The Hatmakers

by Tamzin Merchant

  “That’s the Bootmaker,” Miss Starebottom sneered. “And the Hatmaker will be close by! Where are you hiding, Cordelia?” she hissed, swatting the remaining curtains with her cane.

  “GUARDS!” shouted Lord Witloof.

  Three guards came clattering into the room.

  “Arrest this child!” Lord Witloof ordered, poking Goose with his foot.

  “There’s a girl hiding somewhere too. She’s trying to sabotage the peace talks!” Miss Starebottom shrieked. “Find her NOW!”

  Cordelia saw a guard lurch toward her hiding place and she was almost discovered when—

  “YOU!” Goose bellowed, pointing an accusing finger at Miss Starebottom. “YOU are the most twit-faced, nose-bogey, arse-farting villainess from hence to hence!”

  It was such a strange string of insults that everyone in the room turned to stare at Goose. Cordelia took her chance and dived into the one hiding place where nobody would think to look.

  All around her chaos unfolded, as the room was torn apart in the search. The wooden screen she had been hiding behind was knocked over and she heard Goose being dragged away, still tangled in the curtains.

  It was hot and stuffy. The weight of the Rage Clothes closed around her and she could barely breathe. But Cordelia was safely hidden under the princess’s skirts.

  She crouched beneath tiers of cloth held by stiff hoops. Her fingers brushed a greasy bootlace, making a tremor of rage quake through her. Feeling the hatbox in her jacket, with the Peace Hat waiting patiently within it, calmed her a little.

  “She’s definitely not in this room, Lord Witloof!” a guard barked, his feet an inch from Cordelia’s hand.

  “Search the whole galleon! Find her!”

  The guards trooped out. Cordelia felt the floor shaking beneath their boots.

  “Princess, follow me,” Lord Witloof ordered. “It is time to begin!”

  CHAPTER 38

  IT WAS LUCKY THAT ROYALTY WAS EXPECTED TO walk in a very slow and stately manner, because crawling along underneath a skirt (no matter how roomy) is quite tricky. Cordelia had to make sure her fingers did not poke out of the front of the princess’s dress and that her toes did not poke out of the back. Her legs started to burn as she crept, crab-like, through the ship beneath the princess’s dress, trying to avoid the rusty spikes on the toes of the boots and the jagged hem of crow’s feathers on the Rage Cloak. Every time she brushed against them she felt a hot jolt of fury.

  As the princess mounted the steps to the deck, Cordelia had to hop in time with each stair the princess took. Halfway up, she almost got left behind when the hatbox jolted and she mis-timed the hop. Heart hammering, she scrambled back into the safety of the skirts before her feet could be seen.

  The royal party reached the deck with Cordelia still hidden. The brassy tooting of a dozen trumpets greeted them, and someone announced, “Her Royal Highness the Princess Regent—Georgina!”

  The princess stopped, and Cordelia heard a gasp from the awaiting crowd. She could only imagine the expressions on the faces of the courtiers as they saw and smelled the odious clothes the princess was wearing. Uneasy muttering stirred in the wind.

  The princess started moving again and Cordelia crawled forward. Suddenly her hands sank into soft carpet and then the skirts shifted around her. She had to press herself flat against the bottom of the throne as the princess sat down upon it.

  She carefully peeled up the hem of the underskirts and peered through a fringe of crow’s feathers. The two glinting WWs of Lord Witloof’s buckles were startlingly close to her face.

  Cordelia felt the princess shiver and give a tiny gasp, as if she was coming up for air after a long time underwater. Lord Witloof must have taken the glass crown off her head.

  “Now remember, Your Highness,” Lord Witloof murmured, “King Louis wrote you some very offensive letters and he tried to assassinate you.”

  The princess jolted as the Rage Hat was placed on her head. Her legs trembled and jerked as though she was trying hard not to dance a very angry jig. Rage was beginning to shudder through her body. Pressed against the side of the throne and with her limbs twisted around the princess’s twitching legs, Cordelia was joggled vigorously.

  Through the feathers of the hem, she saw a sturdy gangplank from the French ship smack onto the English deck.

