Early the next morning a white-bearded, green-robed figure rode out of
Middenburgh Castle and galloped away towards the Hollwood forest.
"Where is Mirdalph off to?" mused Sir Edmund Gargrave, pausing for a moment
at a narrow, arched window to watch his departure.
"Who's he?" asked Ratlett, who was in eager attendance on the dungeonmaster.
"A magician. I should keep well away from him!" Edmund's whisper was tinged
with a venom which the urchin was quick to note. Edmund turned his attention
to the ragged boy and said. "Come. We must get you properly dressed if you
are going to be junior jailor and apprentice torturer."
"Yes, sir, your lordship!"
***
Toppard, Duke of Yeoveld, woke up in his chair with an aching back, a stiff
neck, a thundering headache and a mouth that felt as if it contained the
stuffing from several cushions. He slowly opened his eyes to focus on Margaret,
his duchess, smiling beatifically at him and holding out a goblet of
sweet-smelling, amber liquid.
"Here, drink this," she said. "It will make you feel better." Her honeyed
voice betrayed nothing of the screaming termagant who had confronted him
the previous night.
Toppard took the goblet and gingerly sipped the amber liquid. It tasted
extraordinarily good, and as it trickled down his throat he began to feel
his aches and pains dissolve away. His blue eyes followed his wife suspiciously
as she sat down on a stool by his side, still smiling. What was she up to?
"That's one of Granny Grimp's recipes," she said.
"Granny Grimpmyre!" exploded Toppard, then he grimaced and clasped his throbbing
forehead. "That evil old witch!"
Margaret's smile remained as radiantly sweet as ever. "She's not evil," she
said, "and you must admit the drink is making you feel better." She gently
guided the goblet back to his mouth.
Toppard grunted and sipped again. The sweet liquid seemed to be having the
most dramatic effect on him. "She's still and old witch!" he grumbled as
ungraciously as he could.
"I think we should recall her to court," cooed Margaret.
"But Hackard banished her!" protested Toppard. "She turned all his tax-collectors
into toads! He wouldn't allow her within ten miles of the castle!"
"Hackard is dead." Margaret's honeyed voice was the essence of reason. "Granny
Grimpmyre was my nurse, and I want her to be the nurse of my children."
"They don't need a nurse!" said Toppard. "Especially one who also happens
to be a witch!" He unthinkingly drank some more of the sweet brew. His headache
had all but gone, and his mouth had lost its lining of feathers.
Margaret's smile never faltered. "There's a lot to be gained from witchcraft
- properly applied," she cooed.
"Anyway," grumbled Toppard, "Erryl's fourteen - "
"Thirteen."
" - and Clarence is ... um ... a bit younger."
"Clarence is a lot younger, and still needs a nurse to look after him. And
what if I were to have another child?" She laft the implication hanging in
the air.
"You're not ...?"
Margaret continued to smile, her violet eyes deep wells of knowing.
Toppard gave up. He growled incoherently into the goblet and drained the
rest of the amber nectar. It was futile to argue with his wife when she was
being as sweet and reasonable as this, for it meant she had her mind firmly
set on what she wanted, and nothing could divert her from achieving it.
Margaret accepted the implied submission, rose and moved briskly away. "Gilbert
can go and fetch her," she said. "If he leaves now, they will be back before
tomorrow evening."
She stopped and turned the full force of here sweetness again on Toppard,
"Oh, I think it might be better if you slept - elsewhere. Just for the time
being."
Toppard grunted and pushed his tangled, red curls back from his forehead,
He had expected this as soon as Margaret had mentioned another child. It
happened every time she thought she was pregnant. He didn't really mind,
as there were plenty of warm and welcoming beds elsewhere in Middenburgh.
"Whatever you think best." he growled.
***
Later that morning Gilbert Rampion set out on horseback, accompanied by a
coach and four guards, to fetch Granny Grimpmyre from the village of Knapweed,
which was situated some fifteen miles up river from Middenburgh. The rough
cart track that served as a road for most of the way made progress very slow,
as the coach, a large, cumbersome conveyance, kept getting stuck in the ruts.
