A Skinful of Shadows

CHAPTER 10

A lot can change in two years and a season.

Twenty-seven months is long enough for a place to seep into your bones. Its colours become the palette of your mind, its sounds your private music. Its cliffs or spires overshadow your dreams, its walls funnel your thoughts.

Humans are strange, adaptable animals, and eventually get used to anything, even the impossible or unbearable. Beauty living in the Beast’s castle doubtless had her routines, her little irritations and a great deal of boredom. Terror is tiring, and difficult to keep up indefinitely, so sooner or later it must be replaced by something more practical.

One day you wake up in your prison, and realize that it is the only real place. Escape is a dream, a lip-service prayer that you no longer believe in.

But Makepeace was used to fighting against the slow poison of habit. Her life with Mother had taught her how to keep herself unrooted. This is not your home, she reminded herself, again and again and again.

Fortunately, Makepeace had Bear, whose hot and turbulent instincts told her, over and over, that she was in a prison, loaded with chains she could neither feel nor see. Then there was James. It was harder for the siblings to meet now, since James had been given new duties that gave him less time with the other servants. He was now the personal servant of Symond, Sir Thomas’s blond-white heir, and had become his errand boy, companion, sparring partner and personal footman.

In spite of the household’s efforts to keep the siblings apart, however, the two snatched opportunities to meet in secret and hatch plans.

In two years and a season, you can learn a lot about escape planning. Makepeace discovered a flair for it.

James came up with bold, cunning schemes, but never noticed their flaws. He was confident, she was doubtful and distrustful. But doubt and distrust had their uses. Makepeace had an eye for problems, and a quiet cunning when it came to solutions.

She hoarded every chance penny she was given, and secretly spent them on a threadbare change of clothes, in case disguises were needed in a hurry. She learned the rituals and habits of all Grizehayes’s inhabitants, and discovered the old house’s myriad hiding places. She stubbornly worked on her penmanship, so that she could try her hand at forgery if required.

Two years and a season taught her to be a cautious, patient thief, squirrelling away oddments that might be useful on the run — a small knife, a tinderbox, some paper, candle stubs. She had powder to lighten her face and hide her pockmarks, and charcoal to darken her brows. Makepeace collected unwanted or ill-guarded rags, and in the quiet times before sleeping had gradually stitched them together to create a makeshift rope, just in case one was ever needed.

She had even secretly drawn her own map of the local area on the back of an old playbill, adding to it gradually whenever she learned of another landmark.

And from time to time, to everyone’s disgust, James and Makepeace tried to escape from Grizehayes, and were dragged back in disgrace.

In two years and a season, you can learn from your failures. You can discover patience and cunning. You can teach everybody to overlook you.

Makepeace learned to hide in plain sight. Eventually she was treated as part of the kitchen, like the ladles and tongs. By the time she turned fifteen, she had become accepted. Trusted. Taken for granted. The other servants now saw her as a surly extension of the grumpy old cook, rather than a real person with secret thoughts. ‘Gotely’s Shadow’, they sometimes nicknamed her. ‘Gotely’s Echo’. ‘Gotely’s Cat’.

Makepeace was as unlovely as she could make herself. Her clothes were always baggy and ill-fitting, and often streaked with dripping or flour. Her hair had started to learn the same defiant witchiness as her mother’s, but like the other servant women she kept it carefully wrapped up in a turban-like linen cap. Her expressions changed slowly, and she let people think that her thoughts were similarly slow. They were not. They were as quick as her fingers, the deft, calloused hands that nobody gave a second glance.

She kept most people at arm’s length. Over the years, some Bear-ness had bled into her behaviour. Because Bear did not like people approaching too quickly or coming too close, neither did she. When strangers wandered within five feet of her, it made her feel angry and frightened, as if they were charging at her screaming. She could feel Bear wanting to draw himself up and menace them, to make them back away. He tried to snort low, guttural threats, and these escaped her throat as angry-sounding coughs. Makepeace had earned a reputation for fits of sour temper, and territorial defence of the kitchen.

‘Don’t go running into there without warning,’ the errand boys were cautioned, ‘or Gotely’s Cat will swipe you with her ladle.’ But the household made a joke of it. Nobody guessed at the Bear-temper Makepeace had learned to keep in check.

Over time Bear had learned to accept the kitchen, in spite of the heat and noise. He knew all its smells now. He had rubbed himself against the door jambs to make them his, so the kitchen felt safer. Just as slowly, Makepeace had introduced him to the idea of promises and bargains. Hush now, Bear, and later I will let us run in the orchard. Don’t lash out, and later I shall steal us a fistful of the scraps meant for the poultry. Hold back your rage now, and some day, some day, we shall escape to a world without walls.

The two tiny smallpox marks on Makepeace’s cheek had never faded. The other serving women sometimes nagged her to do something about them, cover them with powder or fill the pits with fat. She never did. The last thing she wanted was for anyone’s gaze to linger on her.

I am not worth your attention. Forget about me.

James, on the other hand, was attracting notice. Whenever Symond went away to attend court or visit relations, James would be left behind, and would become just another servant. But whenever Symond returned to Grizehayes, James’s star would rise again, and his spirits with it. The two were thick as thieves, and suddenly James knew all the doings of the family, the court and the nation.

The servant women still teased him, but their tone was different now. He was now a seventeen-year-old man, not a boy, and it was whispered that he had prospects.

In two years and a season, a country can fall apart. Cracks prove deeper than anybody expected. They can become crevasses, and then chasms.

News came piecemeal to Grizehayes. Sometimes it arrived in sealed letters that went straight to Lord Fellmotte’s room, but then trickled down through the household in overheard fragments. Sometimes pedlars and tinkers brought word-of-mouth news, seasoned with rumour and gore.

These scraps could be patchworked into a picture.

As the Year of Our Lord 1641 wore itself out and yielded to 1642, the tension between the King and Parliament became ever more dangerous.

London was simmering and divided. Mobs clashed, rumours spread like wildfire, and the King’s party and Parliament’s supporters were convinced that the others were plotting against them.

For a while it seemed that Parliament was winning the battle of wills.

‘I don’t understand the whole of it,’ said Mistress Gotely, ‘but they say Parliament wants to do more and more without the King’s say-so. By the time they’ve finished, the King won’t be a king at all — just a poppet with a crown. He should show them a bit of right royal wrath.’

Apparently the King thought so too.

On the fourth day of January 1642, King Charles marched to the House of Commons with hundreds of armed troops, to seize the five men he thought were Parliament’s ringleaders.

‘But when he got there,’ said Long Alys, who had heard the news from Young Crowe, ‘those men had escaped! They must have had spies to tip ’em off. And the rest of Parliament would not tell the King where they were gone, and faced him down! And now the trained bands of London are told to protect Parliament, against their own King! Oh, they’re all showing their traitors’ colours now.’

A line had been crossed, and everyone could feel it. Until now, both sides had been raising the stakes, sure that sooner or later the other’s nerve would break. But now weapons had been brandished. There were rumours that Parliament was raising an army against the King, and pretending it was for a war in Ireland.

‘Of course, the King’s gathering his own troops as well!’ Old Crowe was overheard saying to his son. ‘How else can he protect his crown and his people against Parliament?’

‘They’re both strutting like cocks and showing their spurs, and hoping it won’t come to blood,’ was the less charitable view of one of the stablehands.

This cannot be happening, was the feeling everywhere. Surely there is a way to prevent this! Surely nobody wishes for war!

But in August of 1642, in a field at Nottingham, the King had his royal standard raised and fixed in the ground. Its silk rippled as he read a declaration of war.

That same night the King’s standard blew down in a storm, and was found in the mud.

