the child past his own body. She had curled into a tight, cold ball and was doing nothing to help herself. He felt her vanish upwards as Hugo pulled her away.
Wolf followed as fast as he could. He scrambled into the fresh, open night. The rain fell on him like a blessing, and Argos pranced to meet him.
Hugo turned, holding the elf-girl in his arms. “Well done! Well done,” he said fiercely. Then he threw back his head and yelled, a war cry that sent thrills down Wolf’s spine: “Rollo! Geraint! Roger! A moy, gens de la Motte Rouge! Men of the Red Mound, to me! Bring torches!”
He strode down through the dark wood, shouting, and his men came crashing through the bushes to meet him, trailing spears and brandishing flaming sticks.
“My lord? Lord Hugo?”
“By the Holy Face, who’s with him? And what’s that?”
“Wait till you see,” Hugo roared. “A better quarry than a wolf, men!” He shouldered his way out into the clearing, and dumped the child on the ground.
The men, eight or nine of them, clustered around swearing incredulously and kicking away inquisitive dogs. Their makeshift torches were already flickering out in the wind, but the light of the sinking fire played over the elf-girl where she crouched at Lord Hugo’s feet, smeared with red mud, all sharp spine and bony ribs, her disfigured face hidden against her knees. Her sides heaved and sank, heaved and sank in rapid breaths. The weird puffball of matted hair looked as unreal as when Wolf had first seen her. On her fingers and toes, long brownish nails curled like claws.
“By the bones of Saint Thomas, what is it?”
“It’s a kiddie, eh?”
“No kiddie ever looked like that.”
“It’s an elf!” Hugo flung an arm around Wolf’s shoulders. “We were hunting elves as well as wolves, men, though we didn’t know it. There’s a cave under the cliff back there. One of the old, lost mines. It leads down to Elfland! Argos was lost inside. And this boy went in after him and brought out the elf.”
Wolf swayed where he stood. The rain beat into his face and shoulders. He was deathly cold, but burning pride ran like hot metal through the marrow of his bones at Hugo’s praise. Surely — surely now there was a good chance Lord Hugo would make him a squire?
The men growled. “Let it go, lord,” said one of them bluntly, to mutters of agreement. “It’s not safe to meddle with such things.”
“Let it go? Splendour of God, no! Not for any danger. How many men, think you, have chased and caught an elf? Rollo, look after the boy.”
“I’ve got him.” A rough hand gripped his arm. “Hey, you — hold up!”
Wolf’s tired eyes jerked open. Kneeling beside the fire, some of the men were knotting the elf-girl into a cloak. He heard snatches of low-voiced, horrified conversation.
“Say your prayers, boys — we’re bringing it home!”
The man holding Wolf said into his ear, “Oh, you’ve done it now, young fellow. Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Lord Hugo w-wanted me to find an elf,” Wolf mumbled.
The man shook him: “So you look! Next time, you look, but you don’t find anything! Got that?”
“Is Hugo mad?” A Welsh voice, hissing with disapproval. “Those old mines, they go right down to Annwn, to Elfland — and deeper for all I know: full of devils and ghosts and Duw knows what? This’ll bring bad luck: terrible luck. We’ll be riding home with the Wild Host on our heels.”
“Shut up, Geraint,” said the man holding Wolf.
“I’ll say what I like!” The Welsh voice again. “And I won’t touch a finger to the creature. Duw! I’d sooner touch a viper.”
There was a pause.
“What’ll we do with the clerk, Rollo?”
“Hoist him up behind me,” Rollo grunted.
Unfriendly hands boosted Wolf on to the wet hindquarters of a horse. He wrapped his arms around Rollo’s thick waist and clung on as they jounced downhill. They scrambled across a ditch and turned south with a ringing clatter of iron horseshoes along a straight, stone road.
Wolf’s head kept nodding forwards on to Rollo’s shoulder. Then he’d wake with a lurch of panic, and grip Rollo harder to stop himself falling. On they rode through the rain-blurred darkness — men, horses and dogs all hurrying, all eager to get home.
Nest — that was her true name, though she tried to think of herself as Agnes — came out of her freezing bedchamber, clasping a cushion in front of her chest like some kind of round, padded shield. She’d endured the cold as long as she could, just for the luxury of being on her own. She’d sat reading by candlelight until her fingers were numb and shaking, and she was afraid she’d tear the precious pages. Now she stood on the high landing at the top of the stairs, her shivers gradually decreasing in the mild smoky air of the Great Hall, and looked over the rail into the vast, fire-flickering space below.
Rain burst against the shutters. The Hall was warm, silent and pleasantly gloomy. Soon it would fill up with noisy men and their muddy boots, and the smells of sweat and wet wool and wet dogs. But for now they were all out — except the unlucky few stuck at their posts on the watchtower and the gate. The only two people downstairs were Howell the priest, and her nurse Angharad. It was probably safe to go down…
She leaned further over the rail. Just as she’d thought, Angharad and old Howell were both asleep. Howell’s white head nodded forward over his stick, which he clasped between his knees. Angharad was sitting on a stool near the fire. Her sewing had slipped from her lap, and she snored softly.
Nest drummed her fingers on the taut fabric of the cushion. She didn’t mind Howell, but Angharad was such a chatterbox. If she woke up, she would want to start gossiping about Godfrey of La Blanche Land. Again. Nothing could stop Angharad once she started. She would go on talking even if Nest refused to answer.
“You’re very quiet,” she would giggle. “Dreaming of Lord Godfrey? Don’t you worry, my cariad, it won’t be long before he comes and then we’ll know all about him. What a handsome little boy he was, the day you were betrothed! You won’t remember, you were only little. He had dark hair just like yours — though I prefer a fair-haired man myself, like your noble father. My own second husband was a fair-haired man, God rest him. The first was an old dotard I would never have picked for myself, but of course I had no choice in the matter. Thirteen I was at the time, just the same age as you are now. But it wasn’t long before a cold on the chest carried him off, the poor silly fellow. He should have listened to me when I told him to wear his old brown cloak with the double lining. ‘You should wrap up,’ I said, ‘you’re not as young as you were. At your time of life it’s better to be warm than smart.’ But oh no, he knew best, off he went and came back coughing. ‘It’s your own fault,’ I told him, as I sat at his sickbed. ‘You have nobody to blame but yourself.’ He died, in spite of the fact that I never left his side, and then