Gilbert was seething with impatience when they entered the Hollwood Forest,
through which the track wound for several miles.
They had not progressed very far among the trees, with Gilbert riding some
distance ahead, when the squire heard the sound of singing. A melodious,
female voice was warbling a cheerful ditty about a lover and his lass, with
a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino.
Gilbert quickened his horse's pace until he rounded a bend to see a young
girl sitting on a fallen tree trunk by the side of the track, plaiting her
long, golden hair and singing to herself. Gilbert instantly registered the
fact that she was very pretty and about fifteen years old. She was dressed
in a pale cream robe which marked her out as pupil at the Convent of the
Little Sisters of Light. She had a round, pale face and enormous, dark eyes
which looked up appealingly at Gilbert under long, dark lashes.
The girl stopped singing and smiled. "Hello," she said, as if her presence
alone in the forest was the most natural thing in the world. She eyed Gilbert
critically for a moment, then commented, "You're not exactly a knight in
shining armour, are you? But I suppose you'll do. Will you give me a lift,
please?"
Gilbert was speechless for a moment. Could she be a fairy? Or a witch? He
cautiously dismounted and approached the girl. "What are you doing here?"
he asked, glancing round suspiciously. "Are you alone?"
"Quite alone," smiled the girl, finishing plaiting her hair and tossing it
back over her shoulder. "I'm also very tired. Will you take me to the Convent
of the Little Sisters of Light, please?" She spoke with the carefully cultured
and articulated voice of a tradesman's daughter who was being educated for
better things.
"You haven't told me what you're doing here," said Gilbert, still suspicious
of her.
"I ran away," replied the girl matter-of-factly.
"Why?"
"I'm supposed to be getting married today."
"And you don't want to?"
"No, But what else can I do? Daddy will cut me off without a dowry if I don't
do what he wants, and there's no point in my hanging around waiting for a
handsome prince to come and carry me away, is there? You're not a prince,
are you?" she added hopefully.
Gilbert smiled. "I'm not even a knight yet."
"No, I thought not. Will you take me back, please?"
"All right," agreed Gilbert, deciding that she was exactly what she appeared
to be. The detour would give him something to do while the coach toiled
laboriously throught the forest. "What's your name?"
The girl stood up. "Jane Woolmerchant. Daddy is a wool merchant."
"Really?"
"Yes, I'm a pupil at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Light."
"I'm Gilbert Rampion, squire to the Duke of Yeoveld,"
They shook hands very formally, but Gilbert kept hold of Jayne's hand and
she made no effort to withdraw it.
"Are you quite sure you're not really a prince in disguise?" she asked.
Gilbert smiled disarmingly. "Quite sure," he replied.
"And you're certainly no knight in shining armour," she added regretfully.
They stood looking at each other for a long moment, then Gilbert felt himself
bending very slowly towards the girl's pretty face and her pink, enticing
lips. Jayne seemed to be melting towards him, her eyes slowly closing and
her face turned up to meet his.
Then the coach and guards came rumbling and cursing into view, and Jayne
hurriedly turned away while Gilbert signalled them to stop. He explained
that he would take the girl back to the convent and rejoin them further along
the road.
"I'm being an awful nuisance to you, aren't I?" giggled Jayne when Gilbert
had remounted and she had been hoisted up behind to cling to him rather more
tightly than was really necessary.
"No problem," said Gilbert.
***
"There is a problem," said the mother superior of the Little Sisters of Light.
Far from little, she herself was an enormous woman whose white robes hung
about her like a dust-sheet on an elephant.
"What problem?" demanded Humphrey Woolmerchant, the wool merchant who was
Jayne's father. He was a choleric, red-faced man with a thin beard and oversized
belly.
"I don't quite know how to tell you this," said the mother superior, her
pleated head-dress quivering with embarrassment, "but ... well ... Jayne
has ... um ... disappeared."
"Disappeared!" echoed Humphrey. "What do you mean?"
"She isn't here in the convent. She's run away."
"Run away!" Humphrey's red face darkened to match the crimson robe he was
wearing, "I arrange an advantageous marriage for her, and the ungrateful
little slut runs away!"
