by Anne Forbes
It was then that Sir James walked over and shook their hands warmly. “Hello, you two,” he said with a smile.
“Hello, Sir James,” Neil’s expression relaxed and he grinned. “We heard that you’d been in the States for a while. Are you back for good?”
“No, this is a flying visit, I’m afraid,” Sir James replied. “I still have business to finish off when I get back to New York.”
“That sounds impressive,” Clara said, looking up at him. “Did the MacArthur tell you that we’ve moved house?”
Sir James nodded. “Yes, he did. So, how are you enjoying living in the Borders?”
“Well,” Neil said after some consideration, “we still miss Edinburgh but the country’s nice as well. It’s different. We’re taking riding lessons and stuff like that …”
“And we’ve made lots of friends at school,” Clara added.
Sir James raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you missing something out?” he queried, hiding a smile. “The MacArthur’s just been telling me about a whole lot of witches and a certain Book of Spells?”
Neil grinned and told him briefly how they’d flown to the witches’ castle in the middle of the night, crept inside and stolen the precious book from their library.
Clara, however, frowned; for their set-to with the witches hadn’t been at all the light-hearted adventure that Neil was painting. Stealing the fabulous Book of Spells from the witches’ castle had been one of the most frightening events in her life and, as she now realized, the consequences were still with her. Thinking back to the time when she’d had the book hidden in her room at school, she now reckoned that it had wanted her to learn the spells. It was a magic book with its own power; and the spells, written in the language of old magic, had somehow imprinted themselves in her brain. How she wished they’d never stolen it!
It was then that Lady Ellan interrupted their conversation and, putting an arm round Clara, gestured to the dragon who had folded his wings back and was being cosseted by the little people. “Come and say hello to Arthur,” she whispered. “He’s very upset and frightened at the moment. I’ll explain things to you later.”
Neil followed her over to where Arthur lay and patted the dragon awkwardly but Clara flung her arms round his neck and laid her cheek against his scaly head, murmuring words of comfort as a shudder ran through the length of his body. “Don’t worry, Arthur,” she whispered, “we’ll all look after you! You know that!” The dragon gave a long sigh and his wonderful eyes opened for a few seconds before closing again. It was enough. She knew he was happy to see them.
Archie, one of a little group of MacArthurs, looked at them seriously. “He’ll be alright,” he whispered. “He just needs a bit of time to get over the shock.”
Jaikie nodded at them reassuringly. “He’s much better than he was. Don’t you think so, Hamish?”
“Is it because of the horn we heard?” Neil whispered as they moved towards the dais where the MacArthur was arranging the pile of cushions on his ornate chair. Hamish nodded briefly as they sorted themselves out. Lord Rothlan and Lady Ellan opted to share a divan but everyone else pulled up chairs, stools or cushions.
Lady Ellan, who had overheard Neil’s remark, looked round the little group with a slight smile. “You must all have been wearing your firestones to have heard the horn,” she observed.
“May we ask whose it was?” Sir James asked, looking from her to the MacArthur. “It made my hair stand on end!”
“Aye, and so it might!” the MacArthur began in a grim voice. “It’s a story that goes back hundreds of years to the time when Arthur came to the hill.” There was a murmur of surprise at this as, until then, no one had really given much thought as to how Arthur had come to live in Arthur’s Seat. “The horn you heard,” he continued, “belonged to a knight called Sir Pendar who had a sword called Dragonslayer. The name,” he said sourly, “speaks for itself — for Dragonslayer is a magic sword with an overpowering desire to find and kill dragons.”
“Yes,” Lord Rothlan mused. “Poor Sir Pendar! I’ve often felt sorry for him!”
“Poor Sir Pendar?” repeated Neil questioningly.
Rothlan nodded. “Just think about it, Neil. The sword’s natural instinct is to find and kill dragons,” he explained. “Once he laid his hand on Dragonslayer, I doubt if Sir Pendar had much of a say in his choice of career. The sword’s magic would have taken him over completely and driven him on to kill more and more dragons. Mind you,” he added thoughtfully, “he probably did very well out of it, too …”
“How do you mean?” Clara sounded puzzled.
