Shadow of the Wolf

by Tim Hall

  Her words had become faint. She kept running. Robin watched her become small in the distance, joining Packman’s Furrow, then starting up Lord’s Hill, and he watched her dwindle farther until finally she faded into the gloaming and was gone.

  “Come on come and look quick I’ve got something to show you just wait till you see!”

  Robin was prowling the valley with his bow, shooting at crows. Three days had passed since Marian had blazed through his life, and he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her since. But now here she was near Bel’s Bridge, springing from a copse of ash trees.

  “Come on, quick,” she said again. “You won’t believe it—it’s perfect and it’s all ours—so much better than those woods with the toads. Somewhere they’ll never find us ever ever ever.”

  He knew where she wanted him to go. He looked at the Delbosque manor, lurking there on the hillside. His memory showed him images of men-at-arms and what they had done to Narris Felstone.

  Marian came closer, padding along the riverbank, barefoot. She gleamed in the sunlight: Her tunic and cape were embroidered with gold moons and stars; glass flowers clipped in her hair.

  “Look, I brought you this,” she said. “You proved yourself gallant and brave. This is your reward.” In her outstretched palm was an object wrapped in an oiled cloth. Robin took it and unwrapped it and inside was an arrowhead, made of jade, patterns swirling through the black-green rock.

  “Jade protects a person from fire,” Marian said. “And from drowning, did you know that? This gift seals our friendship, now and forever. Now follow me, we’re going to explore—a place even I haven’t been—it’s probably full of treasure.”

  She could wait no longer. She turned and ran toward the Delbosque manor.

  Robin unstrung his bow and strapped it across his back. He caught up with her.

  “Why do you live in the woods?” she said, as they ran. “Don’t you have a family?”

  Robin thought about his answer; everything he rehearsed in his head sounded wrong. Finally he said simply: “They’re gone.”

  “I thought so,” Marian said. “You and I are the same. My mother died. Father cares more about his stupid lands in Spain than he cares about me. He left again this morning, good riddance, and he took most of my enemies with him. But there are still sentries to avoid, and bandogs big as this, taller than I can jump—watch—and Mistress Bawg is always on the prowl so we have to be quick and silent, like shadows.”

  They climbed Lord’s Hill, the manor walls looming above their heads. And nearer still—close enough to hear the flutter-snap of flags flying on the towers. Marian darted off the main path and headed east, circling the manor. They came to a section of wall that had partially collapsed. An elm tree, growing close, had reached its branches into the gap.

  Marian went to the tree and began to climb. Robin told himself not to follow—this was far enough—turn around now and go back to Summerswood. But it was no good. Marian whispered for him to hurry, and then hissed, “Come on, slow goat, keep up!” and Robin found himself raising his hood and going to the tree and clambering up. Marian was waiting atop the wall, her head moving side to side, watchful as a wildcat.

  “This is our only way in or out,” she whispered. “But it’s near the sacristy, and the coffers, so there are always guards here, no matter when. Look out for the Castellan most of all, Gerad Blunt, you’ll know him from his limp, he’s tough and mean.”

  She slipped over the side, using cracks between the stones and creeping vines to lower herself to the ground. Robin scrambled down after. He tried to concentrate on following Marian and watching for men-at-arms, but he found it difficult not to stare at his surroundings. Within its walls the manor was the size of five villages, or ten, maybe. There were ponds and lawns and walled gardens. There were evergreen bushes clipped into the shape of strange birds. He couldn’t make sense of everything he saw. Standing in a courtyard was a machine, built of wood and iron, that looked like a giant catapult snare. And there were ladders on wheels that ran up into the air and led nowhere.

  Marian must have seen him staring. “This is nothing, what you can see up here. Belowground it’s ten times as big. There are tunnels and dungeons and a labyrinth. Together we’ll explore it all, and learn its secrets.”

  For all its size and grandeur, the manor was far quieter than the village. So far Robin had seen only two people: a man with a long-cart, heading for the main gate; a boy raking something from a path in the distance. Neither of them appeared to notice Robin and Marian as they darted through a covered bower, across a lawn.

