Longbow Girl (15 page)

M
erry glanced around wildly. There was nowhere to hide and no other exit. She turned and ran up the stairs into the body of the castle.

Around and around the narrow staircase, hugging the dank walls. Candles fixed to wall sconces, between pockets of darkness. She slunk from one to the next, heart and mind racing.

Who
had followed her into the tunnel? And were they following her now? She had to find somewhere to hide. She hurried on up. She thought she could hear footsteps behind her but couldn't be sure.

She came out into the servants' area, in her time the cheery domain of Mrs Baskerville, outfitted with gleaming fridges and freezers and all the mod cons of a contemporary kitchen. Now it was dingy and gloomy. She could hear the clatter of
plates and pans in the big old kitchen, and voices arguing in Welsh. She tiptoed past, on up the servants' narrow staircase, up to the bedroom floors. The priest's hole, she thought. She could wait in there till everyone went to sleep, then sneak out. She padded down the hallway, paused at the corner, breathing hard.

Male voices. Coming up the main staircase. Heading her way. She froze. Where now?

Then a door opened behind her. Trapping her. Merry wheeled around and came face-to-face with an elaborately dressed woman with blonde ringlets and a fancy lace head covering.

‘Why are you loitering?' demanded the lady. Merry opened her mouth to say something when the woman cut in. ‘Follow me!' she commanded, wrinkling her face with distaste as she eyed Merry up and down. Her gaze lingered, but only briefly, on Merry's ruined eye. This was an age where physical imperfections, marrings and scarrings, pox marks and shrivelled limbs were not uncommon. ‘I've been waiting
ages
for a maid to come and see to my chamber pot,' complained the woman, stalking back into her room.

Merry nodded her head and hurried in after her. In her linen shirt, tunic and shawl and bare feet, she must have looked like a particularly ragged servant. Just right for emptying chamber pots.

An unpleasant stink hit Merry. No wonder Little Miss Ringlets was so impatient.

‘Go on, then! Take it!' ordered the woman.

Merry located the smell. Under the bed, of course. She hurried across the wooden floor and crouched down just as she heard other footsteps approach. And pause at the open door.

‘Everything to your liking, Lady Bess?' asked a cool, clipped voice.

‘Why, perfectly fine, thank you, Lord de Courcy,' replied the woman coquettishly.

‘Excellent. We shall see you for the feast, then. We have His Majesty's favourite
– spiced swan
.'

‘Ooh, how delicious! Mine too,' gushed the lady.

Merry kept her head bowed. She was terrified that the earl would recognize she was not one of his servants. Her hands trembled as she gripped the stinking chamber pot. She felt eyes on her back, waited, heart hammering. But the earl and his companion moved on. Merry blew out her breath, waiting until their voices had faded. She got up, nodded to the lady, and scurried out of the room.

The door shut behind her. Listening hard, adrenalin pumping, Merry crept along the empty hallway. She'd find somewhere to dump the bedpan, then hide in the priest's hole. She crept past the watching portraits and realized with a jolt that most of the faces she was used to seeing were yet to be born. Their places were occupied by lushly woven tapestries.

She paused in front of what she thought was the right tapestry, pushed it aside and searched for the tiny ridge in the panelling. With the right amount of pressure, a concealed door would pop open, revealing the tiny hiding place inside. But
there was no ridge. She searched under other tapestries and portraits, getting desperate as the seconds ticked by, but there was no priest's hole. Then she realized: it hadn't been built! Wouldn't be built until Henry's daughter, Elizabeth, became queen. She'd have to find somewhere else to hide, or try to get out now.

She rounded a corner, headed towards the servants' staircase, then pulled up abruptly, nearly sloshing the contents of the chamber pot over herself. Someone was coming up. She could hear their footsteps, their laboured breath.

She turned and rushed back in the direction she had come, looking for a room to hide in. But each one seemed to be occupied. She could hear murmured conversations, some in English, others in French, coming through the heavy oak doors. She hurried on. There was just one room left at the far end of the hallway.

The red room. James had shown it to her once, when his parents were out – said it had always been occupied by the earl and countess. Merry paused, ear to the door. She heard nothing: no aristocratic conversation between husband and wife; no instructions to a servant; no industrious clattering of maids cleaning.

She opened the door, ducked inside, closed it. She blew out a breath and looked around.

The room was richly furnished, with lavish scarlet curtains and a heavily carved four-poster bed. The floor was sprinkled with lavender and rosemary.

Merry hurried across the scattered herbs, which released
their scent into the air. She pushed the chamber pot deep under the bed. As she was straightening up, there was a knock on the door.

‘My Lady?' called a voice.

Oh God, not again
. Where to hide now? Under the bed with the chamber pot? No, she'd be spotted if the maid went to retrieve it, which, given the smell, she was bound to. She spun around wildly, spotted the wardrobe, tiptoed rapidly across the lavender and rosemary, ducked inside, and pulled the door shut just as the bedroom door opened.

