“We are witched,” said the Fool benignly. On the hearth, little Rosemary drew her knees up under her chin and looked about with round eyes. All trace of sleepiness was gone from her.
“Why are there no guards?” Wallace demanded angrily. He strode to the door of the room and peered out into the hallway. “The torches burn blue, every one of them!” he gasped. He drew his head back in, looked about wildly. “Rosemary. Run and fetch the guards. They said they would follow us shortly.”
Rosemary shook her head and refused to budge. She hugged her knees tightly.
“Guards would follow us? Wood follow us? Followed by wood? Now that’s a knotty subject! Would wooden guards burn?”
“Stop your nattering!” Wallace snapped at the Fool. “Go fetch the guards.”
“Go fetch? First he thinks I am wood, now that I am his little pet dog. Ah! Go fetch the wood; the stick you mean. Where’s the stick?” And the Fool began to bark like a feist and frolic about the room as if in search of a thrown stick.
“Go fetch the guards!” Wallace all but howled.
The Queen spoke firmly. “Fool. Wallace. Enough. You weary us with your antics, and Wallace, you are frightening Rosemary. Go and fetch the guards yourself, if you are so set on having them here. As for me, I would have a little peace. I am weary. Soon I must retire.”
“My queen, there is something ill afoot this night,” Wallace insisted. He glanced about him warily. “I am not a man swayed by chance omens, but of late there have been too many to ignore. I shall go fetch the guards, since the Fool here lacks the courage-”