The Robe of Skulls

by Vivian French

  The moon was beginning to fade and the birds beginning to sing happily about dawn and day and worms, when Marlon stopped under a wide-spreading yew tree. “OK, babe,” he said. “Time for a nap. This bat’s one tired flapper. Curl yourself up on a branch and snooze.”

  Gracie looked at the tree anxiously. She couldn’t imagine how she could curl herself up on any branch.

  Marlon yawned. “Climb, kiddo, climb. And no fretting. No one in this wood touches a Trueheart. See ya!” With a flip of his wings, he flew high into the branches and vanished.

  There didn’t seem to be any other choice, so Gracie climbed. To her surprise she found a deep hollow where a couple of large branches met the trunk, and the hollow was filled with soft, dry bracken. “This really is quite cozy,” she murmured. “Although I’m sure I won’t sleep. There’s been far too much happening . . .” Her voice faded away, and her eyes closed. She began to snore faintly.

  Marlon, perched several branches above her, chuckled. “Poor little kid. She needs a rest, and there’s nothing like bracken dust to keep your peepers shut. Heigh-ho!” He shook himself, turned upside down, and batnapped for an hour. After that, he flew off on a little private business, but he was back before the sun was high in the sky.

  Gracie woke with a start. For a moment she couldn’t imagine where she could possibly be, and then she remembered. She sat up in her nest of bracken and looked around. “How long have I slept?” she wondered aloud. And then, “Where’s Marlon?”

  “No worries. Don’t think I’d bring you all this way to dump you, do you, kiddo?” Marlon was perched on the branch above, looking dusty but cheerful. “Ready to move?” he asked.

  Gracie stretched. “Yes,” she said. “Of course . . . but is there any chance I could wash my face and hands?” She was too polite to say she was starving.

  “Overrated if you ask me,” Marlon remarked. “Washing wears you away. But”— he waved a wing —“there’s a stream down there if you must.”

  “Thank you,” Gracie said gratefully, and she climbed down from her tree and hurried to the stream. Ten minutes later, as thoroughly washed as she could manage in a muddy trickle of water, she was back.

  Marlon greeted her with a grin and pointed at a clump of stunted shrubs growing nearby. “Breakfast,” he said. “Or whatever. Eat what you can, and save some. We’ll be into the More Enchanted Forest before long. Don’t trust anything there — not unless you’re looking for shakes and shivers and a good deal worse.”

  Gracie helped herself to the small black berries doubtfully at first, but once she had tasted them, her face lit up. “Wow!” she said. “It’s like . . . I don’t know what it’s like. It keeps changing! It’s very delicious, though.”

  “Toast ’n’ marmalade ’n’ scrambled eggs ’n’ bacon ’n’ tomato ’n’ porridge ’n’ chips ’n’ sauce,” Marlon said, all in one breath.

  “Oh.” Gracie was impressed. “Is that what it is? I think Foyce and Mange must have eaten those things when they went to Gorebreath market. I recognize the names.”

  Marlon stared at her. “You don’t say. And what did you get, kiddo?”

  Gracie swallowed another handful of berries. “They always left me behind, locked in the cellar. And I ate potato peelings, mostly. Or porridge skin.”

  “Porridge skin. Ah.” Marlon turned his back on Gracie, and she had a sudden suspicion that he was wiping his eyes with his wing. He looked his normal chirpy self when he turned back, however, and she decided she must have been mistaken. “OK, babe!” he said. “Picked enough berries to keep you going? Time we left. Can’t keep the Ancient Crones waiting. This way!” And he flitted away along a pathway totally invisible to Gracie’s human eye.

  Gracie followed obediently, but as she jumped over the small stream, Marlon’s words echoed in her head. What did he mean, keep the Ancient Crones waiting? Did they know she was coming? And if so, how? She pushed away a trailing creeper and scrambled noisily over a heap of slithering stones. Several fell away from under her feet and rattled to the bottom of a slope. “Marlon!” she called. “Marlon!”

  Marlon flew a loop over her head and twittered crossly. “Shhh!” he hissed. “No need to tell the whole forest we’re here! News’ll get around quick enough as it is.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gracie whispered. “But I was wondering — why are the Ancient Crones waiting for me?”

  “What?” Marlon looped another loop. “When did I say that?”

