Chapter Twenty-Five: The Castle's Many Mysteries
Gil grasped the roll of parchment with sweaty hands and nodded several hundred times as Gregan barked phlegmy spittle into his face.
"Go, you shites!" He ordered, and Gil and the other pages sped off. He travelled down the great hall's by-corridor, at the heels of Ievan, his page-mate. He loved it all, and couldn't stop staring at everything. He was actually in Arthurian times! His favourite period of history, his obsession. He's actually seen a knight striding through the hall earlier! A knight!
"You look like you're simple." Ievan commented. He wasn't a very nice boy, and as a page he had no reason to be. In five years he'd be a squire, and in fifteen, a knight. Then, he'd be able to be as much of a rotter as he liked and people couldn't say anything.
"I just am glad to serve our lord." Gil replied. Ievan couldn't argue with that. And besides, he thought, he'd never read anything about a Sir Ievan in his books, so he wasn't that successful.
"Mmm. Well, you need to deliver that to the quartermaster."
"I will." Gil broke away from Ievan and headed down the next corridor, weaving easily through the castle until he came upon the very busy plan room, where the burly quartermaster was conversing with two carpenters over a plan of something.
"Ah, here's the boy." The quartermaster held out his hand and Gil places his communiqué into it. He knew how to act as a page: you waited to be given a reply or a dismissal. Gil had an honest face, and was thickly set, which made him look sturdy. The carpenters glanced at him, unused, he presumed, to his health and his good manners.
"Hmm. Sir Malfoy wants quartering for a retinue of ten."
"Ten? That's a small retinue for such a man." One of the carpenters noted, grabbing a fresh sheet of hide. "We can accommodate them in the barrack eaves."
"No." The quartermaster shook his shaggy head, pale curls falling out of his messy queue. "We've got twenty of Galahad's men in there already, there's not a mote of space."
"Rats." The carpenter fingered his beard, frowning. "How about the wheat dungeon?"
"Nah, we've got it full of provisions for the tourney." The other carpenter, who was bald as a nut, chipped in. "Unless he doesn't mind his men sleeping on cornflour."
"We just haven't any room." Beardy, the other carpenter, sighed. "His men'll have to stay in the village."
"Boy." The carpenter snapped, and Gil clicked his heels together. "Relay this to Gregan. Malfoy's men will have to take up board in the village."
"Yessir." Gil bowed and left.
"Ey! Wait, boy." Baldy called him back. "I've got our Lord Caradoc's final draft of the carpentry budget. After you've reported to Gregan, take it to him."
Gil nodded and accepted the large roll of paper, bowing again. Yes! This was his chance. He'd be able to get to Caradoc and warn him. This would be easier than he'd thought. He left quickly and almost ran down to Gregan, who was busy penning notes to various dignitaries.
"You're slow, boy." He growled. "What news?"
"The quartermaster and his carpenters could find no room in the castle for Sir Malfoy's men, sir." Gil said. "They suggested they be housed in the village."
"No!" Gregan roared unexpectedly, causing Gil to take a step back. "No, bloody no. Malfoy's men will be house in the castle. Send for the quartermaster to remove Lancelot's men from the northeast sentry tower. There is where Malfoy's men will lodge."
"Yessir."
"Come back afterwards, I want you saddled to meet Malfoy's men down at the bailey gates. And for god's sake, tidy your livery, boy."
"Yessir." Gil bowed and went off again. So many jobs, so little time. He decided first to give the figures to Caradoc, and flitted through the castle, not seeing anybody he knew on the way. He climbed up two floors, the privilege of using the real staircases and not the dreadful spiral stairs that peasants had to use feeling really good. The Lord of the Castle's rooms were located in the northeast of the castle, spanning a whole quarter of its opulent interior. The liveried guards let him through without question- several other pages from the castle and from other lords' delegations were bustling about, too. The Lord was busy greeting the earliest arrivals, and Gil knew that he should leave the figures- especially since they weren't really important – with the Lord's clerk, but he had to see Caradoc. So, after leaving the scroll with an ink-fingered man at a desk, he slid through a small space between a door and a wall and found himself in the archers' hideout of the reception room. Four archers were watching the proceedings below from hidden balconies above, ready attack if any visiting parties should try anything. Gil couldn't go any further, or see Caradoc any better, but he pushed a loose stone aside and peered down.
