Escape From Wolfhaven Castle

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Now don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,’ he told her, looking as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Please, Father, if you’d just listen …’

  ‘Lady Elanor,’ her governess said, ‘how many times must I tell you that ladies simply do not speak unless spoken to? Your father is a busy man; he has no time for your nonsense.’

  ‘But, Mistress Maul—’

  ‘Ladies do not begin a sentence with “but”,’ her governess interrupted.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mistress Mauldred, it is just …’

  ‘Lady Elanor! Ladies never interrupt. Sit down, back straight, elbows by your side, hands folded in your lap, and do not speak again unless spoken to.’

  Lady Elanor’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘Lady Elanor! Ladies never slouch!’

  Lady Elanor sat as straight as if someone had tied a poker to her spine. Sebastian couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  After the lord and his daughter, came a procession of nobles clad in midsummer finery. Arwen, the Grand Teller, came in, a tall staff in one hand. As always, Arwen was dressed in a simple white robe, her silvery hair waving down her back. Her back was straight, although her skin was like old parchment. Her only ornament was a wooden talisman hung on a thong about her neck. It was carved into an old man’s face, with oak leaves instead of hair.

  Behind Arwen walked her apprentice, a thin girl with wild black hair and turquoise-green eyes. Both witch and apprentice were barefoot, with wreaths of golden flowers on their heads and a black-handled knife hanging from their belts. Sebastian stared at the witch-girl hard. He’d heard that she had been found as a baby in a basket, bobbing up and down on the waves. It did not seem at all respectable.

  The witch-girl felt his gaze and scowled at him. Sebastian went red.

  After the nobles came the rest of the castle folk, from the chamberlain all the way down to the humblest laundry-maid. They sat at long tables that lined the great hall, with wooden platters and cups instead of silver plates and goblets. Sebastian kept a close eye out for the pot-boy, and saw him come in towards the end, his huge shaggy dog at his heels as always. Sebastian glowered at him, and the pot-boy grinned at him mockingly. Sebastian could only endure it in silence. Sadly, a squire was not permitted to start a fight during a feast.

  When everyone was seated, the trumpets sounded again and a small party of grand strangers swept in. They were greeted by the steward and shown to chairs at the high table.

  Lord Wolfgang stood. ‘Lord Mortlake, welcome to Wolfhaven Castle. We hope you have a pleasant stay with us, and enjoy our feast.’

  The leader of the strangers inclined his iron-grey head and smiled. He was a handsome man, with dark eyes and an eagle nose. Sebastian stared at him with interest, knowing he was the Lord of Frostwick Castle, in the cold, mountainous lands to the north. Sebastian’s mother always said they bred them tough up there, and indeed Lord Mortlake seemed strong and stern.

  The witch stood up, and the room fell silent. She raised high her silver goblet. ‘Merry midsummer to you all!’ she cried.

  Everyone cheered and clashed their cups and goblets together. Then the feast began. Sebastian was not permitted to eat until all the nobles at the high table had finished, and so he rushed to carve the roast boar, and pour goblets of mead.

  Lord Wolfgang and Lord Mortlake were discussing trade routes. Mistress Mauldred was instructing Lady Elanor how to eat her food like a lady. Elanor looked as if she had something to say to her father but had no idea how to interrupt him.

  Sebastian wished he could sit down at the servants’ table, where everyone was singing and laughing and eating with gusto, tossing titbits to the dogs under the tables. They looked like they were having fun. Except for the pot-boy, who was most inappropriately making faces at Lady Elanor, as if urging her to do something. Sebastian frowned at him, but then Lord Mortlake clicked his fingers for more mead, and Sebastian hurried forward with the bottle.

  ‘I’m sorry, my daughter is far too young to be thinking of marriage,’ Lord Wolfgang said. ‘Besides, I hope that she will, in time, marry for love, as I did.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lord Mortlake said, though he looked as if something disgusting had been shoved under his nose. ‘But my dear son Cedric is already quite taken with your pretty daughter, and I’m sure she shall find him most pleasant company.’

  The dear son Cedric was shovelling food into his mouth as fast as he could, splashing gravy all over his shirt. It was a mystery where he put it all, for he was the skinniest kid Sebastian had ever seen. Lord Mortlake elbowed his son, and Cedric looked up. ‘What?’ he said, his mouth full of roast boar.