  “You said we mustn’t keep them waiting,” Gracie said doggedly.

  “Did I?” Marlon sounded shifty. “Just a turn of phrase, kiddo. Don’t you go thinking up stories, now. Just trust your old friend Marlon!” And he was off again, this time flying well in front of her.

  He doesn’t want to talk about it, Gracie thought, and then she shrugged. But I’m going to have to trust him. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, except that it’s to the Ancient Crones . . . and however scary and peculiar they may be, absolutely anything is better than Mange and Foyce.

  Lady Lamorna woke early thinking of deeply unpleasant things to do to the innkeeper and his wife. When she had tried to open the outhouse door in the night, she had found it locked, and this had not improved her temper. “Gubble!” she called. “Gubble!”

  Gubble was happily asleep in his ditch with his head on his donkey and didn’t hear her.

  Lady Lamorna cursed fluently and pulled a small spell from the battered leather pouch she had tied to her belt before leaving the castle. “What a waste,” she muttered. “I was saving this for a time when it was really needed!” She blew a small puff of powder onto the lock, and the door opened easily. Lady Lamorna stormed out and pulled Gubble’s nose as hard as she could.

  Gubble woke up, shouting and waving his arms, and the donkey got frightened and began to bray loudly.

  “Silence!” shrieked Lady Lamorna. “Silence!” And she flicked the donkey on the nose. At once it was quiet, but it was too late. The innkeeper and his wife and the dog were hurrying toward them, the innkeeper brandishing a fearsome pitchfork and his wife waving a rolling pin.

  Lady Lamorna hesitated. All her instincts were to turn the innkeeper and his wife and his dog into stone, but even though she was incandescent with anger, she knew that would be a mistake. Not only would awkward questions be asked when they were found, but more important, it would use up a large reserve of her powers.

  She made a decision. “Hurry!” she shouted, and grabbing Figs by the bridle, she vaulted onto its back and kicked it sharply. Figs immediately broke into a shambling gallop, and the innkeeper, his wife, and their dog were left to face Gubble. His night in the ditch had made him extremely muddy, and the pulling of his nose had made him extremely cross. Cross enough to forget that he usually gave all dogs a wide berth. He scowled heavily. “I bites,” he told the dog. “I bites hard!”

  The dog whimpered, turned tail, and fled.

  Gubble grinned a mirthless and toothless grin and took a step forward. “That’s what I does,” he growled at the innkeeper. “I bites HARD!”

  The innkeeper lowered his pitchfork and looked nervously at Gubble, then at his wife.

  His wife dropped her rolling pin and took her husband’s arm. “Norbottle,” she said, “come back to the inn this minute. Don’t you go forgetting we’ve got a pretty young lady to look after! We’ve no time for riff-raff like this!”

  And the two of them hurried away, leaving Gubble feeling marginally better. He hauled his donkey out of the ditch and set off after Lady Lamorna as fast as he could.

  Foyce, peeping from behind the lacy curtains of the inn’s best bedroom, had seen everything that had happened. She had even seen the puff of purplish smoke floating from the outhouse door before Lady Lamorna had come out. She had also noticed the expression of thwarted fury on Lady Lamorna’s face as she had ridden away.

  “Things aren’t going right for her,” Foyce told herself, and smiled at her own enchanting reflection in the mirror. “All
the better for me!” And she took herself downstairs for a delicious breakfast of lightly boiled eggs and toast. After she had eaten all she could, which was a surprising amount for such a slender young woman, she explained to the hovering innkeeper that she had no money to pay for her night’s lodging. She fluttered her long, long eyelashes as she spoke, and Norbottle was more than happy to cancel her debt in exchange for a kiss. His wife snorted but did not protest. There was something about Foyce that was making her uncomfortable. The young woman was just as pretty as she’d been the night before, she thought, but when you looked at her eyes, it made your bones go icy cold.

  Foyce walked away feeling that life was good, while Norbottle rubbed at his cheek. It was red and inflamed, and as the day went on, it began to itch unbearably.

  On the same morning, Prince Arioso of Gorebreath and his twin brother, Prince Marcus, also got up early. Arry wanted to have plenty of time to get dressed in his finest clothes. Marcus wanted to get his lines written before his family went off to Dreghorn.

