‘What’s he doing?’ Emily asked. ‘Just looking?’
‘Yeah. He’s kind of hanging around. He’s edgy. Keeps looking over his shoulder. Like he’s the one on the run.’
‘Well, the place is closed,’ Emily said. ‘He shouldn’t be here either, should he?’
Simon nodded. ‘These things must run in the family. Hold on – he’s moving!’
‘Oh God!’ Marcus scratched distractedly at his hair. ‘Where’s he going?’
‘He’s coming this way.’
‘Oh God!’
‘Don’t worry – he can’t get in. Em – the rope’s hidden, isn’t it?’
‘Yep.’
‘OK. We’re safe then. He’s going round the tower. He’ll be looking for the door. Come on.’ Simon leapt from the windowsill and darted towards the passage.
Marcus cried out in agitation. ‘Wait! Where are you going?’
‘I want to see what he does. Follow me, but quietly.’
One after the other they ran down the passageway towards the pillared room, Marcus instinctively ducking every time he passed close to a window or arrow slit. As he entered the room, Simon slowed to a stealthy creep, each step an exaggerated tiptoe in his bulky boots. The others followed suit, advancing in single file towards the deep arched window that looked out over the wintry fields.
They hadn’t quite reached it when they heard footsteps scuffling directly below. As they stood stock-still a creak and muffled rattle sounded, coming both from the window and up through the murder-holes. Pressure was being applied to the keep’s great door. Simon gave a sign for utter silence, while Marcus bit his lip till it turned white. The rattling came again, twice more, then it broke off. Emily thought she heard a muttered curse drift up through the window as the scuffling in the melting snow resumed outside. Simon indicated the others should lean in close.
‘He’s going to go round the keep,’ he hissed. ‘Looking for another way in. He must be so sure you’re in here, Marcus.’
‘But how?’ Emily hissed back. ‘If you didn’t tell him where you’ve been going, how could he possibly . . .’
Her voice trailed away. She was watching Marcus’s face as she spoke and observed a queasy mixture of horror and realization dawning. He looked very green.
Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’
Marcus’s voice was dull, drained of all hope. ‘It was that pamphlet. You know, the one with the map of the castle in. I took it home to read last time, and I don’t remember packing it . . . It must have slipped down the side of the bed or something so I missed it when I left. And Dad must have found it . . .’ He put his head in his hands and groaned.
‘Keep it down,’ Simon snapped.
Marcus groaned silently.
‘You are an idiot, Marcus,’ Emily whispered. ‘All that preparation and you leave a clue signposting the way to your hideout. Now what are we going to do?’
Simon patted Marcus’s shoulder. ‘It’ll still be all right,’ he said. ‘Your dad can’t get in, so he’ll think you can’t either. So what if you’ve been hanging out here recently? There’s no reason for him to think you’ll be shacked up in the castle now.’
Marcus nodded weakly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Of course I am. The first thing is to see him off. He won’t hang about; the wind’s picking up again. Let’s go back to the other side and keep watch.’
They trooped back to the entrance lobby and stationed themselves at the window, Simon standing, the other two crouching on the sill. Looking out, Emily could see the nearby gatehouse, several chunks of ruined wall, the great shadowy depression of the moat and, far off over the field, the boundary hedge. Beyond was the car park. A single blue car was parked there, its tracks slewing visibly across the icy slush. They waited a while in silence.
At length Simon nodded his head slightly. Marcus stiffened. Emily craned her neck forward and looked. A man walked into view, heading for the gatehouse. He had his back to them. He wore a dark-green fleece and black jeans and had a red woollen hat pulled down low over his head. The man picked his way slowly towards the moat, slipping once or twice on the uneven ground. Presently he passed under the gatehouse arch, crossed the bridge and moved away across the field towards the gate in the hedge. They watched him go. It wasn’t until he reached his car that he turned round and stared back at the castle, but he was then too far off for Emily to make out his face. He stood there for what seemed like an age, before finally opening the door and getting in.
