The Snarling of Wolves

by Vivian French

  “But my dear!” Bluebell was astonished. “She’s miles away! She’d never be able to get here in time!”

  Gracie shook her head. “She can run like the wind. Her mother was a werewolf.”

  “Even so.” The queen was still dubious. “I don’t think you need concern yourself. Look at all the military!”

  “Military smilitary!” It was Marlon. Alf, appalled by what he had heard, had flown to report the news. “Stay cool, kid. Uncle Marlon’s here! Alf? You gotta locate the dame, and you gotta locate her NOW! Call up emergency support. Red alert, tell them.”

  Alf waved a wing in salute, and shot out of the room. Marlon hovered above Gracie’s shoulder. “Trust the Batsters. I’ll be up above, kiddo, checking on you and that prince of yours. Keep smiling!”

  “Goodness,” Bluebell said as the bat vanished from view. “If Marlon thinks it’s an emergency, it must be. What can we do to help? Hortense and I may be old, but we’re not past it.”

  “Thank you,” Gracie said. “You’re very kind. Maybe you could pretend everything’s fine for the moment. We don’t want anyone to panic.” She paused to think. “I’d better have a look round.”

  “Is that wise?” Bluebell asked. “Isn’t Marcus expecting you to take your place on the stage?”

  Gracie pulled at the end of one of her plaits. “I can’t just wait here. Not if Foyce is likely to appear. She’s capable of persuading everyone that she’s the sweetest girl in the kingdom – she could end up anywhere!”

  The duchess frowned. “What if King Frank sees you, my dear?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” With a grin, Gracie unhooked Mr Briggs’ all-enveloping and distinctly weather-worn cape from the back of the door, and put it on. She added a battered wide-brimmed hat from a dusty corner, and Bluebell gave a hoot of laughter. “Excellent! Most disreputable. Aha! I’ve had an idea!” She peered into her bag, and brought out a small jar. “Never use the stuff myself, but a gal’s supposed to keep it handy. Come closer, child. Let’s turn you into a healthy country lad.”

  When Bluebell had reddened Gracie’s cheeks to her satisfaction, Hortense produced a small mirror.

  “Wow!” Gracie said as she inspected herself. “I don’t think even Marcus will recognize me looking like this.”

  “Any sign of trouble, come straight to us,” Bluebell instructed. “We’ll be in the Royal Enclosure. You can’t miss it.”

  To begin with Jukk attracted a certain amount of nervous attention as he strode on towards the palace of Gorebreath, but as the crowds grew there were far more exciting things to look at than a grim-faced young man dressed in rough grey fur. There were stalls selling everything from penny whistles to peppermint rock, and jugglers wearing suits of red and yellow tossed multicoloured balls high in the air. As the crowd got closer to the tournament they found rows of stripy tents offering heaped plates of roast pig and boiled cabbage; the ground itself was circled with wooden benches, and already families were staking their claim to the seats with the best view. At one end a large banner emblazoned with the arms of Gorebreath was draped above a stage; on the stage were five chairs, and there was much speculation as to the possible occupants.

  “Five chairs for the Five Kingdoms,” explained a mother to her string of small children. “That’s what they be. Gorebreath, Dreghorn, Niven’s Knowe, Cockenzie Rood and Wadingburn. You wait and see, my pets.”

  The pets weren’t listening. They had discovered a pile of armour at the side of the stage, and were fighting amongst themselves for the chance to try on a helmet. Seeing what they were up to, two stewards hurried forward.

  “Property of the princes,” one explained. “You’ll see them later, after the marching. Going to be riding at each other with long poles! Got to try and knock each other off their horses, see.”

  Wide-eyed, the pets took in this exciting information. “Will they be deaded, Mister?”

  “No, no. They won’t hurt each other. It’s all in fun.”

  Disappointed by this news, the pets made their way to their seats, and the stewards tidied the armour into a small tent behind the stage. They were unaware of a pair of keen eyes watching them; Jukk had noted their every move. His sharp ears had also heard the conversation; now, making his way with some difficulty through the gathering crowds, he made sure he was within a stone’s throw of the tent. Three ponies were tethered to an overgrown holly bush on the other side; as Jukk approached they threw up their heads and whinnied anxiously.

