Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold by Jenny Nimmo Page B

schoolroom,” said Tolly as they made their way past the disconsolate knights. They were always in high spirits before an expedition, and the change of plans was disappointing. It took some time to prepare horses and armor, and to be told that all the preparations had been for nothing irked the knights.
    “One more day lost for Peredur,” grumbled Sir Edern, patting his stallion’s nose.
    The horse snorted, aware of his master’s irritation.
    “The expedition isn’t cancelled,” Amadis said. “It’s merely delayed.”
    “For how long?” asked Edern.
    “Until the boy is cured,” said Mabon, the archer. “It makes sense, Edern. We can’t go without Timoken, and he must find out what sort of mischief is afoot. Someone has tampered with that helmet, and until we know who, or why, it is surely safer not to put ourselves at risk.”
    “Who knows what sickness that orphan may have brought us?” Edern grumbled. “How do we know it was the helmet that laid him out?” He looked at Amadis.
    Amadis spread his hands. “It seems obvious.” He turned and saw his younger brothers. “Your new friend is in good hands,” he told them. “Time for lessons now.”
    Petrello sighed and Tolly groaned. They headed for the schoolroom. They had to pass the chancellor’s office on their way, and saw the Gray Men gathered outside the chancellor’s door. They were murmuring to one another, their low voices contrasting oddly with the loud bluster of the Knight Protectors. They stopped speaking when the boys passed. Petrello could feel their eyes on him, and he half expected a scornful remark or even a command from the gloomy Chimery. But the Gray Men said not a word. They watched the boys until they reached the schoolroom door, and then Chimery was heard to mutter, “Not long now …” The rest of his words were lost in a guffaw from one of the others.
    “What did he mean?” asked Tolly as he stepped down to the schoolroom.
    “No idea,” said Petrello, opening the schoolroom door.
    They entered at the back of the room and quickly slipped onto the bench behind the nearest table. Ahead of them were another three tables, where children age eight to eleven sat with their hands in their laps and their eyes fixed on Friar Gereint. The friar sat at a high desk in front of the class. He was very nearsighted and could never make out the children at the back of the class. If he heard the door close, he would call, “Who’s come in or has someone gone out? Speak!” He did this now.
    No one answered.
    “Come on. Speak!” Friar Gereint’s bad sight made him irritable. He always suspected a trick.
    “It’s Petrello and Tolomeo,” answered Petrello, not wanting to put any of the other children in the awkward position of having to tell on them.
    “Thank you.” The friar relaxed. He was a very short, very stout person, but when the king first met him, he had been a skinny boy with a beautiful voice. Twenty years of good food and little exercise in a monastery had changed him beyond recognition.
    “Princes or not, you’re late,” said the friar. “Petrello, please recite the ‘Ode to Prince Griffith,’ composed by Sir Edern’s father, the late, great poet Elvin.”
    Petrello gave an inward sigh. The “Ode to Prince Griffith” was extremely long, and he had never quite mastered it. Prince Griffith was a Welsh Briton who had once owned Castle Melyntha. When he was killed in a battle, the conquerors took over his castle and most of the Britons had fled or been killed. Petrello’s father, being an African king, had even more reason to flee. He had escaped with the wizard Eri.
    Petrello cleared his throat and began. “‘Glorious was our prince, our golden-haired warrior. Fearless was he, a prince without equal. Inconsolable are his people …’”
    Five minutes later, Petrello was still struggling with the third verse. Guanhamara, sitting beside him, knew the ode better than anyone; she kept trying to whisper the right