The Skeleth Read online

  “You stupid girl! What are you doing?” Lady Isabeau made Katherine jump. “Is that how you set table at your father’s house?”

  Katherine looked down at the food, then over at the nobles. She had no idea what was wrong. “We did not often have beef at home, my lady. I am sorry—I don’t know what to do.”

  Lady Isabeau snapped her fingers at Katherine. “You dullard!” She drew her lips tight. “You utter—”

  “Ah, Katherine Marshal. There you are!”

  Katherine turned—and so did Aelfric and Isabeau—for Lord Wolland had a voice of born command.

  “Come, come.” Wolland beckoned from the open front of the tent. “We have a small dispute regarding horses to settle, and I espied you on your way down from the castle.”

  Katherine waited, unsure of whom to obey. She looked to Lord Aelfric.

  Lord Wolland smiled upon the seated lord and lady. “That is, if you could spare this girl from her services?”

  Lord Aelfric flicked his fingers. “Take her.”

  “And keep her,” muttered Lady Isabeau.

  “Good!” Lord Wolland stepped in and took Katherine by the arm. Lady Isabeau grimaced at the sight, so Katherine let herself enjoy it, just a little.

  Lord Wolland led Katherine out through the front of the tent. “It is but a small matter.” He was a lord of the realm, but he stumped along at Katherine’s side like a prattling, jovial uncle. “But a matter for which none are better suited than you, my dear girl. Here we are, here we are—have you settled it, my good lords and knights?”

  He stopped by the horse-tents at the far end of the field, where grooms and smiths worked in preparation for the tourney soon to come. A crowd of noblemen, Harry among them, stood in a circle around a familiar blue-gray shape. Indigo raised his head and stamped at Katherine’s approach, pushing a few of them out of his way to come and greet her.

  “We have settled nothing, my lord.” Dirt caked and dusted up the back of the red knight’s surcoat. “And see? This stupid brute simply wanders off whenever the mood strikes him.”

  “He sees the one who trained him, Richard—and, I’ll hazard, the one who birthed him.” Lord Wolland beckoned to Katherine. “Come, my girl, step over here.”

  Katherine dropped a curtsy and followed, feeling all eyes on her. She held forth a hand; Indigo nuzzled it.

  Lord Wolland nodded to the red knight. “My loyal vassal here—Richard Redhands, by name and by fame—tells me this horse is ill-trained.”

  Katherine patted under Indigo’s chin. “He is not, my lord.” She nodded to Richard Redhands. “Saving your pardon, sir knight.”

  “Yes he is!” Sir Richard fumed. “He’s a bilious, bad-tempered beast. He cannot be ridden!” He raised his hand as though he meant to strike Indigo’s rump. Katherine almost hoped that he would try it.

  Harry wore his father’s colors. They suited him—but then, so did everything. “I’m afraid that Indigo here threw Sir Richard, while they tilted at the quintain.”

  Sir Richard Redhands screwed up his face, so that his mustache looked about to rise up into his flaring nostrils. He muttered something foul.

  “And before that, he threw Sir Galien.” Wulfric slapped the back of one of the knights. “Tossed him hither and yon like a straw dummy, and—”

  “And so, Katherine.” Lord Wolland held up a hand for silence. “I would like to put Sir Richard’s claim to the test.”

  He took Indigo’s reins and held them out. Katherine knew what he wanted. She glanced around her—exposed, alone, a peasant girl in a humble, sweaty workdress, surrounded by the richest and most powerful men in the north. She felt like a pawn, a plaything, the butt of a joke.

  She looked at Indigo. He raised his head, cocking his nose toward the jousting field.

  She might never have the chance again.

  Richard Redhands clenched a fist. “My lord, how can you defer to some peasant wench in a matter of—”

  Katherine sprang up onto Indigo’s back. She hiked the skirts of her dress to sit astride. Indigo shifted, twitching his ears toward the jousting field, but waited for her signal to begin.

  “The horse does not seem quite so ill of temper as you say, Richard.” Wulfric exchanged a smile with his father. “Perhaps you were too free with the spurs?”

