“It never occurred to me, my lord,” said Roach truthfully. He’d been too busy thinking about the jeweled sword all the way home: how best to sell it, and whether it would be better to break it up into pieces so that nobody recognized it.
“Curse you, Roach, must I think of everything?” snarled Spittleworth. “Go now, take Beamish’s body out of those filthy cloaks, cover it with a Cornucopian flag, and lay him out in the Blue Parlor. Put guards on the door and then bring Mrs. Beamish to me in the Throne Room.
“Also, give the order that these soldiers must not go home or talk to their families until I’ve spoken to them. It’s essential that we all tell the same story! Now hurry, fool, hurry — Beamish’s widow could ruin everything!”
Spittleworth pushed his way past soldiers and stable boys to where Flapoon was being lifted off his horse.
“Keep the king away from the Throne Room and the Blue Parlor,” Spittleworth whispered in Flapoon’s ear. “Encourage him to go to bed!”
Flapoon nodded and Spittleworth hurried away through the dimly lit palace corridors, casting off his dusty riding coat as he went, and bellowing at the servants to fetch him fresh clothes.
Once in the deserted Throne Room, Spittleworth pulled on his clean jacket and ordered a maid to light a single lamp and bring him a glass of wine. Then he waited. At last, there came a knock on the door.
“Enter!” shouted Spittleworth, and in came Major Roach, accompanied by a white-faced Mrs. Beamish, and young Bert.
“My dear Mrs. Beamish … my very dear Mrs. Beamish,” said Spittleworth, striding toward her and clasping her free hand. “The king has asked me to tell you how deeply sorry he is. I add my own condolences. What a tragedy … what an awful tragedy.”
“Wh-why did nobody send word?” sobbed Mrs. Beamish. “Wh-why did we have to find out by seeing his poor — his poor body?”
She swayed a little, and Roach hurried to fetch a small golden chair. The maid, who was called Hetty, arrived with wine for Spittleworth, and while she was pouring it, Spittleworth said:
“Dear lady, we did in fact send word. We sent a messenger — didn’t we, Roach?”
“That’s right,” said Roach. “We sent a young lad called —”
But here, Roach got stuck. He was a man of very little imagination.
“Nobby,” said Spittleworth, saying the first name that came into his head. “Little Nobby … Buttons,” he added, because the flickering lamplight had just illuminated one of Roach’s golden buttons. “Yes, little Nobby Buttons volunteered, and off he galloped. What could have become of him? Roach,” said Spittleworth, “we must send out a search party, at once, to see whether any trace of Nobby Buttons can be found.”
“At once, my lord,” said Roach, bowing deeply, and he left.
“How … how did my husband die?” whispered Mrs. Beamish.
“Well, madam,” said Spittleworth, speaking carefully, for he knew that the story he told now would become the official version, and that he’d have to stick by it, forevermore. “As you may have heard, we journeyed to the Marshlands, because we’d received word that the Ickabog had carried off a dog. Shortly after our arrival, I regret to say that our entire party was attacked by the monster.
“It lunged for the king first, but he fought most bravely, sinking his sword into the monster’s neck. To the tough-skinned Ickabog, however, ’twas but a wasp sting. Enraged, it sought further victims, and though Major Beamish put up a most heroic struggle, I regret to say that he laid down his life for the king.
“Then Lord Flapoon had the excellent notion of firing his blunderbuss, which scared the Ickabog away. We brought poor Beamish out of the marsh, asked for a volunteer to take news of his death to his family. Dear little Nobby Buttons said he’d do it, and he leapt up onto his horse, and until we reached Chouxville, I never doubted that he’d arrived and given you warning of this dreadful tragedy.”
“Can I — can I see my husband?” wept Mrs. Beamish.
“Of course, of course,” said Spittleworth. “He’s in the Blue Parlor.”
He led Mrs. Beamish and Bert, who was still clutching his mother’s hand, to the doors of the parlor, where he paused.
“I regret,” he said, “that we cannot remove the flag covering him. His injuries would be far too distressing for you to see … the fang and claw marks, you know …”
Mrs. Beamish swayed yet again and Bert grabbed hold of her, to keep her upright. Now Lord Flapoon walked up to the group, holding a tray of pies.
