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Chapter Ten
INTO THE PALACE
On Thursday morning the Punchkins returned to the palace, reassured by Melohtar’s note and feeling cheerful and confident once more. The same sentry, or perhaps it was another one, dismissed them with a contemptuous motion, but at the sight of a couple of silver coins he readily agreed to introduce the Punchkins to his sergeant. After the changing of the guard at mid-morning he allowed them to follow him into the parade square of the palace. The sergeant surveyed the Punchkins even more contemptuously from the height of his restless black charger; but the dauntless Mr. Proudfoot launched into another eloquent plea. Backed up, this time, by gold – a purse tossed up by Fortinbras and snatched into the possession of a black gauntlet – this appeal was also successful. The sergeant would not undertake to introduce the Punchkins to any of the palace staff, but he would pass them on to his own superior officer, Lieutenant Sorquid, the second-in-command of the Palace Guard or Arostiri.
The Punchkins were conducted to the waiting-room. Today they had it to themselves; they also had their lunch with them, and a pack of cards to pass the time with. At the hour when even the most convivial luncheon must come to an end, Lieutenant Sorquid at last appeared. He was tall, flushed and arrogant; he wore a greedy smile, being confident of getting a great deal of gold out of these wealthy foreign simpletons. Mr. Proudfoot, still unabashed, began a third time to introduce himself and to state the Company’s purpose, but he was cut short by a crude statement of the necessary bribe, one which came as a great surprise. This sum, the Lieutenant explained, would secure an introduction to the Lord Chamberlain, who had charge of the King’s appointments.
The Punchkins considered bargaining with the Lieutenant. The cruel dangerous look in his eye dissuaded them. They took a deep breath, and the agreement was made. They promised to bring the cash next morning. ‘No, bring it now,’ was the response, one which admitted no demurral. So back to the inn they must trudge, and then out again, with a good half of the bandits’ gold carefully wrapped and covered with sacking at the bottom of their cart. All of them except Mr. Proudfoot were beginning to feel that the townsfolk were casting supercilious glances, or laughing derisively behind half-turned backs. They returned to the hall of waiting. Tim left with the cart. The others were conducted through, and then waited apprehensively for the return of Lieutenant Sorquid. He presently appeared, along with two black-clad henchmen. These counted the money and took it away. Then with no word, but snapping his fingers loudly, the Lieutenant beckoned the Punchkins to follow him. He stalked off with jingling spurs, up the steps and through the door at the farther end of the waiting-room.
The Punchkins were through this door at last, but the gloomy vault that it led to, the grimy doorways, the fetid passages and ill-lit staircases were all unlike what they expected of a royal palace. There were many other folk about: officials in black, sentries, pages in fancy costume, serving-maids listlessly mopping the floor, lounging footmen, and other figures, civilians not employed in the palace, distinguished by the greater richness of their garb and also by their set, aloof, preoccupied expressions. The Punchkins trotted along through the endless passages, following the swift, unaccommodating strides of their conductor, and came at length, on an upper floor of the building, to a region where windows were brighter, walls cleaner, the ambient mood calmer yet more purposeful. The Lieutenant stopped before a panelled door, so suddenly that the Punchkins almost ran into him. He struck it once with his heavy fist, then opened it and waved them through. ‘The Lord Chamberlain will see you shortly,’ he said.
This room was merely an ante-chamber, filled with the kind of furniture and stationery that had become numbingly familiar. However, the dozen bright daffodils that stood in a jar below the narrow window struck a pleasanter note. Before the Punchkins was another door, with a carved escutcheon mounted above it, and beside this door, opposite the window, a short dark Man had got down from a tall stool and was offering them his hand.
‘Hi there,’ he said politely. ‘I am the Lord Chamberlain’s scribe. My name is Quendil. And you, as I see, are the Punchkins. This is an honour.’ He was a gnomelike fellow, balding and unshaven about the jaw; his age was difficult to guess, but the grip of his gnarled hand was strong. His eyes were bright, and his voice, despite its urbanity, had a warmth and richness that somehow reminded them of the Demesne. They shook hands with him and introduced themselves. ‘The Lord Chamberlain is within,’ he said, ‘but he has instructed me to give you such assistance as you may require.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘We applied to speak to him on the understanding that he will be able to arrange for us to meet the King.’
‘Excuse me: why do you wish to speak to the King?’
Mr. Proudfoot indefatiguably explained it all over again. The others, who by this time were filled with new misgivings, were glad enough to shelter behind his eloquence, but to Aldred it had begun to sound less convincing – inflated, rather, like a bladder blown up as large as it would go.
