Lady April said nothing, but she turned her head very slowly to gaze down at the tiny patch of dampness marring the tassels of her cloak. She straightened and stared directly at the culprit, the muscles of her face motionless.
The young courtier’s face crumpled in panic. As she turned and moved out of the great hall into the corridor, he followed her, imploring, apologizing and twisting his cuffs. His friends watched the old woman go, all wearing the same frozen look, and nobody made mouths behind her back. Even on this night of misrule, Lady April was not funny.
Caught up in the scene despite herself, Makepeace edged over to the corridor so that she could watch the old woman and her accidental assailant. Lady April glided on implacably until she came to a place where a wine hogshead had been tipped over and its dregs spilt. She looked down at the pool of deep purplish-red, and waited. After a few moments’ blankness, the young man hesitantly took off his expensive-looking cape, and laid it down over the spillage. Still she waited, only advancing one toe to prod at the cape, where dark stains were soaking up through the bright cloth.
Slowly the young culprit got down on his knees, and Makepeace saw him lay his hands flat on the cloth, palms down. Only then did Lady April deign to advance, hem raised just shy of the ground, slowly and deliberately using his hands as stepping stones.
Normal people could not see the strangeness of the Fellmottes in the same way Makepeace and James did, but apparently even powerful men saw plenty to fear in Lady April.
By the time the lantern clock showed eleven o’clock, Makepeace’s heart was pounding. She needed to sneak off to the chapel soon, or there was a risk that she would find herself dragged away for another chore, and miss her midnight appointment.
The huge Twelfth Night cake was carried in, to a storm of applause. It was duly carved up, its pieces pounced upon with glee. Whoever found a bean in their piece would be the Lord of Misrule for the night. The world would be turned upside down, and the lowest vagrant might find himself as master of the feast, everybody else duty-bound to obey his whims . . .
A space was cleared for a group of newly arrived mummers. Two of them, dressed as St George and a Saracen knight, set upon each other with wooden swords. Everybody gathered around, roaring with enthusiasm.
Nobody was paying any attention to Makepeace, and this was as good a time as any to slip away. She turned and elbowed her way through the crush, then out of the great doors into the icy cold of the courtyard beyond. She took in a deep lungful of biting winter air, then turned and blundered straight into a man who had been standing nearby.
By the light from the doorway, she could just make out the lace of his cuffs and cravat, the velvet of his long coat, his brown eyes and the tired lines of his face.
‘Sir Thomas! I am sorry, I—’
‘My fault, child. I was looking at the upper realms, not this one.’ Sir Thomas gestured upward. ‘I love nights with this watery haze. It looks as though the stars are dancing.’
A little startled, Makepeace looked up. There was a slight clamminess to the cold night air, and the stars did indeed seem to waver and twinkle.
‘You should be inside, claiming your piece of the cake,’ said Sir Thomas with a smile. ‘Don’t you want your chance at the bean? Wouldn’t you like to be queen for a night?’
The idea of forcing Young Crowe to grovel and serve her had a wicked appeal. But the last thing she wanted right now was to be the centre of attention.
‘I wouldn’t be a real queen, sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Tomorrow I would be low enough to be kicked again. If I had played “Queen” high and mighty, I would pay for it later. Everything has its price.’
‘Not at Christmas,’ said Sir Thomas cheerfully.
‘Tell that to the geese,’ muttered Makepeace, then flushed, realizing that this had not been a very polite response. ‘I . . . I am sorry.’ Why was Sir Thomas so determined to talk to her, tonight of all nights?
‘The . . . geese?’ Sir Thomas still seemed unruffled, his smile patient. Not for the first time, Makepeace thought it strange that a man like this should be Obadiah’s son and Symond’s father.
‘For weeks I’ve been fattening them,’ Makepeace explained gingerly, ‘for tonight’s feast. The geese, the capons, the turkey. They gobbled up all the food I laid down for them, and never knew there would be a price to pay in the end. Maybe they just thought they were lucky. Or perhaps they thought I was being kind.
