Urchin and the Heartstone Page 10

  She nodded miserably.

  “But you’re going to tell me what it is anyway?”

  She nodded again.

  “Then you’re a brave hedgehog,” he said. “And I’ll try not to be angry. What have you done?”

  Looking down at her paws, she told him everything, her voice quavering, stopping now and again to dry her eyes when she thought of Fingal and Hope alone in the dark. When she finished, she felt a warm and comforting otter hug.

  “Ouch,” said Padra. “I’d forgotten how sharp you are. Needle, you mustn’t blame yourself. You and Sepia did exactly the right thing.”

  “It wasn’t Fingal’s fault, sir,” she said. “We were all there, and Hope just jumped or something, and Fingal tried to get to him in time, and went straight in after him.”

  “Fingal comes out of most things all right,” said Padra. “And as for Hope, I think the Heart takes special care of that one. I’ll send a search party, and I’m taking you to Crispin. He won’t be angry either, but he should know. Oh,” he added with a frown, “and Docken’s on guard at the Throne Room.”

  “Hope’s daddy!” cried Needle in dismay.

  “Could be awkward,” admitted Padra. “Leave it to me.” He waved at a passing otter. “Get a search party of moles and otters together and report to me outside the Throne Room, sharpish.”

  Needle trotted upstairs and through corridors after him. Normally she enjoyed the sight of the Threadings she had helped to make, but this morning she couldn’t enjoy anything, and after her long journey, she struggled to keep up with Padra. As they turned along the corridor to the Throne Room, she stopped with something between a gasp and a squeak.

  Hope was standing on his hind legs, his paws on his father’s knees, his little shortsighted face turned up, his nose twitching as he gabbled his adventures. Docken, bending over him, was occasionally saying, “Did you?” and “That was brave,” as Hope rattled through his story. It was all too much for Needle. She rushed past Padra and hugged Hope so hard that his hind paws were left kicking in the air.

  “Hope, you’re all right!” she cried. “Where’s Fingal?”

  “Yes, thank you, he’s with the king, thank you, please will you put me down now?” gasped Hope. “Thank you. Have you got the Heartstone?”

  Padra had already swept past her to the Throne Room door. It was opened by Fingal, wiping butter from his whiskers with a broad grin on his face.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Fingal brightly, and stood back to let him in. “Hello, Needle, what are you doing here? May as well come in. And you, little Hope. I mean,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “is that all right, Your Majesty?”

  “I do apologize for him, Crispin,” sighed Padra.

  The Throne Room smelled pleasantly of fresh bread, and Crispin himself buttered a roll for Needle. She bowed as she thanked him, noticing that he looked happy for the first time since Urchin had been taken away.

  Padra took Fingal’s shoulders in both paws while he looked him up and down, and finally said, “You seem to be in one piece, and so’s the little one. Before we leave, and if His Majesty permits, I’ll teach you the correct way to answer the door of the Throne Room. Crispin, who’s going to tell the story, you or Fingal?”

  “Go on, Fingal,” said Crispin.

  “It was like this,” said Fingal, nearly sitting down then standing up again as Padra raised his eyebrows, “we went to look for the Heartstone—didn’t find it, by the way—”

  “I know what happened until you and Hope vanished down the waterslide,” said Padra.

  “Ah,” said Fingal. “Well, when Hope fell down the waterslide, he curled up, being a hedgehog, and the water swept him all the way down; and by the time I caught up with him he was bobbing about in the underground lake like a chestnut shell. I swam out and got him, but there was no way he could climb back up. Tried it. Too hard. I tried carrying him on my back, but he fell off. I told him to hang on tight, but either he fell off or he knocked me off balance, and we both fell down, and he wasn’t going to let go of his bag of pebbles, so I looked for another way. He rode on my back, or on my chest, depending on which way up I was, and I swam across the lake.”

  “Didn’t he fall in?” asked Padra.

  “Oh, yes,” said Fingal. “I just scooped him up and told him to hang on a bit tighter.”

  Padra turned Fingal around. There were two rows of gashes on his shoulders that made Needle flinch to see them.

  “Go on,” said Padra quietly.

