Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

As I walked between the bed and the windows, my shadow crossed the bed with me, like a ghostly companion. “You were only half-right. They were disorganised. They weren’t trained to act as a team and they hadn’t prepared their defence. They winged it.

“Where you misjudged them, though, was in the assumption that more than anything else they wanted to survive, and that they would grasp at any sliver of hope that meant they might live to fight another day. You forgot what had been done to them.”

I stopped at the head of the bed. I watched the slow rise and fall of the sheet as he breathed. I almost felt that I could hear his heart’s slow beat.

“I think we found out later that, for at least some of them, survival wasn’t the objective.” I began a slow circuit once again. “I’m not saying they’re not to blame — they carry the responsibility for what they did — but you made a mistake. After what had been done to them, there was something worse than death. Whatever happened, they weren’t going to be captured again.”

My shadow drifted across the bed, following me.

“I’ve had to learn that. Alex is the same. She can’t be contained, not any more. She sleeps with the door open, did you know that? She can handle it by day — but at night, I think there’s the thought that if the door once closes, she won’t be able to open it again.”

I looked down into Fellstamp’s face, wondering whether he dreamed, whether he knew anything at all.

“I’m not asking you to forgive them,” I told him. “I’m not sure it’s your forgiveness they want. The experiments they endured were designed to push them beyond their limits, with no thought for subtlety or finesse. The scientists set out to discover how much they could do. In that, they succeeded. None of them have any real control. It’s all, or nothing. Sparky gave you everything he had.”

I walked round again, finding that I had said most of what I wanted to say. “Think about it,” I told him.

I left him there. I think Fionh was lurking close by somewhere. I got a sense of her presence, almost like a perfume as I left. I suspect she returned to her reading.

Downstairs, Alex and Angela were talking. “Did Alex find you?” said Blackbird. “She was looking for you.”

“I haven’t seen her,” I said.

“Never mind, come and see this.” She indicated one of the journals, which was open on the desk. The journal was open at a series of entries, but there was a loose leaf of paper between the pages.

“Where did this come from?” I asked. Unlike the heavy parchment of the journal, it was written on paper that was so thin it was translucent. The hand was scratchy and the ink was faded in places.

For the manor and the land appertaining to Grey’s Court, a red rose, presented in full splendour on midsummer’s eve by Robert and Lettice Knollys or their successors in title in full escort and regalia at the foot of the altar of All Hallows of the Keep, unless there be a white rose at midday on the eve of the winter solstice, at the same place, whereupon the manor shall pass to the key-holder in perpetuity.

“It was tucked between the pages of this journal,” said Blackbird. “We found it when we were going through them.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” said Blackbird. “It’s not a contract, or a deed of any kind. We’re not even sure what it relates to.”

“They’re not serious, are they? A manor house in exchange for a rose?”

“It’s not beyond precedent,” said Blackbird. “In law, a contract must have a consideration, something given and received in order for it to be valid. If you wanted to give something away then you could make the consideration something trivial, like a rose,”

“So it’s a gift?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If this is just a copy of another document,” said Angela, “then this may all have been resolved years ago. It’s just a piece of paper with mild historical value.”

“But if this is the only reference to it,” said Blackbird, “then it’s possible that somewhere there is the contract that this relates to, and by invoking the conditions of that contract we could benefit from it.”

“Surely someone must have tried this before?” I said.

“Except for one thing,” said Blackbird. “Where would you get a white rose in the middle of winter? This was found in pages dating back five hundred years,” said Blackbird, “and at that time there would be no way of producing a pure white rose on the eve of the winter solstice unless you had an awful lot of money.”

“Could you do it?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Blackbird. “With magic, it’s a trivial transformation.”

“Then perhaps that’s its purpose. It’s been left here against some future need.”

“Why leave it there, though?” she asked. “The only people who have access to these documents are the clerks and the Remembrancers.”

Angela closed the journal carefully. “There are no other inserts. I’ve been through the other journals. Of course, there are others still in the restricted archive, but they could be hard to access.”

“The only way is to try it; present the rose on the solstice eve. Very shortly it will be the shortest day. It’s now or never.” I went to the dresser and lifted down the sword.

“What are you intending to do with that?” asked Blackbird.

“It’s only a precaution,” I said.

“Not every problem is solved with a sword,” said Blackbird. “We may need subtler skills if we are to make this work for us. Besides, I have another task for you. Without Claire to act as intermediary, even if we find the knights they have no reason to trust us. If we had a token of good faith to offer, though, then perhaps we could establish lines of communication. I want you to recover the horseshoes so that we can return them as a gesture of good faith. Take one of the drivers — you can tell them it’s court business. Bring back the horseshoes — the one from the National Archive that Claire had with her, and the one in her flat, if they’re still there.”

“I won’t be able to touch them,” I pointed out.

“I’m not asking you to. Take a holdall or something of that nature, and some heavy gloves. I’m sure the gardeners have something you could use. You’ll only have to hold them for a moment, and with gloves it shouldn’t be too bad.

Alex pushed through the door into the room. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?” I asked her. “Now is not a good time.”

“There was someone at the house,” she said, without preamble.

“What house?” said Blackbird.

“At Mum’s. A man came to the door, about six foot tall, sandy hair, greying at the temples. Looks like he’s had his nose broken — more than once, probably.”

“Sam Veldon,” I said. Blackbird also appeared to recognise the description. “What did he want?”

“He was looking for you, and he asked after Claire.” Alex watched the exchange of looks between me, Angela and Blackbird. “What?”

“Claire’s dead, Alex. Someone slit her throat,” said Blackbird.

“Oh,” said Alex in a small voice.

“We can’t have this,” I said. “I can’t just have people turning up at Katherine’s. What does Sam think we’re doing, running a consultancy?”

“It’s attracting the wrong sort of attention,” agreed Blackbird.

“He said he had something for you,” said Alex.

“It’s not like Sam to volunteer,” I said. “Did he say what it was?”

“He just said it was something you need,” said Alex.

“Did he say where he’d be? How to contact him?”

“No,” said Alex. “He just asked Mum to pass on the message. He seemed to think she’d know where you were. It’s what I came back to tell you.”