Читать книгу Dark Angels - Katherine Langrish - Страница 9

Wolf woke from a dream of riding in a wild cavalcade that went sweeping through dark skies over the reeling countryside, while he looked down in terror on hills which lay huddled together like hogs in a pen.

He opened his eyes, not in relief, but with a feeling of guilt and restlessness.

He was lying on a pallet not far from the fire. The floor was warm from the glow of the heaped embers. There was a smell of soft smoke and green rushes. Somewhere nearby, a mouse squeaked as a cat pounced on it. Around him, Lord Hugo’s household lay snoring, coddled in cloaks on their straw mattresses.

Wolf’s back was sore. He rolled on to his side. It must be about the second hour after midnight, he thought. At the abbey right now, shivering boys were dragging each other out of bed, splashing icy water on their hands and faces, and stumbling down draughty stone steps to the chancel for the fourteen psalms and lengthy readings of the Night Office.

He drew his knees up and snuggled the blanket to his chin, trying to enjoy the warmth. He wasn’t at the abbey any more. He could sleep as long as he liked and not get up till morning… But sleep would not return. He itched, twitched, tossed, scratched and at last sat up, pushing the blanket aside.

The Hall was a vast shell of space enclosing warm air and shadows. He tipped back his head and stared up at the vaulting rafters, and the dim paintings on the plaster walls: bands of chequers and rosettes, and between each shuttered window a great fierce animal: a leopard, a griffon, or a lion. The High Table at the end of the room was a dark cave under its silken canopy. Behind it the stairs climbed to the solar — the private chamber of Lord Hugo and his heiress, the Lady Agnes.

Wolf sat mulling gloomily over the past hours.

Supper had been an ordeal. He’d washed off the worst of the mud in a tub of tepid water. Hugo had promised him new clothes to wear; but so far nobody had brought them. In his tattered robe, he felt like a shabby black crow amidst the peacock colours of Hugo and his men.

He’d not known where to sit, so at first it was a relief to be shown to one of the lower tables, amongst the men-at-arms. At the abbey, food was served and eaten in strict silence. But here, once Hugo’s chaplain — a white-haired old man whose voice was hardly audible — had pronounced the blessing, everyone crossed themselves and burst into noisy conversation. Wolf sat dumb and miserable while the talk raged over him. It wasn’t just that they ignored him; they talked such a muddle of French, Welsh and English that he only picked up about one word in three. He shared a platter with a bald, cheery faced man called Roger Bach, whose single remark to Wolf as he sat down was, “Pass the salt,” and who spent most of the meal shouting incomprehensible jests to a tall, skinny fellow called Stephen le Beau on the other side of the board — and then roaring with laughter at his own jokes.

Then — far worse than being ignored — there had been a sudden hush. Wolf had looked up to see the girl, Lady Agnes, standing at his elbow. Covered in confusion he’d scrambled to his feet, but she’d bowed slightly and said in a voice colder than icicles, “Lord Hugo sends you this dish from his own table and begs that you will enjoy it with him.” With that, she’d shoved a plate of some kind of special food into his hands and retreated without another word.

Roger Bach nudged him in the ribs. “You’re in favour,” he’d said disapprovingly. “What’s she given you?”

Flushed to the ears, Wolf investigated. It turned out to be chunks of fresh, white eel meat in a crisp batter, with a wine sauce, both sharp and sweet. It tasted delicious, but under the envious noses of his table companions (who were eating a perfectly good but ordinary broth), Wolf could hardly choke it down.

“Funny old life,” Roger sniffed. “Some of us serve Lord Hugo for years and years, and never get to share a dish from his table. Then some other people turn up out of the blue and get made a big fuss of for digging out a scrawny little elf-girl.

“But we’re only soldiers,” he’d added nastily.

He doesn’t like me, Wolf thought now. I don’t think any of them like me — except Lord Hugo. And Argos! Certainly not Lady Agnes. With a hot prickle of discomfort he thought how he’d ordered her about, and called her a stupid girl.

Anyone would have made the same mistake, he decided indignantly. She ought to have behaved properly, instead of running around the yard like a servant. She obviously had no sense of humour — he’d tried to catch her eye and smile when her interfering nurse dragged her out: and she’d looked straight through him.

