Dancing Jax

by Robin Jarvis

  His unpleasant laughter hung over the garden as he and the boy left it. When it faded, a small face appeared from behind a rosemary bush.

  Nosy Posy, the Constable’s daughter, sucked in her cheeks and wondered whom she should tell.

  The Jill of Spades made sure the door to her bedchamber was locked, then went to a cupboard and took out a small roll of black cloth. Inside was a slim candle of green wax. Securing it in a holder, she took the candle to the window and set a taper to the wick.

  There was a crackle of livid sparks and an emerald-coloured flame started to burn, tall and steady. The warm night breeze that sighed around the North Tower of the House of Spades could not even cause the flame to tremble or waver.

  Sitting on a high-backed chair, Jill stared at the window and waited.

  Presently she heard a curious sound approaching from outside. It was a droning buzz. Rising, she strode to the window and looked out.

  Something was flying over the castle walls. She saw four oval faces, pale as milk, drawing closer. They were Bogey Boys. They were riding upon crowflies, more of Haxxentrot’s loathsome creatures. They were larger than ravens, with sharp black beaks, but their eyes were those of an insect and six bird like talons were tucked beneath bodies covered in coarse hairs instead of feathers. Their wings were the same as a great bluebottle and they were the cause of the buzzing.

  Haxxentrot had bred the crowflies to be swift aerial steeds for her Bogey Boys, but it also amused her to send them to the castle to peck the noses off the unwary.

  The Bogey Boys were racing, each trying to be the first to reach the North Tower. Bouncing up and down on their winged mounts, they impelled them with their heels and smacked the tops of those bristly heads.

  The Jill of Spades only managed to dodge aside in time. They rushed through the window and whizzed round and round the bedchamber, knocking into furniture, pulling open cupboards, skimming their feet through the water basin and setting the jug reeling so it smashed on the floor. Flying over the fruit bowl, they snatched up apples and scooped hazelnuts from a golden dish and pelted one another with them. Diving between the bedposts and swinging on its curtains, the witch’s small, rascally servants chased each other. One made a grab for the fine linen night smock that was laid out on the coverlet and held it daintily between his fingers as he paraded it about the room like a headless ghost.

  All was chaos and uproar and Jill whirled about as they circled her causing mayhem. A painting was yanked from its hook, the mirror was bumped into and the silver-backed glass fractured in the frame. Then they seized hold of the iron chandelier and spun it round and round like a carousel, splashing hot wax everywhere.

  “Stop! Stop!” Jill shouted, reaching up to catch them.

  The Bogey Boys stuck their pointy pink tongues out at her. They tugged on the bristles to go higher, forcing Jill to stand on a chair and jump at them. It was most undignified.

  Then, one after another, they steered their ugly steeds downward and zigzagged about the chamber until the mischievous Bogey Boys hopped clear and landed on the feather bed. The crowflies cawed and darted up to the vaulted ceiling, to crawl across the painted plaster and sharpen their beaks on the stonework.

  Jub, Crik, Hak and Rott tumbled about like acrobats, flipping and somersaulting from one end to the other. Then they rolled in formation across the bed and, with a flourish, sat cross-legged on the edge – beaming up at the infuriated girl.

  Stepping down from the chair, Jill swept a stray lock of hair from her face, incensed that she should be made to look so foolish.

  “I did not send for you!” she said crossly and out of breath. “Where is Haxxentrot? Where is your mistress?”

  The Bogey Boys smiled even wider, revealing their baby teeth, and they fluttered their ginger-lashed eyes in insolent innocence.

  “Answer me!” Jill demanded. “Or I shall have your sickly white heads on spikes and feed the rest of you to Mauger – if he is not repulsed by them.”

  The Bogey Boys shook their hands in mock terror and rolled their eyes wildly, before falling about, squeaking with laughter.

  Jill advanced towards them, reaching into both her sleeves. Then a harsh, cracked voice behind said, “Do not draw thy daggers, my dark little maid.”

  The girl turned. There, standing by the window, hayfork in her wizened hands, was Haxxentrot the witch.

