Eagle Warrior

by Roger Mortimer

  The Cardinal lay dead, sprawled across his desk like a purple stain on the polished surface. The empty silver goblet stood just beyond his outstretched paw. The Cardinal’s great emerald ring was hinged back. Beneath the lid lurked a tiny, gold cavity. Peering closely, Antenac could just see a few, tiny white grains: all that remained of the deadly poison with which Cardinal Rumont, wily to the last, had cheated the executioner.

  Part Two: The Island of Gold

  9. The Bonaventure

  On the night after the Cardinal’s death, a graceful war-galleon sailed into the harbour of Aramon. The Bonaventure had once been the pride of King Auriol’s fleet; now, she belonged to the all-powerful General Cambray.

  As she glided towards the dockside, the Bosun yelled an order and sea-mice slithered up the icy rigging and out along the dizzy heights of the yard-arms to furl up the sails.

  A cloaked figure was watching them from the high quarter-deck. He was handsome, black-furred and hard-eyed. This was Captain Bultivar: a tyrant and a bully, hated and feared by every sea-mouse aboard.

  The anchor thundered down. Ropes snaked ashore and mice struggled to lower the heavy gangplank. On the quayside, torches flared, and as their eerie light rippled across the great galleon, the crew began the back-breaking task of unloading the cargo: crate after crate of solid gold.

  On the dockside, mice of General Cambray’s Elite Guard heaved the crates aboard a line of waiting carts. Captain Antenac watched anxiously for pilfering; as if any soldier would dare to steal from the General.

  At last, the heavily-laden carts creaked and groaned away on their journey to the Great Fortress, where Cambray was greedily waiting for them.

  Aboard the Bonaventure, sea-mice wearily dragged themselves into the crew’s quarters, known as the fore-castle: a cramped space below the raised platform at the front of the ship. There, they dropped into an exhausted sleep, no longer feeling the bitter cold that gnawed at their aching bones.

  But in the Great Cabin, below the high stern-castle at the opposite end of the ship, Captain Bultivar was lighting lamps and opening bottles. For the rest of the night, he and his officers laughed, sang and drank themselves senseless.

  Once again, they had brought the gold safely to Aramon. After scattering a few coins to his crew, the Captain and his officers had, as usual, helped themselves to as much gold as their greedy hearts desired.

  Next morning, in the pale dawn, the Bonaventure lay ice-bound, as still and silent as a ghost-ship. But, as the sun climbed higher, the door from the fore-castle creaked open and Pombal, the Bosun, emerged on deck. Only the grey fur of his head showed above his red muffler. He shivered and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Then he slapped his tail on the deck to wake himself up, coughed hideously, spat over the side and began to feel more or less normal.

  Seizing a bucket on the end of a trailing rope, he lowered it into the icy water. Hauling it up, he crouched beside it and gingerly splashed a few drops over the grimy fur of his face. Then he untied the rope, picked up the bucket and carried it along the deck to the Great Cabin.

  Ducking beneath the low timbers, Pombal picked his way across the snoring officers into the Captain’s private apartment. Captain Bultivar was fast asleep in an ornate four-poster bed. Pombal stared down at the snuffling, twitching sea-mouse as he lay, fully-clothed, his long tail dangling over the edge. The Bosun felt the familiar emotions rising inside him: a mixture of hatred and fear.

  Pombal tipped the freezing water over the sleeping Captain. He had orders to wake Bultivar in this way every morning that they spent in port, and quite a few mornings at sea, also.

  Slowly, Bultivar sat up, shivered convulsively, opened his eyes and waited until the Bosun had floated into focus. ‘Give me a towel,’ he croaked. ‘You’ve damn near drowned me.’ The sopping sea-mouse staggered out of bed and began to dry himself. ‘Well, let’s hear your report. How many desertions since last night?’

  Pombal’s eyes flickered. ‘Not so many, sir,’ he answered shiftily.

  ‘Counted heads, have you?’ growled Bultivar.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘You damned liar!’ roared the Captain, hurling the waterlogged towel at the Bosun. ‘Get out and do your job, you scum, or I’ll lash the daylights out of you!’

  As Pombal hastily quit the cabin, Bultivar flung open his wardrobe and selected a purple silk shirt, yellow breeches, and boots of soft, green felt. He completed the outfit with a midnight-blue cloak, and clamped on a broad-brimmed hat with trailing scarlet feathers. Standing before his full-length mirror, he regarded himself with pride.

