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Chapter Eleven
TWO MEETINGS
On Friday everything seemed to go flat. The weather turned cold, dull or rainy. The Punchkins sat in their room at the inn and waited for letters, or else ventured out on cautious explorations. They did not try to call on Swin. It was accepted among them that they and he would do better to keep themselves apart. Two days went past, three days, four. The rain beat on the leaded window-panes and the coils of pipe-smoke twined and thickened in their stuffy room. Mr. Proudfoot wrote letters to Clemo’s and Caradoc’s families, while Fortinbras, Tim and Waltrot told stories or played games. By now all the Punchkins except Aldred had pretty much recovered from the wounds of their battle. Fortinbras had had a doctor take the stitches out of his cheek. Aldred’s wounded side was healing, but his hand had swollen up again and his arm was beginning to swell up too; the side of his neck and jaw had become tender, and he was having many moments of dizzy faintness. In his own thoughts he wondered if that mysterious influence which had robbed his friends of a day’s memory, had not also bestowed on them a gift of quick healing, even beyond the natural resilience of Punchkins. The fourth day began dull and wet like the others, but just before lunch the sun came out, and then in all minds but Aldred’s the thought was the same.
It hardly needed to be discussed. They were tired of doing nothing: it was obvious that no letter would come: the afternoon was turning out fine: now was the moment to follow Wencela’s instructions and beard the King in his private lair. Yet the consensus was imperfect, for Aldred was not happy with the plan. He thought it rash: he was in favour of continuing to wait for a letter. Quendil’s promise, he said, had come from a mature political sense, unlike the youthful boldness of Wencela. However, since Aldred was too ill to come in any case, his opinion only half-mattered. After lunch he spoke against the plan, was respectfully heard and then outvoted four to one. His friends said goodbye and went to bargain with Mr. Gough for the loan of a ladder. Ten minutes later, looking out of the window, Aldred saw them drive off in the cart with the ladder, the cartwheels splashing through the glistening ruts and puddles of the street.
He then noticed a familiar figure that was approaching, on foot, from the other direction: Swin. He had come to the inn after all. Aldred saw him look up at the dragon-mask and hesitate as he had done before. This time he overcame his reluctance and entered. Aldred’s spirits rose. Swin’s step thudded briskly up the wooden staircase: the noise sounded cheerful and uncomplicated. He came in and was at once full of kindly concern. Talk of doctors and medicines (or ‘leechcraft’ as Swin called it) was followed by Aldred’s explaining where his friends had gone; and then by an extraordinary, dreamlike tale from Swin.
‘But who were these Women?’ Aldred asked.
‘Ladies. Wealthy dames of the City. Ask me no more, my friend, for I shan’t tell you.’
Aldred sank back onto his pillow. His hand turned back and forth on the coverlet.
‘Is the pain bad?’ asked Swin.
Aldred nodded.
‘I am sure Melohtar would welcome you to his house. His father is hospitable. They’d hire the best skill of the City to treat you.’
‘…Thank you. It does depend how long we stay. I have a feeling that Egwise will want to be returning home very soon. And we’re informed that the Demesne is only a couple of days’ journey from here. I think I’d get all right, once I was home… This City is enough to give anyone a fever, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. And maybe we’ve talked enough,’ said Swin. ‘I’d better not tire you out.’
‘No, go on,’ said Aldred. ‘There’s something that makes me extremely curious. Do you remember, or have you still forgotten the Woman, Bryd, who joined us?’
Swin had pulled a chair up to the bedside. Composed and grave, he sat down opposite Aldred, whose question made him lean forward a little with narrowed eyes. ‘I know whom you’re talking about,’ he answered, ‘though my memory is still unclear. At the time, it all went. But a little came back this morning.’
‘I wonder,’ murmured Aldred slowly, ‘if you also discern a hand? …a presence? …a female presence? I felt it when that young Girl took us into the broom cupboard…as if something else was expressing itself through her, something larger than her. And…how all these Ladies do seem to pop up and down, and afterwards no-one can remember why or explain why… Wouldn’t you agree that these mysteries…are beginning to have a recognisable quality? …a flavour?’
