As the door opened, Magrat thought she heard a subtle little sound of a call to arms. Queen Ynci’s armour had a life of its own and it always shone, even in the dark. Verence helped her buckle on the mail armour – which she secretly thought of as fe-mail – then she slipped her feet into the heavy-soled spiked sandals, and topped it all off with the winged helmet. The last piece to go on was the leather baldric.
Verence wanted to embrace her, but he thought, I won’t. There were too many spikes, in any case. But he loved his wife to distraction, so he tried again to volunteer himself to be somewhere in the coming fray.
‘Magrat, my love,’ he murmured, ‘it seems so shaming if the King can’t fight.’
‘You are a very good king, Verence,’ his wife said firmly, ‘but this is witches’ work. And someone has to look after the people and our children.’ The Queen – Magrat, as was – staggered under the weight of the armour, and under her breath she whispered a little magic. ‘Queen Ynci, Queen of Queens, make your armour light.’ And suddenly she felt strong, stronger than she had ever been before.
She picked up a crossbow in one hand, her broomstick in the other, and almost flew down the stairs to the Great Hall where the other witches, who were for the most part en déshabille, stared at her with wild surmise. Wild surmises take on many shapes and every witch, some still in their underwear, stared at the Queen and the surmise each gave her hung there in the rafters.
In the voice of Queen Ynci, Magrat shouted, ‘Up, girls, and at ’em. It’s started, ladies, so get your heavy-duty knickers on and your sticks ready!’ She glared at the only witch to be fully dressed, spick and span in three minutes, to the surprise of all. ‘That means you too, Mrs Earwig.’
There was a little commotion at the back of the hall, then a sudden crash and a group of witches ground to a halt.
‘What’s happening?’ Magrat cried, still in the voice of Queen Ynci.
‘It’s only Long Tall Short Fat Sally: she’s got two feet down one knicker!’ said Mrs Proust. Surrounded by witches, Long Tall Short Fat Sally – small and squat right then, like a lowlying thunderstorm – was swiftly put back on her feet.
Mrs Earwig looked rather smug and said, ‘I’ve been looking at my charts. The omens are good.’
‘Well, omens are ten a penny,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘I’ve got lots of them. After all, we are all witches.’
And the ghost of Queen Ynci filled Magrat, who said, ‘Let us fly.’
In Mr Sideways’s old barn, Mephistopheles laid a hoof gently on Geoffrey’s sleeping form. Geoffrey jumped out of the straw and discovered that the old boys who had readied themselves for the coming battle by bivouacking in the barn with him were already up and about, creaking a bit, and making their toilet in a bucket.
Geoffrey looked at the old men. They had spent most of the evening carousing and telling stories of the days when they were all young and handsome and healthy and didn’t have to pass water far too often.
They had managed to make their wives give them a ticket of leave, and said wives had been given to believe that their husbands were just in the barn for a few drinks and reminiscences. The wives, as wives do, had festooned their menfolk with big scarves, mittens on strings and woolly hats with, alas, pompoms on the top.
Captain Makepeace – the old boys’ acknowledged military leader – said, ‘It’s time to go and get out Laughing Boy’s confounded contraption.’
Geoffrey looked at the captain’s warriors and sighed internally. Could they do it? They were old men. And then he thought, Yes, they are old men. They have been old men for a long time, which means they have learned many things. Like lying, and being crafty and, most importantly, dissembling.
‘We shall fight them on the mountains. We shall fight them on the rocks. We shall fight them over the hills and down in the valleys.fn1 We shall never surrender!’ Captain Makepeace roared, and there was an answering cheer.
‘They will not like it up and over ’em!’ Smack Tremble called out, waving what looked like a rusty bayonet in the air and, worryingly, living up to his name. ‘They will not like it, oh no they won’t!’
Mephistopheles grunted as Geoffrey hitched him to his little cart, which the old boys had filled with mysterious bags before drinking the night away, and the two of them followed the old men out of the barn.
Captain Makepeace didn’t need to tell his men to be stealthy. They already were. It was running fast that would be a problem. And stealthily they made their way into the wood and further on to where they had hidden Mr Sideways’s contraption, camouflaging it with branches.
Geoffrey watched them pull Mr Sideways’s project out into the clearing. It stood there looking ominous. Surrounded by the bushes. Waiting its moment. Like a huge insect.
One with a nasty sting . . .