Then the puppeteer wheeled around and disappeared into the wagon.
Before Mouse could finish loading the firewood onto the back of the wagon, the door opened again and she heard the jingle of harness as the horse was hitched. Cupping her hands to the window, she peered inside. Sir Alfred sat atop the trunk, his head falling onto his chest.
“It is true,” Mouse told him. “I am naught but an addlebrained clod.”
A part of her felt foolish, pouring her heart out to a figure made only of wood, yet somehow, it seemed Sir Alfred was listening. Somehow, it seemed he understood.
The puppeteer climbed onto the wagon, picked up the reins, and said coldly, “Move out of my way.”
“I pray you, you cannot leave me here!” Mouse cried.
“I can and I will.”
“But what shall I do?”
“That is none of my concern.”
The wagon began to move, slowly at first, then it gathered speed as it rolled down the hill. A sudden clap of thunder echoed through the trees.
“Wait!” Mouse raced across the clearing. But the wagon, its yellow banner fluttering in the wind, rounded a bend in the road and disappeared.
“I will not cry,” she said to the darkening sky. “I am brave and strong.” Now she needed Simon’s words more than ever.
She dropped onto the low fence beside the road, shivering as the storm blew in and the morning’s feeble heat ebbed out of the stone. Above her the black tree limbs knocked together in the wind.
Soon the soaking rain rushed in, but she was too discouraged to care.
Later, she could not have said whether the storm lasted a minute or an hour; she merely waited numbly for it to pass.
When the rain slackened, she stood up, shivering, and set off down the road. As the day lengthened without a single sighting of either man or beast, it seemed she was the last person alive, alone in an empty world. All is lost, her footsteps seemed to say. All is lost.
A future without the puppets was too bleak to contemplate, so Mouse forced herself to think of other things. The smell of Fenn’s bread baking in the hearth. The recipe for venison stew. The proper way to set a snare. Anything to keep from worrying about what would happen to her now. As evening approached, she looked for a barn, a shed, an abandoned cart where she could pass the night. Mayhap around the next bend in the road was a house where some kindhearted farmwife would give her a bed for the night in exchange for her help in the kitchen. Then she would think of what to do next.
On and on she walked, till the last gray light faded from the sky, but still there appeared no farmhouse, no barn or shed or cart, no weary plowman wending his way home. There was no sound save the rattling of the trees and the rustling of wind in the sedges beside the road. The mud sucked at Mouse’s feet, slowing her steps. Her bones ached. Her stomach hurt. But there was nothing to do but keep going.
A faint, wavering light appeared through the distant trees. A farmhouse! Mouse began to run, imagining the warmth of the farmer’s hearth and a bowl of savory soup for her groaning belly. Then from out of the darkness came the squeak and rattle of a wagon and a familiar voice.
“Is that you, girl?”
Mouse stopped short and peered into the gloom, afraid to trust her own senses.
“Well?” The puppeteer lifted a lantern and the dim light illuminated Mouse’s weary, mud-streaked face. “Do you intend to stand there all night?”
“You came back!” Mouse clambered into the wagon.
“An astute observation. Now we must stop for the night, for I am too weary to go any farther.”
“I passed a clearing not long before sunset. I do not think it too far out of our way.”
The puppeteer tossed Mouse an oiled cloak and said gruffly, “Put this on. You are no good to me at all if you get sick.”
Mouse wrapped herself in the warm cloak, too grateful for words. The horse stepped carefully along the rain-slicked road, the silence broken only by the jingle of his harness, the creaking of the wagon wheels, and the clop-clop of his hooves. At last the puppeteer said, “Never have I met a more vexing child. But I should not have left you alone in the wood.”
“I should not have touched Sir Alfred without your leave,” Mouse said.
“True enough. Are you hungry?”
“I have had naught to eat since morn. When we reach the clearing, I shall make us a supper.”
“I will make a supper,” the puppeteer said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to take up your chores again.”
“No, no, no,” the puppeteer cried one morning many days later. “You must not jerk the strings, else he will seem more like a drunken lout than the hero of this tale.”
