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  He’d just taken his first huge mouthful of capon when Simon hurtled into the hall, threw himself at him and started to gabble incoherently. Martin caught the jug of wine just before it hit the floor and listened: at first he had no idea what the boy was trying to say, but eventually he caught the words ‘Joanna’, ‘trouble’ and ‘kitchen’, so he cast his meal aside and rose to follow, Simon pulling him urgently by the hand. It was only as he entered the kitchen building and caught sight of two writhing forms in a shadowy corner that he understood.

  Joanna was backed against the wall, struggling against the restraining arms of the man who held her. Martin felt fury rush through him and surged forward to intervene, but then recognised the man, and his blood turned to ice as he realised what a dangerous thing he was about to do. Turning to Simon he looked down at the boy and told him to leave: de Courteville hadn’t seen him, so there was no point involving him as well. Simon stepped back out of the building, and Martin took a deep breath as he approached the two reeling, thrashing figures, realising that he still had the wine in his hand. Dear Lord, the man was an earl and answered only to the king. What would his punishment be? But he would stop this whatever the consequences. He could feel his heart beating in his throat. He saw with disgust that de Courteville had one hand pressed over Joanna’s face to stop her crying out, while the other was thrusting at her skirts. She saw him and her eyes pleaded with him to help, even as she fought and scratched at the man holding her. Rage made Martin bold. He stepped forward and dashed the jug of wine in de Courteville’s face.

  He was ready with an apology, on the rather thin pretext that he had somehow slipped, but he had no chance to speak. Battle-hardened, the man’s reaction was phenomenally fast: in one movement he brought his fist around and crashed it into the side of Martin’s face, sending him sprawling to the floor as pain exploded in his head. He might be tall, but he hadn’t yet grown to his full strength, while the other was broad and had muscles honed by years of fighting. De Courteville stood over him for a moment and Martin tried to curl up and protect himself from the onslaught which would follow, but the man only looked furiously at the stain spreading over the front of his expensive tunic and stalked off. Crying and wiping tears from her face, Joanna sank to the floor and then turned to help Martin to sit up. He groaned.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Gingerly he touched the side of his face, as if to make sure that it was still there. He felt as though he had been hit by a mason’s sledgehammer. But she’d also suffered. ‘Yes, I think so. But are you?’ He reached out his hand to the tears on her cheeks.

  ‘Yes, I am. Thanks to you.’ Gently she put her own hand out to touch his cheek, and tried to wipe away some of the blood which was trickling down from his mouth where the earl’s rings had struck him. He felt her touch soft on his bruised face. They looked at each other for a moment, both aware that they’d had a lucky escape.

  Martin wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic and rose a little unsteadily to his feet as Joanna held out her arm to help him. ‘Oh, don’t thank me, thank Simon. It was he who raised the alarm.’

  ‘Simon? Then I’m grateful to him as well. But it was you that saved me – and you that is hurt.’ He towered over her, but she held his arm, making sure he was steady on his feet before she let him go. He wished she would stay like that.

  Martin managed some bravado. ‘You needn’t worry about me, I’ve had plenty worse from Sir Geoffrey in my time.’ He knew that wasn’t true – Sir Geoffrey might need to discipline the boys, but he wouldn’t attempt to cripple them. But Martin felt the need for some bluster. ‘What I’m most concerned about is how I’m going to explain this to the earl in the morning when he sees me!’

  They left the kitchen, and Martin walked with Joanna across to the guest chambers. He left her at the entrance and turned, wondering how they would cope when de Courteville, as he surely would, decided to take his revenge.

  De Courteville cursed as he threw the soaking tunic on to the bed. That damned squire had ruined what promised to be good entertainment, for the girl was young and attractive, and not coarse like many of the serving-women he’d encountered in his time. He wondered who she was: minor nobility, probably, some offshoot of one of the lesser houses. She couldn’t be anyone all that important or she wouldn’t be here, waiting on Warenne’s widowed sister. Shouting angrily for his squires, he considered trying to find her again – and he certainly wouldn’t be stopped this time – but decided against it. He consoled himself with the fact that he would shortly be able to bring the house of Warenne crashing down, and that then he would stand high in the regent’s favour. Was all this to be jeopardised for an encounter with a pretty girl? Of course not. He thought of Warenne’s head on the executioner’s block, of his sister starving and begging in the streets, and felt better.

  Adam arrived and de Courteville tossed the tunic to him, ordering him to find someone to wash the wine out of it, saying that he would then have no further need for his services that night, so he could go to bed, as could David when he finally appeared. What was the boy up to? Why hadn’t he come running when he was called? It struck de Courteville with some amusement that the boy was probably about the same sort of business as he himself had been, although perhaps with better luck. Well, he didn’t discourage that sort of fun – at least David showed more spirit than the timid Adam – but it shouldn’t interfere with his duties. De Courteville thought with satisfaction that a beating was in order, to remind the squire of his place. He would see to it in the morning; in the meantime he settled down to wait. He would be busy later in the evening, and revenge would be sweet.

