The Hatmakers

by Tamzin Merchant

  “We can’t let it happen,” she said. “We have to stop it.”

  “How?”

  “We have to get our Peace Hat to the princess! If she’s wearing it, she won’t be able to declare war! It’s the only way.”

  Sir Hugo snatched up his hat and vaulted back onto his horse. Cordelia and Goose scrambled back onto their steeds and, giving very dramatic YAH’s, they all galloped down the road after the second-best royal carriage and the villainous governess.

  CHAPTER 35

  BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVED AT THE COAST, THE sun had spilled over the eastern horizon and a pink the color of Hushdove wings tinged the sky.

  They decided to leave the road before they reached the sea, in case the royal guards were lying in wait somewhere. So they rode their steeds (as Sir Hugo insisted on calling their horses) up the green shoulder of a hill. After tying their steeds (Cordelia rolled her eyes) to a stunted thorn tree that had grown hump-backed in the strong wind, they belly-crawled to the wind-whipped edge of the cliff, and peered over.

  Far below their snow-white cliff, a magnificent ship floated at anchor in the bay.

  “That’s the royal galleon!” Goose was awestruck.

  “And look!” Cordelia pointed.

  On the shore stood two carriages: the best royal carriage and the second-best royal carriage. Tiny red-uniformed figures scooted back and forth from the second-best royal carriage to a row boat floating in the shallows. Miss Starebottom bossed everyone about from the dinghy.

  “She must be taking those Rage Clothes over,” Cordelia guessed. “I suppose the princess is already on board the galleon.”

  All around the beach, soldiers glinted with weapons.

  “This calls for a costume change,” Sir Hugo announced enthusiastically. “We are into the final act!”

  He tied his highwayman’s bandana around his neck and untucked his billowy shirt.

  “I really need an eyepatch and a peg leg for this character,” he sighed.

  “There’s no time, Sir Hugo—look!” Cordelia cried.

  The row boat with Miss Starebottom and the Rage Clothes was now halfway across the bay to the royal galleon. With the bulky hatbox in her jacket, it proved rather difficult for Cordelia to tie a bandana around her neck, but with Goose’s help she managed.

  “We’ve got to get onto the ship!”

  Cordelia, Goose, and Sir Hugo scrambled down the cliffside and sneaked onto the beach.

  The soldiers had returned with the now-empty row boat. They pulled it, with a scrunch of pebbles, into the shallows and marched with the rest of the guards up to the royal carriages, eyes trained on the road in case the three criminals they had been ordered to arrest were approaching.

  They did not see three figures slink from behind a scrubby bush, dash into the surf, and shove the row boat out into deeper waters.

  The oars were out and the boat was pulling away toward the royal galleon by the time one soldier looked around and raised a shout. Nobody on the big ship heard the cries of the soldiers over the clanking of the anchor as it was hauled from the seabed. Nor did they hear the stutter of muskets firing at the escaping boat.

  “Sir Hugo, sit down!”

  With a spit and hiss like fat on a hot stove, bullets bit the sea behind the little boat. But they were out of range before the soldiers could reload their weapons.

  “She be taking the wind finely this marnin’!” A foot on the prow as it nosed through the water, Sir Hugo watched the royal galleon sail steadily farther away.

  “We’ll—never—catch—up—at—this—rate,” Goose panted, pulling on his oar.

  “Can’t—you—think—of—some—thing?” Cordelia puffed, between pulls on her oar.

  They rowed in silence for several minutes, watching the soldiers on the beach shrink so small they looked like toys. The royal galleon was leaning eagerly toward the open sea, sails as full as white skirts.

  “How are we going to catch up?” Cordelia groaned in despair.

  Sir Hugo wrapped himself in a canvas sail from the bottom of the boat and leaned against the mast, apparently trying to look mysterious and dramatic against the skyline. Then a crested wave slapped the side of the little boat.

  “AAAH! By Neptune!” he cursed, falling on Goose.

  Goose was swamped by the sail and let go of his oar. Cordelia managed to snatch it before it was caught by a wave and pulled from the rowlock. As she hauled on the oar, she was surprised to see that Goose was smiling.

