by Paul Glennon
Meg was furious. “I told you not to say anything.”
“And you said you could get us in there!”
“I would have, if you hadn’t stuck your foot in it with your whimpering about Black John.” She crossed her arms in front of her and rolled her eyes exactly like Dora did. It was even more infuriating when Meg did it.
“Easy for you to say,” Norman shot back. “Have you ever been captured and tortured by the Duke of Nantes?” He hadn’t actually been tortured, but he exaggerated to make the point that he was no coward.
“No, but I’m not stupid enough to get myself caught.”
“I wasn’t stupid. I was—”
The argument could have gone on for much longer had Malcolm not stuck his head out of the knapsack to interrupt.
“Would you like me to slip in there and have a word with your lovely brother?” he asked cheerfully. “Or would you like me to stay hidden away inside this sack?”
Meg frowned. For some reason—perhaps because he was a talking animal in a book he shouldn’t be in, or simply because he was Norman’s friend—her nose always wrinkled when she caught sight of him. She inhaled deeply as if she was gathering breath to start lecturing him as well, but she seemed to realize that it would do no good.
“Can you get in there without being seen?” she asked reluctantly.
Malcolm didn’t answer her, just winked and bounded to the nearest window ledge. “Be back in two shakes,” he told them before Meg could reconsider, and with a flash of his tail, he was gone through the window.
Norman and Meg ducked into an adjacent room while Malcolm did his scouting. The two human children barely looked at each other. When they did, it was just to glare. The argument continued inside each child’s head, where each one was able to win it.
The sound of movement in the hallway froze them for a moment. Meg was first to the keyhole, leaving Norman stuck standing behind her and wondering what she was seeing. He could guess. The sounds of medieval knights stomping down a hallway were familiar enough by now. The thump of their boots on the thick timber planking indicated a large troop of them, marching in unison—more feet than Norman had seen among San Savino’s guards, and better unison than they’d seemed capable of. There was too much chain mail and plate armour jangling and rattling out there too. These were professional soldiers.
“Black John,” he concluded in a whisper, “and his thugs.”
“I know,” Meg replied. “I can see, can’t I?”
It amazed Norman just how annoying his mother was as a girl. He could see where Dora got it from. He was glad when he spotted Malcolm slipping back in through the open window behind them. It was difficult being alone with her. Meg, still crouched at the keyhole, didn’t notice the stoat’s return. Norman let her kneel there, all her attention focused on the corridor outside, as Malcolm leapt silently to the top of the jug beside her.
“Bla—” he began in a whisper.
Startled by the sound of the unexpected voice in her ear, Meg let out a little shriek of fright.
Norman caught the wink from Malcolm and couldn’t help snickering.
“Black John and his lads are in there with Hugh and Kit,” he told them. “There’s a balcony we can all look in from—if you can manage not to squeal again.”
Meg scowled as she regained her composure, but followed the stoat king’s lead as he ducked back out the window. The ledge outside the window barely looked wide enough. If it had been a path marked on solid ground, Norman could have walked it easily without fear of stepping off, but they were three storeys above the ground—high enough that falling was not an option. High enough to make the path seem narrow and precarious. Looking down, he recognized the little courtyard that Jerome looked into from the library. Above, he noted with relief that the wooden tower had survived the night. It was blackened but still standing.
Malcolm danced across the narrow gap from the window ledge to the railing of Sir Hugh’s balcony. After a quick check that the coast was clear, he beckoned them on. Norman knew from experience that it was best not to think too long about these things. He took a deep breath and made the jump. It was hardly brave, but he was proud of himself for not hesitating. Behind him, Meg peered down at the courtyard and paused. After all her bravado and bossiness, Norman thought he would be happy to see her waver, but the moment she showed vulnerability, she was his mother again, and he hated to see the fear that now flickered in her eyes.
He held out his hand to her. It wasn’t very far from the balcony to the ledge. In fact, he could reach all the way across to her. But at the sight of his hand, she shook her head vehemently, and he withdrew it. Spurred on by the offence of a helping hand, Meg screwed up her courage and made the jump. The grown-up Meg, Norman thought to himself, was a whole lot nicer.
