The Heir of Mistmantle (6 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

OTH AND THE OTHER MAIDS
left the nursery curtains open so that lamplight would welcome Queen Cedar when she came home. Brother Fir returned first, and stood, thoughtful and quiet, warming his paws at the nursery fire, but night had grown dark before the queen appeared in the doorway with her paws and face scratched, blood and leaves clinging to her fur, and her eyes wide with hope and fear. “Is she…?” she began—but the empty cradle with its rumpled blankets lay before her, and the anxious maids saw the hope vanish from her face. Helplessly, they hurt for her. “Where’s Crispin?” she demanded.

Brother Fir rose slowly, holding out his paws to lead her to the hearth where the log fire flickered. “He is still out searching, dear Queen,” he said. “Please warm yourself. Are you injured?”

“There’s water heating and I’ll get the bath filled for you, Your Majesty,” whispered Moth, and led the curtsying maids from the chamber. The queen didn’t appear to notice.

“I went all the way to the Tangletwigs,” she said. “I went as far as I could, but the undergrowth is so dense, we’ll need guards to hack their way into it, and I don’t see how Linty could have got through there with the baby. Could she, do you think? It’s all very well saying she mustn’t be alarmed, but we have to find Catkin, quickly!”

“Linty will know all the ways through the Tangletwigs,” said Fir. “She grew up in a colony on the far side. Those squirrels had all sorts of secret ways over and under the ground.”

“I only tried over ground,” said the queen. “Those thornbushes are everywhere, and…” She hid her face in her paws. “What if Catkin got scratched the way I did? She’s only a baby!”

“Linty would not take her that way,” said Fir, with a paw on her shoulder. “She knows the Tangletwigs far better than you do, and she will not let any harm come to Catkin.”

With a flash of anger, she shook off his paw. “She’s already abducted her!” she cried. “Isn’t that harm enough? I just want her back!” She knelt on the hearth to lick blood from a deep cut on her arm, then sprang up suddenly, darted to the window, and gazed out, watching the lights of the search parties. The firelight glow of torches and pale lantern beams moved slowly, too slowly, through the darkness. “I can’t stay here. I’m going out again.”

“Is that wise?” said Fir. “The chances of somebody arriving at any moment with Catkin safe and sound are very good, you know. I’ve remembered something about Linty. When she was young, she was a dancer and was often among the dancers at our festivals. Many of our best dancers and acrobats came from the Tangletwigs. Living in such a place made them quick and nimble, you know. Linty could carry a baby all the way through the Tangletwigs and back again without a scratch. The Tangletwigs have torn at you, but they will not have touched your daughter.”

There was a gentle tapping at the door, and Fir limped to open it. Two mole maids stood in white aprons, carrying fluffy white towels across their paws. They glanced shyly toward the queen, their faces grave and concerned.

“Your bath’s ready, Your Majesty,” said one, with a curtsy. “Moth’s put that lovely lavender oil in it.”

“Then I will go back to my prayers,” said Fir, and hobbled away. The maids pattered back to the bedchamber where wreaths of lavender-scented steam rose softly from the round oak bathtub.

“We’re very sorry about the baby, Your Majesty,” said a maid softly.

“We’re all going to say prayers for her,” said the other.

“And we’re all thinking about you,” said Moth. “All of us in the tower and all our families.” From a table she lifted a large basket overflowing with posies of autumn flowers, shells, biscuits, clawmarked leaves, and bottles of cordial.

“What’s this?” asked Cedar, as if she wasn’t interested.

“Animals have been sending presents to the tower, madam,” said Moth, “because they want to help and they don’t know how, apart from joining the search—and they’re doing that, too. It’s just their way of showing how much they care, madam.”

The smaller of the mole maids, overcoming her shyness, wriggled forward and reached up to hug Cedar. The other maid followed and hugged her, too, wiping her eyes on her apron. “Thank you, bless you,” said the queen, her voice growing lower and shakier until they had gone, and only Moth remained with her. Moved unbearably by their kindness, the Queen of Mistmantle broke down and wept.