Lord Rothlan turned to look at her. “Dragons are, as you know, magic creatures, Clara, and, like everything else, magic has its price. Apothecaries …” he stopped as he saw Neil frown over the word, “I suppose you’d call them chemists or pharmacists, nowadays,” he explained. “Well, they used to follow knights like Sir Pendar round the country. Wherever he went, they went and once he’d killed his dragon, they’d pay him for its body. Then they’d drain its blood, remove its tongue and collect its scales and things. Not its flesh, for dragon’s meat is poisonous to humans.”
“Its tongue?” echoed Neil.
Lady Ellan nodded. “In those days, people believed that if you possessed a dragon’s tongue, no one would be able to poison you. Kings and princes paid a fortune to own one.”
Clara gave a horrified gasp at this and looked across at Arthur, hoping that he couldn’t hear what was being said. The MacArthur, following her glance, lowered his voice and went on to tell them what had happened on that fateful day, long ago — but it was only when they heard of Sir Pendar’s burial in the castle rock that they understood Arthur’s fear at the sound of the horn. No wonder he was afraid! It meant that Dragonslayer had been found and was free to work its magic again.
“The minute we heard the horn,” Lady Ellan said, “we looked in the crystal and saw what had happened. The earthquake had cracked open the tomb and some soldiers were there from the castle. We think they were probably investigating the earthquake damage and had stumbled on the tomb by accident. From what they were saying, it was obvious that they had just found it.”
“It was one of the soldiers who blew the horn,” Lord Rothlan added.
The MacArthur nodded. “Fortunately, Lord Alarid, too, used his crystal and saw what had happened. He hexed the sword immediately,” he continued, “and put a protective shield round it so that it can’t be used against dragons.”
At this, they all turned and looked at Arthur.
“But Arthur — well, you can see for yourself. It’s brought back all his old nightmares!”
Sir James frowned. “The newspapers are full of the discovery,” he said slowly, “but there’s a lot they’re not telling us. Colonel Jamieson obviously doesn’t want people scrambling up the rock face to get in from the outside. The artefacts will be valuable.”
“What do you think he’ll do with them?” Clara asked.
“Put them on display, I should think,” Sir James answered.
“And the skeleton?” Neil asked.
Sir James looked serious. “Sir Pendar himself? Well, I read in the Scotsman this morning that he’s going to be given a proper burial in the castle. They’re going to make a big thing of it, by the sound of things.”
“It’s the sword we’re really worried about,” the MacArthur said frankly. “We’re afraid that Lord Jezail may try to steal it. He’d like nothing better than to own Dragonslayer.”
At the mention of Lord Jezail’s name, Sir James looked at the MacArthur sharply. Even Neil and Clara sat up and took notice for, from what they’d heard in the past, he was definitely not a magician to be trifled with. Neil’s eyes gleamed with excitement but Clara felt her stomach sink.
“Lord Jezail!” Sir James repeated, startled. “In that case,” he said slowly, “I think it might be a good idea to pay Colonel Jamieson a visit. I’ll go up to the castle tomorrow morning and find out what’s going on.”<
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“I was hoping you’d say that,” the MacArthur smiled gratefully. “We need to know exactly what they’re planning to do with the sword.”
“No problem,” Sir James assured him. “I’m sure Jamieson’ll tell me what he has in mind. I got to know him quite well when I gave the commentary at the Tattoo … as you all doubtlessly remember!” he added with a knowing grin.
Neil and Clara laughed at the memory but Lady Ellan blushed and Lord Rothlan chuckled at this reminder of the time when they had both been enemies.
“If this sword is as dangerous as you say it is,” he continued, looking at the MacArthur, “then the least I can do is make sure it’s properly guarded!”