Caradoc sat on a simple high chair, a beautiful woman beside him. Around his table were his advisors and close friends, and further down the room was a mingling group of nobles and visitors waiting to be presented. Caradoc himself was young and powerfully built, with kind eyes and a tired smile. He had wavy, tawny hair that was confined to a silver circlet, and had a fine sword buckled at his hip. Althea beside him shone, her radiant blonde hair twisted into braids of gold and green ribbon, an astounding ocean-blue dress doing her slim form justice. Gil was enthralled.
He leant closer to his peephole to get a closer look, but his boots scuffed loudly against the stone floor. One of the archers snapped their gaze over to where he was hidden, so he backed away and slunk back out of the lord's quarters to deliver Gregan's missive to the quartermaster. It was strange… strange that Gregan had been so insistent. Of course, if Malfoy was anything like Conny and Lucy had described, he was a bad, manipulative person, but it struck Gil as odd that Gregan should disagree so strongly on such a simple point.
Something was obviously wrong.
-0-
Jon wasn't faring well. His job was simple: relay messages, don't step on any toes. But Jon was clumsy and his English wasn't perfect. Even with the frankly poor translation charm on his cuff, he could hardly understand the thick welsh brogue of the castle denizens. He'd been shouted at twice, then slapped, then spat on, and now he was hiding in the basement.
It was chock full of sacks of grain and flour, but everything was full of weevils, so he didn't linger in one place too long, secretly quite scared of the shiny black skittering bugs. While here he was safe from the monstrous pagemaster Gregan, he also wasn't doing anybody any good.
Jon thought that Gregan's shouting must have burst an eardrum, because he was suffering a growing headache. An incessant whining, like a buzz, filled him brain and set his teeth on edge. He paced angrily, wondering what he should do. If he was caught just sauntering around the castle willy-nilly, he'd be put to work. Since he'd already vanished and hid somewhere, there was no way he could go back out and join the fray. He sighed, massaging his temples to try and get rid of the headache.
He was restlessly pacing across the floorboards near the back of the basement when it happened. He felt the ground creak and give under his feet. Curious, he got down on his hands and knees, frowning, and saw that a patch of floorboards were newer than the others, and slightly warped. He took out something Conny had called a crow bar, which he found strange as it looked nothing like a crow, and jammed it between the floorboards, prizing one of them up. Underneath, in old, rotting wood, was a second floor. Except this one had hinges and a ring.
"Trapdoor." He breathed, grinning. He'd hit the jackpot. Ancient castles were bound to have catacomb-esque secret passages. Jon prized a couple more planks up and careful tucked them under a sack of corn, trying his luck with the ring. The trapdoor stuck fast, rooted into place, but he dug his heels in and wrenched it open, landing painfully on his arse.
"Lumos." He whispered, the tip of his wand lighting up brilliant white. He peered down into the gloom- just blackness. A rusted ladder promised a way down, so he put his wand between his teeth and maneuvered his way onto the slippery ladder. The poorly cast iron bent in his hands from age, but he slowly lowered himself into the gloom, the stench of effluent and death striking his nose as he got closer to the bottom. He appeared to be in some sort of tunnel system. The walls were low and made of slimy, algae-covered bricks, with several rust-stained watermarks showing that these tunnels spent the wet season flooded. His boots were wet with muck as soon as he'd hopped off the ladder.
The buzzing increased to a screech, and Jon whipped about, seeing a shadow flit past in the corner of his eye. Nothing. He held his wand shakily; increasing the light's range, sweat beading on his forehead. Calm yourself, Jonmarc, he thought, they're tunnels. There'll be rats. You're a big boy, you can manage rats.
