“What is it, Albion?” The dowager duchess arrived at the other end of the corridor, looking singularly unconcerned. Albion’s panics were legendary and were rarely of any consequence. “Goodness! What a mess! What have you been doing?”
Albion was dancing up and down, flailing at the feathers. “It’s ruined!”
“Nonsense,” Hortense said sharply. “Stand here, and I’ll send your valet up with a brush. Then come down for dinner.” She looked rather more closely at her nephew. “Is that some kind of uniform?”
“What?” Albion suddenly remembered his uniform was meant to be a secret. If his aunt put two and two together, she might suspect his wonderful plans for a parade on Cockenzie Rood Day, and there was little doubt she would forbid it. “No, no.” He waved a casual arm, sending feathers fluttering. “It’s just something I found . . . in the nursery. Yes. The dress-up box, don’t you know. Super-duper stuff in there, but a bit mothy.” He sneezed loudly, and yet more feathers whirled about his head. “Better get changed. See you at dinner, cuz.” And he popped back into his bedroom like a rabbit bolting into its hole.
Hortense, still curious about Albion’s appearance, was about to follow him, but she was distracted by the sound of shouting outside the palace. Strange, she thought, and went to look, but by the time she reached a window facing the right direction, there was no sign of any unusual activity. One soldier was locking up the guardhouse for the night, and another couple were engaged in animated conversation with Bullstrop, the new butler.
Humph! Hortense thought. Bullstrop’s duties are meant to be inside the palace, not outside. Still . . . maybe he went out for a breath of fresh air. And she swept away to give instructions to Prince Albion’s valet before making her way down the grand staircase to the enormous and over-furnished dining room, where the table was laid for three. Of King Dowby, however, there was no sign.
When Albion came down to dinner, he was dressed in his usual style, apart from a couple of feathers in his hair. His valet had managed to restore the uniform to its previous pristine condition, and the prince had taken the precaution of swearing him to secrecy with the promise of chocolates and an extra day off.
“Looks like splendid soup, cuz,” he said as he sat himself down. “Simply splendid!”
“Thank you, Albion.” The duchess stirred her own soup thoughtfully. “Do you know anything about Bullstrop? The new butler? Where did he come from?”
“Oh!” Albion looked relieved. He had been worrying about an interrogation on the subject of his uniform. “Pa appointed him. He was Pa’s coachman, but he kept getting such terrible chilblains, he couldn’t get his boots on, so Pa said he’d be better off working inside.” Albion giggled. “He’s a bit of a change from Sponge, isn’t he?”
Hortense thought fondly of the kind and venerable Sponge, who had played bears with a very young Albion for hours on end with never a word of complaint. “He is, indeed.”
“Quite smart, though. Gives a good impression. Sponge was — well, a bit faded around the edges.” Albion attacked his soup with vigor. “And it’s good for Cockenzie Rood to be up-to-date in every way.”
“Hmm,” the duchess said doubtfully. “That’s a matter of opinion. Is your father coming in for dinner?”
Albion shook his head. “I saw him this afternoon. He’s gone to a horse fair. Won’t be back for—” The prince stopped himself just in time. He had been thrilled to the core by the news that his father was going to be away for a whole week, including Cockenzie Rood Day. So thrilled, in fact, that he had omitted to remind the king that the duchess was also intending to be away. When King Dowby said, “Cousin Hortense’ll run everything. She always does, always will, so I might as well leave her to it,” Albion had merely nodded. He had justified his action by telling himself he had not told a lie. He had merely taken a decision to avoid unnecessary explanations.
He smiled at the duchess and amended his statement to “Pa said he’d be back very soon.”
“Good,” said the duchess. “As long as he’s back in time to make his speech. Now, dear, tell me. Did you hear a disturbance earlier this evening?”
Albion looked blank. “Disturbance?”
Hortense nodded. “Shouting. Outside the front door.”
Albion continued to look blank. “No,” he said. “I didn’t hear anything. Can I have some more soup?”
Hortense rang the bell. A moment later Bullstrop oozed his way into the dining room.
“You rang, Your Grace?”
“The prince would like more soup, if you please,” the duchess told him. “And, Bullstrop, what was going on earlier this evening? I heard shouting, and shortly afterward I caught sight of you outside in conversation with some of the guard.”
