Charlie Bone And The Red Knight (Children Of The Red King)

by Jenny Nimmo

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  It soon became clear that the enchanter was making for Bloor's Academy. The cats watched him climb the steps between the two towers and cross the courtyard to the entrance. The cats ran past the steps and along the side of the building until they reached a high stone wall. Up they went, the three bright forms. They paced along the top of the wall, watching the frosted field below and the woods beyond, where the great red arch led into the castle ruins.

  A stirring in the naked winter trees alerted them. They moved closer together, as though each cat knew his senses would be enhanced by the nearness of the others. They saw the white mare first, and then her rider: a knight in a silver helmet, his suit of chain mail glimmering in the frail light of a fogbound moon. A deep purr rose in the throats of the three cats. They leaped from the wall and ran to the mare's side.

  The enchanter didn't wait for an answer to his knocking. He seized the bronze handle in fingers ringed with emerald and gold,

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  and with one twist, he shattered the lock, letting loose a shower of sparkling, splintered wood.

  The heavy doors crashed open and the enchanter swept into the hall.

  A heavyset man in plaid pajamas flung himself, trembling, to the floor in front of the enchanter. "I was coming, my lord... sire... Count Harken," he declared. "Forgive ... I didn't know..."

  "Get up, Weedon." Count Harken kicked the prostrate body in the ribs, causing a violent shudder to run through it.

  Weedon stumbled to his feet. He couldn't quite bring himself to stand upright but remained bent at the waist in an untidy sort of bow. "We didn't know," he muttered, "though Mrs. Tilpin told us to be ready."

  "Where are they?" the count demanded.

  "In the west wing, my lord, asleep."

  "Not for long," said the enchanter. "Take me there."

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  Weedon straightened up a fraction and tottered over to the door to the west wing. Holding back the door, he let the enchanter sweep past him, the gold robe scratching his knuckles as it brushed against his hand. Weedon suppressed a sob of pain and hurried after the count.

  "I'll have to wake them, my lord," the porter mumbled. "Forgive me, but it's well past midnight. It might take a while to gather them."

  "Ring a bell. Bang a gong!" the count commanded. "There must be one." He began to mount the stairs to the first floor.

  "Oh, indeed there is," said Weedon, scrabbling behind the scratchy gold-threaded cloak.

  The huge brass gong hung in an oak frame outside the headmaster's study. A hammer with a round leather head lay beneath it. Weedon had never hit the gong. He wouldn't have dared. In fact, he had only heard it once, when Manfred in a teenage tantrum had pounded it so hard, the head of the hammer had split in two. The sound had been

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  deafening. It reached into every part of the building and took fifteen minutes to subside. The hammer had been mended and Manfred forbidden ever to touch the thing again.

  The enchanter regarded the gong with interest, pronouncing it excellent for his purpose. "I'll do it myself," he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Lifting the hammer, he drew back his gold-spangled arm and beat the gong with such force, Weedon's left eardrum was perforated.

  The sound reverberated through the building, even reaching Cook in her underground rooms. And for Cook, that sound spelled the end of an era. For many years she had kept the balance in Bloor's Academy. She called herself the lodestone of the house, keeping a watchful eye on the endowed children and doing whatever she could to make sure those who used wickedness did not overcome the others: the children who refused to let the Bloors corrupt them.

  Cook knew no one who would strike the

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  massive gong in the middle of the night. Something told her that the Shadow of Badlock had broken into the city again. And this time it would be hard to banish him. This time he had made sure he had followers in the city. Even as Cook sat there wondering what to do, an army from the past was coming to life.

  "So why am I sitting here?" Cook muttered to herself. She pulled her suitcase from a closet and began to pack.

  Up in the west wing a motley group had assembled in the headmaster's study. They were all standing except for the enchanter, who sat behind the headmaster's desk, and Titania Tilpin, who had fainted at the sight of her ancestor the count.

