There was a long pause. But the silence had a texture, a prickliness, like the air just before rain. There was a sibilance tickling at Makepeace’s ears. Whispers – a faint, papery, scrabble of sound.
Then Makepeace saw a wisp of something flicker between Thomas Fellmotte’s lips, like a serpent-tongue of smoke. His jaw fell open, and it crept out a little further, coiling hazily, then swelling, a soft, snaking plume of shadow. It did not thrash or flail or melt away. It began advancing with sinuous purpose, seething towards her.
Makepeace screamed, and twisted, and tried to push out the tube with her tongue, but in vain. The whisper was louder now. A single voice, but the words indistinguishable, only dusty splinters of sound. She could see it nosing this way and that like a blind thing, edging ever closer to her face. It was smoke, and not smoke. It strangled light.
And then, with one fluid motion, it seethed up over her face and poured into her mouth. Her vision darkened and twisted as it slid into her eyes.
The Infiltrator was inside her mind, and she screamed, and screamed, and could not have stopped screaming even if she had wanted to. She could feel it, sliding around in her thoughts, moth-soft, probing, insistent. It forced its way into the secret recesses of herself, and it was wrong, wrong to feel it there, like a great worm twisting inside her head. She struck out at it with her mind, but it flexed against her, forcing her back, crushing her against the walls of her own skull to make room for itself.
But Makepeace’s scream was not just one of terror. There was rage in it too. It became a roar, and she was not the only one roaring.
Suddenly she could smell Bear and taste Bear. Her blood was like hot metal. Her mind was on fire. Somewhere in her skull, she felt Bear strike out, a clumsy swipe with a terrible shadowy strength. The impact juddered her to the bone and sickened her, but she felt it tear into the Infiltrator, which jerked and flailed like a scalded snake.
There was a terrible creaking crack, and Makepeace realized that she was biting down through the wooden tube. Splinters pushed their way into her gums as the wood gave way. She strained at the bonds holding her wrists, and they broke. She grabbed at the straps around her chest and neck, and yanked at them until they gave.
Lady April jumped backwards with a speed that belied her age. Young Crowe did not, nor did he dodge Makepeace’s great, swinging blow, which struck him in the temple and hurled him across the room. He hit the pew so hard that its oaken mass tipped backwards, knocking over the next like a domino.
Makepeace stood, spitting out broken wood and plumes of ripped ghost. Her surroundings came to her in pulses. Thought was a lost gull in a storm. She was Bear, and Bear was she.
A pulse of awareness. Lady April plucking a bodkin from her sleeve, with the swiftness born of centuries of practice, and holding it in front of her. She was shouting something at the top of her voice. Calling for help? Help from the living? Help from the dead?
Another pulse. A red stripe of pain across her chest. Lady April was dragonfly-fast. Lady April’s bodkin was red. But pain and sickness were just notes in the storm-music that filled her head.
Young Crowe at her feet, winded and stunned, one arm twisted badly. He looked up at her, and she saw a madwoman reflected in his dull eyes. And then his gaze flicked to something behind Makepeace. Lady April picking up his sword. Lady April ready to lunge.
Then Lady April’s cold, cold eyes looked deep into Makepeace’s own, and saw Bear.
Makepeace saw the shock in those ancient eyes, saw the question. Girl, what have you done?
And in that moment Makepeace’s hand-paw struck out with skull-denting force. The shock of the blow jolted every joint in her arm. A pulse of dark. A pulse of light. Lady April crumpled on the floor. Smaller now. An old woman sleeping.
Bleeding.
Makepeace stood and gasped for air, as her thoughts and vision throbbed in and out of clarity. Where was she? The chapel. Pools of light. Broken wood. Two bodies on the floor. Pain spilling over everything, or maybe coloured light from the window.
Think. Think!
She stooped, unwillingly, to touch Lady April’s wrist. Every moment she feared that ghost-snakes would writhe from the old Elder and leap for her own mouth. But she had to know.
There was a pulse, a sullen, relentless tremor of life. Nearby, she could see that Young Crowe was also breathing.
