Читать книгу Dark Angels - Katherine Langrish - Страница 7

The greyhound threw itself at the spot where the white face had vanished. Wolf jerked it roughly back. “Leave it!” he said in a fierce undertone. “Leave it!”

He dragged the dog away over the rockspill and nettles — through thickets of hawthorn and hazel and over piles of rotting leaves. The wood closed behind them and the horror faded. At last Wolf risked a glance over his shoulder and his headlong pace slowed to a shaken walk.

It hasn’t followed. We’ve lost it.

He thanked every saint he could think of for his narrow escape from — well, from what? A demon? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t look like the ones he’d seen in pictures, the ochre and vermilion demons gleefully gambolling on the Doomsday wall of the abbey church. The strange child-thing wasn’t hairy or horned.

But no earthly child would roam the hillside naked in this haunted twilight. No mortal child would take refuge in such a dark and frightening cave.

Then it must be an elf. And that was almost worse. Elves were uncanny, like ghosts. Pale, malicious creatures, which lived in the dark places under hills and mounds, just like that cave, tempting mortals away to waste their lives in false enchantments.

Wolf remembered the creature’s fleeting expression as it looked out — narrow-eyed with terror like a hunted fox. Perhaps it hadn’t meant him any harm. Perhaps it had only been running from the hounds — caught, like him, between the hunters and their prey. And what if it wasn’t an elf? Suppose — just suppose — he had left a frightened child in a cold, dripping cave in the middle of a dark wood?

“Of course it was an elf!” he told himself furiously. He thought of its weird face, its glittering eyes. No need to feel sorry for an elf, no reason to go back.

The distant fire winked behind a black scribble of branches. He had himself to look after. He’d take this valuable hunting dog back to its master, claim his reward and never think about the elf again. He set off through the clutching wood. Twigs tugged his hair, wet grass snaked about his ankles. Cursing, he tore free from another bramble — and blundered nearly into the arms of a giant figure straddling the way.

Wolf recoiled, bursting with terror, and tugged the greyhound in front of him. “Keep off!” he snarled. “Keep right away from me! Or I’ll set my dog on you!”

“Your dog?” The voice was deep, human and angry. “That’s my dog, you thief! Take your dirty fingers off his collar! What are you doing with him? Are you the boy who got in my way on the hill?”

“Yes — no!” Wolf’s heart was bumping about like a rabbit in a sack. This was the lord of the hunt, the reckless rider who had leaped his horse into the dingle. “Nothing — I wasn’t stealing him, sir!”

“Let go of him, I said!” the man roared.

Wolf’s fingers slipped from the collar, and the dog leaped happily forwards. “Believe me; I was bringing him back—”

“Yes, after you stole him in the first place. Don’t lie to me! D’you think I’m a fool? Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Wolf Osmundson.” They were talking English. He tried to make himself sound more important — more French. “Wolf fitz Osmund. My father was—”

“Wolf, is it?” The man gave a hard laugh. “Ho! The second wolf I’ve caught today.” He stabbed a finger into Wolf’s chest. “We’ve already skinned the first. You’ll be next. Or perhaps I’ll slice your ears off. Who’s your master?”

“I’m not a peasant!” Wolf went stiff with scared rage. The man wasn’t joking. The laws were savage: a thief could lose a foot, a hand, his eyes. “I’m from St Ethelbert’s at Wenford — I’m a clerk, a scholar! My father held a manor. Let’s speak French if it’s easier for you, lord. Or Latin — I know them both. And I can read and write.” Too late, he heard his own voice ringing with insolent defiance. He clenched his teeth. But instead of hitting him the man said merely, “If you can do all that, why are you here?”

Wolf looked away, unable to think of a good lie, sullenly aware that silence would be taken for more insolence. He curled numb toes in his wet boots. His back ached. His face and arms stung with the slashes of countless twigs. Bitterly he remembered his ambition to become a squire. Well, that dream was over.

“You’ve run away, haven’t you?” The man’s voice was gentler.

Wolf cleared his throat. “I didn’t — I don’t want to be a monk.”

It sounded weak — feeble.

“I suppose they beat you,” said the man with tolerant scorn.

Wolf burned. He remembered the bold and powerful shapes of horse and rider tearing into the trees. How could someone like that ever understand? He burst out, “Maybe they did! But that’s not why! I’m not fit for that life. It’s like being shut up in a box. A stone box. And outside, everything’s going on — without me.”

