Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“No, that can’t be true.” I paced in front of the door. “There are all sorts of ways of eavesdropping on conversations. They could be using mirrors, or hidden microphones…”

“Microphones wouldn’t work, and there are no mirrors in the High Court. Even the curtains are drawn to prevent reflections from the windows. Discussions in the High Court are limited to the people who are there,” she said.

“What about Kimlesh, or Yonna, Mellion — any of them could be feeding back information?”

“In theory, yes,” agreed Blackbird, “But the information revealed hasn’t helped any of them. What would they have to gain?”

“They could be secretly against the Eighth Court?” I suggested.

“Then why spend so much time and energy fostering it?” she asked. “If any of them changed sides, the balance of power would shift against the Eighth Court. That would be end of any negotiations. There’s no reason for secrecy. I’m telling you, someone has been telling tales and it’s someone who was there.”

I shook my head.

“Niall, I’m asking you not to tell him where the dreams are coming from. If Angela holds the key to this and she’s passed it to you, then it has to stay with you. I can’t afford for it to get to Krane and Teoth.”

“We don’t even know what it means,” I said.

“But what if Altair does?” she said.

“Then we have to find out before he does,” I said.

“The High Court is convening. I have to go,” said Blackbird. “The knights, the horseshoes, all of it will have to wait. Take the names to Claire. See if she recognises any of them.” She handed me the piece of paper with the names of the knights on it.

“And if she does?”

“Find them.”

When I told her I was going to see her mother, Alex volunteered to come along. This time she wore sensible shoes and jeans, but it was still clear to me that she was no longer my little girl. We turned up on Katherine’s doorstep for the second time in two days. Katherine hurried us through the door as if we were spies.

“What’s all that about?” I asked her.

“We don’t want anyone to know that Claire is here,” she explained.

“Then just act normal,” I told her. “All this cloak and dagger stuff is only going to draw attention.”

Katherine hugged Alex, and then cupped her chin in her hands and looked at her. “You have bags under your eyes.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” said Alex.

“Bad dreams?” I asked her.

“N… no,” she said. I could hear the lie in that.

Katherine hugged her again and ushered us into the sitting room. The curtains were drawn, even though it was mid-morning. I threw back the drapes without ceremony.

“What are you doing?” said Katherine.

“I’m letting in some light. If you leave the curtains drawn like that they’re going to think someone’s died. You’ll have the neighbours round.”

“Someone will see her,” said Katherine. Claire sat on the sofa, blinking in the unaccustomed brightness.

This was nonsense. There were net curtains behind the drapes so no one could see in. “We’re going to have to find you somewhere else,” I said to Claire.

“Katherine has been very kind,” said Claire. “I’m extremely grateful.” That was me told.

I sat down on the sofa next to her and handed her the piece of paper with the names on it. “What do you think of these?”

“I recognise that one,” she said, pointing to Walter le Brun. “Where did you get these?”

“Let’s just say I dreamed them up,” I said. “Any of the others?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “These are all Norman names — FitzRou is familiar, but that’s not surprising. Fitz means a child of unrecognised parentage.”

“A bastard?” I asked, earning a sharp look from Katherine.

“In the original sense,” Claire confirmed, “and FitzRou would imply a royal bastard or a bastard with unacknowledged royal connections.”

“Any of the others?”

“They’re all names I recognise, but not necessarily in this context. De Ferrers is from the Norman French, ferrieres, meaning a farrier or blacksmith.”

“That might fit, given the horseshoes,” I said.

“This is as a family name,” she said. “They weren’t necessarily farriers at the time. Montgomerie, that name is familiar…”

“If I told you that these were six knights, who met in secret, would that help?” I asked her.

She looked at me strangely. “It might,” she admitted.

“They met in secret and another guy, Aimery, turned up with soldiers, but then the King arrived…”

“Whoa, stop right there,” said Claire. “Where did you come by this information?”

“I told you, I dreamt it.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but dreams aren’t usually considered reliable as a historical source.”

“The King had Aimery killed.” I told her. “He had him thrown overboard on the river.”

“You saw this?” Claire was incredulous.

“No, but I heard the King give the order. He didn’t exactly say that, but his meaning was clear. You must be able to look that up somewhere.”

“I’m not sure,” she said with measured patience, “that kings kept records of illicit killings. That sort of thing tended to breed unrest.”

“Then check one of the other things. Check the names. They met in a hall with six passages leading to it under a domed roof. It must be somewhere.”

“I’m flattered that you think my abilities in research are so well-developed,” said Claire, “but there could be a hundred places like that, and many of them will have been destroyed by fire, flood, or just fallen down.”

“I’ve given you the names,” I told her. “You must be able to do something.”

She looked at the list. “I’ll go to the National Archive,” she said. “It may be that there are references in the journals. I can check, but it will take days.”

“I could help,” said Alex brightly.

Claire looked pained and shook her head. “Even if you were allowed access, which you are not,” she clarified when Alex looked hopeful, “You would need to be able to interpret Norman French, Middle English and be familiar with a number of conventions. No, it is a job I must do alone.”

“What if they’re waiting for you?” said Katherine. “It’s one of the places you might go, isn’t it?”

Claire looked from Niall to Katherine, and back to me.

“I can’t read Norman French,” I said. “But I am willing to stand guard while you do.”

“Then that’s what we will do,” she said.

After four hours I was beginning to regret that offer. Claire sat in the private reading room, requesting one volume after another to be brought up from the vaults while I watched through the glass. She pored through volumes of journals written in tiny script while making notes on a lined notepad. That was as interesting as it got.

I wasn’t allowed in the room when the documents were on display. According to the stern lady archivist, that was what restricted archive meant.

Most of the people who came to the National Archive were interested in family history, lost in the dream that they were secretly related to the nobility, or simply interested in their ancestor’s lives, means and whereabouts. There were a few legal types working their way through ledgers and maps, but other than that it was deathly dull.

Instead, I could sit outside, I could walk up and down, I could even request documents myself, as long as they were not from the restricted archive. I began to wonder whether I should take an interest in my own family history. After all, at least one of my ancestors wasn’t human, though I wasn’t expecting them to have records of who it was.