Igraine the Brave (17 page)

“An hour!” Worried, Igraine went to the window and looked out. The sky had clouded over. It was raining. But Osmund’s soldiers were still bombarding Pimpernel with arrows, fire, and stones. They had already built new wooden footbridges for crossing the moat, and now they were making rafts and trying to shoot ropes with iron hooks attached up to the battlements. There was only too good a view of all this from the tower. Igraine even saw horses pulling a mighty battering ram toward the castle. Although several men were urging them on, they were making slow progress, but at some time or other they would reach the moat. Were they planning to break down the castle walls with the battering ram, or make a hole in the drawbridge?
More work for Albert,
thought Igraine, turning her back to the window. A gloomy silence filled the workshop.

Until the Sorrowful Knight cleared his throat.

“When exactly do you mean to work your shape-changing magic?” he asked the two pigs.

“We can get into the tub at sunset,” replied the Fair Melisande. “Osmund usually stops attacking about then, but he’ll probably notice that our magical defenses are down, because I am sorry to say that the gargoyles snore heavily when they fall into a deep sleep of that kind, and the lions don’t look very terrifying, either.”

The Sorrowful Knight nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Then there’s only one way to make sure that you are undisturbed. I will challenge Rowan Heartless, whom you call the Spiky Knight, to single combat at sunset. I am sure Osmund will pause in his attack on your castle while his castellan takes up my challenge. And his soldiers will want to watch us, too. No one will notice that Pimpernel is almost undefended, and you can regain your proper shapes without any danger that the castle will be captured.”

What on earth was he talking about?

“But you said you couldn’t defeat him!” cried Igraine. “You said you feared him more than anything in the world! No! Pimpernel is
our
castle, so …” Igraine looked as determined as she possibly could. “… so I’ll distract Osmund’s attention by challenging the Spiky Knight myself.”

“You, honey?” squealed her horrified parents.

But the Sorrowful Knight put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her gravely, much too gravely for her liking.

“Noble Igraine,” he said. “Your fearless heart does you great credit. But sometimes fearlessness is not a good counselor. You must learn to fear some things, and to judge your own strength properly. A girl of twelve, however brave, cannot possibly face a battle-hardened knight like Rowan in combat. He will hold you up to derision and tread your pride in the dust. No. I will fight the Spiky Knight — if he accepts my challenge. I only hope I can keep him occupied a little longer than I did at our last meetings. But at least I am a fit and proper opponent for him. Can you understand that?”

Igraine bent her head and wiped some dove droppings off her armor. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she muttered. “But I’m worried about you.”

That made the Sorrowful Knight smile. “There’s no need, believe me. Rowan Heartless takes no pleasure in killing his opponents. He prefers to humiliate them again and again. And he wouldn’t want to deprive himself of that pleasure by killing me, do you see?”

Igraine nodded.

“Good. Then let us return to your brother on the wall and see if Rowan has come back yet, shall we?”

“Er … noble Knight of … er, the Mount of Tears!” Sir Lamorak cleared his throat several times. “I thank you heartily for your unselfish offer. And I … er … hope we can do you a similar great service when we have our magic powers back, don’t you agree, my love?”

The Fair Melisande bowed her bristly head. “There are no words for the gratitude we owe you, sir!” she said.

“Don’t mention it!” replied the Sorrowful Knight, returning her bow.

“Well, come along, then, books!” Sir Lamorak turned. “Time to pour the concoction into the magic vessel.”

The books rolled up their sleeves, gathered around the tub, and raised it from the floor. Then, panting and gasping, they carried it into the next room.

“It only works if the Books of Magic pour the concoction into the vessel with their own hands,” Sir Lamorak whispered to the Sorrowful Knight. “They usually spill quite a bit, and they hate physical work, too, but this particular spell demands it.”

Side by side, the two pigs trotted after the groaning books. In the doorway, Melisande turned once more. “Oh, Igraine,” she said, “could you send Albert up to us as soon as he’s free? He has to make it snow in the next room so that the concoction will cool down more quickly.”

“Yes, of course,” said Igraine, but she could think of only one thing. The Sorrowful Knight was determined to fight Rowan Heartless.

21

A
lbert made it snow in the magic workshop, of course. That wasn’t a particularly complicated spell. But as he returned to the walls, he was looking anxious.

“What’s this they’re telling me?” he said to the Sorrowful Knight. “Are you really planning to challenge Osmund’s castellan to distract them? It’s not a bad idea, but if it’s to work, there’s something we must take care of before the fight.”

“What kind of something would that be?” asked Bertram, putting a large pan of fried fish down on the battlements.

“Are you sure these fish never walked on two legs?” asked Igraine.

“Sure,” replied Bertram.

Albert looked at the gigantic battering ram that had just been maneuvered into position on the bank of the moat.

“One of us,” he said, taking a piece of fish, “must steal into the Spiky Knight’s tent.”

Bertram almost swallowed a bone the wrong way. “This is no time for joking, Albert,” he said. “You’ve been eating too many of your horrible biscuits.”

