Dark Angels. Katherine Langrish

      The child’s eyes flashed up. In the light, they shone a beautiful light green, like clear glass. Nest caught her breath. But she’s pretty! In spite of the dirt, in spite of the dark red birthmark and the matted, tangled hair, this strange child was pretty.

      A hand jerked Nest away. She stumbled against her father. He let go, and indignantly she rubbed her arm. “Too close, Agnes,” he said, fierce and low. “What are you doing here? You’re not to go anywhere near the creature, do you understand? Keep away from her.”

      “But she’s just a child,” Nest began.

      The child hissed. Her lips drew back over sharp, white teeth. Nest threw the bread, and stepped back.

      “An elf-child,” corrected her father. “Look at her face. Look at those nails — they’re like claws. She came out of the mines on Devil’s Edge. The boy here found her.”

      A little shudder ran down Nest’s spine. An elf-girl in their own castle — a fairy child from the underworld come to live at La Motte Rouge! She clenched her fingers in excitement, trying to think what she knew about elves. Some kind of lost spirits, weren’t they, midway between Heaven and Hell, doomed to pass away forever at the Day of Judgement? Maybe this one can be saved. Maybe that’s what I’ve got to do. Tame her and teach her and save her! She saw the child transformed: clean, clothed and happy. The first step would be to choose her a name. I’ll be her godmother. I’ll call her—

      “Elfgift,” said the boy, interrupting her thoughts. He cleared his throat and looked at her father. “I thought we could call her Elfgift. It’s an English name,” he added, colouring. “It means—”

      “I know what it means,” said Hugo. “Well, why not? It’s too late to do anything with her tonight, but tomorrow,” he added grimly, “we’ll find out whether she can speak and tell us a different name.” He raised his voice. “Bronwen, make sure that this gift of the elves is washed and clothed, and then lock her up somewhere safe for the night.”

      Bronwen grimaced. She flung back her head and squared her strong shoulders. “I’ll try, lord — if Gwenny can help me. We can shut her up in one of the stables — if my lord really wants to keep her.” A question lilted in her voice, but Hugo ignored it.

      “I want to help, too,” said Nest.

      “You will not,” said her father.

      “Oh, but—” Nest looked into his hard face and cast her eyes down. Arguing would be useless. And Bronwen clapped both hands over a shocked snort. “God’s mercy, madam! Not you! That won’t be a job fit for Lady Agnes.”

      Was Bronwen laughing at her? Something inside Nest crinkled up with shame and resentment. Her father was treating her like a child. And Bronwen, Bronwen with her mane of black hair, as strong as a mountain pony, as brown as a berry, clearly thought Nest too weak and timid to be useful. Bronwen was only a kitchen maid, and it was stupid to care what she thought… but Nest did care. She cared a lot.

      And that Wolf boy was grinning.

      Him!

      She already didn’t like him. Now she liked him even less. Anger crackled inside her like a newly lit fire. Why was it funny? Why did being Lady Agnes mean that she was never allowed to do anything? At least, at least her father should answer one last question. She would make him. Swinging round, she dipped him a stiff, challenging curtsy, and said very loudly and clearly, “But what do you mean to do with the child, my lord?”

      Anger darkened Hugo’s face, but he hesitated. For a moment, triumphant, she thought she’d won. He could not refuse to answer her in front of the servants. The kitchen fell quiet. Herbert’s small eyes narrowed to the size of currants. Bronwen’s eyes widened. Gwenny gaped at Lord Hugo, slack-mouthed and expectant. What did Lord Hugo want the elf-girl for?

      “Lady Agnes! Madam! Oh, my Lady Agnes!” Angharad scuttled into the kitchen like a plump, flustered hen. “You naughty, naughty girl!” she scolded Nest, and turned to Lord Hugo. “Don’t think I haven’t taught her better than this, my lord, because I have. Running off into the night and romping in the kitchen? My goodness. Now you come back with me this minute and behave like a lady.”

      Nest gulped down a great lump of anger and pride. Silently she curtsied again to her father. I won’t make a scene. I won’t make a fuss!

      The moment was over. Herbert turned to shout at a couple of dogs that had sneaked in to lick up the smashed eggs. And the boy, Wolf, caught her eye for a fleeting second and looked quickly away. His mouth twitched — as if he was trying not to laugh. Nest hated him. She held her head high and let her gaze sweep coldly past.

      Then Angharad gripped her by the arm like a prisoner and towed her away.

       C H A P T E R 4

      Wolf woke from a dream of riding in a wild cavalcade that went sweeping through dark skies over the reeling countryside, while he looked down in terror on hills which lay huddled together like hogs in a pen.

      He opened his eyes, not in relief, but with a feeling of guilt and restlessness.

      He was lying on a pallet not far from the fire. The floor was warm from the glow of the heaped embers. There was a smell of soft smoke and green rushes. Somewhere nearby, a mouse squeaked as a cat pounced on it. Around him, Lord Hugo’s household lay snoring, coddled in cloaks on their straw mattresses.

      Wolf’s back was sore. He rolled on to his side. It must be about the second hour after midnight, he thought. At the abbey right now, shivering boys were dragging each other out of bed, splashing icy water on their hands and faces, and stumbling down draughty stone steps to the chancel for the fourteen psalms and lengthy readings of the Night Office.

      He drew his knees up and snuggled the blanket to his chin, trying to enjoy the warmth. He wasn’t at the abbey any more. He could sleep as long as he liked and not get up till morning… But sleep would not return. He itched, twitched, tossed, scratched and at last sat up, pushing the blanket aside.

      The Hall was a vast shell of space enclosing warm air and shadows. He tipped back his head and stared up at the vaulting rafters, and the dim paintings on the plaster walls: bands of chequers and rosettes, and between each shuttered window a great fierce animal: a leopard, a griffon, or a lion. The High Table at the end of the room was a dark cave under its silken canopy. Behind it the stairs climbed to the solar — the private chamber of Lord Hugo and his heiress, the Lady Agnes.

      Wolf sat mulling gloomily over the past hours.

      Supper had been an ordeal. He’d washed off the worst of the mud in a tub of tepid water. Hugo had promised him new clothes to wear; but so far nobody had brought them. In his tattered robe, he felt like a shabby black crow amidst the peacock colours of Hugo and his men.

      He’d not known where to sit, so at first it was a relief to be shown to one of the lower tables, amongst the men-at-arms. At the abbey, food was served and eaten in strict silence. But here, once Hugo’s chaplain — a white-haired old man whose voice was hardly audible — had pronounced the blessing, everyone crossed themselves and burst into noisy conversation. Wolf sat dumb and miserable while the talk raged over him. It wasn’t just that they ignored him; they talked such a muddle of French, Welsh and English that he only picked up about one word in three. He shared a platter with a bald, cheery faced man called Roger Bach, whose single remark to Wolf as he sat down was, “Pass the salt,” and who spent most of the meal shouting incomprehensible jests to a tall, skinny fellow called Stephen le Beau on the other side of the board — and then roaring with laughter at his own jokes.

      Then — far worse than being ignored — there had been a sudden hush. Wolf had looked up to see the girl, Lady Agnes, standing at his elbow. Covered in confusion he’d scrambled to his feet, but she’d bowed slightly and said in a voice colder than icicles, “Lord Hugo