“What?” Spencer whispered back.
“Those are the Lords of the Court, and they don’t actually grow those. They like to change them a lot, so they just paste them on in the mornings and rip them off in the evenings.”
Spencer thought that was the most revolting thing he’d ever heard. “But why do the courtiers dress like that?” he asked Daphne. “You don’t dress like that.”
“We don’t have anything to prove,” Daphne said. “They’re at Court trying to gain favor and posts, and titles and land. We own everything and always will. Why bother painting our faces?”
She did have a succinct way of putting things, Spencer thought. Lorna’s sudden intake of breath startled him and he turned to see what the younger sister was staring at. The men of the Court were followed after a few paces by a man who danced along comically. He wore a colorful suit, and on his head was a bizarre hat adorned with bells. He had a tambourine in one hand and wore a puppet on the other hand.
“The Fool,” Lorna whispered, and there was a faint catch in her voice.
“Shall I call him over here, Lorna?” Daphne whispered teasingly. But then, when her little sister went white, she shook her head. “You know I’m only teasing. She hates the Fool,” Daphne whispered to Spencer, “she thinks he’s scary.”
Spencer could understand why. As they watched the Fool stopped to do some backflips, and then purposely botched the last one so that he fell humorously in front of everyone. The Ladies of the Court all giggled, waving their fans frenetically, and the men mocked him, even though it was obvious that the fall had been staged to amuse them. The advisors looked back to jeer, then raised their large noses high in the air and turned away.
There was something a little grotesque about the spectacle, as the Fool continued thrashing about, performing some other stunt that made all the powdered people roar with laughter again. He was one of the few who weren’t laughing, and Spencer thought the man’s eyes looked almost dead. Spencer wasn’t surprised. It had to be a dreadful job, making a fool of yourself over and over again for a group of stuck up royals.
As Spencer watched, a heavily pregnant woman in a lavender colored gown waddled through the sea of Ladies, which parted for her obligingly. Spencer noticed that she alone among the women was wearing sensible flat shoes, and that she alone was not laughing. In fact, she looked both uncomfortable and painfully bored. She looked so very bored that Spencer guessed who she was.
“That’s your mother?” He asked Lorna.
“How did you know?” Daphne asked.
Spencer glanced back at the woman, who was rubbing the back of her neck and frowning. “She looks like someone with nothing to prove,” he told Daphne.
“That’s our father,” Lorna pointed out a man in a crown, with thick black hair and a bushy black beard. He was standing with a tall young woman who had hair that was a light auburn, several shades softer than Daphne’s. She wore a crown on her brow and carried herself with her back ramrod straight, so Spencer suspected that she was a princess, but her garb seemed… unconventional, for a princess. She wore a great cloak of thick, shaggy fur, and beneath that she wore a simple tunic, leggings and boots. Spencer saw several of the Ladies of the Court raising their brows at her, but when she turned they sniveled and simpered and flagged their little fans, so she was almost certainly royalty.
“That’s our sister Anise,” Daphne said.
“The one who’s second in line?” Spencer couldn’t help the way his voice squeaked. Following Tryphena’s death, her son Delwyn would take the throne. After Delwyn, his eldest daughter Anise was next in line. Spencer had been raised not to judge people by their appearances, but he couldn’t help but be a little concerned at the thought of the Kingdom being ruled by someone who was dressed like one of the Cave People of Elleshmere. “What is she wearing?”
Daphne sighed. “She loves that cape. She made it from the pelt of the first bear she killed.”
“She kills bears?” His voice squeaked once more. Then again, he thought, better bears than people. Her grandmother seemed to prefer people and that was downright terrifying.
“She kills everything,” Daphne said. “She’s been hunting practically since the day she was born. It’s the only thing that interests her. Well, that and fishing, but she only likes fishing for exciting things like Electric Eel and Man-eating Trout.”
