A Skinful of Shadows

CHAPTER 29

The older soldier turned out to be one Sergeant Coulter, and six more men were waiting in the lane. The troops kept up a brisk pace, making few allowances for Makepeace’s weak and weary legs, but they did not surround her like a prisoner.

They paid her little attention. This allowed her to finish eating the raw fish, and continue talking to their dead comrade in her head.

Why did you desert? she asked abruptly. The story of the church had intrigued her. She was fairly sure she knew the identity of the man who had gone ‘missing’.

I was a coward, Livewell answered automatically, then fell silent for a while. I do not know, he confessed at last, and sighed. After I broke that image of Christ in the church, I could not forget the way its broken face looked back at me. Those eyes, so bright and empty and sad . . . I had a notion that they were sad for me. A week later, I killed my first man, and when I was standing over him his dead eyes had just the same look.

And after that I had a fancy in my head, that when I met the enemy they would all have cracked faces, and eyes that were sad for me. I don’t know why, but the fear of it stopped my sleep and made my hands shake. One day I slipped away and started walking . . .

There was little Makepeace could say. She started to wonder whether it was such a good idea to bring Livewell back to a camp full of his erstwhile comrades.

After several miles’ walk, they took a lane that wound through up a wooded slope and past a stately gatehouse, until it reached the great house at the top of the hill. Whitehollow was a square, red-brick manor about half the size of Grizehayes. The lawn before it might once have been a well-groomed ground for promenades, but now it was untrimmed, cropped only by half a dozen soldiers’ horses. A few marble ancestral busts lay on the grass with their heads splintered. It looked as though they had been shot apart.

Whatever the house might once have been, it was now a military stronghold. Nearly everyone seemed to be a soldier rather than a servant. Having served in Grizehayes, it was jarring for Makepeace to walk into a great house and notice all the little tasks left undone, and the defiant acts of vandalism.

On the inside of the main door, papers had been nailed to the carved oak panels, some of them news-sheets trumpeting military victories, some religious tracts sizzling with zeal. The fireplaces had not been raked out properly for a while, and there was thick mud trodden up the stairs by many feet. A fine, carved chair had been broken apart for firewood, and several old chests lay open, their locks hacked out. Apparently righteousness didn’t rule out looting.

For now, however, Makepeace could see no sign of Symond. What would she do if she came face to face with him? Could she signal to him somehow, and beg him not to reveal her identity? Why would he heed her if she did?

The sergeant stepped aside for some quiet, animated conversations with a small group of other people, nodding occasionally in Makepeace’s direction. She was attracting a lot of fearful, inquisitive, appraising stares, and felt herself turning beetroot red.

One woman in fine but faded clothes seemed to be fixing Makepeace with a particularly intense gaze. Her face was lined in a way that made Makepeace think of a rain-streaked window pane. She seemed much the same age as Mistress Gotely.

That is Lady Eleanor, muttered Livewell, sounding as if he would have liked to swear.

Who is she? asked Makepeace.

The general’s favourite prophetess, he answered. She made a lot of enemies here, so I hoped she had gone by now. Unpaid debts. Quarrels. And sometimes she tells people that they are doomed to die — that never goes down well.

Is she ever right? Makepeace tried not to stare back. Do people die when she says?

Yes, Livewell admitted reluctantly. They usually do.

Makepeace’s pulse raced. It was bad enough that she had to bluff her way as a visionary, without doing so in front of a real prophetess. And what would this lady think of some young, ragged upstart rival?

Is she a proud woman? she asked suddenly.

Proud? Livewell sounded perplexed. Yes, she—

Makepeace did not wait for him to finish. Instead, she approached the little group boldly, and then dropped a low, long curtsy in front of Lady Eleanor.

‘My lady!’ she said, with as much awe as she could manage. ‘I have seen you in my visions, raised above the world, with a great shaft of sunlight falling upon you and blessing you! There was a book in your hands, filled with light!’

Coulter looked startled, but Lady Eleanor’s expression brightened into an exultant and magnanimous smile. Makepeace suspected that there was now much less chance of being denounced by her fellow prophet. If Lady Eleanor had made many enemies, she would probably not kick away somebody who treated her like a queen.

When Makepeace was brought in to talk to some of the higher-ranked officers, Lady Eleanor’s arm was firmly looped through hers.

Makepeace was glad of an ally over the next two hours, which she spent being interrogated to within an inch of her life.

The three officers were not rude. They regarded her with the wary respect and suspicion you might show towards an unexpected lion. But they were relentless and steely, and pounced on every inconsistency.

Who was she? Where was she from? Who were her family? She explained that she was Patience Lott, daughter of a cabinet-maker called Jonas. She invented a sickly mother, a younger sister and a small and nameless hamlet on the edge of the moors. All of this could be checked and disproved, but not quickly, and she doubted they would send anybody to Staffordshire to do so just yet.

Another officer asked her lots of knotty religious questions. Had she lived a good life? How well did she know her Bible and her prayer book? Groggy and exhausted, Makepeace stumbled a few times, giving answers that would have been right in Grizehayes but wrong in Poplar, but managed to bluff her way through, with the help of Livewell’s whispers.

Then, heart hammering, Makepeace began to describe her ‘visions’. The room was deadly hushed, apart from the scratch of pens noting down her every word.

‘I saw the King sitting in a great throne, but he was too small for it,’ she said, hoping she sounded portentous enough. ‘There was a huge dog behind him that he did not see. Over his head flew six owls with wings as black as death. He threw down food for them, but they caught up his shadow instead and carried it away in a scroll-case.’

She did not dare look at Lady Eleanor, in case the prophetess’s expression was hardening into suspicion and contempt. But nobody interrupted her.

‘Go on,’ said one of the officers. ‘What else have you seen?’

With growing confidence, Makepeace invented more wild dreams. Her tiredness made it easier. Everything was dreamlike already.

‘I saw fire falling from the sky, and where it fell it set people’s hearts aflame. They ran through the world, and the flame jumped to the heart of everyone they met, until everybody was burning . . .’

Makepeace could not have said later when she started to enjoy it. She could feel herself transforming before the soldiers’ eyes. She was no longer just a muddy, battered vagabond. Being a prophet changed everything. Your bruises showed you were a martyr. Your rags proved how long you had wandered in the wilderness.

She had walked into the room wearing God like a robe.

‘Now tell us what the visions mean,’ said the most senior officer at last.

Makepeace blanched, suddenly realizing the enormity of what she was doing. She was claiming that God was speaking through her. If these men realized she was lying, then what would they do to someone who committed such blasphemy? But if they did believe her, perhaps her ‘visions’ would affect their battle plans. A careless, ignorant word of hers might cause men to march, or even die.

An army of Livewells or Jameses, dying on her word. It was power, raw power, but she did not want it.

‘I do not know,’ she said abruptly. ‘I . . . came here because I know Lady Eleanor is the only person who can understand them.’

To Makepeace’s relief, Lady Eleanor was delighted to translate them. Makepeace sat there, shaky and dry-mouthed, while the older prophetess went into scriptural raptures.

At last the officers seemed satisfied, and let Makepeace go. She left the room with Lady Eleanor, wondering how much mischief she had done, but was stopped just outside by Sergeant Coulter.

‘When you saw a vision of Whitehollow, did you see any of the people living there?’ he asked quietly. ‘Perhaps a young lord with white hair?’

Makepeace shook her head, her curiosity piqued. His description sounded a lot like Symond.

‘If your visions show you someone of that sort, and he looks to be doing something ill, let me know.’ The sergeant exchanged a look of understanding with Lady Eleanor, who nodded.

‘Who did he mean, my lady?’ Makepeace asked, after the sergeant had moved away.

‘Young Lord Fellmotte,’ answered Lady Eleanor, not quite quietly enough to be discreet.

Lord Fellmotte indeed! Even though Makepeace was no longer a member of the Fellmotte household, she found herself secretly bristling at Symond’s cheek in claiming the title. But then again, as far as Parliament’s side were concerned, perhaps he was the rightful lord. After all, they had denounced the rest of his family, and were trying to seize their lands.

‘Is his lordship at Whitehollow at the moment?’ asked Makepeace, trying to sound casual.

‘No — he is on some business for the general, and will not be back until tomorrow evening. And if my advice were followed, he would not be permitted to return at all!’

‘You do not trust him?’ asked Makepeace.

‘No, I do not!’ exclaimed the prophetess. ‘Neither does Sergeant Coulter. Lord Fellmotte claims to have joined our side in the war, but we think that he is still one of the King’s malignants. The sergeant has his bags and pockets searched now and then, looking for signs of treachery.

‘You must understand, I have fathomed the mysteries of names. The letters of “Symonde Fellmotte” can be rearranged to “sly demon meltt foe”! Of course such a man is not to be trusted!’

Makepeace managed to keep a respectful straight face until Lady Eleanor had departed.

That woman, said Dr Quick, is entirely insane.

I hope so, said Livewell grimly.

Why? asked Makepeace, surprised.

She says the world will be ending soon, he replied.

At the end of that day, Makepeace decided that there was no greater luxury than a glowing fire, a hot bowl of soup and the chance to sleep on a dry mattress, even if it was just a straw one at the foot of Lady Eleanor’s bed. It was all she could do to stop Bear licking the soup bowl clean.

What do you intend to do when this Symond returns here tomorrow? asked the doctor, after the lights were out, and Makepeace was trying to sleep. How do you propose to stop him denouncing you as soon as he sees you?

It was a good question. Makepeace knew she would need to speak with Symond alone, but on her own terms. He would need a very strong reason to listen to her, and she did not think that appealing to his conscience or sense of kinship would do her much good. She would need some power over him.

She needed to find the charter. Could he be carrying it around on his person? She did not think so. According to Lady Eleanor, Sergeant Coulter was having Symond’s pockets and belongings searched regularly. Symond would be a fool to risk someone finding a paper with the King’s seal on it on his person.

Where had he hidden it, then? He would want it to be somewhere close to hand, so that he could check on it and grab it in a hurry. With luck, it was somewhere at Whitehollow. If only she could find it before he returned, she would have all the power she needed.

CHAPTER 30

The next day, Makepeace began discreetly searching for the charter.

She woke early to find that some plain, clean and respectable clothes had been left out for her. Since everybody now seemed to assume that she was Lady Eleanor’s pet and hanger-on, she decided to play the part by running down to the kitchen to make her new ‘mistress’ breakfast. There she talked to the cooks, and befriended a skinny, honey-coloured cat who apparently went by the name of ‘Wilterkin’.

