"You mean, my father would get better?"
"Who can say? But for almost two years now the great wolf has ravaged the countryside, and the Duke has been a sick man."
"If that isn't magic, what is?"
"Magic lies in belief," said Almeric.
"And my father would believe this himself?"
"Why should he not? The doctors will tell him there is something in it. All learned men know of the wolf-sickness. And all men know that evil men can change themselves into wolves, and bring death and destruction."
"Like Almeric," said the prince.
(Up in her hiding place, Margaret jumped as if pricked with a pin.)
Almeric must have done the same. His voice sharpened. "Like whom?"
"Don't you remember him? That vile character who left the court rather suddenly a couple of years ago. My father distrusted him–and so did you. I remember hearing you say so."
"Ah, yes, I remember now."
"You remember he vanished quite suddenly? Perhaps he turned himself into a wolf. Perhaps–"
"This is fool's talk," snapped Almeric.
"I think you forget yourself!" Crispin's voice changed. (I do believe he dislikes him, for all he thinks this is Mardian, thought Margaret.) There was a sharp pause. Then the enchanter said humbly: "Forgive me, my prince. I spoke too hastily. But all this talk of magic–"
"Well, but you spoke of it yourself, of men changing themselves into wolves. I was only repeating what some of the people are saying. Osric told me that once he'd heard Almeric speak about magic arts, and he was wondering if Almeric himself could be the great wolf."
(And put that in your pipe and smoke it! thought Margaret, hugging herself behind the myrtle boughs.)
There was silence below. Perhaps Almeric could think of nothing to say. It was the prince who went on, briskly: "You're right, that's foolishness. But talking of the great wolf.. .seriously, Mardian, I've had an idea. My father was asking only yesterday how I would like to celebrate my name-day, apart from the usual ceremonies. Why don't I say that what I'd really like is a grand ducal hunt? A wolf-hunt, lasting all day until the time for feasting? If I could persuade him, for my sake, to venture out in a litter, even a short way, just to watch the hunt–"
"No!"
"Why not?" Crispin sounded surprised. "I'd have thought we should try anything that would persuade him to venture outside the walls once more, and the next time it will be easier. If he himself believes this sickness could be magical, then the sight of the great wolf itself–and perhaps that day we might be lucky and catch him..."
His voice trailed off, enquiringly. Margaret would have given a lot to be able to see the enchanter's face. When at length he spoke, his voice was as smooth and pleasant as ever. "Of course you are right. It was my anxiety and love for your father that made me protest. Let us talk about it later, my dear prince, and not a word to anyone else; this is our secret. Indeed, anything that might bring Otho out of his settled melancholy is to be tried. But for you, with your great day so near at hand... do not count too much on anything. What you are best to do is to fit yourself to help your father rule, and then, one day, to succeed him. Like you, I must put my grief aside, and think of the future, when I can care for you and stand your friend, as I have done in the past. Will you not accept this friendship, and forget the doubts which sometimes, lately, I have felt, to my sorrow?"
"A man who does not accept friendship is a fool," said the prince. His voice was still rather crisp. "But a prince who trusts any man without proof is a fool. Will you give me proof of your love, Mardian?"
"What more can I give? Another amulet?" asked that gentle, rueful voice.
(The swine, thought Margaret, behind the myrtle boughs. She craned farther. She could just see them. The prince had got to his feet. The two of them were moving away, their voices growing fainter.)
"That was one trust I mislaid," said the enchanter.
"No, not an amulet, your oath."
"Which you'll have in any case in a few days' time when your name-day comes? But of course I will swear anything to you, any time, my prince. But let the swearing be private. Should the Duke come to hear of it, he might well think that you and I were too quick..."
The voices faded. But in any case Margaret would have heard no more. Footsteps sounded on the flagstones just beside the myrtle bush, and the swish of a skirt. The Highland Cow!
She switched round on the seat, straightened her back and sat, hand in lap, eyes down, the very picture of a modest young girl resting in the shade.