“A stone box!” the man muttered. “Now that I can understand. Where are you running to? Home?”

“I have no home. My father’s dead.”

There was a moment of silence. They were standing in shadows as black as well water, and Wolf couldn’t see the man’s face. “Who are you, lord?” he asked, shivering.

“My name is Hugo fitz Warin.”

“Lord Hugo?” Wolf stammered slightly “Hugo of the Red M-mound?”

The man stretched his arms wide. “Hugo of the Red Mound — Hugo of La Motte Rouge — Huw of Domen Goch. See? I too can speak in tongues. Lord of everything that creeps or runs or flies between Crow Moor and Devil’s Edge. Anything else you want to know, my young wolf in shepherd’s clothing?”

Every single person at the abbey had heard of Hugo fitz Warin, troubadour and knight crusader, as famous for his love songs as for his courage. “Lord Hugo?” Wolf drew a reverent breath. “You took the Cross. You went to the Holy Land with the king and the archbishop. You fought at the siege of Acre!” And that song that had got him into so much trouble with Brother Thomas had been one of Lord Hugo’s.

“I did all those things,” the man agreed grimly, “and I’m still waiting to hear why you ran off with Argos — my dog.”

“Oh!” Wolf came out of a dream of beautiful ladies, battles, broken lances, blood-red pennants and dying Saracens. “That was because of the elf—”

The blow took him by surprise, cracking him across the side of the head. Lord Hugo seemed to grow, like a great bear bristling with black fur. “Are you making fun of me, boy?”

“No, sir!” Wolf couldn’t understand this sudden fury. He backed, rubbing his stinging ear. “The elf,” he gabbled, “the one you were hunting.”

“What elf?”

“But,” Wolf squeaked. He swallowed and began again. “I thought you’d seen it, running down the hill. Didn’t you? It was following me. And it got caught up in the hunt, like me, between the dogs and the wolves.” The recollection of his awful journey over the mountain overcame him, and he blurted everything out: “I heard the horns blowing, and I thought the Devil was coming, like the stories say. And there was this thing, bobbing about in the heather — I thought it was a demon coming after me because I’d run away from the abbey. And afterwards it must have been creeping around your fire: your dog saw it and went after it — and I went with him.”

“You snivelling little clerk,” Hugo said after a pause. “Trying to make yourself interesting by telling lies.”

“I’m not lying!” Wolf’s voice rose again.

“So where is this elf now?”

“Back there.” Wolf twisted, pointing. “In a cave under the cliff.”

“Show me.”

“But—”

“I want you to show me!”

“All right! I will!” Wolf tried to clap the lid back on his temper. It was madness to shout at this lord, who could have him hanged. He added more moderately, “Do you want to call your men, sir? They could bring torches…”

“So you can claim they scared it away? If anything’s there at all? No,” said Hugo. A heavy hand landed on Wolf’s shoulder, steering him deeper into the thicket. “We’ll do this together. And if you’ve lied to me…” Wolf heard a scrape of metal. His heart started off at a rapid scamper. Hugo had drawn his knife.

It couldn’t be far, the cave: but at first he couldn’t find it. They stumbled about, linked by Hugo’s firm grip on Wolf’s shoulder, ducking under the scratching twigs. The sky was a grainy grey above the black branches. There was a patter of rain like aerial feet running over the treetops. That could be elves. But it rattled down on them in large, cold drops.

Wolf shook with excitement. He was afraid of failure. Not just because of the knife; what really bothered him was that Hugo would think he had lied. And he hadn’t; he’d seen an elf. He forgot his doubts. Lord Hugo wanted an elf, and an elf it must be.

But he was mortally afraid of losing his way —making a fool out of this great lord, this crusader. Hugo had listened. He might be hot-tempered, he might lose patience. If he wanted, he could cut Wolf’s throat and leave him lying, and no one would ever know. But he listened. And he’s giving me a chance to show I spoke the truth. He’s rough, hut he’s fair. And here’s me, Wolf walking beside Lord Hugo of the Red Mound, looking for an elf.

It felt like something out of an old song.

They pushed onwards, upwards. The soft ground got steeper, and there was the sour, pungent smell Wolf remembered from before. His heart lifted. Here was the place, the tumbled stones at the bottom of the cliff, and the clump of nettles. He strained his eyes. And there was the cave: a black crack under a shelf of rock.