  “My fine, big-headed boys are my most useful spies and attendants,” she declared, pinching out the green flame from the signalling candle with her fingers. “Already this night they have been busily occupied sowing disharmony amongst the amorous peasantry, and they have more work ahead yet, have ye not, my pug-nosed, frighty lads?”

  The Bogey Boys nodded and delved into the little leather pouches they carried, to show her what they had brought: small bottles, pots, jars and forged letters.

  “Distrust, misery and anguish,” the hag observed with satisfaction. “Ardent love notes to the Queen of Clubs, in the unmistakable scrawling hand of the King of Hearts, to be discovered by her husband on the morrow. And there, a tincture of toads to add to the water jugs in the Great Hall. One sip and the body will bubble with warts. Here there is an ointment, in the same pot the Queen of Hearts doth use for her salves and aids to beauty, to smooth away the lines of age from her fat face. When she applies this, her skin will wither and wrinkle worse than mine own.”

  Cackling, she leaned on her hayfork and told her four servants to go about their malignant night’s work.

  The Bogey Boys stuck their fingers in their mouths and whistled the crowflies from the ceiling. Leaping on their backs once more, they flew through the window and spiralled round the castle, seeking the towers of the other Royal Houses.

  “How they love riding their gorcrows,” Haxxentrot cackled. “Such an abundance of acrimony and blame shalt flower with the sunrise. Yea, even more than that which already gnaws through the White Castle. Spite and enmity are on the march. Canst thou not feel it, my baneful princess? The lid of the cauldron is rattling; soon the poison shalt boil over and not all of it will be my doing – alas.”

  “I did not summon you here to listen to your bitter chatter!” Jill told her.

  “Summon?” the witch snarled. “Haxxentrot cannot be whistled for, like a crowfly or a hound to heel. Guard thy tongue, child, ere the witch of the Forbidden Tower decides to make cruel sport with you. Do not forget, thine old playmates are in my care. Those same dolls to whom thy vinegar life is spliced and bound. How easy ’twould be to command them to jump into the fire and you too would blister and scorch.”

  “My pardon!” Jill said hastily. “My words were rash and lacked due respect.”

  “Such is it ever with you, daughter of the Queen of Spades. What of the bargain we made last year? Thou were to poison all other womenfolk of the castle and bring to me Malinda’s wand. Such ficklety and faithlessness.”

  “The Jockey was to blame that night,” Jill explained. “The fault was not mine – and I was on my way to steal the wand when the Castle Creeper beat me to it.”

  The old witch sucked her teeth and eyed her keenly.

  “I know the way of it,” she said. “Else one of those treats my Bogey Boys carry would have been for thee.”

  She gave a foul grin. “It is enough that Malinda hath been robbed of her tawdry walking stick. Now she is even more crippled than ever. First her wings, then her wand. No more than a sorry old dame in the dark forest, whose clumsy spells are waning.”

  “It is of the Creeper I wish to speak,” Jill said as the witch broke into fresh croaking laughter. “He is searching for the Healing Ruby.”

  Haxxentrot fell silent and glared at her.

  “And what would I know of that?” she asked presently.

  “Spare me your denials. Magpie Jack was aided by another the night he stole that treasure away. Answer me truthfully: did you not take it from him – at the window? It is the only solution to that riddle.”

  “Not I,” the witch said
with a sly wink. “But Jub was in that royal bedchamber that night, nailing nightmares into the King’s oafish head. ’Twas Jub who took the jewel from Magpie Jack and escaped upon a crowfly.”

  “Then you do have it! You have the ruby!”

  Haxxentrot shook her head. “When Jub returned, his purse was empty. The jewel had been lost on the journey – and he dawdled and meandered much on the way back to my tower. All my spies have hunted for it since. Gangle Hounds have scoured the land, ’twixt Mooncot and the marshes, and snakes did slither through the bogs and ditches, to no avail. The Healing Ruby remains shrouded in shadow and mystery. I know not where it is bestowed.”

  “Someone else must have found it,” Jill muttered. “A peasant in the fields perhaps, or a serf running an errand across the castle lawns. They have taken and hidden it.”

  “Thou shalt not find it,” the witch commented. “If thou didst seek to taunt the Creeper with knowledge of it, thou hast outreached thyself. He is too great an enemy for thee, my curdled princess.”

