Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“I think I’ve already decided,” she said, glancing between Blackbird and Mullbrook. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, but I didn’t know how to ask.”

“Let’s take that as a statement of intent,” said Blackbird, “and sleep on it. In the morning we will go to Grey’s Court and see what we can see.” She took out a large bronze key and held it up, turning it so that it caught the light in a dull gleam. “If you would like to come with me, Lesley, I would value your thoughts?”

She smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

“I’ll come too,” I said.

“I was thinking you might do a spot of baby-sitting,” said Blackbird. “Spend some quality time with your son?”

“I will spend some time with him,” I said, “but I think it would be a good idea if someone went with you to Grey's Court. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something…”

“We are not in a position to look gift horses in the mouth,” said Blackbird.

“Yes,” I agreed, “but gift horses do have a habit of kicking you just when you least expect it, don’t they?”

“I’m not taking the baby with us,” said Blackbird. “We don’t know what sort of state it’s in. It could be a ruin.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll ask Alex to look after him for a few hours. She’ll be OK with that.”

“Ah, yes,” said Blackbird

“Did I miss something?” I asked.

“She’s actually been very helpful,” said Lesley. “I didn’t even have to ask.”

“There you are then,” I said to Blackbird. The look she gave me said she was sceptical as to whether it would continue.

Alex was quite pleased with herself. It had been surprisingly easy to find out which room was Tate’s. A few offers to help here, a bit of assistance there, and with a little gentle prompting, people would chatter away to you about all sorts of things. It had all been so easy. Now she was approaching his room, she could feel her resolve faltering. This had been a great idea when she’d been back in her own space, but outside his door it was a different matter.

All she had to do was talk to him about it. It was probably accidental — he probably didn’t even know he was doing it. All she had to do was fix things between them, and she would be gone — no hurt, no foul. She could be grown up about it, and she was sure he could too. Even so, she stepped lightly, knowing it would do her no good because he would hear her anyway.

She tapped lightly on the door, her stomach squirming into knots. She mustn’t be tongue-tied. She must be confident, assertive and straight. At the same time she prayed there would be no answer. She tapped again louder. No one answered. OK, if he wasn’t there she couldn’t talk to him. She turned away, but then hesitated. What if it wasn’t accidental? What if he had some charm, or talisman that was doing this to her?

Her hand rested on the door handle. What if he was asleep in there? What if he had someone with him? What if it was someone female? That thought was particularly unwelcome. No, Tate wasn’t like Fellstamp. If he was there then she would speak to him. If he wasn’t, then it would be wise to find out what she was up against. As her hand turned the handle, she could hear the heartbeat thumping in her ears. The door opened with a light click.

“Tate? It’s only me, Alex.” The door swung open. “Tate?” The room was empty.

She slipped inside, placing her back against the closed door. She might not have long, and it would not do to get caught in here. The butterflies in her stomach were like an alarm.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Something grand and imposing perhaps? Instead there were soft muslin drapes hanging from a wooden rail at the window, filtering the daylight into a soft glow. The furniture was of very dark wood, deeply polished and burnished to a lighter chestnut shine in spots where it had seen long use. There was a half-height wardrobe over a set of drawers against the wall, and a wide chest against the opposite wall over which a long-handled axe was mounted on the wall. The room was dominated by the huge bed. She would avoid the bed.

“Is there something here?” she asked herself softly, wandering around the room, looking for some trace of herself — a lost trinket, a scarf or bangle, something that could be used against her. Beyond the wardrobe was a door to a bathroom. There was a shower that was easily twice as big as hers. Over the rail were soft white towels and on the back of the door was a linen robe which would cover her like a tent. When you were close to him you could forget how big he was. Another unbidden thought came into her head and she left the bathroom more quickly than she’d entered.

Back in the bedroom, she went to the stand by the bed, opening drawers and finding cufflinks and a pen and notepad, along with other small personal items. There was nothing of hers. She went to the chest, opening the lid and finding stacks of clothes, some weapons, clean towels. The chest smelled as he smelled — earthy, scented with something herbal and exotic with the slightest hint of musk. Was it a cologne; an aftershave, perhaps?

She closed the chest and climbed on top of it to run the tips of her fingers along the long handle of the axe, noting how the wood was worn where his grip held it. Then she realised what was doing and snatched her hand away.

“There must be something,” she said. “It can’t be nothing.”

She went to the wardrobe and opened each drawer in turn, finding spare clothing, piles of underwear, and some leather-bound books that looked about a hundred years old. She wondered if one of them was a spell-book, and started leafing through them, only to discover they were history books, full of dates and events that were long since forgotten. There was no book of charms, and no secret diary that would give her a clue to what was going on. She closed the drawers and turned around.

It was a very big bed, but then it would have to be. He was a very big guy. Her hand rested on the quilted coverlet that was carefully turned down. Maybe this was just somewhere he slept? Maybe he had another house somewhere else and that was where he kept his secrets? There was nothing here that made it look like home — no personal clutter, no trinkets or mementos.

A distant noise brought her back to reality. She had failed to find anything but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything to find. She quickly looked under the wardrobe and beneath the bed, finding not so much as a missing cufflink, or a lost pen. Why was it all so tidy? What was he hiding? She went back around the room, replacing everything just as she’d found it. When she was satisfied that no one would know of her visit, especially Tate, she cracked the door and listened for the sounds of anyone in the corridor outside. When she was sure she was unobserved, she stepped out, closing the door carefully and quietly behind her, and headed back to her side of the house.

“Score one to you,” she muttered to herself, “but the game’s not over yet.”

After a while, Lesley left and then rejoined us, bringing Dave with her. Mullbrook produced a bottle of champagne from which Lesley would only accept the tiniest glass. Dave looked uncomfortable until we explained that he didn’t have to make a speech, at which point he cheered up considerably, kissed Lesley to rowdy cheers from around the table and accepted our toasted congratulations.

I excused myself and took the baby upstairs to his bed, changing him and then spending a while reading stories to him while he settled down. The excitement of the day must have worn him out, because despite his effort to stay awake, his eyes drooped and he was quickly asleep. I continued reading until I was sure he was settled and then pulled the door to his room almost closed. There was something else I wanted to do, while I had a moment alone.