Читать книгу Dark Angels - Katherine Langrish - Страница 8

Nest — that was her true name, though she tried to think of herself as Agnes — came out of her freezing bedchamber, clasping a cushion in front of her chest like some kind of round, padded shield. She’d endured the cold as long as she could, just for the luxury of being on her own. She’d sat reading by candlelight until her fingers were numb and shaking, and she was afraid she’d tear the precious pages. Now she stood on the high landing at the top of the stairs, her shivers gradually decreasing in the mild smoky air of the Great Hall, and looked over the rail into the vast, fire-flickering space below.

Rain burst against the shutters. The Hall was warm, silent and pleasantly gloomy. Soon it would fill up with noisy men and their muddy boots, and the smells of sweat and wet wool and wet dogs. But for now they were all out — except the unlucky few stuck at their posts on the watchtower and the gate. The only two people downstairs were Howell the priest, and her nurse Angharad. It was probably safe to go down…

She leaned further over the rail. Just as she’d thought, Angharad and old Howell were both asleep. Howell’s white head nodded forward over his stick, which he clasped between his knees. Angharad was sitting on a stool near the fire. Her sewing had slipped from her lap, and she snored softly.

Nest drummed her fingers on the taut fabric of the cushion. She didn’t mind Howell, but Angharad was such a chatterbox. If she woke up, she would want to start gossiping about Godfrey of La Blanche Land. Again. Nothing could stop Angharad once she started. She would go on talking even if Nest refused to answer.

“You’re very quiet,” she would giggle. “Dreaming of Lord Godfrey? Don’t you worry, my cariad, it won’t be long before he comes and then we’ll know all about him. What a handsome little boy he was, the day you were betrothed! You won’t remember, you were only little. He had dark hair just like yours — though I prefer a fair-haired man myself, like your noble father. My own second husband was a fair-haired man, God rest him. The first was an old dotard I would never have picked for myself, but of course I had no choice in the matter. Thirteen I was at the time, just the same age as you are now. But it wasn’t long before a cold on the chest carried him off, the poor silly fellow. He should have listened to me when I told him to wear his old brown cloak with the double lining. ‘You should wrap up,’ I said, ‘you’re not as young as you were. At your time of life it’s better to be warm than smart.’ But oh no, he knew best, off he went and came back coughing. ‘It’s your own fault,’ I told him, as I sat at his sickbed. ‘You have nobody to blame but yourself.’ He died, in spite of the fact that I never left his side, and then I was free to marry my Dafydd. Thirteen is young to wed, but I believe in girls marrying young. It keeps them steady. If only you hadn’t lost your dear lady mother, and your noble father hadn’t taken the Cross and gone off to fight those wicked Saracens —” here she would cross herself “— curse them, then you might have been married already! At least Lord Godfrey’s a young man. Many a poor lady has to marry a greybeard old enough to be her father. I don’t hold with that. Winter marrying spring, I call it. January and May should never wed, but with you and Lord Godfrey it will be like May marrying June!”

Nest picked viciously at the cushion, tugging out a loose thread. She didn’t feel a bit May-like. If she had to be a month, she thought it would be a very early, chilly March, with frost on the ground and ice on the puddles. But it was no use saying that kind of thing to Angharad, because Angharad never listened. She could go on for hours, wondering aloud whether Godfrey was tall or short, sporting or bookish, plain or handsome — until Nest had to bite the insides of her cheeks and twist her ankles around each other and clench her fingers in her lap to stop herself from flying to pieces.

Down by the fire, Angharad twitched and let out a soft snore. Nest decided to risk it. Plucking up her skirt she tiptoed quickly downstairs. In the pool of light cast by the fire, the rushes covering the floor glowed a bright, summery green. They were clean — swept out and replaced every week — and gave off a faint, fresh scent. Nest dropped her cushion, sat on it, and kicked off her leather shoes. She wrapped her arms around her knees and pushed out stockinged feet to the blaze.

The hearth was octagonal, flat, with a border of old roof tiles sunk edgewise into the earth in a herringbone pattern. The big logs burned on an iron grid, dripping bright flakes on to a dragon-hoard of glowing embers. The heat played on her skin. Her face baked, and the folds of her green woollen dress were soon almost scorching. The last of her shivers died. It was glorious.

In the warm drift of ashes at the edge of the hearth something stirred — something the size of a very big tomcat. It shook off a snowfall of ash, sneezed, and said in a wheezing voice like a leaky bagpipe, “Come down for a bit of a warm, have you, young missis?”

