Fugitives!

by Aubrey Flegg

  ‘Fits?’ wondered Sinéad.

  ‘Holy Mother of God! Sinéad! Where have you been? And look at the state of you, burned by the sun, your complexion ruined.’ Her mother held out her hands in despair. ‘And just when Uncle Hugh has brought you a present from Aunt Catherine.’

  ‘Oh, what is it?’ exclaimed Sinéad.

  ‘It’s a dress for a young lady, not that you’ll ever be one at this rate!’

  ‘Oh show, show me!’

  ‘No indeed, not till you’ve washed. If your father was himself he’d beat your backside for looking as wild as you do.’

  Sinéad skipped off. A dress from Aunt Catherine! she thought happily. When she came back, the dress had been laid out for her by the dressmaker. She stood dumfounded, her mouth open. Mother was right; no child’s frock this, but a real dress for a lady!

  ‘Mother, it’s beeeauuutiful!’ What is that colour? The colour of heather in bloom, she decided. ‘And look – oh Mother, look! There are tiny flowers embroidered inside the pleats.’ Tomboy that she was, Sinéad loved to dress up; people had even said she was pretty. Apart from her reflection in puddles, she’d only seen little bits of herself at a time reflected in her mother’s tiny silver hand-mirror. In no time, she was standing on a stool while the dressmaker adjusted the length of the skirt. She gazed down, watching the colour on the silk change as the dressmaker tweaked and adjusted its folds. She ran her fingers between the pleats to feel the wonderful smoothness of the silk and slight roughness of the embroidery.

  ‘This will last you well,’ said Mother with satisfaction, as the dressmaker put a tuck into the bodice, which was close-fitting with long sleeves. At the shoulders were two little lace ruffs, with a larger ruff, like a small wheel, about her neck; it tickled her chin as she looked down. It would be fun to look like a lady. She chuckled as she remembered how Uncle Hugh had swept her up and carried her across the room. They all knew the story of how, years ago, he’d eloped with Mabel Bagenal; then poor, pretty Mabel had died – it seemed a shame. Oh but it would be fun to elope …

  ‘Will you stand still, miss? How can I get your length if you twist about so?’ grumbled the dressmaker.

  When the dressmaker went off to sew the new hem, Sinéad, in clean day-clothes, made for the door. She had remembered that she’d abandoned Saoirse down at the butts, but her mother saw her heading off.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, young miss! I want rosemary and thyme from the garden, and you’re the only one who knows thyme from a turnip around here.’ Sinéad sighed, but it was a pleasant assignment.

  When she’d picked her two bouquets of herbs she walked back through the orchard to see if the apples were ripening, but they were still green. She picked up a windfall; it looked perfect, apart from a tiny round hole. No rotten apple here, but it made her think of Uncle Hugh. Surely there are no rotten apples in the castle? She imagined a cloak-and-dagger figure. Where would he hide, for a start? We know everyone here. She dropped the apple into her apron pocket, delivered her bouquets of herbs without being caught again, and set off for the butts. I bet the boys have forgotten the falcons; perhaps they’ve made up their quarrel.

  When Sinéad arrived at the butts, she had a moment of panic. Saoirse was missing! But then, so too was Fion’s Granuaile. I know … Fion’s come, rescued Granuaile, and out of kindness Saoirse, but he’s left James’s falcon for him to retrieve himself. She sighed. No sign of peace here. Her gauntlet was lying on the ground, so she put it on and coaxed James’s fierce female onto her wrist.

  The falconry was a lean-to building against the castle wall. It was open to one side but had a loft above it, where the falconer kept all the gear he required for training and hunting the birds of prey. Under the loft, sheltered from rain and snow, stakes had been driven into the ground to make perches on which the birds were lightly chained. At night they would be carried back and put in the individual cages that hung on the wall. Dr Fenton had given the children a rhyme to learn in English:

  An eagle for an emperor, a gyrfalcon for a king,

  a peregrine for a prince, a saker for a knight,

  a merlin for a lady, a goshawk for a yeoman,

  a sparrow hawk for a priest, and a kestrel for a knave.

  Sure enough, Saoirse and Granuaile were on their perches, but there was no sign of Fion. She was just easing James’s bird onto its perch when she heard a low whistle, two notes on a descending scale. It was a secret call they used between each other, but where had it come from? She looked about her; there it was again! She looked up; it seemed to have come from above. Fine dust fell from one of the cracks in the ceiling. Whoever it was must be in the loft above.

  ‘Fion? James?’ she called.

  ‘Shhh. Is James about?’ That was Fion’s whisper!

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come up here; use the ladder in the corner.’ Sinéad had often wondered what lay above in the loft, but the falconer was as touchy as his birds, and she had never been invited up; now she climbed the ladder with interest. A hand reached out to help her over the lip into the loft. ‘This is my hide-away,’ Fion whispered.

