Caterwaul settled right in and within a short time became a fixture in the castle. Wherever Druciah went, her black-furred companion followed close behind. When she was sitting, he would curl up at her feet and just rest like he had had not slept in years. They soon became very good friends.
Caterwaul had been right. Druciah, after all those years of loneliness, really needed someone to talk to. The cat showed he was a good listener and counselor too. Before long, they were inseparable. He found that he liked doing the things she liked. If the queen wanted to read, then Caterwaul would read as well. Usually he could be found curled up on a pillow next to her or, at most, only a few feet away.
But what he really loved to do was play games, and she proved to be a competent and enthusiastic opponent. For hours on end, they would play. Often it was card games with names like penguins, tiger’s eye, or three crowns. More often than not, it was Caterwaul who was victorious.
Sometimes if they fancied a longer game, they’d invite Warwick Vane Bezel III and one of the guards for a tournament. With four of them playing, they might indulge themselves with an adventurous game of “One and Thirty.” Caterwaul loved it when Warwick joined in. He took special delight in watching the commander’s brow furrow whenever he would fall behind. And since in these games, for Warwick, losing was a regular event, his face often looked like a shriveled apple left too long in the sun.
Of course losing did not sit well with a man like Warwick Vane Bezel III. He had a terrible temper. The secret policeman’s hatred for Caterwaul grew with every defeat. Warwick knew the cat was laughing at him, and he did not like it one bit.
These tournaments could and often did extend deep into the night. They would sometimes lose track of time and only realize how long they had been playing when the light in the oil lamps began to fade.
Caterwaul liked other kinds of games as well. He was especially fond of board games, which required strategy. When he lived back in the forest, he and the Witch would spend hours upon hours trying to outmaneuver each other. One day he approached his new mistress with a query. “How would you like to see me move castles?” he asked.
She stared at him incredulously. “Surely that is not within your power. You cannot actually move my castle from one place to another?”
He smiled and said, “Of course not, my queen. I was just asking you if you might be interested in having a game of chess.”
Warwick Vane Bezel III had a long history of hating animals. One could not help but notice this, considering he had spent most of his life torturing and subjecting them to all sorts of cruelties. He really didn’t like much of anything, but animals were high on his list of things he didn’t like. Oh . . . and animals who were smarter than he was, he hated most of all.
It did not matter if the beast was enchanted or not, or that Queen Druciah was obviously fond of him. Warwick Vane Bezel III considered Caterwaul the castle’s lowest occupant. He was always spying on the queen’s new companion. He did not trust him at all and was determined to catch him doing something disloyal, which he could show the queen.
But Caterwaul was loyal, and after months living together in the castle, he and the queen were quite attached. Where the queen went, Caterwaul followed. And there was no doubt that he had a mellowing effect on her personality. Unfortunately it would never last long. Some sign of happiness from the villagers below or a bit of news from some far off corner of the kingdom would bring back her bitterness.
This time, it was a wedding announcement that knocked her out of balance. It was brought to her by royal courier one cold Thursday afternoon. It was no more than a few lines on a bit of parchment. It seemed one of her former courtiers, Count Mikhail Freeholder, was getting married in three days’ time. This bit of news should not have surprised her, for the count had been one of her more enthusiastic pursuers, but he was also one of the most worthless.
Count Mikhail Freeholder was looking to catch himself a wealthy wife. Though he was an aristocrat by birth, he didn’t have two coins to rub together, and the queen knew it. In fact, her pet name for him was “Count Freeloader.” She was never remotely interested in him, other than as the butt of a joke.
But that was before the suitors disappeared. It had been years since any man had called on her, and now, even this Freeloader’s attentions would be welcome.
“So the count is getting married,” she said aloud to herself. Not if Druciah could help it!
“Warwick!” she shouted to the commander of her secret police. “I have a job for you.”
Warwick Vane Bezel III snapped to attention. “What is it you want me to do, your majesty?”
“Count Freeholder thinks he is getting married next week. I want you to find out who is providing the nuptial feast. Tell him that he will no longer be needed, because Queen Druciah wants to provide the catering for the whole affair.” She laughed evilly. “It is, after all, the least I can do for my old friend, Freeloader.”
She tossed him a pouch of coins. “Give the caterer this for his troubles, then find out whoever is making the bride’s dress, and tell him that we won’t be needing him either.” She spun around laughing, impressed with her genius. She handed him a piece of paper with instructions on it. “Make sure that you drop this off with our royal seamstress. Tell her that it’s a gift for our future countess. I want it made to those measurements exactly and those exact color specifications. And she needs to be quick about it. Time is of the essence. I will need it in two days.”
“Oh, and Warwick,” she added, “on your way out, tell Orris, my chef, that I need to see him now.” She smiled and giggled with evil delight. “As I recall, the count is deathly allergic to eggs.”
Orris, the royal chef, had been in the queen’s service for many years. Talented and devoted, he was the creative force behind the queen’s Great Feasts and was unmatched in his skillful use of cutlery and seasonings. There wasn’t a dish you could name that Orris had not perfected. If it swam in the sea, flew through the air, grew or grazed in the field, the queen’s man knew how to prepare it.
