A grisly thought flashed into the captain's mind.
"Hunted? Good God, you can't mean that hunt in the forest...?"
"If she can't get 'em by other means, she'll send her hell hounds after them!"
Captain Hughes shuddered. He said, uncertainly, "Do, pray, man, pull yourself together." He had not the heart to ask any more questions; the subject was too dreadful. And no more sense could be got from Mr. Brandywinde for the time; the little agent wept and trembled and shivered, moaned that he wished he were dead, and then in the next breath voiced a longing to get his hands round the throat of Lady Ettarde and strangle her. "Only how could I?" he wailed. "My hands don't work anymore!"
"How do you mean?" demanded the captain, exasperated after an hour or so of these continual lamentations. "Your hands do not appear to be injured or crippled? I can see nothing amiss with them."
"But there is! She overlooked them. She was angry—said she would teach me to cheat her—not that I had any intention of cheating her—indeed, indeed I didn't! She blew on my fingers, she said, 'From now on they will be as soft as paintbrushes; that will teach you not to bamboozle me'—and they are, they are—look at them! I cannot even tie my cravat."
"Oh, fiddlestick, man. This must be moonshine! A mere disorder of the senses. Let me see you tie your neckcloth."
But if it was a delusion, it was a very deep-seated one. Mr. Brandywinde fumbled limply and hopelessly with the linen neckpiece, as if his fingers had lost the power of obeying his will; and later, when one of the guards opened the door and thrust a basin of thin soup into the room, Captain Hughes was obliged, with disgusted reluctance, to feed his fellow captive like a baby, while Mr. Brandywinde whimpered and sobbed and snuffled, repeating that he was a wicked, wicked wretch and he wished that he were dead.
Early next morning Mr. Windward was informed that a letter had come from Her Mercy for Miss Dido Twite.
"Fancy her remembering my name!" said Dido, impressed, and she opened the note. It was an engraved card, bidding her present herself at the palace between the hours of four and five that afternoon.
"Humph!" said Windward suspiciously. "I hope there isn't anything skimble-skamble about this. What do you think Dido had best do?" he said to the others. They were all assembled, shivering, in the cactus gardens behind the Sydney Hotel.
"Tell you one thing—if I go, I ain't a-going to put on that fancy court rig again," said Dido. "I was perishing well frozen in it yesterday, except jist in the palace, an' it's turned a lot colder today, and I felt a fool in it. I'll jist wear my breeks and duffel jacket."
"Multiple and I had best come with you."
Somehow, without further discussion, it had been accepted by all of them that Dido had better keep the appointment. Lieutenant Windward went on, "Plum and Gusset can stay to keep an eye on poor Holystone."
"Let's take a dekko at that big map of Cumbria that hangs in the hotel lobby," said Dido. "Try and see how long it'll take us to get to King Mabon's place, if we go."
"What about the grand inquisitor, though?" said Mr. Multiple. "You say he didn't want us to go to Mabon."
"I don't trust him," said Lieutenant Windward. "He looked about as straightforward as an adder. I reckon he has his own ax to grind."
"So we diddle him too? Pretend we're just pretending to visit Mabon?"
"Just so's we don't get into a mux ourselves, about what we're a-going to do," said Dido.
"I think maybe we should visit Mabon," said Mr. Multiple. "Maybe he's a right 'un. There must be some good coves somewhere in these frampold parts. All we know about Mabon is, he took the lake because he had his daughter stole. You can't blame him for that."
The trio that set out for the palace that afternoon (they went by streetcar, in order to save money) were in very poor spirits. Dido was worried about Mr. Holystone, whose fever had somewhat abated, but who remained alarmingly pale and comatose. The other two were troubled about the fate of the captain. And who was to say that this unpredictable queen might not today take offense and throw the rest of them into jail?
Moreover, the air, as evening approached in this upland region, became icily, bitterly cold, and thinner than ever, so that they were continually obliged to gasp for breath as they crossed the palace yard; Mr. Multiple could not stop coughing, and Dido had a stitch in her side. They stopped in the middle of the big cobbled square while she clutched her chest with both hands, panting like a flounder. A black-cloaked, wooden-legged man, observing their predicament, advised Mr. Multiple to buy some rumirumi lilies. " Cavendo tutus," he remarked.