  “It was a long swim,” said Fingal. “And it brought us to a tight, squeezy place through the rocks and a cave and another squeeze, and then we were so dead tired, we had a sleep. When we woke up we went on, because we knew we’d find tunnels sooner or later, and we did—at least, Hope did. That little hedgehog was off and into that tunnel like a squirrel up a nut tree. I couldn’t keep up.”

  “Excuse me?” said Hope.

  “Yes, Hope?” said Crispin.

  “I slowed down for him,” said Hope. “And I looked after him in the tunnels, Captain Padra, sir.”

  “Thank you very much, Hope,” said Padra. “He needs looking after. Go on, Fingal.”

  “It was a long, straight tunnel,” said Fingal. “Dead boring. It sloped uphill a long way and widened out, and then we heard voices.”

  “Whose voices?” asked Padra. “Saying what?”

  “Something about ‘chuck the water out and scrub those pans,’” said Fingal. “We were under the tower scullery! There was a winding stairway farther on so we went up it—we thought it must go halfway to the moon, there must have been miles of it. We could smell breakfast, too, and we were starving, weren’t we, Hope? We thought the stairway must lead to the main kitchens, so we followed it, but after all that, it only led to the door of a tight little chamber with a ladder leading to an opening above it. Not much of an opening, but we squeezed through—an awfully tight squeeze for an otter, just as well I hadn’t had any breakfast, really. And when we got through there, we were in a narrow slit of a gap between the ceiling of the lower room and the floor of the one above. This one, in fact.”

  “This one!” Padra looked at Crispin in horror. “The Throne Room!”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know that at the time,” said Fingal. “It was dusty and I sneezed and hit my head on the floorboards, and ouched, and then I heard the king ask who was there…”

  “…and I got the floorboards up with my sword and got them out,” said Crispin, smiling. “They’ve had a wash and breakfast.”

  “Nice breakfast, thanks,” said Fingal.

  “But, Crispin,” said Padra, “anybody could have got under the Throne Room!”

  “Good thing it was only us,” said Fingal.

  “And a good thing they did,” said Crispin. “I’ll tell Gorsen to get it sealed.”

  “It might be useful to keep it open, Your Majesty,” said Needle, “in case you ever need an escape route.”

  “I’d rather His Majesty jumped out of the window and ran down the walls as usual,” said Padra. “Your Majesty, I think Fingal could do with a swim.”

  “Yes, please,” said Fingal.

  “Well done, Fingal,” said Crispin. “You’ve looked after Hope commendably.”

  “Is that good?” asked Fingal.

  “It’s very good,” said Crispin. “You may go.”

  “And if the salt water doesn’t ease those gashes,” said Padra, “go and ask Arran to put something on them.”

  “What gashes?” Fingal beamed. He bowed and left the Throne Room.

  “He seems to have muddled through,” said Padra. “Needle, find someone to get a message to Sepia. Her brother may be about.”

  “And go down to the kitchens for something to eat,” said Crispin.

  “What’s happened to you?” said Padra to Crispin as Needle hurried away. “You look a lot better than you did. Is that just because of Fingal and Hope?”

  “The moles,” said Crispin. “They should reach Whitewings
tonight.”

  By the time Needle and Sepia had met, exchanged stories, jumped a few streams, and pattered around the north side of the tower, they were ready to stop for a snack. Sepia was nibbling blackberries, and Needle had just swallowed a worm, when a squirrel hurried past.

  “Hello, Gleaner!” called Sepia.

  Gleaner glanced over her shoulder, hesitated as if she might say something, and ran on. Needle shrugged.

  “Let her go,” she said. “She’s dying for us to ask where she’s going.”

  Gleaner ran on. They were looking for the Heartstone. Let them look. She knew more about it than they did, but they wouldn’t dream of asking her.

  They forgot that she had been an animal of some importance in the tower not so long ago, when she had been Lady Aspen’s maid. Whatever Husk had done, whatever anyone said, none of it had had anything to do with Lady Aspen. You only had to look at lovely Lady Aspen to know that none of it was her fault. She had been so charming and beautiful, she couldn’t have done anything bad. It was all lies.

