The Fatal Child (43 page)

‘Is there anything else, Your Majesty?’ Melissa repeated.

‘No,’ said Atti at last. She did not look round.

Tight-lipped, Melissa closed the door. She muttered something to the guard. Then she left the gatehouse and began to make her way back along the curtain wall. She did not look back to see if Atti were still at her window.

Beneath Atti’s room, the middle bailey gates were admitting the first of the morning’s traffic. There were carts piled with straw for the stables and others with timber for the roof repairs or wine butts for the cellars. There were men on foot, too. Mainly these were scholars, wearing the monk-like hooded habit that all the King’s scholars wore. Most if not all of them seemed to be full-grown men. Melissa could not see any boys among them this morning. She wondered idly if the younger scholars had been getting drunk in their lodgings last night, to be so slow out of bed today. She supposed they would all be beaten. She hoped Puck was not among the offenders. He might well not be. Most nights he finished work in the stable so late that they allowed him to sleep there.

Puck. She felt bad even thinking about him. But she also felt angry. Everything wanted to turn her his way. Not Ambrose. It had to be Puck. He was the little warmth on the end of the stick when the moon was out of reach. Mam would have said so. Atti had said so, in her moment yesterday when she was being human. Even the King would say so if she asked him. And he would give them a farm if she asked for that, too. He didn’t forget his promises.

After last night, maybe he’d even be glad to be rid of her.

And everything here was wrong. They were all betraying each other and being terrible to each other. Somehow Atti was going to have to be punished, and what would Melissa’s place be after that? She couldn’t help any of them. Why should she stay?

But she did not want to go. Hopes and dreams – they were what made life worth living. She was so close to him still. Even after last night he was still close. There was only a door between them – a door that she could open. And a door in his mind that he could. And maybe, yes, a time would come when she would go, and choose Puck, and a farm. But not yet. Like a stubborn she-goat cheated of pasture, she did not want to be herded by the world.

She was approaching the inner bailey. Ahead of her was the Gryphon Tower, where the short, high wall of the inner courtyard joined to the curtain wall of the castle. The door into it stood open. There should have been a guard on it. There certainly had been when she had left the inner courtyard in the dawn. There was none now. Melissa looked up at the battlements of the inner bailey. There were one or two men up there that she could see. Perhaps the guard had just been changed. The night watch had trooped off and the day watch was still sorting itself out. She could see the head and shoulders of one armoured man, looking down into the middle courtyard. Just beyond him she could glimpse another, busy at the flagstaff. She saw the early light flash upon his helmet. She heard the squeak of the little pulleys at the staffhead as the royal banner rose foot by foot towards the peak. As it
rose, the morning wind caught it, flicked it out and dropped it again.

Melissa stopped, puzzled. What she had seen was …

It rose. It flew. It was not the King’s standard.

There, on a blue field, was a great yellow sun, with many rays shaking outwards from it across the cloth. And Melissa knew it. She had seen it before.

It was the banner of Gueronius.

The students had started to run. They were all running in a body like men in a race. They were running not towards the school but to the upper gate. They were carrying things in their hands – weapons! The gate was open to meet them.

And men were jumping from a wagon, where there had not seemed to be men before. They were coming out from under the straw, shaking the golden strands from their heads and limbs. They, too, were armed. And all around the courtyard men were shouting – cries of anger, cries of alarm. There was a scraping, tinkling sound from the middle gatehouse behind her. She knew what it was. She had seen the men-at-arms practising many times, in armour and with blunted weapons. Men were fighting in the gate-tunnel, under Atti’s floor. She saw the jerking, swirling movements in the shadows there. Their weapons were not blunted now. An armoured man was lying still on the ground, just inside the middle gate.

The first of the false scholars had reached the upper gate. The gate was still open for them. The guard there was waving them on, slapping one on
his arm as he passed. They were Gueronius’s men. And Gueronius’s men held the upper gatehouse already! How had that happened? Traitors! And what would happen now?

Something whispered in the air – a pale flash that passed in an instant – an arrow!