Another flicker. This time, Jon let off a wordless flipendo, which was wide and bright blue with fright. It blew a fist-sized chunk in the brickwork, but found no target.
Jon decided he should get moving, or he'd go spare down here chasing shadows. He knew that the king's quarters were northeast, and that the linen steaming room- their rendezvous point- was on the way. He considered his options before twirling his wand gently. A long, thin, thread of magical light pooled out of his lumos, dropping to the floor. He tied it to the ladder. Just in case, Jon thought. Just in case he got lost down here.
-0-
Conny waited in the linen steaming dungeon, a rash spreading over her neck as the rough material of her dress rubbed. She may have sewn all the defensive runes she could pronounce into their clothes, but perhaps had overlooked comfort. She was here under the pretense of picking up a bowl of hot water for the Lord of somewhere, and she couldn't wait long. She'd caught the attention of almost every male in the castle, for the worst reasons. Lord Somewhere had leered down her dress all the time he'd demanded a pail of hot washing water, and she reckoned that when she went back she'd have to restrain herself from pouring it all over his lecherous hands. These things were to be expected, she supposed, as she had what was considered the peak of attractive qualities in Medieval Wales: a full set of teeth.
She'd never complain about going to the dentist's again.
A sweaty hand grasped hers, and Conny was about to curse them to high heaven when she saw Gil through the gloom.
"Wassup?"
"I think I have a lead." He whispered, when Lucy, Tilda close behind her, joined them from a billowing cloud of steam.
"What?"
"Well, 'Lord' Malfoy of Salisbury is on his way." Gil said. "I'm to meet him on horseback in an hour."
"Cock." Lucy said, nodding, "The servants said the same thing."
"But, Caradoc must know that Malfoy's a guest at this shin-dig, right? He must be informed?"
Gil shook his head. "He was really busy, I don't think he organized this by himself. And I think that Gregan, the pagemaster, is hiding something."
"Hiding something?"
"Malfoy's travelling with a very small entourage. I'm wiling to bet they're all dark wizard cronies of his. The quartermaster, he wants to house the entourage in the village since they don't have much room- I think Malfoy is a last minute addition. But, Gregan went ballistic when I relayed this to him, and ordered the quartermaster to put then in the north-east tower."
"The north-east tower?" Conny asked, remembering something. "That's where the king sleeps. I took water to his steward earlier."
"He must have paid Gregan off."
"Which means he's been here longer than we'd thought." Conny summarized, frowning. "He's got an all-access pass to the castle tonight."
"Everyone will be drunk from the feast." Lucy nodded, pulling pigeon feathers out of her fingernails. They stood silently, mulling everything over.
"Where's Jon?" Gil suddenly asked.
"I dunno. He must have been sent to do something, so he couldn't get here."
"He might be down in the village. I saw some pageboys leave the castle earlier."
"Okay. Let's hope he's fine."
"So, what's the plan from here?"
Everyone turned to Conny, who they seemed to erroneously believe knew what the hell they were doing. "Er… well, we still need to get close to Caradoc. But it doesn't seem like that's going to happen. So, Gil… you need to get as much of Malfoy's plan as you can when you pick him up. Lucy, wait until the food starts getting served and see if you can't add some sleeping draught to Malfoy's guards' meals. Rissa, you need to make your entrance soon, and see if you can get an audience with Caradoc, or with Althea. Tilda, you go with her as her servant, she'll look suspicious by herself… I suppose I'll keep with the water until I hear something."
"Okay." The all nodded.
"Can anyone hear that buzzing?" Lucy asked before they all turned to leave.
Conny gulped. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it. Let's go."
-0-
Rissa and Tilda left the linen steaming dungeon covertly, as it would be strange for a visiting noblewoman to go anywhere near the servants' area of the castle. Rissa adjusted her dress and checked her hair before striding into one of the heavily decorated corridors as if she owned the place. Which, she supposed, she was probably entitled to.