  “I’ve got it!” he said, grinning. “Just like my boat on the pond in Hyde Park!”

  He pulled the sail off Sir Hugo and hoisted it up the short mast. Within a few minutes, they were cutting quickly through the water, oars lying at the bottom of the boat as a generous wind filled their sail. Goose had his hand on the tiller and his eyes were shining.

  They were catching up with the royal galleon!

  “Let’s just hope they don’t look back and see us,” Cordelia said. “Though Jolly Roger over there might be enough of a disguise.”

  Sir Hugo, clearly pleased with the new backdrop of the sail, was posing at the front of the boat again. This time he gazed yearningly out to the horizon, shading his eyes against the rays of the rising sun with what he seemed to feel was an expression of noble thirst on his face.

  “The first thing we should do,” Cordelia said, “is find the princess and give her the real Peace Hat.”

  Goose nodded. “Then what?”

  “Then we … we get those Rage Clothes from Miss Starebottom and throw them into the sea?” Cordelia suggested.

  “Yes,” Goose agreed. “Good plan.”

  CHAPTER 36

  THE SUN WAS HIGH BY THE TIME THE ROYAL galleon and Le Bateau Fantastique came within hailing distance of each other.

  Unseen, a small dinghy slipped behind the bulk of the English galleon. Two industrious sailors lowered the sail and tied their boat to a rope ladder hanging down the side of the huge ship. The third sailor simply watched and growled, “Arrr, put your backs into it, rapscallions!”

  Cordelia peered up. Shouts and whistles came from the deck and they heard the colossal anchor plunge into the sea.

  “I think we should climb on board now,” she muttered to Goose. “We might be able to hide if they’re all busy trying to look better than the French.”

  “Good idea,” he said.

  Sir Hugo whispered, “Zounds! The hero’s quest is nearly at its peak! The sun reaches his noontime zenith and the game is afoot!” He whipped his sword out of its scabbard and swished it through the air. “What say you, fair players? Let’s whip ’em back to France!”

  “No, Sir Hugo—we’re not here to whip the French!” Cordelia hissed. “We’re here to help the princess! And to stop Lord Witloof.”

  “And Miss Starebottom,” added Goose.

  Sir Hugo grinned somewhat blankly and disappeared up the ladder.

  “At least he’s good with his sword,” Goose muttered as they hurried after him. They found him crouching dramatically behind a barrel and ducked down next to him.

  The galleon was a-bustle with activity. Scarlet footmen ran back and forth, arranging flowers and unfurling English flags and putting up flattering portraits of King George (looking exceedingly sensible and most noble). Two velvet-covered thrones faced each other across the deck. One was a lot taller and more impressive than the other.

  Across a narrow gully of sea and air, a dozen blue-and-gold French courtiers watched from the deck of the French ship. One, wearing an especially long and curly wig, shouted, “I ’ope you weel not hexpect our keeeng to eet your Eenglish food.”

  Cordelia and Goose peered out from their hiding place.

  “Those must be the French Makers,” Goose breathed, eyeing the most flamboyant people strutting along the deck. “I heard King Louis has a Perfumemaker and a Wigmaker!”

  Cordelia was surveying the English ship.

  “The royal cabin will be aft,” Cordelia whispered. “We need to get
below decks.”

  She pointed to a door below the poop deck and Goose nodded.

  “Argh!” Sir Hugo cried. “Splinter!” He leaped up, clutching his knee.

  A footman screamed and dropped a tray of jam tarts.

  Heads turned and everyone froze. Cordelia and Goose crouched as low as they could, not daring to move in case they were spotted too.

  “Do not fear!” Sir Hugo announced to all the staring footmen. “For I come on the noble mission to—”

  “What manner of stowaway is this?” a voice boomed.

  A man appeared on the poop deck. He wore a royal blue coat with gold buttons, a white wig, and a black tricorn hat. He looked very impressive.

  “I am no stowaway!” Sir Hugo barked.

  “I am captain of the royal galleon,” the figure declared. “And I know a stowaway when I see one.”

  “I am Sir Hugo Gushforth,” Sir Hugo cried, slashing his sword in a silver arc. “And I will not be called a stowaway by some strutting jack-a-nape with a splintery ship!”