So what? He shrugged. He wouldn’t have much to do with her. And perhaps the men would change their minds about him, once he was out of these monkish clothes.

He hugged his knees. Coloured clothes tomorrow! He’d worn shapeless black robes for years. And with rising excitement he thought there was a really good chance now that Lord Hugo would make him a squire. He’d done far more for Lord Hugo than finding his dog. It was Lord Hugo who mattered.

He thought about Hugo, who had sat at the supper table with his long legs stretched out in soft leather boots stamped with little gold rosettes, a mantle of chequered black and green flung over his broad shoulders. Tall, strong and blue-eyed, his fair hair cut short, his handsome face clean shaven, Hugo looked the mirror of knightly splendour. But his expression was hot and impatient, flashing easily between laughter and anger. He might be a hard lord to please.

Wolf realised he’d succeeded almost by accident. If he hadn’t made friends with Hugo’s hound — if the hound hadn’t followed the elf-girl — if his own impulsive pride hadn’t driven him to enter the cave and fetch her out — would he be sitting here now? Or would Hugo have left him wandering on the mountain?

He crushed the thought. Lord Hugo’s a crusader, a hero. Of course he wouldn’t have left me! And yet a serpent voice whispered, It isn’t me Hugo’s interested in. It’s the elf-girl.

Why had Hugo carried Elfgift home, against the wishes of all his men? Wolf was sure it had something to do with that other mystery. Eluned. Hugo had trembled as he leaned into the cave and called the name. It was a woman’s name; but whose? There didn’t seem to be a wife in the castle; Lady Agnes’ mother must be dead. Perhaps Eluned was some girl Hugo loved. But why would any girl go wandering about on Devil’s Edge, or hiding in a cave? It made no sense.

The wind shook the walls. Wolf shivered. He thought of the elf-child, shut up in the stables. Was she wakeful too, and listening to the wind? Had he done the right thing, taking her away? If he’d left her in the cave, what would have happened? Would the gates of Elfland have opened to let her in?

“At least she’s warm and dry,” he said to himself. “And safe from the wolves. I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I brought her out.”

From the bright margins of the fire came a soft and evil chuckle: “Ho ho ho…!”

Wolf’s head snapped round. For a moment, he could have sworn someone with hot, glowing eyes sat cross-legged in the ashes, grinning at him. But there was nothing there. Only an unburned, crooked log and a heap of crumbling ash.

As for the strange chuckling sound, one of the snoring sleepers must have muttered something. Unless… Wolf threw an uneasy glance around the great, shadowy Hall. Back at the abbey, the prayers of the Night Office would continue until dawn. Often he’d heard the Devil whispering in his ear, “Go back to sleep… it’s cold in the chapel but it’s warm in bed… lovely and warm…” It was the duty of the brothers to roust each other out. Now here he was, miles away. A deserter, a traitor to Christ. No wonder if fiends were keeping an eye on him…

Suddenly Wolf knew he’d never get back to sleep unless he got up, found Lord Hugo’s chapel, and said his prayers. He wrapped the blanket around him like a cloak and threaded his way between the mattresses to the door. It stirred in the wind, clicking against the latch as though someone outside were testing its strength. Wolf put his shoulder against it and opened it a crack. He slid outside and eased it silently shut.

The wind was cold, but at least it had stopped raining. The high castle ramparts closed off the view everywhere but upwards: when he tipped back his head he saw a half circle of sky interrupted by rooftops and streaked with a few windswept stars. An owl whooped overhead, and something howled on the hillside. Maybe one of the wolves he’d seen. “You can’t get me,” he jeered softly. “I’m safe.” The huge wooden gates were firmly shut, and the torch by the gateway had burned out. Even the guards were probably asleep. He was free to roam where he liked within the circuit of the walls.

To the right lay the cookhouse, the stables and the dunghill. The chapel must lie in the other direction. Trailing a hand along the plastered wall, he walked the length of the Great Hall. Unlit buildings ahead looked like a granary and a small house, but there was a gap between them and the end of the Hall. He slipped through and found himself in a little yard. To his left reared the massive slope of the mound.

