A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

  ‘Are you and Master Symond friends?’ asked Makepeace in surprise.

  She had caught a glimpse of Symond, dismounting in the courtyard from a fine grey mare. He was only about nineteen years old, but lavishly dressed in lace and sky-coloured velvets. With his ice-blond hair, and air of courtly elegance, he seemed rare and expensive, like the icing swans Mistress Gotely sometimes made for important guests. He was smooth-featured, and quite unlike Sir Thomas, apart from the little dint in his chin.

  To tell the truth, she was rather impressed that James was on close terms with such an exotic creature. She could see James preening himself and wanting to say yes, but his honesty triumphed.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said instead. ‘I was his companion when he was growing up here . . . and sometimes we were friends. He gave me these clothes, and these good shoes – they were all his once. He also gave me this.’ James pushed up his hair, and Makepeace could see a white scar nicking his hairline over his left temple.

  ‘We were out on a hunt together once, and our horses were a pair of fine-fettled girls. We leaped a hedge, and I took it more cleanly than he did. I knew it, and he knew it. I could see him looking at me like thunder. So just as we were coming to the next hedge, out of the sight of the others, he leaned over and hit me across the face with his whip. I slipped in the saddle, my horse stopped in surprise, and over its head I went, into the hedge!’ James laughed, and seemed to find it much funnier than Makepeace did.

  ‘You might have broken your neck!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’m sturdier than that,’ said James calmly. ‘But it taught me a lesson. He may look like milk and honey, but there’s a lord’s pride and temper underneath. He told me afterwards that I’d left him no choice – that he needed to be the best. I suppose that’s as near as he could get to saying sorry.’

  Makepeace thought that this was not near enough, by any means.

  ‘He went away to university at Oxford, and since then Sir Marmaduke has been introducing him at court. Each time he comes back, he’s lofty as a cloud at first, and hardly seems to know me. But as soon as we’re talking alone, it’s like old times . . . for a while.’

  Makepeace felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of James having confidential conversations with somebody else. She had no right to feel that way, and she knew it.

  James had become her closest living friend and confidant. She trusted him more than any other human, and yet she had still not told him about Bear. The longer she left it, the harder it was to admit to James that she had hidden something so important from him. After three months, it no longer seemed possible to tell him. She felt guilty about it, and a little sad sometimes, as if she had missed a boat and been stranded forever on a lonely shore.

  ‘So what is this charter?’ she asked. ‘Did Master Symond say?’

  ‘He hasn’t read it,’ said James, ‘nor does he know what’s in it. He says it’s deadly secret. He also says the King didn’t like it at all, and Sir Marmaduke had great trouble getting him to sign it. His Majesty agreed in the end, but only because the Fellmottes are lending him a fortune, and Sir Marmaduke is helping him sell some of the royal jewels.’

  Makepeace frowned. All of this was stirring a murky, ominous memory from her first day at Grizehayes.

  ‘Is the King desperate for money?’ She recalled Lord Fellmotte saying those very words.

  ‘I suppose he must be.’ James shrugged.

  ‘What do royal charters do?’ asked Makepeace.

  ‘They’re . . . royal declarations.’ James sounded a bit uncertain. ‘They give you permission to do things. Like . . . building battlements on your house. Or . . . selling pepper. Or attacking foreign ships.’

  ‘So what’s the point of a secret declaration, then?’ demanded Makepeace. ‘If the King gave you permission to do something, why wouldn’t you want everyone to know?’

  ‘Hmm. That is odd.’ James frowned thoughtfully. ‘But the charter definitely gives the Fellmottes permission for something. Master Symond said he overheard Sir Marmaduke saying something about “our ancient customs and practices of inheritance”.’

  ‘James,’ Makepeace said slowly. ‘The evening I first came to this house, I overheard his lordship and White Crowe talking about something. White Crowe was saying that there were people at court accusing the Fellmottes of witchcraft.’

  ‘Witchcraft!’ James’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was half mad with fever that day! It’s like remembering a nightmare. I’ve scarce thought about it since.’