  ‘To hide from me?’ she asked, a little miffed.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he chuckled. ‘James – your father – everybody. Falconer is an old friend.’ Sinéad knew this; Fion could make friends with anyone. She looked around at the lines of hooks hung with leashes and lures, bells and hoods. There were spare blocks and perches stacked against the wall and a wooden slab like a butcher’s for cutting up meat and game for the birds. ‘Come over and sit down,’ Fion invited. He had made a nice space for himself. There was a seat made from an old board covered with sacks to make it comfortable. Light filtered between the uneven slates of the roof, but a rush-light also cast a homely circle of light on the floor.

  ‘I’m going to leave the castle, Sinéad.’

  ‘Oh no, Fion! Why? It’s your home,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘If James challenges me again, I will have to fight him. He doesn’t want Uncle Hugh here, and that means me too.’

  ‘Are you afraid of him?’

  ‘I am afraid, but not of him; I’m afraid for him. You see … I might win next time.’

  ‘But then you could make it up, surely?’

  ‘Not if I’d killed him.’ A shudder went through Sinéad. ‘If we fight again it will be one or the other of us. You saw, he had me fairly beaten and I was ready to forget the cruel things he’d been saying, but he wouldn’t let me. He refused me the victor’s touch. I must either take myself off or be prepared to fight again.’ She thought of the triangle of friendship that had held them together for six whole years.

  ‘Do you really hate him, Fion – hate us, hate me?’ She put her hand in her pocket and took out the apple she had picked up in the orchard and began polishing it on her apron.

  ‘Oh don’t be silly! How can you say a thing like that? We three have grown up as one; we should be side by side, shoulder to shoulder, not enemies! I tell you though, something or somebody is getting at James.’

  ‘Uncle Hugh said the same – that there might be a rotten apple in the castle. But surely we’d know? Rotten apples stink.’

  Fion held out his hand. She gave him her apple; he turned it round and round, mulling things over. Then he asked, ‘Mind if I cut this?’

  ‘It’ll be sour as hell.’ She screwed up her mouth, but he went ahead, and cut the apple in two using his dagger. He gave a snort of satisfaction, and held out one half for Sinéad to see. There in the core, surrounded by brown dust, was a cavity, and in it was a small, white worm.

  ‘Yuck!’ she whispered. ‘But who …?’

  ‘I think I know. Who does James visit almost daily on his own? Who would be fool enough to try to teach our James Latin? Or to imagine him as a lawyer, or a priest? No, Sinéad, he’s not learning Latin, he’s being groomed as an English puppet by our respected tutor, Dr Fenton! Fenton’s our worm.’

  Sinéad gazed at the apple. ‘He lo
oks comfortable in there, doesn’t he?’

  ‘So he should; your father clothes him, feeds him, pays him, all on top of what the English pay him as well. The only trouble is–’

  ‘We don’t have a morsel of proof. Do you think James knows?’

  ‘That Fenton’s a spy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if he knows that Fenton’s a spy, that makes him a spy himself – two worms in our apple. We must find him and confront him. But I can’t because it would just end in a duel. Please, Sinéad, I don’t want to believe this of James. But I’m afraid for him – and for you all.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Red-handed

  eep in the forest, Con was lost. He couldn’t believe it. He had been in and out of forests since he could walk; he couldn’t be lost! But he was. And it had looked so simple from the road, just a short ride up to the Scots pines and down to the castle on the other side of the ridge. But which ridge? Which way to turn? Con’s groan turned into something close to a whimper. Haystacks had said: ‘Just keep to the track.’ But then the silly old track had wandered off in a stupid direction, and the obvious route had been to strike up along this ridge. He had ridden confidently, expecting to see the pines ahead at any moment. After a while, though, the ridge had melted into the hillside, and small cliffs and dense patches of brush-wood forced him lower and lower down the slope. Then the trees had closed over him, blocking out the light. Great branches swept low across his path, turning him first left and then right, until he didn’t know which way to turn. He couldn’t go up, he couldn’t go back. The only thing that had any meaning was the slope of the ground. He slipped from his saddle and walked, feeling the dip with his feet. He held his pony’s head to his shoulder, telling Macha not to worry, that they would be safe if they stayed together. All he needed was to see the sun. From time to time he’d wipe his tears off on the pony’s mane.

  It wasn’t the sun that finally gave Con his bearings in the forest, but a tangle of interwoven branches across his path. Plashing! He stared at the tangle ahead in disbelief, beyond it was – the road! By turning off the path too soon, he’d been forced all the way back down to the road again. He looked about him. It seemed clearer here and he soon saw the reason: in plashing the forest edge, a strip of woodland behind had been cleared of undergrowth. With a lithe movement he was in the saddle again, his shameful tears dried and forgotten. He trotted briskly along, parallel to the road, his eyes searching the ground. If there had been one path, surely there’d be another? But how much time had he lost? Was the army ahead or behind? Was Chichester even now approaching the castle?

  There it was! A path, little used, but cut clear, running straight up to the ridge. He leaned forward, whispered magic words into Macha’s ears, brought his hard little heels down on the pony’s sides and they were off up the steep path.

  Sinéad wasn’t sure she really wanted to find James. It would be difficult to talk to him, especially if he was in one of his moods. There was only one place she knew of that he used as a hideaway, simply because it was difficult to get to. It was in the store-rooms in the undercroft of the castle, and getting in was an awkward climb over the door. She looked at her clean apron and sighed – more trouble for her if this one got dirty.

