‘He always spurred me to be the best at everything, and eventually he admitted why. Not all Fellmotte souls were preserved, only those judged to be of the greatest worth to the family.
‘So I knew that one day, when the Elders came for me, I would be weighed in the balance. My own private Judgement Day. If they approved of me, I would live on forever among the Elders. If not, my body would be stolen from me, and my soul crushed to pulp. I had everything to gain and everything to lose, so I wore myself threadbare trying to please them.
‘Then my father’s “Judgement Day” arrived. My father. I knew how hard he had worked for the family, how learned he was, how loyal . . .’ Symond shook his head, his face still showing a tranquillity that did not match his words. ‘All for nothing. He was found wanting. They crushed him. I stood there and watched it happen.’
Makepeace listened, uncertain what to feel. There was so much in Symond’s story that made her want to pity him. Yet he had shown little pity himself at the Battle of Hangerdon Hill. Even now, his reactions seemed off-kilter.
‘Do you want me to describe it?’ he asked suddenly, his tone jarringly offhand. ‘I had a ringside seat.’
Makepeace nodded slowly. She had seen some of it, but Symond had been closer. He refilled his cup.
‘The Infiltrator poured out of my grandfather first,’ he said, ‘and I saw her slip in through my father’s mouth. The others followed one by one. I think perhaps he fought back at the very end . . . but it did him no good.’
Makepeace said nothing, remembering Sir Thomas’s tormented face. She felt sick with pity.
‘Do you know something interesting?’ Symond continued in the same, cool tone. ‘The ghosts were not all the same. The Infiltrator looked smaller, but healthier, more whole. The others were larger but . . . cramped. Ill-formed. Have you ever seen two apples sprouted from the same stem, too close to each other, so that they grew misshapen?’
Now that is interesting, the doctor remarked silently in Makepeace’s head.
‘Why would she be smaller?’ asked Makepeace, now intrigued.
‘She has to venture out of the shell more often than the other ghosts,’ Symond answered immediately, ‘so I daresay some of her essence bleeds away now and then.’
Makepeace had never even thought of this before. Being ‘Infiltrated’ had been so unpleasant that she had not stopped to wonder about the dangers to the Infiltrator.
‘But perhaps that also explains why she looked different,’ Symond went on. ‘An Infiltrator needs to be able to hold herself together outside the body, and the other Elders do not. Perhaps living in the shell allows them to become . . . soft.’
‘What do you know about that Infiltrator?’ Makepeace wondered whether the ever-stealthy Morgan was listening in.
‘Lady Morgan Fellmotte,’ Symond said promptly. ‘By Elder standards, she’s a foot-soldier. She is only the third lady who has ever joined their ranks, and she is not even of our blood – just Fellmotte by marriage. She is one of their youngest, too, dead only thirty years. Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered how the Elders choose their Infiltrators,’ Makepeace said meekly. ‘Do they draw lots?’
‘I warrant the job goes to the lowliest ghost,’ Symond said. ‘Who would want it? Infiltrators wear out over time.’
‘If the Elder ghosts are so soft, how do they crush living spirits?’ asked Makepeace. ‘Why couldn’t Sir Thomas hold his own against them?’
‘I cannot be sure. The Elders have the advantage of numbers and experience. But they also have no doubts to weaken them.
The Elders may be monstrous, but they are sure of themselves. They are their own religion.’
Certainty, said the doctor in Makepeace’s mind. Ah. Yes, perhaps.
‘I knew that the Fellmottes were likely to preserve my spirit,’ Symond added quietly. ‘They approved of me. But their favour was slippery, and selfish. I could not be sure of them, and even if they preserved me, I might have found myself serving as their Infiltrator. So I started to make contacts and plans of my own.’
‘Why did the Elders never suspect you?’ Makepeace asked. ‘They can tell when somebody is lying, or hiding something. They never paid much attention to me because I was beneath their notice – but you were the precious heir! You plotted for years and they never guessed. You put a knife in Sir Anthony’s side and he didn’t see it coming. Why not?’
