Charlie Bone and the Red Knight. Jenny Nimmo

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СКАЧАТЬ Mr Onimous frowned at Tancred in disbelief. ‘How can you say such a thing? Norton? He’s the best doorman we’ve ever had.’

      ‘You have to believe me, sir,’ said Tancred in a low voice. ‘He’s been seen in the company of the Witch Tilpin and others. Some of the villains from Piminy Street, in fact.’

      ‘Norton?’ Clutching the edge of the table, Mr Onimous sank on to a chair. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

      ‘Well, at least we’ll be on our guard, Orvil,’ said his wife. She shook her head. ‘Who can have turned our dear Norton to wickedness?’

      No one could answer her.

      The knocking had ceased at last and, peering into the dark café, Tancred caught a glimpse of two figures walking down the alley. Norton was unmistakable, his bulky form clad in a green padded jacket printed with yellow elephants. His companion was shorter and wore a black cloak and a hat with a drooping feather. The hat was an odd shape, soft and velvety. It reminded Tancred of another hat he’d seen. Was it in a book or in a painting? He couldn’t yet place it.

      ‘Think I’d better be going now,’ Tancred told the Onimouses.

      ‘Do take care, my dear.’ Mrs Onimous came and gave him a hug. ‘You’re young to be out alone on such a dark night.’

      Tancred was fourteen and accustomed to being out alone on dark nights. His endowment was the only protection he needed, or so he thought. A bolt of lightning or a blast of gale-force wind had always been enough to deter any would-be assailant. ‘I can look after myself,’ he said, extricating himself from Mrs Onimous’s embrace.

      A violent gust of wind blew through the kitchen and the cups hanging on the dresser rattled and clinked in a wild tune.

      ‘All right, Weather-boy, you don’t have to prove it,’ chuckled Mr Onimous.

      Tancred walked briskly through the café, calling, ‘Goodnight, Onimouses. Keep safe!’

      Stepping into the alley, he closed the café door and stood listening for a moment. Footfalls could be heard turning right on to the High Street. Pulling up his hood, Tancred tiptoed swiftly up the alley and looked round the corner.

      The two figures were walking briskly in the direction of Bloor’s Academy. Tancred drew his scarf over the lower part of his face and hurried after them. At first, Norton and his companion seemed unaware of their stalker, but all at once the man in the black cloak swung round. Tancred leapt into a doorway. He stood with his back against the door, breathing heavily.

      He must have seen me, thought Tancred, for I saw him.

      It was a face Tancred had instantly recognised. Framed in shoulder-length black curls, the stranger’s pale features were dominated by large dark eyes and heavy arched eyebrows. He had a small pointed beard and the tips of his fine moustache curled up to each cheek.

      If the man had seen Tancred he was apparently unconcerned, for the footsteps resumed their brisk walk.

      It was several minutes before Tancred could bring himself to move again and, by the time he emerged on to the High Street, the two figures were nowhere to be seen. They had evidently taken the side street that led to the Academy.

      Keeping close to the buildings, Tancred flew after them. He reached the square in front of the Academy just in time to see Norton climb the steps up to the school.

      A cold shudder ran down Tancred’s spine. He had spent three years at the Academy and, in spite of the friends he had made, he had always been aware that at any moment old Ezekiel Bloor and the children he controlled might do something irrevocably evil. And then Dagbert-the-drowner had arrived, and the evil had finally shown its hand. Dagbert thought he had drowned Tancred Torsson; indeed, if it hadn’t been for the cats’ miraculous powers, Tancred would be dead.

      He watched Norton climb to the top step, then turn and look back at the fountain in the centre of the square. A circle of swans, their beaks upraised, blew silvery streams into the lamplit air. Tancred pressed himself against a wall, where the light from the street lamps couldn’t reach him. Norton made an odd sign with his hand: a sort of thumbs up, with all his fingers. And then, before Tancred realised what was happening, Norton’s hand had twisted round so that his forefinger was now pointing straight at him. Tancred cursed himself for being such a fool. He had forgotten Norton’s companion.

      The man now emerged from behind the fountain and advanced towards Tancred.

      ‘Who are ye? Give us thy name.’ The voice was deep and husky. ‘Speak!’

      With his back to the wall Tancred shuffled sideways, attempting to slide back into the alley.

      ‘Stop!’ roared the man, and Tancred froze as, from beneath the folds of his cloak, the man drew out a gleaming sword. ‘Spy! Give thy name!’

      Tancred found he couldn’t breathe; his legs felt so weak he feared they would give way at any moment. He tried to summon up a wind, to fill the air with hailstones, but in the stranger’s presence he could only muster up a damp breeze. The man was almost upon him, his sword slicing the air in shining arcs of light.

      ‘Must I die a second time?’ Tancred whispered dismally.

      There would be no witnesses. The city seemed deserted, even the noise of traffic had died away; the only sound that Tancred could hear was a faint clattering, which he mistook for his own beating heart. But the clattering grew louder. And now the sound resembled hoofs cantering on stone, and then a voice cut through the night, ‘ASHKELAN!’

      The swordsman whirled round and Tancred blinked in amazement as a knight on a white horse charged into the square. The knight was dressed from head to foot in glittering chain mail; he wore a helmet of polished metal with a plume of red feathers flowing from its crown, and a red cloak that billowed behind him like a sail. In his right hand he wielded a bright sword, the hilt encrusted with glittering jewels, and the shield that hung from his saddle was emblazoned with a burning sun.

      ‘You!’ grunted the man called Ashkelan; holding his sword aloft, he rushed at the knight.

      With one blow of his own weapon the knight swept the sword from his assailant’s hand, and it rattled over the cobblestones. There was a scream of pain, followed by a roar of anger as the owner of the sword fell to the ground, clutching his arm.

      A stream of mysterious and indecipherable words issued from the man as he reached for his sword. Tancred had been about to run from the scene but he stood rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe his eyes. For all at once the fallen sword was in the air and flying towards the knight. Lifting his weapon, the knight parried the blow that would surely have severed his arm, but the enchanted sword came at him again, and again he fought off the blow. An extraordinary duel was taking place and, frightened as he was, Tancred could not bring himself to leave the square.

      The knight and his mount seemed almost to be one, for the horse turned in a flash. It leapt high above the fountain and raced around the square, its hoofs moving in a cloud of sparks. The enchanted sword, now a flying streak of light, attacked the knight from every angle. How he managed to fight off such a battery of lightning blows, it was hard to comprehend. And then, at last, came the strike that might have finished him. It fell across his chest, slicing through the chain mail and drawing a deep grunt of pain from the knight. But with a mighty upward thrust he caught the enchanted sword СКАЧАТЬ