"Raritan," he whispered under his breath, as much to himself as to Malcolm, hidden away in the knapsack.

The guards had seen it too, as had Sir Hugh, who said nothing right away, but was astonished enough to relinquish his hold on Norman's collar.

"Never fear," said Kit in a haughty voice that was not quite his own. "I have prevailed upon the Duke of Nantes to curtail his attack."

He smiled the same self-satisfied smile that Norman had seen too many times on too many of Kit's different faces.

"You may be wondering who you have to thank for this," he said, the grin never disappearing from his face. "I am Reynard, Prince of Kelmsworth. Perhaps you recognize my heraldry." He indicated his shield, which was painted with a red fox rampant over a black unicorn guardant.

Inside the knapsack, Malcolm heard the voice and growled again.

"Of course," said Sir Hugh, obviously not recognizing it at all, but not wanting to offend their apparent saviour. He still had not taken his eyes from the magnificent horn on Raritan's head. "And your retinue? They are farther down the road? Shall we keep the gates open for them?"

"I have no retinue," Kit answered. "Kelmsworth rides alone. Surely you have heard that. I'm disappointed that my legend has not spread this far."

"Of course, of course," Sir Hugh a.s.sured him. After the rough handling Hugh had given him, Norman was almost glad to see him put on the back foot, even if Kit was the one doing it. "But it is not often that the man lives up to the legend so magnificently."

Kit beamed. Even his unsteady dismount did nothing to dint his bravado. He struggled out of the stirrups and required the a.s.sistance of two guards to set himself upright on the ground. When he had finally made it safely to ground, he removed his helmet completely and revealed a long mane of red hair.

"As long as I am in the Holy Land, I am England and England's will. The Duke of Nantes may be a blackguard, but even he would not defy England's will. He will join us tomorrow to parley in your chambers. I will enforce a truce between your two parties."

"You have our grat.i.tude and our best bed, Your Highness," Sir Hugh replied. "Shall we take your ... your steed to the stables?"

Kit removed his armoured glove and patted Raritan's neck. The unicorn, which until now had stood there impa.s.sively, neighed a sharp warning, and Kit backed away.

"Of course. Prepare a new bed of straw and bring him loaves of bread. No unbaked grains for Raritan here. He is a prince in his own right, and must eat like one."

The guards, mesmerized by the twisted ivory horn, did not protest. Not one of them dared to hold Raritan's bridle as they marched alongside him to what was left of San Savino's stables.

Norman wished that Raritan had stayed hidden away in the stables for the night, but while Kit was happy to retire to Sir Hugh's chambers for a drink and a rest, the unicorn was too proud an animal to watch the people of San Savino struggling to clean up the destruction of their town by themselves. He was discreet about it. He didn't shout orders or wave magic cleanup dust from his horn. He just whispered the occasional instruction to Norman, helped pull ropes when ropes needed to be pulled and trampled a few of the remaining fires with his ma.s.sive hoofs. His greatest contribution to the clean-up effort, however, was his presence.

After a night of bombardment, the people of San Savino were in shock. Their houses were in ruin, the street and squares of the town filled with rubble and burnt debris. Some were badly injured, and a few had lost loved ones to the flames and destruction. The appearance of such a magical creature in their midst lifted their spirits the way only a miracle could. Besotted children could not help creeping towards Raritan to get a look at the magnificent horn. To the smallest and the luckiest, Raritan bowed, letting them touch the horn with the tips of their fingers. Some squealed in delight and ran away, holding their hands aloft; some just stood in silent awe, staring now at the hand that had touched the unicorn's horn. And it was not only the children who marvelled. Grown men and women fell into hushed silence when they saw him, and under his gaze, they seemed to redouble their efforts, lifting more, carrying farther, singing more cheerfully through their labours. If this inspirational effect was the only magic Raritan possessed, it was still a magnificent thing.

Norman worked alongside him, as tirelessly as anybody, but without the same sense of experiencing a miracle. He'd been battling a sinking feeling since Kit lifted his visor to show his annoying grinning face. He was making a huge mess of this book, worse than he'd done anywhere else. He could only imagine what was going to happen when his mother ... uh, when Meg found out. She was going to kill him! He'd already introduced a talking stoat into her favourite book. When she saw the unicorn, she was going to freak out.

It was lucky, then, that he did not see her again through the night. Busy as he was helping to clear out the rubble and extinguish the last of the fires, he didn't have time to go looking for her. Instead, Malcolm went off in search of her and Jerome. When the men and women of San Savino decided they'd done all they could for the night, Norman followed Raritan to the stables. The boy probably could have fallen asleep on his feet, but the unicorn recommended the hayloft. Norman was climbing the ladder unsteadily when Malcolm returned from his scouting mission.

