4

“What is it, Bertram?” asked the Fair Melisande as she and Sir Lamorak entered the Great Hall. Of course Albert had come with them, even though Igraine had sent Sisyphus to tell him that he at least was to continue working on her present. His hair was covered with silvery powder, and Igraine’s parents didn’t look much tidier, but all the same the Master of Horse bowed deeply to the Fair Melisande.

“Distressing news, Your Loveliness,” he said.

Igraine’s father raised his eyebrows. “Oh, no! Don’t say the old Baroness has …”

“No, no.” Bertram looked all around, as if the paintings on the walls might hear him. “No, she’s all right, but a few days ago she had an unwelcome visit from her nephew Osmund, the one who turned out so badly. Osmund the Greedy, everyone calls him. And he came with his castellan, who never opens his visor except to eat.”

“Oh, a knight?” Igraine was sitting on the long table where her great-grandfather Pelleas had carved his initials. “What sort of armor does he wear?”

“It has spikes all over it, from his helmet to the greaves on his legs,” said Bertram. “A nasty piece of work, just like the man inside it. Yesterday morning,” he went on, lowering his voice, “just when I was getting the horses fed, Osmund suddenly announces at the crack of dawn that the Baroness has gone on pilgrimage and won’t be back for a year at the earliest. And guess what: He claims she’s left him in charge of Darkrock and all her lands while she’s away.”

“The Baroness on pilgrimage?” Sir Lamorak frowned. “But she never leaves her room except to see that her horses are all right.”

“Or to drink spicy mead,” said Igraine.

“Exactly!” Bertram nodded. “No one saw her leave, and she didn’t go to the stables, either. Do you think she’d have gone away without saying good-bye to her favorite horse, Lancelot? Ask your daughter! She’s visited the Baroness often enough.”

Igraine wiped some dove droppings off her mail shirt. “Impossible,” she said. “The Baroness never even went to bed without visiting Lancelot first. And she poured a little spicy mead in his water before breakfast every morning — even though I kept telling her that spicy mead would do him no good at all.”

Albert frowned, which he could do quite impressively, and Igraine’s parents exchanged anxious glances.

“That certainly does sound peculiar, Bertram,” said Melisande. “What do you suggest we should do? Shall we go back to Darkrock with you? Shall we ask this Osmund to tell us exactly where his aunt went?”

But Darkrock’s Master of Horse firmly shook his head. “No, no, Your Loveliness! I haven’t come to ask you for help. I’m here to warn you. I think Osmund is a threat to your castle and your family.”

“A threat to us? How?” asked Albert, removing a mouse from his hair.

“It’s my belief …” Bertram looked around him again, as if fearing he’d be overheard. “It’s my belief this man Osmund came to Darkrock only to mount an attack on Pimpernel.”

“Indeed?” Sir Lamorak raised his eyebrows. “Well, well. I expect you have some reason for that suspicion?”

“He wants your Books of Magic, sir! His servants talk of nothing else. He’s planning to use your books to make himself the greatest magician in the world. And I assure you, when Osmund wants something he takes it. Not for nothing is he known as Osmund the Greedy.”

“Yes, I think I’ve heard a few stories about him and his castellan with the spiky armor,” murmured Sir Lamorak. “Not very nice stories. But his aunt the Baroness is such a charming old lady. Even if she does like spicy mead a little too much.”

“Osmund is stirring up feeling against you, sir!” Bertram went on. “He’s spreading word that you don’t deserve to own such powerful books if all you do with them is make trees blossom in winter and conjure up magical presents for your children!”

“Ah. I see,” murmured Sir Lamorak. A little silver powder fell on his shoes as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Osmund’s castellan is offering the villagers bags full of gold to tell him about the defenses of your castle,” said Bertram. “And that spiky brute puts his sword to the throats of those who don’t take his gold and keep their mouths shut. He wants to know everything — whether the stone lions can do anything apart from roaring, how dangerous the snakes in the castle moat are, whether the gargoyles can really devour arrows and spit fire.” Bertram looked at Sir Lamorak with concern. “The people of the village like you, sir. You’re kind and generous, you’ve helped almost all of them at some time or other. But Osmund’s castellan knows how to frighten them!”

“Those poor people,” said Melisande angrily. “Bertram, next time you’re in the village, would you be good enough to tell everyone they’re welcome to pass on all they know to that castellan? What can he discover that’s so important, anyway? And if this man Osmund really does attack us, then Lamorak and I will think up a few nice little magic surprises for him, won’t we, my love?”

“Definitely,” said Sir Lamorak.

“He will attack, Your Loveliness!” said Bertram, his voice husky with concern. “More soldiers are coming to Darkrock every day; heaven knows where Osmund finds them all. They’re streaming into the castle from all points of the compass, and his spiky castellan is bringing in horses, arms, and armor. As you know, the Baroness stored nothing but her barrels of mead in the prison tower, but Osmund is having the place fitted out as a dungeon again, and I’m afraid you’re meant to be his next guests in it.” Bertram shook his head. “Yes, I fear he’s going to come calling at Pimpernel Castle very soon, and it won’t be a friendly visit.”

“Ah, well!” Sir Lamorak sighed, and his eyes wandered over the portraits of his ancestors. “Pimpernel has had unwelcome visitors many times before, and all of them wanted the Books of Magic. But the books are still here. No, I’m not worried. The Baroness’s disappearance is a far worse headache. As soon as Igraine’s birthday is over, I’ll ride to Darkrock and find out whether our old friend has really gone on pilgrimage. But thank you very much for telling us all this, Bertram. Will you stay for dinner? Good heavens, I believe we haven’t even had breakfast yet!”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Bertram, bowing to Igraine’s parents and then to her and Albert, “but I must get back before anyone notices my absence. Do be careful, and please take my warning seriously!” Then he turned and walked to the door with a heavy tread.

“Wait a minute, Bertram!” cried Igraine, following him into the courtyard.

“Pull the drawbridge up the moment I’ve left, Igraine,” Bertram told her. “Bar the gates, and keep well away from Darkrock while Osmund is lording it there! No fencing practice with the servants, no secret rides on Lancelot! And I’m afraid you and I won’t be able to meet for some time.”

Igraine didn’t answer. She looked out of the gateway and to the east, to the place where the strange banner flew from the towers of Darkrock Castle.

“Don’t you think it might be useful for someone to spy on that Osmund?” she said. “I mean, he wouldn’t know who I am!”

“Don’t you dare!” Bertram picked up his reins. “I will personally throw you into the moat if I catch you at Darkrock. And I’ll never take you to a tournament like I promised! I’ve told you all there is to know about Darkrock at the moment, so enjoy your birthday, and pray for Osmund to die of indigestion before he can stretch his greedy fingers out to Pimpernel. Oh, yes,” he added, putting his hand into his saddlebag and bringing out a beautiful bridle, “and this is for your pony. A little present from me and the grooms so that you’ll remember us when you’re a famous knight. I know it’s supposed to be unlucky to give presents before someone’s birthday, but who knows when we’ll see each other again?”

“Oh, thank you, Bertram!” gasped Igraine, stroking the soft leather.

“See you sometime!” called the Master of Horse as he rode over the bridge and away. Back to Darkrock.