by Robin Jarvis
Jill pretended to wince as the needle pushed in and out of his hairy skin, but she had dissected enough creatures herself to be quite unmoved by such grisly work.
“How gallant you are to accept defeat with such good grace,” she said admiringly. “If only all knights of the Court were as chivalrous. For a mighty, battle-tempered warrior such as you to be unhorsed by a mere boy, bearing the same badge as yourself… Many of those lesser combatants would have sharper things to say.”
“That is so,” the Physician concurred, finishing the shoulder and breaking the thread with his teeth. “Sir Gorvain and Sir Eluard have both been under my care this day and they were less complimentary about the Jack of Clubs.”
“Any young peasant wench from the village could flick those two from the saddle,” Sir Darksilver said scornfully. “They are but two old gossip wives in armour.”
“No doubt you are right,” Jill agreed. “And Jack’s mount truly is a marvellous beast. Yet… it seems most strange to me that, whilst the horses of Mooncaster become mightier, our lances grow more brittle.”
Sir Darksilver sat up quickly and popped several stitches, much to the Physician’s annoyance.
“How mean you, Your Royal Highness?” the knight asked.
The Jill of Spades appeared alarmed and flustered that she had spoken too freely.
“Heed not my foolish, hasty words,” she said. “I know naught of these manly matters; ’twas but a girlish fancy. Tend our old warrior well, leechmaster.”
And with that seed sown, she left the tent.
Sir Darksilver’s brooding stare followed her until she disappeared from view. The Physician jabbed the needle in once more and the burly knight felled him with one powerful smack.
“Outrage!” the Physician protested, flapping on the floor with a bleeding lip. “Begone, Sir Knight. I shall not tend to you again, though your limbs be hacked and your head fill with green pus, I would not lift a finger to aid you!”
Sir Darksilver rose from the stretcher and went in search of wine and answers.
“And neither shall my leeches!” the Physician shouted after him.
The warm afternoon continued. The best ale was drunk and, when the jousting was done, it was time for the judging of the produce and livestock. As usual, the Ismus was the arbiter and he went from stall to stall and pen to pen to inspect and formulate his decisions.
Then, standing by the large boundary stone, at the edge of the meadow, he announced the results.
Gasps and grunts of indignation and disbelief spread throughout the crowd. For the first time ever, Gristabel Smallrynd, the miller’s wife, had not won the bread making. For many years she had been the only entrant. Out of consideration and neighbourliness, no one else in the village wished to trespass on her floury province and so did not compete against her. The mill house also possessed the largest oven. But only last week she had quarrelled with Rhoswen, the stonemason’s tiny wife, and she had retaliated by baking the finest loaves the Holy Enchanter had ever tasted. Gristabel was incensed and thoroughly humiliated. She stormed from the meadow, tearing her own, officially second-rate, bread into crumbs as she went and the dogs and ducks ran after her greedily.
There were more shocks to come. Aiken Woodside, the ploughman, had been expected to win a prize for his large and beautiful cabbages, but, at the last moment, young Clover Ditchy entered an onion the size of his own head that he had been cultivating in secret. Nothing could compete with that. The rest of the village grumbled. Aiken Woodside was the local fiddle player. When he was in a bad mood, his music was sharp and spiky – if he could be persuaded to play at all. The night’s revels would be spoiled. Aiken’s son, Muddy Legs, who was friends with Clover Ditchy, punched the boy on the nose and vowed never to speak to him again, so Clover thumped him right back and blacked his eye. It took four strong men to pull them apart and the boys were led away, hollering dire curses at one another.
Then the livestock caused more upset. Old Edwin’s enormous pig managed to break out of its pen, into that of Mistress Sarah’s goslings, and trampled two of them to death. Then, startled by the din from the rest, it broke free completely and ran across the meadow.
Some of the children, Benwick, Lynnet, Neddy and Tully, thought it would be a great game to chase it. Benwick even jumped on its back and rode it. Old Edwin huffed and puffed behind them, shaking his fists, while Mistress Sarah followed, shaking her fists at him.