  ‘But you’re sure they said witchcraft?’

  ‘I think so. Lord Fellmotte said they couldn’t stop the King hearing rumours like that, so they needed to stop him acting on them. They needed a hold on him. And then they talked about how the King was desperate for money, and how they might be able to arrange something.’

  James scowled at nothing for a while.

  ‘So . . . what if the Fellmottes’ “ancient customs” are something evil?’ he said slowly. ‘Something that might get them accused of being witches? If the King has signed a charter giving permission for something devilish, then he can’t ever arrest them as witches, can he? Because if he does, they’ll show everyone that charter, and he’ll be accused too.’

  ‘If the Fellmottes fall, so does he.’ Makepeace completed the thought. ‘It’s blackmail.’

  ‘I told you there was something wrong with the Fellmottes!’ exclaimed James. ‘Their “ancient customs” . . . It must be something to do with what happens when they inherit! I told you, they change. Maybe they give up their souls to the Devil!’

  ‘We don’t know—’ began Makepeace.

  ‘We know that they’re witches, or close enough!’ retorted James. ‘Why won’t you run away with me? What will it take for you to change your mind?’

  This question was answered the very next day.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning dawned sultry but bright, so a handful of servants were sent with pails and ladders to gather the ripe apples from the little walled orchard at Grizehayes. The trees were lush-leaved and bowed over with fruit, and the air sweet with their smell.

  Makepeace happened to be there, picking some ripe quinces for Mistress Gotely, when a loud crash sounded from the other side of the orchard. There were a few screams and cries of alarm.

  She sprinted towards the sound. One of the stablehands, Jacob, had clearly fallen out of the tallest tree while picking apples. He had always been a joker, Makepeace thought in a daze, as she stared down at his face. It was still creased, as though mid-laugh. His neck, however, was at a new angle, and made her think of the dead chickens on the kitchen table.

  Somebody ran to the house to tell Sir Thomas about the accident. He soon appeared, and organized a stretcher. Then everybody was told to leave the orchard.

  For a brief moment, Makepeace thought she saw a faint shimmer above Jacob’s body. The air briefly creased and whispered. She gave a small, involuntary gasp, and took a step backwards.

  Something brushed against her mind, and she was flooded with a scrambled mess of memories that were not her own.

  . . . Fear, pain, two children laughing, a grass-stain on a woman’s cheek, chilblains and hot cider, dappled apples in the sun, lichen slippery under hands . . .

  Makepeace turned and ran from the orchard, heart banging. It was only when she was back in the kitchen, gasping for breath, that she realized that she had forgotten the basket of quinces she needed for the evening meal.

  ‘Well, go back and get it!’ shouted Mistress Gotely. ‘Quickly!’

  Sick with nerves, Makepeace hurried back. At the gate of the orchard, however, she encountered James, who stopped her.

  ‘Don’t go in,’ he whispered.

  ‘I just need—’

  James shook his head urgently. He put a finger to his lips, and pulled her to stand beside him, peering in through the archway. His face was tense, and Makepeace realized that he was more nervo
us than she had ever seen him.

  The orchard was empty of apple-pickers now. One solitary man stalked between the trees. He was unusually tall and strongly built, yet moved with an unnerving, stealthy grace.

  ‘Sir Marmaduke,’ whispered James.

  Three sharp-eyed greyhounds milled around Sir Marmaduke’s feet, quivering with expectancy and excited tension. A bloodhound snuffled the ground.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ mouthed Makepeace.

  James leaned close to her ear. ‘Hunting,’ he whispered back.

  The bloodhound stiffened, and uttered a low, ominous bark. It seemed to be staring intently at an empty patch of grass.

  Sir Marmaduke lifted his head. Even from that distance, Makepeace could see that his features were curiously expressionless, but there was something about them that made her innards flinch. It was the same sense of wrongness and horror that had overwhelmed her upon meeting Lord Fellmotte. Sir Marmaduke put his head on one side, as if listening, with a very slight, calm, predatory smile. He remained that way for a time, perfectly and eerily still.