The kitchen was smaller than the one at Grizehayes, and fiercely hot. She soon decided that, in Symond’s shoes, she would never have hidden the charter there for fear of the precious wax seal melting.

Nobody stopped a young prophet wandering around the house. She supposed the soldiers were a little afraid of her, but they would be curious too, and would remember if she did anything odd. If she looked like she was searching, they might yet suspect her of being a spy.

On the second floor, she found Symond’s room. There was no mistaking his blue coat, and the crest on his travel case. He had been given one of the better beds, and a little privacy. Nobody was nearby, so she took a risk and hastily searched the room. She found no sign of the stolen charter, which did not surprise her at all. Symond was too clever to leave it somewhere so obvious, and she was probably not the first person to search the room.

In fact, she was quickly starting to realize that most of the house had been searched, torn up, ravaged and looted. In some places wooden panels had been splintered to see whether there were cavities behind, and some of the mattresses slit open. Nearly every floor was littered with debris.

‘Did this house insult your mothers or something?’ Makepeace asked a young private who was polishing boots, and bored enough to make conversation.

‘Well, it made fools of us,’ he admitted. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody saw him gossiping with a seer, then beckoned her over and pushed open the nearest door. Beyond it lay a grand four-poster bed that had been stripped of nearly all its fine, embroidered hangings. ‘Do you see the hidden door over there?’ Opposite, Makepeace could indeed make out a door-shape, covered in the same brown fabric as the surrounding wall. Some of the fabric had now been peeled away at the right-hand edge, to show the pale wood underneath, but it had clearly once covered the whole door, camouflaging it against the wall.

The young soldier crossed the room and tugged at a little metal ring to pull the door open. ‘There’s a secret room, do you see?’ Behind it a tiny room held only a simple mattress, a jug and a chair.

‘When the war broke out, the de Velnesse family who lived here chose the King’s side,’ he explained. ‘All the rest of us hereabouts — and the trained bands, the local soldiery — chose Parliament. So a great mass of us turned up at Whitehollow to arrest the knight who lived here. His wife surrendered the house, swore he had left already, and welcomed our troops in to be her guests.

‘It turns out her husband was hidden away in the secret room. The dinner she served us was drugged, and that night her husband tiptoed out — right past all the men sleeping in this room — and the two of them ran off with all the jewels and plate they could carry.

‘So I suppose we thought, if the house has one surprise like that, why not more? Maybe there’s treasure they couldn’t carry hidden away here somewhere. We can’t count on getting paid, so why not find our wages where we can? And if it means ripping up the house of traitors, so much the better.’

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a senior soldier, who gave his private a disapproving look. Makepeace walked away looking as imperious and all-knowing as she could manage.

Elsewhere she found a few loose floorboards, but there was nothing beneath them. To judge by the fresh sawdust, optimistic soldiers had levered them up in the hopes of discovering some secret cache.

They’re stealing everything but the walls, Livewell said quietly, sounding a little taken aback.

Righteous armies are just made of folks, Makepeace said as kindly as she could.

Livewell did not answer. Perhaps he was seeing his fellow crusaders in a new light. Or perhaps he was feeling slightly better about the Axeworths’ chicken.

By the end of the morning, Makepeace was desperately racking her brains. Back in Grizehayes she had become very good at finding hiding places for things. Where would she have concealed the charter?

It had to be somewhere indoors. Even if the charter was carefully wrapped, there was too much danger of damp in an outdoor hiding place. Inside the chimney pieces? No, like the kitchen they would be too hot. The wash-house and the icehouse would be too damp. Besides, Symond was a lord — he would probably avoid the places where the servants were always busy, because he knew them less well, and could not be sure how often everything was checked, used or cleaned.

Most important of all, it had to be somewhere that would be overlooked by a whole garrison of soldiers bent on searching and dismembering the house in search of loot. It couldn’t be tucked inside anything that was likely to be examined, hacked open or stolen.

It is now past noon, murmured the doctor. Symond Fellmotte might return at any moment.

I know. The soldiers were trooping off to eat, and for a little while most rooms would be empty. Makepeace knew that this might be her last chance to find the charter.

Could he have hidden it in plain sight among other papers? No, the expensive parchment would be obvious, and it was all too likely that it would be picked up and glanced at. Unless . . .

Makepeace slipped down to the main hall again. The papers nailed to the inside of the great main door flickered and fluttered in the breeze. A cunning man might slip a parchment under these posters for a time. But when she tugged corners aside, there was no sign of a hidden charter. Her pride and excitement turned to disappointment. For a moment she felt personally aggrieved with Symond for failing to use such an inspired hiding place.

He had not hidden his tree in a forest of other papers. Where, then?

It must be somewhere nobody would think to look. What if they thought they had looked there already? What if they thought it had already yielded all its secrets?

A hasty check — no the broken chests seemed to have no false bottoms. But what about the secret room? She hastened back to the master room, and pulled open the once-secret door using the metal ring. No, the hidden room behind had been pretty thoroughly searched. Even the mattress was slit, its stuffing pulled out.

Then inspiration crept quietly into Makepeace’s mind, like a cat on to her lap. She turned her head to look at the door she was holding open. The once-camouflaged door, with its brown cloth covering now partly peeled back.

When everybody else looked at it, they saw a door that had hidden a secret room. It would never cross their minds that it had secrets of its own.

Very carefully, Makepeace slipped her hand between the wood and the brown covering, and slid it downwards, questing. Her fingertips touched parchment.

Not half an hour later, she looked down into the courtyard from a high window, and saw a man dismounting. Even at a distance, she knew him at a glance. Symond Fellmotte had returned to Whitehollow.

Heart banging, she hurried to his room, taking pains to avoid being seen. There was just enough time for her to hide behind the door before it opened.

A man entered the room, and stooped to loosen one of his riding boots. There was no mistaking him, even though the poor light dulled his hair to a greyish, tired colour, like weather-worn wheat. When Makepeace closed the door behind him, Symond swung around, one hand reaching reflexively for his sword hilt.

‘I’m here to speak with you!’ Makepeace hissed, holding up two empty hands.

Symond froze, staring at Makepeace, his sword halfway out of his scabbard.

‘Makepeace from the kitchen.’ His tone was flat with utter disbelief.

‘If you kill me, you’ll never see your precious charter again!’ blurted Makepeace hastily.

‘What?’ The colour drained from Symond’s face.

‘I found it in the secret door and took it out. I’m the only one who knows where it is now, Master Symond.’

He scowled, and the sword slowly scraped its way out, until he was levelling it at her.

‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly. ‘You cannot be Makepeace.’

‘Yes, I can,’ Makepeace told him firmly. ‘The Fellmottes have not infested me, if that is your fear. They have tried more than once, though. I have you to thank for that.’ It was not completely true that she was Fellmotte-free, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to mention Morgan straight away. ‘I ran away from Grizehayes. It was the only way to stop them pouring their ghosts into me.’

‘What about James?’ Symond cast a careful glance around the room. ‘Is he here too? Let me talk to him.’

‘No. I came alone. I have you to thank for that too.’

‘Alone?’ Symond seemed to be recovering from his shock. ‘You stupid little baggage! You’ve just wandered into an enemy garrison, full of my well-armed friends, and told me that you’ve stolen from me. Tell me where my charter is, or I’ll let some air into your veins, then hand you over as a spy.’

‘Will you?’ said Makepeace, her heart thudding. ‘What would your new friends say if I told them about the charter? You can’t have shown it to them, or stories of Fellmotte witchcraft would be screaming from every news-sheet. And they’re not really your friends anyway, are they? Lots of them think you’re a Royalist spy. Imagine what they’d say if they found out you were hiding a decree with the King’s seal on it.’

For a moment Symond’s expression dulled, and she realized that he was really, truly angry. She thought he might run her through, in spite of the loss of the charter. Then the corners of his mouth gave a little shrug, and he slowly slid his sword back into its scabbard again.

Makepeace realized that her blood was surging with excitement, as it had while she was gold-smuggling.

‘Why are you here?’ Symond narrowed his eyes and studied her. ‘Why run to me?’

‘Who else has the same enemies, and knows them for what they are? Who else would believe me?’ Makepeace gave a sour laugh under her breath. ‘I don’t even have James any more.’

‘What happened?’ Symond asked sharply. ‘Is he dead?’

‘He lives, after a fashion.’ Makepeace bit her tongue, trying not to sound too angry or bitter. ‘Your knifework on Sir Anthony left some ghosts without a home . . . and James was to hand.’

Symond’s brows rose at the news, but Makepeace could not tell whether he was shocked, remorseful or just processing the information.

‘He should have run,’ he said quietly.

‘Not everybody finds it easy to abandon their comrades,’ said Makepeace darkly, then reminded herself that she was trying to set up an alliance. ‘Do not worry, I am not here for revenge. Perhaps I should be, but I would rather survive. We do not need to like one another to be useful to each other.’ Makepeace realized that she had echoed Dr Quick’s words.

‘So what do you want?’ Symond’s tone was now almost conversational, but Makepeace sensed that the anger had not gone. ‘Is this blackmail?’

‘No. I would rather be your friend, Master Symond. But you are not always kind or honest with your friends. I took the charter to stop you betraying me.

‘I need an ally, and a place to hide. But most of all, I need to know more about the Fellmottes and their ghosts. You were the heir. You were being prepared — you must know more than I do. There must be ways to protect ourselves against them. To fight them.’

‘I am fighting them,’ Symond remarked drily, ‘but I am getting Parliament’s army to do it for me.’

‘That is not enough!’ Makepeace said fervently. ‘I need to know how to battle ghosts that are already in a body. I need to save James.’

‘To save James?’ The young Fellmotte shook his head. ‘It is too late. If he has Inherited, he is lost.’

‘He Inherited five spirits, not seven,’ Makepeace parried. ‘Sir Anthony lost two ghosts after you left him for dead. James might not be crushed to nothingness yet.’

‘His chances are small,’ Symond replied, but he looked a little thoughtful.

‘But is it not worth the gamble?’ Makepeace could only hope that Symond had some grains of real affection for James. ‘He was your childhood playmate — you grew up together. He trusted you. He was so loyal to you that he helped you steal from the Fellmottes!’

‘I always liked his company,’ Symond said, in a carefully level tone. It reminded her of the flat, precise way he had talked on the night of his father’s Inheritance. ‘When I talked to him, I could pretend that the world was simple. It was like taking off armour.’ He sighed, and shook his head again. ‘He should have deserted when I did. I am not his keeper.’

Makepeace swallowed her anger, and decided to change tack. The young aristocrat was no longer waving a sword at her, but it still seemed wise to convince him that she was useful to him, instead of just dangerous.