  “I do not fear that dark-faced villain!” she answered hotly. “I am the Jill of Spades. I could put an end to his Creeping whenever I have a mind.”

  Haxxentrot shook the hayfork at her and pointed a gnarled finger. Every candle flame spluttered and turned a virulent green.

  “Do not dare raise thy hand against the Castle Creeper,” she warned, as livid shadows leaped about her aged features and the bedchamber was engulfed in a sickly light.

  “The doom that drives him will suffer no interference. Though thou be high-born, thou art as naught compared to that one. The Creeper’s destiny, and the fate of Mooncaster and beyond, is mapped upon the ancient cards that engine these many worlds. None may prevent the deed he was brought hither to commit.”

  Jill clutched her throat and staggered backwards. A cold wind began to blow inside the chamber. It raked through her hair and tore at her gown. The bed curtains flapped madly until they were ripped free and went twisting through the blasting gale. Heavy oak furniture rocked and tottered, skidding across the floor in the squall. The large cupboard toppled over and wooden chests crashed against the walls. Even the great bed shook and lifted.

  Jill could hardly breathe. Through battered lashes, she saw the witch appear to grow in size, the tip of her conical hat touching the vaulted ceiling.

  “Hear and heed me, treacherous daughter of the House of Spades!” her voice resounded above the unnatural tempest. “If thou dost endeavour to hinder or obstruct the Castle Creeper, thy life and much more shall be forfeit. Step away from that path and unhatch thy plots – or accept the direst consequences. This is the solemn warning of Haxxentrot! Ignore my words at thy peril.”

  The witch lowered her finger and the wind dropped instantly. The bed curtains fell to the floor and the candles burned bright and yellow once more.

  The Jill of Spades gasped and stared around her. When she looked back at the window, the witch was gone.

  Jill ran to the ledge and leaned out. Haxxentrot was flying over the battlements upon the hayfork.

  “So be it,” the girl murmured. “Let the Creeper do what he must. There is another whom I would defame. The champion of the day shall not enjoy his victory for long.”

  Opening one of the wooden chests, she brought out a small silver pot, embossed with the badge of the Heart. Magpie Jack wasn’t the only light-fingered royal child. Jill had stolen it from the Under Queen’s own boudoir some days ago and knew just the use she would put it to.

  Going to another chest, she was relieved that the bottles it contained had not broken. Here were her own noxious concoctions, poisons that could kill an army or make the strongest man as weak as an infant. And then there was this…

  Examining a glass jar filled with brown powder, she transferred half of the contents into the silver pot, taking care to hold her head aside, lest she inhale any floating dust. Just a few grains of this compound would put a Punchinello to sleep for a week, or a horse for a day – perhaps a very special horse for several hours.

  Choosing the rosiest apple from the floor, she carved a thimble-sized well in its side and carefully poured in some of the powder. Then she plugged it with the piece she had removed.

  Wrapping a dark green cloak round her shoulders, the Jill of Spades tucked the apple and the silver pot into a pocket, unlocked the door and crept out.

  Returning from the village, Rufus passed the Castle Creeper on the road. Lee was riding one of the spare horses kept for guests or when another was indisposed. Rufus watched him strike out over the fields and scratched his head. The Creeper was no horseman. He had never seen anyone sit so badly in the saddle.

  But his thoughts were too full of his own troubles to care much about that. Dragging his feet over the drawbridge, he headed for the stables – where Sir Darksilver was waiting for him.

  The knight was wild with rage and fuelled by wine. He had found the pieces of his broken lance and, under close inspection, discovered it had been sawn part-way through before the tournament. Storming to Rufus’s bunk in the stable loft, he found, hidden beneath his straw-filled mattress, a small handsaw. The teeth were still clogged with sawdust and flakes of paint that matched the colours of his lance.

  Confronted with this proof of his betrayal, Rufus stammered and tried to explain, but Sir Darksilver grabbed him by the throat and hurled him out into the courtyard. Using the largest fragment of the broken lance, he beat the boy, demanding to know who was behind it. Who had corrupted him, to make his master look a prize fool at the joust? The boy dared not answer. Again and again the question was asked and every time Rufus refused, he felt the lance across his back until Sir Darksilver thrashed him senseless.