Bullstrop smiled an oily smile. “I do hope you weren’t h’unduly disturbed, Your Grace. It was merely a couple of foolish young vagrants and a green h’object taking h’advantage of the open h’approach to the palace. The young man became h’abusive, Your Grace, and had to be forcefully suppressed. The h’object has been dealt with. You will not be bothered again.”
“A green object?” The duchess’s eyebrows rose. “What kind of green object? Do you mean a vegetable?”
Albion dropped his spoon and looked anxious.
Bullstrop coughed. “It was, so to say, Your Grace, a troll.”
“A troll?” Hortense, Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood, prided herself on keeping calm in every situation. Nevertheless, her voice rose as she asked, “Are you telling me a troll came knocking on our front door, and nobody thought to tell me?”
The butler grew even more haughty. “It h’appeared to be the property of a young female with h’unfortunate footwear. As such, I judged it h’unnecessary to bother you.”
“Quite right!” Albion beamed at Bullstrop.
“Be quiet, Albion,” his cousin snapped. “Where is this troll now? And the girl? And what of the young man? Did he also have unfortunate footwear?”
Bullstrop felt himself on firmer ground. “The young man, Your Grace, was singularly h’objectionable. He had the h’audacity to call himself a prince. Prince Marcus, if I remember, and when challenged —”
Albion gave a shriek of laughter. “SUPER-DUPER! It’s Marcus and Gracie and that troll — what’s he called? Bobble. You thought Marcus was a tramp! Oh, serves him right! Serves him jolly well right! He never ever brushes his hair or polishes his boots, and I don’t suppose he washes his neck much either!”
The duchess had risen from her chair. “Am I to understand,” she asked, and her voice was icy, “that Prince Marcus and his friends have been locked up?”
Bullstrop folded his arms. “H’excuse me. It was a simple h’error of judgment, Your Grace.”
“I see. I have to say that I believe your appointment as butler also to have been an error of judgment. You are dismissed, Bullstrop. Collect your things, and leave the palace. Albion! Stop giggling this instant, and come with me. We must release poor Marcus!”
Gracie Gillypot was slowly making her way back toward the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood. She had been marched down the palace driveway by one of the soldiers, her slippers flip-flapping as she tried to keep up, and was sent away in the direction of the village.
“Off with you, missie,” the soldier said, but not unkindly. “And don’t go playing games like that again. If you were wanting a peek at His Highness, you’ll see plenty of him on Cockenzie Rood Day.” He dropped a meaningful wink. “Got plans, the prince has. Can’t tell you no more, but you dress yourself up a bit and get in the front row, and you’ll see him good and proper.” He winked again, slapped Gracie cheerfully on the back, and stood watching as she trailed away along a path leading to a small cluster of houses.
Gracie, thinking hard, headed for the nearest cottage. It was surrounded by trees and bushes, and as soon as she had reached the shelter of the largest tree, she looked back to see if the soldier had gone. He was standing where she had left him. As she watched, he took off hi
s helmet, scratched his head, put his helmet back on, and sat down on a milestone. He then pulled a pipe from his pocket and, to Gracie’s horror, settled himself for a comfortable smoke.
“I’ll just have to wait,” she told herself. “Oh, I do wish Marlon was here. Or Alf.” She leaned against the tree and looked hopefully up into the branches. “Anyone there? Any bats?”
There was no answer.
Gracie began to sigh, then stopped herself. “Come on, Gracie Gillypot! This won’t do. Standing here feeling sorry for yourself, and you a Trueheart! You should be pleased you’re having an adventure, even if you didn’t quite mean to and your slippers keep falling off.” She had another quick peek at the soldier; he was now blowing smoke rings. Gracie straightened her shoulders and tied her disreputable apron a little tighter. “As soon as he goes away, I’ll get back to the palace. Maybe I should try and find Prince Albion? Hmm.” She twisted the end of her braid. “I think I’ll find Marcus and Gubble first. Marcus knows far more about palaces than I do.”