‘Oh, of course,’ answered Swin. ‘I mean – er – you must be very perceptive to have seen so much.’
‘Well, go on,’ said Aldred after a pause. ‘You’ve just given yourself away.’
‘Well –’
‘Come, speak of it! You are already aware of this presence. You must have met it again. Or met her again… Is that what happened this morning?’
‘It was embarrassing,’ said Swin, crossing his legs. ‘Not the most dignified scene. All right. No doubt you’ll help me to understand it better.
‘Melohtar said I’d better keep quiet, keep inside his house and not draw attention to myself. So that’s just what I’ve been doing, these last few days, and like our friends I found myself getting bored. There’s nothing to do when you’re stuck in a house, unless you like reading books. I see you’ve got a couple here. You and Melohtar would get along very well together… But being in the middle of this crazy City makes it worse. You’re right, it’s feverish. There’s that smell of burning all the time, and so much racket, and even at night-time it never seems quiet.
‘So all yesterday I was prowling round the house, and this morning I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I had this silly sort of dread in my stomach. What I was dreading, or what I thought I was dreading, was the wedding-feast. It’s a bit difficult for a poor bloody barbarian to master all the niceties! Do you know they have about ten different knives, and forks, which are enough of a challenge on their own, let me tell you, all set at each place on the table? And you have to use every one correctly, and in order, and if you make one single mistake you get kicked out of the banquet and pelted with rotten eggs, or pilloried, or dumped in the river, or some other such shameful ignominy. I’ve been taking lessons from the butler, and Dryhten knows I’ve been doing my best to adapt myself ever since I got here, but…it’s been a struggle.
‘So there I was in bed, getting into a sort of panic, and suddenly I knew I had to get out. Go for a walk by myself. Get out of the craziness for a while. So I slipped downstairs and escaped from the house without anyone knowing. Melohtar will certainly scold me later. I went up to the west side of the City. The gate wasn’t open, but I managed to climb over the wall. It was still dark, so I thought no-one saw me. I took the path to the lake, which I wanted to see. Even though it was a gloomy drizzly sort of morning I soon cheered up. It felt so good to get out of the town. I walked through the wood, and past the fishermen’s huts and the women cutting reeds, and then along the shore of the lake. I had the idea of seeing the ruins of the ancient city. Melohtar said they’re worth a visit. So I walked along the pebbly strip and the grass for a couple of hours, six or seven miles, maybe, until I was well away from all signs of other people; I came round a headland, and saw another arm of the lake, and there were the ruins, broken walls and columns striding out of the water, arches stained by the birds and tufted with green weeds like hair, and the big cracked blocks of masonry sunk in the drifts of wet pebbles, and the flocks of water-birds, and the lake gleaming grey, and the hills beyond with their tops hidden in the cloud. Amruminas, it was called.’
‘The royal city of ancient Athenor,’ said Aldred.
‘It’s big. It goes on inland, but it gets covered by bushes and spindly trees. I fancied a swim – I really wanted to get clean of the City – so I took my clothes off and put them into a sort of cave in one of the walls, where there was an arch still whole, to keep them dry. Then I swam around for a while and explored the ruins that are below the surface, all overgrown with waving weeds. Was the city built out onto the the lake, or has the lake risen a lot since then? After a while the rain started to come on harder. I thought I’d come out; and then I saw her, that woman, sitting on the stone bench, just where I’d left my clothes and my sword. I didn’t recognise her at first, not at all. She was wearing a dark cloak with the hood up and a long dark skirt. I came in towards her, wading till the water was around my waist. I felt embarrassed. The rain was splashing on my head and shoulders and pricking the surface all around. And then I called out, “Good morning!”
‘Maybe it should have been just Hi! but I don’t know. I had the feeling – had it right away – that the etiquette really mattered. As if I were being tested on it.
‘ “Good morning, Swin Gumasson!” says she, very clear.