"What the blazes are rumirumis?" coughed Multiple, drawing a long, difficult breath.
Without replying, the lame man (who wore such a high-piled stack of hats pulled low over his brow that his face was invisible) went to one of a row of flower stalls along the side of the square and purchased a handful of large, dark-pink trumpet-shaped blossoms with deeper splotches of color in the calyx and fibrous, spiny leaves. "You sniff those," he said, returning to the three travelers, "you soon better, sic itur ad cura."
His remedy, indeed, proved remarkably efficacious. After sniffing at the big, velvety, potently scented trumpets for a few minutes, all three gringos found themselves able to breathe more easily.
"Must have oxygen in 'em," remarked the lieutenant. "Mighty useful kind of plant. Best take some with us up the mountains. Thank you indeed, sir," he said to the Cumbrian, who had started to limp away. "Pray allow me to reimburse you."
"It is nothing—nihil, nihil," the man called back. " Mens sana in corpore sano!" His voice sounded familiar to Dido, who suddenly exclaimed, "I do believe it was that Bran again! Did you notice a white bird peering out o' one of his hats?"
But Bran, if it was he, had already vanished down a side street.
The glassy palace shone green and iridescent in the cold evening light. The sun was about to set behind the black cone of Mount Damyake, and the palace, slowly revolving on its islet, caught the last flash of the descending orb.
Lieutenant Windward, who had been studying Mr. Multiple's guidebook, informed them, "The palace is properly known as Caer Sisi."
"That just means Spinning Castle," said Mr. Multiple, who had studied the book, too.
They had to wait for a complete revolution of the palace to get in, and were half frozen by the time the bronze door with its whirling panels came round to face them.
"Quick!" said Windward, and they all hurled themselves through.
But once they were inside, Dido's escorts were not allowed to proceed any farther. They were firmly shown into the waiting room with the shrunken heads, and only Dido was permitted to climb the stair and continue into the great throne room where Queen Ginevra reclined on her daybed.
"Dearest child!" Her Majesty greeted Dido with a wide but languid smile. Like many of her subjects, Queen Ginevra had a set of silver teeth. "So kind of you to come so quickly in answer to my summons," she added, swallowing a handful of pills.
"I only come when you said," Dido replied matter-of-factly.
"Touchingly considerate. You guessed I might be feeling lonely. Ah, no one can guess, though, the depth of my loneliness. Yet people are so kind to me! They all indulge me—my dear, dear subjects!" The queen threw up her eyes in roguish amazement. Dido stood looking at her silently.
"Do take a seat, my dear. Ah ... the steps ... a trifle hard.... Let's see ... perhaps a cushion..."
Groping feebly among her draperies, Queen Ginevra at length found a small gray bolster. Using as little energy as possible, she nudged it over the edge of the couch, so that it rolled down the steps and landed at Dido's feet. It appeared to be made of cobwebs. Rather gingerly, Dido sat on it.
"Now we can have a lovely gossip," said the queen. "I want to hear all about you."
What she really meant was that she wanted to talk about herself; she embarked on a long and rambling history of her childhood. "My father was a darling man—utterly devoted to me; but what chance did he have? No
ne. Mother saw to it that he spent all his time at the Saxon wars, and he died when I was only seven. And she—I'm sorry to have to say it, but she had a really hateful nature. She could be a perfect fiend! I've always been sorry that Quondam—that's my pet name for Arthur, you know— and I didn't have any children. I longed for a child, to make up to her for all I had to suffer....
"However, when my darling rex futurus comes back again, then perhaps..."
Her voice trailed away dreamily. Dido, staring at the queen, thought she seemed much too old to have children; although her skin was strangely smooth, as if constantly anointed with nourishing creams, there were deep, deep wrinkles round her eyes, and her puffy hands were spotted like two pale toads. There was something even odder about her today than on the previous visit—hazy, disjointed; Dido wondered if she was a trifle bosky.
"Do you think the king will come soon?" Dido inquired politely.
