The Ickabog Read online

  Happy to bow to the public mood, Spittleworth had a statue of Nobby Buttons made, and placed it in the middle of the largest public square in Chouxville. Seated on a magnificent charger, with his bronze cloak flying out behind him and a look of determination on his boyish face, Buttons was forever frozen in the act of galloping back to the City-Within-The-City. It became fashionable to lay flowers around the statue’s base every Sunday. One rather plain young woman, who laid flowers every day of the week, claimed she’d been Nobby Buttons’s girlfriend.

  Spittleworth also decided to spend some gold on a scheme to keep the king diverted, because Fred was still too scared to go hunting, in case the Ickabog had sneaked south somehow and pounced on him in the forest. Bored of entertaining Fred, Spittleworth and Flapoon had come up with a plan.

  “We need a portrait of you fighting the Ickabog, sire! The nation demands it!”

  “Does it really?” said the king, fiddling with his buttons, which that day were made of emeralds. Fred remembered the ambition he’d formed, the morning he’d first tried on battle dress, of being painted killing the Ickabog. He liked this idea of Spittleworth’s very much, so he spent the next two weeks choosing and being fitted for a new uniform, because the old one was much stained by the marsh, and having a replacement jeweled sword made. Then Spittleworth hired the best portrait painter in Cornucopia, Malik Motley, and Fred began posing for weeks on end, for a portrait large enough to cover an entire wall of the Throne Room. Behind Motley sat fifty lesser artists, all copying his work, so as to have smaller versions of the painting ready to deliver to every city, town, and village in Cornucopia.

  While he was being painted, the king amused Motley and the other artists by telling them the story of his famous fight with the monster, and the more he told the story, the more he found himself convinced of its truth. All of this kept Fred happily occupied, leaving Spittleworth and Flapoon free to run the country, and to divide up the trunks of gold left over each month, which were sent in the dead of night to the two lords’ estates in the country.

  But what, you might ask, of the eleven other advisors, who’d worked under Herringbone? Didn’t they think it odd that the Chief Advisor had resigned in the middle of the night, and never been seen again? Didn’t they ask questions, when they woke up to find Spittleworth in Herringbone’s place? And, most importantly of all: did they believe in the Ickabog?

  Well, those are excellent questions, and I’ll answer them now.

  They certainly muttered among themselves that Spittleworth shouldn’t have been allowed to take over, without a proper vote. One or two of them even considered complaining to the king. However, they decided not to act, for the simple reason that they were scared.

  You see, royal proclamations had now gone up in every town and village square in Cornucopia, all written by Spittleworth and signed by the king. It was treason to question the king’s decisions, treason to suggest that the Ickabog might not be real, treason to question the need for the Ickabog tax, and treason not to pay your two ducats a month. There was also a reward of ten ducats if you reported someone for saying the Ickabog wasn’t real.

  The advisors were frightened of being accused of treason. They didn’t want to be locked up in a dungeon. It really was much more pleasant to keep living in the lovely mansions which came with the job of advisor, and continue wearing their special advisor robes, which meant they were allowed to go straight to the head of the queue in pastry shops.

  So they approved all the expenses of the Ickabog Defense Brigade, who wore green uniforms, which Spittleworth said hid them better in the marsh weed. The Brigade soon became a common sight, parading through the streets of all of Cornucopia’s major cities.

  Some might wonder why the Brigade was riding through the streets waving at people, instead of remaining up in the north, where the monster was supposed to be, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. Meanwhile, most of their fellow citizens competed with one another to demonstrate their passionate belief in the Ickabog. They propped up cheap copies of the painting of King Fred fighting the Ickabog in their windows, and hung wooden signs on their doors, which bore messages like PROUD TO PAY THE ICKABOG TAX and DOWN WITH THE ICKABOG, UP WITH THE KING! Some parents even taught their children to bow and curtsy to the tax collectors.

  The Beamish house was decorated in so many anti-Ickabog banners that it was hard to see what the cottage beneath looked like. Bert had returned to school at last, but to Daisy’s disappointment, he spent all his breaks at school with Roderick Roach, talking about the time when they would both join the Ickabog Defense Brigade and kill the monster. She’d never felt lonelier and wondered whether Bert missed her at all.