Crouched in the darkness, she heard a voice curse in Welsh. There was a tiny crack in the wood. Merry put her eye to it and peered out. A maid was hauling out the chamber pot. Picking it up, she hurried out the way she'd come. Merry moved her hand to wipe a bead of sweat off her lip. Her fingers hit metal, a lever perhaps, because there was a slight click and something popped open against Merry's arm. It was a drawer, velvet lined. Her fingers explored the soft surface. She felt rings, a selection, some smooth, some jewelled. One hooked itself on to her forefinger. She held it to the crack in the wood. In the darkness, it gleamed gold.

She thought of the book, of its promise of treasures. Her family could do with whatever treasures she could find. Surely it would be all right taking just this one . . . ?

She pushed the ring on to her finger.

A great gong sounded.

It was time for the royal feast.

She'd failed to find and free her ancestor. She had to believe
he would be OK, that she shouldn't in any case interfere with history more than she already had.

It was time to escape.

W
earing her Tudor treasure, Merry crept out of the wardrobe and listened at the door. She heard footsteps and chatter and a swishing of silk as lords and ladies and maybe even the king passed by and headed downstairs to the Great Hall, to their dinner.

Merry still had no idea who had followed her or if they were still attempting to follow her, but she couldn't hide any longer. Everyone, both noble and low-born, would be occupied with the feast. Now was her best chance of escape.

She gave it five minutes, hoping that everyone would now be at the dinner; then she hurried down the main staircase, past the watching portraits. If anyone saw her, all she could do was run. She could hear the sound of the banquet booming out of the Great Hall. Raucous laughter, the clanging of metal
plates, some kind of twanging string instrument, probably a mandolin.

She crept towards the door by the staircase that led to the kitchen area – her route out, via the dungeons. She pulled it open a few inches. A procession of servants were rushing up, carrying huge platters of food and jugs of steaming wine. She closed the door. They'd spot her as an interloper.

She hurried back to the main part of the castle, turned a corner and almost collided with an elderly man dressed in velvets and frills. He was leaning against the wall with a lost look on his face. Merry recoiled, waiting for him to shout, grab her, or react in any way. But he just blinked in surprise. Merry could see his eyes were covered in filmy white cataracts. Whoever he was, he seemed trapped inside his own dementia.

‘The feast,' he said in a reedy voice. ‘Why aren't you there? Will you take me back in?' He pointed vaguely with a trembling hand.

Merry realized he probably couldn't see her threadbare clothes, her bare feet. She put on her best aristocratic voice.

‘Er, yes, of course. But I must first have some fresh air,' she said, hurrying off towards the front door.

She was committed now. She strode purposefully towards the door, hauled it open.

A blast of cold air hit her. The full moon lit the courtyard, which had a stable block in one corner. It looked beautiful, eerie and best of all, deserted. Merry closed the huge door behind her and hurried across the cobbles. They were cold, slippery underfoot with the evening dew.

And there was the drawbridge. Thankfully it was down and the portcullis was raised. She rushed on. Then the castle door crashed open just as she reached the stables. Merry spun around. The old man teetered out. Two woman hurried after him, calling him. They were focussed on him but they'd see her any second, especially if she darted to the drawbridge. She ducked inside the stables.

Heart pounding, she breathed in the smell of horse and manure and wet straw. She could hear no signs of humans, but that didn't mean there weren't grooms sleeping in the hayloft. She blinked in the darkness, waited for her vision to adjust. Stiffened. She could feel eyes on her. There was a low snort.

She saw a dark face above the half-door to a stall. The dished head, the black eyes blazing with intelligence and curiosity and just a touch of indignation. It was the Arab horse. The one she'd seen the countess riding on the hunt. The horse snorted again. Merry moved closer, offered him her palm to sniff.

Don't give me away, please
, she thought. She heard footsteps outside on the cobbles, the plaintive voice of the old man, and the two women arguing with him.

‘She's out here,' the old man was saying. ‘Fresh air. She needed fresh air.'

‘Come on, Father,' said a crisp but loving voice. ‘There's no one here. Look around.'

‘Excuse me, my Lady,' came a voice. ‘I think he's right. I saw someone slip into the stables.'

Merry felt a wave of panic. She'd be discovered. Again. And
this time she would not be able to explain herself, pretend to be a groom. She had to get away. And quickly. She pulled back the bolt to the horse's door, eased into the stall.

Trying to slow her breathing, summoning calm, Merry reached up to stroke him. She should go slow to win him over, but she didn't have time. They'd be here in seconds. She had to escape
now
.

She took the bridle hanging outside his stall and slipped it on him. She was distracted by the task, trying not to let the metal bit jangle. She didn't hear the soft whisper of skirts.

As she buckled the bridle, a hand grabbed her arm. Merry gasped in terror, turned.

The lady of the hunt stood there, lavish in velvet and rubies, her eyes narrowed in fury.

‘Who are you and what are you doing in my stable?' she demanded.

Merry knew those eyes. She'd seen them in her portrait – five hundred years into the future.

I
t was Catherine, the twelfth Countess de Courcy. The elderly man, who had to be her father, stood behind her, frowning. A maid stood beside him, holding on to him as if he might fall.

