A huge roar from the jousting yard rang through the inner ward.
The mob-ball game must have started.
Tom had no wish to scrub pots, and so he hurried away from the kitchen and ran instead towards the playing fields. Fergus bounded beside him, his tail wagging.
The stands were filled with crowds of people, shouting and waving flags and drinking pear cider, called ‘merrylegs’ by some, and ‘mumblehead’ by others for its effect on those who drank it. In the centre of the field, boys in green or red jerkins jostled and fought over the ball, which was made from an inflated pig’s bladder.
Tom had watched the game many times, and knew the squires in red always beat the serving-boys. They had time to train and play against each other, while the serving-boys were always too busy with their work to have much free time to practise.
One serving-boy in green seized the ball and ran towards the goalposts at the far end of the yard, but the red-headed squire, Sebastian, put out one foot to trip him, and he fell flat on his face. Sebastian grabbed the ball and ran towards the other end. Three boys in green caught him around the waist and shoulders, but Sebastian just kept on running, dragging them along behind him. One by one they fell, and were trampled under the rush of feet as everyone raced after the red-headed boy. One of the boys came up howling, both hands clamped across a bloody nose, and he was pulled off the field by a man-at-arms, his head dunked into a bucket of icy water. There were no rules in mob-ball, only speed, strength, and bravado.
On impulse, Tom ran up to the boy with the bloody nose. ‘Your team’s one man down now. Give me your jerkin.’
The boy with the bleeding nose pulled off his green jerkin. ‘Watch out,’ he warned. ‘The squires play rough.’
Tom nodded, shrugging himself into the jerkin. He and his friends played mob-ball together whenever they could, but Tom had never played in an official midsummer match before. His time spent roaming the forest had made him lean and swift, and his arms were strong from scrubbing pots. He was sure he could hold his own against those rough squires.
He ran out into the field, just as Sebastian kicked the ball towards the goalposts. Tom jumped high, caught the ball, and began to run towards the far end of the field. It felt good to be in motion, and even better to be playing against those arrogant young lords who had mocked him earlier. Tom was determined to show that he was just as good as they were, even if he was just a lowly pot-boy. He dodged and swerved, slipping through the hands that reached to yank him down. Fergus ran with him, barking with joy.
‘Get him!’ Sebastian shouted as he launched himself at Tom’s back. Tom side-stepped, and Sebastian hit the dirt. The castle servants all roared with laughter, cheering and shaking their green flags. Sebastian got up, scowling, covered in dust. Tom side-stepped another red-clad squire, then kicked a goal. The ball soared high and went straight through the posts. All the serving-boys cheered and slapped Tom on the back.
Sebastian glowered at Tom. ‘You’d better watch out,’ he muttered, and launched himself at Tom as soon as the whistle blew.
Tom seized the ball and ran with it. He felt Sebastian’s hands close on his jerkin, but the material tore in half, and Tom leapt free. Once again Sebastian ended up face-down in the dirt. Tom fell down too, grazing his knee, but he scrambled up and ran on. He could hear Sebastian’s heavy footsteps pounding behind him, so put on a burst of speed. It was as if all his anger and frustration gave his feet wings. He ran all the way to the other end of the field, and dived through the goalposts to score another goal.
Fergus barked and leapt up to lick Tom’s face. Then the rest of his teammates reached him, shouting in delight.
‘It’s two-all now,’ a stable-boy cried. ‘We just need one more goal and we’ll beat the squires for the first time in seventeen years!’
The whistle blew, and Sebastian kicked the ball hard. It practically flew the whole length of the field. Tom ran as fast as he could, determined not to let him score another goal. Sebastian was running too, but Tom was faster. He got to the ball a scant second before the squire, and kicked it away. The gardener’s boy caught it and ran like a hare. He passed it to a stable-boy, who passed it to a pot-boy, who passed it to the falconer’s apprentice, who passed it to Tom.
Then Sebastian took him down. As Tom hit the dirt, the ball flew up out of his hands. Sebastian jumped for it, but Fergus leapt past him, snatching the ball in his jaws. The wolfhound landed lightly on all four paws, and began to snarl and shake the ball as if it was a rat. One boy after another tried to seize it from him, but the dog would not let go.
