Bookweirdest Page 18

  “Is anyone injured?” the voice asked. Norman didn’t immediately recognize it, but Meg of course knew it right away.

  “Jerome!” she cried out in relief. “You’re safe!” She jumped to her feet and embraced the young archivist. He staggered back at first, abashed and surprised by the greeting, but soon returned her hug.

  “Yes, I’m quite safe. I watched you from here. You were fearless on the ledge. I thought you were afraid of great heights.”

  Suddenly self-conscious, Meg released Jerome and, apparently not sure what to do with her hands, began to brush the dust from her clothes. “Well, I think Norman and Malcolm have cured me of that, though I may have a little problem with blood after what I’ve just witnessed.”

  Norman frowned and looked away. This childhood relationship between his mother and Jerome made him uncomfortable.

  “Are Father Lombard and Sir Hugh all right?” Jerome asked. “I tried to watch from here, but I could not see anything.”

  “They’re fine, Jerome,” Meg assured him. “Black John’s men took all the casualties. Our furry Robin Hood put on quite a show back there.”

  “Robin Hood?” he asked, unaware of the reference. The hero of the moment interrupted. “We ought to be moving.”

  The obedient young archivist shook his head. “Sir Hugh told me to stay here.”

  “But Black John is still out to get you,” Norman argued.

  “That’s surely a mistake. What would the Duke of Nantes want with me?”

  Norman opened his mouth to say something, but Meg silenced him with a sharp look. “They’re right. We need to hide, or even better, to leave the fortress. You were meant to have left for England today, were you not? Where is Godwyn? Is he ready to go?”

  As a veteran of the bookweird, Norman could see that she was doing her best to get the book’s plot back on its original track.

  Jerome shook his head solemnly. “Godwyn was injured in the fire. He breathed in a good deal of smoke. He will not be able to travel for some time, and I fear—”

  He was interrupted by the sound of horse hooves. The children rushed to the window, but even through the narrow slats of the blinds, they could tell that there was no horse in the courtyard. As the clatter of hooves came closer, they realized that the sound was coming from inside the fortress.

  “Black John?” Norman asked nervously.

  Tunnels

  The childish whoop from the corridor answered Norman’s question. Whoever was riding his horse through the fortress was now singing the theme to the Lone Ranger TV show. It could only be Kit.

  Malcolm poked a head out the door to check, but Kit must have already known where to find them. “Hi-ho!” he cried, ducking down from his perch on Raritan’s back to peer in on them all. “Let’s get out of here. Who wants a ride?”

  Meg flung the door open. “Kit, this has to stop! You are destroying this book. You need to get out of this fortress.”

  “Lighten up, Sis,” he protested. “I’m not destroying anything. This is what it’s all about!” Now that his cover was blown, he had dropped his royal airs and any pretence of belonging in the book. His sister shook her head sternly. “It’s not what it’s all about.”

  “Come on, Mega-Sis,” he teased. “Let’s go—me and you and the kid. We’ll be the new Intrepids.”

  “Don’t you dare—” Meg retorted in a rage.

  Raritan interrupted her. “Maybe you two children could have this discussion later.”

  He was right. This was not an argument you should be having in the corridor of a desert stonghold when you are riding a unicorn and being chased by angry knights. His deep voice put a stop to the argument at once.

  “Miraculous day!” Jerome cried. He had been gazing at the unicorn in silent awe, until the creature had actually spoken. “Do all the princes of England ride fabulous beasts?”

  “You bet!” Kit replied, all traces of his princely accent gone. “The Queen rides a seahorse down the Thames! Come to England with us, kid, and I’ll buy you a flying pony.”

  “Kit!” Meg shouted, but she did not have time to finish her lecture. Black John’s reinforcements had arrived. Their angry shouts could be heard echoing around the corridors.

  With that, they were on the run again.

  “See you later!” Kit cried as he tapped Raritan’s flanks with his heels. “If I remember this book right, there’s something about a well and a palm tree.”

  Norman had not got that far into The Secret in the Library. As he hurried down the hall after the childhood version of his mother, he hoped that she knew what Kit was talking about.

  Noises bounced and carried strangely through the baked-clay passages of San Savino. At times they were sure that they were about to be found out. The sound of chain mail jingled and resonated behind them, and they would quicken their pace until the same sounds were heard ahead of them, at which point they tiptoed forward, uncertain whether they were falling into a trap. So they ran and then crept, stepped warily and then ran full tilt, never sure whether they were running into or from danger, as they made their way out of the monks’ chambers and through the dining halls towards the kitchens and the cellars.

  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 sol
emn. “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.