‘ “You know my name, then, madam,” says I. “Have I had the pleasure of your acquaintance?” Plague it, ever since I’ve been in this damned town I’ve been trying to get their social rituals right, but it’s crazy: sometimes there’s far too much of them and sometimes they’re missing altogether.
‘ “I’m Bryd Ammasdaughter,” says she. “We have met before.”
‘ “Oh yes,” says I, “I’m starting to remember. How are you?”
‘ “I’m very well, thank you. And you? You look in good health.”
‘I swear, we went on and on like that, for at least five minutes. It could have been ten, or fifteen. Finally I thought I’d worked my way through enough small-talk, to shout:
‘ “It’s been a pleasure to meet you again, madam, but I want to come out and get dressed.”
‘ “Then do so,” says she.
‘ “Madam,” I said haughtily, or shouted haughtily, “I am unclad!”
‘ “Yes,” she said, “your clothes are all dry here. Come and put them on.”
‘ “Well, would you kindly MOVE?” This time I bellowed at her and startled some birds. She made no answer. And I saw that she wasn’t going to move, whatever I said. She had some purpose in staying there. And though I do enjoy the cold water, my teeth were chattering by this time and my balls were starting to freeze. So all I could do was come out, just as I was. There was nothing to pick up, nothing to cover myself with. I splashed up on the stones and pebbles and went up to her with all the dignity I had, which wasn’t much. She kept her eyes right on me. But I saw how tense she was herself, still sitting there like a statue, except that she got up as I came near. She put out her hand to me, and we shook hands. Her fingers were as cold as mine. I saw that she’d covered my clothes with something as well – some kind of wrapping to keep them dry.
‘ “Lady Bryd,” says I, “what’s the meaning of this?”
‘ “It’s a test,” says she. “Your third.”
‘ “Oh yes?” says I: “Who’s testing me, and what were the first two?”
‘ “The first one was with Ayarg’s band,” says she. “The second was given to you by the seven women. And as I am told, you passed it triumphantly.”
‘We hadn’t let go of hands. And when she reminded me of that time, my – I – you know, I raised my spear in salute. It stood right up, cold and shivering as I was. And we both looked at it. And she wasn’t being flirty, nor lustful, nor disdainful either. She just said, quite plain:
‘ “What a splendid weapon.”
‘I said, “Thank you,” and she said, “Now, what will you do?” and I didn’t answer. I used the towel and got dressed as quickly as I could. Then she said, “Sit here, while it’s still pouring, and talk to me, if you will.” And I said, “Willingly: and while we sit, madam, will you not answer a few questions of one who finds himself blindfolded and teased by events?” She smiled at that, and so I went on, “What enchantment was laid on our company, so that we lost all memory of our meeting with you? And why was it so laid?”
‘Then she flicked out her went cloak to straighten it, and some drops flew off. “She whom I serve, she who sent me out to meet you here this morning, is the same one who bewitched your minds. Besides the test I spoke of, I am here to give you a message. Look yonder, where the southernmost point of the lake disappears into a valley between two interlocking hills. You see? That is the outflow of the Belechel. Follow that stream downwards a mile, and then you will come to her dwelling place. You are summoned. Come this evening at sunset.”
‘ “Summoned, eh?” says I, feeling a bit offended.
‘ “Or invited. When you come, you will be told and will understand all.”
‘ “But it’s Melohtar’s stag-party tonight,” says I, and the rain starts to come down really hard, drumming on the stones and shingle and hissing into the lake. “And besides, I’m not sure that I like this employer of yours,” I add. “Consider this third test. Was it for you to surprise me, and to present yourself defenceless before me, in order to prove my quality? To take your chance of being assaulted, perhaps murdered? Or was it not a genuine test? Are you now under some kind of protection?”
‘She said, as if it didn’t matter very much, “We both felt sure that you wouldn’t murder me. But I am genuinely unprotected. Yet I feel safe with you now, so I think you’ve passed.”
‘ “So that’s all right then,” said I, “but it doesn’t make me think any better of her who sent you!” I said, “Suppose I hadn’t passed? Don’t deny that you were in fear of me!”