  ‘Weren’t you saying before how very pretty you think Lady Elanor is?’ his father prompted.

  Cedric looked aghast. He glanced at Elanor, who sat bolt upright, her brow knotted with anxiety. ‘Err … umm … yes. Very … umm … nice.’

  ‘Perhaps after dinner you two could walk in the garden together,’ Lord Mortlake said.

  ‘My daughter is only twelve,’ Lord Wolfgang said. ‘Far too young to be thinking about such things. Besides, they are kin. Such talk is unseemly!’

  ‘They don’t need to be married now,’ Lord Mortlake said. ‘But it’s always wise to plan for the future, don’t you agree, my dear Lord Wolfgang? Let’s take the dowry into account. Your daughter is, of course, more priceless than rubies. But we would be happy to settle for the rights to use the river and the harbour.’

  ‘We have spoken about this before,’ Lord Wolfgang said. ‘My father revoked your father’s rights to use the Wolfhaven River because he refused to pay the tolls and taxes. Then your father burned down the harbour-master’s house and half the town.’

  ‘Ah, ancient history,’ Lord Mortlake said, waving his pheasant leg. The huge ring on his right hand flashed red. ‘Let bygones be bygones.’

  ‘Well, then, what of the issue of piracy?’ Lord Wolfgang said. ‘Men from your land keep raiding our river-boats and stealing all our cargo.’

  ‘No! Really? I fear you must be mistaken, my lord. Thieves and bandits are everywhere, I admit, but I am sure those river-pirates you speak of do not come from my land. We have no river, remember.’

  ‘I’m afraid I will not discuss the matter of rights to use my river until I’ve been compensated for all my losses,’ Lord Wolfgang said. ‘And I certainly will not discuss my daughter’s marriage! Not for another ten years!’

  Elanor smiled gratefully at her father, but Lord Wolfgang did not notice.

  Lord Mortlake grimaced and crushed a walnut shell to powder in his hand.

  The servants cleared away the platters of gnawed bones and brought out jellies and meringues and crystallised violets. More mead was poured at the high table, while another barrel of pear cider was rolled out for the lower tables.

  When everyone’s lips and fingers were shiny with sugar, the Grand Teller rose and went to stand before the fireplace at the head of the hall. Its carved stone mantel arched far above her head, displaying two massive keys crossed one over the other. Sebastian knew that they were the keys to the war gate, only opened when the castle was under attack. One key was black and the other white, and both were longer and thicker than his arm.

  ‘It is time for the midsummer tale,’ Arwen said. A murmur of anticipation rose, and she waited till all was quiet again.

  ‘Long, long ago, enemies came over the waves to Wolfhaven Castle, with lightning in their hands and darkness in their souls. The people of the land were filled with terror. It seemed as if all must die. Four great heroes arose, seizing weapons made of flame and wind and stone and sea …’

  Sebastian forgot how hungry and tired and sore he was, and listened, enraptured. That witch sure knew how to tell a good story. The story was filled with perilous quests and mighty battles and fearsome beasts. At times the Grand Teller’s whole body changed, growing and swaying as if she herself was a snake, or shrinking and crouching as if she was a tiny mouse, her voice n
othing but a frightened squeak. Once she flung her arms wide, and for an instant the shadows of huge wings wavered over the stone walls.

  ‘Back to back, the heroes stood, fighting with the last strength left in their arms.’ Arwen thrust and feinted with an imaginary sword, her face set as hard as any warrior facing death. ‘But as they hacked and hewed at the mighty beast, the spatters of its shattered body rose up into fearsome life again, a dozen, ten dozen, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand more …’ Arwen’s voice quickened and grew shrill. She raised her arms. Sebastian forgot to breathe.

  The Grand Teller did not speak for a long moment. Her hands dropped. The great hall was utterly silent. Arwen leant forward. Very quietly, she said, ‘Then, with a mighty roar, the dragon at last answered the call and swooped through the cavern, his flaming breath blasting that multitude of ravenous beasts into nothing more than a swirl of ashes and smoke.’

  Her hands circled, her arms snaking out. The candle flames guttered, smoke eddying through the air.

  ‘Our heroes fell to their knees. They laughed. They wept. And so the land was saved.’

