The Kingdom of Carbonel

12

Conspiracy

John put a restraining hand on Rosemary’s arm.

‘It may be Cat Country, but they are enemy cats. We can’t rush in without spying out the land first!’

Rosemary nodded. Then she turned to the rocking chair.

‘Chair, dear! Thank you for bringing us so splendidly!’ she whispered.

‘Yes, rather!’ said John. ‘Almost as good as a jet.’

‘And much, much more quietly!’ added Rosemary quickly. ‘Wait for us, chair. I don’t think anyone will see you tucked away here. We won’t be long, at least I hope not.’

‘Come on!’ said John. ‘Bother, it’s gone dark again.’

They waited till the trailing wisp of cloud had drifted across the face of the moon and the silver light flooded out. The tree they had thought was a ventilator shaft seemed to have redoubled its size. The trunk was wide and strong and scored with the claw sharpenings of innumerable cats. Crouching on the little bank where the tree grew, they peered through tall grass and catnip which grew thickly along the top. On the other side, the bank sloped steeply down to a little hollow from which a stream bubbled. It chuckled along, winding and weed-fringed, toward a thicket of slender trees, where it disappeared underground, still talking to itself.

‘It doesn’t look like water. It’s white,’ said Rosemary.

But John was not listening. ‘If this is Cat Country, it’s funny there isn’t a cat to be seen!’ he said.

‘There are the voices again!’ whispered Rosemary.

‘Cross voices they sound, too!’ said John. ‘That’s where they come from, that little clump of trees. Come on. We’d better not take any risks, even if we can’t see any cats. Keep your head down and follow me!’

The ground was broken by low patches of undergrowth. Crouching low, they crept down the bank and made their way in a series of little runs from bush to bush. When they reached the last one large enough to hide behind, they were within easy reach of the trees. Rosemary was just going to stretch her cramped back when John pulled her down again.

‘Look at that rock a few feet away!’ he breathed. Rosemary looked. On the top, sitting so still that he might have been part of it, was a cat. His eyes were the merest slits of emerald green. As they looked, the slits disappeared altogether. His eyes were closed. At the same time, a second cat leaped up on to the rock beside him. Instantly the green eyes opened wide.

‘It’s all right, Noggin!’ said the first cat hurriedly. ‘I was only having a little think, and I can always do it better with my eyes closed.’

‘No good sentry thinks,’ growled Noggin. ‘I suppose, like all the others I’ve just inspected, you were thinking there’s no need to keep your eyes open because the Flying Women are here. Well, you’re wrong! There may be two more about, enemy ones, a Flying Boy and a Flying Girl.’ John nudged Rosemary. ‘Her Royal Greyness has just sent word.’

‘I don’t hold with humans in Cat Country,’ said Swabber sulkily. ‘It’s never been done before, and I don’t like it.’

‘No more than I do,’ said Noggin. ‘But orders is orders. And if the next sentry is “thinking”, I’ll just pull his whiskers for him!’

Still grumbling, Noggin slipped silently off the rock and loped away across the moonlit grass.

Swabber waited until he was out of sight, and muttering something about ‘a lot of fuss’, curled up and promptly went to sleep.

‘Now!’ whispered John with his mouth so close to Rosemary’s ear that it tickled.

They crept from the shadow of the bush, thankful for the covering noise of the little stream, and once around the rock they ran to the shelter of the thicket. Just as they reached it, Rosemary stumbled.

‘Ow!’ she exclaimed.

‘Shut up!’ hissed John.

‘It’s all very well!’ whispered Rosemary indignantly, hopping up and down and holding her shin. ‘I stepped on something crackly, and it bit me!’

They looked down. There on the grass was a broom. It was made from a bundle of twigs bound on to a handle, the sort that is used by gardeners – and witches. It was tethered to one of the little trees.

‘It must be the new broom Miss Dibdin made, and they must have both ridden on it after all!’ said Rosemary.