‘I see,’ said Quendil. ‘Pray excuse me for a moment.’ He opened the inner door and closed it firmly behind him. A faint sound of voices came from the farther room. After a few minutes he reappeared, frowning. ‘My master presents his compliments. He regrest that he is occupied with business. He has much to do with planning the wedding of Her Royal Highness. But I am at your disposal and will give you such help and advice as I can.’
‘Can you to take us to see the King?’ asked Fortinbras.
‘No, good sir, I cannot. Nor could my master. The best person for you to approach would be Engwe the Lord Secretary. Dear me, you look sadly distraught. Come, there’s a window-seat just outside.’
The Punchkins followed him to the alcove of a large bay window, with a bench, on which they all sat down. It was appalling to think that Lieutenant Sorquid might have taken their money under a false pretence; it was sickening, and they felt really sick.
‘For a commoner of the City to obtain an immediate interview with His Majesty is difficult, no doubt, but it can be done,’ said Quendil, slightly gesturing with open hands. ‘To obtain such, you would need to be introduced by someone like Lord Engwe, of Councillor’s rank, which the Lord Chamberlain is not. However, I am willing, for Sorquid’s credit, to suppose him uninformed of that rule. My master does regularly speak to His Majesty, and if it was a matter of less difficulty, or if it was something he felt His Majesty would not dislike being bothered with, he might be persuaded to speak up for you. But, as it is…’
‘As it is, my good sir,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, now recovered, in heavy and somewhat loud tones, ‘we are Punchkins. From the Demesne. On an official embassy. The Demesne is under the protection – of the Northern Shield. I do not believe – that the King of this land – will ever be found so neglectful – so complaisant – as to flout and disregard the representatives of his Demesne, the loyallest and not the least important of his possessions!’
‘Your faith in him does you credit,’ said Quendil kindly, ‘and what’s more, you are entirely in the right. I’m in a position to know how much we, and all in Ruminas, depend on you people for our daily bread. And so is he, of course. What about a letter? Could you not address your petition to him in writing?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. He unlocked his satchel. ‘This scroll is the official letter from the Aldermoot, that’s our own council, which we are charged to deliver to His Majesty in person. But here, in this envelope, is a letter from ourselves, stating the reason for our presence and humbly beseeching the favour of an interview.’
‘Give it to me,’ said Quendil. ‘I will make sure that it is delivered. He will read it tomorrow morning.’
After a brief hesitation Mr. Proudfoot handed the second letter to him. ‘Thank you,’ said Aldred and Fortinbras.
‘However,’ said Quendil, ‘I cannot assure you of any immediate response from His Majesty. I advise you, still, to accept an introduction from the Chamberlain to Lord Engwe. The only catch is, I think, that Engwe will require a fee.’
Their faces fell again.
‘You paid a great deal to Sorquid, did you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Fortinbras.
‘Engwe will probably require as much again.’
‘That will leave us with almost nothing left,’ said Fortinbras thoughtfully. ‘Nothing to get home with, anyway. And what about you, by the way?’
‘I? No bribes for me,’ answered Quendil. ‘This receiving of you is part of my job, which is to assist the Lord Chamberlain. He’s a decent man. He’s not the sort to… Excuse me, gentle Punchkins. Yes, Mistress?’
This last was addressed to a young Woman who had stopped in the passageway, close by them. A few other people had gone past, but all had ignored the group sitting in the alcove. She wore a severe black dress, and her hair was tightly drawn back, braided and pinned in a bun. ‘Quen,’ she said, looking at the Punchkins with wide blue eyes, ‘I’ve got all the paperwork for the Princess’s new wall-hangings, and curtains, and bed-stuff. Can I pass it to you for payment?’
‘Certainly,’ said Quendil.
‘All right. I’ll send them round straightaway. But these…’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Quendil.
‘No. I mean yes. Are these the little Punchkins? Are you? You must be.’
They had all stood up. ‘Little but laudable, my dear young Woman,’ said Mr. Proudfoot with a gallant bow. ‘I am so pleased to find that you have heard of us.’
‘My mother met you,’ she said.
This very surprising statement caused a long moment of silence, long enough for Aldred to form a conclusion in his mind. ‘And you,’ he said, also bowing, ‘are Lady Wencela, Mistress of the Royal Wardrobe, are you not?’
Now requires to be told, what Aldred had hitherto been keeping discreetly hidden: that he alone of the Company, of the Punchkins and Swin and Melda, had retained any memory of Bryd of the tribes of the Forhoth, the Woman whose escape they had brought about, who had kept company with them for a day, cooked their supper and told them her sad story. On the following morning Aldred had realised that not only was she gone, but the others had forgotten all about her. Why they had so forgotten, and why he alone remembered, were perfect mysteries. He had wondered if some kind of spell of forgetting had been cast over them all; and decided that if that were so, it would be best for him to keep his own counsel.
‘Yes. Hi!’ she said.