“I’m not joking.” Albert leaned over the wall, clapped his hands three times, and hummed a note that sounded horribly out of tune. All at once the iron head of the battering ram slumped forward and dropped into the moat. “Easy-peasy!” murmured Albert. He snapped his fingers to send back a quiverful of burning arrows that had lost their way, and he turned to the Sorrowful Knight. “Your fight with the Iron Hedgehog,” he said, “has to keep Osmund occupied for a full hour. That’s a long time. If he unhorses you during the first tilt, you’ll be risking your neck for nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” cried Igraine indignantly. “The Knight of the Mount of Tears is a wonderful knight! He knows better than anyone how to—”

The Sorrowful Knight raised his hand. “Let your brother finish, Igraine,” he said.

“However wonderful a knight he may be,” Albert went on, “he doesn’t stand a chance. The Iron Hedgehog always wins. When he’s jousting with a lance he unhorses all his opponents at the first tilt. I’m right, aren’t I?”

The Sorrowful Knight bowed his head. “Your brother is indeed right, noble Igraine,” he said quietly. “As you know, it’s happened to me three times already.”

“I thought as much.” Albert nodded in a satisfied way. “Did you never wonder why?”

The knight looked inquiringly at him. “What do you mean?”

“The Iron Hedgehog uses magic, of course!” cried Albert. “It’s as clear as day!”

“What are you saying?” Incredulous, the Sorrowful Knight shook his head. “That can’t be true!”

“I tell you, he wins by magic!” Albert repeated. “Ask Bertram.”

“Albert’s right.” The Master of Horse threw a few fish bones over the castle walls. “Back at Darkrock, I overheard Osmund’s servants talking. One of them was saying that Osmund had cast a spell on Heartless’s jousting lance in gratitude for his faithful services. That’s why the Hedgehog always uses the same lance for his first tilt.”

The Sorrowful Knight was looking as if someone had hit him hard on his helmet. “But that’s impossible!” he stammered. “To use magic is against the honor of a knight!”

“The honor of a knight, my foot!” Albert laughed derisively. “The Hedgehog couldn’t care less about such things. He wants to be unbeatable, and with an enchanted lance he is. I bet you it glows green. That’s the way you can always recognize weapons with a victory spell on them. So the fact is, if your challenge is supposed to give us a breathing space, the spell on the lance must be broken. It’s not all that difficult, but one of us will have to creep into Osmund’s camp to do it. And unfortunately I can’t, because we never know when Osmund will mount his next magic attack, so—”

“So I’ll go,” said Igraine.

“That’s what I thought, little sister!” Albert gave her a broad smile. “But you must hurry. The sun is high in the sky, and I’m sure Heartless will soon be back. Come on. I’ll give you something I found in the armory.”

Igraine stood up, but the Sorrowful Knight took her arm. “No. This is out of the question!” he said. “I will be the one to go, of course.”

“No, let me do it,” said Bertram, putting the knight aside. “You fight the Iron Hedgehog; I’ll steal into his tent and make sure you have a fair chance.”

“Oh, stop talking nonsense!” said Albert, impatiently interrupting. “Neither of you knows the first thing about magic! Igraine may not know much, either, but at least she’s grown up among magicians! She’s the one who must go. But Bertram can accompany her as a watchdog.”

Bertram bowed to Igraine with a broad grin. “Your faithful watchdog at your service, noble lady!”

“This is madness!” cried the Sorrowful Knight. “They’ll both be found and captured.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” said Albert mysteriously.

Igraine had been sure she knew every single item in the armory of Pimpernel Castle, every shield, every sword, even every cloak, however moth-eaten. But she had never before noticed the strange thing that Albert took out of a small chest. It looked like a veil, except that the fabric was covered with scales, transparent scales fitting closely together.

“As you know, I never usually come here,” said Albert, carefully smoothing out the strange fabric. “But when Osmund turned up outside the castle with his army, I told myself it might be a good idea to find out what our ancestors stored here to defend themselves. And I discovered this.”

“But what is it?” asked Bertram.

“A dragon’s skin, of course,” replied Albert. “Our great-grandfather Pelleas was friends with several dragons. I assume one of them gave it to him as a present. The dragon who shed this skin can’t have been more than sixty or seventy years old, so it was still quite small.” Albert reached into the chest again and took out a second, distinctly larger skin. “This one ought to fit you, Bertram. The dragon who shed it was a good bit older — perhaps it was the same dragon some time later. I’m sure you know that dragons shed their skins every fourteen years, don’t you?”

Igraine shook her head.

Albert threw her the smaller skin. When she caught it, it felt like picking up spun air.

“But what do we do with them?” asked Bertram, baffled.

“They’ll make you invisible,” said Albert. “Try it. Drape them over your heads.”

Igraine and Bertram did as he said — and disappeared. Disappeared without a trace.

Pleased with himself, Albert folded his arms.

“I thought those were just a couple of dirty old veils!” gasped the invisible Igraine.