With a weary sigh, Mouse lowered Sir Alfred onto the floor of the stage. Her muscles ached from the effort of holding the puppet aloft. Her fingers were sore from trying to keep the wires and strings from tangling. For days she had practiced the same simple movement, but her teacher was never satisfied.
“What ails you, Mouse?” the puppeteer asked, coming from behind the curtain.
“I am tired,” Mouse said. “While you lay abed, I trapped a hare and mended three costumes. I have practiced with Sir Alfred for hours and hours, and yet you are not pleased.”
“’Twas you who begged to work for me in exchange for my knowledge,” the puppeteer reminded her. “But no matter. Another two days’ journey will bring us to Marlingford. Mayhap you will find some mistress there who will take you in. For it is plain to me you will never be a puppeteer.”
“I will!”
“No, you wish it were so, yet you do nothing but complain and we have not yet begun to work on the voices.”
From the folds of the red cloak, the puppeteer produced a small, flat object with holes in the sides. “This is a pivetta, for making different voices when there are many puppets on the stage. It fits inside the mouth and you speak through it, like so.”
The voice of Princess Bridget came through the pivetta, a high, whistling sound, like winter wind. Then the puppeteer lifted Sir Alfred and spoke in a lower voice that reminded Mouse of the croaking of frogs in the pond at Dunston Manor. Mouse frowned in concentration. Had Sir Alfred said, “merry May” or “marry me”? It was impossible to tell. Mouse paid close attention, though she did not quite understand the need for such a device, for already she had noticed the puppeteer’s ability to change voices at will, speaking sometimes in a clear, musical voice like Claire’s, and sometimes in deeper, richer tones like Simon’s.
The puppeteer set Sir Alfred aside and removed the pivetta. “An imperfect thing, I will admit, but it is the best one can do when working alone. Now, begin again, and this time do not let your puppet stumble.”
Mouse lifted Sir Alfred once more, and the practice went on until late in the day when at last the puppeteer said, “Enough.”
Setting aside the heavy puppet, Mouse rubbed her aching arms and said, “I wish we were already in Marlingford, for I cannot wait to make the puppets dance. I hope we have a goodly crowd. Mayhap the king himself will come to our show.”
The puppeteer laughed. “Not likely, Mouse. It is the ordinary folk who come to see our plays. Now kindle a fire and I will show you how to make a pudding, for I am bored beyond words with bread and soup.”
So saying, the puppeteer deftly mixed the last of their flour with a splash of ale and a dash of spices, sweetened the mixture with honey, and set the bowl in a bucket of water suspended over the fire. “Let it steam while the meat is roasting. I am weary and would rest before we sup.”
Mouse set the hare on the spit, thinking about the play they had practiced all afternoon and the song she had imagined for Princess Bridget. “He who seeks to win my hand, must be the bravest in the land,” she sang as she set out the plates for their supper. Mouse nodded to herself. A goodly song, if I do say so myself. Would the puppeteer give her leave to try it? It would do no harm to ask. Leaving the hare sizzling on the spit, she opened the door to the wagon.
&nbs
p; What she saw was so astonishing, she lost her balance and, with a loud yelp, toppled backward onto the wet grass.
In a trice the puppeteer was out of the wagon and standing over the incredulous Mouse. “So now you know.”
“I—I,” Mouse stammered. “Why did you not tell me?”
“That I am a woman?”
Impatiently, the puppeteer tossed the beribboned silver braid that had given away her secret. “It has naught to do with you.” She bent down till their noses touched. “If you would continue as my apprentice, you will speak of this to no one.”
“But why?”
“You must not ask questions. Say one word more and I will leave you in this wood faster than you can blink an eye. And this time I will not come back. Now, make haste and bring our supper.”
Dazed, Mouse pulled the meat from the bone and set it on the plate. Hadn’t the puppeteer said women were not meant to be puppeteers? That thought was an unsettling one, for the puppets were her family now and a life on the road the only one she wanted. She glanced at the puppeteer, sitting now with her knees drawn up before the fire. Why did the puppeteer travel in disguise? Had she broken an important law? Mouse’s head was full of questions, but she feared asking them.
