‘I happened to hear Herringbone mention them,’ said Lady Eslanda. ‘They’re well-respected men, it seems. He was saying how important it will be for them to have a fair trial. I know King Fred will agree, because he cares deeply about his own popularity – as he should, for if a king is to be effective, he must be loved.’
Lady Eslanda did a good job of pretending that she was thinking only of the king’s popularity, and I think nine out of ten people would have believed her. Unfortunately, Spittleworth heard the tremor in her voice, and suspected that she must be in love with one of these men, to hurry downstairs in the dead of night, in hope of saving their lives.
‘I wonder,’ he said, watching her closely, ‘which of them it is whom you care about so much?’
Lady Eslanda would have stopped herself blushing if she could, but unfortunately, she couldn’t.
‘I don’t think it can be Ogden,’ mused Spittleworth, ‘because he’s a very plain man, and in any case, he already has a wife. Might it be Wagstaff? He’s an amusing fellow, but prone to boils. No,’ said Lord Spittleworth softly, ‘I think it must be handsome Captain Goodfellow who makes you blush, Lady Eslanda. But would you really stoop so low? His parents were cheesemakers, you know.’
‘It makes no difference to me whether a man is a cheesemaker or a king, so long as he behaves with honour,’ said Eslanda. ‘And the king will be dishonoured, if those soldiers are shot without trial, and so I’ll tell him, when he wakes.’
Lady Eslanda then turned, trembling, and climbed the spiral staircase. She had no idea whether she’d said enough to save the soldiers’ lives, so she spent a sleepless night.
Spittleworth remained standing in the chilly passage until his feet were so cold he could barely feel them. He was trying to decide what to do.
On the one hand, he really did want to get rid of these soldiers, who knew far too much. On the other, he feared Lady Eslanda was right: people would blame the king if the men were shot without trial. Then Fred would be angry at Spittleworth, and might even take the job of Chief Advisor away from him. If that happened, all the dreams of power and riches that Spittleworth had enjoyed on the journey back from the Marshlands would be dashed.
So Spittleworth turned away from the dungeon door and headed to his bed. He was deeply offended by the idea that Lady Eslanda, whom he’d once hoped to marry, preferred the son of cheesemakers. As he blew out his candle, Spittleworth decided that she would pay, one day, for that insult.
Chapter 20
Medals for Beamish and Buttons
When King Fred woke next morning and was informed that his Chief Advisor had retired at this critical moment in the country’s history, he was furious. It came as a great relief to know that Lord Spittleworth would be taking over, because Fred knew that Spittleworth understood the grave danger facing the kingdom.
Though feeling safer now that he was back in his palace, with its high walls and cannon-mounted turrets, its portcullis and its moat, Fred was unable to shake off the shock of his trip. He stayed shut up in his private apartments, and had all his meals brought to him on golden trays. Instead of going hunting, he paced up and down on his thick carpets, re-living his awful adventure in the north and meeting only his two best friends, who were careful to keep his fears alive.
On the third day after their return from the Marshlands, Spittleworth entered the king’s private apartments with a sombre face, and announced that the soldiers who’d been sent back to the marsh to find out what happened to Private Nobby Buttons had discovered nothing but his bloodstained shoes, a single horseshoe and a few well-gnawed bones.
The king turned white and sat down hard on a satin sofa.
‘Oh, how dreadful, how dreadful… Private Buttons… Remind me, which one was he?’
‘Young man, freckles, only son of a widowed mother,’ said Spittleworth. ‘The newest recruit to the Royal Guard, and such a promising boy. Tragic, really. And the worst of it is, between Beamish and Buttons, the Ickabog has developed a taste for human flesh – precisely as Your Majesty predicted. It is really astonishing, if I may say so, how Your Majesty grasped the danger from the first.’
‘B-but what is to be done, Spittleworth? If the monster is hungry for more human prey…’
‘Leave it all to me, Your Majesty,’ said Spittleworth soothingly. ‘I’m Chief Advisor, you know, and I’m at work day and night to keep the kingdom safe.’
‘I’m so glad Herringbone appointed you his successor, Spittleworth,’ said Fred. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Tish, pish, Your Majesty, ’tis an honour to serve so gracious a king.
‘Now, we ought to discuss tomorrow’s funerals. We’re intending to bury what’s left of Buttons next to Major Beamish. It is to be a state occasion, you know, with plenty of pomp and ceremony, and I think it would be a very nice touch if you could present the Medal for Outstanding Bravery Against the Deadly Ickabog to relatives of the dead men.’
‘Oh, is there a medal?’ said Fred.
‘Certainly there is, sire, and that reminds me – you haven’t yet received your own.’
From an inner pocket, Spittleworth pulled out a most gorgeous gold medal, almost as large as a saucer. Embossed upon the medal was a monster with gleaming ruby eyes, which was being fought by a handsome, muscular man wearing a crown. The whole thing was suspended from a scarlet velvet ribbon.
‘Mine?’ said the king, wide-eyed.
‘But of course, sire!’ said Spittleworth. ‘Did Your Majesty not plunge your sword into the monster’s loathsome neck? We all remember it happening, sire!’
King Fred fingered the heavy gold medal. Though he said nothing, he was undergoing a silent struggle.
Fred’s honesty had piped up, in a small, clear voice: It didn’t happen like that. You know it didn’t. You saw the Ickabog in the fog, you dropped your sword and you ran away. You never stabbed it. You were never near enough!
But Fred’s cowardice blustered louder than his honesty: You’ve already agreed with Spittleworth that that’s what happened! What a fool you’ll look if you admit you ran away!
And Fred’s vanity spoke loudest of all: After all, I was the one who led the hunt for the Ickabog! I was the one who saw it first! I deserve this medal, and it will stand out beautifully against that black funeral suit.
So Fred said:
‘Yes, Spittleworth, it all happened just as you said. Naturally, one doesn’t like to boast.’
‘Your Majesty’s modesty is legendary,’ said Spittleworth, bowing low to hide his smirk.
The following day was declared a national day of mourning in honour of the Ickabog’s victims. Crowds lined the streets to watch Major Beamish and Private Buttons’ coffins pass on wagons drawn by plumed black horses.
King Fred rode behind the coffins on a jet-black horse, with the Medal for Outstanding Bravery Against the Deadly Ickabog bouncing on his chest and reflecting the sunlight so brightly that it hurt the eyes of the crowd. Behind the king walked Mrs Beamish and Bert, also dressed in black, and behind them came a howling old woman in a ginger wig, who’d been introduced to them as Mrs Buttons, Nobby’s mother.