  “Good. Yes, good.” Lord Wolland waved his hand. “Finish the show. Let us have you ride him down the lists.”

  Katherine looked down. “My lord?”

  Lord Wolland took the lance from Sir Richard’s hand. He offered it to Katherine. “Show us. Charge at the quintain.”

  Katherine hesitated, glancing toward the grand reviewing tent. She was in enough trouble already.

  “A girl charge at the quintain, you say?” Lord Overstoke drained his goblet. “Ha! This I’d like to see!”

  “So you shall, my lord.” Katherine touched her heel to Indigo’s flank. Indigo trotted to the end of the jousting lists and sprang to a flying charge.

  Wind threw Katherine’s hair behind her. Indigo’s hooves drummed upon the turf, shifting to a headlong gallop. Katherine nudged in her knee to correct their course over the bare grass of the lists. The quintain stood at mid-field, a tall cross with a battered old shield on one arm and a sack full of sand dangling from the other. The sight of the target roused her and made her forget her fluttering skirts. She steadied up her lance and passed within sight of the open front of the reviewing tent.

  “What on earth—?” Lady Isabeau stood from her chair, gaping as Katherine hurtled past. The peasant folk of Northend hollered and cheered from the rope that marked the boundary of the lists.

  Katherine lowered the lance to point at the target painted red on the boss of the shield. Exhilaration sharpened her, brought her forward in the crouch. She matched the pull of her arm to the rise and fall of Indigo’s pace, keeping the wobbling lance point on target. Twelve yards, six yards, two yards—yes. The lance struck square on the dot, sending a shudder back down her arm. The weight swung wide, shoved hard by the strike, spinning out high enough for her to duck under its whirling return. Indigo followed through at a canter, his strides the perfect coupling of power and grace, ready for his rider to draw her sword and fall in amongst the panicked enemy.

  “Girl! How dare you?” Lady Isabeau’s shrill exclamation was nearly drowned in the cheers from the peasants across the field. “How dare you!”

  Katherine wheeled Indigo around. She trotted him back in front of the reviewing stand, as was custom. She dipped her lance in salute to lord and lady, and rode off the field. The noblemen assembled at the horse-tents might have thought her an oddity, perhaps even a joke, but they cheered for her all the same.

  “Well struck, well struck!” Wulfric of Olingham bellowed and clapped. “By the cloven crown! That was straight on the dot.”

  “My lord Aelfric!” Lord Overstoke leaned out to look at the reviewing tent. “My lord, why do you have this girl slaving in your scullery? She’s worth three of my marshals, at the least!”

  Lord Wolland held out his hand for Katherine’s lance, acting for all the world as though he were her faithful squire. “I think our little dispute has been settled, then, yes?” He looked around him at the other lords and knights. “Good sir Richard, I fear that you owe my son Wulfric here an apology, and—what was the wager?”

  “Two gold marks, Father,” said Wulfric. “But there is no hurry to collect on a man of honor.”

  Richard Redhands turned to storm away. The other nobles hailed Katherine in a laughing roar, but she cared for their applause not a bit. She touched a hand down Indigo’s flank, then stroked her fingers through his mane. He snuffled at her side. Riding him once more reminded her that she would never ride him again.

  “He will be yours.”

  Katherine looked up. Harry slipped around to her side of Indigo’s great bulk. He glanced bac
k at the nobles, then dared a step nearer. “I will find a way. He will be yours someday, somehow. This I swear.”

  A groom came in between the horse-tents with a flask of wine. He bowed and started serving the noblemen assembled there. Katherine seized on the distraction to touch Harry’s hand, squeeze his fingers once in thanks, then let go.

  “So this is Elverain’s great secret.” Lord Wolland took some wine, then stepped over by Indigo’s proud head. “Old John Marshal and his maiden daughter, off on their little farm, turning out better steeds than anything I can acquire by coin or by craft.”

  Harry winked at Katherine, then moved to join Wolland. “I regret to say, my lord, that they are not for sale.”

  “I thought not.” Lord Wolland chuckled. “So, my boy, will we see you astride this fine beast in the tourney? You are well of age now.”