“It’s Lady Agnes to you!”

“That’s right,” the thing went on, ignoring this, “you wiggle them pretty little toes.” It stretched a horny hand towards her feet, as if to rub them.

Nest pulled her skirt over her toes. “Oh no, you don’t!”

“Ho ho!” It clicked its tongue annoyingly and sniggered. “Standoffish, eh? You’ll have to be nicer than that to Lord Godfrey, when he comes. What’s the matter? I’ve known you since you was a babby. Don’t you like me any more?”

“I don’t approve of you,” Nest told it crisply.

“What for? Just acos I’m a bwbach — a poor old hearth-hob?”

“Not because you’re a hob,” Nest said. “Because you’re so lazy. We had a hearth-hob at Our Lady’s In-the-Wood, and it was always busy. The nuns used to say they didn’t know what they would do without it. It swept and cleaned and polished, and it would leave sweet little bunches of flowers for Mother Aethelflaed to put in front of the shrine of Our Lady, just as if it was a Christian.”

The hearth-hob made a rude noise with its lips, but it saw that Nest wasn’t listening. Glassy tears swam in her eyes and looked in danger of spilling over. She hugged her knees tight and bent her head.

“I wish I was still there,” she said, muffled into her skirt.

“Oh, I dunno,” the hob said awkwardly. “Can’t have been much fun, stuck in a convent — eh?”

“Oh, it was!” Nest sniffed. “It was so civilised. Every evening we would sit, and Mother Aethelflaed or one of the sisters would read aloud, and then we would converse—”

“What d’you call this?” said the hob. “We’m conversating now, ain’t we?”

“Oh, but about interesting things,” said Nest passionately. “About stars and planets — about saints and miracles — about beasts and birds and far-off lands—”

The hob coughed. “There’s a rat’s nest in the pantry, I knows that,” it offered.

“Don’t be stupid!” Nest lifted a wet face and glared at it. “That’s exactly what I mean. Nobody here can talk about anything but wolves and dogs and horses.”

“Rats ain’t exactly—” the hob began, but Nest swept on.

“And there were lots of books there, and music — we would sing together. Play harps. I wanted to do something great, hob.”

“Er?”

“I don’t know what.” Nest stared into the smoky heights above the fire. “Write about a saint’s life so that everyone could read it, perhaps. Or become the abbess of a holy house and inspire people and save souls. Or go on a pilgrimage to Rome or Jerusalem.”

She dropped her face back on to her knees. “But I’ve got to get married.”

“That’ll be all right,” the hob encouraged her. “You’ll have lots of lovely bouncing babbies, right?” It gave her a sly glance. “I loves babbies. Cunning little things — dribbling and burping and crying…”

Nest shuddered. She screwed her eyes shut. Sweet blessed Saviour, she prayed into the folds of her skirt, I know that I must get married, but let that not be all that ever happens to me. Send me a miracle. Let me have some wonderful work to do for You.

“Oh well.” The hob crooked a hairy elbow to scratch its back. It grunted and strained, trying to reach the bit in the middle, gave up and yawned, showing a lot of blunt yellow teeth. “What’s for supper tonight? Roast pork and crackling?”

“It’s Friday,” said Nest, wiping her eyes.

“Is it?” The hob’s face fell. “No meat,” it grumbled. “Fasting on a Friday. Who thought that one up? What’s the point?”

Nest sat up. “Fasting brings us closer to the angels,” she said coldly. “Angels never eat. They spend all their time praising God.”

“Only cos they ain’t got stummicks,” the hob muttered. “Go on, then, what’s for supper? Herbert’s not the worst cook I’ve ever known. We won’t starve. Fish, I s’pose? A nice bit of carp or trout?”

“At Our Lady’s,” Nest began, “the hob was perfectly satisfied with a simple bowl of gruel…”

She stopped as the hob sat up. Its hairy ears pricked and swivelled. Nest tilted her head. Beyond the thick walls and shutters, from far over the staked and defended ramparts and the deep ditch, horns were blowing. Then, loud and near, an answering blast from the gatehouse, and the shouts of the porters as they ran to swing back the heavy gate.

“They’m back.” The hob gave her a wink. “Don’t forget the fish. Not the tail. A nice juicy piece from the middle, with just a spoonful of sauce: Herbert does a good sauce. No need to finnick about with the bones; I eats ’em.” With a flurry of ash it burrowed out of sight.