‘It is an ill omen,’ muttered Mistress Gotely, rubbing at her gouty leg. She always claimed that she could feel coming storms as pains in her leg, and sometimes said that she could sense bad luck too. ‘I wish it had not fallen.’

When a country is torn in two, it splits in surprising zigzags, and it is hard to guess who will find themselves on one side and who on the other. There were stories of families divided, friends taking up arms against each other, towns where neighbour warred against neighbour.

Parliament held London. The King had made his base in Oxford. There was some talk of peace negotiations, but many more accounts of battles.

At Grizehayes, however, the war always felt distant. There were preparations, of course. The men in the villages drilled on the commons, and green uniforms were made up for a local regiment. The Fellmottes ordered weapons and ammunition as well, and had the defensive walls of the great house repaired. Yet the idea that war could reach the Fellmotte stronghold seemed absurd.

We will never change, said its grim, grey walls, and so nothing will really change, for we are all that matters. We are the great rock amid the world’s sea. The doings of other men may wash and crash around us, but we are eternal.

CHAPTER 11

In the season of bitter winds and long nights, Christmastide finally arrived. With its feasting and merry-making, it mocked the grey skies and defied the barren fields. It was a bright arrow through winter’s dark heart.

For most people, the twelve days of Christmas were a very welcome break from work. However, there was no rest for the feast-makers. Makepeace was run off her feet preparing tarts, pies, soups, collops, roast fowl of every size, cold meats and iced extravagances. She was even put in charge of roasting the vast boar’s head, a patched and monstrous thing whose cooked snout still had an honest piggishness. Makepeace did not feel bad about cooking dead beasts and birds. They would have understood the belly’s need to be full, the hungry taking of life to stretch out one’s own life.

To see Makepeace doggedly working, you would not have guessed at the secret plan burning in her heart like a cool and quiet fire.

As usual, James had struck the first spark.

‘Twelfth Night!’ he had whispered to her one evening. ‘Think of it! The house will be full to the rafters! It’s the one night of the year when everybody from the farms and villages is allowed to feast in the hall at Grizehayes. The courtyard gates will be open, and the guard dogs muzzled. So . . . when the crowds start to leave, we slip out too. They won’t miss us for hours.’

As Makepeace ran breathlessly from task to task, her mind was picking away at the scheme, It was a good plan, and could work, with enough cunning. But there were risks. Even if they got away, the siblings would be left homeless and friendless in the depths of winter, amid bare, hungry fields. She was not even sure she could count on Bear’s night vision, since he was ‘awake’ much less in colder months.

Worse, many of the other Elders would be visiting Grizehayes for the feast.

We’ll have to stay out of their way, James had said. Or they’ll know what we’re planning. They’ll see through us, right to the bone.

By the time Twelfth Night finally arrived, Makepeace was exhausted, and had several new burns on her hands and arms from spitting fat, hastily handled skewers and jostled kettles.

The great hall was trimmed with sprigs of holly, ivy, rosemary and bay, and in the huge, blazing fireplace could be seen the charred and glowing remnants of the Yule log, its ribbons long since burnt to shrivelled rags.

Trappings of heathenry! the Poplar minister would have exclaimed. They might as well be sacrificing a bull on an altar to Baal! Christmas is a Devil’s snare, baited with ale, idleness and plum duff!

Nobody else seemed alarmed by it, though. The villagers started to arrive in the afternoon, in nervous, jocose groups, marvelling at the carvings and clustering around the warmth of the hearth. A little cider lent them some confidence, and the time-blackened beams of the hall echoed with their raised voices and laughter. By the time the sun was setting, the hall was packed.

The servingmen were run off their feet ferrying plates of food to the hall, and carrying ale and cider from the cellar, along with the few barrels of drinkable wine left over from the newly deceased year. There were always too few hands at the ready, so Makepeace found herself scampering between kitchen and hall, bearing plates of tongue, bowls of pale and lumpy brawn, and platters of cheese and apples.

Over by the hearth she could see James filling the cups of the ‘better kind’ of visitor. Unlike Makepeace, he was considered handsome enough to wait upon the family and honoured guests. He was quick of wit, well-proportioned and athletic, with a pleasant-ugly face and an easy charm. Nobody seeing his good-humoured smile would guess that he was planning his escape that very night.

Wait for me at midnight in the chapel, he had told her. Nobody will be there tonight.

A great oaken throne placed near the hearth was clearly intended for the lord of the manor, but neither Lord Fellmotte nor Sir Thomas was in evidence. Instead it was occupied by Symond, who seemed to be revelling in his lordly role. He was surrounded by other courtly young bloods, also in their early twenties. If gossip spoke truly, they could all boast of eminent families or powerful patrons.

The whole festival bore the marks of Symond’s interference. He had come back from court a self-appointed expert on elegant dishes, extravagant masques and the scandalous dresses that the ladies of fashion were almost wearing this year. On his insistence, Mistress Gotely and Makepeace had been struggling to stuff birds with other birds, and make marchpanes in the shapes of sailing boats.

According to James, Symond had said he needed to be the best at everything. Perhaps it was just lordly vanity and a wish to be admired, but for a moment she wondered if the family’s golden boy was trying a little too hard. Why did he have so much to prove, and who was he trying to prove it to?

Wassailers arrived at the door with a fiddler, declaring in song that if they were not given drink and meat they would set upon the company with clubs. Everybody cheered uproariously and stamped their feet, and the singers were welcomed in. A great wassail bowl of hot, spiced lamb’s-wool ale was brought in, golden apple pulp floating in its depths. A single piece of bread was pulled out of the bowl and ceremoniously presented to Symond, who accepted the toast with a gracious dip of the head.

Amid the laughter and uproar, Makepeace saw one of Symond’s friends slap his lace handkerchief into his cup of ale, and crumple it into a sodden ball to throw at his friend’s face. She felt an unexpected sting of anger.

Stop being a Puritan, she told herself. It is his handkerchief and his ale — he can spoil them if he wants.

And yet the waste enraged her. Somebody had worked for weeks to make that lace, stitch by careful stitch. Unknown sailors had braved terrible dangers to carry the soup’s spices from other lands. She herself had spent some time preparing the lamb’s-wool ale. The young blade’s little show of ‘lordly high spirits’ had wasted more than money or fine goods; it had wasted other people’s time, sweat and effort without a thought.

Makepeace was still gnawing on this thought when she noticed that the joyous crowd near Symond’s throne was hushing and respectfully parting to let a single figure pass.

Lady April was one of the Elders. She was not tall, and yet the sight of her seemed to chill the merriment and wildness out of everyone. The lace trim of the old woman’s black cap threw a perforated shadow over her puckered brow, bony nose and wrinkled eyelids. Her face was covered in the paint known as tin glass, leaving her skin eerily white with a metallic gloss. Her mouth was a vermilion sliver. She looked like a portrait come to life.

Makepeace felt her own skin crawl and her blood chill. Was James right about the Elders seeing what you were thinking at a glance? She pulled back into the crowd, afraid that Lady April might turn an icy gaze upon her, and immediately know about all her schemes and the runaway pack of provisions and supplies Makepeace had hidden in the chapel.

The handkerchief-thrower, however, failed to notice Lady April’s approach. He scooped up his handful of sodden lace and hurled it again, only to gawp aghast as it flopped against the hem of Lady April’s cloak. All colour instantly drained from his face, and his grin was replaced by a look of pitiable terror.

Lady April said nothing, but she turned her head very slowly to gaze down at the tiny patch of dampness marring the tassels of her cloak. She straightened and stared directly at the culprit, the muscles of her face motionless.

The young courtier’s face crumpled in panic. As she turned and moved out of the great hall into the corridor, he followed her, imploring, apologizing and twisting his cuffs. His friends watched the old woman go, all wearing the same frozen look, and nobody made mouths behind her back. Even on this night of misrule, Lady April was not funny.