  Harry stiffened. He hesitated. “No, my lord, I do not think so.”

  “What? Why ever not?” Lord Wolland stared at him, the very picture of honest surprise. He held forth a goblet full of rich red wine. “You are young and hale, Harry—drink from the cup of chivalry while you may!”

  “It is not—” Harry stole an embarrassed glance at Katherine. “I can’t.”

  The lords and knights assembled by the tent smirked at one another and shook their heads. Lord Wolland exchanged a glance with Wulfric, one that Katherine did not like at all. She felt the urge to leave and to pull Harry away with her, but knew she had no power to do so.

  “Oh, come now, come now.” Wolland placed the goblet in Harry’s hands. “Only child you may be, but you cannot stay at your mother’s skirts all your life. Do you wish to earn your spurs, or simply have them handed to you by right of your title?”

  Lord Overstoke laughed, and the other nobles took it up in a burst of derision. “I have always said he was rather too pretty.” He nudged one of the knights, pointing at Harry, then Katherine. “You tell me, my lord—which one of them’s the maiden?”

  “An old man’s child,” muttered Lord Overstoke. “His mother’s son.”

  Harry opened his mouth in angry shock, then looked down at his boots. Katherine struggled for something to say, even something that might get her into deeper trouble herself, if it could save Harry from what she feared was coming.

  “A pity, truly.” Wulfric lowered his thick brows. “The spurs of a knight are the mark of his manhood. It shames us all when they are ill given.”

  Harry found his voice. “I am my lord Aelfric’s faithful vassal, as well as his son. I obey his wishes.”

  “And he wishes to preserve you to carry on his line.” Lord Wolland seemed full of kindly good humor. “But he should consider not only whether you survive to inherit, but what sort of man you will be when you do.”

  Harry looked about him, surrounded by men who seemed to be weighing him in the balance and finding him wanting. He held the goblet in close at his chest, but did not drink. “Just . . . just what do you mean by that, my lord?”

  “My boy, my boy.” Lord Wolland put a hand to Harry’s shoulder. “I told your father many times not to raise you by the hearthside. He should have sent you off south to squire—you might have learned something of the world. More to the point, the world might have learned something of you.”

  Harry spluttered. His features darkened, but he made no reply.

  “It is for a knight to make war.” Wulfric crossed his tree-trunk arms. “It is his right and proper craft. A girl may make sport of it, if she so chooses, but for a man of noble blood it is duty. To spurn it is to spurn his honor, to spurn his manhood and his high birth.”

  He nodded to Katherine. “Your pardon for my saying so.”

  Desperation led Katherine in amongst the men. “We are proud of our lords here in Elverain. They have ruled long in wisdom, making war when war was needed, but seeking always for a fair and gentle peace.” She did not quite dare look straight at Harry. “We love them for it.”

  Wolland waved a hand. “Our world has no room for such fine sentiment.” He turned full on Harry. “The lord who is content with his lot stands to lose it. We are wolves, Harry, the captains of wolves. The fate of thousands can shift at a glance between men at the high table, the world turns on the whim of he who dares all. That which you stand to inherit was carved from the flesh of other men in ages past. What will you do with it? That is the first question I ask all young men of substance, for their answer will either make their dynasty, or break it.”

  The contents of Wolland’s letter to Aelfric flashed through Katherine’s mind. She glanced at him—and found him watching her in return, his deep-set eyes glittering dark.

  Harry wavered. “I can ride, my lord.” His voice lost its firmness. “I can fight. I do not need to prove it to a crowd.”

  “I see,” said Lord Wolland. “Perhaps then you should choose a champion to carry your honor where it is needed.” He smiled at Katherine. “This young maiden, perhaps, could lift a lance in your stead.”

  Harry went red to the ears. Katherine tried to catch his eye, to shake her head, beg him no.

  “I need no one to fight my battles for me!” Harry drew himself to his full height. “I will joust in the tourney, my lord, against any man you choose.”

  As soon as he said it, his color drained—but the error had been made with too many to hear it. A silence fell. The lords and knights around him nodded to one another.

