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Authors: John Dickinson
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coming,’ said a man-at-arms.
Padry held his breath. Yes, unmistakably, there was someone coming after all. A long, slow step sounded from within, approaching. It reached the door and paused.
‘Who is there?’ a voice said through the boards.
There was something indistinct about the words. Padry wondered whether the speaker was indeed drunk.
‘I am Thomas Padry, Chancellor to the King,’ he answered.
There was silence inside.
‘I do not know you,’ said the voice.
‘Bones of Angels!’ exploded Padry. ‘Will you leave us to the wolves? I tell you I am the King’s lord chancellor! And I bear letters from Develin!’
Again there was silence behind the door.
From above their heads another voice spoke.
‘Let them in, Highness.’
Padry looked up. No head showed there against the sky: only the silent battlements, and the slow clouds drawing by, so close, it seemed, that they must scrape themselves against the flagless poles above the towers.
Clunk! went
the door bars, reluctantly. A black crack split the gate from top to bottom. It widened. Nobody bid them enter. A curious, watery smell flowed out from inside.
Muttering an oath, Padry shouldered through the narrow gap and into the darkness of the gate-tunnel. There was a figure there, a tall man, standing in the shadow behind the door. Instinctively Padry stepped away from him. He retreated further to make way for Lex and the men-at-arms as they coaxed the horses into the strange-smelling place. The tall figure swung the gate to and dropped the bar again.
‘We ask for lodging for the night, and an audience with the master of the house,’ said Padry. ‘In the King’s name.’
‘The master of the house is not here,’ said the figure, in the same slurry voice. He did not seem at all impressed by the name of the King.
‘To whom may I address myself, then?’ said Padry. ‘You?’
‘His son will attend you.’
The figure pushed past them in the darkness. Again Padry stepped away, repelled by the dank smell that seemed to flow from him. The tall man led them out into a small courtyard. In the light of the fading day Padry saw that he wore a great closed tilting-helm that completely hid his face, and a ragged cloak that dropped all the way to the ground. His movements seemed slow but he covered the ground in great, stalking strides. Padry and his followers hurried after him, stumbling across the uneven paving.
‘You may stable your horses in there,’ said the doorman. He pointed a long arm – it seemed incredibly long – towards a low, dark building. ‘Then you may go up to the keep. I will see that they have hay and water.’
There were no lights in the courtyard. There was no sound of any man or animal, other than the strange doorman. Padry squinted in the dimness. The castle was a mean place. Walls bulged with age. The spaces were narrow. He thought the roofs were in poor repair.
‘What about my men?’ he asked.
‘They should go up, too.’
‘Is there no watch? No guardroom?’
‘No.’
The castle seemed almost deserted. Padry and his followers felt their way into the rude stable and found that it held only two horses, shifting and snorting in a line of stalls that could have accommodated ten. Dull light filtered in through gaps in the roof where slates were missing. They tethered their mounts, patted them and removed their harness, allin the near darkness. Then they returned to the dim courtyard. The doorman had disappeared. In the keep a light was burning.
‘Come on,’ said Padry as his men hesitated.
A narrow flight of steps led up the outside of the keep to a door at the first storey. The door was open. Firelight and lamplight glowed from inside. Padry led the way in.
He stood in a square chamber, the full width and length of the keep. There was a fire in a big hearth and a trestle table set near to it with places laid. Other tables and benches were stacked against the walls. The room was hung with arms and hunting
Padry held his breath. Yes, unmistakably, there was someone coming after all. A long, slow step sounded from within, approaching. It reached the door and paused.
‘Who is there?’ a voice said through the boards.
There was something indistinct about the words. Padry wondered whether the speaker was indeed drunk.
‘I am Thomas Padry, Chancellor to the King,’ he answered.
There was silence inside.
‘I do not know you,’ said the voice.
‘Bones of Angels!’ exploded Padry. ‘Will you leave us to the wolves? I tell you I am the King’s lord chancellor! And I bear letters from Develin!’
Again there was silence behind the door.
From above their heads another voice spoke.
‘Let them in, Highness.’
Padry looked up. No head showed there against the sky: only the silent battlements, and the slow clouds drawing by, so close, it seemed, that they must scrape themselves against the flagless poles above the towers.
Clunk! went
the door bars, reluctantly. A black crack split the gate from top to bottom. It widened. Nobody bid them enter. A curious, watery smell flowed out from inside.
Muttering an oath, Padry shouldered through the narrow gap and into the darkness of the gate-tunnel. There was a figure there, a tall man, standing in the shadow behind the door. Instinctively Padry stepped away from him. He retreated further to make way for Lex and the men-at-arms as they coaxed the horses into the strange-smelling place. The tall figure swung the gate to and dropped the bar again.
‘We ask for lodging for the night, and an audience with the master of the house,’ said Padry. ‘In the King’s name.’
‘The master of the house is not here,’ said the figure, in the same slurry voice. He did not seem at all impressed by the name of the King.
‘To whom may I address myself, then?’ said Padry. ‘You?’
‘His son will attend you.’
The figure pushed past them in the darkness. Again Padry stepped away, repelled by the dank smell that seemed to flow from him. The tall man led them out into a small courtyard. In the light of the fading day Padry saw that he wore a great closed tilting-helm that completely hid his face, and a ragged cloak that dropped all the way to the ground. His movements seemed slow but he covered the ground in great, stalking strides. Padry and his followers hurried after him, stumbling across the uneven paving.
‘You may stable your horses in there,’ said the doorman. He pointed a long arm – it seemed incredibly long – towards a low, dark building. ‘Then you may go up to the keep. I will see that they have hay and water.’
There were no lights in the courtyard. There was no sound of any man or animal, other than the strange doorman. Padry squinted in the dimness. The castle was a mean place. Walls bulged with age. The spaces were narrow. He thought the roofs were in poor repair.
‘What about my men?’ he asked.
‘They should go up, too.’
‘Is there no watch? No guardroom?’
‘No.’
The castle seemed almost deserted. Padry and his followers felt their way into the rude stable and found that it held only two horses, shifting and snorting in a line of stalls that could have accommodated ten. Dull light filtered in through gaps in the roof where slates were missing. They tethered their mounts, patted them and removed their harness, allin the near darkness. Then they returned to the dim courtyard. The doorman had disappeared. In the keep a light was burning.
‘Come on,’ said Padry as his men hesitated.
A narrow flight of steps led up the outside of the keep to a door at the first storey. The door was open. Firelight and lamplight glowed from inside. Padry led the way in.
He stood in a square chamber, the full width and length of the keep. There was a fire in a big hearth and a trestle table set near to it with places laid. Other tables and benches were stacked against the walls. The room was hung with arms and hunting
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