He landed on straw piled at the back of a room. A small window, high on a wall, perfectly framed the full moon. Charlie’s gaze traveled from the moon to the man feeding the fire. He had never seen a man so tall and whose shoulders were so vast. He gave the impression of immense strength, and Charlie hoped he was not hostile, because he could obviously squash someone of Charlie’s size like an unwelcome flea.
The only light in the room came from the fire, but when Charlie’s eyes had become accustomed to the dark, he could see that the floor was bare, dusty earth, and the walls gray brick stained with soot. Beside the fire stood a large iron kettle, perhaps the very one that Charlie had fallen into.
As the man poked at the flames a cloud of ash floated out into the room, and Charlie sneezed.
“Faith!” cried the man, turning from the fire. He stared at Charlie almost fearfully. “What art thou? Some fiend they’ve sent to spy on me?”
Charlie stood up rather shakily and, clearing his throat, said, “Um, no, sir. I’ve come from … that is, I’m a traveler.”
“A traveler?” The man dropped his poker and came toward Charlie, squinting down at him incredulously. “A traveler?” he said again. “Like Amoret?”
“Amoret?” Charlie’s nervous mind whirled. “The Red King’s youngest daughter? Yes, I think I am her descendant.”
“Fate’s gift to me.” The huge man clutched Charlie’s shoulder. “Know that I am Feromel, and this may be my last day on earth.”
“Your last day, why?” asked Charlie in alarm. “How?”
“They want something and they shall not have it. See!” From a table in the corner, Feromel picked up a bundle of red cloth. Opening the cloth, he revealed a shining sword hilt. The golden grip was decorated with ruby-eyed birds inside a diamond-shaped patterning. The cross was in the form of two winged leopards with sapphire spots.
The gleam of ancient gold and the beauty of the object lying on the scarlet cloth made Charlie gasp. “Did this belong to the Red King?” he whispered.
Feromel smiled. “I believe thou art one of the trusted.”
“I hope I am,” said Charlie fervently.
“Then know that the king’s own hand hath fashioned this magic hilt. The sword itself has vanished; I hoped to make another, but it is too late for that.”
There was a sudden, thunderous bang on the door and Feromel cried, “Quick, we must hide it.” He leaped across the room, picked up the poker, and handed it to Charlie. “Keep the flame aside, lad, while I do the rest.”
Trying his best not to tremble, Charlie took the poker and pushed the blazing twigs to one side of the fire. Feromel had pulled on a pair of long leather gloves and, picking up the wrapped sword hilt in one hand, with the other he reached to the back of the fire and removed one of the chimney bricks.
Another assault of deafening thuds caused the blacksmith’s thick oak door to groan. Charlie dared not look around. The heat from the fire was now so intense his eyes were filled with tears, but he clearly saw the dark gap in the bricks, and he watched Feromel’s gloved hand, singed by flames, push the red bundle into the cavity and close it with a brick.
“It’s done, lad. I thank thee!” Feromel removed the scorched gloves and thumped Charlie on the back.
The door could bear the force outside no longer. It crashed back into the room, and three figures strode over the splintered wood: a stone man, a stone woman, bearing a cudgel, and the troll that stood outside Great-aunt Venetia’s house.
For all his immense strength Feromel didn’t stand a chance. His great fist rebounded off the brutal stone figures, and his long legs buckled under the stone troll’s battering head.
“Go, boy! Go! Save yourself!” called Feromel.
With a sickening sense of dread, Charlie realized that he couldn’t go anywhere. He’d left behind the only thing that could take him back — his white moth.
Charlie rubbed his eyes with sooty fists. He blinked up at the firelit rafters, hoping desperately that he would see the tiny light of his moth. Perhaps she had followed him after all.
The stone people didn’t appear to see him. They were intent on their destruction of heroic Feromel. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the blacksmith wasn’t going to give up until every spark of his life had been extinguished. Seeing the terrible punishment Feromel was enduring, Charlie threw himself at the stone man, who, with one swing of his great arm, knocked Charlie clean across the room. He pulled himself to his feet and lunged at the stone woman’s legs, but it was useless; he might as well have tried to topple a tree.