  By that time, every groom and esquire had been drawn from their beds, and sentries up on the battlements were staring down at the torchlit yard. Under Kings and nobles, taking the air before retiring, gathered to see the cause of the commotion and all were aghast to see what he had done. But there were none daring enough to stop him, not even the Constable. Sir Darksilver was a formidable size and, even in the best of moods, his temper was like a sleeping dragon. No one had seen him this incensed before.

  Ignoring their timid jeers, the knight knelt beside the unconscious boy and searched him. It did not take long to find the purse. The leather was tooled with the badge of Clubs, beneath a prince’s coronet.

  Sir Darksilver rose and turned a thunderous face towards the separate stable that had been purpose-built to house Ironheart, and where the Jack of Clubs was also wont to sleep.

  He was spared the trouble of calling him out because Jack was already striding across the yard, sword in hand.

  “Stand clear!” Jack commanded. “What manner of coward are you, Sirrah, to batter your esquire so cruelly? Such drunken brigandry shall not be tolerated in this Kingdom.”

  “Coward, is it?” Sir Darksilver roared back, throwing the broken lance at him. “Is it valour to impair the lance of your opponent? Take what name suits you best! Coward! Liar! Cheat!”

  A murmur of surprise ran through the watching crowd.

  “Aye!” the knight told them. “The champion of the day did bribe my esquire to hobble my chances. Maybe every knight he bested at the tilt would do well to examine the splinters of their lances also – and see how well their esquires jingle.”

  He flung the purse at Jack’s feet and drew his sword.

  “My honour will be satisfied,” he said with deadly resolve. “Though you be the prince of my house, I will not submit and will not serve such as you.”

  “This is a thing I counted as missing some while ago,” the Jack of Clubs declared, recognising the purse. “I paid no coin to that esquire. I swear it.”

  “Who else would gain by it? None but hero Jack. Keep your untruths locked behind your teeth. There is but one way to settle this matter. When you are striped scarlet by my sword, only then shall I be content.”

  With a furious yell, he lunged and his sword sliced for Jack’s head. There was a
chime of steel as two blades met and a ferocious duel began.

  Moving behind the crowd, the Jill of Spades slipped by unnoticed. She made her way to Ironheart’s stable and stole inside.

  The last of the untameable steeds, the finest horse in Mooncaster, was restless in his stall. His ears were flicking and those great nostrils were snorting. He knew Jack was in danger and his hooves scraped at the straw-covered ground.

  “Peace now,” Jill greeted him with a soothing voice as she uncovered a dark lantern. “You know my face. ’Tis I, the Jill of Spades. I am a friend of your friend.”

  The ringing of swords outside became more intense and the shouts and cries of the crowd grew louder.

  Ironheart shook his head and stamped.

  “You must not fret, O mighty charger,” Jill murmured. “Jack will be back to tend to you soon, I promise. They are but practising out there. Such is the way of boys. It is of no consequence; no hurt nor harm will befall him.”

  The horse reared away from her as she approached.

  “Surely you are the king of your kind – a fine, noble animal. How closely you pair are bonded – more like brothers than horse and rider.”

  Glancing into the stall, she saw that Jack had moved his cot in here.

  “Such devotion,” she said. “I wonder, do you share one another’s dreams? I have heard such things are possible.”

  Ironheart shifted from side to side.

  “Steady,” she whispered. “See what I have brought you. A gift from Jack.”

  The girl took the apple from the pocket of her cloak and polished it on the sleeve of her gown.

  “See how red and bright it is,” she said. “Jack bade me give you this. Here, you fine prancer – eat. It is sweet and delicious.”

  The horse eyed the apple dubiously. Jill smiled up at him. She saw herself reflected in those large black eyes and wondered what Jack would do when they were served up to him. For that reason alone, she hoped he survived the duel she had contrived to bring about. She had toyed with the idea of cutting off the hooves and tormenting him by leaving them in unexpected places for him to find. But hacking them off would take far too long. The eyes would have to do – and maybe the ears also.