by Robin Jarvis
The Jill of Spades gasped. She was totally in the witch’s power.
The clamour of the guards had already reached the spiral stairs.
“What do you want of me?” the girl asked desperately.
“Much,” the crone sniggered, grinning with her gums. “But this night I will settle for two things only.”
“Name them.”
“Bring me Malinda’s wand,” she told her with a greedy chuckle.
Jill’s face showed her shock and dismay at this impossible demand. “And the other thing?” she asked.
Haxxentrot held up a small bottle of green glass. The lightning cracked outside and sinister shadows danced around the bedchamber.
“When the revels are ended,” she croaked, “when the mummers lead the ladies out on to the battlements and those fine wives and tidy matrons remove their cloaks and gowns to smear the minchet over their hungry flesh and fly to the Ismus up on the highest tower… go with them.”
“I was going to anyway.”
“Of course thou wert. What damsel could refuse the invitation of the Holy Enchanter to dally with him upon that lofty height – that lonely bare roof ’neath the moon, reached by neither step nor stair? That space which only birds or bees can view…”
“Is that all?” Jill asked, staring doubtfully at the bottle.
The witch’s eyes glittered at her. “There will be a jorum of sweet wine waiting up there,” she said. “The Ismus likes his ladies to drink of it before they partake of his… affections. Take this bottle and empty the contents into that great bowl. Make sure all the ladies drink it down.”
“What will it do?” the girl asked.
The hag let out a foul, wheezing laugh. “Why, poison them of course!” she crowed. “They shall wilt, they shall shrivel. Fire will burst out their bellies and breasts, their hair will stand stark white from their scalps and every tongue will swell and blacken. Grey shall be their flesh and the very life will leak from their ears.”
“I can’t do that!” Jill exclaimed in horror.
“What carest thou for the dames and slatterns who look on you with distrust and disdain? They have no regard for thee, my dark missy. This is thy chance to purge this castle of each one. Think of them as obstacles in thy way to what thy heart desires the most.”
“I already do,” the Jill of Spades answered in a calmer, interested voice.
“This tiny bottle will rid you of them forever and clear thy way to so many delights. Imagine a Court devoid of females, always prying, always scolding…”
“And what of my mother? Am I to poison her also?”
“Whatever you wish,” the hag replied. “Poor Mumsy,” Jill said with evil relish.
The noise of the Guards had almost reached them. Haxxentrot threw the poison to the girl then straddled the hayfork and leaped from the window. “And don’t forget Malinda’s wand!” she called over her shoulder as she flew through the electrified sky.
Jill watched her disappear into the distance, the cloak flapping madly around her, the two dolls clinging to her filthy skirts.
“I won’t,” she muttered.
At that moment seven Punchinello Guards burst into the bedchamber jabbing their spears forward and glaring round with their beady eyes.
“What – what – what?” they barked ferociously.
The Jill of Spades spun around to face them. “You must forgive me,” she apologised coolly. “The lightning frightened me. I feared the bouncing shadows and the thunder crash, nothing more.”
The Guards sniffed the air with their great noses and glowered at her suspiciously.
Later that night, once the dancing was over and the feasting done, Ramptana the doddery Court Magician began blundering through his abysmal tricks to entertain the nobles. He did not get far. He was halfway through pulling coloured silk bunting from his mouth when he gave a sharp yelp and twisted violently to one side. The live ermine he had hidden in one of his large sleeves, intended for the big finale where he would make it and other animals ‘magickally’ appear from his hands, had caught scent of the other secreted creatures. Ramptana had forgotten to feed it before the performance and so the ermine was ravenous. It shot up the sleeve and down his shirtfront, raking its claws over his chest and belly, searching for the prey it knew was here somewhere. The old man shrieked and howled as it tore around his body.
The audience watched in surprise whilst the conjuror’s clothes wriggled and writhed as the savage animal went scrabbling beneath them, running round and around him. He wasn’t usually so good, they murmured to one another.