The troll turned its vicious stony gaze on Charlie. It spun and kicked, knocking Charlie’s legs out from under him. He fell to the ground again, and as he closed his eyes in pain, a bright light swam across his vision. The next moment he was floating.
“Charlie! Charlie!” The distant words drifted closer.
“Has he been traveling? He shouldn’t have looked into that kettle.” This voice was loud and fretful.
“I think he’s coming out of it.”
Charlie found himself looking down into a circle of inky water. Slowly, he lifted his aching head. All around him polished kettles winked and glinted. Their light was so bright, Charlie had to squint his eyes against the glare.
“Sit down, boy.”
Charlie was led to a chair, where he gratefully rested his aching body. A large face, glistening with sweat, came close to his.
“What did you do that for, my dear?” asked Mrs. Kettle. “Scared the living daylights out of us.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Charlie. “It just happened. He needed me, but it was no use. I couldn’t help.”
Tancred handed Charlie a glass of water. “You were out for ages, Charlie, frozen to the spot. No sign of life at all. We couldn’t move you.”
Charlie took great gulps of the pleasantly icy water. “It was so hot in there,” he spluttered.
“Where, my dear? Where did you go?” Mrs. Kettle’s large face receded as she took a chair beside Charlie’s.
Taking a deep breath, Charlie said, “Actually, I think I was right here, and so was Feromel.”
“Feromel?” Mrs. Kettle clasped her hands expectantly. “You saw him?”
Charlie glanced at her eager face. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kettle. I tried, but it was no use. I couldn’t help him. The stone people were too strong.”
Mrs. Kettle pressed her fingers to her lips. “You poor boy. You saw him die. The stone man killed him. We have always known that.”
“Yikes!” said Tancred quietly.
There was a long silence while Charlie struggled with his conscience, unsure whether to tell Mrs. Kettle about the golden sword hilt. She was Feromel’s descendant, and by rights, she should know of its existence, but Charlie was still troubled by the thought that the Red Knight might not be entirely friendly.
“Don’t look so downcast, my dear.” Mrs. Kettle took Charlie’s hand and patted it. “You couldn’t have done a thing. The die was cast. The dreadful deed had been done when your mind went plunging into that kettle. I’ve always wondered about it.” Charlie followed her gaze to the big iron kettle, sitting on its table. “Sometimes, I’ve heard things, and then there’ve been times when I could swear I saw firelight blinking in its black water. I believe that old kettle reflected my ancestor’s dreadful end. By why? I’ve asked myself. What was his purpose in recording his last day on earth?”
Charlie couldn’t hold back the truth any longer. “Because he hid something, Mrs. Kettle, and maybe he hoped that one day someone like me, a traveler, would go back in time and see where he put it.”
“Put what, Charlie?” asked Tancred.
Charlie looked from Tancred to Mrs. Kettle. “A sword hilt. He said it had been fashioned by the Red King himself.”
“What!” Mrs. Kettle leaped out of her chair. “Where is it, Charlie? Where did Feromel hide it?”
“In a chimney.”
“A chimney?” cried the blacksmith, running to her metal door. “In the
furnace, then. I must put out the fire.”
“No, no,” said Charlie. “No, it wasn’t in the furnace. It was just a little fire that he had in his room.”
“There’s a chimney.” Tancred pointed to the chimney behind a large iron stove.
Charlie shook his head. “It was quite near the ground, so it would be well below the top of that stove.”
Tancred stared doubtfully at the heavy-looking stove. “It must weigh a ton.”
Mrs. Kettle had no doubts at all. “Come on, boys, give me a hand.” She strode over to the stove and began to tug it away from the wall.
The boys had no choice but to help her. Luckily the stove had not been lit, so while Charlie pulled from floor level, Tancred got a grip just above him, and Mrs. Kettle heaved from the top. Gradually, one side of the big stove began to move away from the wall. When there was a gap of half a meter, Mrs. Kettle cried, “Stop, my dears. I can see into the chimney.”
Charlie peered over the stove. “It’s a very small hole,” he observed.
