A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

‘I’ll give them to you tomorrow,’ Makepeace whispered.

  ‘I need to go – the others will be waking soon.’ James gave Makepeace a brief hug, and then hesitated for a moment, staring into her eyes. ‘Makepeace . . . whatever happens, I will come for you. I promise.’ He squeezed her shoulders, then hastened away into the darkness.

  There was no time to lose. Dawn was coming, and Makepeace would not have the kitchen to herself for long. She slipped to the buttery, removed a loose brick and retrieved the wax seal. It was intact, just slightly bleached and crumbly at the edges.

  Makepeace would have liked to glance through the papers, to find out which documents James had snatched up in his haste, but it was nearly dawn. Every time she heard the floorboards creak, she imagined that it was Mistress Gotely hobbling her way to the kitchen.

  She heated a knife against the embers, then used the blade to melt the flat base of the seal. Very carefully, she pressed the seal into place, so that it held the little bundle closed.

  Then, hearing the distant tap, tap, tap of Mistress Gotely’s walking stick, Makepeace hurried to one of the great salting troughs, in which meat was left to dry. Wrapping the bundle in a cloth, Makepeace buried it in the brownish grains of salt, flush with the stone edge of the trough.

  Makepeace’s heart was kicking against her ribs in an agony of hope.

  The next day, the house felt bereft, uncertain.

  As the other servants gossiped, wondered and worried, Makepeace kept herself busy and her face placid. All the while she was thinking to herself: This may be the last time I clean this tankard. Perhaps this is the last time I bring Mistress Gotely her tea. She had not expected these thoughts to give her such a pang. Habits, places and faces grew into you over time, like tree roots burrowing into stonework.

  Makepeace hoped to talk to James again, but fate was against her. Old Crowe the steward had been taken ill overnight, so James had to run extra errands. At last, she managed to intercept him in the courtyard, and thrust a cloth-covered package into his hands. It contained bread, cheese, a thin sliver of rye cake and the concealed papers. James took the package from her, with a look full of meaning.

  As Makepeace had predicted, it was not hard to persuade Mistress Gotely to send her to the fair with money to buy pigs, spices and other household wares.

  Trust was like mould. It accumulated over time in unattended places. Trusting her was convenient; distrusting her would have been inconvenient and tiresome. Over the years, Makepeace had become encrusted with other people’s inattentive trust.

  Nobody seemed to pay attention to Makepeace as she walked across the courtyard, carrying two large, well-padded baskets. And then, as she strolled out through the gate, Young Crowe fell into step with her.

  ‘I hear you’re heading to the fair?’ His manner was deliberately offhand. ‘Always best to have a companion on these country lanes.’

  Makepeace’s blood chilled.

  It was not the first time Young Crowe had shown a protective streak. Ever since she was thirteen, and thus old enough for a certain kind of man to consider her fair game, she had been aware that he was acting as an unlikely guardian. To her shame and discomfort, Makepeace has been glad of the interventions. She knew, however, that this was not due to chivalry or fondness. He was just protecting valuable Fellmotte property. Apparently this was more important than looking after his sick father.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and managed to sound shy rather than dismayed.

  They walked to Palewich fair. With Young Crowe dogging her steps, Makepeace had no choice but to wander the stalls, buying the goods on the old cook’s list. All the while she watched the sundial on the church clock tower.

  Bear never liked throngs, or market noises and smells. Makepeace could feel his unhappiness as pains in her own body and hot, muddled flashes of memory. She recalled being ringed around by mocking, furless, shouting faces, and feeling the sting of maliciously flung stones.

  Nobody will do that to you any more, she told Bear, her own anger rising protectively. Never, never again. I promise.

  As it neared two o’clock, she took a chance, and lost Young Crowe in the crowds. She made her way to the old stocks, and waited, hiding behind an old yew tree.

  Two o’clock became quarter past, became half past two.

  James did not come.

  Perhaps some accident had angered him, and made him ready to run, and now some other incident had put him back in good temper again. He had done well at something, or been praised by one of the militia officers. He had found himself with comrades he liked.

