Jan Siegel - The Traitor’s Sword - The Sangreal Trilogy Two

He knew now her name was Nellwyn, Nell for short. Princess Nell. It suited her.

Behind her was the woman he had glimpsed once before, calling her and the other children in from the garden. Her head was bundled up in a species of wimple and her plump face was worn with time and worry. It was the sort of face that Nathan would have called comely , an old-fashioned word which in his mind meant homely, pleasant, almost but not quite pretty. It was marred by the worry-lines on her forehead and the pursing of her mouth. She was brushing the princess’s hair, taking it a section at a time, dragging the brush through thickets of tangle while Nell winced and complained.

‘Prenders, please … Ouch! Why can’t I just leave it, like the other girls do?’

‘You’re the princess. You’re not supposed to look like other girls.’

‘Megwen Twymoor comes from one of our oldest families, so does Bronlee Ynglevere, and they don’t have to spend hours brushing their hair. I know: I asked.’

‘Megwen Twymoor looks like a gipsy, and Bronlee is barely six, so she doesn’t count. A woman’s chief beauty is her hair.’

‘ I’m not beautiful,’ Nell said, pulling faces at the mirror. ‘Anyway, there’s no one here to see me.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said her nurse (Nathan was sure that was who she must be). ‘You don’t want to get into bad habits.’

‘I’d love some bad habits,’ Nell sighed.

‘One day you’ll go away from here,’ the nurse persisted, ‘and then things will be different. You’ll go to balls and parties, wear pretty dresses, dance with young men. Your hair will be threaded with flowers and pearls. If you would go to your mother’s family –’

‘I won’t go,’ the princess interrupted. ‘We’ve been through this a hundred times. I won’t leave my father, I won’t leave Wilderslee. That’s that.’

‘Think again, mommet. This is no place for a young girl. I can look after your father. I asked him, the other evening, I said how would he feel, if you went away for a bit, just for a visit, met more young people –’

‘You go too far.’ Nell tugged her hair free of the brush and turned to face Mrs Prendergoose with an expression Nathan thought of as princessly. Proud, a little haughty, very grownup. Her voice was quiet and cold. ‘You had no business to discuss such matters with him. Whether I go or stay is not up to you.’

‘But your father said it was a good idea, he said –’

‘I am the princess, as you are always reminding me. I may not be princess of much, but it still counts for something. Princesses don’t abandon the kingdom when things go wrong, they don’t run away and go to balls when their people are suffering. Being a princess isn’t about brushing your hair and wearing silk dresses; it’s about duty and honour and love. I love my father, I love my subjects – those I have left. I’m not going. Don’t ever presume to bring up the matter again.’

The woman looked slightly daunted, but still tried to protest. ‘Who are you to talk of love? You know nothing about it. I’ve loved you from babyhood – I only want what’s best for you. Who’s turning you against me? It’s that Frimbolus Quayne, isn’t it? He’s always been jealous of me – jealous of my position here …’

‘You may leave now.’

‘What about the Urdemons? They appeared first when you were a child, playing with magic. If you go, maybe they’ll go.’

‘ Leave .’

Nell’s face had hardened with determination. Mrs Prendergoose whisked round, dropping the hairbrush on the floor, and left on a flounce.

Alone, Nell picked up the brush, yanking in vain at her tangles. The hardness faded from her face; she looked confused, doubtful, on the verge of tears. ‘It’s not your fault!’ Nathan wanted to tell her. ‘Whatever’s happening, it can’t be your fault. Listen to Frimbolus.’ She was surely too young, too brave, too good to be the cause of something evil. He wanted to reassure her so badly he thought he would materialize, but the dream-barrier held him back. Nell had set down the brush in frustration, murmuring a word he didn’t recognize: ‘ Ruuissé! ’ When she shook her hair it sparkled for a moment as if powdered with glitterdust, and the snarls unravelled by themselves, and the long waves rippled down her back as if they were alive. As the magic dissipated she swept the loose tresses over her shoulder and started to twist them into a thick braid.

Suddenly, the room darkened. The wind – or something worse than wind – screeched around the walls. The darkness pressed against the window, and in it there were eyes. Huge eyes full of a yellow fury, hungry and soulless. But the princess didn’t scream or run. She jumped to her feet, knocking over the stool she had been sitting on, confronting the apparition. Her body shook with anger or fear or both. ‘Go!’ she cried. ‘All I did was tidy my hair! All I did – Go, you foul thing! Go !’ She thrust the hairbrush in front of her like a weapon, since that was all she had. For a second something like the muzzle of an animal was squashed against the pane, the mouth distended into an unnatural gape ragged with teeth. Then it seemed to dissolve, changing, becoming an ogre’s leer with thick lips and warty snout, before it melted back into the dark, leaving only the eyes. They shrank, slowly, until the shadow swallowed them and they vanished, and the pallor of a clouded afternoon came pouring through the glass, bright as sunshine after the horror of the dark.

But the princess turned away, dropping on her knees beside the bed, her face in the quilt, sobbing not with relief but despair. Nathan struggled to touch her, to comfort her, but he could feel the dream fading, drifting away from him, and his will couldn’t hold it, and he slid helplessly back into sleep.

‘Do you recognize him?’ Bartlemy asked, holding out a sketch which, despite his best efforts, made the average Identikit picture look like something by Rembrandt.

‘Should I?’ Annie said, clearly baffled by the artwork if not the question.

‘I believe he bought a book from you, probably not long ago.’

Annie studied the sketch with a wry expression. ‘I don’t think …’

‘I’m not much of an artist, I know,’ Bartlemy conceded. ‘Even with a little assistance, I’m not going to win any prizes. But I hoped there was enough of a likeness to give you some idea. The book might have been a description of local folklore, a history of satanic practices, even a grimoire. That sort of thing. Or so I suspect.’

‘I sold a couple last month to a dealer,’ Annie said, ‘but that was on the Internet. I don’t know what he looks like – we’ve never actually met.’

‘This man came in personally.’

‘Are you sure?’ He nodded. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t recall anyone … like this. Not lately, anyway. I don’t remember everybody who comes to the shop, but even so, it’s a small place, most of my customers are regulars – collectors, enthusiasts, or just people who can’t live without a book and find it cheaper to buy second-hand. I notice strangers. This man isn’t a regular – at least, I don’t think so.’ Her faint grimace betrayed her doubts about Bartlemy’s portraiture. ‘If he came in recently, I ought to recognize him.’

‘Never mind,’ Bartlemy said. ‘It’s probably my drawing that’s at fault. It isn’t important.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Annie asked shrewdly.

‘I don’t know,’ Bartlemy admitted. ‘That burglary attempt was … unusual. I’m not normally troubled by that sort of thing. I’d like to know what was behind it – if anything.’

‘And this man?’

‘A face in the spellfire. No more. He may not be relevant. He may be involved with something else, something that has little to do with us. Using smoke-magic is like surfing fifty TV channels with no way of knowing which is which. Without reference points, you can’t tell if you’ve got the programme you want or not …’