“Gracie would hate diamonds.” Marcus stalked across to the window and stared out in the manner of a prisoner peering through his bars. “Besides, how can I take her anything? Father said that if I didn’t stay around for at least a week, I’d—” He swallowed. “I’d be the biggest disappointment of his life.”
“Ah.” Arry shook his head. “See what you mean. Difficult . . .” His brother’s distress was troubling him, and he searched his mind for a solution. “Hey! What about Bluebell?”
“What about her?” Marcus asked, puzzled. Bluebell, Queen of Wadingburn, was a formidable woman. She strode around the Five Kingdoms offering advice to all and sundry, whether they had requested it or not. More usually it was not, but that had never been known to deflect her from her purpose.
“Get her to talk to Father.” Arioso beamed, certain that he had solved the problem. “She likes you. You may think I don’t notice things, but I do, you know. Bluebell likes you. Actually, she likes Gracie too. In fact, I think she likes her better than — What’s that noise?”
The brothers listened. There was a muffled squeaking coming from the chimney. A moment later a cloud of coal dust and a scatter of stones fell into the empty hearth, followed by a small and soot-encrusted bat.
“Oops!” it said.
Marcus grinned. “Hello, Alf. I had a feeling you’d turn up sometime.”
“Mr. Prince!” Alf was unabashed by his unceremonious arrival. “Have you seen Miss Gracie? Is she here?”
Before Marcus could ask Alf to explain, there was a tapping on the window.
“Gosh!” Arioso’s eyes opened wide. “There’s another one! And it’s bigger!” Aware of Marcus’s unorthodox collection of friends, he turned to his brother. “Is this something to do with you?”
Marcus grinned and opened the window. “Marlon, meet my brother, Arioso. Arry, this is Marlon. And the grubby one is Alf. Alf, whatever were you —?”
“No time for that, kiddo.” Marlon had flown to the prince’s shoulder. “Urgent message. Ahem.”
“Oh!” Understanding flooded into Marcus’s mind. “Erm . . . Arry, why don’t you go and get ready? I’ll be with you in two ticks — I’ll just find out what’s going on in the world of bats.” He hoped he was sounding sufficiently casual, but Arry hesitated in the doorway.
“Is everything all right?”
“Absolutely!” Marcus gave his twin a cheery wave, and Arioso obediently left the room, only to put his head back around the door a second later. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“No, no. Well . . .” Marcus was touched by Arry’s concern. “If there is, I’ll come and tell you. Promise.”
As soon as Arioso had closed the door behind him, Marlon flew down to Marcus’s shoulder. “Got a message from the kid. Says she needs you — needs you right now.”
Marcus’s heart began to hammer in his chest. “What’s happened to her?”
“Not her.” Marlon dropped his voice. “Prince Albion. Bopped on the head and carted off in a wheelbarrow.”
Relief that Gracie wasn’t hurt made Marcus hoot with laughter. “Poor old Albion! He can’t like that much. But I bet he was asking for it. I’ve often wanted to bop him on the head myself. But . . . hang on a moment. I thought Gracie was back at home?”
“Spent the night in a shed.” Marlon, having heard Gracie’s account of the events of the previous evening, was strongly of the opinion that Marcus could have done more to make sure she was safe. “Soaking wet. Came back to rescue you from the guardhouse. Bare feet ’n’ all.”
“WHAT?” Marcus looked so shocked that Marlon felt a pang.
“Maybe you didn’t know, kid,” he conceded. “But that’s where she was. In a shed. And that’s where we saw what happened.”
Marcus was now striding up and down the room in agitation. “But that soldier — he said the path had come for her! I asked him twice! I’d never, ever have gone home if I’d had any idea Gracie was still around. Never! You know I wouldn’t!”
Alf, hanging from the candelabra and doing his best to scrape away several layers of soot from his fur, nodded. “True love,” he murmured. “True love.”
Marlon flew in front of Marcus, flapping his wings to catch his attention. “Sorry, kid. But she could be in trouble. Albion’s been wheeled off, and she’s following him —”
“Right!” Marcus headed for the door, then slapped his head. “Oh, NO! Glee’s not here! What shall I . . . I know. I’ll take Arry’s pony. Arry won’t mind.” He hurled himself out of the room and two minutes later was running across the stable yard. There was no sign of the stable boy, but Marcus had no time to waste. He saddled and bridled his brother’s pony as fast as he could and clattered out of the yard, Marlon flying above him.