Satisfied that she had made a sensible decision, Gracie arranged herself so she could watch the soldier without being seen. As the minutes ticked by, she did her best to think Positive and Encouraging Thoughts. “It’s no good worrying about Marcus,” she told herself. “He probably went marching on ahead like that because . . . because . . . oh, bother. But—” Gracie brightened. “But on the other hand, he did shout at the soldier to put me down. So that’s all right.” It wasn’t, quite, but she resolutely stuck her chin in the air and began to whistle under her breath.
Now, finally, she was retracing her steps. The evening had turned into night, but there were gas lamps flaring on either side of the palace drive. Gracie was doing her best to keep hidden among the ornamental shrubs edging the drive, but it was not easy. Behind the shrubs was woodland, and at every step a twig snapped or leaves rustled, making her jump.
It began to rain: a steady drizzle that trickled down Gracie’s neck until she was as wet on the inside of her clothes as on the outside. Her slippers were so sodden, they weighed her down like lead weights. She was tempted to kick them off and go barefoot, but was unsure how she would explain their absence to Auntie Val, who was fond of them.
“Think how pleased Marcus and Gubble will be to see you,” she told herself as she struggled on.
A moment later she heard the clatter of hooves. “The guards!” Gracie hurled herself into the depths of the nearest shrub and waited, her heart pounding. It was not, however, the guards. It was a coach traveling at such a speed that Gracie caught only the briefest glimpse of the occupants. She rubbed her eyes. Had she really seen Marcus? Marcus, his face pale in the gaslight, leaning forward as if to urge the driver on? If it was Marcus, then where was Gubble? Gracie shook her head. She must have imagined it. She extricated herself from the bush with some difficulty, but just as she disentangled herself from the last clinging creeper, she heard heavy footsteps coming toward her.
“Oh, BOTHER!” she said. Back into the shrub she went, hoping the rain would disguise any noise she might make, and waited to see who was coming. Even the footsteps sounded angry, and as the bulky figure drew close, Gracie could hear muttering and swearing. To her astonishment, she recognized the butler who had refused to let Marcus into the palace; he was carrying a large suitcase and a bulging leather bag, and his expression made her sink back deeper among the thorns and hold her breath.
Five minutes later she emerged for the second time, not only soaked to the skin but with several painful scratches and leaves in her hair. One of the slippers had disappeared and could not be found; with a certain guilty relief, Gracie abandoned the other one and squelched out onto the edge of the driveway. To cheer herself up, she began talking to herself. “I don’t think I really ought to keep hiding away. After all, it isn’t as if I’ve done anything wrong. And neither have Marcus and Gubble. It’s all a big misunderstanding. In fact, by now it’s probably been sorted out, and Marcus and Gubble are having a good laugh about it with Prince Albion. And maybe even some dinner — oh! Just imagine hot soup! And toast!” Gracie’s stomach gave a hungry rumble. “But what time is it?” She squinted into the darkness at the top of the drive. “I can’t see any lights on . . .” A hideous premonition floated into her mind. What if she arrived at the palace to find that everyone had gone to bed? What would she do? As her cheery thoughts faded, others took their place. “Marcus can’t have gotten free, or he’d have come looking for me . . . wouldn’t he? Gubble would. I know he would. So they must be in the guardhouse after all . . . oh, dear.” And Gracie wiped her eyes, hoping it was rain and not tears making it so difficult to see.
“Chin up, kiddo!”
“MARLON!” Gracie spun around, her woes forgotten. “Dearest Marlon — where are you?”
“Over here,” said the wonderfully familiar voice. “Bit damp tonight. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.”
Gracie wiped the rain out of her eyes. “I had, actually. Just a bit. But I can’t see you . . .”
“Don’t do rain. Only in emergencies. Over here.”
Gracie peered upward and saw Marlon hanging from the underside of a gas lamp. What provided shelter for a bat did not do much for Gracie. “Have you been to the palace?” she asked through chattering teeth. “Did you see Marcus and Gubble?”
“Nah. Just arrived. What’s up?”
“Oh, Marlon!” Gracie heard her voice wobble and took a deep breath. “Marlon, it’s all been horrible. The path brought us here by mistake, and Marcus and Gubble are locked up in the guardhouse — at least, I think they are, but I don’t know . . .”
“Never fear, Marlon’s here,” Marlon said cheerfully. “Keep going, kid. I’ll zip ahead and do recon on the joint. See you in five!” And he was gone.