Caught up in the scene despite herself, Makepeace edged over to the corridor so that she could watch the old woman and her accidental assailant. Lady April glided on implacably until she came to a place where a wine hogshead had been tipped over and its dregs spilt. She looked down at the pool of deep purplish-red, and waited. After a few moments’ blankness, the young man hesitantly took off his expensive-looking cape, and laid it down over the spillage. Still she waited, only advancing one toe to prod at the cape, where dark stains were soaking up through the bright cloth.

Slowly the young culprit got down on his knees, and Makepeace saw him lay his hands flat on the cloth, palms down. Only then did Lady April deign to advance, hem raised just shy of the ground, slowly and deliberately using his hands as stepping stones.

Normal people could not see the strangeness of the Fellmottes in the same way Makepeace and James did, but apparently even powerful men saw plenty to fear in Lady April.

By the time the lantern clock showed eleven o’clock, Makepeace’s heart was pounding. She needed to sneak off to the chapel soon, or there was a risk that she would find herself dragged away for another chore, and miss her midnight appointment.

The huge Twelfth Night cake was carried in, to a storm of applause. It was duly carved up, its pieces pounced upon with glee. Whoever found a bean in their piece would be the Lord of Misrule for the night. The world would be turned upside down, and the lowest vagrant might find himself as master of the feast, everybody else duty-bound to obey his whims . . .

A space was cleared for a group of newly arrived mummers. Two of them, dressed as St George and a Saracen knight, set upon each other with wooden swords. Everybody gathered around, roaring with enthusiasm.

Nobody was paying any attention to Makepeace, and this was as good a time as any to slip away. She turned and elbowed her way through the crush, then out of the great doors into the icy cold of the courtyard beyond. She took in a deep lungful of biting winter air, then turned and blundered straight into a man who had been standing nearby.

By the light from the doorway, she could just make out the lace of his cuffs and cravat, the velvet of his long coat, his brown eyes and the tired lines of his face.

‘Sir Thomas! I am sorry, I—’

‘My fault, child. I was looking at the upper realms, not this one.’ Sir Thomas gestured upward. ‘I love nights with this watery haze. It looks as though the stars are dancing.’

A little startled, Makepeace looked up. There was a slight clamminess to the cold night air, and the stars did indeed seem to waver and twinkle.

‘You should be inside, claiming your piece of the cake,’ said Sir Thomas with a smile. ‘Don’t you want your chance at the bean? Wouldn’t you like to be queen for a night?’

The idea of forcing Young Crowe to grovel and serve her had a wicked appeal. But the last thing she wanted right now was to be the centre of attention.

‘I wouldn’t be a real queen, sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Tomorrow I would be low enough to be kicked again. If I had played “Queen” high and mighty, I would pay for it later. Everything has its price.’

‘Not at Christmas,’ said Sir Thomas cheerfully.

‘Tell that to the geese,’ muttered Makepeace, then flushed, realizing that this had not been a very polite response. ‘I . . . I am sorry.’ Why was Sir Thomas so determined to talk to her, tonight of all nights?

‘The . . . geese?’ Sir Thomas still seemed unruffled, his smile patient. Not for the first time, Makepeace thought it strange that a man like this should be Obadiah’s son and Symond’s father.

‘For weeks I’ve been fattening them,’ Makepeace explained gingerly, ‘for tonight’s feast. The geese, the capons, the turkey. They gobbled up all the food I laid down for them, and never knew there would be a price to pay in the end. Maybe they just thought they were lucky. Or perhaps they thought I was being kind.

‘All the folks in there, eating capon pie and roast goose . . . they’re making a bargain too, aren’t they? Tonight they get to sit by a great fire, and eat themselves sick, and sing up a storm. But in exchange, they’re supposed to show they’re grateful by working hard and being obedient the rest of the year, aren’t they?

‘At least they know what bargain they’re making. Nobody warned the geese.’

She was speaking a lot more forcefully than she had intended. The dread that she herself was a ‘fattened goose’ had never stopped haunting her.

‘Would it have made anything better for the geese if they had known what might happen?’ asked Sir Thomas. His tone had changed, and now he sounded very serious. ‘What if knowledge only brought them fear and misery?’

Makepeace felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and was suddenly fairly sure that neither of them was talking about geese any more.

‘If I were them,’ she said, ‘I would want to know.’

Sir Thomas sighed, his breath misting about his face.

‘I had a conversation very like this,’ he said, ‘with another young woman, sixteen years ago. She was of your years, and . . . I see her in you. Not in any feature I can name, but some gleam of her is there.’

Makepeace swallowed. Not long before, she had been desperate to leave the conversation. Now answers seemed to be tantalizingly within reach.

‘She was with child,’ Sir Thomas continued. ‘She wanted to know why my family were so keen for her child to be raised on the Grizehayes estates. She suspected something ill in the whole affair, but did not know what.

‘ “Tell me,” she said. “Nobody else will.” And even though it meant breaking promises, I did. And then she asked me to help her run away.’

‘You helped her?’ exclaimed Makepeace in surprise. ‘Sometimes folly strikes us like lightning. She was my brother’s lover. I was married, and too dull a fellow to take a mistress. Yet it came to me suddenly that this was the one woman to whom I could refuse nothing. Even though it meant that I would never see her again.

‘Yes, I helped your mother. I have spent the last sixteen years wondering whether I made the right decision.’

Makepeace slowly raised her face, and met his eye directly.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Tell me why I was brought here. Tell me why I should be frightened. Nobody else will.’

For several breaths, Sir Thomas stared out in silence at the faint and restless stars.

‘We are a strange family, Makepeace,’ he said at last. ‘We have a secret — one that could harm us greatly if it was known. There is a talent that runs in the family, a gift of sorts. Not everybody in our family has it, but there are always a few in each generation. I have it, and so does Symond. So does James. And so do you.’

‘We have nightmares,’ whispered Makepeace. ‘We see ghosts.’

‘And they are drawn to us. They know that there is a . . . space inside us. We can host more than ourselves.’

Makepeace thought of the swarms of clawing ghosts, and then of Bear, her own greatest secret.

‘We’re hollow,’ she said flatly. ‘And dead things can get in.’

‘Ghosts without a body fray and perish,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘so they try to claw their way into us to take sanctuary. By then, most of them have become tattered and crazed. But not all ghosts are mad.’

They were near the heart of the matter now, Makepeace could feel it. Her skin was crawling.

‘Imagine,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘how great a family would be, if no experience, no skills, no memories were ever lost. Suppose every important person could be preserved. The blessing of centuries of accumulated wisdom—’

It was at precisely this moment that a polite cough sounded from the doorway. Young Crowe was standing there, silhouetted against the light from the hall.

‘Sir Thomas,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, but Lord Fellmotte is asking for you.’

‘I shall be with him soon,’ said Sir Thomas, and seemed surprised when Young Crowe did not immediately withdraw.

‘Forgive me,’ Young Crowe said again. ‘I was asked to tell you . . . that you are to be most fortunate tonight.’

The colour drained from Sir Thomas’s face, making him look older and more tired.

‘Tonight?’ he exclaimed, aghast. ‘So soon? It seemed that there would be years . . .’ He recovered command of himself, and slowly nodded. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He took two deep breaths, and stared at his own hands as if wanting to make sure they were still there. When he looked at the watery stars again, his expression was stricken and wistful.

He turned to Makepeace and managed a smile.

‘You should go in and ask for some cake,’ he said. ‘Be queen for a while if you can.’

With that, he followed Young Crowe back through the door.

CHAPTER 12

Makepeace was haunted by Sir Thomas’s forlorn expression, but she could not stop to wonder at it. Too much time had been lost already. She hurried to the chapel.