  “Hey up, lads!” A steward tried to calm them, but they refused to be soothed. The nearer Jukk came, the more they skittered from side to side, until the biggest pony pulled so hard that a branch snapped and they were free. At once two of the three set off at a gallop in the opposite direction, scattering men, women and children as they went. Only one stayed where he was, and he was sweating and shaking his head.

  The two stewards looked at each other.

  “What do we do now, Mick?” asked the younger one. “King Frank’ll be proper mad if there ain’t no ponies.”

  Mick scratched his head. “We’ve still got one.”

  “Fat lot of use, that is. How can the princes charge each other if they ain’t got one each?”

  There was no answer to this, and both stewards looked gloomily at the broken rope.

  “That’s Prince Marcus’s pony, that is – the one as didn’t run away. Well trained. Shame the others weren’t the same.”

  There was a long pause. Jukk, on the other side of the tent, allowed himself a grim smile before slipping quietly under the canvas.

  “Should we go and look for them?” the younger steward wanted to know. Mick shrugged.

  “Look for them? Nah. Never find them now. Wonder what spooked them?”

  “Probably them kids. Or the crowds. And that pig smells real strong!” There was a question in the lad’s voice, and the older steward looked more cheerful.

  “Excuse me! Where’s my pony?” Prince Arioso of Gorebreath had arrived, resplendent in red velvet but very pale. Marcus was close behind him, well washed, but unmistakably sooty when it came to his clothes. He had not been able to get back into his room; the blue velvet outfit chosen with loving care by his mother was lying on a chair behind the locked door of his bedroom. Queen Mildred had assumed King Frank would want to speak severely to Marcus before setting him free; the king had taken it for granted that the queen would release him. Fortunately for Marcus, neither had consulted the other.

  “Glee’s still here,” he said, with some pride. “Good boy, Glee!” He looked more carefully at the pony, and whistled. “He’s all of a lather! What’s been going on?”

  Mick coughed. “Harrumph. We don’t exactly know, sir. Something set them all of a dither, and next thing they was off! Off and away, and no stopping them, neither, as the lad here will bear witness.”

  The lad nodded. “Spooked, sir. That’s what it was.”

  “He still is.” Marcus stroked the pony’s neck. “Poor old Glee.” He glanced at his brother. “This isn’t good, bro. We’d better think of a plan, quick smart. This is meant to be the highlight of the day, but we need at least two ponies … and I haven’t had time to collect Gracie yet. AND Tertius isn’t here, and he promised he’d be early. I bet Fedora’s stroking a kitten or something, and he’ll be late. Father’s going to have a total fit!”

  His twin, never at his best in an emergency, adjusted his lace collar. “Erm … couldn’t we just run at each other? Or something like that?”

  Marcus didn’t bother to reply. His eye had been caught by a beer tent. Standing behind it was the brewer’s dray, and harnessed to the dray were two enormous carthorses. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I’m going to see if I can borrow those.”

  Arioso went green. “I can’t ride one of those! They’re … they’re as big as elephants!”

  “But you’re only going to ride round the arena, aren’t you?” Marcus tried not to sound as irritated as he felt. “Surely you can cope with th
at.”

  “Oh yes.” His brother managed a faint smile. “But what about Terty?”

  Marcus shrugged. “He can ride Glee if he prefers.” A few moments later he was in earnest conversation with the brewer; he came back frowning. “Called me a grubby urchin,” he reported. “Come on, bro – you look much more the thing. You come and ask him!”

  This was more successful, and the two dray horses were led back to be tied to a corner of the stage. They too showed a certain unwillingness, but, being placid beasts by nature, allowed themselves to be coaxed with a handful of oats provided by the brewer.

  “There,” Marcus said triumphantly. “They’re pretty impressive, aren’t they? Now, are you OK to stay here while I fetch Gracie? The bands and the army are going to march around a bit, and then it’ll be our turn. When Terty shows up tell him to hurry up and get his armour on – and you’d better start getting yours on, too. You’re meant to be on first, remember.”

  As if to echo Marcus’s words, two heralds stepped out into the arena, and the first blew his trumpet for silence. When the noise of the crowd had subsided, the second cleared his throat and looked at King Frank. The king gave a regal nod.