It was all too much for the fat pig. With a squeal, it keeled over and expired.
Arguments and acrimony sprang up like mushrooms, as blame was laid at every door, from the children, to their parents, to the carpenter who built the flimsy fences, to the blacksmith who forged such short nails. Soon everyone was embroiled in a row, old slights and snubs were resurrected and long-buried hatchets were exhumed. Only when the Ismus called for peace did the squabbling stop, and they drifted away, muttering, with sidelong glances.
As a tawny evening settled, young couples sought the stubbly fields and couched themselves among the corn stooks. Soft voices and playful laughter drifted between the scattered bowers, as the stars pinked the deep dark blue of this night in late summer. But even here there was discord and unease. Dulcie, the innkeeper’s daughter, had offended Kit, her current Mooncot dalliance, by setting her sights on a handsome gallant from the castle, who was easily persuaded to follow her into the moonlit fields.
Presently the murmurs and giggles turned to yelps and shouts and slaps. One maiden had been pinched too severely, another’s hair had been yanked, another had a jug of mead spilled across her face and one squealed when she was bitten.
Their swains were quick to beg forgiveness and pledge ignorance of how such rough play might have chanced to occur. Gentle words and passionate courtship were all they desired and they repented most abjectly if they had caused offence or hurt.
So complete was their imploring, their sweethearts nested next to them once more and the murmurs were even softer.
No one saw four corn stooks rise up on stockinged legs, to go hopping across the field to the next isle of love. Small, pale hands reached out and fumbled through the straw to nip and upset and cause strife between the tangled couples.
The Bogey Boys of Haxxentrot were abroad, doing the spiteful bidding of their witchy mistress.
Further tiffs and tearful bickering broke out, and the Bogey Boys bit their tongues to keep from snickering.
Then a rose-coloured light came floating into the field. At first those who noticed thought it was a will-o’-the-wisp and caught their breaths in fear. But then they saw it was only a heart-shaped lantern hanging from a slender staff.
Cloaked in a hooded robe of purple velvet, the Jill of Hearts stepped through the stubble and made her way round the stooks, staring shamelessly at the couples as she wafted by.
Every lusty lad sat up and winked at her, inflamed with the hope of kissing royal lips instead. But she merely smiled coldly and moved on, leaving their fuming wenches to scold and spurn them and stomp off alone, either to the village or the servants’ quarters in the White Castle.
Jill wended her way back to the road. Once that game would have amused her greatly, but now she was weary of it. There were none who compared with the Jack of Clubs. She could have her pick of any lover except the only one she wanted.
Extinguishing the lantern, she walked through the village. Angry voices spilled from every window. Tempers had not been cooled and the scabs of many old scores had been worried and picked at. In The Silver Penny, insults and tankards were thrown, then a table was overturned as a scuffle ensued. Even as Jill passed by, a drunken Kit was thrown out. Cursing the innkeeper, and his faithless daughter, the jilted young man stumbled away.
None of this mattered to Jill. Her thoughts burned with the prospect of what she was going to do that night.
Passing the millhouse, which banged and clattered with hurled pots and pans as Gristabel vented her ire and indignation inside, Jill followed the meandering
road through the moon-silvered countryside.
When she felt sure no one had followed her and a coppice screened her from the castle and the village, she took from a pocket in her cloak a golden bracelet. It gleamed and glittered magickally in the moonlight. This was a gift from Malinda.
Jill had ventured to her lonely cottage in the forest to beg a love philtre, but the wise Fairy Godmother had refused. The princess was already the fairest in the land. She could collect suitors like daisies in a garden if she so desired, so there was no need for her magick. Besides, Malinda’s wand had been stolen and she no longer possessed her former power.
And so Jill had broken down and confessed the curse placed upon her by the Mistletoe King. The only suitor she yearned for, whose very shadow she would kiss, cared only for his horse and hawk. The hounds in the kennels were higher in his affections than she ever could be. What was she to do?
Malinda had dried those bitter tears and told her the Jack of Clubs’ love could not be won with any philtre. His heart and spirit were one with the Wild Wood. To awaken his admiration and quicken his longing, she must make him see her with new eyes. She must appear to him as something wondrous, wreathed in ancient mystery – a goddess of the deep woods.