‘Then tell me what you know of ghosts, Master Symond, and let me try to save him. In return, I will be a friend to you. I am no kitchen girl here. I am Patience Lott, God’s own prophetess. Even Lady Eleanor vouches for me. I will hear your so-called friends plotting against you. I can warn you of dangers. I can even have “visions” of you fighting the good fight.’

An incredulous smile started to pucker the corner of Symond’s mouth.

‘You may not be haunted by Elders,’ he said, ‘but you are changed. I never thought that you would prove to be the ruthless one!’

Makepeace scrutinized Symond. She had never known him well, and even now she felt as if she were slithering across the surface of his icy, unreadable facade. Clearly he was having trouble understanding her too.

‘I am not changed,’ she said. ‘You never knew me. None of you ever knew me.’ It occurred to her that perhaps she had not even known herself.

CHAPTER 31

Symond dug out a bottle of rum from behind the bed, along with a wooden cup and an engraved metal one.

‘If the men out there knew I had this, they would all be craning their necks and hissing like geese,’ he said coolly. ‘They’re all prayer-mad. God’s blood, they have fits of the mother every time I swear! Where is the fun in being a soldier if you don’t drink or swear? Of course, the sergeant knows I bring bottles here, but he can’t punish me without admitting how often he searches my room.’

He sloshed a little rum into the two cups, and passed the wooden one to Makepeace. She suspected that the wooden cup showed her the terms of the alliance he was willing to offer — with Symond as patron and master, not an equal. Makepeace took it, hesitated, then sipped. It seemed best to humour his pride for the moment.

‘My destiny was explained to me when I was ten years old,’ Symond said, staring into his cup. ‘I was taken to the vast family tree painted on the wall in the chapel, and told about the great ancestors I would truly know some day. I was “a new channel cut to hold a great river from the past”.

‘That was when my training started. Heirs of the house must practise contracting mind and soul, so as to make space for our future guests. The Infiltrators examine us regularly.’ He stared at the tip of his riding boot. ‘Sometimes they . . . rearrange our inner architecture. Apparently the results are more satisfactory if done over a long time, like training a hedge for topiary. Far better than having to hack a space of the right size at the last minute.’

‘They rearranged your soul?’ asked Makepeace, appalled. ‘Did that not change you?’

‘How should I know?’ Symond shrugged. ‘I have no idea what kind of man I might have been without it.’

‘What else did they teach you?’ Makepeace was beginning to wonder if she might have got off rather lightly with her three years’ drudgery in the kitchen. A decade of regular brain-pruning was a high price to pay even for lordship and luxury.

‘Well, they did not teach me how to fight my ancestors’ ghosts! Quite the reverse. I was taught how to yield.’ A slightly bitter smirk. ‘It was drummed into me that my destiny was not only my duty, but also my greatness and glory. I drank the claptrap down, and was desperate to host my ancestors. After all, what would I be without the “great river” of those ancient souls? Just a muddy ditch.

‘But there were things I noticed. I began to work out why the Elders need us.’

‘Unhoused ghosts melt into nothing,’ Makepeace said promptly.

‘They do,’ agreed Symond. ‘Our bodies protect the Elders, and stop them blowing away in the wind. But there is more to it than that. Normal ghosts burn themselves out faster the more they move, talk or do. Have you noticed that?’

Makepeace nodded. She remembered Bear charging at his erstwhile tormentors, his essence steaming away from him.

‘Ghosts inside a living person’s body wear themselves out too, but they renew themselves. Strength passes from the living person to the ghost. They’re like mistletoe boughs, drinking the strength from a living tree. We are not just their shelter. We are their food.’

The thought made Makepeace shiver, but it also made sense to her. Her own guests were sometimes active, sometimes dormant. They lent her strength and skills she did not have, but now she thought about it, she often felt exhausted afterwards.

‘Have you ever watched an Inheritance?’ Symond asked suddenly.

Makepeace flinched, then shook her head. She did not want to admit to what she had seen at Twelfth Night.

‘I have,’ said Symond, and for a little while his face had absolutely no expression at all.

‘My father,’ he said, after a pause, ‘was my hero, my teacher, my pattern for life.’

‘I liked Sir Thomas,’ Makepeace said, very gently. Symond gave her a puzzled, distracted glance, and she realized that her likes and dislikes had no meaning for him at all.

‘You never knew him,’ he said dismissively. ‘With everyone else he could be bluff and merry, but he was stern and exacting with me, because our conversations mattered. I feared him, admired him, and tried to please him. You cannot understand the bond between a lord and his heir. Sharing such a destiny means so much more than sharing blood. Lordship is a sacred trust, a duty of guardianship — the estate and title own us, as much as we own them, and we must pass them on unsullied.’ For a moment Symond did not sound quite like himself, and Makepeace could imagine Sir Thomas saying those words.

‘He always spurred me to be the best at everything, and eventually he admitted why. Not all Fellmotte souls were preserved, only those judged to be of the greatest worth to the family.

‘So I knew that one day, when the Elders came for me, I would be weighed in the balance. My own private Judgement Day. If they approved of me, I would live on forever among the Elders. If not, my body would be stolen from me, and my soul crushed to pulp. I had everything to gain and everything to lose, so I wore myself threadbare trying to please them.

‘Then my father’s “Judgement Day” arrived. My father. I knew how hard he had worked for the family, how learned he was, how loyal . . .’ Symond shook his head, his face still showing a tranquillity that did not match his words. ‘All for nothing. He was found wanting. They crushed him. I stood there and watched it happen.’

Makepeace listened, uncertain what to feel. There was so much in Symond’s story that made her want to pity him. Yet he had shown little pity himself at the Battle of Hangerdon Hill. Even now, his reactions seemed off-kilter.

‘Do you want me to describe it?’ he asked suddenly, his tone jarringly offhand. ‘I had a ringside seat.’

Makepeace nodded slowly. She had seen some of it, but Symond had been closer. He refilled his cup.

‘The Infiltrator poured out of my grandfather first,’ he said, ‘and I saw her slip in through my father’s mouth. The others followed one by one. I think perhaps he fought back at the very end . . . but it did him no good.’

Makepeace said nothing, remembering Sir Thomas’s tormented face. She felt sick with pity.

‘Do you know something interesting?’ Symond continued in the same, cool tone. ‘The ghosts were not all the same. The Infiltrator looked smaller, but healthier, more whole. The others were larger but . . . cramped. Ill-formed. Have you ever seen two apples sprouted from the same stem, too close to each other, so that they grew misshapen?’

Now that is interesting, the doctor remarked silently in Makepeace’s head.

‘Why would she be smaller?’ asked Makepeace, now intrigued.

‘She has to venture out of the shell more often than the other ghosts,’ Symond answered immediately, ‘so I daresay some of her essence bleeds away now and then.’

Makepeace had never even thought of this before. Being ‘Infiltrated’ had been so unpleasant that she had not stopped to wonder about the dangers to the Infiltrator.

‘But perhaps that also explains why she looked different,’ Symond went on. ‘An Infiltrator needs to be able to hold herself together outside the body, and the other Elders do not. Perhaps living in the shell allows them to become . . . soft.’

‘What do you know about that Infiltrator?’ Makepeace wondered whether the ever-stealthy Morgan was listening in.

‘Lady Morgan Fellmotte,’ Symond said promptly. ‘By Elder standards, she’s a foot-soldier. She is only the third lady who has ever joined their ranks, and she is not even of our blood — just Fellmotte by marriage. She is one of their youngest, too, dead only thirty years. Why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered how the Elders choose their Infiltrators,’ Makepeace said meekly. ‘Do they draw lots?’

‘I warrant the job goes to the lowliest ghost,’ Symond said. ‘Who would want it? Infiltrators wear out over time.’

‘If the Elder ghosts are so soft, how do they crush living spirits?’ asked Makepeace. ‘Why couldn’t Sir Thomas hold his own against them?’

‘I cannot be sure. The Elders have the advantage of numbers and experience. But they also have no doubts to weaken them.

The Elders may be monstrous, but they are sure of themselves. They are their own religion.’

Certainty, said the doctor in Makepeace’s mind. Ah. Yes, perhaps.

‘I knew that the Fellmottes were likely to preserve my spirit,’ Symond added quietly. ‘They approved of me. But their favour was slippery, and selfish. I could not be sure of them, and even if they preserved me, I might have found myself serving as their Infiltrator. So I started to make contacts and plans of my own.’

‘Why did the Elders never suspect you?’ Makepeace asked. ‘They can tell when somebody is lying, or hiding something. They never paid much attention to me because I was beneath their notice — but you were the precious heir! You plotted for years and they never guessed. You put a knife in Sir Anthony’s side and he didn’t see it coming. Why not?’

‘Elders do not read our thoughts, though they are happy to let us think they do,’ said Symond. ‘They are very old, that is all. There is an alphabet to people’s faces and manners, and they have had longer to learn it. Everyone gives away their feelings in tiny ways — a glint in the eye, a wobble in the voice, a tremor in the hands.’

‘Then how did you stop them reading your feelings?’ asked Makepeace.

‘Oh, that is quite simple,’ said Symond. ‘I can force myself to stop feeling anything, whenever I choose. I have been learning the trick of it for years. It is not as hard as people seem to think.’

Makepeace nodded slowly, trying to maintain her carefully thoughtful expression. Living people didn’t usually make her skin crawl, but Symond was apparently an exception. She could not help wondering whether the rearrangement of his ‘internal architecture’ might have caused some problems after all.

There was one other question that had been bothering her.

‘Master Symond,’ she said, ‘when you stuck a knife in Sir Anthony . . . how did you escape getting possessed?’

A smile crept back on to his face. Makepeace suspected that he did not particularly like her, but apparently she was just clever enough to interest him.

‘You’re not entirely stupid, are you?’ he said. ‘You are right, two of the ghosts leaped out of his body and tried to do exactly that. One of them got in before I could do anything about it.’ Symond laughed at Makepeace’s appalled expression. ‘Don’t faint. There’s only one spirit in this body now, and it’s mine.’

‘So you do know how to fight Fellmotte ghosts!’ Makepeace’s spirits rose again.

‘In a sense.’ Symond knocked back the rest of his rum. ‘Over time I found ways of protecting myself. Ghosts became my hobby and study. I have been quite the scientist. Do you really want to know how I rid myself of that ghost?’

Makepeace nodded.

‘Then perhaps I shall show you tomorrow. There will be a . . . hunting trip of sorts then. Once the hunt is on, stay close to me.’

‘My lord,’ Makepeace asked carefully, ‘would it not be simpler if you explained it to me?’