“Take it steady, kiddo,” the bat warned. “Broken necks don’t help nobody.”
Marcus made no attempt to slow his speed. “Tell Gracie I’m coming,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can. HURRY, Marlon!”
“Wilco.” Marlon felt he had done his best. A moment later he was a speck in the distance.
Arioso, glancing out his bedroom window to check if it was sunny enough to wear his new pale blue satin coat, was just in time to see his brother galloping down the driveway. A second glance revealed that Marcus was riding Hinny, Arry’s pony.
Arry sighed. “I knew something was up. Oh, dear. He’s going to be in terrible trouble. Whatever will Father say?”
So disturbed that he failed to notice his buttons were done up the wrong way, Arioso hurried down the stairs and back to the dining room. “Bat?” he called. “Bat? Are you there?”
It had taken Alf longer to free himself from the coal dust and soot than he had expected, and he was still hanging from the candelabra cleaning his furry stomach. He looked at the anxious Arioso with interest. “Morning, Mr. Prince,” he said. Then, feeling this wasn’t quite right, he added, “I mean, good morning, Mr. Prince who’s Mr. Prince’s brother. I mean the Mr. Prince who’s Miss Gracie’s Mr. Prince, that is, Mr. Prince.”
Arry, already suffering from stress, clutched at his head. “Erm,” he said. “Erm . . .”
Alf flew down to perch on the enormous silver centerpiece. A small flurry of soot came with him. “Are you in love, Mr. Prince?” he inquired. “’Cause Miss Gracie and Mr. Prince — that’s not you, Mr. Prince, but the other Mr. Prince — they are, but they don’t know it.” Alf sighed a romantic sigh and fanned himself with a wing. “I don’t suppose you could help?”
Arry shook his head. “Erm . . .” He did his best to gather his thoughts. “Look here, Bat. I need to know. Is my brother in danger?”
Alf was delighted by the question. “He’s gone to rescue his own true love,” he said in his most dramatic squeak. “Did you see my uncle Marlon? He’s a messenger. Ever so important, he is.” Family pride got the better of Alf’s sense of caution. “He knows everything, Unc does. He came flying from miles and miles away to warn Mr. Prince that Miss Gracie was in terrible danger. Her and the other Mr. Prince — Mr. Prince who’s the prince at Cockenzie Rood. Bopped on the head and carried away in a wheelbarrow —”
“But . . .” Arry shut his eyes while he tried to process this alarming news. “You mean . . . You mean Prince Albion? He’s been bopped on the head? Or was Gracie Gillypot bopped? I don’t understand. And was Albion put in a wheelbarrow? How terribly undignified. How simply, utterly dreadful —”
Alf realized he had said too much, but it was too late. Arioso was on his feet, and before Alf could say another word, he was ringing a bell as loudly as he could. As servants came running, he hurried into the hallway. “Call the guard!” he ordered. “Where’s Father? Where’s Mother? We’ve got to call out the army, and we’ve got to do it at once!”
King Frank and Queen Mildred, hearing the furor, came hurrying down the staircase.
“What is it?” the king asked. “What’s going on?”
Arioso wrung his hands. “Terrible news, Father. So
meone in Cockenzie Rood has kidnapped Albion and put him in a wheelbarrow, and Marcus has dashed off to rescue him!”
“No, he hasn’t! He’s gone to rescue Miss Gracie!” Alf squeaked indignantly, but nobody heard him. Offended, he flew up to a dark corner to make sure his wings were functioning properly before he set off after Marcus and Marlon.
King Frank frowned. “Are you sure of this, Arioso? Are you sure it isn’t yet another of your brother’s silly pranks?”
Queen Mildred put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Of course it isn’t, dear.” She turned to Arry. “Did they send a messenger from Cockenzie Rood? Is he still here? Poor, dear Hortense . . . she must be so worried.”
There was a sudden thump as Arry sat down and swallowed hard. There had indeed been a messenger, but the messenger had been a bat. And although Marcus dealt happily in the world of talking bats, Arry was certain his father and mother would not. In fact, now that he came to think about it, they would most probably think he, too, was indulging in a . . . What had his father called it? A silly prank. But he had to help Marcus . . .
