Ghost Knight

by Cornelia Funke

  Ella brushed back her hair. She always does that when she’s self-conscious, though back then I didn’t know that yet.

  “Yes, that’s what my mother told me about her. She named me after your wife.”

  Longspee scrutinized Ella’s face as if, despite all the differences, it made him see the face of another.

  Then he looked at me again. “I wonder how long I have slept this time. Time passes slowly when you fear hell and don’t yet deserve heaven.” He ran his hands along the hilt of his sword. I briefly thought I could see blood on his hands and his clothes. But as he turned, those stains were washed away by the moonlight.

  “And what help do you desire from a dead knight, Jon?”

  As I told Longspee about Stourton and his servants, the whole cathedral seemed to be listening, all the saints and all the dead sleeping in their tombs. Longspee listened with an impassive face, as though he really was the stone effigy brought to life. A few times Ella filled in some gaps, but eventually we both fell silent. Longspee looked up at the windows as if he could see my pursuers standing outside under the stars.

  “I know those kinds of men,” he finally said. “They are poison, on either side of death. Which is not to say that I myself did not fight for them in my lifetime.” As he looked down the row of columns, it seemed as if he could see a memory from his life behind each one. “There are four? And they only come to you by night?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve only seen four, but I know Stourton was buried with another servant. They say they will hunt me until I am dead. Ella’s grandmother says they can’t hurt me, but…” My voice faltered.

  Longspee looked at me. Then he took off his left glove.

  “Hold out your hand, Jon Whitcroft,” he said.

  I did.

  Shimmering on Longspee’s middle finger was the ghostly pale image of a ring. The coat of arms on it was hazy, again like a faded photograph. But when Longspee pressed the ring into the palm of my hand, it burned like ice and left the imprint of a lion on my skin.

  “The next time you see Stourton,” said Longspee, “close your fist over my crest, and I will be there.”

  Then he stepped back and disappeared. It was as if the cathedral had taken a deep breath and made him part of itself again. Even the moonlight vanished, as if Longspee had taken it with him. Ella and I stood there and looked at each other. We could hardly see each other in the darkness, but it didn’t matter. I could still see Ella’s broad smile. And she, of course, found exactly the right words.

  “There you go!” she whispered.

  We went to sleep right next to William’s sarcophagus. As I was drifting off, I thought I could see a Gray Lady walk down the central aisle of the cathedral. But maybe I was already dreaming. Stourton did not show up that night. That’s all I know. And I felt as safe next to the stone coffin as if I were back at home, in my orphaned bed.

  NOT SUCH A BAD AFTERNOON

  A priest found Ella and me the next morning. I had slept well for the first time in days, and the lion mark on my hand proved that Longspee hadn’t been just a dream. When I got back to school and Mrs. Cunningham, looking very aggrieved, asked me about my disappearance, I muttered a few touching sentences about my mother’s horrid new boyfriend and that I’d hoped saying a few prayers in the cathedral might make him disappear. (I know, I should’ve been struck down by a thunderbolt from the tower, but the heavens probably have some compassion for jealous sons.) I apologized a dozen times to Mrs. Cunningham and to the Popplewells, who had been out most of the night searching for me. I swore a most holy oath never again to climb through the bathroom window during homework period.

  When you’re eleven, you know exactly what adults want to hear, and I do admit I was proud that my story was accepted with a pat on the shoulder (from the headmaster) and two tearful embraces (one each from Mrs. Cunningham and Alma Popplewell). The truth probably wouldn’t have had anywhere near the same effect. A kid who tried to drive off his mother’s lover through prayer is much less disconcerting than the appearance of a dead knight.

  Happily, my only punishment was an essay about the importance of rules and their observance, as well as detention for the rest of the weekend, to be spent under the supervision of the Popplewells. Ella was not at all happy when she heard about it. After all, she wanted to be there when Longspee sent Stourton to hell. She’d already convinced Zelda to let both of us sleep in her house, in the hope that my pursuers might turn up there. And now my detention had ruined her beautiful plan.