  And then the manor became even quieter. They crossed into an area that looked completely deserted. Buildings here stood shuttered and dark. Cobbles gave way to cracked tracks, sprouting grass. The only life here was a jackdaw digging for worms in an old flower bed.

  “The Lost Lands,” Marian said. “It wasn’t always like this. These buildings were full of people, once, when my mother was alive. She had her own maids and servants, and jongleurs and acrobats. When she died they all left. Nobody comes here now—they say it’s haunted. And it is. I’ve seen shades and specters myself. Now, here we are, what do you think of this?” They had arrived at a tower. It had been abandoned, rubble dumped across the entranceway. Timber struts had been wedged against one wall, and it appeared to lean slightly. It looked something like a face: two arrow slits for eyes, a curved buttress for a nose.

  “Look there, see,” Marian said. “A murder hole, where you throw rocks and pour oil on attackers. But now it’s our way in, and all these stones get us halfway up.” She was standing atop the rubble and pointing to the underside of the buttress, where there was an opening.

  Robin went and joined her. He crouched and she clambered onto his shoulders. After several attempts, and a few falls, she managed to haul herself up into the buttress. Her head disappeared and then her stomach and then her feet, swallowed into the darkness above.

  “We did it, it worked!” her muffled voice came back down to Robin. “And it’s not a murder hole at all, it’s for bringing in provisions without opening the door. There’s a basket and a winch, wait, here it comes.”

  A rusted cranking sound and an iron basket descended from the tower. Robin climbed up the chain, hand over hand, his feet against the wall. He pulled himself through the gap. Marian was grinning, her gray-green eyes bright in the gloom.

  “A castle of our own! They’ll never find us here, and if they do they’ll get rocks on their heads. Come on, let’s explore.”

  * * *

  The farther they ventured through the tower, the fiercer Marian’s excitement burned. The chamber on the first floor—where they had come in—had once been a storeroom, it seemed, and was full of crates and boxes and bottles. There was also a cistern, for storing water. Through a barred window sunlight glittered across cobwebs and sparkled on dust. A wooden staircase wound down into the dark. Robin took two tallow candles from his hunting pack and lit them using his strike-a-light. He handed one to Marian and her flame bobbed down into the gloom, the steps creaking faintly beneath her weight.

  At ground level they found a kitchen, of sorts. There was a sink and a hearth and a big brass bath. There was a stack of seasoned firewood.

  “From the outside it looks like a fortress, for soldiers,” Marian said. “But inside it’s more like a house, for normal people. Look, there’s a cauldron for cooking, and knives and spoons. Why would they leave all this behind?”

  They climbed the spiral staircase back up, and up farther, to the top story. Here was a sleeping chamber. At its center stood an open-frame bed, stacked with quilts and furs. There was a second hearth, lined with mosaic tiles. The walls were plastered white and painted with fabulous scenes. One mural showed a figure, half man half stag, being torn asunder by a pack of hounds. Another was of a boy-bird, flying toward the sun, feathers falling from his wings.

  “Icarus,” Marian said. “And Perseus with his winged sandals, see, and that’s the gorgon’s he
ad and Theseus there with the Minotaur and Diana and Actaeon and …” She went from one mural to the other, pulling away cobwebs thick as wool, telling Robin what story was depicted in each. Above one of the paintings were words. When Marian saw these she fell silent, frowning.

  Finally she read: “ ‘Flamenca’s Tower.’ Why does it say that? Flamenca was my mother. But she lived in the main house, with me. What does that mean? And look, these are her books, I recognize these.”

  She had entered a curved antechamber that connected with the main solar. Here was a writing desk beneath another barred window. And there were caskets containing clothes and trinkets and several large manuscripts, bound in wood and leather. Marian went back into the solar carrying one of the books. It was almost as big as she was. She thumped it down and heaved it open. Its gold-leaf letters shone.

  As she turned the pages she grinned. “Pyramus and Thisbe. My favorite! And Orpheus and Eurydice, my favorite favorite!”