  “La Grande Pomme! La Patate Chaude! Le Roi de France—Louis!” a French courtier crowed as a golden-robed man with long hair and a twirly mustache sauntered across onto the English ship.

  King Louis bowed extravagantly to the princess, his hands and hair and elbows all an elegant swirl. He raised a wry eyebrow at the less-impressive throne the English had provided for him, before sitting down on it.

  Then came a long procession of brocaded French courtiers, led by a trotting white poodle wearing a gold collar. The poodle, the French Makers, and dozens of other courtiers arranged themselves around their king, casting critical eyes over his English rival.

  The English courtiers sniffed and shuffled. One had his nose stuck so high in the air he appeared to be staring directly into the noonday sun.

  There was not much time left—the peace talks would begin any moment.

  What on earth should I do? Cordelia thought desperately. In the Rage Clothes, the princess would never try for peace. The Makers would be blamed, and they would all be executed as traitors. War would come and the sea would eat her father. He would be gone forever—

  No.

  She twisted around into the airless folds of the princess’s skirts and found herself nose-to-nail with a Rage Boot.

  I’ll start by getting rid of these, she thought.

  She tugged at the slimy laces, and the Wrath Ribbons blistered her fingers. The princess stamped her foot and Cordelia’s fingers were crushed under the Rage Boot.

  “Ouch!” she yelped.

  Luckily at that exact moment, a loud gong was sounded on the deck and her voice was lost in the reverberations.

  “Let us commence the peace talks,” Lord Witloof intoned as the sound of the gong died away.

  Don’t lose your head, Cordelia Hatmaker, she told herself sternly. She grabbed the princess’s foot again, trying to loosen the laces on the first Rage Boot.

  “Your ’ighness,” the French king began. He had a chocolate-moussey voice that was rich and smooth.

  “You detestable wretch,” the princess spat. “You dare address me after writing those contemptuous letters?”

  There was a shocked silence.

  “But you are the one who has been writing rude letters, my Preeencess,” the king’s chocolatey voice began again. It was the kind of voice used to getting its own way.

  “I am not your Princess,” the princess snarled. “I am my own Princess. And you are a knave of the rudest sort.”

  The Rage Boot jerked. The laces resisted Cordelia’s fingers, wrapping themselves around her wrist. She tore them off, gritting her teeth as the Wrath Ribbon seared her skin.

  “Knave?” the French king repeated. “Would a knave have sent you a basket of pineapples?”

  Cordelia wrenched off the first Rage Boot and blew on her burning hand.

  “Pineapples?” the princess snapped.

  Cordelia gritted her teeth and started working on the second boot.

  “Eet was a gesture of friendship!” the French king replied. “Zey are very amusing fruits!”

  “I never received any pineapples!” Her Highness fumed.

  “I sent zem with my finest manservant!” the French king cried. “Who has never returned! Kidnapper!”

  “The only reason you came crawling to these peace talks, you snivelling villain,” the princess hissed, “is because you are dreadfully afraid of my terrifying army of soldiers and my thousands of new cannons. So you’ve come creeping over here to pretend you’re sorry.”

  “I never creep!” King Louis burst out.

  Cordelia was braced to pull off the second Rage Boot when—

  The princess leap
ed to her feet and sprang across the deck, leaving Cordelia huddled on the thick red carpet with a fresh sea breeze cooling her face.

  But nobody noticed her. They were all enthralled by the wrathful princess. Her face was disfigured with rage and a flaming halo of fury crackled around her. The dripping red tentacles of the Vampire Squid Rage Cloak twisted and writhed, seething with evil. The crooked Rage Hat blasted sparks out of its black wires.

  A tentacle from the cloak snaked through the air, wrapping itself around King Louis’s shoulders.

  “I would never be afraid of speaking to you!” the princess hissed. “You should fear me! I could crush you like a COCKROACH!”

  “NO!” Cordelia heard the shout, then realized it was her own voice shouting, “Princess, STOP!”

  But the Rage Cloak did not stop. It twisted up King Louis’s throat, winding around his neck, turning his face red. With dreadful strength, it lifted the king off his feet as though he was a rag doll. Everyone on deck was transfixed with horror.

