The Flight of Dragons (17 page)

This time Gubble ignored him. He crossed the field and stomped through an apple orchard. The boy helped himself to a couple of apples and went after Gubble. As the sun rose higher, they tramped on and on, across village greens, into and out of a churchyard. On and on, through pig farms, hay fields, potato crops, and meadows where sheep were peacefully grazing. Farmers and shepherds shouted and waved their fists; Gubble took no notice. Seeing the boy walking purposefully behind the troll, several local characters with nothing better to do followed suit, urged on by a burly man carrying a pitchfork. “These trolls shouldn’t be allowed,” he announced to murmurs of agreement. “Cause damage wherever they go, they does! Should have been banned along wi’ the zombies and the like.”

It wasn’t until they had left Gorebreath far behind and had crossed into the kingdom of Niven’s Knowe that there was the sound of carriage wheels, and Gubble slowed a little. They were near enough to the road to see that it was Queen Bluebell’s open carriage.

The queen, sitting high behind the coachman, raised her lorgnette to her eyes and inspected the ragged procession. “STOP!” she ordered. “What’s all this? Revolution? Goodness me! It’s Gracie Gillypot’s troll! What are you doing here?”

Gubble, who was capable of ignoring even the Ancient Crones when it suited him, heard the word
Gracie
and came to a sudden and abrupt halt. “Niven’s Knowe,” he said. “Gubble go to Niven’s Knowe. Palace.”

“Goin’ there myself,” Bluebell announced. She indicated a nervous-looking woman sitting at the back of the carriage. “Found them a cook. Don’t know if she’ll do, but better than nothing. Hop in — I’ll give you a lift.”

Gubble walked around the carriage while he considered this offer. As he got closer, the woman looked increasingly anxious, and as he approached the door, she pulled her bag onto her lap and screamed. Gubble, taken by surprise, stepped backward, caught his foot on a stone, and sat down with a startled grunt. His head, never entirely secure, fell off, and the woman screamed again before gathering up her belongings and jumping over the side of the carriage. “You can stuff your job!” she shrieked. “Keeping company with trolls? I’d rather work with pigs!” And she fled away across the fields.

Queen Bluebell watched her go with an expression of martyred resignation. “Had a bad feeling about that one,” she remarked. “Good cook but no stamina. No stamina at all.” She turned to see whether Gubble had made up his mind and saw that the rabble had taken advantage of his headless state and was surrounding him. The man with the pitchfork was waving it threateningly; only a lack of decision about whether he should skewer Gubble’s head or his body was holding him back. Bluebell rose to her feet in fury — but before she could say a word, the boy had pushed his way forward and picked up Gubble’s head.

“Here you are,” he said, and thunked it onto the troll’s shoulders.

“What did you do that for?” the pitchfork man asked angrily. “We could have done him in! Paid him back for what he did!”

The boy folded his arms. “It’s not fair to attack him when he hasn’t got his head on.”

“Quite right, my lad,” Queen Bluebell said approvingly. “Like your attitude! What’s he done?”

“Ug.” Gubble gave his head a reassuring pat. “Broke down wall. Gubble in a hurry.”

“And that’s not all, Your Majesty!” The burly man pushed forward.

Bluebell gave him an exceptionally frosty stare. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” she remarked in her most authoritative tone. “Am I to understand that you have a grievance against this troll?”

The burly man waved his pitchfork. “I surely do! Walked across my fields, he did — never asked nor nothing. Scared my cows witless!”

“Is that so?” Bluebell’s eyebrows shot up. “And have you asked permission of King Horace to stand right here? I believe this particular field belongs to his estate.”

The pitchfork was lowered while the burly man scratched his chin. “Well . . .” he began. “I can’t say as I have, exactly. Didn’t think about it.”

“And I don’t suppose Gubble thought about it, either.” The queen folded her arms. “Now, run away home, and don’t be a nuisance. If any of you has a genuine claim for damages, you can send it to me at Wadingburn Palace, but you’d better make sure it’s a good one. I’ll have no truck with time-wasters!”

The villagers melted away like snow in sunlight, leaving only the boy remaining.

Bluebell sat down in her carriage and inspected him. “Determined young fellow, aren’t you?”

The boy nodded. “Our wall got broken down, and it needs putting back the way it was, or Amber and Heidi and Ben will be up to all sorts of mischief.” He pointed at Gubble. “He did it.”

“Fair enough. You’re a sensible, plain-speaking boy,” Bluebell told him. “We’ll get your wall sorted out as soon as we can. I’d suggest I send a builder, though. Gubble has a facility for knocking things down, but I don’t think his skills include building them back up again.”

“Thanks, Your Majesty.” The boy gave a brief nod. “I’ll be getting home now that that’s settled.” He turned, then swung around again. “None of my business, but were you looking for a cook?”

“I certainly am.” Bluebell leaned forward in her seat.

For the first time, the boy smiled. “I love cooking. Especially cake. My mum was a cook before she had all of us, and she taught me loads.”

“In that case,” Bluebell announced, “you’ve got a job. What’s your name?”

“Marshling,” the boy said. “Marshling Stonecrop.”

“Hop into the carriage, Marshling, and I’ll take you to meet your new employers. You can cook them breakfast. Gubble, are you coming with us?”

But Gubble had gone. Bored with waiting, he had stomped on toward the palace, taking, as always, the most direct route. Bluebell was just in time to catch sight of his solid figure disappearing into a clump of trees.

“We’ll see him when we get there,” she said. “Coachman! Drive on!”

O
ld Malignancy was growing in both confidence and size as each minute ticked by. The day had begun well; Princess Fedora had rung her bell early, and Bobby had come hurrying down to the kitchen to say that she wanted a breakfast tray in her bedroom.