Marcus was fretting. As the coach bumped and rattled its way toward Gorebreath, he shifted from side to side trying to make sense of all that had happened that day. When two red-faced soldiers had unlocked the door of his cramped and uncomfortable prison, his first question had been “Where’s Gracie?”
Albion, grinning from ear to ear, had popped up beside them. “Oops! Bit of a boo-boo, Marcus old chap.”
“But where’s Gracie? Is she here?”
The taller of the two soldiers coughed. “If Your Highness, and apologies for all inconvenience caused, is referring to the young lady, I can report that she is safely restored to her home.”
Marcus stared at him. “She’s back at home?”
The tall soldier nodded. “Saw her heading up the path with my very own eyes.”
Marcus blinked. Had the path come to fetch Gracie? In the strange world of the Ancient Crones, anything was possible. “And . . . and she looked all right? She didn’t . . . that is . . . she didn’t leave any message, or anything like that?”
The soldier was a kind man. Thinking to make Marcus feel better, he said cheerily, “Not a word. Couldn’t wait to get back, I’d say. Skipping along, happy as a lark.”
“Oh.” Marcus rubbed at his hair. “I see. Look, can you unlock Gubble?”
“Albion?” The duchess appeared in the doorway, still dressed for dinner. “Have you apologized to poor Marcus? And his friends? Marcus, dear boy, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this has happened. What can we do to make it up to you? Do come and have some dinner, and stay the night. We can make you very comfortable.”
“Stay the night?” Albion stopped grinning. “Why would he want to stay the night, cuz?”
“Of course he must stay. And . . . What did you say his friends were called? Gracie Gillypot and Mr. Bobble? They must stay too.”
Albion made a faint noise of disapproval, and Hortense held up her hand. “Don’t be silly, Albion. You and Marcus have known each other since you were babies. You can have a lovely breakfast together and catch up on old times. Now, I’ll go and order more food for everyone, and you bring them to the dining room.” And she swept away, leaving Albion opening and closing his mouth while he tried unsuccessfully to
think up an objection to his cousin’s plans.
“Ug.” Gubble came stomping out from the shadows. “Where Gracie?”
“She’s gone back to the House of the Ancient Crones,” Marcus told him. “The path came to collect her.” He turned to the tall soldier. “That’s right, isn’t it? You saw the path taking her home?”
The soldier looked blank. “Eh?”
Gubble grunted and headed for the door. “Find Gracie,” he said. “Gubble find Gracie NOW.” With a baleful glare, he elbowed the soldiers out of the way. A moment later he had disappeared into the darkness outside.
“Is he dangerous?” Albion asked anxiously.
Marcus shook his head. “No. Not at all. But he doesn’t really listen to anyone except Gracie. He’ll be OK. Oh, dear.” He looked at Albion. “I didn’t mean to arrive out of the blue like this. I meant to go back to Gorebreath, but we ended up here by mistake. I say, Albion, I’m in terrible trouble with my parents. I don’t suppose I could borrow a horse, could I? You see, I really do need to see Father and Mother tonight . . .”
“Going home? You’ve got to get back to Gorebreath? Tonight?” Even through his confusion, Marcus recognized the relief in Albion’s voice. “Of course you can borrow a horse, old boy. Ten horses! Twenty if you need ’em! Leave it to me. I’ll get it sorted out. Super-duper!”
And before he could ask any questions, Marcus found himself swept away to the stables, and orders given for the fastest coach to be made ready immediately.
“But I can ride,” he protested. “Honestly I can!”
“But if you go now, you can pick up Bobble,” Albion told him. “He can’t have gone far. Pick him up, and take him with you.”
As Marcus swung himself into the coach, a thought occurred to him. “Albion, are you up to something? Something you don’t want me to know about?”
“ME?” Albion slammed the coach door shut with a crash. “Planning something? Oh, no, no, no. What could I possibly be planning? Driver, are you ready? Off you go, then! Super-duper! Have a good trip! Nice to see you! Do come again . . .” Albion waved as the coach bowled out of the stable yard. “But not tomorrow,” he added to himself as he marched back to the palace. “Not tomorrow. Tomorrow I have plans.” He gave a self-congratulatory chuckle. “Me and my spy.”
The Music of Zombies Page 5