The old man hopped around the floor, his long, white beard twining about him as he spun around, trying to catch the creature rampaging under his garments.
Then it happened. The ermine discovered a white rabbit cowering in a concealed inner pocket. It pounced. The Court Magician felt the brief struggle. He ceased his wild dance then stared morosely at the audience. No one except him knew what was happening. Then suddenly a patch of his beard turned bright red. Were they supposed to applaud? What a peculiar trick.
Then the long whiskers shook and the ermine’s fierce little face thrust through them, a rabbit’s head dangling from its jaws.
One of the ladies fainted. The shock of the others quickly turned to anger and they began booing and jeering. One of the knights threw a pickled walnut at him. It knocked the hat from his head and the white dove that had been hiding there went flying up into the rafters.
“My lords!” the magician beseeched them. “Pray let me finish. I have not shown you the marvel of the magick hoops and how they knit together… please!”
“Get off!” the audience heckled.
At the end of the Great Hall, the Ismus rose from his seat. “Incompetent idiot,” he said contemptuously. Bowing to kiss the Lady Labella’s hand, he whispered to her, “You know where I shall be, join me there.” Then he strode away.
“We want to see real magick!” the audience demanded.
The poor magician was struggling to free his beard of the ermine, but the animal bit his fingers. Then it ran up on to his bare head to chew one of the rabbit’s ears.
“You’re a hopeless charlatan!” the King of Diamonds announced. “To the stocks with him! Pelt him with filth!”
“I can do magick!” the old man cried pathetically. “Please, your Royal Majesties, lords, ladies…”
Two tall knights came clanking to grab him. Then they halted and backed away. Ramptana was aware that something was happening behind him. Slowly he turned to look.
The one suckling pig that had not been eaten was shaking the parsley garnish from its back then it rose on its hind trotters. Standing upright, it peered curiously around the hall with its shrivelled eyes and spat the golden apple from its mouth.
This time the King of Clubs fainted.
The roasted pig held on to its sides and made grunting sounds as though it were laughing. Then it went skipping along the length of the long table. When it passed an untouched pheasant, the bird hopped up on its drumsticks to join it and every other cooked animal that had not been carved was soon prancing along behind – dancing and capering between the bowls and dishes.
The nobles gawped in shock. And then, in a gurgling, squealy voice, the pig began to speak.
“Gallant lords and ladies all, we hope you enjoyed our harvest ball. If we did please and fill your tums then up do raise your royal thumbs. Now clap your hands and give a cheer – to grand Ramptana, the mighty magician here!”
With that, the pig took a bow and the crackling split all the way up the length of its back. The roast fowl followed suit then flapped their plucked wings to instigate the applause. For several moments there was only stunned silence and then the Great Hall erupted with cheers. The old man was lifted on to the shoulders of the very same knights who had been about to put him in the stocks and paraded around with much admiration.
The Court Magician did not know what to say. He did not understand what had happened and tear
s filled his eyes. He stared at the pig on the table, but it had lain down and was lifeless and inert once more. Had he really done that? He did not know how. For the rest of that night, and for many months after, he was treated with a new respect.
The minstrels struck up a tune and the nobles carried him triumphantly around the hall whilst their spouses and sweethearts slipped discreetly away. Only one lady lingered for a time. Malinda, the retired Fairy Godmother, brushed her spun, sugar-like hair from her eyes and smiled gently as she saw the happiness on the old magician’s face. She lifted the crooked silver wand, which she used mainly as a walking stick nowadays, and gave the amber star at the tip a fond kiss.
Across the hall, the Jockey observed her and he tapped his hands together in silent applause. Then he pointed his toe, bowed and went tittuping out.
Outside, on the battlements, thirty ladies were aflutter with excitement. Usually the mummers would lead them out here, but they could wait no longer. The Queen of Hearts had prepared a fresh batch of minchet that very afternoon and was handing out little pots of it to everyone present. The Jill of Spades was already there, waiting for them.
