‘Numbers on a computer. It’s not real.’
She was trapped in a nightmare, reliving all the arguments they’d had that summer, the ones she thought she’d buried when she went to London.
‘You can’t change this,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s who I am.’
‘It’s not —’
The nightmare always ended the same way. Hot tears and rushed steps and Doug calling after her, too late. Leaves and twigs squelched underfoot. She didn’t look back until she’d rounded a bend. She knew Doug wouldn’t follow. He’d wait at the house, and eventually she’d go back. They’d skirt around each other like wary dogs, until eventually they’d pretend they’d forgotten. Until next time.
Except there was someone coming after her. A short man taking long, hurried strides, his face flushed from the effort. He wore green rubber boots and a green jerkin, whose numerous pouches and pockets bulged with all manner of reels and bright flashes of fabric bound onto hooks. He didn’t carry a fishing rod.
The path was narrow and overgrown; Ellie stood aside to let him pass. But he didn’t. He stopped a few feet away and half-lifted a hand, almost as if he recognised her.
Ellie froze. She’d never seen the face before, but his pose was utterly familiar.
‘Ellie Stanton?’
She couldn’t run: the towpath was too muddy. Branches and brambles blocked the way. There was no one else in sight.
‘Who are you?’ She sounded faint and terrified, a little girl lost in the woods.
Metal flashed as he pulled something out of the pouch at his side. Ellie steeled herself to scream — but it was only a hipflask. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to her.
‘You look like you could use a drink.’
‘No thanks.’ She couldn’t keep the trembling out of her voice.
He took a swig and refastened the cap. He didn’t look dangerous. He was short and tending to fat; he had tousled sandy hair and bright blue eyes and ruddy cheeks that fitted his fishing gear perfectly. He seemed to have genuinely enjoyed the drink.
‘You’re a hard woman to track down.’
A motor launch droned by. Ellie thought about calling for help, but the engines were so loud they’d never have heard. A little girl sat on the bow and waved at her.
Keep him talking. ‘Was it you in Luxembourg?’
‘Yes.’
‘You took the lift to get up the hill in front of me.’
He glanced down at his stocky frame and short legs. ‘I wasn’t going to overtake you on foot.’
‘Why didn’t you call me at the hotel, if you wanted to speak to me?’
‘Too difficult. They were watching it.’
His easy manner had let Ellie begin to relax; now she snapped back into reality. She looked at the barbed row of hooks looped onto his jerkin. Was he insane? Dangerous?
‘I know I must sound mad.’ Didn’t all mad people say that? ‘But you’re in tremendous danger at Monsalvat.’
You aren’t safe here. Ellie peered closer, wondering if he had been the man at the demonstration in London as well. She didn’t know what to think any more.
‘Why do you think they let you use your phone for personal calls? They’re listening, Ellie. All the time. Watching as well, as often as they can.’
‘Why —?’
‘They’re not what they seem. Underneath all that twenty-first century capitalist veneer, there’s a medieval heart that’s all darkness and malice. Look in their vaults sometime. They want something, and they’re using you to get it.’
Ellie thought she’d be sick. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because—’
‘Ellie!’
While he’d been speaking, Ellie’s world had shrunk into a tiny sphere bounded by mud, water and wood. A place out of time. Now the barriers receded as Doug came running around the bend in the path, his long coat flapping around his legs.
‘I’m so sorry. You’re right — I shouldn’t have said any of that. I’ve rung Mark and Annabel to cancel tonight. Let’s just go home, open a bottle of wine and curl up on the couch.’
He looked at her again, misreading the anguish and confusion written all over her face. Drops of blood beaded on his hand like a string of pearls where brambles had torn the skin.
‘I’m so sorry, Ellie.’
She kissed him, but only to stop him talking. Her eyes sidled over his shoulder down the path. The fisherman had vanished.
Doug had followed her gaze. He pulled back a little. ‘Who was that man you were with? He wasn’t giving you any trouble was he?’
‘He just wanted directions.’
He accepted the lie. Ellie let him take her arm and escort her back towards Oxford, pretending that the fight was all that had upset her. Delicate ridges of pink clouds furrowed the blue sky; an owl hooted from somewhere in the thicket.
She’d never felt so lost.
XIV
Gornemant can tell I’m on edge. He says I show too much anger on the practice field. When we spar, I fight wildly and lose often, which only makes me angrier. Gornemant thinks it’s impatience. He’s seen it happen to all squires left kicking their heels too long, waiting for their spurs. He thinks I need a war to lift me. But God smiles on his people that year: all Christendom is at peace. I could take the Cross and go to fight for Jesus in the Holy Land, but I don’t have enough money for the journey.
And the truth is, I want to stay in Hautfort. All the hours of drudgery are worth it for my glimpses of Ada. To leave her would be desolation. At dinner, I can stand behind my lord Guy’s table for hours, just to be close to her. If she speaks to me, I carry her words with me like a treasure boxed in my heart. If she ignores me, I despair. I recall everything I have ever said or done to her, wondering what might have offended her. I tear my mind out wondering if she’ll ever forgive me. And the next morning she gives me a smile, or her hand brushes mine as I help her mount her palfrey, and I’m insane with hope again.
I know I’m deluding myself. Ada has no idea: she’d be horrified if she knew what I’m thinking. Neither of us would ever betray Guy: my lord, her master. But I’m trapped in a dream, an enchantment, and for the moment I have no will to break it.
An August day, a cloudless sky. The whole world is limp with the heat. Gornemant had us in the lists all morning in full armour, charging and skirmishing until we were ready to drop. My hair’s as wet as a dog’s; my hands are sticky with the pine resin I rubbed on so my damp hands wouldn’t drop my sword. I stink of sweat, horse, leather and oil. If I don’t cool off soon, I think I might boil away.
I strip off my clothes and dive into the stream by the apple orchard. The first fruits are beginning to ripen on the trees, but there’s no one here to pick them. The labourers are all in the fields bringing in the harvest. Guy’s gone to inspect the new mill he got with Ada’s dowry. Apart from the birds, I might be the only person alive.
When I’ve washed, I haul myself out and lie naked on the grass. The sun dries me quickly; bees and hummingbirds flit about over my head. Black spots dance in front of my eyes.
I’m hungry. I pull on a clean tunic and walk along the stream, looking for an early apple, or perhaps some mushrooms. I haven’t gone twenty paces when I see her, sitting alone at the edge of the water in a plain green dress. I didn’t notice her arrive; I wonder how long she’s been there. Did she see …?
To hide my embarrassment, I study the undergrowth on the far side of the stream. I see a hazel and a honeysuckle, their stems and branches twined and knotted together, and I say, ‘Do you know the story about those?’
She shakes her head.