Bookweirdest (22 page)

“Raritan, if you and Kit are here, who’s looking after Dora?” He whispered it into the unicorn’s ear as he passed him in the stables.

“I’ve asked Lady Esme to stay with her,” Raritan assured him.

Norman nearly screamed out, “What?!” A talking rabbit really shouldn’t be babysitting his little sister. But as he thought about it, his outrage quickly evaporated. After Uncle Kit, Esme was a distinct improvement. At least Dora could count on a nutritious meal. He patted the unicorn on the neck and thanked him for his thoughtfulness. There would be plenty of time later to worry about what his mother would think. He had his hands full with the child version of her.

Since Meg knew San Savino best, they followed her lead. The town had not been built as a single structure but had grown from a small church and garrison inside the original fortified wall. There were individual homes and shops, but they tended to merge into each other, sharing walls and roofs and courtyards. The stables were across the courtyard from the monks’ dormitory and workroom, which shared a kitchen with the governor’s residence. From the kitchen, you could get to the guards’ quarters, and from there through a passage between the walls to the armoury. Then it was only a question of climbing one of the towers to the dining hall and sneaking down a back corridor to the chambers of the governor and his staff. This all seemed simple when Meg explained it, but in practice, it was easiest just to follow her.

“Now can we count on your stoat friend to stay hidden in that knapsack of yours?” she asked. Norman had told her that Malcolm was royalty, but she refused to treat him with deference.

The muffled voice of the stoat king replied from inside the canvas. “You can count on me to do as I please and as I think, right?”

Meg ignored him and continued her instructions. “If we meet anyone, let me do the talking,” she warned as she and Norman ducked into the mayhem of the kitchen. “The cook and the kitchen staff think I’m the personal maid of Lady Vorgogne, who occasionally visits Sir Hugh. Sir Hugh’s people think I help in the kitchen.”

“Aren’t you afraid that someone will ask this Lady Vorgo-whatever about you?” Norman was both impressed and a little bit outraged by how easily she made up her cover story.

“Oh, they wouldn’t dare,” she told him. She nodded self-importantly at the kitchen maids and proceeded to grab two large earthenware jugs of water from one of the many broad wooden tables. “Here,” she said, handing them to Norman to carry. “And besides, there is no Lady Vorgogne. I made her up.”

Norman’s arms sank under the weight of the jugs and he staggered after her. Behind him he heard the snickers of the maids watching him struggle. By the time they reached the dining room, his arms felt like they were going to burst into flames under this burden.

“Do you think you could carry one of these?” It hurt his pride to have to ask, but lugging the huge earthenware jugs hurt his arms more.

“Oh, that wouldn’t do,” Meg told him, barely looking over her shoulder. “Lady Vorgogne’s personal maid doesn’t carry water jugs to the governor’s tables. That’s a job for lowly kitchen boys.”

Norman had no choice but to carry on behind her. When they finally reached Sir Hugh’s chambers, they were surprised to find the door watched by two of Hugh’s better guards.

“We’ve brought water for Sir Hugh and his guests, as requested,” Meg told them.

“Plenty of water in there,” the guard told her. “Wine too, though it be early for that.”

Meg tried to argue, but the guards were unmoved. She’d been so bossy and self-assured all morning, it almost made Norman smile to see her falter. But they really needed to get in there to see Kit, and the pain in his arms had started to spread to his shoulders and neck.

“Important parley with the Duke of Nantes today,” the guard insisted. “Nobody is to disturb Sir Hugh and Prince Reynard.”

“Black John is coming here?” Norman asked nervously.

“Aye,” the guard replied, grinning cruelly. “And I hear he likes to flay a few little pipsqueaks the likes of you each morning. Now get ye gone.”

Meg glared at him, but there was no arguing left to do. They retreated down the corridor, and after the first corner, Norman finally put down the jugs that were pulling his arms out of their sockets.

Meg was furious. “I told you not to say anything.”

“And you said you could get us in there!”

“I would have, if you hadn’t stuck your foot in it with your whimpering about Black John.” She crossed her arms in front of her and rolled her eyes exactly like Dora did. It was even more infuriating when Meg did it.

