The Urchin of the Riding Stars Page 8

  “Yes, but they doped him.”

  Lugg winked. “Leave him to me,” he said, and waddled away before Urchin could ask him what he was going to do. Urchin scurried off to the Gathering Chamber and found Padra running up the stairs, straightening his circlet.

  “Where were you?” demanded Padra, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen. The thrones for the king and queen are just in front of the Gathering Chamber windows. I’m on one side of them, and Granite’s on the other. Your job is to stand at the anteroom door in case anything should be needed. Come and help me robe.”

  All the brightness the island could offer in winter had been gathered into the chamber. Ivy trailed from window ledges and spilled from vases. Shiny holly and evergreens hung in torch brackets on the walls, and everywhere was the golden brown of seed heads. Ribbons and garlands, silver and white as frost, had been brought from the workrooms, and every animal who owned a cloak or hat was wearing it. There were caps with feathers, bonnets with flowers, and all kinds of wreaths and circlets made with the greenery of winter. Urchin saw Apple’s bonnet long before he saw Apple. It was decorated with faded rosebuds so old that Urchin couldn’t remember a time without them, but for every special day she’d added some extra trim. Today, a ring of gull’s feathers trimmed it and tickled over the brim.

  On a bench, a choir of small squirrels in white-and-silver robes sat squashed together, whispering and trying not to fidget. As Padra and Urchin marched down the hall, heads turned. The excited chattering faded, then rose again as they turned in to the anteroom.

  Tay was helping Captain Granite into his robe. With a firm paw she smoothed the robe over his broad shoulders, and he winced.

  “Some silly young animal has left a pin in here,” said Tay severely, and pulled a pin from the seam as delicately as if it were something unpleasant. “Those workroom animals should be punished.”

  “They did have to hurry to get it finished in time, madam,” said Urchin as he lifted Padra’s robe from the chest. Tay swung around with such a glare that Urchin though she might hit him.

  “Speak when you’re spoken to, squirrel!” she ordered. “You’re only a page! Can’t you keep him under control, Padra? Does he know nothing?”

  Urchin bent his head over the robe and bit hard on the inside of his lip. Padra and Granite already thought him untrainable, and now he’d proved it to Tay as well.

  “I think Urchin only meant to warn you that you might find more pins in it,” said Padra, and turned his back on Tay for a moment to flash a smile at Urchin. “Isn’t that right, Urchin?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Urchin, glad to be rescued. He hopped onto a chair to help Padra into his robes, trying to forget about being a dead loss and remember what to do with a robe.

  “That’s all wrong,” said Tay crossly. “Has nobody ever told that page how a robe should be worn? The collar should be higher. Which hook do you have it fastened on, Padra? The left cuff should be folded so that…”

  “This is how I wear it, Tay,” said Padra wearily. “Don’t fuss. Nobody will mind.”

  “If the king or Captain Husk sees a captain improperly robed, they may feel it shows a lack of respect,” said Tay.

  “In the presence of Lady Aspen in her wedding robes, I’m sure the king and Captain Husk won’t be looking at me,” said Padra. He grinned wickedly at Urchin and added, “And, of course, Tay, you’ll dazzle them too.”

  Tay only frowned. “You should have mentioned the queen,” she said.

  “I doubt the queen will be well enough to attend,” said Padra. “Urchin, send my regards to Her Majesty.”

  “Tell them I am inquiring after the queen’s health, and send her my good wishes,” called Tay as Urchin hurried to the royal chambers. He was speaking to a mole maid at the door when Gleaner bustled over in a white apron.

  “The queen?” she said. “She’s not well enough to go to the wedding. I’m looking after her today. I told you last night, weren’t you listening?”

  “Captain Padra sends his regards,” said Urchin. Gleaner wrinkled up her nose as if Captain Padra’s regards were more trouble than they were worth, but somebody called her name.

  “Wait there,” she said, and there was a low-voiced conversation with a mole maid before Gleaner turned back to Urchin. “Send Mistress Tay here,” she said.