The door swung open quietly, and she was surprised to find that a couple of candles were lit. Perhaps somebody had been praying there, after all. There was no sign of James. She settled down to wait, hoping that she had not missed him.

Even after two and a half years, the glittering chapel still made Makepeace uneasy. In Poplar it had been drilled into her that God wanted churches to be plain. So she had been scared and shocked by the Grizehayes chapel’s statues, paintings and dangerous smell of incense. She had sat through that first service terrified that she had fallen into a nest of Catholics, and was probably going to Hell.

‘I don’t think the Fellmottes are Catholics,’ James had once tried to reassure her. ‘At least, I don’t think they think they’re Catholics. They just like . . . old ways of doing things.’

Nowadays, she was no longer sure who was going to Hell. The Fellmotte chapel was so sure of itself, so old. It was hard to argue with anyone who had centuries on their side.

On Sundays, the Fellmottes sat in their own raised gallery at the back of the church, reached by a private corridor from their chambers. Already closer to Heaven than the rest of us, thought Makepeace. Perhaps they had an arrangement with God, the way they did with the King. Perhaps when the Day of Judgement came, and the seven seals were opened, God would slap the Fellmottes on the back and let them through into Heaven with a wink.

Makepeace could hope for no such special treatment. Instead, Makepeace had been secretly offering up her own rebel prayer.

Almighty Father, when my ashes return to the earth, take me not to Your palace of gold and pearl. Let me go where the beasts go. If there is a forest in Your forever where the beasts and birds run and howl and sing, let me run and howl and sing with them. And if they drift away to nothingness, let me join them like chaff on the wind.

The door creaked open. Makepeace’s spirits soared, and then sank. It was not James.

Instead Young Crowe and Old Crowe could be seen, assisting Lord Fellmotte into the room. Lady April and Sir Marmaduke followed after, with Sir Thomas a few steps behind. Makepeace ducked down again, and huddled behind a sarcophagus, her mind racing. Why were they all here? Did they suspect something?

‘I thought we had agreed that nothing was to be done until it could not be helped,’ Sir Thomas was saying. ‘I was not prepared—’

‘Your affairs should always be in order,’ his father interrupted. ‘You know that. It is true, we intended to live out our span in the usual fashion, but events are moving too fast. The King missed his chance to seize London, which means that this ridiculous war will continue longer than expected. If the family is to prosper in these times, we must be able to act freely and quickly. Lord Fellmotte cannot be bedridden.’

‘Must it be tonight?’ asked Sir Thomas. ‘Can we not let my son enjoy this evening, and talk of this again in the morning?’

‘The family are gathered, and there is no good reason to delay.’

Makepeace heard the door open and close again. The next voice that spoke was Symond’s.

‘Father — is it true?’ He sounded calm. Too calm, in the way that flames sometimes look blue.

‘Come, Symond, step aside with me a moment,’ said his father. To Makepeace’s dismay she could hear the pair’s soft steps approaching. They came to a halt not far from her hiding place.

‘Will they spare you?’ Symond’s voice was tight, precise and level. ‘Have they decided?’

‘You know that they cannot make promises.’ For once, the bluff Sir Thomas sounded a bit evasive. ‘There are always risks, and only so much room.’

‘You have skills and knowledge useful to the family! Do they know about your studies into navigation and the stars? The devices in your room — the astrolabes and pocket dials!’

‘Ah, my poor toys.’ Sir Thomas gave a sad little laugh. ‘I do not think the family are very impressed by those, alas. Symond — what will be, will be as God wills it. I was born to this destiny. I have prepared for it my whole life. Whatever happens, this Inheritance is my duty and my privilege.’

‘We are ready for you, Thomas,’ said Lady April, in a glassy, precise voice.

The five Fellmottes could be heard retreating to other end of the chapel, near the altar. Chairs scraped against stone, and then Lady April began intoning something in a low, steely voice. It had the solemnity of a psalm or incantation.

Makepeace sat hugging her knees. Cold seeped from the stone flags, and the marble against her back. Her bones ached with it. It seemed to her that every carving, every memorial slab, every heraldic device on the stained-glass windows was breathing cold into the air.

Something was happening, something deathly secret. What would happen if she was discovered, or if James blundered in and was caught?

Lady April’s voice was no longer the only sound. There were whispers now, as faint as the rending of cobwebs. They rustled and undulated, and then Makepeace heard a very human gasp, followed by a long, choking gurgle.

She could not resist raising her head just enough to steal a look. Sir Thomas and Lord Obadiah were seated side by side, on throne-like wooden chairs. Obadiah was slumped, his jaw hanging loosely. Sir Thomas had his back arched as if convulsing, his mouth and eyes wide open.

As Makepeace watched, she thought she saw a shadowy something slowly ooze from Obadiah’s ear. It seemed to pulse and quiver for a moment, then darted towards Sir Thomas’s face and vanished into his gaping mouth. He gave a stifled croak and his expression spasmed, like a rippled puddle reflection. Two more tendrils of shadow started to seep out of Obadiah’s eyes.

Makepeace ducked back into her hiding place, trying to breathe quietly. After a while, the ominous noises ebbed, and there was a long silence.

‘Donald Fellmotte of Wellsbank, are you there?’ asked Lady April.

‘Yes,’ came the rasped response.

‘Baldwin Fellmotte of the Knights Hospitaller, are you there?’ Lady April called on name after name, and received a husky ‘yes’ each time.

‘Thomas Fellmotte,’ she asked at last, after seven other names, ‘are you there?’

There was silence.

‘He was a loyal servant of the family,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘but it seems his mind was not strong enough to endure his Inheritance. Obadiah was the same.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Symond, still eerily self-contained. ‘Where did he go?’

‘You must understand that there is only so much space inside a single person, even one with your gift,’ said Lady April. ‘Sometimes there are casualties, and a mind is crushed and extinguished.

‘Right now, however, you have another duty. Your grandfather’s body is untenanted, but still breathing. He should not be left in this state of indignity. You should be the one to release him from it, Symond.’

Makepeace pressed firmly against her ears and clenched her eyes shut. She did not move a muscle until she was quite sure that all the Fellmottes had left the chapel.

When Makepeace staggered back into the festivities, the jubilant, human noise shocked her like a blow. There was so much sound in the air that it hardly seemed breathable.

In the main hall, she found James. He was seated in the lordly chair by the fire, a crowd around him laughing at his jokes, and a large tankard of ale in one hand. A great plate of sweetmeats and Shropshire cakes were placed to one side of him, and one brawny fellow was capering and pretending to be his jester.

Makepeace understood at last why James had failed to keep their appointment. He had taken his slice of the Twelfth Night cake. He had found the bean. He was Lord of Misrule. When he saw her, his face fell, and he quickly rose and led her by the arm to a quieter corner.

‘It cannot be midnight already,’ he began, but then seemed to notice her ashen look. ‘Little sister — what has happened?’

In hushed tones, she told him everything.

‘The Elders are full of ghosts, James! That is why we cannot bear to look at them! That is why they change when they Inherit! Ghosts of their ancestors pour into them and take them over!’

‘But why did they collect us?’ James stared at her. ‘They cannot want us to inherit anything!’

‘Can you not see? We are spares, James! Sometimes heirs die, or go away for a while. If an Elder drops dead, they need somewhere to put the ghosts in an emergency! We’re vessels — that’s all we are to them!

‘James, we need to leave! Please! How quickly can you get away?’

James had listened to her with horror, but now she saw a glimmer of conflict in his honest face. He glanced over his shoulder at his new-found throne. She should have guessed how much it meant to him, to be lord for a day. When would he get another chance like this?

‘It’s too late tonight,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘You’re in no state to run for miles, anyway. Let us talk about it again in the morning.’