‘That’s not fair! A dog can’t play!’ Sebastian cried.
‘No rules in mob-ball,’ Tom panted, racing up to Fergus. ‘Drop it, boy.’
Fergus dropped it obediently. Tom grabbed the ball and ran for the goal-line.
Feet pounded behind him. He feinted, side-stepped, and swerved unexpectedly to the left. Sebastian hurtled past him and landed flat in the dust again.
Tom kicked the ball as hard as he could, and it soared between the goals. Tom cheered and raised his arms in victory, running back towards his new teammates who hoisted him high on their shoulders. Green flags waved wildly. All the servants cheered and whistled and crashed together their tankards of pear cider.
‘Flat-footed fools!’ the master-of-arms bellowed at the crestfallen squires. ‘You’ll be up at dawn and training till midnight from now on, you thick-heads!’
As Tom was carried from the field, high on the shoulders of his teammates, he looked back at Sebastian, getting up from the dirt where he had been well and truly trampled. ‘I’m going to get you,’ the squire mouthed at him. ‘Just you wait.’
Later that afternoon, Tom trudged up from the cellar, carrying a heavy wicker-wrapped bottle of mead, made with honey from the castle’s own bees. He walked slowly, his body aching from the mob-ball game, his thoughts once more occupied with the wild man’s warning and his failure to deliver it. Why would no-one listen to him? What if the castle really was in danger?
Fergus growled deep in his throat, and Tom at once tensed. He heard a soft shuffle of feet around the corner. He went back down a few steps and pressed against the stone wall.
Then Sebastian leapt out at him.
Tom hit him over the head with the wicker bottle. As Sebastian fell, Tom leapt over him and raced up the stairs. Fergus bounded after him.
‘I’ll get you!’ Sebastian shouted.
Tom ran past the kitchen doorway and plunged through a tapestry-hung archway. It led to the servants’ stairs, a steep, narrow set that curled inside the walls of the castle so servants did not have to carry chamber-pots or trays of dirty dishes where the lords and ladies might see them. Tom had hoped Sebastian would not see him duck through the tapestry curtain, but he wasn’t quick enough. In seconds, the red-headed squire was after him again. With Fergus bounding ahead, Tom leapt up the steps as fast as he could.
The staircase branched, the left-hand turn leading to a staircase that spiralled up into the Lady’s Tower. Tom scrambled that way, bent over double and using his hands to get along faster. Then Fergus ran straight under the feet of a servant carrying a tray. The servant fell head over heels down the stairs, wiping out Sebastian as he fell. Clang, clatter, clank, crash, the two of them tumbled all the way down to the bottom.
Tom kept clambering upwards, taking one turn, then another, till he was climbing higher into the castle than he’d ever been before. It looked like no-one had been there in centuries. Dust lay thick on the steps. Cobwebs hung in filthy tatters. Bats screeched away into the shadows.
Fergus whined. His ears and tail drooped.
‘Now we just need to find a way out,’ Tom said, searching for a window or door in the walls that would give him some sense of where he was. ‘One that doesn’t involve going back the way we came.’
His feet stirred up clouds of dust. Fergus sneezed.
They kept on climbing. The staircase had become so narrow that Tom’s shoulders brushed against the wall on either side, while the steps were so steep that it was like climbing a cliff. His calf muscles ached, and his throat was dry. ‘Maybe we should go back,’ Tom murmured, slowing.
Fergus whined and ran forward eagerly, pushing his nose against a faded old tapestry. He looked back at Tom and whined again.
‘What have you found, boy?’ Tom asked.
The tapestry showed a maiden sitting in a meadow, a dark unicorn lying with its head resting in her lap. As Tom lifted it aside, the fabric crumbled away in his hand and revealed a tiny door.
He bent and examined the cobwebby key perched in the lock. He tried to turn it but it was so stiff, it wouldn’t budge. He persisted, and the key finally turned with a nerve-shredding screech. Fergus whined and pressed close to Tom. Tom pushed at the door. It wouldn’t open.
He pushed harder.
Suddenly it swung open. Tom fell through with a crash, Fergus landing right on top of him.