"Is that your stealth look?" Norman asked. The stoat was nearly black with ashes.

"All my looks are stealth looks," the stoat replied cheerfully. "You look like a chimney sweep."

There wasn't a single mirror in San Savino, so Norman could only imagine how filthy he was.

"They've hidden Jerome away in the monk's quarters with Lombard and G.o.dwyn," Malcolm reported. "They're fussing over him and asking questions, but the boy knows how to keep a secret and he's sticking to his story. He ran from the library when the bombardment started. He's never met you or Meg before in his life. The first time he ever saw you was in the rush down to the cellars."

"And where did Meg disappear to?" Norman asked as he laid his weary body down on the fresh hay.

"Your mother?" Malcolm replied with a grin, apparently enjoying Norman's discomfort at having to deal with a version of his mother only a few years older than himself. "Resourceful as ever. She's helping with the injured. They've set up a hospital in the tavern. It's the second miracle of the night. First the unicorn appears, then the tavern is left standing."

"You're enjoying this," said Norman. He couldn't understand how. He was exhausted. His bones felt like they were made of lead and his muscles of Jell-O. He supposed hay was scratchy, but right now this felt like the most luxurious bed in the world.

"San Savino is saved," Malcolm replied, unable to see why he shouldn't be happy. "I have my map. Jerome still breathes. A good day's work, I'd say."

"But the book's wrecked." Norman groaned as he said it. He couldn't imagine how to fix it now.

"It's not wrecked!" Malcolm protested cheerily as he made a little burrow for himself in the hay. "Not as far as I can see. A bit messy, I'll admit, but it's just gained a unicorn. Surely that'll make up for the mess."

"My mother won't think so."

"Mothers see messes everywhere," Malcolm a.s.sured him. "She probably thinks your room's a mess even after you've tidied up." He was right.

Norman didn't remember much of the conversation after that, if there was any. Malcolm slipped away to clean himself off, but Norman was too tired to bother. He fell asleep right there in the hay. For the first time in a long time, he was too tired to worry whether he'd wake up in the same place tomorrow.

Parley and Melee.

For once, Norman did wake up in the same place. He hadn't eaten any books the day before, but that was no guarantee of remaining in the same book. The bookweird had a mind of its own sometimes, and sometimes, like yesterday, Uncle Kit did some meddling. So it was a relative relief to wake up in a hayloft in a burned-out medieval fortress with soot all over his face-at least until he heard his mother's voice. And this time, it was exactly his mother's voice. If he kept his eyes shut like he did now, he could make himself believe that it was the grown Meg who stood at the top of the ladder and shouted into the hayloft.

"You didn't think you'd done enough? You didn't think a scruffy American boy and a talking weasel were enough to mess up this book?"

"Stoat," Malcolm corrected her again, though Meg was just winding up and ignored him.

"So you had to bring a unicorn? It's all the town can talk about. What's next? Do you have a few s.p.a.ce aliens or some cowboys you'd like to introduce? Who are you, anyway? Are you one of Kit's friends from school? Did he teach you how to do this?"

It was difficult for Norman to interrupt her, and he had met a few bossy girls in his life. Dora was the worst, but she was small enough to ignore. In Fortune's Foal, Amelie was just like this, but he'd managed to stand up to her and hold his own. Staring at Meg there on the ladder, he just couldn't get past the fact that she was his mother, and though he usually grumbled and procrastinated, most of the time he did what she told him to.

It was Malcolm who finally leapt to his defence. "Norman didn't bring Raritan here. It was your kid brother."

"Kit did this?" she asked, a hint of worry entering her voice.

"Pranced right in here and declared himself our knight in shining armour. Calls himself the Prince of Kelmsworth," Malcolm scoffed.

Meg closed her eyes momentarily as if she was trying to wish it all away.

"It's actually a good thing he turned up," Norman said. "He managed to call off the attack, after all."

"It's never a good thing when Kit turns up," Meg replied bitterly.

"Listen," he said, "let's just find Kit and talk to him. He obviously came here to help."

Her ponytail whipped from side to side vigorously as she shook her head. Somehow she'd found time to clean herself up and fix her hair. It was just like his mother. She'd probably gone for a quick morning jog too. Norman still looked like a chimney sweep.

"He's obviously here to cause trouble, like always."

"Kit's a little crazy, we all know that. But I think we made a bit of a breakthrough back at the Shrubberies."

Meg rolled her eyes.

"It's worth a try," Norman insisted.

