Igraine the Brave (13 page)

The castle walls shone red in the firelight, and glowing sparks were falling to the castle moat from the gargoyles’ mouths.

“I fear this does not look good, noble Igraine!” whispered the Sorrowful Knight. “Your castle, forgive me for saying so, is rather small and rather decrepit. It will not hold out for long against such a large body of troops.”

He looked quite surprised when Igraine laughed. “Oh, this is nothing,” she whispered back. “When Accolon Blackbeard besieged Pimpernel, there were tents pitched all the way to the horizon. I hadn’t been born yet, but my father’s told me about it. Our old castle can defend itself quite well. As you see, the bridge is drawn up, the walls and the tower are still standing, and now that I have the giant’s hairs, I’m not a bit worried. Once my parents are rid of their curly tails, Osmund won’t be able to run for it fast enough, I promise you! The only problem they probably have at the moment is provisions, because my brother, Albert, can turn a stone into a live mouse all right, but when it comes to anything edible he can only summon dry biscuits and blue eggs.”

“Ah.” The Sorrowful Knight glanced at the leaning tower and the rather low castle walls, and didn’t seem entirely convinced. “Well, even if it is as you say,” he added after a while, “how will you get inside the castle unobserved? Shall I start a fight to distract the attackers’ attention?”

“And get yourself taken prisoner?” Igraine energetically shook her head. “No, certainly not. Getting into Pimpernel is easy. There’s an old escape route. My great-grandmother had it built because my great-grandfather Pelleas was always having trouble with other knights, and unfortunately he couldn’t work magic at all. Albert and I have often used the tunnel. Its entrance is on the edge of the woods. Come on!”

They had left the horses in a hollow out of sight of the tents, and when Lancelot saw Igraine coming he pawed the ground with his front hoof as if he could hardly wait to set off again. But Igraine regretfully shook her head.

“I’m really grateful for your help,” she whispered to him.

“But I’m afraid you wouldn’t fit into the secret passage. Go back to Darkrock — or would you rather not see Osmund again?”

Lancelot took a step backward and stopped.

“Very well,” said Igraine, taking his reins, “then I’ll take you with me to the outskirts of the wood, and once we’re there you can decide. What about you?” she asked, looking at the Sorrowful Knight, who was standing beside her deep in thought, patting his mare. “Are you sure you won’t come into the castle with me?”

The Sorrowful Knight shook his head. “I would only bring you bad luck.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Igraine took his hand. “Just because the Spiky Knight stole those three ladies away? You fought splendidly to protect the three-headed dragon — and come to think of it, where are the ladies now?”

The Sorrowful Knight suppressed a smile. “I don’t know. I never saw them again, though I searched for them everywhere. I challenged Rowan the Heartless three times, to get the answer out of him, but as I have told you, he defeated me every time and kept the secret to himself.”

“Only three times,” said Igraine, mounting Lancelot. “Three times is nothing. Perhaps it’s a case of fourth time lucky. Or even fifth time lucky. You’re bound to defeat him someday, and then he’ll have to tell you what he did with the ladies. But do please come to our castle with me!”

“No.” The Sorrowful Knight shook his head again. “No, I will escort you only as far as the entrance to the tunnel, and then we will say good-bye.”

“Oh, well,” murmured Igraine. “Better than nothing, I suppose.”

And she rode on ahead.

17

T
he gargoyles were spitting sparks that lit up the night like fiery rain. Igraine kept a good distance from Osmund’s camp as she rode around it. She counted eight men on guard and was very relieved when she and the knight finally reached the first trees and the Whispering Woods swallowed them up.

Osmund hadn’t dared to pitch any tents close to the forest. People told scary stories about it, and obviously the new lord of Darkrock had heard them. Six mounted guards were keeping watch on Pimpernel Castle where its walls faced the Whispering Woods. They had their backs to the trees, but now and then one of them turned in his saddle and stared at the forest behind him — as if he feared that something wild and hungry might leap out of the dense undergrowth at any moment.

Igraine rode along close to the edge of the woods so that she could keep an eye on the guards. The leaves of the old trees rustled above her head, and branches hanging low brushed her face. The horses didn’t like the whispering sound of the forest. They twitched their ears nervously, but Igraine had walked among the trees with Albert so often that she wasn’t afraid of the place anymore.

“We’re nearly there,” she whispered. “There, look —”

“Wait!” the knight interrupted her sharply, seizing her reins. “Something is crouching among the trees. A huge animal. Larger than a dragon, I would say. Do you see its hungry eyes?”

But Igraine just laughed. “That’s one of Mama’s lions,” she whispered. “It’s made of stone from head to paws. My mother put it there by magic to guard the entrance to the tunnel. Come on.”

Lancelot pranced backward, but Igraine soothed him, talking quietly until he was prepared to go on again.

The stone lion lay in dappled moonlight. Its head was raised so high toward the leafy treetops that even sitting on horseback, Igraine could only just touch its chin. Twining plants grew around its huge body, and its eyes shone like moons caught among the branches.