  Tay was delighted to be sent for. She soon returned and issued instructions to everyone, including Urchin, with a “Hold that, page,” and “Fetch this, page,” and “Out of my way, page,” until Padra politely reminded her whose page Urchin was, and sent him to put on his cloak. Finally, when Urchin felt he had been ordered about by every animal in the tower, a trumpet sounded. The wedding was to begin.

  He took his place at the door. Music swelled and filled the hall, hushing the excited animals. Brother Fir took his place on the dais. In marched the king, the jeweled crown proud and high on his head, paw on sword hilt, the cloak of heavy purple velvet swinging from his shoulders. Urchin looked at him with new respect. This was a king to be proud of, not at all the way he had appeared in the Throne Room, with his speech slurred and his paw shaking.

  But he strode through the hall alone. The music stopped. In an uneasy silence, Tay carried in the queen’s crown on a velvet cushion and placed it on the empty chair. That, thought Urchin, must be why she had been sent for.

  Husk entered next, and the awkward silence changed to roaring cheers. Urchin gazed in astonishment. Did all captains dress like that for their weddings? He supposed it must be some sort of rule that nobody had told him about. He had never before seen a captain’s robe with jewels in the hem and the collar, or a captain’s circlet wreathed with garnets and emeralds. But while Husk was greeted with cheering, Lady Aspen, as she appeared in the doorway, was met with hushed wonder.

  Clouds of silk and the finest lace billowed around her like cherry blossom. Diamonds flashed in her fur. The wedding garland on her head sparkled, and her train flowed across the floor behind her. She was astonishingly, breathtakingly, beautiful, and every single creature in Mistmantle adored her.

  At some point, Padra and Granite must have taken their places. Padra had been right. Nobody was looking at them.

  In a room made hot and stuffy from the log fire, Gleaner bent over the queen as she lay unconscious among the gold and purple hangings. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin dry and wrinkled. When Gleaner took her paw, she rolled over and curled into a ball.

  Gleaner wished there was somebody she could ask for help. There were mole maids about, but Lady Aspen could be scathing about them—Useful servants, but they don’t know anything and they can’t learn. Gleaner was in charge.

  She was to send for Lady Aspen if she was seriously alarmed, even in the middle of the wedding. Well, she wasn’t seriously alarmed yet, but she was worried. She sent a maid to see where the wedding was up to, just in case.

  “You’ll get better, Your Majesty,” she said. “You’ll soon be better.” But she didn’t believe it, and didn’t know if Queen Spindle had heard her. The queen turned restlessly, tried to speak, and slept again.

  “They’re making the promises,” said the excited mole as she came back. “I’ll watch the queen if you want a look.”

  Gleaner shook her head. She knew what to do. She lifted down the violet glass phial, shook it, and mixed the medicine as Lady Aspen had taught her, counting out the drops. Then she slipped a paw behind the queen’s head.

  Poor Aspen, thought Urchin as he watched the wedding. Perhaps she doesn’t know what Husk’s really like.

  Husk’s circlet glittered, catching the light of the dozens of candles. It was time for the king to speak. Aspen, taking her seat, settled like thistledown.

  “This has been a dark year on Mistmantle,” began the king, “and the winter drains away the sunshine. But in this season of sorrow in our hearts and winter on our land, we welcome this bright day. Captain Husk and Lady Aspen have gladdened our hearts, our land, and our future. They have asked me for
a favor for you all, and I am glad to grant it. You are all to have a day off tomorrow!”

  There was a long, loud cheer, and hats were thrown into the air. Urchin hoped Apple wouldn’t grumble out loud about how “in the old days we had a day off when we felt like it and we didn’t have to ask nobody’s permission and the work still got done,” but if she did, nobody heard her. When the cheer died down, and dropped hats had been picked up from the floor, the king went on.

  “None of you has seen how devotedly Aspen has cared for the queen in her illness and sorrow. Lady Aspen is as wise and good as she is beautiful, and deserves all the honor Mistmantle can bring her. In her, as in all things, Captain Husk has chosen well. Without Husk’s friendship, counsel, and help, I would find it a hard and lonely thing to be your king.” His voice faltered, and he paused to gather himself together. “Husk is like a son to me,” he finished quickly, and sat down.

