Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (29 page)

Her chamber was on the topmost level. When she reached it, she was out of breath.

“You’re mean!” Ashrella told her. “We told her you were mean.”

Jill paused before she opened her door. “Told who?” she asked.

“The one who let us out of course,” Keykey replied. “How else do you think we escaped that nasty locked cupboard?”

“Who let you out?” the girl demanded. “Who has dared enter my bedchamber?”

“The one who is waiting there still,” Ashrella answered with a sly smile.

The Jill of Spades glared at her door. She threw the dolls down. They wailed when they hit the floor, but bounced back up again and punched her legs with their soft, mitten-like hands. She did not feel them. Her whole attention was focused on that door. Very quietly, she reached for the secret dagger she always carried, strapped to her arm, under her sleeve. Then she kicked the door wide and leaped into the chamber.

For a moment she stood, poised and ready to strike out. But no attack came. Her eyes darted quickly about the room. The bed, hung with black, beaded lace, was empty and there was no one hiding beneath it. Nor was there anyone behind the chests and cupboards. Another jag of lightning crackled above the tower and then the Jill of Spades saw her.

There she was, an old wizened woman, crouched upon the sill of the arched window. A tall, conical hat was fastened to her head by a wide, brown ribbon, tied beneath her warty chin. She wore a dark green cloak over her ragged clothes and a two-pronged hayfork was clasped in her gnarled hands.

“Haxxentrot!” Jill cried.

The witch cackled and raised the hayfork in greeting. “Well met on this harvest home night, my dark little maid,” she greeted.

“Begone!” the girl commanded. “Before I summon the Guards. You have no business here.”

“No business?” the hag shrieked. “No business? Have you forgot who supplied thee with playmates when no other child would suffer thee? A brooding, hateful brat thou wert, but a treacherous, iron-hearted woman thou art becoming. Who else but Haxxentrot would have any business with thee?”

“Guards!” the girl called. “Come quickly!”

“Very foolish,” the witch said, hearing the Punchinello Guards come stomping towards the North Tower. “Now I must be brisk and brutal.” With that, she clapped her bony hands and the two rag dolls went scampering over to her and climbed on to her lap.

“Good mother!” they called happily. “Bear us away. We don’t like it here. You won’t shut us in a cupboard. You won’t forget us.”

The crone bent her ugly head to kiss them and her eyes gleamed at Jill. “You should have taken better care of your playfellows, my dark missy,” she said. “They are mine to bid now. If old Haxxentrot asks them to leap into the fire, they would do so, full willing… and you know what that would mean for thee.”

The Jill of Spades gasped. She was totally in the witch’s power.

The clamour of the guards had already reached the spiral stairs.

“What do you want of me?” the girl asked desperately.

“Much,” the crone sniggered, grinning with her gums. “But this night I will settle for two things only.”

“Name them.”

“Bring me Malinda’s wand,” she told her with a greedy chuckle.

Jill’s face showed her shock and dismay at this impossible demand. “And the other thing?” she asked.

Haxxentrot held up a small bottle of green glass. The lightning cracked outside and sinister shadows danced around the bedchamber.

“When the revels are ended,” she croaked, “when the mummers lead the ladies out on to the battlements and those fine wives and tidy matrons remove their cloaks and gowns to smear the minchet over their hungry flesh and fly to the Ismus up on the highest tower… go with them.”

“I was going to anyway.”

“Of course thou wert. What damsel could refuse the invitation of the Holy Enchanter to dally with him upon that lofty height – that lonely bare roof ’neath the moon, reached by neither step nor stair? That space which only birds or bees can view…”

“Is that all?” Jill asked, staring doubtfully at the bottle.

The witch’s eyes glittered at her. “There will be a jorum of sweet wine waiting up there,” she said. “The Ismus likes his ladies to drink of it before they partake of his… affections. Take this bottle and empty the contents into that great bowl. Make sure all the ladies drink it down.”

“What will it do?” the girl asked.

The hag let out a foul, wheezing laugh. “Why, poison them of course!” she crowed. “They shall wilt, they shall shrivel. Fire will burst out their bellies and breasts, their hair will stand stark white from their scalps and every tongue will swell and blacken. Grey shall be their flesh and the very life will leak from their ears.”

“I can’t do that!” Jill exclaimed in horror.

“What carest thou for the dames and slatterns who look on you with distrust and disdain? They have no regard for thee, my dark missy. This is thy chance to purge this castle of each one. Think of them as obstacles in thy way to what thy heart desires the most.”

“I already do,” the Jill of Spades answered in a calmer, interested voice.

“This tiny bottle will rid you of them forever and clear thy way to so many delights. Imagine a Court devoid of females, always prying, always scolding…”

“And what of my mother? Am I to poison her also?”

“Whatever you wish,” the hag replied. “Poor Mumsy,” Jill said with evil relish.

The noise of the Guards had almost reached them. Haxxentrot threw the poison to the girl then straddled the hayfork and leaped from the window. “And don’t forget Malinda’s wand!” she called over her shoulder as she flew through the electrified sky.

Jill watched her disappear into the distance, the cloak flapping madly around her, the two dolls clinging to her filthy skirts.

“I won’t,” she muttered.

At that moment seven Punchinello Guards burst into the bedchamber jabbing their spears forward and glaring round with their beady eyes.

“What – what – what?” they barked ferociously.

The Jill of Spades spun around to face them. “You must forgive me,” she apologised coolly. “The lightning frightened me. I feared the bouncing shadows and the thunder crash, nothing more.”

The Guards sniffed the air with their great noses and glowered at her suspiciously.