From the balcony, the children and the stoat had a perfect view of Sir Hugh’s chamber. Norman recognized it as the room in which he’d been captured. Across the corner on the other wall hung the curtain he’d hid behind. From this vantage point he could see what a terrible hiding place it was. The curtain stopped inches from the floor. His ankles and half his shins must have poked out, giving Black John an easy target.
It was difficult to stand there and watch while Black John sat just feet from him again. There were four of them around the table: the duke, Sir Hugh, Father Lombard and Kit. Father Lombard looked sombre and thoughtful in his monk’s robes. He’d spent most of the night administering last rites. Sir Hugh wore the same clothes he’d worn the day before. He looked tired. No doubt he’d worked through the night putting out fires and helping the wounded. To impress the royal emissary, the duke had put on his finery. His doublet was of black velvet with silver brocade, the colours of his dukedom. The big ring on his finger would be his signet ring, another symbol of his status. He tapped it loudly on the table as he spoke.
Kit looked distinctly unimpressed. He sat silently on the other side of the table with that knowing expression he always had, half looking away, as if the meeting bored him. He looked older than when Norman had left him back at the Shrubberies. His hair was longer, ginger red again, but falling to his shoulders like a lion’s mane. On his chin he had a pointed beard of the same colour. He stroked it pensively while Hugh and Black John argued.
“I want that boy, Hugh,” the duke growled. “You saw what I’m capable of when defied.”
“I did see what you are capable of,” Hugh replied gruffly. “But if I’m not mistaken, you already had the boy when you launched your attack.”
“The boy’s escaped,” the duke barked. “You well know that. He couldn’t have done it without help. He must be here. I want him back.”
Sir Hugh sighed as if he was weary of the whole discussion and had better things to do. “If the boy is here, then I assure you I know nothing of it. I don’t even know who the little scoundrel is, or why he was hiding in my chambers.”
Black John glowered at Hugh. “You know just as well as I do who the boy is. You’ve known all along who he is and whose blood he carries.”
Sir Hugh’s quick reply betrayed his irritation. “I tell you, I have no idea who he is. Are you sure you do? He is English, I know that much. He called out for his mother in English when you nearly broke his head open. What would you want with a wretched little English boy?”
He looked pointedly at Kit, who so far had only watched in amusement. The fake prince cocked his head to the side and appeared to remember something. “You know, I do recall my chef de camp saying something about a runaway. One of our boys, a squire—No, not even a squire,” he corrected himself. “A scruffy peasant boy who helped the squires. Simple little thing, baffled by the desert. I think he actually thought he could run home to England.”
Norman seethed as he listened. Did Kit know he was watching or did he always say things like this about him?
A glance at Meg beside him told him that she wasn’t any happier with him. “Kit always seems to bookweird in disguise,” she whispered. “His ag
e and costume changes, and that helps him fit in. No matter where I go, I’m always myself.”
It was one of the strange things about the bookweird—how it affected people differently. Meg didn’t know the full story: that even as an adult, she would always appear in The Secret in the Library as her childhood self. When she’d come to hide Malcolm’s map in the library, Jerome had not noticed any difference in her.
“Shall we try to signal to Kit? Tell him we’re here?” Norman asked.
“Don’t!” Meg replied, louder than she intended. Inside the room, the murmur of voices halted. The two children cowered in silence, expecting someone to come to the balcony any minute, but the conversation quickly resumed.
“If you do find the boy, bring him to me,” Kit continued. “If it is our lost stablehand, I can arrange to have him flogged before we put him back to work.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Black John replied, his voice oily whenever he thought he was talking to a superior. “If it please Your Majesty, we could flog him for you.”
Kit smiled and shook his mane of red hair. “Do not trouble yourself, Nantes. We’ll have the squire do the lashing. It is he who has been inconvenienced.”