Makepeace thought of the smoke-snake forcing its way into her mind, and for a moment felt a terrible temptation to stamp on Lady April’s skull and crush it like an egg. But she did not. They deserve to die, she thought, groggily, but I do not deserve to be a murderer.
‘Think!’ she whispered to herself. ‘Think!’
Her gaze fell upon Lady April’s silver signet ring. She stared at it, her thoughts shifting to form a plan. No, something too foolhardy to be called a plan. It was a desperate, ridiculous gamble, but it was all she had.
Makepeace dropped to her knees, and unfastened Lady April’s hooded cape. Her paws hurt as she fumbled with the clasp. No – her hands. Her hands hurt.
She removed the signet ring and gloves from the wizened hands. She snatched the old woman’s purse and a bag that hung at her belt. Then she quickly put on the cloak, gloves and the ring, and pushed her other thefts into her pockets. As an afterthought, she picked up the bodkin as well.
Makepeace paused just once, to glance across at the other throne where Lord Fellmotte lay slumped, his eyes following her. He still looked like Sir Thomas, and it felt cruel to leave him there, but she had no choice.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
It was ten o’clock, and even in her Bear-drunk state, Makepeace knew the best route to avoid attention. Over the years, she had memorized the different passages, knew where one could hide, which routes muffled your steps and which echoed them. All of this was second nature to her, which was just as well, since today her first nature was no longer behaving naturally.
Makepeace only just managed to duck into the shadows of a windowseat when Sir Marmaduke came striding past. She held her breath until he had gone. He was not running, so presumably he had not heard Lady April’s cries. As soon as he reached the chapel, however, he would see the devastation. In mere minutes the alarm would be sounded.
She scampered to the Long Gallery, removed the helm from a suit of armour, and retrieved one of her runaway packs and her carefully stitched rag-rope from inside.
There was no time to sneak out through the kitchens. She could not risk leaving by the main entrance either. At a distance or in the dark she might pass for Lady April in her stolen clothes, but there would be too many people and candles in the Great Hall for her to go unrecognized.
She had to stake all or lose all.
Hastily she tethered one end of her rag-rope to an old torch bracket on the wall, then eased the nearest casement open. It was a first-floor window set in the side-wall of the house, looking down on a shadowy expanse of flags around the corner from the main courtyard.
Heart in mouth, she tossed the loose end of the rag-rope out of the window, and clambered out on to the sill. Wrapping the rough cloth of the rope around each hand, she began to climb down the wall, scrabbling in the dark for toe-holds in the mortar-cracks between the stones. She could hear the raking sound of her own breath, and the snap-snap-snap of her careful stitches tearing, one at a time.
The rope gave when she was still four feet from the ground, but she managed to land with no more than a bruising jolt. Pulling her hood down over her face, she stalked around the corner of the house with as much confidence as she could muster.
Through the fabric of the hood, she could just make out the outline of the waiting carriage, and the silhouette of the driver seated on its roof. She hoped that he saw only Lady April’s cloak, and would not wonder why his mistress had unexpectedly emerged from around the side of the house.
She held up her gloved hand so that the ring glistened in the faint moonlight. The driver’s silhouette nodded deferentially and touched
his forehead.
The carriage door was open. She moved to enter, daring to raise her head as she did so . . . and came face to face with Mistress Gotely.
The old cook was stooped inside the carriage. A basket of muslin-wrapped shapes sat on the seat inside. Provisions for Lady April’s journey, no doubt.
Mistress Gotely stared at Makepeace in shock, one hand to her own chest, breathing heavily. Makepeace knew that she had been recognized, and could only guess how guilty and dishevelled she must look. She could only stare back at the broad, sullen face of her mentor, tormentor and companion – the woman she had liked, but never trusted with anything important.
Makepeace felt her mouth move to shape the word that Beth had whispered to her.
Please.
After a long moment, Mistress Gotely lowered her eyes.
‘Apologies, my lady,’ she said, clearly enough for the driver to hear. ‘God speed you on your journey.’
And she stepped out past Makepeace, dropped an awkward, gout-skewed curtsy, and hobbled back towards the house.