  “Welcome to the Centenary Celebration Tournament!” The herald paused, waiting for applause, but as none came he went hastily on. “The Dreghorn Royal Band will begin the proceedings, followed by the delightful Ladies’ Operatic Society. The Gorebreath Army will be next, and then the event you’ve all been waiting for – the jousting! Prince Arioso, heir of Gorebreath, will ride first against Prince Tertius of Niven’s Knowe, and the victor will then challenge Prince Arioso’s brother, Marcus of Gorebreath. Let the celebrations begin!” And with a final blast of the trumpet, both heralds retired.

  “Here we go,” Marcus said cheerfully. Then, seeing his brother’s strained expression, he added, “Don’t worry, bro. It’ll all be fine.”

  Arry nodded, and sat down on the edge of the stage to pull off his boots. Behind him, on silent feet, Jukk moved out of the tent and stepped into the shadow of the holly bush.

  “Mere boys,” he growled. “There is no challenge here … but Jukk is a fair fighter. I will give Prince Arioso his chance before I kill my rival and set my beloved free from her chains.”

  Marcus was whistling cheerfully as he hurried towards Mr Briggs’ guardroom, but his tune died on his lips as he swung through the door. Gubble was asleep in Mr Briggs’ armchair, snoring loudly, but there was no sign of Gracie. After a moment of hesitation, the prince shook Gubble’s arm.

  “Gubble – Gubble, it’s me. Marcus. Where’s Gracie?”

  The troll stirred, but did not wake. Harder shaking had no effect, and no amount of shouting worked either. Frustrated and worried, Marcus was forced to leave Gubble asleep and head back through the crowds.

  “If anything’s happened to her, I’ll … I don’t what I’ll do,” he muttered as he wormed his way in between clusters of chattering men and women and knots of over-excited children. “I’ll have to go and live in a cave somewhere. Nothing’ll be any fun any more.” A moment later the thought occurred to him that Gracie was probably on her way to take her place on the stage, and Marcus began to whistle again.

  He found Arioso sitting outside the tent, encased in shining armour with his helmet by his side. There was no sign of Gracie, and Marcus felt a stab of concern. Where could she be? Hoping against hope that she would arrive before the tournament began, he looked round for Tertius. “Where’s Terty? Is he in the tent?”

  “He’s not here yet,” Arry said. “And nor is Fedora. Nor Nina-Rose.”

  Marcus groaned, and began strapping himself into a suit of silver, muttering as he did so. “What IS Terty doing? It’s all going wrong. It’s going to be a disaster… Should I have gone to look for Gracie? She can’t be back in the dungeon, ’cos they’d have locked Gubble up as well … and she won’t be waiting to make a grand entrance, because she’d never do anything like that… Oh, BLAST this stupid tournament!”

  The sound of pipes and drums made Marcus rush to buckle his breastplate. The Dreghorn Royal Band was approaching, still playing their national anthem.

  King Frank, settling himself in the Royal Enclosure, frowned.

  “Bad form,” he whispered to Queen Mildred. “Very bad form!”

  Mildred had no time to reply. Queen Kesta had come hurrying to take her place beside her, clutching her smelling salts and looking pale.

  “Aren’t they awful?” she said. “I’m so sorry. They can’t play any other tune except “John Brown’s Body”, and that hardly seemed appropriate. Do excuse them!”

  King Frank, mollified, smiled graciously. “I’m sure they’re doing their best.”

  Kesta sighed. “If only their best was a little better. And I’m afraid the Ladies’ Operatic Society is even worse.”

  Mildred patted her friend’s knee. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ve got to suffer the Gorebreath Army demonstrating their marching skills.” She turned to her husband. “Are any of the other kingdoms sending singers? Or dancers?”

  “No.” King Frank stroked his chin. “Bit of a poor show. Cockenzie Rood seem to think it’s enough to have Tertius riding in the tournament, and Bluebell and Hortense have nothing arranged at all.”

  “Albion and Vincent are going to be leading the procession, Frank,” Mildred pointed out.

  The king snorted. “And who had to provide them with a uniform? Me! You’d have thought they could have managed that, at least.”

