The Snarling of Wolves

by Vivian French

  “It went on the cart to Gorebreath along with the stage, sweetest.” Tertius eased his gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket, and gave it a furtive glance. He was alarmed by how late it was; he would have very little time to get ready. “It’ll be there waiting for me.”

  Fedora snorted. “I still don’t see why the tournament had to move to Gorebreath. Sometimes I think King Frank behaves as if he rules all the Five Kingdoms. It’s not fair.”

  “If you say so, my sweetest darling,” Tertius soothed, although his own feelings about King Frank were very different. Both he and his father, King Horace, had been secretly delighted with their fellow king’s decision to mastermind the celebrations. It had saved them a lot of time and effort; King Horace was now able to spend the day dozing in a comfortable armchair in the Royal Arena instead of worrying about the crowds of onlookers stamping on his flower beds. Tertius, although he would never have admitted as much, had had grave doubts about his beloved’s housekeeping skills. Her plan to offer the attending crowds nothing more than well-diluted orange squash and cheap biscuits was, he thought, a mistake. Queen Mildred was sure to have handed everything over to her housekeeper, who was well experienced in catering for royal events. Indeed, the nearer they came to Gorebreath the more the smell of cheery hog roasts filled the air; Tertius drew in a deep breath and smiled. Once he had got the jousting out of the way he would be able to enjoy himself. Breakfast had been tense and, as a result, brief, and he was hungry.

  “Pooh!” Fedora made a face. “What’s that horrible cooking smell?”

  “Roast pig, my precious pudding,” Tertius said. “It’s traditional at the celebrations. Very tasty, actually.”

  Fedora shrugged. “I suppose the peasants like that kind of thing. I don’t.”

  “You shall have whatever you wish for,” Tertius told her. He had another anxious look at his watch. “Oh dear. I wonder if the coachman could drive a little faster?”

  “I suppose you’re going to say that it’s my fault we’re late,” Fedora complained.

  “Not at all, popsy poodle pie. Although I think I did mention once or twice that we needed to leave early…”

  There was an icy silence, and Fedora suddenly became fascinated by the view from the window. Tertius sighed, and looked out of the opposite window. Gaggles of men, women and children were making their way along the road; some glanced up at the coach and bowed or curtsied, and Tertius gave them a little wave.

  “Look, my precious! Everyone wants to see the beautiful Princess Fedora of Niven’s Knowe!”

  Fedora kept her back turned, but managed a half-hearted flutter of her fingers. A small boy cheered, and she began to look more interested. When a handsome young farmer bowed and blew her a kiss she became positively gracious, and Tertius relaxed a little. Another glance at his watch, however, and he was biting his lip.

  Queen Kesta would have sympathized had she known of his problems. She had a terrible headache brought on by the stress of the morning; the Princesses Nina-Rose and Marigold had squabbled all the time they were getting dressed, and even now they were glowering at each other as the carriage carried them towards Gorebreath. The queen’s headache was not helped by the fact that she was travelling in convoy; the Dreghorn Royal Band was marching in front, and the Ladies’ Operatic Society was trilling happily behind. The band was walloping out the Dreghorn national anthem with more enthusiasm than skill; the ladies were loudly rejoicing that little fluffy lambs were gambolling amongst the daisies. Kesta closed her eyes.

  “Mother!” Marigold’s voice was sharp. “Wake up! Tell Nina-Rose to stop making faces at me!”

  “I WASN’T! Mother, she’s making it up!”

  “Hush, my darlings.” Kesta rubbed her aching forehead. “Remember what a lovely time you’re going to have, sitting and watching the tournament. And keep smiling … remember, nasty frowns make nasty wrinkles.”

  Nina-Rose sniffed, but said no more. Marigold pouted.

  “Is there anything to eat? I’m starving!”

  Silently the queen handed her a box of chocolates, and a degree of harmony was restored as the convoy moved slowly onwards.

  Albion, Prince of Cockenzie Rood, was also eating. Much to his horror his cousin, the Dowager Duchess, had insisted that they drove to Gorebreath in an open carriage.

  “It’ll ruin my hair,” he wailed.