  He was not coming. Makepeace felt something in her chest wrench, and wondered if it was her heart breaking. She waited to see how that would feel. Perhaps hearts broke like eggs, and spilt, and stopped working. But all she felt was numb. Perhaps my heart already broke and never grew back.

  At a quarter to three, Young Crowe found her again. She made excuses, and ate humble pie until the taste of it made her feel sick. He walked her home, rather sullenly.

  Her heart sank as Grizehayes came into view. Here you are again after all, the grey walls seemed to say. Here you are, forever.

  She re-entered the kitchen to find Long Alys eagerly spilling the latest gossip to Mistress Gotely.

  ‘Have you heard? James Winnersh has run away! He left a note, found this morning! He’s run off to join the regiment! Well, we should not be surprised. Everyone knows how disappointed he was when they wouldn’t let him go!’

  Makepeace fought to keep her face mask-like. James had run away after all, but not with her.

  ‘Did he tell you what he was planning?’ Alys asked her, keen-eyed and ruthless. ‘You were always his little friend, weren’t you? I thought he told you everything.’

  ‘No,’ said Makepeace, swallowing down her hurt. ‘He didn’t.’

  He had taken her plan, her wax seal and her help, and then he had ridden out into a new, wide world, leaving her behind.

  CHAPTER 15

  James was at the heart of all the gossip for the next few days. White Crowe was sent after him, and most of the household fancied that he would be brought back soon enough.

  On the fourth day, however, it became clear that something was badly amiss. Young Crowe and other servants could be seen running this way and that, searching the house and carrying letters. Then, while Makepeace and Mistress Gotely were preparing dinner, the kitchen door was flung open.

  Makepeace looked up in time to see Young Crowe march into the kitchen, with none of his usual smug nonchalance. To her bewilderment he strode straight up to her and grabbed hold of her arm with startling force.

  ‘What in the world—’ began Mistress Gotely.

  ‘Lord Fellmotte wants to see her,’ he snapped, ‘right now.’

  As she was dragged out of the kitchen, Makepeace tried to gather her ragged thoughts and keep her balance. Somehow she had been caught out. Lord Fellmotte suspected something, and she did not even know what.

  Young Crowe would explain nothing as he dragged Makepeace up the main stairs and into the study that was used by Lord Fellmotte.

  Lord Fellmotte sat waiting for her, and never had his stillness looked less serene. As she walked in, he turned his head to watch her approach. Not for the first time, Makepeace wondered which of the ghosts within him had moved his head, and how they decided such things. Did they vote? Had they all taken on different tasks? Or had they worked together for so many lifetimes that they were used to acting as one?

  Lord Fellmotte was not a man. He was an ancient committee. A parliament of deathly rooks in a dying tree.

  ‘I found her,’ declared Young Crowe, for all the world as if Makepeace had been hiding.

  ‘You ungrateful little wretch,’ said Lord Fellmotte in a voice as slow and cold as frost. ‘Where is it?’

  Where was what? Surely he could not mean the wax seal? She had stolen it months before.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord.’ She kept her eyes lowered. ‘I don’t know what . .
.’ From under her lashes she saw him stand up and draw closer. Her skin crawled at the proximity.

  ‘No lies!’ rapped Lord Fellmotte, so loudly and suddenly that Makepeace jumped. ‘James Winnersh recruited your help. You will tell us all about it. Now.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘You have always been his favourite accomplice, his obedient dog. Who else would he turn to if he was planning something desperate?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was planning to run away!’ Makepeace said quickly, and then remembered too late that Elders knew when you were lying. She had known that he was planning to run, just not the way he would do so.

  ‘We have been kind to you here, girl,’ snapped Lord Fellmotte. ‘We do not need to remain so. Tell us the truth. Tell us about the sleeping draught you made at his request.’

  ‘What?’ The unexpected question took the wind out of Makepeace’s sails. ‘No! I made no such thing!’

  ‘Of course you did,’ Lord Fellmotte said coldly. ‘Nobody else in the house apart from Mistress Gotely could have done so. In fact, you are lucky that this was not a matter of murder. The steward is an old man, and that draught laid him perilously low. It might easily have stopped his heart!’

