The Robe of Skulls

by Vivian French

  “Looks completely wiped out, doesn’t he, Miss?” Millie said in Gracie’s ear. “Poor lad! Should have stopped for forty winks like we did.”

  Gracie thought Millie was right. Marcus was now very pale and plastered with mud.

  Marlon did another circuit. “No time for that now, kiddo!” he said bossily. “Got to have some action!”

  “If we go farther up the hill,” Gracie said, “there’s an empty house. It’s the nearest house to ours — I mean, to Foyce and my stepdad. We could creep in there while it’s still dark, and we could plan what to do and rest.” Before Marlon could interrupt, she added firmly, “It won’t help anyone if we’re all worn out.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Marcus managed an exhausted smile.

  “Very well said, Miss,” Millie said approvingly.

  An idea came to Gracie as the little bat fluttered on her shoulder. “Millie,” she said, “would you and your dad be able to check something? I’m sure Foyce will put the frogs in the cellar . . . but we need to know for sure. And is she in the house?”

  “Wilco!” Marlon answered for himself and his daughter. “Better check the old one as well. Lady L.” He saw Gracie looking puzzled and explained. “Lady Lamorna. Sorceress from the castle — she had the spells, kiddo.”

  “Oh, yes.” Gracie nodded. “I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten. I must be tired too.”

  “Let’s get to that house,” Marcus said.

  Marcus lay down on a pile of rags and fell right asleep. Gubble found an old cupboard, tucked himself inside, and snored.

  Gracie stayed wide awake. Her heart refused to settle in her chest, and she was acutely aware of the shabby old house just a little farther up the hill that had been her home for so long. Where was Foyce? And what about Mange? The wind rattled at the broken-down door behind her, and she jumped. She got up quietly and went to look, but there was nothing and no one stirring. Another thought seized her. What if Foyce could smell them? What if the smell of the travelers was, even now, floating up on the wind? Gracie licked her finger and held up her hand. No. Fortune was on their side.

  “Hello there, kiddo!” It was Marlon, with Millie close behind, her eyes shining.

  “Oh, Miss, you’ll never guess! There’s an old man asleep on the table in the kitchen, and that girl booted him ever so hard and he didn’t even stir! Dad says he’s never, ever known Trueheart Stew to work so well, and he must be a real bad ’un to sleep so long!”

  “Shut it, babe,” Marlon told her, not unkindly. “That’s the kiddo’s stepdad.”

  Millie began to twitter in embarrassment, but Gracie stopped her. “He’s not good at all,” she said. “Did you find the frogs? Is Foyce there?”

  Marlon nodded. “Frogs are locked in the cellar,” he reported. “Hopping about and complaining.” He chuckled. “One of them keeps threatening to have everyone’s head chopped off.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gracie said. “And Foyce?”

  “Writing,” Marlon said.

  Gracie looked astonished. “Writing?”

  “Looked over her shoulder. Busy writing letters to the kings. And queens.” He snorted, then laughed. “Double-crossing Lady L, if you ask me — Lady L’s up there in her castle writing too. And she can spell better. A bit.”

  Millie giggled. “Dad says they can’t neither of them spell blackmail. He can. My dad was taught by the professor at the castle, my dad was —”

  “That’s enough, now, Mill. Thought of a plan yet, kiddo?”

  Gracie looked thoughtful. “I’ve had an idea. . . .” she said slowly. “The real problem is getting the frogs out of the cellar. I think we’ll have to wait until Foyce goes to bed. I know where she keeps the key. . . . And then once we’ve got the frogs, we’ll have to run for the House of the Ancient Crones and hope for the best.”

  “I’ve got a suggestion,” Marlon said.

  “Yes?” Gracie looked at him hopefully.

  “You’ll get caught if you run. ’Scuse me, but that dame goes fast. Real fast. But the kid’s pony, that’s faster.”

  “Hey!” It was Marcus, sitting up and looking considerably brighter. “That’s a brilliant idea! You mean, if one of us takes the frogs and rides Glee —”

  Marlon shook his head. “Sorry, kiddo. Send the frogs, but no rider. Pony’ll be twice as fast.”

  “That’s true,” Marcus admitted. “But how will he know where to go?”

