Igraine the Brave (14 page)

“And I tell you for the last time, I’m not going without you!” Igraine shouted back. “Come up here this minute, or I shall jump! I’ll jump right into the middle of those guards with their tinpot helmets, and if they skewer me it will be all your fault!”

The Sorrowful Knight responded to this with an extremely unchivalrous curse. He drove back his attackers with a couple of sword strokes, sprang onto one of the lion’s paws, and then clambered up to the open mouth. With a final leap, he was between the stone teeth, standing beside Igraine. Osmund’s men stared up at them in astonishment. They tried to drive their horses between the stone paws, and two of the guards even stood on their saddles to haul themselves up to the lion’s mouth, but the horses reared and their riders fell into the thorny undergrowth and got tangled up in brambles.

Finally one soldier tried to climb the mane, but Igraine pushed him off with her foot. Then she jumped right inside the lion’s mouth, pulling the Sorrowful Knight in with her, and shouted in as loud a voice as she could muster:

Stony lion, close your jaws,
Rest now on your stony paws.
It was magic made you wake,
Roar once more for magic’s sake.

The deep growl uttered by the stone lion was such a terrifying sound that all the horses threw their riders and galloped away in panic, while the huge lion slowly, very slowly, closed its jaws and wrapped Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight in darkness. They heard Osmund’s men clambering up the stone outside and hammering on the lion’s nose with their swords. Spear points pushed between the stone lips, crunching. But the mouth refused to open.

“It is not chivalrous to escape such a battle by flight,” whispered the Sorrowful Knight in the darkness.

“But they’d have slit us open!” said Igraine. “Six against two — is that what you’d call chivalrous?”

The Sorrowful Knight had to smile. “Six against one and a half,” he said.

“Oh, all right,” muttered Igraine. “I can’t get to be the most famous knight in the world if I let a nasty bunch like that slice me up at the age of twelve, and you’re too good for such a fate, anyway.”

The Sorrowful Knight sighed once more. Outside, Osmund’s guards were bellowing furiously at one another. “You are an incredibly pigheaded girl, noble Igraine,” said the knight.

“Yes, that’s what Albert always says,” agreed Igraine. “Come on, I’ll lead you down the stairs. I’m afraid it’s been dark inside the tunnel since Albert let the glowworms out because he thought they were unhappy. My brother has a very soft heart when it comes to glowworms and mice.”

Then she took the Sorrowful Knight’s hand and led him down the slippery steps until, by the light of a single glowworm that had lost its way, they reached the underground tunnel that Igraine’s great-grandmother had once had made so that her husband, Pelleas, could escape from his enemies.

18

T
he courtyard of Pimpernel Castle was dark and deserted when Igraine pushed aside the stone slab that closed the other end of her great-grandfather’s escape route. The only lights showing were behind the tower windows. Up on the wall, a solitary figure was leaning over the battlements. It couldn’t be Albert; he wasn’t nearly so fat.

“Bertram?” Igraine called up to him. “Bertram, I’m back!”

The Master of Horse spun around and looked incredulously down at the courtyard.

“Igraine!” he called. “Where on earth have you sprung from? Is all that fuss over in Osmund’s camp your doing? The guards are running about like headless chickens!”

Bertram stopped abruptly when the Sorrowful Knight climbed out of the tunnel after Igraine. “And who’s this you’ve brought with you?” he asked suspiciously.

“The Sorrowful Knight from the Mount of Tears!” replied Igraine. “He very kindly escorted me home. Where are Albert and my curly-tailed parents? Asleep?”

“No, no one’s been getting any sleep around here since Osmund’s army set up camp down below.” Bertram hurried down the steps. “Luckily, Osmund values his own sleep too much to attack by night, so your parents can work up in the tower with Albert until sunrise.”

He lit one of the torches lying near the armory door and led Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight across the dark courtyard to the tower. As Igraine stepped onto the bridge, a small, furry figure scurried to meet her. Purring, Sisyphus rubbed his head against her knee.

“Oh, Sisyphus!” whispered Igraine, picking up the cat. “I’ve missed you so much. Did Albert remember to feed you while I was away?”

“Not enough,” growled Sisyphus, licking the tip of her nose with his rough tongue.

“Your brother is doing splendidly,” said Bertram as he led them up the tower. “Osmund has been trying all kinds of crafty magic spells, but Albert has foiled them all.”

“Are the Singing Books helping him?” asked Igraine.

“Yes, but they keep on moaning,” said Bertram, “which Albert really doesn’t deserve. Although admittedly the food he conjures up is rather peculiar.”

“There, what did I tell you?” Igraine whispered to the Sorrowful Knight. She nudged Bertram’s back. “What’s he been giving you, Bertram? Eggs and biscuits?”