“King’s in bed,” he said thickly to Spittleworth. “Oh, hello,” he added, looking at Mrs. Beamish, who was one of the few servants whose name he knew, because she baked the pastries. “Sorry about the major,” said Flapoon, spraying Mrs. Beamish and Bert with crumbs of pie crust. “Always liked him.”
He walked away, leaving Spittleworth to open the door of the Blue Parlor to let Mrs. Beamish and Bert inside. There lay the body of Major Beamish, concealed beneath the Cornucopian flag.
“Can’t I at least kiss him one last time?” sobbed Mrs. Beamish.
“Quite impossible, I’m afraid,” said Spittleworth. “His face is half gone.”
“His hand, Mother,” said Bert, speaking for the first time. “I’m sure his hand will be all right.”
And before Spittleworth could stop the boy, Bert reached beneath the flag for his father’s hand, which was quite unmarked.
Mrs. Beamish knelt down and kissed the hand over and over again, until it shone with tears as though made of porcelain. Then Bert helped her to her feet and the two of them left the Blue Parlor without another word.
Spittleworth … ordered a maid to light a single lamp and bring him a glass of wine.
By Lucia, Age 10
Having watched the Beamishes out of sight, Spittleworth hurried off to the Guard’s Room, where he found Roach keeping watch over the rest of the Royal Guard. The walls of the room were hung with swords and a portrait of King Fred, whose eyes seemed to watch everything that was happening.
“They’re growing restless, my lord,” muttered Roach. “They want to go home to their families and get to bed.”
“And so they shall, once we’ve had a little chat,” said Spittleworth, moving to face the weary and travel-stained soldiers.
“Has anyone got any questions about what happened back in the Marshlands?” he asked the men.
The soldiers looked at one another. Some of them stole furtive glances at Roach, who’d retreated against the wall, and was polishing a rifle. Then Captain Goodfellow raised his hand, along with two other soldiers.
“Why was Beamish’s body wrapped up before any of us could look at it?” asked Captain Goodfellow.
“I want to know where that bullet went, that we heard being fired,” said the second soldier.
“How come only four people saw this monster, if it’s so huge?” asked the third, to general nods and muttered agreement.
“All excellent questions,” replied Spittleworth smoothly. “Let me explain.”
And he repeated the story of the attack that he’d told Mrs. Beamish.
The soldiers who’d asked questions remained unsatisfied.
“I still reckon it’s funny that a huge monster was out there and none of us saw it,” said the third.
“If Beamish was half-eaten, why wasn’t there more blood?” asked the second.
“And who, in the name of all that’s Holy,” said Captain Goodfellow, “is Nobby Buttons?”
“How d’you know about Nobby Buttons?” blurted Spittleworth, without thinking.
“On my way here from the stables, I bumped into one of the maids, Hetty,” said Goodfellow. “She served you your wine, my lord. According to her, you’ve just been telling Beamish’s poor wife about a member of the Royal Guard called Nobby Buttons. According to you, Nobby Buttons was sent with a message to Beamish’s wife, telling her he’d been killed.
“But I don’t remember a Nobby Buttons. I’ve never met anyone called Nobby Buttons. So I
ask you, my lord, how can that be? How can a man ride with us, and camp with us, and take orders from Your Lordship right in front of us, without any of us ever clapping eyes on him?”
Spittleworth’s first thought was that he’d have to do something about that eavesdropping maid. Luckily, Goodfellow had given him her name. Then he said in a dangerous voice:
“What gives you the right to speak for everybody, Captain Goodfellow? Perhaps some of these men have better memories than you do. Perhaps they remember poor Nobby Buttons clearly. Dear little Nobby, in whose memory the king will add a fat bag of gold to everybody’s pay this week. Proud, brave Nobby, whose sacrifice — for I fear the monster has eaten him, as well as Beamish — will mean a pay rise for all his comrades-in-arms. Noble Nobby Buttons, whose closest friends are surely marked for speedy promotion.”
