Igraine the Brave (16 page)

Flattered, the book chuckled and stroked its own pages.

“Noble Albert, would that be Osmund over there?” asked the Sorrowful Knight, pointing to a figure down among the tents.

“You’re right, it is!” replied Albert. “Let’s see what he has to offer now.”

Two servants carried the new master of Darkrock up to the moat in an upholstered armchair and put it down beside the water.

“Shall I fetch Mama and Papa?” asked Igraine, trying not to show that Osmund’s look of determination made her a little anxious after all.

But Albert shook his head. “No, no, I can deal with this on my own. They’re preparing the magic to change themselves back, so we don’t want to disturb them, or we might have piggy parents for the rest of our lives.”

“All right, have it your own way,” murmured Igraine, while Osmund slowly and deliberately rose from his chair. The archers lowered their bows. The new catapults that had been wheeled up stopped, and all the soldiers looked at their lord and master. An eerie silence fell over Pimpernel Castle. And when Osmund raised his hands in the air, Igraine saw that he had blackened his palms with soot.

“Ah, sooty hands,” whispered Albert. “I think I know what spell he’s going to try. Page 637, book. Quick!”

The little Book of Magic hastily began leafing through its pages.

Down by the moat Osmund closed his eyes, raised his blackened hands a little higher, and called in a menacing voice:

Rotten bridge, come down for me,
To my will obedient be!
Recognize that my black heart
Now commands the magic art.
Lie down, bridge, obey you must,
Or you will burn to ash and dust.

The stone lions bared their teeth and roared angrily down at him. The gargoyles made faces. But the hinges of the drawbridge squealed — and slowly it began to lower itself toward the moat.

Osmund’s men waved their swords jubilantly in the air.

“Albert, do something!” cried Igraine in alarm. “Quick.”

“Yes, all right!” called Albert back. “Have you found that page yet, book?”

“It’s stuck!” wailed the book, leafing through its pages with trembling fingers. “There must be jam on it.”

“Jam?” thundered Albert. “Haven’t we always forbidden you books to snack on jam or anything else sticky?” He roughly picked up the book and tried to separate the pages that were stuck together.

But the drawbridge went on lowering itself.

Osmund looked up at Albert with a mocking smile. His soldiers gathered behind the chair, ready to charge over the faithless bridge and into the castle. “I’ll have it in a minute!” cried Albert, fiddling frantically with the little book. “It won’t take more than a few seconds.”

“Come with me, noble Igraine!” cried the Sorrowful Knight, and in his clanking armor he raced to the flight of steps leading down to the courtyard. “We must block the chain!” he called to her. “Fetch lances, spears, anything.”

Igraine nodded, and ran to the armory so fast that she stumbled over her own feet.

Meanwhile, the Sorrowful Knight braced his weight against the crank that worked the drawbridge. It was moving as if a ghostly hand were turning it. He tried desperately to turn it back the other way, but Osmund’s magic was too strong, and however hard the Sorrowful Knight tried, the bridge went on coming down — more slowly, to be sure, but it was still lowering itself. And when he finally stuck his sword into one of the links in the chain, the point of the sword broke off.

“Here, take these!” cried Igraine, throwing him all the lances she had been able to find in her haste. They thrust their shafts through the iron links of the chain one by one to stop it from moving, but lance after lance splintered — and still the bridge was coming down. There was already a gap showing in the wall, and soon only the wood of the gate would protect the castle.

But suddenly Igraine heard a shrill chanting from the battlements, and the next moment Albert’s voice rang out loud and clear:

Faithless bridge, rise up, rise high,
Or I’ll turn you to a fly.
I’ll feed you to the birds of prey,
As driftwood you will float away.
I’m warning you,
Don’t anger me,
Or furious as a bull I’ll be.

Osmund’s men groaned. The bridge stopped, swinging on its rusty chains — and refused to move an inch farther down.

Osmund ranted.

Osmund raged.

He stamped his feet, smeared the soot from his hands all over his face in his fury, and threw first his armchair and then his servants into the moat. The bridge still didn’t budge.

Spell after magic spell Osmund cast on the castle, but they all bounced off like clods of earth thrown by a child against a knight’s shield.

Meanwhile Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight clung to the crank, not daring to let go of it. Only when Albert signaled to them from the battlements did they cautiously, very cautiously, raise the drawbridge again.

Igraine’s legs were still trembling when they were standing behind the battlements again.

Sisyphus padded up to meet her and rubbed his head against her knee.

“Oh, so we’re friends again after all, are we?” she asked.