  In her excitement she went to the bed and stripped off its quilts to reveal the leather straps beneath. She climbed onto this springy mesh and she began to jump, sending up clouds of dust.

  “A castle,” she was saying as she bounced. “A castle of our own and a fiefdom to rule and books full of stories! Come on, see if you can reach the ceiling—bet you can’t.”

  Robin watched her and he thought: I bet I could. And he was climbing onto the bed and he was bouncing too, his fingers almost, almost touching the ceiling, the two of them jumping and stretching and Marian saying: “I saw that, you smiled, so you can smile, after all!”

  * * *

  From the solar a ladder and trapdoor led into the crown of the tower. Robin and Marian stood up there, looking out. Night had long since fallen. Elsewhere in the manor candles were being extinguished. A lone sentry stood with his lamp above the main gates. A few final prayers were being said and then silence.

  They went back into the tower and crawled into their den. It had been agreed, without it being spoken, that the bed was for bouncing. They made camp instead on the floor, laying out the feather mattress and the furs. Over the top Robin had hung blankets to create a tent, not unlike his shelter in Summerswood. They lay inside on their stomachs, being careful with a storm lamp they had found in the basement, and in that cocoon of flickering light Marian opened one of her mother’s books.

  “First, Heracles and his labors. No, no, even better—Theseus and the Labyrinth, this is my absolute favorite favorite, ready …?”

  Marian read of Theseus and Ariadne and the Minotaur, while Robin listened, enraptured. Next she read of Jupiter and Ares and all the gods of Olympus and of the heroes forced to endure their games. Until this moment Robin had little idea what wonders existed beyond this valley, and now here those wonders were, unfolding, worlds within worlds, and he felt he was soaring above it all, looking down upon glittering golden cities and mystical mountains and magical desert realms.

  Marian read deep into the night, until she was tripping over the words and her head began to make forward nods. She closed the book and extinguished the lamp. But it would be hours yet before they slept. Instead they lay on their backs and whispered in the dark, taking turns to yawn, and they were still whispering when the birds began calling in Summerswood, announcing the arrival of dawn.

  “Look what I found,” Marian said. “Just the thing for you.”

  They were in the storeroom, searching through the chests and the boxes. Scattered around Marian were myriad objects: a candelabra, a brass speaking horn, a checkered game board of some kind.

  Now she was holding up a hunting cloak. It was made of Turkish cloth, thick woven against the cold and the damp of the woods. It was the deep gray color of dusk. Robin shrugged out of his own ragged cloak and pulled on the new one. It slumped off his shoulders and fell farther than his feet, pooling a little on the ground.

  “Perfect,” Marian said. “Time to cast off your wildling disguise. It’s up to me to make you civilized. Robin, look at all this treasure, and it’s all ours!”

  He opened a cedar chest. Inside were mantels and kerchiefs and capes, and buried at the bottom was a book—this one small and unadorned. As soon as he lifted it out Marian was at his side, taking it from his hands. She laid it open and lifted her candle. Her mouth fell open.

  “What is it?” Robin said. “More stories?”

  She turned the stiff, browning leaves. Here and there Robin saw drawings: horned men, feathered women, scaled beasts. Marian licked her lips.

  “It’s … potions,” she said. “It’s … spells and charms and … poisons! This must have been my mother’s too, she knew all about these things. Listen to this: ‘Curse of the Pharaohs. A hedge-witch conjuring, possessed by the ancients. May he who is cursed suffer chill and itch and sores and mental fits, may he lose his wits, his home, his possessions, may he not walk the ground lest his feet become fire, may his humors boil and his vapors congeal …’ It goes on that way for a whole page. Our enemies beware!”

  She continued studying the grimoire, her breath misting in the candlelight. They had slept clean through the daylight hours and now the sun had set and the air was growing cold. Robin went to the basement to collect firewood and carried it to the main chamber. He used his hunting knife to whittle kindling and soon he had a blaze crackling in the hearth.

  A squeaking noise caught his attention. He went to the window. A lumbering figure was approaching the tower. The squeaking noise was their lantern, swinging on its chain.

