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 ha
nds 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.’
A Skinful of Shadows Page 28
