CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT IN TARGON WOODS

In the woods that are all that remains of the ancient village of Targon Griselda learns a bit more dubious history...

War is declared, then, thought Griselda as she stood next to the trunk of a fine old oak tree and stared through the tangled mass of undergrowth and intertwining branches towards Scrumblenose University. Though how I ever managed that exit I'll never know! she added to herself with a wry smile. Where did I want to go? The trees of Targon, I remember saying, though where that came from I've no idea! I wonder where in the name of goodness they might be!

She was about to hold a long dialogue with herself, one that would end with as much confusion as it started, when she heard a rustling of the undergrowth and the odd curse as something sharp penetrated the skin of someone not over-fond of pain.

Then, after one expletive that was considerably louder than the rest, she saw who was coming. It was her favourite policeman from Swanspottle, and he was arm in arm with Anne Boleyn of the Eleven Fingers, which explained the gasps of pain as thorn after thorn and nettle after nettle scraped against her flimsy leotard and punctured her lovely skin. There was no sign of Spotty, which was a relief so far as Griselda was concerned. Big-hearted he may have been, annoying he most certainly could be.

“Constable Lockemup!” she called in her most imperious voice. She had no reason to like the Boleyn woman and needed, she knew, to keep a weather eye on that ancient piece of womankind. She had, after all, reduced her, the Great Griselda, from the enticing wench she had tried to be to the old woman she really was whilst at the same time knocking her unconscious. That kind of thing didn't go down too well with Griselda Entwhistle. It was, in fact, a certain way of turning her never mild-mannered crotchety self into the bitterest of enemies.

“What are you doing with that old piece of flesh on your arm?” she demanded of Constable Lockemup when they were both in clearly in sight.

The Constable grinned back at her. “I thought you might need her,” he said. “This University is a weird old place and that's no mistake! A professor who wants to be Pope and a young lass who reckons she ought to be queen? It don't make sense to me, and there's no mistake!”

“You, madam, are fortunate not to be at the stake, sizzling as a witch!” hissed Anne, rubbing at a collection of nettle bumps with an angry hand.

“With a pyre right next to yours?” sneered Griselda. “Or was that just a party trick you played on me?”

“I am the promised Queen of all England, I'll have you know!” almost shouted the Boleyn woman, her eyes narrowing to a slit.

“Times have moved on,” sighed Griselda. “Have you any idea how many kings and queens there have been since fat king Henry popped his clogs?”

“Popped his clogs...” stammered Anne. “You mean … he's not king any more?”

“That would be against nature, dear, now wouldn't it?” suggested Griselda teasingly. “He's been dead for so long even his bones are dust. He passed away syphilitic and fat more years ago than I feel like counting. There have been lots of kings and queens since then...”

“Queens, you say? Queens?” interrupted Boleyn.

“I don't know what's going on!” sighed Constable Lockemup. “I swear I don't,” he added, forlornly.

“Then let me explain,” said Griselda. “In the sixteenth century the king wanted to hide a woman who was supposed to have had her head lopped off, this woman, this wretched creature before us. The trouble is she had angered him but in the weird way of men he still loved her, so he brought her here, paid the Professor to look after her for him and rode off into the west to grow fat and die. That's all silly old Stroggleoff is: a guardian of a demented brat who thinks she can still be queen. But he always had a secret: the potion that can cause people who take it in tiny quantities to live virtually forever. It's a tasty idea, don't you think, and derived from a tincture distilled from a particularly rare tree found only near here?”

“These woods,” nodded Anne

“I want some of that!” declared Constable Lockemup.

“No you don't,” whispered Anne Boleyn. “I've been taking it for years and years and years and it isn't much good, growing wiser and wiser because you've seen a lot of life but somehow can't shake the past off. Inside my head I knew that Henry was dead " it's so long since I've seen him, and you can have no idea how long a century can feel when you are waiting for someone " but I kept telling myself he was alive and well and likely to ride up any time and claim me, and that things would be like they used to be.

“But nothing changed. I kept taking my tincture and the days rolled into years until I lost count. I couldn't grow old, yet I was no longer young, not here,” she tapped her forehead, “not inside my head. That's why I joined the gymnastic team " to be one of the girls again. Though there's something odd about them, something that makes them seem like people who aren't people. It's hard to explain. They're … empty, if you see what I mean. Though I'm not. I am pretty, you know. Henry used to say that, before I upset him. Though I do wish someone would get rid of this extra finger.” She held up her right hand, indicating her extra finger.

“If you're just a little girl lost why did you turn on me back there?” asked Griselda, indicating the distant building mostly obscured by woodland. “I wasn't expecting anything of the sort and I usually know most things that are going to happen.”

*I have learned things...” whispered Anne. “I know some spells. These days people scoff at witchcraft and magic, but when I was Queen there were many witches around. Magic was commonplace, though you may not believe that!”

“And you knew how to knock me off my feet and change me from a hopefully pretty young student into my real self?” asked Griselda. “Bah! I like being young! I like young men to fancy me, and who's going to look twice at an old bird like me? I even like looking at my own reflection and thinking how sweet and innocent and young I look! I like wearing provocative clothes. I like showing my legs off! I like being young!”

“So we're not so very different, are we?” whispered Anne.

Constable Lockemup remained discreetly quiet. He knew Griselda as she was now, an old woman with wrinkles on her wrinkles and eyes that pierced like shards of glass, but he had enjoyed meeting her “niece” on many lascivious occasions. That “niece” was her alter-ego and they'd romped in his bed back in Swanspottle quite a few times. He grinned to himself. And in Number Ten Downing Street in London. They'd played quite a few games on the bed back there! If only the general public had known!

“That's easy,” sighed Anne Boleyn. “Returning a witch to her proper shape used to be a common enough spell. That's why the witches were all old and raggedy when they were burned at the stake. Spells were used on them so that they'd be seen as they really were, and if they suddenly became old hags it was proof positive that they were witches. It would have looked wrong to burn a young woman with a smooth skin, don't you think?”

“Less of the old hag,” growled Griselda. “Right, if you want to be on the right side, and by the right side I mean my side, you can tell me where we are for starters!”

“That's easy,” said Anne. “We're not far from the village of Targon. Or at least, we're not far from where the village of Targon used to be, a long time ago before my hus... before King Henry had it raised to the ground by fire so that absolutely nobody would accidentally chance on his University!”

“Targon woods,” whispered Griselda to herself.

“That's right,” agreed Anne. “And a right magical place they're said to be, too. Things happen here that don't happen anywhere else.”

“And lovely trees get hugged!” came a fresh voice from the other side of a clump of brambles. “Well, well, well, so we're all friends together, are we? Though out of courtesy you can stop calling me Spotty. As a name that is a bit offensive, don't you think? You know my p-p-proper name and I'd be pleased if you used it sometimes!”

And sauntering as if he was strolling through summer glades and oblivious of nettle or bramble emerged he who apparently didn't like being known as Spotty, and in his hands he was carrying the broomstick that Griselda had arrived on what seemed an age ago, but in actual fact was only a couple of days. Griselda raised her eyebrows as she took in the apparent purposefulness of his approach.

“I thought you might need this,” he said, grinning.

“You sweet boy,” smiled Griselda. “I think I've fallen into the trap of under-estimating you!”

“Most p-p-people do,” murmured Lucifer, blushing.