Spencer blinked, trying to reconcile the image of the slim young woman of auburn hair and pale, narrow lips with the person Daphne was telling him about. The bear cloak did make it easier, though, and as he watched Anise said something to her father, and Prince Delwyn gave a hearty laugh and slapped her hard on the back. “She’s his favorite,” Daphne said, and to her credit she sounded only a little jealous. “She’s his heir and the best hunter and the best at sports and he says she never whines.”
“Well, that is an appealing quality.” Spencer had to admit. He was still appraising the future Queen of Wulfyddia when a small old woman stepped out from behind Anise. It was the Queen. Spencer knew it immediately, though he had never seen her in person before. She had the dark eyes of her granddaughters and her profile was identical to those that adorned the coins in his pocket. His first thought was that she wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he would have expected, but as he watched she surveyed the assembled guests with such a cold stare that he could imagine how she had earned her reputation for heartlessness.
“Who is she?” Spencer asked, gesturing to a young woman who was walking with the Queen, linked arm in arm with her. He hadn’t noticed her at first, he’d been so upset by the appearance of the Queen, but now he was somewhat baffled by her. She looked rather calm for someone who was walking arm in arm with the devil.
“That’s Dimity,” Lorna told him. “She’s our grandmother’s favorite.”
“By favorite,” Daphne said, “she means that Dimity is the only one of us that our grandmother doesn’t want to behead. Dimity does everything for our grandmother. She helps her with everything… she knows all of her secrets.” But somehow Spencer doubted that anyone knew all of the Queen’s secrets.
With an expression of utmost disdain, Dimity watched the Fool cavorting about, the curl of her lip echoing her grandmother’s scowl. Even if he hadn’t know she was the favorite, Spencer would have guessed from the way Dimity seemed to mimic her grandmother’s expressions, in that odd way that close family members sometimes come to after a number of years. Several women stood attentively near the Queen, and Daphne began to single them out one by one. “That’s Felunhala. She’s the court witch. We’ll take you to visit Melisande tomorrow. She’s Felunhala’s apprentice. She’s awfully interesting.” Spencer wasn’t sure when the princesses had decided that he was their new pet, but he wasn’t particularly pleased with his new role. Then again, a visit to the apartments of the court witch did sound intriguing. He craned his neck to try to catch a better glimpse of the woman, but her back was turned.
Lorna directed his attention the other way, to a short, richly robed young woman. “That’s our sister Eudora. She’s a terrible gossip.” Indeed, Eudora seemed to be deep in conversation with a few Ladies of the Court, and even as they watched she leaned in close to whisper something into the ear of one of the ladies.
“There’s the court prophet,” Daphne pointed out a tall man in an absurd hat. “Grandmamma has relied on his prophecy since Cicely stopped talking.”
Spencer was unfamiliar with that particular chapter of royal history, so Lorna and Daphne filled him in on the series of events that had led to Justine’s imprisonment, as the spectacle spun on around them.
***
When Melisande first saw him she thought he was a ghost. She turned to reach for a book and he was standing there, looming in the doorway, bone-white in the face with livid shadows under his eyes. Then, while her gaze was still on his lips, searching for some sign that he drew breath, and was not some specter visiting from beyond the grave, he spoke.
“I am Doctor Archibald R
athbone of Arkestra. I am searching for the Castle Witch.”
He was human, then, alive though his appearance pointed to the contrary. He was from her home province, too.
“These are her chambers.” Melisande’s voice was strangely raspy, and she realized that she hadn’t spoken in hours as she ceaselessly toiled over the lake spell. It was startling how hopeless she was when it came to water, given her talents with flame. “Felunhala is at Court, attending the Queen. I am her apprentice. How may I help you?”
His eyelids fluttered rapidly, as though the question had taken him by surprise. “Well, you see,” he began, stepping into the rooms and closing the door behind him. “It’s about the beast, you see. Well, it began with him. I’ve since come to realize, that, well, the whole place is entirely overrun,” he gestured expansively, though whether he referred to the castle or the country or the continent Melisande couldn’t be sure. “But that’s beside the point. It’s about the beast, you see.”
It took Melisande a moment to find her voice again in the face of his odd behavior. “What kind of beast?” She asked finally.
