It was the last day of October, and evening was closing over the castle in a muffle of misty rain. Tonight the Devil would rampage over the hills, probably in the shape of an enormous black sow with no tail. Ghosts would come squeaking out of their graves, lost spirits would wander abroad and sit, plaintively weeping, on every stile.
As Wolf returned from shutting Elfgift safely into the stables for the night, he saw the pulsing glow of a bonfire beyond the open gates, and heard distant sounds of merriment. The All Hallows’ fire had been lit, and would burn till dawn to keep elves and sprites and ghosts at bay. Of course, it was also a good excuse for a party.
Wolf had never been to an All Hallows’ fire. He raced into the Hall to tell Nest. It was very quiet. On one side of the fire Hugo and Geraint sat with a chessboard between them, heads bent over the bone pieces. Old Howell watched the moves with benign interest. Argos lay flat on his side at Hugo’s feet, soaking up warmth from the fire. On the other side of the hearth Angharad and Nest and Mattie sat sewing. As he came in, Wolf saw Nest wearily stab her needle into the fabric that overspread her lap — expensive blue wool. She saw him and brightened. “Wolf! Come and talk to me.”
“They’ve lit the All Hallows’ bonfire!” Wolf blurted. “I can see it from the gate!”
Hugo and Geraint looked up. But Angharad got in before anyone else could speak. “My lady’s got no interest in that,” she said sharply.
Wolf was disconcerted. “H-hasn’t she?” he stammered. “I thought she might like to see it.”
“No indeed, and my lord will tell you the very same thing!” That put paid to any hope that Hugo might override Angharad’s strictures. “A gently born girl of her age wouldn’t dream of going to a thing like that, to rub shoulders with kitchen boys and peasants. You wouldn’t, would you, my cariad?”
Nest pinched her lips together and looked at the floor. “You go if you want, Wolf,” she said in a low voice. “I’m not allowed.”
Wolf stood on one leg, torn. She glanced up. “Go on! You can’t help with the sewing, can you?”
“All right…” He backed out, feeling mean for abandoning her, and angry with Angharad. Why couldn’t Nest go and have fun at the bonfire like anyone else? Those kitchen boys and peasants were her own servants, who would die rather than let anything happen to a hair on her head.
“Going to the bonfire?” The gate guard was Roger Bach’s crony, Stephen le Beau. Tall and skinny, he leaned on his spear in the drizzle like a scarecrow version of Lord Hugo, his lank fair hair dripping in points under his helmet.
“Mind the Black Sow doesn’t get you,” he said. It was half joke, half threat.
“Thanks,” said Wolf. He peered out and almost changed his mind about going. Maybe Angharad had a point after all. The bonfire was further away than he’d thought, and there was a lot of dark, muddy lane to walk down alone.
Stephen threw up his hand so suddenly he made Wolf start. “What’s that?”
It was a prolonged bubbling sound from the direction of the cistern, as if the spring had suddenly boiled up with great force. A glimmering white thing rose from the water. It might be a white swan, splashing its wings, but Wolf knew it wasn’t. A cloud of dispersing moisture blew across the yard as a cold presence drifted past, weeping softly.
“The White Lady!” Stephen clutched his spear. “She’ll be prowling all around the castle tonight.”
“But she’s harmless,” said Wolf. “Isn’t she? Howell said so.”
“Howell would,” said Stephen, “but it’s the way she comes up behind you…” He crooked his fingers and raised them over his head. “Whoo-hoo-hoo…”
“Stop it!” Wolf stepped defiantly out on to the wooden bridge over the moat.
Stephen waited till he was halfway across. “Whoo-hoo-hoo!” he moaned again, and cackled. “Saw you jump!”
Wolf disdained to look around. But Stephen’s words had done their work. The glow of the bonfire ahead made the lane seem blacker than ever. He walked quickly downhill, stumbling over the stones and potholes. I’m not afraid of the White Lady, he told himself. But what if she was silently gliding after him right now?
He threw a glance over his shoulder. And to his horror there was something, drifting through a nebulous swirl of mist between him and the gateway. And it looked just like the blurred figure of a veiled woman. For an awful second Wolf wasn’t sure. Was it a wreath of mist? No, there really was a cloaked figure coming after him!
He swung to face it. It was that, or run down the uneven lane not knowing how close it was behind him. Prickles raced down his spine. The White Lady’s harmless. Howell says she’s harmless!
The eerie figure drew closer, its face hidden. Wolf’s mouth was dry. He raised his hands to ward her off. “Who’s there?” he quavered.