‘All the folks in there, eating capon pie and roast goose . . . they’re making a bargain too, aren’t they? Tonight they get to sit by a great fire, and eat themselves sick, and sing up a storm. But in exchange, they’re supposed to show they’re grateful by working hard and being obedient the rest of the year, aren’t they?
‘At least they know what bargain they’re making. Nobody warned the geese.’
She was speaking a lot more forcefully than she had intended. The dread that she herself was a ‘fattened goose’ had never stopped haunting her.
‘Would it have made anything better for the geese if they had known what might happen?’ asked Sir Thomas. His tone had changed, and now he sounded very serious. ‘What if knowledge only brought them fear and misery?’
Makepeace felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and was suddenly fairly sure that neither of them was talking about geese any more.
‘If I were them,’ she said, ‘I would want to know.’
Sir Thomas sighed, his breath misting about his face.
‘I had a conversation very like this,’ he said, ‘with another young woman, sixteen years ago. She was of your years, and . . . I see her in you. Not in any feature I can name, but some gleam of her is there.’
Makepeace swallowed. Not long before, she had been desperate to leave the conversation. Now answers seemed to be tantalizingly within reach.
‘She was with child,’ Sir Thomas continued. ‘She wanted to know why my family were so keen for her child to be raised on the Grizehayes estates. She suspected something ill in the whole affair, but did not know what.
‘ “Tell me,” she said. “Nobody else will.” And even though it meant breaking promises, I did. And then she asked me to help her run away.’
‘You helped her?’ exclaimed Makepeace in surprise. ‘Sometimes folly strikes us like lightning. She was my brother’s lover. I was married, and too dull a fellow to take a mistress. Yet it came to me suddenly that this was the one woman to whom I could refuse nothing. Even though it meant that I would never see her again.
‘Yes, I helped your mother. I have spent the last sixteen years wondering whether I made the right decision.’
Makepeace slowly raised her face, and met his eye directly.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Tell me why I was brought here. Tell me why I should be frightened. Nobody else will.’
For several breaths, Sir Thomas stared out in silence at the faint and restless stars.
‘We are a strange family, Makepeace,’ he said at last. ‘We have a secret – one that could harm us greatly if it was known. There is a talent that runs in the family, a gift of sorts. Not everybody in our family has it, but there are always a few in each generation. I have it, and so does Symond. So does James. And so do you.’
‘We have nightmares,’ whispered Makepeace. ‘We see ghosts.’
‘And they are drawn to us. They know that there is a . . . space inside us. We can host more than ourselves.’
Makepeace thought of the swarms of clawing ghosts, and then of Bear, her own greatest secret.
‘We’re hollow,’ she said flatly. ‘And dead things can get in.’
‘Ghosts without a body fray and perish,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘so they try to claw their way into us to take sanctuary. By then, most of them have become tattered and crazed. But not all ghosts are mad.’
They were near the heart of the matter now, Makepeace could feel it. Her skin was crawling.
‘Imagine,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘how great a family would be, if no experience,
no skills, no memories were ever lost. Suppose every important person could be preserved. The blessing of centuries of accumulated wisdom—’
It was at precisely this moment that a polite cough sounded from the doorway. Young Crowe was standing there, silhouetted against the light from the hall.
‘Sir Thomas,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, but Lord Fellmotte is asking for you.’
‘I shall be with him soon,’ said Sir Thomas, and seemed surprised when Young Crowe did not immediately withdraw.
‘Forgive me,’ Young Crowe said again. ‘I was asked to tell you . . . that you are to be most fortunate tonight.’
The colour drained from Sir Thomas’s face, making him look older and more tired.
‘Tonight?’ he exclaimed, aghast. ‘So soon? It seemed that there would be years . . .’ He recovered command of himself, and slowly nodded. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He took two deep breaths, and stared at his own hands as if wanting to make sure they were still there. When he looked at the watery stars again, his expression was stricken and wistful.
He turned to Makepeace and managed a smile.
‘You should go in and ask for some cake,’ he said. ‘Be queen for a while if you can.’