You are wise to be wary of strangers on the road, Alice had said, yet Mouse had begged to join the strange vagabond and her puppets with no thought for her own safety.
“What is it now, Mouse?” the puppeteer asked. In the light of the campfire, her expression was so guileless, Mouse was overcome with shame at harboring such unkind thoughts.
“I am wondering.” Mouse said. “What name will I call you?”
The puppeteer frowned. “The night grows cold. Fetch more wood for the fire.”
Mouse hurried to obey, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.
“Watch how you go!” The puppeteer held out a steadying hand.
“I am jumpy as a flea. In two days’ time I will make the puppets dance. And I have made a song for Princess Bridget. It goes like this—”
“I shall make the puppets dance,” the puppeteer interrupted. “You are not yet ready.”
Seeing the disappointment on Mouse’s face, the puppeteer continued more gently, “Do not despair, Mouse. If the day dawns fair, the crowds will come, and there will be plenty of work for both of us. Tell me, is our pudding done yet?”
Mouse spooned the pudding into their bowls and, when the pot was empty, washed their dishes in the stream. Then they banked the fire and retired for the night. When the puppeteer was snoring softly, Mouse carefully lifted Sir Alfred from the trunk. “What secrets does she guard?” she whispered, holding him close. “Am I in danger?”
But Sir Alfred did not answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Puppet Play
In Marlingford the wagon jostled along the rutted lanes, past stilt walkers and baxters with their loaves of fragrant bread, past musicians and candle-makers, and a tar-footed woman with a gaggle of hissing geese. As the wagon rolled along, Mouse peered at the goose woman, hoping it might be Alice. But of course it wasn’t. Mouse wondered whether Claire had found her place in the world and what had become of Simon. Why had he pretended to be her friend, only to disappear like chimney smoke? She would ask Sir Alfred. Mayhap he would know the answer.
“Stop!” shouted a man in the crowd. “Stop, thief!”
A skinny boy and a woman in a purple cloak raced pell-mell in front of the puppeteer’s wagon, shoving aside children and upending a baxter’s cart in their haste to escape.
“I know them!” Mouse cried, tugging hard on the puppeteer’s cloak. “It is the fortune-teller and the goat boy from York. The ones who stole my coin. Stop! I want to get it back.”
“Sit down and be quiet,” the puppeteer said fiercely. “You coin is long since spent, Mouse. It will do no good to raise a fuss now.”
“Mayhap the sheriff will catch them,” Mouse said, settling onto the seat again. “Mayhap he will put them in jail forever, with naught to eat but bread and water.”
A brief smile lit the puppeteer’s face. “A fate well deserved, I am sure.”
When they reached the edge of town, the puppeteer halted the wagon. They unhitched the horse, then the puppeteer took out her money box and gave Mouse two coins and a scrap of green silk. “Take this to the ribbon seller and tell her the color must match exactly. These coins will buy enough to finish Bridget’s new gown before the afternoon’s play.”
“What of the other things we need?” Though Mouse did not wish to question the puppeteer’s judgment, it seemed foolish to buy ribbons when they had no bread. “What of flour and soap and candles?”
“Our purse is nearly empty, true enough, but after our play we shall have coins aplenty. Then we shall buy all we need for our journey to Reedham. Watch how you go, Mouse, and come back straightaway, for there is much to be done.”
Mouse hurried along the road, past the wool merchant’s carts, past the cheese sellers, past two stilt walkers entertaining a group of children, till she came to the ribbon seller’s stall. While she waited her turn, she watched a jester dancing to a piping tune. The music reminded her of the puppets. If only she might have a part in this day’s play!
“Begging your pardon,” said a voice at her elbow, a man’s voice with the scratch of metal in it. She looked up. Way up, for the man who had spoken was taller than anyone she had ever seen. He was dressed in black from head to toe. Thick black hair curled about his shoulders. Even his eyes were black. Around his neck dangled a silver medallion.
He smiled down at Mouse. “Did I not see you this morn, arriving aboard the puppeteer’s wagon?”
“I am the puppeteer’s apprentice,” she said proudly. She handed her coins and the strip of green cloth to the ribbon seller.