The voices sounded very close now. John and Rosemary crept from tree to tree, hardly daring to breathe, until John put out a warning hand. Looking over his shoulder, Rosemary saw a small open space in the middle of the thicket. In the centre was a tree stump, and on it sat what was clearly Her Royal Greyness. She was a beautiful, grey Persian cat with brilliant green eyes. There were several other animals grouped around her, sitting among the plants which grew thickly in the little clearing. The green eyes turned restlessly from one to the other of the two women seated on a low rock in front of her.

Mrs Cantrip and Miss Dibdin, quite undisturbed by their royal company, were arguing hotly. Mrs Cantrip had lost a shoe again, and her lank hair had escaped from the very large pins which usually kept it fairly tidy, but she seemed quite unruffled. Miss Dibdin, on the other hand, was clearly in a bad temper. Her hat was crooked and her trim suit was rumpled and untidy. While the children watched, she took off her hat and tried to readjust her bun.

‘If you didn’t enjoy it, it’s your own fault,’ Mrs Cantrip was saying. ‘You would come, though I warned you, and you made the broom yourself, so I don’t see you’ve anything to grumble about. As I told you, it takes years to train a broomstick to fly smooth and obedient with only one person up, let alone two!’

Miss Dibdin muttered something indistinctly because her mouth was full of hairpins.

‘Ah, I’ve known some broomsticks in my time,’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘I had one once – McShuttle it was called – made of the best Scottish heather. A beautiful, smooth movement it had.’ Her eyes had a faraway look in them, and she went on in a singsong voice, ‘From Pole to Pole we went once, in a single night, without so much as a jolt or jar, and obedient –’

‘Oh, I know!’ interrupted Miss Dibdin crossly. ‘It singed its tail in the Northern Lights, and you never knew till you got home again. You’ve told me dozens of times. I’m sure I said all the things over my broom you told me to, when I bound the twigs on, and I used all the Flying Philtre there was. There’s not a drop left. Now if only the rocking chair –’

‘The rocking chair!’ said Mrs Cantrip with withering scorn. ‘Armchair flying! Soft, all you young witches nowadays! Do you think I’d be seen dead in it if I had not gone out of business? Not I! Now, when I was young –!’

‘Ladies, ladies!’ broke in the voice of Queen Grisana. It was a soft languid voice. ‘Let us have no unpleasantness! There is nothing I dislike so much. Now let us have a cosy little chat together and I will tell you why I have summoned you.’

The voice seemed always to have a slight purr behind it, but the green eyes flashed hard and brilliant from one to the other.

‘It seemed to me that we might strike a bargain. I can be frank, because there is no danger of our being overheard. I have forbidden my people to use this high place tonight. It can be reached only by two paths which are closely guarded. My sentries will give instant warning if they see anything unusual. These children you mentioned, have you any reason to suspect that they know anything of our meeting?’

‘The meddlesome brats are the only ones who could get here. They’ve stolen my Flying Chair. I’m uneasy in my bones. Reliable my bones is, as a rule,’ said Mrs Cantrip.

‘Then let us be quick in what we have to say,’ purred the grey cat. She lowered her voice, so that the children had to lean forward to hear her. ‘And what we say must never go further than this clump of trees. Now listen carefully!’

Mrs Cantrip and Miss Dibdin, their argument forgotten, craned forward. Grisana continued, ‘My dear husband is getting old. A better king and husband you could never find, but he has no ambition. Ambition!’ she repeated, lingering lovingly on the word. ‘My son, my handsome Gracilis for whom this scheme is planned, is in many ways like his dear father – he must hear no whisper of this – but I, I have enough ambition for the three of us.’

There was no purr behind her words now. Rosemary blinked. It was hard to believe that the steely voice they heard belonged to the same animal.

‘Fallowhithe and Broomhurst in a few days will be as one town,’ she rapped out. ‘One town, one King! And that shall not be Carbonel but Castrum, and I shall be Queen!’

She threw back her head, and a strangely triumphant, wailing cry rose on the night air, and sank again to a throaty murmur.

‘For your dear son’s sake, of course!’ said Mrs Cantrip dryly.

‘For my dear son’s sake!’ repeated Grisana, and once more her voice was soft and purring.

‘Well, I’m with you on anything that means trouble for Carbonel. We’re old enemies!’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘I hate him!’

