Bookweirdest (24 page)

On their dash through the kitchens, they sent pots and pans flying in their wake. They did not stop to apologize to the cook staff. If Black John’s knights were after them, the cooks would understand their haste. A stair behind the food crates led down to the cellar. It was as big as the kitchen itself, though its ceiling was barely higher than Jerome’s close-cropped head. They huddled silently in the darkness behind the barrels for a long time before
anyone spoke. Crammed with barrels, the cellar was a perfect place to hide, but Meg knew an even better one.

“There’s a tunnel beneath here. It leads out of the fortress to a small oasis.”

“I can’t leave San Savino,” Jerome responded instinctively.

“You might not have to,” Meg assured him. “We can just hide down there in the tunnel.”

“It might not be a bad idea to leave.” Norman looked at Meg meaningfully. “Wasn’t Jerome supposed to leave for England anyway?”

She bit her lip and nodded silently. Sending Jerome off on his journey might be the easiest way to start repairing this book.

Malcolm seemed to guess what was going on. He never fully understood Norman’s worries about the bookweird. Because he was a fictional character himself, he thought that everyone was, and that every world was just another book. “Well, I’d better go about gathering some supplies for this trip we’re making,” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Anything need fetching?”

Jerome held up the sack with his meagre belongings. “Everything I own is here.”

“You’d like to eat on the journey, perhaps?” Malcolm asked. “Any special requests?”

Jerome thought for a moment, then replied, “Coffee beans. Godwyn and I always shared a mug of coffee in the morning. He gave me this for the voyage to England.” From the folds of his tunic, he extracted a miniature coffee pot. It was small enough that it wouldn’t have been out of place in a stoat kitchen. Malcolm eyed it appreciatively.

“Magic beans it is,” he replied with a wink, disappearing into the cellar to do his foraging.

When Malcolm was gone, Meg turned to Norman to discuss their next step. “You and Kit may be right for once: leaving may be the best thing. We could at least get as far as the oasis. That was as far as Godwyn got Jerome anyway.”

“What do you mean? Why do you do this?” For the first time, Norman heard frustration in Jerome’s voice. “Why do you talk of
the future as if it has already happened? Is this another of your gifts? Can you see the future too?”

“Oh no, I can’t see the future,” Meg declared hurriedly. “I misspoke. I heard Father Godwyn mention that the oasis of Agadir would be your first stop, and that you were to meet there some knights who would escort you to England. We could get you that far.”

At the mention of Godwyn, Jerome seemed to become more solemn. “It will be difficult to travel without Godwyn. Before you, he was all I knew of England.” He seemed to think of something then. “Are you sure your betrothed won’t mind you travelling with me?”

“Who?” Meg asked, confused.

“I’m sorry—I have betrayed a confidence,” he apologized awkwardly. “Norman told me that you have been promised in marriage. I should have expected it, a high-born lady such as yourself.”

“He told you
what
?” It was still dark, but Norman could feel her eyes glaring at him. He’d forgotten all about it. Last time Norman had come to San Savino, he’d told Jerome that the adult Meg was married, then lied to cover his slip of the tongue. He wasn’t as good at this as either Kit or Meg.

“I’m not betrothed to anyone,” Meg said defiantly. “It goes to show that you can’t believe Norman or Kit.” She seemed more than normally aggravated by the thought. “I swore long ago never to marry. Once I realized I couldn’t marry you, I swore I wouldn’t marry anyone else!”

Nobody in the cellar knew what to do with this declaration, least of all Jerome. It was clear he was in love with this strange girl who visited him in the library. Hearing that she wanted to marry him left him speechless.

Norman was just as dumbfounded. His brain refused to handle the idea. His mother loved his father, and that was the end of it.

Malcolm returned with an armful of figs, cutting short any more uncomfortable conversation. He made three more trips, foraging through the cellar for bundles of figs and olives, Jerome’s coffee beans and skins full of water. When they had as much as they could
carry wrapped up in burlap sacks, they followed Meg’s lead deeper into the far reaches of the cellar.

“Help me with this,” she demanded as she put her shoulder against one of the barrels in a far corner.