She took a pot of the flying ointment and gazed up at the central tower where a lone figure was standing, the tails of his velvet jacket fluttering in the autumn wind. A splinter of lightning snapped behind him and he raised his face to laugh at the approaching storm. The girl reached into her sleeve where the small bottle of poison was concealed. Mooncaster would never be the same again after tonight.
The thought of that thrilled her beyond measure. These silly, twittering females would soon be dead. She could hardly keep from laughing.
“Who will our Lord choose tonight?” the Queen of Clubs wondered aloud.
“Let it be me!” one of the noblewomen sighed wistfully.
They all began removing their cloaks and gowns until they were only standing in their shifts and petticoats. Then they dabbled their fingers in the minchet and rubbed it over their shoulders and throats and the backs of their necks.
“Was there ever a more handsome and wise Lord?” the Jill of Hearts cried out. “I am ready! Lift me to yon high tower and his embrace!”
As she spoke, the power of the ointment began to work, her feet left the battlements and she rose into the air.
The Jill of Spades rapidly smeared the salve over herself. She had to get to the tower first. She had to pour the witch’s bottle into the wine that was already up there.
All around her the women were cooing and giggling with the marvellous sensation of being carried aloft. Dancing slippers dropped from waggling feet and bare legs dangled in the empty air. What a delight, what a beauteous feeling – with the Ismus waiting at the end. Perfect, absolutely perfect.
And then they realised something was wrong. They were not headed towards the central tower at all. They were drifting away from it.
“What is happening?” the Queen of Hearts shrieked in confusion. “Not this way, go back – go back!”
The floating women thrashed their arms like clumsy birds and kicked their legs like frogs, but nothing would alter their course. They flew high above the castle lawns, high over the curtain wall where a group of Punchinello Guards stared up at them and hooted at the sights they glimpsed soaring over their heads.
“I don’t understand!” the Queen of Hearts was howling as she flailed her flabby arms.
“You stupid woman!” her friend, the Queen of Spades, scolded as she went sailing by. “You brewed it wrong this time.”
“I didn’t, I swear. I followed the recipe to the letter, same as I always do.”
They were almost over the outer wall. Beyond the moat lay the sleepy village of Mooncot.
“The peasants will look up my petticoats!” the Queen of Diamonds wept dismally. “Oh, the everlasting shame!”
The Jill of Spades was just as helpless as the rest of them. What was she to do now?
“We might never stop!” one noblewoman cried. “We could fly on and on – over the woods – over the hills! What will become of us?”
“Now I remember!” the Queen of Hearts yelled. “It was him! He came by. He visited me this afternoon after I had brewed it. He must have meddled with it as it was cooling.”
“Him?” the Queen of Spades shouted back. “Who him?”
“The Jockey!” her friend answered with a fretful, warbling groan.
As if in answer, they all heard a hearty laugh from below. Staring down, they saw a man in a caramel-coloured suit performing a gloating jig.
“I tricked you, I trumped you!” he sang out. “I rode you, I rid you! The Ismus won’t be bestowing his favour upon any of you this night, dear ladies. Haw haw haw!”
“How dare you!” the Queen of Diamonds shrieked, gathering her petticoats closely about her. “Bring us down at once – you tampering trickster!”
The man laughed even louder. “But of course!” he called up. “This is the end of thy journey, my Lady. This is as far as the enchantment takes you.”
The women did not have time to think. They each felt the power of the minchet failing. Then they realised where they were and they screamed and shrieked all the more. Too late. One by one they dropped like stones from the sky. Down and down. The castle walls rushed past and then the night was filled with splashes as every single one of them plunged into the moat.