  Marlon put his wing proudly around Millie. “My girl here — she’ll sit in his ear. Knows the way backward, she does, night or day. Your job”— he looked at Gracie and Marcus —“is to keep the dame from catching you. And I’ll stick with you.”

  “That sounds fine,” Gracie said. “But what about the troll — Gubble? He can’t go very fast. . . .”

  A voice from the cupboard growled, “Bite. Gubble bite. Gubble stay and bite.”

  Marlon, Gracie, and Marcus looked at each other. If Gubble was able to hold Foyce back . . . even for a little while . . .

  “Then send help for Gubble,” the voice said.

  Marcus leaped up and flung open the cupboard door. “I promise,” he said. “Gubble, you have the word of Prince Marcus of Gorebreath.”

  “Gubble not need word. Gubble need help,” Gubble said, but he stumbled out and grabbed at Marcus’s hand. There were fresh tear tracks on his face, and Gracie fished in her pocket for a hankie.

  “Bother,” she said as she pulled out the scrap of material. “I keep forgetting I’ve only got the Trueheart Stew wrapping.”

  “Babe!” Marlon fell off the curtain rod in his excitement and made a double loop to avoid crashing to the floor. “You still got that? Keep it safe — guard it with your life!”

  Gracie put the scrap back in her pocket. “Why?”

  “When we get to the stream,” Marlon said, “drop it in! It might just work. But now”— he stretched out his leathery wings —“I’m off to check on the dame. Be back as soon as she’s snoring. Ciao!”

  Even Gracie dozed a little while Marlon kept watch on Foyce and the ever-sleeping Mange. Before it was full daylight, Marcus crept out to fetch Glee and to rub him down with a handful of straw. The pony was fresh and eager to be moving, and Marcus whispered soothingly in his ear while he was grooming him. “You’ve got to run like the wind when the time comes,” he told him. “Go like you never have before.” The pony rubbed his head lovingly on Marcus’s arm, and Marcus was sure he’d understood. Then Millie came whizzing in to join them, and Marcus solemnly introduced Glee to Millie and Millie to Glee. Millie, overcome by the thought of being in charge of a pony belonging to a real prince, was surprisingly quiet, but Marcus was pleased to see that she and Glee seemed comfortable with each other. He gave Glee a final pat and was creeping back to the empty house when Marlon appeared.

  “Flat out and snoring,” the bat announced.

  “Great,” Marcus said. “I’ll wake Gracie and Gubble.”

  Years of experience had taught Gracie how to open the back door of her old home without making a sound, and she, Gubble, and Marcus tiptoed over the threshold and into the kitchen. Mange lay exactly as Gracie had seen him last, crashed out on the kitchen table, and Foyce was sprawled over a heap of paper. A battered pen dripped ink onto the floor. Seeing it reminded Gracie of the purple quill in the House of the Ancient Crones, and she wondered if she would ever be there again. Pushing the thought to one side, she moved silently to the line of bent hooks over the stove.

  The cellar key was gone.

  Gracie bit her lip and turned to look at the sleeping Foyce. The key must be in her pocket. Grimly, Gracie crept toward her stepsister. She knew that every wolfish sense Foyce possessed would be alerted if she was touched, but it had to be tried. A movement caught her eye, and she saw Marcus pointing furiously to the cellar door.

  The key was in the lock! Gracie almost laughed. It was a matter of seconds to get the door open and to slip through and down the steep stone steps. There was very little light, and her eyes seemed to be
taking forever to get used to the gloom. She put her hand out into the darkness and felt a cold, clammy frog.

  “Excuse me, young woman,” said a sharp little voice, “but —”

  “Shh!” Gracie put her finger to her lips. “Please be quiet! I’ve come to rescue you — can you come over here?” There was the sound of flippered feet, and Gracie was surrounded. She could just make out the shape of the basket flung on the ground, and she pulled it gently toward her. “Could you be very kind and hop in?” she whispered. “You’re going to the Ancient Crones. They’ll take the spell off, I promise — but you’ll have to be patient. There’s a bit of a ride first —”

  Five frogs hopped into the basket, but the sixth stood back. “And why should we trust you?” he asked coldly.