The mother superior wished she could crawl away through a crack in the stone
wall of her office - an unlikely possibility in view of her size.
"How did she get out?" asked William, Jayne's older brother. He was a personable
but plump young man with the same enormous, dark eyes as his sister.
"She climbed out of the window."
"How?"
"She made a rope out of her bedclothes."
***
"Then I ran off into the forest and walked
around until morning," said Jayne.
"Weren't you frightened?" asked Gilbert, keeping his horse's pace down to
a saunter to extend for as long as possible the time that Jayne's arms would
be round him.
"No, silly!" said Jayne derisively. "Nobody would do anything to me! I'm
from the Convent of the Little Sisters of Light!"
Gilbert's eyebrows twitched, but he said nothing.
"Anyway," continued Jayne, "I thought and thought and thought and by morning
I decided it really couldn't be too bad married to a very rich knight, even
if he is older than me."
"What's his name?"
"Sir Caspar Fforde-Goffington."
"Never heard of him."
"Neither has anyone else, He stays on his estates in the West Country and
never comes near Middenburgh or the court if he can avoid it. Even I've never
met him. But daddy says it will be a most advantageous marriage."
"Advantageous to whom?"
"Daddy, I suppose. And me, of course." Jayne squeezed her arms tighter round
Gilbert and rested her cheek against his back. "I hope Sir Caspar
Fforde-Goffington is like you."
***
Sir Caspar Fforde-Goffington was, in fact, fifty-six years old, rather short
and very skinny. His bald head was hidden under a lemon-yellow, bejewelled
hat with an extravagant number of pink and and lilac feathers, while his
elderly person was swathed in a ridiculously fashionable tunic of pink and
silver satin, with enormous, trailing sleeves which, at that moment , he
was attempting to free from the door of the coach in which he had just arrived
at the Convent of the Little Sisters of Light.
"Fforde-Goffington, my dear chap!" exuded Humphrey Woolmerchant, bustling
over to greet him. "How wonderful to see you! Did you have a good journey?"
"Terrible!" snapped Sir Caspar, giving his left sleeve a final, sharp tug
and tearing it free from the coach door.
"Oh, dear! I am sorry!" commiserated Humphrey. "Here, let me help you."
"I can manage," snapped the old man, tottering forward like an exotic but
drunken bird.
"Allow me to introduce my son, William," said Humphrey.
"Yes, yes!" said Sir Caspar. "But it's your daughter I've come all this way
to meet, Where is she?"
"Ah!" said Humphrey, "Would you like to come inside and sit down?"
***
"Here we are," said Gilbert somewhat regretfully.
"Yes," agreed Jayne without enthusiasm, "here we are."
They halted outside the gates in the wall which surrounded the rambling
collection of stone buildings comprising the Convent of the Little Sisters
of light. It was set in a clearing in the forest, and had been there long
enough for moss and ivy to cover much of its exterior and make it look a
natural part of the surrounding woodland.
"Would you -" said both Jayne and Gilbert at the same time. They stopped.
"Sorry," said Gilbert.
"No, go on," said Jayne.
"Well I was wondering -"
"Jayne!" shrilled a high-pitched voice.
"Sister Chrysanthemum!" exclaimed Jayne.
A white-veiled Little Sister of Light was peering out through a barred window
in one of the wooden gates.
"I thought I heard a horse. Oh! you naughty girl!"
The face disappeared and there was much clanking of chains and drawing of
rusty bolts, accompanied by a great deal of clucking from Sister Chrysanthemum,
before the gates opened and she scuttled out, still clucking: "Mother superior
is furious and your father and brother are here and so is Sir Caspar
Fforde-Goffington and you can get down off that horse at once and come and
apologise for running away and causing such an upset for everyone and who
is that young man?" Sister Chrysanthemum eyed Gilbert suspiciously.
"Gilbert Rampion," he smiled as he helped Jayne down from his horse, "at
your service."