“Ouch!” said the shape, tripping. “I can’t see a thing. Is that you, Wolf?”
“Nest!”
“Hush! Don’t yell out my name like that!” She grabbed his arm, looking back. “I want to see the bonfire!”
“How did you get away?” Wolf asked weakly.
“I was furious with Angharad,” said Nest. “So I told her I was going by myself to pray in the chapel. It wasn’t a lie. I meant it. But then in the yard I saw the White Lady wandering ahead of me, and I didn’t want to meet her, she’s so mournful and clingy—” To Wolf’s surprise she giggled. “So I was coming back to the Hall, and there was Stephen le Beau on the gate, looking scared — and I just wrapped my veil over my face and walked straight past him, wailing and wringing my hands.”
Wolf gazed at her in delighted awe. “What did he do?”
“He yelped like a puppy and scuttled into the gatehouse without giving me a second glance.” Nest’s voice trembled with laughter. She tugged his arm. “Hurry! I don’t want to waste a minute.”
The bonfire was a long bowshot from the castle, in the corner of a field between the lane and the old stone road. At last they were close enough to see the dark shapes of men dragging branches towards it, and to hear the lively murmur of voices. There were more people clustered around the fire than lived in La Motte Rouge: the villagers who worked on the estate were all gathering. Someone beat on a little drum, while others clapped out a rhythm. Somebody else was dancing a jig.
“Oh, this looks fun!” said Nest. In astonishment she added, “And that’s Rollo!” She was right. Rollo was dancing with head thrown back, arms raised, the firelight glistening on his face and the shadowed slash of his deep scar.
“Birandón, birandón, birandéra!” he shouted, stamping his heavy boots into the mud. Pat-a-pat, pat-a-pat, pat-a-pat-pat, went the drum.
“Oh, off we went to the fighting,” Rollo sang in a tuneless roar.
“Yes, off we went to the fighting,
So off we went to the Ho-oly La-a-and —
Birandón, birandón, tra la la!
“But all the time we were thinking
We’d rather he home again drinking,
So back we came from the Ho-oly La-a-and —
Birandón, birandón, tra la la!”
There was a burst of laughter and cheers. Rollo dragged a hand across his sweating forehead and bowed, grinning. Someone thrust a flask at him. “Here y’are, crusader! Drink up!” He took a good swig.
Wolf saw that Nest might not be very welcome here. This was a rough, informal gathering, where people could behave as they liked, without worrying about their social superiors. He couldn’t imagine Rollo singing like that if he knew that Lady Agnes was listening.
Maybe Nest had the same thought. She was rearranging her veil to shadow her entire face. They stood on the edge of the crowd, watching, not quite belonging. Most of the garrison seemed to be there, and Wolf spotted Bronwen and Gwenny.
“Birandón, birandón, birandéra,” roared Rollo, preparing for another verse.
Just then Roger Bach looked over his shoulder and saw Wolf. He gave a whoop.
“If it isn’t the nursemaid! Pipe down, Rollo, here’s Wolfie-boy to tuck us all up and send us to lullaby land!”
Wolf felt the blood stinging his face. “Let’s go,” he said quietly to Nest.
“Wait!” Roger shouted. Against his instincts, Wolf looked back. Roger spun a small coin from one broad thumb nail. “Sing us a psalm, and I’ll give you a groat!”
Wolf’s eyes narrowed in anger. But before he could think of a reply, Rollo called out, “Is that the value you put on a psalm, Roger? Leave the lad alone. You ought to know better’n to make fun of holy things on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Roger scowled. But he’d gone too far for the villagers, who murmured sympathetically and opened to let Wolf in. Nest was still hovering in the background, a cloaked, anonymous figure. Wolf flung an agonised glance over his shoulder as Rollo yelled, “Bronwen my lovely, get young Wolf a drink!”
“Bronwen!” Wolf whispered as she handed it to him. “Over there, behind me. That’s Lady Agnes. Look after her!”
Bronwen goggled — but only for a moment. She nodded emphatically and strode past, her dark hair tossing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nest begin to back away, but Bronwen said something and drew her towards the fire. Next time Wolf looked, Nest was standing with Gwenny and Bronwen surrounded by a ring of village women. Deeply grateful to Bronwen, Wolf clutched his earthenware cup of mulled ale and stared about him. The fine, cool rain prickled his cheeks but was almost as soon dried by the heat of the fire.
Rollo stood beside him, snapping his fingers to the pat-a-pat-pat of the drum. “Don’t heed Roger,” he said in a low voice. “There’s no real harm in him. He and I go way back. Have you seen this dent in my head?”