“Here,” he whispered in triumph.

“That? That’s one of the old mines.” Hugo shook his shoulder. “So where’s the elf?”

“I don’t know.” And he didn’t; in dismay he realised that the elf might have come scuttling out by now. “Somewhere inside,” he said hopefully.

“Easy to say,” Hugo began. But the greyhound, which had followed them back through the wood, let out a strangled whine and dashed past. It disappeared into the dark hole. The glimmer of its white coat went out like a snuffed candle.

“You see?” Wolf pulled free from Hugo’s hand. He scrambled over the stones and dropped on all fours, peering under the dripping lip of rock. Just past the entrance the darkness was absolute. From further in, perhaps not far, came a knock, click and rattle of tumbling rocks. And the dog barked, a flat sound like a muffled handclap.

“Splendour of God.” Hugo was close behind him. “There’s something there after all. Argos!” He leaned over Wolf, calling into the darkness. “Argos!” He whistled, but the dog didn’t come. He leaned in further. “Eluned?” he called, and Wolf was startled by the change in him. He sounded eager, desperate, imploring. “Eluned, are you there? Oh, where are you?” He listened with his whole body, as if straining for an answer, but the cave seemed to eat the sound and there wasn’t even an echo. He grabbed at Wolf.

“This elf — what was it like? Did it look like a woman?”

Wolf longed to say yes, for plainly this was what Hugo hoped to hear. “No… it looked like a child. But the face —” he shivered “— it’s all red down one side, like a dark stain.” He checked his memory. “It could be a girl, but only a very young one. A little, naked child.”

“An elf-child. A fay.” Hugo blew out a long, strained breath. “And you think it’s in there still?”

“Yes, sir. And the dog knows.”

“That could be anything. A badger.”

“I told you, I saw its face.” Its sharp, frightened face.

It began to rain properly: earnest, steady, soaking rain that would go on all night. Hugo stood, staring at the cave. “Is it possible?” It was a rough whisper, full of doubt and wonder. “That’s the gate of Elfland? That hole?”

“I’ll go in,” Wolf said impulsively. Sudden excitement boiled through him. He’d do it. He’d do anything to impress Hugo, prove himself right, show that he wasn’t a snivelling little clerk. “I’ll go in and scare it out. And I’ll find your dog. I’ll do it now.” Now — this very minute, while his blood was up — without thinking twice.

“In the dark?” Hugo’s voice rang with disbelief. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Watch this, Wolf thought. He hitched up his robe and ducked under the rim of the cave.

“Wolf…”

Wolf looked back, expecting a word of encouragement. Hugo was a black shape against the grey. “If you’ve been lying to me, don’t even think about coming back out.”

“I’ve not been lying!” Wolf said fiercely — and hit his head on the roof. “Ouch!” He blundered on. Behind him he could hear Hugo laughing.

The entrance sloped down and was too low to walk upright. It was like going downstairs at night, but stairs made for dwarfs and buried in loose rubble. He was forced to bend in half, bracing his hands against the wall, feeling for each foothold. Soon the roof got lower. He had to crawl.

It was cold and wet — cold as a fresh-dug grave. And dark! Of all the different shades of black in the wood, none had been like this. Soot black — dead black, pressing on his eyes.

The ground levelled. He explored around him with his hands. Mud and gravel and heaps of stones. Shallow puddles. Something curved with sharp edges, like a broken pot. Who had left that here? And there was that smell again, that sour, foxy reek. Lord Hugo was right. This dirty hole couldn’t lead to Elfland, could it?

It must. It has to, or why would the elf be here? He listened, holding his breath. Nothing but a horrid, dripping silence. But what was that? That pattering, rustling sound?

Out of nowhere, something pushed a wet nose into his face and slipped away again. “Argos?” Wolf called, but the dog was out of reach. He crawled painfully after it, guided by the slip and splash of its paws on the wet floor. The cave went on further than he’d thought, even though the roof was so low.

His breath came quick and raw. What if elves were all around — unseen, but somehow watching him? And what if Lord Hugo got tired of waiting and went away? Or blocked up the entrance to wall him in? He screwed his neck round to look behind him, and could see nothing.

I’m lost!