‘Elders do not read our thoughts, though they are happy to let us think they do,’ said Symond. ‘They are very old, that is all. There is an alphabet to people’s faces and manners, and they have had longer to learn it. Everyone gives away their feelings in tiny ways – a glint in the eye, a wobble in the voice, a tremor in the hands.’
‘Then how did you stop them reading your feelings?’ asked Makepeace.
‘Oh, that is quite simple,’ said Symond. ‘I can force myself to stop feeling anything, whenever I choose. I have been learning the trick of it for years. It is not as hard as people seem to think.’
Makepeace nodded slowly, trying to maintain her carefully thoughtful expression. Living people didn’t usually make her skin crawl, but Symond was apparently an exception. She could not help wondering whether the rearrangement of his ‘internal architecture’ might have caused some problems after all.
There was one other question that had been bothering her.
‘Master Symond,’ she said, ‘when you stuck a knife in Sir Anthony . . . how did you escape getting possessed?’
A smile crept back on to his face. Makepeace suspected that he did not particularly like her, but apparently she was just clever enough to interest him.
‘You’re not entirely stupid, are you?’ he said. ‘You are right, two of the ghosts leaped out of his body and tried to do exactly that. One of them got in before I could do anything about it.’ Symond laughed at Makepeace’s appalled expression. ‘Don’t faint. There’s only one spirit in this body now, and it’s mine.’
‘So you do know how to fight Fellmotte ghosts!’ Makepeace’s spirits rose again.
‘In a sense.’ Symond knocked back the rest of his rum. ‘Over time I found ways of protecting myself. Ghosts became my hobby and study. I have been quite the scientist. Do you really want to know how I rid myself of that ghost?’
Makepeace nodded.
‘Then perhaps I shall show you tomorrow. There will be a . . . hunting trip of sorts then. Once the hunt is on, stay close to me.’
‘My lord,’ Makepeace asked carefully, ‘would it not be simpler if you explained it to me?’
‘No,’ said Symond, who now seemed to be enjoying a private joke. ‘I would rather not prepare you. I want to see what you notice, and how you handle it when the time comes. Consider it a test of character.’
Makepeace tried to wrestle her unease. Against the odds she seemed to have an alliance of sorts. She had learned a great deal, and James’s case no longer looked completely hopeless.
However, the exhilarating tingle of power she had felt at the start of the conversation had melted away. Whatever was happening now, she was no longer in control.
He is a detestable villain, said the doctor later, but clever.
Makepeace had brought her conversation with Symond to an end for fear of being missed. She suspected it might hurt her reputation as a saintly prophet if she was found drinking with a man in his bedchamber. Instead, she had retreated to a closet for ‘private meditation’.
I don’t think he noticed any of you, thought Makepeace. I am not sure why.
Lady Morgan appears to be an expert in self-concealment, remarked Quick. Your bear was in one of its dormant phases, in case you had not noticed. The Puritan and myself thought it best to keep a low profile, and remained as still and quiet as possible.
So you and Master Tyler are talking to each other now?
Makepeace could not suppress a very small smile.
No more than we can help. The doctor’s tone was sullen. Tyler believes that he is going to Hell.
I think so too. That appears to be the only thing we can agree upon. However, last night while you slept we reached a practical understanding of sorts.
Do you intend to tell Symond Fellmotte about us? In particular, are you planning to tell him that an angry Fellmotte spymistress was listening to your entire conversation with him?
No, Makepeace answered firmly. He might be useful as an ally, but I don’t trust him. I’d sooner thrust my hand in a bucket of vipers.
Then why are we here? asked the doctor.
Because I don’t have a bucket of vipers that can help me save James, answered Makepeace with a sigh.
Speaking of vipers, Lady Morgan still appears to be lying low, commented the doctor. It’s only a matter of time before she attempts something, however.