With that, he followed Young Crowe back through the door.
CHAPTER 12
Makepeace was haunted by Sir Thomas’s forlorn expression, but she could not stop to wonder at it. Too much time had been lost already. She hurried to the chapel.
The door swung open quietly, and she was surprised to find that a couple of candles were lit. Perhaps somebody had been praying there, after all. There was no sign of James. She settled down to wait, hoping that she had not missed him.
Even after two and a half years, the glittering chapel still made Makepeace uneasy. In Poplar it had been drilled into her that God wanted churches to be plain. So she had been scared and shocked by the Grizehayes chapel’s statues, paintings and dangerous smell of incense. She had sat through that first service terrified that she had fallen into a nest of Catholics, and was probably going to Hell.
‘I don’t think the Fellmottes are Catholics,’ James had once tried to reassure her. ‘At least, I don’t think they think they’re Catholics. They just like . . . old ways of doing things.’
Nowadays, she was no longer sure who was going to Hell. The Fellmotte chapel was so sure of itself, so old. It was hard to argue with anyone who had centuries on their side.
On Sundays, the Fellmottes sat in their own raised gallery at the back of the church, reached by a private corridor from their chambers. Already closer to Heaven than the rest of us, thought Makepeace. Perhaps they had an arrangement with God, the way they did with the King. Perhaps when the Day of Judgement came, and the seven seals were opened, God would slap the Fellmottes on the back and let them through into Heaven with a wink.
Makepeace could hope for no such special treatment. Instead, Makepeace had been secretly offering up her own rebel prayer.
Almighty Father, when my ashes return to the earth, take me not to Your palace of gold and pearl. Let me go where the beasts go. If there is a forest in Your forever where the beasts and birds run and howl and sing, let me run and howl and sing with them. And if they drift away to nothingness, let me join them like chaff on the wind.
The door creaked open. Makepeace’s spirits soared, and then sank. It was not James.
Instead Young Crowe and Old Crowe could be seen, assisting Lord Fellmotte into the room. Lady April and Sir Marmaduke followed after, with Sir Thomas a few steps behind. Makepeace ducked down again, and huddled behind a sarcophagus, her mind racing. Why were they all here? Did they suspect something?
‘I thought we had agreed that nothing was to be done until it could not be helped,’ Sir Thomas was saying. ‘I was not prepared—’
‘Your affairs should always be in order,’ his father interrupted. ‘You know that. It is true, we intended to live out our span in the usual fashion, but events are moving too fast. The King missed his chance to seize London, which means that this ridiculous war will continue longer than expected. If the family is to prosper in these times, we must be able to act freely and quickly. Lord Fellmotte cannot be bedridden.’
‘Must it be tonight?’ asked Sir Thomas. ‘Can we not let my son enjoy this evening, and talk of this again in the morning?’
‘The family are gathered, and there is no good reason to delay.’
Makepeace heard the door open and close again. The next voice that spoke was Symond’s.
‘Father – is it true?’ He sounded calm. Too calm, in the way that flames sometimes look blue.
‘Come, Symond, step aside with me a moment,’ said his father. To Makepeace’s dismay she could hear the pair’s soft steps approaching. They came to a halt not far from her hiding place.
‘Will they spare you?’ Symond’s voice was tight, precise and level. ‘Have they decided?’
‘You know that they cannot make promises.’ For once, the bluff Sir Thomas sounded a bit evasive. ‘There are always risks, and only so much room.’
‘You have skills and knowledge useful to the family! Do they know about your studies into navigation and the stars? The devices in your room – the astrolabes and pocket dials!’
‘Ah, my poor toys.’ Sir Thomas gave a sad little laugh. ‘I do not think the family are very impressed by those, alas. Symond – what will be, will be as God wills it. I was born to this destiny. I have prepared for it my whole life. Whatever happens, this Inheritance is my duty and my privilege.’
‘We are ready for you, Thomas,’ said Lady April, in a glassy, precise voice.
