‘At once, my lord,’ said Roach, bowing deeply, and he left.
‘How… how did my husband die?’ whispered Mrs Beamish.
‘Well, madam,’ said Spittleworth, speaking carefully, for he knew that the story he told now would become the official version, and that he’d have to stick by it, forevermore. ‘As you may have heard, we journeyed to the Marshlands, because we’d received word that the Ickabog had carried off a dog. Shortly after our arrival, I regret to say that our entire party was attacked by the monster.
‘It lunged for the king first, but he fought most bravely, sinking his sword into the monster’s neck. To the tough-skinned Ickabog, however, ’twas but a wasp sting. Enraged, it sought further victims, and though Major Beamish put up a most heroic struggle, I regret to say that he laid down his life for the king.
‘Then Lord Flapoon had the excellent notion of firing his blunderbuss, which scared the Ickabog away. We brought poor Beamish out of the marsh, asked for a volunteer to take news of his death to his family. Dear little Nobby Buttons said he’d do it, and he leapt up onto his horse, and until we reached Chouxville, I never doubted that he’d arrived and given you warning of this dreadful tragedy.’
‘Can I – can I see my husband?’ wept Mrs Beamish.
‘Of course, of course,’ said Spittleworth. ‘He’s in the Blue Parlour.’
He led Mrs Beamish and Bert, who was still clutching his mother’s hand, to the doors of the parlour, where he paused.
‘I regret,’ he said, ‘that we cannot remove the flag covering him. His injuries would be far too distressing for you to see… the fang and claw marks, you know…’
Mrs Beamish swayed yet again and Bert grabbed hold of her, to keep her upright. Now Lord Flapoon walked up to the group, holding a tray of pies.
‘King’s in bed,’ he said thickly to Spittleworth. ‘Oh, hello,’ he added, looking at Mrs Beamish, who was one of the few servants whose name he knew, because she baked the pastries. ‘Sorry about the major,’ said Flapoon, spraying Mrs Beamish and Bert with crumbs of pie crust. ‘Always liked him.’
He walked away, leaving Spittleworth to open the door of the Blue Parlour to let Mrs Beamish and Bert inside. There lay the body of Major Beamish, concealed beneath the Cornucopian flag.
‘Can’t I at least kiss him one last time?’ sobbed Mrs Beamish.
‘Quite impossible, I’m afraid,’ said Spittleworth. ‘His face is half gone.’
‘His hand, Mother,’ said Bert, speaking for the first time. ‘I’m sure his hand will be all right.’
And before Spittleworth could stop the boy, Bert reached beneath the flag for his father’s hand, which was quite unmarked.
Mrs Beamish knelt down and kissed the hand over and over again, until it shone with tears as though made of porcelain. Then Bert helped her to her feet and the two of them left the Blue Parlour without another word.
Chapter 17
Goodfellow Makes a Stand
Having watched the Beamishes out of sight, Spittleworth hurried off to the Guard’s Room, where he found Roach keeping watch over the rest of the Royal Guard. The walls of the room were hung with swords and a portrait of King Fred, whose eyes seemed to watch everything that was happening.
‘They’re growing restless, my lord,’ muttered Roach. ‘They want to go home to their families and get to bed.’
‘And so they shall, once we’ve had a little chat,’ said Spittleworth, moving to face the weary and travel-stained soldiers.
‘Has anyone got any questions about what happened back in the Marshlands?’ he asked the men.
The soldiers looked at each other. Some of them stole furtive glances at Roach, who’d retreated against the wall, and was polishing a rifle. Then Captain Goodfellow raised his hand, along with two other soldiers.
‘Why was Beamish’s body wrapped up before any of us could look at it?’ asked Captain Goodfellow.
‘I want to know where that bullet went, that we heard being fired,’ said the second soldier.
‘How come only four people saw this monster, if it’s so huge?’ asked the third, to general nods and muttered agreement.
‘All excellent questions,’ replied Spittleworth smoothly. ‘Let me explain.’
And he repeated the story of the attack that he’d told Mrs Beamish.
The soldiers who’d asked questions remained unsatisfied.
‘I still reckon it’s funny that a huge monster was out there and none of us saw it,’ said the third.
‘If Beamish was half-eaten, why wasn’t there more blood?’ asked the second.
‘And who, in the name of all that’s Holy,’ said Captain Goodfellow, ‘is Nobby Buttons?’
‘How d’you know about Nobby Buttons?’ blurted Spittleworth, without thinking.
‘On my way here from the stables, I bumped into one of the maids, Hetty,’ said Goodfellow. ‘She served you your wine, my lord. According to her, you’ve just been telling Beamish’s poor wife about a member of the Royal Guard called Nobby Buttons. According to you, Nobby Buttons was sent with a message to Beamish’s wife, telling her he’d been killed.
‘But I don’t remember a Nobby Buttons. I’ve never met anyone called Nobby Buttons. So I ask you, my lord, how can that be? How can a man ride with us, and camp with us, and take orders from Your Lordship right in front of us, without any of us ever clapping eyes on him?’
Spittleworth’s first thought was that he’d have to do something about that eavesdropping maid. Luckily, Goodfellow had given him her name. Then he said in a dangerous voice:
‘What gives you the right to speak for everybody, Captain Goodfellow? Perhaps some of these men have better memories than you do. Perhaps they remember poor Nobby Buttons clearly. Dear little Nobby, in whose memory the king will add a fat bag of gold to everybody’s pay this week. Proud, brave Nobby, whose sacrifice – for I fear the monster has eaten him, as well as Beamish – will mean a pay rise for all his comrades-in-arms. Noble Nobby Buttons, whose closest friends are surely marked for speedy promotion.’
Another silence followed Spittleworth’s words, and this silence had a cold, heavy quality. Now the whole Royal Guard understood the choice facing them. They weighed in their minds the huge influence Spittleworth was known to have over the king, and the fact that Major Roach was now caressing the barrel of his rifle in a menacing manner, and they remembered the sudden death of their former leader, Major Beamish. They also considered the promise of more gold, and speedy promotion, if they agreed to believe in the Ickabog, and in Private Nobby Buttons.
Goodfellow stood up so suddenly that his chair clattered to the floor.
‘There never was a Nobby Buttons, and I’m damned if there’s an Ickabog, and I won’t be party to a lie!’
The other two men who’d asked questions stood up as well, but the rest of the Royal Guard remained seated, silent, and watchful.
‘Very well,’ said Spittleworth. ‘You three are under arrest for the filthy crime of treason. As I’m sure your comrades remember, you ran away when the Ickabog appeared. You forgot your duty to protect the king and thought only of saving your own cowardly hides! The penalty is death by firing squad.’