  A great sigh rose from the audience.

  Arwen dropped her hands from her face and looked about the great hall. ‘They say the four heroes still sleep, somewhere under our very feet, in the hollow mountain beneath the castle. One day, when Wolfhaven Castle has need of them, they shall wake and fight to save us once more.

  ‘By bone, over stone, through flame, out of ice, with breath, to banish death,’ she intoned. ‘One day the sleeping warriors will arise again.’

  Then she folded her hands and bowed her head low. Applause echoed around the hall. People sitting at the lower tables stamped their feet and banged their tankards together. Sebastian quickly gathered himself and hurried to fill the goblets of the lord and guests so they too could drink a toast to the witch. He noticed that Tom was staring at Lady Elanor again, grimacing and jerking his head to one side. Lady Elanor looked anxious. Sebastian felt his ears turn hot and red. That pot-boy needed a lesson in how to behave respectfully towards his betters!

  Lord Mortlake did not drink, but only clenched his hand about his goblet as if trying to crush that to powder too. When at last the applause died down, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands sharply.

  Silence fell. Everyone turned to stare at him. He showed his teeth in a smile.

  ‘A charming story, quite charming. A little predictable, perhaps, but I suppose that’s the way of those cobwebby old tales.’ He smiled at the Grand Teller, who did not smile back.

  ‘Now, to the next order of business,’ Lord Mortlake went on. ‘As a sign of our deep affection for Lady Elanor, we have prepared a special dish for her. Bring it in at once!’ He clapped his hands again and his squires ran outside. They returned a few minutes later, pushing a trolley. On the trolley was the most enormous pie Sebastian had ever seen. His stomach rumbled loudly. Luckily, the wooden wheels of the trolley made such a racket on the flagstones that nobody noticed.

  Lord Mortlake drew his sword with a flourish. Everyone gasped and leaned back in alarm, but the Lord of Frostwick Castle simply used the sword to cut open the pie. Out flew a flock of white-winged doves that swooped up into the rafters. Coo-coo, they cried. Coo-coo.

  One flew right over Cedric’s head and, in its fright, dropped a great white splat of droppings into his hair. Cedric shrieked and began rubbing at his head with a napkin. Lady Elanor hid her smile as best she could. Mistress Mauldred hissed: ‘Ladies do not giggle!’

  To everyone’s amazement, a boy leapt out of the pie and somersaulted down to land before the high table. He then went tumbling and cartwheeling all around the room, so fast he was practically a blur. He ended with a high, double backflip, landing neatly on his feet.

  ‘Jack Spry, at your service, Lady Elanor,’ he cried, snatching off his velvet hat and bowing low. Everyone cheered and clapped.

  Then the boy sang, sweet as any lark:

  ‘Jack be nimble,

  Jack be quick,

  Jack jump over the candlestick.

  Jack be nimble,

  Jack be spry,

  Jack jumps out of the apple pie!’

  He was thin, about eleven years of age, with a mop of black curls and sparkling black eyes. He was dressed in a short tunic made of yellow and orange squares, with striped leggings below. On his feet were boots dyed the same vivid orange. Elanor said gravely, ‘Thank you, Master Spry.’

  The boy bowed again.

  ‘Jack Spry is our gift to you, to be your fool and keep you entertained,’ Lord Mortlake said. ‘He can sing and dance and tell jokes and do tricks, and is a fine acrobat.’

  Jack Spry did another backflip, landing squarely on his feet. Everyone clapped and cheered, and he bowed to the crowd. Lord Mortlake flipped him a coin and it disappeared as if by magic.

  ‘Let this be the beginning of a new friendship between our houses,’ Lord Mortlake said to Lord Wolfgang, smiling broadly.

  Lord Wolfgang looked troubled. ‘We thank you for your kind consideration,’ he answered. ‘But—’

  ‘So, will you give us the river rights?’ Lord Mortlake interrupted.

  Lord Wolfgang answered, ‘I am always willing to discuss terms, you know that, my lord. But this is not the time or the place. It is time for our midsummer bonfire. I hope you will join us for the dancing.’

  He rose and held out his arm for his daughter, who rose too. They led the way out of the great hall, the other nobles streaming behind them, laughing and chattering.