Rissa did not like Tilda. That had never been a secret: they were diametrically opposed as Gryffindors and Slytherins were wont to be. Even off the draught of peace, Rissa was not all smiles and laughs, and still retained aspects of her old personality: there is only the now, and the future is not set in stone. She had very little time for seers. Especially seers like Tilda, who were as two-faced as it was possible to be. Dozy, companionable Tilda Tirias, all coppery skin and lazy smiles? Pah. A well performed lie if Rissa had ever seen one. Tilda was cleverer than she looked, and not above manipulation. Like how she had manipulated Conny into taking them on this quest by revealing information. Visions seers had were not like that, they could not possibly be related so closely to the seer's own life. Tilda knew something she was not telling them, and pretending that her knowledge came from her seer's power was just blatant falsehood.
"Frowning does not become somebody of your standing, my lady." Tilda said facetiously, smiling ever so slightly. "How are you enjoying the broiling pot of human emotions?"
"I am just fine." Rissa replied icily, trying to slip back into the old habits. How easy it had been, when nothing touched her, no words or actions pierced her heart, no elation clouded her judgment. When anger had been foreign and powerless over her.
"I'm sure you are." Said Tilda, clicking her heels as she walked. "You must remember that you have a face that shows your thoughts now, Clarissa."
"And you must remember that I see through your charade, Matilda."
Tilda flinched mockingly, raising an eyebrow. "We all got to make a living."
"And lying to overemphasise your use to Conny is a champion way to do that?"
"Look at you, with your use of nicknames." Tilda cooed, turning immediately stony-faced and pliant as a visiting dignitary rounded the corner and walked past them. His eyes widened and he bowed low to Rissa. She smirked once he'd passed, pleased by the gesture, before returning to her argument with Tilda.
"Am I not allowed? They are, after all, my friends. And I do not have to put up a false face for them to like me."
"Cutting." Tilda retorted, directing Rissa to the left. "Let's call a spade a spade, Rissa. If we're talking about false faces, you come up very early on in the conversation."
"There is nothing false about me."
"Oh, tsh, you're kidding yourself." Tilda said, her condescending manner harsh compared to the amusing observance she usually maintained. "How long will it be until the Clarissa Mothley Lucy remembers is back? You know a few weeks is all you need to descend back into chaos."
"You assume much."
"I don't assume. I know."
"Whatever type of seer you are, Matilda, you do not know half the things you profess to. Speak of those falsehoods. In fact, we are here on your false pretence."
"Wrong." Tilda smiled again, her eyelids heavy. "We're here on my very good guess."
Rissa paused, fuming at Tilda's naked truth. A guess? The girl had risked their lives on a guess? She realized something, something very base about Tilda's personality and motivations. "You are a gambler. When you cannot know the future, you pretend you can, and gamble the outcome."
"My gamble paid off this time."
"You cannot use our lives as chips, Matilda! We are not a hand you can play!"
"Voice down, my lady." Tilda advised, but her face was smug and heavy with her ploy. "We're here."
"Here?"
"Caradoc's bit of the castle. Now, if all goes well, we request an audience with him, and when we get to him, we spill the beans and hey presto, crisis averted."
"That is not how it will happen, is it?" Rissa asked, some subtle part of her mind picking up on the lie. "Do not try to deceive me, Matilda."
"Why would I ever do such a terrible thing?" Tilda grinned, adjusting Rissa's bodice quickly. "And what happens, happens."
-0-
Gil was glad that he'd taken riding lessons when he was little.
Being half-blooded, his dad a muggle, Gil had a very different childhood to the others. Not that he'd admit it, like when Conny and Corfax had been chatting about primary schools. There was some undeniable status that came with blood purity, and he wasn't going to deny himself that just to say how badly he'd got on at St. Andrew's C of E Primary. Still, a muggle father really… it sounded weak. He was a man, and he should come from a magical man equally. This was not to be, unfortunately.
