Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

Spencer did not know the castle well enough
to recognize the path the man took. He knew only that the thief was retreating
farther and farther into the depths of the castle, with the book clutched
tightly to his chest. Finally, he reached some dark, cramped chamber, and the
man stopped to hide the book. The man was smiling, triumphant. He stowed the
book somewhere in the earthen chamber, and Spencer knew that it had to be there
that the sisters had found the book. It was then that the man turned, and
Spencer finally recognized him. It was the Fool.

Suddenly it all made sense. Of course none of
them had recognized the Fool’s name when the ghost warned them. He did not use
his name. At court he was only the Fool. It was all he had ever been to the
aristocracy. Spencer wondered how long it had been since Sansano had shed his
name and become a caricature. He opened his eyes, and found himself immediately
caught in Daphne’s wide gaze. She had taken it harder than Spencer. Her face
was white and her voice shook slightly.

“It’s the Fool, Lorna.”

“What?” Lorna looked even more panicked that
her sister. “No.” Spencer remembered suddenly her great fear of the Fool.
Apparently her instinct was better than either of them had realized, because he
was the man they had been warned would come for the book. He was the man who
would kill.

“He’s not working alone,” Mollfrida warned
them. “Someone helped him escape that library. Someone is protecting him.
Someone with power like mine.”

Spencer knew at once who she was referring
to. “Felunhala.” Lorna said with great resignation.

“Ssshh!” Spencer rarely saw Daphne flustered,
but she was completely unnerved then, and obviously didn’t want her sister
saying anything more in front of the witch. Daphne fumbled with the pockets of
her cloak, her fingers shaking slightly. “How much for your services?”

“I couldn’t charge the granddaughters of my
Queen. What sort of patriot would I be?”

“Oh, surely you’ll accept some token?”

“No. I have no need for a token. Go home,
princess of Wulfyddia, and attend to the snakes in your garden.”

“We should talk to the Librarian.” Lorna
murmured.

“Not likely,” Daphne hissed back.

“Thank you,” Spencer said again, since the sisters
apparently didn’t realize that one did not accept the complementary services of
a witch without thanking her profusely for it. Royalty or not, it would not
behoove the princesses to upset a practitioner such as Mollfrida. “Thanks so
much.”

“Hmm.” Mollfrida responded. She watched them
leave, and it was only as they were letting themselves out of her cottage that
she spoke. “Children,” she called after them, and there was something chilling
in her tone. “Children, be sure you proceed carefully with what you’ve learned
here tonight. This night has raised the stakes. From now on, any misstep could
be deadly.”

“Of course,” Daphne ducked her head compliantly,
and Spencer was startled by her acquiescence.

“And, if I were you, I’d find the one whose
soul is crying out, or sooner or later someone will answer for it.”

***

So
absorbed were they by the witch’s revelation that they did not see the man who
followed them from the shadows. He treaded in their footsteps as they slipped
from the rough streets of the Bottoms to the cobblestones of Midtown, and they did
not lose him until the moat, which he dared not cross. But he stood there, with
the black looming Haligorn at his back, and watched their little vessel as they
traversed the seething water. It was only when they had vanished into the
Castle that he emerged from the shadows. The full moon shone down on him and
gleamed off of a locket clutched in his hand, gripped so tightly that the chain
had imprinted itself in angry red on the skin of his palm.

Only
then did he seem to recall that it was in his hand, and he stared down at it
emotionlessly. Force of habit made him open the locket to read the words
inscribed there, though he had long since committed them to memory. First,
though, he spared a glance at the portrait, a stunningly crafted miniature
painted in extraordinary detail on the inside of the locket, opposite the
inscription. It depicted a serious-eyed young woman with dark hair and a
pleasing face. Her cheekbones were high, and she could be said to have a noble
brow, which was amusing because the woman in the portrait was of common birth.

Then,
only then, he turned his gaze to the inscription, and the words that were
seared into his memory.

To my
sweet William: I will honor and treasure you always.