6. Festival fever
“We’ve hardly stopped since the tomb was discovered,” Colonel Jamieson admitted, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve no idea the amount of interest there’s been. I think every antiquarian society in the world’s accessed the website we’ve set up …”
“It’s good of you to see me, in that case,” Sir James smiled. “Sheer curiosity on my part, I confess …”
The colonel grinned understandingly. “We’ve had experts in to examine it,” he said, “and they reckon it was made around the time of King Arthur.” Rising from his desk, he ushered Sir James towards a glass-topped table that held the sword and the horn. “From around 500 AD, I’m told.” He unlocked the lid and lifted the sword reverently from its bed of dark blue velvet. Holding it across the palms of both hands, he showed it to Sir James. “Here, have a closer look.”
Sir James took the sword carefully, exclaiming at its weight as he examined it closely. It had, indeed, been beautifully made; the blade gleamed and the fire-breathing dragon that curled round the hilt had certainly been delicately carved. Nevertheless, he felt more than slightly disappointed. Knowing that it was a magic sword, he’d have expected some reaction from his firestone — but there was nothing; no wave of excitement, no buzz of recognition. He frowned slightly. Maybe, he thought, it was because of the hex that Lord Alarid had put around it.
Colonel Jamieson’s voice broke into his thoughts. “We’re thinking of displaying it in the castle, along with the horn, the flag and the suit of armour,” he said, replacing the sword on its bed of velvet. “It’s a magnificent find!”
“Yes, one way or another, the earthquake’s caused quite a stir,” Sir James observed.
“In more ways than one,” the colonel agreed, “and quite frankly we’re planning to make the most of the King Arthur theme this year in the hope that it’ll draw lots of visitors to the castle. We’re expecting a flood of tourists.”
“What about the tomb, itself?” Sir James queried.
“We’ll probably open it up eventually,” the colonel nodded, his face brightening, “So far the engineers’ reports have been positive. Most of the tunnels under the castle are notoriously unstable but this one, remember, was cut out of the rock. If we could have it cleared by the start of the Festival, it would really draw the crowds. I mean, going along a secret passage to a buried tomb …”
“Quite something,” agreed Sir James.
“Quite a money-spinner,” corrected the colonel. “And I’m not being mercenary,” he added, seeing Sir James’s look of surprise. “You’ve no idea how much it costs to maintain the castle buildings at the best of times. Astronomical, I assure you. The earthquake gave the buildings a good shaking — you’ll have heard that we’ve had to cancel the Tattoo because of it. The esplanade is badly cracked.”
“What about a different venue?” suggested Sir James . “There’s always the Meadows.”
“We thought of that, but a circus is already booked to appear there. A pity, as the Meadows would be ideal; plenty of room for the crowds,” the colonel remarked absent-mindedly. Then he stiffened and whirled round. “I’ve got it!” he said excitedly. “James, I’ve just had a brainwave! It all ties in.”
“Ties in with what?” Sir James looked blank.
“With the sword and the horn … and the knight! We’ll have a tournament … a real mediaeval tournament with people in costume!”
“A tournament?” Sir James sounded wary.
“We could have it on Arthur’s Seat with Holyrood Palace in the background. You know the sort of thing! Knights in shining armour, with lances, knocking one another off horses …”
Sir James’s eyes sharpened at the mention of Arthur’s Seat. He wasn’t sure what the MacArthur would say to that but as there was no stopping the Colonel, he nodded his head. “It’s a good idea and original as well. We’ve never had anything like that at the Festival before.”
“Mmmm,” the colonel said, his mind already working out the details, “it’s a pity you have to go back to the States or I’d have asked you to do the commentary. You couldn’t put it off, could you?”
Sir James shook his head. “I’ve a business deal to wrap up,” he said ruefully, “otherwise I’d have been delighted to take it on. It’s a fabulous idea. And you’re right! There’s a whole host of things you could tie in with it!”
Colonel Jamieson nodded, enthusiasm flooding through him once more as the scale of the idea hit him. “True,” he agreed, as he started to pace the room excitedly. “We could have mediaeval banquets with venison and hog roasts. People dressed in costume; a funfair; pedlars selling scarves and trinkets; fortune-tellers; jesters in costume — it would be fantastic! And actually, if we moved the circus to Arthur’s Seat we could still go ahead with the Tattoo in the Meadows. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” approved Sir James, warming to the theme, “and you’re right, it links everything together; the knight and the sword.”