Even now he was in no haste to leave. For several minutes more the car remained stationary, its occupant invisible behind the dull sheen of the windows.
Emily could hear Marcus pleading under his breath – ‘Why won’t you go? Why won’t you just go?’ – and at last his prayers were answered by the distant growl of the engine starting.
The car drove away down the lane, into the wood and out of sight. Only then did the three of them relax. Emily’s back ached with the tension.
‘Well,’ Simon said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Did you see him? Did you see his expression?’ Marcus asked, his voice high-pitched with excitement. ‘He’s furious! He’s livid! He is so mad that he can’t find me! Even when I leave him a clue, he can’t track me down!’
‘He made a pretty good stab at it,’ Emily said quietly.
‘I’m safe in my castle! The defences are holding fast. Did you see his face, Simon? He wanted to get me so badly. Did you see it?’
Simon frowned. ‘I might have . . . it was a bit far away.’
‘I couldn’t see it,’ Emily said. ‘Anyway, that’s not important. We need to decide what you’re going to do now.’
‘Do? I’m staying here. It’s all the better now he’s looked round and seen how impossible it is for me to be here!’ Marcus laughed to himself. ‘Listen, it’s getting on a bit. I want to get myself sorted for the night. Could you give me a hand with the heater again, Simon? I need to get it upstairs.’
‘Up there again? You must be joking!’
‘I’ll make it worth your while – I’ll show you some more of the defences I’ve been planning. They’re great!’
‘Defences first, heater after – if it’s worth it.’
‘You’re on. They’re downstairs.’
Marcus shot off down the stairwell and Simon, with a shrug, began to follow him. As he disappeared round the bend in the stairs, he looked back at Emily, who hadn’t moved a muscle. She shook her head at him.
‘I’ll be along in a minute,’ she said.
When she was alone, Emily stretched and sat herself more comfortably on the windowsill. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think in a clear and sensible manner. This was difficult. A host of conflicting thoughts were crashing around in her mind like a disorderly crowd, creating a hubbub that drowned out everything except her general agitation. It was very hard to make sense of it all and work out what to do.
She concentrated: OK, number one thought. It was stupid for Marcus to continue hiding in the castle. That was clear. He would either die of exposure or get caught and be done for vandalism, trespassing and the rest. So . . .
Thought number two was also straightforward, or seemed to be. Marcus was in danger from his dad. No doubt about it. If his word wasn’t enough, you had his bruises to go on and they spoke out loud and clear.
Not that you couldn’t just accept his word, of course, but . . .
Emily sighed. The trouble with Marcus was that he talked too much for his own good. It was hard to keep track of what he said, hard to sift things so you saw them properly. Sometimes you couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t got a little carried away. But there was no mistaking what had happened to his face – and his dad was on his trail. Marcus was in real trouble; that was obvious enough.
So what to do? It got tricky here, because tainting everything in Emily’s mind, sending everything off course, was the guilt that lay over her like a smothering cloud. She recogn
ized it fully now. It was her fault that all of this had happened, her fault that they had returned to the castle and stayed out overnight, her fault that Marcus had been late back so that his dad had hit him. It was true that she wasn’t to blame for him being late, precisely, but it didn’t feel far off. And if she hadn’t inspired them to stay over, to treat the castle like a home, Marcus wouldn’t have bolted back here now when he was in need.
Or would he? It was hard to know. Sometimes Marcus seemed happy to ignore things the way they were and just follow whatever fancy took him. Like all this rubbish about defending the castle. Simon was too easily impressed by that; any talk of tools and traps and defences and he was putty in Marcus’s hands.
So what should they do? Going to the police still seemed the only sensible idea any one of them had ever had, but Marcus had rejected it out of hand. That was Simon’s fault – if he wasn’t so hung up on the police he might have seen the sense in it. No, neither of them would ever agree to that plan, and she couldn’t go to the police on her own.
Could she?
Emily opened her eyes and looked around. A distant, muffled bang came from the direction of the hall. She winced. Best ignore it.