"I'm sure he will, dear; as soon as you get back my stolen lake for me, sweet child! And then we shall all be so happy! I hope you will stay with us and be our dear little guest. But in the meantime I want you to be a real friend to me; I can see how very perceptive you are, my love, and that is so rare! I have had various little friends among the Cumbrian children, but their intelligence is not of a high order."
"There don't seem to be many kids at all in this country," said Dido, wondering if this was why Queen Ginevra's army was depleted, and if the queen would say anything about aurocs, and if it would be wise to mention the safe-conduct across the frontier.
"Unfortunately ... no ... that is so. But when my dear Quondam returns, all will be different. Meanwhile, we have to count our little blessings as best we can," said Queen Ginevra, receiving a silver bowl of gruel from Dr. Jones, who handed it to her with a deep, ceremonious bow, casting a sharp glance at Dido as he did so. "My evening collation," the queen explained graciously to Dido. "It is such a treat to chat to a young friend while I partake of it; nothing is quite so tedious as to eat a nuncheon alone."
She dipped a spoon into the gruel, which was of a very thick consistency, and perfectly white.
"Bone porridge, dear," she informed Dido. "Prescribed by my doctor. When you have a life as full of trials and sorrows as mine, your meals must be light, but very sustaining."
The porridge (though it looked exceedingly nasty) reminded Dido that she was hungry, too.
"Your Royalty," she said, having glanced round to make sure that Dr. Jones was out of earshot (but who knew how many listeners were hiding behind the curtains?), "I reckon I will go on that errand to King Mabon—that is, if you still wants me to? So—if you'd jist give me that travel permit you said as how—"
The queen looked for a moment almost disappointed. What might have been a flash of irritation passed over her face.
"Permit?" she replied vaguely. "Permit, child?"
"To climb Mount Damyake and see where the lake was pinched from. And then," said Dido doggedly, "go on to King Mabon, like you said."
"You are sure you want to do that? It is so enjoyable," said the queen, "to have you here and get to know you. One so seldom gets to know anyone really well. A person that she knows well," she added obscurely, "can do one so much more good than a stranger."
This queen, thought Dido, is as nutty as old Great-Aunt Bella. Only thing to do is to humor her. Like Aunt Bella used to shout, "The end is coming!" on Battersea Bridge, and the only way to get her home was to agree.
"I can come back and see you again," she said. "After King Mabon's sent back your lake."
"Ah," said the queen. "True. But I wonder," she murmured to herself, "I wonder if I am being practical? Will Mabon return the lake? Or should I keep the bird in hand—two birds in hand—should I forget about Arianrod? But then, my dear Quondam—sweet Quondam—how could I be sure of his return?
"When you have waited a very long time for someone," she said, fixing Dido with a glassy eye, "your mind becomes tired—perplexed—you hardly know what to do for the best."
Dido, remembering nutty old Aunt Bella, became a little sorry for the queen.
"Don't you worry, ma'am," she said kindly. "I daresay he'll turn up all right and tight."
Suddenly the queen's face became suffused with dusky color, turned to a mask of rage.
"You expect he will turn up!" she hissed. "Who are you to predict when the Pendragon will see fit to return? Here! Take this!" And she contemptuously tossed down her silver porringer, which, more or less by chance, Dido caught. When she looked up again, she saw that the queen had put on a pair of goldrimmed spectacles, through which, to judge by the angle of her face, she was staring at Dido. Dido could not be sure, because the lenses were like two small mirrors; they threw back reflections of the gray-curtained room, but the queen's eyes could not be seen behind them. One-way glass, Dido thought; what a naffy notion!
"Now I will show you what you are worth," said the queen bitingly. "Look at yourself in the side of that dish."
The silver bowl was highly polished; yet, rather to her surprise, Dido could not find her own reflection in its curved side, either upside down or the right way up.
"Not there?" Ginevra's voice was mocking now. "Nor in my glasses?" She leaned toward Dido, who peered warily at the two shining discs. "Not there either? How about in this?" She passed Dido a small hand mirror, its silver back and frame encrusted with diamonds. That, too, showed the long shadowy room with its cobweb hangings, but no Dido.