"Are you indeed?" clucked Sister Chrysanthemum. "Then you'd better come in
and explain why you are riding around the forest with a pupil from this convent
on the very day she is to be married to another man and what Sir Caspar will
say I don't know - "
"It's all right, Sister Chrysanthemum," said the mother superior, her huge
bulk filling most of the open gateway.
"Oh, mother superior, this young man - "
Mother superior silenced her with a glance, then turned to Gilbert. "We are
most grateful to you for returning Jayne to us. I hope she is still ... intact?"
Her eyes moved to Jayne, who blushed, bowed her head submissively and whispered,
"Yes, mother superior."
"Good. Then the least said, the soonest mended. Sister Chrysanthemum, take
Jayne to her room and prepare her for her marriage. Speak to no-one! I will
deal with her father and Sir Caspar. You, young man," she turned again to
Gilbert, "will ride away from here as quickly as possible and forget this
ever happened."
"No problem," said Gilbert.
He remounted his horse and turned to say farewell to Jayne, but she had already
disappeared inside the gate which was being firmly closed by the mother superior.
"No problem," he repeated wistfully. Then he shrugged and spurred his horse
into a gallop towards the village of Knapweed.
***
The village inn was called "The Fumbly Duck" - a name it was better not to
try to say when drunk - and Gilbert found the coach outside. Inside he found
the coachman and four guards enjoying some locally-brewed refreshment under
the curious gaze of the rosy-cheeked landlord and four or five grizzled yokels.
Gilbert joined his men for some brief refreshment, then asked the landlord
the way to Granny Grimpmyre's cottage.
"Arrr! Thee murren outgrabe she, my son!" was the instant and appalled reply.
"Her be a witch!"
"Arrr! a witch!" chorused the yokels, all nodding their heads and making
hasty signs against the powers of darkness.
"I have a letter for her," explained Gilbert, "from the Duchess of Yeoveld."
"'Appen thee do, my son," said the landlord, "but best beware!"
"Beware! Beware!" chorused the yokels, shaking their heads in unison.
"Beware of what?" asked Gilbert.
"Beware the jabberwock, my son!"
"The what?"
"The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"
"Arrr!" agreed the yokels.
"Look, can't you just tell me where she lives?"
Gilbert was beginning to lose patience with the superstitious yokel performance
which was obviously being put on for his benefit, much to the amusement of
the coachman and guards.
"Arrr!" said the landlord, winking an eye and shaking his head. "Thee art
an uffish young fellow, and no mistake."
"I'm sorry, but it is quite important."
"Arrr! 'Tis brillig for thee city folks to gyre and gimble in the wabe!"
"Granny Grimpmyre's cottage? Please?"
"Well now - turn to thee right outside this door and continue to the Tulgey
Wood."
"Do you mean the Hollwood Forest?"
"Arr!" 'Appen that's what some folks do call it - city folks an' all." He
winked at the yokels, who chortled with bucolic humour.
"And when I reach the ... Tulgey Wood?" prompted Gilbert.
"Turn sharp left down the track through the Mimsy Borogrove to Granny's cottage.
Thee carrun miss it, my son."
"Thank you," said Gilbert, making for the door.
"Best take thee vorpal sword in hand!" called the landlord.
"I'll remember!" called Gilbert, making a hasty exit before he could be subjected
to any more helpful advice.
***
The edge of the Hollwood Forest had been cleared in a great arc round the
village of Knapweed, and swept back to embrace the road again about half
a mile beyond "The Fumbly Duck". A narrow, overgrown track led off to the
left by the first tree, and Gilbert would have missed it if he had not been
looking for it.
He turned his horse down the track, but very soon the animal started showing
signs of extreme nervousness. Eventually it stopped, and no amount of urging
from Gilbert could make it move forward. In the end he dismounted, tethered
the nervous animal to a bush, and continued on foot. The track wound down
towards the river through a small grove of dead and blackened trees with
naked branches reaching out like spidery hands to clutch at any passer-by.
Was this the Mimsy Borogrove? wondered Gilbert as he moved between the sinister
trunks.
He emerged from the grove to find himself faced with a gap in a low, crumbling,
stone wall and a disintegrating, wooden gate hanging from one rusty hinge.