  Lord Wolland’s smile widened to his ears. He turned to his son.

  Sir Wulfric bowed to Harry, stooping down to let his shadow cross him. “It will be an honor, good squire. We shall meet upon the field tomorrow.”

  Chapter 19

  The thrice-opened eye went blind with the heart’s blindness. The thrice-beloved king cast his love upon the pyre with his honor and his truth. In his anger, in his fear, in betrayal of his kin, King Childeric called upon the Skeleth, They Who Crawl Below, they who shape as one with men, but are not men. In his lust for lordship without limit, Childeric asked for that which could be halted not by sword, nor by axe, nor by spear. He had asked for that which could kill without end and, screaming to the last, he received his gift.

  Edmund balanced a pebble on the rat-eared corner of the page to weigh it down. He drew up his cloak against the wind that blew in sudden gusts across the village green of Moorvale. It was a warm wind for autumn, southerly and kind, but even so its pulsing breath did not please him in the least, or anyone out on the green behind him, from the sudden shouts of disappointment it evoked:

  “Oh, a pox on it! Did you see that? That was a bull’s-eye, dead to the middle, and then that accursed breeze—”

  “You always blame the breeze, Nicky Bird. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  Edmund followed the scrawling text onto the facing page: The land where the Skeleth walk is now waste. It is ruin, given up to death, a land under the sway of That Which Waits Within the Mountain. We have tasted the bitter fruits of King Childeric’s greed. Upon the banks of the river we have made our redoubt, and there we fight an enemy that knows neither mercy nor fear.

  The hairs on Edmund’s arms went up and stayed raised. He looked behind him, up and west to Wishing Hill, then over through the square, past the mill to the turn of the broad river Tamber. The statue of the old stone knight that stood in the center of the square faced eastward, toward the bridge over the river and the empty moors beyond. No one in the village knew who the knight was or what he had done to deserve a statue in his honor. His head and right arm had broken off long ago, so that no one even knew if he was meant to be raising a hand in welcome or shaking a sword in defiance.

  Edmund raised the pebble and turned the page—parchment flaked in his hand, and a whiff of wind nearly sheared the page clean off. They are seen and yet unseen, they are form without substance, they are man and monster both. They serve only their master, only That Which Waits Within the Mountain—
r />   “It’s your turn.”

  Edmund startled. A thin, curved shadow hung suspended over the pages of the book—a horn-handled bow of springy yew. Geoffrey held it out, the quiver of arrows in his other hand.

  “Come on, Edmund!” Martin Upfield called from the other side of the walnut tree Edmund had been using to block the wind. Martin stood with a crowd of peasant folk at one end of the common green, a place used for grazing livestock most days, but on that morning the sheep and cattle had been moved across the road and replaced with a line of ragged old archery butts. Almost every man Edmund knew stood in clumps at the near end of the green, and a goodly handful of women, besides. Even as he looked across, Missa Dyer loosed and struck firm into her target, bringing a cheer from her brother Jordan and half the Twintree clan.

  “I’ve been looking for you all morning.” Geoffrey dropped the quiver in his lap. “The practice is half over already.”

  Edmund grabbed the feathered flights of the arrows before they could spill forth from the quiver. “I don’t want to take a turn.”

  “You’ve got to shoot, Edmund.” Geoffrey held forth the bow. “You’re over thirteen; it’s the law. Every able-bodied man in the village is here, and there’s a clerk walking about with the tax rolls making sure we all showed up.”

  “I’m busy!” Edmund struck the open page before him. “Do you think that figuring this stuff out is easy? I’m trying to find a way to defend us from the Skeleth!”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “I don’t see those Skeleth things anywhere. Why are you so sure they’re coming back, anyway? Just because that wizard girl told you?”

  Edmund closed the Paelandabok and slid it into the sack at his feet. “What do you think we were doing in that tomb?”

  “Stomping around like fools and nearly getting ourselves killed, so that you could pull up some dusty old spell, and—let me guess—you showed it to the wizard girl, didn’t you?” Geoffrey shot Edmund a sour smirk on their way over to the targets. “You think you know everything, but you’re really stupid, sometimes.”