  Ella hadn’t gotten detention. Zelda had accepted her story that she’d found me in the cathedral in such a pitiful state and that she’d spent hours trying to calm me, during which time we’d gotten ourselves locked in…. Yes, I know, Zelda can be quite gullible.

  Ella hadn’t told her about Longspee.

  “Why?” she repeated when I asked her about it. “Zelda would only want to meet him, and then she’d ask him all these questions about his life and his wife. She can be really embarrassing!”

  Both Stu and Angus had gone home to their families for the weekend, so I spent the entire Saturday alone in our deserted room, staring at the mark on my hand and not knowing whether to anticipate or fear the coming evening.

  Ella came to visit around four o’clock. She was still angry about my detention.

  “Well, thanks a lot!” she said as we sat on the garden wall down by the river, feeding the ducks dry toast. It was a sunny day, which made for a nice change after all the recent rain. “So you get to have all the fun.”

  “Fun?” I asked. “Define fun. Longspee still has to deal with a bunch of ghosts. The next time you see me, I may be just as dead as he is.”

  Ella responded with one of her Jon Whitcroft, how stupid do you think I am? looks. And I admit I was actually feeling quite optimistic about William Longspee’s qualities as a protector.

  “I still need a good story about vanishing yesterday,” I said, trying to change the subject. “The one about praying in the cathedral was great for the grown-ups, but if that story gets around the school, my reputation’s going to be ruined for months.”

  “Easy,” said Ella as she unwrapped the rolls Zelda had given her. (Her grandmother had stuck little onion-eyes on them, to make them look like toads.) “Tell them the truth. Just leave out the bit about Longspee. Say that I told you about the cupboard behind the door and that we never noticed the cathedral being locked up. You can tell them we kissed. Don’t boys like to hear that stuff?”

  I turned as red as the ketchup Zelda had put on the rolls. I could only mutter that nobody would believe that story.

  “Of course they’ll believe it,” Ella said. “Boys are so stupid. With some exceptions,” she added graciously.

  We sat on the wall, looked at the river, and ate Zelda’s toad-rolls in silence. Ella probably believed I was thinking about Stourton and Longspee, but I was picturing Stu’s face when I’d tell him that I kissed Ella Littlejohn.

  A few boys were playing football in the park on the other side of the river. Two swans drifted past, and an old man on a bench was sharing his ice-cream cone with his very fat dog. It wasn’t a bad afternoon, and I remember thinking that Salisbury might not be such a bad place after all.

  I touched the lion mark on my hand. The skin there still felt as if it were frozen.

  “Ella?” I asked. “You believe that he will actually come, right?”

  Ella licked some ketchup from her fingers.

  “ ’Course!” she said.

  ’Course.

  I brushed an ant from my jeans.

  “Longspee’s wife… the other Ella… what do you know about her?”

  “Quite a lot.” Ella turned her face to the sun. “My mother is obsessed with her.” She changed her voice: “Ella, just imagine. She was the first female sheriff of Wiltshire! She was present when the Magna Carta was signed!”

  The wind blew her dark hair into her face.

  “Lionheart married her to Longs
pee when she was very young. Mum says they were very happy, even though he was much older than she was. And they had eight children. But then William Longspee’s ship sank, and they wanted her to marry again, because Ella was the Countess of Salisbury. She said, ‘No, William is not dead. You’ll see. He’ll come back.’ And she was right. But when he finally returned, he died very quickly. So Ella took his heart and buried it in Lacock, and she did the same later with her son’s heart. And then she became a nun.”

  The sun disappeared behind the trees. Shivering, I turned up the collar of my jacket. The garden behind us filled with shadows.

  “Well, no wonder he looks so miserable,” I muttered.

  Ella gently brushed a wasp off her knee. “Zelda says all ghosts have sad stories that they just cannot bring to an end.”

  The old man got up and left with his dog. The swans drifted away, and the boys who’d been playing football were gone too. For a moment Ella and I seemed to be the only people in the world.

  “I have to go,” Ella said. “The doctor said I have to make sure Zelda doesn’t hobble around too much. As if she listens to me!” She put her hand on my arm. “Stay away from open windows!”