Before they cleaned themselves up and went in search of some breakfast, Norman had an urgent question for Raritan. It had come to him in the night and haunted his dreams.

"Raritan, if you and Kit are here, who's looking after Dora?" He whispered it into the unicorn's ear as he pa.s.sed him in the stables.

"I've asked Lady Esme to stay with her," Raritan a.s.sured him.

Norman nearly screamed out, "What?!" A talking rabbit really shouldn't be babysitting his little sister. But as he thought about it, his outrage quickly evaporated. After Uncle Kit, Esme was a distinct improvement. At least Dora could count on a nutritious meal. He patted the unicorn on the neck and thanked him for his thoughtfulness. There would be plenty of time later to worry about what his mother would think. He had his hands full with the child version of her.

Since Meg knew San Savino best, they followed her lead. The town had not been built as a single structure but had grown from a small church and garrison inside the original fortified wall. There were individual homes and shops, but they tended to merge into each other, sharing walls and roofs and courtyards. The stables were across the courtyard from the monks' dormitory and workroom, which shared a kitchen with the governor's residence. From the kitchen, you could get to the guards' quarters, and from there through a pa.s.sage between the walls to the armoury. Then it was only a question of climbing one of the towers to the dining hall and sneaking down a back corridor to the chambers of the governor and his staff. This all seemed simple when Meg explained it, but in practice, it was easiest just to follow her.

"Now can we count on your stoat friend to stay hidden in that knapsack of yours?" she asked. Norman had told her that Malcolm was royalty, but she refused to treat him with deference.

The m.u.f.fled voice of the stoat king replied from inside the canvas. "You can count on me to do as I please and as I think, right?"

Meg ignored him and continued her instructions. "If we meet anyone, let me do the talking," she warned as she and Norman ducked into the mayhem of the kitchen. "The cook and the kitchen staff think I'm the personal maid of Lady Vorgogne, who occasionally visits Sir Hugh. Sir Hugh's people think I help in the kitchen."

"Aren't you afraid that someone will ask this Lady Vorgo-whatever about you?" Norman was both impressed and a little bit outraged by how easily she made up her cover story.

"Oh, they wouldn't dare," she told him. She nodded self-importantly at the kitchen maids and proceeded to grab two large earthenware jugs of water from one of the many broad wooden tables. "Here," she said, handing them to Norman to carry. "And besides, there is no Lady Vorgogne. I made her up."

Norman's arms sank under the weight of the jugs and he staggered after her. Behind him he heard the snickers of the maids watching him struggle. By the time they reached the dining room, his arms felt like they were going to burst into flames under this burden.

"Do you think you could carry one of these?" It hurt his pride to have to ask, but lugging the huge earthenware jugs hurt his arms more.

"Oh, that wouldn't do," Meg told him, barely looking over her shoulder. "Lady Vorgogne's personal maid doesn't carry water jugs to the governor's tables. That's a job for lowly kitchen boys."

Norman had no choice but to carry on behind her. When they finally reached Sir Hugh's chambers, they were surprised to find the door watched by two of Hugh's better guards.

"We've brought water for Sir Hugh and his guests, as requested," Meg told them.

"Plenty of water in there," the guard told her. "Wine too, though it be early for that."

Meg tried to argue, but the guards were unmoved. She'd been so bossy and self-a.s.sured all morning, it almost made Norman smile to see her falter. But they really needed to get in there to see Kit, and the pain in his arms had started to spread to his shoulders and neck.

"Important parley with the Duke of Nantes today," the guard insisted. "n.o.body is to disturb Sir Hugh and Prince Reynard."

"Black John is coming here?" Norman asked nervously.

"Aye," the guard replied, grinning cruelly. "And I hear he likes to flay a few little pipsqueaks the likes of you each morning. Now get ye gone."

Meg glared at him, but there was no arguing left to do. They retreated down the corridor, and after the first corner, Norman finally put down the jugs that were pulling his arms out of their sockets.

Meg was furious. "I told you not to say anything."

"And you said you could get us in there!"

"I would have, if you hadn't stuck your foot in it with your whimpering about Black John." She crossed her arms in front of her and rolled her eyes exactly like Dora did. It was even more infuriating when Meg did it.

"Easy for you to say," Norman shot back. "Have you ever been captured and tortured by the Duke of Nantes?" He hadn't actually been tortured, but he exaggerated to make the point that he was no coward.

"No, but I'm not stupid enough to get myself caught."

"I wasn't stupid. I was-"

The argument could have gone on for much longer had Malcolm not stuck his head out of the knapsack to interrupt.

"Would you like me to slip in there and have a word with your lovely brother?" he asked cheerfully. "Or would you like me to stay hidden away inside this sack?"