‘I rather thought you did!’ said the grey cat sweetly.

The old woman rubbed the side of her nose with a bony finger.

‘What do you want us to do?’

‘Just this,’ went on Grisana. ‘If, on the day that the last wall of the last house goes up between the two towns, you could see to it that Queen Blandamour – disappears – no violence of course – there will be such confusion in Fallowhithe that, when my armies pour into the town, they will meet with little or no resistance. No bloodshed, and a minimum of unpleasantness. I do so dislike unpleasantness.’

‘It’s lucky for you that the Kings are out of the way answering the Summons. If you succeed, what will your husband do when he returns?’

‘What I tell him!’ purred Grisana very sweetly. ‘I told you he was growing old!’

‘And Carbonel’s kittens? I hear there are two of ’em,’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘They might prove a rallying point for the Fallowhithe cats even without Blandamour.’

‘True,’ said Grisana. ‘Perhaps they too had better… disappear! The sooner the better. That will spread a little alarm in advance. Most useful. The dear little things!’

John could hear Rosemary breathing hard with indignation, and he put out a restraining hand.

Mrs Cantrip chuckled. It was not a nice noise. She clapped her hands on her bony knees. ‘It’s as nice a bit of mischief as I’ve come across in a week of wet Wednesdays. In plain English, you want the three of them kidnapped? All right. We’ll do it!’ said Mrs Cantrip.

‘That’s all very well, but what do I get out of it?’ said Miss Dibdin huffily. ‘I haven’t been consulted!’

‘Ah, but just think, dear!’ the old woman wheedled. ‘You’ll maybe put all you’ve learned into practice! What a chance! Poor old Mother Cantrip can do no more magic now!’

‘And you shall have your pick of all the kittens in the two towns to bring up as your cat!’ said Queen Grisana.

‘That’s generous, dear! Don’t turn it down. I always say a good cat can make or mar a young witch’s magic.’

‘Very well,’ said Miss Dibdin grudgingly. ‘I’ll help. But I think you might have consulted me a little sooner.’

‘Then that’s settled,’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘Well, we’d better be off.’

‘I do hope the broom will behave better on the return journey,’ said Miss Dibdin, licking her lips nervously.

‘Better launch from the edge of the roof. It’ll be easier,’ said the old woman.

‘I must go, too,’ said Grisana. ‘My son will be curious if I stay longer, and that would never do. What we parents must put up with for the sake of our children!’ she purred affectedly.

John and Rosemary crouched among the valerian. The crushed leaves smelt evilly, but they dared not lift their heads to watch, so what happened next they could only hear. There was a pause during which they imagined that Her Royal Greyness and her attendants must have gone their silent way.

Then they heard Mrs Cantrip say, ‘She’s gone. As wicked a piece of cat flesh as I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Very satisfactory. “All for my dear son’s sake!”’ she mimicked. Then, in reply to a remark from Miss Dibdin which they did not hear, she added, ‘Not likely! It’s your broom, you can lead it!’

They heard the receding sound of a stick swishing through the grass. Cautiously they looked up. Miss Dibdin was leading the broom which alternately whipped around and lagged behind, like an unwilling dog on a lead.

‘Better duck,’ whispered John, ‘in case the broom should circle above us when it’s launched.’

They crouched in the grass once more.

There was a distant exclamation and a low laugh from Mrs Cantrip, and after a few moments’ pause there was a whirr above them.

‘They’re off!’ said John. ‘That’s funny, I thought I heard two things whizzing by!’

‘So did I!’ said Rosemary.

Both children sat up and gazed into the sky. Lurching down the wind was Miss Dibdin, clinging to the bucking broom for dear life. But beside her, travelling smoothly and easily, flew something else.

‘The rocking chair! Quick!’ said John. Together they dashed up the grassy slope over which they had crept with such caution. They scrambled up the little tree-crowned hill and peered anxiously over the other side.

‘It’s gone!’ said John. ‘They’ve taken the rocking chair!’

There was a dreadful pause. Then Rosemary said in a very small voice, ‘How are we going to get home?’