  “Someone’s coming!”

  Marian darted up the stairs and came quickly to his side.

  “It’s Bawg,” she whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

  Mistress Bawg was an enormous woman, her breasts and stomach wobbling as she walked. Her lantern squeaked on its chain. In the other hand swung a wicker basket.

  “Lady Marian,” she called. “I know you’re in there, you may as well show yourself. No reason we shouldn’t be civil. A girl like you, the way you were raised, and no more manners than a scullion. No? Very well then, if you’re still intent on your little game, no harm in it I suppose, while your father’s away. But be warned, Father Titus is on the warpath, it’s been so long since he’s seen you—I hope for your sake all that Latin hasn’t seeped out of that pretty little head. And understand this, once I’m sleeping there’ll be no second chance—you’ll get no hot bath or warm bed—you’ll be on your own till morning. Very well then, I’m going, don’t say I didn’t try. I’ll leave this here, though it’s more than you deserve. There’s enough for your new friend, should you feel like sharing. And now I’m going, good-bye, I’m not standing out here all night in the cold …” She waddled away, leaving the basket sitting on the ground.

  “Leave it,” Marian said. “It’s a trap, trying to lure us out.”

  They went back into the sleeping chamber. Robin charred the end of a stick in the fire and they used it to draw games of nine-man-morris on a bare patch of wall. They turned to other games and distractions, trying to ignore the parcel. But it was impossible. Their curiosity burned. Finally Marian went to the window to keep watch while Robin crept down and retrieved the basket. Inside was a loaf of rye bread and two tubs of jam and a pot of honeyed figs. They sat by the fire and shared this nighttime breakfast.

  “Bawg is still our enemy, never forget,” Marian said, between mouthfuls. “No matter what bribes she brings. Anyway, we don’t need her help. I know a secret way into the pantry and the kitchens. We’ll feast like a king and queen, you’ll see.”

  “And we can go to Summerswood,” Robin said. “Set traps and hunt. I can show you how, if you want.”

  Marian wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing jam across her cheek. “Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll do. I want you to show me which plants are good to eat, and how to read claw prints, and all the rest of it. In return I will teach you to speak French.” She sat up straight and adopted a serious expression. “You and I are the same, Robin Loxley, I knew that t
he moment we met. No one else cares about us, even if they pretend they do. We will survive, and prosper, but we must be quick and brave and clever.”

  She turned her attention once more to the grimoire. She pointed at a page. “Here’s an unction called ‘night owl.’ The perfect thing for us. It helps you see in the dark. We need hart’s tongue fern, do you know where that grows?”

  Robin nodded.

  “And devil’s berries. What are they?”

  “The fruit of deadly nightshade. There are hundreds in Hob’s Hollow. I can show you tomorrow.”

  “Let’s go now,” she said, jumping up. “There’s a moon to see by, look, and there are no prying eyes. Prowling time for the hobgoblins!”

  She scampered from the tower and slipped out of the manor, Robin close behind. He took her to Hob’s Hollow, and then to Summerswood, collecting all the ingredients for her concoction.

  They looked around for what to do next. Robin pointed toward Wodenhurst and they went back up the valley and crept into the darkened village. Robin led the way to the orchards. In the moonlight the apples shone like silver coins. They went from tree to tree, plucking the fruit. They jumped at every rustling of a branch, but the villagers went on sleeping, and Marian went on grinning, and they slipped away unseen, their clothes bulging with apples and pears.

  “After dark the whole world belongs to us,” Marian whispered. “We will go where we like, take what we need. Now, follow me, and stick close, we are going on a long and dangerous journey.”

  They left the village far behind and traveled deep into the valley, following the moonlit course of Silver River—two explorers charting unknown lands, stopping now and then to crunch on fruit and to race sticks in the eddies. They discovered ancient barrows and firefly grottoes and even a forgotten lake, claiming them all as their own. And still they pushed on. A traveler’s moon cast its blue light and purple shadows, showing them the way; everyone else lay oblivious in their beds; the whole of the night was theirs.