“Come on, Graycoat,” she whispered, hauling the reluctant donkey toward the edge of the hole. A large basket hung over it, fastened to a winch. Igraine took away the two planks that were acting as a makeshift cover for the hole and leaned cautiously over the abyss. The donkey rolled his eyes in alarm and tugged at his halter.
“Bertram?” whispered Igraine into the pitch-black darkness. A sweetish smell rose to her nostrils. The dungeon still had a strong aroma of spicy mead.
All was quiet for a few moments. Then Bertram’s incredulous voice came up from the depths. “Igraine? Oh, Lord, I’m hearing ghosts now. It must be the lack of food.”
Igraine laughed quietly. “No, Bertram, word of knightly honor!” she whispered into the abyss. “I’m not a ghost. I’m going to lower the basket. Mind it doesn’t hit you on the head!”
The winch creaked as Igraine turned the handle, but the basket went slowly down on its rope and disappeared into the darkness.
“Good heavens, it really is you, Igraine!” cried Bertram from below. “But how are you going to pull me up? I’ll be much too heavy for you.”
“I have my donkey here!” replied Igraine. “I’m going to tie the rope to him so that he can haul you up. Quick, get into the basket.” She went as close to the hole’s edge as she could, put out her arm to untie the rope from the winch — and snatched her hand back in alarm.
A fat spider was busy spinning its silvery web around the winch. It had hairy legs and a pale pattern on its back, and this time it wasn’t one of the magic spiders that Albert conjured up! Igraine bit her lip, put her hand out once more for the rope — and withdrew it again hastily when the spider came scuttling down its web. It moved so quickly on all those legs!
“Igraine!” called Bertram. “Can’t the donkey do it? Oh, dear, I knew I was too fat.”
“There … there’s a spider under the winch,” said Igraine in a thread of a voice. “A huge, hairy spider.”
“A spider? My goodness, Igraine!” You could hear Bertram’s sigh rise from the bottom of the pit. “Blow it away.”
“Blow it away?” murmured Igraine, nervously pulling her hair back from her forehead.
She narrowed her eyes, took a deep breath, and — it worked! When she opened her eyes again, the cobweb was torn and the spider had gone.
With shaking fingers, she unfastened the rope from the winch and tied it around the donkey. Then, clicking her tongue, she led Graycoat away from the hole. The little donkey had to pull hard. Bertram was no lightweight, and twice the donkey just stopped and left him dangling over the abyss in the rocking basket. But by pushing and shoving, scolding and petting, Igraine managed to get him going again.
“Just a tiny bit more!” she whispered to Graycoat. “Come on, you can do it!” But at that moment they suddenly heard voices outside.
“Don’t move!” Igraine hurried over to the door.
“What is it, little donkey?” she heard Bertram calling up. “Fat Bertram here isn’t keen to go back down that horrible hole again!”
“Shhh!” hissed Igraine, putting her ear to the door.
“Hey, take a look at Baldur there, will you?” she heard a hoarse voice from outside say. “Asleep on duty again. If the Spiky Knight sees him, the Dungeon of Despair will have two lodgers soon.”
“So it will.” Another voice laughed mockingly. “How about we let old Iron Spikes know that the guard he posted outside the dungeon shakes all Darkrock Castle with his snoring? What a joke that would be!”
“Wouldn’t it just!” replied the other man. “Sleep tight, Baldur. You’ll soon have a visitor.”
“Oh, drat it!” whispered Igraine as the footsteps went away. In haste she ran back to Graycoat and hauled away until at last the basket emerged from the depths.
“Quick!” she gasped, getting both Bertram and the basket back on firm ground. “We have to get out of here! Fast!”
The Master of Horse could hardly keep on his feet. She had to help him out of the basket, and he blinked at her with his eyes half closed. After almost two days in total darkness, even what little light there was in the tower hurt them.
“What are you doing here?” whispered Bertram, leaning on her shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you I’d throw you into the moat with my own hands if you turned up at Darkrock?”
