“I was born at the wrong time, that’s all,” she muttered as she picked up one of his dented shields. “Yes, that’s what it is.” Her parents didn’t like her to use the real swords, but very likely they’d be shut up in their workshop for some time yet, so Igraine chose a blade that looked fairly like the play sword her father had made her by magic, stuck it in her belt, and put a helmet with a crest like a silver bird on her head. Unfortunately it was too big for her, but it looked good all the same. Then she took the magical leather dummy off his stand. Albert and her parents had conjured him up for her eighth birthday.
When Igraine blew three times into the dummy’s face, he stood upright, adjusted his sword belt, and stalked into the courtyard after her. Sisyphus put his ears back and hissed as the leathery creature marched out of the armory.
“Oh, come on!” Igraine told him. “You know he’s not going to hurt you. And it’s not as if I can practice fencing with you!” The leather man, limbs creaking, followed her up the stairs leading to the battlements above the castle gate. Sisyphus gloomily dropped a well-gnawed fish bone and leaped up the stairs after them.
While the cat made himself comfortable on the warm wall, the leather dummy leaned against the battlements, waiting. But Igraine clambered up on top of the wall and looked around. The sky was as blue as forget-me-nots. Only a few white clouds were drifting toward her from the Whispering Woods. It was such a clear day that if you looked west you could see all the way to the lands of the One-Eyed Duke, who was said to hunt dragons and unicorns all day, every day. The nearest village lay on one of the hills to the south. It was a long ride to get there, but on days like this you could see the cottage rooftops between the trees. To the east, however, the five round towers of Darkrock Castle rose to the sky. Darkrock was ten times bigger than Pimpernel, and its mistress the old Baroness loved just two things in life: horses and spicy mead.
“Nothing to do,” murmured Igraine. “Nothing at all. This is really more than I can stand.” She leaned forward. “Hello! Looks like the Baroness has a new banner. What coat of arms is that? Oh, well, it probably just shows a barrel of spicy mead.” With a sigh, she jumped down from the wall and put the point of her sword to the leather dummy’s chest.
“En garde, Leather Knight!” she cried, closing her visor. “You sawed off my unicorn’s horn, and you’ll pay dearly for it!”
The leather man drew his sword and planted himself squarely in front of her. As usual, he parried her sword strokes with the utmost elegance, and soon Igraine was so hot in her chain mail that she ran down to the well in the courtyard. She was just pouring a bucket of water over her head when the stone lions above the gate began to roar.
3
The lions were roaring as hoarsely as if they had dust in their throats.
Startled, Igraine wiped the water out of her eyes, ran back up the steps to the battlements, and pushed the leather man out of her way. Sisyphus stood on the wall, hissing. Igraine quickly knelt beside him and peered down.
The stone lions crouched on their ledge, teeth bared. Their tails were lashing the wall, and at the sound of their roars the startled water snakes put their heads out of the moat.
A horseman was galloping toward the castle from the east.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Igraine shouted angrily at the lions. “That’s no stranger, you silly stone-faces. It’s Bertram, Master of Horse at Darkrock Castle.”
“So it is!” growled the lion on the left, narrowing his eyes. “She’s right!”
“It’s those doves,” the lion on the right defended himself. “How can we keep a proper lookout with bird droppings in our eyes? Pretty soon I won’t be able to tell a horse from a unicorn.”
“Yes, and the droppings stink to high heaven, too!” growled the lion on the left. “Doves have no respect these days.”
But Igraine wasn’t listening anymore. She ran down the steps with her mail shirt clinking and raced across the courtyard. Sisyphus followed her at his leisure.
“Who’s coming, my dear?” Sir Lamorak called from the tower window.
“Oh, just a false alarm from the lions again,” Igraine called back. “It’s Bertram, Master of Horse from Darkrock.”
“Oh, no!” groaned her father. “That can only mean one thing — the Baroness wants to hold one of her boring horserace meetings. Tell her we can’t come, my angel, all right?”
Then he disappeared again — before Igraine could remind him that she personally didn’t think horse races were in the least boring.