The police . . . After all, she could contact them, ring them up . . . it would be easy enough that evening. . . Maybe she could do it anonymously, not give her name, just ring off when she’d told them about the castle . . . No – Marcus would tell them about her, that was no good.
Or she could just tell it to them straight, no lies, no fudging. They’d cut right to the heart of the matter (Marcus’s dad) and overlook the other stuff – their trespassing, the damage done to ancient monuments, all that.
Emily told herself that this was so, but she still felt sick inside.
Also, if she went to the police Marcus and Simon would regard it as the blackest treachery. They would never speak to her again.
She groaned softly under her breath. All this heavy thinking and she was still coming back to her original position. Do nothing for the moment. All being well, Marcus would get so bored and cold after a day or two that he would listen to her about the police. Then they could leave the castle out of the story altogether.
With this reluctant conclusion fresh in her mind Emily looked up to see Simon emerging from the stairs. He was red in the face and puffing, and carried a long, horizontal plank of wood, on which was balanced a pile of small rocks and pieces of stone. Emily’s heart sank to a new low.
‘What,’ she said icily, ‘have you got there?’
Simon spoke with wheezing enthusiasm: ‘It’s the pla— the drawbar for the door down there. We’re going to test it. We got it from the hut like Marcus said. He’s got some brilliant tools; cut through wood like cheese.’
‘And the rocks?’
‘Ammunition. Hold on, I’ve got to get rid of them, or I’ll drop.’
He advanced slowly to the passageway that led to the pillared room, only to find that the corridor was too narrow for the plank. With a sigh he shuffled himself round to face the wall, and with some difficulty began to proceed sideways up the passage like a crab. Emily, stony-faced, watched him go. A little later she heard a crash and a cry of pain. Her expression did not change. After a discreet pause Simon reappeared, still holding the plank and limping badly.
‘Nearly made it to the murder-holes before my hand slipped,’ he said, massaging his left ankle. ‘Ow.’ He glanced up at her. ‘I said, Ow. It’s quite sore.’
‘So the rocks are going to be chucked through the murder-holes if the castle is attacked?’ Emily asked, ignoring his plaintive sighs. ‘You’ll do that yourself, will you? Honestly, Simon, you are such a – ’
‘Someone drop something?’ A cheerful voice sounded behind her. Marcus was also bearing a small arsenal of stones, this time contained in his rucksack. ‘These beauties should do the job, eh?’ He grinned and swung the rucksack off his back onto the floor. ‘Ah, that’s better! I’ll shift them across properly later. Let’s try the bar, Simon.’
‘Hold on.’ Once again, Emily felt as if she were losing her bearings. She tried to re-establish some order in the world. ‘Guys, I’ve got to go. I need to be home for tea, and it’s past four. I have to help Mum with stuff.’
They looked at her blankly. Even to her own ears, her excuse seemed strangely insubstantial – not just untrue, but inherently odd, peculiar. ‘And it’s getting dark,’ she added. ‘Won’t be able to get down the wall soon. Don’t you think, Simon?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I’ll need your help to get down. Look, Marcus, we’ll come back and see you tomorrow. Check that all’s well. That’s OK by you, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know, Em.’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what the situation is. If all’s clear I can let you up. Otherwise I won’t be chucking the rope down, will I?’
Emily heard herself laugh mirthlessly. ‘Oh come on, nothing’s going to happen.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen tonight,’ Marcus corrected her. ‘They won’t come in the dark, unless they’re stupid. But tomorrow . . . I’m not sure. I’ve got to be prepared.’
‘OK then. Fine.’ She wanted to get out. ‘We’ll see you then.’
‘Hold on, we need to organize it. I’m not going to be hanging around on the walkway all day for you. I’ll spend most of my time in the window here, watching the gate. That’s where the attack’ll come from.’
‘So let’s arrange a time then,’ Emily said impatiently. She felt the ground shifting again under her feet.