‘No,’ said Symond, who now seemed to be enjoying a private joke. ‘I would rather not prepare you. I want to see what you notice, and how you handle it when the time comes. Consider it a test of character.’

Makepeace tried to wrestle her unease. Against the odds she seemed to have an alliance of sorts. She had learned a great deal, and James’s case no longer looked completely hopeless.

However, the exhilarating tingle of power she had felt at the start of the conversation had melted away. Whatever was happening now, she was no longer in control.

He is a detestable villain, said the doctor later, but clever.

Makepeace had brought her conversation with Symond to an end for fear of being missed. She suspected it might hurt her reputation as a saintly prophet if she was found drinking with a man in his bedchamber. Instead, she had retreated to a closet for ‘private meditation’.

I don’t think he noticed any of you, thought Makepeace. I am not sure why.

Lady Morgan appears to be an expert in self-concealment, remarked Quick. Your bear was in one of its dormant phases, in case you had not noticed. The Puritan and myself thought it best to keep a low profile, and remained as still and quiet as possible.

So you and Master Tyler are talking to each other now?

Makepeace could not suppress a very small smile.

No more than we can help. The doctor’s tone was sullen. Tyler believes that he is going to Hell. I think so too. That appears to be the only thing we can agree upon. However, last night while you slept we reached a practical understanding of sorts.

Do you intend to tell Symond Fellmotte about us? In particular, are you planning to tell him that an angry Fellmotte spymistress was listening to your entire conversation with him?

No, Makepeace answered firmly. He might be useful as an ally, but I don’t trust him. I’d sooner thrust my hand in a bucket of vipers.

Then why are we here? asked the doctor.

Because I don’t have a bucket of vipers that can help me save James, answered Makepeace with a sigh.

Speaking of vipers, Lady Morgan still appears to be lying low, commented the doctor. It’s only a matter of time before she attempts something, however.

You’re right, Makepeace replied silently. We have one thing in our favour, though. Lady Spymistress Morgan is an idiot.

The lady may well be listening to us, remarked the doctor cautiously.

I hope she is! Makepeace answered. Only an idiot would be scrabbling to get back to serving a gaggle of evil old greybeards who don’t care whether she gets worn down to the nub! What if they had decided to recruit Symond’s ghost to their coterie? Who would they have pushed out to make room for him?

If Morgan was listening, she did not respond.

In any case, continued the doctor, with an air of suppressed excitement, I believe that your new ally is right about something very important. His theory would explain an oddity I have noticed.

We passenger-ghosts are plunged into darkness whenever you close your eyes. I thought at first that this was because we used your eyes to see the world. But if your Bear does see through your eyes — your human eyes — then why is he able to see in the dark like a beast?

So ghosts are mysterious and unnatural, and break God’s laws, Makepeace answered, confused and a little impatient. You can’t make sense of some things. You might as well ask how witches fly.

Oh, come now! snapped the doctor. Our existence may be the stuff of waking nightmares, but there will be rules to it. I believe Symond Fellmotte has unravelled the truth. The key is expectation. Belief.

I think ghosts can see without using their living host’s eyes. However, we are used to the bodies we once had. Your bear believes that he can only see through eyes that are open. However, he also expects to be able to see in the dark.

If I am right, then that explains why there are so few ghosts. Dead souls only become ghosts if they expect to do so.

Bear never expected it! Makepeace frowned in thought. But . . . he was very angry when he died. In fact, I’m not sure he noticed he had died.

So his spirit lingered, said the doctor, sounding pleased. Then there are those who die in desperation and doubt, thinking their souls lost, like your Puritan friend, and the favoured Fellmottes, who die knowing that their ghosts will have a new home . . .

And you, said Makepeace, feeling her spirits sink guiltily. You expected to become a ghost because I told you that you could.

Never mind that, said the doctor briskly but firmly. The Fellmotte ghosts survive from century to century, triumphing over the spirits of their hosts, because they utterly believe in their right and ability to do so. Their certainty and mad arrogance is their strength.

If you want to weaken their spirits, find a way to shatter that certainty. Break their faith. Make them doubt.

CHAPTER 32

The next morning, Symond completely ignored Makepeace, which was only sensible. It was best that nobody suspect a connection between them, lest they also notice that both had the same faint cleft in their chin.

It did, however, mean that she was left no closer to knowing what Symond had meant by a ‘hunt’. In fact, Whitehollow seemed to be preparing for a rather different sort of gathering.

The ballroom was cleaned, its windows polished, and tables and chairs set out as if for a party. On pewter plates a small spread was laid out — tongue, veal, partridge pie, bread and cheese. It was nothing compared to the magnificent banquets at Grizehayes, but fine enough to suggest that guests of quality were expected.

‘What’s going on?’ Makepeace asked a private who was putting candles back into candlesticks in the ballroom. Such extravagance suggested an important event.

‘It’s a wedding, Mistress Lott,’ he said politely. ‘The general’s nephew’s marrying the daughter of a member of Parliament. They’ll be turning up this afternoon — and some of their friends and family too.’

They might decorate the place a little, remarked the doctor morosely. The rafters were bare, and no flowers adorned the room.

Marriage belongs to God, said Livewell matter-of-factly enough, and He doesn’t care about frills and ribbons.

Makepeace was glad to hear Livewell’s voice. He had been quiet for a while. She could not guess what it must have been like to find himself surrounded by soldiers of the army he had abandoned. She worried that he might start tearing himself apart again.

The first visitors to arrive were three black-clad, severe-looking men. To Makepeace’s surprise they gave the sergeant and other officers only the briefest, coolest nod, before stepping aside with Symond, and holding a quiet, earnest conversation with him.

Afterwards Symond maintained his usual air of cool detachment, but Makepeace detected hints of excitement. At one point he caught at her sleeve.

‘Remember — once the hunt starts, stay close to me.’

‘When is the hunt?’ she asked. ‘Is it after the wedding? I can’t find a reason to join it if I don’t know when it is!’

He laughed under his breath.

‘This whole wedding is a hunt of sorts,’ he whispered. ‘The families were planning to hold it back on the general’s estates in a few months . . . but holding it here right now allows them to invite certain guests, who cannot really say no. This —’ he gestured through the door at the wide ballroom — ‘is an opening trap.’

‘A trap?’

‘One of the guests secretly spies for the King,’ Symond explained with visible relish. ‘We have proof of it now, but unfortunately the spy is a member of the gentry. If we knock on their door and ask to arrest them, their household will probably try to spirit them away to safety. That’s why we’ve lured the spy here, far from their servants and reinforcements.’

The conversation left a bad taste in Makepeace’s mouth. Allying with Symond meant nailing her colours to Parliament’s mast for now, but her little time on His Majesty’s secret service left her with a reluctant sympathy for the unsuspecting spy.

After lunch, the damp morning mist thickened into fog, robbing the lawns and outhouses of all detail. The sergeant sent more men down the drive to guide guests to the house, and in the mid-afternoon the wedding party and others arrived.

The general was a grim-jawed man with a well-trimmed beard, and his nephew a slimmer, younger, clean-shaven version of him. The quiet, nervously smiling bride was ushered in by her talkative mother. However, Makepeace barely noticed any of them.

Instead, her attention was drawn by a well-dressed couple who rode in on the same horse, the woman sitting behind the man. The gentleman dismounted and handed down his wife with a courtesy that seemed formal rather than affectionate.

The wife had vivid red hair just visible under her hat, and a long, bold face dotted with black silk patches. It was ‘Helen’, the Royalist spy, adventuress and bullion smuggler.

Makepeace ducked behind a corner before Helen could catch sight of her. From her hiding place she saw Helen’s husband shaking the general’s hand warmly. The two men seemed to be good friends.

What was Helen doing here? For a moment, Makepeace wondered whether Helen had been a Parliamentarian all the time, infiltrating the Royalist spy network as a double agent. But that seemed unlikely. No double agent sent by Parliament would smuggle so much gold to the King.

No, it was far more likely that Helen really was a spy for the King, but posed as a Parliamentarian in her everyday life. Symond had told Makepeace that he had proof of the identity of a secret Royalist spy. It was a member of the gentry, someone with their own household . . . somebody like Helen.

Makepeace’s heart plummeted. Her camaraderie with Helen had been a sham built from her own lies, but she liked the older woman.

What should Makepeace do now? The safest and most logical option was to stay out of Helen’s sight. If Helen did not know that her erstwhile comrade was at Whitehollow, she could not betray her if caught. Yet Makepeace recoiled from this option.

What else could she do? Even if she was mad enough to try to warn Helen, how could she do it? Helen would be watched, so there would be no chance to whisper in her ear unobserved. There were probably ways in which the King’s spies warned each other of danger, but Makepeace did not know what they were.

And then it occurred to Makepeace that somebody else probably would. She found a quiet corner where she could concentrate, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Lady Morgan, she thought, I need your help. I want to tell Helen that she has walked into a trap. Is there some way I can warn her?

Are you mad? demanded the doctor. If that woman leaves here alive, she will have seen both yourself and Symond! Word will reach the Fellmottes!

I think I am mad, yes! Makepeace answered. I know Helen would never have risked her mission for me . . . but in a pinch I think she would have risked her neck. Oh, I’m not planning to ready a horse for her, or pull out a pistol to protect her. But . . . I want to give her a fighting chance.

The silence rolled on.

Morgan, Makepeace tried one more time, you may be determined to be my enemy. But Helen never hurt you — she’s your comrade. You were a spy too, weren’t you, when you were alive? Can you remember what it was like to live like her?

There was a pause, and then from the shadowy depths of her own mind Makepeace heard a familiar, hard-edged voice.

Find a paper that you can pass to her without drawing remark, said Morgan. The bottle you stole from Lady April is artichoke juice — you may use it to write invisibly.

Makepeace hastened to the entrance, acquired some of the religious tracts pinned to the door, then hurried back to her room. She dipped a pen into the artichoke juice as though it were ink, and wrote a short message in the margin of a tract.

Wedding is a trap. Flee if you can.

Sure enough, the juice only damped the paper, and dried leaving no mark.

How will she read it? Makepeace asked.

The writing will appear if held to a candle flame, said the spymistress. Nick the corner with your fingernail, so that she knows there is a hidden message.

Hands shaking with nerves, Makepeace carried the pile of tracts into the ballroom. She got a few odd looks as she started handing them out, but only a few. Strange, religious behaviour was to be expected from prophets.

Most of the guests were sitting in the little window seats, with their backs to the vaporous white beyond the tiny panes. Helen was sitting between the bride and another lady, and seemed to be dominating the conversation easily. To judge by the way her companions smothered their giggling with their fans, her jokes were a little scandalous.