“Buckets full of them!” Bertram groaned, rubbing his fat paunch. “I can tell you, the stale bread they threw me down in the Dungeon of Despair was no drier than Albert’s biscuits. And as for the eggs! If it was only the shells that came out that color, but even the yolks are blue.”

With a sigh, he climbed the last few steps and stopped outside the door of the magic workshop. “That wretched serpent door handle has bitten my hand twice already,” he whispered to Igraine. “Does it bite you, too? Because if not, then …”

“That’s fine, I’ll do it,” Igraine whispered back. “But keep quiet. I want to give my parents a surprise.”

She put Sisyphus down on the floor, pressed the handle without a sound — the snake just hissed quietly at her touch — and peered around the door into the workshop.

Albert had his back turned to her. He was standing at the large table in the middle of the room surrounded by his mice, who were sitting on two six-branched candlesticks dangling their tails. Albert was staring grimly at an empty plate with three Books of Magic standing around it, hands behind their backs, in the position they always adopted when they were going to start singing. Igraine’s parents were anxiously resting their snouts on the edge of the table.

“Biscuits and eggs, eggs and biscuits! I don’t believe it!” roared Albert, shaking the table so hard that the books stumbled into each other, and one fell right across the plate. Looking cross, it got to its feet again, cast Albert an extremely reproachful glance, and smoothed out its first page. But Albert took no notice. He went on staring gloomily at the empty plate.

“I can send Osmund’s own arrows flying back around his ears with a single spell!” he cried. “But when it comes to something to eat, I can’t even manage the simplest soup-making charm! It’s enough to drive you crazy!”

Standing at the door, Igraine had to put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

“Right, here we go. Last try!” growled Albert. “Careful, books, concentrate!”

He raised his hands in the air.

The Singing Books closed their eyes and began humming quietly.

“Page 223,” said Albert.

Rustling, the books leafed through their pages.

“Apples!” they sang. “Aaa — aaa — aaapples!” It was a three-part round.

“Apples red, of rosy hue!” called Albert.

“Roo — ooo — ooolls!” sang the books.

“Rolls all brown and crispy, too!” said Albert, spinning around on his own axis on the tip of one toe.

“Come hither, come hither, oh, do!” sang the books, still in three parts.

“Hither come and fill this plate!” Albert leaped into the air. “Fill the kitchen, do not wait!”

“Aaaabraaa …” sang the books happily, “… braacadaaabrah, fortissimo, pianissimo!”

Then they slammed themselves shut. There was total silence.

Albert had closed his eyes.

“Well, what about it, mice?” he asked impatiently, without opening his eyes again. “Did it work this time?”

The mice began squeaking excitedly. Albert opened his eyes and leaned over the plate with a happy smile. An apple and a roll lay on it.

“What a wonderfully red apple, my boy!” said Sir Lamorak.

“Yes, and look at that roll!” The Fair Melisande snuffled appreciatively. “It’s a real picture. I never saw a nicer roll. Well done, Albert; well sung, books.”

Flattered, the books took a bow.

Albert picked up the apple, polished it on a corner of his magic coat, and bit into it.

The apple crumbled.

Igraine pressed her hand over her mouth as hard as she could.

“Biscuit crumbs!” roared Albert, slinging the apple out of the window. With a dark look, he reached for the roll. When he broke it in half, blue egg yolk dripped out.

It was too much. Igraine burst out laughing, so loud that the Books of Magic clung to each other in fright.

“Igraine!” said Albert, without turning around. “My little sister’s back.” With a sigh, he gathered up his mice, put them in the pockets of his magic coat, and brushed apple-biscuit crumbs off its collar.

Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande, however, ran to their daughter in such excitement that they swept the Books of Magic off the table and almost knocked Albert over in their delight.

“Honey! Did you get the giant’s hairs?” cried the Fair Melisande, nuzzling her daughter lovingly with her black snout.

“Yes, of course.” Igraine took the bag containing Garleff’s hairs from her belt and handed it to Albert.

“She really got them!” cried the Books of Magic. All of those still sitting on the shelves hurried down to join the others. The three books that had helped to conjure up the biscuit crumbs slid down the table legs and hopped excitedly around at Albert’s feet.

“Let’s have a look, let’s have a look!” they cried.

“Well done, little sister,” said Albert, appreciatively pulling Igraine’s earlobe. “I’ll soak the hairs at once, so that we can begin working on the spell to change pigs back to parents.”

“Ooh, genuine giant’s hairs!” whispered the Books of Magic, clustering around Albert’s legs so that he hardly knew where to put his feet down. “Show us, do show us!”