“Then we’ll make it bigger.” Mrs. Kettle marched through the metal door into her work space and returned, almost immediately, with a very large hammer. Squeezing herself between the wall and the stove, she gave a mighty push with her large bottom. The stove moved back another foot at least, giving the blacksmith enough room to swing her hammer against the chimney.
Crack! One blow was enough to shatter the bricks above the hole. Enveloped in a cloud of black dust, Mrs. Kettle took another swing, and then another. At the third blow, a pile of bricks tumbled out of the chimney, burying Mrs. Kettle up to her knees.
“Aha!” the blacksmith cried triumphantly. “Charlie, it’s your turn. You saw where Feromel put the precious object.”
Kicking the fallen bricks out of her way, she moved from behind the stove and pointed to the large hole she had made. “What do you think, my dear?”
Charlie didn’t know what to think. He tried to imagine the dark room where he had helped Feromel to hide the sword hilt. Could this really be the very same chimney?
“Go on, Charlie!” Tancred’s enthusiasm blew little clouds of dust into the air, and Charlie began to cough.
“Cool it, Tancred!” Mrs. Kettle said reprovingly. “Here, Charlie, put these on.” She handed him a pair of oversized gloves.
Charlie cautiously pulled them on. His movements were slow and almost reluctant, for he was filled with misgiving. Perhaps such a precious object should never be found, and certainly not by someone like himself, a boy who had never proved himself worthy to touch such a great king’s possession.
“What’s holding you back, Charlie?” Mrs. Kettle asked gently.
“The gloves are too big,” he muttered.
“Take them off, then. There’s no fire in the chimney today.” Mrs. Kettle laughed and Tancred joined in. Their laughter seemed out of place on such a solemn occasion.
Charlie removed the right glove and laid it on the stove. He pushed several bricks aside with his feet and then knelt before the wide hole in the chimney. He could see the bricks at the back, patched with tar and soot. He leaned forward and ran his gloved hand over the surface of the wall. One of the bricks wobbled slightly beneath his fingers. Charlie told himself he hadn’t noticed it. He was thinking of the stolen cloak. If the Red Knight was a thief, should he be given a magic sword?
“I’m not sure if this is the right place,” he said.
“It must be. Feromel lived here. The house was hardly altered.” Mrs. Kettle gave Charlie a long hard look. “Are you sure, my dear? Try again.”
Once more Charlie ran his hand over the wall. The loose brick made a light, grating noise, but he took no notice.
“What was that?” Tancred exclaimed. “I heard something.” He knelt beside Charlie. “Sounded like something kind of wobbling.”
“It was just loose mortar,” Charlie insisted.
Tancred wasn’t convinced. Putting his head and shoulders right into the chimney, he felt the wall with both hands. “Here it is!” He pulled the loose brick away and brought it into the light.
“Well!” Mrs. Kettle clapped her big hands against her cheeks. “I can hardly believe it. What’s in there, Charlie? What’s behind the brick? Go on, FEEL, my dear.”
Charlie put his right hand into the cavity. His fingers closed on a hard object wrapped in cloth. For a moment he hesitated and then slowly he pulled the bundle out of the wall. Beneath a film of dust, a dull red cloth could be seen. Charlie found he could hardly breathe. The only sound in the room seemed to come from his racing heart. He handed the bundle to Mrs. Kettle.
“Oh, Charlie!” She gasped. “Shall I?”
“Of course,” said Tancred impatiently. “Open the cloth. Let’s see it.”
For a moment, Mrs. Kettle was too overcome to move. She gazed reverently at the dusty bundle and then very slowly unwrapped it.
In the bright light of the kettle room, the sword hilt looked even more magnificent than Charlie remembered it. Speechless with awe, they all gazed at the golden patterns, the shining birds, and sapphire-studded leopards.
“That is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” said Tancred.
“Not only beautiful, but invincible,” said Mrs. Kettle. Lowering her voice so they could hardly hear her, she added, “And magical.”
“Supposing it doesn’t fit your sword?” asked Tancred, who could be surprisingly practical at times.
Mrs. Kettle threw back her shoulders. “Follow me!” she commanded.
