Dark Angels

“Be careful!” Nest screamed. “Mind the fire!” In the centre of the room, waist-high flames licked the sides of the huge black cooking pot where broth for the garrison was briskly boiling. “Quick, someone — catch her!”

But how could she be caught? No one wanted to touch her. The kitchen cats streaked for the door. Tall, fierce Bronwen the kitchen maid rushed out of the scullery with a pail of water and threw it wildly over everything. Round-faced Gwenny shrieked and shrieked.

“Catch the elf!”

The child leaped at a dresser and tipped over a basketful of eggs. A row of frying pans full of sizzling hot fat capsized into the fire. Furious yellow flames crackled up. Chopping boards, bowls and trays of loaves went flying.

“By all the devils in Hell!” Scarlet-faced and terrible, Herbert the cook revolved yelling in the midst of the chaos. He plucked a huge iron ladle from a rack and waved it in the air. “Get out of my kitchen!”

The boy pushed past Nest and launched himself at the child, seizing her shoulder. She turned, clawing like a wildcat. Together they crashed to the floor and disappeared under a pile of bodies as Rollo, Bernard and the others hurled themselves on top. “She’ll be squashed! Don’t hurt her!” Nest screamed, dancing from foot to foot in anguish.

Herbert waded into the scrum, eyes popping with fury. “Out, the whole boiling lot of you, before I cut every one of you to collops!” He whirled the ladle and began indiscriminately whacking exposed heads, arms and elbows. Geraint yelled and staggered away clutching his head. Rollo and Bernard scrambled up, cursing.

Herbert caught the boy by the scruff and the seat, and tossed him aside.

“By Saint Laurence roasting on his griddle! Half a dozen of you, and you can’t catch one little brat with less meat on her bones than a picked goose the day after Michaelmas?” He advanced on the child, swinging his ladle. “Don’t move, you. Not so much as an eyeball!” She froze, staring at him in terror. Herbert snapped his fingers. He seized a piece of bread and threw it to her. “Here! Sink your little teeth into that and stop wrecking my kitchen.”

The child flinched from the missile as if it was a stone, but she watched it fall and darted towards it on all fours. She sniffed it. Finally she grabbed it. With a suspicious glance at the staring crowd, she turned her back, pressed herself close to the wall, and crammed the bread into her mouth with spidery fingers.

“Why, the child’s starving!” Bronwen exclaimed.

“That’s no child — it’s one of the Fair Family!” shouted Geraint.

“That’s right! It’s an elf! Lord Hugo found it on the hill!”

“Silence!” Herbert roared. He scowled around the room, scratching the back of his thick neck, lingering on the spillages, the breakages, the smashed and dripping eggs. The kitchen servants quailed. Even the men-at-arms avoided his eye. “Right!” he bellowed, “I don’t care if it’s an elf, or a beggar’s brat, or an imp out of Hell, I want to know which of you ignorant, flea-bitten fools let it loose in my—” For the first time, he noticed Nest standing in the doorway. Crimson veins popped out on his forehead.

“Madam!” In a gesture of angry duty he snatched off his cook’s cap, wiped his glistening face with the back of a hairy wrist, and glared at her. What are you doing here? his face plainly said. How dare you see me lose control of my own kitchen!

Nest stood flushing, the focus of all eyes. The men pulled off their caps, while Gwenny and Bronwen bobbed curtsies. And the boy, Wolf, gave her an astounded, furious glance — as though she had deliberately made a fool of him. Nest tried to carry it off. She lifted her chin. “W-well done, Herbert.”

Three loud handclaps sounded behind her. “Well done, indeed!” Nest spun around and saw her father. He gave her a sharp, hard look, and she began to stammer excuses. But he ignored them and said laughing to Herbert, “If only you had been with me in the Holy Land, Herbert. You would have been more use to me than a whole troop of knights. Can you salvage our supper?”

Herbert’s face darkened to quivering purple as he choked down his temper. At the same time, Nest saw his meaty chest heave with pride at Lord Hugo’s praise. In an unnaturally mild, piping voice he said, “Certainly, my lord — if only I can get these people out of my way.” He glowered at the intruding men-at-arms. “But supper may be late.”

“No matter,” Lord Hugo drawled. “Clear up here, and then we’ll eat.”

Under Herbert’s gimlet eye, the kitchen staff began very obviously to bustle about. Bronwen clapped her hands at Roger and Bernard, Geraint and Rollo, shooing them out of the door. Plump Gwenny found a brush and shovel. She got down on her knees and started sweeping up broken crocks. And over by the wall, the strange child gnawed the remains of her bread. Nest picked up another piece and slipped closer.

Absorbed by her food, the child didn’t react until Nest was right beside her. How thin she was! As she wrenched at the bread, her shoulder blades were snap-sharp under the skin. Nest held the bread out. “Hello…”

The child’s eyes flashed up. In the light, they shone a beautiful light green, like clear glass. Nest caught her breath. But she’s pretty! In spite of the dirt, in spite of the dark red birthmark and the matted, tangled hair, this strange child was pretty.

A hand jerked Nest away. She stumbled against her father. He let go, and indignantly she rubbed her arm. “Too close, Agnes,” he said, fierce and low. “What are you doing here? You’re not to go anywhere near the creature, do you understand? Keep away from her.”

“But she’s just a child,” Nest began.

The child hissed. Her lips drew back over sharp, white teeth. Nest threw the bread, and stepped back.