  The captain came down from the poop deck and strode toward Sir Hugo, who was swishing his sword so fast through the air that it was a silver streak.

  “Remember Sir Hugo’s duel in the play?” Goose whispered confidently. “He won easily.”

  The captain planted his feet and pulled his own sword from its sheath. In one savage slash, he brought his weapon clean through the silver blur of Sir Hugo’s swordplay.

  Clang!

  “OUCH!”

  And Sir Hugo was desperately dodging and ducking as the captain calmly skewered and sliced the air around him.

  “Ah,” said Cordelia. “I think Sir Hugo is only good at fighting when it’s pretend and the other person has a wooden sword.”

  Goose nodded ruefully, watching Sir Hugo yelp.

  Every footman, courtier, and sailor on deck was riveted by the fight. Even the French, on their ship, were shouting and whooping as the captain cut the buttons off Sir Hugo’s outfit with deft flicks of his weapon.

  “Come on!” Cordelia hissed. “Now’s our chance!”

  She and Goose scrambled out from behind the barrel and streaked across the deck. They were safely through the door when they heard a loud wolf whistle from a French courtier: with no buttons left to hold them up, Sir Hugo’s trousers had fallen down.

  CHAPTER 37

  IT WAS QUIET AND EVERYTHING WAS GENTLY rocking.

  “Which way do we go?” Goose’s voice came out of the shadows.

  Keep wildness in your wits and magic in your fingertips! Cordelia closed her eyes and opened her nostrils.

  The Rage Clothes reeked of evil: a mixture of rotten Firechicken eggs and burned dreams.

  “It’s that way,” she said, pointing.

  “What way?” Goose’s voice came back. “It’s too dark to see.”

  In the gloom she felt for Goose’s hand. Holding tight, she led him down the rolling corridor, following the vile smell wafting through the ship.

  A shout rang out and they froze. Cordelia pulled Goose against the wooden wall a second before a crowd of people thundered past, bellowing.

  “Intruder on board!”

  “Trespasser!”

  “Actor!”

  Hearts hammering in the dark, Cordelia and Goose froze until the people stampeded away toward the deck. Cordelia breathed a sigh of relief. Then she wrinkled her nose.

  “Ugh!”

  The stink was stronger than before. She pulled Goose around the next corner and suddenly it was overpowering.

  “Phew!” Goose huffed. “That’s horrible!”

  Cordelia pushed gently and a door swung open. Bright sunlight flooded the dark and they saw twinkling windows and sparkling waves. A golden crest hung in the entranceway.

  The royal cabin!

  It was quiet.

  “Everyone must be on deck,” Cordelia whispered.

  They crept into the cabin and sure enough, there on the four-poster bed lay—

  “The Rage Clothes!”

  Goose recoiled. The Rage Clothes were grotesque. Hate came off them in waves.

  The cloak was made from the shredded pelt of a scarlet Vampire Squid, dripping with Eelweeds, studded with the angry spikes of sea urchins and—Cordelia squinted—

  “Are those children’s teeth?”

  Goose clapped a hand over his mouth.

  The gloves were made of warty toad leather, the knuckles gnarled with knotty barnacles. On the end of each finger were stitched—

  “Orcus Fox claws!” Cordelia could hardly believe it.

  The boots had rusty nails spiking out of their pointy toes. The laces were twisted from putrid guts and—

  “Wrath Ribbons!” Goose gasped.

  Peering at the hairy brown watch, Cordelia realized with a jolt of alarm that it was made of a dead tarantula, its legs curled beneath it, finger-thick and bristly.

  Goose grabbed her hand.

  The hat was a tall black chimney, contorted with iron wires that crackled and sparked, humming with Lightning Strife. Three filthy feathers sagged on it and a single orange whisker curved like a scimitar around the crown, which Cordelia knew could be only one thing:

  “The whisker of a Sabre Tiger!”

  Most disgusting of all, a thousand live millipedes twisted and wriggled on the brim: the hat was alive with malice.

  The children stared in horror. Around them, the ship creaked as though it was straining to contain these terrible secrets.

  “Harpy feathers on the hat!” Cordelia exclaimed.

  “And Lightning Strife!”