‘Early,’ Marcus said. He thought for a moment. ‘Best thing is to synchronize our watches. I make it 4.06 now. Let’s say ten o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for you then with the rope. Don’t be late or you won’t get in.’
‘Ten it is.’ Simon seemed happy with the arrangement. ‘You’ll manage the plank OK, will you?’
‘I can test that now, no worries. There is one thing, though. Could you bring some bottles of water with you when you come? I haven’t brought enough and the well’s dry, of course.’
By now Emily was at the arch leading to the walkway. Her head was spinning. She urgently needed to leave the castle right away, to be alone. Maybe solitude and open air would help her clear her mind. She gave Marcus a long, last, withering look and went through the arch with Simon at her heels.
‘Don’t forget the water!’ Marcus called after them. ‘And thanks for coming – it’s great to have reinforcements!’
Siege
{13}
In the middle of the night the weather turned again. Emily was woken at 3.30 a.m. by a gust of wind that struck her bedroom window with the vicious impact of a slamming door. The wind screamed up and away across her roof, and Emily, muddled with sleep, leant over and pushed the heavy curtain aside. Even through the double-glazing the coldness of the night tickled her flesh. The streetlight across the road showed up as a dull fuzz of orange, a whirling tumult. Snow shards hit the pane and built up on the sill outside. Below the streetlight, the paving slabs that the man opposite had painstakingly scraped clear had vanished again under a thick cloak. As she watched, the outer glass shuddered with another blow. Emily let the curtain drop and fell back against her pillow.
‘You idiot, Marcus,’ she said.
The blizzard was still continuing at breakfast. Emily put on several extra layers and surreptitiously brought her boots to lurk near the back door. Permission for going out in such conditions would not be easily granted and was better avoided altogether. She loitered, taking frequent anxious glances at her watch, until her parents settled down to unknown chores and the coast was clear. Emily grabbed two thick coats, shoved on her boots and slipped out into the snow.
At the edge of the wood the snow was falling so thickly that Emily almost missed Simon. He was standing motionless against a tree, gazing out into the swirling whiteness. As she approached, stumbling over the hidden brambles, he turned to her
abruptly.
‘Did you get the water?’
‘Oh, no, I forgot. Tough. But Marcus isn’t going to want it now, surely.’
‘I brought some – a couple of bottles. Did you see the police?’
‘What?’ That dizzy sick feeling again.
‘There’s a patrol car in the village. I came out of the shop and nearly bumped into two coppers going in.’
‘What did they want?’
‘I didn’t hang around to find out, did I? Use your head. Maybe they’re on Marcus’s trail. Working with his dad. I told you they weren’t to be trusted.’
‘Simon, we’ve got to get him out of that castle. If they find him there, we’re all shopped.’
‘It’s the safest place for him at the moment, with the village on the lookout.’
‘This is all wrong, Simon.’
‘We can discuss it in the warm. It’s five to ten.’
He began walking down the slope to the humped outline of the boundary fence. Emily followed, lifting her legs as high as she could to clear the buried thorns. The snow was falling so thickly now that she could only squint, and her view was restricted to three or four metres all around. With some difficulty they located the gap in the hedge – the strips of wire showing clean and black in the swirling white. Then over the field, through snowdrifts that were deeper than ever, to a bridge that had almost vanished. Its planks were smothered, its edges invisible as they crossed it. Emily imagined straying to the left or right, somehow missing the safety rails and falling away into the blankness. The snow would deaden the sound, her crumpled body would be a spot of colour quickly covered up . . . She realized she was dawdling; Simon’s shape was drawing away.
She extended her stride, under the gatehouse and onwards, until the great grey bulk of the castle, invisible in detail, began to swallow up her field of vision. As she drew closer, she made out the nearby towers and battlements, a few windows and arrow slits showing through like smudged pencil-strokes. The familiar imperfections – the ruined corner of the tower, the cracks in the walls, the crumbling stonework – could not be seen. For all the world the keep looked whole and strong.