The boys followed her through the metal door into the room she called her smith. Lying on a rough worktable was a long metal box. Mrs. Kettle raised the lid and they beheld the gleaming sword. Even though it was unfinished, a shiver of dread ran down Charlie’s spine; it looked so very dangerous.
The sword tapered to a treacherous point, but the top ended in a narrow strip of metal about six inches long.
“No handle,” Tancred observed. “I mean, no hilt.”
Once again, Mrs. Kettle unwrapped the dusty bundle. She gazed solemnly at the magnificent sword hilt and then very carefully lifted it closer to her face. Peering beneath the two winged leopards, she happily exclaimed, “There!” and turned the end of the sword hilt toward the boys.
They saw a dark space in the center, a narrow cavity made to fit something very like the top of the sword.
“Charlie,” said Mrs. Kettle, “lift the sword.”
Charlie rubbed his sooty hands on his trousers and then gently lifted the narrow strip of metal at the top of the sword.
“Good. Hold it steady,” commanded Mrs. Kettle.
She smiled at them, but Charlie could tell that she was nervous and only half-believed the hilt would fit the sword. “Higher, Charlie,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Charlie lifted the sword another few inches, and Mrs. Kettle slowly eased the hilt over the top. It slid into place so smoothly it seemed as if an irresistible force were drawing the winged leopards down onto the shining blade.
“Made for each other.” Tancred sighed.
Almost as he spoke, a great wind rushed across the floor of the smith, and a long sigh came from somewhere deep within the ancient walls.
Charlie looked at Tancred.
“Wasn’t me,” said Tancred, anxiously looking around the room.
“It was Feromel,” said Mrs. Kettle, and a tear shone in her eye. “Thank you, Charlie. He is at peace.” She laid the now complete sword back in its box and closed the lid.
“I didn’t do anything, really,” said Charlie, a little embarrassed. “It just happened.”
“You did a great deal, and now you must run along.” She glanced at the window. “It’s getting dark and they may be lurking about already.”
“Who?” asked Tancred, raising his shoulders nervously.
“Manfred and his cronies, whatever or whoever they are.” Mrs. Kettle’s face was grim as she led the boys back through the ocean of kettles. And when Tancred and Char
lie stepped into the dusky street, a low whisper followed them through the closing door. “Don’t do anything foolish until the Red Knight has his sword.”
“And how will we know that?” asked Tancred as the two boys hurried down the badly lit street.
“Perhaps she’ll get a message to us.”
Both boys speeded up. They felt that eyes were watching through cracks in the darkened windows. But when they passed the fish shop, Tancred stopped again and stared up at the window above the sign. “Dagbert’s not there,” he said. “I can’t smell fish.”
Charlie walked on to the Stone Shop. He squinted into the shadows beyond the window. The stone man was there: the very same figure that had stormed into Feromel’s house and crushed the life out of him. Charlie stepped back from the blank stare of the protruding stone eyes. “Let’s get away from here,” he murmured huskily.
“You’re on,” said Tancred, running up to Charlie and then overtaking him.
When they got to the end of Piminy Street, Charlie decided to take a chance and visit Ingledew’s bookstore. It was closer than Filbert Street and, with any luck, Uncle Paton would be there.
Tancred scooted off through the dark, calling, “See you tomorrow, Charlie.”
Charlie grinned to himself. He sprinted happily around the corner and into Cathedral Close. There was a light on in the bookstore. Charlie knocked and two seconds later Emma opened the door.
“Where’ve you been?” she said. “Your uncle’s here.”
Charlie bounced down into the shop. It felt so good to be surrounded by soft lights and thousands of books, to be enveloped in warmth, and to see Uncle Paton gazing pensively over the top of his half-moon glasses.
“I’ve got so much to tell you,” Charlie said.
Billy had regretted his decision to spend the weekend at school almost as soon as the other children had left. He watched Mr. Weedon lock and bolt the heavy doors and he was overcome with loneliness. Now he didn’t even have Rembrandt to keep him company. Perhaps Cook could find a way to get the rat into school. This thought cheered Billy and he went in search of Cook.