  The two women exchanged glances, but said nothing. The sound of the pipes and drums was deafening, and any further conversation was impossible.

  At the other end of the arena Marigold was climbing the steps to the stage.

  “I’m here first,” she told Marcus and Arioso with a gleeful smile. “That means I can sit where I like!” And she stomped her way to the centre of the stage.

  Marcus looked at his brother. “Where’s Nina-Rose?”

  “I’m here,” said a peevish voice. “Arry! I’m here!”

  Arioso got to his feet as fast as a suit of silver armour would allow. “Darling Nina-Rose! You’ve got here at last!”

  Nina-Rose pouted. “I rather hoped you’d say you were pleased to see me.”

  “Oh, I’m very pleased!” Arry assured her, but he was too late. Nina-Rose tossed her head, and turned her back on him.

  “Hello, Marcus! I hear your little Gracie has been put in a dungeon. Such a shame that she won’t be able to be here, but I’m sure she’ll be let out sometime soon.”

  Marcus glowered at her. “Actually,” he said coldly, “she will be here.”

  Arry looked at him in surprise. “Will she? Oh, good! Did Father change his mind?”

  “I rescued her,” Marcus said. “Goodness! What on earth are those enormous women singing about? And what are we going to do about Terty? He’s going to ruin everything if he isn’t here soon!”

  Tertius was not far away, but it was impossible for the coach to move at more than a snail’s pace. The crowds were densely packed, and the coachman’s shouts and entreaties had little effect.

  “Poppet – I really think we’d do better if we got out of the coach and walked,” Tertius said.

  “Walk?” Princess Fedora was as horrified as if her young husband had suggested she dance naked on the roof. “I’m a princess, Terty! A future queen! I can’t possibly be expected to walk!”

  “But we’ll never get there on time if we don’t,” Tertius protested.

  Fedora gave him a look that sent chills running down his spine. “Darling Terty werty doodle woodle! For the last time, I am NOT going to walk! Don’t be so – so unroyal! Think who you are! Think who I am! We’re the most important people there. They won’t start the tournament without us. Now stop fussing, or I won’t smile at you when you’re galloping up and down and knocking Arry off his horse.”

  Tertius gulped. “I’m sure you’re right, my pet. You always are. But Marcus will be worrying, and I’ve got to get i
nto my armour and that takes ages – so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you there.” And with a last apologetic wriggle he opened the coach door and jumped out, leaving an apoplectic Fedora staring after him.

  The Dreghorn Royal Band and the Ladies’ Operatic Society were long gone by the time Tertius, flushed and panting, arrived at the tent. The stalwart members of Gorebreath Army were marching up and down to a somewhat erratic drumbeat, and the two royal heralds were already polishing their trumpets in preparation for the much-anticipated jousting competition.

  “Hurry up!” Marcus said. “Your armour’s in there! We’re on next … you’ve got about two minutes!”

  Tertius was too out of breath to answer. He rushed into the tent just as the army drummer began his famous drum roll for the finale. The drum was not loud, but it was loud enough to conceal a muffled exclamation, and the thud of a falling body.

  Outside, Marcus was helping his brother fasten his helmet, resplendent with blue feathers.

  “I can’t see a thing!” Arry complained. “And I can’t hear properly either! And I’ll NEVER be able to ride one of those elephantine brutes!”

  Marcus gave him a consoling slap on the shoulder. “Tell you what, bro – you can ride Glee. Actually, that’ll be extra clever, as then Father will be sure you’re me. You did tell him you were wearing the helmet with the red feathers, didn’t you?”

  Arioso started to nod, but changed his mind. The helmet was so heavy he had a nasty suspicion that he might fall over. “Yes,” he said. “I told him twice. And Vincent and Albion too.”

  “Good. So here’s the plan. We process round the arena, and everyone will be watching, thinking you’re me and I’m you. Father’s going to announce that the first bout is between you and Terty, and I’ll let Terty knock me off my horse so he wins. Father’ll be disappointed, but we can’t help that because the winner has to fight me, and if Terty doesn’t win I’ll have to fight you.”

  There was a wail from inside the blue-plumed helmet.