  When he judged it to be near midnight he emerged from the bedchamber, stepping around the sleeping squires, and slipped over to the keep. Warenne didn’t keep it barred at night, evidently trusting to the outer and inner castle gates to keep him safe. Little good that would do him when he seemed to have a traitor in his household. De Courteville smiled.

  The staircase was dark and narrow. He held both of his arms out to touch the sides as he climbed the first flight, treading carefully to avoid a fall. As he reached the first floor his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and he was able to concentrate his thoughts on whom his mysterious appointment might be with. The anonymous letter-writer claimed to have evidence that Warenne was about to switch sides again, and said that de Courteville could obtain that proof if he were to go up to the roof of the keep at midnight. De Courteville had considered this unnecessarily over-dramatic, but, after some thought, he’d decided that he would go: if the message was true it would be worth the effort, and if it was false then he would find whoever had tried to fool him and flay him alive.

  But who would be close enough to Warenne to have the necessary information? Whoever he was he’d better be able to provide what he promised: the Earl of Sheffield didn’t get out of his bed on a cold night and traipse up dozens of stairs on a fool’s errand. He passed the chapel without noticing and continued up the next flight and past the door to the earl’s bedchamber, treading very carefully lest he wake the earl or his squires, but the sound of snoring from within reassured him. He was breathing more heavily as he climbed the final flight and emerged on to the roof, and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. He could see no one, but the wall walk curved away round to his right, around the roof. He took a step forward.

  After he’d circled the roof several times he lost his patience. He’d forced himself to wait and wait, but it was becoming clear to him that the mysterious letter-writer was not going to appear, and he grew angrier by the moment as he considered the possibility that someone had tricked him. Somebody was going to pay for this, and pay in blood. He decided to take one final turn around the roof, and started walking.

  Suddenly there was a movement behind him, but before he could turn he was seized by a terrible pain in his throat. He tried to cry out but had no breath; gasping, he scrabbled ineffectually at his assailant with his fin
gers, but he couldn’t stop the agony, the terrible tearing of the sensitive skin of his neck as something sliced into it. Then an object was held up in front of his face, and words were spoken into his ear. He struggled to focus on the object, but his eyes swam and he couldn’t see it. He continued to choke as he listened to the whispering voice, and some of it started to penetrate his consciousness as he understood what it was saying. Of course! If he hadn’t been fighting the agony, struggling for his every breath, he might have laughed at the irony of it. Of all the things he’d done in his life, this, this was the one he was to die for! The pain in his neck and in his lungs became overwhelming, and he saw bright lights in front of his eyes. In his delirium he thought the red before him was the gate of hell opening to receive him, and he tried desperately to step back from the edge of the abyss. But it grew ever larger, and his mind screamed in horror as he fell forward into the gaping maw of everlasting hellfire.

  One by one, three people slipped silently out of the keep. None of them was aware that a figure in the darkness had been watching, and had seen them all.

  Chapter Four

  Adam was dreaming.

  He was alone in a strange place, unable to find his way. Where was he supposed to be going? He turned around and around, but he could never seem to face the right direction: everywhere he went, he ended up in the same place. Twisting and thrashing in his sleep, his foot hit a stool and knocked it over, and he awoke suddenly in the darkness. For a moment he couldn’t work out where he was, and a tide of panic began to sweep over him. He tried to force it down, as he had done during many a night in his life. For Adam had a guilty secret: he was afraid of the dark. It was an absurd, irrational fear, he knew that, but still he could not conquer it. Of course, he couldn’t possibly mention it to anyone, least of all David or his master: his life would be made hell by their taunts. But maybe they would be right to sneer at him: what sort of a squire was afraid of the dark, for goodness’ sake? How would he ever become a knight?

  The panic threatened to engulf him, as it normally did, but he forced himself to calm his frenetic breathing and his erratic heartbeat and to think rationally. He was in the great chamber at Conisbrough, where he had come with his lord. Good. Now, what was it that had roused him? Had his master called? He rolled over and got to his feet, noticing with relief that David hadn’t stirred. He had, as usual, taken the place next to the fire, but the room was neither overly cold nor particularly draughty, so Adam had been quite comfortable himself, wrapped in his blanket. Throwing it aside he padded on bare feet, shivering slightly, to the part of the chamber which contained the bed, and peered around the partition.

  A candle was burning, and by the light of it he could see that the bed was empty. Was that what had woken him? Had his lord gone out for a night-time stroll? He wouldn’t have needed to go outside to relieve himself, as there was a garderobe in the corner of the room, so there must be some other reason. Tentatively Adam drew nearer to the bed, and felt it with his hand: it was cold. The earl had obviously been gone some time. This was unusual, and for a moment Adam considered whether he should wake David and tell him, but after some thought he decided not to. The older squire was even more irritable than usual when he was woken from sleep, and Adam felt that he had enough bruises to be going on with. Besides, there was always the possibility that he would notice Adam’s fear of the night, and that was the last thing he needed. He tiptoed over to one of the windows which overlooked the inner ward and knelt on the seat to peer out, but it was so dark outside that he could see nothing. After his eyes became more accustomed to the very faint glimmer of moonlight in the courtyard, he thought for a moment that he could see the outline of a figure, but it quickly vanished into the shadows and he convinced himself that he had imagined it …