“Greedy thing.” Nest clicked her tongue in irritation and stood, dusting ashes from her skirt. The big Hall door creaked open. In ran Walter and Mattie, dark rain-spatters on their clothes. They wrestled the door shut against the night wind, and with a nod and a curtsy to Nest, began setting up the Hall for supper. Scrape! Crash! They dragged the benches out from the walls and lowered the wooden table tops on to the trestles. Old Howell sat up with a start. Flap! The white linen cloth sank billowing on to the High Table. Angharad yawned and groped to straighten her veil and headband. “Dearie me, did I drop off? Is my lord your father back, Nest cariad?”

“He’s just ridden in.” Nest raised her voice. “What’s for supper, Mattie?”

“Eels in batter with a sharp sauce, madam. And then a sweet omelette, and apples stewed in wine and honey. S’cuse me, madam, I’m in such a hurry.” Mattie scurried to and from the pantry with cups and handfuls of spoons. “Herbert’s in one of his moods, what with the hunt coming back so late. And now there’s an awful rush on in the kitchen…”

Nest pulled on her shoes. She threw her veil over her hair, went to the door and stuck her head out into the wild night. The wind tore flames from a single torch flaring on a post down near the gatehouse. A bobbing river of excited dogs streamed into the kennels. Men dropped stiffly from their saddles, and the dark shapes of tired horses clopped over the wet cobbles and into the stable.

“Nest! Nest!” Angharad shrilled behind her. “Run and lay out some dry clothes for your father. He’ll need to change before supper.”

Instead, Nest leaned further into the rain. The last horse to come under the gateway was carrying two riders. It plodded wearily into the torchlight, and the second rider slid clumsily down over the animal’s tail. As the horse walked away he staggered and nearly fell.

“They’ve brought someone home with them!” Nest exclaimed. “A stranger — riding behind Rollo.”

“Oh, who can it be?” Angharad hurried across and peered out, breathing hard and squeezing Nest against the doorpost.

The stranger rubbed dirty hands down the front of his ragged dark robe and looked around as though he wasn’t sure what to do next. On top of his head, a shaved patch shone pale in the torchlight.

“A tonsure! By Saint Mary, one of the holy brothers!” Angharad’s face was alight with curiosity. “Young, too — only a boy. How tired he looks! Wherever has he come from? Not Ystrad Marcella, for sure: they’re all white monks there, and that’s a black robe he’s wearing. Couldn’t be Wenford, surely, the other side of the mountain? Or, I wonder now—”

“He can tell us himself in a minute,” Nest said. Her voice shook with excitement. A clerk — young, educated! If only he would stay and be someone she could read and write and talk with! She dug an elbow into Angharad’s doughy side. “Angharad, let me get past. My father will want me to go out and welcome them all.”

In fact Lord Hugo was still in the saddle and hadn’t glanced at the open doorway. With one hand he controlled his horse, which turned and trampled, tugging the reins, eager to get to the stable. With the other he was holding some kind of bundle at his saddle bow. “Splendour of God!” he bellowed at his men. “Take it, one of you! I can’t sit here all night!”

But the men were slow to obey. It was the young clerk who reached for the bundle — something all swaddled up in a cloak. He took it clumsily, leaning back and averting his face as though he was afraid it would bite.

“Whatever can it be?” Nest muttered.

“Take it inside!” Hugo ordered as he swung down from his horse. Obediently the boy headed for the Hall door. As the light from the doorway reached him, Nest took in every detail. Below the shaven scalp he had a ring of thick, fair hair. His face was fresh, bold and open; but he looked as if he had rolled in mud. Why was he so filthy? I’ll have to send Mattie for gallons of hot water and towels. Supper will have to wait even longer, and oh dear, Herbert will he furious.

Her eyes widened. There was a patch of sticky blood in the boy’s hair and smeared across his cheek. He must have been attacked by robbers. Her father must have rescued him. Poor boy! Her heart swelled in sympathy.

But before she could speak to him, the bundle he was carrying suddenly kicked and squirmed. The boy let go, yelping. He stepped back on the torn hem of his robe, and sat down in the mud.

The bundle humped up like a caterpillar. The corners had been tied in clumsy rabbit-ear knots, with a belt buckled around the middle. Now the knots came apart and a little girl struggled out on to the doorstep, almost at Nest’s feet. She was small, pale, surely no more than five years old. Her bony knees were dark with calluses. She had skinny shanks, sharp elbows, claw-like hands and feet and a vast tangle of colourless hair. She looked up. Half her face was dark red, like bread dipped in wine.