The Jill of Spades came up gasping for air, covered in duckweed and choking with the murky water. Around her the other women were doing the same and yowling wretchedly. They floundered and bobbed and paddled for the water’s edge. Jill reached the bank first and realised with a sickening shock that the bottle of poison was gone from inside her sleeve. She had lost it in the moat. What would she say to Haxxentrot? And she hadn’t even thought how she might steal Malinda’s wand. What terrible retribution would the witch visit upon her?
As the women heaved themselves on to dry land, dripping with mud, sobbing and shivering, the girl glared up at the Jockey. She could not see his face, but she could make out his cap, leaning through the crenellations. He was waving his hands and dancing around, revelling in his latest mischief.
“You have made an enemy of me this night,” she whispered. “Watch your back from now on, Jockey. The Jill of Spades has a score to settle with you.”
A shrill scream caused her to look around. The others were now standing upon the grass, but staring at their hands and scratching at their necks and shoulders.
“I said the enchantment took you this far!” the Jockey’s voice shouted down to them. “I did not say it had ended. Haw haw haw – I tricked you, I trumped you. I rode you, I rid you. I dropped you, I drowned you. I groomed you, I teased you!”
The Jill of Spades was confused. Then she too realised. Where she had rubbed the minchet on to her body, her skin was burning. It was a hot, prickling pain, and then, to her dismay, she saw bristles sprouting everywhere.
“I’m covered in hair!” she cried. “I’ve got hair on my hands, on my arms and shoulders!”
The rest of the women were screaming along with her. Every one of them was now covered in coarse, dog-like hair – everywhere the sabotaged flying ointment had touched their skin.
Above them the Jockey’s braying laughter was even louder than their panicked screeches. Then the lightning ripped through the heavens, the thunder clashed directly overhead and the rain began to pour from the sky. The women shrieked all the more.
Emma Taylor clutched at her throat and rubbed her hands anxiously. She fell back against the sandhill and tore at her shoulders. Then she opened her eyes. Her palms were smooth. Her neck was not thick with hair. She grunted with relief.
The woman who had been Queenie knelt beside her.
“Daughter,” she said gently. “Welcome back.”
The girl grinned at her. “Hello, Mumsy,” she said, raising one eyebrow archly. “I am the Jill of Spades.”
“The Ismus will be well pleased you have joined us at last.” Emma held out her hand and Conor Westl
ake helped her to her feet.
A man’s concerned voice was calling her name in the distance, down by the fort.
“That will be Mr Taylor,” Emma said. “He is looking for the girl. I will go to him. I will play-act and dissemble.”
“It’s what you do best, my child,” the Queen of Spades said proudly.
With a last, sly look at everyone gathered there, Emma hurried away towards the Landguard.
“And now the Court is complete,” Conor declared happily.
The woman tapped her fan on his shoulder. “Not yet, Jack,” she said. “There is still one who has not been found. The Jockey is not here amongst us.”
“I can wait a goodly while till that happens!”
“As can we all. But who knows, maybe he is already out there, simply biding his time till he stands forward? That would be so like him.”
The boy shuddered. “I fear the Jockey,” he muttered.
“So do the rest of us in Mooncaster,” she told him. “Yea, even perhaps our Lord Ismus himself.”
Chapter 27
Martin Baxter waited almost two hours for Carol to return. He had done his best to clear the wreckage in what remained of his sanctum, but in the end the blue gloss paint defeated him. He was too tired to cope with that tonight. He did discover, however, that certain pieces of his collection were missing. Paul had taken some of his most valuable items: an original sonic screwdriver, the screen-used phaser from the Next Generation’s first season and the Blake’s Seven teleport bracelet. The boy really had taken the ‘jools’ of his collection.
There was still no word about Paul. They rang round everyone they could think of in the vain hope that the boy would have gone there and Carol tried his mobile again, but it was still switched off. She called her mother and spent half an hour trying to explain what had happened. At five to midnight they rang the police again, but they had no news.
“He’s only eleven years old!” Carol snapped at them. “Anything could be happening to him. Why aren’t you doing more?”