Another silence followed Spittleworth’s words, and this silence had a cold, heavy quality. Now the whole Royal Guard understood the choice facing them. They weighed in their minds the huge influence Spittleworth was known to have over the king, and the fact that Major Roach was now caressing the barrel of his rifle in a menacing manner, and they remembered the sudden death of their former leader, Major Beamish. They also considered the promise of more gold, and speedy promotion, if they agreed to believe in the Ickabog, and in Private Nobby Buttons.
Goodfellow stood up so suddenly that his chair clattered to the floor.
“There never was a Nobby Buttons, and I’m damned if there’s an Ickabog, and I won’t be party to a lie!”
The other two men who’d asked questions stood up as well, but the rest of the Royal Guard remained seated, silent, and watchful.
“Very well,” said Spittleworth. “You three are under arrest for the filthy crime of treason. As I’m sure your comrades remember, you ran away when the Ickabog appeared. You forgot your duty to protect the king and thought only of saving your own cowardly hides! The penalty is death by firing squad.”
He chose eight soldiers to take the three men away, and even though the three honest soldiers struggled very hard, they were outnumbered and overwhelmed, and in no time at all they’d been dragged out of the Guard’s Room.
“Very good,” said Spittleworth to the few soldiers remaining. “Very good indeed. There will be pay rises all round, and I shall remember your names when it comes to promotions. Now, don’t forget to tell your families exactly what happened in the Marshlands. It might bode ill for your wives, your parents, and your children if they’re heard to question the existence of the Ickabog, or of Nobby Buttons.
“You may now return home.”
No sooner had the guardsmen got to their feet to return home than Lord Flapoon came bursting into the room, looking worried.
“What now?” groaned Spittleworth, who very much wanted his bath and bed.
“The — Chief — Advisor!” panted Flapoon.
And sure enough, Herringbone, the Chief Advisor, now appeared, wearing his dressing gown and an expression of outrage.
“I demand an explanation, my lord!” he cried. “What stories are these that reach my ears? The Ickabog, real? Major Beamish, dead? And I’ve just passed three of the king’s soldiers being dragged away under sentence of death! I have, of course, instructed that they be taken to the dungeons to await trial instead!”
“I can explain everything, Chief Advisor,” said Spittleworth with a bow, and for the third time that evening, he related the tale of the Ickabog attacking the king and killing Beamish, then the mysterious disappearance of Nobby Buttons who, Spittleworth feared, had also fallen prey to the monster.
Herringbone, who’d always deplored the influence of Spittleworth and Flapoon on the king, waited for Spittleworth to finish his farrago of lies with the air of a wily old fox who waits at a rabbit hole for his dinner.
“A fascinating tale,” he said, when Spittleworth had finished. “But I hereby relieve you of any further responsibility in the matter, Lord Spittleworth. The advisors will take charge now. There are laws and protocols in Cornucopia to deal with emergencies such as these.
“Firstly, the men in the dungeons will be given a proper trial, so that we can hear their version of events. Secondly, the lists of the king’s soldiers must be searched, to find the family of this Nobby Buttons, and inform them of his death. Thirdly, Major Beamish’s body must be closely examined by the king’s physicians, so that we may learn more about the monster that killed him.”
Spittleworth opened his mouth very wide, but nothing came out. He saw his whole glorious scheme collapsing on top of him, and himself trapped beneath it, imprisoned by his own cleverness.
Then Major Roach, who was standing behind the Chief Advisor, slowly put down his rifle and took a sword from the wall. A look like a flash of light on dark water passed between Roach and Spittleworth, who said:
“I think, Herringbone, that you are ripe for retirement.”
Steel flashed, and the tip of Roach’s sword appeared out of the Chief Advisor’s belly. The soldiers gasped, but the Chief Advisor didn’t utter a word. He simply knelt, then toppled over, dead.
Spittleworth looked around at the soldiers who’d agreed to believe in the Ickabog. He liked seeing the fear on every face. He could feel his own power.
“Did everybody hear the Chief Advisor appointing me to his job before he retired?” he asked softly.
The soldiers all nodded. They’d just stood by and watched murder, and felt too deeply involved to protest. All they cared about now was escaping this room alive, and protecting their families.
