“Ug, ug, UFF!” Gubble was pulling as hard as he could, his muscles bulging. His eyes were screwed shut, and every inch of him was concentrated on the root. He was covered in earth, and more was falling. A large lump of mud crashed down beside Gracie, sending the candle flying into darkness.
“Grind! Crush! Slay!” An echoing roar rolled down the tunnel toward them.
Gracie gave a terrified squeal and clutched at Gubble. Gubble grunted, gave a final mighty heave — and the tree root screamed and sprang back, dragging the troll and Gracie into a tiny confined space, where they were pressed together so tightly they could hardly breathe. The ground trembled as the heavy footsteps thundered nearer and nearer; Gracie shut her eyes and prayed that she and Gubble were invisible.
“TRUEHEART!” Mullius Gowk gave a wild bellow of triumph — but it was muffled by a massive fall of mud and rocks and earth. The enormous troll was buried, all but his feet.
Gracie was flung backward, and before she could catch her breath, she was seized by an irresistible force stronger than any wind. All she could think was, I’m falling . . . falling UPWARD! Up and up, up and up she whirled, until sunlight blinded her and she found herself tossed out of the darkness onto a patch of grass in front of an astonished Marlon, a dwarf, and a wide-eyed Alf. Behind her, a battered and broken birch tree limped hastily away to recover in the cool, dim depths of the Unreliable Forest.
There was no sign of Gubble.
Prince Vincent’s mouth opened, shut, then opened again.
“Stupid boy!” his grandmother thundered. “You look like a cod!” She heaved an enormous sigh. “Are you a prince or a worm?”
Vincent’s teeth began to chatter. “P-p-please, Grandmother, I’d rather be a worm than go out of the Five Kingdoms.”
Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn looked at her grandson with disgust. “The Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood assures me that Marigold will hardly have crossed the border. You’re not likely to meet anything more ferocious than a cow.” Seeing Vincent’s face grow even paler, she hastily added, “In a field, you silly boy. In a field.”
Vincent shuffled his feet and played with the tassel on his sword belt. There was no sword; sharp things made him nervous. “But Grandmother . . . couldn’t Marcus go instead? He likes adventures. I don’t.”
“That young man’s already having adventures of his own.” Bluebell decided the time had come to play her trump card. “Of course, I was thinking of sending you in my best traveling coach.”
Prince Vincent brightened a little. “With a coachman? A big coachman?”
“The biggest coachman we can find,” his grandmother assured him. “And there’ll be a picnic. Marigold won’t have had anything to eat for hours and hours, and she looks to me like a girl who likes her puddings and pies.”
Vincent brightened even more. “A picnic? Hmm. I see. Would I be able to choose what’s in the picnic?”
His grandmother took a deep breath. “Yes, Vincent. You may go to the kitchens this very minute and order whatever you like. Hurry up about it, though — I want you on your way as soon as possible.”
Her grandson positively danced his way out of the schoolroom, and Bluebell sank into an armchair.
“Heavens to Betsy,” she said as she fanned herself cool again. “What am I to do with the boy?”
Professor Scallio, part-time tutor to Prince Vincent and his sister, Princess Loobly, looked up from a heavy leather-bound history book and suggested, “Find him a strong-minded princess. When he’s older, of course.”
“But who’d have him?” Bluebell asked gloomily. “Besides, the Five Kingdoms don’t produce strong-minded princesses. You must have noticed that, Professor. My beloved Loobly hardly has a mind at all — although one hopes she’ll be better when she’s had a year or two of your excellent tuition.”
The professor chuckled. “I must admit I was surprised to hear you say Princess Marigold had gone on an adventure.”
“Hmph.” The old queen put her feet up on Vincent’s desk. “She’s only gone because she’s chasing after young Marcus, and he’s gone hunting dwarves, or so Hortense tells me. Now, there’s a lad with a bit of spirit.”
“Indeed.” Professor Scallio nodded. “A tutor should never admit to favorites, but I do have a very soft spot for that young man.” He paused and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Did you say he was hunting dwarves?”