  Daisy’s own house was the only one in the City-Within-The-City that was entirely free of flags and signs welcoming the Ickabog tax. Her father also kept Daisy inside whenever the Ickabog Defense Brigade rode past, rather than urging her to run into the garden and cheer, like the neighbors’ children.

  Lord Spittleworth noticed the absence of flags and signs on the tiny cottage beside the graveyard, and filed that knowledge away in the back of his cunning head, where he kept information that might one day prove useful.

  They had large, staring white eyes like lamps painted on the backs of their black uniforms.

  By Gia, Age 9

  I’m sure you haven’t forgotten those three brave soldiers locked up in the dungeons, who’d refused to believe in either the Ickabog or in Nobby Buttons.

  Well, Spittleworth hadn’t forgotten them either. He’d been trying to think up ways to get rid of them, without being blamed for it, ever since the night he’d imprisoned them. His latest idea was to feed them poison in their soup, and pretend they’d died of natural causes. He was still trying to decide on the best poison to use, when some of the soldiers’ relatives turned up at the palace gates, demanding to speak to the king. Even worse, Lady Eslanda was with them, and Spittleworth had the sneaking suspicion she’d arranged the whole thing.

  Instead of taking them to the king, Spittleworth had the group shown into his splendid new Chief Advisor’s office, where he invited them politely to sit down.

  “We want to know when our boys are going to stand trial,” said Private Ogden’s brother, who was a pig farmer from just outside Baronstown.

  “You’ve had them locked up for months now,” said the mother of Private Wagstaff, who was a barmaid in a Jeroboam tavern.

  “And we’d all like to know what they’re charged with,” said Lady Eslanda.

  “They’re charged with treason,” said Spittleworth, wafting his scented handkerchief under his nose, with his eyes on the pig farmer. The man was perfectly clean, but Spittleworth meant to make him feel small, and I’m sorry to say he succeeded.

  “Treason?” repeated Mrs. Wagstaff in astonishment. “Why, you won’t find more loyal subjects of the king anywhere in the land than those three!”

  Spittleworth’s crafty eyes moved between the worried relatives, who so clearly loved their brothers and sons very deeply, and Lady Eslanda, whose face was so anxious, and a brilliant idea flashed into his brain like a lightning strike. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before! He didn’t need to poison the soldiers at all! What he needed was to ruin their reputations.

  “Your men will be put on trial tomorrow,” he said, getting to his feet. “The trial will take place in the largest square in Chouxville, because I want as many people as possible to hear what they have to say. Good day to you, ladies and gentlemen.”

  And with a smirk and a bow, Spittleworth left the astonished relatives and proceeded down into the dungeons.

  The three soldiers were a lot thinner than the last time he’d seen them, and as they hadn’t been able to shave or keep very clean, they made a miserable picture.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Spittleworth briskly, while the drunken warder snoozed in a corner. “Good news! You’re to stand trial tomorrow.”

  “And what exactly are we charged with
?” asked Captain Goodfellow suspiciously.

  “We’ve been through this already, Goodfellow,” said Spittleworth. “You saw the monster on the marsh, and ran away instead of staying to protect your king. You then claimed the monster isn’t real, to cover up your own cowardice. That’s treason.”

  “It’s a filthy lie,” said Goodfellow, in a low voice. “Do what you like to me, Spittleworth, but I’ll tell the truth.”

  The other two soldiers, Ogden and Wagstaff, nodded their agreement with the captain.

  “You might not care what I do to you,” said Spittleworth, smiling, “but what about your families? It would be awful, wouldn’t it, Wagstaff, if that barmaid mother of yours slipped on her way down into the cellar, and cracked open her skull? Or, Ogden, if your pig-farming brother accidentally stabbed himself with his own scythe, and got eaten by his own pigs? Or,” whispered Spittleworth, moving closer to the bars, and staring into Goodfellow’s eyes, “if Lady Eslanda were to have a riding accident, and broke her slender neck.”

