The Ickabog(40)

“Good morning, Beamish,” said Major Roach, who’d known Bert a long time, because of his friendship with Roderick. “What can I do for you?”

“Please, major,” said Bert, “please, I want to join the Ickabog Defense Brigade. I heard you’re needing more men.”

“Ah,” said Major Roach. “I see. And what makes you want to do that?”

“I want to kill the monster that killed my father,” said Bert.

There was a short silence, in which Major Roach wished he was as good as Lord Spittleworth at thinking up lies and excuses. He glanced toward Lord Flapoon for help, but none came, although Roach could tell that Flapoon too had spotted the danger. The last thing the Ickabog Defense Brigade needed was somebody who actually wanted to find an Ickabog.

“There are tests,” said Roach, playing for time. “We don’t let just anybody join. Can you ride?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Bert truthfully. “I taught myself.”

“Can you use a sword?”

“I’m sure I could pick it up fast enough,” said Bert.

“Can you shoot?”

“Yes, sir, I can hit a bottle from the end of the paddock!”

“Hmm,” said Roach. “Yes. But the problem is, Beamish — you see, the problem is, you might be too —”

“Foolish,” said Flapoon cruelly. He really wanted this boy gone, so that he and Roach could think up a solution to this problem of the mail coach.

Bert’s face flooded with color. “Wh-what?”

“Your schoolmistress told me,” lied Flapoon. He’d never spoken to the schoolmistress in his life. “She says you’re a bit of a dunce. Nothing that should hold you back in any line of work other than soldiering, but dangerous to have a dunce on the battlefield.”

“My — my marks are all right,” said poor Bert, trying to stop his voice from shaking. “Miss Monk never told me she thinks I’m —”

“Of course she hasn’t told you,” said Flapoon. “Only a fool would think a nice woman like that would tell a fool he’s a fool. Learn to make pastries like your mother, boy, and forget about the Ickabog, that’s my advice.”

Bert was horribly afraid his eyes had filled with tears. Scowling in his effort to keep from crying, he said:

“I — I’d welcome the chance to prove I’m not — not a fool, major.”

Roach wouldn’t have put matters as rudely as Flapoon, but after all, the important thing was to stop the boy joining the Brigade, so Roach said:

“Sorry, Beamish, but I don’t think you’re cut out for soldiering. However, as Lord Flapoon suggests —”

“Thank you for your time, major,” said Bert in a rush. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

And with a low bow, he left the Guard’s Room.

Once outside, Bert broke into a run. He felt very small and humiliated. The last thing he wanted to do was return to school, not after hearing what his teacher really thought of him. So, assuming that his mother would have left for work in the palace kitchens, he ran all the way home, barely noticing the knots of people now standing on street corners, talking about the letters in their hands.

When Bert entered the house, he found Mrs. Beamish was still standing in the kitchen, staring at a letter of her own.

“Bert!” she said, startled by the sudden appearance of her son. “What are you doing home?”

“Toothache,” Bert invented on the spot.

“Oh, you poor thing … Bert, we’ve had a letter from Cousin Harold,” said Mrs. Beamish, holding it up. “He says he’s worried he’s going to lose his tavern — that marvelous inn he built up from nothing! He’s written to ask me whether I might be able to get him a job working for the king … I don’t understand what can have happened. Harold says he and the family are actually going hungry!”

“It’ll be the Ickabog, won’t it,” said Bert. “Jeroboam’s the city nearest the Marshlands. People have probably stopped visiting taverns at night, in case they meet the monster on the way!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Beamish, looking troubled, “yes, maybe that’s why … Gracious me, I’m late for work!” Setting Cousin Harold’s letter down on the table, she said, “Put some oil of cloves on that tooth, love,” and giving her son a quick kiss, she hurried out of the door.

Once his mother had gone, Bert went and flung himself facedown on his bed, and sobbed with rage and disappointment.

Meanwhile, anxiety and anger were spreading through the streets of the capital. Chouxville had at last found out that their relatives in the north were so poor they were starving and homeless. When Lord Spittleworth returned to the city that night, he found serious trouble brewing.





When he heard that a mail coach had reached the heart of Chouxville, Spittleworth seized a heavy wooden chair and threw it at Major Roach’s head. Roach, who was far stronger than Spittleworth, batted the chair aside easily enough, but his hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and for a few seconds, the two men stood with teeth bared in the gloom of the Guard’s Room, while Flapoon and the spies watched, openmouthed.

“You will send a party of Dark Footers to the outskirts of Chouxville tonight,” Spittleworth ordered Roach. “You will fake a raid — we must terrify these people. They must understand that the tax is necessary, that any hardship their relatives are suffering is the fault of the Ickabog, not mine or the king’s. Go, and undo the harm you’ve done!”