  With any luck, Needle and Sepia would get stuck in a bog looking for the Heartstone. Serve them right.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  OR THREE DAYS, KING SILVERBIRCH did not send for Urchin. Trail, when she brought food, said that the king was deciding on his strategy, and Bronze said smugly that the king and Smokewreath were still arguing about what to do with him. Apart from that they barely spoke to him, and nobody came into his cell, which was what Urchin wanted. He needed to be left alone to attend to Juniper; Juniper was desperately ill.

  Urchin had hidden him in a deep nest of cushions in a corner, where he lay tightly huddled and shivering, though his paws were hot. When the guards brought food, Urchin would sit on the windowsill kicking his paws restlessly to conceal any rustlings from the nest, and as soon as they had shut the door he would force water between Juniper’s clenched teeth. Juniper was far too ill to eat anything, but Urchin knew he should drink.

  In a hushed voice he whispered to him, telling him stories of Mistmantle, singing their homeland songs, and wondering what he would do without Juniper to look after. Go mad, probably, shut in a stone cell in the long summer days. Looking longingly down from the barred window, he saw animals trundling barrows about, exchanging brief chats about their work—he knew they weren’t happy or free, but at least they were outside.

  In the days when Husk had controlled King Brushen, Mistmantle animals had been burdened with long hours of hard work, but it had never been as bad as this. Mistmantle animals had never been so miserable and dispirited. The idea that they might have been, if Husk had finally triumphed, was a thought that chilled his skin. Angrily, he kicked the window seat and promised himself that he would go home.

  He promised Juniper, too, as he whispered into the nest. The Heart would bring them home, and home was worth staying alive for. He talked to him of Mistmantle, of the woods in autumn, and wriggling through fallen leaves to gather up baskets full of nuts. He talked about gathering around fires with scalding soup and hot walnut bread, and of brilliant winter mornings when the snow dazzled, icicles hung like a necklace around Fir’s turret, and there were snowball fights in every clearing and slides on every hill. He talked of spring, with the first breaths of warm air ruffling the fur, and primroses in the wood, and summers when high color was everywhere, and the woods were full of sweet soft berries that looked like jewels and tasted of sunshine.

  He felt the dryness of Juniper’s paws and nose, and wished there was somebody like Mother Huggen or Fir, who would know how to look after him. “All this about the mists not letting anyone go back,” he said, thinking aloud, “it can’t be that simple. Brother Fir says the mists are there to protect Mistmantle, so if you have to get back for the sake of the island, surely there must be a way. The Heart must have made a way. I could get us home with swans again. That was what they suggested, when they were pretending they cared what happened to me. But it’s a long way; it may be too far for swans.”

  In the silence that followed, Juniper’s breathing seemed slow and wheezy. It sounded like a struggle. Every breath was harder, and after each one was a long and terrifying pause, as if the next would never come. Urchin found he was holding his own breath, too.

  The wheezing grew longer and louder, and Urchin heaped the cushions more tightly around Juniper, glancing nervously at the door. When Bronze opened the door to bring in food, Urchin leaped to the fireplace and scratched at it noisily.

  Bronze grinned. “No good sharpening your claws,” he said, and banged down the tray. “You’ve had it. The wind’s changed.” He clanked the door shut behind him, and there was nothing for Urchin to do but watch Juniper, tip water into his mouth, and pray.

  “Come on, Juniper,” he whispered. “Please. Just keep breathing. Oh, Heart help him, please.”

  The shadows grew longer. The light faded. The day cooled. Just take the next breath. And the next.

  A thundering from beyond Urchin’s cell made the room shake. Urchin flung himself over Juniper. Another crash followed, with the ringing of iron, the splintering of wood, and the king’s voice in screaming rage.

  “Kill who you like!” he screeched. “Kill anyone! Plague and pestilence on Crispin of Mistmantle and his minions! Get that filthy squirrel down here and cut him into little pieces!”

  Paws were running upstairs and along the corridor. Urchin snatched the log basket, his ears sharp, his claws flexed. If he could heave the table and the log basket against the door, it would at least hold them off for a while. But as he barricaded the door he heard more animals running, dozens and dozens of them, in all directions. Some were running to his cell. They were louder, faster, nearer. He heard the clank of bolts and locks on the cell door, and nothing else.

