The Snarling of Wolves

by Vivian French

  “Don’t worry. There’s no way I’ll let Terty lose. Then I’ll dash back – well, as fast as I can in this tin can – and we both rush into the tent and swap helmets … and then I come out as me and this time I get to knock Terty flat on his face.”

  The blue-plumed helmet made a faint noise of agreement.

  “Good,” Marcus said. “Now, I’ll put on my helmet and we’ll get you up on Glee.” Turning to the tent wall he called out, “Terty? Are you ready? You’re going to have to ride a carthorse. You don’t mind, do you?”

  The reply was gruff, but in the affirmative, and Marcus grinned at Arioso. “Guess he’s got his helmet on. Come on, bro.”

  Prince Albion and Prince Vincent, dressed in identical uniforms, were standing ready to lead Marcus, Arioso and Tertius in procession round the arena. Each considered himself superior to the other, and both were wishing their buttons were gold instead of silver, but on the whole they were satisfied with their appearance. Vincent was inclined to puff his chest out a little further than Albion; after all, he had a princess dressed in tight purple satin waving madly at him from the stage, and all Albion had to support him was an empty chair.

  “Never mind, Albie,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find true love one day.”

  Albion wasn’t listening. He was staring at the other side of the arena, where a knight in shining armour was being assisted onto a pony. Beside him another knight was sitting proudly on his much larger steed.

  “That’s ever so odd,” he remarked. “That’s Marcus and his pony, but it looks as if he can’t get on! But Arry – I know it’s Arry, ’cos he’s got a red tuft on his hemet – he looks absolutely OK and he usually wobbles about like anything!”

  Vincent followed the direction of Albion’s pointing finger. “Crikey! What’s he riding? It looks like a hairy elephant!”

  “Here comes Tertius,” Albion reported. “He’s got a hairy elephant as well. This should be funny – oh! Oh my goodness!”

  Eyes on stalks, the two princes watched the tall figure as it took a firm hold of the bridle. The brewer’s horse was sidling and snorting and showing the whites of its eyes, but a stinging slap with the reins and something hissed in its ear made it stand very still.

  “What’s he doing?” Albion asked. “He’s made it go all quiet! You said Tertius wasn’t any good at riding.”

  “He isn’t,” Vincent said.

  “Well, he’s just got on that hairy monster’s back with no trouble at all.”

  Vincent and Albion were not the only observers to note Tertius’s sudden skill with a horse. Bluebell was sitting very upright, peering through her lorgnette, a puzzled frown on her face.

  “Hortense! There’s something very odd about that knight! Do you know what? I don’t believe it’s Tertius!”

  The duchess smiled. “Nonsense, Bluebell. Who else could it be? The boys have been planning this for ages.”

  Bluebell shook her head. “Keep watching. I’m beginning to feel distinctly suspicious.”

  Gracie, hidden in the middle of a group of pie salesmen, was also suspicious. There was no sign of Foyce, and she had decided to watch from the edge of the crowd until it was Marcus’s turn. Then, she told herself, she would take her place on the stage as she had promised, regardless of what she looked like. Now she rubbed her eyes, and edged a little nearer. An unease was creeping over her, a sense that something was very wrong. She shivered.

  “No pushing forward, lad,” said a pieman. “You’ll see well enough from where you are.”

  “Sorry,” Gracie murmured, and stepped back. High above, Alf was circling; the huge numbers of closely packed spectators were making his task of observer almost impossible, and he was beginning to grow anxious about his charge’s safety. A moment later Marlon came swooping towards him.

  “Kid! Where’s our Gracie? The dame’s on her way – and she’s travelling fast!”

  Alf gulped. “Down there … somewhere…”

  “Find her,” Marlon snapped, and was gone.

  TANTARRAAA! TANTARRAAA!

  The trumpets sounded. Albion and Vincent seized their moment of glory. Chests expanded, they strutted out, waving with regal condescension to the cheering crowds crammed on the surrounding benches. As they reached the far side the three riders wheeled in behind them, and they completed a circuit of the arena. If King Frank had not stepped forward, hand held high, Albion and Vincent would have happily continued; they retired with reluctance, waving as they went.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls!” The king’s voice rang out. “I am happy to announce the grand finale of the Centenary Celebrations! My noble eldest son, Prince Arioso, heir to the throne of Gorebreath, is here to defend the honour of our kingdom against Prince Tertius of Niven’s Knowe. Prince Arioso is wearing the helmet with plumes of red. Prince Tertius has plumes of purple.”