“ ‘Boiled egg ’n’ toast and a cup of tea’ is what she says, Mrs. Grinder,” he rattled off. Fedora had said a great deal more about the inadequacies of Prince Tertius and the dangers of gluttony and greed, but Bobby had no intention of passing this information on. The princess was not, in his opinion, her usual self; despite her ranting, she was curiously lethargic and seemed unwilling to leave her bed. Her
Handbook of Palace Management
was looking decidedly well thumbed; Bobby noticed it was open at a page headed “Unsatisfactory Servants: Constructive Criticism and Ultimate Dismissal.” A faint hope stirred in Bobby’s mind; he whistled as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Egg and toast.” Mercy Grinder nodded and clicked her fingers at the twins. “Lay a tray!”

The twins sullenly obeyed; they were not used to being up so early, and they suspected Carrion, now perched openly in a corner of the kitchen, of having tricked them. It was only when the red velvet box of chocolates was placed on the tray that they brightened.

Seeing their greedy looks, their great-grandfatherabandoned his persona of Mercy Grinder and wagged a finger at them. “Not for you, my little cankerettes!”

As Saturday had been instructed to sweep and dust and polish the main rooms of the palace, Bobby was entrusted with taking the tray upstairs.

“We can do it!” Globula said eagerly — but the finger was wagged once more.

“The princess isn’t used to you, my dears. Remember, Bobby. The prince sends his love with his gift of chocolates.”

Globula, pouting, had had to be content with accompanying the page as far as Fedora’s bedroom in order to hold open the door. A scuffle had taken place as Globula made one last attempt to acquire the chocolates, but when the tray was placed on Fedora’s lap, the little heart-shaped box was still there.

“It’s from the prince,” Bobby explained when Fedora picked it up, and the princess smiled.

“Darling Terty! Maybe I’ll forgive him after all.”

Bobby had collected the dirty dishes from outside her door some half an hour later and taken them down to the kitchen. Seeing him come in, Old Malignancy had seized the box. Finding it empty, he had given an eerie shriek of triumph and held it high. “Gone!” he chortled. “Gone.” When he saw Bobby staring at him in astonishment, his expression darkened. “Get to work!” And as Bobby scuttled out of the kitchen, Old Malignancy threw off his apron and swung around to the twins. “The Mousewater. She must go! My time is coming, and nothing must stand in my way!”

The twins sniggered and got up from the table. “Will we get chocolate if we get rid of her?” Conducta asked.

“You will get what you deserve.” Old Malignancy’s eyes were pebble hard, and Conducta shrank back.

“Come on, Sis,” she said, and she and Globula flounced out.

Their great-grandfather spread his arms wide. “Soon, Carrion, soon the princess will be hurrying downstairs. She will be hungry, hungry for Mercy Grinder’s food, and I will make my request. Three little signatures, Carrion . . . three little signatures, and the Five Kingdoms will be mine! Go and wait in the dining room. The prince is there; the king will join him, then Princess Fedora. Tell me the moment all three are ready for me!”

King Horace opened his eyes and found himself staring into an empty bowl. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was or what he was doing, but gradually thoughts began seeping into his foggy brain. The first was:
chocolate mousse.
The second was:
It’s morning and that’s when I have breakfast.
And the third was:
I’m hungry.
He heaved himself out of his chair and went to ring the bell, but decided it would be quicker to give his order himself.

He was puzzled to find how difficult it was to squeeze himself through his study door; a vague idea that the palace had shrunk during the night crossed his mind. This idea was reinforced when he tried to make his way to the kitchen. “Shockingly narrow,” he complained as he negotiated his way along the corridors. “Must have a word with . . . with someone.” The strange confusion in his head was beginning to worry him, and he stood still and leaned his head against a pillar to see if the coldness of the marble would assist his thinking.

“Are you all right, Your Maj?” Bobby was standing beside him. “You look a bit the worse for wear, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I
feel
a bit the worse for wear,” the king said, “and I’m hungry. Be a good boy and fetch me my breakfast.”

“Certainly will. Eggs ’n’ bacon? Mushrooms? That sort of thing?” Bobby asked. “Shall I bring it to the dining room?”

The king heaved himself away from the pillar. “In the dining room. Yes. But I want chocolate mousse.”

Bobby dithered, then went somewhat unwillingly to do as he was told. He met Saturday as she came staggering down the back staircase carrying a bucket of dirty water and a mop. “King’s a bit odd,” he said in a whisper. “Wants chocolate mousse for his brekkie, and I don’t think he was in bed last night. And he’s
ever
so fat!”

Saturday looked anxiously over her shoulder. “ ’Tis that cook, Mercy Grinder. ’Tis her food, if you can call it that. Have you seen Prince Tertius? He’s swelled up like a balloon under the dining table, like. ’Tis terrible, Bobby, terrible! And I don’t —”

Footsteps were heard approaching, and Saturday froze. Bobby gave her a swift wink of encouragement before hurrying to pass on the king’s request. He was hardly out of sight before Globula and Conducta came marching around the corner; on seeing Saturday, they elbowed each other in vicious glee. “It’s little batty Saturday,” Globula sneered.

“That’s right,” Conducta agreed. “Little batty Saturday who drops everything she carries!” And she kicked Saturday’s ankle.

Saturday screamed and dropped the bucket; it fell on the marble floor, and dirty water splashed in all directions.

“Oooh! Look what you’ve done!” Globula pointed to the mess. “Better clean it up, or you’ll be in trouble.”

“BIG trouble. You might even get the sack!” Conducta snapped her fingers under Saturday’s nose. “Maybe you should leave. Run away before things get
really
nasty.”