“An elf-child,” corrected her father. “Look at her face. Look at those nails — they’re like claws. She came out of the mines on Devil’s Edge. The boy here found her.”

A little shudder ran down Nest’s spine. An elf-girl in their own castle — a fairy child from the underworld come to live at La Motte Rouge! She clenched her fingers in excitement, trying to think what she knew about elves. Some kind of lost spirits, weren’t they, midway between Heaven and Hell, doomed to pass away forever at the Day of Judgement? Maybe this one can be saved. Maybe that’s what I’ve got to do. Tame her and teach her and save her! She saw the child transformed: clean, clothed and happy. The first step would be to choose her a name. I’ll be her godmother. I’ll call her—

“Elfgift,” said the boy, interrupting her thoughts. He cleared his throat and looked at her father. “I thought we could call her Elfgift. It’s an English name,” he added, colouring. “It means—”

“I know what it means,” said Hugo. “Well, why not? It’s too late to do anything with her tonight, but tomorrow,” he added grimly, “we’ll find out whether she can speak and tell us a different name.” He raised his voice. “Bronwen, make sure that this gift of the elves is washed and clothed, and then lock her up somewhere safe for the night.”

Bronwen grimaced. She flung back her head and squared her strong shoulders. “I’ll try, lord — if Gwenny can help me. We can shut her up in one of the stables — if my lord really wants to keep her.” A question lilted in her voice, but Hugo ignored it.

“I want to help, too,” said Nest.

“You will not,” said her father.

“Oh, but—” Nest looked into his hard face and cast her eyes down. Arguing would be useless. And Bronwen clapped both hands over a shocked snort. “God’s mercy, madam! Not you! That won’t be a job fit for Lady Agnes.”

Was Bronwen laughing at her? Something inside Nest crinkled up with shame and resentment. Her father was treating her like a child. And Bronwen, Bronwen with her mane of black hair, as strong as a mountain pony, as brown as a berry, clearly thought Nest too weak and timid to be useful. Bronwen was only a kitchen maid, and it was stupid to care what she thought… but Nest did care. She cared a lot.

And that Wolf boy was grinning.

Him!

She already didn’t like him. Now she liked him even less. Anger crackled inside her like a newly lit fire. Why was it funny? Why did being Lady Agnes mean that she was never allowed to do anything? At least, at least her father should answer one last question. She would make him. Swinging round, she dipped him a stiff, challenging curtsy, and said very loudly and clearly, “But what do you mean to do with the child, my lord?”

Anger darkened Hugo’s face, but he hesitated. For a moment, triumphant, she thought she’d won. He could not refuse to answer her in front of the servants. The kitchen fell quiet. Herbert’s small eyes narrowed to the size of currants. Bronwen’s eyes widened. Gwenny gaped at Lord Hugo, slack-mouthed and expectant. What did Lord Hugo want the elf-girl for?

“Lady Agnes! Madam! Oh, my Lady Agnes!” Angharad scuttled into the kitchen like a plump, flustered hen. “You naughty, naughty girl!” she scolded Nest, and turned to Lord Hugo. “Don’t think I haven’t taught her better than this, my lord, because I have. Running off into the night and romping in the kitchen? My goodness. Now you come back with me this minute and behave like a lady.”

Nest gulped down a great lump of anger and pride. Silently she curtsied again to her father. I won’t make a scene. I won’t make a fuss!

The moment was over. Herbert turned to shout at a couple of dogs that had sneaked in to lick up the smashed eggs. And the boy, Wolf, caught her eye for a fleeting second and looked quickly away. His mouth twitched — as if he was trying not to laugh. Nest hated him. She held her head high and let her gaze sweep coldly past.

Then Angharad gripped her by the arm like a prisoner and towed her away.

C H A P T E R 4 (#ulink_7cdd5bf7-977f-52ed-9d09-d4c8668681c8)

Wolf woke from a dream of riding in a wild cavalcade that went sweeping through dark skies over the reeling countryside, while he looked down in terror on hills which lay huddled together like hogs in a pen.

He opened his eyes, not in relief, but with a feeling of guilt and restlessness.

He was lying on a pallet not far from the fire. The floor was warm from the glow of the heaped embers. There was a smell of soft smoke and green rushes. Somewhere nearby, a mouse squeaked as a cat pounced on it. Around him, Lord Hugo’s household lay snoring, coddled in cloaks on their straw mattresses.

Wolf’s back was sore. He rolled on to his side. It must be about the second hour after midnight, he thought. At the abbey right now, shivering boys were dragging each other out of bed, splashing icy water on their hands and faces, and stumbling down draughty stone steps to the chancel for the fourteen psalms and lengthy readings of the Night Office.

He drew his knees up and snuggled the blanket to his chin, trying to enjoy the warmth. He wasn’t at the abbey any more. He could sleep as long as he liked and not get up till morning… But sleep would not return. He itched, twitched, tossed, scratched and at last sat up, pushing the blanket aside.

The Hall was a vast shell of space enclosing warm air and shadows. He tipped back his head and stared up at the vaulting rafters, and the dim paintings on the plaster walls: bands of chequers and rosettes, and between each shuttered window a great fierce animal: a leopard, a griffon, or a lion. The High Table at the end of the room was a dark cave under its silken canopy. Behind it the stairs climbed to the solar — the private chamber of Lord Hugo and his heiress, the Lady Agnes.

Wolf sat mulling gloomily over the past hours.