Gracie blushed. “I’ll see what I can manage,” she said. “Have a good journey.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes. See you soon?”
Gracie smiled down at him. “Of course. Very soon.”
There was a pause, where nothing happened.
Gubble took a meaningful step forward, and at once there was a convulsive twisting and looping. A moment later Marcus and the path were gone.
“Clever Gubble.” Gubble’s tone was one of huge self-congratulation.
“Hmm,” Gracie said. “I hope Marcus was holding on. I don’t think he’s used to travelling quite so fast…”
Keel, lurking amongst the thick undergrowth outside the fence that surrounded the House of the Ancient Crones, had also heard Foyce’s howl. He had been tempted to reply, but caution had kept him silent, and then Marcus and Gracie had appeared and he had been distracted. He was intrigued by Gracie; there was something about her that made him want to go closer but, knowing nothing of the Trueheart effect, he was unable to explain the feeling. She had a lovely smile, but she wasn’t beautiful. She was obviously a girl, and not a werewolf, or any of the other composite beings that could be found in the forest … and usually he avoided humans. He scratched at his ear, and was surprised to find he was using a hand, and not a paw. Having left Agony he had slid from human to wolf; running through the forest was easier when you had a slim body and four legs. He wasn’t aware of having changed back; curious, he thought.
When Marcus and the path disappeared Keel’s eyes widened. As Gracie and Gubble made their way inside he began to circle the House, watching to see if there were any other unusual happenings, and wondering if the crones were even more powerful than Agony had suggested. He was intrigued to see the windows shifting from side to side and the front door slithering up the wall; he had stopped to see if the door returned to its original position when a voice spoke in his ear.
“Why are you here, Keel?”
Keel spun round to see yellow eyes glaring at him. Jukk was in wolf form, his teeth bared. “Keel! You swore an oath to the pack! Your cousin was to be watched at all times… Where is she now?”
“Waiting,” Keel said. “Waiting for me to discover who is in the House. A message came—”
He stopped. Jukk was growling a low threatening growl. “No,” Keel told him. “It wasn’t anything to do with my cousin’s husband. The messenger said, she.”
“It could be a trick.”
Keel looked at his companion. Jukk was the leader of the werewolves living in the Less Enchanted Forest, and he was dangerous. His temper was short, and he demanded unwavering obedience, honesty and courage from his followers. If Keel had been allowed to make his own decisions he would have left Agony alone a long time ago; it was Jukk who insisted she had disgraced the pack. She had chosen to put herself into the hands of an evil human and, to Jukk’s way of thinking, had made no attempt to defend the honour of the werewolves before slinking away. He also believed that one day Mange Undershaft would come looking for her and that she would not be strong enough to resist him. Deeply suspicious, Jukk’s ruling was that Agony must always be kept under surveillance, so should Mange ever be foolish enough to enter the forest he could be dealt with immediately, and the honour of the pack restored.
“It could be,” Keel agreed. “But whether it is or isn’t, we should find out. Did you hear the call?”
Jukk stared. “That wasn’t you?”
“No.” Keel pointed to the House. “It came from inside there.”
“It did?” Jukk sounded disbelieving. He turned to face the House, and sent an answering howl echoing through the still night air. Foyce, her face pressed to the thin line of light, shivered with excitement.
“The wolf woman’s come,” she murmured, but then dismissed the idea. The howl had suggested brute strength and power, and she clutched at the edge of the shutters. “A male wolf … or werewolf. How very fortunate.”
Foyce had no doubt about the effect her voice and her blue eyes and golden curls had on the male of whatever species she happened to meet. In the past, if she so wished, she had been able to reduce even the solemnest zombie to a state of drooling infatuation in a matter of minutes. Only a few were able to resist her charms. Marcus, much to her irritation, had never had eyes for anyone except Gracie, and Alf and Marlon were firmly immune. She tossed her curls, and began to sing: a sad, sweet, plaintive song about a wolf maiden lured into captivity by a cruel lover aided by evil witches … and Jukk listened, spellbound.