With a feeling of deep hopelessness, Makepeace watched her half-brother walk back to his waiting throne, and his little throng of courtiers.

Thomas, the new Lord Fellmotte, returned to the hall some time later, with Symond at his side. If Symond had been discomposed for a time, he now seemed to have recovered from it completely. He sat beside his father, surveying the scene with a feline serenity.

Thomas no longer strode or laughed. He moved differently from before, with an eerie stiffness. There was no longer any warmth in his face, and his eyes had the basilisk gaze of Obadiah.

CHAPTER 13

Grizehayes in winter appeared its true self — colourless, eternal, untouchable, unchangeable. It numbed the mind and froze the soul, and made all dreams of escape seem childish.

There was a ‘new’ Lord Fellmotte in residence, but Makepeace knew that he was no newer than the grey towers. These days Thomas Fellmotte sat bent over, as though used to an aged spine. Suddenly he had an appetite for rich foods and the best brandy. Watching him savage a roast chicken leg, his teeth scraping the meat from the bone, Makepeace could imagine the eager ghosts inside him. Too long had they been trapped in an ailing, crippled frame filled with agues and aches. Now they had teeth again, and a stomach strong enough to bear a little luxury.

‘Thomas should have taken better care of this body!’ Makepeace overheard him mutter one day. ‘We are racked with backaches from all his riding, and our eyes are dim from his reading! We might have taken his body sooner if we had known how he would wear it out. His memories are a jumble, as well, like an unsorted library . . .’

The ‘Lord Fellmotte’ ghosts did not speak like guests. They seemed to feel that Thomas’s body was a property that had always belonged to them, and that they had reclaimed it from a negligent tenant.

Everything had changed. Nothing had changed.

And yet as days grew lighter, rumour whispered of change nonetheless. Spring was coming to Grizehayes, and so was the war.

One May morning before dawn, as Makepeace collected snails in the kitchen garden, she overheard low voices speaking behind the wall.

She often gathered snails and earthworms to make snail water, Mistress Gotely’s favourite gout medicine. However, Makepeace had her own reasons for always doing so at such an early hour, while the household were still abed. It meant that nobody else would see her dropping to all fours in the kitchen garden, and letting Bear contentedly amble her body through the cold, dew-laden grass. As long as she stayed in the right part of the garden, the enclosing wall concealed her from Grizehayes’s windows.

It was such a simple thing, but it made Bear feel less trapped. This was his cool, green territory, a domain of damp scents and mysteries. Every time, Makepeace felt her eyes sharpen, until she could see in the dim light as clearly as full day. Today she dug at the turf with her fingers, rubbed against a tree and snuffed at the dandelion clocks, breaking them with her nose. She was a little too slow to stop Bear licking a fat beetle off her wrist and eating it.

Then she froze, with the beetle-taste still in her mouth, as she heard quiet, urgent voices and the crunch of footsteps . . .

‘Well?’ There was no mistaking Lord Fellmotte’s rasping creak of a voice.

A second male voice answered. It sounded like Sir Anthony, an Elder who had arrived late the night before. He was second cousin to the new Lord Fellmotte, and Makepeace suspected that his ghosts were a fierce gaggle of soldiers, with a couple of cooler heads thrown into the mix.

‘It is as we thought. The rebel troops are moving in on the garrison at Geltford.’

Startled, Makepeace pricked up her ears. Geltford was only forty miles from Grizehayes.

‘Hmm,’ said Lord Fellmotte. ‘If the rebels take Geltford, they will turn their attention to us straight afterwards.’

‘Let them,’ Sir Anthony said bluntly. ‘I pity them if they try to besiege Grizehayes.’

‘If the King loses Geltford, it will weaken his hold on the county,’ Lord Fellmotte said thoughtfully.

‘Do we care?’ asked Sir Anthony. ‘We have declared for the King, but if we keep our troops at home we can claim we are guarding our lands for his sake. We can hold back, and let this silly little war burn itself out.’

‘Ah, but we need the King to win this idiotic war!’ retorted Lord Fellmotte. ‘If Parliament wins, then King Charles will be weakened, and too poor to pay us back all the money we have loaned him! Besides, we have a hold over this king! He can never prosecute us for witchcraft! If those ranting Puritans sniffed out the truth of our traditions, they would be howling about necromancy in a second. We cannot let them get too powerful.

‘The King must win this tussle, and if we do not help him he will make a sow’s ear of it. We have seen war, and most of this soft, milk-sucking generation have not! No, the King will need us.’

‘Could we broker a peace?’ suggested Sir Anthony. ‘What does Parliament want?’

‘They say that all they want is for the King to stop claiming new powers for himself.’

‘Is he?’

‘Of course he is!’ exclaimed Lord Fellmotte. ‘So are they! Both sides are right. Both sides are wrong. But the King is too stubborn to make terms. He believes he is God’s own chosen, so anyone who disagrees with him is a traitor.

‘Have you ever met him? King Charles is a little man, and he knows it. His legs never grew out properly. His father would have had them put in iron bands to stretch them when he was a child, and perhaps that would have done him some good, but no, the good lady taking care of him would not hear of it. So he has grown up with the cold stubbornness of a short man. He does not know how to back down, for he cannot bear to feel little.’

‘Then what shall we do?’ asked Sir Anthony.

‘Send messengers,’ Lord Fellmotte replied. ‘Call in favours. Use threats. Find the great names who are wavering, and harry them to the King’s cause. And in the meanwhile . . . ready the regiment. We shall not let the rebels have Geltford. They cannot cross the river if we hold Hangerdon Bridge.’

On the other side of the wall, a young under-cook crouched on all fours, fingers numb from the cold of the dew, her mind whirring as she forged plans.

‘The regiment is marching, James,’ said Makepeace that evening. ‘This is our chance.’

Ever since Twelfth Night, James had looked a little distracted and shamefaced whenever he bumped into Makepeace. It had become difficult to collar him for private conversations. Today, however, Makepeace had successfully dragged him to the passage that led to the old sally gate. She had once wondered whether the gate could be used as a means to sneak out of Grizehayes, but the way was blocked by a locked door and a heavy portcullis. Nonetheless, the passage was an excellent place for secret conversations.

Her cherished, home-made map was spread on her lap. There were several pieces to it now, drawn on to the faded pages of old ballad-sheets, crudely charting routes to London and other big towns.

‘I know,’ whispered James, nibbling at his thumbnail. ‘The regiment leaves tomorrow. Sir Anthony is leading it, and taking along his son, Master Robert. Master Symond is going, too — he told me himself.’

Makepeace had never been able to think of Symond the same way since Twelfth Night. He had been made to watch his own father becoming possessed. And what about Lady April’s order that he should ‘relieve’ his grandfather’s empty shell of life? Had the family forced him to smother the old man with a pillow? And yet he had seemed so calm straight afterwards. She did not know whether to pity him or recoil from him.

James never seemed willing to talk about it, and Makepeace was haunted by suspicions that Symond had taken him into his confidence. The thought stung her to the quick, but she tried to smother her own jealousy.

‘Then it’s the perfect time to run!’ she whispered back. ‘The Elders are getting involved in the war at last, so they’ll be busy and distracted — the Crowes too, I fancy.

‘All the local villages are full of soldiers’ wives packing bags to follow the regiment. Think of it! Upheaval, confusion, big crowds on the march that we can hide in if we please!’

Makepeace looked at her brother, and saw what she should have noticed straight away. There was something that he was afraid to admit, yet itching to tell her. He was bristling with suppressed excitement.

‘What is it?’ she asked, gripped by foreboding. ‘What have you done?’

‘I asked to go with the regiment — attending upon Master Symond. I was turned down . . . but I have joined the militia that will be guarding Grizehayes and the villages. Don’t look at me like that! This is good news — a chance! For both of us!’