Bertram the Master of Horse rode into the castle at a gallop. His face was as red as her parents’ magic cloaks, and his horse was snorting and sweating. Igraine quickly fetched a bucket of water and rubbed the horse down with a handful of straw, while its exhausted master slipped out of the saddle.
“What weather!” panted Bertram. “I’d sooner have torrents of rain. Where’s your father, Igraine?”
“Casting spells to make my birthday present,” said Igraine, stroking the horse’s mane back from its forehead. “And you’d better not disturb him. Is the Baroness going to hold some horse races?”
Bertram shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid the news I bring is nothing like that. Call your parents, Igraine, even if it does mean that your birthday present has to wait.”
4
“What is it, Bertram?” asked the Fair Melisande as she and Sir Lamorak entered the Great Hall. Of course Albert had come with them, even though Igraine had sent Sisyphus to tell him that he at least was to continue working on her present. His hair was covered with silvery powder, and Igraine’s parents didn’t look much tidier, but all the same the Master of Horse bowed deeply to the Fair Melisande.
“Distressing news, Your Loveliness,” he said.
Igraine’s father raised his eyebrows. “Oh, no! Don’t say the old Baroness has …”
“No, no.” Bertram looked all around, as if the paintings on the walls might hear him. “No, she’s all right, but a few days ago she had an unwelcome visit from her nephew Osmund, the one who turned out so badly. Osmund the Greedy, everyone calls him. And he came with his castellan, who never opens his visor except to eat.”
“Oh, a knight?” Igraine was sitting on the long table where her great-grandfather Pelleas had carved his initials. “What sort of armor does he wear?”
“It has spikes all over it, from his helmet to the greaves on his legs,” said Bertram. “A nasty piece of work, just like the man inside it. Yesterday morning,” he went on, lowering his voice, “just when I was getting the horses fed, Osmund suddenly announces at the crack of dawn that the Baroness has gone on pilgrimage and won’t be back for a year at the earliest. And guess what: He claims she’s left him in charge of Darkrock and all her lands while she’s away.”
“The Baroness on pilgrimage?” Sir Lamorak frowned. “But she never leaves her room except to see that her horses are all right.”
“Or to drink spicy mead,” said Igraine.
“Exactly!” Bertram nodded. “No one saw her leave, and she didn’t go to the stables, either. Do you think she’d have gone away without saying good-bye to her favorite horse, Lancelot? Ask your daughter! She’s visited the Baroness often enough.”
Igraine wiped some dove droppings off her mail shirt. “Impossible,” she said. “The Baroness never even went to bed without visiting Lancelot first. And she poured a little spicy mead in his water before breakfast every morning — even though I kept telling her that spicy mead would do him no good at all.”
Albert frowned, which he could do quite impressively, and Igraine’s parents exchanged anxious glances.
“That certainly does sound peculiar, Bertram,” said Melisande. “What do you suggest we should do? Shall we go back to Darkrock with you? Shall we ask this Osmund to tell us exactly where his aunt went?”
But Darkrock’s Master of Horse firmly shook his head. “No, no, Your Loveliness! I haven’t come to ask you for help. I’m here to warn you. I thi
nk Osmund is a threat to your castle and your family.”
“A threat to us? How?” asked Albert, removing a mouse from his hair.
“It’s my belief …” Bertram looked around him again, as if fearing he’d be overheard. “It’s my belief this man Osmund came to Darkrock only to mount an attack on Pimpernel.”
“Indeed?” Sir Lamorak raised his eyebrows. “Well, well. I expect you have some reason for that suspicion?”
“He wants your Books of Magic, sir! His servants talk of nothing else. He’s planning to use your books to make himself the greatest magician in the world. And I assure you, when Osmund wants something he takes it. Not for nothing is he known as Osmund the Greedy.”
“Yes, I think I’ve heard a few stories about him and his castellan with the spiky armor,” murmured Sir Lamorak. “Not very nice stories. But his aunt the Baroness is such a charming old lady. Even if she does like spicy mead a little too much.”