Keel stared at him in amazement. The song was charming, but he had a keen ear for duplicity, and there was something in the voice that made him uneasy. As long as the song continued he was lulled into a state of dreamy admiration, but each time the singer paused he felt a different sensation, a sensation that reminded him of the time when, as a small cub, he had eaten too much honey and had had to be purged with a large dose of sour nettles. “Be careful, Jukk,” he warned, but Jukk took no notice. He was leaning forward in rapt adoration to catch every note.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, “so beautiful.” He too was now in his human form, tall and dark, with well-muscled shoulders. Keel looked at him warily.
“Jukk?”
“Hush!” Jukk was still listening. Keel shrugged and turned away, wondering what he should do. Agony was waiting to hear what he had discovered, but so far he had found out nothing. He was unwilling to believe the story the singer was telling; he had never heard the Ancient Crones described as evil before, or accused of imprisoning innocent young women … or, indeed, werewolves.
Up in her room Foyce ended her song, and waited to see if there was any reaction from outside. As she waited she continued picking at the loose plaster round the window frame, trying to enlarge the narrow gap she had already made. “Drat that idiot troll,” she muttered. “But I’ll teach him a lesson. Oh, WHAT a lesson I’ll teach him!” As she spoke another chunk of plaster fell out, revealing brick and part of the wooden lintel, and she pulled the potato peeler out of her pocket. “Let’s see … powdery cement. Old and useless, like everything else here.” Scraping and scratching, ignoring the mess she was making on the carpet beneath her chair, she worked away until, to her intense delight, a brick came loose and she was able to pull it away. The hole it left was almost big enough for her head, and she gazed at the night outside in rapture. It took her almost a minute to realize that what she was seeing was not the usual view from her window; she was much nearer ground level, directly opposite the fence that bordered the House and its gardens. A movement beyond the fence caught her eye, and she realised she was staring straight into the eyes of a tall young man. Her immediate and automatic response was to flutter her eyelashes and look demurely down, but before either he or she could say a word the House swept the window back to its usual position beneath the eaves. Foyce was shaken off her chair and onto the floor; the hole above the window was suddenly empty.
The damage, however, had been done. Jukk, his hand on his heart, was gazing upwards.
“Who is she?” he whispered. “She is my soul’s one true desire!”
Foyce’s appearance had had a similar effect on Keel. His previous doubts had vanished, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He stepped forward, but Jukk flung out his arms.
“She’s mine!” he said. “Can’t you see? Only the leader of the pack is worthy of beauty such as hers!”
Up in her room Foyce was listening. She smiled a calculating smile as she heard Jukk’s declaration, and waited for Keel’s reply … but none came. Jukk was the leader. His word was law. Foyce’s hopes of a fight for her favours were dashed but, she reasoned, that might be all to the good. She ran her fingers through her curls, pinched her cheeks, bit her lips to make them suitably rosy and climbed carefully back onto her chair. Jukk, watching as she slowly rose up like a saintly vision, held his breath.
Foyce saw his enraptured expression and silently congratulated herself; her face remained impassively beautiful. Raising her eyes
to the moon, she began to sing. Once again she sang of her imprisonment and her loneliness, and how the hours dragged as she paced the boards in her bare and cheerless room. A single poignant tear rolled down her cheek and glittered in the moonlight as she told of the cruelty she suffered at the hands of those who held her prisoner, and how a terrible enchantment held her captive unless she gave herself to a cruel prince who she could not ever love … and she begged the heavens to release her, even if only through death.
Jukk listened, and swallowed the bait as if it had been sugar on a spoon. He sent a long mournful howl echoing across the space between them: a howl that promised eternal love and utter devotion. Foyce, who had carefully synchronized a gentle misty-eyed disappearance from the window with the fading of her song, smiled gleefully. “Caught him.”
Inside the House of the Ancient Crones, Alf stopped feeling sorry for himself and twitched his ears. A moment later he was airborne.
Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn was up early the following morning. Feeling that she had been a little hard on Vincent the previous night she decided to treat him to breakfast in bed, but as she came down the stairs she was distracted by finding the front door wide open.
“I could swear I locked it,” she told herself, and went to investigate. As she got nearer she heard a faint agonized groan, quickly followed by a louder one.