His eyes flicked erratically to her face, and then back to his feet. “That’s what I’m here about, you see. I want to know what it’s called. And also…” he licked his lips. “How to kill it.”
“You want to kill it?” He didn’t strike Melisande as much of a slayer. Then again, it could be hard to tell. Anise, granddaughter of the Queen, did not look like much of a hunter, and yet the whole castle knew of her prowess.
“What does it look like?” She asked. A muscle twitched in Rathbone’s jaw and his face froze in a cringe. “Is it large? Or small?”
He bared his teeth in a sort of half smile. “Large.”
“You’ve seen this beast?”
“Oh, yes. We passed an entire evening together, in fact.”
“Where?”
“The dungeon.”
“The dungeon?” Melisande certainly would not have guessed that this man had ever seen the inside of the Queen’s prison. Even more startling was the fact that he had apparently made it out unscathed.
Or… perhaps not unscathed after all, she realized as she watched him pace the floor in front of her. Oh. Suddenly the man’s frantic manner and fevered expression made a great deal more sense. Pitying him, Melisande decided to do him this one favor. “Did it look like a ghost? There are many spirits in the castle.”
“No, no, no.” Rathbone muttered. “Not a ghost, it was, um,” he rubbed his hands together anxiously.
“Corporeal?” Melisande suggested.
“Ah, yes.”
“And does it look like a man?”
“No! It is a beast. An animal. But it has fingers. Claws instead of nails…” Rathbone’s voice trailed off weakly.
“I see.” Melisande walked to the shelf where Felunhala kept the bestiaries, which ranged from ancient, crumbling manuscripts to the reliable Herdemom’s Guide, which was updated every five years. Her finger hovered over the spines for a moment, and then she selected her favorite, the one she had used to research the Salamanders.
“What is that?” Rathbone ceased his pacing to watch her.
“A bestiary. An encyclopedia of creatures.”
“May I… borrow it?” He smiled hesitantly, and Melisande found herself smiling back. He was not so bad looking a young man, she observed. His black hair was a little long, his blue-green eyes a little wild, and he was disheveled, uncontrolled, but there was something startling about the brilliance of his crazed smile. He stalked to and fro, soiling their furs, a mess Melisande would undoubtedly be punished for, and yet she could not bring herself to be angry at him, or to snap at him to stop. She liked the rawness of his manner. It was almost soothing to know that he was too crazed to hide anything, to put on a false face and tell pretty lies. And they were countrymen, for both Melisande and Rathbone had come to the castle from the wild and untamed provinces. It wasn’t surprising that he was having trouble settling in here. The Castle had a way of mangling the unprepared spirit, and there was no way for simple country folk to prepare themselves for the world that waited within the high walls of Castle Wulfyddia.
“I can’t lend you the Bestiary,” she told him. “It isn’t mine. But if you would like, I’ll research it myself and let you know if I find anything.”
“Would you?” His face lit up. He looked like a child receiving a present.
“Of course,” Melisande acquiesced. “Now, if you’ll only tell me where I can find you, I’ll visit you sometime soon with whatever I’ve learned.”
Melisande had just finished recording the name of his boarding house when footsteps in the hall alerted her to the unexpected return of her mistress. She quickly slid the book back into the bookshelf and bid Rathbone a hasty farewell. He left at the same moment Felunhala arrived, so that they almost brushed shoulders over the threshold. Rathbone hardly seemed to notice the arrival of the witch; he walked right past her and wandered out into the hall, muttering to himself. Felunhala froze in the doorway to stare over her shoulder at the young man’s swiftly retreating back. “Who was that?” Melisande could tell from the unexpectedly livid twist of the witch’s lip that something was bothering her mistress a great deal.
“Just a young man. He hadn’t enough money so I sent him away.” Melisande lied quickly and easily. She knew better than to tell Felunhala the truth when the woman’s eyes were lit with rage. “Is everything well? Is there anything I can do?” It was a risk, asking questions; sometimes Felunhala punished her for it, but other times Melisande was reprimanded for failing to show interest.