For a frozen heartbeat nobody moved.

My miracle, Nest thought with appalled certainty. She had prayed for some good work to do, and God had promptly sent her this. She stretched out a trembling hand. The child spat like an angry cat and shot away.

“Close the gate!” Lord Hugo yelled. But the child wasn’t aiming for the gate. She disappeared around the corner of the Great Hall.

Nest didn’t pause to think. She snatched up her skirts and raced after. As she turned the corner into the rutted track that ran between the Hall and the cookhouse, rain blew into her face like showers of arrows, and her feet slipped in the mud. Ahead, the dark bulk of the motte with its tall watchtower loomed up into the night.

From their high vantage point on the boardwalk along the ramparts, the guards began yelling, pointing into the yard. “There it goes — past the cookhouse!”

“I see it! Shall I shoot?”

“That’s Lady Agnes, you fool — put that bow down!”

“It’s gone — I’ve lost it.”

“It’s doubled back!”

Dogs barked, horses whinnied in terror, men shouted and stamped along the hollow planking. Nest saw the castle as the child must see it — a frightening place of black shadows and glaring flames. The cookhouse door stood open like an entrance into Hell, the fires within colouring the cloud of smoke which rose from the vented roof. Inside, Herbert the cook was bellowing at some underling.

Squelching footsteps sounded behind her. The young clerk came panting up, his bare legs spattered with mud. He called out in rough-sounding English. She didn’t understand a word.

“Can’t you speak French?”

“You mean you can?” The boy sounded taken aback. “Quick,” he added just as roughly, “which way did she go?”

Does he think I’m a servant? Nest opened her mouth to say something sharp. But he could hardly expect to meet Lord Hugo’s daughter chasing a beggar child across a muddy yard. And he would be dreadfully embarrassed when he found out. She forgave him…

“WHICH — WAY?” the boy repeated loudly and slowly, as if to an idiot.

“I don’t know! When I got round the corner, she’d vanished.” Nest clutched her veil as the wind threatened to blow it off her head. “Who is she? And who are you? Where have you come from?”

“Never mind that now.” He threw the words over his shoulder, already striding off into the rainy darkness. “What’s over here?”

“Only the midden — the dunghill.” Affronted, Nest ran after him. “Wait. What’s her name? And yours?”

“I’m called Wolf. Don’t know about her. Lord Hugo and me — we think she’s an elf.”

“Lord Hugo and you?” Nest caught up. “An elf? What do you mean?”

“You know what an elf is, don’t you?” he said impatiently. “A fairy; a fay.”

“How dare you speak to me—” Nest forgot what she was saying. A cart stood beside the cookhouse wall. Behind the dark shelter of the wheels, a pale shape lurked. “There! She’s there, see? Hiding under the cart!”

The boy seized her arm. “Quick, run and fetch Lord Hugo.”

“You run and fetch him, you impudent — fellow!” Nest flashed. She jerked her arm free and stepped towards the cart, lifting her skirt out of the mud in a bunched handful. “God bless you, my poor child,” she called in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “Don’t be frightened. No one will hurt you.” But the child dodged around the wheels and sped away like a fleeing ghost.

“Now see what you’ve done, you stupid girl!” hissed the boy. He shoved past her, bawling at the top of his voice, “She went this way! Come quickly!”

Geraint and Rollo came running, hooting and shouting, waving their arms. From the stables came young Madog, chubby Roger Bach and grizzled Walter with pitchforks and hay rakes. The child jinked and doubled back. She couldn’t go around the back of the Hall without passing Nest and the boy. There was only one bolt-hole left to try, and she took it. She shot straight through the open door of the cookhouse. The men piled after her, with Nest and the boy close behind.

The cookhouse erupted in screams, cries and smashing dishes. “Catch her — catch the elf!” roared Rollo. Past his burly back, Nest caught glimpses of the wild child rushing around and around the kitchen like a trapped squirrel — jumping at the walls, clutching at shelves, bringing crocks and pans clattering down —leaping over tables, dodging past the oven.

“Be careful!” Nest screamed. “Mind the fire!” In the centre of the room, waist-high flames licked the sides of the huge black cooking pot where broth for the garrison was briskly boiling. “Quick, someone — catch her!”