  Something moved infinitesimally, shaking a nettle and knocking a drowsy bee into the air. Briefly Makepeace thought she glimpsed a little twist of smoke amid the dancing shadows.

  Jacob.

  In that moment, Sir Marmaduke leaped into action.

  They’re too fast, James had said of the Elders. At last Makepeace understood what he meant. One moment Sir Marmaduke was a statue, the next he was sprinting across the grass with incredible speed. People usually tensed for a moment before they ran, Makepeace realized, but Sir Marmaduke had not. The dogs poured after their master, moving like wolves to flank their invisible prey.

  The lone ghost fled them, weaving desperately between the trees. As it drew closer to the archway, Makepeace could see it more clearly. It was bleeding shadow in its panic. It was wounded, terrified, uncoordinated. She could just hear its thin, whispery, undulating wail.

  It zigzagged, swerving away from the snapping jaws of the dogs, letting itself be hounded this way and that. It could never outpace Sir Marmaduke, and yet the Elder always slowed when he was a step behind it.

  He’s toying with it, Makepeace realized in horror. He’s hounding it so it burns itself out.

  The ghost was faltering and guttering now, like a grey flame almost spent. It disappeared into the dappled shadow of the nearest tree, and Sir Marmaduke pounced on it at last, his curled fingers closing on something in the grass.

  He was turned away from Makepeace, but she saw him bow his head, and raise whatever he clutched close to his face.

  There was a thistly, rending sound. Something screamed – a faint, impossible scream that still managed to sound human.

  Makepeace gave an involuntary intake of breath, and James clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her crying out.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do!’ he hissed in her ear.

  There were more tearing sounds, and Makepeace could not bear any more. She pulled away from James and ran back to the main house. James caught up with her by the door to the kitchen, and hugged her tightly to stop her shaking.

  ‘That was Jacob!’ whispered Makepeace. Jacob the jester, always laughing because he was among friends.

  ‘I know,’ said James with quiet anger.

  ‘He tore him apart! He . . .’ She did not know exactly what Sir Marmaduke had done. She was fairly sure you could not bite a ghost, yet she could not help imagining the Elder rending the helpless ghost with his teeth.

  Lord Fellmotte had talked about ‘destroying vermin’, and Makepeace had never let herself think about that too hard. She had just been glad that no rogue ghosts could attack her in Grizehayes. But now she had seen what ‘destroying vermin’ meant.

  Is that what the Fellmottes would do with Bear’s spirit if they found out about him? And what if she or James died at Grizehayes? Would they be hounded to shreds too? She had seen Sir Marmaduke smile, as if he were hunting for sport.

  ‘He enjoyed it!’ she whispered bitterly in James’s ear. ‘You were right about everything! This is a roost of devils! Let me come with you!’

  The pair of them ran away in the late afternoon. James volunteered to collect kindling. Makepeace arranged to be sent to forage for mushrooms and wild chicory. They met by the old oak, and fled.

  As they walked briskly down the lane, trying to look natural, Makepeace thought that her heart would burst from beating too hard. For the first time she wondered if this was why James ran away over and over, so that he could feel this surge of unbearable aliveness. Although James sauntered casually, Makepeace could see his eyes darting from side to side, to see whether they were being observed.

  Once the fields yielded to moor, they abandoned the lane and cut across country. Makepeace took out a tiny pinch of pepper she had stolen from Mistress Gotely’s treasure chest of spices, and scattered it across the path, to discourage any dog from following their trail.

  The undulating moorland path was treacherous. The vivid bracken frequently hid sudden dips, briars, toe-hooking roots and sharp rocks. After they had been slithering and clambering for a few hours, the sun set, and the sky dulled to umber.

  ‘They’ll have missed us by now,’ said James, ‘but I doubt they can track us in the dark.’ Makepeace was starting to wonder about the pair’s chances of finding their own way once night had fully fallen.

  As the light was fading, Makepeace felt Bear wake in her head. He was surprised to find himself free from walls. She felt herself rising on to the balls of her feet and craning her neck upward, as Bear strove to see and smell better.