  Brother Fir nodded to the squirrel choir to sing. Serving lads and maids were slipping away from the hall to put on their aprons. Soon there would be feasting, dancing, and entertainment, long into the night.

  From the royal chambers, Gleaner heard the music. The party must have started by now, and the feast. The mole maids had sent whispered giggling messages to their friends in the kitchens, and trays of food and wine were carried up from a back staircase. While the maids danced in the corridor, Gleaner nibbled candied walnuts and watched the queen.

  Her breathing seemed slower now. Gleaner took her paw. It felt limp.

  “Your Majesty?” said Gleaner. “Your Majesty?”

  The queen took a long, struggling breath. Then nothing. Gleaner’s eyes widened. She turned hot and cold. The next breath came, long and rasping. Then a long pause. Another rasping breath. Gleaner ran to the door and shook the first maid she found.

  “Fetch Lady Aspen!” she ordered. “At once!”

  The party in the Gathering Chamber seemed to be going on forever. The tables had been pushed back, and plates of little sweet things stood among the crumbs and wine stains. The young animals had gathered under the tables to eat sugared almonds and marzipan.

  Urchin was wondering whether Lugg had managed to rescue Scufflen—he had certainly been planning something—but Lugg was nowhere to be seen. In the meantime he tried to look busy, as he didn’t want to dance if he could help it. His dancing lessons had barely started, and he wasn’t at all sure if he was getting it right. But he had discovered that dancing with a hedgehog was much safer than dancing anywhere near one, and that Arran the otter didn’t seem to mind how many mistakes he made. He had to dance with Apple, and it took great effort not to limp as he walked away afterward. He went in search of Padra before she could ask him again. Hopefully, he would be given a useful job to do so that he could impress Padra and avoid dancing at the same time, but he realized too late that Apple was following him.

  “Mistress Apple,” called Padra, “you haven’t danced with me all evening! You’re not avoiding me, are you? Will you do me the honor?” There was the swiftest wink at Urchin. “Hold my robe, will you, Urchin?”

  Urchin watched Padra heave Apple around the room. The uneasy feeling that he was being watched crept over him, and he turned to see a sleek, dark mole look away quickly. It was Gloss, who had argued against Crispin at the trial. Urchin shuddered, then forgot Gloss as he saw Gleaner and a mole guard wriggle through the hall.

  They whispered to Husk, who listened, dismissed them, and strode to the throne. Something was happening. Presently Husk led the king and Brother Fir toward the royal chambers. Padra, finishing his dance with Apple, joined them, and Urchin followed, still carrying the sea-turquoise robe over both paws. He half expected to be told to stay out of the way, but Padra only said, “You may be needed in the royal chambers, Urchin, but put that robe away first. I won’t need it again tonight.”

  Urchin carried the robe to the anteroom and laid it on the floor to smooth and fold it. With the door closed, it was as if the crowded hall was in another world. He was alone in cool stillness and quiet. A single lamp glowed.

  Snow was falling, floating in thick soft flakes through the darkness. Urchin laid the robe on the floor, then went to the window and rested his paws on the sill. It was quiet enough even to hear the waves swishing gently onto the shore, and he thought of Crispin and prayed, as he always did, for the Heart to keep him safe. More than ever he missed Crispin, who always had a kind word for him.

  He turned to open the heavy lid of the chest with both paws. Husk’s green-and-gold robe was still in there—of course—he was wearing his new one today, his magnificent wedding robe.

  Whoever had put that robe away had not done it correctly. It would crease if he laid Padra’s on top of it. He smoothed it and felt the layers of creases underneath. It would have to be taken out and folded again. He held it high to shake it, and, taking care not to let his claws catch the embroidery, smoothed it down.

  On the bottom of the chest, something fluttered. Urchin bent to look more closely. Three dried leaves lay there, and he reached to take them out.

  If they had been scented leaves, he would have understood why they were there. They would be to keep the moths away, or make the robes smell sweet. But these were plain beech leaves. He turned them over and held them to the lamp.

  There was a clawmark on each one. Crispin’s.