Opening a small casket, Malinda had taken out a golden bracelet and placed it in the girl’s hands.
“Within this bangle,” the retired Fairy Godmother had said, “is a force far, far older than any my wand could command. Do but slip this on your wrist and it shall change your shape, and you will be transformed into the most graceful hind ever to dance through the Kingdom of the Dawn Prince. But heed this warning: wear it only when Jack rides alone, for you will be the greatest prize any hunter has ever seen. The Jack of Clubs cannot fail to fall under your spell. When he espies you, he will stalk through thistle and ditch to feast his gaze. Lead him where you will and, when you deem it right, remove the bracelet. He will be in your thrall till the end of his days.”
Jill had thanked her and the retired Fairy Godmother repeated the grave warning.
Now Jill looked down at the bracelet and tried to control her excitement. Dawn was the usual hour Jack rode out on Ironheart. That very afternoon she had overheard him say he would gallop to the waterfall in the East Woods to bathe. That would be the perfect place for him to encounter her. It would be as if they were part of a grand romantic legend.
The girl removed her garments swiftly and hid them, with the lantern, in the coppice. Then, holding the bracelet high so that she could see the moon shining through the centre, she put it on to her wrist.
The leaves of the coppice rustled as a fragrant breeze moved through them. The hedges stirred and the grasses swayed. Wild flowers that had closed with the sunset unfurled and turned their faces. Jill thought she heard faint voices singing on the air.
And then a beautiful scarlet hind was shaking its elegant head and blinking long-lashed violet eyes. It bore a white, heart-shaped blaze and, round the animal’s ankle, the golden bracelet glinted.
For a moment the hind seemed unsure and gazed down at its four legs, lifting each one off the ground experimentally. Then it jumped, skittish and light as a cat. With a balletic leap, it cleared the hedge and ran for the East Woods, to be ready for when Jack came riding.
In Mooncot, Tully was having trouble sleeping. He had been sent to bed without supper, for his part in the death of Old Edwin’s pig. Lying on his cot, in the kitchen, he heard a tap at the back door.
“Rufus!” he exclaimed when he ran to open it. “What are you doing here? You should be sleeping in the stables, up at the castle. How did you slip past Mauger?”
His brother wrung his hands and wiped his eyes. “They never let him out of his den on this night,” he answered distractedly. “With so many serving girls and lads trysting in the fields.”
Tully brought his brother inside and sat him down by the window. The moonlight streamed in and he was shocked to see Rufus so distraught and agitated.
“Whatever be the matter?” he asked.
“I got to tell someone,” Rufus told him wretchedly. “But you got to swear not to breathe a word to nobody, not even Grandfather!”
“I swear.”
“Spit – and wish yourself stone dead if you do.”
Tully spat and made this, their most solemn of oaths. Rufus was scaring him.
His brother pulled a small leather purse from inside his shirt and emptied it on to the table. Three bright gold pieces tumbled out. It was the most money Tully had ever seen.
Rufus stared at it shamefully. “I’ve done a most terrible, wicked thing,” he whispered.
18
THE GREAT HALL was noisy with carousing. Lee had sat next to the Ismus and the Lady Labella on the high table, watching the knights and lords and Under Kings get steadily drunker.
A long knife now hung at Lee’s side. He had no use for a sword, but the knife he could work with.
Having sat through an appallingly bad performance by Old Ramptana, the useless Court Magician, and listened to enough madrigals to last him forever, he finally glimpsed who he was looking for.
Carrying a sack, Magpie Jack emerged from behind the wooden screen that concealed the way to the kitchen. With furtive glances, he crept through the Great Hall and stepped outside.
Lee rose and followed him.
The Jack of Diamonds hurried through the castle grounds. He ran over the common lawns, through a green door and into the Physic Garden, where he sat at the edge of the ornamental pond and waited.
Presently a noise startled him and he sprang to his feet.
“Is that you?” he hissed to the surrounding shadows. “I have brought what you desired.”