‘A chance for you perhaps. A chance for you to have your head blown off by a cannonball!’

‘I will probably never even see fighting! And I will be Prudence on two legs.’

‘You will be full of swagger and hellfire, and green as a willow! The other soldiers will give you all the dangerous tasks, and cheat you at dice.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said James with mock-solemnity, his ugly, charming smile double-creasing both cheeks. Usually the old nickname warmed her, but today it stuck in her craw. She was being humoured. ‘Listen, Makepeace! If there is fighting, I can prove myself, and then the Fellmottes will have to acknowledge me. Once I have power in the family, I will be better able to protect you!’

Makepeace stared at him.

‘Power in the family?’ she repeated. ‘We agreed to leave the family! We agreed that we wanted nothing from them, and would run as soon as we could! Or has the plan changed?’

James’s gaze dropped, and she knew the plan had changed. It came to her that it had been changing for some time, even before Twelfth Night.

She had felt him slipping away from her and the promises they had made. His talents were being recognized at Grizehayes. Should he not learn as much as he could before they ran away? Before they committed their final act of defiance and ingratitude, should they not get as much out of the family as they could? And ever so gradually, these ideas had yielded to another thought: If I can become powerful at Grizehayes, do we really need to leave at all?

‘We’re not children any more,’ James said, a little defensively. ‘I’m a man now. I have duties . . . to the family, to the King.’

‘Leaving this place is not a children’s game!’ retorted Makepeace, her face hot.

‘Is it not?’ James snapped. ‘Do you really think we could ever escape the Fellmottes with . . . these?’ He nodded towards the map pieces. ‘It has always been a game, and one we can never win. The Fellmottes will always find us, Makepeace! I need to face the world as it is. I need to play by their rules, and play well.’

‘It’s the bean in the cake,’ muttered Makepeace, with quiet fury.

‘What?’

‘The bean in the Twelfth Night cake! Chance made you Lord of Misrule for the night, and you could not resist it! You threw aside all our plans, just so that you could have everyone bowing and obeying and calling you “my lord”. Even though it was all a sham and make-believe.

‘You promised we’d escape together, James. You promised.’

And this was the crux. Amid Makepeace’s worry about James, there was a miserable, childish feeling that he was betraying her.

‘You’ve never been happy with my escape plans!’ hissed James. ‘If you had been less timid . . .’ He trailed off, then began again, in a quiet, sharp tone. ‘So let’s escape then, shall we? Tonight? What shall we do, then? Steal a horse?’

His gaze was too level, too defiant. He did not mean it.

‘We’d have to change horses quickly.’ Makepeace could not help spotting the flaws. ‘You remember how quickly the horse tired last time, with two riders? Last time they caught up with us before we reached the river.’

‘Then we head towards Wincaster—’

‘Wincaster? The town where the other regiment is garrisoned? They’d take our horse for their cavalry!’

‘See?’ snapped James, frustrated and triumphant. ‘You’re never happy!’

Makepeace took a moment to steady her temper, and met his eye.

‘There’s a market fair in Palewich the day after tomorrow,’ she said evenly. ‘I can persuade Mistress Gotely to send me there to buy piglets and spices. That puts money in my pocket, and they will not expect me back for hours.

‘I have kept a wax Fellmotte seal — we can heat it and put it on a fake letter. You can slip away, and if anyone challenges you, you can show the letter and pretend you’re taking it to the regiment.

‘We meet, and buy a horse that the family will not recognize. We change clothes, and take the old lane past Wellman gibbet. I have enough provisions to last us three days without needing to beg or buy food — we can sleep in the Wether caves the first night, and then in any barn we can find after that.’

It was not a perfect plan, but it was better than his, and suited to the chaos of the moment. James’s gaze faltered, as she knew it would.

‘Let’s talk about it again another time,’ he said, then put an arm around Makepeace’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. ‘You need to trust me!’

He was the only creature on two legs that Makepeace did trust. But as she stood there, she could feel that trust bleeding out of her. She wriggled out from under his arm, and sprinted away down the tunnel, the damp walls hurling broken echoes of her steps.

CHAPTER 14

The day of farewells was moodily sunny, and smelt of sun-simmered heather and the rosemary in the kitchen garden. In the bustling stables and courtyard, the dogs picked up on the mood, barking, whining and trotting nervously behind one person, then another.

Makepeace was kept busy preparing provisions in the kitchen, groggy from a poor night’s sleep. She had never had a serious argument with James before, and it had left her feeling sick and unmoored. The memory of her last quarrel with Mother gnawed at her mind, and she was haunted by a superstitious dread that if she did not make peace with James, something terrible would happen.

Even when she came up to the courtyard, there was no chance to speak with her brother, for he was busy helping Symond Fellmotte prepare for his departure.

Symond was muffled in a good coat of oiled elk-hide, his boots and ruff gleaming, his gold-white ringlets aflutter on the breeze. The restlessness of his gloved hands and slush-coloured eyes were the only signs that he was not perfectly at ease. Not for the first time, Makepeace was struck by the contrast between Symond’s ice-blond self-control and James’s easy vagabond grin. And yet, as Makepeace watched them murmur earnestly together, she sensed their closeness. This was a part of James’s life in which she had no share, a world of male daring and camaraderie.

The broad-shouldered Sir Anthony was first to mount up. His horse did not like him, for they seldom liked the Elders and Betters. But like every animal on the estate, it was cowed into quivering, absolute obedience. The next horse was taken by his son Robert, a tall, dark-browed young man who seemed to spend his life glancing at his father for approval.

Before Symond could saddle up, Lord Fellmotte came out into the courtyard and ceremonially embraced his son. It was a clasp without warmth, like that between buckle and strap. Makepeace wondered what it could possibly be like, to be hugged by your father’s ghost-infested shell.

Symond did not even flinch. If he was upset or nervous, none of it showed in his face.

That night, Makepeace slumbered uneasily in her little bed under the kitchen table, lulled by the breathing and dream-growls of the dogs who lay by the hearth.

A little before dawn, a clatter from the corridor outside jolted her fully awake, and she scrambled out of bed. Within a minute she was edging towards the doorway, a carving knife held defensively in one hand and a lighted taper in the other.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway, one hand raised reassuringly.

‘Makepeace, it’s me!’ it whispered.

‘James!’ she hissed. ‘You scared me out of my wits! What are you doing here?’

‘I needed to talk to you.’ James’s eyes were wide and intent. ‘I’m sorry about what I said before. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your escape plan . . .’

‘I’m sorry too,’ Makepeace whispered quickly, wanting to cut off any excuses. ‘I know you can’t run from the militia. I shouldn’t have asked. You’d be a deserter—’

‘Never mind that!’ James glanced over his shoulder briefly. ‘Do you still have that wax seal? The Fellmotte seal, the one you were talking about?’

Makepeace nodded, shaken by this change of direction.

‘Here!’ He hurried forward and thrust a bundle of folded paper into her hands. ‘Can you put the seal on the outside of this?’

‘What is it?’ Makepeace asked, surprised. It crackled drily in her grip.

‘It doesn’t matter — once it’s sealed, it’ll look like a dispatch. I can pretend to be a messenger — just the way you said.’

‘Do you mean . . . we’re going ahead with the plan?’ Makepeace could not quite believe it.

‘Are you still willing? Can you get to Palewich fair this afternoon?’ James’s face was alive with something; possibly anger.

‘Yes.’

‘Then be at the old stocks at two o’clock. There’s . . . a lot happening. But if I can get away—’

‘I’ll be there,’ she said quickly. Something had happened, she realized, something that had turned James’s volatile temperament about-face. If she could up sails swiftly enough, perhaps she could catch this sudden gust.

James reached out quickly and squeezed her hands.