“Erm . . .” Arry said. “The messenger had to leave. At once.”
Queen Mildred gave him a puzzled look. “And he didn’t want to speak to your father?”
Arry was floundering. He had never been good at telling lies, or even half-truths. He looked around for inspiration but found none. “He only wanted to speak to Marcus,” he said lamely, then added, “He didn’t want to speak to me.”
“Hmm. Just as I thought.” King Frank nodded. “It’s some mischief or other. Didn’t Marcus go to see Albion yesterday evening? This is some plot they’ve hatched up so Marcus can go off gallivanting again.”
“Dearest, we don’t know that,” the queen said. “And what if Arry’s right, and Albion has been kidnapped? Wouldn’t it be too, too dreadful if we ignored a cry for help?”
The king hesitated. There was a small part of him, usually firmly suppressed, that admired Marcus’s enthusiasm for adventures. This same small part, given space to express itself, also wished that Arioso was sometimes a little less cautious and obliging. “Ahem,” he said. “You’re sure you couldn’t have misunderstood the message, Arry?”
Arry shook his head.
The king made up his mind. “Then you must take four of the guard and ride to Cockenzie Rood right now this minute. Take a messenger pigeon, and if Albion really has been kidnapped, you can send it to me . . . although I still have my doubts. And don’t forget to assure King Dowby and the duchess that we will do all we can to assist them.”
“That’s right,” Queen Mildred agreed. “And remember to send the pigeon to Dreghorn, dear. Your father and I will be there all day. Queen Kesta wants to plan a surprise party for Bluebell’s birthday, although I’m not sure Bluebell will like it. Oh! Will Kesta have heard about poor Albion?”
The king sighed. “If she has, we’ll know all about it the second we arrive. But let’s be careful. If they haven’t heard anything, we won’t mention it. We don’t want those girls weeping and crying and having hysterics if there’s no need for it. Plenty of time for that once we’ve heard from Arioso.”
Arry opened and closed his mouth. “But . . .” he began, as a new consequence floated into his mind. “But what about Nina-Rose? She’ll be expecting me, and she’ll be ever so cross if I don’t come when I said I was going to.”
“Nonsense.” King Frank looked at his oldest son with unusual disapproval. “This might be an emergency, and in the case of an emergency, we royals must always do what needs to be done!” He puffed out his chest as if it was covered with rows of shining medals awarded for Bravery in Action. “One day you’ll be king, my boy, and then you’ll have to take responsibility. Be a leader of your people! Best to get some practice now.” He swung around to the servants lining the wall. “Prince Arioso will be riding out. Prepare his horse!”
“But, Father,” Arry said quickly, “Marcus has taken my pony!” He hated riding, and he had watched Marcus ride away on Hinny, the only pony he had ever managed to stay on for more than fifteen minutes. “Besides, if I’m taking a messenger pigeon, wouldn’t I be better going in a coach?”
Mildred, who knew exactly how her oldest son felt about riding, clapped her hands. “SUCH a good idea,” she said. “But your father and I will be taking the coach to Dreghorn. Why don’t you take my open carriage? I’ll send some fruit and flowers for dear Hortense. And don’t worry about darling Nina-Rose. We’ll tell her you’ve been called away on an urgent mission of enormous importance, and she’ll be so proud of you, Arry dear.” And she bustled away to get things ready.
Arry went slowly upstairs to change his blue satin coat for something more serviceable. He was not looking forward to his mission. What if this kidnapper chappie’s out to collect a whole load of princes? he thought. Oh, bother it all. Things like this shouldn’t happen in the Five Kingdoms. All I want is a nice peaceful life . . .
A small dark shape flittered into view. “Hey, Mr. Prince who isn’t Gracie’s Mr. Prince! I’m off! Just came to say good-bye!”
“Oh,” Arry said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “I thought you’d already left. Where did you say you were going?”
“To find Miss Gracie and Mr. Prince, of course.” Alf demonstrated his very best dip-and-dive technique, thereby drawing a heart in the air, an achievement that was totally lost on Arioso. “I’ll tell them you’re on the way if I get there first. Nice one, Mr. Prince!” And with a flip of his wings, he was out of sight, leaving Arioso feeling oddly comforted by the little bat’s approval.