  Nothing at all. There was no wheezy breathing. The cell door crashed open with a force that flung the furniture spinning across the floor. In the doorway stood the helmeted commander.

  “Whatever you’re planning,” she snapped, “forget it.” She stepped in and banged the door shut behind her.

  Padra returned to the tower from patrolling the shores as the night air grew cool and the waves hushed softly on the shore. Far away, near the mists, lanterns glowed from sterns and masts. That was the watch for Urchin. Urchin’s lights. A lamp moved in a high corridor, and he mentioned it when he reported to Crispin in the Throne Room.

  “That’ll be Tay again,” said Crispin. “She’s educating the Whitewings prisoners in the laws and the histories. They need to learn that we’re reasonable animals with good laws. But Lord Treeth won’t let her anywhere near him. We’ve had to take everything breakable out of his room.”

  “Which must be practically everything,” said Padra. “Aspen did like delicate things. What about Scatter?”

  “She loves it,” said Crispin. “I’m sure the law bores her, but she soaks up the stories.” He picked up a dish of blackberries from the table. “I’m going with her this time.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Padra, and walked with Crispin to the well-guarded corridor where Tay waited, stroking her whiskers. Gorsen stomped to attention. He had groomed himself until his fur gleamed, and smelled of spices.

  “His Majesty King Crispin and Mistress Tay to see the prisoners!” he barked out. From Lord Treeth’s chamber came a curse and a crash as something hit the door.

  “Have fun,” said Padra as he bowed and left them. When Gorsen unlocked Scatter’s cell, she sprang up, her eyes wide, and curtsied deeply.

  “Your Majesty!” she gasped.

  “Mistress Tay has kindly allowed me to help her tonight,” said Crispin. “Would you like some blackberries?”

  Crispin perched on the bed. Tay drew herself up to give a long explanation of when prisoners were allowed out of their cells, and how much they should be guarded, and and in what circumstances treats, such as blackberries, could be brought to the cell, and Scatter’s eyes strayed constantly to Crispin’s face.

  When Tay was about to
start on another subject, Crispin said, “Thank you, Tay. Now, Scatter, what sort of story would you like? A squirrel, a mole, a hedgehog, or an otter?”

  The night before, Tay had told Scatter a terrifying story about a monstrous mole called Gripthroat. She hadn’t slept after that. But she liked otters. There weren’t any on Whitewings.

  “An otter, please,” she said.

  “There was an otter called Arder,” began Crispin. “He had three daughters, and his wife was dead. Many otters from other islands swam under the mists to Mistmantle, and Arder’s two older daughters had married two of these otters and left the island with them. Poor Arder only had his youngest daughter left. Her name was Westree. He fretted and worried when he saw the handsome male otters swimming to the island and the young girl otters flirting and falling in love. He was desperate to keep Westree on Mistmantle.

  “He tried to get her to marry a Mistmantle otter, but she didn’t like any of them enough. So he ordered her to have nothing to do with the visiting otters, but she couldn’t help meeting them when she went for a swim, and, as she said, it was only polite to talk to them. After that, Arder said Westree should never go anywhere without him. Father and daughter had such terrible rows that they could be heard by the squirrels on top of Falls Cliffs, who complained to the king.

  “Westree had always done as she was told, but she felt her father was being unreasonable. If he made her stay in their home, she would find a way out as soon as his back was turned, and run away along the shore to meet her friends. When they went swimming, she was fast enough to leave him behind and hide under the nearest boat until he swam away to look for her. If they went out in a boat, she’d slip over the side, tip it over with him in it, and escape. He even made a cage for her at night so that she couldn’t escape while he slept, but she bit through the bars and ran away.

  “Finally, he went to see Sister Tellin the priest and begged her to help him. And Sister Tellin said, ‘She must have her freedom, because her life is her own, not yours. If she leaves us, she must leave for love. If she stays with us, she must stay for love. If you force her to stay, you take away her freedom and the choices of her love; and love will die in her, and you will see her grow miserable. Let her be free.’