Dark Angels. Katherine Langrish

a word.

      “Can’t you speak French?”

      “You mean you can?” The boy sounded taken aback. “Quick,” he added just as roughly, “which way did she go?”

      Does he think I’m a servant? Nest opened her mouth to say something sharp. But he could hardly expect to meet Lord Hugo’s daughter chasing a beggar child across a muddy yard. And he would be dreadfully embarrassed when he found out. She forgave him…

      “WHICH — WAY?” the boy repeated loudly and slowly, as if to an idiot.

      “I don’t know! When I got round the corner, she’d vanished.” Nest clutched her veil as the wind threatened to blow it off her head. “Who is she? And who are you? Where have you come from?”

      “Never mind that now.” He threw the words over his shoulder, already striding off into the rainy darkness. “What’s over here?”

      “Only the midden — the dunghill.” Affronted, Nest ran after him. “Wait. What’s her name? And yours?”

      “I’m called Wolf. Don’t know about her. Lord Hugo and me — we think she’s an elf.”

      “Lord Hugo and you?” Nest caught up. “An elf? What do you mean?”

      “You know what an elf is, don’t you?” he said impatiently. “A fairy; a fay.”

      “How dare you speak to me—” Nest forgot what she was saying. A cart stood beside the cookhouse wall. Behind the dark shelter of the wheels, a pale shape lurked. “There! She’s there, see? Hiding under the cart!”

      The boy seized her arm. “Quick, run and fetch Lord Hugo.”

      “You run and fetch him, you impudent — fellow!” Nest flashed. She jerked her arm free and stepped towards the cart, lifting her skirt out of the mud in a bunched handful. “God bless you, my poor child,” she called in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “Don’t be frightened. No one will hurt you.” But the child dodged around the wheels and sped away like a fleeing ghost.

      “Now see what you’ve done, you stupid girl!” hissed the boy. He shoved past her, bawling at the top of his voice, “She went this way! Come quickly!”

      Geraint and Rollo came running, hooting and shouting, waving their arms. From the stables came young Madog, chubby Roger Bach and grizzled Walter with pitchforks and hay rakes. The child jinked and doubled back. She couldn’t go around the back of the Hall without passing Nest and the boy. There was only one bolt-hole left to try, and she took it. She shot straight through the open door of the cookhouse. The men piled after her, with Nest and the boy close behind.

      The cookhouse erupted in screams, cries and smashing dishes. “Catch her — catch the elf!” roared Rollo. Past his burly back, Nest caught glimpses of the wild child rushing around and around the kitchen like a trapped squirrel — jumping at the walls, clutching at shelves, bringing crocks and pans clattering down —leaping over tables, dodging past the oven.

      “Be careful!” Nest screamed. “Mind the fire!” In the centre of the room, waist-high flames licked the sides of the huge black cooking pot where broth for the garrison was briskly boiling. “Quick, someone — catch her!”

      But how could she be caught? No one wanted to touch her. The kitchen cats streaked for the door. Tall, fierce Bronwen the kitchen maid rushed out of the scullery with a pail of water and threw it wildly over everything. Round-faced Gwenny shrieked and shrieked.

      “Catch the elf!”

      The child leaped at a dresser and tipped over a basketful of eggs. A row of frying pans full of sizzling hot fat capsized into the fire. Furious yellow flames crackled up. Chopping boards, bowls and trays of loaves went flying.

      “By all the devils in Hell!” Scarlet-faced and terrible, Herbert the cook revolved yelling in the midst of the chaos. He plucked a huge iron ladle from a rack and waved it in the air. “Get out of my kitchen!”

      The boy pushed past Nest and launched himself at the child, seizing her shoulder. She turned, clawing like a wildcat. Together they crashed to the floor and disappeared under a pile of bodies as Rollo, Bernard and the others hurled themselves on top. “She’ll be squashed! Don’t hurt her!” Nest screamed, dancing from foot to foot in anguish.

      Herbert waded into the scrum, eyes popping with fury. “Out, the whole boiling lot of you, before I cut every one of you to collops!” He whirled the ladle and began indiscriminately whacking exposed heads, arms and elbows. Geraint yelled and staggered away clutching his head. Rollo and Bernard scrambled up, cursing.

      Herbert caught the boy by the scruff and the seat, and tossed him aside.

      “By Saint Laurence roasting on his griddle! Half a dozen of you, and you can’t catch one little brat with less meat on her bones than a picked goose the day after Michaelmas?” He advanced on the child, swinging his ladle. “Don’t move, you. Not so much as an eyeball!” She froze, staring at him in terror. Herbert snapped his fingers. He seized a piece of bread and threw it to her. “Here! Sink your little teeth into that and stop wrecking my kitchen.”

      The child flinched from the missile as if it was a stone, but she watched it fall and darted towards it on all fours. She sniffed it. Finally she grabbed it. With a suspicious glance at the staring crowd, she turned her back, pressed herself close to the wall, and crammed the bread into her mouth with spidery fingers.

      “Why, the child’s starving!” Bronwen exclaimed.

      “That’s no child — it’s one of the Fair Family!” shouted Geraint.

      “That’s right! It’s an elf! Lord Hugo found it on the hill!”

      “Silence!” Herbert roared. He scowled around the room, scratching the back of his thick neck, lingering on the spillages, the breakages, the smashed and dripping eggs. The kitchen servants quailed. Even the men-at-arms avoided his eye. “Right!” he bellowed, “I don’t care if it’s an elf, or a beggar’s brat, or an imp out of Hell, I want to know which of you ignorant, flea-bitten fools let it loose in my—” For the first time, he noticed Nest standing in the doorway. Crimson veins popped out on his forehead.

      “Madam!” In a gesture of angry duty he snatched off his cook’s cap, wiped his glistening face with the back of a hairy wrist, and glared at her. What are you doing here? his face plainly said. How dare you see me lose control of my own kitchen!

      Nest stood flushing, the focus of all eyes. The men pulled off their caps, while Gwenny and Bronwen bobbed curtsies. And the boy, Wolf, gave her an astounded, furious glance — as though she had deliberately made a fool of him. Nest tried to carry it off. She lifted her chin. “W-well done, Herbert.”

      Three loud handclaps sounded behind her. “Well done, indeed!” Nest spun around and saw her father. He gave her a sharp, hard look, and she began to stammer excuses. But he ignored them and said laughing to Herbert, “If only you had been with me in the Holy Land, Herbert. You would have been more use to me than a whole troop of knights. Can you salvage our supper?”

      Herbert’s face darkened to quivering purple as he choked down his temper. At the same time, Nest saw his meaty chest heave with pride at Lord Hugo’s praise. In an unnaturally mild, piping voice he said, “Certainly, my lord — if only I can get these people out of my way.” He glowered at the intruding men-at-arms. “But supper may be late.”

      “No matter,” Lord Hugo drawled. “Clear up here, and then we’ll eat.”

      Under Herbert’s gimlet eye, the kitchen staff began very obviously to bustle about. Bronwen clapped her hands at Roger and Bernard, Geraint and Rollo, shooing them out of the door. Plump Gwenny found a brush and shovel. She got down on her knees and started sweeping up broken crocks. And over by the wall, the strange child gnawed the remains of her bread. Nest picked up another piece and slipped closer.

      Absorbed by her