  ‘The steward? Old Master Crowe?’ Makepeace was now completely bewildered.

  ‘James brought my father a cup of ale the night before the regiment left,’ said Young Crowe coolly. ‘He was insensible within an hour. He could still barely stand next morning, and is weak even now—’

  ‘We know why he was drugged,’ Lord Fellmotte continued relentlessly. ‘We know that James stole his keys, so that he could raid the muniments room, then put the keys back afterwards. Where is it, girl! Did James take it with him? Where is our charter?’

  Makepeace stared at them open-mouthed. She only knew of one charter, the mysterious document from King Charles himself, giving permission for the Fellmotte family traditions.

  ‘I know nothing of this!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why would James steal a charter? I never made him a sleeping draught – and if I had, I would make it well enough not to risk drugging some poor soul into the hereafter!’

  There was a long silence, and Makepeace was aware that Lord Fellmotte was walking around her, studying her closely.

  ‘You may be telling the truth about the sleeping draught,’ he said very softly, ‘but you are hiding something.’

  Makepeace swallowed. The bundle of papers James had asked her to disguise and hide had been large – possibly large enough to hide a charter inside. Makepeace tugged at her memory of their last conversation as if it were a piece of knitting, finding the loose places, the dropped loops of not-quite-rightness. At the time she had thought that James seemed angry and indecisive. Now she could see that his manner had been odd and evasive.

  Why, James? And why did you leave me here to take the blame?

  ‘Well?’ asked Lord Fellmotte.

  If Makepeace wanted to buy some mercy from the Fellmottes, now was the time to tell them everything she knew. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord – I know nothing,’ she said.

  Lord Fellmotte drew himself up angrily, but Makepeace never found out what her sentence would have been. At that exact moment, there came a respectful but rapid tap at the door.

  His lordship’s expressions were as ever hard to read, but Makepeace thought she saw a flicker of annoyance.

  ‘Enter!’

  Old Crowe came in, stooped lower than usual, evidently aware that he was intruding.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord – you said that if my brother returned you were to be notified immediately . . .’

  Lord Fellmotte frowned, and was silent for a few seconds. Makepeace imagined the ghosts hissing and conferring within the shadows of his skull.

  ‘Send him in,’ he said curtly.

  There was a pause, and White Crowe entered, still wearing his riding boots, his white hair starred with rain. His hat was in his hand, but he looked as though he wished he had more hats to take off. His face was sweaty and haggard, as if he had travelled far and slept little, and his eyes were very, very frightened.

  ‘My lord . . .’ he said, and then trailed off, his head bowed.

  ‘Have you found the Winnersh boy?’

  ‘I traced him, my lord. He really had caught up with our regiment and joined it.’

  ‘Then I assume you bring a message from Sir Anthony?’ Lord Fellmotte asked briskly. ‘Does he send word of the regiment?’

  ‘My lord . . . I . . . I do bring news of the regiment.’ White Crowe swallowed. ‘Our men joined with the other troops and headed for Hangerdon Bridge, as planned . . . but we encountered the enemy before we could take it, my lord. There was a battle.’

  Makepeace’s heart dropped away. She thought of proud, reckless James charging towards bristling lines of pikes, or dodging musketfire.

  ‘Go on.’ Lord Fellmotte stared at White Crowe stonily.

  ‘It was . . . a terrible battle, my lord, full of confusion and carnage. The fields were still piled high with . . .’ He trailed off again. ‘I am sorry, my lord. Your noble cousin Sir Anthony . . . is now with God’s mercy.’

  ‘Dead?’ The muscles tightened in Lord Fellmotte’s jaw. ‘How did he die? Were things done properly, Crowe? Was Sir Robert on hand and ready?’

  White Crowe was shaking his head. ‘Sir Robert was lost as well. Besides, there was no chance, no time for anything to be done. There was an unexpected . . . reversal.’

  For a moment, emotions flickered across Lord Fellmotte’s features, like firelight across an old, stone wall. There was shock, anger and indignation. There was also something like grief, but it was not the sorrow of a living man. It was the grief of the cliff that remains after a landslide.