Makepeace paused by the window seat, bobbed an uncomfortable curtsy, and placed a tract in the reluctant hand of each lady. Then Helen’s gaze flicked to Makepeace’s face.

For the tiniest moment the red-haired woman’s eyes flared with shock and recognition. But the expression was so fleeting that only Makepeace caught it. A moment later Helen was throwing back her head to laugh at something the bride had said, as if Makepeace were utterly invisible to her.

Makepeace moved on, handing out more tracts, and gave only stumbled, dazed responses to one red-faced gentleman’s jokey attempts to flirt with her. She was aware of Helen light-heartedly excusing herself from her companions, and leaving the room.

A little later Helen returned, her smile looking rather fixed. The red-faced gentleman greeted her as an acquaintance, with a flurry of jovial compliments, and tried to persuade her to step aside and let him read poetry to her. However, she brushed him off and quickly made her way to her husband. Passing by, Makepeace overheard a little of their muted conversation.

‘Something has turned my insides,’ Helen murmured. ‘I feel quite ill. My dear . . . I think I should return home.’

‘Can you try not to embarrass me, just for once?’ her husband snapped. ‘If you are well enough to ride, you are well enough to stay and make pleasantries. And if you take the horse, then how should I come home again?’

The severe-looking black-clad men entered the room. There was something fundamentally unfestive about them, like Grim Reaper figures stalking through a picnic. They made eye contact with Symond and nodded. Helen noticed them too, and turned pale.

Time had run out. The three black-clad men walked silently and politely through the room, towards Helen and her husband . . .

. . . and past them. They came to a halt in front of the ruddy man who had tried to flirt with Makepeace.

‘Sir,’ said one of them, ‘I hope you will step outside with us and spare the company unpleasantness.’

He stared up at them, and opened his mouth as if he were about to bluster some protest, or pretend ignorance. Then he let his mouth close again, and released a long, slow breath. He offered an apologetic half-smile to the other guests around him, all now watching him with fear, curiosity, confusion or suspicion.

The exposed spy rose heavily to his feet, and downed his goblet. Then he threw it into the face of his nearest enemy, and sprinted for the door, taking everyone by surprise. Makepeace flung herself out of the way as he barrelled past.

‘Keep the main door barred!’ she heard somebody shouting. There was a crash. ‘He’s out through the window — on the front lawn!’

All the military men in the room surged out of the ballroom, followed by most of the servants and guests. The front door was flung open and everyone poured outside. Through the fog, Makepeace could just see a distant figure running in the direction of tree cover. As she watched, it halted, then zagged in a new direction. Other figures that had been waiting in the shadows of the trees leaped out and chased after him. Evidently those who set the trap had placed men in ambush just in case.

Glancing over her shoulder, Makepeace could see most of the wedding guests clustered in front of the house. Helen looked astonished and aghast.

The leader of the black-clad men advanced with Symond beside him. The former was dabbing at a cut on his forehead, left by the flung goblet.

‘You were right,’ he said to Symond. ‘He did try to run. I expected a bit more dignity.’

‘I did not,’ said Symond. As the black-clad man walked on, Symond caught Makepeace’s eye, and grinned.

‘Halloo the chase,’ he whispered. ‘Stay close to me.’

The confused crowd poured into the fog, and promptly lost track of each other. Shouts echoed through the gloom.

‘Over there! I see him! Halt!’

‘Don’t let him reach the trees!’

Then there were two sharp cracks, like boughs breaking in a storm.

‘The traitor’s on the ground — fetch the chirurgeon!’

Symond sprinted towards the last call, and Makepeace hurried after him, mouth dry. There were two men standing over a third, who lay sprawled at their feet. A man with a leather bag ran out of the house and across the lawn to kneel next to the fallen man. Makepeace guessed that he must be a chirurgeon.

‘Can you mend him?’ called one of the officers. ‘He has questions to answer!’

‘Some genius put a bullet in his head at close range!’ retorted the chirurgeon. ‘I’d need a ladle even to collect his brains!’

Makepeace could smell gunsmoke. It was not like the sweet, half-living smoke from cooking or woodfires. It had a bitter, metallic tang, and for a moment she wondered if hellfire smelt that way.

‘We need a stretcher!’ called one of the soldiers. The other had pulled a bible out of his pocket, and was peering closely at the page as he tried to read it aloud, half blinded by the fog.

Symond approached the body, and knelt next to it. He reminded Makepeace of a cat at a mousehole. Then he stiffened, as if that cat had seen the shadowy flick of a mouse’s tail. Makepeace had seen something too, a hazy tendril above the body that was neither smoke nor mist.

It was a ghost, sure enough, a very faint and ragged one. It had sensed the haven inside Symond, and was wavering unsteadily towards his face.

Only Makepeace was close enough to see Symond smile. As it drew closer, he suddenly bared his teeth and hissed in a deep breath, as if to draw the whole ghost into his lungs. His eyes gleamed with predatory excitement.

The ghost recoiled. For a second it flailed in confusion, then Makepeace saw it streak away across the lawn, the grass blades flattening slightly as it passed. A little bush shivered almost imperceptibly as if nudged, little beads of moisture falling from its leaves. Only Makepeace and Symond noticed; everybody else nearby was focused upon the body.

Symond leaped nimbly to his feet and pursued. Makepeace followed a few yards behind, trying to keep him in sight. He zigzagged, and she guessed that the spy’s ghost must be weaving in an attempt to throw off pursuit, as the man had when alive. Now Symond was sprinting towards the treeline. Perhaps the ghost was still clinging to its last hope while living, that if it reached the woodland it would be safe.

Makepeace followed her kinsman into the woods, bracken thrashing at her knees. Now and then mist-veiled boughs loomed suddenly at face-height, forcing her to duck. Still she could see Symond’s pale hair and dark coat ahead of her, weaving between the trunks.

Scrambling over a fallen tree, she stumbled into a little clearing, and found Symond on his knees, both hands gripping the dead leaves, and his eyes shut.

At the sound of her approach, he opened his eyes and gave a grin of perfect complacency.

‘I have him,’ he said.

For a fraction of a second, his face spasmed. Just for that moment it seemed that somebody else was looking out of his eyes in an agony of terror and despair. Then his predatory grin returned and he was Symond again.

‘What have you done?’ she asked, too aghast to be respectful.

‘I’ve captured a traitor,’ said Symond, and Makepeace suspected that he was enjoying her reaction.

‘The spy’s ghost is inside you?’ Makepeace saw the little spasm occur again. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’

‘Well, you see, my “new friends” in Parliament’s army are very demanding. They keep wanting me to provide them with more information they can use against the Royalist side. I need to keep them happy if I want to inherit my rightful estates. The problem is, I’ve already told them most of what I know. They want me to find out more by turning spy, but that would mean risking my neck. I’ve found a better way of getting information. Are you squeamish?’

Makepeace shook her head slowly.

‘Good. I wouldn’t want you fainting, and distracting me from my interview. Let’s see if he’s ready to talk.’ He lowered his eyes, and when he spoke again his words did not seem to be directed to Makepeace.

‘Now then, my good fellow. Why don’t you unburden your soul, and give me a list of your accomplices? Then you can tell me where you hide your papers, and help me with a couple of ciphers . . .’

There was a pause, then Symond tutted and laughed.

‘Now he’s panicking, and demanding to know where he is, and why it’s so dark. They usually do. But when I start drinking away their soul a little at a time, they become a lot more helpful. For a while, at least. Until their minds break.’

‘What do you mean?’ croaked Makepeace.

‘I told you I had made a study of ghosts. I also told you that ghosts inside our bodies can draw on our strength. But I have discovered something much more interesting. If we are stronger than a ghost, it can work the other way too. Someone with my gift — our gift — can draw the strength out of a lone ghost, and burn it up like fuel.

‘It took a lot of practice, starting with the weakest and most tattered ghosts I could find. Bedlam was a good place for those. Ever since, I’ve been taking on stronger and stronger spirits, so that I became stronger. Thank God I did, or that wounded Elder-ghost from Sir Anthony would have done for me!

‘Do you understand? Do you see what God intended us to be? We’re not ditches waiting for rivers, or trees meekly feeding mistletoe. We’re hunters, Kitchen-Makepeace. We’re predators. And if you serve me very well indeed, I will teach you the tricks of it.’

Symond looked away, and to judge by his smile he had turned his attention to his captive once more. His face spasmed again and again. Each time the fleeting expression was more terrified and anguished.

Makepeace had said that she was not squeamish. She had skinned countless animals. Even cutting gangrene out of a man’s flesh had not turned her stomach like this.

She did not have well-considered ideas on the subject of evil. There were sins that sent you to Hell, of course, and she had heard them listed often enough. There were terrible things that she did not want to happen to her or anybody she cared about, but the threat of those was just the way of the world. Goodness was a luxury, and God clearly had no time for her.

But she discovered, to her surprise, that her gut had opinions of its own. It knew that there were unbearable evils in the world, and that right now she was looking at one.

And deeper in her soul, she could hear Bear’s answering rumble of a growl. It understood pain. It understood torture.

‘Stop it,’ Makepeace said aloud. ‘Let the ghost go.’ She was warm now, and shaking from head to foot. Bear’s breath was in her ear.

Symond gave her a look of mild contempt. ‘Don’t disappoint me now. I was just starting to hope that you might be useful. And don’t distract me. My traitor friend is just about to break . . .’

As Symond looked away from her again, Makepeace snatched up a piece of broken branch, and swung it at him. Mid-swing, she felt the movement gain extra strength from Bear’s anger. It hit Symond in the back of the neck, pitching him forward. She thought she saw a faint, mutilated strand of shadow wisp away from him as the captive ghost escaped and melted.

Makepeace roared. For a moment her vision blackened, and she wanted to hit Symond again. No. If she did, she would kill him.

She dropped the branch and backed away. He was already rising, and reaching for his sword.

‘You miserable jade!’

Makepeace turned and ran.

She darted between the misty trees, the crash and rustle of Symond’s steps close behind her. Every moment she expected to feel his blade slice into her back.

The trees unexpectedly ended, and she was running through bracken and then grass. A huge murky oblong loomed into view ahead, and she realized that she was back on the front lawn of Whitehollow.

Three figures were walking hastily towards her across the lawn. As she neared them, she made out their black clothes, and realized that they were the trio who had tried to arrest the spy.

‘Catch her!’ Symond bellowed behind her. ‘She’s one of them! She’s one of the Fellmotte witches!’

The three men instantly spread out to block her passing. As she tried to dart around them, the tallest drew back his arm. She barely saw his fist fly forward, only felt the jarring shock as it hit her jaw. The world exploded into pain, then darkness.