Your
love—

Tryphena
Wollstonely

The
argument that followed Mollfrida’s revelation was of epic proportions. Each of
them had a different idea of what should be done, and they paused for a moment
in a dark hallway to confer with each other in harsh whispers. Lorna wanted to
go back to the library and fill in the Librarian, Spencer thought it was time
for them to inform the Queen, and Daphne wanted to go straight to the witch’s
chambers to confront Felunhala and find out if Melisande had known all along
about the Fool’s plot.

Spencer
was vehemently opposed to Daphne’s confrontational plans. “We can’t go to the
witch, what if she’s waiting for us to do that? You heard what Mollfrida said!
The Fool— I mean, Sansano— he’s working with Felunhala.”

“Probably
Melisande too,” Lorna said dismally.

“We
don’t know that,” Daphne rounded on her sister. “That’s so like you. You’ve
never liked Melisande very much.”

“I liked
her.” Lorna said. “Before I found out that her mistress is the Fool’s paramour,
and especially before I found out that the Fool is the one who stole the book.”

“Well,
now, this is interesting.” The voice was like ice down Spencer’s back, for
reasons he could not articulate. He had never heard it before, but there was
something so overtly malicious in the tone that he whirled around to see who
had discovered them there. But he knew even as he turned who it had to be, for
the shock and horror on the sisters’ faces was unparalleled and he could think
of only one person with the power to provoke such terror.

Fear and
knowledge came simultaneously, many long seconds before vision could confirm
what Spencer already knew in his gut. Indeed, when he turned it was the Fool
who stood before them, and Spencer’s first thought was that he had not
remembered how large the man was. He had only ever seen the court jester at a
distance, and now, sharing a single lonely corridor with him, he seemed much
taller and much broader. He seemed almost to loom above them, and Spencer was
not short. The man must have been returning from some late performance, Spencer
thought, for he was entirely painted and decked out, and why else would he be
in this corridor so late?

“Princesses,”
the Fool nodded gallantly to Daphne and Lorna, then gave Spencer a once-over.
“Whoever you are.” He added. There was an air of contained excitement about
him, a kind of energy in his movements. He carried a freshly lit torch and did
not look tired, Spencer thought, noting it almost idly in the back of his brain
while the wheels in his mind began spinning frantically, calculating the
likelihood that the Fool had heard their discussion before making his presence
known. The Fool’s garb was freshly pressed, and his face paint looked newly
applied.

Like war
paint.

The Fool
was not on an ordinary jaunt around the castle.

“Let’s
talk about my book, shall we?” The Fool cut to the chase.

In this
matter, at least, all three of them were on the same page. “What book?” Daphne
asked blankly; at the same time Spencer inquired, “what do you mean?”

“We
don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lorna asserted.

“Well,
I’m talking about the book that vanished mysteriously from where it was hidden.
I’m talking about the book I stole. I want it back.”

Daphne
looked appalled. “You stole a book?” Spencer would never have expected Daphne’s
innate theatricality to prove so useful, but now he had to admit that she
almost had even him fooled. “What are you talking about?”

“Princess,”
the Fool sighed noisily. “I’ve spent my life humoring your family. Now may I
suggest that you humor me?” He reached into his absurd costume, and from between
the folds of wildly colored fabric he withdrew a knife.

“You
wouldn’t dare.” Daphne told him, but she took two steps back all the same. “You
can’t hurt a royal and get away with it. They’ll torture you until you beg to
be executed. Then they’ll kill your whole family.”

“Not if
they don’t know who did it!” The Fool bounced on the balls of his feet, making
one of his outrageous faces, now hideously mocking. “And I’ve had years to
perfect my acting, little princess. How else do you think I’ve convinced your
repugnant grandmother that I live to serve?” He lowered himself into a deep
bow, but his head remained up, menacing eyes fixed on them. “Now,” he
straightened up, “to business. Where is my book?”