Across the yard was the chapel, overshadowed by trees. He could distinguish the dark curve of an arched doorway, and a faint light glimmered from a tiny window set deep in the wall. Of course! There would be a lamp burning all night in front of the altar. Wolf strode confidently forward — and stumbled over a firm, fleshy hummock that heaved to its feet with a devilish shriek and leaped away, screaming.

A pig!

Wolf nearly screamed, too. He clapped a hand to his heart to stop it jumping out of his side, and waited for the watchmen to shout. But perhaps they were used to the alarms of pigs. No one called out. In a few moments the pig’s squeals died to angry grunts as it trotted off through the mud, hunting for a new place to sleep. Shaking with painful giggles, Wolf splashed across the yard to the shelter of the chapel doorway, where he recovered his nerves and twisted the ring handle of the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the cold holy air smelled of stone and candle smoke, and the rich scent of incense. Wolf’s eyes opened wide. Every wall was covered with paintings, whose colours glowed in the light of two candles standing on tall prickets against the south wall. A row of saints gazed down at him with calm, stern faces: Saint Agnes with her lamb, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Saint Winifred holding her decapitated head under her arm, Saint Margaret leading a chained dragon. On the opposite wall Saint Martin cut his cloak in two to give half to a grateful and adoring beggar. In the sanctuary a tiny, bright flame peeked through a pierced silver lamp holder and flung ornate shadows over the chancel walls. Wolf fell to his knees. He thanked God for bringing him safely over the mountain and out of the cave.

Then his tongue stuck. He wanted to be forgiven for running away. But he didn’t feel sorry at all, and if he said he was, the sin of lying would be added to his account. And sinners went to Hell.

This was tricky.

“Holy Saint Agnes, Saint Winifred, Saint Martin, help me,” he said carefully. “Please ask Saint Ethelred not to be too angry with me for running away from the abbey. And, holy Saint Martin, please let Lord Hugo reward me by making me his squire…”

His mouth curved in a dreamy smile. He imagined himself on a tall white horse, riding behind Hugo’s black charger — a lance clasped under his arm, the scarlet and gold skirts of his long surcoat fluttering in the wind. Hugo turned, gave him a fierce grin. “Come on, Wolf — together now, charge! For God and King Richard!” The horses thundered into a gallop…

Wolf heaved a deep sigh. Then, in a voice that sounded thin and solitary compared with the richness of sixty men and boys chanting in unison at the abbey, he repeated the third psalm and the ninety-fourth, which were always sung at the Night Office.

He rose and dusted off his knees. He’d done his best. The chapel was full of silence. Accepting or rejecting him? He didn’t know.

He turned to go. He had knelt for a long time. The candles on the south wall were guttering low. Between them was an alcove he hadn’t noticed before. In the darkness of the alcove — Wolf drew a cold breath of quivering shock — a woman lay motionless on a low bed.

It wasn’t a bed, he realised after the first stab of horror. It was a tomb. And the woman — he crept closer — wasn’t real. She was a stone statue, an effigy; so cleverly painted that she looked almost alive. She lay staring upwards, her head propped on a small stone pillow. Her dark hair was covered with a white veil, her hands were crossed on her breast, and her toes poked stiffly from the folds of her rust red dress.

Wolf let go his breath with a sigh. The saints on the walls leaned over him, the air over the candle flames seemed to dance with invisible angels, and their heat struck him under the eyes. Around the base of the tomb, words had been painted. He bent to spell them out.

HOC+SEPVLCRVM+HUGO+WARINI+FILIVS+ VXORI+ELVNEDI+FACIENDVM+CURAVIT

Hugo son of Warin had this tomb raised for Eluned his wife.

Wolf was very still. Everything he thought he had worked out about Hugo fell down like a child’s tower of wooden bricks, and lay scattered. ‘Eluned his wife!’

So, when Hugo had called so desperately into the darkness of the cave for a woman named Eluned, he had been calling the name of someone he knew to be dead.

One of the guttering candles went out, leaving all the shadows twice as dark. The flame on the other flared and then shrank to a wobbling blue blob. Wolf felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He bowed to the altar and scuttled for the door, half expecting the stone woman to sit up and beckon him.

He blundered night-blind into the yard.