‘Put the seal on the papers and hide them somewhere. Don’t let anybody else see them!’

‘I’ll give them to you tomorrow,’ Makepeace whispered.

‘I need to go — the others will be waking soon.’ James gave Makepeace a brief hug, and then hesitated for a moment, staring into her eyes. ‘Makepeace . . . whatever happens, I will come for you. I promise.’ He squeezed her shoulders, then hastened away into the darkness.

There was no time to lose. Dawn was coming, and Makepeace would not have the kitchen to herself for long. She slipped to the buttery, removed a loose brick and retrieved the wax seal. It was intact, just slightly bleached and crumbly at the edges.

Makepeace would have liked to glance through the papers, to find out which documents James had snatched up in his haste, but it was nearly dawn. Every time she heard the floorboards creak, she imagined that it was Mistress Gotely hobbling her way to the kitchen.

She heated a knife against the embers, then used the blade to melt the flat base of the seal. Very carefully, she pressed the seal into place, so that it held the little bundle closed.

Then, hearing the distant tap, tap, tap of Mistress Gotely’s walking stick, Makepeace hurried to one of the great salting troughs, in which meat was left to dry. Wrapping the bundle in a cloth, Makepeace buried it in the brownish grains of salt, flush with the stone edge of the trough.

Makepeace’s heart was kicking against her ribs in an agony of hope.

The next day, the house felt bereft, uncertain.

As the other servants gossiped, wondered and worried, Makepeace kept herself busy and her face placid. All the while she was thinking to herself: This may be the last time I clean this tankard. Perhaps this is the last time I bring Mistress Gotely her tea. She had not expected these thoughts to give her such a pang. Habits, places and faces grew into you over time, like tree roots burrowing into stonework.

Makepeace hoped to talk to James again, but fate was against her. Old Crowe the steward had been taken ill overnight, so James had to run extra errands. At last, she managed to intercept him in the courtyard, and thrust a cloth-covered package into his hands. It contained bread, cheese, a thin sliver of rye cake and the concealed papers. James took the package from her, with a look full of meaning.

As Makepeace had predicted, it was not hard to persuade Mistress Gotely to send her to the fair with money to buy pigs, spices and other household wares.

Trust was like mould. It accumulated over time in unattended places. Trusting her was convenient; distrusting her would have been inconvenient and tiresome. Over the years, Makepeace had become encrusted with other people’s inattentive trust.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to Makepeace as she walked across the courtyard, carrying two large, well-padded baskets. And then, as she strolled out through the gate, Young Crowe fell into step with her.

‘I hear you’re heading to the fair?’ His manner was deliberately offhand. ‘Always best to have a companion on these country lanes.’

Makepeace’s blood chilled.

It was not the first time Young Crowe had shown a protective streak. Ever since she was thirteen, and thus old enough for a certain kind of man to consider her fair game, she had been aware that he was acting as an unlikely guardian. To her shame and discomfort, Makepeace has been glad of the interventions. She knew, however, that this was not due to chivalry or fondness. He was just protecting valuable Fellmotte property. Apparently this was more important than looking after his sick father.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and managed to sound shy rather than dismayed.

They walked to Palewich fair. With Young Crowe dogging her steps, Makepeace had no choice but to wander the stalls, buying the goods on the old cook’s list. All the while she watched the sundial on the church clock tower.

Bear never liked throngs, or market noises and smells. Makepeace could feel his unhappiness as pains in her own body and hot, muddled flashes of memory. She recalled being ringed around by mocking, furless, shouting faces, and feeling the sting of maliciously flung stones.

Nobody will do that to you any more, she told Bear, her own anger rising protectively. Never, never again. I promise.

As it neared two o’clock, she took a chance, and lost Young Crowe in the crowds. She made her way to the old stocks, and waited, hiding behind an old yew tree.

Two o’clock became quarter past, became half past two.

James did not come.

Perhaps some accident had angered him, and made him ready to run, and now some other incident had put him back in good temper again. He had done well at something, or been praised by one of the militia officers. He had found himself with comrades he liked.

He was not coming. Makepeace felt something in her chest wrench, and wondered if it was her heart breaking. She waited to see how that would feel. Perhaps hearts broke like eggs, and spilt, and stopped working. But all she felt was numb. Perhaps my heart already broke and never grew back.

At a quarter to three, Young Crowe found her again. She made excuses, and ate humble pie until the taste of it made her feel sick. He walked her home, rather sullenly.

Her heart sank as Grizehayes came into view. Here you are again after all, the grey walls seemed to say. Here you are, forever.

She re-entered the kitchen to find Long Alys eagerly spilling the latest gossip to Mistress Gotely.

‘Have you heard? James Winnersh has run away! He left a note, found this morning! He’s run off to join the regiment! Well, we should not be surprised. Everyone knows how disappointed he was when they wouldn’t let him go!’

Makepeace fought to keep her face mask-like. James had run away after all, but not with her.

‘Did he tell you what he was planning?’ Alys asked her, keen-eyed and ruthless. ‘You were always his little friend, weren’t you? I thought he told you everything.’

‘No,’ said Makepeace, swallowing down her hurt. ‘He didn’t.’

He had taken her plan, her wax seal and her help, and then he had ridden out into a new, wide world, leaving her behind.

CHAPTER 15

James was at the heart of all the gossip for the next few days. White Crowe was sent after him, and most of the household fancied that he would be brought back soon enough.

On the fourth day, however, it became clear that something was badly amiss. Young Crowe and other servants could be seen running this way and that, searching the house and carrying letters. Then, while Makepeace and Mistress Gotely were preparing dinner, the kitchen door was flung open.

Makepeace looked up in time to see Young Crowe march into the kitchen, with none of his usual smug nonchalance. To her bewilderment he strode straight up to her and grabbed hold of her arm with startling force.

‘What in the world—’ began Mistress Gotely.

‘Lord Fellmotte wants to see her,’ he snapped, ‘right now.’

As she was dragged out of the kitchen, Makepeace tried to gather her ragged thoughts and keep her balance. Somehow she had been caught out. Lord Fellmotte suspected something, and she did not even know what.

Young Crowe would explain nothing as he dragged Makepeace up the main stairs and into the study that was used by Lord Fellmotte.

Lord Fellmotte sat waiting for her, and never had his stillness looked less serene. As she walked in, he turned his head to watch her approach. Not for the first time, Makepeace wondered which of the ghosts within him had moved his head, and how they decided such things. Did they vote? Had they all taken on different tasks? Or had they worked together for so many lifetimes that they were used to acting as one?

Lord Fellmotte was not a man. He was an ancient committee. A parliament of deathly rooks in a dying tree.

‘I found her,’ declared Young Crowe, for all the world as if Makepeace had been hiding.

‘You ungrateful little wretch,’ said Lord Fellmotte in a voice as slow and cold as frost. ‘Where is it?’

Where was what? Surely he could not mean the wax seal? She had stolen it months before.

‘I’m sorry, my lord.’ She kept her eyes lowered. ‘I don’t know what . . .’ From under her lashes she saw him stand up and draw closer. Her skin crawled at the proximity.

‘No lies!’ rapped Lord Fellmotte, so loudly and suddenly that Makepeace jumped. ‘James Winnersh recruited your help. You will tell us all about it. Now.’

‘James?’

‘You have always been his favourite accomplice, his obedient dog. Who else would he turn to if he was planning something desperate?’

‘I didn’t know he was planning to run away!’ Makepeace said quickly, and then remembered too late that Elders knew when you were lying. She had known that he was planning to run, just not the way he would do so.

‘We have been kind to you here, girl,’ snapped Lord Fellmotte. ‘We do not need to remain so. Tell us the truth. Tell us about the sleeping draught you made at his request.’

‘What?’ The unexpected question took the wind out of Makepeace’s sails. ‘No! I made no such thing!’

