The Ickabog(44)

“No, I haven’t,” said the guard, “and what’s the boy done to have you lot chasing him?”

“He’s a traitor!” snarled Roach. “And I’ll personally shoot anyone who helps him, understood?”

“Understood,” said the guard. Roach released the man and he and his companion ran off again, their torches casting swinging pools of light on all the walls, until they were swallowed once more by the darkness.

Bert watched the guard straighten his uniform and shake his head. Bert hesitated, then, knowing this might cost him his life, crept out of his hiding place. So thoroughly had Bert camouflaged himself with all the earth, that the guard didn’t realize anyone was beside him until he saw the whites of Bert’s eyes in the moonlight, and let out a yelp of terror.

“Please,” whispered Bert. “Please … don’t give me away. I need to get out of here.”

From beneath his sweater, he pulled his father’s heavy silver medal, brushed earth from the surface, and showed the guard.

“I’ll give you this — it’s real silver! — if you just let me out through the gates, and don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. I’m not a traitor,” said Bert. “I haven’t betrayed anyone, I swear.”

The guard was an older man, with a stiff gray beard. He considered the earth-covered Bert for a moment or two before saying:

“Keep your medal, son.”

He opened the gate just wide enough for Bert to slide through.

“Thank you!” gasped Bert.

“Stick to the back roads,” advised the guard. “And trust no one. Good luck.”





While Bert was slipping out of the city gates, Mrs. Beamish was being shunted into a cell in the dungeons by Lord Spittleworth. A cracked, reedy voice nearby sang the national anthem in time to hammer blows.

“Be quiet!” bellowed Spittleworth toward the wall. The singing stopped.

“When I finish this foot, my lord,” said the broken voice, “will you let me out to see my daughter?”

“Yes, yes, you’ll see your daughter,” Spittleworth called back, rolling his eyes. “Now, be quiet, because I want to talk to your neighbor!”

“Well, before you get started, my lord,” said Mrs. Beamish, “I’ve got a few things I want to say to you.”

Spittleworth and Flapoon stared at the plump little woman. Never had they placed anyone in the dungeons who looked so proud and unconcerned at being slung in this dank, cold place. Spittleworth was reminded of Lady Eslanda, who was still shut up in his library, and still refusing to marry him. He’d never imagined a cook could look as haughty as a lady.

“Firstly,” said Mrs. Beamish, “if you kill me, the king will know. He’ll notice I’m not making his pastries. He can taste the difference.”

“That’s true,” said Spittleworth, with a cruel smile. “However, as the king will believe that you’ve been killed by the Ickabog, he’ll simply have to get used to his pastries tasting different, won’t he?”

“My house lies in the shadow of the palace walls,” countered Mrs. Beamish. “It will be impossible to fake an Ickabog attack there without waking up a hundred witnesses.”

“That’s easily solved,” said Spittleworth. “We’ll say you were foolish enough to take a nighttime stroll down by the banks of the river Fluma, where the Ickabog was having a drink.”

“Which might have worked,” said Mrs. Beamish, making up a story off the top of her head, “if I hadn’t left certain instructions, to be carried out if word gets out that I’ve been killed by the Ickabog.”

“What instructions, and whom have you given them to?” said Flapoon.

“Her son, I daresay,” said Spittleworth, “but he’ll soon be in our power. Make a note, Flapoon — we only kill the cook once we’ve killed her son.”

“In the meantime,” said Mrs. Beamish, pretending she hadn’t felt an icy stab of terror at the thought of Bert falling into Spittleworth’s hands, “you might as well equip this cell properly with a stove and all my regular implements, so I can keep making cakes for the king.”

“Yes … Why not?” said Spittleworth slowly. “We all enjoy your pastries, Mrs. Beamish. You may continue to cook for the king until your son is caught.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Beamish, “but I’m going to need assistance. I suggest I train up some of my fellow prisoners who can at least whisk the egg whites and line my baking trays.

“That will require you to feed the poor fellows a little more. I noticed as you marched me through here that some of them look like skeletons. I can’t have them eating all my raw ingredients because they’re starving.

“And lastly,” said Mrs. Beamish, giving her cell a sweeping glance, “I shall need a comfortable bed and some clean blankets if I’m to get enough sleep to produce cakes of the quality the king demands. It’s his birthday coming up too. He’ll be expecting something very special.”

Spittleworth eyed this most surprising captive for a moment or two, then said:

“Doesn’t it alarm you, madam, to think that you and your child will soon be dead?”

“Oh, if there’s one thing you learn at cookery school,” said Mrs. Beamish, with a shrug, “burned crusts and soggy bases happen to the best of us. Roll up your sleeves and start something else, I say. No point moaning over what you can’t fix!”