  When she got to the castle, however, she saw to her relief that the doors were open to let in the first sacks of grain from the harvest. Men from the fields were tipping barley in golden streams into the huge wooden bins that lined the walls. There had to be enough food stored in the castle to keep not just the family, but the whole garrison, for a month or more if the castle was besieged. She followed the men in. Green-eyed cats on high alert for any disturbed mouse or rat ignored her as she passed, their tails twitching. These cats were wild as small tigers, definitely not for petting. She tried to look casual, poking among the barrels laid out ready to be filled with salted meat for the winter. Above in the arched stone roof were rows of hooks to take hams, smoked sides of bacon and even whole beef carcasses. She tapped on the barrels of Spanish wine to see if they were full. When she found a loose bung on a barrel she pulled it out and wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell: wine turned to vinegar, it would probably be used for pickling now. More rewarding was a tub of honey that was leaking a line of small golden droplets, so she ran her finger along the seam. Then, realising that the men had left, she climbed quickly up over sacks of dried peas and down into the corner where James had his retreat. She noticed fresh earth, which was strange, but no James. She was wondering where to look next when she noticed the light dimming; the doors were beginning to close. She leapt down over the sacks and threw herself through the closing crack, and emerged to shouts of laughter from the men outside.

  ‘Watch out, lads, the ferret’s after her!’

  ‘Have you seen James?’ she asked, airily.

  ‘No, miss. Not since he was looking for the armourer earlier.’

  There was nothing for it but to search the castle. This was the quiet part of the day when people took a rest. The soldier in the guard room had only just come on duty, but he hadn’t seen James. The great hall was silent so she tiptoed across it and peered behind Father’s screen. His desk was covered with papers, where a single candle burned. There was no sign of Father. She was just backing out when Dr Fenton’s face lifted suddenly out of the blackness from beyond the candle. She stepped back in fright, then pulled herself together. He has every right to be here. He is Father’s secretary, after all. She managed a smile. As she backed away, she could feel her heart pattering like a drum. I mustn’t get silly about this! She worked her way up from floor to floor, avoiding only the soldiers’ quarters, but they assured her that James was not there.

  When she arrived at the family rooms at the top of the castle, she found them deserted. Mother’s door was closed; she glanced in, but it was empty. Uncle Hugh’s door was wide open; he must still be up on the battlements. That left just one place to be searched on this floor.

  Holding her breath, she pushed aside the heavy curtain to the garderobe – the toilet – where the winter clothes were hung because the strong smell kept the moths away. God help the moths, she thought as she groped among the cloaks. This had been a good hiding place for them as small children, but only as long as you could hold your breath. She emerged, gasping. While she got her breath, she looked around. Hold on a minute! The guest room door was closed now. Uncle Hugh must have come in while she was in the garderobe. Perhaps he’d seen James from the battlements. But she wasn’t going to make the mistake of barging in twice; she knocked and waited … and waited … No reply. She called his name. Still no reply. She turned to go, then, unmistakably, heard a board creak. Careful not to make a noise, she tiptoed back to the door, raised the latch, and pushed it open. There was her tutor, Dr Fenton, bent over the table, leafing through Uncle Hugh’s papers. She cleared her throat. He looked up with what could only be described as a guilty start.

  ‘Oh Sinéad, my dear. You startled me! I’m just doing a little tidying up for the Earl. By the way, your Father’s back if you want to talk to him.’

  She stood confused, he sounded so normal. But why … why didn’t he answer my knock? Why didn’t he say something when I called out? The answer hit her like a blow between the eyes: he wasn’t tidying things up for Uncle Hugh, he was spying on him, going through his papers! He had thought she would go away, but she hadn’t, had she? We were right – me and Fion! Fury boiled inside her. I’ll confront him, watch him squirm like the worm he is. But no, wait a moment; she knew grown-ups, he would just deny it, say she was lying. People always listened to grown-ups. She managed to give him a wan smile and backed away, closing the door after her. Keep calm, Sinéad. Think! I must find Uncle Hugh before Fenton thinks I’m suspicious of him. If Uncle Hugh catches him, that will clinch matters once and for all. Oh please God Uncle Hugh’s still on the battlements! She walked slowly to the spiral staircase and then flew up the stone steps. There, miraculously, was Uncle Hugh, at the self-same spot wh
ere they had stood earlier. He turned as she ran up.

  ‘Steady, child! Don’t throw yourself over. Well, what have you got for me now? Harmony and light among my young warriors?’

  ‘It’s Dr Fenton!’ she gasped. ‘Fion suggested it because of the worm in my apple; he took his dagger to it …’ Words poured out of her; there seemed to be so many threads to tie together.

  ‘Stop, child – stop! Take a big breath and get to the nub of the matter.’

  Sinéad took a gulp of air and started again. ‘Remember your rotten apple? Well, Fion and I think that someone in the castle has been getting at James, trying to make him go over to the English side. We suspected our tutor, Dr Fenton, but we had no proof. Now I have proof. Dr Fenton is a spy!’