Black John smiled obsequiously and returned to the subject of Jerome. “It is this other boy who concerns us most. We have had news of a revival of the Livonian conspiracy. The boy seems important to them. It is our belief—”
“Livonian Knights?” Kit repeated, suddenly animated. “They were disbanded years ago. That was your triumph, wasn’t it? Is that not how you earned the Order of the Cross that I see around your throat? Are you saying the task remains unfinished?”
Black John appeared to bite his tongue before speaking. “Even a felled tree sheds its seeds, Your Highness. We did not know that Johan of Vilnius had a son.”
There was that name again—Vilnius, the name Norman shared with Jerome. It made him uncomfortable to read it, and even more so to hear it spoken.
Sir Hugh, as amused as he seemed by the duke’s attempts to win the prince’s favour, did not appear pleased with this turn of the conversation. “Your Highness,” he said, trying to change the topic, “I fear my old eyes deceived me last night when you arrived. Please tell me what extraordinary beast it is I now house in my stables.”
Kit puffed out his chest. “Your eyes deceived you not. It is a unicorn, a most spectacular creature, no? I discovered him in the far south, at the source of the Nile, where the sand dunes turn to verdant forest and the natives speak the original language of Adam—a veritable paradise. He was wild, of course, but I tamed him myself.” Norman wasn’t the only one Kit lied about behind his back.
Kit probably would have gone on for hours, telling ridiculous stories about his adventures, making himself out to be some brave explorer and unicorn tamer, as well as the prince of England, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sir Hugh rose to answer it, but before he could, the door was pushed open to reveal six of Nantes’s black-clad knights and a small, sweaty, sunburned man in white stockings and tunic.
One of Sir Hugh’s guards burst belatedly into the room behind them. “Ambassador Fitzgibbon,” he announced breathlessly.
“Arrest this scoundrel!” the sunburned man cried, pointing a finger at Kit.
Kit rose from his seat. “What is the meaning of this? Who is this offensive little man?”
The six knights who had been reaching towards Kit hesitated.
Sir Hugh turned to the angry little man. “Surely there is some mistake, Fitzgibbon. Don’t you recognize Prince Reynard?”
“P-p-p—” Fitzgibbon stuttered. “Prince Reynard! There is no Prince Reynard. There is no such man, no such title. How could you let yourself be fooled like this?”
Sir Hugh’s face went blank with disbelief, but he wasn’t fooling Norman. He must have known all along. “Ambassador Fitzgibbon, I had no idea. When a man rides in here astride a unicorn and calls himself Prince Reynard, who am I to contradict him?”
As he watched this all unfold, the Duke of Nantes rose slowly from his seat, his eyes growing ever wider. “What is going on here? Hugh, is this some stratagem of yours? I’ll see you both hang, but not before I finish the job of razing this pile of dung!” He made a lunge across the table at the man he had been trying so hard to win over just a few moments earlier.
Kit scrambled to his feet and edged towards the door. “Who is that at the window?” he cried, pointing to the balcony where Norman and Meg stood. There was no time to duck out of sight. All eyes turned towards them. It bought Kit just enough time to get to the door. He allowed nothing to stand in his way, not even Ambassador Fitzgibbon, whom he sent flying. Sprawled on the floor, the little man made a grab for Kit’s ankle, but the fugitive kicked himself loose and fled.
“Get them!” the enraged duke cried, slamming an angry fist on the table.
Nantes’s men dashed in different directions—half of them towards the door after Kit, and the others towards the balcony—but Meg and Norman were already in motion, and Malcolm, perched on the railing, had his bow drawn. At this sort of distance, his aim was deadly, but he chose his targets to cause mayhem rather than fatalities. His first arrow struck the duke in the hand, pinning it to the table as securely as he’d pinned Meg’s hair ribbon to the floor.