“Vincent?” she said. “Is that you? What on EARTH—”
The sight of her grandson, wrapped up in the doormat and showing every sign of having been asleep in the hallway all night, made Bluebell fish in her pocket for her lorgnette on the assumption that her eyes were playing tricks on her. Finding her first impression had been accurate, she bent over him. “Vincent? What on earth are you doing here?”
There was no response other than another feeble groan, and Bluebell began to chuckle. “Vincent? I do believe you’ve been drinking!” There was still no answer, and the queen straightened up, but not before she had tweaked the frilly-edged pink letter out of her grandson’s nerveless grasp. She had no hesitation in reading the contents, and her chuckle turned to a hoot of laughter. Her aged butler, carrying a large dish of scrambled eggs and bacon across the hallway on his way to the dining room, looked at her in astonishment.
“Is Your Majesty … erm … well?” he enquired.
Bluebell waved the letter under his nose. “Never better, Mullins, old chap. My grandson has been asked to take part in a tournament, but it seems the idea was too much for him and he’s taken to drink to drown his sorrows.”
“There’s many another would have done the same,” Mullins pronounced, “although I don’t hold with it myself. Best to deal with sorrows with a cup of tea, I’d say. And a slice of cake. A goodly slice of Cook’s fruit cake can sweep away many a sorrow.” He looked disapprovingly over the top of the silver salver at the stout body prone on the tiles. “It ain’t good for a young lad to go overdoing it like that. Shall I send the garden boy to heft him up to his bed?”
“I’d be very grateful,” Bluebell said. “Give me the eggs, and I’ll take them into the dining room myself.”
Mullins did as he was told, and as he went off to find the garden boy Bluebell carried her breakfast to the dining room. There she made a hearty meal, refusing to be disturbed by the grunts and groans she could hear in the distance. She reread Marigold’s letter a couple of times in a thoughtful fashion as she ate and, after pouring herself one final cup of tea, set out to see how her grandson was faring. She found him lying on his bed, pale green in colour, and clutching a damp towel to his aching forehead.
“I’ve been poisoned,” he announced as his grandmother swept into the room. “Someone’s tried to kill me.”
“Nonsense, dear.” Bluebell made no attempt to moderate her usual booming tone, and Vincent shuddered.
“I don’t suppose you could whisper?” he asked plaintively. “You do have a very loud voice, and my head is killing me.”
Bluebell plonked herself down on the edge of the bed, causing the sufferer to close his eyes and whimper. “Now, now, Vincent – do try and man up a little. I found Marigold’s letter about the Centenary Tournament, and I read it as I was more than a little concerned about the state I found you in.”
Vincent let out a shriek of anguish, and disappeared under his towel. A muffled voice wailed, “I’m ill! I’m dying! I can’t possibly do it! I know I said I would but I can’t!”
Surprised, Bluebell raised her eyebrows. “You said you’d take part?”
“It was the messenger made me do it! He said Marigold was waiting for an answer! Oh, Grandmother!” A pair of bleary red-rimmed eyes peered over the edge of the towel. “You’ve got to help me!”
“I thought I was supposed to have gone mad? Lost my mind? Was a danger to the kingdom?” Bluebell was enjoying herself. “Have you changed your opinion, Vincent, dear?”
“PLEASE, Grandmother! I don’t want to be knocked off a horse! Please don’t make me! I’ll do anything – you can adopt Gracie Gillypot AND a werewolf just as long as I don’t have to play in the tournament!”
Bluebell, seeing that Vincent was genuinely distressed, leant forward. “I’m sure we can think of something,” she soothed. “I really don’t think you’ll need to ride a horse. Perhaps you could lead Tertius and Marcus into the arena?” Knowing her grandson as well as she did, she added temptingly, “You could wear a special uniform…”
The bleary eyes brightened. “And I wouldn’t have to ride on a horse? Or be bashed with a long pointy stick?”
“Not at all,” Bluebell promised. “And maybe Albion would like to walk with you? Then it would be the princes of Wadingburn and Cockenzie Rood, side by side.”