CHAPTER 33

When Makepeace first edged back into consciousness, for a while she was only aware of the pain in her chin. It seemed as big as a sun, but a sun that pulsed red and orange. Becoming reacquainted with the rest of herself was not an enjoyable experience. Her head hurt, and she felt sick. Opening her eyes, she found that she was lying on a mattress in what looked like someone’s writing closet.

She staggered to her feet, and tried the door. It was locked. The window was barred, and she felt a swimming sense of déjà vu and panic. She was a prisoner again.

Is everyone all right? she asked silently, suddenly frightened for her troublesome companions.

I believe so, said the doctor with an air of tortured calm. So . . . after all the trouble it cost us to find Symond Fellmotte, you found it essential to hit him with a log?

The man needed a smacking, said Livewell with feeling. ’Tis just a shame we couldn’t hit him with the whole tree.

In spite of her situation and stinging jaw, Makepeace gave a small snort of mirth. With relief, she realized that she could feel the warm vastness of Bear as well.

Morgan? Are you still there? There was no response, but then again that was not surprising. Where are we? Makepeace asked instead.

I do not know, answered Livewell. I have seen nothing since that fellow struck us in the jaw.

I thought you could all still move my body and open my eyes while I was asleep? Makepeace gingerly sat up, and felt her bruised chin.

During ordinary sleep, yes, said Dr Quick. During true unconsciousness, however, it seems we cannot manoeuvre the body at all. A fascinating discovery, but rather inconvenient right now.

Makepeace clambered up on to the bed, and peered out through the tiny window as best she could. She could see trees, and the chimneys of Whitehollow beyond them. She guessed that she was being held in the gatehouse.

She started as the door opened, and a servingman entered.

‘You’re to come with me,’ he said.

He led her out of the closet into a bare, little chamber. The man in black who had punched Makepeace sat in a chair at a desk. Symond lounged by the wall, with his usual mask-like sangfroid.

The man in black appeared to be about thirty, and his dark hair was already receding. His eyes were keen, but he blinked too hard, and Makepeace imagined him reading for long hours by candlelight.

‘We already know everything important,’ he said, looking up from his papers. ‘All that is left is for you to admit the truth, fill in the gaps, and tell us who else is steeped in this corruption.’ He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. ‘There is still time for you to convince us that you were led astray by others. You are young and unlearned, easy prey for the Devil’s tricks.’

Makepeace flushed as she remembered the word that Symond had shouted.

Witch.

‘What Devil’s tricks?’ Perhaps Makepeace could still play the frightened little girl. ‘Why did you hit me? Who are you? Why am I here?’

‘Why did you come to Whitehollow?’ asked the interrogator, ignoring her questions.

‘I was seeking Lady Eleanor,’ she said defiantly.

‘I have an account here from Private William Horne.’ The interrogator shuffled his papers. ‘He says that he came upon you one day by surprise. You were capering almost naked on your hands and knees, snarling like a beast, and ripping a live fish with your teeth.’

‘I hitched my skirts to wash my feet in the stream, and was lucky enough to scoop a fish out of the water. I was on my hands and knees on the bank trying to stop it jumping back in!’ It was worse than expected. Her enemies had clearly been collecting accounts from the household.

‘He also says that you plucked a memory from his very head, and taunted him with it. You knew the feelings of his heart, the fancies in his brain, as you should not have done.’

‘I saw it in a vision!’

‘Not all visions are sent by the Almighty. Some are the delusions of a weak mind . . . and some are deceptions by the Evil One.’

Makepeace’s heart sank. It seemed there was only a narrow line between prophetess and witch.

‘I hear you also have an uncommon way with animals,’ the interrogator went on. ‘At Whitehollow there is a yellow cat called Wilterkin. They say it spits and scratches at everyone else, but within five minutes of meeting you, it was nuzzling your face as if whispering to you.’

‘I dropped a scrap for it,’ said Makepeace. ‘It’s a cat. You can buy any cat’s love for an inch of bacon rind!’ She could not believe that her great joy, the company of animals, was now considered evidence against her.

‘Did you let it suck on your ear?’ he asked, in the same calm, severe tone.

‘What?’

‘A witch will suckle the devils and familiars that are sent to her. Sometimes their teats are strangely placed. One woman was visited by a pale mouse with a man’s face, who drank milk from a nipple in her ear lobe.’

There it was at last: the word ‘witch’. Makepeace could feel her skin tingling.

‘No,’ she said, with all the scorn she could muster. ‘No cat has been drinking milk out of my ear. You have let someone feed you a platter of lies.’

‘Have we?’ he asked coldly. ‘We heard you ourselves. We heard the Devil inside you, bellowing in the woods.’

So they had heard Makepeace roaring Bear’s roar, down in the foggy woodland. They were already convinced that she was an unnatural being. The interrogator had just been letting out rope so that she could tell lies and hang herself.

His eyes were severe, and a little reddened from lack of sleep, but Makepeace saw a spark of something in them. He was not handsome, tall or bold — not the sort of man to draw notice on an ordinary day. But these were uncommon times, and people had to pay attention to him. He was doing God’s work.

Bear was drowsy and drained, but awake, and he could smell the man in black. The man smelt of good soap and other people’s pain. He smelt a little like Young Crowe.

‘We know that you tried to kill Lord Fellmotte,’ the man in black said. ‘He has told us all about you. Now it is your turn to tell us about the Fellmottes.’

Symond was still calmly watching from the sidelines. He had a cat’s way of smiling without smiling. But even cats had limits to their cruelty, unlike people. The sight of him filled Makepeace with fury.

‘The Fellmottes are devils,’ Makepeace said with feeling. ‘I ran away from them. I ran to Lord Fellmotte, because I hoped he would keep me safe. But he’s worse than any of them! I cried out because I was afraid of him!’

‘I know that he tried to exorcise the demon in you,’ said the man in black.

‘Exorcise?’ It was not a word Makepeace knew.

‘To banish it back to Hell. The Lord has bestowed on him a great gift — the ability to drive out devils, and send unquiet spirits to their eternal rest—’

‘The Lord has bestowed . . .? ’ This was too much. ‘You gulls! He’s leading you all by the nose! He doesn’t send ghosts to their rest! He eats them. I saw him do it, and that was why I screamed.’

‘You should show him a little gratitude,’ the man in black said severely. ‘He thinks you can be saved.’ He jotted something in a notebook, then sighed and looked at Symond. ‘You were right, a most mischievous and vengeful tongue. Well, if a woman is a witch, she is usually a scold and a brawler as well. Are you sure you can win her back to God?’

‘Give me some time with her,’ said Symond solemnly. ‘I’ll see if I can drive the devils out.’

‘No!’ said Makepeace. ‘Don’t leave me with him! Listen to me! He eats ghosts! He eats souls!’

But they would not heed her, and she was carried back to her little room. Symond followed, and asked the guard to wait outside.

‘You need to be careful with these Fellmotte witches,’ Symond told him. ‘If she starts throwing curses around, I can protect myself, but I cannot shield you.’

Once Symond and Makepeace were alone, he smiled. ‘You should thank me,’ he said. ‘If I had not spoken up for you, these fellows would be trying harsh methods to win you back to righteousness.’ He laughed. ‘Here is the bargain. You will tell me where the charter is hidden, and I will tell our self-styled inquisitors that I have driven the demons out of you.

‘Then they will sit you down, and you can confess to everything. They already have some pretty fancies about the happenings at Grizehayes. Tell them that the Fellmottes are all witches, and fly around the countryside in eggshells and mortars. Tell them that the family forced you to frolic on the hillside with the Evil One. Tell them that Mistress Gotely taught you poisons and potions, and that the kitchen dogs walked on two legs and did your bidding.

‘I was in a quandary, you see. I had won these fellows’ interest and protection by telling them a little of the Fellmottes’ customs. But I could not prove anything unless I gave them the charter, which would leave me no threat to use against my family. But you, and your confession, will do very well as proof.’

‘I will not confess,’ said Makepeace. ‘And I will not tell you where the charter is. If I tell you, you will have no reason to keep me alive. So I think I shall hold my tongue, Master Symond.’

The demotion to ‘Master Symond’ seemed to sting him even more than the rejection of the bargain.

‘There’s a ghost inside you, isn’t there?’ Symond narrowed his eyes. ‘A mad one. I heard it roaring. And I suppose you didn’t have the skill to consume it or kick it out, did you? I might have helped you with that, if you’d passed my test.

‘Those fellows think you’re possessed, and they’re right. If they start to torment you, sooner or later they’ll prove it.’

These men want proof that the Fellmottes are witches, said Livewell, after Symond had left. Why not give it to them? Why not tell them where to find the charter? Why are we still lying to them? You said you wanted to be the Fellmottes’ undoing.

Yes, but I would like to live to see it, replied Makepeace, massaging her swollen jaw. And I need to live so that I can save James! If I give them the charter, they will work out soon enough that I am one of the Fellmotte gifted. And what would they make of me then? I never signed a pact with the Devil in my own blood, and I don’t have nipples in my ears . . . but I do consort with spirits, don’t I? You said so yourself. Bear does follow me everywhere like a familiar. And I am possessed.

And if I give up his precious charter, Symond will do his best to see me found guilty. Do you think I’ll breathe free air again?

No, said the doctor grimly. We’ll be lucky if they don’t hang you, then congratulate themselves on saving your soul.

The charter’s the only bit of power I have right now, Makepeace said bitterly, and that’s looking feeble enough.

These are good men, persisted Livewell.

Are they? retorted Makepeace. Their leader looks like a man who enjoys a little righteous power over people. I’ve seen that look before. And Bear does not like the smell of him.

Do you trust your Bear’s judgement? Livewell asked, very seriously.

Yes, said Makepeace, after a moment’s thought. I’m learning to listen to him. He’s a wild brute — there are many things he lacks the wit to understand. But he knows when something’s wrong.

Then we shall not trust these men, said Livewell, with surprising firmness. What else can we do?

Could Bear fight our way out of here? the doctor asked hopefully.

It’s not that simple, answered Makepeace. I can’t set him on someone, like a dog. Sometimes when he and I are both angry . . . then it’s hard to stop us. But we couldn’t punch our way through the door to this room, and we can’t bat a bullet out of the air. There are a lot of soldiers in these woods, and they’ll know by now that I’ve been arrested for witchcraft.

Then your smuggler friend Helen will probably know as well, commented the doctor. Could she be an ally?