“Oh, everything’s fine.” Felunhala mimicked her tone in an ugly sing-song. “Everything is perfectly all right. Save for that fool. Things are about to be perfectly dreadful for him.”
“What fool? Oh.” Melisande realized when her mistress shot an ugly glare at her. “The Fool. What happened?” But Felunhala had already vanished into her private chambers in a whirl of black robes. Melisande winced at the slam of the door and then stared pensively after her mistress. With any luck the woman would remain in her chambers to lick her wounds all evening, and Melisande could get on with her work.
***
After Spencer’s introduction to the intimidating world of royalty, it was something of a relief to go down to the moat and find Rolf calmly and contemplatively sliding his net through the still water. Night had fallen, and the minute reflections of a thousand stars glimmered on the face of the moat. “Find anything today?” Spencer asked as he walked up behind Rolf.
The moatkeeper’s son nearly jumped out of his skin. “Spencer! Announce yerself next time for crying out loud.”
“Sorry.” Spencer crossed in front of Rolf and smiled apologetically, though it was unlikely that Rolf could make out much more of his expression than the flash of teeth in the darkness.
“So, have you made new friends then?”
“What?”
“I haven’t seen much of you the past few days. You were stopping by every day.” It was hard to say whether Rolf was cross or merely observing a fact. Spencer had the feeling that Rolf didn’t have many friends himself.
“Eh, not exactly. My mother’s been keeping me busy.” Spencer was not prepared to share with Rolf the details of his excursions with Daphne and Lorna.
“Ah. Well, I haven’t found anything today. Not in the water anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
Rolf shrugged. “Something’s been eating the local rats whole and then spitting up their bones. I’ve been finding little bundles of fur and bones all over the drawbridge.”
“Don’t some birds do that? Could it be an owl?”
“I thought so. But then I found a bigger bundle… Cat bones and tabby fur.” Rolf shook his head. “Very unusual. Even Dad’s never seen anything like it.”
Spencer felt gooseflesh breaking out up and down his arms. “That’s... that’s very interesting. I should probably be getting back now.” His gaze darted from
the dark water to the shadow of the keep.
“Shame. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Spencer said uneasily, trying to rub the chill out of his arms. “Goodnight.” He turned to go, and then paused. “About that witch you were telling me about, the one down in the Bottoms—” Spencer paused. He had promised himself that he would have nothing to do with Rolf’s practitioner, but things had been so strange lately, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that sometime soon he might need all the help he could get.
“Yes?”
“If I needed her… How would I find her?”
Chapter 8
When Abigail Tattersall came downstairs the next day, there was a strange woman standing in her kitchen. The intruder was pregnant, middle aged and there was something familiar about her face, though Abigail was positive that she had never met the woman before. What was most striking about the stranger, however, was her gown, which was velvet and very expensive. Her shoes were expensive too, Abigail noticed as she dropped into a curtsy, as was the choker of pearls the woman wore about her neck.
“My Lady?”
“So you’re the new governess,” the woman studied her intently. “I’ve been waiting nearly twenty minutes. Were you upstairs?”
Abigail was tempted to ask the woman to identify herself first, but given the woman’s obvious status, it was probably safer to answer a few harmless questions first.
“Yes, I was upstairs with her ladyship.”
“Good.” The woman’s gaze softened a little. “Do you know who I am?” Though she had a pretty good guess, Abigail shook her head silently.
“I am Justine’s mother.”
So this was Princess Frederica then, wife to Delwyn, mother to the seven granddaughters of the Queen. “My Lady,” Abigail curtseyed again, more deeply this time. “May I offer you some refreshment?” Inwardly, Abigail bit back a sigh. This would likely turn very nasty if the woman was here to visit her daughter. Abigail had been instructed by the Queen herself to keep all visitors away, but she didn’t relish the idea of trying to keep a mother away from her young daughter. At least Spencer wasn’t home yet, so if there was a scene he wouldn’t be involved. Spencer had been due back almost an hour ago but Abigail hadn’t seen any sign of him, and now she was glad.
Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) Page 7
