Castle Storm by Garry Kilworth

Author:Garry Kilworth [Garry Kilworth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House Children's UK
Published: 1998-08-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Later that evening, almost midnight, the weasels accompanied Clive of Coldkettle over the drawbridge and into the castle. They passed through the gatehouse and barbican to the outer ward. Thence they went past the two great towers and into the inner ward, to the South Hall behind the round church. At each stage they were watched over by surly-looking guardsquirrels. One of them gazed too long at Clive’s extraordinary tail.

‘See something?’ asked the red squirrel gruffly. ‘Want to say anything – anything at all?’

‘No,’ growled the guard, catching the look in Clive of Coldkettle’s eyes.

‘Just as well.’

The party had by now reached the doorway to the great hall, which was lit by flaming torches.

The feasting had already begun amongst the greys. Though they had lost the competition overall, there were always a few individual victories to savour. One of the important achievements so far as they were concerned, was that Pommf de Fritte had beaten Clive of Coldkettle in single combat. So if there was nothing else to toast, that one would do.

Sylver and the outlaws had to swallow hard and bite their tongues when they went in, for there was Torca Marda at the head table, quaffing honey dew and clicking his teeth. He looked up as they entered, but Sylver could read nothing from his eyes. Had the inquisitor looked smug, or something like that, Sylver might well have forgotten himself. As it was he was a whisker’s breadth from leaping over the tables and sinking his teeth into the throat of the red-robed stoat.

Sitting with Torca Marda and his henchstoats was Falshed. To give him his due the sheriff was looking a little shamefaced. Despite his long-running feud with the outlaws Falshed was not a cruel stoat. He was weak and nasty by turns, but could sympathize with Sylver over the death of his best friend. The death of Icham did not have him grieving but he could understand why others were doing so.

Pommf de Fritte had risen from his seat on seeing Clive and the weasels enter the hall. He was a big muscled grey squirrel, with a heavy jaw and strong forelimbs. Had he been born a serf instead of a knight, he might have been a roadworker or a tree-feller. Pommf was not very bright when it came to poetry or mathematics, but put a sword or a mace in his paw and he would fight with intelligence. In short his brain power was used to assist his physical deeds, but for nothing else.

‘Ah, the red champion and his visitors,’ cried Pommf. ‘I bid you welcome, gentlemammals. Clive of Coldkettle, worthy opponent, come you up here by me. There’s no reason two foes can’t drink together on one evening of the year without insults or claws flying. You weasels, find yourselves a space somewhere and enjoy the wassail.’

Clive accepted the invitation to the top table graciously and said he would meet up with the weasels later. A moment later he was sitting with reds and greys ripping apart nut cutlets with his claws and swilling down honey dew.

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