  “Au secours!”

  ‘Somebody ’elp ’im!”

  Cordelia bounded across the deck and launched herself at the princess. She jumped on her back, the rubbery cloak thrashing beneath her, spikes of sea urchins stinging her skin.

  “Your Highness!” Cordelia gasped, scrabbling at the glass clasp fastening the Rage Cloak at the princess’s throat. It wouldn’t come undone. “This isn’t you! Stop it—please stop!”

  “GET THAT GIRL!”

  A hand yanked Cordelia’s hair, trying to pull her off the princess. She kicked out and heard Lord Witloof fall back, cursing.

  But something was wrapping itself around her middle. Something stronger than an arm, which wrenched Cordelia away from the princess. Her feet kicked in the air as she struggled in the grip of a Rage Cloak tentacle. King Louis, held at the neck by another tentacle, was turning a royal shade of purple.

  Cordelia desperately called to the crowd of courtiers, “Somebody help!”

  “Stay back!” Lord Witloof cried, eyes glinting maliciously. “Nobody move! You might make it worse!”

  Cordelia struggled in midair as the tentacle squeezed her tight, crushing the breath from her lungs.

  The princess’s eyes were black with malice. She turned her burning gaze from Cordelia to the king. The tarantula Rage Watch, somehow come alive, was twitching and jerking its way along the tentacle toward the king’s terrified face.

  “Princess!” Cordelia wheezed desperately. She was losing air and hope. She felt the buttons of her father’s jacket dig into her chest as she was squeezed.

  Those gold buttons … They glinted in just the same way hope does.

  With the last of her strength, Cordelia kicked. She felt her foot connect with the glass clasp at the princess’s neck. It exploded open.

  Thud. Thud.

  Cordelia and the king slumped to the deck, both gasping for breath.

  The cloak slithered, limp, off the princess’s shoulders and fell in a stinking heap next to Cordelia. The watch landed beside it, and she slammed a fist onto it. Watch hands and spider legs scattered like matchsticks.

  Cordelia rolled over. The princess snarled as the king staggered to his feet.

  “Zis is an outrage!” he croaked.

  “SILENCE, FOOL!”

  One gnarled, craggy Rage Glove smacked him across the face and he went sprawling across the deck.

  “THAT is for trying to ASSASSINATE me!” Princess Georgina bawled.

  The king groaned, clutching his nose.

  “À l’assaut!” yelled a Frenchman.

  A French Maker dived for the princess, but an English footman tackled him to the ground.

  “Come on, lads!” he yelled.

  Suddenly around Cordelia, in a great writhing swarm of furious bodies, everyone was fighting.

  A pack of French noblemen mobbed an English duke. A posse of English ladies-in-waiting attacked a French Maker. The English captain swung down from the rigging onto a gang of French countesses and quickly disappeared beneath their furious fists.

  “One Boot—Watch—Cloak—done!” Cordelia panted, flipping over and scrabbling through a Frenchman’s legs toward the princess. “Now for—Gloves—Boot—Hat!”

  The princess loomed over the king, her Rage Gloves a whirl around his head.

  “You are a VAGABOND! A WRETCH!” she shouted as she hit him.

  Cordelia timed it perfectly. She snatched one glove as the princess drew it back to smack the king, and the other glove a moment later. She tossed them both overboard.

  Confused, the princess gazed at her bare hands.

  “Gloves gone!” Cordelia gasped.

  The princess turned, and Cordelia saw a curdled mix of fury and fear in her eyes. The foot wearing the remaining Rage Boot lashed out. Cordelia dived out of the way just in time, sprang back and yanked the boot as hard as she could.

  The princess shook her head as though she was trying to rid herself of a buzzing wasp.

  The Rage Boot flew off the royal foot.

  “YOU!” the princess howled.

  She bore down on Cordelia, reaching for her—whether in fury or desperation, Cordelia could not tell. She backed away, tripped, and fell hard on the deck. The princess towered over her.

  Cordelia was still clutching the boot. She threw it at the princess’s head.

  The boot hit its target and the hideous Rage Hat toppled off. A shower of millipedes fell wriggling from the brim and the hat landed in a smash of sparks on the deck.