“Friends,” purred Sisyphus, stalking away with his tail upright in the air.

“Keep away from that moat!” Igraine called after him, but the cat had already vanished down the steps.

“He’s always slinking off to the little gate down there in the wall,” said Albert. “One nudge of his nose, and it’s so rotten it opens at once. Well, how do you think we did, little sister?” He leaned back casually against the battlements with the Book of Magic on his shoulder. They both looked very pleased with themselves and the world in general.

“It was terrific,” replied Igraine, peering over the wall. “Apart from the jam, that is.”

Osmund had disappeared, like his chair.

“Strawberry jam!” Albert sighed. “Those books have been forbidden to touch jam for at least a hundred years, but they’re crazy for anything sweet and sticky.”

The little book cleared its throat with an embarrassed sound, wiped some dust off its cover, and looked the other way.

“May I ask you a question, noble Albert?” said the Sorrowful Knight. Out by the moat, Osmund’s men were rolling heavy rocks up to the few catapults that were still working. The attackers weren’t giving up in a hurry.

“Of course. What is it?” Albert replied.

The knight hesitated for a moment. Then he asked, “Where is Rowan Heartless? Your sister told me that he is Osmund’s castellan.”

“Oh, you mean the Iron Hedgehog.” Albert sat down on the wall again. The little Book of Magic hummed, Albert rubbed his hands together, and the rocks in the catapults turned into tiny dragons fluttering swiftly away. “He rode off this morning with a few soldiers, probably to steal pigs and chickens from the peasants in the nearest village so that Osmund can feed his army. He wasn’t outside the castle yesterday morning, either; he didn’t turn up until around midday.”

“Ah,” murmured the Sorrowful Knight, and he gazed into the distance, lost in thought.

Igraine looked sideways at him, rather worried.

“Coming with me?” she asked, to give him something else to think about. “I’d like to see how my parents are getting on with the magic that’s supposed to turn them into humans again.”

The Sorrowful Knight looked at Albert. “Do you need my help?”

“No, no, off you go,” said Albert. “I’m doing fine on my own. Osmund will sulk for a while now. He always does when his spells don’t work. But send me up a few biscuits. And by the way, little sister,” he added, “your cat has just caught three more fish in the moat. Very silvery fish. He’s sitting outside the little gate.”

20

S
ir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were stirring something with sticks in a large cauldron when Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight entered the magic workshop.

“I think we need a little more angelica, my love,” mumbled Sir Lamorak. The stick he was holding in his snout almost slipped out as he spoke.

“More angelica? Yes, you could be right.” The Fair Melisande turned to the books, which were playing hide-and-seek under the table. “Would one of you be kind enough to fetch us a pinch of powdered angelica?”

Grumbling, the smallest book set off for the next room.

“Well, how’s it going?” asked Igraine. “When will the magic potion be ready?”

“Potion? Oh, goodness me, we don’t drink it, honey!” replied Melisande. “We just have to take a bath in it, understand? The giant’s hairs have dissolved nicely. Now the whole thing has to steep in a magic vessel for six hours, and then we pour it into a tub down in the bathhouse and mix it with warm water. I think we’ll be ready to start turning back into human form as soon as the sun sets.”

“Yes, and by midnight at the latest we’ll have turned that Osmund into the nastiest creature we can think of,” said Sir Lamorak. “What’s the wretch doing now?”

“Oh, Albert has everything in hand,” said Igraine. She didn’t mention the drawbridge and the strawberry jam. Her parents had enough worries of their own.

“Did Albert tell you there could be a little problem while we take the magic bath?” asked her mother.

The book came back with the angelica, climbed up on Melisande’s bristly back, and tipped the powder into the ginger-colored brew. A delicious smell rose to all their noses.

“Another problem?” asked Igraine anxiously.

“I’m afraid so, my dear.” Sir Lamorak gave the brew another good stir and then threw his stick into the corner. “This transformation will need all the magic power available at Pimpernel. So your mother and I are afraid that our defenses — er — won’t be operating at full strength while we’re taking the magic bath. Do you see what I mean?”

Igraine frowned. “You mean the gargoyles, the lions, the water snakes, the magic spell on the moat …”

“… will be out of action.” Her father finished the sentence for her. “So to speak.”

This was clearly bad news. Very bad news. “Then Albert is going to have his hands full,” murmured Igraine. “How will he manage? He can’t be everywhere at once. How long will it take your magic bath to work?”

“About an hour,” replied Sir Lamorak. “If none of the books fall in. If they do, it will take a bit longer. They’re rather clumsy sometimes.”