  There was a sharp whisper from the top of the stairs. “Albion? Don’t be such a brat. It’s me, Marcus from Gorebreath. Get into that basket, or I’ll tell everyone where you got that fish you said you caught —”

  “OK, OK. A fella’s got to be careful, though.” The frog glared at Gracie and settled himself in the basket.

  Gracie picked the basket up and climbed carefully out of the cellar. As she passed Foyce, her stepsister snorted and moved in her sleep. Gracie’s heart began to race as she handed the basket to Marcus. “Quick!” she mouthed.

  Marcus nodded. He hurried outside to where Millie and Glee were waiting. “Everything’s fine, Arry,” he whispered just before he tied on the lid. “See you soon, bro’. . . .” He swung the basket onto Glee’s saddle and strapped it on tight. “Good luck — and go, boy, go!”

  Glee needed no second invitation. He had been pacing up and down, wishing for nothing more than to escape the strange feelings that were floating in the air around him. With Millie safely in place, he neighed a loud and derisive farewell and set off at a gallop.

  Foyce sat up. “So the little worm’s come back, has she?” she sneered. “Right!” Her voice grew louder. “I’ve got a score to settle with you!”

  Gracie froze, caught in the stare of Foyce’s snake eyes. Outside the open door Marcus groaned and pulled the battered map from his pocket. It was the only thing he had that was anything like a weapon, and he rolled it as tightly as he could. It felt curiously heavy in his hand, and he swung it as he headed for the kitchen.

  Inside, Foyce was moving stealthily toward Gracie, her eyes gleaming. Gracie backed away, but Foyce was between her and the door. “Slug,” she hissed. “Worm. Toad —” A sudden suspicion made her glance away from her stepsister to the cellar door. Seeing it open, she let out a howl of rage and sprang at Gracie, clawing at her face — but she couldn’t reach her.

  “Bite,” said Gubble in muffled tones, his mouth full of dress and ankle. “Gubble stay —”

  Marcus leaped across the doorstep and grabbed Gracie’s hand. “Run!” he yelled. “Hang on to her, Gubble — do your best —” And he and Gracie pelted out as fast as they could go, straight into the warm fur and rock-solid body of a donkey. Lady Lamorna, caught completely unawares, fell forward on the donkey’s neck, and the contents of the leather purse in her hand flew up in the air. Purple dust swirled in all directions, and Marcus threw himself on top of Gracie to protect her. As a last thought he pulled the map as far over his head as he was able.

  Shrieks and thumps came loudly from the kitchen, but outside there was complete silence.

  Marcus cautiously moved the map. He seemed to be alive, and still a boy. He looked at Gracie. She was sitting up, her face pale, but definitely still a girl.

  “That was one lucky escape, kiddo.” Marlon appeared above them. “Whatever’s in that map? But best get moving —”

  Marcus staggered to his feet, pulling Gracie after him. It wasn’t easy, because they were directly under the feet of a statue, the stone statue of a donkey and an ancient woman. The woman’s stone face was contorted with anger and surprise, but it was still possible to see evil in her eyes. In fact, as Marcus moved away, the eyes watched him, alive and glittering in the unmoving stone. “Phew,” Marcus said. He looked at the map wonderingly. “The professor said I should look after it —”

  “KIDDO!” Marlon’s voice was urgent. “The dame’s winning! Scat!”

  And Marcus and Gracie scatted. They ran and they ran, Marlon always flittering in front of them, showing them which way to go. They tore through bushes and scrambled up and down hills, and as they ran, Marlon encouraged them.

  Every so often he would fly high to check if they were being followed, and the sun was high and hot when he dropped down to hiss, “I can see her. Boy is she mad! But she’s limping now. Hurry — the stream’s not far. . . .”

  They forced themselves on. When the small stream crossed their path, Marlon yelled, “Now!” and Gracie dropped the tiny scrap of Trueheart cloth into the muddy water.

  There was no reaction.

  “Sorry, kids. Keep running,” Marlon urged. Marcus and Gracie didn’t need telling, and they struggled on and on, even though Gracie had a stitch that was tearing her in two and Marcus’s breath was rasping in his throat.

  From behind them came an ear-piercing shriek. Marlon soared into the air and came back, grinning for the first time since they had left.