Igraine slipped out of the saddle, and once again she glanced at the guards by the moat. They still had their backs to her and the knight. But even if they had turned, the shadows under the trees would have hidden the two of them from sight.

With a quick movement, Igraine jumped onto the lion’s mossy paw, clambered from there to its mane, and sat down among the stony locks of hair curling around its muzzle.

“Now, watch this,” she whispered, putting out her hand to scratch the lion’s nose. A growl came from its chest, and the mighty mouth opened with a slight creaking sound, yawning wider and wider until it could easily have swallowed Igraine up. A flight of steps came into view between the lion’s teeth, leading down its throat.

“By Death and a Cauldron!” exclaimed the Sorrowful Knight. “Your mother must be a great enchantress indeed, if she can awaken stone to life. It seems I need have no fear for you. So let us say good-bye.” He bent his head. “Farewell, Brave Igraine, and I wish you a safe homecoming to your castle. Meanwhile I will keep watch on those guards.”

So he really wasn’t going to come with her. Igraine missed him already, but she did her best not to show it. “Good-bye, then!” she said. “But I must just say good-bye to Lancelot.” She scrambled down the lion’s back and flung her arms around the horse’s neck. “I’ll come and see you again soon,” she whispered, burying her face in the black mane, “the moment my parents have turned Osmund into something truly repulsive.”

Lancelot nudged her face nervously with his nose and whinnied quietly. Alarmed, Igraine put her hands over his nostrils.

The Sorrowful Knight ducked behind a bush. “That was unwise!” he whispered. “A guard is looking this way!”

The guard had swung his horse around and looked hard at the outskirts of the forest. But the night was black as soot among the trees, and after a few endless moments the man turned away again.

“Now, Igraine!” whispered the Sorrowful Knight. “Go, before his suspicions are aroused again.”

“Yes, yes, I’m off,” she whispered, patting Lancelot’s soft muzzle one last time. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll be back to see you, word of knightly honor.”

“Igraine!” said the Sorrowful Knight, without turning around. “If you do not disappear into that lion’s mouth this minute I’ll stuff you into it with my own hands!”

“All right, I’ve gone!” she called back softly. “But it really is a shame you won’t come, too.”

By way of answer the Sorrowful Knight only sighed.

For the second time Igraine clambered up the mane as nimbly as a squirrel. It was child’s play in her feather-light suit of armor. Lancelot put his ears back anxiously and never took his eyes off her.

“Shhh!” Igraine whispered to him. “It’s all right, this isn’t a real mouth.”

But as soon as she put her foot between the stony teeth, the great horse flung up his head and neighed with fear: a loud, shrill sound.

The guard closest to them immediately swung his horse around, calling a sharp command to the others. Six horsemen spurred on their steeds and galloped toward the Whispering Woods, their swords drawn.

The Sorrowful Knight drew his own sword and took cover behind an oak. “Run, Igraine!” he called.

No. She heard the excited voices of the guards, and through the branches she saw their swords gleaming in the moonlight. Six. Six against two. Fear clutched at her heart, and her knees went weak. But she didn’t climb into the safety of the tunnel. Instead she leaned far out over the stone teeth.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she called down to the knight. “I’m not letting them kill you.”

“They will not kill me!” he replied. “I told you to run!”

Lancelot was still neighing in agitation and stamping his hooves.

“Take him with you, Gray!” the Sorrowful Knight called to his mare. “Look after him.”

The mare obeyed. Nudging the stallion with her head, she drove him in among the trees.

“I’m sitting up here until you come, too!” Igraine’s voice was trembling, but she sounded extremely determined. “Please! Don’t be so pigheaded!”

Osmund’s men had almost reached the wood. Igraine could hear the clinking of their chain mail and the snorting of their horses. The Sorrowful Knight closed his visor.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” cried Igraine in terror. “They’ll carve you out of your armor in slices!”

But by now the guards had already driven their reluctant horses into the woods, making a way through the thorny undergrowth with their swords.

The Sorrowful Knight leaped out of his cover and barred their way.

“Who are you?” shouted one of the men. “In the name of Osmund the Magnificent, surrender!”

One of the horsemen placed his sword point threateningly against the Sorrowful Knight’s breast. The others were coming up from all sides, but their horses shied once they were under the rustling trees.

“I am the Knight of the Mount of Tears!” called the Sorrowful Knight, striking the guard’s sword aside with his shield. “The Magnificent, do you call your master? I call him Osmund the Greedy, Osmund the Dishonorable.”

Furiously, the guards raised their swords. The Sorrowful Knight parried their blows, but they were sitting safely on their horses, driving him back between the lion’s stone paws.

Igraine felt her anger drowning out her fear. “Don’t you touch him!” she shouted, clinging to the stone teeth. With all her might, she struck the helmet off one of the riders with her sword. The blow made him sway in the saddle and put his hands to his head.

“Igraine!” called the Sorrowful Knight. “I tell you for the last time, run!”