The footsteps stopped right in front of her. It was not the Highland Cow. The skirt was of grass-green silk. The trailing sleeves were lined with white fur. Margaret looked up, into the eyes of the lady who had ridden with the hunt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The lady was dark and beautiful, with black hair bound with gold, and green eyes. The green eyes were staring very hard at Margaret. She spoke sharply. "What are you doing here? Why are you not with the others?"
Margaret realized, all at once, that the garden was quiet; the children had all gone. One or two of the ladies still sat there with their stitchery, and a couple of gardeners were working in a comer, being directed by an elderly woman in grey. But otherwise the place was empty.
"Madam, we were playing at ball, and I was too hot. I was resting. I will go now," said Margaret quickly, jumping to her feet.
The lady in green put out a hand to stop her. "A moment." The hand took Margaret by the chin, lifting her face. "Who are you, girl?"
"The Lady Grisel is my grand-dame," said Margaret. It was all she could do not to pull herself away. The lady's nails were sharp, scoring her chin.
The green eyes narrowed, consideringly. "I have seen you before, have I not?" asked the lady.
"Why, yes, of course, madam," stammered Margaret. "Many a time, with the other children... You would not remember me, though we speak of you often–"
"Speak of me? Why?" demanded the lady.
Margaret widened her eyes in a look of innocence. "Why, because you are so beautiful. And your gowns...your mantles...you are the most beautiful of all the ladies in the castle, I think."
The cruel hand released her. The lady was smiling. '"Well, little maid. I thank you!" But she still lingered, staring. "I could have sworn...the strangest thing... Have you ever been outside the castle, child?"
"Never, madam."
"And the Lady Grisel is your grand-dame. What is your name?"
"Gretta, madam."
"And your mother?"
Margaret drooped her head, whispering: "My mother, alas, is dead." She was wondering, wildly, if her own mother's name would do. Isobel–was Isobel a likely name? If the green lady checked with Lady Grisel, who, mercifully, was cuckoo, it was to be hoped she couldn't remember what her daughters and daughters-in-law had been called.
Then she was saved. A young woman in scarlet appeared at the other side of the garden.
"Blancheflower!" she called, and the lady in green turned quickly, waving. "Coming!" She glanced back at Margaret. "Go your way, sweet child."
She tripped off, and vanished in the shadow of a stone archway.
The sweet child stood quite still, with her long skirts clutched tightly in her hands. Her mind was racing. It would only be a matter of time before the green lady remembered where she had seen little Gretta, who "had never been outside the castle." Remembered her, standing at the fork in the track, with a boy, watching the hunt. Remembered her strange clothes, her most immodest ways, the silver coin she had accepted from the huntsman. And remembered that she had misdirected the wolf-hunters.
Even if no one guessed at the truth, things could get very awkward indeed for Gretta, who had lied, and been forward, and had misbehaved herself in every way. At the worst, discovery would mean betrayal for both children. At the least, it could mean punishment for herself. She had not liked the sound of that whipping she had been promised.
There was only one thing to do.
Little as she liked the idea, she must get back into hiding, into the secret room, and wait till she saw John again. Then they could decide what best to do.
She was lucky. Lady Blancheflower was nowhere to be seen. She managed to slip through the crowded rooms unobserved. Someone–the kindly nursemaid–called after her: "This way, Gretta! Where are you going?"
"Taking a message for Lady Blancheflower!" called Margaret, and waved, smiling, as she ran.
Luckily, she remembered the way, and in a few minutes found herself, breathless and alone, running down the dim corridor that led to the cellars. Somewhere away to one side she could hear the noise from the kitchens. She let herself into the cellar, and stole past the great sleeping vats of wine. One, two... six, seven, here it was.
Like a rabbit bolting into a safe hole she slipped in through the secret door and found herself once more in Wolfs room.
