The Hounds of the Morrigan (31 page)

‘Bang what?’

The shield, I think. With the sword.’

‘Oh, I suppose they didn’t have doorbells in those days,’ Brigit said knowingly. ‘Can you do it, Pidge?’

‘I can try.’

He reached for the heavy sword with both hands, and after a struggle he detached it from its perch. It took all of his strength to aim a blow at the shield. He just about managed it and then jumped with alarm at a very loud crashing noise that leaped out from the shield and rang about their ears.

‘What a clout!’ Brigit shouted admiringly, as it died away. Now that they were almost in shelter and well away from the nettles, she was feeling more like herself.

When the crashing noise had gone entirely, there was silence from within, but only for a second or two; and when the sounds of merriment started up again, they weren’t nearly as loud or as lively as before. I expect we’ve given them all a bit of a shock, Pidge thought.

The door then swung open easily and without one squeak. It reminded him of something but he couldn’t think what exactly, as his attention was drawn to a lady who was advancing to attend to them along the broad passageway inside.

T
HE
lady was wearing a long, grey dress; tight in the bodice and sleeves, but hanging in folds from the hips. Her hair was trained back from her pale and narrow face, into a top-knot that was skewered into a tight twist from which not one single hair could spring free. Around her waist was a long, corded girdle or belt, with bunches of keys on big, round rings, that dangled as she walked. Some of the keys were big, some were medium. There was one massive key that swung all by itself. Pidge thought that she might be in fancy dress.

Before he had the chance to explain anything, she was talking.

‘Ah, here they are at last—the stragglers,’ she said. ‘What happened to you that you are so late? All of the others on the Charity Walk have beaten you to it and arrived ages ago. We had quite given you up. You’ll want some supper, of course, and a warm of the fire. This way. Follow me.’

‘If you please,’ Pidge said urgently, ‘we are not the stragglers. We are not with anyone else. We only want to shelter.’

But she didn’t seem to hear.

‘You’re the last ones expected tonight. You only just made it, you know. Now we can bolt and bar the doors. Otherwise we’ll be having burglars, sneak-thieves and prowlers, or even horrid pedestrians, in on top of us without the courtesy of an advance booking, which is a Rule of the House; and that would never do. So vulgar, the way those ghastly pedestrians drop toffee papers and pry through the curtains!’

Pidge said his piece again more loudly. It wasn’t any use at all.

The lady had a singular dignity of voice and manner. It was nice to listen to her, even when she said:

‘You won’t want The Tour tonight, I know; but I’ll just mention that this door we are now passing, leads to the dungeons. Down there are the red-hot pincers, the rack and the grid-iron; and other items common to an old-fashioned gymnasium. It’s where we take people who don’t pay their bills. They are glad enough to cough up, when they see our collection of thumb-screws and toe-squeezers and nose-reformers and such. Any pedestrians we manage to nab, go down there, too. That’s a joke!,’ she finished, without any humour at all.

She led them up a broad flight of four wide steps and on into the Great Hall. They had never been inside a castle before and they looked about them with interest. From the depth of the window recesses, Pidge judged the walls to be about six feet thick. Suits of armour stood sort of loitering against the stone walls, their well-polished gleam making them seem like superior corner-boys well spruced-up. Secured in some way high up on the walls were shields, battle-axes and spears. Even higher up were poles sticking out horizontally, with flags or banners hanging down dead still.

They’ve kept it all very well, Pidge thought. Brigit was charmed by the grandeur.

‘Come along, don’t dawdle,’ the lady said.

They followed her.

Some people were in having supper or some other meal and they were sitting in companies of five or six at heavy, wooden tables, each group being distinctly apart and separate from another. Family parties or friends, Pidge thought.

‘You can sit here,’ the lady said, putting them at a little table meant for two people.

‘Excuse me,’ Pidge said loudly.

‘Miss!’ Brigit shouted.

Everyone else in the room turned and looked at them briefly before going back to their own affairs.

‘Excuse me. We only want to shelter for a while. We are not the stragglers; and we are not pedestrians either … only hikers, who have lost their way,’ Pidge said quickly.