A board had been nailed crookedly to the gate, and on it were several
badly-scrawled messages in red paint: "No Hawkers." "No Circulars." "Beware
of the Jabberwock." "Tax collectors will be turned into todes."
Gilbert went through the uninviting gate towards the ramshackle, tumbledown
cottage at the end of the path. The thatched roof was moulting badly, the
windows were either broken or boarded-up, and from the open doorway issued
the sound of a shrill, cracked voice chanting tunelessly, "Double, double
toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron -" there was a loud and juicy splash
- "Oh! bugger!" screamed the voice.
At the same moment there was a loud jabbering sound from the roof of the
cottage and a small shape with leathery wings came flapping down towards
Gilbert's head. He just had time to register its approach and duck so that
it missed him to continue in an upward curve before turning to renew the
attack.
The creature was a small, mucky-green, scaly dragon. It had a long neck and
tail projecting from an almost spherical body with bat-like wings and short,
sharply-clawed legs. Its head was disproportionately large, with huge, glaring,
red eyes and an open mouth displaying rows of sharp teeth and a flickering,
forked tongue.
Gilbert's hand reached instinctively for his sword while his other arm came
up to protect his face. The jabbering creature was upon him before he could
draw his weapon, and he flung his arm sideways to knock it to the ground
where its jabbering changed to a yelp followed by a continuous, shrill, keening
sound that would have shattered any windows in the cottage if there had been
any windows left to shatter.
Gilbert drew his sword, intending to dispatch the vicious little creature
forthwith.
"What you doing?" demanded the voice which had been chanting inside the cottage,
and the sword flew painfully from the squire's grasp to land some distance
away in a patch of nettles.
Gilbert turned to find a hideous old woman emerging from the cottage, her
gnarled finger pointing at his hand, which stung as if it had been struck
by something very prickly.
The old woman peered at him with heavy-breathing hostility from beady black
eyes set in a wrinkled, weather-beaten face which looked as if it had been
squashed. The apparent absence of teeth meant that her large, square jaw
jutted up to meet her small, pointed nose which was ornamented by a handsome,
hairy wart. Her straggly, grey hair was partly covered by a dirty, linen
cap, and she wore numerous layers of multi-coloured rags, with a filthy apron
from which a huge patch of green slime was slowly dripping.
"What you doing to my Bilbil?" she said in her shrill, cracked voice, and
swooped down on the wailing dragon, which was still flapping about at Gilbert's
feet. "Poor little Bilbil! Come to mumsy!" cooed the old crone, gathering
up the reptile.
"I'm terribly sorry," said Gilbert, rubbing his still tingling hand, "but
it attacked me."
"Course it attacked you! Didn't you see the notice?"
"Well, yes, but ... are you Granny Grimpmyre?"
"Who wants to know?" asked the old woman, glaring at him suspiciously, and
stroking Bilbil's scaly head.
"I'm Gilbert Rampion, squire to the Duke of Yeoveld."
"You're not a tax collector, are you?"
"No." Gilbert smiled his most disarming smile. "I have a letter for you from
the Duchess of Yeoveld."
"The Duchess, eh?"
"Yes. I believe you used to be her nurse?"
"Not little Maggie?"
"The Duchess's name is Margaret," said Gilbert, and produced the letter from
inside his tunic. "You are Granny Grimpmyre?"
"Might be."
"My instructions were to give this letter to Granny Grimpmyre - and nobody
else,"
"All right - I'm Granny Grimpmyre." She gave the dragon a final pat on the
head and the creature clambered up to sit on her shoulder with its wings
folded and its tail wound loosely round her neck. Its eyes had faded from
red to pale yellow and its vicious teeth were now concealed by a mouth that
burbled affectionately in the old woman's ear.
Granny took the letter, sniffed it noisily, opened it and peered at the contents.
"Left me specs inside," she said, and moved back to the door of the cottage.
"S'pose you'd better come in."
Gilbert fetched his sword from the patch of nettles and followed her.