  A timid tap on the door announced the arrival of his servant, a meek, down-trodden sea-mouse called Mutt. He scurried in, ducked his ugly head in a bow and placed a loaded breakfast tray on the sideboard.

  ‘Ah, Mutt,’ said Bultivar, with one of his terrible smiles. ‘What culinary delights have we here? What palate-enticing, taste-bud-tickling titbits have you served up this morning, mmm?’

  ‘Coffee, sir,’ murmured Mutt nervously. ‘Nice, hot coffee.’

  Still smiling, Bultivar sipped – then sprayed the coffee all over Mutt’s soiled jacket. ‘Coffee?’ he shrieked. ‘You call this filthy river-sludge coffee? You can take this muck back for a start!’ And with a flick of his paw, Bultivar sent the rest of the scalding coffee straight into Mutt’s face. The little sea-mouse squealed in agony and covered his face with his paws.

  ‘Oh, dear! A bit too hot was it, Mutt? Singed your whiskers, did it? Well, you’d better not serve up filth like that again, or I’ll ruddy well drown you in it!’

  Wiping his dripping, burning fur on his sleeve, Mutt fought back the tears of pain and humiliation. But suddenly, it was as if the sun had risen after a night of dark despair. Bultivar was beaming down at him as he chewed and slurped at a bowlful of nuts, sultanas, oats and sugar, swimming in thick, creamy milk.

  ‘Mutt! Fresh milk! This is truly excellent!’ Nervously, Mutt smiled. ‘Really delicious! Why have you never given me this before?’

  ‘Er ... I ...’

  ‘Well, you should have done! And what’s more, I shall expect it every morning in future!’

  Mutt was horrified. He could only get fresh milk when they were in port and he had been up before dawn to trudge through the city in order to find the jugful that Bultivar was now noisily enjoying on his cereal.

  ‘Don’t forget, Mutt – every morning!’

  As Mutt fled in dismay, Bultivar laughed. He knew very well that milk could never be taken on a long voyage, and he was already planning how he would taunt Mutt for failing to provide it, when the Bosun entered the cabin.

  ‘Well?’ asked Bultivar, still snorting with glee.

  ‘Four desertions, sir.’

  ‘Ungrateful vermin! Right. Take the press gang and find me four replacements. Fit mice, mind you, not the crop of half-blind cripples you generally come back with, or I’ll throw them over the side and you with them!’

  Ten minutes later, Pombal and six tough sea-mice stepped ashore. Armed with pistols, cutlasses and several loops of rope, they marched purposefully up Vittles Lane.

  10. The Battle of Vittles Lane

  Late the previous night, Gideon and Conal had arrived, half-frozen, at Barboza’s inn. Leaving Galliard snugly bedded down at the old barn, they had rowed down-river to Aramon. Now, the morning sunlight gilded the old oak beams and a cheery fire crackled in the hearth. Barboza poured coffee for his guests and brought them soft, buttered rolls with a generous chunk of his famous Valladale cheese.

  ‘I see you’ve painted out the Cardinal’s picture,’ remarked Gideon. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The Cardinal’s dead, sir. Proclaimed a traitor. Was to have been given the chop but word is that he saved them the trouble. Poison, they say, hidden in one of his rings.’

  ‘Is that the truth of it?’ asked Conal. ‘Ah, well, there’s one enemy the less!’

  ‘What’s Cambray up to now?’ asked Gideon.

  ‘Up to?’
said Barboza, buttering his fifth roll. ‘Some say he’s gone mad. Doubled the guards on the city gates – nobody can leave without his say-so. Foot patrols all hours of the day and night. And he knows about how you rescued the young Prince.’ The landlord shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I don’t want to appear inhospitable, sir, but — ’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Gideon, hastily. ‘We’ll not endanger you by staying. All I need to know is what Cambray’s planning, and whether Forstus is dead or not!’