‘She looked at the lake, and she said calmly, “Mortals, no doubt, would call her ruthless. Pitiless, maybe. Lawless. Soulless. She does as she judges fit. And yet, for you to respect me as you have done,” she went on, “took some soul. Some pity. Some sense of law and self-restraint. Think of these things. I cannot say more to you now, but think how it might be that you are needed.”
‘Which was all very well, but I still felt annoyed. I said, “I take it ill, to be thus summoned! You must tell her I can’t come this evening. I’ll come tomorrow, if I can. After the wedding-feast. All right?”
‘She sighed, and said, “Well, I hope so.”
‘We chatted for quite a while longer, until all the strangeness had gone out of the meeting. I offered to escort her back to the City but she said she was going the other way. She took out something I thought was a walking-stick with a crook handle, but then I saw it was one of those funny inventions they use here – a waxed cloth shelter on a little pole.’
‘An umbrella,’ said Aldred. ‘We use them in the Demesne too.’
‘And so we went our separate ways. It was a shame. I’d enjoyed talking to her. She asked after you and the others, but I couldn’t tell her much. I looked back once and saw her, dark and small against the flat grey bars gleaming pewtery and silvery; she was holding up the umbrella-thing, moving along the margin of the water until she disappeared behind a green headland... And then I came back myself.
‘What do you make of it, then?’
‘It was very interesting,’ said Aldred, ‘and there was a lot of power in it. Somehow it has made me feel…sleepy. Thank you very much. I believe I really could sleep now. Just measure me out a spoonful of that medicine, would you please?’
Swin picked up the blue glass bottle and poured out the dose. Aldred took it from the held spoon like a child, and then sank back peacefully.
‘Don’t go to her, Swin,’ he said suddenly, opening his eyes. ‘Or if you do, beware of the blindfold.’
Swin forbore from asking what that meant. He saw Aldred’s eyes close again. He bent over and kissed his forehead, and Aldred fell asleep.
When he woke up, it was evening. His hand still hurt, but the fever had abated and he felt much stronger. While he waited for his friends to return, he pondered on Swin’s strange experiences. As for theirs of the afternoon, it was a long time before he heard the tale told in full; but the matter demands to be recounted now, in its proper place.
Tim and Fortinbras had reconnoitred the entrance to the walled alley, which was largely blocked up by old barrels and casks, rusty hoops and rotten staves, the refuse of an adjoining cooper’s yard. The Punchkins arrived without drawing any special attention to themselves. Working quickly, they got the ladder over the piles of rubbish and carried it a hundred yards, as far as the locked gate of the palace grounds. The enclosed alley was very quiet. Weeds were sprouting up between the cobbles and standing against the walls on either side. Tim and Waltrot set up the ladder below the overhanging branches of a likely-looking tree. The companions shook hands all round, wished each other luck, and then began to climb: first Fortinbras, then Tim, then Mr. Proudfoot, then Waltrot.
Fortinbras saw their quarry immediately. On the other side of a green lawn, on a wooden seat in front of a hedge, two figures were sitting together: a Man dressed in rich but sombre clothes, and a young Woman in a bonnet and a light frock. The latter was Wencela, as expected, and the former could be recognised from his likeness on the coins of the realm. Fortinbras took one out of his pocket and compared it, just to be sure. To make things even easier, the tree, a stately cedar, had strong spreading branches that sloped gently downward. With a wave of his arm Fortinbras beckoned to his friends, and then crept on to the nearest branch. The next minute, King Oresgal of Thandor looked up and was startled by the sight of four strange little figures that jumped down or lowered themselves from the branch to the ground.
They advanced towards him, doffed their absurd jingling hats and knelt down on the sunlit turf. Mr. Proudfoot spoke:
‘Pardon us, Your Majesty! Pardon four loyal subjects for this intrusion! Hold it not against us, we pray! Naught but extremest need, coupled with our esteem for your kingly magnanimity, could have impelled us thus to approach you! Behold, we have an urgent errand, and through us your whole Demesne addresses you in supplication!’