  You see, Spittleworth believed that Lady Eslanda was Captain Goodfellow’s lover. It would never occur to him that a woman might try and protect a man to whom she’d never even spoken.

  Captain Goodfellow wondered why on earth Lord Spittleworth was threatening him with the death of Lady Eslanda. True, he thought her the loveliest woman in the kingdom, but he’d always kept that to himself, because cheesemakers’ sons didn’t marry ladies of the court.

  “What has Lady Eslanda to do with me?” he asked.

  “Don’t pretend, Goodfellow,” snapped the Chief Advisor. “I’ve seen her blushes when your name is mentioned. Do you think me a fool? She has been doing all that she can to protect you and, I must admit, it is down to her that you’re still alive. However, it is the lady Eslanda who’ll pay the price if you tell any truth but mine tomorrow. She saved your life, Goodfellow: will you sacrifice hers?”

  Goodfellow was speechless with shock. The idea that Lady Eslanda was in love with him was so marvelous that it almost eclipsed Spittleworth’s threats. Then the captain realized that, in order to save Eslanda’s life, he would have to publicly confess to treason the next day, which would surely kill her love for him stone-dead.

  From the way the color had drained out of the three men’s faces, Spittleworth could see that his threats had done the trick.

  “Take courage, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sure no awful accidents will happen to your loved ones, as long as you tell the truth tomorrow …”

  So notices were pinned up all over the capital announcing the trial, and the following day, an enormous crowd packed itself into the largest square in Chouxville. Each of the three brave soldiers took it in turns to stand on a wooden platform, while their friends and families watched, and one by one they confessed that they’d met the Ickabog on the marsh, and had run away like cowards instead of defending the king.

  The crowd booed the soldiers so loudly that it was hard to hear what the judge (Lord Spittleworth) was saying. However, all the time Spittleworth was reading out the sentence — life imprisonment in the palace dungeons — Captain Goodfellow stared directly into the eyes of Lady Eslanda, who sat watching, high in the stands, with the other ladies of the court. Sometimes, two people can tell each other more with a look than others could tell each other with a lifetime of words. I will not tell you everything that Lady Eslanda and Captain Goodfellow said with their eyes, but she knew, now, that the captain returned her feelings, and he learned, even though he was going to prison for the rest of his life, that Lady Eslanda knew he was innocent.

  The three prisoners were led from the platform in chains, while the crowd threw cabbages at them, and then dispersed, chattering loudly. Many of them felt Lord Spittleworth should have put the traitors to death, and Spittleworth chuckled to himself as he returned to the palace, for it was always best, if possible, to seem a reasonable man.

  Mr. Dovetail had watched the trial from the back of the crowd. He hadn’t booed the soldiers, nor had he brought Daisy with him, but had left her carving in his workshop. As Mr. Dovetail walked home, lost in thought, he saw Wagstaff’s weeping mother being followed along the street by a gang of youths, who were booing and throwing vegetables at her.

  “You follow this woman any farther, and you’ll have me to deal with!” Mr. Dovetail shouted at the gang, who, seeing the size of the carpenter, slunk away.

  Daisy was about to turn eight years old, so she decided to invite Bert Beamish to tea.

  A thick wall of ice seemed to have grown up between Daisy and Bert since his father had died. He was always with Roderick Roach, who was very proud to have the son of an Ickabog victim as a friend, but Daisy’s coming birthday, which was three days before Bert’s, would be a chance to find out whether they could repair their friendship. So she asked her father to write a note to Mrs. Beamish, inviting her and her son to tea. To Daisy’s delight, a note came back accepting the invitation, and even though Bert still didn’t talk to her at school, she held out hope that everything would be made right on her birthday.

  Although he was well paid, as carpenter to the king, even Mr. Dovetail had felt the pinch of paying the Ickabog tax, so he and Daisy had bought fewer pastries than usual, and Mr. Dovetail stopped buying wine. However, in honor of Daisy’s birthday, Mr. Dovetail brought out his last bottle of Jeroboam wine, and Daisy collected all her savings and bought two expensive Hopes-of-Heaven for herself and Bert, because she knew they were his favorites.