  “You did it, kid,” he said. “She can’t cross — she’ll have to go around by the bridge. That’ll hold her up awhile. We might do it yet!”

  As Foyce, her eyes red and smarting from the Trueheart mists that floated above the stream, raged her way back to find the bridge, her father finally woke from his Trueheart sleep. He yawned, and stretched, and stared in astonishment at the chaos in the kitchen. His chair and the table were the only items that remained as he remembered; everything else was upside down or smashed into a thousand pieces. “Gracie!” he yelled. “Foyce!”

  There was no answer.

  Mange heaved himself onto his feet and staggered across the room. He peered into the darkness of the cellar, but there was no sign of anyone down there. He stumbled up the ramshackle stairs to the two small bedrooms. Nobody there either, but as he moved past the window of the smaller bedroom, something outside caught his eye, and he stopped to look.

  A statue?

  Since when had there been a statue of a ragged woman on a donkey outside his house?

  Mange shook his head and looked again. Now he saw he had been mistaken. It wasn’t a statue after all. The woman was moving, albeit very slowly. She was frowning, and muttering, and peering into some kind of leather pouch.

  Mange’s heavy eyes brightened. The woman was old, and she was slow, and she was holding a purse. A large purse. This was a combination he liked. He turned and headed for the stairs.

  Lady Lamorna climbed stiffly off the donkey, noticing as she did so that its eyes were frozen open in a look of complete astonishment. The spell was evidently still affecting it, but even as she looked she saw an ear twitch.

  “At least I’ll be able to get back to my castle,” she told herself wearily. “But what then? That girl’s long gone. I heard her screeching. Oh, if only I’d turned her to stone . . . If only I’d never seen her . . . If only I’d never had anything to do with the world outside . . .”

  Lady Lamorna was stopped in her regrets by the sound of a door opening. A man stepped out of the house, blinking in the bright sunlight. There was something about his shambling gait that reminded her of something. Something familiar. Something familiar, and useful . . .

  An idea edged itself into her mind. One glance at his close-set eyes and thin acquisitive nose assured her that he was both mean and ruthless, qualities that were high on Lady Lamorna’s list of essential requirements. He was smiling at her now — at least, she assumed that was what he intended, even though it had more the appearance of a black-toothed leer — and moving toward her. She furtively peeked into her leather pouch.

  A pinch of spell powder was all that remained. One pinch only.

  It will be enough, Lady Lamorna thought. It’s a long time since I had a human to train. . . . Was Gubb
le once a human? I don’t remember. It will kill the hours while I think of other ways to pay for my dress. Oh, that dress . . . that beautiful dress!

  She took the pinch of spell powder in her skeletal fingers and lifted it high — just as Mange lunged for the purse.

  “Be mine!” hissed Lady Lamorna, and sprinkled the powder in the air.

  Mange froze for a second, then swore. He swore with eloquence and real venom, and Lady Lamorna smiled more cheerfully than she had for a long time.

  “What an ideal servant you will make,” she remarked. “Now the donkey has shaken free of its spell at last. Let us go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Mange growled. “Give me my foot back!”

  “Certainly not,” his new mistress said. “Your foot will remain a lump of stone until you have served me for at least fifty years. Or, of course, until I’m tired of you.”

  Mange gulped. His foot was indeed a lump of stone, and although he could move, it was only with much effort. He was also becoming increasingly aware of a huge power emanating from the old woman that he was totally unable to ignore. Desperately he tried to think of a way to escape his fate. “I’ll give you . . . I’ll give you gold,” he said at last.

  “Gold?” If Lady Lamorna had had a heart, it would have leaped. As it was, she stared at Mange, her silver eyes gleaming. “How much gold?”

  “Wait!” Mange, dragging his stone foot behind him, half ran, half hobbled into the house. He came back clutching a wooden, brass-bound box and thrust it into Lady Lamorna’s arms. “Now let me go,” he whined. “Give me my foot back. . . .”

  Lady Lamorna opened the box very slowly.

  Was it possible? Could it really be that, after all her terrible experiences, she was now to be rewarded for her efforts?

  As she saw the shining gold she had to bite back a sigh of relief. The dress was hers.

  And so was her new servant.