The Midsummer Crown by Kate Sedley Page B

– I felt that resentment forming itself into a great knot inside my belly, churning away as though it were a live thing. After a while, however, I realized that it wasn’t rancour that was causing my discomfort, but something far more physical. The wine and ale were at war with one another, and a third helping of syllabub was also putting up a fight of its own. As always where food and drink were concerned, my eyes had proved to be too big for my innards. I could feel the sweat pouring off me and knew that I was about to throw up. I slid off the bed, wrapping the discarded sheet around me as I did so, unbolted my door and stepped out into the passageway. Timothy’s drunken snores sounded clearly from the room next to mine.
    I recalled that the door at that end of the corridor gave on to the courtyard, and was relieved to see that, although locked, the key hung on a nail beside it A second or two later, I was breathing in the cool midsummer night air, and the threat of immediate sickness had receded. Everything was silent except for the hoot of an owl somewhere amongst the trees bordering the estate, their heads nodding above the roofs of the various outbuildings. A three-quarter moon was riding high in the heavens, bringing the shadows moving stealthily out of their corners to creep across the courtyard floor and give everything a somewhat sinister aspect.
    Suddenly, out of the corner of one eye, I thought I saw a movement in the blackness near the gateway arch. I turned my head sharply, straining to see more clearly, but all appeared still. And yet so strong had been the impression that I forced myself to walk across the moonlit space of the enclosure, feeling very vulnerable and exposed, until I reached the wedge of all-concealing shadow by the gates themselves. These, I was pleased to note, were firmly closed, the massive crossbar in place and the great top and bottom bolts securely rammed into their sockets.
    I turned to the door at the side of the gateway that Piers had mentioned, peering through the gloom to make certain that it, too, was fastened. I was startled to see that it was not: neither bolt had been shot. Not, of course, that there was any real need for anxiety I told myself. It was firmly closed and even Beelzebub’s brute strength would be unable to batter down the solid oak of which it was made. All the same, I decided, it would be wise to make sure, and the sooner the better. I had suddenly recollected that I was wearing nothing but a sheet and, even though the night was warm, I was beginning to shiver. In spite of this, I hesitated a moment or two longer, peering around me for some sign of life, but there was none that I could see. All the doors to the outbuildings were firmly shut; not even the baker or his assistant as yet out of bed to light the ovens for the new day’s batch of bread. The movement I fancied I had seen had been nothing more than a trick of the light, a flicker of shadow in the gateway’s arched depth. All the same, I decided that someone had been lax in doing his duty; probably William Blancheflower when he had returned the previous evening from taking Beelzebub his supper. So I first reached up and then stooped to fasten the side-door’s bolts, both top and bottom.
    Satisfied, I wrapped the sheet more firmly about me and went back to bed, the rough stones of the courtyard chafing my bare feet. This time, thoroughly chilled, I picked up the coverings from the floor and spread them over me. Ten minutes later, I was sound asleep and remained so until morning.
    I was awakened not by the cock crowing nor by the careless clatter of servants as they went about their morning’s work, but by the sound of raised voices just outside my chamber door.
    â€˜Well, where in God’s name is she?’ the steward – I could easily recognize his edgy tones – was demanding angrily. ‘The kitchen’s a shambles with Mistress Cook waiting for the pantry