  Barboza spat into the fire. ‘That stinking cur! Word is he’s alive – but badly hurt.’ A sudden smile transformed the landlord’s face. ‘I heard it were Galliard that gave him the drop, sir! That were a good day’s work! Pity she weren’t a mite higher at the time! But Cambray...’ Barboza shook his head. ‘Making himself hated, he is. Taxes are up again, and them fat merchant-mice are grumbling good and proper. Trade’s at a standstill – you should’ve seen my bar last night. Well-nigh empty! Cambray’s spies are everywhere. Folks are stopping at home for fear of saying something they might regret. Cambray’s got patrols scouring the countryside for Prince Armand, and you, too, sir!’

  At that moment, Pombal’s press gang was scouring Vittles Lane for mice. Their first victims were two young brothers, sent to the docks by their mother for the morning’s catch of fish. The press gang grabbed them both. The brothers struggled bravely, but they were no match for the sea-mice. Their paws and legs were tightly bound, and two of the gang hauled them off to the ship.

  Arriving at the inn, Pombal hammered at the door. ‘Open up! In the General’s name!’

  Gideon and Conal leapt to their feet. ‘Cambray’s guards!’ hissed Gideon. ‘How did they know we were here?’

  ‘Out the side door, sir, quick!’ whispered Barboza.

  ‘It’ll be covered!’ Gideon was convinced that the inn was surrounded by the General’s troops. ‘But we’ll have to risk it and fight our way through. Conal, if we get separated, meet me in the Cathedral – we should be able to hide there. Come on!’

  Pombal was trying to break down the door. Barboza waited as long as he dared; then he turned the key and stepped aside as the press gang almost fell into the inn.

  ‘About time!’ snarled the Bosun – then the side-door banged and shouts of alarm echoed from the alley, followed by the sound of running feet.

  Gideon and Conal had hurled aside the sea-mice guarding the door, and sprinted for the lane. ‘Into the town!’ gasped Gideon but already Pombal’s two followers had run from the inn, and as the warriors dashed from the alley, the street resounded to the clash of swords.

  The sea-mice were hacking wildly with their heavy cutlasses, and when the other two sailors emerged from the alley, Gideon and Conal found themselves surrounded.

  But the press gang was hated in Aramon. Suddenly, mice were running from their shops and pelting the sailors with cabbages, rotten eggs, bags of flour – anything they could lay their paws on.

  Vittles Lane became a battleground. Slipping and slithering on broken eggs, and buffeted by cabbages, the sea-mice fell back.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Gideon. Their way was clear, their enemies were covered in flour and egg, the shop­keepers were shouting in triumph – when Pombal emerged from the Inn.

  ‘Throw down your swords! Or big-mouse gets it!’

  His pistol was at Barboza’s head. Mice turned away in disgust and returned to their shops. Gideon and Conal glanced at one another in despair. They could still make a run for it, but at the cost of Barboza’s life. As they dropped their swords, the press gang seized them, flung them to the cobbles, and tied them up.

  Pombal made a mocking bow to the landlord. ‘Thank you, friend! Two strapping mice for the good ship Bonaventure. They fought hard. Now they’re going to work hard. And if they don’t we’ll give them a taste of the lash!’

  As soon as they were aboard, Gideon and Conal were put to work. Their relief that they had not, after all, been captured by Cambray’s guards, quickly turned to dismay. They were stuck on the Bonaventure with little chance of escape. Meanwhile, if any mouse recognized them, they would find themselves in the deepest dungeon of the Great Fortress.

  So they did as they were told and laboured with the crew to prepare the ship for sailing and endured the bitter cold and the pain of Pombal’s lash across their naked backs.

  When all was ready, the Bonaventure weighed anchor. As she swung away from the dock, the brisk north-easterly wind snapped the sails taut, and the great galleon glided down-river towards the open sea.

  11. Capture!

  One bright morning, Prince Armand trotted down the grassy track away from the old tower. Bored with waiting for news of Gideon and Conal, the little mouse had nagged at Dabo to be allowed out for some fresh air and exercise. Eventually, Dabo agreed but Armand knew that his friend was watching from the topmost room of the tower, anxiously scanning the countryside for signs of approaching danger.

  Armand wasn’t worried. It was obvious to him that General Cambray had completely lost track of them. With a light heart, Armand broke into a run and charged down the slope. The breeze ruffled his fur and he thrilled to the scents of trees and damp earth that set his whiskers quivering. Out of sight now of the grim old tower, he pelted round a curve in the path straight into a patrol of Cambray’s mice.