  “Goodness, Marcus!” Arry said in amazement as he watched his brother scratching away with his quill as if his life depended on it. “If you keep writing at that speed, you’ll be finished in time to come with us after all!”

  Marcus hastily crossed out the last ten lines and dropped his quill nib down on the wooden floor. “Bother,” he said as convincingly as he was able. “Now I’ll have to go and find a new one!”

  “Oh, bad luck!” Arry said. “Here, would you like mine? Shall I sharpen it for you?”

  “That’s very kind,” Marcus said, “but I’m sure to spoil it. I’ll fetch one from the library later. Don’t worry about me — just get yourself ready to go. Look, I’ll fetch your shoes for you and your coat!”

  “Goodness, Marcus!” Arry opened his eyes wide. “I really think I should ask Mother —”

  “Don’t!” Marcus said, and bundled Arry into his waistcoat.

  Despite Marcus’s efforts to rush his brother, it seemed hours and hours before the coaches finally rolled away down the long drive. Right up until the last moment, Arry had been helpfully suggesting that Marcus might still be allowed to come to the party, and Marcus was all but worn out with the effort of avoiding such a dreadful fate. But now, at last, they were gone. He waved a final good-bye, then sprinted up the stairs to the royal library.

  He crashed through the doors and slid across the polished wooden floor — and came face to face with Professor Scallio. “Oh,” Marcus said blankly. “I mean, good morning, sir.”

  “You mean,” the professor said blandly, “you weren’t expecting to see me here.”

  “Erm . . . no. Th-that is,” Marcus stammered, “I thought you’d gone with the others to Dreghorn. . . .”

  “And leave one of my pupils all alone? I think not.” Professor Scallio adjusted his spectacles. “Have you finished your lines?”

  “Yes!” Marcus dug inside the pocket of his trousers. “Here you are!” And he handed over the crumpled sheets of paper.

  “Thank you so much,” the professor said. “Perhaps I might give you this in return?” And he picked up a roll of cracked and discolored parchment from his desk and handed it to Marcus. “This was what you were coming to collect, was it not?”

  Marcus’s mouth opened and shut several times, but he was quite unable to speak.

  “Prince Marcus!” His tutor frowned. “Kindly do not display the characteristics of a goldfish! Surely you did not think I was unaware of your interest in this item?”

  “Erm . . . yes, sir. That is . . . no, sir.” Marcus felt he was not doing well. “That is — I mean, thank you very much, sir!”

  Professor Scallio nodded and began to move away. “Just remember,” he said over his shoulder, “that this meeting between us has never taken place.” And he wandered off into the darkest recesses of the library.

  “No — that is, yes, sir . . .” Marcus shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, but the map crackled invitingly in his hand, and he let out a whoop of joy. “Thank you!” he called into the darkness, and rushed out of the library and down the stairs.

  Pausing only to grab his jacket, he hurried to the stable to find Ger already leading his pony out into the yard.

  “Ger, you are my best friend ever!” Marcus said, and swung himself into the saddle.

  “Are you sure you ain’t wanting me to come with you, Your Highness?” Ger asked a little anxiously. He knew enough of Marcus’s plans to feel concerned for him.

  Marcus would very much have liked Ger to come too, but he also knew that Ger had plans to spend the day with Daisy, the youngest and prettiest palace cook. “It’s OK, Ger,” he said. “I’ll be careful — and I promise that if I get eaten by bears, I’ll get the bears to tell my father that I saddled Glee myself.”

  Ger grinned. “D’you still want my coat?”

  “If that’s OK,” Marcus said.

  Ger pulled a grubby old jacket from a nail on the wall, and the two boys ceremoniously swapped garments.

  “Daisy’ll like this,” Ger said, looking down at the blue velvet and golden buttons. “You have fun, now!” And he went out of the yard whistling.

  Marcus took a deep breath. This was the moment when his adventure would begin. He had the map safely in his pocket and now there was nothing to stop him. He clucked gently to Glee and rode steadily out of the stable yard and around to the front of the Royal Palace. As he trotted down the long poplar-lined drive, he could see a most unusual flurry of activity outside the lodge gates. Half of him was tempted to cut across the pristine green lawns and head for the fence, but the other half was consumed with curiosity. The curiosity won, and Marcus kicked Glee into a canter and headed for the lodge. As he drew closer, he could see the guards gathered threateningly around a bent old woman, two donkeys, and what looked suspiciously like a troll. They were, without doubt, Persons of Extremely Dubious Respectability.