“Oh, yes? Would you rather I let you down into the pit again?” Igraine untied her donkey from the rope and helped Bertram to the door. “I’m not here for fun. Osmund really did come to see us at Pimpernel Castle, and I need a fast horse. I came to borrow Lancelot.”
“What?” Bertram stared at her blankly.
“I’ll explain later. Can you walk?”
Bertram nodded.
“Good.” Igraine took Graycoat’s reins and cautiously opened the tower door.
The guard was still snoring, but there was no sign of the Spiky Knight. The castle was more crowded than ever. Men were carrying sacks of flour to the kitchens and driving livestock across the courtyard. Armorers made their way through the milling throng. Igraine led the donkey out into the open and signaled to Bertram to follow her. The Master of Horse glanced at the sleeping guard in disbelief as he squeezed past. Igraine took Graycoat over to a dark corner between the castle wall and the great linden tree. The old Baroness of Darkrock used to hold her court of law under its spreading branches.
“Here,” Igraine whispered to Bertram, taking her cloak out of the bundle, which also contained her armor. “We can’t disguise you as a woman, I’m afraid, because of your beard, but perhaps this will do. Take the basket; you can have the donkey as well. Then the guards will think you’re a farmer bringing eggs to the castle. They only check up on people coming in at the gate. Outside, there are so many donkeys and carts that you won’t attract attention. You just mustn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry.”
Bertram nodded, and put the cloak around his shoulders. It was far too small for him, but better than nothing.
“He’s not here yet!” Igraine anxiously looked around. “But I’d better wake the guard all the same, to be on the safe side. If the Spiky Knight realizes you’ve gone, we’ll never get out of the castle. So …” She looked encouragingly at him. “Make me laugh.”
“Make you what?” Bertram cast her an incredulous look. But Igraine didn’t answer. The Spiky Knight had appeared under the arched gateway leading to the castle forecourt. There were two soldiers with him, presumably the men whose voices she had heard outside the tower door. They pointed to the tower, but with so many people around, the guard was out of sight.
“Bertram, quick!” Igraine urged him. “Make me laugh! Or the Spiky Knight will throw us both into that awful dungeon.”
The Master of Horse turned pale. The soldiers were clearing a path through the crowd for the Spiky Knight.
“Bertram, please!”
He did his best: He squinted down his nose, waggled his ears, puffed out his cheeks. But none of it raised more than a forced smile from Igraine, and she cursed Albert for casting a spell that couldn’t be broken any other way.
The Spiky Knight pushed past two merchants arguing with each other. Only a few more feet, and he would be in front of the guard and notice that he was deep in a very peculiar kind of sleep.
“Sorry,” said Bertram, “but there’s no alternative.” And before Igraine realized what he was doing, he had grabbed her and started tickling her tummy. Her laughter rang out all over the courtyard, and the Spiky Knight glanced around, startled. But at the same moment the guard outside the tower opened his visor and looked around him, bewildered. He was horrified to see the Spiky Knight in front of him, but the castellan had already turned to the two men who had brought him, with a dark expression on his face, and Igraine quickly pulled Bertram away.
“Ride to Pimpernel!” she whispered as they made their way back to the forecourt. “You’ll be safe there. And tell Albert that Osmund’s going to attack as soon as he gets his catapults.”
Bertram sighed, but he nodded.
“And what are you planning to do? Why do you need Lancelot?”
“I have to find some giant’s hairs,” replied Igraine, pushing past a couple of traveling entertainers who were doing a dance in front of the smiths’ forge. “My parents had a little accident. So now they’re pigs with curly tails.”
Bertram sighed again. “None of this makes any sense to me,” he said. “But I can tell you how to get safely through the gate with Lancelot. If the guards stop you, just say you have to take him to the water hole outside the castle. That’s the only place where Lancelot will drink, and word of it has probably got around even among the new guards.”
Igraine nodded and stopped in front of the stables.
“Good luck, Graycoat,” she whispered in the donkey’s ear. “Carry Bertram to Pimpernel. I’m afraid he’s a bit fatter than me, but when I come home I’ll reward you with a whole handful of sugar lumps. Even if they’re not good for those yellow teeth of yours.”
