes, I did get a message.” Arry nodded.
“And THAT’S when you rushed to Albie’s side.” Nina-Rose gazed at her prince w
ith adoring eyes.
“It’s all quite true,” the duchess said, aware that the king was frowning heavily. “You mustn’t blame Marcus.”
“I do,” Albion said promptly. “He went off, even though I begged and begged and BEGGED him not to!”
Queen Mildred looked anxiously at her husband, who was beginning to mutter to himself. “Dearest,” she said, “isn’t it wonderful that darling Arioso has been so brave? And we don’t know what Marcus was thinking. I’m sure he would never have ridden away unless he had a very good reason.”
“If you ask me,” the king said, and it was obvious that he was keeping his temper with great difficulty, “that boy NEVER thinks! Does exactly what he likes, when he likes. Takes no notice of me or anybody else. He’s a disgrace. A total disgrace! Oh, I know he’s had the odd lucky moment in the past and sorted out a few things here and there, but his behavior is intolerable. INTOLERABLE! Look at him yesterday. Asleep! Asleep, while his brother was making a speech! And then what does he do? He runs away. And today? He disobeys all my orders and runs off yet again! He’s gone too far this time, by thunder, he has! MUCH too far!” He banged the table with his fist, making the plates and glasses jump. “I’ve a very good mind to disown him. No, Mildred! Don’t say a word! I mean it. From this moment on, Marcus is no longer a prince of Gorebreath!”
The Music of Zombies Page 13