“Easy for you to say,” Norman shot back. “Have you ever been captured and tortured by the Duke of Nantes?” He hadn’t actually been tortured, but he exaggerated to make the point that he was no coward.

“No, but I’m not stupid enough to get myself caught.”

“I wasn’t stupid. I was—”

The argument could have gone on for much longer had Malcolm not stuck his head out of the knapsack to interrupt.

“Would you like me to slip in there and have a word with your lovely brother?” he asked cheerfully. “Or would you like me to stay hidden away inside this sack?”

Meg frowned. For some reason—perhaps because he was a talking animal in a book he shouldn’t be in, or simply because he was Norman’s friend—her nose always wrinkled when she caught sight of him. She inhaled deeply as if she was gathering breath to start lecturing him as well, but she seemed to realize that it would do no good.

“Can you get in there without being seen?” she asked reluctantly.

Malcolm didn’t answer her, just winked and bounded to the nearest window ledge. “Be back in two shakes,” he told them before Meg could reconsider, and with a flash of his tail, he was gone through the window.

Norman and Meg ducked into an adjacent room while Malcolm did his scouting. The two human children barely looked at each other. When they did, it was just to glare. The argument continued inside each child’s head, where each one was able to win it.

The sound of movement in the hallway froze them for a moment. Meg was first to the keyhole, leaving Norman stuck
standing behind her and wondering what she was seeing. He could guess. The sounds of medieval knights stomping down a hallway were familiar enough by now. The thump of their boots on the thick timber planking indicated a large troop of them, marching in unison—more feet than Norman had seen among San Savino’s guards, and better unison than they’d seemed capable of. There was too much chain mail and plate armour jangling and rattling out there too. These were professional soldiers.

“Black John,” he concluded in a whisper, “and his thugs.”

“I know,” Meg replied. “I can see, can’t I?”

It amazed Norman just how annoying his mother was as a girl. He could see where Dora got it from. He was glad when he spotted Malcolm slipping back in through the open window behind them. It was difficult being alone with her. Meg, still crouched at the keyhole, didn’t notice the stoat’s return. Norman let her kneel there, all her attention focused on the corridor outside, as Malcolm leapt silently to the top of the jug beside her.

“Bla—” he began in a whisper.

Startled by the sound of the unexpected voice in her ear, Meg let out a little shriek of fright.

Norman caught the wink from Malcolm and couldn’t help snickering.

“Black John and his lads are in there with Hugh and Kit,” he told them. “There’s a balcony we can all look in from—if you can manage not to squeal again.”

Meg scowled as she regained her composure, but followed the stoat king’s lead as he ducked back out the window. The ledge outside the window barely looked wide enough. If it had been a path marked on solid ground, Norman could have walked it easily without fear of stepping off, but they were three storeys above the ground—high enough that falling was not an option. High enough to make the path seem narrow and precarious. Looking down, he recognized the little courtyard that Jerome looked into from the library. Above, he noted with relief that the wooden tower had survived the night. It was blackened but still standing.

Malcolm danced across the narrow gap from the window ledge to the railing of Sir Hugh’s balcony. After a quick check that the coast was clear, he beckoned them on. Norman knew from experience that it was best not to think too long about these things. He took a deep breath and made the jump. It was hardly brave, but he was proud of himself for not hesitating. Behind him, Meg peered down at the courtyard and paused. After all her bravado and bossiness, Norman thought he would be happy to see her waver, but the moment she showed vulnerability, she was his mother again, and he hated to see the fear that now flickered in her eyes.

He held out his hand to her. It wasn’t very far from the balcony to the ledge. In fact, he could reach all the way across to her. But at the sight of his hand, she shook her head vehemently, and he withdrew it. Spurred on by the offence of a helping hand, Meg screwed up her courage and made the jump. The grown-up Meg, Norman thought to himself, was a whole lot nicer.

From the balcony, the children and the stoat had a perfect view of Sir Hugh’s chamber. Norman recognized it as the room in which he’d been captured. Across the corner on the other wall hung the curtain he’d hid behind. From this vantage point he could see what a terrible hiding place it was. The curtain stopped inches from the floor. His ankles and half his shins must have poked out, giving Black John an easy target.