No. It’s all right. Even if I can’t see it, the entrance is there, not far away. Lord Hugo won’t leave me. And of course he won’t shut me in. Not when his dog is here with me.

He rubbed his eyes, and saw floating colours, spectral greens and blues. This must be the beginning of elfish enchantments. Soon, perhaps, a weird light would blossom, and he would see—

What would he see?

Through clacking teeth he began to mutter his prayers. “Pater noster qui es in caelis…” He crept, wincing, over sharp rubble. “…sed libera nos a malo. Amen.” The familiar prayer made him feel better and safer — it was a lifeline to God. He took a calming breath and began again. “Pater noster…” How much further did this cave go? He crawled on over the cold, wet stones. “…Amen. Pater noster…”

He broke off. Somewhere just ahead, an animal was growling.

“Argos?”

And then everything happened at once. He bumped into the dog’s hindquarters, feeling its long, bony legs and thin tail like a long, wet feather. It snarled in shock and turned on him. Teeth clicked somewhere near his ear. Wolf flung himself aside, shouting, “Argos — it’s me!” — and smashed into the wall.

A flash of bright agony tore through his head. The darkness split open like a pea pod. Colours swirled in the gap and settled into a vision of low, green hills on the other side of a rust-red, lazily flowing river.

Wolf stretched out unbelieving fingers.

Elfland! he thought. The rocks had opened, and he was seeing into the kingdom of Elfland! As he stared, it slowly faded into a ghostly image of itself. The red river turned green, the green hills turned red, as if covered with blood. It was a mockery of a landscape, as if the elves were showing him he could trust in nothing. Then, like a dark sphincter closing, it shrank and dwindled. All went black.

Wolf pushed himself up on all fours. Tears of pain and shock ran down his cheeks. All he wanted was to grab Argos and get out.

Or had the dog already scrambled over him? “Argos?” he whispered, waving a groping hand around him. “Argos?” He touched something cold and hairless that shrank and quivered.

The elf! He snatched his hand away. Close to him, cornered! Feverishly he rubbed his fingers. He couldn’t bear the thought of touching it again. But he’d boasted that he would bring out the elf, and now he had to. Lord Hugo was waiting. Prodding the darkness, he realised the elf had bunched and burrowed into the scooped-out end of a blind tunnel. Perhaps this was the very doorway to Elfland, but the other elves had closed the rocks, shutting it out. Elves were cruel and heartless, even to each other.

He heard a muffled whimper.

A warm, painful feeling uncurled inside Wolf’s chest — pity, mixed with horror. That whimpering sounded exactly like a child. Whatever she was, elf or changeling, he couldn’t leave her like this, cowering in a black slot in the ground.

“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.” The only answer was a scuffling sound as the creature rammed herself more firmly into her hiding place. Wolf hesitated.

“God’s blessing on you,” he said at last, half-ashamed. He didn’t know if it was right to bless an elf.

He reached forward. His fingers skated quickly over a bony back and shoulder, and closed around a thin arm.

Wolf shuffled backwards and yanked her after him. Shuffle, yank. Shuffle, yank. He dragged her through the tunnel. He found himself talking to her in gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was a horrible thing to do. But she couldn’t stay here, could she? The pointed stones hurt his knees, and he kept cracking his head on the low roof. The elf-child didn’t struggle. She was as light and stiff as a dead bird. Fervently he hoped she hadn’t really died — of fright or the damage he was causing by tugging her over the rocks.

The gradient changed, and he grunted and panted till he could turn around. It was much harder going up than it had been coming down. On hands and knees he hauled the elf-child up the shifting slope until soil and clay glued the stones together, the roof rose, and he could see a patch of grey night ahead. At last!

“Sir?” he called. “Lord Hugo?”

The entrance blackened and pinched small. Wolf heard grunts and curses. Hugo was crawling into the cave.

“What happened? Were you afraid to come out?” He sounded impatient and suspicious. “There was never any elf, was there?

“Yes there was,” Wolf panted. “Help me pull her out.”

“Argos came out long ago. Pull her out? You mean you’ve got her?”

“Yes.” Triumph vibrated in Wolf’s voice.

“Splendour of God,” Hugo swore. He squeezed closer, breathing heavily. “Where? Could I get down there? Is it really the way to Elfland?”

He was entirely blocking the passage. All the light vanished. Wolf felt a wave of suffocating panic.