  “This really is the best day ever,” Marcus said to himself, and he rode Glee behind the lodge. He threw the pony’s reins over a railing, slid from the saddle, and crept around the side wall.

  “I demand to see the king!” The voice was high and imperious. “I am a poor, unfortunate peasant woman. My name is Grandmother Bones, and I must see him!”

  Marcus had seen many peasant women, but never one like this. She had unbent now, and he could see that she was even taller than his father. As her eyes flashed, shivers crawled down his spine. “Nasty,” he said to himself. “Very nasty!”

  “Excuse me, madam, but the king ain’t here today,” the captain of guards was explaining in testy tones. “I’ve told you ten times already, madam, and I’d be grateful if you’d just be off.”

  The troll half hopped, half staggered forward. “I bites,” he growled. “I bites hard!”

  “Be silent, Gubble,” Grandmother Bones told him. “This is a time for diplomacy, not force.” She leaned toward the captain, and her silver eyes held his in a hypnotic gaze as a tiny puff of purple smoke floated in the air between them. “Tell me this,” she said. “If the king is not here, where can the prince be found?”

  The captain blinked, gulped, and visibly shrank. “He’s gone to Dreghorn, if you please, ma’am.” He spoke in a monotone. “He’s gone to Princess Fedora’s engagement party, ma’am. They’ve all gone, ma’am, Crown Prince Arioso and the king and the queen — they went off not so long ago, ma’am — and only Professor Scallio —”

  “Enough!” snapped Grandmother Bones. “I have no need to hear about servants! When do they return?”

  The captain of guards wiped his hand over his red and sweaty face as if he were waking from a deep sleep. “What? What was that?”

  Grandmother Bones repeated her question with increasing irritation. The captain rubbed his eyes, then stood up straight, folded his arms, and frowned. “Now then, old woman,” he said briskly. “Enough’s enough. I’ve answered your questions. The king ain’t back until late tonight, and that’s that, so off with you. T
he likes of you aren’t welcome around here!”

  For a moment Marcus thought that Grandmother Bones was going to strike the captain, but she drew back. “So I will find Prince Arioso at the Palace of Dreghorn,” she said thoughtfully. “And many other princes and princesses will, no doubt, be there as well! Gubble, we must hurry!” She swung herself onto the larger of the donkeys and galloped away. Gubble, managing at last to struggle across his saddle, followed.

  The guards watched them go, the captain shaking his head. “Never did see anything like that before,” he said.

  One of the younger guards coughed. “Erm . . . Do you think it was wise to tell that old bag where the Royal Fambly is, sir? I mean, she didn’t look the friendly type to me. Nor that ’orrible troll.”

  “I never told her nothing!” the captain said indignantly. “Not a word! What do you take me for? If you’ve nothing better to do than make up stories, young Jim, you can make us all a good strong cup of tea! Talking to that old lady’s left a nasty taste in my mouth.” And he marched inside the lodge house, leaving the guards looking at one another in bewilderment.

  “It’ll be all right, Jimmy,” a bewhiskered one said reassuringly. “They’ll have soldiers and guards everywhere at Dreghorn Palace. And if she comes back here tomorrow, you can run up to the palace and warn ’Is Majesty, double quick. Now, let’s have that cup of tea.”

  Marcus leaned against the wall to wait until the guards had disappeared. He was doing some serious thinking. Was Arry in danger? Should he abandon his plans and ride to Dreghorn? But what, after all, could he tell them? A weird-looking old woman and a mud-covered troll had been asking to see them. . . . Marcus frowned. He couldn’t see his father considering either to be much of a threat. Trolls were unusual, to be sure, but not entirely unknown. And while there was something deeply unpleasant about Granny Bones, he had no proof she wanted anything other than an autograph . . . or whatever else it was that ancient old women hoped for from kings. And the guard had been right. Dreghorn had quite enough security to deal with most problems, and there was a delightful rose-covered jail in the center of the high street. But, then again, there had been that strange little puff of purple smoke. . . .