Perhaps, answered Makepeace. She suspected that the red-faced spy had been one of Helen’s secret Royalist contacts. If it had not been for Makepeace’s warning, Helen might have stepped aside to talk to him, and fallen under suspicion as well. The older woman might well be thankful. But we have no way of asking for her help.

Was that really true?

Oh, Makepeace said silently, I am wrong. There is a way of contacting Helen. A dangerous way.

I don’t much like the sound of this, said the doctor.

Neither do I, murmured Makepeace. But she could see no other way forward. I need to speak with Morgan.

How could that possibly help? exclaimed Dr Quick.

Lady Morgan! Makepeace thought as loudly as she could. I want to talk to you. I know I tried to chase you before, but I won’t this time. Please, I won’t harm you.

There was no response.

I do not think the lady trusts us, said the doctor. She prefers to appear and disappear at will, so that we cannot keep track of her, and right now I fancy she is hidden away in her lair.

Makepeace recalled the shocking deluge of emotions and mangled memories that had assaulted her mind when she tried to ‘follow’ Morgan.

You told me that she was hiding in a part of my mind that was shut off from the rest, she answered silently. I think I know what that is now. All these years, there’s been a chapter of my memories I couldn’t look at — wouldn’t look at.

If that’s her lair . . . then I know where to find her.

CHAPTER 34

Makepeace lay on her little bed with her eyes closed, hearing herself breathe. To comfort herself she imagined herself lying on the stomach of an enormous Bear, bigger than Whitehollow, bigger than Grizehayes, his fur deeper than summer grass, the rise and fall of his breathing like the swaying of a galleon.

But she could not stay there forever. There were mind-places to go, and things to remember. There was an abyss to brave, and an enemy to face.

You can wait here for me, Makepeace told Bear. I will come back soon. I need to face this alone.

But Bear did not really understand. He was coming with her, of course he was. And after a moment she realized that she was the one being foolish. There was no longer any such thing as ‘alone’.

So when Makepeace took a deep breath and started to remember Poplar, the younger self she pictured in her mind’s eye walked with a Bear at her side. She let herself sink into the image. It was memory, it was imagination, it had the power and vividness of a dream.

There was Poplar, after all this time, with its reek and roar. The clatter and thunder of the shipyards, the fluttering poplar trees, the lush green marshlands where brown-and-cream cattle grazed. It was so vivid that the smoke stung tears from her eyes. Like clothes tucked away in a chest from the light of day, the memories had not faded. Their dyes were still bright.

And . . . Poplar itself was small, she realized. Far smaller than Oxford or London. Just a few houses clustering around a road, like grass seeds about a stalk.

In her imagination she walked the road to London, as she had three years before. Nobody gave twelve-year-old Makepeace a second glance, or seemed to notice Bear at her side. The sunset was vast. The sky was darkening. With every step, the air became murkier and more oppressive. But there was somebody she needed to find.

Bear was still beside her. She could reach out and touch his fur, even as the roar of an angry crowd filled her ears. And when she ran, he ran beside her, on all fours.

Now they were in the crush of the apprentices’ riot, a mad, screaming darkness torn by gunshots. Looming adult bodies stampeded and shifted in panic, knocking Makepeace this way and that, crushing her and blocking her view. Makepeace looked all around, desperate to see one specific face.

Where was she? Where was she? Where was she?

There. Right there.

Mother.

Every line of her face clear. The witchiness of her hair escaping from under her cap. The deep-set eyes with stars and riddles in them. Margaret.

And a carelessly swung cudgel was heading towards her undefended brow . . .

But Makepeace and Bear could prevent it! They were here now; they could block it! A bat of the paw deflected the cudgel.

But now a bottle shattered nearby, shards heading for Margaret’s face . . .

Makepeace’s imagined self raised a hasty arm to shield Mother. But now a hoe was knocked out of somebody’s hands, so that its blade careered towards Margaret. A thrown stone ricocheted off a wall in her direction. A bullet fired blindly took its relentless course for her temple . . .

Mother screamed.

Then she was standing in front of Makepeace, her pale face half covered in dark rivulets of blood. She stared at Makepeace, her face deathly, and then her expression twisted.

‘Stay away from me!’ she screamed, striking Makepeace’s face with a blow that shuddered the world. ‘Go away! Go away!’ She shoved at her daughter with a giant’s strength.

Makepeace tumbled back into a different darkness. She landed among thistles, and stared up at stars. She was in a little overgrown clearing, flanked by reeds that whispered in the wind. She sat up, and saw not far away a lowly oblong of disturbed earth. It was Mother’s grave, on the edge of the Poplar marshes.

Bear was a little cub now, his soft muzzle opening to give a small bleat of dismay. He had died in these marshes, and he recognized them. Makepeace scooped him up in her arms, feeling herself shiver from cold and fear.

Beyond the edge of the clearing, among the reeds, stood the smoky silhouette of a woman. She was motionless but for her loose, wild hair, which stirred and wavered in the breeze.

‘Ma,’ gasped Makepeace.

You were the death of me, whispered the wind, the reeds, and the stealthy click and gurgle of the streams. You were the death of me.

‘I’m sorry, Ma!’ The words came out in a little sob. ‘I’m sorry we argued! I’m sorry I ran!’

The woman-shape did not move, but suddenly it seemed to be a lot closer, still faceless and implacable. The death of me, breathed the lonely marshes. The death of me.

‘I tried to save you!’ Makepeace felt her eyes sting with tears. ‘I tried! But you pushed me . . . and that man carried me away . . .’

The death of me. The wind rose, and the woman’s hair billowed. All of a sudden she was standing on the very edge of the clearing, silent and ominous, her face still lost in shadow.

Soon the shape would swoop at her, and Makepeace would see its terrible smoky face, and hear it slur in her ear as it clawed at her brain. And yet Makepeace was filled with an anguish and longing even greater than her fear.

‘Why couldn’t I save you?’ Makepeace shouted at the figure. She thought again of the scene she had just left, and all her hopeless attempts to shield Mother from a fatal blow. ‘Why does it have to happen? Why can’t I stop it?’

It turned out that, deep down, she already knew the answer.

‘It was just bad luck, wasn’t it?’ she whispered, and felt tears slide down her face. ‘There was nothing I could do about it.’

Bear was warm and heavy in her arms. She bowed her head over him protectively, and felt his rough fur against her cheek.

‘Why did you push me away, Ma?’ asked Makepeace in anguish. ‘I could have helped you! I could have taken you home!’ She was afraid that at the end Mother had hated her so much that even her help was unbearable.

And then, at last, Makepeace finally understood.

‘Oh, Ma,’ she said. ‘You were afraid. You were afraid for me.

‘You didn’t hate me. You guessed you were done for, and you were scared that your ghost might turn on me! You were trying to protect me. You were always, always trying to protect me.’

At last, Makepeace felt that she had begun to understand the wild, secretive mother who had brought her up. Margaret had been too inflexible, but how could she be otherwise? Nobody with a will less stubborn could have escaped the Fellmottes.

But she had loved Makepeace. She had defied the Fellmottes for Makepeace, fled house and hearth for Makepeace, worked her fingers to the bone for Makepeace. She had loved her with the cruel purity of the mother bird who forces the fledgling out of the nest to test its half-formed wings. She had done what she thought was best for her daughter. She had been right, she had been wrong, and she would never have apologized anyway.

‘You loved me,’ said Makepeace, hardly able to voice the words.

The night seemed to breathe out for a long, long time. Afterwards, there were no longer voices in the wind-blown reeds, and now the marshes were simply dark and cold, not seething with menace and pain. There was still a female figure at the clearing’s edge, but the outline looked different now. Makepeace’s eyes cleared, and she could see who the woman was, and who she was not.

‘Hello, Lady Morgan,’ she said, and slowly approached. Bear was larger and heavier now, and Makepeace had to put him down.

Morgan was indistinct, a woman-shape of smoke and silver pins, but as Makepeace drew closer, she could make out a clever, narrow face with heavy-lidded eyes, a high brow and a subtle, curling mouth. There was no visible sign of injury, but nonetheless she seemed subtly askew, like a picture on a slightly bent card. Evidently she had not fully recovered from her first fight with Bear.

‘This was a good hiding place,’ admitted Makepeace. ‘You knew I couldn’t face Mother’s death. Even though I am haunted by you, Bear and the others, I think perhaps I have been haunted by Mother most of all. And she was never even a ghost, was she?’

Morgan sighed.

‘Probably not,’ she said sounding incredibly bored. ‘I certainly do not think her ghost found its way back from Lambeth or the marshes to your house, in order to attack you. That really was a nightmare, you stupid girl.’

The Infiltrator shook her head wearily.

‘I will not miss this stronghold,’ she continued. ‘The problem with spending time in someone else’s memories, is that they start to feel like one’s own, and then one is a stone’s throw from starting to care about them.’

The clouds split to show a splinter of moon, and light winked on Morgan’s silver eyes, her pearl-studded ruff, the rings on her fingers.

‘Enough gossip,’ she said abruptly. ‘You may have found your way into one of my lairs, but this battle is far from over. There are several others I can use. Humans are always strangers to their own brains, and you have the usual supply of blind spots.’

‘Then why were you waiting here for me?’ asked Makepeace. ‘Why not run to the next hiding place? I think you’re bluffing. You’re wounded, you’re alone, and I have friends looking out for you.’

‘I wanted to speak with you in private,’ said Morgan, ‘to demand your unconditional surrender. Let me talk to our captors, and I guarantee that I can negotiate a ransom for us. Once I am talking to the right people, there will be a price, and the Fellmotte family will pay it to have us back safely.’

‘No,’ said Makepeace.

‘Then why are you here? Ah . . . I see.’ Morgan glanced at Bear, who was now a lot more bear-sized. ‘You brought your beast here to finish me.’

‘No. I’ve come to ask you to join my side.’

‘What? You really are desperate. Delusional, too. Why would I side with you against my own family?’

‘Because you sweated out your whole life to serve them, and they treated you like dirt. And even now, they’re still treating you like dirt. The Infiltrator is the one that has to take all the risks that Elders hate taking, isn’t it? You have to slide out of the body to scout things out, or prune the minds of heirs, even though that means your spirit starts to leak away. That must be torture. And they make you do it over and over again. After everything you did for them, you’re still the expendable one. And that won’t ever change.

‘Do you even like the other Elders? Did you ever like them? Because if not, being stuck in the same head as those arrogant, selfish, cold-blooded toads doesn’t sound like immortality to me. It sounds like Hell.’

‘What makes you think I am so different from them?’ asked Morgan.

‘I don’t know for certain that you are,’ said Makepeace. ‘But you helped me warn Helen. Maybe you just did that so that Helen would survive and report seeing me and Symond. But maybe you saw a fellow spy in danger, and wanted to protect her.