  Sebastian grabbed a platter of uneaten food and rushed with it to the antechamber, where he and the other squires would quickly gobble down what they could before they had to go to the garden to serve the nobles.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of yellow and orange. Curious, he looked out the door to see Jack Spry, with his boots in his hand, hurrying up the stairs to the Lord’s Tower.

  6

  THE

  TELL-STONES

  Sparks from the bonfire flew up into the starry sky. The castle bell tolled twelve times. It was midnight, and time for Arwen the Grand Teller to read the tell-stones.

  Hands shaking with excitement, Quinn walked slowly towards the bonfire, where the Grand Teller stood, waiting. The dancers stopped whirling and gathered close. Lord Wolfgang and his painfully proper daughter sat on their chairs under the oak tree. Lady Elanor’s governess stood behind her, one hand weighing on her shoulder. She wore a huge red ring which seemed to make her hand even heavier.

  The Lord of Frostwick Castle stood some distance away, watching with a curiosity that seemed tinged with mockery. His son stood at the banqueting table, gobbling down honey cakes.

  Quinn knelt before the Grand Teller and gave her the bag of tell-stones. Arwen poured the small white pebbles out on a cloth spread under the birch tree, its branches hung with golden ribbons and yellow witcher’s herb.

  Arwen then drew four tell-stones at once, placing the first to the north, the second to the west, the third to the south and the final stone to the east. Quinn knew that each direction of the compass represented a different element—Earth, Water, Fire and Air—and so had a different meaning.

  Crossroads. Gate. Dark Moon. Skull.

  The Grand Teller studied the four white stones carefully. Each had a symbol painted in silver upon it. She seemed to grow pale. Quinn examined the stones too, and felt a sudden dread.

  ‘There is danger coming,’ Arwen said. ‘Dark days lie ahead. We must all beware.’

  Quinn saw Tom start violently, and then flash a look at Lady Elanor. Both seemed pale and anxious, and Quinn wondered what troubled them. It was not like Tom to pay much attention to what the Grand Teller saw in her tell-stones. Though, of course, anyone would be fearful at the sign of the Skull.

  ‘We are at a crossroads in our history. Strangers come, with dark magic and violence. There is death in the wind … death …’ Arwen’s voice rose and quickened. Her hands were clenched, her eyes wide an
d terrified.

  ‘What is it?’ Lord Wolfgang demanded. ‘What danger?’

  Suddenly Arwen swayed on her feet. ‘Blood! I see blood! Betrayal and blood!’ she cried, before collapsing in a heap. Quinn rushed to help her, Tom a few steps behind. Together they lifted the old woman to a chair, where she drooped, her head in her hand. Her face was white as skim milk.

  ‘Carry her to her room,’ Lord Wolfgang commanded, and some servants came to lift her. Once again Tom glanced meaningfully at Lady Elanor, as if wanting her to do something. Lady Elanor only looked at her father wistfully, as if wishing he would turn and look at her.

  Troubled and upset, Quinn gathered up the four tell-stones and put them back in their bag.

  ‘I am surprised you hold such old superstitions,’ the Lord of Frostwick said. ‘We got rid of our witch long ago.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why you do not prosper,’ the Lord of Wolfhaven replied, not tempering his words with any hint of a smile.

  The Lord of Frostwick scowled. ‘I do not prosper because I have no river and no harbour, nor any of your fertile lands,’ he snapped. Then he eased his face with an effort. ‘I beg your pardon, I do not mean to quarrel. We’ve agreed not to discuss the matter until I can find some way to raise the funds to pay all your tolls and taxes. Let us hope we all have a bountiful harvest this year.’

  ‘The only harvest will be of dragon teeth and human bones,’ the Grand Teller muttered, lifting her head for a moment as the servants carried her towards the old oak tree.

  ‘What a gloomy old woman,’ Lord Mortlake said. ‘Shall we dance again? My son and I must leave at first light tomorrow, but there’s no reason not to enjoy ourselves now.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Music!’

  Startled, the musicians seized their pipes and drums and lyres. Music rang out, and the lords and ladies took hands to dance about the bonfire once more. As Quinn began to pack away the cloth, Tom said to her in an undertone: ‘Quinn, you must tell the witch that I too have had a warning. I saw the wild man of the woods … he told me danger comes … that the wolves smell danger in the wind!’