It was difficult to stand there and watch while Black John sat just feet from him again. There were four of them around the table: the duke, Sir Hugh, Father Lombard and Kit. Father Lombard looked sombre and thoughtful in his monk’s robes. He’d spent most of the night administering last rites. Sir Hugh wore the same clothes he’d worn the day before. He looked tired. No doubt he’d worked through the night putting out fires and helping the wounded. To impress the royal emissary, the duke had put on his finery. His doublet was of black velvet with silver brocade, the colours of his dukedom. The big ring on his finger would be his signet ring, another symbol of his status. He tapped it loudly on the table as he spoke.

Kit looked distinctly unimpressed. He sat silently on the other side of the table with that knowing expression he always had, half looking away, as if the meeting bored him. He looked older than when Norman had left him back at the Shrubberies. His hair was longer, ginger red again, but falling to his shoulders like a lion’s mane. On his chin he had a pointed beard of the same colour. He stroked it pensively while Hugh and Black John argued.

“I want that boy, Hugh,” the duke growled. “You saw what I’m capable of when defied.”

“I did see what you are capable of,” Hugh replied gruffly. “But if I’m not mistaken, you already had the boy when you launched your attack.”

“The boy’s escaped,” the duke barked. “You well know that. He couldn’t have done it without help. He must be here. I want him back.”

Sir Hugh sighed as if he was weary of the whole discussion and had better things to do. “If the boy is here, then I assure you I know nothing of it. I don’t even know who the little scoundrel is, or why he was hiding in my chambers.”

Black John glowered at Hugh. “You know just as well as I do who the boy is. You’ve known all along who he is and whose blood he carries.”

Sir Hugh’s quick reply betrayed his irritation. “I tell you, I have no idea who he is. Are you sure you do? He is English, I know that much. He called out for his mother in English when you nearly broke his head open. What would you want with a wretched little English boy?”

He looked pointedly at Kit, who so far had only watched in amusement. The fake prince cocked his head to the side and appeared to remember something. “You know, I do recall my chef de camp saying something about a runaway. One of our boys, a squire—No, not even a squire,” he corrected himself. “A scruffy peasant boy who helped the squires. Simple little thing, baffled by the desert. I think he actually thought he could run home to England.”

Norman seethed as he listened. Did Kit know he was watching or did he always say things like this about him?

A glance at Meg beside him told him that she wasn’t any happier with him. “Kit always seems to bookweird in disguise,” she whispered. “His age and costume changes, and that helps him fit in. No matter where I go, I’m always myself.”

It was one of the strange things about the bookweird—how it affected people differently. Meg didn’t know the full story: that even as an adult, she would always appear in
The Secret in the Library
as her childhood self. When she’d come to hide Malcolm’s map in the library, Jerome had not noticed any difference in her.

“Shall we try to signal to Kit? Tell him we’re here?” Norman asked.

“Don’t!” Meg replied, louder than she intended. Inside the room, the murmur of voices halted. The two children cowered in silence, expecting someone to come to the balcony any minute, but the conversation quickly resumed.

“If you do find the boy, bring him to me,” Kit continued. “If it is our lost stablehand, I can arrange to have him flogged before we put him back to work.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Black John replied, his voice oily whenever he thought he was talking to a superior. “If it please Your Majesty, we could flog him for you.”

Kit smiled and shook his mane of red hair. “Do not trouble yourself, Nantes. We’ll have the squire do the lashing. It is he who has been inconvenienced.”

Black John smiled obsequiously and returned to the subject of Jerome. “It is this other boy who concerns us most. We have had news of a revival of the Livonian conspiracy. The boy seems important to them. It is our belief—”

“Livonian Knights?” Kit repeated, suddenly animated. “They were disbanded years ago. That was your triumph, wasn’t it? Is that not how you earned the Order of the Cross that I see around your throat? Are you saying the task remains unfinished?”

Black John appeared to bite his tongue before speaking. “Even a felled tree sheds its seeds, Your Highness. We did not know that Johan of Vilnius had a son.”

There was that name again—Vilnius, the name Norman shared with Jerome. It made him uncomfortable to read it, and even more so to hear it spoken.