  There was loud and enthusiastic cheering from the crowd. Marcus, encased in silver armour, winced at the all-too-obvious favouritism. On the stage Nina-Rose and Fedora, deciding that now was not the moment to hold a grudge, stood up and fluttered their silk handkerchiefs; red for Nina-Rose, and purple for Fedora. Marigold, who had been cheering loudly for Prince Vincent, sat down and folded her arms.

  “The winner,” the king continued, “will have a second chance to show his skill and finesse with the lance by riding against my second son, Prince Marcus. Marcus, please leave the field.”

  Marcus, squinting through his visor, saw Arioso was not moving. Leaning down from his horse he whispered, “That’s you, dummy!”

  With a jolt, Arry realized what he was meant to do. Hanging on to Glee’s mane for safety, he trotted off the field. Watching him, Gracie’s stomach filled with butterflies. “That’s Arry. So Marcus is riding under Arry’s colours … but who is he riding against?”

  The knight wearing the colours of Niven’s Knowe was now in position at one end of the arena. He was handed a lance by one of the heralds, and he took it with casual ease. His horse was covered in a nervous lather and restlessly pawing the ground, but the rider showed no sign of emotion. Marcus, facing him from thirty metres away, was also handed a lance. He raised it in greeting, but there was no response.

  “That’s not Terty!” Marcus found his hands were shaking. “THAT’S NOT TERTY!”

  He had no time to consider further. Before any signal had been given, his opponent had kicked his horse into a wild gallop. The ground shook as the huge animal thundered towards the prince, and the entire crowd gasped and cheered; this was infinitely more exciting than they had expected. All Marcus could do was haul on the reins and get himself out of the way of the oncoming charge.

  The purple-plumed knight pulled up with a savage yank on the bridle, and turned to face Marcus for the second time.

  “Coward!” he taunted. “Coward!”

  Marcus, taking a firmer grip on his lance, hardly heard him. He was desperately trying to remember the Ancient One’s descriptions of tournaments, and how they were won. “There’s no way that’s Terty,” he told himself. “But I have to beat him! If he rides like that at Arry he’ll kill him. If I can get him on the ground, I might just have a chance—”

  The knight was getting ready for a second charge. Marcus took a deep breath. “Come on, boy! Let’s go for it!”

  Clods of mud flew in the air as the two giant horses careered across the grass, their riders crouched over their necks, lances at the ready. The crowd drew back, and several mothers hastily removed their children from the front rows. The massive hooves tore up the ground, and Foyce, pausing for breath half a mile away, could feel a trembling beneath her feet.

  “So it’s begun,” she thought, her eyes gleaming. “May the little worm suffer … may her heart be twisted and torn, and her eyes blinded by the terrors she will see!” She straightened the blue silk dress, pulled her fingers through her curls, and ran on.

  The collision sent sparks flying in every direction. There was little skill in Marcus’s attack, but he thr
ew himself at his foe with all the force he could muster, and Jukk was taken by surprise. The sound of armour crashing against armour rang out like the sound of bells falling from a belfry, and the three princesses on the stage screamed and clutched at each other. King Frank jumped to his feet.

  “What? What’s this? What are they doing?”

  Queen Mildred was holding a handkerchief to her mouth. “Arry! Darling Arry! Dead! I’m sure he’s dead!”

  Both riders were on the ground, and for a moment both lay still, stunned by the fall from the giant horses. Marcus was the first to recover; heaving himself to his feet he looked down at his opponent.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Where’s Tertius?”

  Jukk only growled in reply, and rolled himself over so he could snatch up his broken lance. With all his strength he hurled it at the prince; Marcus attempted to dodge out of the way, but the heavy armour slowed him and the lance caught him a glancing blow. Next moment he saw Jukk rise up in front of him, and a mailed fist swung at his head.

