The Ickabog(42)

But now the uncomfortable memories she’d tried to shut out came flooding in upon her. She remembered telling the scullery maid all about Mr. Dovetail’s treasonous speech about the Ickabog, and turning to see Cankerby the footman listening in the shadows. She remembered how soon afterward the Dovetails had disappeared. She remembered the little girl who’d been jumping rope wearing one of Daisy Dovetail’s old dresses, and the bandalore she’d claimed her brother had been given on the same day. She thought of her cousin Harold starving, and the strange absence of mail from the north that she and all her neighbors had noticed over the past few months. She thought too of the sudden disappearance of Lady Eslanda, which many had puzzled over. These, and a hundred other odd happenings added themselves together in Mrs. Beamish’s mind as she gazed at the little wooden foot, and together they formed a monstrous outline that frightened her far more than the Ickabog. What, she asked herself, had really happened to her husband up on that marsh? Why hadn’t she been allowed to look beneath the Cornucopian flag covering his body? Horrible thoughts now tumbled on top of one another as Mrs. Beamish turned to look at her son, and saw her suspicions reflected in his face.

“The king can’t know,” she whispered. “He can’t. He’s a good man.”

Even if everything else she’d believed might be wrong, Mrs. Beamish couldn’t bear to give up her belief in the goodness of King Fred the Fearless. He’d always been so kind to her and Bert.

Mrs. Beamish stood up, the little wooden foot clutched tightly in her hand, and laid down Bert’s half-darned sweater.

“I’m going to see the king,” she said, with a more determined look on her face than Bert had ever seen there.

“Now?” he asked, looking out into the darkness.

“Tonight,” said Mrs. Beamish, “while there’s a chance neither of those lords are with him. He’ll see me. He’s always liked me.”

“I want to come too,” said Bert, because a strange feeling of foreboding had come over him.

“No,” said Mrs. Beamish. She approached her son, put her hand on his shoulder, and looked up into his face. “Listen to me, Bert. If I’m not back from the palace in one hour, you’re to leave Chouxville. Head north to Jeroboam, find Cousin Harold, and tell him everything.”

“But —” said Bert, suddenly afraid.

“Promise me you’ll go if I’m not back in an hour,” said Mrs. Beamish fiercely.

“I … I will,” said Bert, but the boy who’d earlier imagined dying a heroic death, and not caring how much it upset his mother, was suddenly terrified. “Mother —”

She hugged him briefly. “You’re a clever boy. Never forget, you’re a soldier’s son, as well as a pastry chef’s.”

Mrs. Beamish walked quickly to the door and put on her shoes. After one last smile at Bert, she slipped out into the night.





Mrs. Beamish had been sitting at the kitchen table, mending.

By Abiyana, Age 11





The kitchens were dark and empty when Mrs. Beamish let herself in from the courtyard. Moving on tiptoe, she peeked around corners as she went, because she knew how Cankerby the footman liked to lurk in the shadows. Slowly and carefully, Mrs. Beamish made her way toward the king’s private apartments, holding the little wooden foot so tightly in her hand that its sharp claws dug into her palm.

At last she reached the scarlet-carpeted corridor leading to Fred’s rooms. Now she could hear laughter coming from behind the doors. Mrs. Beamish rightly guessed that Fred hadn’t been told about the Ickabog attack on the outskirts of Chouxville, because she was sure he wouldn’t be laughing if he had. However, somebody was clearly with the king, and she wanted to see Fred alone. As she stood there, wondering what was best to do, the door ahead opened.

With a gasp, Mrs. Beamish dived behind a long velvet curtain and tried to stop it swaying. Spittleworth and Flapoon were laughing and joking with the king as they bade him good night.

“Excellent joke, Your Majesty, why, I think I’ve split my pantaloons!” guffawed Flapoon.

“We shall have to rechristen you King Fred the Funny, sire!” chuckled Spittleworth.

Mrs. Beamish held her breath and tried to suck in her tummy. She heard the sound of Fred’s door closing. The two lords stopped laughing at once.

“Blithering idiot,” said Flapoon in a low voice.

“I’ve met cleverer blobs of Kurdsburg cheese,” muttered Spittleworth.

“Can’t you take a turn entertaining him tomorrow?” grumbled Flapoon.

“I’ll be busy with the tax collectors until three,” said Spittleworth. “But if —”

Both lords stopped talking. Their footsteps also ceased. Mrs. Beamish was still holding her breath, her eyes closed, praying they hadn’t noticed the bulge in the curtain.

“Well, good night, Spittleworth,” said Flapoon’s voice.

“Yes, sleep well, Flapoon,” said Spittleworth.

Very softly, her heart beating very fast, Mrs. Beamish let out her breath. It was all right. The two lords were going to bed … and yet she couldn’t hear footsteps …

Then, so suddenly she had no time to draw breath into her lungs, the curtain was ripped back. Before she could cry out, Flapoon’s large hand had closed over her mouth and Spittleworth had seized her wrists. The two lords dragged Mrs. Beamish out of her hiding place and down the nearest set of stairs, and while she struggled and tried to shout, she couldn’t make a sound through Flapoon’s thick fingers, nor could she wriggle free. At last, they pulled her into that same Blue Parlor where she’d once kissed her dead husband’s hand.