Hardly daring to believe in the chance she had been given, Makepeace climbed quickly into the carriage. She banged twice against the roof, and the driver whistled up the horses. The carriage lurched into motion.
Thank you, Mistress Gotely, she thought silently. Thank you.
There was distant shouting somewhere in the house. Makepeace thought she could hear Sir Marmaduke’s voice.
‘Close the gates!’ came the faint words. ‘Close the gates!’
But she heard it only because she was listening for it, and the driver did not seem to hear it at all. For the clipper-clop became a trot, and now they were out of the courtyard and through the gate. The trot became a canter, the limes that flanked the road raced past, and then they were on the main road and away, the moorland’s rugged, indifferent face silver-stubbled in the moonlight.
PART FOUR: JUDITH
CHAPTER 20
The carriage windows were curtained. Overhead, a shuttered lantern rocked on a ring set in the ceiling, narrow beams of candlelight dancing on the walls.
Makepeace felt cold and sick, and could not stop shaking. Everything hurt. Bear had saved her by striking out at her captors, but he had done so with her body. Now she started to feel the bruises and strains. She could only hope that she had not broken bones or lost teeth.
There was blood in her mouth, but also the moth-dust taste of the Infiltrator that Bear’s swipes had torn so easily. Who had that spirit been? Perhaps some veteran of a dozen lives? Had they tried to scream in their last moment of existence? She could not feel sadness for them, only a hollow horror when she remembered coughing up plumes of torn ghost.
Makepeace’s thoughts would not run straight. She could feel Bear’s exhaustion, but he also seemed restless and confused.
Bear? Bear – what’s wrong?
For the first time ever he did not seem to hear her. He seemed bee-stung, too blind with some discomfort to notice her. She breathed deeply, trying to calm him.
What was Sir Marmaduke doing now? She imagined him charging into the courtyard, and finding her gone. He would give orders, have horses saddled, set off in pursuit . . .
The carriage was travelling fast, but not as fast as riders at full gallop. The broad road towards London cut a bold stripe across the moor, with open land on either side. The carriage would be visible a mile away. If it stayed on the main road, it would be overtaken in no time.
Where was she? She tweaked aside the curtain, and peered out. Trees slid by, black embroidery against the dark silver sky. A milestone marker passed, then a great crag shaped like a man’s fist, its pale stone livid against the dark heather.
Makepeace had spent years weighing up escape routes, and noting which tracks were sheltered from view. If she was where she thought she was, then up ahead there should be . . . Yes! There! The spiked silhouette of a lightning-shattered oak. She took a deep breath.
‘Driver!’ she called, over the echo of hoofs and rattle of harness. ‘Turn left!’ Her voice was hoarse from roaring, but she tried to imitate Lady April’s rasping, imperious tones. ‘After the broken tree!’
The driver gave a nod and reined in the horses. If he noticed anything odd about her voice he gave no sign of it. Perhaps one yelling voice sounded a lot like another over the rattle of wheels.
He turned the carriage carefully just after the tree, and eased it on to a rugged old drover’s lane, flanked by high, quivering mounds of gorse. The carriage jolted, jerked and tilted, until Makepeace feared that they might throw a wheel.
And then, just as Makepeace was feeling a little safer, the carriage slowed and halted, the driver calming the horses with low whistles. Makepeace opened her mouth to call up a question, then caught the sound that her driver had already heard.
Somewhere behind them, probably on the broad, straight road to London, galloping hoofs were echoing into the night. One horse, maybe two.
Makepeace closed her eyes and prayed that the carriage was hidden by the high gorse, and that its broad roof was not gleaming in the moonlight like the back of a great beetle. Bear’s rampage had left her too drained and battered to leap out and run.
The galloping hoofs grew louder. Louder, until it seemed they must be a stone’s throw away. But they did not break rhythm. They passed, and faded.
The riders had not spotted the carriage. And the driver had not recognized them as men from Grizehayes. The carriage eased into motion once more, and Makepeace’s heart slowed to a less painful rhythm.
Devil take you, Sir Marmaduke. I hope you’re halfway to Belton Pike before you realize you’ve overshot us.