  The duchess was unsympathetic. “You’ll have plenty of time to give it a good brush when we get there,” she told him. “Vincent’s staying in the palace, so you can use his room to change and smarten yourself up. Mildred told me the two of you are wearing matching uniforms; you’ll look splendid, I’m sure.”

  Albion, who had secretly spent the night in curlers, was not appeased. A good brush was the last thing he wanted. Seeing the expression on his cousin’s face, however, he gave up. Pulling a large bag of peppermint creams out of his pocket he settled down to eat his way through them, mournfully aware that by the time he and the duchess reached Gorebreath Palace any last vestige of curl would be long gone.

  Foyce had no need of curlers. She was sitting by a stream outside the border, twirling her golden ringlets round her finger. Anger and excitement had lent wings to her feet and she had made astonishing progress; no horseman, even riding at a gallop, could have made the journey so quickly. Foyce had the additional advantage of knowing a number of short cuts, learned as a young child. It had suited her father to know every hidden path and escape route possible, as many of his dealings with the inhabitants of the Less Enchanted Forest had not been quite what the recipients had expected. His daughter had scrambled, climbed and slithered her way towards the border; her clothes were muddy and torn, but she washed her hands and face in the stream with a smile. The state of her dress didn’t matter. Her smile widening, she patted her bulging pocket.

  “Blue,” she murmured, “blue to match my eyes. But not yet…”

  There was yet another traveller making his way towards Gorebreath. Jukk had been running steadily, conserving his strength for what was to come. Now he could see the edge of the Less Enchanted Forest, and his heart beat faster; the championing of his one true love was almost within his grasp … just as long as he could find a way to cross the border. At the back of his mind was the idea that he could leap across, but that would only be possible if there were no guards; sliding into his human shape to avoid immediate confrontation, Jukk walked cautiously on.

  The invisible barrier protecting the kingdoms was strong. Jukk had never attempted to break through, but he knew of many who had tried and failed painfully. Now, as he came closer, he slowed his pace; a large zombie was leaning against a tree waving its fleshless arms in the air and making strange whooping noises. A moment later it ran a short way down the path, circled a thornbush and came back to the tree, whooping all the way. On its return it noticed Jukk, and grinned at him.

  “No hurtie hurtie,” it explained. “Oozy find no hurtie hurtie. Hurtie hurtie all gone!” And it set off on yet another circuit.

  Jukk took a deep breath. Was the zombie right? Cautiously he approached the path that led away from the forest. A deserted guard post a couple of yards further on made it clear that this was indeed the border; he took two steps, then three, then five – and was past. The zombie was right. There was no barrier.

  “Love finds a way,” Jukk murmured, and leaving the zombie still whooping and circling he set off down the path towards the kingdom of Gorebreath. Before long he too could smell the roasting pig, and hear cheery voices; with a grim smile he adjusted his heavy fur cloak and strode on.

  Bluebell had enjoyed her ride on the path. After an initial concern about falling off, she realized she was as safe as if she were in her carriage, if not safer. The path obligingly hollowed itself out so she was held in a dip; she was able to stretch out as if she were ensconced in an armchair, while watching the trees go rushing past.

  On arrival at Gorebreath, however, there was a divergence of opinion. The path stopped at the edg
e of Gorebreath village, and no amount of persuasion, flattery or threats could make it go all the way to the palace. Sighing, the Queen of Wadingburn stepped off, and there was a flurry of dust as the path twisted round and headed home.

  Still holding her basket, Bluebell set off at a brisk walk; a number of villagers were going in the same direction, and before long she was chatting happily.

  “Should be a jolly sort of day,” said an elderly matron. “But that King Frank, he likes things all his own way, he does. Celebrations was due to be at Niven’s Knowe, but he goes and orders it all different at the very last minute. Has to be here, he says, so here it is.”

  Her friend nodded. “One good thing. It’ll be far better grub here in Gorebreath. You’ve heard of that slip of a girl as married Prince Tertius? Princess Fedora? Well, she don’t know bees from bicycles, she don’t. Thinks of nothing but her dresses, by all accounts. Gives that prince a terrible hard time of it, too. Nag, nag, nag all day long.”