Vincent considered this. “I suppose. But it might be best if I was on my own, actually, Grandmother. Leading the way, don’t you know.”
Recognizing the signs of recovery, Bluebell heaved herself to her feet. “I’ll leave you to think about it, dear. Now, I suggest you have a little sleep. You’ll feel so much better when you wake up.”
“Green with gold buttons,” Vincent murmured dreamily as his grandmother tucked him in. “Or maybe scarlet? With silver braid…”
Bluebell sighed, and made her way back to her office. There she sat down at her desk, but did not, as was her usual habit, dive straight into the endless pile of paperwork. Instead she sat still, gazing out through the window. “What to do?” she asked herself. “What to do? I’m tired of looking after a kingdom. Very tired. It’s time to move on … no doubt about it. But how?” She sighed again, and drew a gold-crested envelope towards her. “Such a fuss they all make. Such a fuss.” A thought came to her, and she put the invitation to one side in order to give her thoughts due consideration. “The Ancient Crones. Hm. Why not?” A slow smile spread over her face, and she rose from her chair with the air of a woman on a mission. “Mullins? Mullins – could you do me another favour? Ask the stable boy to harness the pony and trap. I’m going on a journey, and I’ll be driving myself.”
In Gorebreath, Marcus was doing his best not to lose his temper. He had spent some time thinking about the best way in which to announce his intention to invite Gracie to the tournament, and had decided that waiting until after breakfast would merely prolong the agony. With this in mind he had arrived at the table and, before anyone else could say anything, had delivered his ultimatum. He had then set his jaw and waited, with a fast-beating heart, for his father’s reaction. To his astonishment, there had been no reaction at all. His father had ignored him, and continued to sip his tea. Marcus glanced at his mother, but she merely smiled and asked if he would prefer tea or coffee.
Marcus took a deep breath. “Did you hear me, Father? I’m going to invite Gracie—”
“Yes yes yes.” King Frank waved a dismissive hand. “No need to make a fuss about it. I’ve talked it over with your mother, and she’s of the opinion that it won’t do any harm if dealt with in the right way. If the young person sits behind Princess Fedora the crowd will assume she
’s a maid, or some such. I do, however, feel that there are a number of very important matters that I would like to draw to your attention!” And before Marcus could say a word in protest at his father’s belittling suggestion, the king launched into a long and pompous lecture on the duties of royalty while consuming an impressive number of poached eggs. Even Arioso began to look less than enthusiastic as his father buttered his seventh slice of toast, and their mother, Queen Mildred, began to yawn behind the large silver teapot.
“So you see,” King Frank boomed, “you are not like Other People. You must rise above your own wishes, and think of Royalty and Dignity and Example.” He gave Marcus a meaningful glare. “This tournament will be, I trust, a splendid example of the Superiority of Princes. You will, of course, wear the Arms of Gorebreath upon your shield, like your brother.”
Arry choked on his toast. “Like ME? But … but I won’t be carrying a shield, Father. Marcus and Tertius arranged it all, you see. It’s a jousting match, and in jousting matches it’s just two jousters.” He giggled feebly. “Did you hear that? ‘Just two jousters!’ Ho ho ho…”
“Nonsense!” King Frank held up his fork. “I’ve been considering the whole nature of tournaments, and I’ve come to an important decision. The heir to the Kingdom of Gorebreath must take his proper place. The Common People will expect it, and so do I. And so does the Princess Nina-Rose.” The king pulled a scrap of heavily scented pale-blue notepaper out of his dressing-gown pocket. “A delightful girl. Extraordinarily thoughtful, and showing a very proper respect. She wrote to tell me how very much she is looking forward to seeing you ride into the arena and rise triumphant over all your opponents!”
Arioso went pale. “She did?”
“She expects nothing less of you.” King Frank tucked the note away. “And so does your mother.”
Queen Mildred looked surprised. “Do I, dear?”
“Yes,” King Frank said firmly. “You do. And I’ve looked out the armour that your great-grandfather and your great-uncle Frizzley wore when they defended the kingdom of Gorebreath against the Great Terror.”
The Snarling of Wolves Page 9