“My mam will have told her,” I said. “And Sybil may have been
too busy to be angry. You have to admit she’s been hard at other things lately.”
Our mix of feelings grew much fiercer as we saw the shape of Castle Belmont on its mound against the hot, blue sky. It had turned into a truly scorching day by then. I supposed that Dad was letting the weather stay fine still for the Meeting of Kings, but as the car swept in through the massive castle gates and went winding up the gravel path past parched-looking trees, I began to think Dad might be overdoing things. He was on the way to causing a drought. It crossed my mind that this wasn’t like Dad, but mostly I was realizing that the driver was going to dump us at the castle door just where he had picked us up and wishing he wouldn’t. Grundo looked at me. But we both knew now that it was no good trying to talk to this driver, so we said nothing while he drove in a smart circle on the gravel at the top and drew up with a crunch in front of the big double door of the castle. We said nothing but “Thank you” after that, when he opened the rear doors for us and plumped our bags down on the gravel. We stood clutching our packets of spare sandwiches and griddle cakes and watched the car drive away down the path, glimmering with the heat.
“He doesn’t understand about the camp at all,” Grundo said.
I agreed. In some way, that driver seemed to think that my grandfather’s family was equal to the King’s. We picked up our bags and humped them over to the steep way down into the camp.
And stood staring.
The field where the camp had been was empty. We could see old wheel tracks and brown, trodden paths and pale patches where tents had been, but not a sign of the Progress, not even the buses that usually went off last with us in them. Not a scrap of litter. Nothing. The field looked as if it had been empty for days.
“They’ve gone!” I said stupidly.
“They can’t have gone long,” Grundo said. “We’ve only been away three days, and the King had to meet the Welsh King before they went. We’d better ask at the castle.”
We left our bags and packets in a huddle overlooking the empty field and crunched over to the enormous front door, where we rang the polished brass bellpull. We had to ring three times before there was any answer. By that time we were thinking that the castle was empty, too.
Almost as we were ready to turn away, one of the halves of the double door was noisily unbarred and opened a little by a man in shirtsleeves. He may have been Sir James’s butler. He stood half inside the opening looking annoyed at being disturbed. When he saw we were only children, his face developed new sour creases. “Yes?” he said.
We both became very urgent in our best Court manners. “We’re sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m Arianrhod Hyde, and this is Ambrose Temple, Court wizards’ children....”
“We were supposed to rejoin the Progress this morning,” Grundo explained. “Can you possibly tell us—”
“No use trying to join anything here,” the man said, as if he didn’t believe us. “Who are you trying to fool? The King left nearly a week ago now, right after he met with the Welsh King.”
Nearly a week! I thought. This is mad! But I kept my Court manners and said politely, “Then perhaps you’ll have a message for us from my parents. In the name of Hyde or Temple?”
“No. Sorry,” said the man. He was obviously not sorry at all. “No one left any messages. Court just packed up and went.”
I really could not believe this. My mother would always have left a note telling me the latest far-speaker codes at least. When I went to see Grandad Hyde in London, she usually hired a car for me as well, with instructions to follow the Progress even if it went somewhere unexpected.
While I was trying to think of a way to say this without accusing the man of lying, Grundo said, with great urgency, “Did they, by any chance, have another ceremony in the Inner Garden before they left?”
“They did,” the man admitted. “Big do, for everyone to drink the waters. Went to it myself. What of it?”
“Just thank you,” Grundo said politely.
I knew what had happened then. Mam had drunk the charmed water, too, and was now doing whatever Sybil wanted. And Sybil had always been only too ready to forget about me and Grundo. “Then have you,” I asked the man, “any idea where the Progress is now? Please.”
“No idea,” the man said definitely, and started to slide back inside the half-open door.
“Or where they were going?” Grundo put in quickly.
The man paused. I could see he was going to enjoy telling us. “Only know it was one of the big ports,” he said. “King went to settle a dispute, where was it? Southampton? Liverpool? Somewhere like that. May have been Newcastle. Can’t help you anymore. Sorry.” He slid inside and shut the door with a clash.
“You haven’t helped us at all!” I more or less shouted at the closed door. “Grundo, he was lying, wasn’t he?”
“I’m not sure. I think we need to know today’s date,” Grundo said.
“You mean,” I said, “like the stories? More time’s passed than we thought?”
Grundo nodded glumly.
We went over and picked up our belongings. There seemed no point staying here. We began trudging away down the hot gravel drive. About halfway to the gate, Grundo said, “I don’t think they mean to do this thing with time, these people like your grandfather. Time’s different for them. They probably just can’t help it.”
“That’s all very well,” I said, “but what shall we do?”