Jenny Nimmo - Charlie Bone and the Red Knight

The Red King arrived in the North nine hundred years ago. He was an African magician and each of his ten children inherited a small part of his power. These powers were passed down, through their descendants, to the inhabitants of an ancient city. But not all the inheritors use their powers wisely. Some of them are bent on evil, and Charlie Bone strives constantly to thwart them.

Charlie’s parents are on their second honeymoon. They have been away for more than a month. Postcards arrive for Charlie, describing his parents’ wonderful adventures on the world’s oceans. Although Charlie is happy for them, he wishes they would return. The city is becoming a dangerous place for him and his friends. One of them was almost drowned and their favourite meeting place, the Pets’ Café, has been closed. Charlie is afraid that the Red King’s old enemy, Count Harken, will try and enter the city once again. The count, an enchanter, has already abducted the orphan, Billy Raven, and now keeps him in Badlock, a world that exists in the far distant past.

If only the Red King could return to keep the city safe. But that is too much to hope for. And yet, deep in the ruins of the Red King’s castle, a heart still beats within a tall red tree. The king can watch with the eyes of birds that settle on his branches; he can listen with the ears of creatures that graze beside him; sometimes he can even move. But he who was once mighty is now powerless to help the children who need him. His last spell has been cast. He can only hope that his cloak and sword will protect the man who has chosen to take his place. One thing is certain: the white mare that was once the king’s beloved queen will do all in her power to carry their champion to victory.

To the small man hurrying through the city, the dark buildings that rose about him had never appeared so menacing.

‘Menaced,’ muttered Orvil Onimous. ‘That’s what we are, my dears, menaced.’ He was speaking to three cats that paced about him, magnificent creatures with fire-bright coats, from the deep copper of the cat that leapt ahead, to the flame orange and starry yellow of the two that ran on either side of him.

‘You are a comfort, Flames,’ sighed the little man, ‘you know that, don’t you?’

They turned off the High Street and made their way down Frog Street, a narrow alley that led to the ancient city walls. It was a cold, damp night and the cobblestones were wet with melting frost. Every step the small man took became more laboured. He rounded a corner and came within sight of an unusual-looking shop, built into the very fabric of the old walls. Above a large, latticed window, the words ‘The Pets’ Café’ could just be made out on a sign filled with the paintings of animals.

Mr Onimous seemed unable to continue. He hung his head, gasping for air. With his whiskery face and furry brown head he resembled a large vole in an ill-fitting tweed coat.

The cats gathered round him, mewing encouragement, but Orvil Onimous let out a mournful sob and pointed to a sheet of paper nailed to the green painted door.

These premises are closed , said the notice, by order of the city councillors, in accordance with Section 238 of the Public Health Act .

The cats could not read the notice but they were well aware of its meaning. Their friend’s livelihood had been stolen from him. The Pets’ Café, where every customer was obliged to bring a pet, was now closed. The joyful twittering, the braying, barking and mewing that once had welcomed every visitor was now gone, leaving only a bleak silence.

Inside the café, chairs were piled on empty tables, the lights were out in the coloured lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and in the kitchen Mrs Onimous endlessly filled the stove with cakes and cookies that no one would eat.

Thinking of his wife, Mr Onimous took a firm step towards the green door, and then hesitated. A sound at the far end of the alley made him peer cautiously round the corner.

A figure came striding towards him.

‘We’re closed,’ called Mr Onimous. ‘It’s no use coming down here. Besides,’ he added sadly, ‘you haven’t got a pet – unless it’s in your pocket. Go away.’

The stranger paid no attention. He marched purposefully closer. A boy, thought Mr Onimous, noting the slim build and youthful stride. A yellow scarf covered the lower half of the boy’s face, and the hood of his blue coat was pulled well down over his forehead.

Mr Onimous backed nervously round the corner. His heart was beating rather fast, but his gloomy mood had been replaced by resentful anger. Who was this silent stranger, marching towards him when he had expressly told him to go away?

The cats were usually quick to defend Mr Onimous but they stood in the alley with their tails erect, sniffing the air and mewing expectantly.

A strong breeze accompanied the stranger – a sinister breeze in Mr Onimous’s opinion. Can’t be one of the kids, he thought. Can’t be one of the endowed. It’s Wednesday night. They’re all at school and in bed most likely. He ran across to the green door and, pulling a key from his pocket, shakily inserted it into the lock.

‘Mr Onimous!’ The voice was a harsh, urgent whisper.

The little man turned fearfully, and looked into a pair of familiar sky-blue eyes. ‘Tancred Torsson!’ he cried.

‘Sssh!’ Tancred put a finger to his lips.

‘Oh, my dear, dear fellow.’ Mr Onimous clasped both Tancred’s hands and squeezed them tight. ‘Oh, you can’t know how you’ve lifted my spirits. We thought you were dead.’

‘I am dead, Mr Onimous,’ whispered Tancred. ‘Dead to THEM at least. Can I come in? I’ll explain everything.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Mr Onimous unlocked the door and drew Tancred into the empty café. The three cats bounced swiftly after them and Mr Onimous locked and bolted the door.

Tancred pulled down his scarf and gazed at the upturned chairs with their legs pointing desolately at the darkened ceiling. ‘This is so sad, Mr Onimous,’ he said. ‘We must do something about it.’

‘Course we must, but it’s too much for my poor old brain to sort out.’ Mr Onimous led the way round the counter at the back of the café, and into the bright kitchen beyond.

An exceptionally tall woman with a long melancholy face was spooning jam into some rather pale-looking tarts. There were several plates of them spread across the kitchen table, and if it hadn’t been for Mrs Onimous’s desolate expression, you would have thought she was preparing for a party.

‘Don’t say it,’ murmured Mrs Onimous, without looking up. ‘Who’s going to eat a hundred tarts? I couldn’t help myself, Orvil. What else am I to do?’

‘Onoria, my darling,’ Mr Onimous failed to keep a squeak of excitement out of his voice. ‘We have a visitor.’

She looked up, opened her mouth, screamed, staggered backwards and collapsed into an old armchair. ‘Tancred Torsson!’ she gasped. ‘You’re dead!’

‘Not so, Mrs Onimous.’ Tancred pulled back his hood, revealing a mop of thick corn-gold hair. ‘As you see, I am very much alive.’

‘The news is all round the city. They said you had drowned.’ Two fat tears rolled down Mrs Onimous’s cheeks. ‘A terrible accident, they said it was, but we guessed it was that evil boy Dagbert Endless who had drowned you.’