Entering Granny's cottage was like entering a jumble sale in Hell. There
was a stone fireplace which, in spite of the warmth of the summer evening,
had a roaring fire in it. Over the fire hung a sooty cauldron full of bubbling,
evil-smelling, green, slimy stuff. There were books and boxes and bundles
of herbs; skulls and skeletons of all sorts of creatures both common and
legendary; pots and pans and stone hot-water bottles; stuffed animals and
birds and reptiles - some with bits missing, and others with too many bits
to be real; and along the window-sills were dozens of green glass bottles
and jars of all shapes and sizes containing the most alarming collection
of dead spiders preserved in some clear fluid.
Gilbert stopped just inside the door and caught his breath at the noxious
odour issuing from the cauldron. A motheaten broomstick, which was propped
against the doorpost suddenly crackled and spat green sparks at him.
"Mind me broomstick!" snapped the old witch, "It doesn't like strangers."
Gilbert smiled weakly and sidled away from the unfriendly object, which was
still crackling crossly and seemed to be glaring at him.
"They're here somewhere," announced Granny, rooting about among the bottles
and papers and stale food and mice and spoons and knives and rubbish on the
table. "Ah! here they are!" She pulled a pair of metal-rimmed spactacles
from beneath what looked like a mouldy birthday-cake and balanced them
precariously on her warty nose.
She read the duchess's letter slowly and her jaw started to jut out even
further with what must have been the makings of a grin.
"Recalled to court, eh?" she cackled. "Old Hackard dead at last. Serves him
right, the old bugger!"
Gilbert tried to smile noncommittally, but the smell was beginning to make
him feel sick.
"I'd better start getting all me bits and bobs together, hadn't I?" said
Granny. She unwound the dragon's tail from her neck and removed the still
burbling creature to the shoulder of a stuffed, white ape mounted on a sledge,
where it settled down and went to sleep.
"We can help you move everything you want to take tomorrow morning," volunteered
Gilbert, "though I don't think we will be able to get the coach down the
track to your cottage." He stepped outside, partly to survey the track, but
mainly for some fresh air to stop him vomiting.
"Don't you worry about that, ducks," croaked Granny, "I'll do me own packing,
and meet you by the road first thing in the morning."
***
And sure enough, there she was, first thing in the morning - Granny Grimpmyre,
sitting by the roadside on a large, iron-bound chest and smoking a pipe,
She was now dressed unmistakably as a witch, with a wide-brimmed, pointed,
black hat and a ragged, black cloak. Her broomstick was propped up beside
her, and Bilbil was sitting on her shoulder, burbling quietly and peering
about inquisitively with large, yellow eyes.
"What the hell's that?" asked the coachman, trying to control his nervous
horses.
"What, the dragon?" said Gilbert carelessly. "It's what the locals call a
Jabberwock."
"Hallo, ducks!" called Granny cheerfully, puffing out a cloud of smoke, "I've
got all me bits and bobs in here." She patted the chest and stood up.
Gilbert told the guards to put the chest in the coach while Granny picked
up her broomstick and stepped aside to watch. Two of the guards dismounted
and tried to lift the chest.
They couldn't.
They tried again. Still no success.
"Need some help, do you?" grinned Granny.
The guards glared at her. They were men of great brawn and little brain,
and they didn't like being made to look foolish - especially by a cackling
old crone. The other two guards joined them and all four tried to lift the
chest, but it remained firmly rooted to the ground.
"Just step aside," commanded Granny, flinging back her cloak with a flourish,
and sending Bilbil fluttering into the air. She pulled up her sleeves, flexed
her gnarled fingers and pointed both hands at the chest. She muttered a few
incomprehensible phrases and the chest slowly rose from the ground and floated
towards the open door of the coach. Once inside, it settled gently on the
floor and the whole vehicle groaned and sank with the weight.
The guards grumblingly remounted, while the coachman only closed his mouth
after a large bluebottle had flown in and made a couple of circuits before
buzzing off to a pile of juicy horse-dung.
Bilbil landed on Granny's shoulders again, and they followed the chest into
the coach. "That's the way to do it !" cackled the old witch delightedly.
***
They passed throught the village of Knapweed and on towards the Hollwood
Forest. Gilbert led the way, then came Granny in the coach, followed by the
four grumbling guards.