  The birthday tea didn’t start well. Firstly, Mr. Dovetail proposed a toast to Major Beamish, which made Mrs. Beamish cry. Then the four of them sat down to eat, but nobody seemed able to think of anything to say, until Bert remembered that he’d bought Daisy a present.

  Bert had seen a bandalore, which is what people called yo-yos at that time, in a toy shop window and bought it with all his saved pocket money. Daisy had never seen one before, and what with Bert teaching her to use it, and Daisy swiftly becoming better at it than Bert was, and Mrs. Beamish and Mr. Dovetail drinking Jeroboam sparkling wine, conversation began to flow much more easily.

  The truth was that Bert had missed Daisy very much, but hadn’t known how to make up with her, with Roderick Roach always watching. Soon, though, it felt as though the fight in the courtyard had never happened, and Daisy and Bert were snorting with laughter about their teacher’s habit of digging for bogies in his nose when he thought none of the children were looking. The painful subjects of dead parents, or fights that got out of hand, or King Fred the Fearless, were all forgotten.

  The children were wiser than the adults. Mr. Dovetail hadn’t tasted wine in a long time, and, unlike his daughter, he didn’t stop to consider that discussing the monster that was supposed to have killed Major Beamish might be a bad idea. Daisy only realized what her father was doing when he raised his voice over the children’s laughter.

  “All I’m saying, Bertha,” Mr. Dovetail was almost shouting, “is where’s the proof? I’d like to see proof, that’s all!”

  “You don’t consider it proof, then, that my husband was killed?” said Mrs. Beamish, whose kindly face suddenly looked dangerous. “Or poor little Nobby Buttons?”

  “Little Nobby Buttons?” repeated Mr. Dovetail. “Little Nobby Buttons? Now you come to mention it, I’d like proof of little Nobby Buttons! Who was he? Where did he live? Where’s that old widowed mother gone, who wore that ginger wig? Have you ever met a Buttons family in the City-Within-The-City? And if you press me,” said Mr. Dovetail, brandishing his wine glass, “if you press me, Bertha, I’ll ask you this: why was Nobby Buttons’s coffin so heavy, when all that was left of him were his shoes and a shin bone?”

  Daisy made a furious face, to try and shut her father up, but he didn’t notice. Taking another large gulp of wine, he said:

  “It doesn’t add up, Bertha! Doesn’t add up! Who’s to say — and this is just an idea, mind you — but who’s to say poor Beamish didn’t fall off his horse and break his neck, and Lord Spittlewor
th saw an opportunity to pretend the Ickabog killed him, and charge us all a lot of gold?”

  Mrs. Beamish rose slowly to her feet. She wasn’t a tall woman, but in her anger, she seemed to tower awfully over Mr. Dovetail.

  “My husband,” she whispered in a voice so cold that Daisy felt goose bumps, “was the best horseman in all of Cornucopia. My husband would no sooner have fallen off his horse than you’d chop off your leg with your axe, Dan Dovetail. Nothing short of a terrible monster could have killed my husband, and you ought to watch your tongue, because saying the Ickabog isn’t real happens to be treason!”

  “Treason!” jeered Mr. Dovetail. “Come off it, Bertha, you’re not going to stand there and tell me you believe in this treason nonsense? Why, a few months ago, not believing in the Ickabog made you a sane man, not a traitor!”

  “That was before we knew the Ickabog was real!” screeched Mrs. Beamish. “Bert — we’re going home!”

  “No — no — please don’t go!” Daisy cried. She picked up a little box she’d stowed under her chair and ran out into the garden after the Beamishes.

  “Bert, please! Look — I got us Hopes-of-Heaven, I spent all my pocket money on them!”

  Daisy wasn’t to know that when he saw Hopes-of-Heaven now, Bert was instantly reminded of the day he’d found out his father was dead. The very last Hope-of-Heaven he’d ever eaten had been in the king’s kitchens, when his mother was promising him they’d have heard if anything had happened to Major Beamish.