But how could she be caught? No one wanted to touch her. The kitchen cats streaked for the door. Tall, fierce Bronwen the kitchen maid rushed out of the scullery with a pail of water and threw it wildly over everything. Round-faced Gwenny shrieked and shrieked.

“Catch the elf!”

The child leaped at a dresser and tipped over a basketful of eggs. A row of frying pans full of sizzling hot fat capsized into the fire. Furious yellow flames crackled up. Chopping boards, bowls and trays of loaves went flying.

“By all the devils in Hell!” Scarlet-faced and terrible, Herbert the cook revolved yelling in the midst of the chaos. He plucked a huge iron ladle from a rack and waved it in the air. “Get out of my kitchen!”

The boy pushed past Nest and launched himself at the child, seizing her shoulder. She turned, clawing like a wildcat. Together they crashed to the floor and disappeared under a pile of bodies as Rollo, Bernard and the others hurled themselves on top. “She’ll be squashed! Don’t hurt her!” Nest screamed, dancing from foot to foot in anguish.

Herbert waded into the scrum, eyes popping with fury. “Out, the whole boiling lot of you, before I cut every one of you to collops!” He whirled the ladle and began indiscriminately whacking exposed heads, arms and elbows. Geraint yelled and staggered away clutching his head. Rollo and Bernard scrambled up, cursing.

Herbert caught the boy by the scruff and the seat, and tossed him aside.

“By Saint Laurence roasting on his griddle! Half a dozen of you, and you can’t catch one little brat with less meat on her bones than a picked goose the day after Michaelmas?” He advanced on the child, swinging his ladle. “Don’t move, you. Not so much as an eyeball!” She froze, staring at him in terror. Herbert snapped his fingers. He seized a piece of bread and threw it to her. “Here! Sink your little teeth into that and stop wrecking my kitchen.”

The child flinched from the missile as if it was a stone, but she watched it fall and darted towards it on all fours. She sniffed it. Finally she grabbed it. With a suspicious glance at the staring crowd, she turned her back, pressed herself close to the wall, and crammed the bread into her mouth with spidery fingers.

“Why, the child’s starving!” Bronwen exclaimed.

“That’s no child — it’s one of the Fair Family!” shouted Geraint.

“That’s right! It’s an elf! Lord Hugo found it on the hill!”

“Silence!” Herbert roared. He scowled around the room, scratching the back of his thick neck, lingering on the spillages, the breakages, the smashed and dripping eggs. The kitchen servants quailed. Even the men-at-arms avoided his eye. “Right!” he bellowed, “I don’t care if it’s an elf, or a beggar’s brat, or an imp out of Hell, I want to know which of you ignorant, flea-bitten fools let it loose in my—” For the first time, he noticed Nest standing in the doorway. Crimson veins popped out on his forehead.

“Madam!” In a gesture of angry duty he snatched off his cook’s cap, wiped his glistening face with the back of a hairy wrist, and glared at her. What are you doing here? his face plainly said. How dare you see me lose control of my own kitchen!

Nest stood flushing, the focus of all eyes. The men pulled off their caps, while Gwenny and Bronwen bobbed curtsies. And the boy, Wolf, gave her an astounded, furious glance — as though she had deliberately made a fool of him. Nest tried to carry it off. She lifted her chin. “W-well done, Herbert.”

Three loud handclaps sounded behind her. “Well done, indeed!” Nest spun around and saw her father. He gave her a sharp, hard look, and she began to stammer excuses. But he ignored them and said laughing to Herbert, “If only you had been with me in the Holy Land, Herbert. You would have been more use to me than a whole troop of knights. Can you salvage our supper?”

Herbert’s face darkened to quivering purple as he choked down his temper. At the same time, Nest saw his meaty chest heave with pride at Lord Hugo’s praise. In an unnaturally mild, piping voice he said, “Certainly, my lord — if only I can get these people out of my way.” He glowered at the intruding men-at-arms. “But supper may be late.”

“No matter,” Lord Hugo drawled. “Clear up here, and then we’ll eat.”

Under Herbert’s gimlet eye, the kitchen staff began very obviously to bustle about. Bronwen clapped her hands at Roger and Bernard, Geraint and Rollo, shooing them out of the door. Plump Gwenny found a brush and shovel. She got down on her knees and started sweeping up broken crocks. And over by the wall, the strange child gnawed the remains of her bread. Nest picked up another piece and slipped closer.