You’re right, Makepeace replied silently. We have one thing in our favour, though. Lady Spymistress Morgan is an idiot.
The lady may well be listening to us, remarked the doctor cautiously.
I hope she is! Makepeace answered. Only an idiot would be scrabbling to get back to serving a gaggle of evil old greybeards who don’t care whether she gets worn down to the nub! What if they had decided to recruit Symond’s ghost to their coterie? Who would they have pushed out to make room for him?
If Morgan was listening, she did not respond.
In any case, continued the doctor, with an air of suppressed excitement, I believe that your new ally is right about something very important. His theory would explain an oddity I have noticed.
We passenger-ghosts are plunged into darkness whenever you close your eyes. I thought at first that this was because we used your eyes to see the world. But if your Bear does see through your eyes – your human eyes – then why is he able to see in the dark like a beast?
So ghosts are mysterious and unnatural, and break God’s laws, Makepeace answered, confused and a little impatient. You can’t make sense of some things. You might as well ask how witches fly.
Oh, come now! snapped the doctor. Our existence may be the stuff of waking nightmares, but there will be rules to it. I believe Symond Fellmotte has unravelled the truth. The key is expectation. Belief.
I think ghosts can see without using their living host’s eyes. However, we are used to the bodies we once had. Your bear believes that he can only see through eyes that are open. However, he also expects to be able to see in the dark.
If I am right, then that explains why there are so few ghosts. Dead souls only become ghosts if they expect to do so.
Bear never expected it! Makepeace frowned in thought. But . . . he was very angry when he died. In fact, I’m not sure he noticed he had died.
So his spirit lingered, said the doctor, sounding pleased. Then there are those who die in desperation and doubt, thinking their souls lost, like your Puritan friend, and the favoured Fellmottes, who die knowing that their ghosts will have a new home . . .
And you, said Makepeace, feeling her spirits sink guiltily. You expected to become a ghost because I told you that you could.
Never mind that, said the doctor briskly but firmly. The Fellmotte ghosts survive from century to century, triumphing over the spirits of their hosts, because they utterly believe in their right and ability to do so. Their certainty and mad arrogance is their strength.
If you want to weaken their spirits, find a way to shatter that certainty. Break their faith. Make them doubt.
CHAPTER 32
The next morning, Symond completely ignored Makepeace, which was only sensible. It was best that nobody suspect a connection between them, lest they also notice that both had the same faint cleft in their chin.
It did, however, mean that she was left no closer to knowing what Symond had meant by a ‘hunt’. In fact, Whitehollow seemed to be preparing for a rather different sort of gathering.
The ballroom was cleaned, its windows polished, and tables and chairs set out as if for a party. On pewter plates a small spread was laid out – tongue, veal, partridge pie, bread and cheese. It was nothing compared to the magnificent banquets at Grizehayes, but fine enough to suggest that guests of quality were expected.
‘What’s going on?’ Makepeace asked a private who was putting candles back into candlesticks in the ballroom. Such extravagance suggested an important event.
‘It’s a wedding, Mistress Lott,’ he said politely. ‘The general’s nephew’s marrying the daughter of a member of Parliament. They’ll be turning up this afternoon – and some of their friends and family too.’
They might decorate the place a little, remarked the doctor morosely. The rafters were bare, and no flowers adorned the room.
Marriage belongs to God, said Livewell matter-of-factly enough, and He doesn’t care about frills and ribbons.
Makepeace was glad to hear Livewell’s voice. He had been quiet for a while. She could not guess what it must have been like to find himself surrounded by soldiers of the army he had abandoned. She worried that he might start tearing himself apart again.
The first visitors to arrive were three black-clad, severe-looking men. To Makepeace’s surprise they gave the sergeant and other officers only the briefest, coolest nod, before stepping aside with Symond, and holding a quiet, earnest conversation with him.
Afterwards Symond maintained his usual air of cool detachment, but Makepeace detected hints of excitement. At one point he caught at her sleeve.