“What you got there?” Lee asked, stepping into the moonlight, knife drawn.
Jack went for his sword, but Lee was too quick. He knocked the boy to the ground then hauled him to the edge of the pond where he plunged his head backwards into the water.
Jack emerged spluttering and gasping. Lee did it again. The third time Jack came up for air, Lee said, “If you make me do that one more time, I’ll leave you under. Don’t think you can mess with me, kid. Tell me where that ruby thing is.”
Magpie Jack coughed and heaved for breath.
Lee scowled. “You is takin’ way too long,” he snarled. “I ain’t playing games here. You’ll be found floating with the fishes if you don’t spill what I wanna know. You got three seconds, then I’m done with you, and you is done with life. You comprende that?”
“I do not know!” Jack protested.
“One,” Lee said.
Jack gripped Lee’s sleeves. “On my life, I swear it!”
“Two.”
“I know not where the ruby is!”
“Three. Too bad for you.”
Lee plunged the boy’s head in the water for the last time and held it there. The bubbles exploded to the surface and Jack’s arms thrashed about.
“You’re alarming the goldfish,” a new voice observed casually.
Lee looked up. The Jockey had joined them, the creaks of his caramel-coloured leather outfit masked by Jack’s frantic splashing.
“Must I be boring and summon the guards?” he enquired. “Let the prince go. I do believe you’ve made your point.”
Lee pulled Jack out of the water and dropped him on the grass, where he choked and retched up pond water.
“You wish to know where the Healing Ruby resides,” the Jockey began. “It is secure, in a place beyond your reach.”
“Where?”
The Jockey glanced at Magpie Jack, still coughing on the ground. “Haxxentrot has it,” he said. “It is in the Forbidden Tower.”
Lee swore under his breath. “Couldn’t be under a floorboard or in an old shoe,” he muttered. “Had to be in the worst place there is – it figures. I hate this crazy-assed dump.”
Nudging Jack with his foot, he asked. “This true? That old bag got the ruby?”
The boy was still breathing hard and unable to spe
ak. It gave him the greatest pleasure to agree with the Jockey and he nodded quickly.
“’Tis true,” he managed at length. “A Bogey Boy took it from me. The witch has the ruby.”
“No sense me hangin’ round here no more then,” Lee stated, heading back the way he came.
“Surely you do not purpose to enter the Forbidden Tower?” the Jockey asked in surprise. “The perils are too great.”
Lee looked back at him. “For her they is,” he said grimly. “Frail old lady, livin’ in a high rise. She’s ripe for a visit. I only got respect for two pensioners: my gran’ma and a cool guy called Gerald. A witch on a stick don’t figure nowhere. I’ve had enough of this fairy-tale BS. No witches or no one else is gonna stand in my way. She don’t give me what I want, by the time I finished, she’ll wish someone had dropped a house on her instead, like that other mean hag in the movie.”
With that, he strode off, out of the garden.
“The Creeper is on his way to an early death,” the Jockey remarked.
“That is glad tidings indeed,” Jack declared, sitting up and shaking his wet head. “I hope she brews something foul and lingering for him.”
“And what news have you for me?” the Jockey asked. “Shall I be pleased in equal measure?”
The boy reached for the sack he had brought.
“I have it here,” he said, reaching inside for the strange tambourine he had stolen from a sleeping kitchen maid.
“Do not take it out!” the Jockey cried, clamping his hands to his ears. “I cannot bear it.”
Jack wrapped the tambourine tightly again. “I was as stealthy as a phantom,” he boasted. “She did not stir when I unhooked it from her person.”
The Jockey smiled appreciatively as he took the sack from him.
“You have done well, my knave,” he congratulated. “And your reputation is assured.”
“What will you do with it?” Jack asked. “’Tis a most curious object.”
“Haw haw haw,” the Jockey answered. “First I shall find it a new home – in the deepest part of the moat. Then I shall call on Columbine, that grime-smirched hussy of a kitchen maid, and teach her that the Jockey wins every game. He rides everyone at Court in one way or another. Her time has come. Haw haw haw.”