  Dr. Bloor wore a tweed robe that wouldn't have looked out of place in a hunting lodge. Manfred had appeared in purple silk pajamas, much to his father's disapproval, and Ezekiel wore a red nightcap, a plaid jacket, and a too-short nightshirt (another embarrassment for Dr. Bloor). Titania, lying beside the door, was wearing a black kimono, while Joshua,

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  in an ordinary green bathrobe, was trying to revive his mother by patting her cheeks.

  "Foolish boy," said Count Harken. "That will do no good."

  "Weedon, get some water," said Dr. Bloor.

  Still clutching his left ear, Weedon staggered out.

  "It's lucky he's still got one good ear," said Manfred, chuckling at his own joke.

  No one else laughed. This was a serious moment and the sooner Manfred caught on, the better. Everyone waited for the enchanter to speak, while he waited for Weedon to return. He arrived, at last, with a jug of water and his wife in curlers and a pink shawl.

  "Put it on her face," the enchanter commanded, pointing at Titania.

  "Put it?" Weedon, looking uncertain, held up the jug.

  "Pour it!" thundered the enchanter.

  "Pour? Of course." Weedon turned the jug and let a stream of water splash onto Titania's face.

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  She sat up, gulping for air. "I'm drowning!" she screamed.

  "You are not," said the count. "Calm yourself."

  "My lord, it really is you!" Clinging to her son, Titania pulled herself to her feet. "I knew you would come, but with the mirror broken and..."

  "I came another way," the count said, with a private sort of smile.

  "Tell us how," begged Ezekiel. "We'd love to know."

  "With the boy," the count said carelessly. "Charlie Bone. I knew he would come to Badlock. My granddaughter has a fondness for him. She tried to reach him through my painting, but he used the mirror."

  "The mirror?" cried Titania. "The Mirror of Amoret? But it's broken."

  "Not now. I allowed the boy to arrive. I even watched him use a ridiculous garb to rescue his friend, Billy, and I traveled back with them."

  A babble of complaints and questions broke out, and raising his hand for silence, the enchanter said,

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  "How did I travel? As a fly. And why did I allow Billy to return to your city? Because he was of no use to me."

  "But what about the will?" Ezekiel screeched. "That kid stands to inherit everything if the will is found. We had a bargain, sir. You keep Billy, and we help you to get back into the city."

  Leaning across the desk, the enchanter roared in Ezekiel's face, "But you didn't help, did you?"

  "What, what?" Ezekiel spluttered. "She tried" -- he pointed at Titania -- "and Venetia Yewbeam attempted to seal the crack in the mirror."

  "I called to your shadow in the Red King's portrait," Titania whined. "But all in vain. I brought back my ancestor Ashkelan Kapaldi to help, but the Red Knight killed him."

  "Red Knight?" The enchanter sat up, his ringed fingers drumming the desk. "What Red Knight?"

  "A killer, a rogue, a dressed-up devil..."

  Dr. Bloor's calm voice cut through Titania's hysterical outburst. "A knight on a white horse has been seen,

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  now and then, riding through the city. He appears to be protecting some of the endowed children, Charlie Bone among them. This knight has a plume of red feathers on his helmet, a red cloak, and a shield with a burning sun."

  "The king!" Count Harken leaped up, his eyes blazing. "So he has returned to give me the ultimate satisfaction. All my life I have relished the thought of this enco
unter."

  "I hesitate to disagree," said Dr. Bloor, "but surely it cannot be the Red King himself, the man who built this city nine hundred years ago?"

  "I am here," the enchanter reminded him, "so why should he not be here?"

  Manfred, who had been listening to the conversation with increasing impatience, suddenly spoke up. "The Red King is a tree, always will be, so we've heard. If he could have returned as a man, then he would have done it years ago."

  The count began to look uncertain. At last he said, "If he is not the king, then he is someone who

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  has taken on the king's mantle. Whoever he is, he must be destroyed before I can take this city into the past."

  "The past?" said Ezekiel. "But..."

  "Oh, you can keep your house, your garden, your treasures." The enchanter waved his hand disdainfully. "But they will all be taken into the past."

  The Bloors stared at the enchanter, not quite comprehending what they had heard. Even Titania looked anxious.