“What did you see?” Hugo whispered harshly.

Wolf suppressed the urge to scream and thrash his way out. “I’ll tell you later — later,” he gasped. “Help me with her, please!”

“Hand her up then,” Hugo commanded.

Lying with his legs deep in the tunnel, Wolf dragged the child past his own body. She had curled into a tight, cold ball and was doing nothing to help herself. He felt her vanish upwards as Hugo pulled her away.

Wolf followed as fast as he could. He scrambled into the fresh, open night. The rain fell on him like a blessing, and Argos pranced to meet him.

Hugo turned, holding the elf-girl in his arms. “Well done! Well done,” he said fiercely. Then he threw back his head and yelled, a war cry that sent thrills down Wolf’s spine: “Rollo! Geraint! Roger! A moy, gens de la Motte Rouge! Men of the Red Mound, to me! Bring torches!”

He strode down through the dark wood, shouting, and his men came crashing through the bushes to meet him, trailing spears and brandishing flaming sticks.

“My lord? Lord Hugo?”

“By the Holy Face, who’s with him? And what’s that?”

“Wait till you see,” Hugo roared. “A better quarry than a wolf, men!” He shouldered his way out into the clearing, and dumped the child on the ground.

The men, eight or nine of them, clustered around swearing incredulously and kicking away inquisitive dogs. Their makeshift torches were already flickering out in the wind, but the light of the sinking fire played over the elf-girl where she crouched at Lord Hugo’s feet, smeared with red mud, all sharp spine and bony ribs, her disfigured face hidden against her knees. Her sides heaved and sank, heaved and sank in rapid breaths. The weird puffball of matted hair looked as unreal as when Wolf had first seen her. On her fingers and toes, long brownish nails curled like claws.

“By the bones of Saint Thomas, what is it?”

“It’s a kiddie, eh?”

“No kiddie ever looked like that.”

“It’s an elf!” Hugo flung an arm around Wolf’s shoulders. “We were hunting elves as well as wolves, men, though we didn’t know it. There’s a cave under the cliff back there. One of the old, lost mines. It leads down to Elfland! Argos was lost inside. And this boy went in after him and brought out the elf.”

Wolf swayed where he stood. The rain beat into his face and shoulders. He was deathly cold, but burning pride ran like hot metal through the marrow of his bones at Hugo’s praise. Surely — surely now there was a good chance Lord Hugo would make him a squire?

The men growled. “Let it go, lord,” said one of them bluntly, to mutters of agreement. “It’s not safe to meddle with such things.”

“Let it go? Splendour of God, no! Not for any danger. How many men, think you, have chased and caught an elf? Rollo, look after the boy.”

“I’ve got him.” A rough hand gripped his arm. “Hey, you — hold up!”

Wolf’s tired eyes jerked open. Kneeling beside the fire, some of the men were knotting the elf-girl into a cloak. He heard snatches of low-voiced, horrified conversation.

“Say your prayers, boys — we’re bringing it home!”

The man holding Wolf said into his ear, “Oh, you’ve done it now, young fellow. Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Lord Hugo w-wanted me to find an elf,” Wolf mumbled.

The man shook him: “So you look! Next time, you look, but you don’t find anything! Got that?”

“Is Hugo mad?” A Welsh voice, hissing with disapproval. “Those old mines, they go right down to Annwn, to Elfland — and deeper for all I know: full of devils and ghosts and Duw knows what? This’ll bring bad luck: terrible luck. We’ll be riding home with the Wild Host on our heels.”

“Shut up, Geraint,” said the man holding Wolf.

“I’ll say what I like!” The Welsh voice again. “And I won’t touch a finger to the creature. Duw! I’d sooner touch a viper.”

There was a pause.

“What’ll we do with the clerk, Rollo?”

“Hoist him up behind me,” Rollo grunted.

Unfriendly hands boosted Wolf on to the wet hindquarters of a horse. He wrapped his arms around Rollo’s thick waist and clung on as they jounced downhill. They scrambled across a ditch and turned south with a ringing clatter of iron horseshoes along a straight, stone road.

Wolf’s head kept nodding forwards on to Rollo’s shoulder. Then he’d wake with a lurch of panic, and grip Rollo harder to stop himself falling. On they rode through the rain-blurred darkness — men, horses and dogs all hurrying, all eager to get home.