The birds twittered in the trees while the Punchkins waited, not daring to look up, their knees soaking in the soft wet grass. The sun was warm on their backs. At last they heard the King’s quiet reply: ‘Rise and speak.’
And so Mr. Proudfoot launched into his last appeal. While he orated the others had opportunity to study the King they had travelled so far to meet. Oresgal was about fifty years old, and below medium height and build. He wore a dark brown jacket, tightly buttoned up, with a collar of sable fur. Inside this, a white scarf was partly hidden by his short grey pointed beard. On his head was a low-crowned hat; knee-breeches, of the same stuff as his jacket, led down to his thick woollen stockings and brown shoes with shiny golden buckles. Above his knees, a pair of white hands grasped the handle of a plain walking-stick. One large gold ring was set on the middle finger of his right hand. Then – his face? Pale, somewhat sallow, with unremarkable features: a few grey locks straggling down on either sides, with wispy grey eyebrows over dark eyes. No, the eyes were remarkable: they seemed not to shine at all, to lack any sheen of wetness. Dark brown they were, very dark indeed, and hooded with inner secrecy.
‘Permit me, Your Majesty, first of all to introduce myself and my companions,’ Mr. Proudfoot had been saying, and presently, ‘…has gone astray, I doubt not, or has had to take its place among the many documents that must constantly engage Your Majesty’s attention. I have another with me here, which I beg to place in your hands; in it the particulars of our plantings, yields, levies and tributes are fairly and accurately set forth. Great is the abundance of our land; three in four parts of all its harvests are now proceeding into the storehouse of Your Majesty’s officer, the Reeve, and of this we would not complain, knowing and not doubting the necessity of Thandor, rejoicing rather and boasting in our ability to sustain her whose shield has protected our freedom for so long. Yet now this officer, Bartrob, has proclaimed that the levies are to be increased by three eighth-parts once again. The very land can hardly bear it, and neither can we, and nor can Your Grace: for if we were to send you the entirety of our sustenance, that would still be insufficient to meet the demands, and when we starve to death there will be none left to till the ground. Justice, O King, justice and policy alike dictate the removal of this your officer, who alone can be the author of such tyrannous requirements; whom we know not, but who has suborned many of our own people as spies and gatherers, creating strife, setting hand against hand, homestead against homestead, so that civil broils threaten us Punchkins who have always dwelt together in peace. We are convinced that he is no true servant, nay more, we most respectfully urge Your Grace to inquire whether his greed has not cheated your coffers by misappropriating what we have gladly and dutifully given. Let your stewards compare his imposts and returns with these figures which, upon my word of honour, are true. Heavy and multifarious must be the affairs which occupy the King of the Northern Realm; yet, believing that this matter cannot be considered the least of them, we beg Your Majesty to look forgivingly upon the manner of this desperate appeal from the heart of your Demesne.’
The listening King had been sitting quite still, and he remained still for some moments longer. The corners of his mouth drew down a little. The moments seemed age-long, but, ‘Very well,’ said he at last: ‘Give me the letter.’
The Punchkins’ hopes rose. Mr. Proudfoot took out the large scroll and handed it to him with a bow. The King read the superscription, broke the seal and rapidly scanned the letter. It was long, about seven feet, and closely written in the legal handwriting of the Punchkins, which could not have been very easy for him; but as he unrolled and rolled the letter from top to bottom, it seemed to the petitioners that he was taking in everything that was written. Their spirits rose further.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, it was brave of you to come all the way to give this to me. I will accept it.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ Mr. Proudfoot said, and the others murmured in agreement.
‘You must be feeling very anxious.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘But your mission is now completed, is it not?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘You may go back to your people and tell them that I’ve heard their complaint, and that the matter will be attended to.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
‘But I do wonder how you discovered your way to approach me. Wencela, do you know anything about this?’
‘I told them, sire,’ she said nervously. She had not once looked at the Punchkins. ‘You see –’
‘I thought so. Go and fetch a guard.’