  Bluebell, intrigued to find the general populace was not only well informed but also very much of her own mind, enquired what was known of Prince Marcus. At once there were smiles, and much appreciative chuckling.

  “A right proper prince, that one. Worth all the rest put together. We’re cheering for him today, ain’t we, Dorcas?”

  Dorcas grinned a toothless grin. “Best of the bunch by far. Got himself a nice girl, too, although folk says as his dad can’t abide her.”

  “Really?” Bluebell raised her eyebrows.

  “You haven’t heard, Missus? She’s not a royal, see, and that King Frank, he won’t have it. Royal must marry royal is what he says.” Dorcas shook her head.

  “And THAT,” the elderly matron pronounced, “is what’s wrong with the lot of them. Married each other until they’re nothing more than a bunch of wet petticoats.”

  Bluebell beamed at her. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.” The sound of wheels made her turn. An open carriage was approaching, and Dorcas caught at her arm to pull her out of the way.

  “Careful, Missus! That there’s the Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood, that is. Sensible kind of woman – but see that Prince Albion sitting beside her? Big bag of wind.”

  The Queen of Wadingburn was about to agree most heartily, but she was interrupted. Hortense had seen her, and had given her coachman orders to stop.

  “Bluebell! My dear! Can we give you a lift?”

  Much to the astonishment of her new companions, Bluebell stepped into the carriage.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got room for my friends as well, have you?” she asked cheerfully. “We’ve been having such an interesting chat.”

  Hortense looked across at her nephew, who was pale with horror at the idea of sharing his carriage with a bunch of elderly villagers. “Move up, Albion. There’ll be plenty of room if you do.”

  But the good women of Gorebreath were not to be persuaded. They thanked both Bluebell and the duchess, but assured them they’d be happier walking, and the carriage went off without them. As it rolled away Bluebell heard one remark, “So who was she, then?”

  “Didn’t you hear? That there was the Queen of Wadingburn!” The elderly matron sounded as if she were in a state of shock, and Bluebell turned round to wave a cheery wave.

  “See you later!” she called, but only Dorcas was sufficiently recovered to wave back.

  Fifteen minutes later the carriage was bowling up the drive that led to the palace. Bluebell had spent the journey telling her friend about her visit to the Ancient Crones, and Albion, who had listened with growing agitation, was wiping his forehead with a large handkerchief.

  “Excuse me,” he said earnestly, “but they aren’t very safe, you know. Vincent told me! He said—”

  He was stopped mid-sentence by Bluebell holding up an imperious hand. “My grandson talks a lot of rubbish.”

  Albion was about to protest, but his eye was caught by a small bat flying low overhead. With a loud scream he dived under his seat, leaving Hortense and Bluebell staring at him in astonishment. “Don’t let it bite me! I don’t want to die!”

  Bluebell looked round to see what could possibly be threatening the life of the heir to the kingdom of Cockenzie Rood, and saw Alf swooping round in an offended circle.

  “Hello, Alf!” she boomed. “Take no notice! The boy’s an idiot. What news of Marcus and Gracie?”

  Alf flew down to her shoulder. “All under control, Mrs Queen. All personnel free and in good condition.” He put his head on one side and peered at the basket. “Got the dress?”

  “Of course.” Bluebell gave the basket a pat. “So where’s Gracie now?”

  “In hiding.” Alf gave Albion a cold look. “Unc says I’m to take you there, and not to let anyone see us.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood had been watching and listening with interest, and she leant forward. “Quite right. Frank’s on the warpath, and Mildred’s in despair. I had a message from her only this morning. She says he’s determined to throw Gracie out of the kingdoms, and he wants to pass a ridiculous law making it illegal to cross the border without his personal permission.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Bluebell said, a grim expression on her face. “Stop the carriage, Hortense. I’ve things to do!”

  The duchess gave the order, and Bluebell stepped out. Somewhat to her surprise, Hortense followed her. “I’m coming too,” she announced. A plaintive wail reminded her of her cousin, and she frowned. “You go on to the palace, Albion. Vincent will be there, and you can change into your uniform. Stay with Vincent, and you’ll be fine.”