  Cordelia leaped to her feet.

  Princess Georgina stood gasping in the middle of the ship, utterly bewildered by the chaos surrounding her. “Miss Hatmaker?” she whispered. “What—what have I done?”

  “Um, well, you … you …” Cordelia glanced at the French king, who was cowering behind the throne.

  “Your—Your Majesty?” the princess faltered, reaching down and shaking him gently.

  He whimpered.

  “Louis?” she coaxed.

  King Louis peered out from between his fingers.

  Princess Georgina peered back at him anxiously.

  “King Louis,” she said softly. “I really would like to talk about having a peace treaty between England and France.”

  She held out her hand to help him up. The king scrambled to his feet, ignoring the princess’s extended hand.

  Around them, French and English courtiers and footmen were still engaged in savage battle.

  “HAH!” His Majesty spat, “You invite me ’ere, onto this ship in the middle of the sea, to have peace talks, you say! Pah!”

  Princess Georgina nodded uncertainly.

  “Zen you insult my PINEAPPLES!” he bellowed. “And you ambush me with a VILE ATTACK!” The king was wild-eyed with indignation. His wig was askew and his gold cloak was ripped and his carefully curled mustache was frayed like an old rat’s whiskers. “You say you would like PEACE! Zis is not peace.”

  Cordelia thrust her hand inside her father’s jacket and pulled out the hatbox. She ripped off the lid. There, serene (and only slightly dented), was the Peace Hat.

  “I hereby declare against England ze most violent and terrible wa—”

  Cordelia jumped, lifting the Peace Hat high in the air. She jammed it down on King Louis’s head.

  “Wa-what a beautiful outfit you are wearing today, Preencess,” he finished.

  The Peace Hat glimmered on the king’s head. The golden star was at a slightly wonky angle, but it sparkled in the sun. The Sunsugar halo glowed, the feathers danced in the breeze and the Leaping Bean hopped gleefully along the brim. And King Louis smiled at the princess, all trace of fury gone.

  “It worked!” whispered Cordelia.

  Princess Georgina’s dress was smoking slightly, singed by some stray sparks of Lightning Strife, yet she still stood with regal dignity amid the carnage surrounding her. “Can we agree officially on peace, Your Majesty?” she asked, tentatively stretching her hand out again toward the king.

&
nbsp; Cordelia held her breath, as the king took the princess’s hand and covered it with kisses.

  “Um, does this mean we will have peace?” the princess asked, pulling her hand away.

  “Mais, oui!” the king agreed, beaming like a ray of sunshine. “Yes, my lovely Princess. Peace shall be ours!”

  Cordelia sighed with relief.

  And at that moment a cannon fired.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE SOUND WAS LOUD ENOUGH TO STOP THE fight in its tracks. The English and the French froze in the middle of battle.

  An English duke cowered in a barrel. A French countess stopped assaulting the captain. A gang of English footmen dropped their French foe.

  “I will have my WAR!” Lord Witloof bellowed. He was standing on the poop deck next to a smoking cannon.

  “Non!” a French courtier shouted, pointing at Le Bateau Fantastique.

  There was a smoking hole in the French ship. In response, a hundred cannons suddenly appeared through gunports in its side: a hundred iron mouths ready to spit fire.

  Everyone on the galleon gasped.

  “Zey will not attack us!” a French courtier shouted at Lord Witloof. “Our keeng ees on board!”

  Lord Witloof took his cannon by the muzzle, as though it was a dangerous dog, and dragged it around to face the French king.

  “He won’t be on board for much longer!” he thundered, shoving gunpowder into the black O of the cannon’s mouth, and brandishing the long rammer at an advancing English footman. “Stay back!”

  The crowd retreated, leaving King Louis blinking in the middle of the deck.

  “Your Majesty!” Princess Georgina tried to pull him out of the firing line. In response, the king dreamily stroked her hair. “Louis!”

  Cordelia wove through the horrified crowd and began to climb the rigging.

  Lord Witloof grabbed a cannonball and fed it to the cannon.

  “Please move!” Princess Georgina begged the king.