"Rum lot o' looking glasses you got round here," said Dido firmly, to cover a most uncomfortable feeling inside her.
"Blockhead! The glass is not at fault. I have destroyed your image, don't you see? And I can do the same with you yourself. It only—"
Perhaps fortunately, a voice was heard at this moment, calling, "Make way there, make way, for the queen's mistress of the robes!"
Queen Ginevra calmed down. Her freckled hands, which had been shaking, relaxed; two red spots disappeared from her cheeks; she began to smile again and tucked her chin, what there was of it, among her draperies.
"Dear me! Talking politics!" she said. "That will never do." Looking over Dido's shoulder, she remarked, "Dearest Ettarde! Just when I need you, as ever. Advise me."
Turning round, Dido saw, without joy, that the dressmaker was approaching, accompanied, at a respectful distance, by her two assistants. All three were dressed very elegantly, in spangled lace gowns over silk petticoats, with feathers in their high coiffures, and silver-embroidered velvet cloaks. The two assistants still wore their black loo-masks. All three curtsyed deeply. Lady Ettarde, tiny and hunchbacked, looked grotesque, like some overdressed doll. She clambered up the steps of the dais.
"Your Royal Mercy," she said. "How can I help you?"
"Counsel me about this child," said the queen. "Should I send her off to Mabon and get the lake back? Or—or keep her here?"
Lady Ettarde turned and stared at Dido disparagingly, from brogans to threadbare jacket. Dido, trying to look nonchalant, stuck her hands (one of them holding the little mirror) into her pockets. It was some comfort, at this moment, to remember that she still had the cat's whiskers knotted round her index finger.
"You said as how if I went to King Mabon you'd let out Cap'n Hughes," she began.
The ladies ignored this.
"Madam," said the dressmaker, "you would be well advised not to keep her here. The child is a troublemaker. She has a bad horoscope. Send her where she can be of use. What need to keep a sparrow when you have a bird of paradise?"
"Blister me!" muttered Dido. Nobody heeded her.
"Besides, dear lady! Think! Only this year—according to the astrologers' predictions, this very year—if all go well—your noble Quondam lord will be restored to you."
"They predicted other years as well. If I could be sure..." murmured the queen.
"Then—Your Royal Highness will have no further need of—birds. His presence will restore you—like the sun's rays on a growing plant."
"Perhaps you a
re right." But still the queen looked at Dido; as if she found it hard to let her go. It was a covetous, greedy stare; it made Dido quite fidgety.
"If I could jist have that permit, Your Royalship," she said politely, "I'd be on my way."
"Permit? What permit?" demanded Ettarde sharply. "You would not send the child by the pass—"
But now there came another interruption: shouts of "Make way, make way there, for the queen's soothsayer!"
To Dido's amazement, who should come walking forward but Bran.
He had changed from the shabby clothes in which Dido had last seen him to a stiff taffeta gabardine gown, striped in red and black, richly lined with fur. His long white hair flowed smoothly back over the collar; on his high, thoughtful brow he wore a square black cap. The white bird sat motionless on his shoulder. Both of them looked extremely dignified.
But, as he approached the queen, Bran surprisingly burst into song, and caroled, in a manner that seemed highly inappropriate and carefree:
"Eating a nuncheon
All by myself
Isn't much fun;
But when it's with you
Any old stew,
Any ragout
Would do!
When it's with you, it's a whiz
Who cares a fig what it is?
Going upstairs
All on my own
Isn't much fun;
But when it's with you
Any venue
Would do!
Just name a rendezvous ...
When it's with you, it's a treat
Who gives a hoot where we meet?"
The queen, Dido observed, looked quite startled, even alarmed, at these words; in fact her expression, as Bran approached, seemed a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, as if he were a much-respected teacher who was almost certain to find fault with her, but who was able to tell her secrets that she could find out nowhere else.
Lady Ettarde, on the other hand, seemed wholly put out at Bran's arrival; her brow grew dark and she muttered something furious under her breath. As for the two assistants, they let out faint whimpers of distress and slipped away into the shadows.