“Er—” It was the first thing anyone would notice about Rollo. “Did a Saracen do it?” He’d been dying to ask.
Rollo laughed. “Nah, a skinny little bare-legged Welshman! Nearly finished me off for good. Would have, too; but Roger got him in the ribs before he could give me another chop. He’s not a bad lad, Roger. By the way, I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?” said Wolf cautiously.
Rollo scratched an ear. “Maybe I was a bit hasty, the day you gave me such a start in the stables. Not many lads would have stood up to me like you did. I’m not saying I was wrong, mind you. I don’t hold with elves.”
His voice was loud. A few yards away, Wolf saw Nest listening.
“What do you think?” Rollo demanded. “You’ve had enough time to make your mind up. Is she really an elf? Or just a kiddie who can’t talk?”
Wolf squirmed, thinking of the hob. She’m an elf, all right. He cleared his throat. “Um…”
But Rollo was rather drunk and didn’t wait for him to finish. “You know what? You know what you ought to do? You know how to find out?”
“You go to the kitchen,” Rollo waved a finger, “and you get an eggshell…”
Nest ducked her head into her hands with a snort of laughter. Rollo looked round in surprise, but Wolf said hurriedly, “Yes?”
Rollo turned back. “You fill it with porridge.”
Wolf glued his eyes to Rollo’s face in an expression of strained interest. “Go on.”
“And you stir it up in front of the elf —” Rollo demonstrated holding up an imaginary eggshell and stirring with mincing fingers. “And the elf’s so surprised to see anyone cooking in an eggshell…”
Wolf drew a deep, careful breath. Nest was wiping her cheeks.
“Rollo,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about the Crusade.”
The joviality died out of Rollo. “The Crusade? What bit d’you want to know about?”
“The siege of Acre,” Wolf suggested eagerly. He looked to see if Nest was still listening, but she had her head close to Bronwen’s and they were laughing. Maybe she was passing on the eggshell joke.
“Nothing to tell,” Rollo mumbled. “The Saracens opened the gates and came out to surrender: two and a half thousand of ’em, maybe closer to four thousand with the women and children. Two bitter, bloody years they’d held out, and they came out in good order and gave themselves up.”
“But that happened at the very end. What about the actual fighting?”
“The fighting?” Rollo said with a short laugh. “It was a siege, my lad. In sieges, you sit around outside the walls waiting to see who starves first, them or us. It was nearly us. Men died like flies. Even the archbishop died. Finally the king turned up and offered incentives. Anyone who pulled a stone out of the walls got two gold bezants! Later it went up to four. That got people moving. Say what you like, those walls came down for money, not for God.”
Wolf felt cheated. He’d wanted tales of gallantry and chivalry. “But there must have been some fighting,” he persisted.
“You want blood?” Rollo twisted round suddenly. “I’ll give you blood. Ask me what we did to the prisoners. Go on, ask!”
“Well — what?” Wolf asked apprehensively.
“We butchered them. Every single one of ’em, men, women and children. The king ordered it and we did it. Me, and Lord Hugo, and all the rest of us Christian knights and squires and men-at-arms.”
Wolf felt sick. Rollo wiped a hand across his mouth and added, “Killing in battle’s one thing. Slaughtering prisoners — it can’t be right, now, can it? In your heart of hearts, you know it’s wrong. It would be a relief if someone said so. But no. The churchmen and the bishops and the clerks — people like you — all say, ‘Oh, they were Saracens. It was right to kill them. God approves!’.”
He glared at Wolf. “Funny thing, that! Seems to me I might have done something bad. Seems to me God might not want people climbing up to Heaven on a pile of corpses. But there’s the pope and the bishops and Holy Church all a-patting me on the back. What if they’re wrong? What if I’m going to Hell instead? Wha’s — I mean, what’s a man to think?”
Wolf didn’t care what Rollo thought. “It’s a lie! Lord Hugo didn’t kill them — did he? Not Lord Hugo!”
Rollo’s big face screwed up. “Ah! Sorry. Sorry, Wolf. S’the drink — the drink talking. I forgot you’re just a boy. You still need heroes.” He rocked back on his heels and stared up into the drizzle. “I need more drink. This weather is not good for my bones.” He stamped away.
“Wolf!” Nest bobbed up at his elbow, her face alight. She was wearing a different veil, much thicker and coarser. “Bronwen and I have swapped. She’s got my veil and I’ve got hers. Do you know, I always thought Bronwen didn’t like me, but she does! This is such fun. I’m so glad I came.”