Jerome and Norman rushed to help her manhandle the heavy barrel out of its spot. The trapdoor it concealed was not obvious at first.

“Are you sure it’s here?” Jerome asked.

“I think so,” Meg replied, sounding none too certain. “That’s an apple barrel, right? It’s supposed to be under an apple barrel.”

“But barrels can be stored anywhere. Maybe the barrel was moved since you last used it,” Jerome suggested. “What part of the cellar were you in?”

“No, she’s right. It has to be an apple barrel.” Norman didn’t want to explain it either, but obviously Meg hadn’t actually ever used the trapdoor. She knew about it only because she’d read it in the book, and in the book it was an apple barrel they moved to get at the tunnel.

“It’s here,” Malcolm reported. His sharp woodland eyes had picked out the seams around the old door. Years of dirt had filled the crevices. He scratched at them now with the tip of his sword, finding the corners, but if there was a handle, it had long ago been snapped off or deliberately removed.

“Do you still have that giant rabbit broadsword?” the stoat asked.

Norman reached carefully into his knapsack’s outer pocket to retrieve the weapon. It made a deadly
snick
sound as he removed it from its wooden scabbard.

“See if you can pry it open with that,” Malcolm suggested.

It seemed a shame to use such a well-made weapon as a crowbar, but Norman did as Malcolm said and began to pry at the edges of the square. The stoat kept at the other edges, gouging out as much dirt as he could with his own sword, but the seams were tight and unyielding. Above them, they heard the stomps of feet marching in numbers.

“Hurry,” Meg urged them. “The duke’s troops are getting closer.”

Sweat now began to drip down Norman’s brow. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this door, and they were going to be found out. Half a dozen kitchen maids had seen them duck down the stairs into the cellar. If Nantes’s men charged in, there would be half a dozen fingers pointing to the cellar stair. In frustration, he jammed the sword into the crevice and stomped on its hilt like a garden spade, but the door still did not move.

“When was the last time this door was opened?” he asked between gasping breaths as he tried to wrench out the sword he’d just stuck into the seam. Nobody answered him. He was regretting standing on the hilt. The sword seemed well and truly stuck.

“Need some help with that?” Meg asked solicitously.

Frustrated, Norman snapped, “No!” He fought with the sword for a few more minutes, straining to pull the blade straight back out, his arms trembling now until he lost his grip and slipped backwards onto the wooden floor with an inglorious thud.

“Give me a hand,” he told Jerome, as if no one had suggested it before.

Jerome was quick to leap to his side. Each boy grabbed a side of the hilt and pulled. The archivist was taller than Norman and stronger. Try as he might, Norman could not put the same pressure on his side, and the sword started to twist. There was no difference at first, and then they began to feel the wood shifting under their pressure.

“Press down a bit,” Norman said through gritted teeth.

The planks beneath them began to creak. The blade shuddered but did not snap.

“Keep going. You’re moving it,” Meg encouraged them.

They both leaned into it, but the boards only groaned and resisted—until without any warning the hatch flung open, sending Norman and Jerome tumbling in a pile like the winning team in a tug-of-war. The sword sprang into the air with a twang. It seemed to spin above them forever as they all watched helplessly. Nobody
moved. Nobody breathed. Finally it fell straight down through the hole it helped to create in the floor. They heard it land with a clatter on the stone below.

“We’re going to need a torch,” Malcolm said. In a crisis like this, the little king could not help taking command.

Norman dug into his knapsack and removed the flashlight he’d stowed there back in the Shrubberies. “This is probably not the kind of torch you mean,” he said sheepishly.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Do you have no respect for history?” she hissed.

Jerome did not understand, nor did he have time to ask. They were all interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the cellar stairs. The children froze. Only Malcolm had the good sense and fighting instincts to conceal himself. The others just looked at each other with wild, questioning eyes. Should they run? Should they close up the trapdoor to conceal it? In their hesitation, they did nothing.

“Jerome?” a familiar voice called.

“Sir Hugh?” Jerome asked hopefully.