Gil trotted down through the village at the foot of Caradoc's castle, the up and down motion giving him a headache. His old horse, Knickers, had been much better behaved than the pony he rode on now, which was ornery and uncomfortable. Still, he was riding an Arthurian pony! In an Arthurian village! Think of the good stuff, Gil, he thought, and it'll all be okay. He hoped. He was beginning to think that this was going to be a lot more complicated than he'd believed, and that it wasn't going to be the holiday sightseeing extravaganza he'd hoped for.
The crowds along the market row parted and jostled as he went, seeing the colours of Lord Caradoc on his tabard and livery. At the gate, the interruption of the high wall that surrounded the castle and village, he waited on horseback. On the distant horizon, he saw a pocket of black figures cantering closer. Gil was looking forwards to finally seeing this Lucius Malfoy, who didn't seem like a nice fellow at all.
One thing Gil hadn't understood was if Malfoy was such a dark wizard, why not just barge in and curse everybody? He'd found his answer just a few minutes before, when two things had happened at once: a grizzly warlock had cursed a fruit-seller using a huge, gnarled staff. His curse had been weak, much weaker than it would have been with a modern wand, and Gil suspected it had something to do with improper wood and cores. Then, seemingly at the same time, four platemail-clad guards had jumped out of the shadows and bore the warlock down, there and then. They dragged him screaming and misfiring flipendos at passing traders.
So, public or malevolent use of magic resulted in the guards going ballistic. It would also, Gil realized, alert Caradoc to Malfoy's presence, and he'd have time to make preparations and launch a counter-attack.
"Ho! Colours of Salisbury on the horizon!" The watchman called.
"Raise the cullis!"
"Heave!"
Four men at a winch laboriously raised the huge heavy portcullis gate. Gil's stomach erupted into angry butterflies as Malfoy's retinue approached, despite the fact that he should, in theory, have no problem. They came closer, and Gil squinted, wishing he had his glasses on. Slowly, the head of the procession, the pivotal villain himself, came into focus. He was in his early thirties, very handsome, with long, straight blonde hair whipping about his shoulders and a square face. His sneer and the vengeance in his grey eyes, however, definitely identified him as a bad guy. Gil swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. No pressure.
"Hark, Sir!" The watchman greeted him as he slowed to a walk, moving through the gate. Past the first line of defense. "It is my honour to welcome you to-"
"Be quiet." Malfoy instructed him. The watchman went pink with indignation then pale with fright as Malfoy turned his cold eyes on him. "Boy."
Gil snapped to attention, edging his horse closer, and bowed as low as his saddle would allow. "Your lordship."
"Are your streets wide enough for my cargo?" Malfoy asked, gesturing to the large covered wagon behind him. Gil wondered what was inside.
"Aye, sir."
"Well then, lead us to the castle proper. And be quick about it, you've dawdled enough already."
Gil quashed a surge of dislike for the man and dutifully led him and his retinue back through the village, scattering the peasantfolk out of the way to make space for Malfoy's wagon. The trip up to the castle was frustratingly slow, and Malfoy seemed to be in a hurry. It was by now nearing lunchtime, but the great feast would begin at sunset. Judging by the fact that it was wintertime in the painting's world, Gil thought sunset might be early. So they didn't have much time at all.
The unsaddled the horses at the stable, the ostler overworked as it was, taking up even more time. Malfoy insisted that his own men unpack his wagon, and from it they removed a very large and heavy crate that Gil immediately sensed something wrong with. Whatever was in there was going to prove dangerous.
Gregan shouted at him a bit more, and shared a significant look with Malfoy before he told Gil to show them to the guard tower in the northeast wing. The hammocks had just been vacated by a grumbling group of Lancelot's men, and Malfoy's retinue wasted no time in claiming them.
"Boy." Malfoy said lazily, snapping his fingers. "Bring us some meat. Preferably raw."
Gil nodded dubiously, wondering what on earth Malfoy could want raw meat for.