A harness jangles to my left. I turn. A knight rides out of the shadows of the forest, flanked by four or five men on foot with spears. One of them runs to my horse and grabs the bridle.
‘What have you done to her?’
‘Not what you think. Not yet.’
I can’t see Jocelin’s face, but I know his voice. It’s rich with triumph.
‘She’s still my father’s property, for all she’s whored herself to you. Perhaps when he’s finished with her, he’ll give her to me. And when I’m finished, I’ll give what’s left to the stable boys for their sport.’
I wish I hadn’t dismounted. I wish I’d never come to this tournament. I wish I’d killed Jocelin that night in the tower.
‘Let her go. Let her go and take me.’
He laughs. ‘I don’t have to choose.’
They’re paltry words. But in that clearing, with blood in my mouth and guilt flooding through me, they make me snap. I’m back in Guy’s hall fighting over a stolen book. I know I can’t beat him: he’s on horseback, fully armed, but it doesn’t matter. I put up my sword and charge at Jocelin. One of his men drops into a crouch and hurls his spear at me. Out of pure instinct, I duck.
The spear sails over my head and makes a soft, clean landing, barely a sound. I turn, though I already know what I’ll see. It struck Ada clean through the breast, pinning her to the tree. Her hands clutch the shaft: she’s trying to pull it out. She doesn’t have the strength. Her arms go limp, still gripping the spear; her head drops. Blood flows down the ash, touches her hand and drips onto the ground.
Even Jocelin didn’t mean that to happen. His surprise is a fraction slower than my fury. I fly towards him and get inside his guard: he pulls his boot from his stirrup and kicks the sword out of my hand, but I grab his arm and sink my teeth into his exposed hand. He screams and loosens his grip. I grab the sword by the blade and wrest it out of his hands. It cuts my fingers and I let it fall. He wants to bring his shield round, to chop it down on my head, but the straps get caught on the pommel.
I cling on to his leg, trying to wrestle him out of the saddle. Something comes away in my hand — his spur. Gripping it like a knife, I plunge it into the exposed leg just above his knee.
There’s a howl of agony. I want to keep hold of the spur, to keep stabbing him until all the blood drains from his body. But surprise makes the horse move. My frenzied thrust misses Jocelin’s leg and sinks into its flank.
The sound of a screaming horse is worse than a screaming man. The horse rears up; its hooves drum the air inches from my face. It lurches forward, trying to outrun the agony of the spur stuck in its side. I fling out my arms to grab on to Jocelin, but a hoof strikes my chest, kicking me back onto the ground. Then he’s gone.
The other men flit about me, shadows on the edge of the clearing. I can hear a couple running after Jocelin; the other two wait, wondering what to do. They could kill me easily, but perhaps they don’t know if Jocelin wants me alive.
Shouts and hooves in the falling darkness decide them. If I twist on my side, I can see fire on the meadow, horsemen with torches riding towards us. They’re calling for me.
Jocelin’s serjeants melt into the forest as Etienne and his men gallop up to the clearing. It’s as well they’re carrying torches or they might have ridden straight over me.
‘Peter?’
They’re all staring at Ada, speared to the tree. The weight of the shaft has prised open the wound: her white shift is drenched in blood that’s black in the firelight. Shock’s written on their faces. They all liked her.
I fall on my knees and vomit onto the ground. Etienne puts a tentative arm on my shoulder, but I shake him off.
He thinks he’s saved me. But Ada’s dead, my mother and father and brother are dead, and the men who did it haven’t been punished. I’ve failed everyone I ever loved.
Nothing can save me now except revenge.
XXIX
According to the hospital, her mother died while Ellie was on the plane somewhere above the English Channel. Ellie didn’t think anything could make her feel worse, but somehow it did. She should have been on hand, at her mother’s bedside — not drifting up in the clouds. It felt like a metaphor for something: lofty, blinding, insubstantial.
Doug didn’t come to the funeral. She sent him a text message telling him the news, but ignored all his replies asking when the funeral would be. Blanchard didn’t come either, though he sent his representatives: two men in a blacked-out Mercedes, parked across the road from the crematorium with the engine running. The wipers never stopped, presumably so that the soft rain gathering on their windscreen wouldn’t obscure the view. Ellie almost considered inviting them in, offering them the chance to do their job properly, without pretence. There were plenty of seats.
Afterwards — after Mrs Thomas had said a few words about what a kind lady Mrs Stanton had been; after a choir had sung ‘Men of Harlech’ out of the CD player in the corner; after she’d watched the coffin conveyed onto its gas-jetted pyre — they went to the tea shop on the corner. No one stayed long. By two thirty, when Mrs Thomas picked up her terrier and announced she had to go and collect her grandson from school, the low clouds were already threatening a premature dusk.
Mrs Thomas kissed her on both cheeks and gave her a hug. ‘Do be careful,’ she said. ‘You’re on your own now.’
Ellie went back to the house and fetched a few things from the attic. She supposed she’d return some day, even if only to sell it, but she said goodbye anyway. Just in case. She turned off all the lights and the heating, and made sure the doors were locked. Outside, the black Mercedes was struggling to reverse into a parking space on the narrow street. Ellie waited until it was wedged in, then left the house and hurried down towards the station. She knew they’d catch up with her — but not before she’d had time to use a payphone. She let it ring three times, then hung up.
I’m on my way.
Ellie took a taxi straight from Paddington to Claridge’s. It was only seven o’clock; Blanchard wouldn’t be back from the office for hours. The final details of the Talhouett takeover agreement had proved elusive; for the last two days, teams of lawyers had been working around the clock, garrisoning every spare corner of the Monsalvat office. Ellie had barely noticed them.
She lay on the bed and thought about what she had to do. She opened the brandy decanter and poured in the phial of liquid Harry had given her. She stared at the paintings on the walls and they stared back: a gallery of callow knights and flimsy damsels, in dark forests or empty wastelands. It surprised her that Blanchard subscribed to this romanticised, Victorian take on the middle ages. Somehow she’d thought, with his far-back ancestry, he’d prefer a more authentic view.
Blanchard came in at eleven, smelling of coffee and cigar smoke.
‘You should have called. I would have come straight away.’ For the first time she could remember he looked tentative, unsure what to say. He sat down on the bed beside her and undid his tie.
‘How was it?’
‘It was my mother’s funeral.’ What do you expect?
Blanchard took a decanter of brandy and poured two glasses. ‘This will help.’
Ellie didn’t touch it.
‘If you want to be alone tonight …’
‘No.’ She spun around, pushing him back on the bed. She stood in front of him. Staring down, she unclasped her necklace and earrings and laid them on the dressing table. She shrugged off her jacket. Without artifice, as if she were in a shop changing room or the gym, she unzipped her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse, Blanchard lay there, watching and sipping his brandy. She held his eyes as she unclasped her bra and laid it over the other clothes on the back of a chair.