The moon was up behind the clouds, lighting them to watery vagueness. The wind blew farmyard smells. After the strangeness of the chapel, it was a perfectly ordinary night. Wolf leaned his cheek against the cold, iron studs in the thick door, his teeth chattering. Nothing had happened! There was nothing to fear — but, even if the men sleeping in the Hall weren’t exactly friendly, he wanted to be back in the middle of them, in the safety of the walls and the glow of the fire.

In the faint moonlight he could see the yard — an expanse of greyish mud. He hurried across, and was about to slip around the corner of the Hall, where the huddled buildings made a darkness as intense as ink —when instinct made him pause, and a woman stepped around the corner from the opposite direction. She saw him and held up a warning finger. At the same time, part of the blackness at his feet stirred and grunted. An ear flapped — a trotter twitched. Wolf had been saved from falling over the pig for the second time that night.

“Thanks!” he gasped. His rescuer was wrapped in flimsy clothing for this time of night: fluttering white garments with a light veil pulled across her face. She must be a lady of the household, one of Lady Agnes’ women, though he hadn’t noticed anyone like her at supper. Mist blew around her as she swayed towards him and murmured in a melancholy, musical voice: “Dwi methu mynd i mewn.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Welsh…”

Plainly disapproving of his ignorance, the lady shook her head sadly. After a moment she tried again, in the same mournful voice, but this time in Latin. Her accent was strange, but Wolf understood her. “I can’t get in,” she said softly, clasping her hands.

“You can’t get in? You mean, into the chapel?”

“I can’t get in.

“But it’s not locked. Look, it’s easy.” Wolf retraced his steps across the yard and the lady followed. It was certainly getting colder; damper too: the mist was rising all around them like pale breath. He twisted the handle, pushed the heavy door ajar and stepped back politely for her to enter.

She peered in, twisting her hands together, but drew back and turned entreatingly towards him.

“I can’t get in.

“But of course you—”

Wolf paused. Perhaps she was mad… Through the transparent veil he glimpsed a sweet, wild face. “What’s your name, lady?” he asked gently. But the question appeared to distress her. “I can’t remember,” she moaned, swaying in a sort of absent-minded dance. “Gwae fi! I can’t remember!”

Wolf stared at her feet. She had crossed that dirty yard right behind him. His own shoes were clotted with mud. Yet there wasn’t a single stain on her little white slippers.

He looked up. She was gazing at him through the veil with owl-black eyes. Surely eyes shouldn’t be so round and so big — like dark coins? He began to back away.

“I can’t get in!” she wailed.

“Sorry — sorry,” Wolf gabbled. “I don’t know what to…” It wasn’t just the lady’s fluttering clothes that were almost transparent. He could see the dark stones of the arched chapel doorway curving right through her body.

“Help!” Wolf shouted, stumbling away. “Help!”

From the other side of the bailey, a guard dog barked, deep and echoing. Someone shouted from the ramparts, “Shut up! Stop that racket! How-ell-ll!” And a nearby door creaked open, disclosing a glimmer of firelight. A white-haired old man limped out into the yard. The priest who had said the blessing at supper!

Wolf rushed at him. “Help me!” He clung to the old man’s arm. “A ghost! She spoke to me! She wants to get into the chapel!”

The old man nodded as though he expected this. “No, no, that’s no ghost, that’s just our little ladi wen, our White Lady. No, she can’t get in, the poor child. Don’t worry, I’ll soon deal with it.”

He stepped forward so briskly that Wolf felt compelled to follow. Billows of mist floated across the yard, and the pale lady was still moaning and wringing her hands at the chapel door. “Hush now, hush!” the old man called in a soothing voice. The lady turned to him like a frightened child.

“I can’t remember my name…”

“Dear, dear.” The old man put on a pretence of surprise; Wolf got the impression he had done this many times before. “But that’s all right, because, you see, we have a name for you. Dame Blanche; our White Lady. Our sweet Ladi Wen.” He dropped into musical Welsh, and the lady listened very attentively. When he finished, she bowed her head in sorrowful consent, and walked smoothly away. The mist followed her. Her feet moved a fraction above the ground, and she drifted at a slight angle to the way she was facing, as though the wind had caught her — and when she reached the dark corner where the pig lay, Wolf wasn’t sure if she went around it, or just vanished.