‘Remember – once the hunt starts, stay close to me.’
‘When is the hunt?’ she asked. ‘Is it after the wedding? I can’t find a reason to join it if I don’t know when it is!’
He laughed under his breath.
‘This whole wedding is a hunt of sorts,’ he whispered. ‘The families were planning to hold it back on the general’s estates in a few months . . . but holding it here right now allows them to invite certain guests, who cannot really say no. This –’ he gestured through the door at the wide ballroom – ‘is an opening trap.’
‘A trap?’
‘One of the guests secretly spies for the King,’ Symond explained with visible relish. ‘We have proof of it now, but unfortunately the spy is a member of the gentry. If we knock on their door and ask to arrest them, their household will probably try to spirit them away to safety. That’s why we’ve lured the spy here, far from their servants and reinforcements.’
The conversation left a bad taste in Makepeace’s mouth. Allying with Symond meant nailing her colours to Parliament’s mast for now, but her little time on His Majesty’s secret service left her with a reluctant sympathy for the unsuspecting spy.
After lunch, the damp morning mist thickened into fog, robbing the lawns and outhouses of all detail. The sergeant sent more men down the drive to guide guests to the house, and in the mid-afternoon the wedding party and others arrived.
The general was a grim-jawed man with a well-trimmed beard, and his nephew a slimmer, younger, clean-shaven version of him. The quiet, nervously smiling bride was ushered in by her talkative mother. However, Makepeace barely noticed any of them.
Instead, her attention was drawn by a well-dressed couple who rode in on the same horse, the woman sitting behind the man. The gentleman dismounted and handed down his wife with a courtesy that seemed formal rather than affectionate.
The wife had vivid red hair just visible under her hat, and a long, bold face dotted with black silk patches. It was ‘Helen’, the Royalist spy, adventuress and bullion smuggler.
Makepeace ducked behind a corner before Helen could catch sight of her. From her hiding place she saw Helen’s husband shaking the general’s hand warmly. The two men seemed to be good friends.
What was Helen doing here? For a moment, Makepeace wondered whether Helen had been a Parliamentarian all the time, infiltrating the Royalist spy network as a double agent. But that seemed unlikely. No double agent sent by Parliament would smuggle so much gold to the King.
No, it was far more likely that Helen really was a spy for the King, but posed as a Parliamentarian in her everyday life.
Symond had told Makepeace that he had proof of the identity of a secret Royalist spy. It was a member of the gentry, someone with their own household . . . somebody like Helen.
Makepeace’s heart plummeted. Her camaraderie with Helen had been a sham built from her own lies, but she liked the older woman.
What should Makepeace do now? The safest and most logical option was to stay out of Helen’s sight. If Helen did not know that her erstwhile comrade was at Whitehollow, she could not betray her if caught. Yet Makepeace recoiled from this option.
What else could she do? Even if she was mad enough to try to warn Helen, how could she do it? Helen would be watched, so there would be no chance to whisper in her ear unobserved. There were probably ways in which the King’s spies warned each other of danger, but Makepeace did not know what they were.
And then it occurred to Makepeace that somebody else probably would. She found a quiet corner where she could concentrate, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Lady Morgan, she thought, I need your help. I want to tell Helen that she has walked into a trap. Is there some way I can warn her?
Are you mad? demanded the doctor. If that woman leaves here alive, she will have seen both yourself and Symond! Word will reach the Fellmottes!
I think I am mad, yes! Makepeace answered. I know Helen would never have risked her mission for me . . . but in a pinch I think she would have risked her neck. Oh, I’m not planning to ready a horse for her, or pull out a pistol to protect her. But . . . I want to give her a fighting chance.
The silence rolled on.
Morgan, Makepeace tried one more time, you may be determined to be my enemy. But Helen never hurt you – she’s your comrade. You were a spy too, weren’t you, when you were alive? Can you remember what it was like to live like her?