‘Of course you did,’ Lord Fellmotte said coldly. ‘Nobody else in the house apart from Mistress Gotely could have done so. In fact, you are lucky that this was not a matter of murder. The steward is an old man, and that draught laid him perilously low. It might easily have stopped his heart!’

‘The steward? Old Master Crowe?’ Makepeace was now completely bewildered.

‘James brought my father a cup of ale the night before the regiment left,’ said Young Crowe coolly. ‘He was insensible within an hour. He could still barely stand next morning, and is weak even now—’

‘We know why he was drugged,’ Lord Fellmotte continued relentlessly. ‘We know that James stole his keys, so that he could raid the muniments room, then put the keys back afterwards. Where is it, girl! Did James take it with him? Where is our charter?’

Makepeace stared at them open-mouthed. She only knew of one charter, the mysterious document from King Charles himself, giving permission for the Fellmotte family traditions.

‘I know nothing of this!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why would James steal a charter? I never made him a sleeping draught — and if I had, I would make it well enough not to risk drugging some poor soul into the hereafter!’

There was a long silence, and Makepeace was aware that Lord Fellmotte was walking around her, studying her closely.

‘You may be telling the truth about the sleeping draught,’ he said very softly, ‘but you are hiding something.’

Makepeace swallowed. The bundle of papers James had asked her to disguise and hide had been large — possibly large enough to hide a charter inside. Makepeace tugged at her memory of their last conversation as if it were a piece of knitting, finding the loose places, the dropped loops of not-quite-rightness. At the time she had thought that James seemed angry and indecisive. Now she could see that his manner had been odd and evasive.

Why, James? And why did you leave me here to take the blame?

‘Well?’ asked Lord Fellmotte.

If Makepeace wanted to buy some mercy from the Fellmottes, now was the time to tell them everything she knew. She took a deep breath.

‘I am sorry, my lord — I know nothing,’ she said.

Lord Fellmotte drew himself up angrily, but Makepeace never found out what her sentence would have been. At that exact moment, there came a respectful but rapid tap at the door.

His lordship’s expressions were as ever hard to read, but Makepeace thought she saw a flicker of annoyance.

‘Enter!’

Old Crowe came in, stooped lower than usual, evidently aware that he was intruding.

‘Forgive me, my lord — you said that if my brother returned you were to be notified immediately . . .’

Lord Fellmotte frowned, and was silent for a few seconds. Makepeace imagined the ghosts hissing and conferring within the shadows of his skull.

‘Send him in,’ he said curtly.

There was a pause, and White Crowe entered, still wearing his riding boots, his white hair starred with rain. His hat was in his hand, but he looked as though he wished he had more hats to take off. His face was sweaty and haggard, as if he had travelled far and slept little, and his eyes were very, very frightened.

‘My lord . . .’ he said, and then trailed off, his head bowed.

‘Have you found the Winnersh boy?’

‘I traced him, my lord. He really had caught up with our regiment and joined it.’

‘Then I assume you bring a message from Sir Anthony?’ Lord Fellmotte asked briskly. ‘Does he send word of the regiment?’

‘My lord . . . I . . . I do bring news of the regiment.’ White Crowe swallowed. ‘Our men joined with the other troops and headed for Hangerdon Bridge, as planned . . . but we encountered the enemy before we could take it, my lord. There was a battle.’

Makepeace’s heart dropped away. She thought of proud, reckless James charging towards bristling lines of pikes, or dodging musketfire.

‘Go on.’ Lord Fellmotte stared at White Crowe stonily.

‘It was . . . a terrible battle, my lord, full of confusion and carnage. The fields were still piled high with . . .’ He trailed off again. ‘I am sorry, my lord. Your noble cousin Sir Anthony . . . is now with God’s mercy.’

‘Dead?’ The muscles tightened in Lord Fellmotte’s jaw. ‘How did he die? Were things done properly, Crowe? Was Sir Robert on hand and ready?’

White Crowe was shaking his head. ‘Sir Robert was lost as well. Besides, there was no chance, no time for anything to be done. There was an unexpected . . . reversal.’

For a moment, emotions flickered across Lord Fellmotte’s features, like firelight across an old, stone wall. There was shock, anger and indignation. There was also something like grief, but it was not the sorrow of a living man. It was the grief of the cliff that remains after a landslide.

‘And my son?’

White Crowe opened his mouth, and his voice caught in his throat. He darted a nervous glance at Makepeace, evidently reluctant to speak before her.

‘Out with it!’ shouted Lord Fellmotte. ‘Does Symond live?’

‘We have every reason to believe so, my lord.’ White Crowe closed his eyes and exhaled for a brief moment, as if steadying himself. ‘My lord . . . nobody knows where he is. This letter was found bearing his seal. It is addressed to you.’

Makepeace dug her fingernails into her hands. What about James? she wanted to scream. Is he alive?

Lord Fellmotte took the letter, broke the seal, and read. Little convulsions trembled through his features. His hand began to shake.

‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice low, ‘of the battle. What did my son do? Tell me the truth!’

‘Forgive me!’ White Crowe stared at his feet for a few seconds, then raised his gaze. ‘Our regiment started with the rest of the foot, in a line of companies along the ridge of Hangerdon Hill, each with its own commander. And after the first charge our men were placed a good way forward — too far for shouting — so all eyes were on Sir Anthony. He would point his horse in the direction they were to advance.

‘But while they were still waiting for orders, Sir Anthony was seen slumping, and sliding off his horse. Master Symond, who was right next to him and supporting him, called out that a musketball had taken Sir Anthony under the ribs. But as he took your cousin’s weight, the horses seemed to jostle each other, and Sir Anthony’s horse came forward a little on to high ground. And our men, who were already a good distance forward, took it for a signal. They charged — not with the rest of the army, but away at an angle — towards a heavy mass of the enemy.

‘Master Symond handed Sir Anthony down to his followers, and shouted that he was taking control of the regiment. He said that he would ride down and get the men to pull back — and ordered Sir Robert to come with him . . .’ White Crowe hesitated again. ‘But he did not pull them back, my lord. When he reached the front, he led them right into the teeth of the enemy.’

What happened to James?

‘Go on.’ Lord Fellmotte’s teeth were clenched now, his face blotched, one hand gripping the other.

‘It was only common soldiers that said so,’ White Crowe continued unwillingly, ‘but they claimed that Master Symond was last seen pulling his colours from his hat, and riding away cross country.’

‘Was Sir Anthony truly struck by a musketball?’ asked Lord Fellmotte, his voice husky and unrecognizable.

‘No, my lord,’ said White Crowe very quietly. ‘He was run through with a long blade.’

Makepeace’s jaw dropped as she understood. She had been so busy worrying about James, she had failed to see where the explanation was heading. But . . . that’s impossible! Symond has always worked so hard to be the golden boy, the family’s darling! Why would he throw it all away now?

‘My son . . .’ Lord Fellmotte swallowed with difficulty. ‘My son has betrayed us — betrayed everything. He has the charter! He dares to threaten us with . . .’ He stopped, and gave a slow, shuddering sigh. One corner of his mouth was drooping, and his eyes were glassy.

‘His lordship is taken ill!’ Makepeace could no longer hold her silence. ‘Call the physician!’ Next moment she remembered that his physician and the local barber-surgeon had left with the regiment. ‘Call somebody! Fetch a cup of good brandy!’

As White Crowe ran to sound the alarm, Makepeace hurried to the side of Lord Fellmotte, to stop him falling from his chair.

‘My son,’ said Lord Fellmotte, very softly. Just for a moment, the expression of his eyes reminded Makepeace of Sir Thomas before his Inheritance. His tone was one of numb surprise and deep sadness, as if Symond had just run him through.