LITMIR.BIZ

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me. Send me a miracle. Let me have some wonderful work to do for You.

      “Oh well.” The hob crooked a hairy elbow to scratch its back. It grunted and strained, trying to reach the bit in the middle, gave up and yawned, showing a lot of blunt yellow teeth. “What’s for supper tonight? Roast pork and crackling?”

      “It’s Friday,” said Nest, wiping her eyes.

      “Is it?” The hob’s face fell. “No meat,” it grumbled. “Fasting on a Friday. Who thought that one up? What’s the point?”

      Nest sat up. “Fasting brings us closer to the angels,” she said coldly. “Angels never eat. They spend all their time praising God.”

      “Only cos they ain’t got stummicks,” the hob muttered. “Go on, then, what’s for supper? Herbert’s not the worst cook I’ve ever known. We won’t starve. Fish, I s’pose? A nice bit of carp or trout?”

      “At Our Lady’s,” Nest began, “the hob was perfectly satisfied with a simple bowl of gruel…”

      She stopped as the hob sat up. Its hairy ears pricked and swivelled. Nest tilted her head. Beyond the thick walls and shutters, from far over the staked and defended ramparts and the deep ditch, horns were blowing. Then, loud and near, an answering blast from the gatehouse, and the shouts of the porters as they ran to swing back the heavy gate.

      “They’m back.” The hob gave her a wink. “Don’t forget the fish. Not the tail. A nice juicy piece from the middle, with just a spoonful of sauce: Herbert does a good sauce. No need to finnick about with the bones; I eats ’em.” With a flurry of ash it burrowed out of sight.

      “Greedy thing.” Nest clicked her tongue in irritation and stood, dusting ashes from her skirt. The big Hall door creaked open. In ran Walter and Mattie, dark rain-spatters on their clothes. They wrestled the door shut against the night wind, and with a nod and a curtsy to Nest, began setting up the Hall for supper. Scrape! Crash! They dragged the benches out from the walls and lowered the wooden table tops on to the trestles. Old Howell sat up with a start. Flap! The white linen cloth sank billowing on to the High Table. Angharad yawned and groped to straighten her veil and headband. “Dearie me, did I drop off? Is my lord your father back, Nest cariad?”

      “He’s just ridden in.” Nest raised her voice. “What’s for supper, Mattie?”

      “Eels in batter with a sharp sauce, madam. And then a sweet omelette, and apples stewed in wine and honey. S’cuse me, madam, I’m in such a hurry.” Mattie scurried to and from the pantry with cups and handfuls of spoons. “Herbert’s in one of his moods, what with the hunt coming back so late. And now there’s an awful rush on in the kitchen…”

      Nest pulled on her shoes. She threw her veil over her hair, went to the door and stuck her head out into the wild night. The wind tore flames from a single torch flaring on a post down near the gatehouse. A bobbing river of excited dogs streamed into the kennels. Men dropped stiffly from their saddles, and the dark shapes of tired horses clopped over the wet cobbles and into the stable.

      “Nest! Nest!” Angharad shrilled behind her. “Run and lay out some dry clothes for your father. He’ll need to change before supper.”

      Instead, Nest leaned further into the rain. The last horse to come under the gateway was carrying two riders. It plodded wearily into the torchlight, and the second rider slid clumsily down over the animal’s tail. As the horse walked away he staggered and nearly fell.

      “They’ve brought someone home with them!” Nest exclaimed. “A stranger — riding behind Rollo.”

      “Oh, who can it be?” Angharad hurried across and peered out, breathing hard and squeezing Nest against the doorpost.

      The stranger rubbed dirty hands down the front of his ragged dark robe and looked around as though he wasn’t sure what to do next. On top of his head, a shaved patch shone pale in the torchlight.

      “A tonsure! By Saint Mary, one of the holy brothers!” Angharad’s face was alight with curiosity. “Young, too — only a boy. How tired he looks! Wherever has he come from? Not Ystrad Marcella, for sure: they’re all white monks there, and that’s a black robe he’s wearing. Couldn’t be Wenford, surely, the other side of the mountain? Or, I wonder now—”

      “He can tell us himself in a minute,” Nest said. Her voice shook with excitement. A clerk — young, educated! If only he would stay and be someone she could read and write and talk with! She dug an elbow into Angharad’s doughy side. “Angharad, let me get past. My father will want me to go out and welcome them all.”

      In fact Lord Hugo was still in the saddle and hadn’t glanced at the open doorway. With one hand he controlled his horse, which turned and trampled, tugging the reins, eager to get to the stable. With the other he was holding some kind of bundle at his saddle bow. “Splendour of God!” he bellowed at his men. “Take it, one of you! I can’t sit here all night!”

      But the men were slow to obey. It was the young clerk who reached for the bundle — something all swaddled up in a cloak. He took it clumsily, leaning back and averting his face as though he was afraid it would bite.

      “Whatever can it be?” Nest muttered.

      “Take it inside!” Hugo ordered as he swung down from his horse. Obediently the boy headed for the Hall door. As the light from the doorway reached him, Nest took in every detail. Below the shaven scalp he had a ring of thick, fair hair. His face was fresh, bold and open; but he looked as if he had rolled in mud. Why was he so filthy? I’ll have to send Mattie for gallons of hot water and towels. Supper will have to wait even longer, and oh dear, Herbert will he furious.

      Her eyes widened. There was a patch of sticky blood in the boy’s hair and smeared across his cheek. He must have been attacked by robbers. Her father must have rescued him. Poor boy! Her heart swelled in sympathy.

      But before she could speak to him, the bundle he was carrying suddenly kicked and squirmed. The boy let go, yelping. He stepped back on the torn hem of his robe, and sat down in the mud.

      The bundle humped up like a caterpillar. The corners had been tied in clumsy rabbit-ear knots, with a belt buckled around the middle. Now the knots came apart and a little girl struggled out on to the doorstep, almost at Nest’s feet. She was small, pale, surely no more than five years old. Her bony knees were dark with calluses. She had skinny shanks, sharp elbows, claw-like hands and feet and a vast tangle of colourless hair. She looked up. Half her face was dark red, like bread dipped in wine.

      For a frozen heartbeat nobody moved.

      My miracle, Nest thought with appalled certainty. She had prayed for some good work to do, and God had promptly sent her this. She stretched out a trembling hand. The child spat like an angry cat and shot away.

      “Close the gate!” Lord Hugo yelled. But the child wasn’t aiming for the gate. She disappeared around the corner of the Great Hall.

      Nest didn’t pause to think. She snatched up her skirts and raced after. As she turned the corner into the rutted track that ran between the Hall and the cookhouse, rain blew into her face like showers of arrows, and her feet slipped in the mud. Ahead, the dark bulk of the motte with its tall watchtower loomed up into the night.

      From their high vantage point on the boardwalk along the ramparts, the guards began yelling, pointing into the yard. “There it goes — past the cookhouse!”

      “I see it! Shall I shoot?”

      “That’s Lady Agnes, you fool — put that bow down!”

      “It’s gone — I’ve lost it.”

      “It’s doubled back!”

      Dogs barked, horses whinnied in terror, men shouted and stamped along the hollow planking. Nest saw the castle as the child must see it — a frightening place of black shadows and glaring flames. The cookhouse door stood open like an entrance into Hell, the fires within colouring the cloud of smoke which rose from

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