As the procession approached the trees, another, similar procession emerged
form the forest, coming towards them on the same, narrow road: a rider followed
by a coach and two attendants.
"Out of the way, fellow!" shouted the rider. He was a plumpish young man
with large, dark eyes which reminded Gilbert of someone else. This was hardly
surprising, for the young man was William Woolmerchant, Jayne's brother.
"Clear the road for Sir Caspar Fforde-Goffington's coach!" he commanded.
"Clear the road yourself!" retorted Gilbert, "for the Duke of Yeoveld's coach!"
"What's the matter now?" said an irritable voice, and Sir Caspar
Fforde-Goffington's behatted and befeathered head emerged from the window
of his coach.
"This lout is blocking the road!" called William.
"Well, get him out of the way!" shouted Sir Caspar. "Doesn't he know who
I am?"
William turned back to face Gilbert, but his eyes focussed on something beyond
him, and his jaw dropped.
"Having trouble, ducks?" croaked Granny. She was peering out of the coach,
and beside her was Bilbil's head, waving around inquisitively on its long,
scaly neck.
"No problem!" called Gilbert.
But Granny had sized up the situation for herself, and took immediate action.
She whispered something to Bilbil, the little dragon's eyes faded from yellow through
orange to bright red, it flapped its wings, knocking Granny's pointed hat
askew, and swooped out of the coach window with a jabbering shriek.
The horses all snorted and danced about restively as the dragon flew up into
the air, then turned and dived straight down towards the leading horses of
Sir Caspar's team. Faced with the rapid approach of a screaming, red-eyed
dragon, they snorted, rolled their eyes, reared up and turned sideways to
gallop away from the descending monster, dragging the rest of the team and
the coach with them, and jolting the coachman from his seat.
"Stop them!" yelled William as the unfortunate coachman hit the ground. He
set off in pursuit of the fleeing vehicle, followed by the two bemused
attendants.
As the coach was dragged round by the terrified horses, Gilbert glimpsed
Jayne's face inside. He immediately urged his horse into a gallop and quickly
overtook William and the attendants.
Bilbil circled round a couple more times before returning to Granny. "That's
the way to do it!" she chortled.
Gilbert was slowly gaining on the uncontrolled coach which jolted and bumped
alarmingly over the roughly-cleared ground along the edge of the forest.
If it continued like this it would follow the trees round the perimiter of
the village and probably end up in the river somewhere near Granny's cottage.
Gilbert came abreast of the coach and again glimpsed Jayne's terrified face.
He urged his own horse level with the leading members of the team. Closer
and closer he came. They were neck-and-neck. Gilbert guided his mount as
close as possible to the nearest leader and reached over to try and grasp
the loose reigns. He missed and found himself falling back again behind the
mindlessly fleeing animals.
He urged his horse abreast of them again, and again reached for the reigns.
This time he managed to grasp them, but they were jerked form his hand as
his own horse swerved away to avoid a tree stump directly in his path.
The third time Gilbert came abreast of the leaders he swung himself round
in his saddle and made a dive for the nearest horse. For a second he thought
he had mistimed the move and would fall to be crushed under the wheels of
the coach. But he made it - just!
He clung awkwardly onto the horse's mane and hauled himself astride the beast.
Then he took the loose reigns firmly in his hands and gradually gained control
of the frightened animals.
Eventually he brought them to a standstill, not far from the road on the
other side of the village. Bruised and panting, he dismounted and ran to
open the door of the coach. Jayne fell into his arms, sobbing with relief.
"Are you all right?" asked Gilbert, clutching her to him.
"Yes," sobbed Jayne. "Yes, I think so."
"Help! Help!" came a muffled voice from the writhing bundle of pink and mauve
and silver on the floor of the coach. Sir Caspar's spindly, yellow-stockinged
legs were all that could be seen of him.
William and the attendants came galloping up.
"Get me out of here!" came the voice, and they got him out - eventually.
Jayne had calmed down and gained her composure by the time Sir Caspar was
on his feet again. "This is my husband," she said to Gilbert.