  Adam awoke with a start from the light doze he had fallen into and realised that he was still in the window seat, clad only in his shirt and braies. He hadn’t thought to wrap himself in his blanket and he was freezing. The reassuring beginnings of a faint pre-dawn light filtered in through the small panes of glass in the window, but it was still very dark. He walked back to the bedchamber: the end of the candle was guttering and throwing grotesque shadows on to the walls, but it produced enough light for him to see that the bed was still empty. This was serious. What if the earl had gone out for a walk and had fallen somewhere? What if he were lying hurt and unable to rise? It was the duty of his squire to find him, surely. A quick glance over at David showed that he was still fast asleep: Adam stood for a moment, unsure as to whether he feared the dark or the wrath of the other squire the more, and then decided that he would have a look around by himself before taking the risk of waking his senior.

  Quietly he pulled on his hose, tunic and shoes, and tiptoed past the slumbering form to the door. He opened it slowly, worried that it might creak out loud, but it was silent. Once out into the passageway he went down the stairs and out of the door to the building. Outside the air was fresh, but now that he’d clothed himself and started moving, it didn’t feel so cold. It was still almost dark, and he was the only person in the courtyard, although he could hear some faint stirrings coming from the direction of the kitchen. Where would be the best place to look? Perhaps he could climb up to the top of the wall and look from there? Could he get up there in the dark, past all the corners where hidden horrors might lurk? At least up there he wouldn’t feel so confined. He had decided on this course of action and was walking over to the steps when he became aware of the huge bulk of the keep looming over him in the darkness. Of course: it was much higher than the walls and would give him a clear view of both of the wards and some of the surrounding countryside, if he waited until the sun was up properly. Was there a way up to the top? He was sure he’d overheard something at the previous evening’s meal about there being a wall walk at the top. Well, there was but one way to find out. Using the faint glow of firelight emanating from the kitchen to orient himself, he navigated his way safely across the ward and started up the steps to the keep.

  Inside was pitch blackness and oppressive silence. None of the light from the kitchen or from the rising sun could permeate the thick walls, and any residual gleam which might have come in through the doorway was lost as soon as he turned to climb the spiral staircase which was set within the walls. The darkness was closing in on him, constricting him, suffocating him … he panicked and ran outside again. As soon as he stood at the top of the steps he began to relax and cursed himself for his foolishness. Now come on! You have a duty to look for your master, which is more important than anything else. What if he’s injured somewhere and he has to lie there all the longer because you are too much of a coward to walk up a staircase with nothing more sinister in it than shadows? Your father did everything he could to get you this squireship – are you going to let him down?

  Adam forced himself back inside the door, stood at the bottom of the steps, shaking, and took a deep breath. Wishing he’d brought one of the candles from the great chamber, he started on his way up, suppressing a whimper. The suffocating darkness closed in around him like a blanket and the unfamiliar surroundings made him hesitant, but he slowly made his way up by touching the stone on either side and groping forward with his foot before each step. It wouldn’t be pleasant to miss his footing and tumble all the way back down the stairs … no, don’t start thinking of that! He reached the first floor, passing the door to the earl’s council chamber and the outline of the chapel entrance. The chapel had a small window, and he could see that it was almost dawn. He wanted nothing more than to stop by that little patch of light, but soon he was past it, so he screwed up his courage and plunged into darkness again as he started slowly up the next flight. The stairwell was eerie in the blackness, and with this added to the worry about his master; he became afraid again and tried to quell the rising sense of dread which clawed at his throat. He rebuked himself once more with the familiar questions: what would his lord say if he knew what Adam was thinking? What sort of a coward
was he, to be afraid of shadows? How could he possibly imagine that he would ever be a knight if he couldn’t conquer such a simple fear? What would his father think?

  He’d reached the next floor. He was now at the limit of his knowledge of the keep: the previous day he’d been as far as the council chamber but no higher. He passed another door, and remembered that the earl slept in the keep: it was his sister who lived in the great chamber, and who had given up her quarters for the duration of their visit. He stood for a moment outside the door, and heard several different sets of snores and breathing, which reassured him that he wasn’t, after all, the only human in the building, alone with the shadows. He carried on round the curved passageway and found another set of stairs leading up: this must be the way to the roof. He took a deep breath and set his trembling foot on the first step.

  A short while later he arrived on the roof and heaved a sigh of relief as he leant his shaking body against the solid bulk of the wall. The sun was now starting to show itself above the horizon, and golden shafts of light could be seen across the fields: it was going to be another lovely day. He looked outwards and downwards, noting that there was now some activity in the castle grounds and in the village beyond. He started to walk around the top of the roof, keeping his eyes outwards as he scanned for any sign of his master; his gaze had just fallen upon the stable when his foot kicked something soft. A horrible feeling of foreboding came upon him and for a moment he dared not look, but then he set his jaw and forced his gaze downwards, to see that his foot had met the form of his master, lying face downwards. So he had fallen! But what was he doing up here in the first place? There couldn’t have been much to see in the darkness. Adam stooped and put his hand on his master’s shoulder, intending to see if he’d incurred any injury, and heaved to turn him over.