Wolf focused on her slowly. Nest touched his arm. “Did you hear me? Are you all right?” Her eyes widened. “You’re not drunk, are you?”
Wolf collected his wits. “No, but I think Rollo is.” Rollo had begun dancing again and was bawling:
“And then I got back to discover
My wife had run off with a lover.
And so my cup runneth o-o-verr —
Birandón, birandón, tra la la!”
“…tra la la!” There was a curious echo from down the lane — higher and clearer than Rollo’s voice. Rollo froze in mid-caper. “What the devil’s that?”
Nest and Wolf turned. For a moment Wolf could have sworn he saw another blaze glittering through the crannies of the hedge, throwing a strong moving shadow ahead of it through the mist and the swirls of bitter smoke. A shadow half man, half beast. Other people saw it too. There were gasps and screams.
Out of the dark and drizzle, a long, swinging head emerged, huge ears twitching. Hooves clattered and squelched. “A mule!” someone yelled. Sitting sideways on its back was a man with horns.
More screams! Some of the boys were running, and hurling stones. Wolf too was groping for a stone. Then he realised the man didn’t have horns. He had ears, as huge and pointed as his mule’s. And he was flinging gilded balls into the air: they whirled and dropped into his hands and rose again.
In a high, strong voice he sang out some catchy nonsense that trilled off the tongue.
“Fol de rol, tra la la, saladarado,
Nazaza, mirontaine, birondandón!”
A stone struck the mule on the shoulder. It grunted and shied. But the man riding didn’t miss a catch or falter in his song. As another stone whizzed past he caught it and threw it into the air to dance up and down with the golden balls.
“Falada, fol de rol, trillivilleros.
Tra la la, nazaza, miramontaine!”
By now everyone was dropping the stones they’d picked up, and Bronwen clouted the ear of the boy who’d thrown the last one.
“It’s a juggler!”
“A jongleur!”
They began to applaud. Neatly, the jongleur let the balls spin down into his hand. He tossed the stone high, high into the air, jumped off the mule and bowed low. The stone was coming down now, hurtling to strike him.
“Look out, look out!”
The jongleur straightened up and stuck out his hand. The stone smacked into his palm. He brought it round it front of him, raised it to his mouth and bit. Again everyone gasped, sure his teeth would shatter. “All I ask is bread, my masters, so don’t give me stones!” the jongleur called in French. And he looked at Wolf, winked broadly, and tossed it straight at him.
Wolf caught it. And it wasn’t a stone at all; it was a bitten bread roll. He laughed in admiration, sure he’d seen a simple conjuring trick, and looked round for Nest to show her. She nodded quickly. But most of the peasants were open-mouthed.
“You!” It was Rollo. He blundered forwards clumsily Wolf saw his face and was chilled. Rollo looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Wha’s your name?”
The jongleur turned lightly towards him. He was a tall, thin youthful-looking fellow with a pale, freckled face and a hint of frizzy hair escaping from under a close fitting cloth hood with cloth donkey-ears. “Halewyn.” The twist of his wide mouth spelled amusement.
“I’ve seen you before,” said Rollo. “Haven’t I?”
“Surely,” said the jongleur after a moment, “if you be one of Lord Hugo’s men? Then we met two years ago, on the road—”
Between Poitiers and Tours. It came back to Wolf then, Rollo’s words in the stable, a few weeks back. A whey-faced, gangling strip of a fellow riding on a mule, Rollo had said, and he told my lord a story about a dead woman coming back.
“Where have you come from?” Rollo asked roughly.
“I sprang out of the ground!” The jongleur flipped himself backwards. He stood on his hands, brandished his feet under Rollo’s nose, and righted himself again. The crowd laughed and clapped, but the jongleur inspected his hands and sadly shook his head. “Muddy, alas. I should have thought before I acted. But that’s me all over. Just an impulsive boy.”
Rollo’s face darkened. But the jongleur rolled a comically expressive eye, as if to say, “Who is this rude fellow?” and stepped past, dismissing him. “Hey, Brother,” he said to Wolf, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve travelled a long way tonight. Will you take me up to the castle and find me a bite to eat? I can tell a sad tale and a merry one, sing a song and fling a somersault. As for your lord, he knows me. He’s seen me before.”
With all eyes on him, Wolf dared not look at Nest. He hesitated. But, whatever Rollo thought, he liked the look of Halewyn. It was good to hear a pleasant voice, good to be asked for assistance. “Of course I will. Come with me.”