By way of answer the donkey nudged her stomach with his hairy head. Igraine took the bundle of armor off his back and removed the bridle from the egg basket. “Better throw the eggs away,” she whispered to Bertram, handing him the basket. “It’ll look suspicious if you still have your eggs with you when you leave the castle.”
“Clever girl,” the Master of Horse whispered back, hugging her so hard that he left her breathless. “I’ll tell your parents all about it. I’ll let them know what a brave daughter they have, and perhaps even Albert will be so impressed that he won’t tease you so often.”
Then he waved to her once again, and strolled toward the castle gate with his head bent, apparently in no hurry. Igraine didn’t turn away until he was past the guards. Now it was time to fetch Lancelot.
11
Luckily, Igraine didn’t meet Jost again. She wasn’t sure whether he might give her away out of fear. Lancelot snorted excitedly as she put the bridle over his head, but she placed a soothing hand on his nose and led him out of the stable, looking as if she had done it countless times before.
No one stopped her. No one shouted, “Halt! Who goes there?” as she swung herself up on Lancelot’s back once they were in the yard. She rode unhindered past knights and cattle dealers, farmers and blacksmiths, and made her way through the crowd of people thronging in through the gate in the thick castle walls. At last she just had to pass the guards posted on the bridge.
But as she was riding the great stallion past them, one of them roughly seized her reins.
“Stop!” cried the man. “What have we here? And where do you think you’re taking that fine horse, girl?”
Igraine clutched the bundle containing her armor and looked at him as fearlessly as possible. “To the water hole, where do you think? He won’t drink anywhere else.”
“Is that so?” The guard patted the stallion’s neck admiringly, and turned to the other men. “Ever seen this horse before? Rather too handsome to be in the care of a little girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s that old devil Lancelot,” one of the guards called back. “Jost looks after him. Better send for Jost.”
Jost … Igraine tore the reins out of the guard’s hand and dug her heels into Lancelot’s sides. The stallion put back his ears, reared so violently that she almost slid off his back, and galloped away. Some farmers with carts full of fruit were coming over the drawbridge toward them. The horses pulling the carts shied as Lancelot raced on. A farmer jumped into the moat as one of the carts tipped over. Mountains of fruit rolled over the bridge, but with one great leap Lancelot jumped over them and was galloping on. Igraine ducked low over his outstretched neck. His hooves thundering, the stallion stormed off the bridge and past the watchtowers that rose to the sky on both sides of it. The guards on the towers were aiming their catapults, ready to fire, but Lancelot charged on through the dealers and farmers bringing their livestock down the road to the castle, through the crowd of jugglers and beggars and soldiers. They all scattered, screaming, and made way for the snorting stallion.
“Turn west, Lancelot!” cried Igraine, swinging him around. “We have to go west!” But when she looked back she saw two horsemen in pursuit of them. One was clearing himself a path through the screaming crowd with his sword, the other was drawing his crossbow. Drat it! she thought. Today of all days I have to be wearing skirts!
But just as the first arrow flew past Igraine’s shoulder, Lancelot swerved off the road and galloped over the bleak, treeless plain surrounding the castle. None of their pursuers’ horses could match his speed, and Lancelot carried Igraine off, far, far away from the towers of Darkrock and toward the dark hills where the giant lived.
12
Igraine rode until night fell and stars came out in the sky above the hilltops. Only once did she stop for a short rest, to let Lancelot drink and graze and to get into her armor. They met no one on their way, and the only sounds they heard were the voices of animals in the dark. Two little dragons barely half Lancelot’s size crossed Igraine’s path, and once she saw a herd of unicorns drinking at a river. When the moon rose, and the world was all blue and black, Igraine finally reached the hills where the giant Garleff lived.
“Just look for his footprints,” her father had said. “You can’t miss them.” And to make doubly sure, Albert had given her a small bag of silver dust. If Igraine let just a little of it fall to the ground as she rode, all the tracks there began to shine — every print left by a paw, a hoof, or a foot — and the fresher the tracks were, the brighter they shone.