“Watching them, I should have said.” Bluebell waved a casual hand. “Gone with Gracie Gillypot. That’s why Marigold’s rushed off. Green-eyed jealousy, I’d say.” She gave the professor a piercing glance. “What’s up? You look worried.”
The professor picked up his book, then put it down again. “Just a thought. Nothing more.”
Queen Bluebell took her feet off the desk and leaned forward. “What kind of thought?”
“I was wondering about the dwarves,” Professor Scallio said slowly. “It’s that wedding at Dreghorn. There’s never been one quite as grand, and the orders for gold must be unimaginable. They must be under a lot of pressure. Could be a bit of a mistake to go looking for them just now. Wish he’d asked me first.”
“But dwarves are jolly little chaps, aren’t they?” Bluebell was puzzled. “Can be grumpy if they’re not paid on time, but no real harm in them.”
“No. That’s true.” The professor tapped the book in front of him. “But history can tell you a lot. In times of stress the dwarves have been known to call upon the trolls for help, and trolls are a very different type of character.”
Bluebell frowned. “Rubbish, my dear professor. Trolls were dealt with hundreds of years ago, after that High King fellow died. We’ve got laws now. Agreements. Charters. Creatures like that are well under control, you mark my words. Besides, isn’t that twin sister of yours one of the Ancient Crones? Surely she’d know if anything were wrong. And little Gracie’s a Trueheart. She won’t have any trouble with trolls.” She heaved herself to her feet. “No, no, no. Those children are safe as houses. Which reminds me — you’ll have to excuse me while I get Vincent on his way. Fingers crossed that he gets there without having eaten the entire contents of the picnic basket.” The queen gave the professor a worldly-wise nod and sailed out of the parlor to rout Vincent from the kitchens and send him on his adventure.
Professor Scallio went back to his history book, but he was unable to concentrate. “Trolls,” he murmured to himself. “Truehearts. Now . . . what was that story about trolls and Truehearts?” He took another even older book from the shelves and began to flick through the pages. “Here we are . . . yes.” He read a paragraph, then read it again. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.
“When Trueheart’s life is ended here,
the High King’s heart will beat once more
and power come to those who reign.
A King of Kings will rule again.
“Shocking rhyme, and may not be true, of course, but that doesn’t matter. If the trolls believe it, it’s dangerous.” The professor jumped to his feet and began to walk back and forth. “I’d better send a warning. But then again, maybe the Ancient One knows all about it? Dear me, dear me. But better safe than sorry. I’ll send a bat, just to be sure.”
Professor Scallio scribbled a note on a small piece of parchment, then hurried out of the schoolroom and into the library. There he clicked his fingers, and a small bat winged her way down from a shadowy bookcase. “Hello, Prof,” she said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”
“Millie, dear — could you take a message to the House of the Ancient Crones?” The professor handed over the scrap of parchment. “I’m a little concerned about Gracie.”
Millie, the youngest in Marlon’s widespread family of messenger bats, flew an anxious circle. “Oh, no! I’d do anything for Miss Gracie. Does Dad know about it?”
The professor shook his head. “I haven’t seen Marlon in a long while. If you bump into him on your way, tell him to make sure Gracie doesn’t go near any trolls.” Catching sight of Mil
lie’s anxious face, he added, “It may be nothing. Don’t worry too much.”
“I’m off this second, Prof,” Millie told him, and she was gone.
Professor Scallio walked over to the open library window and watched her zigzag into the afternoon sunshine. As he turned back to his books, there was a rumbling on the carriageway below, and Queen Bluebell’s most luxurious traveling coach came rolling into sight. There was no sign of Prince Vincent, but the professor could see a number of baskets and boxes packed inside the coach, so he presumed the prince was somewhere among them. He smiled when he saw the size of the coachman; Vincent’s grandmother had been as good as her word. “Let’s hope he enjoys adventuring,” Professor Scallio said aloud to himself. “Although I think there’s little hope of that. If only he were more like Prince Marcus.”