  Her eyes seemed to adjust to the twilight. Not for the first time, Makepeace suspected that Bear’s night vision was better than hers. At the same time, she became aware of the scents on the breeze – gorse pollen, rotting berries, sheep dung and distant woodsmoke.

  As the wind changed direction, blowing from Grizehayes, she caught another scent. A familiar animal smell, sharp with eagerness and hunger.

  ‘Dogs!’ she whispered aloud, her blood running cold. A moment later she caught the distant sound of tumultuous barking. Peering back the way they had come, she could just make out the tiny, bright pinpricks of lanterns.

  ‘James! They’re coming!’

  The two siblings picked up their pace, ignoring bruised knuckles and scratches, and keeping to the low paths to avoid silhouetting themselves against the sky. They splashed across a stream to confuse the dogs. But still the company of lanterns gained, and showed no sign of being thrown off the scent.

  How do they know where we are?

  Distant human voices became audible. One deep, commanding bellow was louder than the rest.

  ‘That’s Sir Marmaduke!’ James’s eyes were bright with alarm.

  They scrambled on, flayed by briars and bracken. Makepeace knew she was slowing James down. She was growing tired, and was much less agile than he was. As the sky dimmed, though, he seemed to be having more trouble making out the shadowed dips, rises and snagging roots. Makepeace realized that her brother was struggling in the dark.

  The barking abruptly stopped. For a moment Makepeace could not understand why. Then, she imagined great dogs released from their leashes, running silently across the rugged ground . . .

  She froze, and stared around at what was now a wasteland of hopelessness. No tree to climb, no building to hide in. Only a steep incline ahead, which perhaps they could slide down to find cover . . .

  But before she could voice the thought, a lean, dark, four-legged shape exploded from the undergrowth. It hit James in the chest, knocking him backwards down the slope.

  Another dog erupted from the gorse, and Makepeace saw its teeth glisten as it leaped for her face. It was too fast for her, but not for Bear. She watched her arm swing across, clouting the dog away out of the air with a force that shocked her. The dog hit the ground yards away and rolled, then recovered its feet unsteadily.

  Beyond it, Makepeace saw two more dogs racing towards her,
leaping and zigzagging between the gorse mounds. With a sick sense of unreality, Makepeace saw that they were not alone.

  A man was running alongside the dogs, miraculously matching their speed and sure-footedness. A lantern jangled in one of his hands, showing his tall, strongly built figure, plum worsted coat and strangely impassive face.

  Makepeace wasted valuable seconds simply staring. Sir Marmaduke’s speed was uncanny, impossible. It was like watching rain falling upwards.

  She could hear James yelling, amid guttural snarls and rending sounds. She did not know if the dog was tearing his collar or his throat. She had too many enemies, and James . . . James . . .

  ‘Stop it!’ Makepeace screamed. ‘Please! Call off the dogs!’

  Sir Marmaduke gave a curt whistle, and the sounds of struggle ceased. Makepeace stood there panting, ringed about by dogs, willing Bear not to fight or flee. Rustling steps approached, and lanterns bobbed towards her from several directions. James was hauled out of the ditch by Young Crowe, his collar torn to shreds but his skin unbroken.

  Apprehending Makepeace was almost an afterthought. In the darkness, she realized, nobody had seen her hurl a large hound away with suspicious strength. Her secret, at least, had survived.

  It was a long, cold walk back to Grizehayes. James stared at the ground as he stumbled along, and for a while Makepeace thought that he might be angry with her for slowing him down. But halfway back, he slipped his hand into hers, and they walked the rest of the way hand in defiant hand.

  Next morning in the courtyard, Makepeace watched in anguish as James was given a thrashing so harsh he could hardly stand afterwards. Nobody doubted that he had masterminded the escapade and dragged Makepeace along. After all, he was older than her, and a boy.

  Makepeace was beaten too, but less severely, and mostly for the theft of the precious pepper. Mistress Gotely was angry and disappointed.

  ‘Some are hanged for less!’ she growled. ‘I always wondered when the bad blood in you would show. “Cat will after kind,” they say.’