“Osmund is stirring up feeling against you, sir!” Bertram went on. “He’s spreading word that you don’t deserve to own such powerful books if all you do with them is make trees blossom in winter and conjure up magical presents for your children!”
“Ah. I see,” murmured Sir Lamorak. A little silver powder fell on his shoes as he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Osmund’s castellan is offering the villagers bags full of gold to tell him about the defenses of your castle,” said Bertram. “And that spiky brute puts his sword to the throats of those who don’t take his gold and keep their mouths shut. He wants to know everything — whether the stone lions can do anything apart from roaring, how dangerous the snakes in the castle moat are, whether the gargoyles can really devour arrows and spit fire.” Bertram looked at Sir Lamorak with concern. “The people of the village like you, sir. You’re kind and generous, you’ve helped almost all of them at some time or other. But Osmund’s castellan knows how to frighten them!”
“Those poor people,” said Melisande angrily. “Bertram, next time you’re in the village, would you be good enough to tell everyone they’re welcome to pass on all they know to that castellan? What can he discover that’s so important, anyway? And if this man Osmund really does attack us, then Lamorak and I will think up a few nice little magic surprises for him, won’t we, my love?”
“Definitely,” said Sir Lamorak.
“He will attack, Your Loveliness!” said Bertram, his voice husky with concern. “More soldiers are coming to Darkrock every day; heaven knows where Osmund finds them all. They’re streaming into the castle from all points of the compass, and his spiky castellan is bringing in horses, arms, and armor. As you know, the Baroness stored nothing but her barrels of mead in the prison tower, but Osmund is having the place fitted out as a dungeon again, and I’m afraid you’re meant to be his next guests in it.” Bertram shook his head. “Yes, I fear he’s going to come calling at Pimpernel Castle very soon, and it won’t be a friendly visit.”
“Ah, well!” Sir Lamorak sighed, and his eyes wandered over the portraits of his ancestors. “Pimpernel has had unwelcome visitors many times before, and all of them wanted the Books of Magic. But the books are still here. No, I’m not worried. The Baroness’s disappearance is a far worse headache. As soon as Igraine’s birthday is over, I’ll ride to Darkrock and find out whether our old friend has really gone on pilgrimage. But thank you very much for telling us all this, Bertram. Will you stay for dinner? Good heavens, I believe we haven’t even had breakfast yet!”
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Bertram, bowing to Igraine’s parents and then to her and Albert, “but I must get back before anyone notices my absence. Do be careful, and please take my warning seriously!” Then he turned and walked to the door with a heavy tread.
“Wait a minute, Bertram!” cried Igraine, following him into the courtyard.
“Pull the drawbridge up the moment I’ve left, Igraine,” Bertram told her. “Bar the gates, and keep well away from Darkrock while Osmund is lording it there! No fencing practice with the servants, no secret rides on Lancelot! And I’m afraid you and I won’t be able to meet for some time.”
Igraine didn’t answer. She looked out of the gateway and to the east, to the place where the strange banner flew from the towers of Darkrock Castle.
“Don’t you think it might be useful for someone to spy on that Osmund?” she said. “I mean, he wouldn’t know who I am!”
“Don’t you dare!” Bertram picked up his reins. “I will personally throw you into the moat if I catch you at Darkrock. And I’ll never take you to a tournament like I promised! I’ve told you all there is to know about Darkrock at the moment, so enjoy your birthday, and pray for Osmund to die of indigestion before he can stretch his greedy fingers out to Pimpernel. Oh, yes,” he added, putting his hand into his saddlebag and bringing out a beautiful bridle, “and this is for your pony. A little present from me and the grooms so that you’ll remember us when you’re a famous knight. I know it’s supposed to be unlucky to give presents before someone’s birthday, but who knows when we’ll see each other again?”
“Oh, thank you, Bertram!” gasped Igraine, stroking the soft leather.
“See you sometime!” called the Master of Horse as he rode over the bridge and away. Back to Darkrock.