  Without waiting for a reply she took Bluebell’s arm, and nodded at Alf. “Right, Mr Bat. Which way do we go?”

  As the two old women walked away, Albion crawled out from under his seat. The disappearance of Alf had cheered him immeasurably; the thought of the new uniform made him feel even better. “I do hope it’s got gold buttons,” he murmured as the carriage rolled on its way. “Gold buttons and gold braid. And I’ll look much smarter than Vincent, because he’s so fat.” Albion sat back with a smile, and began to look forward to the day’s events.

  Bluebell and Hortense, arm in arm, followed Alf as he led them towards the back of the palace.

  “We’ll have a chat with Gracie,” Bluebell decided, “and then we’ll go and see what else is going on. Alf, where’s Marcus?”

  Alf looped the loop, giggling as he flew. “Up to his eyes in soap suds,” he reported. “Made his escape via a chimney pot, and now he’s trying to scrape the soot off. Blacker than me and Unc, he was; sent the kitchen maid into a fit of hysterics when he crept in through the kitchen. Thought she’d seen a boggart and wouldn’t come out from under the table. Still, it did Mr Prince a favour. You could have marched an army through the kitchen and they’d never have noticed.”

  “Excellent!” Bluebell beamed. A moment later her smile vanished as she noticed where they were heading. “Goodness me! Isn’t this the dungeon? I thought you said Gracie was safe, young Alf!”

  Gracie, who had just finished tucking Gubble up for a sleep in Mr Briggs’ battered old armchair, heard the stentorian tones of the approaching queen and hurried to greet her. A moment later she was being examined for injury, despite her protestations that she was fine.

  “Gubble’s not very well, though,” she said. “He tried to smash his way through the walls of the dungeon, and he hurt his head – and then he and a pile of chairs collapsed, and his head fell off. That doesn’t usually bother him, but he’s definitely not himself. I’ve made him lie down and rest.”

  Hortense was taken aback by this information, but Bluebell was used to Gubble. “Poor old thing,” she said sympathetically. “Best leave him where he is, and hope he feels better soon. Now, I’ve got your dress here!”

  “Wait until Mr Prince sees you!” Alf fluttered over Gracie’s head. “His heart’ll go boom! Boom! Boom!”

  “The blue silk dress?” Gracie’s eyes shone. “I didn’t ever think it would
be finished on time.”

  “I helped to make it,” the queen said, with enormous pride. She opened the basket with a flourish. “Just look at this – what? WHAT? Where is it?”

  Gracie, peering into the empty basket, swallowed hard. Don’t cry, she told herself. It’s only a dress. Don’t cry.

  Bluebell sank down on the stone bench. “How could that have happened? I put it in the basket myself! Oh, my dear child! What have I done?”

  The queen’s obvious distress made it easier for Gracie to be brave. “It’s all right,” she said, and managed a smile. “Marcus never notices what I’m wearing. He won’t mind, and he’s the one that matters.”

  “Could it have fallen out on the way?” Hortense asked.

  “Not a chance,” Bluebell told her.

  A thought came to Gracie. “Foyce didn’t go anywhere near the basket, did she?”

  “Foyce?” Bluebell looked puzzled, and then appalled. “Of course! She knocked it out of my hands … but how could she have taken the dress? She handed the basket straight back.”

  “She managed to take Auntie Elsie’s scissors from right under her nose,” Gracie said. “And lots of other things went mysteriously missing.”

  “Well, I never.” The queen shook her head. “You could almost admire her. She’s quick as a whip. I was quite nervous when I thought she was going to travel on the path with me.”

  Gracie’s eyes grew wide. “Travel with you? But … but how could she?”

  Bluebell sighed. “I’m afraid she forced her way out of the House. But no need to worry. The path wouldn’t take her. She’s running about in the forest, I expect.”

  Hortense was watching Gracie’s face. “But you are worried, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Yes.” Gracie’s stomach was doing somersaults, and an icy hand was squeezing her heart. Foyce was free. Foyce had stolen her dress. Foyce wanted revenge…

  “She’s coming after me,” she said. “She’s coming here to the tournament.”