‘What was that that just arrived?’ she asked while she waited for the lift.
The porter studied his crossword and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Delivery for Mr Blanchard.’
But when she looked at the old-fashioned dial above the lift to see where it had gone, the needle was pointing at the sixth floor.
VIII
My home is a castle. Not like the ones in Pembroke or Caernarvon, with their stone walls and high donjons. Our castle is mostly mud: an earth rampart topped with a palisade, ringing the compound of mud-and-wood buildings inside. There is a thatched barn and a thatched hall, and it is hard to tell them apart. In winter the grassy banks trap the rain and turn our courtyard into a swamp. My father calls it our moat; my mother tells us the story of a knight who grew up in a lake.
That spring, my father hires a Flemish engineer to build a watchtower. He sharpens the stakes in the palisade, and fills the gaps where the livestock have knocked them down in the winter. There have been disturbances again: a man was killed in Brandennog. Nobody believes that will be the end of it. The Welsh love their honour and they love fighting. Ralph says we’ll be safe in our castle, but my father looks grim. He says that when you keep behind castle walls, your enemies know where to find you.
I think: if our sheep can break through the palisades, what would the Welsh do?
It often rains in Wales, but in my memory it is always the last day of spring. My father and Ralph were away last night and haven’t returned; Brother Oswald has been called away to his monastery, and I have taken my horse into the forest. I think I might visit the fields by the chapel, where the harrowers are working, but I am in no hurry. The trees are in flower and the shrubs in leaf; a gentle sun dapples the lush meadows. I get down from my horse and walk barefoot through the grass, which is green and velvet against my skin. I slip off my horse’s bridle and let him graze freely.
I have brought a javelin with me, and I amuse myself throwing it at knots in the trees. My brother teases me that the javelin is a Welsh weapon, ignoble. Ralph says the only way to fight with a spear is couched under your arm. But Ullwch, my father’s herdsman, has been teaching me, and I can knock a gamecock off its branch with one throw.
I don’t aim at birds that morning. Their songs light up the forest; my heart leaps to hear them. I don’t want to spoil it with bloodshed. Each throw takes me further from home, but I don’t mind. I can find my way back, and my horse is so docile he won’t stray far.
A noise echoes through the trees — a strange staccato clatter like drums. I follow the sound, clutching my javelin and crouching low. As I draw closer, I can hear the high ring of metal, like bells or cymbals. I know from my mother’s stories that the faerie folk love music, and I wonder if this might be them.
I peer over a rotting tree stump and see them: five knights, helmed and armed, riding through the forest. They aren’t faeries, though the way the sun flashes on their armour makes them look like angels. Nor is there music. They’re riding in a trackless place: the oak and hornbeam branches slap their armour, their lances knock against their shields, the steel rings of their hauberks jangle and chime together. They’re a splendid sight. I ache with the longing to be a knight.
I almost hail them, but something makes me hold back. Why are they riding so far from the road? Why are they armed as if for war? I press myself into the moist earth. With my javelin and my buckskin cloak I look like a small Welshman, and there are many stories of knights ambushed on the road. I don’t want them to mistake me for an enemy.
The knights pass by. Behind them, a company of men creep through the trees. In their brown leather hauberks and grey-green tunics, they’re almost invisible. They don’t speak or laugh, as men on the road usually do. Some carry bows, and some spears or axes — but the blades are uncovered, and the bows strung. They mean to use these weapons soon. As I watch their progress I realise they’re following the stream.
I know where that stream goes. It flows to my father’s castle.
I crawl, then I run, then I ride. Well before I reach the house, I know it’s too late. I can see the smoke rising from the thatched roofs — my father said they were no good for a castle. The watchtower hasn’t saved us. When I get to the brow of the hill and look out, to the open plain and the sea shimmering behind the smoke, the battle’s already lost. The knights have surprised us utterly. The gates stand open, and the defenders I can see have had no time to arm. Some of them are fighting with rakes and wood-axes; several already lie dead. One of them has a sickle in his hand and is using it to fend off a mounted knight. With a lurch, I realise it’s my father.
My old mare is no warhorse. I jump off and run down the hill, sliding and tripping on the uneven ground. No one sees me coming — or, if they do, they think I’m one of them. I cross the bridge over the stream and enter the gate unmolested. The smoke stings my eyes. The battle must nearly be over — some of the foot-soldiers have already turned to plunder — but in the far corner, under the pilings of the watchtower, there’s still resistance. Two of the mounted knights are circling a figure who’s trying to hold them off with a billhook.
It’s Ralph.
I run towards them. Ralph doesn’t see me. He lunges at one of the knights who blocks the blow with his shield and chops the billhook out of Ralph’s hand. The other darts forward. He stabs with his spear, and Ralph collapses in the mud.
I scream; the knight turns, and the moment I see his face I let fly my javelin.
But I’m only ten years old, and though I’m accurate I’m not strong yet. The javelin sticks in his shield like an arrow. He laughs, pulls it free and drops it in the mud. He walks his horse towards me, not knowing whether to spear me on his lance or just trample me into the ground. I grab a smouldering brand that was once a cruck beam and swipe it in front of me.
The other knight rides up and touches his captain’s arm.
‘Look at his head.’ He’s seen my tonsure. He wheels his horse to face his captain. ‘It’s a sin to kill a priest.’
‘And folly to leave a son alive.’ The captain is a huge man, taller than the roof of the hall — or so it seems to my ten-year-old imagination. He wears a chain ventail laced on to his helmet so I can’t see his face; his helmet puts his eyes into shadow. I stare at him unblinking. I’ve heard that if you see the man who kills you, you haunt him ever afterwards as a ghost.
It’s only afterwards that I realise he was speaking in French. At the time, I don’t notice. The captain is deciding whether to kill me. His horse paws the ground. Warhorses are not bred to stand still in battle.
Somewhere in the distance a horn blows. I don’t know who has sounded it, but it speaks to the captain. He pulls his own horn from his saddle and repeats the call. Around me, I sense the tide of the battle ebbing.
The captain pricks his spurs without warning. The horse springs forward and thunders towards me — I know I should jump out of the way, but I can’t move. Perhaps the greater part of me wants to die. The ground trembles under my feet, as if the earth is opening itself to receive me. I close my eyes and wait for death.
And then the ground is still and the horse is behind me. I haven’t moved. I look down, and realise I’m still holding the brand. At the last moment, the horse must have swerved away from the fire. Whether the knight chose to spare me, or whether he missed his opportunity, I’ll never have the chance to ask. If I ever see him again I’ll kill him on sight.