5
By that evening everyone at Pimpernel had forgotten about Bertram’s bad news. Igraine’s parents were still casting spells, but now rainbow-colored smoke was drifting out of the tower window, which always meant that they’d nearly finished. When dusk fell, Igraine couldn’t stand it anymore. Once again she climbed the stairs to the tower, but just as she was standing at its heavy oak door the visor of her helmet snapped shut, and Albert chased her right through the castle and into her room. Then he cast a spell to lock the door, and set off back to the magic workshop, whistling. Of course, Igraine tried climbing out of the window the minute he’d gone, but as soon as she put a foot on the windowsill six fat, bright green spiders started spinning a web in front of her nose. Albert knew very well what scared his little sister. So Igraine could only wait for her birthday to come.
At last, when the moon was shining in the sky above the castle tower, she took off her mail shirt and lay down on the bed. Sisyphus snuggled up beside her and soon began snoring with his head on her stomach (he snored almost like a human being). But Igraine lay awake listening to the strange songs that the night wind blew over from the tower, wondering about her present. Then she remembered Bertram’s anxious face. She tried to imagine what Osmund looked like and his castellan, too, the knight with iron spikes all over his armor, but she didn’t make a very good job of it. Perhaps adventure has finally come to Pimpernel, she thought, but she wasn’t so sure that she still liked the idea. Sisyphus woke with a start when she turned over restlessly, and hissed at her. Would the Baroness really go on pilgrimage without saying good-bye to Lancelot? she wondered. Then she finally fell asleep.
It was the middle of the night when she was woken by someone hammering on her door. In alarm, she sat up and saw Albert standing in the doorway with a lantern in his hand.
“What’s up?” she asked sleepily, pushing Sisyphus off her legs.
Albert cleared his throat in embarrassment, and brushed pink icing out of his untidy hair.
“Er, well, it’s like this,” he stammered, clearing his throat again. “We’ve had a little magic mistake, a slip of the tongue; these things happen sometimes, you see….”
Igraine jumped out of bed and went to the window. But the castle courtyard lay quiet and peaceful in the moonlight, and the tower wasn’t leaning any farther sideways than usual.
“What kind of mistake?” she asked, turning suspiciously to Albert. “Has my birthday present gone up in rainbow-colored smoke?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that,” Albert made haste to reply. “Your present is ready. It — er — it looks wonderful, only … only …” He ran his hands through his hair again. “… only just as we were going to add the finishing touch,
Mother made a slip of the tongue and it happened.”
“What?” cried Igraine. “What happened?”
“You’ll see in a moment.” Without another word, Albert took her hand and led her through the dark castle, over the moonlit courtyard, across the narrow bridge, and up the staircase to the tower, until they stood in front of the workshop door. Downcast, Albert pushed it open.
The Books of Magic were running about in great agitation, waving their arms and muttering to themselves. And among the jars full of leaves, flowers, and ground minerals stood two pigs. One black and one pink.
“Hello, honey,” said the black pig, in the Fair Melisande’s beautiful voice.
“We’re in a bit of a fix, what?” said the pink pig, in Sir Lamorak’s unmistakable voice.
Igraine gasped for air, opened her eyes so wide that they almost popped out of her head — and found that she couldn’t utter a sound.
“Luckily we’d as good as finished your present. There was just one little detail to be added,” said her father — or rather, the pig with her father’s voice. “Oh, do please keep still, books!”
The Books of Magic, their feelings injured, sat down on the carpet.
“There it is, honey,” said the black pig, trotting over to a huge parcel lying on Sir Lamorak’s magic armchair. “Albert stopped to wrap it up before he went to wake you. Would you like to open it now or wait till after breakfast?”
Igraine looked first at the huge parcel and then at her bristly, curly-tailed mother. “I think I’d rather open it when you’ve changed yourselves back again,” she said.
The Books of Magic broke into mocking laughter.
“Er, well, my dear,” grunted Sir Lamorak, scratching his snout rather clumsily with one back trotter, “there’s a tiny little problem there. I’m afraid we found out that the jar of giant’s red hairs is empty.”