It had not come near her. But it jerked her back to the day she had fled from the red knight in the woods, with his arrows hissing close through the trees as she ran. Gulping, she ducked into the open doorway of the Gryphon Tower. There was no one in the chamber inside. There should have been. But whoever it was must either be dead or a traitor.

They might kill her if they found her. They might kill everyone.

How could this be happening? To a house like Tuscolo!

The chamber was lit only by the doorway behind her onto the curtain wall, and the doorway ahead to the wall of the upper courtyard. No one could see her from outside. If someone came into the chamber, down or up the stair, or along one of the walls, she could run out along the other wall. She must have somewhere to run. If she got trapped they could kill her.

A flurry of shouts from somewhere in the inner courtyard. Metal clashing. A bellow of pain. They had caught someone. (Who?) They were killing him now. Footsteps paced above her on the roof of the tower. That would be one of the traitors. If he knew she was down here, what would he do? She heard him laugh.

How long would this last? And what would happen when it was over?

More calls. Hoofbeats. What was happening? She must not go to look. She must stay here in the shadows, watching both doors for the first sign that she must run.

And then a new voice, ringing out across the inner courtyard. ‘Ho, there! Treachery! Help to the King!’

She knew it. It was the Baron Lackmere. And without thinking she was in the doorway to the upper wall.

‘Ho, there! Help! Help to the King!’

She looked for the baron and saw him. His head and shoulders were leaning from an upper window in the living quarters. From the council-chamber window. His hand gripped the sill and he looked down into the courtyard.

‘Up here! Help!’

Iron-shod feet clattered on the battlement above Melissa’s head. ‘He’s there!’ someone cried. ‘In the living quarters!’

‘Hey, Tuscolo!’ called another voice. ‘Hey, Gueronius! The usurper’s in the council chamber. Get him! Get him!’

Melissa hesitated a moment longer. Then, as if someone had shoved her between the shoulder-blades, she ran out into the deadly light.

She flew along the short wall. Ahead of her was the great rectangular keep. The wall door was open. Shouts and clashes sounded from inside. As she darted through the doorway, men in student’s gowns
with swords in their hands were climbing up the spiral stairway. The sounds of fighting were above. There were King’s men up there, defending the upper storeys. They could not help him. She barged straight in among the armed men and squirmed between them. One cursed and another struck at her with his hilt, but there was no room for them to swing. She was through. And behind her the men were still climbing upwards, knowing nothing but their own little corner of the fight where their deaths danced on the battlements above them.

She reached the door to the living-quarter corridor. And she was too late.

A crowd of armed men were gathered at the far end, at the door to the Privy Council chamber. Some were throwing themselves against it –
crash! crash!
Others stood about with swords drawn, waiting for it to give. And it would. It would give.
Crash!
It had gone.

In they went, swords up. Bellows and clashes sounded from inside. Unheard in the din, Melissa screamed. Then she charged down the corridor.

She ran to fight, with her fists curled. But halfway she swerved and ducked through the door to the Queen’s antechamber. She raced through the Queen’s bedroom, flung open the door to the King’s chambers and hurried on.

The King’s bedroom was empty. The antechamber was empty. There were men in the Privy Council chamber beyond – men, but no sounds of fighting now. As she reached the council door it was flung
open from inside. A wild-eyed man stood there, sword in hand, lips drawn in a snarl.

‘Find him!’ cried a voice from beyond. ‘Search the rooms. Under the beds. The chimneys! The garderobe! Pull him out!’

The man had half lifted his sword at the sight of Melissa. Now he lowered it and shoved her aside. Others followed him, lumbering through the private rooms of the King, opening his chests, spilling his robes, prodding at his hangings with the points of bloody swords.

‘He was never here, I guess,’ said another, calmer voice. ‘We’ve been drawn to the wrong point.’

The first voice swore. And Melissa knew it. It was Gueronius.

She looked in. He was there. Not, as she had last seen him, in fine silks with his hair trimmed and scented, but a wild figure in a ragged cloak, from under which peeped the gleam of mail.