‘And . . . you knew about all of this.’ Makepeace waved a hand at the grave, the marshes, and Poplar somewhere in the darkness. ‘You knew my darkest secrets and griefs. You could have used them to torture me, weaken me and break my heart. Yet you never did.

‘You’re a ruthless harpy, Morgan, but you’re clever and brave. And you know what it means to have to earn something — that makes you better than the other Elders. I don’t want to destroy you. I want to learn about you, and learn from you. I won’t surrender to you, but there’s a place here for you if you’ll work with me.’

‘You’re only saying all this because you want something from me.’

‘I do want your help, yes. But I mean what I say, too. Morgan, you’re two lifetimes old. You can tell when people are lying. And you’re sitting inside my brain. You know I’m telling the truth. Trusting you is a risk. It would be really easy for you to betray me. But if you do, I suppose it won’t make my situation any worse than it is already.’

‘The Fellmottes always win,’ said Morgan. Little spasms of lightning flickered indecisively through her smoky form. ‘I can serve them, or I can lose everything. That is the world we live in.’

‘And what if the world is ending?’ asked Makepeace. ‘Something is happening, isn’t it? Everything’s turning upside down, and everybody feels it. If the world ended in fire tomorrow, would you be glad that you’d been the Fellmottes’ faithful servant to the end? Or would you wish that you’d rebelled, and risked everything, and used all your cunning against them, just once?’

Morgan had a clever face, but not a happy one.

‘I make no promises,’ she said. ‘But you can tell me your plan.’

CHAPTER 35

Symond was right. The witch-finders were no longer in a mood to be kind. The little window was covered over with a piece of sacking, which allowed only a thin, seeping light. The bed was removed.

Makepeace was left to herself. Just as she was wondering whether she had been forgotten, three deafening knocks sounded at the door. She jumped out of her skin, wondering why anybody would knock. To her greater confusion, nobody opened the door, and the footsteps outside passed on.

Some time later the same thing happened again. And then again, about an hour later. That strange knock became her only clock. Without light it was easy to lose track of time.

No food or drink arrived. Bear was growing ravenous and restless, and Makepeace could not stop him pacing.

When night swallowed the little prison, and faint owl quavers ruffled the cool air, Makepeace settled in a corner of the room, and tried to sleep. However, she was jolted into wakefulness by the knocks, over and over again. Each time she woke to darkness and confusion, until Bear’s night-eyes told her where she was.

And then the door swung open with a crash, and there were lanterns in the room, making her blink. She was pulled to her feet and dragged out into the little study where the quiet man in black was waiting.

He had questions for her. Did the Fellmottes ever put curses on their enemies? Could they pass through stone walls? Did they rub ointment on themselves and fly? Had she ever flown?

He had pictures to show her. Woodcuts of witches’ familiars. Had she seen anything like these at Grizehayes? A black hare leaping. A crudely drawn fish with a grimacing woman’s face. A cow with a snake-like spiralling tail. A bristle-covered frog the size of a baby being fed blood with a spoon.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ All the while, a vast Bear made of shadow and rage stirred in her mind, wanting to rear up and strike off heads. ‘No,’ she said, and the men in black thought that she was talking to them.

Not yet, Bear.

She was put back in her cell, and left in darkness. The knocks came ever and anon. The men meant to rob her of sleep and soften her will, she could see that. The thirst was even worse than the hunger. Her head ached and her mouth was like glue.

After this broken, sleepless night, when the birdsong told Makepeace that it must be morning, Symond came to visit.

He was clearly gratified to see her huddled in a corner of the room, the very picture of misery. He made a show of holding a handkerchief to his face to shield it from the stuffiness of the closet.

‘I thought you might be ready to talk, but you’re clearly enjoying your repose. Perhaps I should go, and come back in a couple of days . . .’

‘No!’ cried out Makepeace, in tones as plaintive and piercing as she could make them. ‘Don’t go! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you where I hid the—’

‘Hush!’ Symond swiftly closed the door and locked it. ‘Keep your voice down!’ And then, as Makepeace had hoped, he crossed the room so that she could murmur to him.

At the last moment, he saw her body tense, but before he could react she was leaping to her feet. Bear had Symond’s scent. Symond smelt of thrown stones, dragged chains, blood and cruelty.

Makepeace let the roar erupt from her, knowing that it would echo through the woods. She lashed out at Symond’s face, knocking him backwards. He struck his head against the wall, and slid groggily down it.

Makepeace grabbed Symond by his collar. For a moment she felt that she might break his neck. Then she remembered herself, and her plan.

Now, Morgan!

There was a brief, shuddersome sensation as though a piece of clammy gauze had been pulled out of her ear. A smoky, sinuous shape was weaving its way down her arm towards Symond’s face.

Outside the room she could hear muffled shouts and loud attempts to kick the door in. Morgan’s wraith reached Symond’s mouth and was drawn in by his breath, half a second before the door yielded with a splintering crash.

The new arrivals managed to wrestle Symond away from Makepeace, and drag him from the room. They were too wise to try to subdue her straight away, though. Only when there were four of them did they venture back into the cell, throw a blanket over her head and bind her with ropes.

Later, when they thought she seemed calmer, they brought her back to see their leader. They kept her bound, for they had a hearty, superstitious respect for the strength of the Evil One.

‘You are leaving me few options,’ the man in black said.

‘You could let me go,’ said Makepeace, with sudden boldness. ‘All I ever wanted was to be left alone. Let me go and I swear I will never harm anybody.’

‘You know that I cannot do that,’ he answered. ‘Such powers as yours can come only from an evil source, and can only lead to evil. We must save you, and save others from you.

‘There are burns on your hands,’ he continued, leaning forward and lacing his fingers, ‘from cooking pots and kettles. Such pain when an inch of our flesh burns, even for a second! But imagine that your hand was held against that red-hot kettle for ten seconds, not one. Now imagine the agony of a full minute, unable to pull away, or do anything but watch your skin blacken.

‘Now . . . imagine a searing anguish through every inch of you, that went on for a week, a year, a lifetime, a million lifetimes. Imagine the despair of knowing that this, and a thousand other torments, would never, ever end. Imagine the grief of knowing that you might have known true happiness, but that you traded it for an eternity of horrors.

‘That . . . is Hell.’

Makepeace felt goosebumps prickle over her arms. There was something about this man that reminded her of the minister in Poplar. His faith was fierce like a blade, but one more likely to cut others than himself.

‘It would perhaps be a kindness,’ he went on, ‘if I held your hand in the candle-flame, to give you taste of the suffering that might be yours if you do not forswear evil. Better to lose a hand than your soul.’

‘The Bible says we should know a tree by the fruit it bears,’ Makepeace replied, a little sharply. ‘If you burn my hand off, what should I think of you?’

‘Suffering is sometimes the greatest blessing,’ the witch-finder answered calmly. ‘The child learns from the cane as well as the book. The sorrows of our lives teach and cleanse us.’

‘God send you many blessings,’ muttered Makepeace, but too quietly for him to hear.

‘You can perhaps be saved, you see,’ he went on. ‘Would you not wish to be clean and free again? Would your soul not sing?’

Makepeace stayed quiet for a long time, pretending to consider his words, then broke down into choking sobs that she hoped were convincing.

‘It would,’ she whimpered. ‘Oh, if such a thing were possible! There is a demon in me — ’tis all true — but I never asked for it! I think the Fellmottes sent it to plague me!’

‘And why should they do that?’

‘Because I . . .’ Makepeace dropped her gaze again and let herself stammer. ‘I . . . stole from them when I ran away. There was a piece of parchment they treated as more precious than gold, so I took it with me to see if I could sell it. But when I looked at it, I was frightened — it was a fancy-lettered thing, talking of the family’s dealings with spirits. And there was the King’s signature on it too, and a wax seal as big as a conker.’

‘Are you sure?’ All the blood drained out of the interrogator’s face. His eyes had the exultant but panicky expression of one who has just hooked a whale while fishing for trout, and now needs to haul it to shore. ‘The King’s signature? Where is it now?’

‘I sent it to a friend and asked her to hold it for safekeeping,’ Makepeace lied blithely.

‘Where?’

‘Oxfordshire — not far from Brill.’

His face fell. As Makepeace knew all too well, Brill was in the perilous zone between the two armies. But she could see him calculating the risk, and judging the worth of the gamble. A document linking the King to witches!

‘Where is her house?’ he asked. ‘How should we find it?’

‘Oh, she will not give it to anybody but me,’ Makepeace said promptly. ‘I told her anyone else who came after it was probably a Fellmotte spy, no matter what they looked like.’

‘Then you must come with us,’ he said grimly. ‘This can be the start of your penance, and proof of your repentance. No time must be lost, for the Fellmottes will be seeking this paper too, and who knows how their imps may help them trace it! We shall set off today — as soon as Lord Fellmotte is well enough to ride.’

A few hours later, in warmer clothes, Makepeace was led out into daylight that seemed uncommonly bright. What strange beasts people are, she thought. We adjust to everything so quickly. Perhaps we would even get used to Hell.

To her dismay, she found that she was to share a horse with Symond. He did not look happy about this either. There was a storm-coloured bruise on his jaw, but it looked as though it were fading, not darkening. Perhaps adding ghosts to his diet allowed him to heal more quickly.

Makepeace was helped up to sit sideways in front of him, and her wrists and ankles retied. Evidently they were taking no chances. Makepeace’s interrogator and his two colleagues each had their own horses.

How far can we rely upon Morgan? asked the doctor.

I asked her to tell the Fellmottes that I was being taken to Brill, Makepeace answered him silently. I fancy she’ll do that whether she decides to betray us or not. With luck, by now the cunning spymistress had used Symond to write a coded letter while he slept, and placed it somewhere Helen would find it.

Makepeace had been dealt a poor hand, and her only hope was to dash the cards from the other players’ grasps. Chaos sounded better than hopelessness.

‘Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work.’ Symond’s muttered words cut uncomfortably into Makepeace’s thoughts. ‘Sooner or later you’ll need me as a friend. If you get that charter to me somehow, I’ll pardon you. But if it ends up in anyone else’s hands, I swear I’ll see you hanged for a witch on a hawthorn tree. And then I’ll come for your ghost. I’ll flay your mind away, one sliver at a time, over a whole week, until there’s only a whimper of you left. Then I’ll keep that forever to frighten other ghosts, like a hunting trophy on my wall.’

Makepeace said nothing, sitting as straight as she could on the horse’s broad back. Being slowly digested by Symond sounded more like Hell than a cauldron of fire.