  "You will hardly notice the difference," the enchanter said airily. "The city will be in the world of Badlock, that is all. Now, can someone find me a horse. Preferably a stallion. And I'll need some of the armor that I saw displayed in your hall. We will do battle on the morrow!"

  "We?" croaked Ezekiel.

  "Battle?" said Dr. Bloor.

  The family at number nine was on its way back to bed when the doorbell rang.

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  "It's going to be a long night," sighed Uncle Paton. He went down into the hall and called, "Who's there?"

  "It's me. Cook!" said a voice.

  "Cook?" Uncle Paton drew back the bolts and. unlocked the door. When he opened it, a small figure darted in. She was carrying a large suitcase in one hand and a leather bag in the other.

  "My word," she puffed, dumping the suitcase and the bag on the floor. "It's dark in here, Mr. Yewbeam."

  "There's a reason," said Paton.

  "Oh, of course." Cook noticed the candle burning on the landing above.

  "Cook!" cried Charlie.

  Cook blinked at the three figures on the stairs, the smallest of whom was now bounding down toward her.

  "What's happened?" asked Charlie. He had rarely seen Cook outside the school.

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  "I've left Bloor's," she said. "The balance is gone. You can't go back there, Charlie. None of you can. It's all over."

  "What's all over?" Paton ushered Cook into the kitchen, where he lit another candle. "Sit down and tell us what's happened."

  Charlie followed them, and when Alice came in, Cook exclaimed, "Alice Angel! I'm so glad you're here. What a difference it will make."

  Alice smiled and sat beside her. "Tell us, Cook!"

  "He's come back." Cook couldn't control the tremble in her voice. "Count Harken. It's all over for us. We'll have to leave before it's too late."

  "It is too late." There was anxiety in Alice's tone but not despair, and Charlie took comfort from this.

  "The fog is very thick," Cook agreed. "I could barely see my way here. Some of the streetlights are out, and I heard looters in High Street. I came the back way."

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  Maisie, who'd been making yet another pot of tea, said, "What's going to become of us all? What can we do?"

  "Plenty," said Paton firmly. "I wouldn't want to leave this city, even if I could. It's worth fighting for, I'm sure you all agree."

  They did agree, but a sudden thought caused Charlie to gasp, "Mom and Dad! If we can't get out, they can't get in, and they're on their way here." He paused. "At least I think they are."

  Alice touched his hand. "They will be here, Charlie."

  It was like a promise, and although Charlie tried hard to ignore the uncomfortable doubts that kept tormenting him, all at once they became too much to bear and he burst out, "Why did he run away just when we needed him?"

  Nobody spoke and Charlie realized that even Uncle Paton had been worried by the same distressing doubts.

  "We'll know soon enough," said Maisie,

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  handing Cook a cup of tea. "I'll make up a bed in the living room," she told her. "The sofa's very comfy, and I'm sure we'll all be thinking better in the morning."

  "Indeed," said Uncle Paton. "I'm off. Sleep well, everyone."

  Charlie followed his uncle upstairs. He was about to go into his room when he saw a small figure sitting on the second flight of stairs.

  "Charlie," Billy whispered. "Is he here?"

  "The enchanter?" Charlie was reluctant to alarm Billy, but he would have to know the truth eventually. "Yes, he is," he admitted. "But Cook's here and we think everything's going to be all right."

  "Oh, good." Billy gave a huge yawn. "Night, Charlie."

  In the bookstore, Mrs. Kettle had been given Emma's room, while Dagbert took the sofa downstairs. Emma shared her aunt's bed. None of them slept very well. Voices from Piminy Street carried through the air in disturbing waves of sound:

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  raucous laughter; rough, deep singing; and wild strains from a fiddle that played on and on, the fiddler seeming never to tire. But it was the smell of burning that finally drove Mrs. Kettle to the window.

  From the rear of the bookstore you could see the backyards of the houses in Piminy Street and Cathedral Close, and the narrow alley between them. The alley was deserted at the moment; it would not be too difficult to creep across without being seen. Smoke was billowing from behind the roofs of Piminy Street, and Mrs. Kettle began to feel anxious for the blue boa. In her haste to find Dagbert and get him to safety, she had forgotten her precious snake.