  Lance-Corporal Slackcote, with Privates Nolan and Albert, had been sent out at daybreak by their sergeant to check on an old tower that was supposed to exist somewhere in the vicinity. ‘Though I don’t reckon it much as a hiding place for runaway royals and escaping eagle-riders,’ the sergeant had said, puffing contentedly on his morning pipe. ‘Where’d they get food from? More likely they’re snug in some farm or other, being sheltered by some of the old King’s friends, whilst we’re traipsing round the country on a wild goose chase. Still, you’d better go and take a dekko.’

  So the three mice had shambled off, most unwillingly, and had already wandered for several hours, and with several stops, in the vague direction indicated by the sergeant. They were on the point of stopping for their fourth brew-up, followed by a kip, when round the bend in the track came galloping a young mouse, dressed in a scruffy old pair of breeches and a brown, woollen shirt.

  ‘Woa, there, kid!’ said Slackcote, planting his solid bulk across the path. ‘Where you off to, then?’

  Dabo’s not such an old fusspot after all, thought Armand. The soldiers wore grubby forage-caps and stained overalls. Their ancient matchlocks were patterned with rust. Not the Elite Guard. But still dangerous.

  Luckily, Dabo had prepared Armand for just such a moment as this, and instantly the little mouse went into his well-rehearsed emergency routine.

  ‘Cor, blimey!’ he exclaimed. ‘You give me a jump, you did! Where’m I off to? Looking for mushrooms! Have you seen any? My gran told me to go and find some for supper. I lives with her, you see, since my mum and dad were killed by the King’s wicked troopers — ’

  ‘All right, all right, I don’t want your blooming life story,’ said Slackcote, testily. ‘What d’you know about an old tower what’s supposed to be round here somewhere?’

  Armand thought of Dabo up in the turret room. ‘The tower? Yeah, that’s just up the track there. But my gran, she says I’m not to go near it. Reckons it’s haunted!’

  ‘Oh yes? And is it?’ sneered Nolan.

  Armand looked at him scornfully. ‘Course it ain’t! S’nothing but an old ruin! But my gran, she’s scared of ghosts, like. I goes and mucks about there sometimes, only don’t let on to her, will you, ’cos – ’

  ‘Listen, kid,’ said Slackcote. ‘Shut up about ghosts. Shut up about your gran. Just tell me: have you seen any strangers living up at this old tower?’

  Armand forced himself to look the other mouse straight in the eye, and to hide his fear under a cheeky grin. ‘Living up there? T’ain’t likely any mouse’d want to live up there. I told you, it’s just an old ruin!’

  The two privates glanced at one another. �
�C’mon, Corp,’ said Nolan. ‘Let’s get out of it. No point mollocking around here.’

  ‘S’right,’ agreed Albert. This fat mouse was one of the laziest in the regiment. ‘My feet are killing me and I reckon I’ve got a cold coming on.’

  Armand turned aside, pretending to lose interest. He crouched beneath the over-hanging trees beside the path, and began pushing aside the tufts of grass, as if searching for mushrooms. Oh, Lord of Light, he prayed, let them go away!

  But after a long argument, Slackcote said, ‘No. The Sarge said we had to find this tower and check it over. So that’s what we’re going to do.’

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ grumbled Albert. ‘Why don’t you go, and we’ll wait here? Kid can show you the way.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Slackcote. ‘I ain’t going nowhere on me tod. Come on, you lazy lump, get a shift on. Lead the way, kid!’

  Armand sighed and scrambled to his feet. ‘All right, it’s up to you. You won’t find nuffink, though.’

  And he slouched back up the path, followed by the patrol.

  Dabo had not stirred from the top window since Armand skipped out of sight beneath the trees. Now, seeing the little mouse in the company of soldiers, Dabo quickly stepped back into the room and seized the flintlock rifle that leant against the wall. Through the unglazed window, little more than a slit in the thick stonework, he could hear Armand talking cheerfully. Dabo pulled back the hammer and slipped the striker over the priming-pan. The rifle was ready for firing.

  ‘There!’ said Armand scornfully. ‘What did I tell you! Just an old ruin. Can I go now? I gotta get them mushrooms.’

  ‘No. Not yet. Albert, go in and have a look.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ moaned Albert. ‘Talk about a flipping waste of time ...’ With a gusty sigh, he trudged up to the door, kicked it open and disappeared inside. Dabo heard him shuffling about on the ground floor.