Black John’s howls of anguish froze everyone for a moment as they tried to figure out what had just happened. When the knights finally realized that their leader had been struck by some sort of dart or crossbow bolt, they reacted according to their characters. The brave planted their feet, drew their swords and scanned the room for the source of the arrow. The cowardly took cover behind tables, chests and, if no other obstacles presented themselves, the backs of their braver comrades. The ambitious ran to the duke’s side, attempting to win his favour by appearing to stand by him. One poor fool tried to remove the arrow, but the shaft was too small for him to get a good grip on it. The duke screamed in agony and cursed as the hapless knight yanked on the projectile.
“It’s the Saracens, for sure,” Sir Hugh cried loudly and convincingly. “They’re inside the gate. God help us all!” He knew a diversionary attack when he saw one, and he made sure that this one succeeded. He lunged at poor Father Lombard, tackling the surprised cleric to the floor, perhaps bruising his old friend more than he wanted, but blocking the passage to the door. “Save yourself, Father!” he shouted as the priest began to recite a prayer for their salvation.
In the chaos, Malcolm unleashed two more arrows. He caught one knight in the back of the knee, causing his leg to buckle under him and sending the hulking warrior crashing to the floor like a pile of empty armour. His sword went sliding away from him across the wooden floor.
Another knight wheeled, flourishing his blade towards the sound of the bowstring. Norman gasped at the evil glint in the man’s eye. The knight had only to take two steps and the point of the blade would be at Norman’s throat, but the warrior froze when he saw the furry creature dressed in hunting greens and wielding a tiny bow. His hesitation cost him dearly. The next arrow was aimed squarely between his eyes. Malcolm let the arrow go and dove for cover.
Norman was rooted where he stood. He had witnessed battles before, but he had never seen medieval combat up close. It was bloody and hectic and fantastically noisy—all shouts and clanks of armour and futile swishes of swords through the air.
The knight who’d spied Malcolm fell to his knees clutching his face. At the sight of his bloodstained hands and the sound of his high-pitched shrieks, the remaining knights suddenly found their inner cowards. They stumbled over themselves, diving under furniture and cowering behind each other.
Black John strained to free his pinned hand and shrieked orders that went unheard above the din of battle. His wild eyes darted from corner to corner, unable to locate the attackers. Finally, they lit upon the children standing at the window. They narrowed as they locked on Norman, and he mouthed the word “You!” With a grimace, he yanked the arrow from his han
d and lurched towards the children. But his revenge was thwarted. One of his own guards slipped as he backed away from the fight, falling across the duke’s path and sending them both tumbling to the floor.
Sir Hugh added to the chaos, slapping one knight across the back with the flat blade of his sword, sending him lurching into a comrade like an armoured bowling pin. He continued to call out the alarm, insisting that the Saracens were in the fortress, but he was the calmest of the lot, the only man in the room who seemed to realize that this attack was a diversionary tactic.
“Run! Save yourselves!” he cried, seemingly to no one, but he looked directly at the two children on the balcony as he said it.
Sir Hugh’s command snapped them out of their reverie, and they sprang into action. Meg led the way, leaping from the balcony back to the ledge.
“There’s a window there.” She pointed out the unshuttered opening on the far side of the courtyard.
There was no time to think of how high up they were or how narrow the ledge was. Norman just followed her lead. Meg leapt from ledge to ledge, so agile now that he had a hard time keeping up. Behind them, Malcolm discarded his dignity and fled on four feet, rapidly catching up with his human friends. He was a forest creature by nature and a River Raider by birth. His childhood had been spent in the riggings of the Raider ships. He’d walked ropes higher than this. To him, the ledge was like a highway in the sky.
Meg hauled herself through the open window and tumbled onto the floor, followed quickly and clumsily by Norman. They were both gasping there and revelling in their narrow escape when Malcolm appeared.
“Does someone want to close these shutters?” he asked nonchalantly. “They’re a little large for me, and if someone with half a brain were to look out, he’d have a good idea where we got to.”
Norman leapt up to do it, but he found there was someone else there already. The darkness of the room after the brightness of the desert sun made it difficult to pick out anything. As the shutters swung shut, it became darker still and Norman’s stomach sank. Had they just walked into a trap?