Escape from Wolfhaven Castle (2 page)

‘Yes, Mistress Pippin, of course. More salt,’ he said. He grabbed a bowl of sea salt crystals, and the cook took a tiny pinch and sprinkled it into the soup. She stirred it once, twice, thrice, then plucked a fresh spoon from her apron and took another tiny sip. Slowly she nodded her head. ‘Perfect.’

The thin man beamed in delight, and everyone around him shook his hand and congratulated him. The cook jumped down from her stool, and smoothed her apron. Then Tom’s stomach rumbled loudly. It had been a long time since breakfast, and the steam from the soup smelt delicious.

The cook turned around, hands on hips. ‘Tom, at last! Where have you been all this time? Did you find my mushrooms?’

‘Yes …’ Tom began. He badly wanted to tell his mother about the wild man’s warning, but she did not give him a chance.

‘My nettles?’

‘Yes.’

‘My dandelion leaves?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Tom’s mother seized the bucket from him and emptied it on the table. ‘Maude, begin the mushroom and quail pasties!’ She scooped up all the mushrooms into a bowl and threw it across the table to another white-capped woman, who squeaked and just managed to catch it. ‘Nancy, get to work on the nettle soup.’ Tom’s mother tossed the bunch of stinging nettles across the room to a girl who caught it, then cried ‘Ow!’ and promptly dropped the bunch on the floor. ‘Sorry, Mistress Pippin.’ She scooped up the nettles, tossed them from hand to hand, then threw them into the nearby sink to wash.

Tom’s mother seized a knife and began to chop up the dandelion leaves so fast her knife was a mere blur.
At once all the other women began to chop faster too. The thunk of metal against wood echoed among the beams.

‘Right, Tom, I need you to get started on all those pots,’ said Mistress Pippin as she chopped, ‘and then you can help the footmen polish the silver. We have unexpected guests for the midsummer feast tonight, and need to lay another two dozen places … and get that dog out of my butter barrel!’

Tom dragged Fergus’s nose away from the butter, wondering how his mother had known what the wolfhound was doing. ‘Mam,’ he said, but she was too busy chopping to hear him. He called her again, more loudly this time, and his mother paused and looked at him in surprise. ‘What is it, Tomkin?’

‘I … I met the wild man in the woods today.’

Mistress Pippin’s knife fell with a clatter to the floor. She stared at Tom, eyes round. ‘The wild man?’

When Tom nodded, she looked around her, as if making sure nobody was watching or listening, then caught Tom’s shoulder and drew him down the kitchen and into the chill of the buttery. Once she had shut
the door behind them, she said urgently, ‘What did he say, Tom?’

He told her, and somehow, the words no longer seemed stupid, but as charged with danger and meaning as when the wild man had spoken them in the shadowy tangle of the forest.

‘He said I have to tell the lord, but … Mam, no-one will listen to me.’

‘Of course you must tell the lord,’ she said. She took Tom’s hand and marched him out of the buttery, through the kitchen, and up the stairs to the butler’s pantry, Fergus trotting behind.

‘Tom has important news,’ she told the butler. ‘I tell you, he must see the lord.’

‘See the lord? Young Tom? Not likely,’ the butler answered.

‘You make sure he sees the lord, or there’ll be no more spiced pear and butterscotch pudding for you,’ Mistress Pippin warned.

The butler sat up at once, almost popping all his buttons in his haste. ‘No need for that, Mistress Pippin, I’ll do what I can!’

She left Tom there, and raced back to her kitchen so fast the ribbons of her cap streamed behind her.

Tom told his tale again. The butler hummed and hawed, but took Tom to the castle steward.

Tom told his tale yet again. The steward rasped his chin and frowned, but took Tom to see the chamberlain.

Tom told the tale one more time, feeling like an absolute fool. The chamberlain yawned and stretched, then mumbled that he would pass the message on, if he could just find the time. He waved Tom away, then lay back in his chair, spread his handkerchief over his face, and promptly began to snore.

By that time, Tom was so frustrated that he felt as if steam was about to burst out of his ears. He stood for a moment, wondering if he dared go up the stairs to the great hall and accost Lord Wolfgang himself. Tom was fairly sure the lord’s bodyguards would simply kick him back down again. So, scowling, he went down the stairs, wondering what else he could do.

A girl, dressed in white with bare feet and a wild mass of curly, black hair, was sitting in a window
archway, studying an enormous book. She looked up as he slouched by, and raised her eyebrows. ‘You know that there are only three words that end in the sound “gree”? You look like two of them, at least.’

‘I’m not in the mood for riddles, Quinn,’ Tom snapped.

‘Of course not, since riddles are for the wise,’ she answered, her turquoise-green eyes gleaming. ‘Still, I’m sure you’ll a
gree
, you’re an
gry
and hun
gry
, so riddle me ree, can you tell me all three?’

‘Go boil your head,’ Tom replied and jumped down two steps at once to get past her. Quinn had become a lot more annoying since she had been apprenticed to the castle witch, he thought.

‘You go boil yours,’ she answered and stuck out her tongue at him.

3

MOB-BALL

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.