Fiddleduster Squint was lying back against the base of a broken statue. His home was a crumbling ruin on the edge of Howling Mere. Many hundreds of years before, it had been a fine baronial mansion, but time and wind and rain had reduced it to a heap of mossy stones, and the marsh had gradually seeped into the vaults and cellars, so a permanent chilly dampness haunted every room, whether there was a roof overhead or not. Gray, green, and evil-smelling spotted fungi sprouted in the corners of the walls, and rotting lengths of sodden velvet draped the cracked and discolored windows.
A movement at the entrance made Fiddleduster turn, and he saw his shadow slithering toward him. His expression darkened, and he raised a threatening arm. “How dare you take my power?” he hissed. “I felt it, as I always feel it! See how I am forced to rest, when I should be preparing for my glorious introduction to the Five Kingdoms!”
The shadow hung its head. “It was necessary, Master,” it whispered. “It had to be done. One had no choice. But all will be well . . . all will be well.”
“It will be so much the better for you if it is,” Fiddleduster told him, with a cold glare. “Do I have the invitation? Did our dear, but very possibly unreliable, Mr. Bagsmith do as he promised?”
The shadow shifted from side to side. “Listen, Master. There is no written invitation, but the prince has asked to hear you play . . . and he has asked to hear you today. This very day!”
Fiddleduster pulled himself to his feet with an effort. “Where? Where is this to be? Without the written word, it will be impossible for me to cross the border!”
“If you cannot go to the prince, Master,” the shadow said, and there was satisfaction in its voice, “then the prince must come to you. And so”— it gave a triumphant chuckle —“it has been arranged! At this very moment, Mr. Bagsmith is wheeling him to the Howling Arms to hear your angelic music.”
“Wheeling?” Fiddleduster Squint asked. “The prince comes in a coach?”
“There was . . .” The shadow hesitated. “There was some persuasion necessary. That is why one was forced to steal your power, Master.” It wriggled apologetically. “It was just a single blow, after all. One blow to ensure your future. Surely you can forgive, when so much is at stake?”
There was a pause, then Fiddleduster nodded. “Well done,” he said, and he rubbed his bony fingers together. “Well done, indeed, dear Shadow. I should not have doubted my shadow. Not
for a moment! And now, now I must get ready for this most auspicious of occasions.” He cracked his knuckles gleefully. “How long before our visitor sets foot in the Howling Arms?”
The shadow quivered while it made its calculations. Marley had found the wheelbarrow excessively heavy; Prince Albion could never have been described as a slim youth; and it had taken longer than expected to negotiate the winding paths in the palace grounds and reach the main highway. Progress was not helped by the deviations necessary to avoid being seen, nor by Marley’s constant complaints. It was obvious to the shadow that, had it not been for his terror of the consequences, Marley would happily have left the insensible prince dumped at the side of the road; only the fear that was knotting his stomach and squeezing his heart kept him moving. The shadow had left him pushing the cumbersome wheelbarrow along the first stretch of the narrow rutted lane that ultimately led to the Howling Arms; he had been sweating profusely and swearing under his breath, but moving steadily toward his destination.
“They will be here by midday or a little after.”
“And there is no doubt that they will come?” Fiddleduster stretched to his full height.
The shadow snickered. “No doubt at all. Mr. Bagsmith knows what he must do.”
“Excellent!” His master nodded. “Excellent. But you must return to him, Shadow. Return, and see he does not slacken. And I will hasten to the Howling Arms to wait for your arrival. Oh, what a meeting this will be!”
Gubble had woken up. For a moment he was disoriented; the slats of the bench above him reminded him of bars, and he lay blinking up at them, wondering where he was. “Ug,” he remarked, and then remembered. “Gubble find Gracie.” Rolling out from under the bench, he sat up and looked around. Behind him was Cockenzie Rood. In front of him was Gorebreath. Beyond Gorebreath the river Gore marked the border of the Five Kingdoms, and on the other side, as the crow flew, lay the Rather Ordinary Woods. Gubble grunted. Once through the woods, he would still have to make his way through the Less Enchanted Forest to reach the House of the Ancient Crones.
The Music of Zombies Page 8