  Urchin wasn’t sure what they meant, but he knew they were important. His green cloak had been stitched up hurriedly at the hem and the stitches were long and gaping. Gently, to hide the leaves without damaging them, he slipped them between the stitches into the hem. Padra must be told.

  CHAPTER TEN

  N THE ROYAL CHAMBERS, the queen lay very peacefully among the deep pillows. The king held her paw. Brother Fir stood at the end of the bed, and Padra, Aspen, and Husk, keeping a respectful distance, had taken their places at the door.

  Once, the queen had opened her eyes and smiled at the king. Later she had said, clearly but very softly, “Aspen.” Then the slow, rasping breathing had continued and the pauses between the breaths became longer, until the next breath did not come.

  Aspen stepped forward and felt for a pulse in the queen’s neck. She turned to Brother Fir, shook her head, and drew back.

  Nobody noticed Urchin take his place in the doorway. Something jostled his shoulder, and Captain Granite pushed past him. He looked ready to march straight up to the king, but Aspen put out a paw to warn him, and Husk whispered something in his ear.

  “This will break the king,” whispered Aspen.

  The king raised his head. “I wish,” he said, but his voice was low and slurred, “I wish I had not sent that treacherous squirrel away. When he killed our son, he destroyed her. I wish I had him here now, to tear him apart with my own teeth and claws. Wherever he is, may my curses reach him!”

  Brother Fir said nothing, but held up a paw as if to hold back the curses. Husk summoned Padra to his side.

  “The only question,” said Husk, “is whether to tell everyone now, or later.”

  “The morning will be soon enough,” said Padra firmly. “Let the king grieve in peace. We can announce it first thing tomorrow. Meanwhile, get the servants to clear the dishes and tell the musicians to stop playing, they’ll all understand that it’s time to go.” He turned and noticed Urchin at last. “Urchin, come and help me.”

  Urchin hurried behind Padra, who murmured instructions into the ears of servants. Soon tables were being cleared, one torch after another was extinguished, and the animals, some yawning, the little ones asleep and being carried, were making their way to the doors. However well Padra organized them, it would take a long time to clear the tower.

  “Find Husk!” he called to Urchin. “I could do with him here! At least find out what he’s doing!”

  Find Husk! Getting through the crowd to the royal chambers would be impossible, but as a page he had learned any number of back stairs and scarcely used corridors. He had turned right into a passageway that led down a sta
ir, under the hall, and back up the other side, when he saw a squirrel dart around a corner.

  It couldn’t be Husk—but it looked like him. It was his shade of fur, and his quick way of moving.

  “Captain Husk?” he called, but the squirrel had already vanished without hearing him. With paws at full stretch, Urchin dashed after him, and was just in time to see the squirrel turn the next corner and whisk around a door.

  This time, he was sure it was Husk. He was also sure that Husk didn’t want to be followed, and even more sure that he should be.

  Slipping through the almost hidden opening, he could just see Husk at the bottom of a stair. Silently, he followed. The stair gave way to a passageway, and the passageway turned to a tunnel of intense darkness. Urchin listened for paws and the brush of fur on tunnel walls, and followed. If he stopped to think about what he was doing he might turn back, so he decided not to think. Just follow.

  The tunnel became darker, narrow, and fusty. Urchin’s night vision was good, but soon he could see only shapes and shadows, darker than the dark, as he ran. It might be best not to see. The earthy smell of underground became moldy and repellent, and the chill of the place struck deep and damp through his fur. Something sticky caught on his ears. He ran with his shoulders drawn tightly in and his head down, trying not to touch the sides. Under his paw, something squelched. Setting his teeth, urging himself to be brave, he ran on.

  Captain Crispin chose me for a page. I have to prove myself.

  It was colder, damper, darker. He padded on, listening for paws, straining his ears. If he lost that sound, he could be stranded in here…

  He could be lost.

  For how long? Fear shivered through him as he ran. He should never have come, and it was too late to turn back. One wrong turn, and he could be lost underground forever. In the suffocating darkness, something cold dripped on his head; unseen wings flapped in his face; his cloak caught on something. He bit his lip hard. The tunnel was smaller. Earth pressed around him.