As the
fool spoke Spencer could feel a strange dizziness blooming in his mind, making
his limbs tremble. The man was both threatening two royals and confessing his
own theft. Either crime could get him killed. The only reason he would act this
way was if he had no intention of allowing them to live. Whether they gave him
the book or not, he had every intention of killing them. From Daphne’s deep
inhalation to his left, Spencer knew that she had come to the same conclusion. On
his other side, Lorna stiffened and drew back from the Fool. In that moment,
everyone froze. Then, without discussion, without a word, Spencer and the
sisters turned as one, and fled.

Spencer
was lost in the dark maze of the castle, so he followed Daphne, whose flame red
hair was all he could see of her as they stumbled down the darkened passage.
For a moment, Spencer was naïve enough to hope that would be the end of it,
that the Fool would not pursue them and they would escape him without incident.
Reality hit him even before he heard the sound of the Fool giving chase. This
was now life or death for the Fool. After revealing himself to them, he had to
be willing to kill them to keep them quiet. If word reached the queen of the Fool’s
behavior he would be dead by dawn. Sansano, long called the Fool, had sealed
all of their fates by confronting them. However the night ended, someone had to
die.

Daphne
jerked a door open so violently that it swung back and slammed against the stone
wall loudly. She whirled around, her wince matching Spencer’s, and gestured
wildly for them to follow her. Whatever passage she was ushering them into was
even darker than that which they came from, and Spencer had the distinct
impression that they were heading down into the depths of the castle. The idea
made him uncomfortable, for the lowest levels of Castle Wulfyddia were largely
deserted at this time of the night, and they needed people… especially guards.

“Maybe
he’ll go past,” Daphne breathed to him as Lorna closed the door softly behind
them. There was a lock on it, a small and corroded bolt, and Lorna slid it into
place gingerly, without making a sound. For a moment Spencer panicked that they
had locked themselves in with no way out, but there was a dark corridor behind
them, and the faintest of dank breezes, all indicating that they had somewhere
to flee if it all went to hell and the Fool realized they were hiding. But what
passage? The corridor was strangely familiar, but Spencer did not have time to
waste on identifying it.

They crept
farther into the darkness, then paused some yards down the corridor, waiting
for the sounds that could save them or send them fleeing into the darkness. As
the Fool scratched at the door, Spencer clasped his hands together and hoped
that the lock would hold. But the fates were not on his side, because suddenly
the scratching ceased, and there was a tremendous crash on the other side of
the door. There was a moment of silence, and then Spencer’s skin crawled as the
door gave a dull creak and swung open. The Fool gave a low, guttural chuckle,
and Lorna shrunk back against Spencer as the enormous, lurching shadow of the
Fool fell across the stone floor.

Then
Daphne’s hand was in his, and his arm was practically yanked out of his socket,
as all three of them went flying down the passage. It was all Spencer could do
just to put one foot in front of the other faster than he ever had in his life,
and the glow of the Fool’s torch felt like a flame at his back. Daphne glanced
over her shoulder as he ran, and her eyes were big and dark with fear. “Lorna,”
she gasped, trying to catch a glimpse of her sister.

Spencer
reached back for Lorna. At first he felt only air and was afraid for her, but
then he felt her hand grab his palm, and he pulled her along with him. The dark
expanse of the hall before them seemed to promise safety, but he could feel the
Fool’s flame at his back and he could still see the flash of the blade and
almost taste the man’s thirst for blood. 

Then
Daphne skidded to a halt in front of him, and he realized that she was trying
to open another door, the door into the other passage, the one that they had
sworn not to return to. He gripped her shoulder, trying to understand why she
was doing this when the Fool was just turning the corner and they were practically
leading him to the book. He was terrified at the thought of seeking sanctuary
in that dark and abandoned dungeon. “There’s no one down there.” He told her.
There was no one to hear their cries for help.