Like most men of considerable ability, Orris had a rather large ego. Nothing got the fires going in him like the challenge of putting together a great feast. He likened himself to a great composer, only rather than musical notes, his medium was food. He and his dozen or so assistants would regularly prepare masterpieces of delectability, and the kitchen would resound with the aromas of his savory symphonies.
Breads and pastries were his personal favorites to work with. He was a genius when it came to creating new recipes for cakes and pies. And if you were among those lucky enough to have sampled his mouthwatering lemon almond soufflé, you could expect to die a happy man. He used to boast that he could bake anything blindfolded and with one arm tied behind his back. Unfortunately in recent years, he’d had dwindling opportunities to practice his craft. There had not been a Grand Ball or a Great Feast in a very long time.
Still like most performers, Orris needed to perform. If he could not display his talents for the Harsizzle elite, he would have to make do with what audience was available. These days, the audience for his presentations usually consisted of Warwick Vane Bezel III and a few of his henchmen. Oh well . . . what they may have lacked in discriminating palates was more than made up for by their complete absence of table manners.
Then of course, there was the queen herself. Though her appetite for fanciful parties was gone, she still was able to offer Orris regular challenges. Unfortunately, more often than not, these were designed not to delight her subjects, but to cause them misery.
The chef knew his talents were being wasted, but he dared not say anything out of fear that his predecessor’s fate might befall him as well. Orris remembered how Elias, the queen’s last personal chef, was confined to the castle’s dungeon for months because the queen found a hair in her shepherd’s pie.
Even thinking about it caused him to become uneasy. Orris, who was but an assistant at the time, recalled Elias arguing with the queen over whose hair it was that was in the pie. The argument was pointless because no matter which of them was right, the cook was doomed either way.
The former chef sealed his fate when he pointed out that the small piece of meat to which the hair was attached looked suspiciously like a mole that had, until only moments before, been twitching on the queen’s upper lip.
Orris would not make that or any other mistake, so he kept his mouth shut and his kitchen spotless. Since he didn’t have much to prepare, he spent his time scrubbing, polishing, and sanitizing most of the day. He was in the midst of this cleaning when he received the queen’s summons. Druciah was grinning ear to ear when her chef approached.
“You wanted to see me, my queen?”
“Yes, Orris,” she said, “I have a special challenge for you. One I think will enable you to exercise your culinary muscles and test your creativity.”
“Are we going to have a Grand Ball this year, your highness?” asked Orris excitedly.
“No, you fool. Those days are long past, I’m afraid, but I said I had a challenge for you, and I think this is one you will appreciate. I need you to assemble every recipe you have containing eggs. We are catering a wedding in three days.”
She was absolutely giddy as she gave Orris his instructions.
“We shall spare no expense. I want you to really stretch out creatively here. You are going to make the most elaborate and decorative dishes you can come up with. I don’t care what you create, my friend, just make sure that whatever you cook contains eggs.
“I even want the side dishes and desserts to have eggs in them. Get started now and have them ready by the morning of the third day. Then when you’re done, have the whole lot delivered to Count Freeholder for his wedding reception.”
Two days later, Secret Police Commander Warwick Vane Bezel III returned to the castle. He had followed the queen’s orders to the letter. “The caterers have been paid off, and your seamstress has completed the dress you asked for. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I believe that she really outdid herself this time. I am afraid, however, that I made the dress quite a mess, your majesty.” He handed her what appeared to be an orange circus tent adorned with bright circles of purple and green. “I was going to surprise you by having my horse wear it for the journey home, but he refused to allow me to get on his back. It was quite embarrassing to the steed.”
“Excellent work, Warwick! I knew I could count on you!” She unfolded the dress, which was designed to make the wearer look like an oversized, human Easter egg. She burst out laughing. “Yes, Warwick, this is perfect . . . In this outfit our bride-to-be will look like a cross between a clown and Humpty Dumpty. I think it goes perfectly with our theme for the day.” She broke into a roar.
After she had time to compose herself, she asked, “What other mischief did you get into on your visit to the village? You know how much I love to hear of your adventures.”
“Well, I don’t mean to brag, your highness, but I took a bit of liberty in giving the bride a new hairstyle. It’s a bit radical, but I trust that your majesty will approve,” said the commander with an evil grin.
“Oh?” she inquired. “And what new coiffure did you leave her with? A bouffant, a beehive, a flattop, or worse? A Mohawk perhaps?”
“None of the above, my queen,” he said with a laugh. “I am afraid my cosmetological skills leave something to be desired. I couldn’t decide what to do, so I just took it all.” He tossed her a leather bag. She reached inside and pulled out several handfuls of long, red hair.
She was positively giddy. “Excellent! Now she will really look like an egg! My dear Warwick, you really are a devil. I’m afraid that the count and his fiancée are really going to have to ‘scramble’ if they are to have any hope whatsoever of saving this wedding.”