Time went by. The sun left the window. The light mellowed to late afternoon. Margaret grew bored, and then hungry. She had been rather too excited to eat much at "dinner"–which to her had been breakfast-time–and now she faced, with dismay, the prospect of waiting until John came back to the secret room, after serving supper in the great hall. Even then she could not be sure that he would bring food with him.
She explored the room, of course, but the big cupboard was locked. Not that there would be food there, and the steward had said that everything in the storerooms was locked, too. She wondered if she dared venture out again and try, or even if she should go up for supper in the nurseries, and risk meeting Lady Blancheflower. But just as she made up her mind that, whatever happened, she must find food, she heard a stealthy sound outside the door, and the latch lifted.
It was John. And, wonder of wonders, he had brought food, lots of it. He unwrapped the linen napkins and put it out on the table. There was white bread, and some big pieces of poultry, a chunk of pasty, and some fruit and other things she did not recognize. But they were all food, and they smelled gorgeous.
"I didn't know if you'd get anything much in the nursery rooms," he said, "and there was masses in the kitchens. I'm afraid it's all cold now, but I thought we might as well stock up, because you never know–hey, you must be starving!"
"I am." Margaret bit into a pasty. "I suppose there was plenty, but I was too nervous to eat much. Then I suddenly realized I would probably have to miss supper, too. I've been sitting here planning how to break into the stores outside."
"Why d'you have to miss supper? What's happened?"
"No, you first. I say, this turkey's super! What a size! Go on. Why did you come down so early? Did someone suspect you?"
"It's not turkey. It's swan. And that bit's peacock. Meg, you should just see the way they do them up, all the feathers and tail, the lot!
They're fixing them up now in the kitchens, ready for supper. Just wait till I have time to tell you everything! But we'd better exchange news first. No, no one suspects me. I really came down to get out of joining the boys' games in the courtyard!" He made a face. "You should see them! Black eyes and broken noses are the least of it! It's all war games, of course, mock fights and tilting at the quintain–that's a sort of tournament practice–and they really do hammer at it. The master-at-arms is in charge, and he's a really tough type. I don't think I'd have lasted very long there!"
"You might have. If the spell's really working, you might have been good at it. You're good at–" she paused, trying to remember, and failing, "–at games and things at home, aren't you?"
"Well, I didn't dare risk giving myself away. It was lucky I did come now, as it happens. I'll have to go back soon, anyway. Supper starts in about an hour, and I'm on a sort of team now. It's funny, the boys waiting at table are all nobles, not kitchen boys or servants or anything. They wait on their own fathers, even. Anyway I'm on a team. Nobody's bothered to ask me any questions. And three people have called me Lionel, so perhaps the real Lionel has left, or died, or something. Died, quite likely, because they talk as if lots of people die when they're only young. Perhaps I look a bit like this Lionel, or something? Anyway, it's all right, and I'm getting the hang of it, and nobody seems a bit suspicious..."
He talked on while she ate, feeling better every minute. He finished: "In a way, if it wasn't so serious, it'd be a lot of fun–only I can't quite see how I'll ever get near the Duke."
"You couldn't just wait about, and seize the chance to run up and kneel down in front of him and ask for an audience? It sounds awfully simple, but sometimes the simplest things work best."
"I might, I suppose. But it's risky. If I chose the time badly, and Almeric was there, I could end up in the dungeon, or worse, and I don't feel like trying it."
"Then perhaps Denis or Justin will die young, and you'll be promoted to wait on the Duke,"said Margaret, biting into a chunk of something sweet that smelled of almonds. "This is smashing, it's like marzipan."
"They call it marchpane. Must be the same thing. What do you mean, Denis and Justin? Are they the Duke's pages? I saw one of them waiting on him this morning, but I daren't ask his name, because people would have thought it funny that I didn't know. How do you know? What did you find out?"
"Not much, only that I think Wolf's wrong about the prince. I don't think he's Almeric's loving little lapdog at all. I think he suspects him of something, but doesn't know what. I overheard them talking."
"You did? Good for you! Tell me!"