‘We did have the pleasure of meeting your mother,’ Aldred went on, disregarding his friends’ astonishment. ‘I’m glad to find, then, that she reached you safely.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Give her our regards when next you see her, and say that we were sorry she had to disappear so suddenly.’
‘Oh, but she was ever so grateful to you!’ burst out Wencela. The others, listening and puzzled, now saw her as a very attractive young Girl, not far into her twenties, her unguarded manner strikingly at odds with the bleak impersonality of their surroundings and the buttoned-up formality of her court dress. Severe as this was, however, with the narrowest bands of lace at neck and wrists, it served to display the ample curves of her figure; and her ingenuous face, with its large regular features, was also beautiful. ‘And she was worried about you! Said you hadn’t a clue where you was going!’
‘She was quite right,’ said Aldred, ‘But we’re learning. Can you help us, do you think?’
Quendil shook his head. ‘I think not,’ he said.
But she felt the appeal. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’d like to if I can. You fought the robbers and you lost two of your friends. You saved my Mum.’
‘Did we?’ asked Fortinbras.
Aldred flapped a hand, the unbandaged one, to silence him. ‘She told us about your place in this household. She had a favour to ask too. Did His Majesty receive that request kindly?’
‘Oh, he was very kind, wasn’t he, Quen? He had you in to write a letter straightaway. He wrote to the commander of the South.’
‘We also have a favour to request,’ said Aldred. ‘We need to see the King. In person.’
‘Wencela, gentlemen, Punchkins, please do listen,’ Quendil broke in. ‘I strongly advise you not to venture on any such irregular path. There is a difference between the favour this young lady succeeded in obtaining, on behalf of her parents, and the favour you want. Hers was a matter of mere sentiment, a private kindness, whereas yours must impinge on policy. I’ll handle your letter and the Chamberlain will also communicate with Lord Engwe. If you return to your lodging and wait, I expect that you’ll hear from Engwe or from His Majesty himself within a couple of days.’
‘Thank you very much, Master Quendil,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘We are grateful to you for your wise and serious advice. Yet this matter is too strange to be ignored. Aldred, how do you know this young Lady? My damsel, how do you know of us?’
Quendil shook his head in exasperation. ‘Very well, very well! Wencela, I’ll leave them to you for fifteen minutes. When I come out of my office you Punchkins must be here, and you, Wencela, must go and do your work. Otherwise I wash my hands of the whole business.’
The door closed behind him. ‘Now,’ said Wencela, ‘We need to talk in private. Would you boys like to come along with me?’
And so the Punchkins found themselves following a new guide. But this walk ended almost at once, as she unlocked another door with a small key. The new room, cluttered and dimly lit, was nothing more or less than a large broom-cupboard, full of brooms, brushes, buckets, tubs and jars. The dark window was overhung with cobwebs, and mice ran across the floor as the Punchkins crowded in. There was nothing to sit on. Waltrot closed the door. They faced the young Woman eagerly. Aldred rapidly summarised his part of the story, and Wencela added her mother’s.
‘So, my damsel,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, again using the respectful form of address, ‘may we come to the King by you?’
‘I’ll tell you how you may,’ she answered, ‘but you know I can’t answer for him? He’ll be cross with me, and I guess I can handle that, but he may be cross with you too… You know his health’s not good? He doesn’t often leave the palace now. His doctors have told him he needs the fresh air. So if it’s warm and sunny, he usually rests outside for an hour after lunch. He likes me with him then, and no-one else. Now there’s a nice garden close by the royal apartments. It’s small and private. The court people aren’t allowed in at all. No-one comes there except the gardeners. What not many people know is that the garden is at the edge of the palace grounds – it’s right up against the outer wall: there’s glass bottles along the top, but it’s not even very high at that point. And there’s trees growing just inside. You can bring a ladder –’ she paused, and perhaps blushed a little; but her face was dark against the dim light, her expression hard to read. Involuntarily she smoothed back her perfectly-neat hair – ‘and I won’t deny it’s been done before, let’s just say I’ve had reason to keep it secret – you can bring a ladder up to the wall on the other side, and climb over, and get down by one of the trees. The other side is an alley between two equal walls. It’s meant to be a secret way out from the palace and there is a postern, but that’s always locked and I don’t know where the key is.’
Having blurted out this secret, she looked around at them, perhaps a little doubtfully. The Embassy looked up at her with very serious expressions, except for Waltrot, whose face was overspread with a delighted grin. He took it upon himself to ask, on behalf of the Company:
‘And how does one find the entrance to this splendid secret alley of yours, my good damsel?’
Her skirts were scented, thick and voluminous, and as she towered over the Punchkins she seemed dark and massively female; but her speech held nothing of darkness or deceit. She gave them directions to the alley.
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