  I didn’t really think a closed window would stop a ghost, but I nodded.

  “Call me,” she said. “Here, this is Zelda’s number, and this is my parents’. They’re coming home tomorrow.” This time she wasn’t writing on my arm but on a piece of paper. She put it in my hand and slid off the wall.

  “Jon…”

  Suddenly her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  I put the paper in my pocket.

  “What?” I turned around.

  Two huge dogs were standing between Alma Popplewell’s rose beds. The Popplewells didn’t have a dog, let alone two that were as black as a hole in the night.

  Ella bit her lip. It was the first time I ever saw her afraid.

  “I hate dogs!” she whispered.

  I didn’t think those two beasts looked like real dogs, but I kept that thought to myself. Their fur stood on end like that of real dogs, but real dogs didn’t have red eyes, nor were they usually as big as calves. Whatever they were, they now bared their fangs as if they’d heard what Ella had just said.

  In Kilmington they claim that Stourton has a pack of black demon hounds that chase his victims to death.

  If I remembered Zelda’s story, so would Ella. What can we do? I looked around wildly, and without really thinking, I grabbed two logs of the firewood Edward Popplewell had stacked by the garden wall. “Here!” I whispered, thrusting one of the logs at Ella. “My grandpa has a nasty shepherd dog. When they attack, we’ll ram the wood into their mouths.”

  Ella gave me a terrified look, but she still took the log. I could see she’d also realized that we were dealing with more than just a pair of normal stray dogs.

  “What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Call Longspee!”

  The dogs uttered a growl that made us start. Black fog rose from the ground where they were standing. It drifted through the garden in dirty shrouds, and it grew ever denser—until everything disappeared in it: the trees, the house, and the garden wall. All of Salisbury dissolved into darkness, and out of the shadows came the horses I already knew so well. They had all come: Lord Stourton and his four murderous servants, on the hunt for another Hartgill. Three came from the left; the fourth came with his master from where, just moments before, I could have seen the Popplewells’ house.

  “Jon!” Ella hissed. “What are you waiting for?”

  Yes, what? Five, I heard a whisper inside my head. Five. What was one man going to do against five murderers? But I still closed my fist over the lion mark. The hounds were panting and looking up at their master, as if begging him for the order to attack.

  William Longspee. Please, help me.

  He appeared as soon as my fingers pressed down on the mark. His chain mail shimmered brightly and seemed to flood the darkness with light. The ghost horses shied back, and the hounds crouched down on the grass. Longspee drew his sword and positioned himself between us and the horsemen.

  “And what have we here? Five murderers.” He spoke without raising his voice. “Have you run out of game so that you have to hunt children?”

  The pale horses snorted, and the darkness closed in around them like poisonous smoke.

  “Get out of our way.” Stourton’s voice sounded hoarse, as if the noose that hung from his neck was still choking his throat. “Have you gotten lost in time? The days of the knights were already over when I still had flesh and blood on my bones.”

  “And what about your days?” Longspee replied. “I see they were ended by a silken rope. Not a very honorable death!”

  The black hounds growled, feeling the rage of their master. Stourton bared his teeth as if he were one of them. I felt Ella trembling next to me. I was glad she was standing by my side, and still I wished her far away in Zelda’s house, where the only danger was stumbling over a toad.

  “Ah! Now I know who you are!” Stourton barked. His servants drove their horses to his side. “You are that royal bastard they buried in the cathedral. The Lionheart’s little brother. What are you still doing here? I thought you ascended straight to heaven with that noble soul everybody said you had.”

  “And why are you not in hell yet?” Longspee didn’t take his eyes off Stourton’s servants. “I should have thought the way should be easy enough to find for a murderer like you, who beat his victims after binding their hands. Or did even the devil deny you?”

  Stourton straightened himself in the saddle. His bloodless face glowed like a deadly flower, and the darkness caressed him with its black hands as if he were its lord.

  “I will ride into hell like a king,” he rasped. “But only when there are no more Hartgills walking this earth.”