  ‘And my son?’

  White Crowe opened his mouth, and his voice caught in his throat. He darted a nervous glance at Makepeace, evidently reluctant to speak before her.

  ‘Out with it!’ shouted Lord Fellmotte. ‘Does Symond live?’

  ‘We have every reason to believe so, my lord.’ White Crowe closed his eyes and exhaled for a brief moment, as if steadying himself. ‘My lord . . . nobody knows where he is. This letter was found bearing his seal. It is addressed to you.’

  Makepeace dug her fingernails into her hands. What about James? she wanted to scream. Is he alive?

  Lord Fellmotte took the letter, broke the seal, and read. Little convulsions trembled through his features. His hand began to shake.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice low, ‘of the battle. What did my son do? Tell me the truth!’

  ‘Forgive me!’ White Crowe stared at his feet for a few seconds, then raised his gaze. ‘Our regiment started with the rest of the foot, in a line of companies along the ridge of Hangerdon Hill, each with its own commander. And after the first charge our men were placed a good way forward – too far for shouting – so all eyes were on Sir Anthony. He would point his horse in the direction they were to advance.

  ‘But while they were still waiting for orders, Sir Anthony was seen slumping, and sliding off his horse. Master Symond, who was right next to him and supporting him, called out that a musketball had taken Sir Anthony under the ribs. But as he took your cousin’s weight, the horses seemed to jostle each other, and Sir Anthony’s horse came forward a little on to high ground. And our men, who were already a good distance forward, took it for a signal. They charged – not with the rest of the army, but away at an angle – towards a heavy mass of the enemy.

  ‘Master Symond handed Sir Anthony down to his followers, and shouted that he was taking control of the regiment. He said that he would ride down and get the men to pull back – and ordered Sir Robert to come with him . . .’ White Crowe hesitated again. ‘But he did not pull them back, my lord. When he reached the front, he led them right into the teeth of the enemy.’

  What happened to James?

  ‘Go on.’ Lord Fellmotte’s teeth were clenched now, his face blotched, one hand gripping the other. />
  ‘It was only common soldiers that said so,’ White Crowe continued unwillingly, ‘but they claimed that Master Symond was last seen pulling his colours from his hat, and riding away cross country.’

  ‘Was Sir Anthony truly struck by a musketball?’ asked Lord Fellmotte, his voice husky and unrecognizable.

  ‘No, my lord,’ said White Crowe very quietly. ‘He was run through with a long blade.’

  Makepeace’s jaw dropped as she understood. She had been so busy worrying about James, she had failed to see where the explanation was heading. But . . . that’s impossible! Symond has always worked so hard to be the golden boy, the family’s darling! Why would he throw it all away now?

  ‘My son . . .’ Lord Fellmotte swallowed with difficulty. ‘My son has betrayed us – betrayed everything. He has the charter! He dares to threaten us with . . .’ He stopped, and gave a slow, shuddering sigh. One corner of his mouth was drooping, and his eyes were glassy.

  ‘His lordship is taken ill!’ Makepeace could no longer hold her silence. ‘Call the physician!’ Next moment she remembered that his physician and the local barber-surgeon had left with the regiment. ‘Call somebody! Fetch a cup of good brandy!’

  As White Crowe ran to sound the alarm, Makepeace hurried to the side of Lord Fellmotte, to stop him falling from his chair.

  ‘My son,’ said Lord Fellmotte, very softly. Just for a moment, the expression of his eyes reminded Makepeace of Sir Thomas before his Inheritance. His tone was one of numb surprise and deep sadness, as if Symond had just run him through.

  PART THREE: MAUD

  CHAPTER 16

  Ten minutes later, a small murder of Crowes were gathered around Lord Fellmotte. White Crowe, Young Crowe and Old Crowe the steward all stared at the lolling form of their master, as if the moon had fallen and broken at their feet. A goblet of brandy had been brought from the kitchen, and Makepeace held it to the invalid’s lips.

  ‘My lord – my lord, can you hear me?’ Old Crowe peered into his master’s face. ‘Oh, this is bad. This is most perilous bad.’