Evidently Lady April’s driver was used to travelling stealthily. For now, this was proving unexpectedly useful. When the path forked, she bade him take a rough hunting trail into the woods. The black trees closed in protectively. Bracken and dead sticks crackled between the spokes.
By lantern-light, she checked her injuries. Her teeth were intact, though she had to pick a few splinters out of her gums. Lady April’s bodkin had punctured the skin of her shoulder, but not deeply. There were a lot of bruises, however, and a sharp pain in her left elbow. Looking back, she thought she remembered a soundless, velvety, tearing sensation in the joint when she hurled Young Crowe across the room.
Her body wanted to sleep, so that it could start fixing itself, and her head grew treacherously heavy. She jerked herself awake, over and over, but at last exhaustion closed itself around her mind like the fingers of a soft, dark hand.
‘Hey!’
Makepeace lurched into wakefulness, the shock of it making her stomach swim. She blinked painfully into the light of a lantern. Beyond it she could just make out the pale, jowly face of a man, creased with confusion and suspicion. He was standing at the door of the carriage, staring in at her.
Then Makepeace remembered where she was, and why. The staring man must be the driver. What had Lady April called him? Cattmore?
‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.
He must have been expecting Lady April, Makepeace realized. The cloak, the ring, the gloves. And now he had found a battered-looking girl of fifteen in his carriage.
What could she do? Make a break for it? Beg him not to betray her?
No.
‘Take that light out of our eyes, Cattmore,’ Makepeace said, with all the steely authority she could muster. Remembering Lady April’s rigid posture and thin, red lips, she straightened her back and narrowed her mouth to a line. ‘Our sleep must not be interrupted. We shall need to be well rested when we reach our destination.’
It was a gamble, a desperate and dangerous gamble. She was staking everything on the driver knowing enough about the Fellmotte Elders to know that they did not always look like Fellmotte Elders.
The lantern wobbled. Makepeace could sense Cattmore’s indecision and dismay.
‘My . . . lady? Is that you?’
‘Of course,’ Makepeace rapped sharply, her heartbeat thu
ndering in her head. ‘Do you think we would trust anyone else with this?’ She held up one hand, letting the signet ring catch the light.
‘No, my lady – forgive me, my lady.’ He sounded cowed and remorse-filled, and Makepeace had to suppress a sigh of relief. ‘I . . . I was not aware that you had . . . moved residence. May I ask—’
‘You may not,’ Makepeace snapped quickly. ‘Suffice to say, we have had a very trying day.’ Thankfully her borrowed nobility allowed her to be rude and dodge questions. ‘Why have you stopped? Are we at our destination?’
‘No, my lady – I . . . I thought I heard you rap on the roof.’
‘You were mistaken,’ Makepeace said quickly. And yet her bruised right hand did feel newly sore, as if it had struck against something. ‘How long before we arrive?’
‘We will be at the safe house in another hour, I think. Er . . . when we arrive, how would you like to be introduced to the others, your ladyship?’
Others? Makepeace’s thoughts scattered in panic, and it took all her willpower to herd them together again. Did she dare impersonate Lady April in a meeting with these ‘others’? If they knew the lady well, they would soon see through her.
For a moment she considered asking the coachman to drive her somewhere else instead, but that would certainly revive his suspicions. Makepeace’s pretence was fragile as an eggshell. One good prod would crush it entirely.
‘Tell them that we are an agent of Lady April,’ she said. That seemed the safest option.
‘Yes, my lady. What name should I use?’
A picture from an old book of pious tales sprang to Makepeace’s mind. An angry woman with a sword in one hand and a severed head in the other.
‘Judith,’ she said on impulse. ‘Judith Grey.’
The coachman touched his forehead and withdrew.
Makepeace slowly let out a breath, then frowned at her stinging knuckles. Had her hand really knocked against something loudly enough for the driver to hear?
Could Bear have taken control of her body again while she slept? His unfamiliar restlessness unsettled her. For three years he had been her soulmate and second self, but now she did not know what was wrong with him, and could not ask.