“There’s better, now,” said the old man cheerfully. “I suggested she takes a bath, see? She loves to have a splash in the cistern, and it’s still an hour or two from daybreak.”

Wolf wetted his lips. “But — but—”

The old man patted him. “Come in and see if my Hunith can make us both a nice hot drink.”

Wolf followed him into a small, homely room containing a bed, a hearth, a few pots and pans hanging on the walls, and a tiny little woman. She was as wrinkled as a walnut, and gave him a toothless smile of pure delight as she drew him warmly to the fireside, patting and stroking his hand and murmuring some Welsh greeting.

“This is my Hunith,” said the old man, “she cannot speak a word of French or English, but she wants me to tell you how happy she is, see? — to welcome you to our house.”

Hunith was still holding his hand. Wolf managed to pull it gently away just before she kissed his fingers.

“And I am Howell,” added the old man, beaming. He had a snub nose, a wide mouth, a bald forehead, and a fringe of hair as white as thistle-floss circling the back of his head. “And you are Wolf, and you have come all the way over Brig y Diafol, I hear — over Devil’s Edge — from the great Abbey of Christ and St Ethelbert at Wenford?”

“Yes, sir—”

“I would like to hear more about that,” said Howell wistfully. “It is my dream one day to visit that great abbey where the bones of Saint Ethelred rest.”

Wolf interrupted. “Sir, please! What was that thing outside? I could see right through her. I—” He stopped. In a dry whisper he added, “In the chapel — there’s a tomb. With a woman lying on it. Lord Hugo’s wife. Eluned.”

Old Howell’s eyebrows shot up, and his forehead wrinkled. With his halo of downy white hair and his rosy apple of a face, he couldn’t look really stern, but he did his best. “The Lady Eluned died almost seven years ago in the faith of Our Lord and is assuredly now in Paradise with holy Saint Catherine and blessed Saint Margaret. Do you really suppose she would leave the bliss of Heaven to wander about our yard?” His tone was severe.

“No sir. I suppose not.” Grimly, Wolf wondered what Howell would say if he knew that Lord Hugo had been calling his wife’s name into a black cave on Devil’s Edge.

“No, indeed!” The old man’s face relaxed. “But our little White Lady,” he said almost tenderly. “Everyone knows her. Nobody minds her. She does no harm at all.”

“But what is she? Why does she want to get into the chapel?”

“Ah, she often flits about the chapel. She can’t get in, and that makes her curious, you see. As for her nature, I don’t know for sure, but —” Howell rubbed his nose thoughtfully “— do you know the history of this island of Britain?”

“No.” Wolf blinked at the sudden change of subject.

“Then it will be my pleasure to instruct you!” Howell lifted a gnarled finger. “The first settlers came here not long after the city of Troy burned to the ground, fully one thousand years before the birth of Our Lord! And what did those first men find? Giants (which they killed), and spirits such as pans, fauns and naiads, which our Lord God set from the beginning of the world to dwell in every element, some in air, some in fire, and some in water. If you stay here you’ll notice our White Lady loves the cistern. There’s a spring bubbles up in the corner, and often a bit of a mist floating over it, and the water is the sweetest you’ll ever taste. And it’s my belief she’s nothing other than an elemental spirit, placed there long ago as the keeper of the spring by the will of the Creator, blessed be He.”

“Oh?” Wolf hesitated. He knew what Brother Thomas would have called such creatures. Demons, without a shadow of a doubt. But poor, mournful Ladi Wen didn’t seem very demonic.

“Shouldn’t you sprinkle her with holy water?” he mumbled. “Wouldn’t that get rid of her?”

“Why should I want to get rid of her?” Howell asked. “What harm does the poor creature do? They even say that if she ever leaves, the luck of the place will go with her. She belongs here, and always has. Doubtless, she has no soul, and perhaps she and all her kind will pass away forever at the dreadful Day of Judgement, but let us leave that to the mercy of God.”

Wolf felt rather ashamed. “She did save me from falling over the pig,” he admitted. Old Howell’s face creased into a million merry wrinkles.

“My Morwenna! I heard her squealing. So it was you who disturbed her, was it? A wonderful pig she is. And clever, my goodness!” He turned and spoke to Hunith, who clapped her hands in delight. Her face shone.