She left. The King surveyed the four Punchkins standing before him. Then he smiled.
‘You must have been having a perplexing time in this City of ours. I congratulate you on your courage and determination. But I wouldn’t want you to go away with a wrong impression, so I’ll give orders for your to be suitably treated before you go.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
‘And now that I have the opportunity, I’d like to ask a question if I may.’
‘Assuredly, Your Majesty.’
‘Do you have any traditions among your people about the theft of the fruit from the Tree?’
The Punchkins glanced at one another with troubled faces. Mr. Proudfoot made no answer, so Fortinbras spoke up for the first time.
‘Only a few old songs and garbled rhymes, Your Majesty. That a temple actually exists, and that there is a real tree inside it, are truths that were unknown to us.’
‘Our historians tell that it was at the consecration of our temple, a hundred and thirty years ago, that Punchkins were last seen in Ruminas. They had been officially invited, along with representatives of many other peoples. And they stole a fruit. The one and only fruit that there ever has been. It caused a terrible scandal.’
‘I would not presume to doubt Your Majesty’s word,’ said Fortinbras with some difficulty. ‘The scandal must have been very great indeed, so great as to require to be hushed up among us completely. Tell us, if you would – what happened next?’
‘The matter was lost sight of. The Dragon came, and the whole Kingdom was in emergency, and the war started. The Punchkins and the fruit were never found. So –’ Wencela was returning with a guard – ‘if you ever come across something that looks like a sacred Tree, in the Demesne, send us word, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Goodbye, Punchkins.’
‘Goodbye, Your Majesty.’
The Punchkins swept off their hats and bowed – lower that before, and with smiling faces. The King spoke briefly to the guard in an undertone. This guard, they saw, was the sergeant whom they had bribed. He escorted them out of the small garden and round a corner of the great building. They tried to exchange a word with him, but he scarcely spoke. The sun had disappeared some time ago, and more clouds were coming over. The Punchkins thought with pleasure of their promised treat: they were feeling relief, and a sense of success, and now they had a good appetite for a meal. The sergeant met three more guards, whom he ordered to follow on behind. The whole party entered a side-door, went down a flight of stone steps, crossed a large low room, empty except for a long dirty table with the remnants of a meal, down another, longer descent of steps, through a doorway and along a narrow corridor. The Punchkins began to be a little surprised at the direction they seemed to be taking; and they were dumbfounded when the sergeant opened a door with a meshed window, the door of what was obviously a prison-cell: dark, stone-paved, unfurnished.
‘In here,’ he said harshly.
Seeing that the Punchkins failed instantly to obey, he and two of his Men seized them with strong hands and shoved them inside. The door slammed and then clicked. Fortinbras and Waltrot both fell to the floor. Mr. Proudfoot struck his head on the opposite wall. On what they felt and said during the next half-hour – their confused feelings of disbelief, fear and misery – there is no need to dwell. At the end of that time worse apprehensions were roused by a dim sound that floated down the stairs and stone passages: a Woman’s shrieks of pain. Then, with a noise of marching feet, the escort returned. At swordpoint the Punchkins were taken back to the guard-room, where a crowd of about fifty people had assembled. About half of them were soldiers; the rest were palace servants, Men and Women. They had been brought down to witness the punishment. Quendil was among them. He looked at the Punchkins with a face full of sorrow. The table had been pushed to one side; in the middle of the room a short, stout wooden post had been set up; a Woman was tied to it by her wrists. She was naked to the waist. Her back was marked with bloody weals, her frock torn and bloodstained. She moaned pitifully while a stocky guard untied her hands.
‘What has happened to her?’ asked Fortinbras, loudly, to the company at large.
The answer came from a tall-plumed figure. ‘His Majesty’s Mistress of the Wardrobe,’ said Lieutenant Sorquid, dark against the light, standing at the top of the stairs from the entrance, ‘is guilty of breaching the security that ought to surround His Majesty’s person. She has received six strokes of the lash. Furthermore she is demoted to scullery-maid. Let the leader of the Punchkins now declare himself.’