But she had her back to them during the first words that they said and she was not listening; and during the rest of Pidge’s explanation, she was already on her way to somewhere else.

‘It’s no use talking to her, she’s as deaf as a boiled egg,’ Brigit said.

They sat for a while.

‘What are we waiting for, Pidge?’ Brigit wondered in the end.

‘I don’t know, maybe the cabaret—that’s singing and dancing and harps and so on. Someone might come along in a minute who will listen to us and we can explain everything.’

‘Is there going to be a dinner-dance? What’s a dinner-dance?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps. I’m not really sure what a dinner-dance is, exactly.’

‘I believe I’ll have a glass of champagne.’

‘You will not! You’re not to ask for it or anything at all, Brigit, please. We can’t pay the prices they might charge in a castle. We could end up in prison.’

‘Or the dungeon.’

‘She said that was a joke.’

‘It’s all right. I’m not hungry or thirsty. I couldn’t swallow a crumb.’

‘Neither could I, luckily.’

While they were waiting for whatever it was to happen, they looked about them again.

The room was lit by many thick candles in chandeliers made of spiky iron and there were a good many more in branched candlesticks placed on various surfaces. The best light of all came from the great cave of a fireplace, where enormous logs burned. At a table nearby, some men wearing what looked like anoraks, with oddly, the hoods up, were drinking wine poured from dark, green bottles that were labelled Ruby and Tawny; and they ate meat from platters. The hoods kept their faces in shadow but Pidge knew that they were not the hounds because they were all rather broad and dumpy.

Despite the number of candles and the glare from the fire, it wasn’t really easy to see anyone very clearly, since the lights seemed to create unusually deep shadows around what seemed an abnormally short radius. It was all a bit like a vast dark stage lit by hundreds of spotlights that were brilliant but small.

At the far side of the room, some others were rattling boxes and throwing dice, breaking the silence a few times with loud cries of excitement as the dice fell and rolled; and with louder shouts for refreshment. They seemed to be calling for knucklebones to suck and gnaw; but Pidge could not be sure of that: unless, he said to himself, they are rugby players showing off.

He fancied that there were many furtive and sneaky looks in their direction from the groups of people sitting in their colonies, eating and drinking and from time to time huddling together to whisper. And even with the occasional burst of exuberance from the crowd that was at dicing, there was an air of puzzling surliness throughout the whole room. Not what I had expected after that notice about the jolly singing and dancing, he thought. It seemed that what had been festive had gone unfestive; something about giving a Good Example, he decided, feeling that it would have been a lot of fun, if they didn’t.

There was a sudden loud banging and they both turned automatically to look towards the place it had come from, wondering what had caused it. It could have been a thunder-ball, the way everything had shaken and shuddered at its force. In a very little time, however, they realized that it was only the door being shut and barred for the night, when they saw a man who had a peculiar shape, coming into the Great Hall. He walked to the lady who was standing close-by now and handed her the enormous key that had been dangling from her girdle, earlier.

For a moment, she held the great key in her hands.

Brigit muttered that everyone looked odd and crazy and Pidge whispered that he thought it might be fancy dress.

They heard the lady say that now all was well, that the last of the Charity Walkers, who were proper little stragglers, were about to have their supper and that they were to be put in the Bloody Turret on their own when they’d finished, so as not to disturb the ones already asleep in the dormitories. The man with the strange shape listened and nodded. Then he went off somewhere and she went somewhere else.

When they turned back to the table they found to their dismay that someone had quietly come and served them some supper while they were not looking. Two warm covered dishes were set before them, and a tray with silver-plated tea things, with a pot of hot tea and a lidded jug with hot water. They looked all around them for someone to take it all away; someone who would listen to what they wanted to explain; but there wasn’t anyone serving anywhere, and the groups of guests had stopped sneaking looks at them and appeared entirely indifferent.

‘It may be that they will let us wash-up in the morning to pay for the beds if we haven’t enough money; but we’d better not even touch the food,’ Pidge said.