  "He can't stay there, poor love." Mrs. Kettle dressed hastily. She was about to leave the room when the door opened and Emma crept in.

  "You gave me quite a fright, my dear," said Mrs. Kettle, patting her heart.

  Emma explained that she had left something in one of her drawers, a vest that Alice Angel had made for Olivia. "She's been won over," Emma told Mrs. Kettle.

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  "Someone gave her a vest that's made her one of THEM. She's changed completely, will hardly speak to me. And she absolutely won't be parted from the awful thing."

  "So you want to swap them. The one that troubles her must be exchanged for one that brings her peace."

  "It is a bit like that." Emma smiled. Mrs. Kettle had put it so well. Olivia was troubled. Even though she struggled to keep the bewitching vest with her, it appeared to be draining the life out of her. Emma went to her drawer and lifted out the vest that Alice Angel had made.

  "It's beautiful." Mrs. Kettle touched the silver circles. "It's easy to see why Olivia would want to wear a thing like this."

  "It's as light as a feather," said Emma, "and yet Olivia seems to sink under the other one, as though it's weighted with stones."

  "Evil is heavy," Mrs. Kettle declared, "goodness a pleasure to wear."

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  Mrs. Kettle looked so strong and solid, any qualms that Emma might have had were instantly swept away, and she found herself describing how she would go to Olivia's house in the morning and change the vests while Olivia was dressing. "That's the only moment in the whole day when she'll take it off," said Emma.

  "Good luck, my dear." Mrs. Kettle laid a hand on Emma's shoulder, and Emma could feel the strength of all those smith magicians who had gone before. It gave her a rush of courage.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Kettle. Good night!"

  "Good night to you, my dear. I'll be off now to get my lovely snake."

  While Emma went back to bed, Mrs. Kettle slipped down the stairs. She tiptoed through the living room, where Dagbert Endless was moaning in his sleep, and into the kitchen. The back door opened into a small yard. Mrs. Kettle stepped out into the foggy air and closed the door behind her. Then she made a sudden dash across the alley to her own backyard.

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  On the way she had to pass behind the Stone Shop, and what she saw there made her blood run cold.

  The yard was cr
ammed with huge stone creatures, hideous things with tusks, broad noses, eyes hidden in wrinkled stone, and pointed teeth protruding from their lower jaws. What warped imagination had conjured up these dreadful beasts? she wondered. One turned its head, and Mrs. Kettle ran. Eric Shellhorn, she thought. He's bringing them to life.

  When she reached her shop, Mrs. Kettle dared not turn a light on. The blue boa was curled beneath a table at the back. He had obviously tried to get as far away from the window as possible. Flames from the street fires bathed the shop in an angry orange glow, and the silhouettes of prancing figures passed constantly across the window.

  "Come on, my love!" Mrs. Kettle reached down and coaxed the snake from his hiding place. He crawled up her arm and wrapped himself around her neck. "We'd best be quick," she whispered.

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  As she stepped into the alley, two figures appeared in the Stone Shop yard: Melmott the stonemason and a burly figure in a white undershirt. Mrs. Kettle hoped they hadn't seen her, but Melmott heard the rattle of a pebble under her foot and looked her way.

  "Ah! What have we here?" he said in his cold, rough voice.

  "Oh, heavens," whispered Mrs. Kettle. "Solomon, do something!" She pulled the boa's tail, hoping he'd understand.

  Solomon did. In two seconds he had slithered from Mrs. Kettle's head right down to her shoes, and both he and Mrs. Kettle vanished.

  "What the heck!" Melmott exclaimed.

  "Where did they go?" shouted the man in the undershirt.

  Mrs. Kettle held her nerve. While the men turned their heads this way and that, she stealthily crept past them.

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  A cat jumped from a wall farther up the alley, and the men ran toward the sound, shouting, "Gotcha! You can't fool us!"