“Ah, you are all here,” he said, surveying the cellar. “Even our two interlopers.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I don’t know who told you about this passage, but it is just as well that you made your way here. The duke’s men are moving through San Savino like rats through a ship’s hold. It’s not safe for you here, Jerome. It is time to begin your journey to England.”

“But Brother Godwyn …?” Jerome protested. In the heat of their pursuit he hadn’t thought about the next step, but the idea of leaving now without his mentor suddenly frightened him.

“Brother Godwyn will live a little while longer at least. He’ll have a few more seasons of herbs to cultivate, but he will not be travelling anywhere.”

“Then how?”

“Take the passage as you had intended. I do not know where these two strangers came from. Perhaps they were sent by your—” He stopped himself before finishing his thought. “I don’t know where they came from, but they seem to know enough about this
fortress’s old passages to get you out. The tunnel leads to the old well and the single palm.”

“Do you know the route through the tunnels?” he asked, looking to Norman. Norman could only look hopefully towards Meg.

“We keep to the left,” she replied confidently.

“Correct,” the old Crusader said. “The one who calls himself Prince Reynard will meet you when you emerge. I will do my best to catch up with you farther along in the journey.” He placed a reassuring hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “This will not be the last time we speak.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” The new voice was low and threatening. They hadn’t noticed anybody creeping down the stairs. Their heads all snapped round now to see, but they didn’t have to look to know who it was. Black John took a step towards them. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his left hand. In his right, he brandished his sword.

Behind him somewhere, Norman heard a whispered stoat curse: “Badger breath, wrong hand!”

Sir Hugh turned and drew his own sword in a single motion that looked well practised but may have been executed more rapidly in the past.

The man in black tutted as if he were disappointed, but as he edged closer, his mouth revealed a cruel smile. “Don’t be a fool, old man. Give me the boy and have done with it. I’ve no desire to see you dead today.”

Sir Hugh shifted his feet, tracking the duke’s movements as he circled, always keeping himself between Black John and the children.

“You seemed to want to see me dead last night, when you sent a hundred fiery missiles over the walls.” He still held his sword before him warily, but with his other hand he was waving the children towards the trap door. Escape, he was telling them. I’ll buy you some time. Even in the dim light of the cellar, however, Black John followed his movements. His grin became even wider, and he moved to block their escape route.

“Oh, Hugh, a trapdoor? The Vilnius brat is going to escape this, is he?” he asked mockingly. “I think not.”

Black John stepped forward slowly, thrusting the tip of his sword towards them, his bandaged hand held casually behind his back. He moved gracefully, more like a dancer than the murderer he was. Sir Hugh parried these experimental thrusts and edged backwards again.

Norman scanned the dark cellar for the only real help Sir Hugh would get in this fight. Even he could tell that Sir Hugh was too old and too slow to win this fight. Norman’s own weapon lay on the ground in the tunnel beneath the trapdoor, and he doubted that he could do much with it against the duke’s obvious fencing skill anyway. Where was that stoat? He had been somewhere behind them when the duke barged in. Sir Hugh would be blocking his shot. He’d have to circle around the cellar to get a clear view of his target.

They had to distract the duke. They had to delay this duel until Malcolm was in position.

“Hey, Little John!” Norman shouted. In the schoolyard, fights never got much beyond name-calling. “How do you know which kid you want?”

“I’ll take both,” he replied, unconcerned. “One, two.” He punctuated his reply with two swishes of his sword in an
X
across Sir Hugh’s body. The old knight parried the first blow, but the second caught him glancingly on the shoulder. He grunted and winced in pain.

“Not now,” Norman heard Meg whispering to herself. “This can’t happen now.” She had seen a duel like this before, in another part of the book. She knew better than Norman just how it was going to turn out.

“How do you know Vilnius had a son?” Norman asked, more desperately. “Maybe a daughter was brought to San Savino.”

“What do you think you are doing, boy?” Sir Hugh growled. He didn’t turn to say it, but it was enough distraction that he was slow to react to Black John’s next attack, which came in a whirl of
slashes and thrusts. Sir Hugh staggered as he parried each blow, backing them all deeper and deeper into a corner of the cellar. Black John started to laugh, getting louder and more sinister with each blow. He was toying with Sir Hugh and enjoying it.