The five Fellmottes could be heard retreating to other end of the chapel, near the altar. Chairs scraped against stone, and then Lady April began intoning something in a low, steely voice. It had the solemnity of a psalm or incantation.
Makepeace sat hugging her knees. Cold seeped from the stone flags, and the marble against her back. Her bones ached with it. It seemed to her that every carving, every memorial slab, every heraldic device on the stained-glass windows was breathing cold into the air.
Something was happening, something deathly secret. What would happen if she was discovered, or if James blundered in and was caught?
Lady April’s voice was no longer the only sound. There were whispers now, as faint as the rending of cobwebs. They rustled and undulated, and then Makepeace heard a very human gasp, followed by a long, choking gurgle.
She could not resist raising her head just enough to steal a look. Sir Thomas and Lord Obadiah were seated side by side, on throne-like wooden chairs. Obadiah was slumped, his jaw hanging loosely. Sir Thomas had his back arched as if convulsing, his mouth and eyes wide open.
As Makepeace watched, she thought she saw a shadowy something slowly ooze from Obadiah’s ear. It seemed to pulse and quiver for a moment, then darted towards Sir Thomas’s face and vanished into his gaping mouth. He gave a stifled croak and his expression spasmed, like a rippled puddle reflection. Two more tendrils of shadow started to seep out of Obadiah’s eyes.
Makepeace ducked back into her hiding place, trying to breathe quietly. After a while, the ominous noises ebbed, and there was a long silence.
‘Donald Fellmotte of Wellsbank, are you there?’ asked Lady April.
‘Yes,’ came the rasped response.
‘Baldwin Fellmotte of the Knights Hospitaller, are you there?’ Lady April called on name after name, and received a husky ‘yes’ each time.
‘Thomas Fellmotte,’ she asked at last, after seven other names, ‘are you there?’
There was silence.
‘He was a loyal servant of the family,’ said Sir Marmaduke,
‘but it seems his mind was not strong enough to endure his Inheritance. Obadiah was the same.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Symond, still eerily self-contained. ‘Where did he go?’
‘You must understand that there is only so much space inside a single person, even one with your gift,’ said L
ady April. ‘Sometimes there are casualties, and a mind is crushed and extinguished.
‘Right now, however, you have another duty. Your grandfather’s body is untenanted, but still breathing. He should not be left in this state of indignity. You should be the one to release him from it, Symond.’
Makepeace pressed firmly against her ears and clenched her eyes shut. She did not move a muscle until she was quite sure that all the Fellmottes had left the chapel.
When Makepeace staggered back into the festivities, the jubilant, human noise shocked her like a blow. There was so much sound in the air that it hardly seemed breathable.
In the main hall, she found James. He was seated in the lordly chair by the fire, a crowd around him laughing at his jokes, and a large tankard of ale in one hand. A great plate of sweetmeats and Shropshire cakes were placed to one side of him, and one brawny fellow was capering and pretending to be his jester.
Makepeace understood at last why James had failed to keep their appointment. He had taken his slice of the Twelfth Night cake. He had found the bean. He was Lord of Misrule. When he saw her, his face fell, and he quickly rose and led her by the arm to a quieter corner.
‘It cannot be midnight already,’ he began, but then seemed to notice her ashen look. ‘Little sister – what has happened?’
In hushed tones, she told him everything.
‘The Elders are full of ghosts, James! That is why we cannot bear to look at them! That is why they change when they Inherit! Ghosts of their ancestors pour into them and take them over!’
‘But why did they collect us?’ James stared at her. ‘They cannot want us to inherit anything!’
‘Can you not see? We are spares, James! Sometimes heirs die, or go away for a while. If an Elder drops dead, they need somewhere to put the ghosts in an emergency! We’re vessels – that’s all we are to them!
‘James, we need to leave! Please! How quickly can you get away?’
James had listened to her with horror, but now she saw a glimmer of conflict in his honest face. He glanced over his shoulder at his new-found throne. She should have guessed how much it meant to him, to be lord for a day. When would he get another chance like this?
A Skinful of Shadows Page 10