“Indeed? And what is his name?”
Mouse blinked and looked about. What name would protect the puppeteer’s identity? The picture on the sign outside the alehouse provided an answer. “He is called Lamb,” she said quickly.
“Lamb, is it? Mayhap I shall come to see your play. What story will you tell?”
“Come and see for yourself.”
The man laughed. “You are a clever one, to keep the customer guessing. Now I suppose I shall have to attend, to satisfy my curiosity.”
The ribbon seller held two lengths of green ribbon against the scrap of silk. “Which will you have, girl?”
The man said, “Forgive me. I am keeping you from your errand. Good day.”
He disappeared into the growing crowd. Mouse chose a length of ribbon and waited while the ribbon seller wrapped it in a bit of brown paper. Then she hurried back to the wagon.
“At last!” The puppeteer took the ribbon, and with a few quick stitches, expertly attached it to the bodice of Princess Bridget’s gown. Mouse smoothed Bridget’s yellow hair. With a soft cloth kept for the purpose, she polished the puppet’s face till it shone. Though Mouse loved Sir Alfred best, she thought Bridget the most beautiful thing in the world.
“She is pleased with her new gown,” Mouse said to the puppeteer. Then to Bridget: “Are you not?”
It is no more than I deserve, Bridget said. But thank you for the ribbon all the same.
“Hoist our banner, Mouse, then bring out the drum,” the puppeteer said. “And do not forget our coin box. The time for our play draws nigh.”
While Mouse attended to her chores, the puppeteer lifted Sir Alfred from the trunk and placed him on the stage. Today, he wore a white robe with a red cross on the front. Then came Princess Bridget in her new green gown, and the sorcerer with the new arm Mouse had carved for him.
Today’s story of St. George and the dragon was one of Mouse’s favorites. Sir Alfred, so handsome and brave, made a perfect St. George. When no one was looking, she planted a swift kiss on the puppet’s cheek.
“Though I have but one good eye, I can plainly see what you are thinking, Mouse,” the puppeteer said. “But this work is harder than it seems.
Mayhap in another fortnight you will be ready for a small part. We shall see. For now, stand here and make ready to open the curtain. Be certain the smoke box is ready, then keep a sharp eye on our money box, lest some sticky-fingered thief helps himself to our hard-earned coins.”
Mouse beat the drum, rat-a-tat-tat. Two goat boys in tattered breeches clambered over the stone fence to claim places near the stage.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Down the road came the ribbon seller. Close behind walked a goose woman trailing geese and a round-faced priest in a brown robe. Rat-a-tat-tat. Musicians and milkmaids, farmers and fishwives took their places and waited with expectant faces for the story to begin.
The puppeteer, her face shadowed by a hooded blue cloak, came out to greet them. “Welcome, one and all. As the feast day of St. George draws nigh, we present the story of his battle with the dragon, with a bit of romance and magic added to enliven the tale.”
A sudden movement near the back of the crowd drew Mouse’s attention. The tall man from the ribbon seller’s stall caught her eye and doffed his black hat. Proud to have brought in a paying customer, Mouse waved to him. She turned to tell the puppeteer of her encounter with the man, but her mentor was busy with last-minute preparations.
“Ready, Mouse?” With a quick nod, the puppeteer took her place behind the curtain. Mouse pulled the cord, the curtain parted, and there sat Princess Bridget in her new costume. Working from her perch above the stage, the puppeteer inserted the pivetta into her mouth.
“Who calls here?” Bridget piped.
“It is George,” came the answer in a deeper voice. The puppeteer moved Sir Alfred onto the stage. Applause rippled through the crowd as he knelt at the feet of the haughty princess.
Mouse readied the smoke box. She placed a glowing coal in the bottom of the metal box, added some small twigs she had soaked in water, and clamped the lid shut. Then she settled in to watch the puppets. So spellbinding were they that she soon forgot they were not real. Beneath the skilled hands of the puppeteer, they seemed every bit as alive as the farmers and shopkeepers, goatherds and serving girls standing awestruck at the foot of the stage.
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