  He raised a hand that was as bony as Death himself, and when his servants drew their swords, their blades were again dripping with blood. I thought I could hear Alma Popplewell calling my name somewhere in the distance. A world where housemothers and other harmless creatures existed suddenly seemed as far away as the moon. Longspee took a step back. I saw his hand close around the hilt of his sword. There were five. Five against one. I was suddenly so afraid for Longspee that I wanted to jump forward and stand by his side. But Ella held me back.

  “Jon, don’t!” she whispered.

  That very moment Stourton spurred his horse, driving it toward Longspee.

  I screamed as Stourton struck with his sword, but Longspee was quicker. He dodged the blade and rammed his sword into the hanged man’s side. Stourton’s horse reared up as its master fell. He dropped onto the wet grass, and I could see his black heart glowing like a lump of coal behind his ribs. He uttered a hoarse curse as he struggled back to his feet. Blood as ghostly pale as his skin was running down his white clothes. He waved his approaching men away with an angry bark. The darkness gathered around him like a cloak. The black hounds crouched by his side, their fur bristling and their teeth bared.

  William looked back at us. I wasn’t sure what I saw in his face. Was there fear after death? If so, then he showed fear for us.

  Stourton was still staggering, but he picked up his sword from the grass. His servants were waiting behind him.

  “One more time. Get out of my way, you fool!” he hissed at Longspee. “The boy is mine. He belonged to me ever since his Hartgill blood put that noose around my neck.”

  The evening sun warmed my neck, but it belonged to another world. Its rays were smothered by the black fog hanging over the garden.

  “Be gone,” said Longspee in a calm voice. “Be gone and do not return.”

  Stourton replied with a scornful laugh. It sounded like the barking of a dog. His mouth gaped open as if his pale parchment skin had torn.

  “Rip him apart!” he yelled. His dogs immediately jumped at Longspee with bared fangs. The knight hacked off the head of the first one before it could dig its teeth into him. The second hound got ho
ld of his arm, but Longspee rammed his sword into the creature’s back. The beasts dissolved into the filthy fog. Their howls tore through my ears, and before I knew what was happening, Ella had already tackled me to the ground, wrapping her arms protectively around me. Above us, blades connected with a loud clangor. My skin went ice-cold.

  Five against one.

  I saw their blades deflected off Longspee’s chain-mail shirt, piercing his shoulder, cutting into his thigh. I saw blood, wounds that closed again as if the light surrounding Longspee sealed them. Two of Stourton’s servants fell when Longspee rammed his sword into where their hearts had once been. The darkness billowed out of their chests; it briefly took human form and then dissolved amid terrible screams. The knight split open the head of the third servant. It was the hamster face. His body crumbled like ash and was stirred up by a breeze. Stourton’s face was blazing with rage as the dying day found its way back into the garden.

  But Longspee’s breathing was labored. He staggered as the last servant charged at him, and his left arm hung limp at his side.

  I tore free from Ella to help him, but suddenly Stourton was standing over me. I stumbled backward. Ella came to my aid, the log still in her hand. Brave Ella, but what good would a piece of firewood be against an immortal killer? Stourton blew his foul breath into her face, and she fell back onto the grass. I heard myself scream with rage; I felt my fists clenching to strike his cruel visage. But Stourton just sneered at me as he raised his sword.

  That’s it, Jon Whitcroft, I heard myself in my head. How are they going to make sense of your death? That you drowned yourself from too much homesickness? That you cut yourself into slices and choked yourself with black smoke, taking poor Ella Littlejohn with you? I thought I could already feel Stourton’s blade between my ribs. Ella was definitely wrong. Of course he could kill me. He was going to slice us up! But suddenly Stourton’s eyes died like embers extinguished by a cold breeze, and his bony hands dropped his sword. Longspee’s blade thrust out of his chest, its wrought steel as black as soot, and the hanged lord collapsed in front of my feet. Smoke rose from the wound in his chest, and his moans brushed my face like an icy hand, as if he were still trying to take me with him. And then he was gone, and all that was left was an empty shell, like the skin of a molted dragonfly.