"Actually, it was rather funny, if it hadn't made me so furious." And Margaret, with pauses for chewing, told John her story. She finished with the green lady, and her reasons for running away to hide.
Her brother said thoughtfully: "Pity. It might mean you do have to stay hidden here. Let's hope she doesn't spot me as well. That really might jog her memory. I'll have to keep out of the way when the hunt goes out tomorrow. But you–"
"If I have to stay locked in here, I might as well not be in the castle at all," said Margaret crossly. It really had been a very boring afternoon.
"All we can do is wait, and tell Wolf when he comes. He won't be able to talk to us, but he might want you to go back to the cottage with him."
"And leave you here alone?"
"I know. But it can't be for long."
"It might be days. Bother that green woman!"
A creaking noise, "followed by a crash, drew them towards the window, to gaze out across the swan-furrowed moat. The drawbridge was being lifted. The castle was settling in for the night.
John spoke quickly. "Look, Meg, sorry, but I'll have to go. I'll bring more food down after supper. I'd better take the napkins back now. I'll be back in time for Wolf."
"You can't be sure of that. Supper might go on for ages. What about helping me shift the grating? It's heavy, isn't it?"
John hesitated. "We'd better leave that till dark, in case anyone notices it's gone. I'll try to get back, but if Wolf comes before I do, I think you could move it. Don't try to lift it. Just push it out flat, see? But best leave it till he actually comes. Okay?"
"All right."
"Don't worry," John said cheerfully, "everyone's far too busy upstairs to think about us at all. You'll be all right till I get back. Cheer up. Better be bored here than beaten upstairs!"
"Goodness, yes!" said Margaret. "Well, at least I'll see Wolf. You'd better go, but do be careful!"
"You bet your boots!" said John, and went.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It may have been pure luck, or it may–as the children ever afterwards believed–have been part of the spell that had sent them back in the nick of time to help Wolf that John should have found that very evening a chance to come near the Duke.
It was a very long chance, and no more than a chance. The children's father had often told them that luck, in life, depends largely on oneself. We are given chances, and after that it is up to us. If we have neither the courage nor the wit to grasp them and follow them up, then they are gone, and gone for ever. At least we must try. The people who never do so are those
who spend an old age of regret and bitterness. Which is all to say that, late on that same evening, the chance came, and, dangerous though it was, John took it.
After he left Margaret in the secret room he made his way back towards the kitchens, and soon was plunged once more into the frantic business of fetching and carrying. He felt himself safe enough from discovery. People were recognizing him now, and calling him Hans, and not Lionel. No one had time to remember that they had not seen him before today.
It was John's turn to serve wine. It was much simpler to carry the big jug round, refilling the goblets, than it had been to run to and fro with platters of food. He had time to watch the people at the top table.
Tonight the Duke looked very regal. He wore a long robe of dark crimson, trimmed with fur, and he had a gold circlet on his head, like a crown. He still wore the amulet. Beside him sat Prince Crispin, equally splendid in amber velvet. John watched him with interest. Crispin was very like his father, and had, as Margaret had observed, the same rather pale and tired look, almost as if the same spell were working on him as on his father. Almeric, on the Duke's other side, looked alert and cheerful, and talked busily to the lady beside him. For the ladies were in the hall for the evening meal, as grandly dressed as the men, and eating just as much.
Drinking, too. To John's eye, the table manners were awful. People grabbed food from the platters before they were set down, and sopped their bread in the common dish even after they had been chewing it. They handed each other gobbets of meat with their fingers, and drank from one another's cup. If your own cup chanced to be empty, you drank from your neighbour's yelling (usually with your mouth full) for the nearest page with the wine-jug.
The manners farther up the hall were a good deal better, and at the top table they were almost normal, but down at the kitchen end of the hall the pages were almost run off their feet, as men and women stuffed themselves with food, and drank more and more, and got noisier and noisier, until some of them even slept where they sat, their heads on one another's shoulders, or on the table itself, among the greasy remnants of the meal.