Later that night, once the dancing was over and the feasting done, Ramptana the doddery Court Magician began blundering through his abysmal tricks to entertain the nobles. He did not get far. He was halfway through pulling coloured silk bunting from his mouth when he gave a sharp yelp and twisted violently to one side. The live ermine he had hidden in one of his large sleeves, intended for the big finale where he would make it and other animals ‘magickally’ appear from his hands, had caught scent of the other secreted creatures. Ramptana had forgotten to feed it before the performance and so the ermine was ravenous. It shot up the sleeve and down his shirtfront, raking its claws over his chest and belly, searching for the prey it knew was here somewhere. The old man shrieked and howled as it tore around his body.

The audience watched in surprise whilst the conjuror’s clothes wriggled and writhed as the savage animal went scrabbling beneath them, running round and around him. He wasn’t usually so good, they murmured to one another.

The old man hopped around the floor, his long, white beard twining about him as he spun around, trying to catch the creature rampaging under his garments.

Then it happened. The ermine discovered a white rabbit cowering in a concealed inner pocket. It pounced. The Court Magician felt the brief struggle. He ceased his wild dance then stared morosely at the audience. No one except him knew what was happening. Then suddenly a patch of his beard turned bright red. Were they supposed to applaud? What a peculiar trick.

Then the long whiskers shook and the ermine’s fierce little face thrust through them, a rabbit’s head dangling from its jaws.

One of the ladies fainted. The shock of the others quickly turned to anger and they began booing and jeering. One of the knights threw a pickled walnut at him. It knocked the hat from his head and the white dove that had been hiding there went flying up into the rafters.

“My lords!” the magician beseeched them. “Pray let me finish. I have not shown you the marvel of the magick hoops and how they knit together… please!”

“Get off!” the audience heckled.

At the end of the Great Hall, the Ismus rose from his seat. “Incompetent idiot,” he said contemptuously. Bowing to kiss the Lady Labella’s hand, he whispered to her, “You know where I shall be, join me there.” Then he strode away.

“We want to see real magick!” the audience demanded.

The poor magician was struggling to free his beard of the ermine, but the animal bit his fingers. Then it ran up on to his bare head to chew one of the rabbit’s ears.

“You’re a hopeless charlatan!” the King of Diamonds announced. “To the stocks with him! Pelt him with filth!”

“I can do magick!” the old man cried pathetically. “Please, your Royal Majesties, lords, ladies…”

Two tall knights came clanking to grab him. Then they halted and backed away. Ramptana was aware that something was happening behind him. Slowly he turned to look.

The one suckling pig that had not been eaten was shaking the parsley garnish from its back then it rose on its hind trotters. Standing upright, it peered curiously around the hall with its shrivelled eyes and spat the golden apple from its mouth.

This time the King of Clubs fainted.

The roasted pig held on to its sides and made grunting sounds as though it were laughing. Then it went skipping along the length of the long table. When it passed an untouched pheasant, the bird hopped up on its drumsticks to join it and every other cooked animal that had not been carved was soon prancing along behind – dancing and capering between the bowls and dishes.

The nobles gawped in shock. And then, in a gurgling, squealy voice, the pig began to speak.

“Gallant lords and ladies all, we hope you enjoyed our harvest ball. If we did please and fill your tums then up do raise your royal thumbs. Now clap your hands and give a cheer – to grand Ramptana, the mighty magician here!”

With that, the pig took a bow and the crackling split all the way up the length of its back. The roast fowl followed suit then flapped their plucked wings to instigate the applause. For several moments there was only stunned silence and then the Great Hall erupted with cheers. The old man was lifted on to the shoulders of the very same knights who had been about to put him in the stocks and paraded around with much admiration.

The Court Magician did not know what to say. He did not understand what had happened and tears filled his eyes. He stared at the pig on the table, but it had lain down and was lifeless and inert once more. Had he really done that? He did not know how. For the rest of that night, and for many months after, he was treated with a new respect.

The minstrels struck up a tune and the nobles carried him triumphantly around the hall whilst their spouses and sweethearts slipped discreetly away. Only one lady lingered for a time. Malinda, the retired Fairy Godmother, brushed her spun, sugar-like hair from her eyes and smiled gently as she saw the happiness on the old magician’s face. She lifted the crooked silver wand, which she used mainly as a walking stick nowadays, and gave the amber star at the tip a fond kiss.

Across the hall, the Jockey observed her and he tapped his hands together in silent applause. Then he pointed his toe, bowed and went tittuping out.

Outside, on the battlements, thirty ladies were aflutter with excitement. Usually the mummers would lead them out here, but they could wait no longer. The Queen of Hearts had prepared a fresh batch of minchet that very afternoon and was handing out little pots of it to everyone present. The Jill of Spades was already there, waiting for them.

She took a pot of the flying ointment and gazed up at the central tower where a lone figure was standing, the tails of his velvet jacket fluttering in the autumn wind. A splinter of lightning snapped behind him and he raised his face to laugh at the approaching storm. The girl reached into her sleeve where the small bottle of poison was concealed. Mooncaster would never be the same again after tonight.

The thought of that thrilled her beyond measure. These silly, twittering females would soon be dead. She could hardly keep from laughing.

“Who will our Lord choose tonight?” the Queen of Clubs wondered aloud.

“Let it be me!” one of the noblewomen sighed wistfully.

They all began removing their cloaks and gowns until they were only standing in their shifts and petticoats. Then they dabbled their fingers in the minchet and rubbed it over their shoulders and throats and the backs of their necks.

“Was there ever a more handsome and wise Lord?” the Jill of Hearts cried out. “I am ready! Lift me to yon high tower and his embrace!”

As she spoke, the power of the ointment began to work, her feet left the battlements and she rose into the air.

The Jill of Spades rapidly smeared the salve over herself. She had to get to the tower first. She had to pour the witch’s bottle into the wine that was already up there.