20
Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were stirring something with sticks in a large cauldron when Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight entered the magic workshop.
“I think we need a little more angelica, my love,” mumbled Sir Lamorak. The stick he was holding in his snout almost slipped out as he spoke.
“More angelica? Yes, you could be right.” The Fair Melisande turned to the books, which were playing hide-and-seek under the table. “Would one of you be kind enough to fetch us a pinch of powdered angelica?”
Grumbling, the smallest book set off for the next room.
“Well, how’s it going?” asked Igraine. “When will the magic potion be ready?”
“Potion? Oh, goodness me, we don’t drink it, honey!” replied Melisande. “We just have to take a bath in it, understand? The giant’s hairs have dissolved nicely. Now the whole thing has to steep in a magic vessel for six hours, and then we pour it into a tub down in the bathhouse and mix it with warm water. I think we’ll be ready to start turning back into human form as soon as the sun sets.”
“Yes, and by midnight at the latest we’ll have turned that Osmund into the nastiest creature we can think of,” said Sir Lamorak. “What’s the wretch doing now?”
“Oh, Albert has everything in hand,” said Igraine. She didn’t mention the drawbridge and the strawberry jam. Her parents had enough worries of their own.
“Did Albert tell you there could be a little problem while we take the magic bath?” asked her mother.
The book came back with the angelica, climbed up on Melisande’s bristly back, and tipped the powder into the ginger-colored brew. A delicious smell rose to all their noses.
“Another problem?” asked Igraine anxiously.
“I’m afraid so, my dear.” Sir Lamorak gave the brew another good stir and then threw his stick into the corner. “This transformation will need all the magic power available at Pimpernel. So your mother and I are afraid that our defenses — er — won’t be operating at full strength while we’re taking the magic bath. Do you see what I mean?”
Igraine frowned. “You mean the gargoyles, the lions, the water snakes, the magic spell on the moat …”
“… will be out of action.” Her father finished the sentence for her. “So to speak.”
This was clearly bad news. Very bad news. “Then Albert is going to have his hands full,” murmured Igraine. “How will he manage? He can’t be everywhere at once. How long will it take your magic bath to work?”
“About an hour,” replied Sir Lamorak. “If none of the books fall in. If they do, it will take a bit longer. They’re rather clumsy sometimes.”
“An hour!” Worried, Igraine went to the window and looked out. The sky had clouded over. It was raining. But Osmund’s soldiers were still bombarding Pimpernel with arrows, fire, and stones. They had already built new wooden footbridges for crossing the moat, and now they were making rafts and trying to shoot ropes with iron hooks attached up to the battlements. There was only too good a view of all this from the tower. Igraine even saw horses pulling a mighty battering ram toward the castle. Although several men were urging them on, they were making slow progress, but at some time or other they would reach the moat. Were they planning to break down the castle walls with the battering ram, or make a hole in the drawbridge? More work for Albert, thought Igraine, turning her back to the window. A gloomy silence filled the workshop.
Until the Sorrowful Knight cleared his throat.
“When exactly do you mean to work your shape-changing magic?” he asked the two pigs.
“We can get into the tub at sunset,” replied the Fair Melisande. “Osmund usually stops attacking about then, but he’ll probably notice that our magical defenses are down, because I am sorry to say that the gargoyles snore heavily when they fall into a deep sleep of that kind, and the lions don’t look very terrifying, either.”
The Sorrowful Knight nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Then there’s only one way to make sure that you are undisturbed. I will challenge Rowan Heartless, whom you call the Spiky Knight, to single combat at sunset. I am sure Osmund will pause in his attack on your castle while his castellan takes up my challenge. And his soldiers will want to watch us, too. No one will notice that Pimpernel is almost undefended, and you can regain your proper shapes without any danger that the castle will be captured.”
What on earth was he talking about?
“But you said you couldn’t defeat him!” cried Igraine. “You said you feared him more than anything in the world! No! Pimpernel is our castle, so …” Igraine looked as determined as she possibly could. “… so I’ll distract Osmund’s attention by challenging the Spiky Knight myself.”
“You, honey?” squealed her horrified parents.
But the Sorrowful Knight put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her gravely, much too gravely for her liking.
“Noble Igraine,” he said. “Your fearless heart does you great credit. But sometimes fearlessness is not a good counselor. You must learn to fear some things, and to judge your own strength properly. A girl of twelve, however brave, cannot possibly face a battle-hardened knight like Rowan in combat. He will hold you up to derision and tread your pride in the dust. No. I will fight the Spiky Knight — if he accepts my challenge. I only hope I can keep him occupied a little longer than I did at our last meetings. But at least I am a fit and proper opponent for him. Can you understand that?”
Igraine bent her head and wiped some dove droppings off her armor. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she muttered. “But I’m worried about you.”
That made the Sorrowful Knight smile. “There’s no need, believe me. Rowan Heartless takes no pleasure in killing his opponents. He prefers to humiliate them again and again. And he wouldn’t want to deprive himself of that pleasure by killing me, do you see?”
Igraine nodded.
“Good. Then let us return to your brother on the wall and see if Rowan has come back yet, shall we?”
“Er … noble Knight of … er, the Mount of Tears!” Sir Lamorak cleared his throat several times. “I thank you heartily for your unselfish offer. And I … er … hope we can do you a similar great service when we have our magic powers back, don’t you agree, my love?”
The Fair Melisande bowed her bristly head. “There are no words for the gratitude we owe you, sir!” she said.
“Don’t mention it!” replied the Sorrowful Knight, returning her bow.
“Well, come along, then, books!” Sir Lamorak turned. “Time to pour the concoction into the magic vessel.”
The books rolled up their sleeves, gathered around the tub, and raised it from the floor. Then, panting and gasping, they carried it into the next room.
“It only works if the Books of Magic pour the concoction into the vessel with their own hands,” Sir Lamorak whispered to the Sorrowful Knight. “They usually spill quite a bit, and they hate physical work, too, but this particular spell demands it.”
Side by side, the two pigs trotted after the groaning books. In the doorway, Melisande turned once more. “Oh, Igraine,” she said, “could you send Albert up to us as soon as he’s free? He has to make it snow in the next room so that the concoction will cool down more quickly.”
“Yes, of course,” said Igraine, but she could think of only one thing. The Sorrowful Knight was determined to fight Rowan Heartless.