“We’ve had masses of publicity about the knight and the tomb already,” the colonel said excitedly, “but this will really draw the crowds. A tournament! I can’t think why I didn’t think of it before!”
7. Plots and Plans
“Read the article again,” demanded the sword.
Count Vassili looked up at Dragonslayer with raised eyebrows and, taking a deep breath, glanced across at Lord Jezail to see if he agreed.
He’d been totally flabbergasted when his master had appeared with the sword in his hand and utterly furious that he hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand. This, more than anything else, made him uneasy for, in the past, Lord Jezail had always shared his plans and ideas with him. This time there had been nothing and he wasn’t at all happy at the thought of losing his confidence. He shuddered slightly. If Lord Jezail could go ahead and do this without breathing a word to him, what would he get up to next?
All in all, he sighed, the whole trip was proving more than a bit of a nightmare. The easiest part had been setting up their headquarters, here, in the ruins of an isolated old Border keep, a few miles from the MacLean’s house on the outskirts of Coldstream.
It hadn’t taken long to make it comfortable; a few hexes here and there had transformed the barren ruin into a very comfortable residence. Tapestries covered the bare walls, carpets covered the stone flagstones that paved the floor, comfortable armchairs were dotted here and there and the huge open chimney now housed a roaring fire that kept the chill at bay.
The sword, at its own request, had been fixed to the wall above the fireplace and from there it issued its commands. Vassili sighed but said nothing, knowing that his master, too, had his doubts about Dragonslayer. One minute he was triumphant at having found it and the next, seething with temper at its demands. Always eccentric, he was proving more difficult to manage by the day.
Jezail frowned at the sword’s words and looked across at the count. “Oh, for goodness sake, do what it says and read it again,” he snapped, his voice sharp with ill-concealed anger.
Picking up the Scotsman, the count folded it to the page where the tournament was advertised in bold letters. He was wishing now that he’d never mentioned it, but the sword had been in such a bad temper over the past few days that he’d thought the news of the proposed tournament mi
ght cheer it up. He’d also read the bit about Sir Pendar’s tomb; the excitement it had caused and how visitors were pouring into Edinburgh from all over the world to see it.
As it happened, the sword hadn’t been really all that impressed. It knew, of course, that the sword the soldiers had found in Sir Pendar’s tomb was the replica it, itself, had conjured up and shrugged, totally uninterested to hear that it was now on display in Edinburgh Castle. Vassili’s mention of the tournament, however, was something else! Memories of days long ago flooded through its mind: Old England, where knights lived in castles and troubadours and jesters entertained at court; lovely ladies in beautiful dresses; the thud of horses’ hooves on the turf; the clash of swords and the shine of armour. Those were the days!
“By the way,” Lord Jezail said, stretching his legs lazily in front of the fire, “where is this tournament going to be held?”
It was then that Count Vassili uttered what proved to be fateful words. “On the slopes of Arthur’s Seat!” he said casually.
The sword said nothing for quite a few seconds and then glowed an exquisite shade of gold as the full meaning of his words hit home. The tournament, it thought, revelling in a mixture of deep contentment, flaring excitement and mouth-watering anticipation, was going to be held on the slopes of Arthur’s Seat!
How long, how very long, had it waited, cooped up in that wretched tomb, for just such an opportunity as this? How often had it dreamt of finishing off that pathetic excuse for a dragon? And on Arthur’s Seat, itself! He would be close, so close to the dragon! Close enough to draw it out of its lair and then … and then …
“We will take part in the tournament,” the sword said in a voice that brooked no argument.
Lord Jezail and Vassili exchanged glances.
“You know Sir Pendar’s story!” the sword almost snapped. “The dragon was mine and I was deprived of my prey! But this time,” it gloated, “there will be no mistake. I will draw it out of Arthur’s Seat and it will face me again; for you, Lord Jezail, will be holding me in your hand and I will make sure that I pierce its heart! Besides which,” it added in a more business-like tone, “it will be good practice for you when we get to your Valley of the Dragons!”