Absorbed by her food, the child didn’t react until Nest was right beside her. How thin she was! As she wrenched at the bread, her shoulder blades were snap-sharp under the skin. Nest held the bread out. “Hello…”

The child’s eyes flashed up. In the light, they shone a beautiful light green, like clear glass. Nest caught her breath. But she’s pretty! In spite of the dirt, in spite of the dark red birthmark and the matted, tangled hair, this strange child was pretty.

A hand jerked Nest away. She stumbled against her father. He let go, and indignantly she rubbed her arm. “Too close, Agnes,” he said, fierce and low. “What are you doing here? You’re not to go anywhere near the creature, do you understand? Keep away from her.”

“But she’s just a child,” Nest began.

The child hissed. Her lips drew back over sharp, white teeth. Nest threw the bread, and stepped back.

“An elf-child,” corrected her father. “Look at her face. Look at those nails — they’re like claws. She came out of the mines on Devil’s Edge. The boy here found her.”

A little shudder ran down Nest’s spine. An elf-girl in their own castle — a fairy child from the underworld come to live at La Motte Rouge! She clenched her fingers in excitement, trying to think what she knew about elves. Some kind of lost spirits, weren’t they, midway between Heaven and Hell, doomed to pass away forever at the Day of Judgement? Maybe this one can be saved. Maybe that’s what I’ve got to do. Tame her and teach her and save her! She saw the child transformed: clean, clothed and happy. The first step would be to choose her a name. I’ll be her godmother. I’ll call her—

“Elfgift,” said the boy, interrupting her thoughts. He cleared his throat and looked at her father. “I thought we could call her Elfgift. It’s an English name,” he added, colouring. “It means—”

“I know what it means,” said Hugo. “Well, why not? It’s too late to do anything with her tonight, but tomorrow,” he added grimly, “we’ll find out whether she can speak and tell us a different name.” He raised his voice. “Bronwen, make sure that this gift of the elves is washed and clothed, and then lock her up somewhere safe for the night.”

Bronwen grimaced. She flung back her head and squared her strong shoulders. “I’ll try, lord — if Gwenny can help me. We can shut her up in one of the stables — if my lord really wants to keep her.” A question lilted in her voice, but Hugo ignored it.

“I want to help, too,” said Nest.

“You will not,” said her father.

“Oh, but—” Nest looked into his hard face and cast her eyes down. Arguing would be useless. And Bronwen clapped both hands over a shocked snort. “God’s mercy, madam! Not you! That won’t be a job fit for Lady Agnes.”

Was Bronwen laughing at her? Something inside Nest crinkled up with shame and resentment. Her father was treating her like a child. And Bronwen, Bronwen with her mane of black hair, as strong as a mountain pony, as brown as a berry, clearly thought Nest too weak and timid to be useful. Bronwen was only a kitchen maid, and it was stupid to care what she thought… but Nest did care. She cared a lot.

And that Wolf boy was grinning.

Him!

She already didn’t like him. Now she liked him even less. Anger crackled inside her like a newly lit fire. Why was it funny? Why did being Lady Agnes mean that she was never allowed to do anything? At least, at least her father should answer one last question. She would make him. Swinging round, she dipped him a stiff, challenging curtsy, and said very loudly and clearly, “But what do you mean to do with the child, my lord?”

Anger darkened Hugo’s face, but he hesitated. For a moment, triumphant, she thought she’d won. He could not refuse to answer her in front of the servants. The kitchen fell quiet. Herbert’s small eyes narrowed to the size of currants. Bronwen’s eyes widened. Gwenny gaped at Lord Hugo, slack-mouthed and expectant. What did Lord Hugo want the elf-girl for?

“Lady Agnes! Madam! Oh, my Lady Agnes!” Angharad scuttled into the kitchen like a plump, flustered hen. “You naughty, naughty girl!” she scolded Nest, and turned to Lord Hugo. “Don’t think I haven’t taught her better than this, my lord, because I have. Running off into the night and romping in the kitchen? My goodness. Now you come back with me this minute and behave like a lady.”

Nest gulped down a great lump of anger and pride. Silently she curtsied again to her father. I won’t make a scene. I won’t make a fuss!

The moment was over. Herbert turned to shout at a couple of dogs that had sneaked in to lick up the smashed eggs. And the boy, Wolf, caught her eye for a fleeting second and looked quickly away. His mouth twitched — as if he was trying not to laugh. Nest hated him. She held her head high and let her gaze sweep coldly past.

Then Angharad gripped her by the arm like a prisoner and towed her away.