Free The Dance of Death by Kate Sedley Page B

Paddington springs, whence it came, piped into the city’s conduits. I felt a little better and was once more toying with the idea of descending to the common hall when I remembered Timothy’s suggestion that I commit the duke’s instructions to memory before disposing of them. I took the paper from my pouch, then got up and lit the candle, which was on the shelf beside a tinder box, dragged the chair into its circle of light and settled down to read and reread the neat, meticulous writing of John Kendal, Prince Richard’s secretary, until I could recite every word without once referring to the text. When I had done this three times in a row, and then done it a fourth and fifth time, just to be certain, I held the paper to the candle-flame and watched it burn to ashes, which I scrunched beneath my heel as they floated to the ground.
    I decided I deserved a reward and, raising my arm, lifted down the mazer without getting to my feet. But when, lazily, I attempted to do the same with the ewer, I only succeeded in hitting it off the tray. It fell with a crash of metal against stone, the lid flying open and the wine spilling across the floor in dark red rivulets, making little islands and peninsulas on the flags. Cursing myself for a fool, and a clumsy fool at that, I picked up the jug to see if any wine was left, but all my shaking produced only the merest dribble in the bottom of the cup. Disgustedly, I replaced everything on the shelf and retired to the bed, leaving the puddle of wine to dry overnight or seep away between the pavers.
    I realized that the castle was quiet at last, only the shouts of the watchmen punctuating the silence. It had taken me longer than I thought to learn by heart the list of questions that I must eventually put to Robin Gaunt if ever I managed to find him. Perhaps this Humphrey Culpepper would be able to provide me with some valuable information, but I very much doubted it. It was all too long ago: forty years.
    I stood up, stretched and undressed, pulling off my boots and then stripping slowly, feeling the cold night air from the slit of a window on my bare skin. I threw my clothes on to the chair in an untidy heap, opened the door briefly while I peed into the corridor, then, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, climbed into bed and fell immediately asleep.
    In my dream, both Jeanne Lamprey and Reynold Makepeace were seated in my kitchen at home, assuring me that they were not, after all, dead and that I did not have to go to France. It was all just a silly joke perpetrated by my family. Adela and the children, who had not been present a moment ago, were now seated on the other side of the table, nodding and doubled up with laughter, pointing their fingers and shouting, ‘April fool!’ I kept trying to tell them that it wasn’t spring but autumn, but no one would listen to me. A strange man then appeared, saying that he was Robin Gaunt, all the time dodging behind the others so that I was unable to see his face. I yelled at him to stand still, but he only laughed and kept on moving.
    Suddenly, I was wide awake, staring into the darkness and conscious of another presence in the room. I raised myself on one elbow, still trying to free my mind from the cobwebs of sleep.
    â€˜Who . . .? What . . .?’ I muttered, my voice thick in my throat.
    There was a violent imprecation, then a sudden rush of movement and the opening of the door, letting in a draught of stale air from the passageway. I struggled out of bed, the cold of the flagstones striking up through the soles of my feet and shocking me into wakefulness. But I was too late to catch a glimpse of the intruder. The flickering torches in the wall sconces illuminated the corridor, to right and left, silent and empty. The only noise came from the adjacent male dormitory, a faint cacophony of snores and groans that disturbed the men’s sleep. Cursing, I stepped back inside my narrow cell, pulling the