  Staggering backwards, Marcus managed to duck, but he could see the wild eyes glaring at him and knew that he was in terrible danger. With a massive effort he sidestepped the next punch and caught at Jukk’s arm to try and unbalance him, but he was tossed to one side as if he weighed nothing.

  “Arry! Arry!” Nina-Rose’s scream was piercing, and Jukk glanced in her direction just long enough to allow Marcus to scoop up his lance. He used it to deflect the furious attack that followed until, with a sharp crack, the lance broke in two. Immediately Jukk seized one of the halves and began to rain blows on Marcus’s head and shoulders; Marcus did his best to protect himself, but felt himself weakening. He tried twisting and turning, but Jukk was taller and stronger, and Marcus was finding it harder and harder to see as sweat dripped into his eyes and blurred his already limited vision. With a gasp of pain and frustration he tore off his helmet; the crowd, convinced this was a fight staged entirely for their entertainment, roared approval.

  King Frank leant forward to see more clearly, and a pale Queen Mildred touched his hand. “That’s not Arry, Frank! It’s Marcus!”

  Someone heard her, and called out, “Marcus! It’s Prince Marcus! Go for it, Marcus!”

  “I’m for Niven’s Knowe!” shouted a second voice. “Whack him, Tertius! Knock him down!”

  At once the crowd took sides, until everyone was hooting and clapping and yelling at the tops of their voices. “Marcus! Tertius! Tertius! Marcus!”

  Jukk’s eyes narrowed. Up until this moment he had felt a grudging respect for his opponent, who was fighting to the best of his ability, and fighting fair … but now the crowd were telling him this was not Prince Arioso. He was facing Marcus, his mortal enemy and rival. He gave a deep menacing growl, and pulled off his own helmet. The crowd fell suddenly silent. Who was this fierce young man attacking their prince with such mad determination?

  Gracie had been watching every move, her heart in her mouth. Now, elbowing and pushing her way between the indignant piemakers, she forced her way through to the arena. Once clear, she took a deep breath and ran towards the combatants, who were now locked together and swaying to and fro. Jukk had his right arm pressed against Marcus’s throat; Marcus was only just managing to resist. A whirling darkness was threatening to engulf him, and his breathing was heavy and laboured.

  “Who … are … you?” he gasped as he slumped to the ground.

  “I am Foyce’s avenger,” Jukk snarled. “I come to wreak revenge on those who imprisoned her, and to claim her for my own!” He raised the broken lance above his head—

  “NO!” Gracie threw off her hat, and spread her arms wide. “NO!”

  Startled, Jukk turned.

  “It’s me you should be fighting,” Gracie said. Her heart was beating so wildly she was trembling from head to foot, but she stood her ground. “It’s me that Foyce hates.”

  “Gracie!” Marcus coughed breath back into his lungs. “Gracie! Get away!”

  Gracie ignored him. She stayed where she was, looking straight at Jukk. “It’s true that Foyce was kept prisoner … but Marcus had nothing to do with it.”

  The tall man looked down into Gracie’s clear blue eyes. “I could kill you with one blow,” he said hoarsely.

  “Yes. And Foyce would be happy.” Gracie let Mr Briggs’ cape slide off her shoulders, and stood very still. “I’m ready.”

  Jukk glowered at her. “My enemy wants my own true love. He wants her for his own, but she is mine! I fight Prince Marcus for her freedom!”

  “You … you’re fighting me for Foyce?” Marcus, even though his throat was aching and his body was racked with pain, began to laugh until the laughter turned into agonized coughing.

  Gracie saw Jukk’s face darken, and took a step forward. “Marcus loves me,” she said, her eyes never leaving Jukk’s face. “And I love him. Whoever told you he loved Foyce was lying.”

  “It’s true.” Marcus’s voice was a feeble croak. “I love Gracie. Always have. Didn’t think she knew, though…”

  Marlon and Alf, hovering overhead, held their breath.