On the floor at his feet lay the Baron of Lackmere, still gripping the hilt of a long sword with one hand. The other was pressed to his stomach and was covered in blood. Blood was swimming out from his wound, soaking into the rich carpet and the brightly coloured tunic that he wore. His face was very pale.

A man was kneeling by him. It was one of the Queen’s knights, whom she had not seen since her arrest. He was wearing a rough leather jacket. Wisps of straw were still stuck in his buckles and collar.

‘A clever ruse, my lord,’ he said to the baron. ‘Although I think it has cost you dear.’

Gueronius cursed again. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The day is not yet won.’

Thoughtfully the young knight prised the sword from the baron’s grip. He looked at it for a second. There was no blood on it. Then he rose and the two men stalked into the King’s chambers. Their eyes fell on Melissa as they passed. They regarded her no more than if she had been furniture.

She was alone in the chamber with the fallen baron.

After a moment she pushed herself from the wall and knelt by the wounded man. The hand on his stomach was red from fingertip to wrist, and still the blood was coming. It was coming slowly but with a horrible purpose that did not mean to stop. She gathered up the corner of his tunic and pressed it to the place. At once her hand was bloody and the cloth she held was bloody, and none of it seemed to do any good. The baron’s face was white and drawn with pain. His eyes were closed. She wondered if he was even breathing.

Outside voices were calling. But they were not the cries of combat now. They were instructions.
Come here, Look there, Search among the bodies
. The fight was over but they were still hunting for the King.

Someone came into the room behind her. It was the royal page, Philip. He was looking dazed.

‘Where’s the King?’ he said hoarsely.

‘He got away,’ she said. ‘The baron distracted them.’

Philip put his hand to his head. There was a large bruise there. ‘The courtyard is taken,’ he mumbled. ‘And the keep.’

‘They were taking the middle gatehouse, too,’ she said.

So Atti would be free now. Soon she would be demanding her maid. Melissa did not think she wanted to go to her.

And the King … He might have got away for the moment. But he must still be in the castle somewhere.

‘Help me,’ she said to Philip.

Philip looked down at the baron as though wondering how either of them could help him now.

‘Help me lift him,’ she said.

The baron gasped once with pain. Together they struggled to carry his limp weight through the antechamber to the King’s bed and laid him there. They laid him, bleeding, on the very blankets where she and Ambrose had embraced the night before. And when she straightened, trembling from the effort, there was blood on her clothes and blood on Philip, and a bloody trail led back through the antechamber door. A faint, foul smell was stealing into the air. She thought it came from the wounded man. She wondered if it meant his gut had been pierced. And she did not know what to do next.

‘See if you can find the surgeon,’ she said. ‘Or anyone who can help.’

Philip nodded, still dazed, and shambled out along the bloody trail. Melissa supposed that he would not be able to find the surgeon. Or that if he did, the surgeon would be dead. Or that even if the man were alive, he would not come soon enough for the baron.

Quiet descended on the King’s chambers. The
searchers had gone. The rooms lay in chaos. All the contents of the chests were spilled on the floors. The hangings were torn from the walls and lay in heaps. Dust motes turned thickly in the beams of the strengthening sun. Melissa sat trembling upon the bed.

A hand stole over her own. She jumped and looked down.

It was the baron. His face was white. His head had barely moved, but his eye glared up at her with a desperate fierceness. His hand gripped her wrist, hard and cold.

‘You are of the King’s party?’ His voice was a whisper.

She stared at him, horrified. If he had not held her fast she might have jumped away.

‘Choose, girl. King or Queen. No – hiding now!’

‘King, my lord,’ she mumbled.

‘Find me – one who can use a pen.’

Still she stared at him.

‘Quickly!’ he hissed.

She ran from the room.

rom the passageways behind the great hall there was a door to a little courtyard where a stunted olive tree grew. From here a ramp climbed towards the main upper courtyard. Halfway up the ramp was another door, which led to the crypt of the royal chapel. Normally this door was locked, but over the past year Padry had had it left open so that he could slip quietly out of the Grand Audience for a few moments when he was not needed, pass through the chapel, and take a walk by himself in the King’s cloisters to refresh himself between each smothering hour in the great, packed chamber.