‘It makes me feel sick to think of eating,’ Brigit answered. ‘But I don’t see why we should do their washing-up. I’m for skipping off early, while they are all asleep. It’s not our fault that she wouldn’t listen, is it? And think of all the washing-up for this crowd and the others who are already in bed. No thanks!’

‘Well, I might have enough to pay for the beds; we’ll see. If they don’t ask too much, that is.’

While they were wondering what to do, Pidge picked up a dead moth that was lying in a crack in the wood of the table and found that his fingers were covered in gold. Nothing unusual about that; but it gave him a peculiar feeling as it seemed to feel icy on his skin, and that was a strange thing to feel from a little dead moth.

From the gloom at the far end of the room, they saw the man with the queer shape coming towards them. He had a large, squat body and short skinny legs.

His head rested directly on his shoulders without any neck at all to raise it up. He was a bit like a two-legged crab. Pidge felt sure that what he
really
was, could not be seen; and that he was probably very skinny but was wearing some kind of framework made of cardboard or wire underneath his clothes, for a fancy dress. It was better to feel sure of that, than to believe he was really as outlandish as he appeared; Pidge pushed aside the unwelcome thoughts about wicked dwarfs that niggled in the back of his mind.

The man stood by the table and gestured at the food.

Pidge stammered and explained everything again. The man just shrugged as much as he was able, as if he didn’t understand or even hear what Pidge was saying. He gestured to his mouth.

Does that mean that he can’t speak, or that he wants us to eat? Pidge wondered. Once again he explained it all and finished by saying that they were not at all hungry.

‘WE ARE ON A DIET!’ Brigit said distinctly in her loudest voice, adding more normally: ‘For Charity.’

The man tried to shrug again and indicated that they should follow him. He took them to a small door, which he opened to show a narrow flight of twisting stone steps; worn down in the middle from centuries of feet. Light shone down from somewhere unseen up above. The man stood aside to allow them to go ahead and they went up, Brigit with curiosity and Pidge with the creeps.

At last they came to an open door that led into a small room and they saw that here was the source of the light. The stairs spiralled on past the door and although not entirely sure that this was where they were supposed to go, Pidge stepped into the room and Brigit followed him.

It was a cosy wood-panelled chamber with a blazing fire, a window with thick curtains and two small four-poster beds with hangings drawn. By the rosy fire, there were two high-backed, comfortable chairs, each with its own little footstool worked in tapestry. The bare boards of the floor were as rich as satin and reflected in their polish the restless flames of the fire.

When they turned round to thank him and to try once more to explain, the man had gone and the door was closed; again, without a creak or a squeak. A memory was nudging at Pidge but it didn’t get the chance to come forward in his mind, for at that moment a blazing log fell from the fire landing dangerously close to one of the footstools. He hurried to lift it back with a pair of tongs that hung with other fire-irons from a bracket on the wall.

‘This room is a little dote,’ Brigit said admiringly.

‘It’s very hot though.’

He took off his jacket and parting the hangings on one of the beds, he laid it inside on the quilt, prudently removing the scrying-glass and the bag of nuts, before letting the hangings drop back into place.

‘Should we go to bed, Pidge? I’m dying to snuggle in behind those curtains.’

‘No. When we are sure that everyone is asleep, we’ll creep downstairs and go. We don’t really owe anything unless they charge for just sitting down; so that’ll be all right. I’ll just open the door a crack so we can listen and when it’s all quiet, we’ll clear off.’

But when he examined the door there was no way of opening it; there wasn’t a knob or a latch; there was only a keyhole. He tried to prize it open, grasping with the tips of his fingers for a purchase between the door and the doorframe; but it was hopeless.

Horrified, he remembered the signpost at the crossroads and the silent way it had spun, and the great door downstairs that had opened without even the faintest sound, and now this door that had closed so very quietly.

‘We are locked in,’ he said miserably.

‘W
HAT
?’ shouted Brigit. ‘They’ve locked us in?’

‘It’s true! We’ve been tricked and it’s all my fault,’ Pidge answered bitterly.