Before long Igraine came upon some gigantic footprints. It had been raining in the hills, and water had collected in the deep hollows left by Garleff’s toes and the soles of his feet. Whenever Igraine saw some of these curiously shaped puddles, she sprinkled a pinch of Albert’s silver dust into it. And the farther she rode, the brighter the trails shone. The bushes covering the slopes were prickly, but giants have thick skin, and Igraine’s parents had told her that Garleff liked to stretch out among the thorns by night to look at the stars. When he did that, you couldn’t see him at all. His huge body disappeared into the thickets of thorns as if the earth had swallowed him up.
In a particularly dark valley, where the starry sky was like a tent spread over the earth, Igraine found giant’s tracks that shone brighter than all the rest. She reined Lancelot in and looked around her. No sound met her ears but the song of the night birds and the rushing of water far away.
“Garleff?” she called into the darkness.
Lancelot lowered his head to the grass, which was wet with dew. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for scents.
“It’s me, Garleff!” called Igraine. “The daughter of Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande. It’s Igraine! My father’s magic cured you of a nasty rash long ago, do you remember? Now we need your help!”
Nothing stirred. The hills lay silent in the darkness of the night.
Igraine patted Lancelot’s neck. “He doesn’t seem to be here,” she said softly. “Come on, let’s try the next valley.”
But just as she took up the horse’s reins again, there was a rustling on the hill to her left, and out of the undergrowth rose a figure so large that its moonlit shadow fell over the whole valley.
Lancelot whinnied and stepped back, his legs trembling.
“Take it easy!” Igraine told him. “Take it easy, there’s nothing to fear.” But she herself felt her stomach twist with alarm. She had heard hundreds and hundreds of stories about giants, but she’d never before seen one in front of her in flesh and blood. When she dared to look up, she saw Garleff’s right shoulder cover the moon.
“Oho, oho! So it’s the daughter of Lamorak the Wily!” he said. His voice was deep and full, like a warm wind blowing down on Igraine. The giant took one leg out of the thorny undergrowth, and with a mighty tread he climbed down the slope of the hill, until he was so close to her that when she glanced up at him she was looking straight into his nostrils.
“Help?” boomed Garleff. “What do you need my hel
p for, little human?”
Igraine put a hand on Lancelot’s trembling flank.
“I need some of your hairs!” she called up to the giant. “Four or five would be enough, that’s what my parents said.”
“Giant’s hairs?” Garleff crouched down. He gently picked Igraine off Lancelot’s back and put her on his knee. “Have those two gone and bewitched themselves?”
Igraine looked into Garleff’s brown giant’s eyes and nodded. “They’ve turned themselves into pigs,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me and my brother too much, so long as it’s not forever, but now that they’re pigs they can’t cast spells, and just at this moment someone’s come along trying to steal our Books of Magic. Are you with me so far?”
“Hmm,” said the giant, nodding his head back and forth. “I’m not entirely sure, but go on.”
“His name is Osmund, and he’s our new neighbor,” Igraine went on. “He and his castellan are mustering a huge army to attack Pimpernel. That’s why I’m in such a terrible hurry. I have to bring my parents some giant’s hairs so that they can turn themselves back into their real shapes and cast a spell to change Osmund into a cockroach or a wood louse. Which would serve him right, believe you me!”
The giant looked up at the sky. He went on gazing at it for quite a time, so long that Igraine was beginning to think he’d forgotten all about her. But finally the giant looked back at her.
“I don’t often help human beings,” he said, scratching his ear. Igraine could have taken a seat in it quite comfortably. “I don’t really understand them, if you see what I mean. All that chasing about, all that fuss and bother — and your squeaky little voices. They make me all nervous and edgy. Luckily humans don’t often venture here. But your father did cure me of my rash. It itched horribly — it even spoiled my pleasure in the stars — and giants never forget a good deed, or a bad one, either. So you shall have my hairs.” Gently, he picked Igraine up between his thumb and forefinger and put her on his head. “Help yourself, Igraine, Lamorak’s daughter.”