Mr. Proudfoot stood irresolute, his face shocked and blank, his mouth working silently. Fortinbras glanced at him, then took two paces forward.
‘The Embassy of the Demesne protests!’ he said forcefully. ‘Whatever offence this poor girl –’ But then one of the guards hit him on the side of the head, knocking him over. The Man who had undone Wencela’s wrists indicated with a jerk of the chin that she was to leave. The beaten, humiliated Girl stumbled from the room. All eyes followed her, but no-one moved except Fortinbras, who picked himself up and again stood facing the accuser.
‘The King has taken into account that the chief perpetrators of this crime are outside Thandor’s jurisdiction and therefore cannot formally be arraigned. Informally, therefore, they will each undergo ten strokes with the short whip of seven tails. They will then express gratitude for His Majesty’s clemency.’ Sorquid licked his finger and turned over a page of the charge-sheet he held. Unmistakable satisfaction was exuding through his arrogant, official tone. ‘The Punchkins Proudfoot, Dyer, Hardedge and Bottlebanks will then depart from His Majesty’s dominions with all speed, being gone from this City by first light tomorrow, on pain of His Majesty’s informal but more severe displeasure. The Officer of Correction will now inflict punishment.’
This officer was the stocky, shambling figure. He reached down to Fortinbras and yanked at his collar. Fortinbras, understanding what was required, indignantly took off jacket and shirt. His wrists were tied to the whipping-post and the ten blows given.
‘Now express gratitude to His Majesty,’ said Sorquid, grinning audibly, ‘in your own words. Try to sound sincere.’
Fortinbras looked up. He had bitten his lip. Blood was trickling down his chin. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘Why, ten more strokes! Like this! Officer!’
At the seventh additional stroke Fortinbras fell over. He received the last three lying on the wet bloody flagstones. The other Punchkins took their turn. Tim and Waltrot managed to make their thank-yous sound sincere enough to avoid any further punishment. Mr. Proudfoot, who came last, was able to utter only a low mumble; but this too was accepted.
They have not much recollection of what happened after this. They found themselves outside the palace. The cart and ponies had been brought round and were now returned to them. Rain was falling. Mr. Proudfoot and Fortinbras sat shivering in the box. Waltrot took the reins and Tim sat beside him, helping him. Fifteen minutes later they were back at the inn.
The innkeeper happened to be out. Mrs. Gough asked no questions, but quickly brought out a pot of soothing ointment and a clean sheet which she and Bentley tore up for bandages. When the Punchkins’ backs had been attended to, Fortinbras, Waltrot and Tim could sit on stools round the fire, each with a bowl of good hot soup. Mr. Proudfoot would neither eat nor talk, so they undressed him and laid him in his bed. The others talked fitfully, and Aldred learned as much of the disaster as he then needed to know. He also learned that the others were all banished form the City at dawn tomorrow. But the talk seemed somewhat meaningless. It was too far away from their sense of the utter failure of their mission. They recalled the King's words, suitably treated, which now seemed full of deliberate mockery.
A little later, after darkness had fallen, they heard a scuffling sound from the bedroom in which Mr. Proudfoot lay. Aldred went to check up on him. He had kicked the bedclothes off and was now lying on his back, his eyes wide open and unseeing. His breathing was slow, loud, stertorous. From one side of his mouth, which hung ajar like an ill-fitting door, a thread of spittle glistened in the candle-light.
Mr. Gough was still out, and none of the inn-servants were free, so Aldred and Waltrot, who of the five were in best shape, hurried off to fetch the doctor, the one who had previously attended to Fortinbras’s and Aldred’s injuries. It was a dark wet night. Many of the street-lamps were out. The two Punchkins drove along, menaced by the larger vehicles, ignored or shunned by the passers-by, oppressed with a sense of futility. And when three footpads, street robbers, stepped from behind a dark corner and grabbed the ponies’ traces, it seemed to Waltrot that the Embassy’s progress through the royal City of Ruminas had come to a fatal but natural, even a predictable conclusion.
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