  The werewolf blinked. Gracie, clasping her hands tightly together so that no one could see how much she was shaking, was willing him with every fibre of her being to choose good over evil, and the intensity of her blue-eyed gaze made it impossible for him to look away. Images flashed into his mind: Foyce at her window, beautiful and sad; Foyce begging him to save her; Foyce whispering that Marcus was the one who held her prisoner, the one who would hold her prisoner until she promised to be his bride…

  The memory of Foyce’s song floated into Jukk’s consciousness, but it no longer sounded sweet. The honeyed words echoed sourly. With a shock he realized that he believed Gracie. He shook his head to clear away the last of the false sugared threads that Foyce had spun in order to ensnare him.

  “Kill him!” A cry rang out. “Kill him! Kill him! KILL HIM!” Foyce was running across the grass. “There he is! That’s the monster that captured me and tortured me and kept me in captivity! KILL HIM!”

  Jukk drew himself to his full height. “I am Jukk,” he said. “And in all my years as leader of the werewolves I have always known what was right, and what was wrong … but now I am at a loss.” He bent his head to Gracie. “I believe you are that rarest of beings, a Trueheart. Tell me. What should I do?”

  Gracie smiled her sunniest smile and Marcus, still lying on the ground, felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy as she put out her hand to touch Jukk’s arm. “Leader of werewolves, go back to your people. Go in peace.”

  “NOOOO!” Foyce threw back her head and howled, a long howl of fury. “Kill him! She must suffer! He must be killed!” She rushed at Jukk, and tried to pull the broken lance from his hands, but his grip was too strong. She flailed at him with her fists, screeching that he had broken his promise, that he had sworn to her on his life, that he had promised to be her slave … but the words grew more and more garbled, until all that could be heard was whimpering and howling. The crowd, open-mouthed, saw her drop to all fours … and her eyes were yellow, and her mouth full of sharp teeth, and her tongue long and wet and red … and she sprang at Gracie’s throat.

  Jukk’s arm swung out and she went flying, only to leap again, and again until…

  “Bad wolfie,” said a voice, and Foyce was held fast.

  A ripple of laughter ran round the spectators. Gubble was holding Foyce by the tail, a skinny, scabby wolf with agonized eyes who snapped and scrabbled to get free. With a loud grunt he picked her up and carried her away.

  The blue silk dress lay abandoned on the grass.

  Gracie looked at Jukk. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Jukk shrugged. “She was evil. I owe you a life, Trueheart, and more. I would have slain your prince in the name of a false love, had you not prevented me. And –” he pointed towards the Royal Enclosure – “and it would not be forgotten. I would have put my people in danger. We would have been hunted for ever and ever.”

/>   Marcus, who had struggled to his feet, put a proprietary arm round Gracie’s shoulders. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

  “She is a Trueheart,” Jukk said. He paused, then added, “You fight well, Prince. If you have need of me and mine, we are at your service.” He bowed deeply and then, in a voice that resonated from one end of the arena to the other, called out, “I salute the winner! Marcus, Prince of Gorebreath!”

  A moment later he was gone.

  The crowd erupted; the cheering echoed to the very edges of the Five Kingdoms. Oozy the zombie, still running round his tree, stopped to listen and grin a toothless grin.

  “Much cheery cheery!” he said. “Oozy go see!”

  The Ancient Crones, making their descent towards Gorebreath Palace, smiled at each other.

  “I don’t think we need worry any more,” Elsie remarked as the path landed with a bump. “It all sounds very jolly.”

  The Ancient One was not so certain. “Let’s find out for ourselves, shall we?”

  Val was looking at the arm-waving, hat-throwing, totally ecstatic audience in consternation. “But we’ll never get to see what’s going on! Look at all those people in front of us! Packed together like sardines!”

  “I think we will, dear,” was all the Ancient One said, and she was right. As the three old women approached, men, women and children moved to one side to let them through without so much as a glance. Elsie raised her eyebrows, but made no comment. She had known the Ancient One for over a hundred years, and nothing surprised her.

  Val nudged her. “Useful!” she whispered, and Elsie nodded.

  The crowd continued to applaud the best entertainment they had ever seen.

  “Gor love us … how did they do that switching trick? That girl looked ’zactly like she turned into a wolf!”

  “Nah. It was all trickery. Clever, though, I’ll give you that. Very clever!”

  “That was some fight, missus, weren’t it? Looked almost real!”

  “Must have been practising for weeks, those lads.”