Marigold had slept for much of the day and had been dreaming. It had started as a wonderful dream in which she and Marcus were walking hand in hand under the stars, but after a while it had turned nasty. Something was chasing them, and Marcus wasn’t taking it nearly seriously enough. He kept clapping his hands and telling her to listen for the beat of the happy little feet as they hurried down the street —
Marigold screamed and sat up. Her dream did not go away, however. The sound of hurrying feet continued — until she realized it was not feet at all, but hooves. Galloping hooves.
“Marcus!” Marigold shrieked as she scrambled to her feet and waved her arms wildly. “I’m here! Come and save me!”
Glee saw her out of the corner of his eye, swerved, then slowed to a walk. He had been seriously spooked by his collision with Gubble, and his long gallop through the forest had been exhausting; he was delighted to see someone he knew. Whenever he had come across Marigold in the past, she had cooed over him and fed him sugar, and comfort was what he most wanted just now. He was disconcerted when Marigold looked at his empty saddle and began to cry; lowering his head, he nuzzled hopefully at the rosebuds on her dress, but she went on crying.
“Marcus has fallen off,” she sobbed, “or he’s been eaten by a monster, and I’ll never see him again . . . Whatever shall I doooooo?”
The pony, having discovered that the rosebuds were not only inedible but distinctly unpleasant, moved an indignant step or two away. Neither Marcus nor Ger, his stable boy, ever cried over him, and he was contemplating making his own way back to Gorebreath when Marigold suddenly realized that she might be about to lose a second pony in one day and caught at his reins. She and Glee looked at each other in some perplexity, both wondering what should happen next. They were saved from making a decision by the sound of someone running; before Marigold had a chance to scream or prepare herself in any way, Marcus came panting down the track, his face scarlet and his hair standing on end.
This was not at all how Marigold had envisaged his arrival, and although she was pleased to see that he had not been eaten by a monster, she made a face.
“You’re all hot and sweaty,” she said, pouting.
At that precise moment Marigold was the last person in the entirety of the Five Kingdoms that Marcus expected to see; she was also the last person he wanted to see. He was worried about Gracie and had been devastated to find that Glee had vanished. He had seen the broken branches and other signs of struggle where Glee and Gubble had collided, and had convinced himself that the pony had been carried off by some fierce and terrible animal and would never be seen again. Relief made him crotchety. “What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded. “And what are you doing with my pony?”
Marigold had no intention of replying to such rude questions. She patted her hair and smoothed her skirts, then checked to see if Marcus had noticed how delightfully she was dressed. As she looked up at his mud-spattered face, she made a surprising discovery. “You’ve been crying.” She sniffed. “I thought you liked adventures!”
Marcus was now furious. “What I like and don’t like isn’t any business of yours, Marigold.” He all but snatched Glee’s reins from her hand, and swung himself into the saddle. “As it happens I’m on the most important adventure of my entire life, and it was nearly wrecked by you stealing my pony, and . . .”
Marcus’s voice died away as he suddenly realized what he was saying. And remembered what he was meant to be doing. He stared at Marigold for so long that she began to blush.
“It’s all right, Marcus,” she simpered. “I know I look terribly, terribly pretty. And I didn’t take your pony, you know. He came running up the road, but when he saw me he stopped at once.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “I expect he was wondering why I was here on my own.”
Marcus made no reply but went on staring. Marigold smiled her sweetest smile and twirled around twice so that the full glory of Fedora’s sky-blue dress could be seen to its best advantage. “Aren’t you wondering why I’m here?” she prompted.
“No,” Marcus said. “Not really.”
Marigold tried another twirl, but the prince frowned. “Would you mind not doing that? It’s making me dizzy, and I’m trying to think.”
“That’s all right.” Marigold did some more eyelash- fluttering. “Just as long as you’re thinking about me.” She was delighted to see Marcus nod in reply; she had begun to think he wasn’t really worth bothering with, but this was much more hopeful. She tilted her head to one side. “Guess what I’m doing! Go on — guess!” As there was no response, she went on, “I’m having an adventure! It was such fun, until my naughty pony ran away . . . but now you’ve come hurrying to rescue me. Darling Marcus! Wouldn’t you like to kiss me?”
“Kiss you?” Marcus looked so horrified that all Marigold’s romantic dreams died a sudden and dramatic death. “Why would I want to kiss you?”
