A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 13

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

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

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

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

  Everything had changed. Nothing had changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Is he?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Makepeace stared at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Then we head towards Wincaster—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Makepeace, it’s me!’ it whispered.

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

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

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

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

  Makepeace nodded, shaken by this change of direction.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yes.’

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

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

  James reached out quickly and squeezed her hands.

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