The introductions were conducted without any suggestion that Jayne and Gilbert
had met before, and the young squire stared in scarcely-concealed horror
at the over-dressed old man who was the young girl's husband.
Sir Caspar nodded at him irritably and turned away without a word of thanks,
to climb back into his coach. "Come along," he snapped at Jayne. "I want
to get back home. It's bad enough that we'll have to return for the coronation,
without staying here any longer now."
This is my brother, William," said Jayne, quickly drawing Gilbert's attention
away form her husband.
"This is all your fault!" said William accusingly. "If it hadn't been for
that dragon thing of yours, none of this would have happened."
"William!" said Jayne sharply. "Don't be so ungracious. If it hadn't been
for this young man we could have been killed!"
William grunted sullenly and turned away to get back on his horse.
"Thank you for saving me," said Jayne to Gilbert, Then she glanced at her
brother, lowered her voice, and added, "You really are my knight in shining
armour, after all!"
Gilbert smiled his most disarming smile. "No problem," he said, helping Jayne
into the coach and closing the door. One of the attendants climbed onto the
front of the vehicle and sorted out the reigns, while the other took the
spare horse and went back to find the coachman.
Jayne smiled wistfully at Gilbert as she was driven slowly away, and the
squire found himself more than a little saddened by the thought of her marriage
to such an irritable, wizened, old man.
Still, there was nothing he could do about it, and there were lots more
attractive girls in the world, so he shrugged off the thought and rode back
to finish escorting Granny Grimpmyre to Middenburgh Castle.
***
"Granny Grimp!" cried Margaret, sweeping down the steps to the castle courtyard
like a great bat in her black and purple mourning robes.
"Maggie!" cried Granny Grimpmyre, and the two women hugged each other
enthusiastically. "How you been, ducks?"
Gossiping animatedly, they moved away up the steps: the one tall and majestic
with her pale skin and dark hair, the other short and ugly with her shrivelled
face and pointed hat. They appeared to be oblivious to the consternation
being caused by the dragon, which was jabbering and circling round the courtyard
and dive-bombing everyone in sight.
"Bilbil!" called Granny from the castle doorway, and the creature swooped
down to land expertly on her shoulder.
"Excuse me, madam!" called Gilbert before she turned back to enter the building.
He pointed to Granny's iron-bound chest in the coach. The guards had disappeared
hastily in the direction of the buttery without making any attempt to lift
it down.
"Ah! me bits and bobs," grinned Granny, "Don't you worry about them, ducks."
She made the necessary signs and mutterings and the chest floated gently
out of the coach and up the steps to hover beside her, causing further
consternation among the spectators in the courtyard.
"I've put you in your old room in the north tower," said Margaret. She led
Granny inside, with the chest obediently following behind.
"So the witch has returned, has she?"
Gilbert turned to see Mirdalph the magician frowning disapprovingly and flicking
the dust of travel from his green robes.
"No good will come of that!" he added, then stalked away towards his own
quarters, leaving his exhausted horse to the attentions of a sniffing stable-boy.
***
Sir Edmund Gargrave, with a now smartly-uniformed Ratlett in attendance,
watched the magician from a barred window on the staircase leading down to
the dungeons. "That's interesting," he muttered.
"What's that, sir?" asked Ratlett.
"He doesn't like the witch."
"Is that important, your lordship?"
"It might be." Edmund thoughtfully sucked his lower lip for a moment. "I
wonder where he's been?"
"Shall I try and find out?" volunteered Ratlett.
"You'll find out nothing about him that he doesn't want you to know," whispered
Edmund. He turned his hooded eyes on the boy. "You could be very useful to
me."
"I hope so, sir."
"I'm sure you do. After all, your survival rather depends on it, doesn't
it?" He smiled his thin and mirthless smile.
Although still very wary of the dungeonmaster Ratlett had lost some of his
initial fear of him, so he smiled his own rodent smile and waited.
"You will let me know of anything interesting you see or hear, won't you?"
said Edmund at last. "Anything at all?"
"Yes, sir, your lordship!"
As it turned out, Ratlett did not have very long to wait before he had a
most interesting incident to report to Edmund.