“Very well, then,” said Spittleworth. “The king believes the Ickabog is real, and I stand with the king. I am the new Chief Advisor, and I will be devising a plan to protect the kingdom. All who are loyal to the king will find their lives run very much as before. Any who stand against the king will suffer the penalty of cowards and traitors: imprisonment — or death.
“Now, I need one of you gentlemen to assist Major Roach in burying the body of our dear Chief Advisor — and be sure and put him where he won’t be found. The rest of you are free to return to your families and inform them of the danger threatening our beloved Cornucopia.”
Spittleworth now marched off toward the dungeons. With Herringbone gone, there was nothing to stop him killing the three honest soldiers. He intended to shoot them himself. There would be time enough to invent a story afterward — possibly he could place their bodies in the vault where the crown jewels were kept, and pretend they’d been trying to steal them.
However, just as Spittleworth put his hand on the door to the dungeons, a quiet voice spoke out of the darkness behind him.
“Good evening, Lord Spittleworth.”
He turned and saw Lady Eslanda, raven-haired and serious, stepping down from a dark spiral staircase.
“You’re awake late, my lady,” said Spittleworth, with a bow.
“Yes,” said Lady Eslanda, whose heart was beating very fast. “I — I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d take a little stroll.”
This was a fib. In fact, Eslanda had been fast asleep in her bed when she was woken by a frantic knocking on her bedroom door. Opening it, she found Hetty standing there: the maid who’d served Spittleworth his wine, and heard his lies about Nobby Buttons.
Hetty had been so curious about what Spittleworth was up to after his story about Nobby Buttons, that she’d crept along to the Guard’s Room and, by pressing her ear to the door, heard everything that was going on inside. Hetty ran and hid when the three honest soldiers were dragged away, then sped upstairs to wake Lady Eslanda. She wanted to help the men who were about to be shot. The maid had no idea that Eslanda was secretly in love with Captain Goodfellow. She simply liked Lady Eslanda best of all the ladies at court, and knew her to be kind and clever.
Lady Eslanda hastily pressed some gold into Hetty’s hands and advised her to leave the palace that night, because she was afraid the maid now might be in grave danger. Then Lady Eslanda dressed herself with trembling hands, seized a la
ntern, and hurried down the spiral staircase beside her bedroom. However, before she reached the bottom of the stairs she heard voices. Blowing out her lantern, Eslanda listened as Herringbone gave the order for Captain Goodfellow and his friends to be taken to the dungeons instead of being shot. She’d been hiding on the stairs ever since, because she had a feeling the danger threatening the men might not yet have passed — and here, sure enough, was Lord Spittleworth, heading for the dungeons with a pistol.
“Is the Chief Advisor anywhere about?” Lady Eslanda asked. “I thought I heard his voice earlier.”
“Herringbone has retired,” said Spittleworth. “You see standing before you the new Chief Advisor, my lady.”
“Oh, congratulations!” said Eslanda, pretending to be pleased, although she was horrified. “So it will be you who oversees the trial of the three soldiers in the dungeons, will it?”
“You’re very well informed, Lady Eslanda,” said Spittleworth, eyeing her closely. “How did you know there are three soldiers in the dungeons?”
“I happened to hear Herringbone mention them,” said Lady Eslanda. “They’re well-respected men, it seems. He was saying how important it will be for them to have a fair trial. I know King Fred will agree, because he cares deeply about his own popularity — as he should, for if a king is to be effective, he must be loved.”
Lady Eslanda did a good job of pretending that she was thinking only of the king’s popularity, and I think nine out of ten people would have believed her. Unfortunately, Spittleworth heard the tremor in her voice, and suspected that she must be in love with one of these men, to hurry downstairs in the dead of night, in hope of saving their lives.
“I wonder,” he said, watching her closely, “which of them it is whom you care about so much?”
Lady Eslanda would have stopped herself blushing if she could, but unfortunately, she couldn’t.
“I don’t think it can be Ogden,” mused Spittleworth, “because he’s a very plain man, and in any case, he already has a wife. Might it be Wagstaff? He’s an amusing fellow, but prone to boils. No,” said Lord Spittleworth softly, “I think it must be handsome Captain Goodfellow who makes you blush, Lady Eslanda. But would you really stoop so low? His parents were cheesemakers, you know.”
The Ickabog Page 6