“We have
to,” she said as the door swung open before them. “This other passage dead ends
soon. It’s the best we can do.” They ducked inside and fled down that eerie
passage to look for a hiding spot amongst the empty cells and piles of old
rubbish. Ahead of them loomed the large wooden door behind which they had
hidden the book. At that moment some instinct, stronger even than Spencer’s
desire to hide from the Fool, brought him up short. He was unwilling to lead
the Fool to the book. He could not explain why the matter was of such desperate
importance to him, he knew only that there was a pounding in his chest that warned
him away from that door. He obeyed the instinct and caught Daphne by the
shoulder.  A cart stood against one wall, between two empty cells. It was full
of fresh hay, proof that the cell block was on its way to being reopened.
Spencer pointed, words beyond him as he couldn’t quite catch his breath and he
could still hear the Fool advancing behind him. Daphne hesitated a moment, her
frightened gaze going from his face to the cart before they slipped behind it
with Lorna in between them. Spencer could only hope that the Fool would
continue down the passage, possibly giving them a chance to double back and run
the other way, towards safety.

But
somehow the Fool seemed to know that they were hiding. He laughed heartily and
stared around the room, drawing the knife back as if to strike at air, and
Spencer’s heart sank like a stone in his stomach. They were doomed. The Fool
began to stalk around the edges of the room, laughing to himself, peering
behind a large black pot that had probably been cold for hundreds of years. “No
one here,” he stage whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. “So where are
they?” he spun the knife in his hand, almost unconsciously, as if practicing
one of the tricks that he performed for the court. He kicked the pot over and
moved on to the next item. Spencer began to shake. At the same time, one thing
became perfectly apparent to him: if they could not run, they were going to
have to fight. His fists clenched, veins bulging with the determination that
unexpectedly flooded his system. He glanced to the side, and saw Daphne had
taken hold of a stone that had come loose from the floor, and her knuckles were
white with the force of her grip on it. The look that passed between them was
one of understanding. For once, they were in complete agreement. Spencer’s
muscles bunched as he tensed, and the Fool grew ever nearer.

Suddenly,
he felt the spirit. Surrounding them, enveloping them, a flowing presence that
swept across his skin and ruffled his hair and left him feeling like they were
not alone. He felt Lorna’s arm jump under his grip, and knew that she too
sensed the woman’s arrival. He turned ever so slightly, afraid that even the slight
shift of his head might make a sound, and stared at Daphne, but he couldn’t
tell whether the older princess had sensed the arrival of the spirit.

The Fool
was definitely oblivious. He continued his tour of the room, kicking straw
piles that looked large enough for them to hide behind, brandishing his knife
so that the shadow he cast looked positively devilish. He paused occasionally
to swat the air when he walked through a cobweb; His movements were erratic,
violent, unrestrained. This was the other side, the jerky, uncontrolled side
that he never allowed the courtiers to see, the side of him that was not dead
and impassive, but instead alive, raging and bloodthirsty. It was terrifying,
and even as Spencer found himself looking for a weapon, there was that faint
scent in the air, of roses and earth and sweetness and rot.

Suddenly
there was a sound, a footstep. At first Spencer thought that it must have come
from the Fool, but Sansano was standing stock still, his head cocked to one
side, listening. Someone was coming! Spencer’s heart leapt in his chest, and
his fingernails dug into his palms as he hoped, hope against hope, that someone
was coming to help them.

There
were several footsteps, he realized, soft and faint, as if two or three people
were walking. Then there was a whisper, and Spencer had to turn to look at
Daphne, because he could have sworn that it was her voice which was whispering.
No, Daphne was staring at him, and then the next whisper sounded like Lorna.
The footsteps sped up, and the third voice was a boy with a soft clear tone. It
was his own voice, he realized. The three voices sounded almost exactly like
the three of them, except that there was a strange, faint echoing quality to
them, as though they were speaking from across a great distance.

What was
happening? Then Daphne gripped his hand, because the Fool had pivoted, and was
turning this way and that, searching for the source of the whispers. For a
moment Spencer gripped Daphne’s hand back, practically hard enough to break it,
because he thought that the whispers would lead him to them. But no, instead
the Fool followed the sounds across the chamber, and with every whisper, every
footstep or rustle of clothing or soft murmur, he grew closer to the wooden
door behind which they had hidden the book.