Marigold scowled at him. “I was . . . I was joking, stupid. Can’t you take a joke?” She folded her arms. “I suppose I’ll have to let you give me a ride home, seeing as Fedora’s — I mean, my pony ran away. And I want to go now.”
Marcus slowly dismounted, his thoughts whirling. He had promised to find a princess to take back to the dwarves, and fate had neatly placed a princess in his path, but now that it actually came to asking her to pay a visit to a troll — even if only for the shortest of times — he could see what a difficult task he had set for himself. In his head he had been thinking of one of Marigold’s sisters; Arabella, perhaps, or Araminta. They were both inclined to giggle whenever Marcus came anywhere near them, but they would do almost anything if they were promised a new ballgown or a new pair of gloves. But Marigold? Marcus groaned loudly.
“What’s the matter with you?” Marigold snapped. “Thinking of your stupid Gracie Gillypot, I suppose. Where is she, by the way?”
“Actually,” Marcus said through gritted teeth, “she’s in trouble. She needs help. Not that you’d care.”
Marigold tossed her head. “I don’t.” This wasn’t entirely true, but Marigold had no intention of showing that she was interested in such an ordinary girl. She was about to repeat her demand to be taken home when something small and dark and fluttery flew past, doubled back, and landed on Marcus’s arm.
Marigold shrieked at the top of her voice; Marcus looked down and began to smile.
“Agh! Get it away from me! It’s a bat!” Marigold’s screams were piercing. “It’ll get in my hair! It’ll suck my blood! It’s horrible!” She clutched at her head and ran to hide behind a tree.
“Hi, Millie,” Marcus said. “How are you doing?”
Millie skittered up and down his wrist. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Prince. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Dad anywhere, have you? Or Miss Gracie? The professor’s worried about her, and he’s sent me to the Ancient Crones with a warning.”
Marcus’s pulse began to race. “What kind of warning?”
“Trolls.” Millie pulled the piece of parchment from under her wing and handed it over. “He looked ever so upset about it.”
It took Marcus a moment to steady himself sufficiently to read the professor’s minute, scholarly handwri
ting. “Trolls . . . Truehearts . . . High Kings . . .” he murmured. “What? I don’t understand. They couldn’t really do anything dreadful to Gracie, could they? I mean, Gubble’s a troll, and he’s her friend.” A memory of the huge head that had appeared from the dwarves’ earthworks came into his mind, but he shrugged away the notion that it could be dangerous. After all, it had been entirely under the control of Master Amplethumb, and Marlon had made no comment about there being any risks involved. And Gracie was a Trueheart; surely that protected her from evil and wickedness. No, Marcus decided, Professor Scallio must have gotten his facts muddled. He gave the parchment back to Millie. “You’d better take it to the Ancient Crones if the prof told you to,” he said, “but I don’t think we need worry too much about High Kings, or whatever they’re called. I saw one of the underground trolls. He was absolutely enormous but about as clever as a brick. And I’m on a mission to make sure Gracie’s OK. She fell into some kind of hole, but the dwarves promised they’d get her out, and I’ve promised to sort out everything else.”
Marcus sounded slightly pleased with himself, and Millie gave him a sideways look as she put the message safely away. “If you say so, Mr. Prince. But I do sometimes wonder what goes on in those deep underground caverns. My mum used to scare me silly with stories when I was little. ‘You’ll be bat pie for a troll’s dinner if you don’t do as you’re told!’ she’d say.” Marcus chuckled, and Millie stretched her wings. “I’d best be going. If you do see Dad, tell him to warn Miss Gracie.”
As Millie departed, Marigold came out from behind her tree. “You’re weird, Marcus,” she said accusingly. “Really weird. If I’d known you talked to bats, I’d never have bothered with you. Now, are you going to take me home, or what?”
Marcus ran his hands through his hair, leaving it even wilder than before. Despite his brave assurances to Millie, he had no idea what to do next. “Take you home? I suppose I could,” he said ungraciously. “That is —” He took a deep breath as desperation drove him to try an outside chance. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come on an adventure? A real one?”
The Heart of Glass Page 7