Urchin, Juniper, Hope, and Docken emerged from a long, thorough, cold, and cobwebby exploration of the Chamber of Candles and the tunnels around it. There was not a trace of the baby, nor of Linty. Not a paw print.

As moonlight danced on a dark sea, Padra left his cloak at his chambers and loped down to the shore, feeling annoyed with himself.
Linty, Linty…
somewhere there was a memory about Linty, if only he could drag it to the front of his mind. Perhaps it would come to him. He swam to his boat, where Fingal sat at the oars.

“I’ll take next watch, Fingal,” he said. “You’ve done long enough.”

“Can’t I stay a bit longer?” said Fingal. “I’m not cold, and, I mean, I know it’s captain’s orders and all that, but…”

“Oh, move up, then,” said Padra, and flipped himself dripping into the boat. He would be glad of the company. His heart was at the Spring Gate with Arran and his children, who had never seemed more precious, nor more vulnerable.

Linty. Children.
Did Linty ever have children?

Fires were lit on the beach, to warm the shore patrols. Crackle and Scatter crouched to blow on the smoldering twigs until autumn leaves glowed, curled, and sent flames licking along dead branches. Coughing, turning their faces from the smoke, they stretched their paws to the fire.

They said nothing, because there was nothing much to be said. Crackle was wishing that she could be the one to find the princess. But, she thought as she prodded the flames with a stick, it wouldn’t matter who found the baby as long as she
was
found. Scatter, too, wished she could do something wonderful for the island, but she didn’t want it to be this. She didn’t want to do something brave to rescue the princess because she simply hoped that, by morning, Princess Catkin would have turned up safe and sound, and it would be as if this had never happened.

She huddled closer to Crackle. This long, slow night made her imagine things she would rather not think of.

“You know,” she said, “you know there was a prince before, and he—”

“Prince Tumble,” interrupted Crackle quickly. “Don’t talk about that.”

“But it’s almost as if—” persisted Scatter.

“I said, don’t!” snapped Crackle, so neither of them said,
It’s as if there were a curse on the Heir of Mistmantle.
But they could hear each other thinking it.

In her tree-root home, Damson was busily packing a satchel and singing the lullaby under her breath. Neatly she packed bread, apples, hazelnuts, a flask of milk, and a shawl—the things she would want for a journey, the things that might be needed by a squirrel running away with a baby. All through Juniper’s childhood she had kept him secretly, with the help of the otters who lived near the waterfall. She knew about keeping a baby hidden. What would the king’s guards and the Circle know about it? If anyone could find Linty, she could, and Linty would trust her. At sunrise, she’d go out on her search. Young Sepia might help. Sepia was gentle and trustworthy, but also young and small, and would be better at wriggling through tunnels and climbing trees and cliffs than she was herself.

In the Gathering Chamber, Sepia was helping Thripple to tidy up. There wouldn’t yet be any great ceremony to admit Urchin and Needle to the Circle. All the draperies and garlands could come down, robes could be brushed and put away. None of that would be needed now. Hope and the new baby, Mopple, had fallen asleep in a makeshift nest of scraps of old fabric and leftover garlands.

Crispin balanced on the highest branch of the highest tree in a copse near the Tangletwigs, turning right and left, gazing as far as the night would let him see. He had climbed in and out of every hollow in every tree in this copse. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to the tower and find out if there was any news, though his heart urged him to keep searching.

“Heart keep her,” he prayed. “Heart bring her safely home.”

He was King Crispin the Swanrider, but his own child was missing, and he was unable to help her. On his swaying treetop perch in the deep, dark night, he was utterly alone.

“Back to the tower, find out what’s happening, then get out again,” he muttered as he sprang down. “Hold on, Catkin. We’ll find you.”

He would not give in. He would hunt, he would use every power of thought and strength, knowledge and courage, until he dropped with exhaustion, and when he woke, he would go on searching though the sun burned him, and the Tangletwigs tore him to shreds. He would not stop to imagine Catkin crying for her mother and father in the dark, and wondering why they didn’t come. He could bear hardship, but not that.