  “Goose, these clothes are really dangerous. Even just putting one of these things on could be really bad.”

  There was a tiny squeak behind them and Cordelia and Goose whirled around. There, pale as a marble statue, stood—

  “Princess Georgina!”

  She was so perfectly still that they had not noticed her when they crept in. The glass crown glistered on her head and her eyes were strangely glazed.

  Before Cordelia could reach up to remove the crown, the door handle turned. “Goose, hide!”

  She dived behind a carved wooden screen as Goose wrapped himself in the velvet curtains of the four-poster bed. He covered up his feet as Lord Witloof strode into the room.

  Cordelia put her eye to a hole in the screen and saw the lord smiling unpleasantly at the princess.

  “I have arrested that ridiculous actor,” he said. “He is being locked in the hold with some bilge rats.”

  The princess remained frozen as Lord Witloof continued, “Delilah suspects there are two stowaway children aboard: a Hatmaker and a Bootmaker. When we find them, we will throw them in a leaky row boat and push them out to sea. I am having some holes drilled in a small boat as we speak.”

  Cordelia saw the bed curtains quiver.

  “Now, Princess, the time has finally come for you to order the cannons!” Lord Witloof’s eyes were shining. “Your father refused to sign this commission. Then you refused. But you will sign it now, and my Ironfire Cannon Factory will begin to churn out weapons at a rate mankind has never seen before!”

  Lord Witloof unrolled a scroll of paper on the desk, dipped a waiting quill in ink, and grasped the princess’s hand. She had no choice but to write her name as his fist guided her fingers. As soon as it was done, Lord Witloof snatched up the paper and pulled his glass pocket watch out of his waistcoat.

  “Drat, stopped again,” he muttered, tapping the silent watch.

  He carefully unscrewed the lid of the timepiece. Where the beautiful blue butterfly had been, there were now just a few flakes of black ash. Lord Witloof tutted, tipping the ash onto the floor. He took a small wooden box out of his pocket and opened it. Inside were several jewel-bright butterflies, twitching their wings in the sunlight. One ruby-red butterfly took to the air but Lord Witloof caught it by a paper-thin wing.

  “You’ll do,” he said, as it struggled in his fingers.

  He laid the butterfly on the
watch, snapping the lid down over it and trapping it behind the glass. It thrashed and fluttered in its prison. Cordelia was sure if she could have heard the butterfly’s voice, it would have been screaming.

  The watch began to tick again. Cordelia felt sick.

  The door swung open and Miss Starebottom slunk into the room.

  “Ah! Most punctual, Delilah!” Lord Witloof announced. “Time for Her Highness to dress for the peace talks.”

  Cordelia wondered how she had never noticed how cruel her governess’s twisted mouth was. She looked nastier than a hundred algebra problems as she smiled at the princess and picked up the Rage Cloak. Cordelia shuddered silently as Miss Starebottom slung the rubbery cloak over the princess’s shoulders and pinned the tarantula-watch at her waist. She tugged the lumpy gloves onto the princess’s pale hands and yanked her silver shoes off, then pulled the new boots onto the princess’s little feet and tied the slimy laces in knobbly double knots.

  Cordelia noticed that Miss Starebottom did not put the Rage Hat on the princess. The glass crown was still holding her in its cold power, like a strong arm holding somebody underwater.

  Miss Starebottom stepped back, as if to admire her work. The princess was a sickening spectacle.

  Lord Witloof smiled. “What a splendid job. I’m sure the peace talks will go perfectly.”

  “She’ll declare war, and every Maker will be hanged on the hill,” Miss Starebottom hissed gleefully to Lord Witloof. “And I will so enjoy watching their necks snap!”

  It was all Cordelia could do not to cry out in horror.

  And then she saw the velvet curtains move.

  ‘“STAND AND DELIVER!” Goose’s voice shouted, as fiercely as he could, flailing the curtains in outrage.

  For a moment, Lord Witloof looked terrified at the prospect of being attacked by vengeful soft furnishings. Then Goose’s round face appeared, ruddy with fury, as he wrestled to free himself from the curtains. He lost the fight, got tangled up, and thudded to the floor in a heap of torn velvet.