Merry's brain raced. She played for time. ‘Lady de Courcy. I beg your leave.' That was how they spoke, wasn't it? Merry had read Shakespeare.

‘You beg my leave. To do what? To steal my stallion? We
hang
horse thieves!' spat the countess, voice dripping venom. She lifted her head, opened her mouth to call out.

Merry lunged forward, stuck her hand over the countess's mouth, choking off her words. She struggled, tried to get the countess's hand off her, but the vice-like grip remained. Merry was taller than the countess, heavier, more muscled. She could have taken her down, but the countess would scream. She
had
to keep her hand over her mouth. Thankfully the countess was hindered by her elaborate dress. Merry kicked out, hit the side of her knee. The countess bit her hand and yelped as she fell to the floor, but she took Merry with her. The maid started screaming as Merry and the countess wrestled in the straw.

‘Help! Help! Thief! Attacker!' Then she joined in, viciously kicking Merry while the countess grabbed her arm and clung on like a limpet.

Merry took the kicks, ignored them. There was a much greater threat.

The stallion, enraged by the screaming, by the invasion of his stall, reared and stamped, then lowered his head to them, teeth bared.

Desperately, Merry grabbed the countess's hand and yanked it, breaking her grip.

‘Thief! Thief! Here in the stables!' yelled the maid again.

Merry jumped up, sent the maid flying with a two-handed push to her chest, kicked the countess in the knee again, caught the stallion's reins and rushed from the stall, past the old man, who flailed out an arm, trying to grab her.

Leading the furious horse, Merry ran from the stables into the courtyard.

Alerted by the countess's screams and curses, men streamed from the castle into the courtyard. Grabbing the stallion's mane, Merry vaulted on to his back. She squeezed her legs.

‘Go!' she urged.

He shot into an instant bolt, accelerated out of the
courtyard, under the portcullis, across the wooden drawbridge. Merry leant forward on to his neck, twined her fingers in his mane. If she fell off, she'd be caught. She needed all her riding skills and more. This horse was bigger and much more powerful than Jacintha. And she didn't know his whims and fancies, what spooked or scared him, if he bucked or reared.

The night was an explosion of sound: her horse's pounding hooves, men shouting, the countess and her maid screaming. Then, around the corner of the castle, came the guards with their flaming torches. Running at her.

The stallion spooked, shied away, and then slipped on the wet grass. Merry lurched to one side, nearly came off, then shot forward, desperately bracing herself against the stallion's neck. By some miracle she stayed on and he kept his feet. She kicked him on, away from the flaming torches, and he accelerated down the hill, wild with the adrenaline of flight. She knew they'd be followed but they had a head start and the Arab had to be the fastest horse in the stables.

She leant lower across his neck, urging him ever faster, gripping his mane and his reins. Then, in the moonlight, the boundary wall loomed.

‘Easy now, easy, need to slow,' she murmured. He was well trained, but Merry had to haul back on the reins. Hard to do bareback. Merry felt his muscles bunching; then he launched. They flew over the wall, landing solidly.

And then through the darkness came the baying of hounds.

Terror flooded Merry's veins, and the horse's. He lengthened his stride, galloped faster still. Merry guided him across
the land to the void of darkness that was the forest. She slowed to a canter, then a trot, as they rode under the canopy. The thunder of his hooves softened on the pine-needled floor. Shards of moonlight cut through the trees, lighting the path just enough.

She could hear the dogs baying behind her, as if crying out to each other:
this way, this way!

At last, she saw a break in the trees and came out on to the common lands, on to Sarn Helen. She pushed the stallion into a gallop. It was horribly risky. He could step into a rabbit hole and fall and in minutes the dogs would be upon them, but if they went any slower the dogs would get them anyway. All or nothing . . .

She raced on, saw the fold in the hillside and the forest that concealed the pool. She didn't glance around, just entered the wood, praying they had a good enough lead. But then a dog bayed, horribly close and she had no more time for thought.

Branches ripped at her clothes, scraped her face, caught her hair. She lay low on the horse's neck, trying to avoid the worst of them, but she had to keep looking up to check her bearings.

She felt the ground falling away; then she heard the sound of running water and they emerged from the trees on to the grassy bank. The pool lay before them, black water glinting in the moonlight. And behind it, the waterfall.

The stallion hesitated for the first time, ears flickering, calculating. She had to let him go free. She slipped from his back, quickly removed his bridle so he wouldn't get trapped by flailing reins catching a branch. She leant in, kissed his neck.
‘Thank you,' she breathed. Above the rush and tumble of the waterfall came the baying of the hounds. ‘Now go!' she urged.

He needed no encouragement. He plunged into the stream, cantered across, jumped up on to the far bank and galloped off into the trees.

Merry dropped the bridle, strode into the stream and towards the waterfall, just as a massive wolfhound burst through the trees, hurtled down the slope and leapt into the stream after her.

Merry dived under the waterfall, came up into the cave, took one deep breath, then kicked under again. The current took her into the blackness.