Meg frowned. For some reason-perhaps because he was a talking animal in a book he shouldn't be in, or simply because he was Norman's friend-her nose always wrinkled when she caught sight of him. She inhaled deeply as if she was gathering breath to start lecturing him as well, but she seemed to realize that it would do no good.

"Can you get in there without being seen?" she asked reluctantly.

Malcolm didn't answer her, just winked and bounded to the nearest window ledge. "Be back in two shakes," he told them before Meg could reconsider, and with a flash of his tail, he was gone through the window.

Norman and Meg ducked into an adjacent room while Malcolm did his scouting. The two human children barely looked at each other. When they did, it was just to glare. The argument continued inside each child's head, where each one was able to win it.

The sound of movement in the hallway froze them for a moment. Meg was first to the keyhole, leaving Norman stuck standing behind her and wondering what she was seeing. He could guess. The sounds of medieval knights stomping down a hallway were familiar enough by now. The thump of their boots on the thick timber planking indicated a large troop of them, marching in unison-more feet than Norman had seen among San Savino's guards, and better unison than they'd seemed capable of. There was too much chain mail and plate armour jangling and rattling out there too. These were professional soldiers.

"Black John," he concluded in a whisper, "and his thugs."

"I know," Meg replied. "I can see, can't I?"

It amazed Norman just how annoying his mother was as a girl. He could see where Dora got it from. He was glad when he spotted Malcolm slipping back in through the open window behind them. It was difficult being alone with her. Meg, still crouched at the keyhole, didn't notice the stoat's return. Norman let her kneel there, all her attention focused on the corridor outside, as Malcolm leapt silently to the top of the jug beside her.

"Bla-" he began in a whisper.

Startled by the sound of the unexpected voice in her ear, Meg let out a little shriek of fright.

Norman caught the wink from Malcolm and couldn't help snickering.

"Black John and his lads are in there with Hugh and Kit," he told them. "There's a balcony we can all look in from-if you can manage not to squeal again."

Meg scowled as she regained her composure, but followed the stoat king's lead as he ducked back out the window. The ledge outside the window barely looked wide enough. If it had been a path marked on solid ground, Norman could have walked it easily without fear of stepping off, but they were three storeys above the ground-high enough that falling was not an option. High enough to make the path seem narrow and precarious. Looking down, he recognized the little courtyard that Jerome looked into from the library. Above, he noted with relief that the wooden tower had survived the night. It was blackened but still standing.

Malcolm danced across the narrow gap from the window ledge to the railing of Sir Hugh's balcony. After a quick check that the coast was clear, he beckoned them on. Norman knew from experience that it was best not to think too long about these things. He took a deep breath and made the jump. It was hardly brave, but he was proud of himself for not hesitating. Behind him, Meg peered down at the courtyard and paused. After all her bravado and bossiness, Norman thought he would be happy to see her waver, but the moment she showed vulnerability, she was his mother again, and he hated to see the fear that now flickered in her eyes.

He held out his hand to her. It wasn't very far from the balcony to the ledge. In fact, he could reach all the way across to her. But at the sight of his hand, she shook her head vehemently, and he withdrew it. Spurred on by the offence of a helping hand, Meg screwed up her courage and made the jump. The grown-up Meg, Norman thought to himself, was a whole lot nicer.

From the balcony, the children and the stoat had a perfect view of Sir Hugh's chamber. Norman recognized it as the room in which he'd been captured. Across the corner on the other wall hung the curtain he'd hid behind. From this vantage point he could see what a terrible hiding place it was. The curtain stopped inches from the floor. His ankles and half his shins must have poked out, giving Black John an easy target.

It was difficult to stand there and watch while Black John sat just feet from him again. There were four of them around the table: the duke, Sir Hugh, Father Lombard and Kit. Father Lombard looked sombre and thoughtful in his monk's robes. He'd spent most of the night administering last rites. Sir Hugh wore the same clothes he'd worn the day before. He looked tired. No doubt he'd worked through the night putting out fires and helping the wounded. To impress the royal emissary, the duke had put on his finery. His doublet was of black velvet with silver brocade, the colours of his dukedom. The big ring on his finger would be his signet ring, another symbol of his status. He tapped it loudly on the table as he spoke.

Kit looked distinctly unimpressed. He sat silently on the other side of the table with that knowing expression he always had, half looking away, as if the meeting bored him. He looked older than when Norman had left him back at the Shrubberies. His hair was longer, ginger red again, but falling to his shoulders like a lion's mane. On his chin he had a pointed beard of the same colour. He stroked it pensively while Hugh and Black John argued.